A Halloween Candy Journal

I rarely eat store-bought candy anymore, but today there was candy all over the office, and I fell off the wagon in a big way. I’ve documented my fall from grace, hour by hour, for all posterity.

For the record, I’m truly disgusted with myself right now, but also strangely satisfied--much like a child after a productive evening of trick or treating.


9:03--1 box Reece’s Pieces bits (like peanut M&M’s only even LESS healthful, if that’s possible)

9:22--1 cherry Twizzler (tastes like chemicals)

10:05--1 snack size Milky Way (Okay, 2 of them. Chocolately, creamy deliciousness! Love the fluffy nougat stuff)

10:30--1 pack of Raisinettes (too dessicated and sugary—a bit disappointing)

10:35--¾ cup Kashi organic whole wheat squares that were supposed to be my breakfast (b/c I need to eat something I feel good about today)

10:48--Grape Blow Pop (I DETEST grape, why am I eating this?????)

12:45--Halloween cupcake from Buttercup Bakery (this as research for the elusive wedding cupcake recipe)

1:22--1 snack size Butterfinger (this was thrown onto my desk by a vindictive coworker. I don’t like the way it sticks in my teeth)

1:43--1 snack size Twix (my very very very favorite candy bar. Ever. Who doesn’t love cookies, caramel, and chocolate? I ate the caramel off of it first. Then the cookie. Yum. I hope no one in the office saw me doing that.)

2:08--1 Rice Krispies Treat

3:06--1 100 Grand Bar (Not as pleasing as a Twix, but pretty nice)

4:46 --Kit Kat (Is this supposed to taste stale? It tastes stale)

Okay, I’ve fulfilled my candy quota for the next 5 years, and now I’m off to meet the lovely spiceboy to view my first Halloween parade in Manhattan. I’ll be the bloated, hyperactive girl on the sidelines with chocolate on her face, unnaturally red hair (not a costume, unfortunately), and a gimpy foot (I re-injured it over the weekend).

Happy Halloween!

One Big Happy Family

What happens when you take 75 white people and 75 Chinese people and throw them all together in one place with a white Buddhist monk (aka, “the wonk”), some booze, and a karaoke DJ?

You get our wedding.

I’m sure that years ago, when spiceboy and I were wee little children and our parents imagined our respective wedding days, this is not quite what they had in mind.

But when a neurotic white girl falls with chronic constipation falls for a level-headed, funny Asian guy with annoyingly regular bowel movements, this is how things tend to work out.

So that’s our wedding in a nutshell. It’s in 217 days and it’s going to rock. Wanna come?

Yu Leng mmm Yu Meng

A Chinese saying (loosely translated) meaning: You'd rather die looking good than live looking bad.

The scene: Our favorite East Village Italian

The conversation:

spiceboy: Um, why aren't you wearing your sneakers?

me: Because my ballet flats went better with this outfit.

spiceboy: Yeah, but you're going to hurt your foot--the doctor said you
should be wearing your sneakers.

me: But they looked so ugly with this outfit!

Penance

My penance for eating at least 12 cupcakes in the last 4 days (the result of my weekend bake-a-thon)?

Baked tofu and kale from the local health food store.

Blech.

Today's Emotional Forecast

Today: Irritable early, then clearing around middday.

Tonight: Chance of severe premenstrual emotional outbursts--86%.

Wedding Worry #623: What If No One Shows Up To The Wedding?

Weddings bring out the worst in people. And by “people,” I mean me. And by “worst” I don’t mean in a bridezilla wedding planner kind of way, but in a “confronting my unresolved issues” kind of way.

Confronting issues, I’m discovering, is just another joy of the wedding planning process.

If you’re reading this and you’re thinking weddings are wonderful, blessed events! How can anyone think otherwise? then I envy you. You are living in some happy, shiny alternate universe—a universe in which you have unlimited monetary funds for your wedding, a normal family with whom to celebrate your wedding, and a great therapist with whom to discuss all of your issues, wedding and otherwise. If that's the case, good for you. Really.

But here’s my reality:

1. I work in publishing, which means I’m poor
2. I DO NOT have a normal family and neither does spiceboy (but he hides his better)
3. I have no therapist at all, let alone a good one.

The truth is, the thought of an entire event in which the focus is solely on spiceboy and myself is…unsettling to me. As a rule, I don’t like to attend public gatherings in which I could possibly be called out of the crowd in any way. This includes events involving raffles or prize-winning, work-related team building events, and most of all—parties thrown in my honor.

Ever since I was 5, I’ve been reluctant to let anyone throw a birthday party for me. Once, several years ago, I caught spiceboy trying to plan some sort of surprise birthday extravaganza for me, and I cornered him and asked him to cease and desist immediately, which he did. And we had a quiet, non-party birthday, which I loved.

And how do you define a wedding? Well, if you’re not into the whole Jesus thing, which spiceboy and I definitely are not, it’s basically a huge party. It is, in fact, the hugest party you’ll ever throw.

Given my party aversion, you can imagine what kind of apprehension this wedding thing causes me.

And so, with 221 days to go, I have discovered yet another personal flaw that has been brought to my attention as a result of my pending nuptials, and I'm cataloguing it here for you, dear readers:

I’m deathly afraid that if I throw a party, or if a party is thrown for me, no one will come.

Is this a normal wedding fear? Possibly.

Is this a result of a repressed memory from a failed birthday party of mine back in junior high/high school? Highly Likely.

Is this sudden onslaught of inferiority caused by raging PMS? Almost certainly.

Excuse me, I think I’m going to go eat a tub of cheese fries now.

A Pooping Story

I apologize in advance to those of you readers (all 2 of you) who don't find pooping funny, but this post is about poop.
In lieu of actually pooping, I've decided to write a post about my last memorable pooping experience in the hopes it will help things along, or at last get me in the mood.

For a non poop-related post, please check back tomorrow.



Last Sunday, spiceboy and I met our dear friend ABS, in the East 30's for dosa. Have you ever had a dosa? If you haven't, drop what you're doing and go and have one RIGHT NOW. Dosas are basically the Indian version of a crepe--made with rice flower and stuffed with yummy fillings, the most common of which is curried potatoes. This is known as a masala dosa. Yum.

As the waiter placed our steaming, lovely dosas in front of us, I was hit by a wave of dizziness. I was still was slightly woozy from the remnants of the previous night's drinks (lots of wine and a couple vodka drinks thrown in at the end for fun), sloshing around in my stomach.

Okay, here's where the poop talk starts.

Even as I ate my dosa, sipped my mango lassi, and made happy conversation, my stomach was making foreboding sounds and I was feeling a little cold and clammy--sure signs of imminent pooping doom.

That morning before we left for brunch, spiceboy and I had some coffee, and he took care of his business before leaving the house. You see, spiceboy is regular as can be, and coffee has an almost instantaneous effect on him. He basically sucks down his morning brew, counts to ten, and heads to the bathroom with a copy of my Us Weekly.

As you have learned from my earlier posts, it’s not QUITE that easy for me. So I left the house that morning, feeling slightly bloated but with no urge whatsoever to poop.

Until I sat down to eat my dosa.

I tried to brush the sick feeling away and enjoy my brunch, but by the end of the meal, the situation was dire, indeed. I was shaky and sweaty, yet cold. My stomach was cramping and burning, and suddenly the air around me seemed too thick, too heavy and fragrant, and I needed to get outside.

We stepped out onto the sidewalk and I tried to act totally normal as we said goodbye to ABS. But as soon as he disappeared around the corner, I breathed in huge gulps of air and started looking for a cab. “We have to go. NOW.” I said to spiceboy.

After years of living with my odd habits, spiceboy has become the ultimate pooping cheerleader. When he’s out of town, he’ll sometimes call and ask, “Did you poop today?” And when he’s in town and I suddenly run to the bathroom, he always calls out in a cheerful voice: “Good luck, we’re all counting on you!”

So when he saw the expression on my face, he immediately jumped into action.

The problem: There was not a cab to be found. All of the cabs that flew by us on Lex were either off duty or occupied. Betting against the poop clock, spiceboy hurried me over to Park, where he waved frantically at every passing cab and I stood back, jumping from foot to foot and trying hard not to think about how embarrassing it would be to have an accident right there on Park Avenue.

And that’s when, seemingly out of nowhere, a cab screeched to a stop in front of me. I flung myself into the backseat and gave our address. The driver twisted in the seat and looked at me for a long moment, and I swear there was sympathy in his eyes when he said, “Right away, ma’am, right away.”

And with that, he flew up Park Avenue at an alarming speed, weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off, and running red lights while I took deep breaths and chanted you can make it you can make it you can make it to myself. As we zoomed uptown, I met the cabby’s eyes once again in the rearview mirror and once again, I got the feeling he understood.

I had my hand on the door handle before we even turned onto our street. As we skidded to a stop in front of our apartment, I scrambled from the cab, hastily thanking the cabby on my way out. And do you know what he said to me?

He said, “Good luck, ma’am.”

Good luck! I paused for a moment in my poop-induced frenzy. See, I told you he understood me! In a city of mean cabbies, drunk cabbies, sleepy cabbies, and slow cabbies, I had somehow been graced with an understanding cabby. In that moment, I loved him very much. He was like my fairy cab-mother.

“Have a great day!” I called back to him. And then he was gone.

spiceboy held the front door for me as I dashed toward the building, and grinned at me as I pushed past him. I was filled with love for spiceboy in that moment, too. How can you not love someone who, after over four years together, still finds your poop funny?

As I ran to the safety and comfort of our tiny bathroom, he called after me through the echoey halls, “Good luck, we’re all counting on you!”

Good luck, indeed.

Update: on the state of the spiceboy, on the state of my foot, on the state of my bowels, and on the state of our wedding plans (or lack thereof)

On spiceboy

spiceboy, much to my relief, is not dead in a ditch after a horrible drunk driving accident. Like the responsible lad he is, he got a friend to drive him home, where he promptly passed on w/ his phone on vibrate, thus unable to hear my frantic and repetitious calls. He is fine, except for a huge hangover, and will return to New York tomorrow afternoon.

I need to relax a little bit. I understand this.

On the state of my foot

The good news: I am no longer wearing the evil smelly cast
The bad news: I have a torn tendon in the bottom of my foot and must attend physical therapy.
More bad news: I must continue wearing my ugly sneakers indefinitely, which is putting a serious cramp in my style.

On the state of my bowels

I ate a nutrient-rich lunch of organic veggies and soup.

It didn’t help.

On the state of our wedding plans

We haven’t decided much, except:

1. We must cut down our guest list or I’m going to have a heart attack
2. We will have lovely, girly cupcakes in lieu of a wedding cake
3. Since Magnolia doesn’t ship, the cupcakes will be lovingly prepared by my mother and her sister.

So, that leaves us with...a billion things still on our “to-do” list.

So I will spend the majority of my Friday night watching the WB, drinking red wine, and testing cupcake recipes in the 3 sq ft kitchen that occupies the northwestern corner of our lovely 350 sq ft apartment.

It's Been 3 Days

Since I last pooped.

The situation is getting ugly.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like From the Inside

It's well past 3 am and I can't sleep.

spicboy is out of town on spicebusiness. He was going out tonight with friends, and said he'd call when he got home.

He hasn't called.

He says that when he's out of town, he wants my voice to be the first thing he hears in the morning and the last thing he hears at night.

Sappy, I know, but it's comforting, too. Especially when you're in a long distance relationship of sorts.

He always calls--no matter how late it is.

I've left two messages.

I'm sure everything is fine.

I hate this.

The Replacement

When you leave a job you really love, it’s kind of like a breakup. After years of hard work, dedication, of pouring your heart and soul into it every day, you have to take a deep breath, cut the ties and move on to bigger and better things.

And just like an ex boyfriend will eventually find a new girlfriend, your former employer will find a replacement for you.

This morning, while sitting snug and smug and happy in my new, fancy office and sipping my designer coffee and reading my email, I happened upon a new announcement from my old company naming my replacement. I knew this had to happen eventually—after all, it’s been nearly 3 ½ months since I left that job.

Up until I read the announcement, I hadn’t felt ONE shred of nostalgia for my old job. NOT ONE.

So why do I feel so weird right now? Some of it is probably b/c my hormones are on pre-period spin cycle and I have a new emotion every 10 seconds. But that’s not all of it.

I will further illustrate using the breakup analogy. When you break up with a guy, even though you walk away from your relationship knowing full well he will eventually find someone else and move on, that doesn’t make the shock any less when you see him skipping around town with his new girlfriend, right?

Even though you fully expected it, when it actually happens, you still get that stabbing pain in your heart, those silly tears in your eyes, and that stubborn feeling of he may have found someone else, but she’ll never be as (insert proper flattering adjective here) as me, dammit!

This part of the breakup process is much easier if your replacement is a rebound chick. That is, if she’s clearly wrong for him or somehow not as shiny or amazing as you are—like if she has bad hair, or wears pants that are too short, or uses hair scrunchies or something—it just makes the whole situation easier to deal with.

But what happens if she’s even more shiny and amazing than you are? What if you find out that your ex is parading around town with some Jessica Alba look alike while you’re home alone eating Cheez Whiz straight out of the jar and feeling all of a sudden like you need more closure?

Well, Ladies and Gents, my replacement is clearly no rebound chick. Actually, she’s fantastic. Amazing, even. She won’t do a good job—she’ll do a great job.

And it’s not like I’m sitting here crying and eating Cheez Whiz or anything, but…ouch.

My old job was often more strenuous than fabulous. It was more scrappy than sexy. It was in a dingy suburb, not a glittery midtown office building. But it was mine, and for all of its imperfections, I loved it dearly.

I left that job willingly. I know I did it for all of the right reasons, and I have never regretted my decision. I was ready to move on. And until now, I really haven’t given it another thought.

But love is funny like that, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s just life that’s funny like that. Seeing that announcement reminded me that I am not irreplaceable. And that’s humbling.

But I’m not exactly replaceable, either. And that’s closure.

The House of Mouse

Around 2 am, I awoke from a sound sleep to find spiceboy standing stark still in the middle of the living room (which, since our apartment is 350 sq feet, is also the tv room and the pantry) with his head cocked curiously to one side.

I know this stance.

It means there's a mouse in our house, and that spiceboy has detected it with his superhuman ears.

Sure enough, when spiceboy opened the closet, he found a little mouse frolicking around in our large bag of unbleached flour. When he tried to get the little bugger, it disappeared into a crack in the wall, presumably from whence it came.

I didn't see any of this, of course. spiceboy told me later, once he'd gotten back into bed. Throughout the whole ordeal, I was cowering under the bedsheets, yelling: "Secure the perimeter! We must secure the perimeter!"

I'm not really sure what that means, but it sounded proactive and assertive, so I kept yellling it.

spiceboy must leave town again tomorrow to conduct yet more spicebusiness, which leaves me alone in this tiny apartment with the evil rodent. So, even though tonight is our last night together and we should be doing couply, last night together things, I'm totally stressed. How can I relax and get romantic when I know there's a mouse lurking in the shadows? I mean, really.

There's only one solution: I must secure the perimeter. Now I just have to figure out how. Maybe with a brave attitude and roll of duct tape everything will be okay. And now I must go to work.

More soon.

This is what a Relationship Looks Like from the Inside

Drunk, hand in hand, trying to hail a cab on 17th Street and Second Ave., singing Total Eclipse of the Heart at the top of our lungs, because it cracks us up.

Today's Lesson

No matter how much it may look like water, vodka is NOT water.

Repeat: Vodka is NOT water.

The Great Laundry Fiasco

I have never met my neighbors from across the hall, but I know about them.

I know they moved in one month after we did. I know they are both pastry chefs at the very prestigious restaurant of a very prestigious CELEBRITY CHEF.

I know they come home from their pastry-chef jobs in the wee hours of the morning, and I know that I’ve never seen them during the day.

I know that sometimes there are really great smells of baked goods wafting out from under their door, across the dingy hallway, and into our 350 sq foot apartment, where the only smell since spiceboy left town on spicebusiness two weeks ago is that of a honeydew-scented candle that I light in the bathroom to keep it from smelling musty.

spiceboy and I often entertain fantasies in which we become good friends with our pastry chef neighbors, and that as a result of this friendship, they will not only invite us over to sample their homemade pastries, but they will also pull strings to get us an 8pm reservation on a Saturday night at their exclusive CELEBRITY CHEF’s restaurant and put us on the VIP list and give us freebies on the $350 per person tasting menu.

Some couples fantasize about winning the lottery and never having to work again. We fantasize about eating the most fabulous meals in the world. If you ask me, our fantasy is much more attainable than most couples’. Or it was.

Until Saturday.

You see, I was struggling to haul two gigantic sacks of laundry out of my apartment without further injuring my gimpy foot when the door across the hall swung open, revealing a pretty Japanese girl with a kind smile. Presumably one of the pastry chefs. She carried with her a single, dainty bag of laundry, and her eyes widened at the sight of my two behemoth bags. I guess pastry chefs don’t generate many dirty clothes.

We made eye contact, smiled, and made the kind of quick yet friendly introductions that new neighbors make in the hallway when they’re on their way to somewhere. Then she was gone, gracefully descending the 48 steep steps to the street with her single, dainty bag of laundry.

I was thrilled. Okay, so maybe we weren’t exactly BFF yet, but “hello” was a start. I could hardly wait to call spiceboy and tell him that while he was away on his spicebusiness, I had made taken the critical first steps toward seeing our food fantasy realized.

I clunked-clunked my way down the 48 steep steps with my two huge bags of laundry, my bulky cast swaddled in its hideous Velcro surgical shoe, and what I swear is a 20-gallon jug of Tide that spiceboy apparently bought on sale, not thinking what an absolute PAIN IN THE ASS it is to negotiate the stairs when you’ve got a 20 gallon jug of detergent, 2 huge bags of laundry, and a gimpy foot.

It was pouring outside, and as I hobbled over to the laundry, I nearly lost purchase on the slippery sidewalk, thus receiving the first clue that my lovely Velcro surgical shoe doesn’t have a whole helluva lot of traction on slick surfaces. But I ignored it and pushed on at a brisk pace. Well, brisk for a girl with a gimpy foot, two huge bags of laundry, and a 20-gallon jug of Tide.

There were two or three steps leading down to the laundry from the street, and I made my way down them quite smoothly—gracefully even. Well, graceful for a girl with a gimpy foot, 2 huge bags of laundry, and a 20-gallon jug of Tide.

I was congratulating myself on getting down the steps accident free when I stepped forward onto the wet linoleum floor with my wet surgical shoe. What happened next is mostly a blur, but I’ll try to recreate it below. As you read on, please keep in mind that while all of this was happening, an unsuspecting woman was bent over, placing clothes into one of the large, front-loading washing machines, totally unaware of my pending wipeout. So:

1. My gimpy foot hit the slippery floor and slid out from under me.
2. I flailed my arms for balance, dropping one huge bag of laundry and the 20 gallon jug of Tide
3. The handles of the second huge bag of laundry were twisted around my palm, and as my arms flailed, the bag flailed along with them.
4. The woman loading her laundry into the machine stood up, and my huge flailing laundry bag clocked her in the side of her head, causing her to cry out in alarm and stumble backwards.
5. I was completely mortified.

After regaining my footing (and miraculously not wiping out on the floor), I turned and began apologizing profusely to the woman, who was kind of huddled against her washing machine, looking irritated.

The woman was my pastry chef neighbor.

Her shiny hair was mussed from the unexpected contact with my huge laundry bag, and she had a frozen-looking smile on her face. She accepted my apologies, but she didn’t look pleased about it.

As I gathered up the scattered pieces of my laundry and my pride from the wet floor, I could feel her scornful eyes on me, and I realized that as a result of my clumsy actions, I had probably just ruined any and all chances of making the CELEBRITY CHEF food fantasy a reality. I was now labeled as the clumsy neighbor. I was merely a loser with too much laundry, a pariah with a gimpy foot. My credibility was totally shot.

The fate of our food fantasy now lies in the hands of but one man: spiceboy.

It's all up to you, babe. Hurry home.

Song That Was In My Head When I Woke Up (way too early) Today

Jesus Walks by Kanye West

Soon...

There will be more coming soon. Between my wounded foot, my sister's visit, and spiceboy's absence, I have not been motivated, and there just hasn't been a lot going on.

Except for last week when they "sealed off" my building (with everyone inside of it) because they found a suspicious package in the building across the street.

That was spooky. For me, the fear wasn't so much about the "suspicous package," it was the fact that they locked us in the building and wouldn't let us out.

Okay, I have to plan a professional/fun/foot-friendly outfit and get my butt to work.

More soon.

Today's Maturity Score

spiceboy: 1
eastsidegirl: 0

That's right. Because every time spiceboy is out of town on spice business for more than a week, our conversations start sounding less like rational conversations between two mature adults and more like conversations between two hormonal teenagers, and I suddenly morph into psycho phone girlfriend. I nag, I whine, I raise my voice. And today, I committed the ultimate relationship phone sin--I hung up.

And I didn't even have a good reason. As a matter of fact, spiceboy was in the middle of doing one of his very good deeds--sacrificing his weekend in order to babysit for my parents' dogs so my parents could go out of town. And upon hearing this information, instead of recognizing the incredible sweetness of the fact that my future husband was sacrificing his precious time in order to do something kind for his future in-laws, my psycho girlfriend brain screamed: BUT THAT MEANS YOU CAN'T COME HOME AND BE WITH ME!

Selfish, party of one?

I know this is bad behavior. I really know it. It's damn hard to conduct a normal relationship on the phone. It might even be harder than trying to conduct a normal relationship in a 350 sq foot apartment.

I'll keep you posted.

I'm go to go practice being mature and rational now.

Cast System

The weekend of ice and elevation did absolutely nothing for my injured foot. My foot doctor, who is more than a little creepy and who tends to absently stroke my foot while he's talking to me, doesn't know if it's broken or sprained. But he figured a sure fire way to solve either problem was to slap a cast on me.

That's right, a cast.

It could be worse. It could be one of those big, bulky casts that goes up to my knee. I got lucky--mine is a soft cast that only comes up to my lower calf. Basically, it's a thick bunch of bandages wrapped tightly around my foot. It's relatively unobtrusive, but incredibly itchy on the inside. And in order to walk the city streets in my obtrusive and itchy soft cast, Dr. Strange also gave me a surgical shoe. What is a surgical shoe, you ask? Well, it's huge and black and has lots of velcro straps, and besides the fake Doc Martens I used to wear in high school, it's pretty much the most unattractive thing I've ever put on my foot.

Then there's the smell.

On a good day, a day without a soft cast or excessive exercise or perspiration, my feet stink. I inherited this attractive trait from my dear old Nonni (my Italian grandmother). If my foot even gets near a shoe, it starts to stink. And once my foot has been in a shoe--watch out! spiceboy is pretty good about dealing with the stench, but there have been a couple of nights when it was so bad that he actually demanded that I wash my feet before I got into bed. Do you understand why he proposed to me? I sure don't.

Now, if the foot stench is awful on a good day, imagine what it's like when you throw in a soft cast and a surgical shoe. That's right, it's baaaaaaad. Now, imagine the smelly foot/cast combo after you accidentally get the cast wet in the shower b/c you dropped the soap and when you leaned over to pick it up water seeped through the trash bag you had electrical-taped to your calf in order to protect your foot.

Now, that's smelly.

Sistah Sistah

At exactly 8:36 am yesterday morning, my sister’s plane landed in New York. When she is around, all of my adult worries go away, and I'm suddenly 10 years old again, skipping (or hobbling, in this case) down the streets, giggling at everything, and building ice cream/brownie sundaes at midnight when I should be sleeping.

Until about three years ago, we were never too far away from each other. But now she’s in Oregon, and I’m in New York. When she’s not around, I miss her terribly. But it’s not until we’re together again that I remember all of the teeny, tiny, silly reasons I miss her, and that just makes the distance between us so much harder.

The Wedding Plans: A Brief History

On a magical New Year's Eve high above a glittering non-New York City where two rivers converge into one, a simple and timeless question was asked, an answer was given, a sparkling ring was placed on a trembling finger, and eastsidegirl and spiceboy became engaged, thus beginning a new phase in their eight years of knowing one another and four years of being in love. There followed champagne toasts with friends, hugs with family, and excited phone calls to loved ones far away.

Then came the inevitable questions:

When? Where? How?

Both eastsidegirl and spiceboy wanted something simple, easy, and fun. Thailand in Janaury 2006, they decided, with only a handful of friends and immediate family. Parfait. They would do it at sundown, on a beach, in their bare feet. No big reception. No fluffy white dress, hideous ice sculptures, bad food, or unmanagable guest lists. No muss, no fuss.

So innocent were they!

Fast forward 8 months. The couple has unexpectedly relcoated from their spacious apartment near Boston Common to a closet on the Upper East Side of Manhattan in order to accomodate eastside girl's burgeoning "career." The wedding is still on, and Thailand is but a faraway memory. A space for the wedding and reception has been reserved for June 3, 2006 in the city where two rivers converge into one. The guest list is 130 people and growing. A photographer has been commissioned, and a wedding dress has been purchased. The blessed couple, who once enjoyed debating world issues and events, now finds themselves debating cupcakes vs. wedding cakes, dj's vs. live bands, orchids vs. wheatgrass for the table arrangements, and whether or not they should even bother registering for gifts. spiceboy doesn't want to talk about invitations until the table arrangements have been nailed down. eastsidegirl is threatening to elope should the guest list exceed 150 people.

In short, it's a full-on wedding. The happy couple lives 400 miles from the wedding venue. eastsidegirl has just started a brand new job, spiceboy is often away on spice business, and they are both master procrastinators.

Can they survive?

Ice, Elevate, Wrap, Repeat

That's been my weekend in a nutshell. The foot, much to my dismay, is not any better than it was on Friday. It's not worse, either. Just consistently painful.

There are good and bad things about being housebound.

Good things: 1. It's kind of relaxing. 2. It's a good excuse to order lots of takeout 3. I got to finish reading Julie and Julia (I would link to it if I could figure out HOW) 4. I have mastered the fine art of Ace Bandage application 5. I don't feel guilty about not exercising b/c I am physically unable to exercise.

Bad things: 1. It gives me lots of time to think about all of the wedding plans we haven't made yet, like a) Finalzing the guest list b) Finding and officiant (is that a word?) c) Renting tents, tables, chairs, silverware, glassware, etc. d) Choosing a music option e) Planning a menu f) You get it--there's a lot we haven't done. But since spiceboy is still out of of town for an indeterminate period of time to conduct his spice business, and since I'm housebound and can't get to the store to buy a copy of Emily Post or Martha Stewart, I'll just continue ignoring it. 2. It gives me plenty of time to realize everything that is wrong with the organization of this apartment 3. For example: a)The bookshelves are a disshelved, unalphabetized mess b)there are useless receipts and papers littering every clean surface of the computer desk and bedroom dressers (spiceboy!) c) There are dust motes the size of grizzly bears under our bed d)our "kitchen" shelves are a total waste of space

And in a 350 sq foot apartment, you can't afford to waste space.

Then there's the hair debacle. On Friday night, I stopped at the neighborhood Walgreen's to stock up on water, ace bandages, and other supplies to get me through the weekend. While I was there, I picked up a box of hair color. But the lovely folks at Nice N' Easy have discontinued my color, so I felt forced to make a snap decision and pick a different color.

I should have just left it for another day.

My once natural-looking auburn hair is now an alarming shade of deep cherry red. It's garish and kind of crazy looking. So if you happen to be on the UES (Upper East Side) and see a girl with unnaturally red hair hobbling down Second Avenue, it's probably me. Feel free to make fun.

I'm off to alphabetize the bookshelves.

Gimpy Girl Gets Some Sneakers

So, after suffering for nearly a week with my painful and gimpy foot, I finally gave in and went to the foot doctor. He took some x-rays and told me that I might have a hairline fracture that's too small to detect on film, thus causing my unnattractive limp.

I've been instructed to keep off of the foot all weekend and to stop wearing my beloved $2 plastic Chinese flip flops (bugger!)--and to get some sneakers.

The reason I've avoided sneakers for so long is that I find them ugly and devoid of character. So yesterday I finally gave in and I got some sneakers. And they're just as ugly and utterly devoid of character as I thought they would be.

When I arrived at the sneaker store on Third Avenue, I immediatley spotted a bright red and funny pair of New Balance, and my spirits lifted for a moment. My red sneakers would be adorable and irreverent! I could plan adorable little jeans outfits around the adorable and irrverent red sneakers. When walking in Central Park, women would stop me to tell me how much they loved the adorable yet irreverent quality of my red sneakers.

It didn't happen that way.

Javon is the ultimate sneaker guru at the sneaker store on Third Ave., and he took one look at my sad, bandaged foot and removed the red sneaker from my hands while informing me that it was all wrong for me. He then outfitted me with a more sensible pair of sneakers with a high arch that would "give me the suppport I need."

There's nothing remotely cute or "me" about these sneakers. They are white and purple and utterly devoid of character. Mabye I'm wrong here, but who wears light purple nowadays? And who can coordinate a fun and casual outfit around a white and purple standard-issue running shoe? Or a better question is, who would want to coordinate an outfit around a white and purple standard issue running shoe?

So I thanked Javon and took my new sneakers out for a walk. And both my gimpy foot and my good foot are actually rebelling to the well-cushioned sneaker. Perhaps they have grown so used to the $2 plastic Chinese flip flops that they can never go back to wearing regular shoes. Perhaps gimpy foot and good foot are outraged that I've given them such a heinous outfit. Whatever, the reason, I'm in more pain today than I was yesterday, except that now both of my feet hurt.

spiceboy is still out of town on spice business, and although he is concerned about the state of my foot, I get the feeling that he's hoping the doctor will give me a cane. Probably because he keeps saying things like, "Maybe the doctor will give you a cane! Wouldn't that be cool?"

I guess as long as the cane matches my sneakers, it would be okay.