The Pooping Renaissance

By now, most of you know about my issues.

Yeah, we're back to that again.

With the stress of the wedding week bearing down on me and a to-do list a mile long, I really didn't plan on pooping much this week. I mean, I can't even poop when my stress is at a normal level, so now that the stress is at such explosive levels that I'm practically vibrating, I was prepared for the worst, poop-wise.

But I've gotten a pleasant surprise this week. Things are surprisingly...normal. Maybe it's the humid Pittsburgh air. Maybe it's the 80 gallons of water I'm drinking every day because I'm dehydrated from the antibiotics from my cold. Maybe it's the fact that I visited the Whole Foods salad bar a few days ago and ate about 6 lbs of quinoa.

But whatever it is, this is fantastic. It's stupdendous. It's amazing. I'm having a Pooping Renaissance! It's really the best wedding present Mother Nature could ever give me.

Now if she would only change the forecast to sunny on Saturday instead of this, I'll be all set.

Ho-Down

It is early Monday morning. I am in bed at spiceboy's mom's house in Pittsburgh. My terrible cold is mostly gone, with the the help of massive amounts of antibiotics and water.

Tonight I had my bachelorette party. At first, I was very resistant to any sort of traditional shower or bachelorette party, so my wonderful and very patient friends threw me a Ho-Down instead. What's a Ho-Down, you ask? Well, the idea was birthed a couple of months ago at a group booze-fest we held at Otto in NYC. Why is it called a Ho-Down? We don't know. But it sounds better than "bachelorette party", right?

Basically, the Ho-Down involved massive amounts of the things I love best: champagne, cheese, chocolate (in the form of a dark chocolate fountain), and lots of hilarious pooping stories.

By the end of the night, I was wearing a cowboy hat, a handmade veil, a shirt that said "69" (which was justified b/c it is the year of spiceboy's birth), and a banner that said "bitch, please" (my favorite slogan ever).

Please forgive me if this post isn't making much sense. I'm just drunk enough that I can't tell (but not too drunk to try to post!).

Was it a great party?

It was soooooo a great party.

I can't believe the wedding is in 5 days.

It's 9 Days Until the Wedding and...

I’m sick.

That’s right—sick. Runny nose, itchy eyes, sore throat, coughing sneezing, snuffling, disgusting germy sick.

I’m hardly the picture of a glowing bride-to-be. Unless your definition of a glowing bride-to-be includes boxes of Kleenex and a nose as red as Rudolph’s.

I’ve had a full-blown sinus infection since Saturday. I’ve been pumping massive amounts of decongestants and antibiotics into my system, and I’m making progress, but slowly.

To make matters worse, my dear sweet little sister is in town with me, and instead of skipping around Manhattan, exploring and causing trouble and making public scenes (as my sister and I are wont to do when we’re together), we spend most evenings in my apartment propped up in bed, and she entertains me with various pooping stories (my sister’s pooping stories are some of the greatest I’ve ever heard) while I cough and blow my nose and whine.

All in all, it hasn’t been a great week. But I'd rather be sick this week than next, right?

More soon.

Last Friday

Tonight was a typical Friday, as far as Fridays go when spiceboy is out of town.

I came home, as usual. I cooked myself a little din, as usual. I poured myself a little wine, as usual. And sometime after the din was finished and the dishes were done and I was splashing just a little more Cotes du Rhone into my glass, it hit me:

This is my last Friday alone as an unmarried woman.

That’s right. In just 15 days, I will get married. Next Friday at this time, my dear, lovely sister will be in New York, and we will be packing up and getting ready to drive back to Pennsylvania early the next day.

And the next Friday after that, I will be at my rehearsal dinner, in downtown Pittsburgh, with my closest friends and family.

And the next Friday after that, I’ll be married.

And the next Friday after that…

And the next Friday after that…

And the next Friday after that…

I’ve been engaged for nearly a year and a half. I’ve been with spiceboy for over five years now. And once we’re married, our lives really won’t change that much. At least on the outside. And for all of the time that’s gone by, and all of the life we’ve lived together so far, this whole marriage thing still blows my fucking mind.

No, it really does. It's so strange. Good, but strange.

And so here I am, alone in my tiny, cozy, wonderful 350 sq ft apartment, just like I’ve been on so many Friday nights before this. A glass of wine. A couple of books to read. The tv on mute in the background.

But this night is different. Because this is the last night I’ll be here in just this way. With just my last name. With just me to look out for, should I so choose.

I am 29 years old. It is 7:55 pm. Outside, the temperature is 64 degrees. And in a little less than 15 days time, I am getting married.

So let’s remember this moment, shall we? Let’s mark it for all posterity. I’m glad to have you here with me to do it, dear readers. Because I’m feeling a little bit sentimental tonight.

I am sitting on the futon, sans bra (thank god!) in one of spiceboy’s sacky white t-shirts and my most favorite Red Engine jeans. My bare feet are propped up on the coffee table. My toes are painted deep red—a color called Berry Hard. The computer is in my lap.
Outside, it is not raining, but there is rain in the air. A bird calls from across the street, and the sound echoes, bounces off of the brick buildings. Down on the sidewalk, a delivery boy chains his bike to the street sign—I can hear the chains rattling against the pole—he is bringing someone their dinner. And there is nothing else, save for the quiet rush of cabs down East 70th Street, the voices floating up to my window from down below, the occasional horn blowing from Second Avenue.

My last Friday alone as an unmarried woman is not fancy. It’s not glamorous. It’s just me and Manhattan.

And it’s about as perfect as I could have ever imagined it would be.

Bra New World

Yesterday, I popped into the Gap in hopes of replacing my beloved black cardigan sweater.

Have you ever tried to find a black cardigan sweater in May?

It’s not so easy.

Anyway, I was on my way out of the Gap, feeling all dejected and sweater-less, when I spotted this adorable little pink demi cup bra. Now, I’m pretty much a traditionalist when it comes to my brassieres. It has to be comfortable, and it has to be padded (I’m totally flat-chested), so I usually go for the ever-popular and very padded Gap T-Shirt Bra.

Yes, I pad. And I’m damn proud of it, bitches.

Even though this new bra was only slightly padded, it had these cute little swirly designs on it little ribbons and whatnot, and I felt like I wanted to buy something, so why not, right?

Right.

I took the bra home and modeled it for myself in the mirror, not only with a selection of pink underwear, but also under numerous shirts, from tanks to tees to button downs, to make sure this new addition to my lingerie drawer provided proper support and smooth, clean lines under my clothing. I liked the looks of it—the straps were thin, and the cups even pushed up my barely-there boobs a little bit more than usual. Very nice!

It was only when I got to the office and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror under the fluorescent lighting that I noticed something was…off.

Last night, in the muted light of my bathroom mirror, the bra gave the appearance of clean lines under my clothing. But today, in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the office, the problem is clear:

This bra gives me pointy boobs.

That’s right, it looks like there are tiny little mini torpedoes sticking out of the center of my chest. This may be due to the following: 1. The cups are too big (I am stuck between A and B cup purgatory, and I simply refuse to go A) or 2. The cups have a seam right down the center that causes them to sort of fold into a point.

Or maybe it's a little of both.

Regardless, I might as well be wearing those pointy little Dixie cups from the dispenser next to the water cooler over my boobs instead of a bra. They both have the same effect, anyway.

This is great. Just great.

Happy Thursday.

Vows

Last night, spiceboy and I sat on the couch with the Food Network on mute on the TV, eating leftover cake from a wedding party his cousin threw for us last weekend, and trying to write our vows. The wonderful Rev. Dave gave us some sample vows to work from, and we were trying to come up with something that didn't sound quite so...

...what's the word?

Oh, yeah--lame.

Anyway.

As we read through the pre-fab vows, we noticed that lots of the words sounded a lot like either miliatry slogans or old Billy Joel songs--lots of over the top slogans and sappy proclamations.

But after several drafts (and several glasses of wine each), we finally came up with something that we both liked, and that wasn't too lame. And we passed the piece of paper back and forth and read it aloud to each other, just to make sure we were comfortable saying the words.

"So this is it," I said, munching on a fondant heart with our names written on it that I'd pried from the top of the leftover cake.

"This is it," said spiceboy.

"Are you okay with these words? These are the final words--these are the forever words," I said.

"I'm okay with it," he said. "Are you okay with it?" he asked me.

I chewed the fondant, which is kind of like a stickier version of chewing gum, and pondered this.

spiceboy sat cross-legged on our futon, in his orange t-shirt and baggy pajama bottoms and glasses, looking at me. I thought of all of the nights we've spent over the past five years in just the same way. I thought of all of the nights like it in the future. I thought of all of the funny, silly, little things that make me so in love with him and in love with our life and what we've built, and I tried to hold them still in my mind for just a moment, so I could remember them, because things are about to get very busy from now until the wedding.

"Yes," I said. "Yes I am."

Goodbye, Black Cardigan Sweater

First, an update from the last post:

I got home on time, and everything worked out A-OK. The massage was great and things have been...regular...ever since.

And now, onto today's order of business:

I don't know where I left you, black cardigan sweater. Was it at that bar in Brooklyn? Or the backseat of the cab on Saturday night?

I will miss you, black cardigan sweater. You were perfectly worn in and you never disappointed me. I could wear you with jeans, or with a skirt. I could dress you up with a fun scarf and black sequined ballet flats, or I could dress you down with a t-shirt and sneakers. You were just light enough to provide warmth without making me feel claustrophic. You got me through many a too-cold movie theater and many a long tough work meeting.

And through it all, you always looked good. You never pilled, or stretched, or faded.

So goodbye, black cardigan sweater, wherever you are.

The Great Pooping Dilemma

It’s been awhile since I’ve done a post on poop. So this post will be about poop. So if you’re not pro-poop, come back later.

As some of you may know, the act of pooping does not always come easily for me (see #7 in my sidebar).

I generally have very specific periods of time in which I can poop. These are:

1. First thing in the morning, but only if I’ve eaten veggies the night before, and only if I drink a huge glass of water immediately upon waking.

2. When I get home from work (but I really can’t count on this at all).

Yesterday was a total bust, poop-wise. Nothing. Zip. Nada.

Today, I missed my morning window, even after drinking the requisite glass of water and loading up on leafy greens last night.

But--horror of horrors--even as I sit writing this, I feel the twinge. That’s right—I have a window. RIGHT NOW. But there’s one problem: I never poop at the office, as I have a severe case of office pooping paranoia. This is obviously not a problem with the other female employees here, as the bathroom generally smells like a big poop factory.

I mean, ew. I hardly even want to go in to fluff my hair, let alone do my business. I’m sure you understand.

Which leaves me tonight as the only pooping possibility. There’s only one problem: My masseuse is coming to the apartment at 6 o’clock, and that doesn’t give me a lot of time to get home, get into the bathroom, and then get ready for the masseuse. I mean, what if she comes early and I’m still in the bathroom?

Ew!

Or worse yet, what if I get home in time, but b/c I know she’s coming, I get pooping paranoia at HOME, and I can’t go? Then I won’t be able to relax during my massage b/c I’ll be thinking about how I wish I could have pooped, not to mention clenching my innards to avoid any uncomfortable scenes. And then her massage will feel less like a massage and more like a horrible anti-pooping torture device.

This is horrible, just horrible.

You Know That Awful Feeling...

...when you're expecting an email, but it's not necessarily an email you want to get?

But you know it's coming and you have to read it and once you read it, you will have to deal with it, even though it will not be pleasant? And you try not to think about it, but you do think about it, and every time you think about it, you get a feeling of dread deep in the pit of your stomach?

And so you pace around the apartment and you eat some rather pretentious-but-yummy truffled goat cheese and you watch The Food Network and you eat some more truffled goat cheese and then you watch a rerun of Friends that you've seen at least 6 times before, and then you decide that the truffled goat cheese you've been eating would be really good and perhaps even more pretentious with some crusty French bread, so you whip out a baguette and before you know it, you've eaten 3/4 of a baguette and nearly all of the truffled goat cheese that you bought only yesterday, knowing full well that normal adults who purchase luxuries like truffled goat cheese do not slump around their 350 sq ft apartments and eat it all in one sitting whilst awaiting a dreaded email.

And even after all of this, the email still hasn't arrived, and so finally you get into bed with a book and you try to forget about the email but even as you try to put it out of your mind, you still feel all twitchy and anxious in your stomach, not unlike the feeling you get when you go to the dentist to get a cavity drilled.

Or maybe that feeling is just from all of the goat cheese and bread you ate earlier.

So anyway, do you?

Do you ever get that awful feeling when you're expecting an email, but it's not necessarily an email you want to get?

Anyone?

No?

Maybe it's just me.

Thank you and good night.

Famous Last Words

Way back in the footloose and fancy free days of college in Pittsburgh, Pennyslvania, I spent most of my time either studying or working at spiceboy's lovely restaurant, Spice World.

This was long ago. Before spiceboy and I ever thought of becoming a couple. Before I had a college degree. Before wireless internet. Before my move to New York.

I distinctly remember sitting out on the back stoop of the restaurant one sunny summer day between shifts, smoking a Camel Light, and chattering with the other waitresses. My hands were still sticky from the sweet chili sauce I had to spoon into little bowls for the customers, and the smell of garlic and oil from the wok blew out through the screen door and into the parking lot.

Somehow, the topic of weddings had come up, and everyone was chiming in on what they did and didn't want, from dresses to music to food.

Now, I have never been a girl who fantasized about her wedding day. Oh, don't get me wrong--I have plenty of unrealistic fantasies, most involving fame, fortune, and ridiculous amounts of food. Playing princess for a day in a pouffy white dress has never been one of them.

Anyway.

"What about you?" one of the waitresses asked me. "Do you ever think about your wedding?"

"Um," I said. "I don't know. I think when I get married, I'd like for the food to be from Spice World."

"Seriously?"

The truth was, I'd just kind of blurted that out. But I really loved food, and I really loved the food at Spice World, so it made sense.

At that moment, spiceboy passed through the kitchen, and I yelled to him through the screen door.

"Hey, spiceboy!"

He walked up to the screen and looked out at me. "Yeah?"

"When I get married, will you cater my wedding?" I asked. The other waitresses giggled.

spiceboy looked at all of us for a long moment like we were the silliest creatures he'd ever seen and like he didn't quite know what to do with us.

He looked at us like that a lot.

"Sure. Sure, I'll cater your wedding," he said. "Just tell me when and where."

Then he retreated back into the shadowy depths of the restaurant.

Q is for Quit

Okay, so recap:

1. Last week, my wedding caterer quit.
2. Yesterday, one of my favorite coworkers quit.
3. Today, one of my authors quit.

After receiving this last bit of news, I did the only thing I knew how to do:

I took the elevator to the ground floor.
I walked out onto the sunny streets and looked up at the blue sky.
I walked to the nearest Tasti D-Lite.
I ordered a big cup of Cake Batter ice cream--complete with rainbow sprinkles.
I walked to a nearby park, sat on a bench in the sunshine, and ate it.
I sat still for a moment or two, and let New York happen around me.

I feel a little bit better now.

The Final Countdown

I woke up this morning, way before my alarm went off, with three thoughts in my head:

1. The wedding is one month from today.

2. The wedding is one month from today.

3. THE WEDDING IS ONE MONTH FROM TODAY.

oh. my. god.

My stomach hurts.