Because my wedding ring was a steal!
I love my ring. We bought it together a couple of weeks ago from Mark Lash, a very fancy place indeed.
Every year they have a 50% off sale at the Richmond Hill location, so my beautiful, sparkly, diamond studded band cost a lot, but it could have been twice as much! A steal, you see?
I wish that I could post a picture of it here for all off you to see. It's so pretty I can hardly contain myself. I sometimes wear it around the house and flash it at myself in the mirror or let it catch a sunbeam. I purposely have not had it sized yet, because I know if I do I will not be able to resist its magical charms.
Remember Gollum? Yeah, that's totally me. "My precioussss...."
But I am going to wait and unveil it only after our impending nuptuals.
God knows I didn't save anything else for marriage.
Heh.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Goin' To the Chapel
Okay, “chapel” might be a stretch but goin’ to the Little Church of the West doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
That’s right. After nearly seven years, five of which have been cohabitated (probably not the right use of the word, but whatever), one dog, one brand-new house and quite strong sense of, “well, I guess we’re in this for keeps, eh?” Crown and I have decided to make it official.
I think just about everyone who reads this already knows about our plans, and if not, I guess this will be a good way to identify lurkers! Come out, come out where ever you are. We did keep the news quiet for quite a while, this isn’t exactly a brand-new development or anything, but I especially wanted to keep it on the down low at work because, let’s just say, some people tend to get a little freaky about these things and I don’t want to deal. My goal is to avoid ending up in the boardroom with a sickly sweet Valumart cake and bows stuck to my head. (Not that I don’t love me a sickly sweet Valumart cake.) I have filled “the girls” at work now, and I’m kind of hoping that nobody else finds out until after the fact. We’ll see how that works out for me.
I never considered myself the marrying type, and I still don’t consider myself the wedding type. At all. We are doing this in the best way we know how, shrouded in Vegas kitsch, free drinks, showgirls and roulette. I am not wearing a wedding dress. Crown is wearing a Tuxedo T-shirt. After some debate, we have invited our nearest and dearest and left the option open to others to “come if they want.” We’re expecting around 15 people. How fun will that be?
I’m not wearing an engagement ring, not because I don’t love sparkles, but because a) I don’t want to have to talk about it with anyone and everyone, an engagement ring is a sure-fire way to let the cat out of the bag and b) because there is just something that bothers me about the whole concept of engagement rings. Why don’t men have to wear one? It’s fishy, right? Not that I would ever turn down that kind of gift… nu’uh... my principles are simply not that strong.
For those of you who are going to want the “engagement story,” it goes a little something like this. Crown and I went out for Sunday brunch at the Beaconsfield. On our way there we walked past the Drake, which had some kind of art display in the window featuring photographs of models of the Las Vegas strip. The addict in my flared up instantly, and forced me to turn my attention to thoughts of my annual Vegas excursion. My ‘rents had asked us to go in August, we had already discussed the possibility of going in September and getting hitched.
As we settled into our bacon and eggs I said, “You know, I think we should just go to Vegas in September and get married.”
Cairn thought about it for a moment, “Yeah? Sure, why not, let’s do it.” Then, as the waiter walked up with refills for our coffee, he followed it up with, “Could we get an extra order of sausage?”
That’s right. After nearly seven years, five of which have been cohabitated (probably not the right use of the word, but whatever), one dog, one brand-new house and quite strong sense of, “well, I guess we’re in this for keeps, eh?” Crown and I have decided to make it official.
I think just about everyone who reads this already knows about our plans, and if not, I guess this will be a good way to identify lurkers! Come out, come out where ever you are. We did keep the news quiet for quite a while, this isn’t exactly a brand-new development or anything, but I especially wanted to keep it on the down low at work because, let’s just say, some people tend to get a little freaky about these things and I don’t want to deal. My goal is to avoid ending up in the boardroom with a sickly sweet Valumart cake and bows stuck to my head. (Not that I don’t love me a sickly sweet Valumart cake.) I have filled “the girls” at work now, and I’m kind of hoping that nobody else finds out until after the fact. We’ll see how that works out for me.
I never considered myself the marrying type, and I still don’t consider myself the wedding type. At all. We are doing this in the best way we know how, shrouded in Vegas kitsch, free drinks, showgirls and roulette. I am not wearing a wedding dress. Crown is wearing a Tuxedo T-shirt. After some debate, we have invited our nearest and dearest and left the option open to others to “come if they want.” We’re expecting around 15 people. How fun will that be?
I’m not wearing an engagement ring, not because I don’t love sparkles, but because a) I don’t want to have to talk about it with anyone and everyone, an engagement ring is a sure-fire way to let the cat out of the bag and b) because there is just something that bothers me about the whole concept of engagement rings. Why don’t men have to wear one? It’s fishy, right? Not that I would ever turn down that kind of gift… nu’uh... my principles are simply not that strong.
For those of you who are going to want the “engagement story,” it goes a little something like this. Crown and I went out for Sunday brunch at the Beaconsfield. On our way there we walked past the Drake, which had some kind of art display in the window featuring photographs of models of the Las Vegas strip. The addict in my flared up instantly, and forced me to turn my attention to thoughts of my annual Vegas excursion. My ‘rents had asked us to go in August, we had already discussed the possibility of going in September and getting hitched.
As we settled into our bacon and eggs I said, “You know, I think we should just go to Vegas in September and get married.”
Cairn thought about it for a moment, “Yeah? Sure, why not, let’s do it.” Then, as the waiter walked up with refills for our coffee, he followed it up with, “Could we get an extra order of sausage?”
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Not That Innocent
I just finished watching the Britney Spears interview on Dateline.
I've never made a secret out of the fact that I'm a Britney fan. In fact, I've written about it here. I've been fascinated, along with the rest of the world, with the rise and fall of this one time reigning pop-princess. I'm guilty of taking great pleasure in the tabloid coverage of her marriage to KFed, her pregnancies, her Oops I Did It Again mishaps with baby SPF. I love me a good trashy magazine more than the average Joe, I freely admit.
I have to say though, that from the day that BritBrit officially announced her first pregancy, I had a sad feeling. Things were not going to turn out well for America's bubblegum blonde. I felt sad that day, partially because it wasn't even her news to reveal. The mags had been all over that shit for months already with their speculations and inside scoops. I should know, I read every single word.
I know that this interview was staged, just like most of her public life, to have an affect on her audience. I'm savvy to the media machine, I really am. But you know what? It really worked this time because even though she was sitting there, boobies hanging out, mascara apparently applied in the dark, I didn't have the heart to make fun. In fact, I almost wanted to cry for her. I truly got the sense that she's fiercly protective of her baby, the same one that the stalkerazzi are trying to convince us isn't being protected at all.
She seemed very young, very unhappy and honestly lost in a world that is out to destroy her even more swiftly than it lifted her to superstardom. I got the sense that she doesn't even fully understand the extent to which she is being slammed.
I guess the reason that my heart goes out to her is because I feel conflicted by the fact that she did choose this career and to be in the public eye and has reaped great rewards as a result. But she's 24 years old and about to become a mother for the second time. She became a superstar at 17. There was no way that she could ever have had enough forsight at 17 years old to know that in only six year's time she'd be a wife and a mother. She couldn't have predicted then what it would feel like to try to protect a new life from the one that she created for herself when she was just a child.
I'm not about to put down my smut, believe me, but I think I am going to side with the Britster for a while. It's time to leave her alone and let her be a mom. Let her make mistakes (what mom hasn't dropped their baby once or twice, like seriously) without such harsh judgement and ridicule. She's not the sparkly groomed Britney of old, but we can be just as entertained by the messy baby-makin' Britney, without being so cruel, can't we?
And for God's sake, let a pregant popstar get her venti decaff cafe frappacino now and then without leaping up from behind the counter with a barista smock and a camera. Actually, I love those shots, keep doing that.
I've never made a secret out of the fact that I'm a Britney fan. In fact, I've written about it here. I've been fascinated, along with the rest of the world, with the rise and fall of this one time reigning pop-princess. I'm guilty of taking great pleasure in the tabloid coverage of her marriage to KFed, her pregnancies, her Oops I Did It Again mishaps with baby SPF. I love me a good trashy magazine more than the average Joe, I freely admit.
I have to say though, that from the day that BritBrit officially announced her first pregancy, I had a sad feeling. Things were not going to turn out well for America's bubblegum blonde. I felt sad that day, partially because it wasn't even her news to reveal. The mags had been all over that shit for months already with their speculations and inside scoops. I should know, I read every single word.
I know that this interview was staged, just like most of her public life, to have an affect on her audience. I'm savvy to the media machine, I really am. But you know what? It really worked this time because even though she was sitting there, boobies hanging out, mascara apparently applied in the dark, I didn't have the heart to make fun. In fact, I almost wanted to cry for her. I truly got the sense that she's fiercly protective of her baby, the same one that the stalkerazzi are trying to convince us isn't being protected at all.
She seemed very young, very unhappy and honestly lost in a world that is out to destroy her even more swiftly than it lifted her to superstardom. I got the sense that she doesn't even fully understand the extent to which she is being slammed.
I guess the reason that my heart goes out to her is because I feel conflicted by the fact that she did choose this career and to be in the public eye and has reaped great rewards as a result. But she's 24 years old and about to become a mother for the second time. She became a superstar at 17. There was no way that she could ever have had enough forsight at 17 years old to know that in only six year's time she'd be a wife and a mother. She couldn't have predicted then what it would feel like to try to protect a new life from the one that she created for herself when she was just a child.
I'm not about to put down my smut, believe me, but I think I am going to side with the Britster for a while. It's time to leave her alone and let her be a mom. Let her make mistakes (what mom hasn't dropped their baby once or twice, like seriously) without such harsh judgement and ridicule. She's not the sparkly groomed Britney of old, but we can be just as entertained by the messy baby-makin' Britney, without being so cruel, can't we?
And for God's sake, let a pregant popstar get her venti decaff cafe frappacino now and then without leaping up from behind the counter with a barista smock and a camera. Actually, I love those shots, keep doing that.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Dirty
The subject of ovulation, and the powerful surging hormones that are often associated with it, keeps coming up these days. I wrote a post back in March called Panic Song where I describe a horrible panic attack that I'd recently suffered and conclude that it was somehow tied to my first ovulation after discontinuing the birth control pill.
It's no secret that I have my fair share of neuroses. There is my, by now, well documented fear of fire. I'm also nervous in cars and planes. I have, like every other woman that I have ever met, my fair share of body issues. Probably my best known neuroses is my compulsion to keep a clean house. It's seriously borderline OCD and I know it. Most people find it funny, a silly personality quirk, and most of the time I look at it that way too.
After all, if you can't laugh at yourself, what can you laugh it? But, there definitely times when I do not find this compulsion funny at all. I find it utterly overwhelming. I find it impossible to have a normal day, to enjoy a normal conversation or sometimes even sleep normally when I'm having what I consider to be an OCD "episode".
These episodes have always increased during PMS, but now that I'm post-pill, I'm realizing that they are at their worst during ovulation. I've been thinking for some time about how I can adequately describe what these episodes feel like for me, and I think I've come up with two scenerios that will do the trick. I chose two, because the way that the compulsion affects me is two-fold.
1) It affects the way that I view my home.
2) It affects the way that I feel when I'm in my home.
Scenerio #1
I'm sure you've often heard the stories of severe anorexics when they say that when they look at themselves in a mirror, they see a fat person staring back. We try and try to understand, but can't. How could they possibly think that they are in any way anything but bone thin?
When I am having an "OCD day", I look at my house and see dirt, dust, filth and germs. I see it everywhere. Anyone else that has ever been in my home can't understand it. "It's spotless," they'll say, they will eat off my floors. They laugh and shake their heads, just relax already! Drop the Swiffer! I know it's funny and ridiculous to others, but people, I'm telling you, I can't relax! I can't relax until I have vacuumed, changed sheets, washed floors, polished glass. Why can't I "just relax already?" See scenerio #2.
Scenerio #2
Here's how I can best describe what it feels like for me to be in my house when the house has not been cleaned, particularly during PMS or ovulation. Have ya'll see the movie Jarhead? You know the scene when the oil fields go up in flames and the Marines gets rained on with oil? They are dripping and filthy and covered in oil and sand.
Imagine that's you. Covered in oil and sand. Imagine how you feel. Now imagine walking into your living room and sitting on your couch. Are you relaxed? Can you imagine just sitting there sticky and sweating and having your friends say to you, "forget about showering, just forget it you freak, you look fine. Sit down, relax, have a glass of wine!"
Can you imagine growing tired and crawling up the stairs to your bed. No shower, no change of clothes, just snuggling up under the covers, oil and all? Are you relaxed? Can you just "forget about the oil" and enjoy the moment? I don't think that you can.
This is how I feel during one of these overwhelming obsessive compulsive moments. Logically I know the house is not so bad. But something filters the way that I see it and a house that yesterday looked spotless and tidy suddenly seems crawling with grime. I'm told time and time again that I should just leave it, it looks perfect, why don't I just let it go and relax. I want to scream during these particularly bad moments. "I'm dripping with oil and caked in sand! I can't relax, can't you see?"
Before you conclude that I have completely lost my shit and start calling around to have me committed, I'd like to reiterate that this is only when my episodes are at their most extreme. On "normal" (as if) days I might be annoyed by a mess or drag the Swiffer around a little more than the average soul, but I'm in control.
Hormones are an amazingly powerful thing. They can create miracles. Anything that can actually guide us through something as complex as reproduction is not to be fooled with. This is Mother Nature's way of reminding us that she was always meant to be in control. But let's not forget, as a society we have decided not to let Mother Nature rule. We have taken our lives and our destinies into our own hands and told her, "Thanks Moms, but we'll take it from here." Whether we agree with this direction of society or not is irrelevent, it is just how we exist today. So, sometimes, we need help to suppress or control what Mother Nature intended for us. Birth control pills, umbrellas, cars, pesticides, antibiotics.
I don't feel like I'm in a place where I need medication to control my compulsions, after all, being clean might annoy some people but it certainly isn't hurting anyone. (Okay maybe Crown's back after all the scrubbing and vacuuming. Sorry Babes.) But if ever it came a time where my panic attacks or my OCD were seriously interfering with my ability to live a healthy, happy life, I'd be the first in line. Sign me up and tell me when to swallow. Mother Nature is beautiful and should be admired and respected, but we can't count on her for help anymore. We've pushed her away too many times.
It's no secret that I have my fair share of neuroses. There is my, by now, well documented fear of fire. I'm also nervous in cars and planes. I have, like every other woman that I have ever met, my fair share of body issues. Probably my best known neuroses is my compulsion to keep a clean house. It's seriously borderline OCD and I know it. Most people find it funny, a silly personality quirk, and most of the time I look at it that way too.
After all, if you can't laugh at yourself, what can you laugh it? But, there definitely times when I do not find this compulsion funny at all. I find it utterly overwhelming. I find it impossible to have a normal day, to enjoy a normal conversation or sometimes even sleep normally when I'm having what I consider to be an OCD "episode".
These episodes have always increased during PMS, but now that I'm post-pill, I'm realizing that they are at their worst during ovulation. I've been thinking for some time about how I can adequately describe what these episodes feel like for me, and I think I've come up with two scenerios that will do the trick. I chose two, because the way that the compulsion affects me is two-fold.
1) It affects the way that I view my home.
2) It affects the way that I feel when I'm in my home.
Scenerio #1
I'm sure you've often heard the stories of severe anorexics when they say that when they look at themselves in a mirror, they see a fat person staring back. We try and try to understand, but can't. How could they possibly think that they are in any way anything but bone thin?
When I am having an "OCD day", I look at my house and see dirt, dust, filth and germs. I see it everywhere. Anyone else that has ever been in my home can't understand it. "It's spotless," they'll say, they will eat off my floors. They laugh and shake their heads, just relax already! Drop the Swiffer! I know it's funny and ridiculous to others, but people, I'm telling you, I can't relax! I can't relax until I have vacuumed, changed sheets, washed floors, polished glass. Why can't I "just relax already?" See scenerio #2.
Scenerio #2
Here's how I can best describe what it feels like for me to be in my house when the house has not been cleaned, particularly during PMS or ovulation. Have ya'll see the movie Jarhead? You know the scene when the oil fields go up in flames and the Marines gets rained on with oil? They are dripping and filthy and covered in oil and sand.
Imagine that's you. Covered in oil and sand. Imagine how you feel. Now imagine walking into your living room and sitting on your couch. Are you relaxed? Can you imagine just sitting there sticky and sweating and having your friends say to you, "forget about showering, just forget it you freak, you look fine. Sit down, relax, have a glass of wine!"
Can you imagine growing tired and crawling up the stairs to your bed. No shower, no change of clothes, just snuggling up under the covers, oil and all? Are you relaxed? Can you just "forget about the oil" and enjoy the moment? I don't think that you can.
This is how I feel during one of these overwhelming obsessive compulsive moments. Logically I know the house is not so bad. But something filters the way that I see it and a house that yesterday looked spotless and tidy suddenly seems crawling with grime. I'm told time and time again that I should just leave it, it looks perfect, why don't I just let it go and relax. I want to scream during these particularly bad moments. "I'm dripping with oil and caked in sand! I can't relax, can't you see?"
Before you conclude that I have completely lost my shit and start calling around to have me committed, I'd like to reiterate that this is only when my episodes are at their most extreme. On "normal" (as if) days I might be annoyed by a mess or drag the Swiffer around a little more than the average soul, but I'm in control.
Hormones are an amazingly powerful thing. They can create miracles. Anything that can actually guide us through something as complex as reproduction is not to be fooled with. This is Mother Nature's way of reminding us that she was always meant to be in control. But let's not forget, as a society we have decided not to let Mother Nature rule. We have taken our lives and our destinies into our own hands and told her, "Thanks Moms, but we'll take it from here." Whether we agree with this direction of society or not is irrelevent, it is just how we exist today. So, sometimes, we need help to suppress or control what Mother Nature intended for us. Birth control pills, umbrellas, cars, pesticides, antibiotics.
I don't feel like I'm in a place where I need medication to control my compulsions, after all, being clean might annoy some people but it certainly isn't hurting anyone. (Okay maybe Crown's back after all the scrubbing and vacuuming. Sorry Babes.) But if ever it came a time where my panic attacks or my OCD were seriously interfering with my ability to live a healthy, happy life, I'd be the first in line. Sign me up and tell me when to swallow. Mother Nature is beautiful and should be admired and respected, but we can't count on her for help anymore. We've pushed her away too many times.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Let the Rain Fall Down
Confessions of a not-anywhere-close-to-a-teenage drama queen:
Hi, my name is Beaches, and I'm a Lagunaholic.
They say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem. Consider this my official admission. I want my M(Crack)TV.
LC and Stephen 4 evah.
Confession number two: although I've been forced onto the wagon for an old destructive addiction for several years because my drug of choice was unavailable, 90210hibition has ended. Catch it weekdays at 3pm and weekends at 10am on TVtropolis (formerly Prime). If you happen to live in the west or have digital with time shifting you can also tune in at 6pm and 1pm on TVTropolis West. Today I caught the pilot episode. They say it only takes one taste.
Betty Ford here I come.
Hi, my name is Beaches, and I'm a Lagunaholic.
They say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem. Consider this my official admission. I want my M(Crack)TV.
LC and Stephen 4 evah.
Confession number two: although I've been forced onto the wagon for an old destructive addiction for several years because my drug of choice was unavailable, 90210hibition has ended. Catch it weekdays at 3pm and weekends at 10am on TVtropolis (formerly Prime). If you happen to live in the west or have digital with time shifting you can also tune in at 6pm and 1pm on TVTropolis West. Today I caught the pilot episode. They say it only takes one taste.
Betty Ford here I come.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)