Tattletale installment two

Mere hours before our friends descended upon the town for what would be the greatest week of our lives, Ben and I had a nice brunch with his dad and stepmom, then toured the grounds of the SHERATON KEAUHOU RESORT AND SPA.* As we passed the Keiki Club, or whatever the place is called where parents dump their kids so they can go on swingers’ booze cruises and make crooked real estate deals, I espied through the plate-glass window this charming tableau:

Ten or so children under the age of seven sit on kiddie-couches and beanbags, vacant eyes fixed on a (state of the art flat-screen I’m sure) TV. The only adult in sight: a large woman splayed across several geometrically-printed mini-sofas, mouth agog with the sweet relief that only an illicit on-the-clock nap can bring. I couldn’t hear through the glass but I’m sure she was sawing some major logs. We walked back the same way about twenty minutes later, after taking some silly pictures and plotting how Ben might sneak fifteen grown men in to use the water slide later in the week, and the scene was exactly the same. I was a little disappointed, thinking the kids would have at least had the chutzpah to draw on their governess’s face with a Sharpie.

The hotel could not have asked for a better advertisement. After all, anyone who would leave their child with an unknown babysitter on vacation deserves what they get, and in this case, they got textbook neglect by a hungover (or narcoleptic) employee who could clearly care less about how she came across to her resort employer and its hegemonic control over her native island. At least that’s how I like to look at it.

So much for a non-judgmental Tattletale column. Maybe next time.

* I took extra care to be detailed in my naming of names, in case prospective guests or repentant parents are googling this place, wondering if they a) should choose it for their family vacation or b) got their money’s worth. Well you did, neglecting parents! You get exactly what you deserved!

a tattling will i go!

I’ve decided it is my civic duty to start a regular feature called Tattletale which documents the peccadilloes and greater sins of the public. I shall try to offer them without judgment or judgmental commentary. May the deeds stand on their own merits (or utter depravity).

Today’s theme will be parenting.

1. A lady pushes her wailing kid around the grocery store (in a cart, not bodily). Every time the child emits a particularly loud shriek, she shoves a marshmallow into its mouth from an opened, but clearly not-yet-paid-for, bag.
2. As I drive by a neighborhood ballfield, two women are standing there talking over strollers. Beside them, their toddler-sized children climb the chain-link backstop. The mothers glance up periodically, apparently unconcerned that their three-year-olds are passing the 15-foot mark. Maybe they figure they've each got a backup kid.
   
3. In Macy's today, a dad pushes around one of the mall-provided cart-strolly-things. In the part where a child is meant to go sits a boy of about five. In the mesh bag where your shopping bags are supposed to go is a baby of about eight months, swinging to and fro as the dad zooms the cart around the wineglass displays.
   
4. This one’s cute. A gaggle of girls walks by (also in Macy's; my pool of anecdotes is limited, I’m on an island), nervously chattering, heads together. From the group arises the squeal, “Ohmygod, did I say ‘Hi!’ or ‘Hey!’?!” [God, that punctuation slowed down my typing.] One says, “You totally said, ‘Hey Cody, how’s it going’” to which the others reply with relieved, approving giggles.

not so cute in a thirty-year-old

My nephew, Theo, adorably thinks every colorful, wrapped package he sees is a gift for him. Equally cute is how, if you present him with a "present" that isn't wrapped, he accepts it, then asks, "Where's the present?"

Mr. Muss and I are at a similar toddler-like stage in our new membership in the married-or-getting-married club. In this stage, we blindly assume that whenever a wedding is being discussed, we will be invited. Our first brush, sort of, with this previously unimagined realm of social anxiety occurred before our wedding. When my dear friend since high school got engaged, I assumed we were going to be invited, because it was all we ever talked about: the dress, the photographer selection, the invitation font. When, about two months before the wedding date, Ben pointed out that we hadn't received an invitation, then dropped the subtlety completely and danced around the house singing, "You didn't get in-VI-ted! You didn't get in-VI-ted!", my heart sank...then fluttered madly with panic, as I remembered all the times I so blatantly let my friend know I expected an invitation. Like, the times I talked about shopping for a new dress for her wedding, or the times I said things like, "I can't wait for your wedding!"

Turns out, of course, we were invited to that one. My friend, with-it as she is, was sticking the the proper tradition of sending invitation six weeks in advance. Kind of the equivalent of not arriving at a party too early. I think I told her eventually how Ben had horrified and taunted me, and we had a good laugh.

Well, it's happened again, only this time I'm pretty sure it's for real. And this time, thanks to my big mouth, we'll probably end up getting a mercy invitation, which we'll have to figure out how to politely decline so we don't become the a-holes of the wedding.

Hmm, this sounds oddly like the times in junior high when I would think girls were inviting me to the movies or a slumber party, and it would turn out that they were just talking about their plans in my presence, loudly, only to create an opportunity to snub me and laugh hysterically as I wondered if my breath smelled like Funyuns or if I'd gotten something on my white Bongo miniskirt.

But that's a conversation for my therapist, or my locked diary. The lesson I've learned recently is that run-of-the-mill parties (which are inevitably potlucks here) and nights out to the bar are one thing; it's embarrassing, but not mortifying, to find that you've invited yourself to them. But when it comes to weddings, you must take every measure possible to prevent that from happening. My advice: keep your trap shut when the W word comes up. Nod, yes; smile, maybe; but do not say anything that could remotely be construed as implying or assuming that you are even on the radar for an invitation. Your self-respect is not worth the risk!

But it would still be cute as all get-out if Theo did it.

life is good

I should be ashamed of myself for thinking this, but I have had an awesome two days thanks to a near-natural disaster and how the false alarm raised around it stole two days of education from already vulnerable young minds. Lives could have been changed! Artistic impulses and literary passions ignited!

Our neighborhood was bone-dry and utterly still until this afternoon—hours after the alleged hurricane had passed—when it rained maybe half an inch. My fantasy came true! Two days off of work, without having to cower under a mattress or eat cold Spaghetti-Os! Now I get to savor delectably piping-hot Spaghetti-Os, with a nice Montepulciano.

Some women need cabanas at the Four Seasons, full-body skin peels at the spa, 15-dollar poolside drinks made out of cucumbers, and shopping sprees to feel they’ve gone on a real vacation, but not me. Over the past two days, I have read the last few chapters of Harry that I’d been saving for the past week; learned that we have the Travel Channel (Missymussy + Tony Bourdain = Luv); organized the linen closet; and subsisted almost entirely on canned vegetarian chili and Country Time lemonade. I haven’t been this happy since “Breakfast for Dinner” night at Colorado College. (Go CC.)

And now my 4-day weekend begins! Today a sub is seeing what it’s like to be ME as I get my teeth drilled, then spend the whole day blissfully reading stacks of literature textbooks as I try to get the whole semester planned in advance. Then, Friday is Admissions Day (one of Hawaii’s many extra state holidays, this one to celebrate the day we became a state and won the right to have frivolous holidays), and that still leaves two whole normal weekend days.

I'm starting to think that the perfect profession for me is as a teacher who doesn't have to teach. I believe they are called "curriculum developers," and I believe they make about three times as much as teachers. However, I also have a tendency to think of them as Satan's spawn.

we feel fine

Ben keeps saying it's the end of the world, God hates us, and the like. We are awaiting the arrival of Hurricane Flossie, which will either a) vindicate my anxiety by ripping the roof off our house and/or flooding away all of our beloved crap or b) make me admit I'm a bozo as I sheepishly survey the frivolous canned goods I bought and hope Ben forgets that I wanted to seal our wedding photos in Ziploc bags.

About an hour ago, there was a 5.3 earthquake that sent me scurrying out of the house in my humiliating at-home clothes (stretched out, thin Old Navy camisole with super-short, yet baggy, shorts that expose the waistband of my granny panties).

I guess no matter what happens, even if it's just a strong breeze, I will always end up looking a fool.

At least I get to spend all day tomorrow finishing Harry Potter and eating Spaghetti-Os (with franks!), Cocoa Krispies, cinnamon graham crackers, and all the other junk foods I decided were absolute necessities for the impending disaster. You can't tell me the Katrina victims who stocked up on Kashi bars and dried fruit didn't regret it.

i'm a polyester princess

Do you think it counts if you use fashion tips from "What Not to Wear" in selecting clothes that have several characteristics of the very items they tell you not to wear?

I just bought five knit dresses to wear to school, which are totally cute and figure-flattering according to Stacey and Clinton's standards. Unless, of course, you consider the fact that they're made of 95% polyester, with the other 5% being either nylon, lycra, or the sinews of Malaysian children woven into a cheaper version of nylon or lycra.

But to my eye, they look no different from the $180 knit dresses being sold at boutiques around the country. So if these fall apart after one wearing, I will only be out $12 per wear. That's like buying the good kind and wearing it 12 times.

I decided I needed new clothes when I tried on a denim miniskirt with zippers that I bought a few years ago, and when asked whether he thought I could still get away with wearing it, Ben replied, "Maybe if you're dressing up as one of the Bratz?"

the Yokels go out to dinner

To celebrate our upcoming one-monthiversary, we went out to dinner last night at Kenichi. Granted, the place was the catalyst for my pre-wedding breakdown when my attempted bachelorette party there was a bust, but I'm trying to give them the benefit of the doubt. Luckily, the a-hole bartender wasn't working, and in his place was a guy who in elementary school we used to call Hanabata (Japanese-pidgin for snot) and is super-nice. We ran in to fellow marrieds Rene and Mark and had a nice reliving of certain wedding moments that I only noticed in the pictures, like how as I walked down the aisle, half the people were holding keg cups.

ANYwho, it was lovely, and the extremely slow service (we're talking 45 minutes for a RAW salad and sushi roll) forced us to look deep into each other's eyes and talk, really talk.

Ha ha, only kidding. I read the menu at least ten times. It really gave me a chance to memorize the menu, and to decide if I wanted the ono tataki, a seared piece of ono served over sweet potato puree with a hoisin beurre blanc, steamed green beans and sauteed shiitake mushrooms; or the broiled black cod in Kenichi's own homemade miso paste. I chose the latter.

Ben's conversational gem of the night was telling me that he used to think the refrain in "Who's That Girl" went, Send your meatballs....to I-TALL-y......Who's that girl?" This, and "Cream of Plenty.....Alleluia" is truly why I married him.

Apologies to Stephanie (and Matt) for calling them at 2 am (their time) to ask how to order coffee with Frangelico. Turns out you just ask for it IN the coffee.

the ugly truth

We got our wedding photos back from the photographer (the one we paid, as opposed to the ones we guilted into taking hundreds of photos and then posting immediately online, before they even had a chance to unpack), and while I mostly like the way I look and all the memories they evoke, I am pretty sure the guy Photoshopped the hell out of my arms and hands in the close-ups. There's not a hair in sight. Which makes me start to think, how werewolf-like do I look in real life? And what other mythical beasts do I resemble without a makeup artist's magic?

all in fun

Since we've become man and wife, Ben has either

a) decided that he needs to pull out all the stops in the realm of teasing me, to remind me of why I fell in love with him and thus ensure our marriage will be life-long, or

b) reckoned that since I'm his wife, in addition to wearing the burqua for which he's been lobbying--nay, haranguing--I should be subjected to daily shocks, pesterings, and other depravations as a sort of wifely hazing.

c) started worrying that being married is a step away from losing all the magic of our early relationship, and decided it's his responsibility to top such high points as the bag of potatoes
and the battery-free remote control.

So, since our wedding, here is the first of many gems that've happened:

We're sitting for a house with an awesome view of City of Refuge. [I'm still putting together my House-Kit, full of fun activities for the house to do. It's decorated with rickrack and sequins. This note for Stephanie.] In addition to the spectacular sunsets, other-worldly views of moonrise over the ocean that half-awaken me at 2 a.m., and cable, including all the HBOs, we have the treat of a sweet-tempered dog named Nutmeg. If all my students had half her personality (and intelligence, there, I've said it), my job would be a cakewalk.

Last night, the tranquility of my post-hot tub (solar-heated) shower was shattered by the jangling of something metallic. The jingling of knives as the home invader, preparing to attack, pondered which would most efficiently disembowel me? The huge key ring of a night janitor escaped from the mental asylum, having just disposed of my husband and now ready to join me in the tub? These are actual thoughts that go through my mind when I hear strange noises.

No, I realized it was Nutmeg. But where was she? Why would she be in the bathroom? Wait, could Ben have collapsed in heap in the kitchen, and still be lying there for a coma-inducing length of time like Shelby in Steel Magnolias, all due to my neglect and self-indulgently long shower? I was just about to peek out of the shower curtain when I felt it brush against my leg and something soggy land at my feet, followed by a confused bark.

I looked down into the tub and saw Nutmeg's sodden chew toy, scanned up and saw Ben's grinning face as he squeezed out, "Attack, Nutmeg! Attack her! She stole your toy!" between giggles.

Is he mad? Emotionally retarded? Or simply a loving husband, trying (in his way, like King Kong pawing at the blonde lady) to show me he cares?

Either way, he's trying to show me my place as a wife. And that place is alternately a) cowering in the shower as a 75-pound dog wonders why someone is commanding her to "bite a leg," or b) spending my Friday night pontificating on his every move and trying to figure out how best to show that I truly appreciate the joy (childlike as it may be) that he brings to my life.

After the ecstasy, the laundry

[As part of my new blog revitalization plan, there is supposed to be a photo here but my TWO cameras aren’t working, and I’ve agreed not to use either Ben's camera or computer in the interest of keeping our marriage alive. Picture this: piles of cardboard boxes all askew, overflowing with gift wrap and beach towels and shredded ribbons and boxer shorts and bottles of hot sauce. Also one pair of electric blue Speedos--trunks, not banana hammocks--that must belong to someone.]

When I worked at the bookstore, I found a greeting card with that quote (from some California Zen white guy) and a cool photo of a shack with towels hanging on the railing. I thought it was a neat idea, and tacked it above my sink to remind me in the morning that whatever fun had been had the night before, I was starting a new day, cleansed and open to all possibilities, blah blah. Also that I should have removed my makeup before bed.

A few months after Ben and I started dating, he remarked that he had always thought that card was weird, reading it as an overtly sexual reference. He implied that it indicated I indulged in conspicuous promiscuity and had to remind myself to do the laundry. I don't know what exactly he meant. My mind was more pure, I suppose. I thought it was a reminder of being ever-vigilant of the present moment, and in finding joy in the mundane necessities of life, like laundry. Not even thinking about what might have soiled said laundry, necessitating its washing. Anyway, it embarrasses me to think about because my parents had just visited me in my apartment when Ben said that. We were still in our Being Blunt phase.

Whatever connotations were intended, I still like to think of this when I’m facing mountains of stuff that would be demoralizing and depressing if not for approaching them as incipient form within formlessness, a chance to take pleasure in sorting and pondering, another safe outlet for my OCD.

Also, these 'mountains' of things to be sorted, organized and wiped clean of Hawaii Decay (yes, even brand-new things are susceptible to mildew) are primarily gifts. Those that aren't are reminders of the immeasurable gift Ben and I were given by our dearest friends coming to join us for our wedding, which was, thus far, the best week of our lives. So it’s not like I’m facing a mountain of papers to grade. That will be in nine days. I got a job, and now it’s time for the laundry.

The real testimonial thank-you post still to come.

Pnewlywed Pneumonia & a Honeymoon Hangover

First of all, Ben has pneumonia and/or bronchitis. Thanks to Doctor Erick and Nurse Jenn who “ratcheted” Ben’s health from “Dismal” up to “May Live” with their melted-cough-drop concoctions, frank discussions of bowel functions, and other tireless efforts. For a hypochondriac married to the son of one, a few days with two medical professionals was the best gift we could have asked for. That, or a home IV kit.

There’s nothing worse than abruptly returning to your everyday life and confirming your suspicion that it would blow in comparison to the one magical week out of which you have just staggered, only to find:

• a closet full of mildew than your husband claims makes it impossible for him to sleep in your marital bed (we both secretly think, Yesss! Free at last)
• A refrigerator full of insufficiently wrapped gruyere cheese that must now be thrown away
• Shockingly, no notice in the mail that you have won any of the wedding-related sweepstakes you entered in the last eight months via wedding websites that are now spamming the bejesus out of you
• that Hawaii is hot, bug-infested, and unbearably humid when you aren’t trying to defend it to visiting friends

But there’s nothing better than slowly leaning back against the bolster of the recent past, letting the memories wash over you as you shudder with wonder that you have ended up as part of what must be the kindest, gentlest, badass-est, most generous group of friends ever to be assembled in the Pacific Rim—nay, the world.

To count among your friends:

• a librarian so artfully organized she has inspired subscriptions to Real Simple and ignited a dozen envious discussions of her aesthetic sense and Flickr site
• so many medical professionals (some of whom you pressed into duty on your honeymoon) that your family has started referring to every friend they don’t know as “that doctor or nurse”
• not one, but several, gentlemen who can genuinely be described as “unemployed…but brilliant”
• those who have walked among us as mortals but share wisdom only Bookworkers could know
• two college friends who have been asked to prove their loyalty time and time again (we're in the friendship mafia), and have always done it, often requiring air travel)
  

-- is something very few people can do. I think.

More of this list to come. Now I must go offer ice water (which he claims is my best dish) to my Husband (I’m sad that I can no longer call him “my Betrothed"), who has been watching Oz on DVD for the past six hours. I sure hope he doesn’t shank me!

pickles

I am returning to this BLOG (suck it, Anna Wintour) to start over like God intended, to do it right--to write as if no one else is reading, because no one else IS reading. If the blog is supposed to be like a journal, then it must be written with no intention of anyone else ever reading it, like a journal (or diary, as Ben calls it when he makes me chase him around the house as he waves my real diary overhead).

Ben is out of town, which is why I am a) up this late and b) doing what I want, watching Conan whilst noodling on my BLOG. (Again, Anna. If you haven't read about how Anna Wintour banned the word from Vogue's new web edition, and if you were present for the 'negatory' incident, you truly must track it down and read it. I think this proves that I have always harbored futuristic delusions about myself as a glossy-haired fashion and word maven.)

Also, I've given the lie to my claim that I am writing in the hopes that no one else is reading, by addressing "you."

prickles

[I'm sorry, but I like this font so much better.]

The whole reason I started this blog was so I could document incidents like the following.

When we got back from Christmas in the Pacific Northwest, where I understandably took a ten-day vacation from shaving my legs, Ben complained in typical heterosexual male fashion: "You're like Snoopy's cousin who lives in the desert!"
His name is Spike, Ben, and I think you conflated him with the cactus in your memory.

a new year, a new font, same overuse of adverbs

FINALLY! I have been in a pit of self-loathing about all the things I haven't been doing: mopping, flossing, adhering to the Ultra-Prevention diet I wouldn't shut up about all through December, and, of course, writing about random, banal crap here. It turned into a vicious cycle, wherein I was so irritated at myself about not having done X, Y or Z, it was painful to think about starting to do it again. My gums and the kitchen floor are in a disgusting state.

But the upside is: I now have a three-month backlog of "tidbits" and derivative observations just waiting to be put into the self-consciously jauntily-written word! Things like:

* Ben changed my screensaver to a photo of a giant eight-legged you-know-what that I discovered when I shut down my computer right before bed, causing an entire night of screaming nightmares!

* I spent $100 on dinner the other night with the intention of writing a restaurant review and being reimbursed, but have yet to write a single word! How me!

* I resolved to break with my addiction to celebrity gossip, until I discovered the treasure trove of videos on TMZ that allow me to feel smug and highly intelligent compared to the people I otherwise envy and begrudge their disgusting wealth! (If you haven't already, check out the one of Paris Hilton running out of gas in the middle of an intersection, and Cindy Crawford giving her husband a lap dance.)

* Don't you just hate those giant sunglasses all the young girls are wearing? They look like, I don't know--ooh, like big old bug eyes! Yeccch!

As soon as I remember the rest, I'll type 'em up. But trust me, they're cutting edge.

one to grow on

If there were a pro-aging retreat, I would go on it. I need to add a few years to my life after this past week. Here's a sampling of what I've had to do lately:

* assume the persona of a 15-year-old to write a 12-page case study of adolescent cognitive and social development

* sit with a freshman boy wearing Etnies and big fake diamond studs (him, not me) helping him outline a 25-page health textbook chapter on STDs,

* write a 10-page short story for young adults based on my traumatic middle school experience of being ostracized and humiliated.

I've gone through some serious (47 pages!) regression. So I think it would be wise to steep myself in adult.....stuff, like meditating on who I am, what I've become , why I am ready to settle down and get married, etc.

Or maybe I should just drink several martinis, fall into bed, then get up and eat bran flakes and coffee before embarking on another day of dejectedly accepting the hand life has dealt me. That's what adults do!

moonlighting

Should I apply for this job? It will have to be at the expense of my career, as prime-time TV conflicts with a teacher's sleeping schedule. Also, the deadline is tomorrow and so are a number of assignments I have yet to begin.

Media Life is looking for writers who can review new TV shows and also revisit exiting shows and offer solid yet lively critiques, writing to a sophisticated audience of people who plan and buy media for a living. A strong background in television would be helpful but is not required. Include a full resume. When applying, mention you saw this opening listed at
JournalismJobs.com.

To find out more about this job, go to:
http://www.journalismjobs.com/job_listing.cfm?JobID=647171

Position: TV writers
Company: Media Life Magazine
Location: Telecommute
Job Status: Freelance
Ad Expires: November 29, 2006
Job ID: 647171

thanksgiving rumination

(with a cornucopia of parentheses)

One of my new favorite reading-inspired activities is plunging parboiled vegetables into an ice-water bath. It started when I was making haricots verts from my Martha Stewart Living cookbook a few weeks ago to take to my parents' house for dinner, and I liked its green-preserving effect so much that I extended the practice to some steamed broccoli I made a few days later.

If you were a vegetable, and knew your fate was to serve as a plate divider between pools of gravy, butter-oozing potatoes, and maki sushi (this is my family, after all), wouldn't it ease the pain of searing heat, just a little, to be lovingly bathed in ice water midway to your final destination?

Ben is in the other room, watching Babe while he eats a "stomach-stretching" vat of broccoli salad before our big family dinner tonight.

update: He just trotted into the room to say, "That'll do, pig. That'll do."

just humor him, he's my betrothed

I meant to start this awhile ago, when Ben first suggested we get wooden wedding rings. It's a list of ridiculous ideas Ben has offered for our wedding/marriage/honeymoon in such a way that I suspect he's not joking.

Today's gem: "Let's go to Las Vegas for our honeymoon. I want to see a Don Rickles show!"

F this

This is one of those times when I get a glimpse of what I'll be like as a parent. [Notice I did not say, "what I would be like as a parent."] This crew of guys has been working for the past two weeks repairing our neighbors' collapsed rock wall. It's been a pretty interesting process to watch, as I've always wondered how they get an infinite variety of different-shaped rocks to fit into a level, symmetrical design. Still don't get it. But I think it involves chopping up big rocks into smaller ones, and you don't just stack rocks willy-nillly, you have to set up a string mold first.

Anyway. I was feeling solidarity with the rock wall workers, as I've adjusted my backing-out-of-the-driveway techniques and even my picking-up-the-mail schedule to accommodate their presence. I've started wearing more respectable clothes around the house in case they can see in, and I used them in an analogy in a Power Point presentation for one of my education classes. It wasn't a flattering analogy, but whatever.

Today, though, all love has been lost. The f-ing f-ers have become markedly louder and more brash, probably because the project is almost done and it's Friday, and they can't f-ing say more than three f-ing words without inserting the f-word in there some f-ing place, the motherf-ers! F! It's driving me f-ing crazy!

In case you can't tell, I don't really like to use profanity. And as I've paced around in the kitchen, becoming more and more incensed (could also be due to the three cups of coffee I've had with no food yet), my thoughts are all centered on The Children. "What about the (f-ing) children?!" I want to lambaste them. There are CHILDREN in this neighborhood, and I'd rather not have them exposed to this kind of language and animalistic behavior. Try to adopt a modicum of self-control!"

That's what I'd say, if I had a child of my own to tote along as punctuation. If I went out there now, speaking on behalf of the 6-year-old who lives across the street and taunts us when we drive by, I'd probably be cussed out by her mother.

dead right out of the gate

I was going to take part in this Blog or Die thing I read about on Molly's blog, where you have to write every day in the month of November. Not doing so well with that. I don't think "dead right out of the gate" is the right phrase, though. I am presently attending an online course in Adolescence and Education (like, I'm in class right now), so I have a few things competing for my attention. Like my guest list manager at The Knot.com. According to the budget tool (with my initial allotted budget), I can afford to spend $12.50 per person on food, and $0.63 on each favor! Not too shab-by.

So, yesterday was my one free day. I am going to Blog or Die as a sign of my newfound self-discipline.

Ben and I are going to Hilo (about 2 hours away) tomorrow to attend some event called "Black and White Night." When I first heard about it, I was all excited, expecting we'd get to dress up and drink free champagne with a big band playing in a ballroom. Where did I think we lived, Cleveland? Turns out we're staffing a table (I thought you got to stop doing that when you graduated from your mid-twenties), and his boss is going to wear a black t-shirt, probably with the company logo on it. And, we're staying at a budget motel in what is probably the Skid Row of the Big Island.

But, I get to go to my first-ever bridal shop! It actually carries a line of gowns that I saw and liked in a Brides magazine that a friend gave to me. I'm kind of sad that I have to go alone, but what can you do.