I finished the desk!

Here’s the desk after an ungodly amount of sanding and scraping:

Let the finishing process begin! I can’t begin to describe the joy I felt when I saw that the stain was soaking into the wood, rather than beading up (which would have happened if I wasn’t successful in scraping and sanding away the old varnish).

Molly was a huge help, obviously.

Of course, I didn’t manage to finish the desk before the arrival of my friend Brianna, who was staying with me while she was in town for our mutual friend’s wedding. I still needed to install the new drawer pulls, so that all the crap I had unloaded on the guest bed could go back into the drawers.

Fortunately for me, Brianna was quite adept at concealing her horror at having to live for the weekend in a room coated in a quarter inch of sawdust and reeking of polyurethane. Even better, she is a surgical nurse who has experience using power tools to drill into bone. I put her straight to work on the drawer pulls.

(Guests at my house get the royal treatment, eh?)

At long last, the desk is finished. And, so far, the stain hasn’t been rubbing off. I’m pretty proud of myself.

For the sake of comparison, let’s not forget where we began:

And the finished product:

It’ll look even better once we get rid of that grodacious carpeting!

That’s it. Molly and I are on a diet.

Back in Nashville, when a friend started calling Molly a hippo, I didn’t think anything of it. When we went on our honeymoon and the dog sitter reported to us that she had started feeding Molly a scant cup of dog food — rather than a heaping cup, as I instructed her — I shrugged it off.

And when the woman down the block started telling Molly how nice and plump she is these days, I just added it to the list of all the unsolicited, judgmental “advice” she gives me. I mean, this is the woman who, when we run into her and her dog on the street, feels welcome trying to teach Molly commands (it never works) and who has no qualms about hunkering down next to Molly and saying, “Now be sure to tell Mommy that you would like to start going to doggie obedience school, OK?” And then she goes along on her merry way, perfect golden retriever prancing alongside her. Like that’s a hard breed to train.

But now, it seems that everyone we meet on our walks has a comment about Molly’s weight: What are you feeding her? Because you know you shouldn’t give them as much as it says on the dog food label and My, my, looks like someone gets a lot of treats at home! and Whoa, she’s huge! I’ve never seen such a big Wheaten!

And then there’s my personal favorite, the direct hit: Wow, she’s really getting fat!

Um, excuse me? Since when is it OK to say something like that? I wouldn’t dream of telling you that your kid is looking fat these days. My my, little Bobby’s really going at those desserts. Looks like he’ll be in the husky sizes in no time!

And I can’t help but take it personally. I mean, I feed Molly exactly what it says on the label of her ultra-premium expensive dog food. She gets one dental hygiene bone a day, and almost no treats. And she never gets table scraps. Ever.

College students go back to school this weekend, which means its time for me to start working again.

So far this week, I have installed new dimmers on every single switch in the house, designed my wedding photo album, put up a gallery of picture frames in the hallway, hung (hanged? I should probably know this) curtain rods and bought and actually ironed new curtains, and created three bulletin boards for my sister-in-law’s classroom. Today, I re-tiled my sister’s fireplace, and now I’m thinking about heading to the hardware store to buy new ceiling registers and air return grills.

That may be pushing it, I guess. I guess it’s time to get back to work.

Ugh.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot: We got married!

No, seriously. I almost forgot. You know that feeling you get in the middle of winter, when the wind is blustering around you and you haven’t been able to feel you toes since Thanksgiving, and you just can’t seem to remember how it felt to stand in that exact spot in the middle of sweltering July?

That’s how it feels to get married on vacation. You know it happened, your memories are fond if hazy, and yet it seems more probable that it was all a hallucination.

In the interest of, um, remembering The Most Important Day Of My Life So Far, here are a few favorite, hilarious, or otherwise blog-worthy moments.

(dusts off the slide projector, dims the lights)

Here we are on the plane to Maui. We flew with Rob’s family and got to sit in first class.

I never realized that airplanes operate under something of a caste system. The difference between coach and first-class is absolutely appalling, what with the hot towels and the beverages served in a real glass and the course dinner (no kidding), when everyone else was crammed together and trying to hold themselves over on a meager bag of airplane peanuts.

Rob even got a plate of fruit, including honeydew melon, which, he was surprised to learn, was not, in fact, cantaloupe that wasn’t done cooking, nor was it called “greenaloupe.”

It was the best part of the trip so far, which is saying a lot, because I did find myself getting pretty giddy and into the “bride” spirit (uh, FINALLY) that morning, what with all the attention a person gets from walking around the airport carrying a huge bridal garment bag high above her head so as not to wrinkle the train.

Likewise, Hawaii did not disappoint, being as beautiful and paradisical (is that really not a word? I am making it one) as everyone says it is. Accordingly, I will spare you the gratuitous photos of vivid sunsets and abundant hibiscuses (hibisci? I’m really striking out here) as big as your head and will share just one shot, taken from our table at the very delicious Mama’s Fish House, where we enjoyed the world’s most expensive Mai Tai ($18 ) and one of Maui’s most beautiful views:

It is a bizarre experience to travel for 15 or more hours to a remote and foreign island, only to arrive at your hotel and be immediately greeted by EVERYONE YOU KNOW. Hosting fifty of our family and friends in Hawaii was absolutely wonderful and, in that special way Rob and I have of turning fun into work, maddeningly stressful. We so wanted to make sure everyone felt comfortable and happy and loved and, most importantly, appreciated for trekking halfway around the world for our nuptials.

Meanwhile, for practically every thank-you we said, we were thanked for getting married in a fabulous location, though mostly by our 26-year old family friend, Jason, who came with his parents and couldn’t stop marveling that he hadn’t spent a dime, and by my 18-year old cousin Kevin, who was mostly thrilled that some woman on his plane gave him a hundred bucks in exchange for his aisle seat.

It is just incredible how special people make you feel when you get married. Particularly my dad, who, just before walking me down the aisle, told me something along the lines of, “Listen, now, you got a good thing going for you here, so don’t f*ck this up. Just take it easy on him. You gotta let the little sh*t go.”

That’s some classic “Kenny G” (as his friends now call him) for you, folks. Believe it or not, he meant it in the sweetest, most fatherly way — as advice, not a reprimand — and it takes a special person (and perhaps many years of therapy) to understand that.

Anyway, here we are going down the aisle. I love the looks on our faces here:

So, when you are getting married in Maui, you don’t really make an “inclement weather” plan. I mean, it hasn’t rained in Wailea in June, like, ever.

But what I hadn’t counted on was the possibility of wind. And not just that famed trade wind that blows continuously across the island. We are talking gale-force, hair-whipping, skirt-uplifting, I-can’t-hear-you-and-you-are-standing-next-to-me, oh-my-gosh-is-that-a-cow-flying-
through-the-air, I-don’t-think-we-are-in-Kansas-anymore, 45-mile-per-hour GUSTS, people.

During the rehearsal, I thought I felt a drop of rain, but then I realized it was the waves crashing into the shoreline with such force that the bridesmaids were in real danger of being completely doused, dresses and nosegays and updos and all.

Minor glitch.

Still in vacation-on-a-tropical-island mode, I was (surprisingly enough) unfazed, but everyone else (*ahem* ROB *cough* *cough*) got themselves into such a tizzy over it that my inner Bridezilla came roaring out. It was not pretty, but a few phone calls and one medium-grade hissy fit later, our entire day of wedding festivities was bumped back by 45 minutes with the hope that the wind would die down later in the day, as it had been the past several days.

It, unfortunately, did not.

OK, so it really wasn’t that bad. Here we are during the ceremony:

You may be wondering why I am adjusting Grandpa’s tie as he officiated our ceremony. Well, actually, I’m covering his lapel microphone in a somewhat futile attempt to block the wind. That’s also why we are standing just a little to close to him.

Oh, and if you are one of those people who doesn’t like me but reads my blog anyway and are about to start in with the snarky commentary about the way my dress is pulling in a horribly unflattering way, you can can it right now. Believe it or not, I hadn’t gained ten pounds from drinking too many poolside smoothies. (That was on the honeymoon, thankyouverymuch.) I had a horrendous experience with my dress shop, Weddings 826, and their alterations person. Go ahead, go read my review on Yelp. Now start feeling bad about yourself.

But if a small monsoon and a little polyester was the worst that could happen to me on my wedding day, I count myself as a very lucky girl.

Truly, I thought everything was more perfect and wonderful than I dreamed it could be. In fact, I surprised myself to realize that I was actually having FUN on my wedding day. I didn’t cry once, simply because I just couldn’t wipe the huge smile off my face.

I mean, Rob actually kissed me in public, TWICE! Once when we were pronounced husband and wife, and once here:

Of course, right now, I’m bawling like a baby thinking about how happy and fortunate I felt that day, to be marrying my best friend and partner, to be surrounded by so many of the people we love most in this world, to be on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, and to have the best damn reception I’ve ever been to, if I do say so myself (or, if my Auntie Peggy says so herself, “Nobody was NOT dancing!”).

The next day, we’re sitting at the pool with a group of friends when I suddenly realize aloud, “Oh crap! We didn’t get your grandpa to sign our wedding license!”

To which my dear husband replied, “Oooh! Does that mean we’re not married until today?” There was hope in his voice, as he dislikes odd numbers and would far prefer that our anniversary be on the 22nd.

After some quibbling among our friends as to what I would take as my full married name (maiden name as middle name? New last name altogether? The addition of an “L apostrophe” before my last name, followed by a “de la Mancha”? We have weird friends), we became the first couple in history to have their grandfather sign their marriage license in his swim trunks at the pool:

There is more, of course — you do know there are professional pictures and a honeymoon, not to mention two more wedding parties (who has three weddings?) — but that’s quite enough for now. Even I’m sick of hearing about my wedding!

… and as turned on his iPod and opened the door, I heard him start to sing along to the music:

“Popular! I’m gonna be pop-UUU-lar!”

That’s right. From Wicked.

We’ve been together for seven odd years, and I don’t realize until ten days before our wedding that I am marrying a gay man.

It is not a good idea to move one month before you get married.

It is not a good idea to forget that you don’t own a swimsuit until exactly one week before you leave for your wedding in Hawaii.

It is a good idea to start using Crest White Strips seven days before your wedding. I’m three hours in, and already my teeth are so sensitive that even the thought of eating makes them hurt. Which is of some consolation when you are trying on swimsuits in a department store dressing room and wondering why you haven’t felt inspired to start dieting until RIGHT NOW.

It is not a good idea to take even one day off from writing thank-you notes for the multitude of gifts from your registry that arrive on your doorstep each day.

If you would like to single-handedly destroy the environment, I would recommend registering at Williams-Sonoma. The amount of boxes, wrapping paper, and bubble wrap used for each shipment is staggering. The sheer volume of packing peanuts alone is enough to endanger at least three species. More often than not, a huge box will yield the tiniest item, but you have to actually break a sweat to get to it. It’s like those Russian nesting dolls. Seriously:

Today’s delivery, weighing 13.3 pounds and measuring 19 by 19 by 18 inches

was full of mostly packing peanuts

and a big white box (which was wrapped, but I forgot to take a picture first)

Inside the big white box were three smaller boxes (and some more packing peanuts)

And inside THOSE boxes was a lot of bubble wrap.

And nestled inside the bubble wrap there were four salad plates, four bread plates, and four pasta bowls.

Elapsed time: 23 minutes, most of which was spent trying to corral the packing peanuts, which go flying in every direction, which makes the dog want to eat them even more.

The big picture:

And just when I’m starting to get half a mind to call Williams-Sonoma and complain about their packaging materials, I spot a notice printed on one of the boxes:

Now there is just no way in hell I’m making a special trip for all these flipping packing peanuts. Rob already complains that I have two garbage cans in the house (one for garbage, one for recycling) and that I want him to help me load up the car with the absurd amount of cardboard boxes we have accumulated between moving and getting married so I can take them to the recycling facility, because Chicago STILL DOESN’T RECYCLE.

So yeah. That’s what I’ve been up to for the past month. Unpacking boxes.

We’re getting married in TEN DAYS!

Rob just read this and said, “I think I got the wet feet.”

The best advice I can give any bride is to STAY AWAY from The Knot message boards.

It was the influence of many wedding-obsessed “Knotties” that I came up with the brilliant idea of making my own wedding invitations. Why not DIY? That way, I could save money and still have really nice invitations

Here is the result of many months and many tears and many fingernails bitten to the quick:

Now kids, this is not something you should try at home.

The bridezillas on the Internet will shriek “YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF! DIY!” But no one tells you that it is impossible to match the ink color to even the same ballpark of the shade of the paper on a home printer. No one tells you that no pen known to man will write on metallic envelopes. No one tells you that you will spend hours slaving over the design and layout, only to have the print shop ultimately screw it up anyway.

And just when you think you are out of the woods, you realize that, after biting off all your nails and spending the better part of three months slaving over the invitations, though it will have cost about half as much to make them yourself, but you wish you had just ordered invitations that were half as expensive in the first place. Even if they aren’t as nice. No one gives a crap about the invitation. Including you.

From now on, I’m saving every wedding invitation I get so that, years later, when the couple is visiting me, I can whip it out and rave about the font they chose or how nicely the paper matches the ink or how they worded the reception card. Because, even if it doesn’t look like much, it cost at least seven dollars and/or your friend’s sanity.

Here’s the kicker: this is a destination wedding, so nearly all of these invitations went to people I KNOW are not coming, to be opened, glanced at, and tossed into the recycling bin.

Rob was right. We should have done an E-vite.

Our landlord in Nashville has begun showing our house to potential tenants. We are driving up to Chicago next week to find a place to live, but if our previous house-hunting experiences are any indication, it takes us an average of 4.5 months of serious looking to find a place that is remotely acceptable for our over-anxious, hyper-critical, penny-pinching personalities. And that does not include the eight-month lead time during which I pore obsessively over the online classifieds.

Did I mention that, this time next month, we will be leaving for Hawaii? Between preparing for the wedding and the two (count ‘em) at-home receptions that follow (it’s our very own Nuptial Triple Crown!), we are more or less out of commission for six weeks.

That leaves us about 26 days (and 11 hours, 18 minutes, and nine seconds) to find, tour, finance, inspect, and close on a condo in the city. Not to mention we have to come up with a down payment while also paying for a wedding and honeymoon.

We are about to be homeless.

To top things off, Rob has decided that he wants to spend about half as much on a mortgage than would any reasonable person in our exact same financial situation. It’s all part of his Master Plan to retire by 40 with 20 million dollars in the bank. I’m not overly clear on the details, even though he and Andy have been fine-tuning the Plan for years, but from what I can gather it involves Sara not buying any fine Italian leather goods while living in Italy and me living in a cardboard box under the highway at North Avenue with my fluffy, fluffy white dog.

Of course, he insists on finding this “affordable housing” while not conceding things like central air, newer construction or remodeling, and proximity to the lake, the gym, the El, and a 24-hour Starbucks and Walgreen’s. Oh, and it can’t be in an elevator building, either. Too claustrophobic.

I can see myself with the stringy hair and ruddy complexion already. Maybe I’ll acquire a limp and a cardboard sign with details about my imaginary tour in Vietnam.

Rob’s latest solution: Roger’s Park, the northernmost Chicago neighborhood along the lake, just south of Evanston. Did you know you can buy a three-bedroom walk-up condo with all the bells and whistles for under $200,000? Heck, you can buy a ginormous single-family home for about twice that!

(Note to Chicago virgins: I know it sounds absurd, but that is an insanely good deal.)

So we did a little research and learned from the neighborhood’s website that RoPa is an eclectic and vibrant community, a place where people of diverse economic and cultural backgrounds can live in happy harmony, practically frolicking between their well-priced vintage homes.

Too good to be true? Perhaps, but there’s nothing like a little hope to get you in the mood for packing your bags, even when you practically just finished UN-packing from the last move. Then I stumbled across some less-than-reassuring blogs about Roger’s Park.

Like the one solely devoted to photos of abandoned Cheetos bags found in the neighborhood. That’s right. There are enough discarded bags of Cheetos in RoPa to warrant an entire blog.

Or this one that detailed the police scanner from just two hours on the night of Monday, May 2. Here’s an abridged version that includes only the violent crimes (no noise complaints or parking violations):

11:30 PM – Shots fired, 1200 block N. Campbell – “gang”
11:47 PM – Man with a gun walking around at 47th and Ashland
11:50 PM – Person shot, 1800 block N. California, police looking for “two male Hispanics”
11:51 PM – Man has a gun, 1800 block N. Kedzie
11:54 PM – Dispatcher says there is a “wolf or coyote” spotted at Clybourn and Fullerton. Cops on radio enjoy this. “Can we shoot?” “Tranquilizer darts.” “Come on, it’s only a wolf, you don’t have to shoot it.” “Can we shoot?” “Wolves are endangered.”
12:02 AM – Officer arranges for “removal” of a dead 19 year old female, gunshot to the head, from the ER of South Shore Hospital.
12:05 AM – Man “masturbating in the park.”
12:08 AM – Man with a gun threatened to shoot the caller on 5500 block W. Diversey, caller says he is now walking back toward him.
12:09 AM – Person down, 1400 block W. Farragut Avenue.
12:11 AM – Need evidence technician (ET) to photograph “the victim,” who is in critical condition at Mt. Sinai Hospital.
12:12 AM – Persons waving guns at 53rd and Ashland. They are driving a white Pontiac Bonneville. Reported by people who waved down a police officer.
12:20 AM – Shots fired, 1300 block of (unintelligible).
12:28 AM – ET requested in 10th District to photograph a victim, a “26 year old male black.” One of the perpetrators is in custody.
12:31 AM – Van hit a female “on the expressway” near 1800 block of N. Ashland. Illinois State Police are investigating.
12:34 AM – Two female Hispanics flashed a gun at Ohio and Ashland, then drove eastward. Purple car – another officer calls in that car is seen going northbound on Ashland, chase ensues. “Approaching Augusta…” Moments go by; “Stopped them in 1000 block of N. Ashland. “Request a female officer for a search.”
12:38 AM – Requesting backup for large fight at a house, 800 block of Sacramento.
12:42 AM – Cop radios from house fight, “disregard”
12:42 AM – Person with a gun, somebody’s girlfriend driving dark red or maroon Pontiac with Texas plates. “They’re still in the area” (13th, 14th Districts). Search ensues. Cop on radio, “That car’s been up in this area all night, by Potomac and (unintelligible), was in the are when those shots were fired.”
12:44 AM – (Responding to above) “We stopped that car earlier… We’ll get those plates to you…”
12:47 AM – Person shot, Belmont and (?)
12:47 AM – “We’ve rounded everybody up at (2900 block, Devon).”
12:48 AM – Assault, victim being followed by assailant in 7000 block, N. California. “No further info.”
12:54 AM – “You can cancel that ambulance.”
12:55 AM – Officer reports that a victim is “stable, gunshot wound to the right arm,” ET requested to photograph a silver Ford Taurus. Nobody in custody in the 11th District.
12:59 AM – 5800 block, N. Magnolia – 30 kids fighting out front.
1:05 AM – “Everybody’s dispersed” from fight on Magnolia.
1:04 AM – Robbery; two male blacks, 300 block E. Garfield on Green Line CTA train, took two cell phones and $60.00 cash.
1:14 AM – 8500 block, Marquette; breaking into house, man banging on windows and doors.
1:22 AM – “Shots fired.” “MORE SHOTS!” at Spaulding and Kimball.
1:26 AM – “Subjects ran south from Evergreen.”
1:38 AM – Male posing as a cop, 4400 block, S. ???.
1:39 AM – Westbound SUV on Division, people throwing beer cans as they drive.
1:42 AM – Male Hispanic walking with a gun, 47th and Troupe.
1:42 AM – 50 people fighting on street, 16th and Karlov, throwing bottles at police.

You know something? That cardboard box is looking better and better. Wait, wait, how does that song go? “Young man, there’s a place you can go …”