What Possessed Me

RIP Budner Roy

Buddy was a Maine coon cat. He had twelve toes, and liked to eat mackerel and hang upside down. He had a secret life - hours on end of exploring in places where no one knew his name. Out of the house, he could be anyone he wanted. When he wandered over to the restaurant, they called him Sardine and threw him the scraps from yesterday's lobster roll. Sometimes, when he got sick of being Kitty, he ventured out for a rumble, escaping with a notch in his ear. He liked to be wild. Then he'd come home for a belly rub and fall asleep in a frying pan.

Fauxhawk's mama had to put Buddy down last Friday. He was old, old, old but looked soft and glossy and lithe until the end. He was a my favorite and I'll miss him. (Don't tell Verne and Roy.)

Peignoir

 

Craptastic week at work + upcoming honeymoon = reasons to buy yourself new lingerie.

(Yes, I did write myself a message, which I typed into the note section of my online order. It seemed all funny ha-ha at the time, because I am a person who is easily amused. People of the internet, I have an amazing revelation for you: AN ACTUAL HUMAN BEING READS THE DUMB-ASS NOTES YOU WRITE YOURSELF WHEN YOU ARE BEING A DORK. Sometimes that person even writes you back.

Exhibit A:

"The set you picked is one of our absolute favorites right now, me-ow indeed!"

Embarrassing. (But also very sweet).

Still, it's fun to send yourself something pretty in the mail with a note, especially when your mom's best friend hands you a wad of cash and tells you that you need a peignoir set for your honeymoon. All of a sudden, you become really, really good at following orders.)

Dirty pretty things at Journelle. For the month of March Journelle is running a promotion for A Cup of Jo - enter CUPOFJO when you order to receive a discount.

A maiden (not a princess)

I felt strange this week. 

Happy, giddy, proud, touched that so many of your came out from the shadows and said such lovely things about my parents and my childhood home. Your comments were such a warm embrace. Thank you. (And yes, my mom is a stone-cold fox with amazing gams, which, due some cruel genetic misunderstanding, I didn't inherit.)

Melancholy, disappointed, frustrated that I've had another birthday and am feeling older and only slightly less clueless but not very brave at all. At least not brave in the ways I need to be. 

Still, there's hope because the crocuses are coming up, the days are longer, the sun has finally made an appearance. Bare legs, Girl Scout Cookies, cheap daffodils at Trader Joe's. Wedding jerky sent special delivery from darling Woodrow. Impossible to be melancholy in the face of jerky.

Our wedding is in a month. A MONTH. It hardly seems possible considering the staggering amount of crap that has to get done, most of which is detailed on sticky notes scattered around the apartment (wedding binder? What wedding binder?). Fauxhawk is now working at a start-up and the next time we'll see each other will most likely be at the altar. I miss him, but the time alone has been good for me. Things are about to change and I want to be attuned to the changes. As excited as I am to be marrying the boy I love, I feel curiously sentimental about my last days of maidenhood. 

I've always liked being a maiden. When I was very little, an adult asked me very sweetly if I was a dressed as a princess for Halloween. My parents report that I drew myself up in indignation and declared, "I'm a MAIDEN not a PRINCESS." (YOU IDIOT). Even at five years old I knew that princesses waited around for dudes in tights to make their lives exciting. Maidens, on the other hand, had adventures, made clever escapes, tricked their foes with trickiness. For a while there I thought that dressing up as a princess and getting married meant the End of All Fun. And so I held on to maidenhood longer than most, even after someone had captured my imagination in a way that made the future seem really exciting. 

At first Fauxhawk was patient. Then he was semi-patient. Then he got all huffy*.

We can still have adventures you know, Fauxhawk assured me. It's not The End of Fun.

Oh, I said. Right.

It just took me a long time to figure that out for myself. I've always been a late bloomer and slow on the uptake. And now that I'm all caught up, I can hardly believe this new adventure is about to begin.

As for the remaining month of wedding planning, pray for me. All I can tell you is that while very little is in place, my shoes are going to be fucking awesome when I'm done with them.

In the meantime, much love to you all. Thank you for coming back here, even when there is nothing new to read.

*Please note Fauxhawk had his own issues with the End of Fun waaaay back when I started WPM and we were broken up, so there was a wee bit of irony in his huffiness.

Photo via Sabino.