What Possessed Me

Next time, write down the name.

When we last met, I was slightly tubby, wedding dressless, and watching homoerotic exercise videos every night after work.

Not much has changed in all the time I've been away (missed you), except that I now have a dress and a veil and the last remaining shreds of my dignity. (All I can say is that I hope I never see a three-way mirror ever again - I can't believe that the Baby Jesus meant for us to see our own back fat, much less in unflattering overhead light.)  Though I was maddeningly indecisive about the dress, the threat of a looming appointment at Kleinfeld's, the CostCo of bridal salons, was a major motivation to get that shit over and done with. On the night before the dreaded appointment, I called another bridal joint in a panic and chose a dress a nice Greek girl had shown me the week before.

"I'd like to buy a dress," I said to a woman on the phone.

"Wonderful! What is the dress you tried on?"

"Erm, I don't remember the name...do you have a record of the two dresses I liked?"

"Didn't Katerina give you a card with the names of the dresses?"

"Uh...I think I lost it."

"Can you describe the dress?"

"Uhhhh...lacy...ivory...uh...it had a train I think...uh...and this little thingy down the front..." FUUUUUCK.

"Do you have a picture of it?"

"A picture?"

"Yes, did you take a picture of yourself in the dress by any chance?" (barely masked antipathy).

"Was I supposed to? Is that like, a thing?"

"Sometimes people take pictures."

"Oh."

"Did you check the website?"

"Uhhhh...yeah!" (desperately clicking through website) "No, it's not here. Wait. Is that it? Shit. I don't remember."

"I need the name of the dress."

"Look, see, I have to buy the dress soon because I left it too late and I really---"

"But if we don't know the name---"

And then, in the background, I heard the Greek girl shouting a name.

"BLAHBLAH!" said the woman triumphantly, relaying the name back to me. "Is that the dress?"

"YEAH!!!" I exclaimed, having no idea if it was indeed the dress, but relieved to have resolved the matter. "THAT'S IT! I'LL TAKE IT!"

In a matter of minutes I had paid for a dress I wasn't sure I had tried on just to avoid another three-way. Three-way mirror, that is.

I went back to work. After a thorough excoriation from my office mate, I booked another appointment to make sure I had paid for the right dress.

"I can't believe you," she scolded. "You're like the anti-bride. I want you to GO OVER THERE AND PICK OUT A DRESS AND A VEIL AND THEN REPORT BACK TO ME. AND DON'T PAY FOR ANYTHING YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND."

I brought my mom with me and together with the Greek girl, they shrouded me in lace and tulle. I had this vision of myself in a rocked-out dress with a Sassy McSasserton hair ornament, but a strange force came over me and I went hardcore trad. I blame the spirit of Princess Diana for effing me up at the last minute.

"Wow," I said, peering at myself in full regalia. "This is really happening."

It was the first time I really felt like a bride. The first time I felt that strange nervous tickle in my stomach, that funny feeling of anticipation. Still, I had doubts. 

"Guys, do you think I look too---"

"NO!" they shouted in unison. And that settled that. I bought the dress. I bought the veil. How could I not? 

Image via Nibs.

You are cordially invited to a pity party thrown by P. in honor of sheself

 

Please come prepared to discuss the following bad ideas:

• Using your father's illness as an excuse to freebase jellybeans and Peppermint Patties
• Using your stressful, demanding job as an excuse to stuff chocolate pecan cookies into every available orifice
• Telling yourself that time (not dieting or exercise) will make your ass smaller
• Waiting until the absolute last minute to try on your mother's wedding dress because you suspect it will fit like sausage casing and because next week you will be much, much thinner
• Indulging all of your bad habits, which include (but are not limited to) extreme procrastination, paralysis analysis, indecision, avoidance, denial, panic, morbid self-loathing, compulsive cuticle chewing, apocalyptic visualizations, and stress eating
• Telling people that wedding planning makes you "barf" and threatening to punch well wishers who remind you that it's your "day"

No one tells you that the months before your wedding will accentuate every flaw, every insecurity, and every chink in your armor. I'm guessing that no one tells you this because most people don't go into an utter tailspin of dread and anxiety when faced with the task of planning a joyous event. Take last night for example when I ended the evening rocking back and forth and muttering, "I'm not good at this I'm not good at this I'm not good at this" after a particularly stressful planning session with my parents. God love them, they were just trying to help, but clearly the kind of help I need involves a prescription for Xanax and a bottle of bourbon.

Chief among my concerns is that the dress I was planning to wear at my wedding - for sentimental and financial reasons - is my mother's, and when she wore the dress in 1960 she was a twenty-four year-old leggy ingénue with a tiny waist.  While I have many shining qualities, legginess, a tiny waist, and a firm grip on reality are not among them. Which is why I approached the dress with some trepidation. After several months of gentle prods from concerned parties, I rang my parents' doorbell to confront the dress.

"OK, let's do this," I said grimly.  "I just want to get it over with and move on." Oh, the joy! The anticipation! While my mother prepared dinner, I slipped into her bedroom and unearthed the dress, which lay embalmed in a large, heavy box. I'll just try it on while no one's looking, I thought, stepping into the dress. I'll just...

After lubricating my body with animal fat, I managed to get the dress - which never made it past my kneecaps - off and back into the box.

 

"Let's see it on you!" my mom said, brimming with excitement.

"I don't think it's going to work, Ma. I can't even get my elbows through the ARMHOLES."

"I'm sure it's not that bad...just put it on for me. No one else has to see."

If you've ever slipped a condom on a cactus, you'll know how easy it was to get that dress back on.

 "I AM FUDGIE THE FUCKING WHALE." Fortunately, my inside voice (which is prone to obscene language) held itself in check. The dress was clearly not doing wonders for my self-esteem. 

"We can put a panel in! I'll call my costumer! Look at all this fabric! He can do wonders! We'll make this work!"

"Perhaps he can craft something out of plastic sheeting for me to wear, SINCE THAT'S THE ONLY THING I'LL FIT INTO."

"You'll be a beautiful bride," my mom reassured me, tugging at the dress. "Radiant. If we can JUST! GET! THIS! OFF! I'll make an appointment with the costumer and everything will be fine."

"OK, but promise to tell him like it is, Mom. Don't sugarcoat it. Tell him straight up that your daughter is Big and Tall."

"I don't think I'll be using those exact words."

"OK, tell him that your daughter played rugby at Smith. Tell him I wear Lands End bathing suits. He'll get the picture."

My mother laughed and rolled her eyes. Apparently I was the only one attending my pity party. Which is why, dear friends, I am inviting you to join my festival of self-indulgent whining.

Please feel free to bring nachos. I really like nachos.

Images: Marie Claire Italia October 2009.

Untitled

I don't know, blog babies. I've been distracted. Doing strange things. Like walking into plate glass windows. And going splat on the sidewalk. And calling the same person twice on the same day and completely forgetting that we had a conversation. It's slightly unnerving.

My dad is in the hospital. He's having open heart surgery tomorrow morning. I alternate between feeling upbeat about it and crying over Levis commercials. Meanwhile, my dad hates all the fuss. In his usual practical, stoic way, he wrote a letter of detailed instruction "should the Reaper come calling." The three-page missive written in my father's tiny, immaculate hand on yellow legal paper is bossy and clearheaded and unsentimental, the way one might outline an office evacuation plan.

Under no circumstances should I fall under the ministrations of the undertakers, he wrote. I shall be handled quickly in the manner of the Jews and the Muslims and without religious ceremony.  

My ashes should be kept until they can be buried with mama.

That last bit was hard. It's where I stopped reading. It's where I began to imagine a world without the two guiding forces in my life. And where I tell myself that it's an inevitable reality I pray I can dodge for a while.

With that in mind, please send positive vibes, baby panda kisses, and best wishes from the Baby Jesus. I'll take whatever I can get with all the gratitude in my heart.

xoxo,

P.

Image from here with thanks.

Mama's got a brand new bag

There were things I had to do this week that filled me with so much anticipatory dread that all of last weekend I had dreams of my teeth dissolving inside my head. (That's my go-to anxiety dream - another is that I fall down the stairs and knock out all of my teeth. Toothlessness is obviously a big thing for me.) 

On Monday morning, The Dread was terrible. I felt as though I had to gird my loins to face the day, so I unearthed something pretty, slapped on my new lippy, and hurdled down the street in mile-high heels. 

Then I sat in my office, muttered to myself for a while, paced, and then proceeded to do the scary, dread-inducing things. I did them on Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday I was astonished that I hadn't died of fear or thrown up in my hands, but had, in fact, taken care of business and kicked ass.

I left the office feeling triumphant. There is nothing like slaying a few dragons to make a girl feel powerful and fearless.

That's where the bag comes in.

The part of me that embraces Calvinist rigor believes that the reward for good work is the pleasure of knowing that you've accomplished something to your satisfaction. The other part of me - the one with marshmallow filling - got her ass down to Kate Spade RIGHT QUICK.

Look, they were having a sale.  And I own one (extremely budget) handbag. ONE. And it's green. "I am a grown-up," I told myself, as I handed over my card. "I have a grown-up job and I work hard. It's OK to do this." So I bought a dainty black patent leather number with gold chain straps and beat it out of there before the Puritanical voices inside my head could gasp in horror. (At least I hadn't absconded with the hot pink version of the bag, which I eyed lovingly for about fifteen minutes before backing slowly away.)

It turns out that it's fun to buy something nice when you've done yourself proud. I sat on the subway and grinned. I felt not an ounce of guilt. Because inside the paper carrier holding the precious bag were the words:

HAVE COURAGE

A sign. The bag and I were meant to be.

Animated gif via lapoor.

Amor et Labor

You know how in the movies the guy says to the girl, "You make me a better man" and you cringe because it's such a hackneyed thing to say, but you're also kind of hoping that you'll end up with someone who brings out the best in you instead of encouraging all of your bad habits like chasing a bag of Doritos with a pint of Ben & Jerry's while standing in the kitchen? 

You definitely want that person around. That person makes you feel capable and powerful and fabulous. That person is the one who's going to man up when it comes time to dislodge the fried chicken that's stuck in your throat - and won't make you feel like a gluttonous pig when an entire wing tumbles out onto his plate.

Where was I going with this? 

 

Oh yeah.  Work.

 

Because I am a spoiled, white, middle class American, I've always thought that work should make you feel the same way a nice boyfriend does - safe, stimulated, challenged. Your best and most authentic self.  What in the world is that kind of work, if such work exists? 

 

Leaving aside the fact that I fell into the pool while fully dressed* at the company outing, my first three weeks at the new job have passed without incident. I've been working hard and watching carefully as the ferocious politics of this place emerge. It doesn't take long before the freaks and sadists and ego-maniacs reveal themselves; a parade of weirdness is inevitable at any organization. The trick is to keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your ears open so you're not branded too early in the process. (Also, it's good to have candy on your desk.) 

You can't imagine the amount of psychic energy it usually takes for me to behave myself, instead of, say, crank calling partners or leaving fake poo under someone's desk. But I don't really feel like myself here.  Suddenly, I feel gangly and awkward and introverted.

 

Maybe the job is a bad boyfriend. The job is jealous of my time and watches my every move! The job slaps me around! I fell down the stairs, I reassure my boss. I don't want him to know that I'm worried. The job seems to encourage all the undesirable bits of my personality, including (but not limited to) shyness, negativity, gnawing my thumb until it's a bloody nubbin, and over-indulging in things that are bad for me. I'm wondering if the job and I need to go to couples therapy, because I sure as hell can't afford to break up with the job.

 

And of course there are the children. One mustn't forget the children. What would become of the children if I quit?

 

 

*Only my left leg up to my shin, but WTF? Who does that? I do, apparently.

Photographs of Woody Allen in What's New, Pussycat? via Thought Patterns.

Istanbul Not Constantinople

When we last met Roy, he was keeping me sane by posing as an overzealous musical theater ingenue with a deep and abiding love for Bob Fosse. When mommy gets stressed, Roy acts cute - because cuteness is the universal coping mechanism for children with deranged parents. 

Roy knows that The Dread is rolling in as the first day at Job I Don't Love approaches. Look what he did to amuse me! Not every cat will impersonate a Turkish Health Minister using a jumbo cup, a rubber band, and tassle filched from fancy candle packaging. All I can say is NICE FEZ, ROY. YOU ARE A GOOD BOY AND MOMMY LOVES YOU. Now go scrub the kitchen floor and MAKE SURE MOMMY CAN'T SEE ANY DIRT ANYWHERE.

P.S. Fauxhawk thinks it's very, very important to tell you that no animals were harmed in the process of making this post. I mock his concern because everyone knows that animals are here only for our pleasure and amusement. 

P.P.S. Fauxhawk also thinks it's very, very important to tell you that Roy did not do this all completely on his own - Fauxhawk helped him come up with the idea for Turkish Health Minister the way parents sometimes "help" their children write book reports. I may have "helped" Roy make his fez, but this is not to suggest that our cat isn't a genius or top of his class in the Gifted and Talented program.

Close encounters with a toothless, slightly unhinged guardian angel

The sun is making an appearance after weeks of rain. Since I no longer have to dress appropriately for work - the firm I have been with for over five years is breathing its last breath - I throw on a sundress, a ridiculous pair of platforms, and scrub my face until it's rosy and fresh. No make-up. No hair taming. No protection against the world.

I've been in a funk lately - so much uncertainty and so many big decisions have left me feeling unsettled and anxious. I am not as adaptable as I once was.  I've been holding my breath, steeling myself against unknown harm, battling confusion and dread.

Out in the sun, I feel my body relax.  It's good to be alive, walking along my block, greeting the old Yemeni shopkeeper whom I adore.

"Good morning, my friend," he calls, popping his head out from the door. He is unfailingly courtly and polite. "How is my friend?"

"I am fine, my friend." I say it because it is true, and because it is part of our routine.

"And how is my friend?" he asks, referring to Fauxhawk.

"Still not smoking!" I say, and walk on by.

The subway is always a struggle, despite several patent-pending methods to ensure that I get a seat. Today I am out of luck. I stand holding the rail next to a mostly toothless Vietnam vet who looks remarkably like Iggy Pop without the (dubious) sex appeal. I catch him looking me up and down in a clinical, dispassionate way.

"What happened to your arm?" he says, leaning in a bit too close.

"I burned it on the oven."

"Battle scars!" Iggy seems very excited by this idea; his light blue eyes light up. I wonder about his battle scars and how many of them are visible.

"Yes, I think the oven won."

He is genuinely concerned. "It looks bad." 

I agree, hoping for a break in the conversation so I can go back to reading The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake. But Iggy wants to shoot the breeze.

"Is that your class ring?" he asks, touching my hand.

"Uh...no. It's my...uh...engagement ring." Suddenly, I feel extraordinarily shy knowing that the people surrounding us are listening to what has become an awkward situation.

"Well, that's nice, isn't it? Love is in the air! But all the good ones are taken." Wink, wink.

I don't know what to say. I am flustered and embarrassed and turning the color of eggplant. But Iggy is unfazed.

"What do you do?" he asks.

"You know, I don't really know. I don't know what I do."

"Well, you go on, pretty little thing," he says gently, turning to me. I feel as though he means it - as though he is wishing me well as I fumble my way through this new stage in my life. I am oddly touched.

And then, ever so delicately, he pats my bottom and leaves the train.

Sometimes sexual harassment is kind of wonderful.

Shelley Duvall via Suicide Blonde.

Post in which I whine about things of little import.

Preparing for the Interview of Doom this afternoon. Not feeling very much like Employee of the Month today.

Joined Weight Watchers and went to my first meeting. Terrifying freakfest. Still waiting for the Kool-Aid to hit so I too can stalk the meeting leader and chirp things like, "I DON'T KNOW HOW I COULD POSSIBLY EAT ALL OF THESE POINTS!" In the meantime, I am hungry and cranky and obsessed with cheating the blasted points system.

Wedding planning has ground to a halt. Attempting to regain some kind of momentum this week, though feeling simultaneously overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the process.

Ignoring my blog and struggling to keep up with other blogs. I won't even tell you how many unread blog posts I have in my reader - it's shocking and shameful. Forgive me for being so silent here and elsewhere. I've been very distracted but miss you all very much.

xoxox,
P.

Michelle Williams via Suicide Blonde.

Wedding planning

 

is for the birds.

We have made exactly one decision, and already we've made a complete hash of things. Everyone is upset, I am developing ulcers and now contemplating a drive-through in Vegas to have Elvis officiate. As far as I can tell, wedding planning involves a series of seemingly inconsequential decisions imbued with far too much meaning and importance. It's a complete minefield - a battle of wills rife with family politics, hurt feelings, and bruised toes.

Does anyone have an exhaust pipe I can suck on?

Portrait of Henri Matisse by Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Melodrama, dread, furry ponies, etc.

This wretched cold is making me extremely melodramatic. I spent all of yesterday afternoon weeping while trying to draft my bio for an upcoming job interview that fills me with an almost unbearable sensation of dread (did I mention melodrama?) There is nothing like reviewing the disparate elements of my checkered past to make me feel totally hopeless about my career prospects. Nevertheless, I plod on, starting with the easy parts, and calling upon Fauxhawk for moral support.

Persephone received a Masters in Islamic History from...

"FAUXHAWK! I can't do this! I don't want this job! I hate it! I feel dread!"

After graduating with an AB in History and Literature from...

"Maybe I should just be unemployed! Maybe I can just stay home and watch the cats!"

Having spent five years as a ..., she clearly has no idea what she wants to do with her life, which is abundantly clear if you read this piece of crap bio.

"Why am I spitting blood to make this new job happen when I don't even want it?"

Listening patiently, Fauxhawk finally replies. "Because being unemployed in a down market is not fun. Because anxiety begins to infects every aspect of your life so that you can no longer enjoy the things you once loved. Just use the job as a means to an end. You'll figure it out what you want to do."

Well, that sounds fun.

I am trying to focus on small steps instead of grand gestures. Sometimes melodrama must take a backseat to cool-headed calculation. I've been searching my soul for some time and coming up with very little that is concrete and workable. Perhaps there are Peppermint Patties where my soul should be.

In other news, I just booked our Iceland tickets for Fauxhawk's Birthday Elf Tour in July. I think seeing furry ponies will make me feel better.

Photo from Delete the Adjectives.