The Race for Integrity

It's a sure shot that our "save the date" will be going out this week. Whatever that means. Seriously, I think I've emailed, phoned, faxed and sent special telepathic and morse code messages to everyone regarding our wedding date. I would just like to preface that this extra step really bites my gnads; that is, ahem, short for gonads.

Kurt and Sophia, our friendly wedding rival has defeated us by mere leaps and bounds. Sophia, a professional career woman, is efficient and organized. Shellie, professionally unemployed career woman, thrives on daily five course dinner parties. Dare I forfeit? Never.

Guess what I got in the mail last week? Their save-the-date! Ugh! Sneaky little sneaker lickers. Kick me in the shins and call me slow, they're just too competent to be associated with me. Ironically, their wedding day is latter. If you ask me, I think their jumping the gun on their save the date. Or could it be that our save-the-date invite is simply on a one month delay? You decide.

Sophia, the hare vs. Shellie, the tortoise. I know who wins at the end of this conquest. This is Shellie from the hub of her imaginary spaceship, beaming up back to you Bob in the studio.

Dawn on my Luck

After days of wind and rain and rain and wind, I awoke this morning. It was 6:45am and the sun was peeking it's way into our bedroom. The trees in our backyard sat still and calm. The cluster of hummingbirds whizzed in and out of the flower beds. Sparse ivory roses bloom in the bush that fences the yard eleven foot high. At this very instant, I wouldn't mind it if the world stopped on it's axis.

There he was, his bangs in an uproar of curls and waves. His scruff of a beard was coming in like a weeded garden. On the pillow a dry residue of drool. I could hear the ebb and flow of his soft breath, and his breath not so morning fresh. My heart oozed with so much goodness. I softly whisper, "I love you." He dittos my adoration by passing wind. I giggle. He cracks a smile in his sleep.

In that very moment, the goo of love spread through my veins. Into, the chambers of my heart and unlocking all of my fears of the future. This is what I have to look foward to for the rest of my life. I can't wait!

Heartattack vs. Headache

How do you get a guy to get movin? Really? Should I place him on bended knee and whip his butt until it's absolutely black and blue? Should I forcefully have his eyes pried open with razor fingertips and scream absolute reason till I pass out? If you know the answer, please let me in on the secret.

Shane has not asked the special selected people to be in his wedding party yet. His bachelor party in New Orleans is coming together nicely. His Las Vegas plans for Kurt's bachelor party is piecing together pleasantly. Finally, his golf soiree the wednesday prior to the wedding in Kauai is absolutely perfect.

While Shane's plans are coming together, I'm falling apart with worry. He has not asked his selected ushers to be in his wedding. It is in my nature to procrastinate, but he is not allowed the same leisure. Is it viable for a couple to be procrastinators?

I fear that my heart is filled with sheer jealousy, because Shane's barely lifted a finger, yet everything is coming together on his end. This jealousy is going to my head, because I am being looped around in circles and knots to make this wedding a success.

This is Shellie Cadelinia from the center of her ulcered belly. Bob, back to you in the studio.

Purgatory: Bridesmaid Dresses

For as much hell that I've endured locating my wedding dress. Guess what? I'm pulling a Sisyphus; pushing the rock up the hill again just to see it roll down.

I would like to stress that I am steering away from the typical bridesmaid dresses. These dresses are so blaoring (blah-boring). Puke on me so you can call it a dress? Even better, have you seen pictures of these models in the magazines? My favorite is the "my appendix is bursting" pose. Coming in second, a very close tie, is the scoliosis pose. If I knew being so unhealthy was a turn-on, I would've signed up for Bulimia 101 in highschool.

Back to the fact, my three bridesmaids all vary in age; hence, their taste in fashion. One bridesmaid has the audacity to fit perfectly into any dress. The other two bridesmaids, not so blessed. Where do I go from here?

Well, I went to Betsey Johnsons and found the perfect dress...of course it was in black! My mother would have a complete cardiac arrest, if my girls walked down the aisle in black. She would curse a hundred miles per hour to god and his militia of saints to come down and straighten this mockery.

I should be the snot rag of a bride, because it's my wedding.

World! I demand you to kneel before me for I am the queen of Whah. The prima donna. The foul snaggletooth bride to be. If you refuse to kneel, than you will be forced to feast on your first born.

Indeed, I've had my share of bridesmaid mute. I've deprived my integrity for the sake of keeping fellow brides happy. My eyes bulge and I break out in hives everytime I think of the fashion trauma both my sisters put me through for their wedding. Evidently, it's been proven that you can make a sucker, out of someone that loves you.

I absolutely refuse to reciprocate the crime. Me? The person with no existence of a conscience. Could I be rearing a beautiful ethical head? Not if I can't help it.

Send me an angel

I am that person that would rather die via choking, than flail my arms and beg for the heimlich. Translation pride vs. humiliation equals stupidity.

When it comes to this wedding, I'm six foot deep in quicksand and I'm suckin' for air through a red coffee stirrer. There is no friend or family member that I would trust with this car crash. I tried to find a wedding planner on Kauai, but they were stuck in their ways. As I introduced my ideas, it was a result of a five second uncomfortable silence. That's okay, because my feelings were mutual, as I did not scream for absolute joy when they proposed pink sea shell stuffed vase centerpeices with a puke peptobismal pink ruffled skirt. If I wanted a block of welfare cheese, well heck I would've filed for unemployment!

When I thought there was no one that could realign this mess. The clouds parted ways and the heavens bestowed this angel. One word alisonevents.com. My snake charmer Alison. Alison is based in San Francisco, but she specializes in destination weddings. I gotta hand it to her she asked me questions about my wedding planning that I just did not want to address. I thought if I closed my eyes long enough, than all of my responsibilities would resolve itself.

Anyway, Alison's got style and elegance. She's not the type of person that grasps the opportunity everytime a sucker comes her way. She's got "MREEWER" (cat scratch instinct) that will get the job done. So excited. My own liaison. I have a feeling that her scratch goes deep, I'll let you know if her services are worth all the pawing. Stay tuned....for further declawing.

Arigato gozaimasu

I would like to put a shout out to Japan for lending their culture to the world. I would like to say that without godzilla, cibbo matto, rice, kikaida, sushi, ramen and wasabi I would not be here right now.

I would like to pay special thanks to their tradition to the 1001 Cranes. There is a hawaiian wedding tradition that was borrowed from the japanese. It's a 1001 Origami cranes and each crane has 26 folds. The 1001 cranes is further built into an artwork.

According to Japanese lore, folding one thousand Origami cranes is truly a labor of love. Tradition holds that the bride & groom who finishes this task, called SENBAZURU, before the wedding day will be richly rewarded with a good and happy marriage. Paying homage to the majestic crane, which mates for life and is said to live one thousand years, ensures their own good fortune.

I would like to thank my brother Neil and my two sisters Chris and Laurie for putting their time in the crane penitentiary. I really appreciate their genorosity without them, I would be a craneless bride.

Arigato gozaimasu

Stop Pecking at my Destiny

Sure, I'm that person that purchased sleek seductive heels for my wedding, before finding my wedding dress. I'm not one of those cookie cutter freakazoid bridesteins foaming at the mouth, because the matching screws protruding from their necks are too tight.

I like to have control, but not to be mistaken for a control freak. I can roll with the punches, but in this case Muhammed Ali's coming in full force. Sure, I loathe it when the world doesn't turn on my axis. For instance, the wedding coordinator that went against all of my ideas. Seriously, I thought a wedding coordinator's exclusive sole purpose was to serouisly lick the brides' behind, in my case the lack thereof? Hence, try to meet my needs come hail, funnel cloud and alien attacks. I curse you Jennifer Lopez, in your convincing portrayal of the Wedding Planner. How dare you make a mockery of the profession.

My absolute favorite is when a potential caterer advises me that lumpia was not an appropriate appetizer. She proceeded to convince me that greasy foods would contribute to my guests' indigestion. Why was she not dissuading me from alcohol as well? Alcohol contributes to stumbling and possibly puking, if happily consumed inappropriately. I was willing to work with her until she questioned Pierre Robert for my cheese station. It was right then and there. Halt. Snip and Tuck. She was crossed off of my list.

Currently, my actual caterer refuses to return my calls. She's starting to make me feel like a pest. A mosquito. A bloodsucker. All I need is a quote. Simple. Clean. Today, I will call Mary from Contemporary Catering and get a straight answer from her even if I have to do it in a very non-contemporary way.

Within this swarm of insanity, I am in San Francisco trying to keep myself from unraveling at the seams with scotchtape. I'm exposed, for the most part, to absolute crap of news and the media. Between Michael Jackson court appearances, the reality show Wife Swap, Congress interrogating the Baseball Association on steroid use, Bush as President, and the freak funnel cloud in South San Francisco that demolished houses, trees and toto too. Serenity now!

Ding! That's all the the time we have for today. I will try to keep my contact with the outside world to a minimum. Quick Shane, let's toss that fartin' television out the window, board up the windows, pop a bottle of champagne and hold each other in front of the fireplace.

Namaste.

SOLD My Soul for no sense

Here I am in my cotton old navy whale print pajamas, eating a bowl of vanilla yogurt topped with vanilla crunch cereal. It's 8:31am and I really should be preparing for my final job interview which is at 10:00am. Instead, I'm so erked in getting my "save the dates" out via mail, that I can't sit straight. Focus. Focus. Focus.

Uh huh, there's some jackasss that made it trendy to send out "save-the-date" notices in the form of cute tiny theme decorated cards. A prelude to the wedding invitation; a pre-invite, if you will. Puke-arama.

This coming from the same person that put the finger on the trigger on men on Valentine's Day: greeting card, chocolate, bouquet of flowers and dinner. In result, forcing me to put out.


I embrace this "save-the-date" invite; this additional gimmick. It makes me all warm and gooey inside almost nautious, my palms sweaty, kinda like being at the dentist.

I never thought I'd conform to the norm, until planning this wedding (or the lack thereof). I will probably wander the earth in search for my gleaming cajones. When I do find my cajones, I will part the Red Sea with them and I will lead my people to the promise land.

Address! A Dress!

Hail Designer Alvina Valenta may I wash your feet with my stringy hair!

After a series of traffic jams of trunk shows, designers, bridal salons and consultants, I found the one! The dress! Simple. Chic! Couture (Hccckture)? That's the sound I make when I huck a lugie. Seriously, if I hear Couture one more time I might just do that.

I was not one of those happy-go-lucky brides (to be) that found their dream dress, when they tried on their first. Nope. I'm to multifaceted. Indeed, I am tried and true very simple. I could never have that fault, falling in love with the first dress. It's unfair to my imagination. I would always question that their's a more vivacious dress out there waiting for me on a discount rack. I could hear it calling to me, in dreams and echoes of delusion and fantasy.

If you don't know already, dresses in the magazines never look the same on you. Especially on a 5'2" not so slender, but not fat female. From my perspective, dresses become scarce, like the world just got smaller. Finding a dress, was just as hard as finding the right man.

ONE NIGHT STANDS: the dress that I adored on the hanger, tried on. Some of them felt so good and other's were uncomfortable. All of these dresses had one thing in common, I was done with them well over a minute.

FLIRTATION: the designer dress featured in all the magazines that I thought would look fantastic on me. Off the hanger, over my shoulders and immediately as my head caught sight of my reflectiion (before the hem touched the ground), it was a snip.

DATING: the dress that I adored. It took an irritating series of trying on, before I realized that it wasn't perfect. It just did not release the mad butterflies throughout my stomach. It didn't excite me. In the end it was a reject with a nice "it's not you, it's me" apology.

BOYFRIEND: the dress that was absolutely stunning. The dress that kept me awake at night. The dress that gave me heart palpations. A slight anxiety attack, if you will. The cost of the dress; not an issue. The dress could've drained the account of the United States and I sure as hell could give a rats ass. A dress that had me foaming at the mouth. The dress that made me irrational. This dress got my juices flowin'.

All in all, I had a great experience with the madness. I can say that out of this catastrophe, I acquired peace of mind.

Next Chapter: "Heavy Weight Issues" No I'm not talking about losing weight. Exclusive, wedding planning folly season begins. Bring on the boxing gloves, because it's about to get nasty.

Elvis! Showgirls! Hookers and Gamblers unite!

If it isn't one thing, it's a hemmorage!

I know, I'm being dramatic again. Smile. But! My wedding date is around the bend. I am not on a strict diet of raw crap and greens (like I thought I would). I haven't worked out everyday (like I promised). I want a godamn washboard! WHah WHAH whAH! Don't cry for me Argentina...not yet. I have allocated six months to work for it. Well I have hit my six month mark and I am still not ab worthy.

First, it was my bachlorette party in Vegas (the place with the best pool wins). Now, another bachlorette party in South Beach, Miami. All I can think about is the consumption of booze in vegas and the consuming of cuban eats in Miami...South Beach Diet I spit on you. With that spit comes the pain. With that spit and pain, I feel the pressure of thongs and g-strings swirling in my head. I think I'll be rockin' the one piece speedo spandex deluxe special.

I fear that I won't gain my unrealistic abs and I loathe that I will be a chubby bride. This is Shellie Cadelinia from the spine of her vanity back to you Bob in the studios.