Dancing in the dark

I’ve been pretty quiet here lately because I’ve been so busy. Not just running around doing things busy, but busy in the head—lots of scattered thoughts and no mental lasso corralling them all together. If I had posted these past couple of weeks, it would’ve been a bunch of half-baked thoughts spilling over the pages all willy-nilly.

We’re 28 days from the wedding. On my way to work this morning, I was thinking about how great it is that we’re living together already, because with everything going on right now, moving in together would’ve been the last straw, the push over Crazy Cliff for me. We’d have to throw out furniture, buy new furniture, weed out duplicate CDs, figure out how to live with another person…as it is, we still haven’t weeded out all of our duplicate CDs, and in fact, we’ve MADE some duplicates for those times when both of us want to listen to “Pinkerton” at the gym. At least having our home and cats as constants is providing me a modicum of stability and sanity (though this may be the first time I’ve put the words “cats” and “sanity” in the same sentence without the word “losing” between). But then I got to thinking—what’s different after March 26? Our life will go on as it did before, albeit less hectic. We won’t suddenly be different people, either together or individually. We won’t act any differently. We’ll file our taxes differently, and should one of us lose our jobs, we’ll still have medical insurance (though in domestic-partner friendly California, this wasn’t really an issue anyway), but other than that, why are we getting married? Even if we never legally tie the knot, our commitment is no less than a married couple’s. I’m not thinking, “Egads, 28 days until I can easily bail.” For all intents and purposes, we are married, so why legalize it? Why now? I don’t really have an answer to that, other than it’s something we both felt like we wanted to do and this point in time makes sense. But maybe that’s a good enough answer.

Wedding planning has become simultaneously less interesting and more stressful. All the big decisions are behind us; now it’s just a matter of executing them, which is doing all the nitty-gritty boring stuff. We’ve been more-or-less on the same page for most of the planning process. Only two things have led to protracted discussions and vehement disagreements: our seating arrangement and our first-dance song. Random? Yes. Our initial song choice has a pretty fast tempo and it’s a waltz, and as we’ve spent the last four weeks learning how to foxtrot and swing, it seems silly not to use that to our advantage. We’re looking for a song that is upbeat, hopeful, and playful, not schmaltzy or shmoopy. Apparently, there’s a dearth of love songs that don’t involve the words “destiny” and “meant to be” and “fate” and “I’ve been waiting for you since I was but a mere zygote.” The best was when Chris suggested U2’s “With or Without You.” He started crooning, “I can’t liiiiiive, with or without yooou…hey! That song kind of sucks for a wedding!” Right now, it’s a toss-up between ABBA’s “Money, Money, Money” and Madonna’s version of “Fever.”

Kidding. Sort of.

Boobs and butts and guts, oh my!

Man, my stomach hurts. It's like…gas, but not any that's moving. It's just sort of hanging out, hurting the hell out of me. I'm all hunched over and quietly groaning to myself. I know you don't come here to learn about the state of my gastro-intestinal system, but ow. A few years ago, I diagnosed myself with IBS, or irritable bowel syndrome. I never went to the doctor about it, because the pains and problems would come and go and never hang out long enough for me to get to a doctor. But I figured out my triggers, and for the past year or so, I've been mostly okay, but once in a while, the pains and discomforts come raging back. Today is one of those days. Ow.

Chris and I had an excellent Saturday (he had to work on Sunday, so no excellence there). Our wedding photographer was in the Bay Area for a workshop, so she suggested we do part of our engagement session up here. We got to take some pictures at our old place, a beautiful and grand Victorian house, as well as the coffeehouse where we had our first date and Baker Beach, with the Marin Headlands and the Golden Gate Bridge as our backdrop. Awesome.

Before the shoot, I was nervous about being in front of the camera. When someone points a camera at me, my first instinct is to dive under the nearest piece of furniture. But Arlene has a great demeanor and totally made us feel comfortable, even as we were doing cheesy things like touch noses or foreheads, gaze into each other's eyes, and run on the beach while holding hands. Yeah, stop laughing. We totally did that. And felt royally stupid the whole time. As we were running away from her, I kept thinking, "She's taking a picture of my ass! This is so wrong!" And then she had us turn around and run toward her, which was even worse, because I couldn't stop laughing even as I was thinking, "My face! It's bouncing! And oh god! My boobs! Are out! Of control!" Man, so unattractive. I don't think we'll be keeping those.

But overall, we had a ton of fun at the shoot. We're doing the rest of it down in L.A. I'm going to have to put the kibosh on the running, and maybe dial it down on the shmoopy faces.

That night, Chris and I went to the ballet, which, yay! I love the ballet. We saw three pieces—two modern and one uber-classical piece, after which the ever-classy Chris turned to me and said, "WHY do the men's tights have to be SO FAR up their BUTTS?" Yep, that's my guy.

But does he want maple syrup?

Last week, a co-worker asked me if we have nicknames for our cats. We do, I said: Sweetie and Asshole (or Bastard, Little Fucker, or Dipshit, as the mood strikes). We now have new ones that we came up with this weekend: Guapo and Loco (or Carloco). I think it's fitting.

Speaking of loco, Carlo doesn't seem to know that he's a carnivore. We always have to keep food covered up or put away, otherwise he's apt to steal and eat it. He's stolen lettuce, bread, and eggshells, and he's tried to drink orange juice out of my glass. This weekend, I was in the bathroom brushing my hair, when he trotted down the hallway, carrying a waffle in his mouth! Chris had toasted a couple of waffles and left the toaster oven open to let them cool for a bit. He turned his back, and Carlo struck again! I only regret that I didn't take that opportunity to yell, "Leggo my Eggo!" at him.

Sometimes I'm not nice, but this time, it's not my fault

Chris and I are taking a ballroom dance class to get ready for the requisite first dance at our reception. I've been excited about this for a long time, because I love to dance (I get it from my dad). Chris, on the other hand, has always been reluctant to shake ass in public, but I pointed out that as we were going to dance in front of 200+ friends and family members, some pre-dance instruction would probably go a long way toward not embarrassing ourselves. Surprisingly, he's having fun, too. Everyone in the class is more or less at the same level, which is nice, especially since they're all doing it for the same reason.

The four-week series started last week, but this week, our instructor announced that a new couple would be joining us. When they walked in, I heard a collective, sharp intake of breath happen around the room, because man, this girl was just a walking sartorial disaster. You know how you see that girl with the out-there jeans or the crazy boots or cracked-out hair, and you think, wow, she's being edgy and cool? Yeah, well, that only works if you pick ONE outrageous item and tone the rest of it down. Then you get a sense of intentional quirkiness. But when you outfit yourself from head to toe in questionable items? You've crossed the line into fugly.

Please, allow me to illustrate. We'll begin at the top: hair. Hair should only look wet if it is, indeed, wet. And by wet, I mean water. Not gel, not shellac, not that jheri curl stuff. Her hair looked soaking wet, but it wasn't dripping, so I'm guessing, it was not water. Anyway, it was all piled on top of her head in an unfortunately massive topknot, with tendrils that curled off like so many jellyfish tentacles. Ick. Moving on. Her sweater was the least offensive piece: a knit, semi-sheer sparkly red turtleneck. Okay, not great, but not bad. But the jeans? Oh god, the jeans. The jeans were super-flared, for one thing. For another? BEDAZZLED. That's right, from knee to ankle: metal studs in a floral pattern. It looked like someone's great-aunt Maude got cranked up on a few too many Red Bulls and was left alone with denim and a Bedazzler—never a good combination. Oy. And finally, the piece de resistance: the shoes. Let me put it this way: if Dorothy (of the Wizard of Oz) were a hooker, she'd be wearing those shoes. Red, sparkly stilettos. What a crime against humanity. Now, again, ONE of these choices? Bearable. The sum total? Train Wreck. You know how all women's magazines have those Fashion Don'ts sections, with the black bars across the offenders' eyes to protect their identities? I wanted to put the black bar across my eyes so I wouldn't have to look at her anymore.

Pork: 1; Kid: 0

Over the weekend, as we were having dinner with my extended family, my aunt taught me my favorite new insult. It's an old Hong Kong saying (and you have to know that cha sao is a common and popular Chinese barbequed pork):

Giving birth to a piece of cha sao would've been better than giving birth to you; at least I could eat the cha sao.

Ha! She says this to her son when he's being particularly lazy and useless. I'm filing this away for later: I can't wait to have kids!

Carlo, busting out all over the place

Carlo is making a liar out of me. After warning my parents and pre-apologizing for the fur-suited hellion we were inflicting on them, he turned on the charm to be the sweetest, cuddliest, not-onto-countertops-jumpingest kitty ever. Well, except for the part where he was a total ass to my sister's cat. He even hopped up onto my mom's lap, sealing his position as her favorite child/grandchild. He even edged Ginger out, because she doesn't pay Mom much attention anymore.

He also turned out to be a chill travel cat. He was happy to lounge on the back shelf-y thing (under the back windshield) for the majority of the trip, breaking that up with naps in the passenger's lap. We only had one incident with him and it totally wasn't even his fault (imagine!). On the drive back to SF, we stopped, as usual, in Kettleman City for food and public restrooms. When we went back to the car, we pondered letting the cats out for a stretch and pee session, but decided against it because 1) generally, cats can hold it (Vin held it for nearly 15 hours when we flew from Connecticut to California) and 2) neither of them peed on the way to L.A. You see where this is going, right? Yeah, it's actually much worse. About five minutes after getting back on I-5, Carlo started pacing around the car and yowling. Sure, it was a little odd, because he'd spent the previous 3 hours zonked out, but pacing and yowling are two of his favorite activities at home, so we figured he was bored and that it was the kitty equivalent of "are we theeeere yeeeeet."

So he's pacing, I'm trying to calm him down, and finally, he kind of hunkers down behind the driver's seat (Chris was driving), so I twist around in my seat to scritch his chin and speak to him in soothing tones. "Oh, what's wrong Carlito? Why are you crying, baby?" Keep in mind, he's all black and night had fallen--I only know he's back there by touch. "Oh, pobresito…are you bored? Why are you hiding down there? And…hello, what's…oh god…what's that smell?! Oh god! Stop the car! STOP THE CAR! THE CAT SHIT IN THE CAR!!" That's right. Carlo pooped. In the car. As I scritched his chin. The poor dear was desperately trying to find a suitable place to relieve himself and even warned us out loud, but the stupid humans didn't pick up on it. To his credit, he picked the best spot in the car on which to poop (if there is such a thing): Chris's nylon gym bag, which was easily washed off at a nearby gas station.* But he seemed embarrassed by the gaffe, and crept back into his carrier, where he spent the rest of the trip.

Of course, he's back to his old tricks already. He spent the hours between 4:30 a.m. and 7:30 a.m. ping-ponging all over the apartment, using our bed as a springboard. Every 5 minutes, the bed would shudder as he bounced off of it on his way back to the kitchen. Car-pooping bastard.

*I have to note here that we were closing in on a bunch of exits with gas stations as I yelled, "HE SHIT IN THE CAR! PULL OVER!!!" I was really concerned, because I-5 has those stretches of, like, 30 miles with no gas stations. And Chris's response was…just…baffling: "Really? Do we have to stop? Can't you just, like, grab it with a napkin?? Do we really have to get off the freeway?" DUDE. There is CAT SHIT. ROAMING FREE. IN THE CAR. Uncontained cat turd is upon us, and you don't want to stop? DO YOU NOT SMELL THE FOUL ODOR OF KITTY INTESTINAL DEATH??" I'm beginning to question Chris's sanity, y'all.

The most modest of mice

Seven weeks. SEVEN WEEKS. GAH! At least I got my time off approved, and the bosses are being nice about me working remotely the week before the wedding, which is a huge help. Chris and I are leaving for L.A. tonight, driving this time, AND with both cats! Fun as a barrel of monkeys! That scream and have claws! Woo! It's gonna be awesome. No, really.

Chris and I went to see Modest Mouse in Berkeley last night. It was a good show (would've been better without the horrible opening bands), but after they finished their set, they took their sweet, sweet time coming back for an encore. So long that Chris and I walked out halfway through the first encore song (maybe the only) in order to catch BART back to the city. I can see the band needing a break and all, but I think some bands stretch it out to milk all the longing and cheering and stamping and screaming from the audience. Wouldn't it be awesome if just once, the audience cheered and clapped for a couple of minutes and then were like, "Eh, whatever," and LEFT? And the band was left standing there, all "Whaa?" Yeah, that'd be awesome. Hee.