Career: Mom

I talked with a friend this morning on my way to work. Finally, things sound like they are falling into place for her success. She’s had a rough road that started with getting laid off from the company I still work for. In some ways, it’s been a blessing because it allowed her time to devote to her writing and film making, but financially, it’s been challenging. I’ve watched and listened over the years as she’s cobbled together jobs to make ends meet and networked with all kinds of interesting people to construct a creative lifestyle. In lots of ways I am jealous of her freedom and the ability to fully go for what she wants career-wise.

While I’ve been seated sedately behind my desk, cashing my bi-monthly paychecks, she’s been scrambling to make things happen. And I’ve… well, I’ve been collecting my paychecks. There was the time when I was working on the website, but that passed. The truth is, by the time I am done with work and commuting, I don’t have much energy left to do anything but eat dinner and hang out with Pete or friends.

Right now, I feel like I’m in a holding pattern. I’m not scrambling for anything but wooden baby toys and onsies. I mean, I’m GROWING A HUMAN! But it’s a rather passive thing. I mean, people in comas have brought a baby to term. I’m preparing to be a mom, which seems to involve a lot of reading, talking to moms, shopping and realizing that nothing will really prepare me for motherhood.

I remember prior to getting married thoughts I’d had about friends and their behavior (or mine) surrounding their weddings. Finally, I understood how they felt, and why certain actions of selflessness on the bridesmaid’s part are necessary. I understood after I was inducted into the Married Club.

The Mommy Club is a huge one with lots of different types of members, and I am preparing for my induction. I don’t think I am formerly a member until I am puked on, pooped on and get less than four hours of sleep in a twenty-four hour period. So looking forward to that!

Listening to my friend whose career is coming together (and has no spit-up in her near future), makes me envious (and so proud of her). I’ve always wanted a “career,” but more than that, I’ve always known I wanted to be a mom. A fast-paced, highly paid career mom isn’t the type of mom I want to be. At least not while my babies are small. I see the sacrifices executive mom’s at my company make. I see how much time they are away from their families so they can be successful. One executive that I know is regularly the only woman in a room full of men. That is a mom to be proud of. But me? I want to be around on the weekends without a blackberry buzzing me. I don’t want to be jetting off to New York for meetings. I don’t think I could go on location and produce a movie like my friend will do and also be the mom I envision myself being. (Of course she isn’t a mom yet so she’s not leaving kids behind.)

But, like my mommy friends tell me, I’ll probably eat everything I’ve ever said about parenting once I’m a parent. Maybe I’ll ride the coattails of my writer/producer friend and grab a wardrobe career on the way. Maybe you’ll see my name on the credits of a movie shot in Italy. If you do, know I did it with a baby slung on my body because after 37 years of wanting a baby, I’m not leaving her at home – career be damned.

The Old Lady

I think I’m old. I mean, when did this happen? I look at photos of myself, and there are wrinkles next to my eyes. (I prefer “crinkles” because it sounds a little less permanent.) I can handle the “crinkles,” but my idea of fun has changed. Today is Friday and I’m excited for the weekend because it means I can watch movies and exercise. I used to get excited for parties and meeting guys, but not now. I have time to cook soup and maybe even bake some cookies. Really. It’s just LAME! And pathetic and sad.

I’m not so old that I think digital things are for “the kids.” I’m on Facebook. But, other than finding friends and giving friends a cyber cupcake, I’m not really sure what I am supposed to be doing with it, but I’m on it, which brings me to my point. I was bored so I started scrolling through some “friends” photos on the site. I have friends of all ages, and this one happens to be in her low 20s.

Before I go on, I have to repeat, “Ya’ll, I’m old.” I’m old and farty. Ten years ago I would have thought her photos were so cool, and they still are if I was flipping through an album while sipping a beer in her living room, but they are online. Where people at work can see them. Her pictures aren’t exactly raunchy or even too out there. She’s posing with her girlfriends at a bar, martinis lined up in front of them, cleavage hanging out. She’s almost kissing a girlfriend in another. Apparently, she either goes to a lot of costume parties or likes Halloween a lot because she has embraced the slutty costume whole-heartedly. Again, there in NOTHING wrong with her photos. It appears that she is having a blast with her friends, but my beef is that they are online for co-workers to see. Set the privacy settings higher, for god’s sake!!!

Why do people want to so much of their live their lives on-line? (Remember, this is coming from a blogger who writes about her life online.) Don’t they know that employers might be able to see things like their photos? Under likes, she has porn. Again, that’s fine, but do you want everyone to know you like porn, or is it just cool to like porn now?

I graduated college a few years before it was cool to like porn (unless you were a frat boy) or be a lesbian. I’m sure there were women watching porn and LUGs at my school, but it wasn’t main stream. When did all of this change? And more importantly, when did I become someone who looks at the generation behind mine and says, why do they think ______ is cool?

It’s true. I’m officially old.

The Most Depressing Monday

Apparently, yesterday was the most depressing day of the year. Pete heard it on the news this morning. I wasn’t surprised. Yesterday, I was gripped by melancholy. Before yesterday started, I had grand plans. Pete had to work (I guess his company doesn’t deem Dr. King’s accomplishments worthy of a day off), so I had the entire day to myself. I planned on hemming some jeans (four pairs from the Citizens sample sale), maybe sewing up a baby blanket for a friend, getting my hair cut, cooking a little, doing a few loads of laundry, going for a walk or yoga. Basically, I was going to what any woman in the 1950s did while her husband worked (minus yoga) and I was looking forward to it. (Hmmm… what does this say about me? And I consider myself a feminist!) But then, the day started.

Pete got up, and I lay there immobile. It was my day off. I was allowed. I stayed there for another hour and a half. Awake. I finally pulled myself from the bed around 9am, just in time to take a shower before getting my hair cut.

The hair cut went well. My friend cuts my hair and I always enjoy seeing her. I tried my best to be upbeat, but it was like a dampness filled my head. I smiled, but it was forced. I felt awful.

I came home, and decided the only way to lift the blues was to meditate and ask for some help. So I did. I meditated for almost an hour. (Okay, my mind wandered A LOT.) I felt a little better, but the damp, heavy feeling still pervaded my body. So I did what all depressed people do, and I took a nap. Nothing like avoiding the problem. (Isn’t that one of the signs of depression?)

Luckily, my friend Heidi came by unexpectedly and we went for a walk and a tea on the boardwalk. Thank god she came by. Depression is selfish and when in the presence of others, it is hard to be solely focused on myself. After I listened to her about her life (hey, we all have things going on – I don’t have a monopoly on major decisions), I was able to finally start my laundry and make chili. It was 5:00. Needless to say, the jeans are still not hemmed, yoga never happened and sewing a baby blanket? Please. I might actually enjoy that. (I actually enjoyed making chili, but I’d be happy if I could wave a wand and have my laundry folded in my drawers.)

For now, I’m just glad to know I wasn’t the only one feeling depressed yesterday. Who knew there was a most depressing day of the year? More importantly, why isn’t it on the calendar so we can be ready for it?

Pregnant or Just Fat?

I like to keep my life simple. I like to be semi-organized and schedule all my annual appointments in the fall. No idea how this started, but it seemed to have fallen into place nicely. Just recently, I’ve had my eyes checked and a pap smear. Plus, I interviewed a doctor to possibly be our OB when we are ready to have a baby. So, I’ve been out of work a lot lately for all of those doctor reasons.

At my wedding, my friend Maggie blew out the side zipper of the dress she wore to her rehearsal dinner. She got married a month and a half before we did. She was planning on wearing it to our wedding, but her wedding body had morphed into married body. We laughed our asses off as she was half hanging out of the dress in a panicked attempt to get out of it after the big blow out. The honeymoon happened. Life happened, and well, the gym just wasn’t as important. When you’re not planning on having lots of people looking at you, you don’t care as much about what you look like.

Luckily for me, I was sick in the months leading up to the wedding so I was in the worst shape I’ve been in in years. No definition in my arms. Puffy tummy. I was what I refer to as skinny fat. I still looked good in clothes, but had almost no muscle tone. Because of this, I thought the only thing that would decline after the wedding was my skin, which I spent lots of time working on pre-wedding.

Wrong. A big fat wrong. I put on some capri pants this morning that I like to wear because they are comfortable. They are tight. They are no longer comfortable. I’ve noticed jeans that I used to love to wear are grabbing a little more than they used to. Comfy, but only when my belly hangs over the top. So not attractive. What happens when you get married??? If my rehearsal dinner dress had a zipper, I could probably blow it out right now.

It’s fine. I’ll survive. I have to readjust my eating so instead of a big lunch and big dinner, I have a small lunch and a big dinner. The best part is that the combination of doctor’s appointments and extra pounds have my boss looking at me a little differently. I just know he’s wondering is she pregnant or just fat?

To add to his pondering, I'm purposely wearing loose clothes and complaining about being tired. I figure I’ll milk it until I really am pregnant or he figures out I’m just married.

Birds of a Feather

When I was single, I dropped married friends. I didn’t do it on purpose, but slowly, after a few invitations to do things got turned down, I just stopped calling. Then, on a whim, I’d remember how cool the person was and call again. We’d hang out, have a great time and promise to see each other more often. Then, as before, they would be busy with their husband and I’d stop calling again. It only seems to get worse with kids.

Or maybe it was a combination of them wanting to spend time with their husband and us not having as much to talk about. When I was single, I’d spend hours talking about who I was dating, analyzing why he did or didn’t call, wondering if it was going to work out, wondering if the woman at his office was indeed “just a friend.” I’d hike along with friends listening to them agonize over their recent asshole boyfriend and I’d empathize and tell my most recent asshole boyfriend story.

Once, when I was dating a great guy/asshole, I was bemoaning why he didn’t call more often and why he never asked me out in public with people if I meant so much to him when one of my married friends said, “Forget about him. There are much better guys out there.” WHAT??? FORGET ABOUT THE ASSHOLE?? Does this smug married woman have any idea what it is like to date in your 30s? She met her husband at 24 and married him at 30. They had their ups and downs, but she never had to face her 30s single. She was clueless. Needless to say, my calls to her, her husband and two kids grew less frequent. Clearly, we were in different stratospheres. And clearly, she did not understand me.

Or did she? When I finally met my husband who is not an asshole, I finally started to understand her comments. They weren’t said to be smug or demeaning, but because she could see what I couldn’t.

Sunday, I hung out with three single women. All amazing, beautiful, successful, smart women. And all single. (Stupid men.) And I felt like… well, like a fish out of water. I felt like when I opened my mouth I was on watch. And then, just like a smug married, I made an incredibly insensitive remark. We were talking about population control and how people shouldn’t just have kids because society says you should. One of the women said she didn’t’ think she wanted kids, but she better decide soon. I said, as the conversation pulsed along, “The decision might be made for you.” She shrugged. Simple. The conversation continued for a bit, and we all broke apart and headed our separate ways.

Then on my bike ride home, it hit me. That was a smug comment. I knew the feeling because I’d been there recently. I know what it is like to look down the barrel of motherhood. The clock is ticking. There is no man on the horizon, and the idea that motherhood – the most innate of all things a woman is supposed to be – might possibly pass by. The last thing you need is to be reminded of the clock. I know the comment came out as insensitive. Out of touch. Smug.

Maybe there is a reason married people and singles don’t hang out as much as they did when everyone was single. We’re just in different places, and sometimes, it's hard to understand the other place.

Please Resuscitate

Moving is good for a few reasons. It forces you to ask yourself, “Do I really need to hold onto all of these back issues of Vogue? Do I really need to keep the $8 tea pot I bought in Chinatown for brewing disgusting yet healing Chinese teas? Am I ever going to wear that sundress I made six years ago again?” All questions I’ve asked myself. So far, only the magazines are in the trash.

Moving also reminds me of the parts of me I’ve forgotten. I moved to Los Angeles to work in fashion. I looked for jobs in fashion for almost a year before I surrendered to the entertainment industry. I won't go into why I moved here instead of New York. That's a different post. When I moved, I brought with me boxes of exquisite fabrics I’d collected over the years. I had containers filled with multi-hued zippers, trimmings, elastic for swimsuits and comfy pants and a wall-mounted rack for my rainbow of threads – small spools for machine stitching, large spools for my serger and spools of silk for hand-sewing.

In my past life in Boulder, I rented a studio just for sewing. I had a job that was flexible, which meant many days I left at 3:00 and headed to my studio to sew until 9:00 or 10:00 at night, eating a dinner of Goldfish crackers and water. As my uncle said, I had a fire in my belly. I bought patterns and manipulated them into what I envisioned. I studied with a master tailor and apprenticed with a fashion designer. I dreamed of taking draping classes and making gowns like Madame Vionnet. I loved the serenity of carefully finishing a garment by hand. My body and mind hummed in unison with the flow of creativity

Four and a half years ago I moved into my apartment. I paid my good friend Willie to make me tables that nested together. One for cutting, one for my machines. I was giddy when I finally got everything set-up in my apartment. After long days at work, I cut out a few simple items and partially sewed them. And then, abandoned them. They sat in little aborted piles on the cutting table for months. I hung shelves to try to make the space more workable. I put up a brighter light. I tried to tell myself I didn’t like leaving a mess in my living room, but the reality was that I was exhausted when I came home from work. My thread got so dusty that I could barely tell if it was pink or grey. Eventually, I conceded defeat. I put my machines back in their cases and found spots for them hidden from my view.

When I started packing, I found all of these things. I found my past. The woman I was when I arrived in Los Angeles seems like a foggy memory. I remembered why I moved to Los Angeles. I remembered how talented and passionate I once was. I looked at tools I’d forgotten existed. My button-hole knife with just one purpose: cutting open a button hole. A long, metal tool with a loop on it? It turns skinny fabric tubes into straps or belts. I found swatches of silk jersey and hemp and charmeuse that I dreamed I would make three-dimensional. And then I found my fabrics.

I ran my hand over fabrics, the images of the designs I dreamed bounced through my mind. I gingerly refolded yards of wool jersey in reds, black, pea-soup green, shook out sumptuous camel hair bought to make an overcoat. I gasped at the beauty of fabric I forgot I owned. I smoothed my hands over luscious silks and bright cottons. All of the fabrics, the trimmings, the zippers and things that made me truly an artist with cloth, the things I hadn’t looked at in years are heading to storage along with my sewing tables.

During all of this, my mind didn't even dare to conjure up a new dress design to make. Before, I would have so many ideas for a piece of fabric I couldn't bring myself to cut it. Now, I wear black almost every day because it is easier and am not making my wedding dress like I imagined I would. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to. That woman seems so far from who I am now. I keep hoping that when I have children, I will make clothes for them. I will remember how to put in a lapped zipper. I will remember how to manipulate a pattern into what I want. I will remember how to make a button hole, and how turn of cloth works. I will remember how to set a sleeve. I will remember because it is in my soul. My bones. I will remember because it makes me happy.

I can’t bear to not have my machines near me, so I am bringing them with me to my new apartment. Even if they just sit in the closet, I will know they are there. Waiting for me. Keeping a lifeline to the artist in me. Reminding me she exists.

And maybe one day, when I have the time and space, I will make a wedding dress if my daughter will allow me the privilege.

Cooking with Electricity!

It is supposed to happen. We’ve decided we are moving into his apartment, which is really nice. It is on the top floor and if I stand in certain places, I can see the ocean. At night, when Venice is quiet, I can hear the waves crashing. In the morning, the sun shines in and makes me happy.

What doesn’t make me happy is the extremely poorly designed kitchen with an electric stove. WHO THE FUCK DESIGNED THAT??? It’s like a midget (little person, whatever) and a giant lived there. One counter is the height of a table (in other words, the worst place to chop vegetables or prep food). The other usable counter space at the proper height is about one foot by one foot. Sweet. The cupboards? Oh holy hell. My 6’3” fiancé can reach them just fine, but me? Plates, glasses and pans (don’t ask) are the height ABOVE the hood on the stove. You know, the spot you put things you never use because you can’t reach them? Yes, that is the height of the REGULAR cupboards in this apartment. I’ve got a lot of work to do to make this place work.

My small, less expensive apartment is dark and noisy. It’s not laid out well for both of us, but hell if my kitchen doesn’t rock. At first, I thought the mini-galley style kitchen sucked, but I’ve gotten used to everything being in my reach. Like cabinets at a normal, reachable height and lots of storage. I love the tile counters that I can plunk steaming hot pans on. I love the apartment-size GAS stove, which cooks my food perfectly (I made rice soup by accident on the damn electric one). My kitchen and bathroom are really the only saving graces of my apartment (and my cool neighbors and the pool outside of my window and the awesome location to tasty restaurants when I don’t want to cook).

Despite my love of cooking, I think it’s also giving up my own space. My independence. In some ways, my control. It’s my apartment. I want it clean so keep it clean so it is clean. So far, that’s not exactly how it’s working in the new place. Kinks. Somehow we’re going to have to come to a middle ground of when a kitchen gets cleaned (me: right after eating or at least once a day. him: when he feels like it be it 2 or 3 days or even a week later).

Most modern couples face these dilemmas before they get engaged. And god bless them. There is so much to think about right now, the last thing I feel like fighting over is whether or not the dishes are washed. But then again, most modern couples don’t cook.

On the Move

Life is busy right now. Plain and simple. Okay, life is always busy. I’m moving. We decided to move into my fiancé’s apartment. Not mine. Not the $2300 one next to the Venice (CA) canals or the $2100 one near Montana Avenue off of Ocean Avenue without a view of the ocean so that we’d both have to move. Nope, just me. I’m moving.

This means that I have to give notice on my apartment this week. Like tomorrow or yesterday or even today. I HAVE TO GIVE NOTICE. In the past, I liked to move. I never stayed in one place for long. It was exciting in a pain-in-the-ass-never-collect-too-much-stuff kind of way. But when I moved into this apartment, I said I was staying until I moved in with my husband. I never thought it would take three years to find him and piles of stuff. So here I am. Moving in with my-soon-to-be-husband. I’ve lived in this apartment for four years. I made it mine. I painted. I rearranged the furniture, thrown out furniture and bought furniture until it finally all worked well together. It’s my home. It’s my past. It’s my single girl pad. And it is packed full of crap.

All of it is familiar to me. The closet is packed to the top with clothes, beach towels, fabric for sewing things that I never sew but I might. I have a rack of a rainbow of thread that reminds me I was, and still am, a sewer. Where will this go in the new place? The cupboards are full of cooking things like my clay pot for brewing Chinese medicinal teas and my Christmas ornaments that I’ve never used in Los Angeles. I have boxes of yarn stashed under my bed next to big drawing pads from my drawing classes. Things I can’t live without, but I rarely use. Not too long ago, almost all of my stuff fit in my Jetta. Now? I need a mid-sized U-haul and a storage bin.

On top of sorting out the tangible stuff, I’m dealing with my feelings of letting go of my past. My apartment was my sanctuary from the craziness of LA. I won’t be able to curl up on the couch and watch bad reality television without defending why I watch it. I won’t be able to come home and inhale leftover Chinese while cackling on the phone with an old friend (okay, I can still do that). When my friends come to town now, they will stay with both of us. We won’t be able to stay up late talking up hair products and asshole guys. We’ll edit ourselves. I’m mourning the loss of my single self. The same one who moaned about being single.

Luckily, I’ll still be able to fart.

Slippery Slope

Tropical fruit smoothie made at home
Green tea
Handful (or 6) of Trader Joe’s Omega-3 Trail mix
Top of chocolate muffin (why waste the calories on the sucky bottom half?)
3 pieces of leftover BBQ chicken pizza (cold)
Hot chocolate
2,453 Hershey kisses
1 mojito
Skirt steak and fries

Yesterday’s list is pretty much how my life feels. It was very healthy, and then somehow, I’ve become a steak, pizza, fry-eating woman. WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN??? Is this why married people gain weight?

A year ago, prior to meeting my soon-to-be-husband, I worked out regularly (2-4 times a week) with a variety of exercises including but not limited to: spinning, hiking, yoga and running. Today, I went to spin class out of pure guilt for the first time in a month. Yoga? Please. My toes are somewhere south of Mexico and I am not reaching them from up here. A hike? That would entail getting in the car on the weekend to do something other than dress shop or go to a wedding, which seems like all we’ve been doing (two in March!).

I should also point out that two years ago, I regularly made myself lunch to take to work. It usually consisted of organic lettuce, organic beets, organic carrots, organic nuts, homemade salad dressing with organic olive oil. Sometimes I brought a cheese snack, which wasn’t organic. I know, crazy. I took pride in what I ate. Then, I realized, the company would pay for my lunch on the days I stayed in if I wasn’t so picky about organic. On the few days I don’t have to stay in, it is much more fun to meet friends for lunch out. So, I stopped making my lunch and started to eat salads and other healthy stuff out. When, exactly, did I switch from organic salad to BBQ chicken pizza??!

When I got home from dinner last night, my belly hurt with a greasy, heavy feeling. My heart-burn, stress-meter was on (pain in my throat), and did I mention my belly was bloated out to Palm Springs?

On top of the exercise and food, my hair hasn’t been cut in months, a grey streak is taunting me to get back on track, my eyebrows are untouched by wax since way before Christmas and we won’t even talk about my bikini area. On the plus side, I had a pedicure prior to one of the weddings in March, but my shoes smudged the polish. Needless to say, I haven’t fixed that.

This could be my future. I could turn into my nightmare of a lumpy, out-of-shape, out-of-style (I’ll discuss the wardrobe issue later) wife. At the rate I am going, I will be a lump of lard by our wedding in August and my fiance won't want to touch me. I’ve heard the stories of letting yourself go once you get a man, but really, this is ridicules. I don’t even have the real ring yet!

Today, I am turning it around. I went back to spinning. I ate salad for lunch. I’ve only had 4 Hershey kisses. I scheduled a haircut. I’m not going down without a fight! Or at least not without decent hair. I still have some standards. Low as they my be, they are mine.

The Secret

Since I got engaged I have been filled with… well, anxiety. It’s not about whom I am marrying as much as what are we doing with our lives? These jobs are not our life calling. This apartment is not where I imagined I’d be at age 35 or where I want to raise a family. The idea of buying a half-million dollar condo just so we can get into the real estate market is disheartening especially since it only has one bedroom.

When I admitted to a woman slightly older than me that I was completely freaking out and losing it during planning my wedding (and thinking how come no one else feels like this?), she told me to go buy a book called “What No One Tells The Bride.” In the desperate state of looking for any solution, I rushed back to my computer and promptly ordered it from Amazon. And thank god I did. I’M NORMAL!!!

What no one tells the bride is that all (or most) brides feel lost and freak out during planning. Marg Stark, the writer, tells me that most people decide to make tons of other major life changes while they are planning their wedding. Like a wedding and marriage isn’t enough to worry about. Other crazy people move, change jobs and start families at the same time or right after! Just like we are talking about! We are all insane!She talks about power struggles and feeling lost in the middle of singledom and married life. She talks about hearing the pencil as single friends cross you off their list of people to call. She talks about changing or not changing your name (I’m not changing, much to my fiancé’s disappointment). This book couldn’t have come at a better time.

My friend in Boulder is getting married in June. Last week, she admitted to me that they are working through bumps and renegotiating their relationship. I wondered for a second if maybe she shouldn't marry this guy. The relationship is supposed to be perfect in everyone's eyes. Even though people keep telling us we are living a fairy tale, we are living real life. This is why we freak out. No one wants to admit they are having a bumpy time, but we all do. We are crossing into new territory. We are joining lives and families together. Marriage is a major change.

I’m telling my friend in Boulder about this book because she should marry her guy. He’s perfect for her even with their disagreements and bumps. It's normal to have a few doubts and to question whether or not you really want to join lives with this man. I think it's healthy. When my next friend gets engaged, after she’s buried herself in wedding magazines and is ready to implode, I’m handing her this book, too.

Cheers to Marg for telling us all the truth. This is one bride that is sleeping more easily. Who doesn’t like being told they are normal??!!

Transition

Holy Smokes. Let it be said: 2007 is the Year of Transition. I thought 1)moving in together 2) getting married 3) possibly trying to get pregnant were enough, but life isn’t that easy.

This past week I got to move offices. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing. A minor blip on the screen of life, unlike the other major milestones I’m hitting this year. Never the less, it was stressful and continues to be.

We moved from a small, older office into completely remodeled, gorgeous state of the art office. I am not complaining. I’m just exhausted. Moving an executive suite is no easy task even with the huge crew of people who made it happen (my job was to tell them where to put stuff, pack and unpack the little stuff). People came wandering through to see it all. Plus, my boss was traveling so I became the point person, which made it incredibly difficult to unpack. Again, not complaining. I’m just pooped. Plain and simple. And looking for a little tequila. And wishing I was a major lottery winner so I didn’t have to worry about work or how much we spend on the wedding and I could pay someone to take care of all the details of the wedding including but not limited to the invitations, my hair and make-up, the flowers, the centerpieces, the transportation, the website, the……

Why are we doing the big wedding again? I keep telling myself it will be an amazing day with all the people we love in one place. But after a week like I’ve had and a fruitless wedding dress shopping excursion last weekend, I think just the two of us in Big Sur sounds pretty darn good. Although, Big Sur is kind of a drive. Court house in Beverly Hills? Maybe Santa Monica? I need an assistant. And a nap.

Next week, the wedding will sound good again. Otherwise, I'm looking into flights to Hawaii.