Daily Newsie

So far, this weekend has been just about perfect. It kicked off with a great visit from the sister-in-law and nephew, who’s just about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. We shopped, toured the train museum, and scarred the little man for life when the hibachi grill cook produced a tower of flame that sent D scurrying for his mom’s arms. (Later, though, he kept asking to see the picture The Husband snapped of D’s terrified face as the fire reached for the ceiling.)

The wedding, of course, was very short and sweet, performed by Sharon at Misty Valley while our witnesses — her husband and daughter-in-law — snapped pictures. (We’ll post some in a bit!) Bearby wore a snappy bow tie as our “ring bear,” and performed admirably under pressure. I only cried a little bit, and then before I knew it we were married and posing on the steps of the chapel before heading to the Dairy Queen in Simpsonville, Ky., because I wanted ice cream. After that, it only took about 30 minutes to reach the Inn at Woodhaven, time we spent happily calling everyone to tell them our good news. The Husband’s grandfather — with whom he shares his first and last name — and grandmother were particularly ecstatic, and my father was pleased to welcome a new son-in-law to the family. It’s wonderful to be surrounded by so much love!

Last night’s dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse here in Louisville was amazing — when we made the reservation, they asked if we were celebrating a special occasion, which of course we were. From the moment we stepped inside the door, they made the biggest fuss over the “newly-formed Walston party,” including complimentary champagne, many congratulations, and free dessert. The restaurant is located on the top floor of the Kaden Tower, so as we ate we watched rain fall on the city and debated whether to go to the riverfront fireworks. Then, a sudden burst of color made several people gasp, and the waitstaff pushed open the glass doors surrounding the dining room so the guests could watch fireworks from the open porch. From our vantage point 16 stories above the city, we could see at least five different fireworks shows exploding in the sky.

Our waitress told us where to find the nearest Kroger, so we wrapped up the night with a quick trip to my favorite grocery store and fell asleep watching “Family Matters” on Nick at Nite. This morning, we ate breakfast in the main house (it was wonderful — breakfast AND the main house), then I took a long soak in the whirlpool tub with a book and Yo-Yo Ma’s “Simply Baroque” CD, which was one of many I found in a stack next to the CD player in our cottage. Now The Husband (I’m going to need a nickname for him, I think) is out fetching Chinese food, and, after we eat, our plans for the afternoon include a nap and dinner at Louisville Slugger Stadium, where the minor-league Louisville River Bats are playing this evening.

We purposely made absolutely no plans for this weekend, and so have spent it in a glorious haze of books and television and food, rarely leaving the incredibly comfortable bed. I’m already dreading rejoining the real world tomorrow, but I’m trying not to think about it.

My new husband is snoozing peacefully beside me, recharging his batteries before an 8 p.m. reservation at Ruth’s Chris and fireworks over the river at 10:30 p.m. We lucked out at the bed and breakfast, where they upgraded us (for free!) from a regular room to the Rose Cottage, which is tucked aside all by itself and is absolutely gorgeous: a fireplace, high ceilings and a cute little reading area on the top landing, as well as a big ol’ bed. Pretty sweet luck, if you ask me.

The wedding was very nice, my wedding ring is very shiny, and everyone is very happy. Have a great weekend, everyone!

I placed an emergency phone call to my father this evening when the internal wedding pendulum that’s been ticking happily between “I’m OK” and “I’m panicking” began to list a little to the frantic side. He, in his straightforward, honest way, gave me the secret to marriage: Remembering in dark times the vows you recited in happy times. Going to bed angry if it gives you some time to cool down and be alone with your thoughts. Realizing that there will be rough patches, but not giving up when they hit. Knowing without a doubt that this is the right decision to make, and that this person is the right one to be with. My father thinks I’m with the right person, and — between moments of crazed terror — so do I.

I’m thinking of this marriage like I think about my family — we have seen each other through proud moments and embarrassing times, celebrated events with incredible joy and mourned losses with interminable grief, and by turns grew closer together and farther apart. But in the end, we are family, and we love each other enough to get past the crappy stuff. I hope with all my heart that The Fiance’ and I can be that sort of family, even if it involves sleeping on the couch a handful of nights along the way. I’m sure there will be times when we don’t like each other very much, but if we can follow my dad’s advice and remember the vows we’re now less than 72 hours away from saying, we’ll be OK.

This may be my last post as a single woman. That thought is both wonderful and a bit sad — but mostly wonderful.

It is now less than two weeks until our wedding, and I’m beginning to get nervous. I am by and large incapable of seeing the “big picture,” so I tend to move through life a day/week/semester at a time with no real goal in mind — I figure I’ll get there when I get there, and then I’ll see what’s going on. So making a commitment like, oh, spending every day until the end of time with someone is a little new and a special blend of exciting and frightening.

“So what are we going to do?” I asked my fiance’ as we waited for our entrees at our favorite steakhouse last night. “You know, with our lives?”

He had some good answers: travel Europe, be the cool aunt and uncle to our nieces and nephew, adopt a handful of dogs. Maybe buy a house, maybe not. Take fabulous vacations. Eventually find a place between Indiana and Pennsylvania so we can help take care of our parents when they get up in years. Climb our way out of school-related debt and sack away all we can for an excellent retirement. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I would like to take the time to be the kind of volunteer who always has her fingers in something, become a master of the kitchen, and learn how to keep a clean house.

I suppose that’s enough to keep us busy for the next 50 years or so, huh? I’m trying hard to see past the end of my own nose, since lately I’ve been buried beneath a deluge of marriage-related material (completely coincidental) that’s scaring me a little, and I’m trying to picture what’s going to happen to us in the coming decades. I guess there’s only one way to find out, and that’s to take the plunge!

I generally avoid blogging at work because I would really rather not get caught, but a great injustice has just been visited upon me and I am not happy. I wanted to chronicle this outrage before my indignance wears off.

So I’m sick today, right? I feel awful, and it occurred to me a short while ago that an orange juice and sausage-cheese bagel from Speedway would really hit the spot. I normally work alone, but I left a note on my keyboard anyway and ducked out. And wouldn’t you know, I learned from the kind man at the register that Speedway quit making sausage-cheese bagels, and instead now makes everything on a biscuit or a croissant with egg, which I find gross.

I am aghast, but sadly, I am not a stranger to companies taking away the things I love most. Crunchy Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Hershey’s Cookies-n-Mint candy bar, Dr. Pepper Berries and Cream, Ocean Spray Juice and Tea, Spatini spaghetti sauce flavoring packets … I could go on, I’m sure. Instead, I will nurse my orange juice and eat the Donut Gems I got in place of my sausage-cheese bagel, and possibly weep softly for humanity.

Confidential to my father: If you haven’t opened your gift yet, don’t look!!

Waiting in the lobby of Carter’s Tattoos.

Cole applies the design onto my leg as I begin to wonder what exactly I’m doing here.

After four other tattoos, you’d think I’d be used to this feeling by now.

Cole pins down my leg so I don’t thrash around and screw everything up.

Closeup action shot.

Is it over yet?

I love you, Daddy.

That’s red ink, although the way my leg hurt I thought it was blood.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!

(That lyric is from James Taylor’s My Traveling Star as performed on One Man Band, and it seemed to me a perfect line to capture my father.)

Every year I go to the card store and stand in front of the racks, perusing Father’s Day cards. I know I’ve found the perfect one — or two — when I start to cry like a girl in the middle of the aisle. I can’t help it. My dad is my hero, and this is the one day out of the year I can pay a few bucks for Hallmark to say what I can never articulate.

It was only a few years ago that I realized my father worked two jobs to support his family — factory worker by day, Realtor by night. I remember counting the Band-Aids on his fingers at the dinner table and visiting the Century 21 office, but somehow I never put the two together. He certainly didn’t act like he had two jobs, at least not in front of his children. He used to take my brother, Betsy the dog and me to the creek in his old blue truck, graciously allowing me to pretend I was driving over the rutted carnival grounds on the way to the water. If I was ready when he got home from work, and if I had proper shoes on instead of my jellies, he might take me for a quick ride on the back of his motorcycle before dinner. He helped me balance on my purple two-wheeled bicycle until I could ride it without training wheels. That’s what stands out throughout my childhood: He was never too busy, never too tired to do something fun.

In my teenage years, we would sometimes sing together, although not as often as I would have liked. He taught me to saddle a horse, to drive a stick shift, to take care of the family dog. Without saying a word, he showed me what to expect in a husband — someone who brings coffee every morning, helps with the dishes, and means every part of those vows. He cheered for me when I ran cross-country, sacrificed who-knows-what so I could study abroad, bought CDs of choir performances (and actually listened to them), sat through endless 4-H horse shows in the sweltering sun, rushed to the emergency room on his day off when I burned my leg with hot glue, and gave his permission for me to marry the only man I’ve ever met who comes close to the standards my dad set. He knew when to let go and let his little girl make her own mistakes. He is amazing, and I am so proud to be his daughter.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I hope you like your cards.

Eww. I’m two days into The Fiance’s five-day business trip and I’m already stir-crazy and unable to sleep. My plans for this evening with a former coworker fell through — that newspaper is still ruining my social life even though I haven’t worked there for nine months — so I played the Sims for a while, read a magazine, watched Hell’s Kitchen, and ate the following: a cookie, a string cheese, several marinated mushrooms from the olive bar at Kroger, some jelly beans, a few bites of ice cream, and a handful of Tostitos. I’m listless and lonely and still have four nights to go. How utterly pathetic.

I used to really love living by myself, in cute one-bedroom apartments with my tiny TV and broken-down computer desk that creaked under the weight of that gargantuan monitor. I could come and go at any time of the day or night without leaving a note; I hosted dinner parties on the floor for my bachelor friends and housed a temporary roommate on the futon without worrying what someone else had to say about it. I slept in the exact middle of my Ikea bed, one arm flung wide and the other clutching Bearby, and never had to close the bathroom door.

I thought for sure I would sleep better without The Fiance’ here (I wouldn’t be woken up by a 4 a.m. alarm, for one thing) but last night I tossed and turned on a mattress that suddenly felt king-sized. I feel silly — there are far worse things than business trips — and girly and juvenile, but that won’t stop me from taking a Tylenol PM to give Mr. Sandman a kick in the posterior tonight. At least tomorrow night is Karaoke Night at a local bar with my college friends, and I’m sure some pizza and Shiner Bock will do me good.

Yes, ladies and gents, at 2 p.m. on July 4 my beloved and I will become husband and wife here in beautiful (I presume) Shelby County, Kentucky. I spoke with the very nice officiant on the phone today, and she is more than happy to preside over our little nuptials. I’m guessing we’ll have a makeshift weekend honeymoon in Louisville, but it’s just as likely we’ll return home to southcentral Kentucky to watch “Unsolved Mysteries” DVDs and eat Lucky Charms.

Less than a month to go now. I get dizzy just thinking about it!

Good news: Whatever ulcers were beginning to nibble at my stomach lining have receded upon the news that our wedding date is now July 4, a date that has been at the center of much wedding-related consternation for nearly a year. See, several family members couldn’t make a July 4 wedding, so we decided to move it to Labor Day weekend to give everyone enough time to get to Kentucky and get home. Even though that made it easier for all involved, we weren’t convinced we wanted August 31 to be our anniversary; rather, we had our hearts set on Independence Day for several reasons. First, it’s an automatic day off. Second, it’s celebrated with sparkly things in the sky and the best march of all time, “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Third, it’s always been my favorite holiday.

While we were in my hometown last weekend, The Fiance’ and I brought up the subject with my father and stepmother, as well as with my brothers, all of whom are traveling about 12 hours to get here in August. We wanted to make sure no one was angry about making a lengthy and expensive trip for a “fake” wedding, you know? It was my father who came up with a fabulous idea: The Fiance’ and I will elope on July 4 (is it an elopement if everyone knows about it?), then use Labor Day weekend as an excuse to have a big celebration, introduce the families, and show everyone around southcentral Kentucky. Win/win.

This is awesome, because I never really got into wedding planning like I thought I would. I read stories from brides-to-be on my LiveJournal 2008 Weddings group, and I just can’t fathom handling that many details. I have the greatest respect for people who can … but it’s not my thing to go taste-testing for wedding cake or debate the merits of fingertip veil versus fascinator. I just want to be married already, and I’m happy our families are OK with the idea of having a celebration rather than a full-blown wedding. I still have to look at buffet menus and order cupcakes, but I can do so fully relaxed and knowing that we will already be married, and that’s the most important thing.

I and my ulcers thank you, family and family-to-be.