Showers ‘n Shiz.

It is cold and rainy today. But at least it is not cold and snowy. Then I just might have to get violent and throw up or something.

Why, speaking of puke, I went to a bridal shower this weekend. Think that’s bad? It was in PEORIA. Being at the age when all of your friends and cousins are getting married has its perks, but only when A.) They are adamant about including tons of booze at the event and B.) When you’ve decided to join the ranks of married folk and want to know what NOT to do.  And what I will not do, is subject my friends and family to a bridal shower. The way I see it, icebreakers, clever little games, doorprizes, and sentimental waxings should be reserved for AA meetings and sorority orientations. Any gathering where I get handed a cup of punch that’s not 80 proof just doesn’t….work. And do I like to be referred to as the daughter of the woman who won an award for having the most random items in her purse? Not so much.

As far as I can tell, the only perk of a bridal shower is the extra gifts. If we could perhaps move the gifts to a bar, and make some sort of Newlywed Game questionnaire into an inappropriate drinking game, then we might be in business.

In fact, I’d rather listen to Forth complain endlessly about being sore for the next two weeks than endure any shower besides the ones that take place in my bathroom. Then again, I don’t really have much choice there.

**Back

At the Hands of an Angry Chick.

My hands, are small I know. But they’re not yours, they are my own. Alright, so that was a truly terrible Jewel song, but what better way to start my first blog post? Erm, right. Since Forth (who happens to be in his beloved shower as we speak) had the “forthsight” to mention that we are getting married in a year and some odd months, I happened to glimpse down at the ridiculously sparkly symbol of such occasion on my finger and decide wholeheartedly that it does not belong on such a hand. For one, my fingers are rather tubby. I blame my compulsive knuckle-cracking habit that began when I was 10, continued for three years, and then stopped only to rear it’s ugly head again just last year. In elementary school we used to do finger-exercises, something much like aerobics for your digits, but I can’t see how it did much more than keep us stupidly entertained for a few minutes here and there. But I digress. For two, my left hand looks terrible. Cuts, scrapes, scars, you name it–this hand has certainly bore the brunt of working with hot coffee, boiling water, and solid metal espresso equipment for the past three years. We’ll not even discuss the biggest blemish–a scar created by the coils of a hot oven for the sake of Thanksgiving pies. And they weren’t even that tasty. *Sigh. For three, I’ve got clumsy hands. Impatient hands that swing, knock, scrape and careen aimlessly into things. So what was Forth exactly doing, placing a priceless rock on this unsteady appendage? To be honest, it was an idea that came to him in the shower. An idea that, pretty hands or not, made me even happier that he’s my Right–or rather left–Hand Man.

**Back.