Month: October 2011

The Rest of the Story with Date #7

It’s been exactly one week since Date #7 walked me to my car, wrapped his arms around me and told me—for the umpteenth time—that I was making a terrible mistake.  As such, I suppose it’s about time for me to finally stop dragging my mud-caked heals over the chronicling of his brother’s wedding and get to the point: How the hell did it end? I’m tempted to fall back upon the “relationship status” parlance that my generation—the Facebook generation— has come to accept as… well, acceptable and leave you with a trite “it’s complicated,” but really, it’s not. It’s quite simple. Long distance relationships require three things: trust, communication and a more or less steady supply of simple-yet-thoughtful gestures to remind your significant other that you’re thinking about them, even though you’re not with them. Date #7 and I don’t have these things.  I’m confident that we could work towards them—he’s not stupid, and I could do with a bit of “personal growth” myself—but right now, considering how seldom we see each other (and how …

Finally: Our First Dance

The good thing about finding yourself at a wedding reception with muddy feet, wet clothes and a date who doesn’t particularly care for your well being is that things can’t possibly get any worse. But then Date #7 leads me to the bar and someone drops a glass.  Being that we’re in a freakin’ tent affixed to an eighteenth-century farmhouse, the floor is stone and the glass shatters.  I don’t realize I’ve been hit until I take a look at my ankle and see blood. My blood. I panic. I teach dance for a living and although it appears to be just a small scratch, I can’t tell if the glass has bounced back onto the floor or if it’s imbedded itself permanently into my flesh. “Are you okay?” Date #7 asks, suddenly the very picture of concern. “I don’t know,” I murmur.  “I think so.” But I’m so cold and bewildered and sick of being assailed by various objects (not mention the dangerous terrain) that I can’t think straight. For once, Date #7 can. …

A Case of the Dropsies (Part 1)

It’s 7:00pm, Saturday night.  I’ve survived the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, the cocktail hour and the requisite introductions to Date #7’s relatives, including the uncle who mistook me for his nephew’s previous Plus One.  It’s time for the reception.  Finally. Now in an ordinary late-October wedding, this would be the point at which the guests would be led into a dining room—you know, those funny things with four walls, ceilings, and doors to separate the guests from the elements?  Well, we are not led into a dining room. Oh no. We are led into a dining tent.  We pass not through a door but a flap, and said flap is almost connected to the eighteenth century farmhouse that houses the dance floor, but not quite.  Do you know what happens when tents aren’t properly sealed?  Do you? Well, in case you’ve never been camping (or to a wedding at Tyler Arboretum in late-October), I’ll tell you: you get wet.  It doesn’t even have to be raining.  You can curl up in your sleeping bag snug …

Mistaken Identity at the Cocktail Hour

A word of advice to all the men out there: if you’re going to date one woman while you’re quasi-dating another, and you choose to invite the latter to a family function after you’ve already brought the former to an earlier event, you should issue some sort of memo to all of your relatives. Said memo should read: Attention aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors and other interested parties: (Especially those who are getting up there in years…) Please note that the girl I’m bringing to my brother’s wedding is NOT the same girl I brought to So-and-So’s anniversary party earlier this year. To avoid confusion (and errant wine glasses being hurled in my direction) please refrain from mentioning She-Whom-Accompanied-Me-The-Last-Time. Sincerely, Date #7 Do you see where I’m going with this? You’ll be pleased to note there were no wine glasses thrown (I am, after all, a woman of dignity, and my aim’s not all that great.  I might have accidentally taken out one of parmesan cheese wedges on the antipasto table and I was rather fond …

The (art of avoiding the) Heart of the Matter

So there I am, inadvertently abandoned by my “wedding BFF,” left to fend for myself amongst Date #7’s cousins and wondering, as every woman must wonder at some point in her life, “Should I scrape the mud from between my toes now or later?” This is because Tyler Arboretum, the native woodland that Date #7’s brother and his fiancé have chosen for their rustic, fall wedding, turns out to be better suited for extreme-mountaineering than for tying the knot.  I know this because I have had just been forced to take off my shoes to avoid tumbling down the hill that leads from the terrace (where the minister and I have been helping enjoying an early cocktail hour) to the field where the ceremony is set to take place. Everyone is going on and on about how pretty the leaves look and what a lovely venue it is and even though they’re right, I’m sitting there thinking to myself, “Really?  It’s cold as f*ck and now I’ve got mud oozing between my toes!” I’d really …

Of High Heels and Mudslides (and no, I’m not talking about the drink)

There’s been a lot of concern over my well being during the wedding—not from my own date, mind you (he is, after all, the one who served me hot pockets and left me to carry my own suitcase when I went to visit him in Pittsburgh this past summer) but from his mother and his youngest brother. His brother was the one who first warned me that the ceremony would be outside and advised me to wear a wrap.  Now, both he and his mother are concerned about me wearing heels. “It’s muddy,” his mother informs me. “There’s a hill,” his brother echoes. Being the wedding junkie that I am, I’ve already examined the entire Tyler Arboretum website (just as I’ve already examined the entire website of the estate where I’ll be attending a wedding in Ireland this summer) and nowhere did it say anything about a hill.  Or mud. I thank Date #7’s mother and brother for their concern but assure them I’ll be fine.  After all, Date #7 has told them very little …

(Thank Goodness for) The Rehearsal Dinner

Rest assured: I will not be tying the knot at Tyler Arboretum.  But before we get to Date #7’s brother’s wedding and my near death-by-exposure, shrapnel, mudslide and drowning on Saturday night, let’s start with the rehearsal dinner, shall we? I arrive exactly ten minutes early.  I don’t know if it’s the chill in the air or the fact that I’m about to meet someone’s parents for the first time in the history of my exploits on Match.com, but I am shivering.  I’m also sporting a rather precarious H&M spaghetti strap top paired with vintage bolero jacket which means I look great but my bra keeps conspiring to pop out of the top of my blouse so I’m afraid that my first impression won’t be quite as classy as I’d hoped. I call one of my girlfriends out in California, hoping she’ll be off work and able to distract me with tales of her love life, but my fingers are shaking so badly that I call barely dial and when I do, it goes straight …

Men…

So you know how I’m supposed to go to that wedding today? That formal wedding? The wedding for which I’ve been trying on gowns all week? And shoes? And different hair accessories? For which I even bought new eye shadow? (Before you kill me for going out of my way for Date#7 this weekend, the eye shadow was from the Dollar Store, so it was hardly a major investment, but still…) Well, I had myself a little chat with the bride last night.  And when I mentioned the word “evening gown” she looked at me like I had two heads. So much for that that.