Chicken or fish?

Was it me or did last night’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy suck big donkey balls? The Office, however? SO GOOD.

Today was my first windy day at work. Until now, I’d forgotten that the Hancock tower is in a wind tunnel but I’ll never forget again. I was sitting in my boss’ office and the room filled with a very loud creaking sound, like a porch swing on crack. Judging from the noise, the building was moving several feet back and forth. The swaying was so marked that our design director’s office door kept swinging open and closed of its own accord. It’s kind of freaky being this far up in the air and knowing that the building is moving underneath your feet, even if the building is constructed to respond to wind pressure. I hear it’s even worse being in the elevators because they SWAY as they zip up and down.

Must think about something else now.

The weatherman on the evening news last night said the F-word. Luckily there was no frost on the ground this morning. But when I woke up, all three cats were huddled on the bed, seeking as much warmth as possible. The formal countdown to the first fur-pile begins…now.

Too punchy for paragraphs

1. Photographer—check. I agonized over this decision but it is made. Moving on.

2. Seeing florist this weekend

3. Seeing mother this weekend, as we are going with my matron of honor to have her dress fitted. I am actually somewhat annoyed that we have to do this on a Sunday because it means that I will miss football. And football is much more relaxing that being with my mother. Also, I did not win last weekend. I blame the Patriots defense. They let me down. Am on pins and needles until Steve Smith plays again.

4. For the record, I argued long and loudly in favor of eloping. And was overruled.

5. We are being stalked by our neighbour, who’s a wedding planner. She zeroed in on my ring about 24 hours after we got engaged and does not allow either of us to walk by her house, stand on the porch or, sometimes, stand in our kitchen without her asking how things are going and if we need her help with anything. For a while we weren’t sure whether she was being neighbourly or trying to drum up business, but then she quoted me a price a few weeks ago and even though I tactfully told her that we didn’t have the wherewithal to cover her services, she’s being very persistent. We used to chat over the porch railing all the time but now Lunchboy and I keep conversations with her as short as possible.

6. All this will be put aside at 9pm tonight, when the new season of Grey’s Anatomy begins. My drama is nothing compared with Meredith’s. No drama is comparable to Meredith’s.

Little G and Ms. Puss understand

The evolution of the cats’ nicknames is an ongoing source of amusement in our house. I’ve written before about the litany of names that Scully has born, but now that our brood has grown to three, the nicknames have developed a tendency to snowball. For instance, Lunchboy sometimes calls Cringer “sweetmeat.” Somehow sweetmeat has been truncated to “meat.” As in, “Hey, meat! Are you a fluffy girl?” It always catches me off guard, probably in the same way it would if I actually knew the Veals.

Not a record I'd want to set

OUCH

Warning: wedding rant ahead

This weekend, my fantasy football team is playing Lunchboy's fantasy football team. Inter-house tension will ensue. But seeing as my quarterback is Donovan McNabb and his is Eli Manning, I think we know what's gonna happen. That said, I have a feeling that bets will be placed and rewards of a slinky nature will be placed on the table. We shall see what Sunday night brings.

On the wedding front, things are moving along nicely. Place--check. Date--check. Officiant--check. This weekend we are interviewing a couple of photographers. After doing some online research, I discovered that I am a total photography snob, the result of spending almost four years with a former photojournalist/sports photographer/narcissist/sometime wedding photographer. What can I say? I got spoiled by watching Voldemort shoot friends' weddings for $1000 and then hand over the proofs and negatives without getting testy. Most wedding photographers, I discovered, do not do this. Instead, they charge phenomenal amounts of money to take pictures and then hold the negatives hostage unless you drop even MORE money on a wedding album. It's a total racket.

My morning triumph today was finding out that a really good photographer is willing to drop his astronomical prices by almost half because he doesn't get a lot of business in February. Go winter weddings!

If your eyes haven't glazed over by now, you deserve a medal.

I put some thought into starting a blog for all my wedding-related rantings, mostly so that I could rave about my mother, who is proving to be the main obstacle in most of the planning, primarily because she is insane. She was like this last time, but I racked up her obstinate behavior to the fact that she didn't like the fact that I was 3,000 miles away. No. No no no. Her obstinacy is no illusion and it is trumped only by her desire to make this entire event all about her.

It doesn't help that my brother has moved back into my parent's house for the umpteenth time, and so now my mother can indulge her inability to cut the apron strings. She can also channel her time, money and energy into my brother, who is 27, employed, and just doesn't like paying rent. Translation: when I ask her to help with small tasks, I get answers like, "I can't--I have more pressing things on my mind. I'm too busy taking care of your brother and father to think about this right now."

Those "things" become less pressing if she's given the opportunity to make planning as complicated as possible, usually by exercising guilt and passive-aggressive tendencies the likes of which neither Lunchboy nor I has ever seen before. She will help, but only on her terms and only if we acquiesce to her Nutcracker-like vision of a winter wonderland wedding, complete with theatrical lighting, white frosted branches, a mysterious fabric tent-thing for the ceremony that bears a distinct resemblance to several BAD costumes on the original Star Trek, and the spending of much money, which she assumes we will front because "I just don't have a lot of disposable income right now." It doesn't matter that we're aiming for simplicity and elegance--her ideas are BETTER but not so good that she will pay for them.

I'm not being nice, I know. But if you'd been exposed to the full force of her guilt-tripping passive aggression, you'd be keeping her at arm's length, too. The wedding is 6 months away and she's already driven me into two sleep- and appetite-vaporizing anxiety attacks. Hence the wine and Ativan.

OK, done now.

Did you know you brought me home

Early last year while standing in a bar, my friend M made the astute observation that Boston men are, as a group, very short. M is one of those blonde Nordic goddesses and short she is not. But really--are all Boston men shorter than average? I poo-poohed making that kind of generalization until last night, when Lunchboy and I hit the Zero 7 show at Avalon. Lunchboy, who's a respectable 6', towered over most of the men there. As we stood to one side of the room, I looked out over a wide swath of male pattern shortness. Tom Cruise would love this city--he could throw out his expensive shoes with the not-so-hidden lifts and walk with his head held high. Why are there so many short men in Boston? And why was the short guy who insisted on standing RIGHT in front of me wearing so much cologne? My god, the cologne. I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him that too much Drakkar does not compensate for lack of height.

The concert itself was fun. They did Destiny and Somersault, but not In the Waiting Line. Sia bounced around the stage like a coked-up sprite and flung her voice to the sky in the most breathtaking way. It's a testament to my naivete that I had to ask whether she was high or just relentlessly happy. I think we were literally the only sober people there (where's Nancy Botwin when you need her?). At least being stoned would have kept me from realizing that I was ready for bed at 10pm and that I might be getting too old for Tuesday night shows.

All made out of ticky-tacky

Yesterday the basement flooded again, this time for no apparent reason. It turns out our neighbor's water heater exploded. Now our plumbing is making very angry noises whenever we try to use the water. I am sore in strange places from mopping. Also from sprinting to our seats at the game yesterday. Everything is moving swiftly these days and my body hasn't quite caught up.

The Metrowest Daily news printed our engagement announcement last week and they got some crucial facts wrong. According to them, Lunchboy and I share a father and our parents both live in Somerville. Neither of these things is true. Another thing to set straight--getting married in February does not mean that I'm knocked up. Like 6 people have asked us this. So: 1, I'm not, and 2, if I were, why would I schedule the wedding to coincide with me reaching maximum density?

Scully is becoming more and more of an outdoor cat. Her latest favorite thing is taking dirt naps in the garden, an activity that leaves her extremely messy and a distinct shade of gray. Her new nickname is Pigpen. She has also taken to climbing the rhododendron bush/tree and we keep finding her perched in the bushes about 4 feet in the air.

Things are fine and yet they are slightly off kilter. Then again, could this day be normal. So much raw emotion in the air. I spent this morning reading the portraits of grief section of the New York Times and feeling as if I were standing on the edge of all the pain and loss that still rules so many people's lives. Horrible.

Special teams

I'm not sure why fall decided to arrive in the middle of August, but I remain in denial about the fact that summer is over. The spring was so rainy and gross that it feels as if summer only lasted a few weeks. Bring on the Indian summer, I say. Although the dry chill in the morning air is actually pleasant. So is the fact that ABP has started serving harvest pumpkin soup--the best part of fall (ok the apples are nice, too).

The Miami-Pittsburgh game is on TV right now. Lunchboy is not home. I am actually watching football by myself. Assimilation is complete. Last weekend I drafted my very first fantasy football team--and it was FUN! I don't have anyone playing tonight but now I'm excited about the season. I'll be more excited if Steve Smith's hamstrings heal nicely in time for Sunday's game.

Lunchboy's boss gave us two tickets to Sunday's Patriots season opener. WOO!

I know how weird it is

: Last night, once I fell asleep, I dreamed that Brad Pitt wanted to have anal sex with me. But I wasn't into it, so he had anal sex with Steven Colbert instead.

Today I was in NY for work. Concept--work travel. I love business travel and my last job never let me do it. When I got to the NY office this morning, one of my coworkers had fresh bialys from Kossar's on her desk. It was a true hallelujah moment.

We are watching the first season of Weeds on DVD. Nancy Botwin may be my new hero.