Tag Archives: marriage

Three Wedding Lies (as told by Disney)

I have fallen short on my promise to provide updates (as sort-of-kind-of promised here) concerning wedding planning this year, but life has been pretty hectic. Doing most of it myself, however, has taught me a thing or two about the wedding industry, confirming most of my suspicions about the racket they’ve got going. One thing I hadn’t thought about recently, though, were all the ridiculous things Disney sneakily slipped into their wedding scenes in their classic cartoons. Well I’m onto you now, Disney, and I’m here to expose the truth. Here are three of their most egregious lies:

1 . You Will Look Perfect

You will not gain or lose weight (which means your dress will fit perfectly). Nor will you bloat up, get pimples like an anxious fifteen-year old who can’t remember geometric proofs, or have major hip surgery three months prior to walking down the aisle, causing you to be in frantic rehab mode two months prior to your wedding date in the hopes that you will actually be able to walk down said aisle. Basically, life/stuff/evil sea witches casting spells are going to happen, but it is not going to stop you from looking like an angel on your big day, because you are The Bride, and The Bride must always look perfect.

Remember this scene?

Ariel 1

“Gosh, Scuttle, I hope we have enough dinglehoppers to go around for the cake!”

I would like to point out several things.

1. Ariel is sixteen and there is nary a zit to be found on her salty little mermaid face.

2. All this is happening on the ocean (which equals hair destroying wind and water), and her big ol’ fluffy bangs are firmly in place. As both a Former Debutante and an Army Bun Hair Nazi, I am confident that this is not going to happen. Ever.

3. Unless those things are filled with tulle, those sleeves would have definitely fallen due to the aforementioned humidity.

4. Where did that dress come from? Did Grimsby just put an army of seamstresses to work as soon as she showed up and Eric started all that crazy talk? “She’s the one, Grim!” And he’s like, “Well, I don’t love the idea of my liege lord marrying a mysterious, mute ginger sea urchin, but I guess it’s better than an end to the royal line, so might as well have someone take her measurements and get going on a gown in case we need it.”

I suppose we can chalk most of this first one up to royal money (both on land and sea since they’re both royalty) and magic, but either way there are some fishy (ha ha) things going on here. Future brides, don’t be deceived. Your wedding is not happening on a ship surrounded by singing merpeople, and unless your dad is king of the ocean, you are probably not getting a rainbow drawn in the sky on demand at the end of your I-do’s. Just prepare yourself.

I am being a little more realistic and trying to expose these Disney lies to you in advance. I just had hip surgery. I am 59 days away from my wedding. You know what the Internet says I’m supposed to be doing at this point in my beauty regimen? Exfoliating my face and my body. Adding another thirty minutes to my gym routine so I’ll be super toned for the big day. Tanning. Whitening my teeth. Taking lots of vitamins. Yoga.

That’s all good information. I’ll get right on that. Let me just pop a couple Percocet, strip off my compression stockings that I have to wear to prevent blood clots, and saddle up on the ol’ crutches so I can get started. Get serious people. I can’t even walk right now. I’m like the Duchess of Crutches of over here. “Gym routine.” My gym routine is isolating my mushy, nonexistent quadriceps on my left leg. Sometimes I pat it and cheer it on to get it motivated. Sometimes I yell at it: “DO YOU WANT TO WALK DOWN THAT AISLE OR WHAT?” I don’t think it’s listening.

2. Logistics Are NBD and Everybody Can Be Our Guest

I’m going to start this one with the assumption that Belle and the Beast are getting married at the end of Beauty and the Beast. Maybe that’s a big, fat, Republican assumption, and what they’re really doing is just having a Yay We’re Not Household Objects Anymore party, but there are enough signs in the final scene of the movie that point to a wedding reception, so I’m just going to go with it.

Belle 2

This is clearly a lavish wedding present.

There are counter-arguments that could be made for why the final scene of Beauty and the Beast is not a wedding reception, but there are also a lot of plot holes in the movie, so I’m not currently accepting offers of dissension. Additionally, yes, I do see that Belle’s dress is gold, not white, as per our tradition. But hey, they’re French. What are you gonna do? Moving on.

Those pillars didn't decorate themselves, people.

Those pillars didn’t decorate themselves, people. I smell a reception.

I want to know who arranged all this.

I know there’s a castle full of staff standing around the happy, dancing, swirling, waltzing couple, but the timeline of the movie leads you to believe that this all happens within a relatively short period of time. My best guess would be that Mrs. Potts would be the one cracking the whip on getting a wedding together quickly, but at the same time, she’s been sleeping in a cupboard with her kid and a bunch of other flatware for years. The woman probably could go for a few nights’ sleep in a bed of her own, a massage, and a cup of tea she didn’t have to pour out of her own nose. Instead she’s probably chasing down Lumiere and Cogsworth, trying to get them to get some real work done for a wedding and reception she had dumped on her, but they’re probably too busy hiding their rising flames and pendulums while Miss Feather Duster sashays on by. Like, congratulations, the spell is broken, Widow Cogsworth, now plan somebody else’s gigantic wedding for tomorrow!

Someone had to make sure all these crazies showed up. Someone had to get those floors waxed. Someone had to ensure the windows were washed. You think that harpist just appeared? No. There was a contract, deposit, and insurance. Stop lying to us, Disney! (Also you will note that Belle’s Papa is present but he’s sporting They Threw Me in the Insane Asylum Chic, which I hear is very in this season. That guy has other issues, so we’ll give him credit for making it to the big day and not getting carried off by either some kind of bug-like carriage device or a lynch mob in the night.)

Belle 3

Somebody trimmed the topiaries too, guys.

Real weddings are not like this! You have to pick all kinds of things you don’t care about, like stationary and tablecloths and times for people to show up places. I am basically the worst bride ever, because I’m like, look. We have a place to get married in and a person to marry us and I have this white dress to wear and it’s great and I’m great and Manfriend’s great, and afterward there will be food, so what are all these other questions? But nooooo. Everyone’s all, details, details, details.

I’m really just bitter because I bet Belle had a plated dinner, a candy bar, a photo booth, and fireworks at the end of the night and never had some snotty vendor tell her that date was unavailable, signed any contracts, or signed a single check.

Belle 6

She had the cake tasting during “Be Our Guest” and didn’t even know it. Also, free. Not real. Disney lies.

Belle 5

“Try the gray stuff; it’s delicious!”

Belle 4

I’m doing the calculations for this champagne toast and the numbers are astronomical. Their taxpayers would be well within their rights to storm the castle at this point.

3. It’s Okay to Throw Rice

The place where Manfriend and I are getting married has a strict no-fire policy. (I think if you violate it they throw you into a fire, actually. Or just keep your damage deposit, whichever is more convenient to them.) So no candles on the tables, no sparkler send-off, etc. I didn’t really care about it until I realized that we couldn’t launch lanterns into the air a la Tangled. I already had to let go of my fireworks dream due to budget constraints (elephant rides, puppies as party favors, and hiring Michael Buble’ to sing also had to get scratched from the list) but it turns out the lantern thing is pretty affordable.

Still, the lanterns were nixed since (clearly) they require fire to make them float magically up into the sky. One of the people at the venue suggested bubbles, bird seed, rice, or flower petals instead.

Which of course I found hilarious. No fire, but you can either feed the birds or destroy them. (Tuppence a bag.) I know throwing rice used to be a thing, but now nobody does it anymore because birds will eat it off the ground the next day and then they will explode. So basically these people either want you to use bird food, or innocuous-looking bird detonation devices.

That’s cool.

I had briefly considered using rice since it’s cheap and it looks good before I remembered it would make me a bird murderer, imagining the end scene from Cinderella. It’s sort of like my position on corgis: if they’re good enough for the Queen of England, they’re good enough for me. (Also, Manfriend, she has like seven. I just want one. Please. Okay, plug for corgis over.) But that’s what I figured about the rice: if it was good enough for Cinderella’s hoity-toity magical wedding, it was good enough for my once-very-elaborate-but-now-downgraded-somewhat-due-to-my-not-being-an-heiress-to-an-oil-fortune budgetary constraints.

Here’s where the Disney lie comes into play. Observe Cindy and Charming leaving their wedding in style while the only parent they apparently have between the two of them looks on with his twitchy monocled adviser:

Cinderella end scene

Rice/confetti/big mess for the servants to pick up later EVERYWHERE

Cinderella in carriage

Look at all that rice. Such waste. Such danger.

...the birds at the top of this page, sadly, did not.

…the birds at the top of this page, sadly, did not.

I have a theory about this, however. The rice and the death and the destruction and all that jazz. The mice were behind it.

Look how happy they are! They know they’ve already won. Like, here you go, you bird brains! Have fun holding up that veil; there ain’t enough room for both of us in the castle.

"Tweet tweet, suckers!"

“Tweet tweet, suckers!”

Just like the mice were behind Cinderella getting her Happily Ever After, they wanted to make sure those pesky birds didn’t usurp their place as her helpers when she moved into the castle with Charming. We’ve seen this time and time again throughout history. Things turn ugly when people (and mice) have a chance to gain some power. The seedy, Orwellian underbelly of Disney politics.

All I can say is it’s a good thing Manfriend is a much better prince than still-in-the-closet Eric, anger issues Beast, and zero personality Charming, since it sort of looks like the Disney weddings are probably more satisfying than the resulting Disney marriages. Duchess of Crutches out.

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In Which Being a Grown-Up is the Worst

When I was a kid I thought grown-ups were so boring.

Either that or they were just pretending. Surely they were just speaking in some kind of unfathomable grown-up code. Nobody could actually be interested in the mundane topics they always seemed to be bringing up voluntarily, could they?

Wow Bob, looks like rain.

Sure do need it, Susan.

You know that’s right, Bob.

And how about that construction over on the loop?

Well it really wasn’t that causing the congestion this morning, Bob; it was that fender bender over there on Magnolia Street!

Was that James’s boy?

Sure was, Susan. Such a nice kid — just a shame.

Oh you know those insurance rates are just going to skyrocket!

Blah. Blah. BLAH.

I used to stand in a kind of stupor in the grocery store while my mom got roped into one of these types of conversations and try to slink away to find something more interesting to do. You know, like stare blankly into a freezer or read ingredient labels or pretend the floor was lava and step from tile to tile until even that got boring, and I began to wish that the floor would open up and swallow me into its magma-filled abyss, since that at least would be more interesting than the conversation that my mother and I were being forced to endure while shopping for sustenance for our home. Maybe this is why people farmed for so long–not because they couldn’t figure out how to industrialize, specialize, then package and ship goods to stores for retail, but because they’d rather get up at the butt crack of dawn and milk their own cows on a daily basis instead of getting trapped, shivering, in the milk aisle by some guy they vaguely know from a church they used to go to, so they can talk about the weather for so long that rain becomes just a vague recollection.

Honey Boo Boo isn't about this life either

So this is why I am ashamed to make this confession: Here I am at the tender age of not-yet-twenty-five, and I have begun the wretched transformation into one of these capable, intelligent human beings who suddenly, for no apparent reason, morphs into an unbearably boring zombie caricature of my vibrant self.

Yes. I am becoming a Grown-Up.

(Or a Grup, as my sisters and like to call them, based off this one Star Trek episode we really liked.)

Here are some things that I found not even remotely interesting circa 1998:

– Seasonal allergies

– Turning off the lights when you leave the room

– Pet dander

– Waiting until the dishwasher was full to run it

– How fast grass grows

– Traffic

– Zoning laws

– The cost of a gallon of milk

– When we might be getting some rain again, Bob

– Gas mileage (Although it is fair here to note that I did not have a driver’s license until 2006.)

As of 2014 I have some level of interest in every single item on that heinously mundane list. This is not okay with me.

But you know why all of the things on the list are suddenly interesting? It seems that my parents were sheltering me throughout my childhood from a very unfortunate reality about adulthood: it costs money. Lots of it.

Turns out the magic of childhood is not in the way that clothes appeared in my closet or sheets appeared on my bed or food appeared on the table, but the fact that I did not have to put them there, work for the funds that made them available, pay taxes to make them legal, or, most magically of all, ever wonder about any of the economic process whatsoever. And everything on that list in some way leads to something that ends up costing money.

I’m learning it’s not all doom and gloom, however. If you have a nice Manfriend, the two of you can have an extended conversation about which gender roles you will choose to adhere to in your marriage and decide how to assign tasks accordingly. I like to think of it as Domestic Utilitarianism.

For example, I don’t really like to cook, but Manfriend is really good at making Fancy Chef Ramsey Food, so he cooks, and I follow him around with a sponge and a bottle of 409 and do all the dishes, and at the end of the night we’re both fed, and I didn’t have to cook, and he didn’t have to clean, so we’re both happy. He cooks; I bake; clearly we’re both going to end up fat even though I don’t fulfill the traditionally female role of meal preparation. Just gotta play to our strengths. (And I’d say we’re both very gifted eaters. Why yes, I would like another scoop of spaghetti. Thanks.)

I invite you now to take special note of the “how fast grass grows” item on my list. This one is important, because it has implications beyond just the length of a lawn. It encompasses watering, mowing, edging, and fertilizing that lawn. It involves monitoring that lawn for pests and disposing of those pests accordingly. It involves understanding what type of soil you have. It involves maintenance. It is a gigantic pain in the butt. Guess which item on the list Manfriend volunteered for in order to properly maintain our level of Domestic Utilitarianism?

I am basically content to let the grass die. But my dad and stepmom came to visit over the summer and bought us some trees as a housewarming gift. Then my dad and Manfriend spent the rest of the weekend hauling bricks and deciding where to plant them and digging holes and basically doing a lot of things I dislike (moving heavy things outdoors in the heat in the dirt surrounded by bugs) while I got to stay inside. So I feel like I owe it to them to be a good steward of their gift by taking care of the trees.

Apparently this means watering the poor little dears every morning and every freaking night. Like what the heck. These greedy bastards are so scraggly and unimpressive and yet so DEMANDING. Even Betty is doing her part by providing ample fertilizer. Still this does not change the fact that I did not sign on for any freaking yard work but I’m out there twice a day–before the sun comes up and after the sun goes down–like some kind of non-mustached Lorax, trying to drown these damn agua-holic trees.

It is the worst. Just GROW UP ALREADY AND PROVIDE ME SOME SHADE.

Also when you are outside watering your helpless baby trees, you discover other unpleasant, nature-related things. Like fire ants. WHERE DO THEY KEEP COMING FROM. I think they’re growing inside the grass. Like at night the grass all gets together and has a secret meeting while I’m asleep about how it’s being neglected in Manfriend’s absence, and to teach me a lesson, it’s going to sprout ant beds every week in random places across the lawn.

“Oh? Not going to water us again, are you? Well, we’ll just see about that…” FIRE ANTS, GRASSHOPPERS, HORRIFYING-LOOKING LIZARDS. Bam, bam, bam. “Enjoy watering your lawn. …Bitch.”

Don’t tell me I’m being dramatic. My lawn is out to get me because it’s jealous that it doesn’t get watered every day like the lawn next door, which is owned by some zealous over-waterers who really need to calm down, since they’re making all the other lawns in the neighborhood jealous. It’s like bringing your kid Panera or Chick-fil-A for lunch every day when you know all his classmates are just getting soggy PB&J’s in hand-me-down lunchboxes. That’s just wrong.

And anyway, who really cares how green your lawn is, crazy neighbors? Are you competing in the Hey Everybody, Look How Green My Lawn Is Today competition that Fort Hood isn’t holding? Such a waste of time. Such a waste of money.

There are other wretched Grup topics that I foist upon innocent bystanders. I talk about how busy I am at work. I talk about my water bill. I talk about how high my energy bill is during the summer. These are terrible, boring, Grup-like things to do. I know it. I am confessing it to you here. BUT… If my stupid trees would become responsible adult trees and provide me some shade on my house I could have fewer conversations about my energy bill.

That is a lie.

I would have the same number of conversations about my energy bill, but instead they would just go something like, “It’s amazing how much less our energy bill is in the summer now that our house gets some shade from those whiny, high-maintenance Lorax-tended baby trees!”

I have to go now. The aforementioned trees are ready for their water. I can’t wait till they become tall, dependable, shade-providing, boring Grup trees that will bore the baby trees next door to tears. Lady Lorax out.

Lady Lorax

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In Which I Become Affianced

The time has come, dear readers — the time at which my Pinterest wedding boards become legitimate, and I realize I can’t afford most of the absurd things I think princesses should have at their weddings (fireworks, elephant rides, and a puppy as a favor a la Bridesmaids being the most disappointing).

Yep, I am interrupting this regularly scheduled program to announce that I have become affianced to Manfriend!

A lot of little girls spend their whole lives fantasizing about their weddings. I’m not really into floral arrangements or cakes that look better than they taste, though, so my wedding plan was basically this: I manage to look ethereal and virginal and old-Hollywood-sexy all at once. He’s tall (sorry short guys of the world, but you were just not a part of my wedding fantasy) and shmexy. My whole family is there. There is a ton of food and some of it is grilled cheese and all of it is delicious. Then there is dancing and merriment and probably ice sculptures and enchanted fountains. A fairy grants us three wishes for our marriage. Then we fly away on a magic carpet to start our happily ever after.

Really solid plan, right?

Regardless of whether or not the fairy godmother I plan on inviting can clear her schedule to make it to the wedding, I think I’m still off to a pretty good start. Also he asked me to marry him and I said yes, so now I can actually, legitimately plan a wedding.

I had some good reasons for saying yes too. Here is a list of things I like about Manfriend:

1) He’s tall.

Apart from this being an evolution-based indication of good health and the ability to defend our family, it is also terribly convenient because I can wear whatever height heels I want when we go fancy places without looking silly. It also means he can reach ALL THE THINGS.

“Manfriend? Could you please hang this plant for me on the porch? I can’t reach that chain thingy.” Of course he can.

“Manfriend, the plant is dead because I never remember to water it. Could you take it down and hang up this fake one instead?” Not an issue.

“Manfriend, be a dear and fetch the rum from the back corner of the top of the fridge, where I slid it and now cannot access it.” Then he pours shots.

“Manfriend? I can’t reach that book on the top shelf.” Book + boy = swoon.

“Manfriend, I can’t see the parade because America is obese and all these fat people are blocking the view of those of us with only borderline BMIs.” Then I get hefted up so I can see the parade.

“Manfriend, could you–” Then he’s like, STOP CALLING ME MANFRIEND, because it’s only endearing for so long and then he wishes to be called by his real name or whatever, but regardless. With Manfriend in my life I can reach/see/drink/forget to water all the things.

2) He tolerates/sometimes enjoys the company of my family.

I know everybody’s family is crazy and all that jazz, but Manfriend grew up with one brother and no sisters and his parents are really nice and have been married forever. I have three sisters as crazy as I am, a father who likes to run background checks on everyone, a stepmother that we called our Wicked Evil Stepmonster (her idea for a title), a mother I’m pretty sure has a compulsive holiday-decorating disorder, and a partridge in a pear tree. (Well, not the last thing, but Manfriend comes from a family that just has cats and dogs for pets and in my family we’ve had two kinds of birds, rabbits, five kinds of dogs, fish, mice, a desert tortoise, and a five-foot iguana. Zoo status, when you include the mood swings of four girls.)

Manfriend bears all these things with grace and humor, and looks really good doing it.

3) He’s secretly smart.

Because I can sometimes be an elitist, pretentious bitch, I used to think Manfriend wasn’t smart enough to keep up with me. He played video games and sports and never seemed to be reading for fun, and he occasionally demonstrated incorrect usage of your/you’re in our early text conversations. Clearly not somebody I could procreate with. Scoff. Hair toss. DIS-MISSED.

Then while I was busy being too smart for him, he charmed my family, convinced me to go to Disney World with him during my last spring break at West Point, and cemented our relationship when he stood up for me against an ex who made all kinds of wild, unflattering accusations about my family and me. He also made perfect grades on Physics exams at West Point, proving once and for all that he’s not a dumb jock, as much as he likes to claim he is. I, on the other hand, studied for hours and still only skidded by in Physics I and II with a B- both semesters. I neither remember nor understand anything about that class, except that if you copy down all the equations you might get some partial credit.

Now, to tease me for being a pretentious bitch in the early days of our relationship, Manfriend pretends to have a diminished vocabulary purely for the sake of driving me crazy.

For instance:

HIM: What are you doing?

ME: I’m being coy.

HIM: Oh, like the fish.

ME: No! Not like the fish!

HIM: Kelley, stop being koi.

Or:

HIM: I don’t understand.

ME: You’re just being intentionally obtuse.

HIM: You know I don’t like it when you call me fat.

…infuriating. Adorable…but mostly infuriating.

4) He’s a bazillionaire.

Just kidding. If he was we’d definitely have a roller coaster photo booth at our wedding. Also baby otters.

But he is good with money, and math, and carpentry, and electricity, and technology, and sports, and grilling, and being coordinated, and all kinds of other things at which I am hopeless. He also has a much higher internal body temperature than I do, which I really appreciate in the winter but requires the use of a fan in summertime. Basically he fills in the gaps in my life, which I think is a pretty important characteristic in the person you’re going to marry.

5) He’s dreamy.

But seriously.

Here’s how he proposed:

We’d been planning to get engaged this past Christmas for almost a year. We shopped for rings over Valentine’s Day weekend last year, and decided what we liked/didn’t like, price, etc. Then we didn’t talk about it again for months. Over the summer he told me to go get my ring finger sized, but other than that he gave no hints about what he was going to buy or when. By November I was convinced he still hadn’t picked one out, and I was worried he was going to spend too much money or wait too long and then we’d have to wait longer to get engaged and waaaaaaah.

Then, two days after Thanksgiving, my mom and youngest sister were visiting his house. His parents, his brother, and his brother’s fiance were also there. Manfriend’s brother’s fiance (the girlfriend-in-law, my stepmom calls her) announced that evening that they had done a bunch of work outside, and so she wanted everyone to get dressed up to take nice family pictures on the bridge over the pond in the backyard the next day. We all said, okay, whatever, and Manfriend seemed clueless/appropriately uninterested so I suspected nothing.

The following afternoon, Manfriend and I were taking our turn for pictures on the bridge. Suddenly, he stopped and grinned at me, and said, “Hang on. I have to go get something,” and leaves me standing baffled on the bridge by myself. He jogged to a nearby tree and grabbed something from behind it, then came back to stand with me on the bridge.

It was a book. Oh! A book! I love books! I tried to take it from him, starting to feel a little indignant that he would bring me a present and then not just hand it over. Holding the book away from me, he put his other hand on my back and stood close. (He was kind of rubbing my back like you might do with a skittish bunny or something, so I’m pretty sure he was trying to lull me into a false sense of security before he could strike.) Then he began his little speech. I started looking around and realized that every female member of our family watching was now crying. Then I realized that he was proposing. And our families were there. And it was being filmed for my big sister in Afghanistan. Then he was down on one knee, opening the book to reveal the ring inside:

It was basically the most magical thing ever.

So of course I cried.

And I said yes.

Duh.

And then my dad and stepmom and Sister #3 showed up and the whole big happy group of us had a belated Thanksgiving dinner together. There was even celebratory pie, courtesy of my future sister-in-law.

engagement2

This was the book Manfriend had picked out to use for the proposal:

And this is the bling ring he gave me:

Sometimes I make a disco ball on the wall when I’m bored during staff meetings, because examining the sparkliness (yes, that is important in choosing a diamond: cut, color, clarity, carat, and sparkliness) of my ring is a lot more interesting than who’s on profile and whatever we’re doing for training next week.

Now all I have to do is win the lottery or get a fat book advance so I can have elephant rides and a fireworks show to rival Disney World, and I’ll be set! After that I plan to spend a few hours coming up with witty retorts to the inevitable and unoriginal string of “lovely” jokes that I will endure for the rest of my life. That’s right, Manfriend’s last name is Lovely, and so after he graduates/commissions/we get married, we shall be the Lieutenants Lovely.

I invite you to stay tuned this year as I slowly morph into Bridezilla. I am now accepting donations to fund my extravagant fairy-tale wedding, complete with water slide.

tumblr_static_boom_baby

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In Which I Am Asked a Lot of Silly Questions

I ask a lot of really stupid questions at work. My knowledge of cars is pretty much limited to checking the air pressure on my tires, checking my oil, and laboriously changing a tire. But now I work in a motor pool that services a lot of big trucks, so I am routinely stumped by the shop talk that surrounds me. (True story: I bought a copy of “Auto Repair for Dummies” but it is so insanely boring that I have only read like two chapters.) Luckily, ridiculous questions are not exclusive to hapless, confused butter bars.

This week, I bring you: SILLY QUESTIONS THAT PEOPLE HAVE RECENTLY ASKED ME.

“Why do you need another bookshelf?”

My own father had the audacity to ask me this when I sent him a picture of a bookshelf that I was looking into buying. I own over 500 books and plan on acquiring many, many more. Books belong on a shelf, on a pedestal, or in my hand. Not in storage. I need ALL the bookshelves so that I may properly display/pay homage to/systematically arrange my collection. I still can’t believe my dad asked me this question. IT’S LIKE HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW ME.

“Are you going to finish that?”

If it’s bread, chocolate, or pizza, why are you even asking? Look at me. These hips don’t lie—of COURSE I am going to finish what I am eating.

“Why are you speaking in a British accent?”

Well, clearly it is to personally irritate you and make your day a little less pleasant. No! I shall tell you why:

          Because British accents are awesome.

          Because now I sound like a resident of Downton Abbey/a student at Hogwarts/a character in a Jane Austen novel.

          And if neither of those works for you: because I’m honoring my heritage. How about that? Now go away before I honor my Native American heritage and scalp you or something.

“Ma’am, do you know how to spell ‘deterioration’?”

Oh you poor, lost little lamb, you sad young man filling out that form. OF COURSE I know how to spell “deterioration”! Better question is why you DON’T know how to spell it…or look it up on your phone…but we’ll move past that and I will spell it for you, because it will probably be the most useful thing I will contribute to America this morning.

“Do you want to come to this week’s training meeting?”

Three questions in return:

  1. Will it be two and a half hours long like last week?
  2. Are there more than fifty slides in the slide deck?
  3. Could I get a shot with a gajillion-gauge needle or bathe in the Arctic instead? Because that would probably be less agonizing.

“Ma’am, are you married?”

This question has confused me on several occasions. Do some people just not wear any kind of band? Because frankly I think this is a stupid question. I have a Manfriend. He is tall, dark and handsome and really good at physics but pretends to be a dumb jock. This basically means we’re perfect for each other because I can never remember if it’s centripetal or centrifugal force that isn’t a real thing and I “catch” objects tossed to me by letting them bounce off my body and then picking them up off the floor.

But despite this felicitous boyfriend/girlfriend relationship in which we are gleefully involved, I am not, in fact, wifed up at this time.

So here’s my confusion. This is what my left hand looks like at work:

CurrentLeftHand

This is what my left hand will look like at work after I am married/engaged to be so:

FutureLeftHand

Any questions? (Manfriend, if you’re reading this, please note that the ring is saying, “bling bling!” but if the ring can sing a song as well as declare its superiority over other rings, that’d be cool too.)

“Want a donut?”

Well hello there, unnaturally skinny NCO. Thank you for noticing that it is 10:30 and my blood sugar has just plummeted into Dante’s Third Circle of Hell. There is nothing that sounds more appetizing right now than a piece of bread fried and smothered in chocolate deliciousness. One donut? Actually, I would like about nine (dozen). Unfortunately I cannot partake as my body is currently acting like the United States government in a financial crisis: bloated and still gorging. Therefore I must politely decline your offer of a donut as it is bathing suit season and my tummy is pleasantly squishy and not prepared for its debut. Also, you are Satan. Stop eating that donut in front of me.

“Hey ma’am, wanna go for a run? Show us what you got?”

First of all, I haven’t run without pain in almost two years because of a femoral stress fracture. Before that, I ran slowly. Very slowly. “Shuffled” would probably be a more accurate description, if you’re feeling generous, “trudged,” if you’re not. Second of all, what I’ve got is big hips and stocky legs. My nickname as a toddler was “Dozer.” (Kid you not; ask my parents.) I hate when lean guys with skinny legs ask you if you want to run. Or when dudes whose upper halves are disproportionate to their lower halves aggressively ask you what you bench (P.S. friends don’t let friends skip leg day. Remember that.). You don’t see me running around (colloquially speaking, of course; running is against my religion now) challenging people to sit-up contests all the time. I am a beast at sit-ups. Know why? Low center of gravity. But you don’t see me rubbing it in people’s faces all the time! Know what I want to say when people ask me if I want to go for a run?

This:

Doc

“Wanna come down to the shop and play with the welding equipment?”

This is a silly question because OF COURSE I want to play with the welding equipment! It’s loud and dangerous and I’m signed for it, so what the hell, right? BRB, gotta get my coveralls.

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April 3, 2013 · 5:23 pm