In the past three weeks I have had, count ‘em, three separate “dreams” about my wedding.
I put dreams in quotation marks because really, they were more like nightmares.
In the first, I was supposed to marry Barack Obama, but my brother went missing and everyone from my family, with the exception of Lana, was late. Apparently, I was late too and so I had to crawl through the church’s ceiling to get to the back so Barack wouldn’t see me and I didn’t have time that morning to wash or fix my hair so some old man that lived in the church was pinning my hair under a white hat, all the while muttering that the lady down the street makes much nicer hats.
In the second one, we were in some sort of Gothic-looking cathedral. This time my dress was much nicer, an ivory-colored number, but it was soaked through as I had been standing in the rain waiting for my guests to arrive. The only people that there were my immediate family, and the dream ended with me shivering in a pew, leaning against my father, waiting for the priest and the groom.
The third happened last night. I was wearing a purplish-gray mermaid cut dress with lots of ruffles around the bottom. It was after my wedding, though I have no idea whom I married. Bridie and I were drinking cocktails in the private room where the wedding party has to hide during the cocktail hour when a hideous looking woman in an even uglier get-up walked by the two-way mirror we were using to judge my guests. I immediately moved to exit our secret room when Bridie stopped me and asked me what I was doing. I pulled my arm away from her and exclaimed that I had to find my photographer and make sure that he didn’t take any pictures of that woman.
From my 30 years of existence, I cannot recall one other dream about my wedding.
While I am not a believer that if one dreams about their teeth falling out it someone they know is going to die, I do believe dreams have significance and can provide some insight into what is going on in your life. So I googled "wedding dreams."
Turns out it is pretty common to have anxiety dreams about your wedding – that is if you are getting married. I double checked my ring finger on my left hand in case I forgot I had gotten engaged during one of my holiday debaucheries.
Nope, no diamond there.
So the other explanation is that it is a wish fulfillment dream – and as I am single, the wish is that I was in a serious, committed relationship.
But, shouldn’t wish fulfillment dreams be nice? Shouldn’t I have been wearing white leather pants, and a sequin top and standing in front of an Elvis Impersonator, surrounded by my family and friends and happy and satisfied and glowing? Why are my wedding dreams dark and fraught with drama?
This thought was bouncing around the back of my head when I should have been working but instead was texting with my father. He asked me how my soccer league was going and when I told him I hadn’t gone yet because it had been so cold and only boys were showing up his response was, “but that sounds ideal for meeting someone.”
Just like that, the heavens opened up, a beam of light shone down on my BlackBerry and I could hear all the choirs of angels and saints singing Hallelujah.
These aren’t my wish fulfillment dreams. They are anxiety dreams of my inability to fulfill everyone around me’s wish. Of course I am used to my mother calling me with the sole purpose of ascertaining whether or not I had met someone, and if not – when was I going to. Bridie is ga-ga for her new Beau and so she too, surely just wanting me to be as happy as she, has been gently nudging me.
And now my father? Is it any wonder I am dreaming about getting married to the President in a dress I bought at David’s Bridal that was obviously too short on me?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
For the Record
I know it is record-breaking warm out today. I know the thermometer is hovering in the mid-60s at the moment. I know you are desperate for this winter to be over and for spring to begin. However, it is still February and therefore flip-flops are not okay.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Kismet
I am a big believer in fate. Not in the whole you have one destiny and one path and all your choices have already been decided for you so there is really nothing you can do but sit back and wait to die sort of way.
More the everything-happens-for-a reason sort of fate.
My mother thought it would be nice if all of us went to a Phantom’s game last night So, mom and dad pick up me and Lana at my place and we all headed down to the soon-to-be-gone-forever (though not soon enough in my mother’s opinion) Spectrum.
We got to our seats, some children sang the National Anthem and Lana got up to go for beer. She came back, handed me and mom our beers, headed back up for more (there is a two beer limit) and by the time she returned, a puck has flown over the Plexiglas and into my mother’s face.
No, I am not lying.
Lana rushes my mom to first aid, the people behind us give me the puck and my father and I just sit there for a few minutes wondering what we should do next. Then my dad leaves, and finally Lana calls and tells me we are taking mom to the hospital.
I fielded a few questions from the crowd and then left to help my father find the car.
After being rushed through triage (thanks to Lana’s connections) we were sitting in a treatment room waiting to see a doctor (as opposed to a medical student).
And that is when I first glimpsed the future Mr. Tatiana, Resident Dreamboat.
Resident Dreamboat is tall and dark and handsome with really great hair and an excellent nose. Lana, who agreed to let me have RD if I agreed to make him walk around sans shirt at all future family functions, remarked on his very white, straight teeth. My father, who earlier compared a med student’s smile to that of John Elway, commented on his nice broad shoulders. For her part, my mom thought he was okay for a doctor, a huge compliment coming from her. See, mom has been a nurse since cavemen were coming in with dinosaur bites and thus has a very low opinion of doctors.
In addition to knowing the moment he walked into our curtained off corner of the hospital that I could I love this man forever; I also realized he was the reason my mom had to take a hockey puck to the face. And believe me, my mom would take a whole world of hurt more than a fractured sinus cavity if she thought it would lead to dum-dum-dee-dum, and me walking down an aisle wearing a white gown and carrying calla lilies.
Even if we don’t get married – and who am I kidding? I could stalk Jefferson Bars for the rest of my life and still never see Resident Dreamboat again – I know the universe must read this blog and was smiling down on me yesterday. Not only did it get me out of the hockey game early, it gave me a new, more crush-worthy candidate to star in my fantasies.
Oh and Mumsie is fine by the way. She is a little sore, but she should be all healed up in time for my big day.
More the everything-happens-for-a reason sort of fate.
My mother thought it would be nice if all of us went to a Phantom’s game last night So, mom and dad pick up me and Lana at my place and we all headed down to the soon-to-be-gone-forever (though not soon enough in my mother’s opinion) Spectrum.
We got to our seats, some children sang the National Anthem and Lana got up to go for beer. She came back, handed me and mom our beers, headed back up for more (there is a two beer limit) and by the time she returned, a puck has flown over the Plexiglas and into my mother’s face.
No, I am not lying.
Lana rushes my mom to first aid, the people behind us give me the puck and my father and I just sit there for a few minutes wondering what we should do next. Then my dad leaves, and finally Lana calls and tells me we are taking mom to the hospital.
I fielded a few questions from the crowd and then left to help my father find the car.
After being rushed through triage (thanks to Lana’s connections) we were sitting in a treatment room waiting to see a doctor (as opposed to a medical student).
And that is when I first glimpsed the future Mr. Tatiana, Resident Dreamboat.
Resident Dreamboat is tall and dark and handsome with really great hair and an excellent nose. Lana, who agreed to let me have RD if I agreed to make him walk around sans shirt at all future family functions, remarked on his very white, straight teeth. My father, who earlier compared a med student’s smile to that of John Elway, commented on his nice broad shoulders. For her part, my mom thought he was okay for a doctor, a huge compliment coming from her. See, mom has been a nurse since cavemen were coming in with dinosaur bites and thus has a very low opinion of doctors.
In addition to knowing the moment he walked into our curtained off corner of the hospital that I could I love this man forever; I also realized he was the reason my mom had to take a hockey puck to the face. And believe me, my mom would take a whole world of hurt more than a fractured sinus cavity if she thought it would lead to dum-dum-dee-dum, and me walking down an aisle wearing a white gown and carrying calla lilies.
Even if we don’t get married – and who am I kidding? I could stalk Jefferson Bars for the rest of my life and still never see Resident Dreamboat again – I know the universe must read this blog and was smiling down on me yesterday. Not only did it get me out of the hockey game early, it gave me a new, more crush-worthy candidate to star in my fantasies.
Oh and Mumsie is fine by the way. She is a little sore, but she should be all healed up in time for my big day.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Blondes Tease; Brunettes Please
In 1995 I dyed my bright blonde locks dark auburn red. The color lasted almost a week. Contrary to R. Frost, red is nature’s hardest hue to hold.
After a really bad haircut in the sixth grade, my mom would not allow me to do anything to my hair other than perm it – because that is healthy, until she got her perfect, graduation photo.
The following week I cut my long, wavy hair into a short, blunt bob with bangs. Yes, I looked just as awful as you are picturing. My mom actually laughed at me. But I needed to be free from my hair which up to that point was a bit of an albatross.
You see, underneath all the blonde ringlets was a very serious, determined, angry girl just dying to get out and be heard. Sure this girl was also a little flighty and klutzy, no more than any other girl her age. But still, other girls in her class weren’t nicknamed “Cornflake.” Just her.
I would like to say that since taking the bottle of Revlon hair dye to my scalp I haven’t looked back. But I have. I have had moments of weakness. Sitting on my couch, all alone on a weekend, watching a bad romantic comedy and counting how many conquests I have had as a blonde and how many I have had as a brunette and then justifying my actions based not on a need to get laid but my not wanting to appear vain.
Clearly, it makes me higher maintenance, and thus vainer, to go to the salon every six weeks for a touch-up then it would be for me to just let my natural hair shine.
A few weeks later though, I will go to a bar and someone will call me dumb and I will remember why it was that I hated being a blonde in the first place and will run back to my hairdresser demanding to go dark once again (and endure the sidelong glances from all the bottled blondes offended at my choice).
I also have to suffer the guffaws of those that have never been blonde. Marie, with her short almost black hair, has only known me as a brunette and actually laughed when I told her the reason I dye my hair: people don’t take me seriously as a blonde.
She couldn’t imagine anyone not taking me seriously.
But all of this readers, all six of you, has not been for naught. For just last night, as I opened this month’s Women’s Health I finally had my proof, my validation that while blondes may have more fun, it’s because people actually expect less from them.
There, in a text box in the middle of an article on how to dye your hair yourself was my vindication – on average brunettes make $8,400 a year more than blondes.
I also think this little factoid gives us some insight as to why Bosley is so hip-hip on me going back to my natural color.
After a really bad haircut in the sixth grade, my mom would not allow me to do anything to my hair other than perm it – because that is healthy, until she got her perfect, graduation photo.
The following week I cut my long, wavy hair into a short, blunt bob with bangs. Yes, I looked just as awful as you are picturing. My mom actually laughed at me. But I needed to be free from my hair which up to that point was a bit of an albatross.
You see, underneath all the blonde ringlets was a very serious, determined, angry girl just dying to get out and be heard. Sure this girl was also a little flighty and klutzy, no more than any other girl her age. But still, other girls in her class weren’t nicknamed “Cornflake.” Just her.
I would like to say that since taking the bottle of Revlon hair dye to my scalp I haven’t looked back. But I have. I have had moments of weakness. Sitting on my couch, all alone on a weekend, watching a bad romantic comedy and counting how many conquests I have had as a blonde and how many I have had as a brunette and then justifying my actions based not on a need to get laid but my not wanting to appear vain.
Clearly, it makes me higher maintenance, and thus vainer, to go to the salon every six weeks for a touch-up then it would be for me to just let my natural hair shine.
A few weeks later though, I will go to a bar and someone will call me dumb and I will remember why it was that I hated being a blonde in the first place and will run back to my hairdresser demanding to go dark once again (and endure the sidelong glances from all the bottled blondes offended at my choice).
I also have to suffer the guffaws of those that have never been blonde. Marie, with her short almost black hair, has only known me as a brunette and actually laughed when I told her the reason I dye my hair: people don’t take me seriously as a blonde.
She couldn’t imagine anyone not taking me seriously.
But all of this readers, all six of you, has not been for naught. For just last night, as I opened this month’s Women’s Health I finally had my proof, my validation that while blondes may have more fun, it’s because people actually expect less from them.
There, in a text box in the middle of an article on how to dye your hair yourself was my vindication – on average brunettes make $8,400 a year more than blondes.
I also think this little factoid gives us some insight as to why Bosley is so hip-hip on me going back to my natural color.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
I Need a New Crush
I am disgusted with myself.
And no, it is not because after I finished dinner last night I also finished a bag of pita chips and dip. Though, I was pretty sickened by that as well.
No, the reason for my self-loathing is that I recently had to admit I have a crush on one of our clients.
Now, Marie, the only other person in the world that knows about this crush, simply and rightly declared that it isn’t really a crush and merely just my body/mind reacting to boredom.
As there is not even a dark horse contender in my life right now I crossed my fingers that she was right.
When she suggested I try Match again, I rolled my eyes and left her office.
Instead, I chose to respond to one of the Republican’s recent text messages. That didn’t help much, though. I still thought about the client, only now I was wondering what the Client would think about the Republican. And, if after the Republican and I broke up would the Client comfort me. Tell me he didn’t like him all along and then admit to loving me?
Looking back on it, the plan to try to get something going with the Republican had an obvious and fatal flaw – if there was any there, there I wouldn’t be in my current predicament. I would have a crush on the Republican and not need a crush fix from the Client.
Meanwhile, I am one inappropriate thought about the Client away from substituting my crush-fix with a nicotine fix. I just hope this weekend brings with it some crush-worthy candidates so I don’t have to start smoking again.
Who knew crushes could be so addictive?
And no, it is not because after I finished dinner last night I also finished a bag of pita chips and dip. Though, I was pretty sickened by that as well.
No, the reason for my self-loathing is that I recently had to admit I have a crush on one of our clients.
Now, Marie, the only other person in the world that knows about this crush, simply and rightly declared that it isn’t really a crush and merely just my body/mind reacting to boredom.
As there is not even a dark horse contender in my life right now I crossed my fingers that she was right.
When she suggested I try Match again, I rolled my eyes and left her office.
Instead, I chose to respond to one of the Republican’s recent text messages. That didn’t help much, though. I still thought about the client, only now I was wondering what the Client would think about the Republican. And, if after the Republican and I broke up would the Client comfort me. Tell me he didn’t like him all along and then admit to loving me?
Looking back on it, the plan to try to get something going with the Republican had an obvious and fatal flaw – if there was any there, there I wouldn’t be in my current predicament. I would have a crush on the Republican and not need a crush fix from the Client.
Meanwhile, I am one inappropriate thought about the Client away from substituting my crush-fix with a nicotine fix. I just hope this weekend brings with it some crush-worthy candidates so I don’t have to start smoking again.
Who knew crushes could be so addictive?
Friday, December 5, 2008
An Open Letter to Governor Ed Rendell Regarding Wine and Spirits Stores
Dearest Eddie,
I hope this letter finds you and Marjorie well. I have been meaning to call on you, but then just today I was in a Wine and Spirits Shoppe and it became urgent for me to write to you at once.
Now, you know I don’t fully understand your reasoning for only allowing state owned stores, but this is not the reason for my letter. I was wandering around a state store (as my mother calls them) looking for a nice bottle to unwind with tonight (it was a really rough day). As I strolled up and down and up and down, through California and Chile and France and Italy, not really impressed by anything I saw.
I heaved a big sigh, wondering why I never had this problem at restaurants or bars. That is when it occurred to me – Ed, our state stores are organized all wrong.
Hear me out.
Okay, so I will admit, I know nothing about wine. NOTHING. I don’t know what a tannin is, I don’t know what I am looking at when I swirl wine around in the glass, and I never, ever, note hints of cherry or smoke or nutmeg. I have once tasted grapefruit in a sauvignon blanc and on another, separate occasion detected grass in a different sauvignon blanc (this is why whenever I want to look smart about wine I order a sav blanc and drink mostly Guinness in the winter).
However, I do know what wine I like and in restaurants it is always easy to find. Why, you ask? Because they organize it by type, not region. Merlot, Cabernet, Pinot Noir and (my personal favorite) Interesting Reds (or blends).
Now, you may worry, about wine snobs that care about where their interesting red comes from. Well, I have thought about that, and one, most of my acquaintances that know anything about wine buy it in New Jersey or Delaware (apparently it is cheaper there and the selection is better). Also, the wine connoisseurs that are still shopping in our state, well, they are going to want to inspect the bottle anyway. Unlike me, who buys based on type and then label/name cuteness/cleverness, those who are in the know will pick up a bottle, check the year and the valley and ruminate on soil conditions and then put it back on the shelf and move on. Does it really matter if they are pulling that bottle of merlot off a shelf labeled “merlot” versus “domestic”? Hell, they wouldn’t care if you put all the red on one side, the white on the other and the pink in the middle. This way the could just shop around the perimeter like they do at the grocery store.
Big Sigh.
Sorry, this whole thing gets me very upset. Okay, that’s all. I hope this doesn’t dampen your holiday spirit and that I will still see you at my Mummer’s Party – this time I promise to save you some tomato pie. If not, I will be sure to high five you on Broad Street in May.
Kisses,
Tati
I hope this letter finds you and Marjorie well. I have been meaning to call on you, but then just today I was in a Wine and Spirits Shoppe and it became urgent for me to write to you at once.
Now, you know I don’t fully understand your reasoning for only allowing state owned stores, but this is not the reason for my letter. I was wandering around a state store (as my mother calls them) looking for a nice bottle to unwind with tonight (it was a really rough day). As I strolled up and down and up and down, through California and Chile and France and Italy, not really impressed by anything I saw.
I heaved a big sigh, wondering why I never had this problem at restaurants or bars. That is when it occurred to me – Ed, our state stores are organized all wrong.
Hear me out.
Okay, so I will admit, I know nothing about wine. NOTHING. I don’t know what a tannin is, I don’t know what I am looking at when I swirl wine around in the glass, and I never, ever, note hints of cherry or smoke or nutmeg. I have once tasted grapefruit in a sauvignon blanc and on another, separate occasion detected grass in a different sauvignon blanc (this is why whenever I want to look smart about wine I order a sav blanc and drink mostly Guinness in the winter).
However, I do know what wine I like and in restaurants it is always easy to find. Why, you ask? Because they organize it by type, not region. Merlot, Cabernet, Pinot Noir and (my personal favorite) Interesting Reds (or blends).
Now, you may worry, about wine snobs that care about where their interesting red comes from. Well, I have thought about that, and one, most of my acquaintances that know anything about wine buy it in New Jersey or Delaware (apparently it is cheaper there and the selection is better). Also, the wine connoisseurs that are still shopping in our state, well, they are going to want to inspect the bottle anyway. Unlike me, who buys based on type and then label/name cuteness/cleverness, those who are in the know will pick up a bottle, check the year and the valley and ruminate on soil conditions and then put it back on the shelf and move on. Does it really matter if they are pulling that bottle of merlot off a shelf labeled “merlot” versus “domestic”? Hell, they wouldn’t care if you put all the red on one side, the white on the other and the pink in the middle. This way the could just shop around the perimeter like they do at the grocery store.
Big Sigh.
Sorry, this whole thing gets me very upset. Okay, that’s all. I hope this doesn’t dampen your holiday spirit and that I will still see you at my Mummer’s Party – this time I promise to save you some tomato pie. If not, I will be sure to high five you on Broad Street in May.
Kisses,
Tati
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Stay Tuned
I am so sorry readers (all seven of you) for neglecting my blog these past few weeks. For those of you that are living under a rock (or completely oblivious to all things sports related) the Philadelphia Phillies are in the World Series. And, while no, Charlie Manual has not asked me to play (a huge mistake on his part), in addition to all my other social and professional activities I have had to go to bars to cheer on the Phightin’ Phils (most notably Pat Burrell) and even hosted my very first World Series Party. However, there is a light at the end of the tunnel as we approach the last few games. Then I promise, I will be back to you, my readers, with stories from the bars and parties as well as the subway, the city and of course the office – of which, you will never believe who got her boobs done.
Keep the faith.
Keep the faith.
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