They look sensitive, but aren't for THE sensitive

Adam has friends in high places, and last week we went to a fundraiser for the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. I mean, we paid to go. But I'm fairly certain we wouldn't have known about it if he didn't have all these important friends.

So, I don't know anything at all about music, and have long suspected that I might be tone-deaf. I can judge with the best of them, but I tend to focus more on the aesthetic. (I can't tell you what my favorite Neverland performance piece is, but I can tell you it's the one where the singers jump around.)

We got to the venue and ran into one of Adam's bandmates, who was all excited about this bass clarinet group. He and his date were all, like, "When do you get to see FOUR bass clarinets together?!?!" and looked at me in that friendly, I-don't-know-you-but-I-want-you-to-feel-included sort of way. And since I wanted THEM to feel included, too, I was like, "Yeah, I know, right?"

Really what I was thinking was, What's a bass clarinet?

Lucky for you, dear reader, I've found a photo of precisely that group, with their instruments. They call themselves Edmund Welles, and, while I have no proof of who calls the shots amongst these four fellows, I'd stake a bet on the fact that it's the dude named Cornelius Boots. He's the little yogi on the left.

And the show really was spectacular, although I'm thankful we arrived late for it, because I'd forgotten this little piece of information: wind instruments collect a LOT of spit. And you know what musicians do at the end of each song? There are two options. One, they shake their instrument out on the stage; two, they take a big suck out of the thing and swallow.

Literally, my gag reflex has kicked in just WRITING about it.

I definitely wasn't listening to you

OK, we changed our wedding date.

BUT IT'S NOT BECAUSE YOU TOLD US TO.

It's because, right off the bat, it's $3,000 cheaper to get married on a Sunday than on a Saturday.

Want to know how many dance floors that would buy us? Six. Or, on a Sunday, TWELVE.

And if there's one indicator of a successful wedding, it would be 12 dance floors.

An anteater wouldn't put up with this

It looks like Adam and I will be getting married on September 11.

Yeah, I know. But it’s not like the date could be any WORSE. Talk about built-in levity when faced with a wedding “disaster,” like rain. And, geez, people get married on D-Day.

We floated the idea past a few Trusted People when we learned that that was the only Saturday in September on which all three of our chosen venues were available. All of our Trusted People said things like, “Well, it’s not like people will always avoid events on that day,” which is how I came up with my new favorite retort: “What, are you doing a service project that afternoon or something?”

But then there are the people I’m not as close to, who are horrified at the thought. These are the same people who don’t stand a chance at being invited to the wedding, so I don’t really mind when they crinkle their nose and wait for the punch line. (Most of these people work in politics. I definitely couldn’t get married on a Day of National Tragedy if I ever planned on running for office.)

And the third reaction, I think, is people who give me a hard time about it. I’m fairly certain anyone reading this already knows that I plan on being pretty relaxed about the whole thing (see "The Industry Looked Me Over"), but trust me on this one: YOU NEVER TEASE A BRIDE. And that rule doesn’t necessarily hold true because she thinks that her wedding day is going to be the most important and/or most perfect day of her life. I’d hate to think I’m going to peak at 29. It’s only because she’s already putting up with so much. For those of you who haven’t gotten married, or those of you who have forgotten: YOU HAVE A MULTI-THOUSAND DOLLAR COMMITMENT HANGING OVER YOUR HEAD, AND PEOPLE EXPECT YOU TO HAVE OPINIONS ON FLOWERS. Why would you poke at me at a time like this? Even our allegedly low-key, theme-less, bridesmaid-less wedding is going to cost more than any car I’ve ever owned, and no one ever told me I need to bone up on flora before three weeks ago.

So when my friend’s husband sent me a message saying something to the effect of, “Who gets married on September 11?” I Googled HIS wedding date and sent back the message, “Who gets married on the anniversary of the sinking of the USS Edmund Fitzgerald?”…and I haven’t received a response.

In other words, to all the critics, I’d like to send out Adam’s mantra:

A Sure Thing

I was on the phone with my Wunderfriend Abbey when I said I really needed to get to the store to shop for dinner. The thing about my Safeway is that there are really very few times you can shop without conviction that something weird will happen. And the ABSOLUTE worst time to go is 5:30 pm, when everyone comes home from work and bum-rushes the roasted chicken supply. And then stands in the self-checkout line, which extends into the cereal aisle, which is my single most-frequented aisle.

Anyway, my last words to Abbey were that I was headed to the Safeway to collect blog fodder. It was 5:30 pm.

And I was let down! The store was totally calm, I didn't have to push anyone, the fundraising PA system they always seem to have going there was silent (thank God Breast Cancer Awareness Month is finally over), and while I was in line behind a woman buying four fridge packs of Caffeine-Free Diet Coke (who in this neighborhood has storage for that?), everything was fine, and I started thinking that I RARELY mention to people when my blog radar is up. But there are definitely occasions I go into thinking that something will go wrong, and when it does, it'll be OK, because at least I can bitch about it on my blog.

AND THEN THE ANSWER TO ONE OF LIFE'S GREAT MYSTERIES REVEALED ITSELF.

You know those women with the really long nails? I mean the really long ones...like, they're either fake or curling up weird at the end. Obnoxiously long. You only ever really see them on the street, or on public transportation, and you wonder, "How do these women get through their day?"

The cashier at my Safeway had those nails. They're red. And because of a fear of...something...the cashiers at my Safeway wear latex gloves at all times. Surgical gloves. And this woman's nails were poking through SEVEN OF THE FINGER HOLES.

Why seven? Why, knowing that this will happen to you, would you not start your shift by just poking all of your nails through? Or, better, cutting out tiny holes for your fingertips? This means the pressure had been SLOWING BUILDING UP THROUGHOUT HER SHIFT, until finally, a fingernail POPPED through.

Repeat six times.

People are so weird.

And one of life's great mysteries has been replaced with another. A successful Monday.

The industry looked me over

I'm fairly certain that I've already warned all brides, past and present, who are close to me that they can't read my blog as insulting in any way over the next several months.

But for those of you who haven't already heard it, I'm going to apologize right now. Because when Adam and I decided we'd like to get hitched, a provision of that was that we weren't at all ready to plan a wedding.

The thing is, when you tell people you made the decision to get married, their first reaction is, "Oh my God, you got MARRIED?," when, really, I only phrased it that way because "engaged" sounds too fancy for what's going on in my life. And the decision we made was to marry each other, not to throw a wedding...which, obviously, we're now doing.

I've been to some really beautiful weddings, planned by people who always knew they wanted to get married and thus had lots of time to think about it, and I've been to some purely awesome weddings, mostly thrown by people who are super-creative and got really into it.

And while I have strong opinions on why I have and have not had fun at particular weddings, the idea of planning my own is a little overwhelming. And while Adam and I have the sort of relationship that makes it easy to split responsibilities 50/50--and, of course, he's the creative one here--it makes more sense that I put in more wedding-planning time for now, while I'm not getting paid to work full-time.

But, again, we had DECIDED WE WEREN'T READY TO PLAN A WEDDING. But, I've discovered, nor am I prepared to think about wedding plans indefinitely. I'm exhausted. I know people who have been engaged for up to two years, but that's because they had other things distracting them, like law school. And I've heard it's popular to drag out your engagement so you can save up money for the wedding, or have multiple bridal showers, or to accommodate bridesmaids' schedules. But that's why God invented credit cards, I don't want a single bridal shower, and we're not going to have a wedding party. In my mind, there's no reason we can't just throw this party next week. Except I haven't a thing to wear.

And the ante got upped early this week, when a bride I know, who is getting married in the same city as Adam and I, and may even have an overlapping guest list, started telling me what sorts of tricks she has up her sleeve for her own wedding. This is a woman who has actually been employed as a costume designer. And she and her fiance live in this incredibly classy apartment and she throws dinner parties. I'll bet she harvests her own honey. I don't think I should reveal what it is she's planning for their wedding, but I'll tell you this: It's going to blow ours out of the water.

And part of me doesn't care, because she's having so much fun with it and I, frankly, wouldn't. But the other part of me feels the same way I feel about Halloween costumes: If you don't stand a chance of having the absolute best one, why even bother showing up to the party?