Article "Hooks" from US Airways Magazine

"The third time, it's said, is a charm. And in London's case, that would be true."

"Almost 100 years ago, a client left Philip Lance holding the bag--filled with 500 pounds of peanuts."

"It started here. Aviation, that is."

Baby Island, and other Lamestream Media

I’ve always been careful to not set anyone’s expectations very high when it comes to producing children. When I was little, I remember seriously hoping that I would have a Down’s Syndrome baby, I think because Corky on Life Goes On was really coming into his own and I thought his parents were handling the situation with aplomb. When I was a little older, and getting my period, I resolved that I would be constantly pregnant as an adult, because anything was better than wearing pads for a week at a time. I’m pretty sure the adoption idea, though, came from one of my favorite books, which was, embarrassingly, called Baby Island, and now that I think of it, probably pretty strongly indicated that I wasn’t headed to a Ph.D.

From what I can recall, Baby Island is about a group of kids who survive a shipwreck with a bunch of babies. (On one hand, it seems like a bad idea to hand off your infants to a lifeboat full of kids, but I guess if you’re that sort of parent, you might as well take your chances.) Anyway, these kids grow to love the babies as their own, and feed them bananas or whatever, and everyone survives and then they’re rescued and it’s pretty much devastating for the kids to have to give the babies back.

This really struck a chord with me. To have a bunch of babies who really need you? That’s a really good idea.

But not as good of an idea as that of skipping the whole pregnancy bit. First there’s the issue that you have something growing inside of you for about ten months, and you know what? You can’t change your mind once it’s in there. It’s just parasitin’ around, scuba-ing in your uterus and kicking you whenever it feels like it. For every woman who tells me that it feel miraculous to carry a child, there’s another woman who tells me it’s hell. When my best friend from college got pregnant shortly before her wedding, I asked her if she was worried she’d feel sick on her wedding day. She said no, she was sure she’d love being pregnant. I laughed, but at the same time, I had a feeling she was right. I, on the other hand, know I’d be in a nervous sweat the entire time, just getting the heebie-jeebies and losing feeling in my legs every time I thought about it.

No one I talk to seems to understand this sentiment. (I also like to ask newly-pregnant women if, when they’re attempting to conceive a child, they panic at the last minute and jump out of bed before the deed is done. I have NEVER had anyone say yes to this, and I can’t imagine why.)

So all of this goes to say that I’m pretty iffy on the whole conception piece. Anyone who’s seen photos of Adam as a kid, or, better, read anything he wrote as a child, would think that I’m out of my mind, and that I should be gunning for a little tow-haired poet. But my DNA is the Taliban of modern genetics; you can shove it around all you want, throwing powerful weaponry  and money at it, but, ultimately, our child would, surely, emerge with dark, cowlicked hair, a few zits, 20/60 vision and a copy of Baby Island, all covered in embryonic fluid.

I’ve so far changed my mind twice, for a total of about eight hours, thankfully never when Adam was around to start the conception process. The first was during the birthing episode of Bethenny Getting Married? One day she’s just a beverage magnate and reality TV star, and the next thing you know, all of her dreams are coming true. AND I THINK IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF THAT BABY. The second was last week. I was in San Diego, hanging out with a bunch of my high school friends, and they almost all have kids now, and they were all complaining about how tired they were and that the never got to hang out with their friends anymore, and they were getting super-wasted off margaritas, and I wasn’t getting drunk at all, because my life still involves happy hour four nights a week, and maybe it was just the genius thinking that I’d be drunk if I didn’t get to drink so much, and so maybe something should force me to stop, but…I  thought maybe it was time for a change.

So we all go out to a bachelorette party, and one of the moms throws up and then falls face-first into her suitcase, and we all get barely any sleep, and the next day I go on a walk to my grandma’s house to get some hangover snacks, and on the way I call Adam to tell him that I’ve given it some serious thought, and it’s time to buy a house and have a baby.

And Adam, bless his heart, says, “I’m going to acknowledge that you said this, and file it away.”

Which is when I start crying. In my grandma’s driveway. With about five hours of sleep under my belt. Because my husband, who is 500 miles away, doesn’t want to knock up his hungover, sleep-deprived wife, who not four months earlier had announced that she refused to talk about having children until she was 32 years old…for her own mental health.

I told him that I felt like I’d asked him out and he’d said, “Maybe.”

So then I forced him to reassure me that he’d love to have a baby with me, any time.

Then I took a nap, and it was all over.

Your move, Bethenny.

An invite to disaster

Adam and I are getting married in five weeks. I know this because our friends Dan and Abbey are getting married one month before us, and my justification for not planning anything has always been, "Dude, Dan and Abbey aren't even married yet."

So of course I knew I'd have a breakdown right after their ceremony. Others would be crying with elation for the happy couple; I'd be crying because I hadn't locked down anyone to do hair yet. (I also know, from "simultaneously" planning weddings with Abbey, that theirs is going to be kickass in all the ways ours is not. They have a THEME. They have COLORS. I've seen her to-do list. Their wedding is going to be like the Oscars, the time Bjork wore the swan costume. People are going to talk.)

I thought this weekend would be a good time to lock some stuff down, so that we could go away next weekend and actually enjoy the multiple choirs and performance art and dogs in tuxedos and custom-made cakes and all the other awesomeness I'm sure will appear. Also, this is the last weekend before our wedding that Adam and I are actually in town and have nothing to do. AND Paige is going on a walk-through for us on Tuesday, and asked for a timeline of the day in advance. I promised her I'd get it done, because if you're not answering to Paige, you're answering to no one.

I also thought it was relatively perfect timing because we FINALLY have everything we need to get our invitations out. The invitations have been a work in progress for over a month. I had this grandiose idea for them, one that involved me learning calligraphy. Obviously, that didn't pan out. The backup plan was using something called a "computer" to address the envelopes, and since I'm the one with all this administrative experience burning a hole in my ballgown, it was up to me to do the mail merge.

Well, I put it off. Adam designed the envelopes a week ago, but since 40 percent of my guest list has moved since the save-the-dates went out, it took me some time to come up with a decent list. I was frantically texting friends who were obviously out DOING SOMETHING with their Saturday nights, begging them to back away from that guy and text me back a new address, STAT! And then it was 8:45 pm. Time to print. Adam's sore throat meant that he would stay behind, and I'd venture to Kinko's on my own. And Kinko's, my friends, closes at 9 on Saturdays. The guy behind the counter's glare dared me to enter.

But whatever. There's always Sunday. I'd print them at 9 am, when Kinko's opened, and we'd have a restful day stuffing envelopes and drinking tea with honey. But of course I can't leave the house before noon on Sunday. And we get to Kinko's and I announce what we're there to do, and the two guys working there look TOTALLY BAFFLED and then tell me that they only print on 8.5 x 11. I'd really be better off with an ink-jet printer...like the kind people have at home.

Let me say this about this. That Kinko's was totally empty, and paying two adults a salary. MAYBE THAT'S BECAUSE THEY TELL PEOPLE TO GO HOME AND USE THEIR OWN PRINTER.

I have a mini-fit. All I want to do is kill. Or mail some invitations. SOMETHING has to move forward with this wedding, and Lord knows it's not going to be finding a bra that's appropriate for my dress. I want to accomplish something that I can TALK about. (At work, I mean.) (Also, 40 bucks says I never find that bra and just end up skipping it.)

Anyway, Adam and I split up and reunite at home. He arrives after I do, toting the most glorious, lucky find in the entire world: a printer.

He found it on the street. On top of a trash can. It was like God wanted people to receive our invitations on Tuesday.

We're only missing one thing at this point, and that's a cable to connect laptop to printer. Adam has one at work, but that's all the way in Berkeley, and we're COMMITTED to getting these things out this weekend. So we decide to rent a car and swing by the Office Depot on the way to Adam's appointment at Urgent Care.

All is going well. We have a printer, we're able to get a car for enough time to fit everything in, we traipse into Office Depot and immediately find what we need (including almost $60 in black ink) and I get Adam to Kaiser in time.

I'm super-giddy. And even though I know that I'm so so so bad at these things, and even though I'm sure Adam didn't expect I'd ever be able to do it....I tried to hook up that printer.

But you know those plastic cases that computer cables come in? The hard, bendy plastic that you have to cut open? I was JUST THINKING how dumb it was that they put paper over the contents, because who can tell where you're cutting? when...

I cut the damn cable.

I cut the cable in TWO places, because it was looped over.

I can't believe I did that.

And the Office Depot is over a mile away, and it's cold out today, and I already RENTED a car today, and Adam will be home any minute.

So I decide to try to splice it.

Luckily, he got home before I found any electrical tape. I mean, I would have just taped the two ends together. He almost fell on the floor laughing. (And I got out of ever being in charge of a project like this ever again.)

But then, this kid takes out a knife and starts peeling the rubber off the cords, and exposes, like, 100 wires, and then cuts THOSE open and then twists together five wires and came up with this totally hood connection that he swore wouldn't work, but it DID. That damn printer turned on! And it prints!

But it doesn't print envelopes as thick as the ones we have. It gets all the way to the return address, then it chokes and starts mangling it.

So there you have it. Maybe someday, some of you will be invited to our wedding. But it might not be this week. AND NONE OF THAT WAS OUR FAULT.

Blogging Sux

Here's the thing about blogging: One only feels like doing it in the heat of the moment. A gajillion blog post ideas run through my head when I'm stuck in line at the grocery store, or watching some moron at the gym, or, strangely, when I'm in the shower in the morning. But since I no longer have 8-10 totally free hours, alone, every day, those incidents are usually followed by going home and cooking dinner, or going home and taking a shower, or getting out of the shower and getting dressed and going to work. And while I certainly have blog post ideas at work during the day, I'm not so sure work-blogging is a very good idea. I feel guilty enough reading all of YOUR blog posts during the workday.

But the other thing that makes me feel guilty is all of you who have put me on your blogrolls, especially the ones that have the feature that note when the last update was. Four weeks ago. I was so proud of writing that. I wrote that before Adam got out of bed, and it made me feel like my entire weekend was accomplished. Because that was the point of the blog in the first place: to make me feel like I'd actually DONE something with my day, while all the rest of you were out being Productive Members of Society.

And now there's no escaping it. I used to track how many visitors a day I got (almost 300 the day after I posted that Adam and I got engaged!), and I just tried to go to that same tracking website to issue a comparison, but I can't even remember the name of it, so there goes that. What do I do? Take the blog down? I can't tell if that's more like cheating or giving up. What if one day I want to take on a multi-national corporation? Surely I should have a better platform than Facebook.

Also, I feel like I owe the people whose blogs I faithfully turn to daily, either at my 10:30 am snack break or my inevitable 3:45 pm slump. My days are better when you've posted an update. I really do want to know how your freak diet is going, or if you've passed the test you've secretly been studying for for months, or, best, what miracle your child has accomplished this week. My blog world is remarkably small, and I know everyone in it...except that Dooce woman. I love her, too.

So let's consider this a resurgence, because all the rest of you find time in your life to do things besides work and watch Must See TV.

Wicked thoughts

I think that as I get older, I get more and more frustrated with the people around me. It could just be that I'm in a bigger city and just spend more time every day being jostled around, but I'm now pretty intolerant, on the whole. Things like people swerving around on the sidewalk during the morning commute (especially if they're wearing headphones, which reduces the ability to sense someone trying to pass them) drive me up the wall. It's not a good way to go through life.

For Christmas, Adam got us great tickets to see Wicked. I was sitting next to two women with looooooooong French-tip manicures. Obviously, you all know the sort. And, despite the fact that they were in their 50s, one of them was toting a Bebe bag. I hope she had been shopping for her daughter, but her manicure indicates otherwise.

Their pre-show conversation mostly consisted of discussing where the odd-numbered seats were, since both of theirs were even. They also talked about turning off their phones--although they settled instead on just setting them to volume level 1. But the real kicker was when they started going through the Playbill. There was an ad for the movie release of The Lovely Bones, and one woman asked the other what it was about. She replied that it's about a girl who's murdered and tries to come back to help her family solve the crime. My neighbor asked her if it was a true story.

"I think they're telling us to call for help..."

I know it's been a long while since I've written anything, but when I received THIS over the New Year's weekend, I knew we were back in the game.

Many thanks to Abby Bridges, without whose decision to move to Brooklyn we may never have seen another set of Ikea instructions, and also to Liz "The Prototype" Peterson, whose diligence in chair assembly reminds us all to always, ALWAYS wear shoes when engaged in any sort of project that requires an Allen wrench.

Hopenhagen or Nopenhagen?

This was forwarded on to me from a co-worker, who says the author is a law student at the University of Oregon who's also working with the UN around the climate talks. A follow-up e mail indicated it was tough to get through on the White House line; try http://www.whitehouse.gov/CONTACT if you're interested in taking action.


Hopenhagen or Nopenhagen?

All,

As I write this, we are down to three days here at the Copenhagen climate talks. And I am afraid to say that there is almost no reason to be encouraged. Everybody has card to put on the table but no one is playing.

Actually, not everybody has cards. The Least Developed Countries, the poorest of the poor, and the Association of Small Island States, also mostly poor, have little to offer beyond their presence. Their emissions are so small they can offer little in the way of mitigation. They come asking for help to adapt as weather patterns change, storms grow and seas rise. They are being offered a tiny fraction of what economists say they will need. The only card they have to play is to pack up and leave, refusing to sign on to a national suicide pact. Their presence here is now on a hair trigger.

To gain some influence in the talks, they are aligned with a large group of developing countries that goes by the name of the G77. Other than the poorest countries, this group includes what have become known as the BASIC countries. Those letters (kind of) stand for the names of the biggest of the emerging economies: Brazil, South Africa, India and China. These countries have emissions profiles that are distinctive for a combination of four factors. They represent a significant portion of current global emissions and a large portion of future emissions growth, but they do not represent a significant proportion of historic emissions and their per capita emissions levels are far below the developed world. Each of these countries has made significant pledges to slow the growth of their emissions, but refuse to set absolute limits on growth for economies that includes hundreds of millions of people that still live below income levels of two dollars per day.

Distinctive among this group is China, now the world’s largest emitter, right behind the U.S. China is the largest emitter and greatest source of emissions growth, but relatively small in terms of historic emissions and per capita emissions. Chinese emissions are still one-quarter of the U.S per person. The U.S. has made China the prime target of these talks. China has proposed to reduce its emissions intensity – the amount of carbon emitted per unit of economic activity -- by 40-45% by 2020. That is a significant contribution. If implemented and assuming the U.S. gets one of the bills now before Congress passed and implemented, China will still have emissions less than half per U.S. person in 2020. But the U.S. is pushing measurement, reporting and verification of that promise. China is resisting throwing its economy open to outside review. I hope China will move on this issue, but it is certain they will not move before others, especially the U.S. puts more on the table.

There is one last group of G77 countries. They are largely oil producers led by Saudi Arabia. For the most part they are here to stop anything from happening to the oil industry. They are not afraid to take undisguised action to slow or stop the process. In the end though, they don’t have enough power alone to sink these talks.

First among developed countries is the European Union. The EU is perhaps the most transparent group here. But their pledge of 20% reduction from 1990 levels is not what it seems. The EU moves as a bloc of countries and includes Eastern European countries that had high post-Soviet emissions in 1990. Many of those countries are significantly below those levels now, allowing other EU countries higher emissions while still claiming overall reductions. But the EU is likely to move to a 30% reduction if other developing countries move further.

Of course the meaning of 30% depends on how you count. The biggest factor on counting is international offsets. Those currently come in the form of financing projects in other countries for the benefit of emission reduction credits at home. A new deal could significantly expand these offsets while also including a bunch of new credits from forestry projects in developing countries. My biggest worry for the last month has been that some kind of weak forest deal will get done here and be sold to the public as saving the forest to save the climate. So far what is on the table on forests is largely a greenwash for covering up general inaction.

After the EU comes a group of developed countries called the Umbrella Group, including Japan, Russia, Canada, Australia. These countries are a mixed bag. Canada is horrible and claims it is horrible because the U.S. is horrible. Russia is sitting on a load of hot air. That is the term for the emissions credits based on those higher 1990 levels that I talked about earlier. Russia can claim to reduce emissions about 40% below 1990 levels while nonetheless actually increasing emissions and selling that hot air to polluting countries. Japan under its new government might have a reasonable plan on the table but has been obstructive in negotiations. Australia embraces the general lack of ambition.

So it is clear, given this lack of action on the part of the rich countries that caused the climate problem in the first place, why developing countries say they need to see the rich countries move before they do.

Which brings me to the U.S. We are now proposing to reduce emissions a miserable 3-4% below 1990 levels. We have put no solid financing numbers on the table to help developing countries mitigate their emissions or adapt to the climate problem we helped create. We generally advocate for the biggest loopholes in the rules. Sometimes we even block proposals that everyone except OPEC supports. And we seem to be saying that we won’t pledge anything more, especially without China doing more. It is embarrassing to be an American at talks like these. I am incapable of defending my country’s actions.

What is especially frustrating is that about half of the biggest, richest environmental groups from the U.S. continue to back the U.S. negotiating position. They are like a broken record that argues that we can’t take strong action in Copenhagen because then the Senate will be scared off from passing a climate bill in the U.S. Arrgh! People used to say we needed a strong bill in the Senate to get a strong deal in Copenhagen. Now we are hearing we need a weak agreement in Copenhagen to get any bill in the Senate at all.

So it is easy to see why I say there is almost no reason to be encouraged. Almost no reason. Let me point out the cracks of light. First, other than the elites that run the show here, the world largely supports strong action on an international climate deal. The hundred thousand or so in the streets here on Saturday were just one example. Next the people I work with everyday are tireless, fierce and refuse to take no for an answer. It is almost impossible of believe that this level of dedication can fail. And finally, a solution lies in the hands of one man who can change everything.

President Obama could come here and unlock a deal that is fair, ambitious and legally binding. He could instruct negotiators to stop creating loopholes and blocking honest progress. He could commit to go beyond the weak levels proposed in the current bills before Congress. He could pledge to raise funds to help the world’s most vulnerable adapt to a problem that was created by our American lifestyles of consumption. He could sign up to a deal that has real consequences for the failure to meet commitments.

The amount of goodwill that would be unlocked in the world from the result of such action would be like a flood. So many people are waiting for leadership. There is a vast ocean of positive action held back by a dam of fear and self-interest. The kind of deal the world needs is all on paper right now in brackets; it simply needs to be released from those brackets, to be agreed. The leaders of 110 countries are arriving already. Everybody necessary to tackle this greatest of all problems head on will be in the same city on the same day with the same purpose. This can still happen.

When so many people all want the same thing and their leaders fail to deliver, it rocks my faith in democracy to the core. But I am not a quitter. Let me try one more time. Let’s give this guy one more chance to really be different. We effectively have three more days there in the U.S. to ask for what we want. So I am going to ask you to help.

I know, it seems like such a weak response to such a big problem, but let’s at least try. Let’s try everything we can to get the message to Obama that we want real leadership on this issue. Many of you have been asking me if you can share my emails. I am not only giving you permission to share or publish this email anywhere you want, I am asking you to please do so. Please share this email with anyone you think might care.

Then I am asking you to make that one phone call a day until this deal is done – White House switchboard – 1-202-456-1111. “President Obama, please show real leadership on the climate issue, not just a greenwash deal. Deepen our cuts, put long-term funding on the table and stop waiting for other countries to go first. Prove that America is the world leader we always claim.”

Again, I know it is a small effort on such a big problem, a forwarded email and three one-minute phone calls. But don’t let its small nature stop you. The Earth needs people who care more than ever. Rare moments in history arise when the way forward appears as a fork in the road. We’ll never know what might have or failed to have tipped the balance.

Please give a little push with me.

Tim Ream

Copenhagen

15 December, 2009

Forever Your Tree (a live blog)

1:50 pm - Picked up "forever" tree from Nina's house, where it's been surreptitiously stored for six months. We don't have the storage space to receive wedding presents, much less store a six-foot evergreen, however collapsible.

4-5 pm - Braved the Albany Target to find Christmas lights and other flights of Christmas fancy. Christmas fancy was in short supply.

5:57 pm - Adam hauled disassembled tree up three flights of stairs to apartment.

6 - 8:30 pm - Recovered from tree trip.

8:30 pm - Discussed turning off Tough Love 2 in favor of decorating tree.

9 pm - Adam started piecing together tree. Found multiple plugs attached to its pre-lit limbs. More plugs than holes in which to insert. Luckily, found note attached to tree:


Question: If this tree is dangerous enough that one should wash one's hands after touching, why is the largest font conveying only that one shouldn't throw away the directions?


9:10 pm - Discover camera is out of batteries. Scrounge used batteries out of other household objects. Adam starts taking pictures of...stuff. Amy says batteries should be saved for something Christmasy. Adam takes this photo:


9:24 pm - Began adding hooks to Target-purchased $5 ornament set. Amy feels dumb because she can't find a hole in which to stick a hook. Discovers it was just her unfortunate luck that she got a defective first ornament—the Chinese didn't drill the hole all the way through. Proceeds with same procedure she used on her belly button piercing when it closed up in 2001—poking hard with sharp object.


9:27 pm - Began adding last year's tree decorations—Adam's collection of tiny Muppets. Kermit got the topper position. Obvi.


9:28 pm - Added the two actual ornaments we've procured this year (for a grand total of two): a Mickey Mouse hat (from Amy's birthday at Disneyland) and Michael Jackson (which Amy found in Old Town San Diego, and called Adam to declare that, in all the time they're married, he'll never receive a better gift).


Et, viola:

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?

Update from the Berlin - couple, and a response

Dear Amy !
We're sitting in front of our desk and thinking to you !
How are you, are you still working in the San Fran - City Hall ? It would be nice to hear from you and how your life is going on.
Have you been in holidays and what have you done ?
We hope, your are still fine ...

Greetings from the Berlin - couple

Sonja + Torsten

**************

Dear Sonja and Torsten,

I was just thinking about you today, as well. Adam and I decided to get married. The reasons to outweighed the reasons not to. For example:

1. If I got him excited enough about going shopping for a ring, I might not have to do the breakfast dishes.


2. Last week his mom promised us a Cuisinart as a wedding gift. Apparently all her kids get one when they get married.
   

The egg is still congealing in the sink, and eight hours later, I'm rocking the bling and he's pacing the kitchen, being driven crazy that we don't have a full set of clean plates. In our marriage, which habit will crack first? His need to have a completely clean apartment before any fun can be had, or my belief that as long as you have one dish to put your meal on, you're still sitting pretty?

Anyway, you don't care about the cleanliness of our apartment. It turns out that getting engaged is pretty tough. Neither of us had really planned for today to be the day that we made a commitment, but, then again, when I asked him to make breakfast, I didn't anticipate him using quite so many pots and pans. And, really, why do you need to whip eggs in a separate bowl? What's wrong with just stirring them in the pan?

So we made this big decision, and while I'd never really thought I wanted an engagement ring, it turns out you kind of need one as a reminder that something's actually changed, especially if the plan isn't to traipse down to City Hall tomorrow morning. I've never understood how people wore solitaires without ripping holes in all of their sweaters, and how do you put on mittens over those things?

Google was no help, and yielded only flashbacks of that horrid commercial where the woman squeals to her roommate, "HE WENT TO JARED!" Yelp is a decidedly more hippie way to search for jewelry. But not as hippie as the cashier at a local clothing store, Aviva, who lectured me to immediately begin looking for a dress and to find a way to get into the jewelry mart. I told her I needed to get a ring TODAY. She looked at me like I was a moron, but produced a list of stores that either exhibited local jewelry artists or sold antiques.

There's a lot of hippie crap out there.

We ended up finding the ring at a place called Brand X, in the Castro, across from what used to be Harvey Milk's camera shop. It's been in business for 47 years, and the proprietor has still shots of the movie on display—every time there's a scene in the camera store, you can see Brand X in the background. In addition to hundreds of antique rings, the store also sells old-school explicit gay posters, antique Major League Baseball schedules, old Pez dispensers...It's kind of a miracle of a shop.

The owner, Fred, listened to my list of criteria and pulled out the ring we ended up getting on the first try.

Adam didn't think that making the decision to get married over breakfast was romantic enough (you may recall that he's from the South) (Also, he has no idea how well he makes eggs), so we walked up to Corona Heights, which has a view of the city, and he proposed there. I laughed most of the time.

And now, while we could be getting wasted in celebration, I'm E-MAILING. There's perfectly good champagne in the fridge.

Then again, I notice that Adam has chosen to leave the dishes where they were. Our first compromise? How romantic.

Your friend,
Amy

PS I think, to REALLY freak Aviva out, I'm going to come back into her store next week and tell her I need to buy a wedding dress THERE, THAT DAY.

Dog on...God and Career Paths

The Dog is fired from his job as a door-to-door vacuum salesman because of his criminal past, humiliating him in front of his momma:

"When I got home, I got down on my knees to pray to God.

"'Lord, is this what You want? Because of You, I became the best vacuum salesman in the world. But now, that's no longer an option.'

...

"The Lord spoke to me and said, 'I will make you fishers of men. Follow Me, Duane. Who was the greatest bounty hunter of all? Jesus Christ.'"

- From You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

Dog on...The Importance of Branding

It's not like some genius A&E producer was on vacation in Hawaii and stumbled upon the Dog on her way to the luau. Before the Dog came along, A&E ran arts documentaries and classic movies...I'm pretty sure. But, you know, the Dog is used to being kicked around. He knew that he'd have to fulfill his OWN destiny if he was going to become famous. And that's why, before taking on the allegedly high-stakes bounty that made him allegedly famous, the Dog appeared on several cable news shows, headlined by people I've never heard of. How did he book them? His wife e mailed the producers pictures of the Dog. As I'm sure you can tell, that was enough.

And now we never feel the constant Channel 47 pressure to watch any movie that might be classified as "film." Thank you, Dog.

And here's how he did it:

"'As I got ready for the interview [with The Rita Cosby Show], Beth and I tried to figure out what I would wear so Luster would know I was coming.

"'How about this for the interview, honey?' I stepped out wearing my leather vest and no shirt.

"'You look hot, Big Daddy! Absolutely!' She loved the way I looked. I just wanted Luster to know I was no joke. I knew he was watching.

...

The fugitive Luster's lawyer attempts to question the Dog's credentials while on the show: "'Who are you? No one even knows who you are.'

"'I am Dog the Bounty Hunter. My job is to catch fugitives on the run.'

"'Job? What job? Who do you work for?'

"'The state of California,' I said. 'When I bring Luster in, he's worth fifteen percent of his bond.'

"'You sound more like a bounty hunter seeking the spotlight than you do a bona fide member of law enforcement. What are your credentials?'

"'If you want to know who I am, check out my Web site, www.dogthebountyhunter.com.' I could see Beth off camera pumping her fist in the air in victory. Just like in my old boxing days, I took this round clean and true."

Dog on...Media Relations

Before the Dog jumped into the hunt that would make him famous, he first booked some TV appearances. The first was some show called Catherine Crier Live.

"Catherine Crier asked me some tough questions on the air, but the one that stood out was when she dismissively asked, 'So how would you catch Andrew Luster?'

"I looked deadpan into the camera, my eyes hidden behind my trademark black Oakleys so Luster couldn't see my eyes, and said, 'Run, Luster, run.'

"'Obviously, Dog. But if you could say something to Andrew Luster right now, what would it be?' Crier seemed doubtful I was up to the task.

"'You better run and hide, 'cause the Dog is coming after you.'"

- From You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

Dog on...Intimidation

The Dog is inexplicably hated in his native Denver:

"One day I was out collecting a thousand dollars from one of my clients in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven in Denver. We were making the exchange when I noticed a couple of guys approaching us wearing camouflage jackets and baseball hats that had big bold letters on the front: BEA. They both carried two guns strapped to their hips. When I first caught a glimpse of them, I thought their hats said DEA. I'm sure the exchange of cash looked like a drug deal was going down. To make matters worse, I didn't have my badge on me.

"One of the two approached me and asked, 'What are you guys doing out here?'

"I took off my sunglasses, handed them to my client, and said, 'Here, honey, hold these for me.'

"As I turned around, I realized their hats said BEA and said, 'BEA. What the hell does that stand for?'

"'Bail bonds Enforcement Agent.'

"I asked the guy, 'You got any Vaseline on you? Because I'm Dog Chapman and those guns you got are going up your ass.'

"When I started walking toward them, they turned and ran to their cars screaming, 'Run, it's the Dog!!'"

- From You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

Dog on...Publicity Tactics

"People started flocking to Free as a Bird Bail Bonds. We jammed music every morning while I walked my gigantic pet lizard on a leash up and down the sidewalk in front of the other bail bonds offices to get attention."

"When we walked through the door [of a trade association meeting], every head in the joint turned to see us standing there. It was great. I was dressed in a long black leather trench coat, looking like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, while Beth, well, was Beth. She wore a low-cut, revealing top and high heels that resonated off the linoleum like gunshots with every step she took."

- From You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

Words of Marital Wisdom from Dog the Bounty Hunter

The single best (physical) present I received on my birthday was a paperback copy of the #1 New York Times bestseller, You Can Run But You Can't Hide, by Duane "Dog" Chapman.

It's no secret that I've taken to the reality TV since moving to California, but watching Dog the Bounty Hunter is one of my guiltier pleasures. It really might be the most underrated reality show on television. Dog is an ex-con who hunts down fugitives with his family, his golden mullet, and several cans of Mace. It's not fair to call his family trashy, except for that I'm fairly certain Dog would describe them the same way. His partner is his wife, Beth, whom he's described as "racktacular" and who has those talon-like fingernails and stiletto heels that could only pass as appropriate in a roadside casino outside of Las Vegas...certainly not suburban Hawaii, where they operate.

But no matter, because Beth is my favorite character on the show. After beating a fugitive to the ground, she then nestles them to her enormous bosom and gives them a lecture about making good choices in life. I really couldn't think of a better partner for Dog...which is good, because he's definitely tried others. And so, for the first post of what will obviously be many about Dog the Bounty Hunter, a rundown of the Dog's wives:

- LaFonda, his first betrothed, whom he met and married at the age of 17 in Denver. His first impression of LaFonda, in a mall, was that she "had long brown hair and an unbelievable rack." LaFonda had two of his children, but ended up leaving the Dog for his best friend while he was in jail for murdering a man. (He didn't pull the trigger--stupid Colorado laws!)

- Ann, whom the Dog considers to be the first person he slept with when he got out of prison. (He's not counting hookers, of course.) They did it in his car, obviously, she announced she was only 17, and then announced she was pregnant. So as to avoid a trip to jail for rape ("Seventeen gets you thirty."), the Dog marries her: "Note to self: Don't marry the first woman you sleep with after prison. In fact, you probably shouldn't marry the second, third, or fourth one, either. ... It was only later that I found out: Seventeen was legal in Colorado!"

- Lyssa, whom the Dog meets in a bar in the midst of his divorce proceedings, and makes Dog realize that he needed to be with someone who, like his Mamma, understood God. (If you didn't know it, "Dog" is "God" backwards.) "When Lyssa told me she understood the Lord, I offered her a thousand bucks on the spot to have my baby. I was serious, too! I promised her she'd enjoy the experience, and even told her she could visit the baby whenever she wanted. Believe it or not, she said yes! ... Lyssa got pregnant right away." (BTW, if you're watching the show, don't confuse Lyssa with BABY LYSSA, her daughter.)

At this point, we learn that Beth, Dog's eventual wife, is somewhat of a stalker. The year is 1988, and Beth pops up into the picture. She makes quite the impression, mostly because of her breast size (although Dog quite chivalrously notes that he "had quite a thing for smart women--especially smart women with big tits."). In 1988, Dog is married to kind of a peripheral woman, his secretary, Tawny. He's falling pretty hard for Beth, but, in the spirit of his vows, points out, "I had just gotten married again. I didn't think I had room for another woman." But Beth keeps popping up, showing up in his home to tell him that Tawny's on drugs, trying to move in, inviting the Dog and all his puppies to move into her house. Finally, Dog gives in, after an episode of neck-licking (I'm not kidding) in an alley in Denver. But mostly, Beth keeps the Dog grounded: "Whenever Beth calls me Big Daddy, I know she's being sincere and I'd best pay attention."

I'll tell you about their wedding later.