REVEALED! Part 2

Well, well (yawn), is it November 30th already?

Heh. Kidding.

OK, where we we? Oh, yes, the Velvet Finger...

5) True. I was not some horrible Bridezilla, I swear. But the gorgeous park and reception hall that we chose for our wedding came with an event/catering company that provided the food, chairs, linens, sound equipment, etc. And, although I could write a NaBloPoMo's worth of posts on this alone, suffice to say that they were...less than pleasant to work with. They basically did a bait and switch about the cost, then told us that they weren't sure that working with us would be worth their time, since we were trying to work with a budget. THEN, they proceeded to screw up about ten things on the day of the wedding, including serving the wrong food and having a failing sound system (luckily, I had actors in my wedding party who were able to project across a large space without such piddly things as microphones). Anyway, being the kind of Virgo, first-born, anal person that I am, I brought my contract to the wedding, and so was able to make note of all the things that were wrong. When we got the bill, they had overcharged us by over $1500. Is this a good time to mention that I had worked in an accounting office for a while? So I pulled out my handy Excel spreadsheet and went line by line through the bill and the contract and e-mailed them off to Lynn, the coordinator. When she called to go over the bill, she clearly was hoping that we could just breeze through things like $200 for printed napkins ("I didn't order those." "Well, we had them printed, so we're out the money for the printing now, so..." Like I was going to say, "Oh, well, I didn't realize! Let us pay for those. And here's a C-note, just because."). Instead, I kept her on the phone for an hour, disputing each and every inflated or mistaken charge. Politely, but very, very firmly. By the end, I did feel bad, because Lynn was in tears. To her credit, however, when she made a statement to the effect of how stressful this was and how her boss was really riding her, I started with, "I'm sorry, but--" and she finished for me: "...it's not your responsibility." Booyah.

Hm. I've just realized that story is really only interesting to me, and possibly to my sister, who is getting married next fall. Ah, well. I've typed it all out and I'm not fool enough to try revisions at 10 PM, not with five more questions to answer! Onward!!

6) False. False, false (slight gag), false. I have many texture/flavor issues with food, and if it's white and creamy and not vanilla frosting, I want no part of it. Exception that proves the rule, and possibly eliminates me from your fancy dinner party invite list: I do enjoy a healthy dollop of Miracle Whip on sandwiches, in tuna salad, etc. What can I say? I'm a sucker for the zip. Of the Whip.

7) True (allergic to cats), false (allergic to shellfish), and true (refrain from consumption of either). I am well aware of the miracle food that is fish, omega oils, blah blah blah, and am really working on expanding my seafood repertoire. It currently includes canned tuna, ahi, mahi-mahi, and swordfish (why, hello, mercury poisoning...loved your work with Jeremy Piven...). I can occasionally enjoy shrimp (the plural of which I like to believe is "shrimps," as is written on the menu of my favorite Thai place), but I confess to squeamishness about all other manner of seafood. Scallops, for some reason, especially give me the wig, as they resemble marshmallows. Salty, fishy marshmallows. Urp.

8) True. Well, mostly. I believe we attended a Peter, Paul, and Mary concert with our parents when we were small, but I'm counting "first concert" as the first concert I chose to attend. My sister and I discovered the Monkees through Nickelodeon's re-runs and were fanatic about them, in the way only prepubescent girls can love something. Like, we bought the re-issues of Tiger Beat that had run back in 1969. You know, when the Monkees actually were twenty. Somehow, the "flashback" aspect of all of this eluded us. Like, I knew that the show was old, because no-one wore plaid bellbottoms and Nehru jackets anymore. But somehow there was road construction in my brain between that thought and the idea that this meant that Micky (the wacky comedian, my personal favorite at the time, although as an adult I adore Mike, the deadpan Texan) was not actually twenty, but forty. And thus, old enough to be my dad. I suspect it was this leap that my brain was unwilling to make, and so I just plastered my walls with their pictures and listened to the albums until I'm sure my parents, having already lived through Monkeemania--you know, the first time--were ready to put me on that last train to Clarksville. Anyway, God bless my dad, who braved squealing preteens and their screaming moms (!) to sit through three-fourths of a band from twenty years ago performing schtick that wasn't original then. Preceded by Weird Al Fucking Yankovic.

9) True. I dunno. I was two when the first movie came out, and then...I was into the Monkees, apparently. So I never saw Star Wars. What? It was only in college, when I began to find my geek posse, that this became an issue. For guys. This was incomprehensible to them, and explaining that I'd seen all the John Hughes movies seventeen time each didn't cut any ice. And yet, those guys who were most insistent about the need to show me this pinnacle of filmdom were the ones who made me think that it was romantically cursed.

First, there was Jeff, who I fell for in a stupid, moon-eyed way. I'd visited Chicago on school breaks, and we'd been hanging out and I was absolutely besotted. So imagine my surprise (read: dramatic tears and Tori Amos songs playing in my head) when I came home for the next break and learned he had started dating this redheaded waif and that she would be joining us for movie night. So yes, technically, at 19, I was in the same room with Star Wars playing, but I didn't watch it. I was too busy watching this couple across the room, this couple that I had been a month earlier, only now my part was being played by someone prettier, skinnier, hipper (and, as my well-meaning friend pointed out in a colassal foot-in-mouth moment: "just a very sexually...open...person." Oh. Good thing those words won't, like, haunt me for the next three years, or anything.).

Fast forward two years to Matt, my boyfriend at the end of college. We were dating as the prequels/sequels/whatthefuckEVER, Lucas were about to come out, and he had this whole plan to show me the three existing SW movies. I explained the Jeff story, and he reassured me this would be a very different experience. Oh, the plans we made!

Then he broke up with me. On graduation night. While my sister slept in the other room. About four hours before he was supposed to help me and my family move out of my apartment. Because--get this--he was "a different person" when he was with me than when he wasn't with me. "Well, do you like who you are when you're with me?" Pause. "No."

OK, then! I'm sure that won't do any lasting damage to a young woman's self-esteem! Thank you for your candor!

Given this as a background, you can imagine my reaction when, a few months into dating, MOTH was all, "You haven't seen Star Wars?!" I did eventually watch all three movies with him, but only after I'd secured a promise that he would not break up with me in some horrible way. So far, so good. But if we split up, you know why...the Curse! (cue lightning flash, maniacal laughter)

10) Um, true, but you knew that anyway, right?


Ta-da! Done, and just a click away from successfully completing NaBloPoMo! I feel like this is the place for some reflection on the past month, on my foray into blogging, on the joy and honor I feel, being so welcomed into the blogosphere...but hell, I gotta save something for December, right?