Good News

Good news! I finally got that soon-to-be best-selling novel accepted. It's coming out in September. I like my privacy, and a certain air of mystery, so I used four pseudonyms. I just want to live my life like a normal person, you know? I haven't finalized my Rio plans, but I'll have to do the book tour and stuff, so it may be a while.

Here's a quick recap of my summer:

-Wrote and published novel.
-Ernie's out of his cast and back outside. He's basically forgotten we exist.
-My best friend is getting married in a week.
-Mike just had hernia surgery, and is recovering by teaching his new first graders, running the after school program, and starting a masters program.

(in less groin-challenged days)
-I started a new jobby-job that I love. Besides best-selling novelist, I mean--still waiting on those royalties...

How have you all been? (You don't have to answer if you're Jen, because you've actually been keeping up with your blog and you just started school, or if you're Logan, since we're giving each other the silent treatment--you because you're lame, me because you're lame).

Food for Thought

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2005/07/11/DDGGEDL8E61.DTL

For me, not for you! Unless you, too, think you might write a bestselling book of literary fiction (novel, short stories, I'm not picky) one day soon and retire to Rio de Janeiro.

Ka-boom!!

I apologize if I gave people the impression that I had more photos of Jen that I've been saving for the finale. You've seen the majority of my stock, although there is a very cute photo of Jen and her brother that I couldn't find (they drove in 100+ degree heat to visit me at my work place in the Sierras, then drove me to civilization to see a movie). Clearly the generosity runs in the family.



This is one of my favorite gifts ever. I get so many compliments on it! Jen and I decided to do a book exchange a couple of years ago, so I sent her a few of my favorites. When she reciporacated a few weeks (maybe months :) later, she sent the books in this darling purse with apologies for her tardiness. One of the best things about this purse is that a book (or a New Yorker, if I'm feeling snooty) easily fits inside with all my other junk. One of the best things about Jen is her self-induced guilty streak, which leads to exellent gifts like the one above. I'm sure she somehow thought I got the short end of the stick, since I'd had to wait for my books (not like I worked in a bookstore at the time or anything).

Jen is also thoughtful, considerate, and wise--which means she always takes your thoughts into consideration, even above her own. She's intelligent, spirited, and self-critical. And she's beautiful! I think Tom Cruise sold himself short when he bought Katie Holmes. He should have held out for Jen, who knows a lot about Scientology (don't deny it!) and is short enough to accommodate a short man's complex. (I'm sorry, Jen, it's true. You're short. But completely adorable and darling! Sometimes you make me feel like an ugly oaf--and that's tough to do with my inflated ego!)

I meant to post more pictures (of gifts and tidbits and whatnot), and I still might. There are more gifts to catalog, more praise to heap on the ever-deserving Jen. (A better finale, surely, could be conjured up by a small child.) So let's not call this finale, which is a little too starbucks for my taste anyway (although Jen has gone a long way toward making starbucks okay for intelligent people). Let's call it aloha, which is hello and goodbye, and also just a general use positive adjective, sort of like smurfy.



PS I am terrible about linking to Jen's site when I mention her, so I went a little overboard here...

JAW takes a short rest before the Finale

I did not plan out Jen Appreciation Week very well, since my long-awaited four day vacation falls in the middle of it. However, I will be back Tuesday with the finale, and I'll try to make it worth the wait. Here's a little pic to keep you company until then...



Jen walking down the aisle with Dylan. Jen and I knew Dylan in college, freshman year, and then my husband became good friends with him when they lived together three years later. He consistently tried to get my husband in bed, but Mike held firm to his belief that he's hetero.

For the wedding, in addition to planning up a storm, Jen gave me a wedding survival kit--the cutest toiletry bag you've ever seen with everything I might need inside. I'll post a picture next week.

Jen is the kind of person...

Jen is the kind of person that spends hours of her personal time planning your bachelorette party. She finds the sweetest, nicest little house in Napa (close to the wine) to rent, with a huge, beautiful backyard and a hot tub for you to soak in when you can't sleep and you're still drunk at 5 a.m. Until people start arriving for church next door and you realize you forgot your bathing suit, and it's just a little wooden fence between you and all the old people with hats (who are doing the right thing, G-D, I know).



She makes a bachelorette party invite that is the Police Synchronicity album (you know how I feel about Sting) and makes everyone bring a drink based on a Synchronicity song. (Or was it any Police song? I can't remember.) This is where the details get fuzzy, because there were many people who contributed to making my bachelorette party fabulous and I certainly don't want to diminish their contributions. I just want Jen to know how much I appreciated her efforts. Here's the gang in our totally rad 80s outfits, relaxing in the lovely breakfast nook of the adorable rental, me and Jen in the backyard, Naomi and Zoran, and everyone at dinner.



Here's a close-up of me and Jen (and a very bad picture of me that I'm posting as a goodwill gesture for upcoming bridesmaid photos).



Jen even made underwear for this event, with Sting on them. Who could ask for more?

And by the way, after knocking herself out on the bachelorette party, she drives 5 hours each way from LA to come to your shower two weeks later.



FYI, this is not the most flattering picture of Jen (she looks bigger at the bottom because she's leaning back), although if you see it close up, you would see her darling smile. I happen to know she doesn't like this photo (but I keep it on my fridge anyway, because what a testament of friendship! 10 hours round trip!) If you scroll back up to the 80s bachelorette outfits, you'll see that Jen wore the same skirt. I love that. I wore the same skirt (pictured here) to my shower and the rehearsal dinner, because Jen made it okay. Also, when Jen wore her 80s outfit, she was sort of like Drew Barrymore in the Wedding Singer. You know, 80s inspired, but still fashion forward. Jen is much cuter than Drew Barrymore, for the record. And that skirt is DKNY City, if I remember correctly.

The sparkly yet elegant calendar, and other fabulous things about Jen

Jen Appreciation Week continues...



This is the daily calendar Jen made for me one year (Christmas 1997 to be specific). It has tabs for each month:



And pretty illustrations throughout that make me feel smart and interesting and culturally aware, which is a good description of how Jen makes me feel in general.



It's one of the best gifts anyone's ever given me. Jen has given me a lot of the best gifts ever, and I think I'll highlight one each day as part of Jen Appreciation Week (although I'll be away Friday - Monday, so JAW is going to be a little sparse in the middle).

Jen is a crazy cat lady like myself, so I know she'll be fine with one more Ernie photo posted during Her Week (perhaps the last before he has his cast removed today).



Do you think I could take him down to the outdoor mall and try to pass him off as a two-legged cat (+ cast)? We could definitely use the money. And we'd donate half the proceeds to Ethel.

Since I'm a little behind on the internet "techonology," my old photos of Jen are taken by my digital camera from "real" photos in my album. Yes, they may have come out better if I'd taken the photos out of their plastic sleeves. But, if Jen doesn't like the photos, it'll be okay because they're so blurry and warped.

Here's us in college, freshman year. Our college had a waltz, which is why we're all dressed up. As I remember, my date (and future boyfriend, sheesh) cancelled on me to have dinner with his ex-girlfriend's parents. I definitely traded up for these three hotties. (Jen is on the right--check out that shoulder action!)



Here's Jen the following year, visiting me in the dorms to watch movies. Isn't she cute, and blurry? (yes, that's a masquerade-type decoration on my wall next to the Maxfield Parish poster. wanna make something of it?)



Jen hung out with me even though I was heinously uncool during this period of my life (mostly attributable to my boyfriend at the time--mentioned above--who had turned my sensibilities upside-down, and to my job as a resident assistant). This picture sort of reminds me of the time freshman year when we all watched a porno for Jen's sociology homework (well, she watched it for homework, the rest of us were just curious). We watched it in a public lounge in the dorms. There were 4 or 5 of us to start, but by the end of the film, the room was packed. It was called Good Girls Do. Remember, Jen?

Tomorrow: Watch as Jen wears the same skirt to two wedding-related events. Also, stay tuned for Jen in a bridesmaid dress.

Jen Appreciation Week

Jen, one of the best friends ever (not just mine--in addition to being one of my own personal closest friends, she is a very good friend to many other people as well) is making me a scarf!

I'm doing this all wrong, because you can't really announce Jen Appreciation Week without photos and the appropriate fanfare, and I need a little time to get that together. But I want you all to know it's coming...

Here's Ernie. He gets his cast off tomorrow. Jen is the kind of good friend that asks about your sick cat, even when her cat is much sicker, and you forgot to do the same recently (but you still think about Ethel all the time, and how hard it is on Jen, and you're hoping for the best and sending good vibes).



Ernie loves Jen, too, and he hasn't even met her! More about Jen, and maybe a little more about Ernie, tommorow.

He said, she said

So once again, the MIBE and I faced off and said... nothing. We may have mumbled "hi" or done a head nod or something. It was excrutiating, and yet expected, so I'm coming to terms with it. Maybe the lesson here is that I can't always pretend I'm a friendly, extroverted person (especially when there's no alcohol involved). Did I mention that the MIBE doesn't drink? He's not recovering or anything, he just never drinks. Is it any wonder we were incompatible?

Hope your conversations are easy and satisfying--I'll be back in earnest later this week.

Hybrid Lady Ursula

We got a car.



It's pretty.

It's a Honda Civic Hybrid, so we feel pretty smug. (Only because we're helping the environment that You created, G-D. You know, save the planet and stuff.) Yes, I've picked up a new way to refer to the Almighty that I hope will be viewed as more respectful.

I don't think I ever shared this with you all (my huge readership), but on the way back from the hollywood wedding, Mike and I stopped at Panda Express. We were actually headed for Togo's when we got derailed by the promise of Gourmet Chinese Food.



PE was slammed with gravitationally challenged people clamoring for their orange chicken. As in, "I'll have 3 items over fried rice--all orange chicken." For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, picture weird, fatty pieces of chicken (what part of the chicken is this, anyway?) battered and deep fried and covered in a syrupy orange sauce. The Gourmet Chinese Food version of McNuggets and ketchup. Mike and I sat in the lovely patio area outside, soaking up the last few rays of Gilroy sun, with a prime view of the drive-through order area. Two women were working on huge frozen yogurt sundaes (health food, right?) in the car as they waited to order their PE dinner. At the table behind us and to our left was a family holding hands and saying grace before starting on their orange chicken. At the other table behind us, to our right (yes we positioned ourselves facing away from our fellow patrons), a group of 5 people easily putting 1,500 lbs of pressure on the fiberglass patio table talked about stealing cars. Gotta love America.

So here's my question. If other people eat like that (and they're not all 200 lbs overweight), why am I not a size zero? Why, G-D, why? Not that I approve of size zero. Jen's already expounded eloquently on this subject, which has driven her poor cat to anorexia. It just doesn't seem fair is all.

Can I say things are looking up when I just took on thousands of dollars (more) in debt? The pot of gold at the end of our Gourmet Chinese Food rainbow (that was mostly orange) was the fortune in Mike's cookie, which we shared. It said we would be completely content by the end of the summer. For some reason, I believe it.

PS thanks to Jen's reader who suggested G-D.
PPS thanks to Laurie for "is all"--I'm sure I got that from you.
PPPS when I was 16 I got a letter from a boy I was totally infatuated with--a summer flirtation--and at the end of it he wrote a few PSes (except he called them PS, PSS, and PSSS). Anyway, PSSS was: "I'll never forget how great your butt looked in that little blue bathing suit!!" (ah, the good ole days...)

My boyfriend's back...

Umm. Okay. So my husband is on a soccer team with my ex-boyfriend. An ex from a long time ago--he was my first "real" boyfriend. I'm not going to go into what "real" means, but suffice it to say this guy was very influential in my life. We were together in my senior year of high school for a couple months. And then I continued to pine for him for about 3 years. Yes, I had other boyfriends in that time, but up until meeting my husband--I kid you not--this guy pretty much goes down as the MIBE (Most Influential Boyfriend Ever). Not like he made me a better person, more like he destroyed me (by ripping my heart out) and my confidence (by breaking up with me) and I would get all nervous around him whenever I saw him after we broke up. I did some questionable things, like dating some of his friends, but I always considered myself above reproach since I was the Dumped (rather than the Dumpee, who has no rights whatsoever). And because I was (inexplicably) so crazy about him.

Now we're both married, and he and Mike play soccer together. It should be noted, as an aside (because Mike might be reading this), that Mike is not only a far better soccer player, he is also much better looking than my ex. But here's my question (and I would really appreciate feedback here): whose responsibility is it to be friendly first when we see each other at a game? My ex's wife is also on the soccer team that Mike joined. I have no ill will toward either of them, but I find the situation extremely awkward, since I feel like they should say hi to me first, instead of it being the other way around. After our painful encounter last night, Mike accused me of being rude (to my ex-boyfriend--hello!). Is it really my job to say hi first?

By the way, I apologize for the ridiculous nature of this email...

Get Better Soon, Ethel!

We love you!

Fake Tan

Not many people know I was an Oompah Loompah once. I didn't look like this. I was considerably cuter. Sigh. Back when getting a spray-on tan wouldn't have ever occurred to me. Of course, I thought I would be tan and blond all of the time, driving around in my convertible yellow corvette (that's what my tan, blond Barbie drove). Though it was my second favorite flavor of starburst, orange was not part of the picture.

My palms are orange. My neck looks like it is covered with caked-on dirt. And my stomach and butt look fantastic. Worthwhile trade? I think so. If I shower 5 times before we leave for LA tomorrow morning, the parts of me that show might look less alienesque. Someone (Jen? GOD?) please tell me that everyone in LA gets fake tans too.

The Mist On experience is not for the faint of heart. I nearly lost it as four cycles of chemicals sprayed over me, like standing outside with DDT dropping from the sky in the ill-thought-out early 80s mosquito abatement program. The smell is toxic, and when you step out of the booth and see all the brown droplets clinging to your body you begin to question the fact that you paid to have this done to you. The post-nymphette (like a voluptuous Natalie Portman) helping me was ridiculously tan, and flawless, and made it that much harder to face myself in the mirror as I patted myself down (you have to use a very special technique, which I had luckily researched online ahead of time). But as the skin dye sets in, you start to notice how much better your tummy looks with a little color, how long it's been since you couldn't see the soccer bruises on your legs (which are mostly from running into the corner of your desk at work), and how brown your palms are. Wait, weren't you supposed to avoid getting the stuff on your palms?

I asked the p-n, and she said it would get darker (read: oranger). I tried to scrub it off, I really did. But alas, my palms are the same color as the rest of my hands. Hey, nobody's perfect, right? My skin also smells like feet. Not dirty feet, just regular feet. Like the anticipation of bad smell.

If I can bear it, I'll take some pictures this weekend...

Good Things

So, my dad's eye surgery went well yesterday (the doctor's word was "great"). His retina detached after he took a racquetball to the eye last week (yes, he was wearing glasses). Which means that maybe GOD doesn't hate me (good call on the all caps, Jen. Howya like me now, GOD? I'm hoping that by the end of this, GOD and I will be tight like Logan and his Mickey's). My dad now has to keep his face pointed downward for 2 weeks (can you imagine?). He was playing his boss, and I guess if someone's going to hit you in the eye with a racquetball, that's probably the best possible scenario (the massive guilt could be convenient later).

The Toyota only needed $89 in repairs. I decided to fix the brake situation, too (pads and rotors), and it needs an oil change, so we'll actually be paying around $600. Apparently, the geniuses who designed the 4Runner made the rotors really hard to get to, so the labor is exorbitant (to someone who didn't just spend $1400 on a cast for a cat, for me it's pocket change, of course).

Yesterday I walked for an hour along the coast, breathing in some of my favorite smells: the combination of lighter fluid (bbq) and ocean, leftover partially burned wood from a beach bonfire, and wood (from a deck or stairs, usually) heating up in the sun. I love warm spring days.

Our friends Brad and Elyse are visiting on Friday night, which means I get to gush about Miss Manners to someone who cares (Brad), and gossip about everything else with Elyse.

I will have my copy of the literary journal that was foolish enough to publish my story on Friday (even if I do have to read from it--sigh).

And finally, I just saw an ex-boyfriend outside my office (I work where we both went to school, and I think he's still trying to finish up an MA six years later...). I successfully avoided him and as I peed (I was on my way to the bathroom), I decided that the reason I had avoided him was that I felt guilty about how great things had turned out for me, and how unsettled his life seems to be. Full of myself? Perhaps. Rude? Of course. But the important thing here, if we could bring it all back to me (don't worry, GOD, it's a blog--it's supposed to be all about me), is that despite all these nasty things happening to me (and my dad!) I know that I'm really fortunate. I love my life!

God Hates Me

Keep in mind that I'm not a religious person (which could be the reason that God has decided to smite me down to size--but see, God? I capitalized your name. I don't usually do that, so now you're winning. Truce?) If you are religious, you may find my post a little offensive, but I'd appreciate it if you'd still be my friend, because I think God would like to see me with more of His people.

Since April 26 (just before the 7-year anniversary of me and Mike's first date--were we living in sin too long, God? He made me an honest woman!) my kitty has required around $2,000 in medical attention, and endless trips to and from the vet (during which he yowls incessantly, which is better than when he peed himself in the carrier last Thursday, thus requiring another (3rd) cast change). My car (a teal Pontiac Sunbird inherited from my grandmother a few years ago with 13,000 miles on it) has just been assessed a $1,450 minimum estimate to repair a blown head gasket (or something--don't ask me because I don't understand it), all because we let the radiator fluid get down to zero. The car is scarcely worth that much, so we will have to buy a new car. With all that extra money we have laying around after our house payment every month. Oh, and don't let me forget that on my way home from work yesterday, while talking to my mechanic friend about the Pontiac, the check engine light in the other car came on. So right now the Toyota is at the mechanic friend's shop, getting $600 worth of repairs done on it. Do you feel sorry for me yet? God? God's assistant? Can I get a little sympathy here?

I've also been eating too much and the Hollywood Wedding is this weekend. The Hollywood Wedding that isn't taking place in Hollywood, but may include some Hollywood types among the guests. Which is why I don't feel guilty scheduling a $25 mist-on tan on Thursday night. (It's not vanity, God, it's necessity. I will not be the only person that matches the beach at the ceremony.)

There's one thing that God can still do for me. What do you say, Dude?

Killing with Kindness

Some of you may not have experienced the pleasure of witty etiquette and killing others with kindness. My hero, Miss Manners (Judith Martin), lives this life, and I have tried to follow in her footsteps.

Here are some favorites from the article in the above link:

On the language of rude behavior:
Even the lexicon of rudeness one hears these days is explicitly violent, although the specific words are usually sexual. (Does anyone know why such a nice practice as sex should have to supply the words for uncontrolled hostility? Maybe it would be better that this not be explained to Miss Manners.)

On missionaries and other self-helped who seek to help others:
People have even offered to help Miss Manners find God, Who Miss Manners hadn't realized was lost.

On correcting others:
When Miss Manners observes people behaving rudely, she behaves politely to them, and then goes home and snickers about them afterward. That is what the well-bred person does. The only way to enjoy the fun of catching people behaving disgustingly is to have children.

Why, you might ask, do I have Miss Manners on the brain? Because I met her!! I arrived at her book reading/signing one hour and 45 minutes before it started so I could find out when they would set up the chairs. I came back 45 minutes later to get a good seat, then I waited another hour, in anxious anticipation, of being in my master's aura. She arrived looking exactly like she's suppose to look, and she gave a wonderful talk. Then she answered our questions. When she got to me, I blushed up to my hairline and blurted out, "You're such a wonderful writer!" then I continued with my pre-planned question about Anthony Trollope and what other writers she admires (yes, I was trying to set myself apart and it worked! every other person asked an etiquette question--one woman admitted that was the reason she had come). Anyway, despite others' lack of understanding of the importance and brilliance of Miss Manners' writing, the experience as a whole was AWESOME! She signed three books for me, and was impressed that I had an old paperback edition of her guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior. I didn't even mind that I missed the finale of America's Next Top Model.

Cruelty Free Post

I'm sick of insulting Logan. First of all, he's way too easy of a target. Second, I think he likes it. And finally, I have more important things on my mind, like my poor gimpy cat.



The cape is new. It keeps him from licking the top of the cast, as he is wont to do. (That position is comfortable for him, by the way.)

Isn't he adorable? That's a rhetorical question, of course:



Everyone at the vet thinks he's smart (which, as I established early on in this blog, is not the prevailing opinion on the subject). Actually, his primary doctor's specific words were, "He's a stinker," referring to the fact that he is so wily when it comes to getting rid of the cast, but many of the other staff have used the S word to describe him. I wish I had a video of when we brought him home with the cast for the first time: he kept trying to go through the cat door, which had been covered with a thick piece of gray plastic, by butting his head up against it. Repeatedly. Very cute. Not so smart.

Yes, I'm just going to continue blithely along as if I never said I was quitting. Wanna make something of it?

We went to the second of the three May weddings the weekend before last. It was in Utah, at Capitol Reef National Park. I won't bore you with details, but this picture, taken from the deck of the reception location, pretty much sums it up:



I know my mom is thinking about how much a little saturation would spice this baby up. I hope you can at least see that it would be amazing in person.

Here's the view from our room at Austin's Chuck Wagon Motel (yes, that name is for real):



And Tom Cruise stopped by for a visit:



Tom will be really mad when he finds out I posted a poofy-hair picture of him, but that's what he gets for looking at me like that (like I'm ridiculous) when I want to take a picture of the steps to our suite at Austin's CWM. They smelled like my favorite place in the world! (scroll down for the picture of my secret favorite place)

Don't call it a comeback

I'm so flattered that Logan tagged me in a shameless attempt to get me to post something, I'm going to do it! Thanks for all your encouragement (all 5 of you). This is a meme (or a me!me! as Jen calls it). I have to pick 5 of the options below and complete them. It will be hard to match Jen's home IV for hangovers, but I'll give it a go.

The Premise (pick 5):
If I could be a scientist…
If I could be a farmer…
If I could be a musician…
If I could be a doctor…
If I could be a painter…
If I could be a gardener…
If I could be a missionary…
If I could be a chef…
If I could be an architect…
If I could be a linguist…
If I could be a psychologist…
If I could be a librarian…
If I could be an athlete…
If I could be a lawyer…
If I could be an inn-keeper…
If I could be a professor…
If I could be a writer…
If I could be a llama-rider…
If I could be a bonnie pirate…
If I could be an astronaut…
If I could be a world famous blogger…
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world…
If I could be married to any current famous political figure…

If I could be an architect, I would rub it in Logan's face that I had done it first, and without taking any exams. I would build pretty things that are also innovative, and not afraid to be hot pink, like the EMP building in Seattle.



If I could be a psychologist, my fiction writing would be a lot better, because I could write stories about my clients' lives. I would wear sexy skirt suits and peer over the top of my glasses at clients, all the while smiling wryly at how perceptive and intelligent I am. I would also write doctor's notes for my kids, so they wouldn't have to eat in their college dining halls.

If I were married to a current famous political figure it would be Gavin Newsome (Mayor of San Francisco), because he's HOT and rich. And he might be president one day. So we could be hot and rich together in the white house, and I'd have access to many young male interns.



If I could be a chef, I'd probably be an alcoholic.

If I could be a librarian, I'd be a sexy librarian, and I'd love the smell when I walked in to work everyday. I'd rollerskate through the stacks at night and walk around like I owned the place during the day. If obnoxious people asked me questions I would do my best to make them feel dumb and insignificant, peering over my glasses imperiously (occasionally smiling wryly at how clever I am).

Some of you may wonder why I didn't choose "If I could be a writer..." Well, that's because I am one, sillies!

So long...

I promised myself when I started this that if blogging took away from my fiction writing, I would give it up. Sadly, that is exactly what is happening. I will have to go back to insulting Logan in our private emails, and if I want therapy, I'm just going to have to pay for it.

Thank you for participating in my experiment, and I'll be keeping up with all of you on your blogs...

Your faithful aristocrat,
Lady Ursula

Un-Fragging-Believable

Logan is so low-down dirty that I'm on the verge of giving him the silent treatment for a month, or at least until I need to stay at his house.

I pulled out the digital camera last night to take some photos of my poor, gimpy cat, and the settings were all screwed up. Since we only touch a few buttons--the ones that we understand (sort of)--on this piece of magical electronics, I couldn't imagine how this might have happened. After fooling with it for a few minutes (which is how long it usually takes me to figure something out, like, I don't know, how to post two pictures at once on my blog) I got it back to normal. I took some pictures of Ernie and the cards my husband's first grade class made for him. It wasn't until I downloaded them that I discovered why the camera was screwed up. Apparently, after Logan closed the Scrabble board, then scratched out our scores, then changed the names at the top, then covered the scores with his hands while I took a picture, HE DELETED THE PICTURE FROM THE CAMERA WHEN I WASN'T LOOKING!! He's been bugging me for days to post the picture (not so high on my priority list since my cat's leg was broken), and now I know why! If he hadn't called me on the phone last night, BEGGING me to tell him how to post two pictures on his blog, I might hate him for this latest dastardly deed. But after experiencing his pathetic whining voice last night (in a new octave I'd never heard before), I still feel a little smug this morning.

Here's my darling cat:

with cast (hearts and fishes are courtesy of nursing staff who were--of course--in love with Ernie)



cards from 1st graders who have never met Ernie, but also luf him



favorite toy (given to him by Amanda, not LDD Logan)



I apologize for not being able to offer the pasty scrabble hands picture. I hope the Ernie photos make up for it a bit. Now you see why he has been dubbed the Cutest Kitten Ever (except for that moment last night when he inadvertently dragged his cast through his fresh poop).

To Do List

1. Post cute picture of Ernie with cast.

2. Post embarrassing picture of Logan's pasty white hands covering up our Scrabble scores.

3. Keep pointing out that Logan still (obviously) does not know how to put multiple pictures in one post.

Celebrity Envy

Has anyone else heard the rumor that Keanu Reeves is in a relationship with Diane Keaton? My coworker says the rumor proves that he's gay, which brings up two interesting (to me) questions:

Why would you pretend to be in an improbable relationship with an older woman to prove that you are not gay?

Why do men hate Keanu Reeves (and other good looking actors) so much?

The first is more of a rhetorical question. Keanu probably is gay, I just don't think this can be viewed as an obvious strategy to deflect the rumor that he's gay. If anything, it only makes people like my coworker assume that he is (because, I kid you not: "Diane Keaton dresses like a man"). There is also the assumption that no man would be interested in an older woman unless she looks like Demi Moore, because all men care about is physical appearance.

The second question has bothered me for years. I don't think it's crazy to think that Keanu Reeves is a bad actor, or to be jealous of the wealth he's accumulated just because he is so good looking. But men seem to spew venom when they talk about Keanu, as if he not only benefits from the celebrity worship our society perpetuates, but that he's almost responsible for it in some way. Like he should step down as one of the world's best paid actors simply because he doesn't deserve it (which, of course, is not true in the box-office-earnings sense). Actors are basically high priced call girls and boys, so who cares if they can act--unless they're ugly, of course. (Look at that Keanu picture up there. Good grief!)

I don't mean to pick on Keanu. There are (apparently) many other successful male actors in the closet: Tom Cruise, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck (lovers), George Clooney, the list goes on...

I'm just glad Keanu made the Matrix, so everytime I have this argument with a guy, I can bring up that movie (although my favorite performance is Little Buddha where he does what he does best--look jaw-droppingly gorgeous and not say much). Plus, you get the added bonus Chris Isaak eye-candy.

+ = Yum.

By the way, I apologize for the photothon, but I'm still rubbing it in Logan's face that I know how to put multiple pictures in my post. I'm also documenting the promise he made to me in email just minutes ago: "I figure that anything you can figure out how to do, I can figure out how to do too. So keep your cruddy blog knowledge. My next post will have multiple pictures, or I'll never post again." If only...

Coming Home

As Jen mentioned, Ernie is in a cast. Yes, I'm assuming everyone that reads my blog is also reading Jen's blog (if you aren't, you should be...). It's purple (the cast, not Jen's blog), which is a bummer because his friends at school won't be able to write on it. It doesn't really go with his blue sparkly collar, either, and for $1400 you'd think they'd consult you about the color.

Ernie spent last night in the hospital. We went in for visiting hours last night and watched him dragging his cast around for half an hour, then he sat in my lap and peed. It was great. No, really. I've been totally depressed since I took him in yesterday morning, and I'm not even thinking about the money we're spending on the cast. I just want him home again. Mike is picking him up as we speak, and things are looking up at the end of an otherwise gloomy day.



This photo is of my favorite place in the world. I can't tell you where it is because then you might go there. But the idea of having Ernie back in my life is making me think of it.
Here's another picture, to make you even more jealous of my secret place, and to show Logan that I know how to put two pictures in one post.



(My mom took these. She is a kick-ass photographer.)

I hope all of your loved ones are well.

Breathing Books

Jen tagged me with the book Q & A. My two favorite things about being tagged are:

1. Logan will be extremely jealous.
2. I get to make a list (about books!).

So here's my book list.

1. Total number of books in your house.

650+ I'm tired of counting! Suffice it to say I never throw anything away, and my "friends" who borrow and never return my books are not making a significant dent! A picture of many of our books...



2. Last book you bought was:

I hardly ever buy books anymore (we made a rule that if you want to bring a book into the house, you have to get rid of a book, too). My mom decided that I need to read Ann Patchett, so she just bought me Bel Canto and Truth and Beauty when we were at the bookstore together the other day (that counts, right?). I haven't read either one, but she swears by them.

3. What was the last book you bought before this?

Oh, crap. Ummm. Can I cheat again? The last book (before the above) that was bought for me was Deborah Santana's autobiography, Space Between the Stars. My dad got it signed for me, too. I don't usually read nonfiction, so it was a nice change. I learned some interesting factoids, like before hooking up with Carlos Santana, Deborah (then King) was with Sly Stone. It has some good stuff about San Francisco and the music scene in the 70s, and a lot of religion (especially about their brain-washing guru Sri Chinmoy). Carlos Santana is like an uncle in our family, since my brother is named after him, we grew up on his music, and he is like a god to my dad (musically, of course).

4. Write down five or six books you read often or that mean a lot to you.

Miss Manner's Guide to Excrutiatingly Correct Behavior. I guess you have to have a certain sense of humor to enjoy this collection of Judith Martin's best politely vicious etiquette comebacks.

Barchester Towers. It's the epitome of what I love about British (esp. Victorian) Literature: witty, pompous, and neatly tied up with pink ribbons at the end.

A Passage to India. Forster is a genius. This little book encompasses so much: manners, politics (particularly imperialism), travel, gender. It's a lit critic's wet dream, but it's also very accessible.

Lady Cottington's Pressed Fairy Book. My brother's roommate Suleiman, who was also my best friend's boyfriend, sent me this book for my birthday one year. He probably just wanted to make Shoshana jealous, but he sent it with a sympathy card for my family (as in, so sorry you've had to put up with her). I love jokes like that--especially when they're taken to such lengths. Anyway, it's basically a picture book of squashed fairies, captured by the young Lady Cottington. It has an X-rated section of pages in the middle that is secured with a paper band, which has squished fairies with exposed body parts. I love thinking about the freak that liked drawing x-rated squished fairies and figured out a way to make money at it.

Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey. Does anyone remember this skit on SNL? Here's a quote from the book: "It takes a big man to cry, but it takes a bigger man to laugh at that man..." The book is full of the show's best deep thoughts (which were seemingly sentimental, sweet ponderings that make no sense and show the moronic behavior of Jack Handy). My favorite is probably only funny to me, but it goes something like this: "One time I was at a museum, looking at a painting. A woman walked up and asked if I prefer Monet or Manet. I said I prefer mayonnaise." Everytime I hear the word mayonnaise (or Manet or Monet or anyone being pompous about art) I think of that and laugh to myself.

D'Aulaire's Book of Greek Myths. Just looking at the cover brings back strong memories of childhood. I loved this book as much as you can love an inanimate object as a child (which is a lot, no?). For one thing, people get their just desserts (except Zeus, who gets away with almost everything), and the punishment always fits the crime. Sure, sometimes people are punished unfairly, but that's life, right?

5. Who are you going to pass this stick to and why?

Logan, because he'll pout for weeks if I don't.

Cock/tail Attire

We got our invitation to Mike's cousin's May 29 wedding yesterday. It's a Hollywood wedding (in the sense that the groom is a producer and I'm hoping some of the guests will be interested in the as yet unwritten screenplay that I will have stashed in my purse), and the invite appropriately came with a twist at the end. The ceremony is on the beach--aloha attire; the reception is much later at the bride's parents house, and specifies cocktail attire. That means two dresses!! It also means the fake tan will be in full effect (the Queer Eye spray-on version).
But what is cocktail attire, really? I know it means a little black dress (or some sophisticated, wedding-appropriate version of this), but you can have cocktails in almost anything: bed, hot tub, pajamas, a tutu (remember that, Jen? or did you wear a tutu that night?). Anyway, I don't know what I'm going on about, since all that matters is that I get to have two new outfits...

Other big news from this weekend: male strippers are not hot. NOT. HOT. I've yet to see one with a better body than my husband's (granted, I've only seen two professinals, and two, ahem, amateurs). Both professionals started strong. The first played the theme from Shaft as an entrance song (any anticipation he built up with his song choice was quickly deflated when he showed himself). The second--Saturday night's--appeared in a fireman's outfit, and was actually sort-of good looking. But putting your hands on a stranger's sweaty body? Ewww. The bride-to-be could not have looked less comfortable, which prompted the stripper to turn around, put his butt in her face, and invite her to "play the bongos." Ummm. Let's recap here. Men love butts (among other things). Women like clean-shaven faces, six-pack abs, and big @#$%s (mom is reading).
I think there should be a new kind of private strip party, where a really sensitive- (and good-) looking man comes out in a bathrobe with a mug of hot cocoa (with homemade whipped cream--maybe a little Bailey's) and a newspaper under one arm. He lays next to the bachelorette on a Mariah Carey-style double-size couch (as seen on Cribs), hands her the hot chocolate, then asks if he can read her the entertainment section of the paper. Before he can finish with all the celebrity gossip, or how good the latest Reese Witherspoon movie looks, he gets kind of hot, so he has to take off his robe, revealing the aforementioned six-pack abs tucked discreetly into appropriately sized boxers. He then takes the hot cocoa from her (to get it out of the way), and cuddles with her, alternating between stroking her hair and rubbing her back. Maybe some men would find this embarrassing. But could it possibly be worse than shimmying around in a fringed banana hammock?

Ernie

I figured out how to post a picture! This is when Ernie was a wee two months. He was still adjusting to the colored contacts (hence the grumpy expression on his face), but now he says he doesn't even feel them.

Things are getting good

Things are getting good over at the WB-inspired Basketball Diaries (see the comments, not the posts, which still suck). And Logan's fantasy of a cat-fight finally came true--except one of the cats is a man. Logan says I'm talking about him too much on my blog and I should say something sappy about my husband to make up for it. He suggested a poem. I like haiku.

I love you like a dumb cat*
Only you're not dumb, you're smart
and charming

*by the way, my dumb cat figured out how to get through the cat door.

I realize this poem is not very sappy or romantic. The thing is, I was just reminded (thanks Logan) of a bachelor party my husband attended a couple of years ago. He pretended he told me everything that happened, then I found out later from another girl that he'd left a few things out. It's true that my husband is extremely loyal and generally well behaved, but oh how the mighty fall when they get called on their bad behavior. Yikes.
So why is it okay (if you're in a relationship) to see someone naked as long as you pay for it and/or you're about to get married? Can someone explain this logic to me?
I should add that I'm attending a potentially rowdy bachelorette party on Saturday night with strippers galore. That doesn't undermine my question, does it?

My cat is dumb

Female cats can be quite clever. Ernie, the cutest kitten ever, is not. He's dumb. But we live to make him happy, and his pleasures are simple (being a simpleton), so when he decided he'd like to be outside quite a lot of the time, we ordered him a cat door insert, which fits into our sliding glass door frame (we have a townhouse, so this was our only cat door option). Sure, it cost almost two hundred dollars, and we had to drill a few holes in the metal door frame, but imagine how happy he'll be when he realizes he can go in and out as he pleases! Note the future tense.
That's right, Ernie cannot figure out how to use the cat door, despite the fact that I've shoved him through it upwards of 20 times now. Mike and I will both be out until about 9 p.m. tonight. We will get home to find Ernie restless and annoyed, having had to stay inside all day because his cruel parents don't care enough to come home and let him out. When I left this morning, he was inspecting the cat door by sitting next to it and staring at it. He is probably curious why this new addition to his territory is causing his mom to do violence to him, shoving him head-first through a floppy plastic flap (can one use the words floppy and flap in the same phrase?). Sigh.
It should be said that Logan and Ernie get along famously.

My mom disses Logan

Last night my mom stopped by to see my cat. Sure, she probably wanted to see me, too, but believe me, she mostly wanted to see Ernie (aka the cutest kitten EVER). This arrangement was fine with me, since I had opened a bottle of wine with dinner and wanted an excuse to have another glass. Mike was out playing poker, so mom and I got tipsy and watched the Amazing Race, and she tried to get Ernie to sit in her lap.
At 9:24, Logan called. (I looked at the VCR clock, since it was past polite calling hours.) I was surprised and slightly annoyed that it was Logan because he is an Amazing Race fan, too, and it wasn't a commercial. He offered to get off the phone, and probably should have, but we chatted for a couple minutes. My mom asked who it was, then piped in, "shouldn't he be watching One Tree Hill right now?" After passing this on to Logan and laughing hysterically for a few seconds, I tried to placate the injured party with assurances that my mom loves his boring blog and especially liked his haiku about paper. I forgot to explain to her that really he only watches Smallville and Jack and Bobby on the WB.
Logan's recent blogathan addresses the topic of blogging themes. Though I'd love to make fun of him for that, I know what he means. I don't know how to knit or quilt (they're not the same thing, are they?), I'm not doing something rigorous like law school, I don't know how to put pictures of my cat on my blog, and, like Logan, I have no dating life to report on (hang in there, buddy, it won't be long... I'm sure Rosario's getting ready to call you any day now). All I have is picking on Logan to tie my daily missives together. Perhaps this is enough?

Logan's Publishing Celebration Snafu

Logan hasn't done anything this mean since he said I needed to lose 30 lbs.
First, a little background: Logan and I email at work a lot. As an example: he's already sent 2 emails today (it's 9:40), he sent me 9 emails yesterday, 5 emails last Friday, 1 email on Thursday (I was on strike--no, really. He finally called my cell phone that afternoon and interrupted my afternoon clothes shopping to find out where I was), 4 on Wednesday, etc. The frequency has gone up since we started blogging because the length of our emails has decreased significantly. I find myself swamped during the working hours with composing posts and changing the post times, reading other blogs (particularly Sunday Undies and its comments), and trying to look busy at my desk.
Yesterday morning I got great news--a local college literary journal is publishing a story of mine. An hour later, I sent Logan an email to let him know. Here's an excerpt from his immediate response, which he prefaced by saying he didn't have time to write a "real" response, so he hoped this would do in the meantime:
"Rachel's book just got reviewed in the New Yorker too, which will hopefully translate into more prominent (and local) tour locations than Walnut Creek. Let me know if you're interested..."
He sent me a forward from Rachel's husband with an attachment of the book's cover and several gushing reviews of his friend Rachel's book. He added his congratulations on my news in a PS at the end of his email.
I debated over whether to showcase Logan's lack of sensitivity, then received this email from him: "And you're not really blogging about me and my publishing celebration snafu, are you?"
Oh, yes. I most certainly am.

Sting's Endurance

Over the years, many people have questioned the depth and endurance of my devotion to Sting (as evidenced by his appearance on my celebrity list--see Uppity English Accents). He was not my first rock star crush--that would be a tie between Michael Jackson and Prince. I had a poster of Michael, but I was in a Prince fan club. Where I found two other 8-years olds as weird as me, I don't know. I mean, I barely find Prince attractive now (though those lyrics can be rather persuasive). But my true love, my raison d'etre horny, was Sting. In high school, my best friend Shoshana and I would banter about whose house he'd stayed at the night before (often deciding he'd been at both). I think most of my friends had a similar crush, if they weren't too busy having real sex lives. A group of us went to see him at the Greek Theater in Berkeley the night after our junior prom. Shoshana and I were wandering around, looking for much-needed coffee, when a very perceptive woman stopped us and said, "you look cool." (It was agreed she was definitely referring to both of us.) We looked at her, somewhat confused, though certainly interested in what she had to say. "Would you like my tickets?" she asked. "Oh," we laughed dumbly (is that a word?), "we already have some." (General admission--our friends were holding down the cement fort.) "No," she said, "these are really good tickets. I'm going backstage." She handed us four tickets for 8th-row seats (they were actually eight rows back from the initial ten rows, but Shoshana always said 8th row, and who am I to argue?) We squished our five little high school butts across four seats, and I spent the next two hours imagining Sting was singing directly to me. And that night he came over to my house and we made sweet, sweet love.
No other rock star has done that for me, so that's why he's on the list.

Crabs

I haven't said much about my husband yet, mostly because I don't want to sound like some pathetic, devoted wife who thinks her husband is perfect and can do no wrong. Because believe me, my husband is wrong most of the time (that's what I tell him, anyway). But he's adorable when he's screwing up. (See, there I go. I cannot be trusted when talking about him.) I don't even want to type his name, because the smile it brings to my face might show on this page. (You think I'm kidding--actually, you don't, because most likely if you're reading this you know that Mike and I are like peas and carrots and we still occasionally act like teenagers in need of a motel room.)
Here's why I love Michael: Friday night after work I stop at the grocery store to pick up some vittles, and decide to get crab. I love crab, and I think I've convinced Mike that he loves it too. It's taken several years, but he will now eat seafood, drink wine, and wear clothes that fit him (all at the same time!). He wasn't home on Friday night, though. He was helping our friends move. When he finally called, about an hour after I'd expected him to, he informed me that a burrito had been purchased for him, so why don't I go ahead and eat without him (and save him some crab)? He also asked me to move the old dryer out of the way to make room for the new (old) one our friends were giving us. My frustration at his nonchalance was somewhat sated by previously recorded and unwatched episodes of Making the Band III and PoweRGirls, and an open bottle of zinfandel, but let's face it, I am not a forgiving person. Already a glass into the zin (my tolerance extremely low in every sense), I was game to move the dryer as I cursed my husband's name, though no less put out by the fact that he'd asked. By the time I had wriggled it into the kitchen, and poured myself more wine, Mike was home. We made the dryer switch, me full of venom, waiting to strike. How is this a story of love, you ask? Well, when we finally sat down to our romantic dinner of crab and artichoke (both of us) and wine (me--oops! did I finish it off before you got home, sweetie?) in front of the finale of PoweRGirls, Mike pulled out his special crab utensil--a fondue fork. As I watched him digging for those precious crab morsels with that ridiculous yet effective tool, all my anger and frustration melted away, like so much garlic butter for a crab or artichoke. (Not that we were having butter with either--the first of three weddings is just two weeks away...)

Blowing Up Spots

This phrase makes me think of many different things, mostly having to do with bombs and dalmations. My friend Logan tells me it means I've ruined his chances with a girl (like, I tell someone he's interested in that he watches Smallville on the WB compulsively), and it's used like this: "you blew up my spot." I've tried not to think about what spot translates to, since the blowing up is pretty obvious. I think it's also acceptable when I use it to say that I've ruined something else, not having to do with a girl. What he really hates is when I taunt him after a run-in with a lady by saying, "did I blow up your spots?" (which definitely sounds like bombs and dalmations).
Logan recently informed me that I can change the posting time of my blog to reflect the time that I post it, instead of the time I first open the posting page. This way, people don't think I've actually been working on something for hours when I'm blogging at work. I had made two (possibly incorrect) assumptions:
1. No one is reading my blog besides Jen, Logan, and my mom, and none of them care what time it was when I started my blog besides Logan.
2. It is dishonest, and a little OCD, to change the time.
Logan is much better at hiding his geeky/perfectionist side than I am, so I do listen to his advice sometimes. Is this time change thing really acceptable? Jen?

Lady Ursula, Laundress Extraordinaire

I went to the laundromat yesterday! It was glorious. Me vs. the machines, my dirty clothes, and the creepy people at the laundromat (was I one of them for the day, or am I exempt?). Regardless, in every instance, I triumphed.
First, I was efficiency personified. You know how when you're younger, you're always unprepared for everything that comes along? Freezing, because you wore the wrong thing, hungry because you forgot to eat and now there's nowhere to get food, or you can't get food because you don't have enough money in your wallet, or you don't have a wallet because it really didn't go with your miniskirt? Or maybe you're heading to the laundromat and you forget your soap, or you don't have enough quarters to finish everything, or you forgot good reading material. As a wise woman of 29, I am prepared. It's true that I'm a little cold today because I wanted to wear my new sweatshirt from Urban Outfitters which is so small it will only fit over a t-shirt, and I just ate my lunch at 10 a.m. because I was starving, but that's not the point here. The point is that for an hour and a half, I ruled the Wash and Fold.
I backed right in to the best spot in the parking lot (what fools these mortals be), my baskets just inches from the entrance door. Within five minutes, I was back in my car, laundry going, curled up with my book in the worn leather comfort of the front seat, conveniently parked in the sun for maximum relaxation (my ever-watchful eye trained--via the rearview mirror--on the machines I'd picked, making sure none of my first-string undies took an unscheduled walk). Washer to dryer was a piece of cake, as was the folding--which I accomplished with GAP employee-like precision. I guess I'd have to say it was a good day. Didn't even have to use my AK.

Uppity English Accents

I've been accused of being and anglophile (and of using the passive voice),but if that's true, then I'm also an 80smusicphile, and for that matter, a filephile (since I am an organizing machine). Yes, I do watch Merchant Ivory films at the edge of my seat, and I enjoy 19th-century British Literature a little more than the next gal. Is that really so wrong?
My husband Mike tries to shame me about this periodically. Some attempts are more successful than others. Take this example from a few years ago:
We were having dinner with my parents and my grandmother, who was visiting from New York. We were in a lovely San Francisco restaurant, enjoying the good (capitalist) life, talking about British lit or period pieces or something (you knew I had to get it from somewhere, right?),and Mike was probably bored out of his mind. He suddenly comes to life and blurts out, "yes, but Ursula doesn't just want to read about it, she actually wants to be a member of the aristocracy!" Silence fell over the table until my mom pointed out, "Mike, we all want to be members of the aristocracy." Damn straight.
And just so Mike doesn't read this and get all pissy, I will say in his defense that he's actually a great fan of literary adaptations--as long as the original text is a comic book. Moreover, he will see a movie like Legally Blond with mein the theater. And he'll admit that he likes it. Just don't ask him about Hard Ball starring Keanu Reeves.
Which brings me to another item of business: the celebrity hookup list. Here are the five men I get to smooch if ever given the opportunity, in no particular order (Mike and I agreed that a kiss was fairly harmless, but that anything else would still be considered cheating):
1. Michael Vartan
2. Owen Wilson
3. Colin Firth
4. Keanu Reeves
5. Sting
For the record, I happen to think my husband looks like a movie star (specifically Tom Cruise as Maverick in one of The Greatest Movies Ever), so the celebrity hookup clause is just for novelty and bragging rights.
If you're reading this and you're Michael Vartan, you're number one for a reason, you'd be much more than a novelty and bragging rights, and I would love to help you practice your scenes from Never Been Kissed 2.

Sunday Undies

Our dryer is dead, and has been for the past few days. This morning I panicked thinking what if the replacement we're getting on Friday doesn't work? What if I can't do laundry for weeks? Then it dawned on me that I could go to a laundromat. I don't even know where the closest one is! I had forgotten they exist!
There are many good things to be said for not knowing where the laundromat is, or forgetting it exists, but the bad thing is that I'm down to my second string underwear. Yup, I've dusted them off and they're back in circulation. This sad state of affairs has led to two revelations: 1) I need to buy more underwear, and 2) I must avoid resorting to the third string at all costs (these are similar to the second string, but a size too small).
You may be thinking that you've discovered the missing link to the title of this post, but you've just scratched the surface. Sunday Undies is my friend's inspirational blog, the One That Started it All. And there's a link over there in my sidebar. Now you, too, can learn from the Master.

The Basketball Diaries

A friend of mine--I'll call him Logan--started a blog yesterday (he inspired me, actually). Inspiration twice removed, since he was inspired by a mutual friend of ours whose blog I introduced him to. My response to his snarky comment on yesterday's Tea Time was to post a link to his blog on my side bar. I'd love to add something dramatic like "Enjoy!" but he's the only one who reads my blog, and I'd like to avoid false advertising if possible.

Tea Time

It's tea time but I'm not eating any scones or crumpets because I have three weddings to go to next month. This justifies a few things that I would usually frown on:

1. Complaining about the cost of buying wedding gifts
2. Talking about the fact that I need to lose weight
3. Buying a very expensive and flattering dress*

*actually, it's always okay to buy a fabulous and pricey dress for a wedding, provided it's not:

1. White
2. Ugly

These are no-overlap weddings, which means I can wear the same thing three times (hence the further justification of spending a lot of money).

You're already thinking (if you're one of the two people who I can count on to read this, my first blogerella), why is she making so many lists? Because they're fun. And the two people who are reading this will like it.

Okay, you say to yourself, but I don't care what Lady Ursula says, I'm buying an expensive ugly white dress for the next wedding I'm attending.

Don't do it! A woman once wrote to Miss Manners asking if she could wear a long white gown to an afternoon wedding. Miss Manners replied that of course she could, and congratulations on her impending marriage, since if she was wearing white to the wedding she must be the bride. So, actually, an ugly expensive dress is okay. In fact, if you're going to one of the weddings I'm attending, I'd really appreciate it.