The wedding went wonderfully. It was the most perfect day Stewart and I could have had and it encompassed everything we wanted. We had this prety great party and got hitched at it.
We received two pieces of mail the other day that excited me unexpectedly. The first was our marriage certificate! Now we have a piece of paper to prove our commitment. The second was the electric bill. Our first piece of mail with the new name on it. The thrill was short lived.
Now, I'm ass-deep in paperwork trying to get the name changing rolling. For two. I don't mind filling out the forms. It's better that I do it anyway, being that my handwriting is mostly legible. What I am taking issue with is how many places want their own special copy of my marriage license. That is not one cheap piece of paper. At $10 a pop, for at least 5 different departments, by two...it's a bit pricey. It doesn't include banks or jobs either. Honestly, I'm disinclined to pay for any of them except for the social security office, considering I can use my license to get everything else. Except for Stewart's replacement passport.
Ef this beauracracy.
9.25.2008
9.08.2008
-licious
So, I've been bust planning the wedding and doing all the other nonsense that goes into getting married. It's making me realize a lot of things about myself.
I've acquired a label more shocking to those who know me than wife: I'm a feminist. And it's not in any mild way.
When Stewberto and I went to get our marriage license, we had to make a snap judgment about our last name. We had decided we were just going to append both names to both of us and go by Mylast HisLast. That way, if we ever had a family, both family names would be passed on. Upon entering the clerks office and filling out a series of paperwork (and never being asked for ID), the clerk informed us we could not just go by Mylast Hislast. It was either Mylast or Hislast or the hyphen.
I am opposed to the hyphen. I have always been opposed. But I also don't believe in just giving up my name. I've been me for this long, and my name is part of my identity. I offered just changing it to muffin as a solution. It was not well received. And I was on the edge of a meltdown when Stewberto said, "But if I change my last name, I'll have to fill out new paperwork for everything."
"What does this face say to you?" This is my stock tongue-lashing opener. "It says, 'Cry me a fucking river, Stewart.'"
The clerk stepped in and told us we could make our decision and call her in the morning, because it wasn't going to be typed up until the morning anyway. In the end, it was a financial concern. It costs $180 to add a middle name to your records in the state of Mass. So, now we are hyphenated. And we can sit together at the RMV, wait in line together at the social security office and apply for new passports together, Isn't that what marriage is all about?
But my stubborn refusal to give him the administrative easy way out isn't where the feminism comes in today. I worked double shift today. And the guys were watching the US troops, "We love America," kind of famous people studded Concert/circle-jerk. And Kathy Griffin (who, feminist or not, is one of my heroes for unabashedly embracing her loud, obnoxious, tactless self and forcing people to laugh at themselves) made some comment about how this group must be really talented because they were discovered by the Pussycat Dolls: GIRLISCIOUS! And she clapped and cheered in a way reminiscent of Kermit introducing the acts on the Muppet Show.
And out pranced Girliscious in their spangled tank tops and four inch stiletto boots. Oh, wait! Those aren't tank tops. They're dresses. And the majority of the dance move involve bending over? And wiggling. I understand this is a floor show for the troops, but I know enough about the pussycat dolls and their progeny to know that this is actually a mild costume, song and dance.
It isn't the sexual suggestive lyrics. It isn't bedroom hair or makeup. It isn't even the spangly tank top/dresses that all ti in the back. It's not that these girls can't sing, or that it isn't an impressive feat to do high impact aerobics and still be able to speak, let alone sing.
It is that these women, who do have talent, need to tease glimpses of their cooch to get a record deal.
And even more so, it's the hypersexualization of every aspect of the media.
Ultimately, the thing that I am opposed to is that there is no filter in between the writhing and moaning that is on the tv for the troops and Marissa, my seven year-old cousin. Because Girliscious isn't just a singing group. It's a burlesque troop. It's a brand. It was a competition. It was a reality show. Girliscious "oozes a sex appeal so innocent, it hurts." They are more than delicious...they're GIRLISCIOUS!
Aside from making me want to slap the website's copywriter for incongruent adjective and olfactory senses, it disgusts me by taking the Madonna/Whore issue to a whole new level. I can tell you there is nothing innocent about spangly aprons with hooker boots and that an allusion to blue balls should not be a selling point.
But I can't tell my cousin, who better not know what blue balls are yet, either of those things. I can't keep her from singing along with her peers when "I kissed a girl (And I liked It)" comes on the radio in her school bus.
I can only hope she doesn't get any of it. My righteous indignation doesn't do her any good.
I've acquired a label more shocking to those who know me than wife: I'm a feminist. And it's not in any mild way.
When Stewberto and I went to get our marriage license, we had to make a snap judgment about our last name. We had decided we were just going to append both names to both of us and go by Mylast HisLast. That way, if we ever had a family, both family names would be passed on. Upon entering the clerks office and filling out a series of paperwork (and never being asked for ID), the clerk informed us we could not just go by Mylast Hislast. It was either Mylast or Hislast or the hyphen.
I am opposed to the hyphen. I have always been opposed. But I also don't believe in just giving up my name. I've been me for this long, and my name is part of my identity. I offered just changing it to muffin as a solution. It was not well received. And I was on the edge of a meltdown when Stewberto said, "But if I change my last name, I'll have to fill out new paperwork for everything."
"What does this face say to you?" This is my stock tongue-lashing opener. "It says, 'Cry me a fucking river, Stewart.'"
The clerk stepped in and told us we could make our decision and call her in the morning, because it wasn't going to be typed up until the morning anyway. In the end, it was a financial concern. It costs $180 to add a middle name to your records in the state of Mass. So, now we are hyphenated. And we can sit together at the RMV, wait in line together at the social security office and apply for new passports together, Isn't that what marriage is all about?
But my stubborn refusal to give him the administrative easy way out isn't where the feminism comes in today. I worked double shift today. And the guys were watching the US troops, "We love America," kind of famous people studded Concert/circle-jerk. And Kathy Griffin (who, feminist or not, is one of my heroes for unabashedly embracing her loud, obnoxious, tactless self and forcing people to laugh at themselves) made some comment about how this group must be really talented because they were discovered by the Pussycat Dolls: GIRLISCIOUS! And she clapped and cheered in a way reminiscent of Kermit introducing the acts on the Muppet Show.
And out pranced Girliscious in their spangled tank tops and four inch stiletto boots. Oh, wait! Those aren't tank tops. They're dresses. And the majority of the dance move involve bending over? And wiggling. I understand this is a floor show for the troops, but I know enough about the pussycat dolls and their progeny to know that this is actually a mild costume, song and dance.
It isn't the sexual suggestive lyrics. It isn't bedroom hair or makeup. It isn't even the spangly tank top/dresses that all ti in the back. It's not that these girls can't sing, or that it isn't an impressive feat to do high impact aerobics and still be able to speak, let alone sing.
It is that these women, who do have talent, need to tease glimpses of their cooch to get a record deal.
And even more so, it's the hypersexualization of every aspect of the media.
Ultimately, the thing that I am opposed to is that there is no filter in between the writhing and moaning that is on the tv for the troops and Marissa, my seven year-old cousin. Because Girliscious isn't just a singing group. It's a burlesque troop. It's a brand. It was a competition. It was a reality show. Girliscious "oozes a sex appeal so innocent, it hurts." They are more than delicious...they're GIRLISCIOUS!
Aside from making me want to slap the website's copywriter for incongruent adjective and olfactory senses, it disgusts me by taking the Madonna/Whore issue to a whole new level. I can tell you there is nothing innocent about spangly aprons with hooker boots and that an allusion to blue balls should not be a selling point.
But I can't tell my cousin, who better not know what blue balls are yet, either of those things. I can't keep her from singing along with her peers when "I kissed a girl (And I liked It)" comes on the radio in her school bus.
I can only hope she doesn't get any of it. My righteous indignation doesn't do her any good.
7.31.2008
Apparently less of an asshole now.
I've been watching an unprecedented amount of political coverage. And Tucker Carlson is all over MSNBC tonight. It would seem that after his run in with Jon Stewart (was that four years ago already?), and his unceremonious departure from CNN, Tucker became a man. His O'Reilly buttboy schtick went out the window with the bow tie. He either gained some weight or lost some of his unbearable cockiness since the last time I paid attention to him on the tv, and he looks more mature. Even his voice doesn't make me twitch anymore. Ok, when he gets shrill and excited, it still does, but the normal tambor does not.
And on the flip side of my brain (and my attention span for the evening), this woman has the most amazing make up tutorials I have ever seen. And she does it in a personable way. So, go learn how to put on liquid eyeliner.
And on the flip side of my brain (and my attention span for the evening), this woman has the most amazing make up tutorials I have ever seen. And she does it in a personable way. So, go learn how to put on liquid eyeliner.
7.22.2008
Exorcising.
I'm pretty sure it is a combination of the impending nuptials, my annual reminder of my life's failings, the new season of Project Runway and this article that is making me do a relationship audit.
I do not own a pair of rose-colored glasses. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows are just Lesley Gore to me. I am not pining for anyone. In fact, it is a much more common occurrence that I will be breathing in a paper bag over my memories of the people I've been involved with than longing for them. I'm not sure if other people experience it, but I still vividly feel the discomfort and anxiety of who I used to be at just a name drop. I would call it shame. My involvement with certain people make me feel ashamed. I am sitting here starting to blush and squirm thinking about where this post could be going. It is one of my only tells when I'm caught being truly shady. My ears turn red.
I want so badly to assuage my nerves. I am in love. I'm about to commit myself until one of us dies (or kills the other) to our relationship. It feels comfortable and perfect. It is more than I ever expected. Why can't I get beyond who I used to be?
When Stewart and I met, I was at the bottom. I had been broken up with by someone I wasn't even involved with beyond humping. I was in a delicate situation with my best friend over the rift, because the two of them were also very good friends. My self worth was at a record low, having realized that I was being used as a surrogate for an unattainable girl with whom I share some personality traits--again. I hadn't been sober for longer than it took me to open a bottle in the morning. I quit my job and didn't get out of bed for a week. I met Stewart at kareoke. We both had plans for the following night. His involved some drama queens. I decided to go to my favorite bar, my two closest friends and this guy who I thought I was cool with being around, and humiliated myself in a gallon of gin and tonic. The was I summed it up the next day, hung over and watching Ace Ventura, Pet Detective with my most sensible friend, "I have no dignity and I feel like shit, but I had a really good calzone, so I guess it's a wash." And I went westward. For good.
And I need to insert here that Mike was not the worst of them, but he hit at a time where I was definitely not the best of me. I did not have the motivation to pick up and go on like I had previously. I was isolated. I was in transition. I felt like I had failed and it was the camel that broke my back. But it was the start of my metamorphosis into the grown up I am. And I hope that at least that section of shame will leave me be.
I do not own a pair of rose-colored glasses. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows are just Lesley Gore to me. I am not pining for anyone. In fact, it is a much more common occurrence that I will be breathing in a paper bag over my memories of the people I've been involved with than longing for them. I'm not sure if other people experience it, but I still vividly feel the discomfort and anxiety of who I used to be at just a name drop. I would call it shame. My involvement with certain people make me feel ashamed. I am sitting here starting to blush and squirm thinking about where this post could be going. It is one of my only tells when I'm caught being truly shady. My ears turn red.
I want so badly to assuage my nerves. I am in love. I'm about to commit myself until one of us dies (or kills the other) to our relationship. It feels comfortable and perfect. It is more than I ever expected. Why can't I get beyond who I used to be?
When Stewart and I met, I was at the bottom. I had been broken up with by someone I wasn't even involved with beyond humping. I was in a delicate situation with my best friend over the rift, because the two of them were also very good friends. My self worth was at a record low, having realized that I was being used as a surrogate for an unattainable girl with whom I share some personality traits--again. I hadn't been sober for longer than it took me to open a bottle in the morning. I quit my job and didn't get out of bed for a week. I met Stewart at kareoke. We both had plans for the following night. His involved some drama queens. I decided to go to my favorite bar, my two closest friends and this guy who I thought I was cool with being around, and humiliated myself in a gallon of gin and tonic. The was I summed it up the next day, hung over and watching Ace Ventura, Pet Detective with my most sensible friend, "I have no dignity and I feel like shit, but I had a really good calzone, so I guess it's a wash." And I went westward. For good.
And I need to insert here that Mike was not the worst of them, but he hit at a time where I was definitely not the best of me. I did not have the motivation to pick up and go on like I had previously. I was isolated. I was in transition. I felt like I had failed and it was the camel that broke my back. But it was the start of my metamorphosis into the grown up I am. And I hope that at least that section of shame will leave me be.
7.21.2008
The Bulk Shopping Dilemma
I've been buying my meat from a wholesaler who sells nigh exclusively in the form of a 10 pound bag. There are pounds of chicken, ground beef, pork chops, sausages... Everything except the really good cuts of steak, all in a bag large enough to feed Stewart, my fiance, and I for a month. For a maximum of $15. And I buy them.
Once I buy them, I bring them home and separate everything into approximately 1 pound sections and put each chunk into a small freezer bag. Then I label them with the type and date of home storage. Then I cram them into the freezer.
I feel compelled to buy in bulk. I'm fairly successful tricking myself into thinking it's for the price breaks, but it's really because I'm lazy. I don't want to shop more than once a month, if I can avoid it.
When Stewart and I moved into our apartment, we had to curb our bulk buying due to storage concerns. I don't have space in my kitchen for two months worth of mini-wheats. The freezer has no shelves, and I got sick of the avalanche of toe shattering chicken breasts that spilled out every time I wanted to get an ice cube. Now the freezer is empty except for the ice trays and a few loaves of bread I overbought 4 months ago when there was a buy one, get two sale at the Big Y.
The moment I realized I had crossed the bridge from "I spent $30 at the grocery store and all I have is several types of cheese and some Doritos" Erin to "responsible adult, Friday evening Shopper" Erin happened on the phone. My friend, Tara, and I were catching up after she had moved in with her boyfriend. We were sort of having a surreal moment realizing we were both wandering down a very traditional path, even though our younger selves never would have seen it coming. As it turns out, Tara is buying her meat in bulk, too.
Once I buy them, I bring them home and separate everything into approximately 1 pound sections and put each chunk into a small freezer bag. Then I label them with the type and date of home storage. Then I cram them into the freezer.
I feel compelled to buy in bulk. I'm fairly successful tricking myself into thinking it's for the price breaks, but it's really because I'm lazy. I don't want to shop more than once a month, if I can avoid it.
When Stewart and I moved into our apartment, we had to curb our bulk buying due to storage concerns. I don't have space in my kitchen for two months worth of mini-wheats. The freezer has no shelves, and I got sick of the avalanche of toe shattering chicken breasts that spilled out every time I wanted to get an ice cube. Now the freezer is empty except for the ice trays and a few loaves of bread I overbought 4 months ago when there was a buy one, get two sale at the Big Y.
The moment I realized I had crossed the bridge from "I spent $30 at the grocery store and all I have is several types of cheese and some Doritos" Erin to "responsible adult, Friday evening Shopper" Erin happened on the phone. My friend, Tara, and I were catching up after she had moved in with her boyfriend. We were sort of having a surreal moment realizing we were both wandering down a very traditional path, even though our younger selves never would have seen it coming. As it turns out, Tara is buying her meat in bulk, too.
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