It’s 12 days away.  It’s so close that soon I’ll need to spell the day count out in sentences to keep my grammar on point.  Our wedding is sooooon.

I’ve had lots of points of crazy in these past few weeks.  Part because I’m a bride.  Part because my work is offering some very real challenges.  (Try coordinating a 100 person even that is happening in TEN days, while only 25 people have rsvp’d so far!)  And part because I took on a lot of extra projects for the wedding that were fabulous in conception and a little rocky in execution.

And the usual, predictable stuff has OF COURSE happened, even though I naively thought it wouldn’t happen to me.

We had the DIY Breakdown Project that never wanted to work.  So we tried something to fix it, and then we tried something else to fix it, and now we’ve found the solution but need three boxes of moss to ARRIVE ALREADY so we can actually execute it and get it off my plate.  Note to self: hand made centerpieces for 20 tables is Un. Wise.

We also had The Printing Fiasco, which led to the Unexpected Astronomical Bill.  Michael is a designer.  I’m in development, which has its fair share of publishing and printing involved.  Between the two of us, we couldn’t manage to get a fleet of printers, nor our friends at Staples and Kinkos, to print on our fancy-sized Crane program kit.  Nobody could do it.  Or so we thought.  Seems our favorite stationary store can do it…for $650.  Unassembled.  Le sigh.  This was the most painful check to write so far.

We’ve also had Seriously, Do You Think That’s Appropriate? guest issues.  The inlaw who insisted on bringing her children and needed us to find her a sitter, who then arranged her own sitter without us and didn’t tell us.  (And when she did finally tell me, it was with a big scoop of attitude that I didn’t get in touch with her soon enough.  Um, sorry — we were busy planning a wedding and a funeral.  You are SO not our first priority!)  And don’t forget the couple that nobody expected to come who replied this weekend only after too many phone messages.  Oh…and the aunt and uncle who just casually responded that their uninvited teenagers will be having the beef and chicken.

And seating?  Yeah, seating.  Amazing how it takes 20 tables to seat 165 people so that no divorced couples sit together and no feuding siblings are within shouting distance.  Sigh.  Why can’t people just get along?

We haven’t had The Dress “Issue” yet, but I’m not due to pick it up until this Friday.  Keep your collective fingers crossed.

And lastly, I would be remiss if I didn’t say something about the cookies.  What cookies, you ask?  The ones that now haunt me.  Daily.  I had the bright idea to make my mom’s favorite cookies as favors for the guests.  They’re delicious chocolate oatmeal coconut drop cookies that don’t even need to be baked.  Easy, right?  Well seems it ain’t so.  I’ve been making cookies for weeks now.  Weeks.  Four people were added to the guest list this weekend and I calculated the pain in cookies.  That’s 16 more cookies I need to make.  And they’re going to be great — packaged up in simple wax paper in kraft boxes, with the recipe tucked inside and a cute brown ribbon tying the box closed.  Would I do it again?  Yes.  But, boy is it tempting to swear off cookies for a year now.


All these things aside, we’re doing just fine.  I have a nagging sore throat this morning, but we’re keeping afloat and getting things done.  I’m nonstop working on the wedding on my personal time and trying to make this other event work during my day job.  I’m tired and wired and easily frustrated.  And yesterday I took a bath at 9:30…in the morning…because I had been at it for hours already and just needed a few minutes away from my computer, glue gun, and the various to do lists.

The only thing that has never once — and I mean not once — caused us a problem is money.  My father was very gracious to sport the finances for almost everything that was related to the ceremony and reception.  (We handled things like the gifts, the donations, and a good portion of the attire, and Michael’s parents hired an amazing photographer to capture the day.)  A year ago I gave my father a budget that I guessed was close to what would work.  He didn’t bat an eye, looked over it carefully, and said yes.  And since that moment I’ve made 110% sure that we would never need to go to him and ask for anything else related to the wedding by being reasonable and responsible with the cash.  And it worked.  We’re under budget with 12 days to go.  I’m proud of that.

So here we are.  So very close.  I’m hoping with every bone in my body that we can get through the tasks this week we have on deck so that next week will be quiet.  I was telling my mother in law yesterday that all I really want is to be able to spend a little time next week anticipating the day, because I know it will all go so fast and I want to be able to be present for as much of it as possible.  You know?

So, me and this triple venti skinny vanilla latte are going to tackle this work event for the next seven hours, and then it’s time to rock some errands and glue some moss.

Cause we’re getting married!!


Yet again, I blame Wes.

After his stellar performance at IMFL this past weekend (a sub-14 on his first try?!), I couldn’t help but have Ironman needle it’s way into my subconscious again.

It’s like a disease, you know.

I mean…I don’t have a lot on my brain right now, right? Only 19 days until I get married. Totally serene between the ears.


But, there it was, in my thoughts again. And I’m about 90% sure I want to try again in 09. There’s no better time for me. But the question is where. Here’s where I am with it…



  1. Within driving distance
  2. No struggle to sign up in under 3 nanoseconds online
  3. No flight cost and no bike shipment cost


  1. Hilly in a way hard to replicate here (sharp, frequent)
  2. Did I mention the hills?
  3. Less of a fun destination for support crew.



  1. Um…it’s in Cozumel
  2. Can combine as one year anniversary celebration with Michael
  3. Flat


  1. MUCH more expensive — flight, bike transport, hotel, etc.
  2. Different kind of race support, so may need to ship more things (e.g., water, nutrition)
  3. No wetsuit
  4. Saltwater swim
  5. Humid. Very humid.



  1. Long gradual “hills,” no sharp grades
  2. No international travel


  1. Heat
  2. Flight, bike transport costs

Thoughts, everyone?

[update: Lesser had a really good point — there’s also the option of a non-Mdot race.  There’s a race nearby that would be positive for cost, distance and terrain, but would not have the same race organization experience and emotional impact of the Mdot.  What do you guys think?  What’s the difference?]

My anesthetist told me the new gym is really great.  

And that pretty much sums up my life right now as it relates to training.  Right there.  In that one sentence.

The wedding has taken over.  Moved in and managed to eat the last slice of cake I was saving for just the right moment.  Left the toilet seat up kind of way.

Reality is, we have about three weeks to get four big projects done and keep up with all the usual stuff.  Oh…and my work is kind of kicking my butt.  

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not complaining — I’m a lucky chick.  But getting to the gym…even the one in the basement…is just so alien to me right now.  It’s not just on the back burner.  It’s in somebody else’s kitchen because mine has the makings for 700 cookies taking up all the room.

I’m okay with it.  Totally cool with it.  Training can wait, so long as I’m not unhappy.  But I kind of miss it.  You know…the regular life of regular training and the regular successes and failures and Fridays that have nothing to do with rsvp’s and worries about getting it all done.

All in due time.

But I do have next season on the brain.  And I’ve been known in this last week to put my pre-race disk in the car and daydream of racing again.  

That’s all.  Nothing dramatic.  Just miss it a little, but I’m happy to have this for the moment.

T-minus thirty days.

The real countdown has begun for us. Four more weeks of glue guns and moss. Four more weeks of florist decisions, rsvp’s, and worrying about the right “foundation garments.” Four more weeks of lists and evenings full of projects and distractions.

All for Our Big Day.


So many of the details have pulled together nicely. The site coordinator was switched out from Mrs. Magoo to a 110% competent and available coordinator who could easily out-coordinate me. Normally I would throw down to see who made a better spreadsheet, but I’m glad to have her on my team. She made me sigh with relief and stop worrying about last minute “snafu” debacles. After our last meeting, Michael and I wanted to take her home in our back pocket and let her get to work on our lives. That good.

I had my second to last dress fitting. Seems I needed to have FOUR FREAKING INCHES taken in from the hip area because, even though my milkshake does bring them all to the yard, it’s a little smaller these days. I blame time away from my bike.

Incidentally, my seamstress stopped halfway through the fitting and looked at me strangely. She said I was unusually calm for this whole thing. Said most brides are a bundle of nerves and stressed out.

Therapy is clearly helping.

I’ve also managed to finalize all the florist needs and flower arrangements. I don’t have the full cost yet (eap!), but it will be beautiful and personal and unforgettable. Kind of like me.  wink

Of all the 200+ guests, we have all but 35 rsvp’s received. Quite possibly a record somewhere.

We also finally have the ring pillow, my jewelry, ‘maid’s gifts, groomsmen gifts, travel plans, and rehearsal plans. A personalized monogram designed by Michael, all the favor and candy table supplies, and a logistics sheet the length Michael’s ape arms.  The wedding has vomited in our dining room and consumed half of our basement.  Flameless candles, bags of preserved moss, and dozens of spools of the perfect “chocolate brown” ribbon.  Sixty of the ideal hurricanes, dozens of votive candles, and too many picture frames to count.  Vellum, doublesided tape, glue sticks, adhesive spray, and a neverending supply of brown boxes.

And all the while, we’ve managed to retain (a) our sanity, and (b) our relationship.

Unbelievable. Seriously.

Last week I turned a corner. I realized I really wanted this to be fun for me, and remotely relaxing. I forced myself to get a facial. It was fabulous and worth every penny. I got my nails done and stopped worrying about stress for long enough to go to spend some quality time to myself, even with a huge pile of laundry taunting me from the corner.

Don’t get me wrong — these next two weeks will be busy.  Very busy.  I have lots of really big things to get through, but I also have a fabulous future husband and his phenomenal family to help.  And I have my amazing sister, who is going to drop everything and come up to make 750 cookies.  That’s love, my friends.

So, when people ask, I can actually say that I really am enjoying life right now.  It’s all good, even the bad.  I’m very, very lucky.

I’ve been leaving someone out of this whole wedding planning thing. I’ve remembered to have nice gifts and thank you’s for all my hostesses. I’ve remembered to have thoughtful, personalized gifts for all my family to thank them for putting up with me all they have done this past year to support our wedding plans. I have included music to honor my mom and music to let my Dad hold his head high. I’ve picked dresses my ‘maids can wear again (seriously!) and added special touches to honor my family.

But I kind of (oops) forgot about myself.

I haven’t really been taking care of myself, and it took my best friend to smack me up side the head last night in a phone conversation.

She asked if I was getting my highlights done before or after the hair trial.  I said I didn’t really have the cash for something like that, so I was just going to skip it.

She dropped the phone.

For the next 15 minutes, she carefully and kindly explained to me that I was missing out on part of the experience.  If I wait to think about caring for myself until the week of, or forbid the morning of the wedding, I would miss the opportunity to feel exceptional.

And this should be an exceptional day.

Anyway, if I was trying to be practical, it makes no sense to show up that day and make them “correct two weeks of ugly.”  That, my friends, is an A+ bridesmaid for ya.

She’s right.  I need to check my cheap side at the door and actually do special things for myself this coming month.  I can’t just skid into my wedding week stressed, pale, drab, and generally untended.  It’s not just any other day.  And as much as I resist the syrupy approach people always seem to take with brides, I do have to remember that in order for me to be completely comfortable and feel absolutely exceptional that day, I need to take care of myself now.

Self care.  Incidentally another indicator of mental health.  Just saying.

On deck this week: a facial and brow wax (separately, of course).

Next week: a hair trial and discussion of highlights with my stylist.  Also a makeup trial, where I will actually spend money on products.  Me.  Spending money.

Two weeks: highlights, lowlights, and a trim (can you believe it’s been about 8 months since I saw a stylist?).

Self care.  Nice to meetcha.

I’m up late (for me).  I’m conflicted.

Some backstory first.  

Our neighborhood is working class to (on our better days) middle class.  It’s a long, one way street next to a pretty field owned by the local Catholic church.  Post WWII brick row houses, three at a time repeat down the length of the street, each with a short drive and concrete sidewalks.  

The houses are modest, but we all do our best to make the neighborhood livable.  We plant and tend, keep our paint updated and cars maintained.  Some better than others.  

But there are many kids.  My neighbor has 4 of her own, with another guardianship from a family tragedy.  And in the past years, as the teens have aged and discovered what pop culture infused bravado feels like, our street has become the destination for a group of troubled teens.  

I know, from my work, how this combination happens.  Best parental intentions can be quashed by a tough economy, alcoholism, and the cycle of abuse.  These teens are lost and bored.  I know that.  I wish I could help them.

But sometimes my pity turns to anger.  When they bring drugs here and mouth off about gansta this and fucking that in front of the toddlers.  When broken bottles and trash are left behind after their 1 am weekday visits.  

And recently, it got more serious.  And I’ve been worried for our safety.  Not every moment of the day, but there are times.  Tonight was one.

Knowing our growing problem and new addition of drug dealing and guns, the neighborhood gathered to talk with the police chief about due diligence.  When do you call 911?  When it is appropriate to worry?  When do you step in and say get off our property?  When do you close the blinds and bite your nails?

The message was clear, but hard to swallow.  Never intervene (that’s easy for me…I’m not inclined to stare down a brassy teen, although I have when it made sense).  Always call the cops.  You don’t have to see illegal behavior, just suspect.  Leave the policing up to us, but be our eyes and ears.

So, tonight I called.  Actually first I walked back and forth to the phone, shaking and undecided, about five times.  I feared (and fear) retaliation.  A few weeks ago the woman across the street dealt with petty vandalism and human feces left on her stoop.  Feces.  On her stairs.

She stepped in it.  I kid not.

I worry about slashed tires and glass behind my parked car.  I fear the same vandalism we had two years ago, with ripped up plants thrown at our door.  But what was I going to do?  Just sit here, watching from behind the curtain in a shadow?

It was only a car full of teens.  They were waiting for the boy who lives two doors down, I have no doubt.  Careful listening has proven that he is the local source for all things weed related.  I doubt his parents realize how involved he is in this.  I doubt they would allow such leeway if they knew.  Of course, they may not care.  Sometimes parents don’t.

I saw them throw their empty McDonalds bags in front of my house, that I would need to pick up tomorrow.  I watched them text and wait for the score.  On my curb.  In front of my house.

So I called.  Within minutes, four cars had arrived and questioning began.  One boy was taken with the first unit, likely on a curfew violation.  I hope for him, that’s all it was.

And I stood there in the shadows of the stark police spotlights shining in my windows and I felt so very sorry for them.  Sorry they didn’t have a parent or two telling them to be home before 9 on a school night.  That they didn’t have soccer or football or band to fill their time and exhaust them before curfew anyway.  I felt sorry that the risk of being jammed up by the cops was more appealing than being home.

And even feeling all of that, I don’t feel it’s okay for me to not call.  I need to do my part to make sure our homes are not the destination of choice for dealers and violent thugs.  I can’t just be okay with letting strangers in our driveway to wait for the drugs, while I flip through evening news programs on mute.

But it leaves me conflicted.  I wonder how I would feel if indeed my brand new car is vandalized tomorrow or over the weekend.  I know I don’t have the money for the deductible if it is.  Frugality and practicality would direct me back to bed without a second thought.  Don’t get involved.  

But I can’t complain about my neighborhood if I don’t do the clear steps it would take to make it a little better.  And I truly hate people who sit and complain about circumstance and external influences when they are unwilling to step up and do the difficult thing.  

It’s okay to be uncomfortable sometimes, I guess.  When it matters.

Time for bed.

For someone who is otherwise rather smart and informed, I’m terrible at help seeking.

It’s supposed to be an indicator for maturity and strong mental health, blah, blah, blah. If I were tested on my help seeking behavior, I’d fail miserably. Bygones.

Ownership of my life and my projects is so important to me that I fail to reach out and share the responsibility. Case in point: my wedding. I have such a hard time passing off full responsibility of any of it to even Michael. But I have to, otherwise I get buried.

I do this at work, as well. It’s better to just work longer hours and stress under a heavy work load than accept assistance. Partially it’s about the investment of time to teach someone else how to do it, but mainly it’s about ownership. I need to own my successes and failures. I use it as a yardstick by which I measure my worth.

It can be, as you would imagine, counterproductive, especially when you think in terms of my emotional life. So after weeks months of high anxiety and minimal relief, I finally decided I needed help.

I gots me a therapist.

Oh yes.  I did.

I resisted for many reasons. First of all, I know it’s hard work. Really, really hard work. Therapy done right is a life altering process that requires you to truly consider and reconsider (and reconsider) how you relate to the world. Trying new and scary approaches. Forcing yourself out of your own comfort zone. If it’s weren’t for the health at the end of the tunnel, it would royally suck.

I also resisted because I’m just plain tired of being broken.  I’ve paid my therapy dues.  I’ve done the hard work of changing my life, turning it around and finding the right path.  I did a lot of work to get here and I’m so resistant to admitting that “here” isn’t quite where I want to be yet.  Close, but not spot on.

But, I’m tired of feeling like this and I’m no longer an island.  My moods and behaviors affect Michael, too.  So off to the therapist I went.

My first appointment was kind of an eye opener for me.  It was, as you would expect, a little get-to-know-ya session.  So she asked me to tell her about me.  Easy, right?

So I started the list.  And kept going, and going.  Seems I’m involved in a lot.  I work full time in a demanding job.  I’m in a relationship, planning a wedding, and have an extended family I’m intimately involved with.  I train for and compete in triathlons.  When I can, I train with a coach.  I do needlepoint (currently 2 projects in the hopper) and crochet (only one for this).  I cook homemade meals about four days a week.  I do all the grocery shopping.  I write a blog and now I want to write a book.  I mentor my next door neighbor’s girls.

I’m busy.

And it’s had me thinking…why?  Why do I fill every moment with projects and goals and deadlines?

Know why?  I’m afraid of life without all of this.  I don’t know what it would look like.  I don’t know what it’s like to be like every other normal person in the world who comes home from a full day of work and decides to sit down and watch television.  And that’s it.  Just watch tv.  For hours.

My typical day is getting home late because I went to the store for veggies for that night’s dinner.  Then I listen to NPR when I cook homemade turkey meatballs for us.  While they’re cooking, I’ll try to run and lift in the basement.  Then dinner.  Then laundry.  Then I’ll try to fix this crochet project I started over the weekend, blog, read online sites about weddings, write my florist, and balance our wedding budget.

Today is Monday and I just described my day to you.

It’s no wonder I need a therapist.

Not because of my daily “stuff,” but why I need that level of activity in my life.  Why I can’t seem to slow it down without feeling guilty or worried I’ll lose control over my own sanity.  It’s all counterintuitive and completely entrenched.

So, I’m seeking a little help with this all.  Someone who can help me figure out what is reasonable to place on my plate.  Someone to help me develop tools to get the most out of my own life while being present for every single moment.  And someone who may help me get to sleep before midnight without meds.

I’m getting better at help seeking, it seems.