Consumption

Panasonic Viera PZ85U

So we actually got married last weekend (hold for applause).

After you have declared your intention to wed your life ceases to be a series of random interactions and occurrences and the curtain opens on one of the most bizarre and lengthy pieces of theatre you will ever star in.  It's a little like The Truman Show, suddenly people you've never met seem to know you, and there are scripts everyone you meet follows.  Once you have accepted the starring role there are two main choruses, Those Who Have Had A Wedding of Their Own and Those Who Have Not.  The Those Who Haves mainly communicate by projecting their own experience on yours and aren't really speaking to you so much as reminiscing.  It's the Have Nots that are really disturbing, with their bank of appropriately timed throwaway questions.

One of my favorites kicked in about a month before the "big day."  So many people asked me if I was getting nervous I began to get nervous that there was something huge I had forgotten to be nervous about.  I haven't been to many weddings, are there usually firepits and endurance tests?  Did I slipup and invite Malcom McDowell's Caligula to the ceremony?  Am I fresh off boat from Ukraine to meet new American husband?

In the week plus since we've been married it's been, "So, do you feel any different?" and "How's Married Life?"  I have several quippy comebacks for this one such as "It's a lot like shackin' up only with more matching dishes," (for the latter) and "Well, my left hand is a bit heavier now that you mention it," (for the former).

But my favorite comeback is the one in response to "Where did you go for your honeymoon?"  I reply "HH Gregg to buy a giant plasma TV."   The way I see it, you go to the beach and get drunk and sexy for a week and that's it, but with a giant Teevee the honeymoon doesn't have to end anytime soon. 

As with every new relationship there are ups and downs.  We unwrapped the first one we brought home to discover the screen was entirely busted.  After fretting for a night about having signed the receipt that we had inspected it and found it to be in good condition, we returned it to HH Gregg with ease, so thumbs up to them.  Once we got it home, the Husband (no it is not the first time I have said that and it does not freak me out stop asking) hopped on the ol' forums and discovered the "break-in period" of 100-200 hours, which we are still in, so we've got the color settings a little wonky and the contrast all low, but overall it still kicks the ass of anything I've ever had in my home before, especially when we crank up the PS3. 

My only regret is that we discovered ABC has a separate HD channel only moments AFTER the season premiere of Pushing Daisies was over, but marriage is all about sharing sorrows AND joys right?

I, Too, Sing ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBAW

I've gone extremely girly for the last two weeks, and that's fine. I am in fact a female, and therefore enjoy all the privileges of dousing myself in liquid honeysuckle and behaving like Belle Watling on a bender. However, the siren song of Footbaw is beginning to echo in my ears, and it must be obeyed.

Although Brett Favre is giving his all for ruining the preseason today, there is a ray of hope. A ray with piercing cornflower eyes, tumbling locks of purest gold, and a demented, godless smile on his Viking face. A ray named Jeremy Shockey.

Shockey (28; I had no idea! He's timeless) is a four-time Pro Bowler and is the sole reason the New York Giants made it to the playoffs. His off-field activities include drinking, whoring, Americaning (it's a word! He went to the U, BABY!), and poking Tom Coughlin with a stick until he cries. He used to shoot his older friends with a BB gun to make them pay attention to him (FACT!). Under normal circumstances, the utilization of a gay slur would make my eyes swell with furious tears; when Shockey calls Bill Parcells a homo, the tears are of unmitigated adoration. Does this make me a bad person? Yes. Do I care? No. I AM WOMAN.

The point of all this is to say that Jeremy Shockey--volatile, mentally unbalanced, gleefully anarchic Jeremy Shockey--has been traded to the New Orleans Saints. He is now playing football in the most corrupt city in the world, where he can rampage through the French Quarter with hand grenades and hurricanes in his clenched fists, demanding that every woman he sees immediately disrobes before him, snorting uncontrollably while he shovels fried dough into his gaping maw. If you can think of a better scenario for the National Football League or humanity, please let me know immediately.

Buy this jersey, belt it, and wear it with some gold lame underwear. Then take a casual stroll through the Quarter at three in the morning. If you feel you must, spritz yourself lightly with HGH and tiger musk. The pieces should fall into place from there.

FREEDOM ISN'T FREE WHERE'S MY DRINK

Justina McCaffrey Haute Couture

First, a little about me.
I was an unapologetic tomboy who played in the dirt until it was time for ballet. My mother rolled my hair every day before school and I shopped in the men's department. At the thrift store. I read IT by Stephen King during church choir rehearsal. I love kittens. And snakes. And zombies. I like my classical music from the romantic period, my hip-hop from the underground. I have a very limited list of which beverages deserve the suffix -tini.
I got engaged a little over two years ago in a hole-in-the-wall Middle Eastern restaurant with disco balls and singing deer head on the wall. No on went down on any knees and I'm pretty sure I asked first. Since then I've been trying to plan a wedding that stays true to my wacky nature.

I'd like to claim I'm entirely off the wedding industrial complex grid, but even I am not immune to the call of the finely crafted designer gown. With that in mind, the mere idea of shopping for a wedding dress was giving me nightmares. I heard horror stories near and far about bridal salons with their snotty saleswomen and size 2 samples. Then you have to order the gown and they get it wrong and the headache grows from there. I anticipated using the sheer expense of most dresses as an excuse for just hitting up Target's Isaac Mizrahi Bridal Collection and calling it a day, but then my mother (a United Methodist minister) announced she'd performed two months of extra wedding ceremonies solely to buy me THE dress. I defy even the most hardened heart to deny their momma buying her firstborn's wedding dress.

Now, I'm fairly certain that as some point in my life I begged a close friend to shoot me if I ever considered setting foot in an establishment that would be so uppity as to call itself Wedding Wonderland. In the course of my research, however, I discovered that very place carried several of the designers I found most appealing. Getting married changes you, man.

I marched into the place, determined to get it over with. I felt that if I could make it through the next few hours without crying about being fat or punching a snide salesclerk in the face I could claim success. What happened next is the stuff of legend. The salesclerk was supportive and sweet, and not at all fake or annoying. She quickly walked me around the store and left me to my own devices. I grabbed a few token try-ons that my mother seemed to like. Then, I got to the sale rack. There, in my size, and my wedding colors, and for 75% off, was a Justina McCaffrey floor sample.

Modified A-line, delicate beading, unbelievable fabric. Secretly, in the deep and dark recesses of my heart, I had been lusting after a Justina McCaffrey gown. They are ludicrously expensive and I didn't harbor the thought for one second I'd ever even see one in person. It was the first of seven gowns I tried on. And I walked out with it less than an hour later. I proceeded to tell everyone I saw, and e-mail everyone I didn't, about it.

I've never felt like such a girl.

Justina McCaffrey Haute Couture

In my defense, they just added that ridiculous video to the homepage.