Stuck Inside a Starbucks with the Colored Pencil Blues
If a copyeditor was copyediting this blog entry, she’d probably read that title and then attach a little Post-It that said, “Did you mean ‘blue colored pencil’? Please clarify.” You know why? Because I’m old, and therefore all my references are outdated secret codewords for other old people.
It’s a Bob Dylan reference, people.
It’s a Douglas Adams reference, people.
It’s a Road Warrior reference, people.
It’s an Eddie Murphy 1980s stand-up routine reference, people.
What if I say it’s a Rock Band reference? From the video game? That one song you have to download for $1.99, that no one downloads or else no one plays because it goes on and on and on and it’s hard to stick the vocal notes and the guitar is too, too repetitive?
Don’t mind me. I’m just old. Someone else who’s old is shaking his head, saying, “But those aren’t even reference-worthy pop culture relics, Gwen.”
Well, whatever.
That was going to be a story about going through a lot of trouble to arrange some time alone to go over my latest manuscript’s copy edits… going through trouble to find a suitable coffee shop in which to do that in before settling on a Starbucks that wasn’t even mine… stopping on the way for Special Writer Supplies (Tax Deductible)… trying the Vanilla Rooibos Tea Latte despite trepidation; finding it rather good; worrying then about its calorie count… and then, after all that, opening my copyedited ms and finding out that I was only supposed to write on it with colored pencil, not with Uniball gel pens or Pilot gel pens or any of the other gel pens I’ve been buying and intending to write off on my taxes.
So. Yeah.
the wedding
Yes, I’m going to post a few pictures. If they come out flattering enough. If I don’t have cake crumbs all over my dress. For those who asked. Thanks for caring, you guys. 
The plans are coming together as well as I could’ve hoped. Now Dat’s parents are making all the food, themselves. They called Dat last week and said, “You know we’re coming to the wedding, right? We told you that, right?”
Dat said, “Oh, sure. Good.”
Dat’s dad did that thing that he does… that thing when he cares, but doesn’t want to be the cheesy, spoiling parent who shows that he cares. He asked if we were catering, and Dat said we were of course catering Asian food. Dat’s dad goes, “Are you getting rice from Lucky Restaurant*?”
We weren’t, but before Dat could say that, his dad gets all faux-upset and goes, “Don’t get rice from them! Their rice isn’t good! Even I could make better rice than them! Don’t waste your money! You always waste too much money! Let me just make the rice for you!”
Dat said, “Okay, Dad.”
Then his dad was like, “What else are you ordering from Lucky Restaurant*? Don’t order egg rolls. Their egg rolls aren’t good. Stop wasting money. Your mother’s going to have to make the egg rolls for you. No, don’t argue with me, son. You’ve got to stop this habit of wasting money on bad egg rolls, and we’re going to teach you that lesson by making the egg rolls and the rice, and whatever else you were planning on getting from Lucky Restaurant* for your wedding. Also, I should probably make my special lobster noodles, because you’re such a bad, spoiled, money-wasting son.”
Dat said, “Thank you, Dad. Gwen loves your special lobster noodles.”
Dat’s dad went, “Hrmph. Well. I’m just trying to save you from wasting money, eating bad food, and throwing your life away.”
His dad’s routine would have had more striking effect if Dat’s mom hadn’t been in the background all along, calling excitedly, “Tell him I’m gonna make my coconut cake! Tell him! Have you told him yet?”
I know y’all realize that this is good news to me. But do you realize why? Because Dat’s parents are retired restaurant owners (of course), and they can cook like no tomorrow.
* I’m using a pseudonym for the restaurant because their food isn’t bad. It’s good, and the owners are super nice. But you understand that Dat’s dad had to pretend their food was bad in order to offer his gift without looking like he was fishing for gratitude.
still talking about the wedding
I found my dress, finally. It was at Talbot’s, waiting for me all spring.
I would link y’all to a picture of it, but I don’t want to because the catalog picture on their web site looks absolutely nothing like the dress does in real life. See, it’s one of those MadMen-inspired fit-and-flare numbers, but they put it on a typically slender model, so the skirt is all sadly pleated around her hips, instead of flowing outward like it’s supposed to be. Also, that dress was made for a big ol’ chest, and the model doesn’t suffer from one. So you can’t see the dress’s potential, so there’s no use linking.
But I will tell y’all that it’s white with peach flowers and green leaves. You have to imagine the peach flowers, obviously.
I will also tell y’all that, while I was there, I tried on a similar dress with blue roses, and it was super, duper cute, but not garden-party enough for my idea of the wedding dress. So I put it back on the rack. Then I went to the web site and saw that Talbots hadn’t done that dress photographic justice, either. Then, later, I saw a picture of Michelle Obama wearing that dress. And I’m a little annoyed with her, because I saw it first. But that’s okay. It looked nice on her, too. Not as nice as it looked on me, but…. No, just kidding. Just kidding, Mrs. Obama.
you would think I’d never had a wedding before or something
We found a cake lady right near my neighborhood, and she made us sample cupcakes and they tasted nice.
We found a beautiful yet suitably informal design for our invitation, and my brother-in-law-to-be is printing them up for us. (Not my dentist b-i-l… the printer one.)
And….
It’s past eleven p.m.!
It’s time for me to go to sleep so I can wake up and go back to work tomorrow.
No sighing. No whining. No asking for extra glasses of water, Gwen. Just go to bed.
More later, then. Always more later. Good night.
