Anniversary Number Two

Since I know you're all dying to hear about how our fabulous anniversary plans went, I'll take you on a photo tour of our romantic evening. First, Tim showed up with flowers.

A dozen roses really go a long way. Well, they do when your cat doesn't spend his non-napping hours trying to eat them. I understand his attraction to shiny things and unattended meals, but roses? Anyway, back to the subject at hand. I'd stopped by the salon to have my hair done, since I left all of my styling tools in Provo (oops!). Unfortunately, after the walk back to the apartment all of the curls had fallen out. So much for my Victoria's Secret model hair—the only part of a VS model I would dare attempt to imitate. Once I'd completed throwing the rest of myself together, I looked something like the photo below.

I'd had to actually remove my nail polish while my hair was being done, since the two-dollar bottle I'd purchased the day before turned out to be almost entirely worthless: it went on clumpy, dried too quickly, and chipped within a few hours. I didn't even have time to replace it with the bottle of trusty Sally Hansen I'd purchased on my way home.

After our hurried departure, we had to pay $12 for parking for the evening! Twelve American dollars! Then we had to find the extremely well-hidden entrance to the restaurant. When we found it, however, we were not disappointed. Suddenly we were transported to a quiet Summer evening in a French bistro far away from the noise of city life. After a divine soupe à l'oignon, our waiter consented to take our picture.

I had to keep stealing Tim's frites since they were so delicious I told him I'd have to leave him in order to marry them. This confession elicited the following mental picture for both of us:


Cue newspaper montage


Woman Kills and Eats Husband on Wedding Night

Denver, CO—Friday night a young woman was caught in the act of consuming the fried remains of her second husband, whom she had married just that afternoon. Since this gruesome end to a very short love affair cannot exactly be called cannibalism, the woman was allowed to go free. When asked for an explanation of her conduct, she had no comment, but her eulogy at Saturday's quickly planned funeral gave friends and family some insight into her feelings: "Though my beloved husband died last night, he has not really passed away. He remains in all of us. At least in me. For the next few hours."


With the best wishes of the restaurant staff, and a promise of free desserts the next time we visit, we left the restaurant for a pedicab ride up the street to an evening at the theater. No photography was allowed inside at all, so you'll have to live with my description of the event. The theater was huge (and packed, from what we could see) and we had wonderful seats. Sweeney Todd, however, was a disappointment. The singing was amazing, but the show was inappropriate. The really shocking part was that there were kids behind us! I mean, even we knew that it was a bloody show. Also, I think I have hearing damage from the high-pitched squeals that accompanied each murder. I'll be doing a bit more research next time I want to go to a show.

On our long walk back to the very expensive parking lot, the most expensive shoes I have ever purchased were badly damaged when one of the spike heels wedged itself stubbornly into a crack in the sidewalk. I suppose people who pay that much for shoes don't walk too much! I felt like Cinderella falling apart on her way home from the ball, so we hurried to the car before it could turn into a pumpkin—which would have been much harder to remove from that dear parking spot.

Looking Like a Thousand Bucks

I've been looking for the past little while for a dress for my anniversary (this Friday), and since we'll be attending the opera after a little fine dining, it had to be something at least a little fancy. The Sixteenth Street Mall failed me; the most appropriate attire was at the Dress Barn. I generally refuse to wear anything that comes from a barn unless it was once the skin of a cow.

Anyway, today Tim took me to an outlet mall. We managed to park near Neiman Marcus, so that was where we first searched. Besides having an impressive selection of cocktail-style dresses, the sales were massive. Here's what I found:

$360 Slinky Deep Teal Dress: $31.50 on sale at Neiman's! It needs a few alterations to be modest, but at that price, it's totally worth it. Yay for cheapies!

$695 Strappy Dark Gold Stilettos: $78.00, also on sale at Neiman's. I guess when a few seasons go by these puppies find their way into outlets and get marked down over and over again until someone like me can afford them!

Gold Concentric Circle Earrings: $7.50 at Claire's. Not everything in the mall can be on sale. And yes, I do find it appropriate to shop in the little girls' section, but only for jewelry! They were cheap, but simple enough not to look too shabby with the whole ensemble.

Looking like $1,062.50 for only $117.00: Priceless!

I haven't felt great lately; Thursday's appointment with Dr. Arrigo has spawned another rigmarole of tests, but she has her suspicions already. I suppose worry—and being sick and tired of being sick and tired—has taken its toll, and looking good again really got me feeling good. And of course, nothing quite heals like retail therapy.

Coordinated Frump

Today I woke up wearing my husband's "I'm a Pepper" t-shirt. It's large, short, and—at best—unflattering. I work at home, so I decided I might as well have a frump day. It's Monday after all, and in my fuzzy thoughts I figured I'd shower eventually. The road to gross is paved with hygienic intentions.

But in all of my morning logic fog, the most illogical conclusion I came to was to choose the snowman sweatpants over the giant black ones. Why? Because the red spots in the pants go with the red shirt.

It was later in the morning when I looked down at my self and thought hey, this outfit really does match that I realized that I am in grave danger of never looking good again.

Romantic Plans KILLED by the Real Terrorists: Airlines Themselves

Tim's coming home tonight, and I haven't seen him since Tuesday morning. Needless to say, I'm painfully eager to see him for several reasons, most of which I won't go into any detail about. Anyway, I was so excited about Tim coming home tonight at around 9:00 PM that I decided to make a nice dinner, bought dessert, made the apartment look immaculate, DYED MY HAIR, and had a whole fun romantic evening planned! For the last two days I've been calculating all kinds of fun schemes.

BUT . . .

Just now Tim called to tell me his flight has been delayed until 10, and he won't even arrive until probably midnight! MIDNIGHT! Now, instead of me making him a gorgeous dinner, he has to eat a $12 bowl of rice in the airport. Instead of him seeing my fabulous new highlights and haircut, he'll see the messy bedhead remains of my salon style! Instead of rejoicing in the bliss of reunion after a long time apart, we'll probably have an extremely short conversation before conking out. ARGH! Can you understand my frustrations here? I mean, a woman can only go so long without her husband without getting a little "pissed that he's not around", and for goodness' sake, NOBODY likes making elaborate and sexy plans only to have them RUINED by STUPID STUPID AIRLINES!

It's summer. What could their excuse possibly be for ruining my romantic evening? Do they realize the danger they're in? Because this is the real terrorism. Bush is going to have to declare war on ridiculous flight delays that level my carefully built plans. I mean, there must be some crazy masochist in Dallas who's not getting any, and decided that I must not either. And when the time comes for his romantic evening, I'm going to walk to Dallas and CASTRATE him.

I may be getting a little paranoid, but there's an important lesson to be learned here:

[Please leave the gist of whatever lesson you learned in a comment.]

Alone

Tonight, for the second time in the history of my marriage, I spend the night alone. In about an hour, Tim's flight to Texas will leave, and while he's busy training for his fancy new internship, I'll be spending three more days with people I don't know, in a town I've seen twice before, in a state I've never lived in, completely alone.

Tim's aunt and uncle are nice, good people. I won't go without food and shelter. It's just that I'm suddenly realizing that I don't feel comfortable asking for anything from these people to whom I must be nothing but an occupied room. It doesn't help that this morning I woke up ill—unable to see my hubby off at the "light rail" station—and feel like a total slob holed up in this little room wearing yesterday's sweatpants.

At least tomorrow I get to move into our new apartment—if I can find it. I suppose I'll figure it out in the end, and somehow I'll lug the ridiculously heavy bags and boxes that fill the entire back of the car into a new strange place, where I can at least be alone in my aloneness.

I can't help but think how much more I would like to be alone in Europe. I just graduated from college. Shouldn't I now be backpacking through France, using my 200-level, half-forgotten vocabulary to find the Louvre? I feel like I've made a good choice in a choose-your-own-adventure book, but now none of the options take me to the Tower of London.

Where to next? The more I think about it, the more I feel far too young and immature to have children. Hormones and the "everyone's doing it" mentality really do a number on a 22-year-old girl who's lived in Provo far too long. I see my friends getting pregnant (no, not the act itself, you dolt) and something in me cries out for receiving blankets and nursery furniture of my own, as realistic as I am about the not-so-charming reality of raising children.

I'm left to waste away my best childbearing years working. As a writer. AH! The phone.