If you think you’re already sick of hearing about my wedding planning, you’ve got months to go kid.

More snow. In two weeks we broke the record amount of snow for an entire winter and it’s still snowing. I’m all for snow, especially now that I can work from home and blog on my lunch break.

The only problem is Boston’s public transportation system seems to be dying a slow, drawn out, painful death. It has the potential to linger on life support for many more years, but it’s not going anywhere fast.

On any given day I can walk 2 miles to work or I can take the Red Line to the Green Line and sometimes get there faster. The other day I head down to the Red Line platform. There’s a train half-in half-out of the station. The woeful people on the train are staring back at me. The MBTA guy says,

“I have no idea when this train is moving.”

I walk to work.

Two days later I get on the train home. Three stops later it’s not moving. Fifteen minutes later it’s still not moving. The driver announces,

“The train ahead of us broke down. I don’t know when we’ll be moving.”

I should’ve walked.

This weekend, extra large coffee in hand, I get on the commuter rail to Natick to meet my mom and begin realizing my dream of a wedding dress after years of designing it on the back of Friendly’s place mats.

The train gets stuck between stops near Newton. I’m still enjoying my coffee, but I’ll need a bathroom soon. Half an hour later the train hasn’t moved yet. I need a bathroom. Other people seem to feel the same way.

The conductor announces,

“The bathroom is out of order.”

I cross my legs, stare out the window and contemplate the last remnants of my really large coffee. The weirdo guy across from me tries to get my attention. I ignore him. My patience is very thin. He tries harder,

“Excuse me excuse me excuse me!”

I look at him.

“Is there a bathroom?”

Join the club buddy.

We’re 10 minutes from my stop. I’m an hour into really needing a bathroom. The train gets stuck again. I peer my head outside. Three of the train workers are standing on the platform staring at the wheels. If staring at trains fixed them, then this one would be all set. I tell the conductor,

“I’m desperate for a bathroom.”

“It’s out of order.”

“I don’t mind.”

I’ll pee on a clogged toilet. I’ve done worse.

“I can’t let you in the bathroom, it’s covered in blood.”

I call my mom,

“I’m getting off the train now.”

I don’t know when the last time you tried to plan a wedding is, but there’s a lot to do before we get to enjoy the open bar.

I head in for my normal 2 hour hair cut. A luxury that I love every minute of. Last time I saw my hairdresser she said,

“Next time I see you you’re going to have a ring.”

I wasn’t so sure, we were still months away from the final diamond spreadsheet. But it turned out to be true. I show her my hand. She squeals and we start talking plans. She recently got married and she tells me what dress store not to go to. She warns me,

“My dress came and it didn’t fit. They tried to force me to pay for it. My lawyer got me out of it.”

“Lawyer?!”

“It was a $12,000 dress.”

I work with all women. That’s an exaggeration. I work with 50 women and 2 men. It’s very easy to go all day without seeing a guy. It’s not that long ago that the office’s two “women’s rooms” changed to the all inclusive “restrooms.”

After our holiday party where Captain was one of the few men, he jokes,

“That was a high pitched party.”

“What?”

“The voices of all the women.”

The morning before I head into work freshly engaged, Captain tells me,

“Enjoy.”

“I will. You can be glad you’re going to miss it.”

“Miss what?”

“All those women?”

“Oh the shrieking.”

I tell my Little Sister the good news. She informs me,

“I’ve had dibs on flower girl for a year now.”

“It’s all yours.”

“What am I going to wear?”

“We’ll find a pretty dress for you. What do you think Captain should wear?”

“A pink and purple polka-dot bow tie.”

“I’ll let him know.”

My Little Sister continues,

“Is your wedding going to be pink?”

“I hope so.”

“A little pink or a lot pink?”

“Probably a little, why?”

“Because if it’s a lot pink that would be AWESOME.”

I’ll see what Captain thinks. She asks,

“When is the wedding?”

“October.”

“That’s SOOO far away.”

Back in September, Captain and I were sitting on the beach. We started talking about weddings. He asked me,

Guess what? I was at the Governor’s Inauguration the other day. He asked my office for cheerleaders and if there’s anything I’ve done well in my life so far it’s cheerleading.

I started working on a company cheer, but it wasn’t done in time. Plus I’m not sure how many of my coworkers can kick as high as their heads and if this is possible in business casual.

I was lured to the event with the promise of refreshments. It took some investigating, but I shed my handler and I found them. The food was the oddest combination: cookies, cake, Danishes, muffins, I know you’re thinking this sounds like par for the course, but then there were baked beans, corn beef sandwiches and oysters on the half shell. Plus all you can drink soda.

I returned to our holding room where all my co-workers were. They exclaimed,

“Where’d you get all that!?”

“Upstairs.” Vague is good, in case I just crashed the Inauguration reception.

It’s a cake!!!

I do not have any photos to prove New Year’s Eve happened, but it did. I have the wet bathing suit to prove it.

For New Year’s Eve Captain and I didn’t have any plans. The plan was to make dinner, have some drinks and celebrate being done moving. Maybe head outside to watch the fireworks. Maybe.

The day before New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Eve Eve, an email went out to everyone in our condo building. The guy on the top floor is having a party, feel free to stop by.

Sounds like a warm place to watch the fireworks. Captain and I are in. Maybe the penthouse guy will even agree to store my pink bike, as nice as it looks in our living-room. We take the elevator up a little after 11pm. The door is propped open. We follow stairs up toward the music. It is a legit party pad: floor to ceiling windows, long couches, fur throws, fireplace, candles, huge platters of food and a full bar. There’s definitely room for a bike.

I stand still while people take turns coming up to ask us what we do. After it’s established that we’re probably not useful for anyone’s career, we’re left in peace. Captain and I wander around. I find another beautiful room. It’s smaller but it also has long couches, floor to ceiling windows, and a toilet. This is a bathroom I could live in.

We return to the food island. The host tells us,

“It’s almost time to hit the hot tub for the fireworks!”

“HOT TUB?!”

“Yeah, upstairs. Go put your suit on.”

I’m almost halfway out the door back to our place, when I have a moment of doubt. What if this is an elaborate hoax to laugh at me when I come back in my bathing suit and there’s no hot tub? Captain and I decide to investigate first.

Half-way up the stairs I see it. There is a huge rooftop deck with a steaming hot tub, the Boston skyline behind it. I turn to dash down the stairs for my swim suit. Captain declares,

“I’m going outside to check it out.”

“I’ve seen all I need to see. I’m going to put on my suit NOW.”

Captain decides to follow suit. 😉

Suits on we head back up, top up our drinks and sink into what feels like a dream. Across the hot tub from us is a woman who looks familiar. She’s chatting with some of the guys in the tub,

“I always go commando for work.”

“Go on.”

“We stand all the time now; I can’t have panty lines on camera. Viewers were complaining.”

Just then the fireworks start to explode. Captain and I are in a rooftop hot tub with a local news anchor who goes commando and several other people who I can’t remember what they “do.”

On our way out. The host says,

“Please come again.”

This sounds like an empty invitation, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I’ll be here next weekend, with my bathing suit already on.

I was looking for a funny picture of a bathroom with a bike in it and I found this toilet bike instead. You’re welcome.

I’m working from home today. Last night Captain asks me,

“What time are you getting up tomorrow?”

“8:55. I’m working from home.”

“Home?”

“Yeah.”

“Here?”

“Yup. This is my home now believe it or not.”

I took a personal day today, so I can pack. So far I’ve slept in, drunk coffee, ate chocolate, watched Jon Stewart and thought about packing.

Now I’m blogging. Today is a day full of hard choices. I love my little hairy trolls I got in Norway. Do I love them enough that I want them to live at Captain’s? Or can they hibernate in a box in Worcester until an undetermined time when there’s room for them to rejoin the living?

One has been residing in my underwear drawer for two years now, so she might prefer a box.

Not the actual size of trolls being considered for relocation.

I’m counting down my final days in Davis Square. Yes, that is where I have lived for the last 4.5 years. My mom is going to be uneasy that I’m telling you where I live. But by the time you find me, I won’t be here anymore. And if I am still here, then you can help me move.

This is the longest I’ve lived anywhere besides Worcester. Davis Square has everything: food, drinks, a movie theater with food and drinks, a bike path, a wonderful landlady and CVS. I love CVS.

I list off my Davis Square amenities as I snuggle into the best amenity at my new place: Captain. The washer and dryer are a close second. He reassures me,

“There’s a new CVS down the street.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I have to check it out.”

It is a great CVS. So while I’m used to the same couple of cranky clerks in Davis Sq. I will open my heart to a couple of new ones.

I can visit my friendly landlady anytime and we’ll see how my new landlord Captain is. I can visit all of my furniture as well; it’ll be in my mom’s garage.

Last week at work was crazy. If I wasn’t working, I was sleeping and if I wasn’t sleeping I was waking up in a sweat because I forgot where I put the third set of jingle bells for my jingle bell meeting.

I don’t have a very good excuse for my general blog disappearance other than that I’m working weird daytime hours and weekend hours and trying to move into a smaller living space. I’m so busy I haven’t even been able to finish my Hannukah list.

I have a lot to tell you. It all started a long long time ago, a year-and-a-half ago when I interviewed a woman to be my roommate. Possibly and hopefully the last roommate I’ll ever have.

I thought to myself,

‘She seems fine, responsible and has a day job.’ At the time I had a night job. I was looking for a roommate I’d never see. She asked,

“Maybe we could have dinner together sometimes?”

“Maybe.”

And just when we were all set to sign the lease, she asks,

“Is it ok for my mom to come see the place first?”

“Sure. I thought you said your mom lives in Florida.”

“She does, she’s here visiting.”

I considered this a yellow flag, in retrospect it was a red flag telling me to run run away. Instead we signed a lease. She moved in and so did her mom.

Days would go by and I would never see my original roommate. I’d wake up at 10am. There’s her mom. I’d come home from work. There’s her mom. Why did her mom come all the way from Florida to visit me?

It was only a few days in and no one seemed to believe me about how crazy this woman was. I needed proof. It didn’t take long. I woke up, stumbled into the kitchen, with the hopes of enjoying a little of the alone time I so treasured before I got a third roommate.

I walk into the bathroom. The beautiful white claw-foot tub has terrible yellow splotches all over it. I ask my new third roommate,

“What happened to the tub?”

“What do you mean what happened to the tub?”

“It has yellow splotches all over it that have never been there before.”

She peers in at the tub. She acts shocked,

“I was just trying to clean!”

I start scrubbing. I like to keep a clean, neat house and my tub was clean until someone tried to “clean” it. Twenty minutes later it’s back to normal. I settle in for my coffee, blog and Jon Stewart. There’s a knock on my door.

My roommate’s mom is sobbing. Tears are streaming down her face. She flails her arms,

“I’m sorry, I ruin everything!”

I wish I could tell you she went back to Florida and was never heard from again. Alas, there’s more crazy where that came from, but that’s for another blog.

I survived Thanksgiving. I assume you did too if you’re reading this.

Wednesday night Captain and I hit the road for Worcester. What was a rain/slush storm in Boston, was a full on icy, wet, snow storm in Worcester. It took 5 tries to pull into my mom’s driveway.

We made it. Once inside, Captain asks,

“Is there anything here you want to take back to my place?’

Keep in mind most of my stuff is moving back into my mom’s garage because there’s no room. I ask him,

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

The next morning I point at the giant pink easy chair in my childhood bedroom and declare,

“I’d like to take that.”

“Really?” Captain squeaks.

We head outside to shovel the wall of ice chunks at the end of the driveway. We have Thanksgiving at Captain’s uncle’s house to get to. The guy across the street is shoveling too. My mom shouts across,

“Just what you want to be doing today huh?”

“Actually my in-laws are coming, so I’m gonna take my time.”

 Captain and I are off without the pink easy chair. We’re greeted by everybody. Captain and I are cornered by his sister-in-law’s mother. She tells Captain,

“There’s a five-foot-tall Olaf at Bed Bath and Beyond. It was $240 dollars and now it’s only $120. You have to get it. It’s going to be a collectors item.”

Olaf, from the Disney movie Frozen, is the funniest, most lovable snowman I’ve ever met, But if there’s no room for an easy-chair, there’s no room for a snowman.

We sit down to eat by 2pm. This is earlier than my family usually manages to sit down, but it works out because by 7pm we’re eating turkey sandwiches. The sooner you get the Thanksgiving meal over with, the sooner you get to start eating the left-overs. And the sooner you can go buy a giant stuffed snowman.

The day job continues. I plop down in a coworkers cube. I declare,

“My brain is going to explode, I need to talk about something other than work.”

We chat about how she needs to call DCF (Department of Children and Families) which doesn’t really lighten the mood, but makes my day seem less crazy. I head back to my desk to schedule a meeting with my Jingle Bell Ringers.

I go home to Captain, which is my new home, but I’m not really moved in yet. My plants moved in, some of my clothes and a very small portion of underwear. Captain is clearing some dresser drawers for me, he tells me,

“I threw away a pair of underwear, so there’s a little more room now.”

“One pair?”

“Yup.”

“I guess that’s at least worth a few pairs of mine.”

I recount my crazy day and ask him,

“Do you have these feelings?”

He looks perplexed and offers,

“I don’t know if I have those same feelings. I think I have different feelings.”

This past weekend we had a huge fundraiser for work. We raised over a million dollars and it’s important, because a small small part of that is my salary.

It was all hands on deck. A month ago, the woman managing the event called me into her office. She tells me,

“I originally put you on registration, but then it was suggested that you might be better as a cocktail host. It would be your job to walk around with a drink in your hand and talk to people. What do you think?”

Walk around with a drink talking to people? I’ve been practicing for this my whole life.

I double up on the practicing. One can’t be too prepared.

The night of the event the hall for cocktails fills up. I mingle. I approach couples, groups of people, people by themselves. ANYONE. Like it’s my job.

I walk up to one woman and introduce myself with the smile that has been serving me well for awhile now. She stares at me. She asks,

“What’s your job?”

“My job is-“

“-I mean what’s your job tonight?”

“To socialize with people.”

“Then you’re doing a good job, but you don’t need to talk to me.”

Everyone leaves the hall and heads downstairs for the $500 a plate dinner. We were told ahead of time that there will not be enough seats for staff for dinner and the staff who do get to have dinner will be chosen based on seniority. So I knew I’d be out of luck.

Before I left, Captain was sweet enough to make me a turkey sandwich with extra mayo. I put my sandwich in a Ziploc baggy, put my Ziploc-baggy sandwich in my purse and deposit the whole thing at the coat check. After cocktails I return for my sandwich. Ziploc-baggy sandwich in hand, I slip in the back of the event, wave my sandwich and ask my supervisor,

“Where can I eat this?”

“We’re going to have seats for everyone, I’m seating you now.”

I look at the sandwich. Should I take it back to the coat check? I might miss out on getting seated for dinner. I hover near the exit, sandwich by my side. There’s a seat for me. I’m directed to a table. I hide the sandwich in the folds of my dress. The men stand when I arrive and wait until I’m seated to sit. That’s never happened to me before. I make a split second decision. The sandwich was great, but 8 hours of unrefrigeration later, who knows. I kick it under the table.

Captain arrives at 9pm for the after party. I recount the sandwich debacle. He tells me,

“I would’ve eaten it.”

“I can go get it! I’m sure it’s still under the table.”

My home life is in upheaval. I will tell you more once my security blanket is safely evacuated. The exciting news is that at some point in the near future I’m moving in with my favorite blog character, Captain.

Happy Halloween! 

A week ago an office-wide meeting maker was sent out: “Halloween Cube Decorating and Costume Contest 2:00pm – 3:00pm.” I accepted.

I needed to figure out what I could be that’s appropriate for work. I text my mom. 

“Will you please mail me my Goofy hat?”

Last weekend I go to pick up my Little Sister to make apple pie. Knowing nothing about my competition at work, she emerges from her house carry a ginormous bag of Halloween arts and crafts. I tell her about the contest. She declares,

“Oh we’re gonna make sure you win.”

“Okay!”

“What are you going to be?”

“Super Goofy!”

“Super Goofy?”

“I have a Goofy hat and I’m going to wear a red cape and red boots.”

“Aren’t you going to wear Goofy clothes?”

“I don’t have a Goofy clothes. Do you think it’ll be ok?”

“I guess so.”She seems exasperated that this is all I’ve come up with.

We make a bunch of Halloween crafts, during which she declares,

“I want to make one for my mom.”

“Definitely!”

When our time is nearly up, I ask her,

“Are you going to make one for your mom?”

“I will later. Right now we need to focus on you winning.”

My Goofy hat arrives in the mail. It feels lighter than I remember. I rip open the package. Huh. That’s not the Goofy hat I was thinking of. It turns out I have more than one Goofy hat in Worcester. I tell my mom. She says,

“Do you want me to mail the other one?”

Yes. But I decide to make do with the Goofy hat I have.

Now I’m the bearer of sad sad news. I lost the Halloween Contest to a woman dressed like a peacock with a life-size teddy bear posing as an alien in her cube. It’s very cuddly. But I am declaring myself the unofficial runner-up. Or so I’ll tell my dedicated cube decorating companion.

Yes those are my Wonder Woman Boots