8 weeks left to the big day

Help. I need to get out of this grumpy mood I find myself in. I feel overwhelmed and stressed out.

8 weeks left to the big day.

I'm not exaggerating although some of you will think I am. There is a lot left to do. I always thought that if I did find myself in this predicament that my mom would step in, take over and have the entire day planned out in a matter of weeks. All I would have to do is be ready with the blank checks. Not so. In fact, she's been pretty hands off. Not because she doesn't care, but because she knows that I'm stubborn. Pigheaded enough to stay out of the way. Secret is, all I want is my mommy to step in and save the day.

8 weeks left to the big day.

Take yesterday. I've been trying to figure out what to do about the centerpieces for weeks. I thought- I have a brilliant idea! 4 trips to Michael's, 1 to Jo-Ann Fabrics and 1 to Crafters Warehouse later I walked away feeling pretty excited. Add a stop at Sam's Club and a quick visit to IKEA and you could have stuck a fork in me. I was done! But no, I still had to go pick up my mom from work only to find that she bought a rug- which didn't fit into my car because of all the other stops along the way. Finally got home and starting to unpack my loot only to find that the 10lbs bag of sugar I bought had burst open. I now have -and will probably have for a very long time- 5lbs of sugar in my trunk. I'm not exaggerating here folks. FIVE POUNDS! I hate Sam's Club. It isn't like it's SO much cheaper than the grocery store. They can afford to give us fucking paper bags to put our shit in! I was in a foul mood to say the least.

8 weeks left to the big day.

4 Michaels, 1 Jo-Ann Fabrics and 1 Crafters Warehouse later reality struck. I have no fucking idea how to make a wreath. My brilliant idea has dwindled down to a pile of yuck. I'm left with nothing more than a glitter explosion on my bedroom floor.

8 weeks left to the big day.

The boy says not to worry, that I'm trying to hard. No one will look at the centerpieces anyway. What does he know? He's a boy. They better fucking look at the centerpieces after all this!

8 weeks left to the big day.

M&M are coming over tonight. That will be a help. We're going to make all the favor boxes. All 200 of them, if it means that I'm going to strap them to a chair until they're done! The boxes at least will look cute. They only needed 3 previous trips to Michaels- oh yeah, and one to a paper warehouse place.

8 weeks left to the big day.

There you go. Anal, stressed, disappointment all wrapped up in a glitterized bow.

Thank God Almighty

It fits! The white poofy marshmallow dress fits! It looks pretty darn hot on too if do say so myself!

Thank ya Jesus!

Burnt Grilled Cheese Part 2

The poor boy is sick again. I hate to admit it, but I think I'm at fault.
See. I work in a cesspool of ick. Everyone here is sick. In fact, K, actually broke a rib from caughing to hard.

Anyhoo, I think I'm going to tackle this Tomato Soup & Grilled Cheese thing again. I have high hopes this time. First, I'm going to make it with milk on the stove top. Seems that I missed the inter-office memo that told me that you never ever make it by following the can's directions: water, bowl, microwave. As far as the grilled cheese. I have the Pam and low heat setting ready to go.

I'll keep you all posted.

My Christmas Wish

My friend the Norwego just posted her Christmas List.
I thought I would take her lead and post mine:

1. Guest List entered on the evil that is theknot.com
2. A poofy white dress that fit my fat ass
3. A photographer that is signed and paid for.
4. . Did someone say, type and format the program?
5. Rsvps in and accounted for
6. Someone to help me decide between chicken and beef
7. The perfect ring
8. Time enough to sleep- its 12:59am people!
9. Invites that are printed, addressed and stamped in time
10. Help finishing my two knitting projects.
11. Christmas list done
12. Christmas present purchased
13. Did I mention the white poofy dress that fit my fat ass?

Arggg, Crankers is cranky!!

Let's Get Physical, Physical....

There is nothing than better than hauling your fat ass into work late again only to be greeting by a voice from Shane.

See. Shane is my new Lifetime Fitness trainer. Being new and gung-ho Shane seems to have made me his new pet project. The voice mail went like this:

Ireeeene, this is Shane. From Lifetime. Just checking in with you. I haven't seen you at the gym lately. I looked you up in the system as it seems like you haven't made it in for a while.

Fine. You found me out. Geez, I've been busy. OK!? Yes, I know I have been freaking out about not fitting into my wedding dress. Yes, I know I have to lose 3 inches from my fat ass, but get off my back Shane!

The Dream Doctor

Have you heard of him? He's the host of a really dumb talk-radio program. My life has turned into one big call-in guest. Well, I'm actually much to obvious to need The Dream Doctor, but still, the analogy works.

I keep having crazy dreams.
They are driving me nuts.
See.
I'm getting married in 3.5 months and I'm anxiety filled. Not about marriage, but about the wedding. How to people do this? I'm freaking out. I've even detected a grouping of gray hairs coming in.

My anxiety typically tends to rear its ugly head in dreams so I'm not really sure why I'm so focused on it. You know the kind- you're trying to get somewhere but something or someone keeps stopping you from reaching your destination. Your car breaks down, elevators don't come, you can't find one of your shoes, etc.

My brain must be having a fuckin' hell of a time concocting all these crazy scenarios I've been privy too lately.

As of late my dreams have everything to do with the big W.D. Guest don't come, I'm late for the ceremony, I miss my hair appointment, can't find the veil, etc.

My favorite one had me missing the luxury yacht I had booked for the big day. Everyone was already on the yacht- everyone except for me that is. I was running behind. I remember sitting in a convertible driving on the freeway. Veil blowing in the wind. Dotting in and out of traffic. I finally make it to the dock, but the yacht was a mere spec on the horizon. I was frantically looking for a row boat or something to get me to that ship!

What's up with that? I would never hire a yacht to get married on. Nope, I'm more of a traditional kind of gal- church, hotel banquet room, etc.

Last night I had a doozy too. I actually think I woke up in tears. Or. Perhaps I dreamt that I woke up in tears.

It was the morning of the big day. I wake up, Mona came to get me to get our hair bouffanted out. I realize that I never picked up my dress from the wedding shop. Holy crap! We go down there and leisurely ask for it. Nothing. A blank stare from the gentleman behind the counter. It was like the Soup Nazi- No dress for you! I scream. Commotion ensues. The weird thing about last night is that I kept waking up and falling back to sleep only to find myself in the same dream- different store, different Dress Nazi, yet still no dress for me. By the time my alarm rang I had probably been in every stinking wedding boutique in town trying to get a dress. I never did end up making that hair appointment.

Remember to remind me

Has anyone ever said this to you? I find that people say this to me a lot.

Remember to remind me to bring breakfast to work tomorrow.
Remember to remind me to email my client when we get back.
Remember to remind me to mail the check.
Remember to remind me to call the store.
Remember to remind me to, blah, blah, blah, blah

I guess if I was being honest with myself I would have to take responsibility. (Well, I'm take some, but they should take some too.) I can't help it. I like being needed. I like being in control of the world around me. But, I’m also tired of it. My friends call me mothering, controlling, a worry wart, etc.

But.

Why can’t people take responsibility for their own stuff? Why can’t they follow up? Do what they say they will do? Show up when they say they will show up? I hate being put in the position of nag, checker-upper, mother. They're grown ups. They can walk themselves down to the store and buy a Post-It note. They can get a calendar and jot down a few notes. Right?!

I want to scream 'cause for how much I hate that I do this, I still follow up. Check up. Did you get this done?

I’ve come to three conclusions about this all:
1. For all my bitching and moaning, I’ll still remember to remind them.
2. I’ll continue to complain about it.
3. They’ll think they are better than me, wiser than me, more aware than me because of it, but they'll be wrong.

$9 Back

I keep racking my brain for something to say today.
I've got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Hrmph.

D. keeps telling me to just write. Even when I have nothing to say.

Just write. Just write. Just write. Just write...I worked a show last night. A benefit. We raised enough money to buy 8,000 meals for a local food shelf. Success.

Its odd you know? How we present ourselves to the world I mean. As I was standing there. Hands out.
Please donate what you can. We're matching every dollar.
A middle aged woman walked up. You've seen her. Tall. Long coat. Hair coiffed. One of those scarf things draped across one shoulder held in place by a pin. She pulled out her Louis wallet. Pulls out a $10.

Thanks so much.
Wait, that's a $10!
Yes ma'am a $10. Thank you. Its a great cause!
I would like $9 back please.
Change? Who the fuck asks for change from a donation bin?! Well, ok. I left out the last part, put I did send some bad mojo her way.

Later....

Short woman. Wearing your typical Mn garb. Synthetic material. Hippy shoes. Uncoiffed hair. Just some mascara for her.
I thought. $1 for sure. NOPE. Pulled a checkbook! Wrote a check! $300!!

There you go. Had something to say.

Burnt Grilled Cheese

I’m marrying what some would call- a guys guy. You know the type: sports-watching, beer-drinking, can figure out how to fix just about anything kind of guy. He’s a big ole thumbs up in my book.

D. got pretty sick this week. Says he’s suffering from Ebola. I tell him no, just the flu.
Back off- I’m the hypochondriac in this relationship!

He doesn’t ask for much, so when he called and said I don’t feel so good, need some tomato soup and a grilled cheese. I said.
No problem baby, anything for you.
I ran to the store and opted for the tried and true- Campbell’s soup, American cheese. Perfection.

By the end of the night D. may have been rethinking marriage to yours truly. See. I’m spoiled. I don’t cook. Have my very own private live-in chef. Seriously! It goes something like this:
I would like
2 boiled eggs in the morning- don’t forget the toast!
Lunch. Tuna salad extra pickle
Dinner? Oh, don’t worry I’ll get something while I’m out.

I failed. Miserably. Burnt the grilled cheese. TWICE! After getting explicit instructions from the other room on how to make it.

Everything ok in there?
Everything’s great sweetie!
Are you sure, it kind of smells like something's burning!
No. It’s all good!
Are you sure?
Yep!

Repeat….

Later-
Did you stir this soup?
Of course- what’s wrong?
Well, it’s kind of lumpy.
Sorry. Want me to stir it some more?
Silence
What?
Nothing…
What?!
Well. Did you use the microwave?
…yezzz. I followed the directions: 1 can of soup. 1 can of water. Stir.
Silence
What?!
You’re supposed to use milk and stir it in on the stovetop

Failure.

R.I.P

My little grandma died last week. She fell and broke her hip two weeks ago.
I loved her. She was my favorite person on earth.

It is still kind of hard to talk about. It is weird you know? I feel ok about what happened- she was sick and frail and unhappy in her body.

I move through my day thinking about her and smile.
Then. Bam! The stupidest little thing can send me off into a crying fit.

The day after she died I was fine. Sad, but no tears. We where setting out some plates and glasses and snacks for the wake when all of a sudden a basket full of cookies just about knocked me on my ass. See, when she was well, she would have gone into the kitchen boiled some water in her little pan and made herself some tea. No fancy lavender infused loose leaf tea for her. No. She was a simple woman. Lipton was her favorite. She would have loved these cookies- they are great for dunkin'. She would have taken two and no more, but I would have gone into the kitchen and gotten her a third. I can see the little smile on her face now. I miss that smile. I still see it. She had this way about her. She would cock her head to the side and give you the smallest of smiles. It always made me want to say, "I love you, yiayia"

I'm afraid of forgetting that look. I'm afraid of forgetting how her hands looked.

I kind of got blind sided last night too. Walked into my house and it was gone. Her bed I mean. We had her hospital bed in the dining room. They came and took it back. I don't like having the dining room look like a dining room. Don't like it at all.

She's been put away.

Cherakouimou, se agapo. Se peithimo. Pote then tha se xihaso! - To koukourouisou. xoxo

The Mouse

My childhood nickname was Mouse.

Apparently I would squirm my way into every nook and cranny. My favorite spot was belly-down under the coffee table while watching TV. How the tables have turned. I've started calling my 84 year old grandmother Mouse. She's not doing so well as of late. Dementia, a possible lung cancer scare, perhaps heart failure. Its sad. This once proud independent women has been turned into an 80 lbs shell. I see her, but she isn't really there. It makes me cry.

She lives at home with me and my family. Her little bed is in the dinning room because there isn't another bedroom on the first floor. My super hero dad has been taking care of her. He washes and feeds her. Occasionally he yells at her. I know this is hard to believe, but he yells out of love. I know, I know, how can it be? It is the way it is because he fears for her safety. He thinks the louder he tells her the more she'll remember to be careful, don't try to eat the plastic grapes, you'll choke, be careful, don't walk around the house by yourself you'll break a bone, be careful be careful be careful. I don't want to put you in an old folks home! I want you to die a home. With me.

Today was a hard day. A very hard day. She's really earning her new name. See, he has created a makeshift barricade to keep her in her own little spot. Its a comfy spot. We even got her a genuine hospital bed. She wants to escape. Escape to where? We don't know how she does it. Have no idea. A little mouse, creeping in one hole and out the other. One minute she is in her spot, the next she is walking around the house. The weird thing is, no one can figure out how she does it. Its like she's Houdini. Step right up folks, and be amazed!

Don't get me wrong, she would be free to go anywhere in the house. She's no prisoner. She could go to the sun room. She could go in the living room, she could go into the kitchen. She just simply can't go there alone! She needs an arm to hold her up. Funny enough when we take her to where she wants to go, she'll simply gets up and goes to another spot. It is weird I tell you. Weird.

I feel for my dad cause he's about to lose his shit. Three nitro pills downed today.

What's in a name?

I've just spent 30 minutes trying to figure out how to change my display name from Underpants to Cranky Grandma. It simply won't work. I keep updating my settings and yet- NO SUCCESS!

Underpants you see if what my little pooky-wooky calls me. Cranky Grandma or CG for short is what my friends Mona and Megan have christened me. Sitting here on a Monday afternoon I feel as though I have finally come to terms with this name.

Why do I have to name this stupid thing?

I hate setting up new email accounts, blogs, etc. It is just too much PRESSURE I tell you! First, I have to think of a username- one that 1 billion people before me have not already tried. Then they force you to think of an all-encompassing title for the blog. I can't think of such things. I simply wanted to open an account so that I can respond to others rants and raves.

I have friends. They are much more creative than I. In fact, when put into the position of having to write down my thoughts in any sort of creative environment I freeze....Can you feel the stuttering way of my fingers as I type this?! Argg.

I shouldn't be so hard of myself. I'm actually fairly creative. Give me a hot glue gun and some silk flowers and I'll simply amaze you! Its just when words on paper are required that I freeze. Perhaps I should use this site as a way to practice. I wonder if I can Google the web for one of those blank pieces of paper that had the little guidelines- you know, the kind your elementary school teachers forced you to practice your penmanship on. I need that kind of practice.

There you go, my first blog posting. Take it for what it is- a way to post comments on other’s blogs.