Priest drama

We're still waiting for Father Bastia to return Lui's calls. It bothers me that we don't have a nickname for Fr. Bastia, since we have nicknames for the rest of the priests. Yes, priests, plural. Let me start over.

When we were first looking for a church in Rhode Island (April 2006), only one pastor would agree to even meet with us, since we weren't parishioners and Lui's not a Catholic. That pastor was Fr. Bastia, and through him, we were able to secure the beautiful little red-brick-outer, peach-marble-interior building known as St. Ann's. Fr. Bastia was strict, but forgiving - he okayed our need to be civilly married beforehand, our desire to have one of the readings be in French, even my two Jewish maids of honor (provided that I get a Catholic witness to sign the church's registry book).

This past winter, we were planning a trip back to RI to finalize some more plans, we called the church hoping that we could make an appointment to check in with Fr. Bastia. Not only did we find out that Fr. Bastia had been transferred to another parish within the dioscese, but that St. Ann's now had no record of us planning a wedding there. Fortunately, the associate pastor, Friar Tuck, remembered us from the previous April, and was able to locate one or two pieces from our file (the rest had mysteriously vanished). Friar Tuck was not the priest who had replaced Fr. Bastia - he was still the assistant - but the new pastor, we were told, was on sabbatical, so it would be Friar Tuck who would marry us.

We went to RI in February, and on the first day we were there, spent over an hour in Friar Tuck's office, discussing details of the wedding. Friar Tuck is young, kind of bumbling, not the brightest crayon in the box, but really nice, and so down-to-earth, you'd forget he was a priest. (Example: he told us that our file had been lost because the new priest was stoned all the time, and that his "sabbatical" was in fact rehab.) We parted on good terms and said we'd be there the following Sunday to attend Mass before heading back to CA.

That Sunday, instead of giving a sermon, Friar Tuck made an announcement: he too had been transferred and would be leaving the parish the following week, at which point Father Rehab would be returning to reclaim his pastorship (or however you say that). Lui and I were dumbfounded, but caught Friar Tuck's attention on our way out of the church, and he told us that, if we still wanted him to, he would come back and preside over our wedding. We agreed.

Some weeks later, we called the parish to see about bringing in our own soloist, rather than using one of the choir ladies from St. Ann's (I wasn't too impressed with what we'd heard that Sunday at Mass, and as a long-time choirgirl myself, wanted someone whose talent I can personally account for to sing at our wedding). That worked out fine, but Fr. Rehab told us that Friar Tuck would not be able to preside. Now, I'd been in contact with Friar tuck since returning to CA, and knew for a fact that he was available and willing to do it, and so asked him what Fr. Rehab meant by saying he couldn't. Turns out, these two priests do not like each other - they had some sort of a falling out, maybe Tuck turned Rehab in to rehab or something - and that, as the pastor of the church, Fr. Rehab has every right to refuse allowance to anyone, including Friar Tuck, and, more frighteningly, to us if we don't play by his rules. But, he said, it would be fine if we wanted Fr. Bastia to come back and preside.

Now here's the thing. It doesn't bother me that Fr. Rehab has been in rehab, because at least it means that he's a repented stoner rather than a current one. What does bother me is that, when the priest stands up to give a sermon at our wedding, I want him to be able to start with, "When I first met Elle and Lui..." and give some amusing anecdote and great insight into our characters and relationship. And it's really frustrating that these guys are so catty, taking out their personal problems on us, and in the Church no less - no wonder we Catholics get such reputations! (Incidentally, everyone keeps telling me to report all this to the bishop, which I'd totally be doing if we were having the wedding here. But as it is, we're kind of at the mercy of Fr. Rehab, because we literally have no other church options in the state of RI, and anyway, the invitations have already been printed.)

So we're waiting for Fr. Bastia to return Lui's calls - I know it's almost Holy Week, but c'mon - and if he's unavailable to marry us, we're stuck with Fr. Rehab. Lui says that, despite his, er, idiosyncracies, Fr. Rehab does seem like a nice enough guy - I'm sure it hasn't been an easy time for him, and he's entitled to be touchy and weird to some extent, right? And he has offered to meet with us as soon as we get back to RI at the end of June, because he understands the need for us to all get to know each other before the big day. But still...

I'd love to say I've changed my evil ways and now refuse to be a catalyst for or perpetuator of drama... But we've already invited Friar Tuck to attend the reception, regardless of who ends up presiding.

Active recovery

As much as I love the AR tracks in my group fitness classes, when our over-worked hearts and lungs get to take a break at the expense of our muscles, I don't want to have to actively recover from a weekend in which I've driven back and forth to Los Angeles twice. I want to passively recover from such a thing, like, by not leaving my bed until Tuesday.

Unfortunately, it's already Wednesday, and as you can see, this is the first down moment I've had to update, let alone hibernate. So bear with me while I do idiotic things like using the word "hibernate" and then the word "bear" and then suddenly thinking I'm clever.

The good news is, we've made some progress on the wedding the past few days: both my shoes and the bridesmaids' shoes are ordered, as are the favors; we've picked out readings and finalized the music for the ceremony; we started dance lessons with Evan's parents last weekend (which explains one of the two trips to LA); I started a course of microdermabrasion yesterday morning (because I'm vain like that); and I'm meeting with Dawn, my amazing big sister and wedding coordinator, tonight, primarily to catch up on the last 15 years of our lives, but also to check in with the nuptial timeline, and possibly embark on yet another wedding-related project.

It kind of makes me think: if I had known a year ago how much actually goes into planning a wedding, would I still have started planning one? Maybe - well, probably - but it's a tough call.

Better than a pint of Ben & Jerry's

This morning, the half-asleep, post-shower email checking that usually ends in spam and disappointment yielded a delicious little number from the lovely Margot. The subject line read, "If you are my friend," and I remember thinking, "But... Margot doesn't seem like the forwarding type..." But the message, although it was a group email, was certainly no forward. The body said simply, "then you will write me back and tell me I'm prettier than this girl," and there was a picture of a, well, a bride.

So the girl is the new wife of Margot's ex, the self-same guy who was trying to convince her to marry him not two years ago. And because homeboy's an Orthodox Jew, her wedding dress covers, like, everything. Now, as a bride, I know this for a fact: in this day and age, brides need to show collarbone. And yes, Margot is way prettier.

So I immediately shot back a reply to Margot & C-List, validating Margot and asking for some affirmations of my own with pictures of Mrs. Piano Man and W's new girlfriend. The comments I got back were complementary, invigorating, and above all, hilarious. My favorites? "People with a ren faire themed wedding should not be granted a license," and "#2 should stop plucking her eyebrows and do some sit-ups."

I think this could be some kind of phenomenon, the latest trend amongst bitter 20-somethings, regardless of whether or not we've moved on and found better. Forget the "one who got away" - hell, they all got away. Better yet, we got away, and they had to settle. And it's awesome to be reminded.

Lazy, I wanna be...

So thanks to Lui's dad being in town, followed by purple nose (which is fading much faster than they'd predicted it would - proof that my body is awesome), I haven't been to the gym in like a week and a half. I'd say that's another revolution down the drain, except that I go through these periods every so often, where life gets in the way of my gym classes, just like it tends to get in the way of everything else. The first day back is the hardest, and it's looking more and more like that won't be today (because the laser technician said to stay away for the first week at least, and that'd be tomorrow, see?). Of course, it's not like I have anything better to do - and thus we see the sort of thought pattern that will eventually lead to my mental demise.

I miss the ability to go home and just veg, and not feel guilty for vegging, like I should be doing something else. And it's funny that I associate that with being in college, because theoretically, my college freetime should've been nullified by homework. I guess since, as a lit major, my homework was all reading novels and poetry, responsibility and vegging were kinda the same thing. Or maybe it has something to do with living with my parents, or even living with Lui. It's just not the same as living with a bunch of girlfriends, who would obsess over reality TV shows with me, or drink homemade cocktails with me on schoolnights, or make shopping for and making dinner into an adventure.

They said college would be the best years of my life, and dammit, they were right! Why didn't I listen and take advantage while I could? I mean, I hate to be one of those whiny blog people, but seriously!

Seriously... Seriously, I need to go to the gym. Like, tomorrow.

Health Problem Victim

I really want to tell you about, well, something I'm totally not supposed to tell you about, which is Lui's health problems - not because I want to betray his trust, but because irony (or The Secret) is operating at its finest here, in that someone who consistently worries about his health is afflicted with repeated, annoying-on-their-own-but-probably-devastating-in-conjunction-with-one-another, health problems, and yesterday we got to add a shining example to the list. It's not something incredibly serious, but it is something fairly embarrassing, and I swear that's all I'm going to say in my quasi-public forum.

The good news is that this was the wake-up call that Lui's needed for the past eight months or so, ever since he started back working in the hospital last summer, strained muscles a in pretty uncomfortable place from push/pulling multiple meal carts at a time, and promptly turned into a giant hypochondriac. "I'm my father's son," he's said by way of explanation. Yeah-- and your father moaning about his health all the time? Fucking annoying.

So he took me for a drive after work, told me about the latest development, which I'll need to get tested for as well, because it's contagious and can involve some unpleasant complications, and then waited for me to yell at him. So I did, even though I hadn't really been planning on it. We had a big fight, which continued after we got back to the house, and ended in me telling him he needs an attitude adjustment (because he's seriously been bringing me down lately, and I don't need that shit), and him apologizing and promising to work on it.

Then we went downstairs and watched Dancing with the Stars.

Well, this is new.

Last night's dream was not about W, or Piano Man, or Blake from American Idol. Nor was it about Lui, or that nameless, faceless guy with the tendency to leave me wanting more and wondering who the hell he was.

Last night, I was in some auditorium with a bunch of people I went to high school with. My seat wasn't very good, because I hadn't realized I'd needed to reserve early, and when I got into the building and tried to grab an empty seat, this guy, one-of-the popular-kids-in-elementary-school-turned-fuck-up-in-junior-high (he was actually held back in 7th grade, I think) -apparently-turned-nice-guy-by-society, David Hays, kindly reminded me that it was his seat, but that the people behind him would make space for me if I needed it. Somehow this moved me - and David - from the third row of the auditorium to the third row of the furthest back section of the auditorium, but I thanked him for helping me, and sat down.

It was hard to hear what was being said onstage from that far back - so hard, in fact, that I couldn't even figure out what we were there for, though from the look of the audience, it had to be some sort of reunion. After a few minutes of trying, Emi darted across the aisle from her seat, grabbed me by the wrist, and led me excitedly out into the foyer.

"What's up with you and Mike Lefton?", she asked.

There was a name I hadn't heard in a while, though secretly wished I had. Mike was one of those guys I never knew I had a crush on in high school until much later, though I do remember secretly wishing he'd ask me to Prom (he didn't). He was sort of awkwardly attractive, a total nerd, but popular, on ASB (treasurer, I think), and one of the genuinely nicest guys I've ever met. And I'm not just saying that because he spent hours on the phone with me, helping me cram for math and physics tests my junior and senior years, or because when the last-minute tutorials hadn't quite worked, he let me copy his papers (and let it be said that I did the same for him in Spanish). Aside from being helpful, he was just so goddamn friendly, always smiling, never judgemental: a good guy to know, and a good friend to have, and probably would've made a really good husband - but of course I was 17 and totally not thinking that way. Our friendship didn't really extend much further than sitting together in class and discussing class on the phone - the ASB and Journalism circles, while clearly linked, never really overlapped - which is probably why it's still so easy to romanticize him.

I summed all this up for Emi: "Omigod, I had such a big crush on him in high school!"

We went back inside, and parted ways, and the next thing I knew, she was back and Mike was with her, standing off to the side. Emi said something affirming my belief that he'd kinda liked me too, and then she left, and Mike switched seats with David, and turned around to talk to me. I admitted I'd wanted him to ask me to Prom; he apologized and said he realized later that he should have; and it seemed like the whole thing was really going somewhere...

And then I woke up, to the hated cell-phone alarm, and Lui, with about a million things wrong with him lately (not least of which is the attitude he's choosing to take toward them) sleeping next to me.

But as soon as I got to work, I did what anyone from my generation would do in this situation: I searched, found, and poked Mike on facebook. Hopefully he'll respond, because I think it's finally time to come clean.

I emerge from lace and seed pearls.

Spending the last 40 minutes catching up on one of my favorite friends' blogs (which also happens to be one of my favorite friend's blogs, because how many people besides she and I are really going to get that grammatical nuance?) has made me aware of just how long it's been since I was last hanging out in the blogosphere, and I feel that this is something that needs to be remedied, stat, before the rest of my New Year's Revolutions crumble as well.

Obviously, weddings have taken over, and not just mine, because I'm in two others now as well: there's the Mormon wedding (and thank God he proposed to her after she converted for him) taking place less than a month after mine because they "physically can't wait" any longer than that to have sex, in which I just got promoted to MOH because the original MOH will be at her (Mormon) family reunion (in Utah) that weekend; and there's my best-friend-from-first-grade's wedding, she of the "Is $7000 too much to spend on a wedding gown?" attitude, who seems to think that because I am also getting married, that I'm some sort of wedding planning guru, or at least someone who will indulge all her drama over finding the perfect shade of olive taffeta (if only she knew how wrong that assumption is).

In other news, Lui and I finally got our new bed (read: mattress on the floor), so we are no longer sharing the twin of my youthful promiscuity so much as wallowing in Tempurpedic bliss every night.

My nose is currently purple, thanks to a laser treatment meant to get rid of the broken capillaries thereon - long story short, it had to get worse before it'll get better, so I'm looking forward to no longer appearing as though I got hit in the face and having a nice, smooth, normal-colored nose instead. Should take a week or two. This is my last attempt at becoming satisfied with the thing before seriously looking into rhinoplasty, or else learning to get over myself.

I have mixed feelings about Idol this year, but my subconscious has already chosen which contestant will be sweeping me off my feet at night, so if/when I am compelled to vote, it'll have to be that way. And the Mormon and I are going to see Taylor Hicks perform at a casino in May; it wasn't until after I'd bought the tickets that I realized the show's on a Sunday night, to which my Mormon friend replied deliciously, "Screw it! I'm not missing Taylor Hicks for anything!!!" Thus we can conclude that Taylor trumps God. I love it.

I also jumped on The Secret bandwagon, but haven't been living it so much as planning to live it, which is probably hugely counterproductive. Still, after Oprah and guests brought it to my attention that forgiving someone is being able to say, "Thank you for giving me that experience," I've stopped envisioning Piano Man as my unfortunate opponent in Combat, and actually wish our paths would cross sometime soon (I'm surprised they haven't already; we've been peacefully coexisting in this city for too long - it's unnatural) so I could take him for coffee and talk the whole thing out like grown-ups. You know, just as soon as my nose isn't purple.