A Bird in the Hand is Worth Thousands in Therapy

I've always had a thing about birds. I don't know if it's a full blown phobia, but it's definitely a “keep those things the fuck away from me” general attitude toward anything that flies. It started when I was about 10, and a sparrow flew full speed into our living room window, splattered on impact and slid down to the driveway in a slimy, spindly pile. I went outside to inspect it, saw the bloody feathers and limp wings, and became scarred for life. Since then, birds=gross.

Shortly after we moved into the new house last spring, JT and I noticed a gathering of twigs and gunk on one of the support beams under our deck. On tiptoes, I peered at the mass and saw it was a robin's nest. Every year, my parents spend endless hours removing such nests from their own deck, as their backyard robin is prone to placing her home directly above their porch table, leaving it dotted with white poo. This nest wasn't close to anywhere we'd be sitting or eating, so I let it be, despite my disdain for its inhabitant. I don't like birds, but that doesn't mean I believe they should be homeless.

For the next few weeks, every time I went outside to water the garden, I'd check on the nest, watching it grow right along with its occupant, Mama Bird. Pretty soon, she was spending less time out gathering in the yard and more squatting on the nest. One day, she flew off and I jumped at the chance to peer down between the two deck boards above it. There, huddled in a tiny furry mass were four babies, their teeny heads swaying back and forth while they waited for Mama to bring dinner. 

This was actually pretty cute and frankly the main reason I'd let their mother rent a space on our property to begin with. I was curious. I wanted to watch the progression as they grew before finally departing their home in a moment I imagined would be much like that scene from “Free Willy." Maybe watching all this would help me get over this whole bird hating thing.

The babies continued to grow, and Mama got less and less patient with my daily watering routine. I'd come out the basement door, say hello to the babies, then make my way to the other side of the yard to fill up my watering can. This went on for a week straight until one fateful evening.

I headed outside, as usual, to steal a quick peek at the babies, whose heads were now poking up over the side of nest. Mama was off gathering food, which was ideal as she had now taken to screech-squawking at me every time I was within 20 feet of the nest, despite my repeated efforts to tell her I was not interested in hurting her little family.

I offered my greeting to the babies, then took two steps before Mama swooped down over me, causing me to shriek bloody murder and fling my watering can skyward. The ruckus startled the babies, and in a heaving feathery mass, they propelled themselves from the nest.

“WHAAAAAAAA!” I screeched, as I ran back into the house, slamming the door closed behind me.

“What!!?” JT barreled toward me. “Are you OK? What happened?!”

I bent over at the waist, gasping for air. “The babies!” I heaved. “Committed suicide!”

“Um, what?” JT was not appropriately alarmed, so I grabbed his hand, led him to the door, and pointed at the now empty nest.

“Where'd they go?” he asked.

“I have no clue! I got the hell out out of there!”

“What did you do to upset them?”

“Nothing!” How could he insinuate such a thing? Had I not come this far in overcoming my bird prejudice? Why would I start committing hate crimes now? JT's eyebrows remained raised.

“I swear! I was just doing what I always do and Mama freaked the fuck out! The babies got so startled they jumped to their doom!”

“Well, did they fly away? Maybe it was just time?” JT peaked out the door again, and I spied over his shoulder. 

We scanned the yard. Not a single sign of the babies, other than a few feathers gliding across the patio. Cautiously, JT opened the door, and I followed him out. I spotted Mama Bird, perched on the garden fence and squawking to high hell. She was flipping out, jumping from one end of the fence to another, flapping furiously and generally throwing a fit. This was not good. Had the babies' maiden flights gone as planned, she'd likely not be convulsing with hysteria. We peered at tree branches, and eventually spotted one of the fuzzy haired babies, sitting a bit wobbly on a branch. He seemed dazed, teetering awkwardly when a slight breeze blew, but not overly worse for wear. I knew there had been at least three, if not four babies in that nest. So where were the others?

“Found one!” JT shouted, drawing my attention to the high grass on our overgrown hillside. Sure enough, there was one of the babies, the grass climbing higher than his head. He was flapping his wings, but had no room to get anywhere, so he resorted to hopping but even that wasn't getting him very far. I leaned in closer to get a better look when a blur of dark brown flashed within a half-inch of my face.

“Holy shit!” JT screamed as I hurled myself backward. “That Mama Bird is pissed! You better leave her baby alone.”

“But he can't fly! He'll die! He'll be stuck in these weeds until night when a raccoon or cat will come and eat him! I think we need to get him back in the nest!”

“You better get a second opinion on that one,” JT said. “If you touch the baby, won't the Mama abandon it?”

I frowned. Damn, I think I had heard that somewhere. I mean, in my book, touching birds is always a no-no, but I'm pretty sure touching baby birds is like the worst thing you can do in life. I decided to call an expert, one of my best friends, ironically named Robin, who has pet birds. The fact that I remained her friend after learning that she not only loves birds but WELCOMES THEM INTO HER HOME VOLUNTARILY is a true testament to my affection for her, I think.

“Wear gardening gloves, scoop him up, get him back in the nest and get the back in the house. That Mama is going to be mad,” Robin said. “Make JT swing a broom around your head to keep her from pecking your eyes out.”

“Jesus,” I whispered.

“You can do it! I believe in you!” Robin said.

“That makes one of us.” I hung up, grabbed the broom and sucked in a deep breath.

I gave JT his assignment, which he gladly accepted because it meant he didn't have to try to capture the baby. I personally thought picking up a teeny bird was better than essentially using an adult one for batting practice, but what do I know?

It took some doing, but JT eventually found the baby again. He'd managed to make it all the way down the hill and had reached our shed. He cowered between it and the fence, trapped. Do it now! I told myself and with shaking hands and gritted teeth, I reached down. He flapped his wing, and I screeched, hopping backward into JT, who was flailing the broom wildly at the insanely irritated Mama Bird hovering above.

“Try again! You can do it!” JT screamed, a hint of total panic in his tone.

“OK!” IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis.

I reached again and plucked him up in my cupped hands. “I got him!” I screamed, then took off. I propelled myself forward and made it up the hill in about ten long strides, screaming, “I got him! I got him!” the entire way. Once I reached the top, I lurched up on my tiptoes, dumped the baby in the nest, then backed away, hands up in the “I surrender” pose. This seemed to satisfy Mama, and she calmed down a bit.

I bent over to catch my breath, and when I stood up, JT was looking at me, awestruck.

“I am so proud of you!” he said, bringing me in for a hug, and I finally let myself relax. I had done it. I did good! Years and years of bird hating erased with one selfless act. As we released, I looked to the nest.

It was empty.

The baby had jumped again, and was hopping his way back to the grass.

“Oh, for God's sake,” I said, grabbing him and putting him back again.

Two seconds later, he jumped again.

“OK, so what the hell was the point of all that?!” I demanded from JT. “I overcome my lifelong fear, give myself multiple heart attacks and for what? Nothing!”

“Oh, it's not for nothing,” JT said, bringing me in for another hug.

“Just imagine the essay you'll get out of all this.”

In the days leading up to our wedding, at least a dozen people told me that I wouldn’t remember anything from the day itself. I’d look back on the whole thing and see nothing but flashes of champagne toasts and table visits, nothing more. I hated that idea. I wanted to remember everything. This is one of the essays I wrote to make sure I never forgot the events of that day. Yes, even the all-day storm that threatened to ruin the whole thing. Effing nature.    

Like Ray-EEE-aiiin on Your Wedding Day! A Deluge of Good Luck

The instant my 10-year-old self saw “Father of the Bride” for the first time, I knew I wanted part of my wedding to be held at my parents' house. I love the reception scene, where George and Nina Banks’ Main Street house is transformed into a beautiful ballroom complete with white linens and twinkling lights. While I envied the fictitious family’s ability to pull that together, I decided to stick to a small, family-only backyard ceremony. Leaving the party for professionals at a reception hall would be much kinder to my worrywart mother.  

JT was totally on board with that idea as was Mum, who squealed with glee at the request. However, my step-dad/Weather Channel addict/eternal pessimist Kip was less than convinced this was a good idea.

“What if it rains?” he asked, the first of 18.6 billion times he would utter those words. We technically had an answer to that question, but unless it was, “The world will likely end,” Kip didn’t want to hear it. It’s an art, really, staying true to your innate grumpiness while surrounded by so many happy people.

The solution was to exchange vows super quick during the cocktail hour at the reception hall. Yes, that would cut into our party time and be super rushed, but it was a solid backup. We had a plan. Everyone was satisfied.

Except me. I hated the idea of JT and I sprinting through our vows like that. How hugely unspecial would it be to get married next to a buffet? Yes, I know the only thing that matters is that we would be married at the end of it all. But I wanted to remember the look in JT’s eye, not the smell of smoked ham.

So when I woke up around 8 a.m. on the big day and heard raindrops hitting my parents’ roof, I just knew it would stop in time for our 2:30 p.m. ceremony. It had to. I peered out of the window of my childhood bedroom and silently asked God for a little help with this one.

Turned out, He was being generous with the luck that day.

8:00 A.M.

My maid of honor, Nikki, who had slept over at Mum’s house with me, and I padded into the kitchen and sipped coffee for a few minutes of silence before the onslaught of dress steaming, hair spray and general giddiness began. JT and the boys were back at our house, likely nowhere near waking up. But here, at Hair and Makeup Central, there was work to be done.

As soon as my other five bridesmaids burst through the door with our hairstylist and awesome friend Steve in tow, their giggles and gossip filled the room with an energy more invigorating than my coffee. Within minutes, Steve was at work on my cousin’s hair, with everyone else flitting around and chatting. Soon, we were entrenched in a game of  “Who knows the funniest YouTube video?” and the phones were being passed around. I looked at my friends, having so much fun, and decided this was a great start to the day, weather be damned.

Then, a voice pierced the joy like a dart through a balloon.

“Radar’s bad.”

Three syllables uttered from Kip from his spot in the living room. He didn’t even bother turning to us when he said it. I felt a tug at my chest. This wasn’t looking good. But I didn’t abandon hope. We had hours before we needed a judgement call. It would be OK.

11:00 A.M.

Three hours and four gorgeous heads of hair later, and Steve was still going strong. The girls had started to steam their dresses, my three-year-old flower girl niece was lounging on my lap and I’d resumed a sense of calm. Everything was moving along. My photographer was on her way, and the florist was due in an hour.

It was still raining like a mo-fo.

I’m not talking drizzling. This was a full on downpour that hadn’t lessened in intensity from the second I’d woken up. I couldn’t remember that last time I saw that much water, aside from the time I flew over the Pacific Ocean. It was time to make a phone call.

“They say this is good luck,” said JT.

“Well then one of us should probably go play the lottery,” I said.

“We have a back-up plan,” he reminded me.

“I hate the back-up plan,” I sighed.

We decided to give it more time. During the next few hours:

• My florist showed up, looking like he’d taken a dip in the Monongahela River on his way over. He laughed off the rain like it wasn’t that big of a deal. Or that it would in any way affect the six-foot tall tree and trellis he had in the back of his truck destined for the reception hall. His water-logged assistant remained silent.
• My best friend and groomsman Jason arrived. I immediately sent him out to assess the likelihood of pulling this thing off on my parents’ covered back porch. He poked his head out the back door for approximately one millisecond before giving that idea a definite “No.”
• Kip helpfully reminded me that it was raining every seven minutes.
• I began to realize that I really needed to make a decision, seeing as how about 40 people’s immediate plans depended on them. I silently hyperventilated.
• I paused my hyperventilation to look up at my surroundings. I was getting my own hair done at this point, sitting in the kitchen facing the living room. It looked so nice, the open space centered on the tall fireplace. In typical Mum fashion, it was clean within an inch of existence. A thought crept in. Why exactly can’t we just do the damn thing in my parents’ living room?
• I articulated said thought.
• Kip threatened to kill me. OK. He didn’t really, but his reaction to the idea was as if I’d suggested chopping up his beloved Shetland Sheepdog to serve as an appetizer. “You can’t do that!” he boomed. “Why not?” I asked. “There’s no room!” he was utterly incredulous. I looked at all the space around him in the wide open room. I felt like this was do-able.
• I looked at my cousin, who was listening nearby. She saw my face and took charge. “Here,” she said. “Just move this table here, and this chair here, and look. Room!” She was right. A few small changes and we could totally make this work. I called JT and told him so.
• “Ok, decision made, people,” Mum said as she and I frantically booked it upstairs to get ready.

Jason telling me the entire outside is basically under water as our pianist and good friend Sara wonders how I plan to have her plug in her keyboard in the middle of a downpour. Steve hard at work through all the drama. Credit: Kristina Serafini

The boys begin to arrive. The rain couldn't care less. Credit: Kristina Serafini

During all of the ensuing chaos, I tried my best to take as much of it in as possible. I remember gasping when I saw my gorgeous niece all done up in her dress with a big bow bouncing on her head. I remember my other bestie, Becca, helping me swipe on my makeup. I remember the girls rushing back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom, zipping up gowns, setting their hair with one more layer of hairspray, laughing and giggling the entire time. I could hear Sara, warming up on the keyboard she perched on one of Mum’s end tables, her gentle playing dancing on the air behind all the hubbub as the guests began to arrive.

I nearly teared up as Mum helped me into my dress, zipped me up and kissed my cheek. We posed for a few pictures. Then, it was time.

Smiling so I don't cry and ruin my makeup. Credit: Kristina Serafini

As Sara began to play the opening chords of “Time to Say Goodbye,” with Becca singing the beautiful melody, my girls gathered at the top of the staircase. One by one, they descended, each one turning to mouth “I love you” to me before starting down.

I made my way to the top of the stairs and waited for the OK from my uncle below before starting slowly down. I had crashed down (and up) those stairs enough to know they weren’t my strong suit, floor-length dress aside. When my heels hit the last step, I exhaled calmly.

I caught Mum’s eye. “Nailed it,” I said with a smile.

Kip came around the corner to collect me and guided me into the living room, where our bridal party was fanned out on either side of the fireplace. The guests had gathered in the kitchen, some seated, some standing, all smiling.

But the most important face was JT’s. He beamed at me as Kip brought me into the room. Our minister welcomed everyone and asked who was giving me away.

Love this moment. Credit: Kristina Serafini

“Her mother and I,” said a teary-eyed Kip, and as I leaned over to kiss his cheek, he placed my hands in JT’s. As my soon-to-be husband smiled wide, I knew everything would work out, that day and every other day.

Who gives a crap about the weather when your man looks at you like this? Credit: Kristina Serafini 

I felt luckier than I ever had. And that’s a feeling I’ll always remember.

In front of the fireplace in my parents' living room. Wouldn't change a thing. Credit: Kristina Serafini

Credit: Kristina Serafini

Less "Better Homes and Gardens," More “Little Shop of Horrors:” Yard Maintenance and the First-Time Home Owner

Before buying our house, neither JT nor I had ever been responsible for a yard. My parents are avid gardeners and, after moving to Pittsburgh, JT went from one urban apartment to another before shacking up with me in the farmhouse we rented. That yard was so huge, our landlords cut it with their riding mower. So, lawn care was never really on either of our radars. Until we bought a house on the most-traveled street in Pleasantville, USA, that is.

Fortunately, my besties who we bought our house from, Jason and Becca, are hardcore yard maintenance enthusiasts. They had created a lovely set-up, complete with big boulders creating a natural fence that surrounds an assortment of bushes and trees. All I had to do was maintain it, they explained. Take a pair of scissors to the impossibly perfect little oval-shaped bushes near the doors. Cut back the plants when their leaves started to overshadow the mulch. That was it! So, so easy, they assured me.

And yet, it took exactly two weeks before I had managed to turn that lovely scene into a depressing wasteland full of limp limbs, brittle bushes and disappointment.

The first warm day after we moved in, I headed out into the yard, full of purpose and hope. Things were just beginning to bloom with tiny buds forming on branches and leaves unfurling in the early spring sunshine. But poking up between all the pretty were a bunch of prickly, pointy weeds. Clearly, that wouldn't do. My friend's had gained a reputation for their pristine yard and I intended to maintain that, dammit. These weeds needed to die.

One K-Mart run later, I had procured my weapon of choice, a big ol' bottle of Ortho “Weed B Gon.” It was the kind that you hook to your garden hose. I decided I could forgo reading the directions on how to hook it up. I mean, this isn't rocket science, people.

I can only imagine the impression I made on my new neighbors as they watched me wrestling with the bottle and the hose, dousing myself again and again. The damn nozzle refused to latch onto the bottle and every failed attempt ended in a geyser of hose water smacking me directly in the face. I would laugh and wipe the water out of my eyes, acting like I was merely having some kind of weird one-sided water battle with myself. Finally, I admitted defeat and peeled the soaked directions packet from the side of the bottle. Scanning it for literally one second revealed there was a latch on the bottle that I had to flip in order to get two to become one. I flipped it, and the hose slid perfectly into place. So the moral of this story is: when buying weed killer, also buy a poncho.

Anyway, once I had that bottle locked in place, I took one look at the weeds all over the yard, and in my soaked, rage-filled state, decided to just hit it all. I did a pass over the yard, swept down to the landscaping, then figured the yard could probably use another layer. Then I did it all over again.

By the next day, the front yard went from needing some light maintenance to needing a resurrection. Everything was dead. The grass's former froggy green had faded into a burnt hay hue. Previously perky plants sagged in droopy desperation. Any remaining buds shriveled on their branches. I swear, as I stood there and took it all in, a tumbleweed that had formerly been a cluster of lilies cartwheeled past me. I gaped at the scene, dread washing over me. Not only had I ruined the yard, I'd also solidified our budding reputation as the Neighborhood Idiots.

I figured I would pretend like I didn't notice it, then if someone mentioned it, I could say, “Right? Crazy weather this year! Sooooo dry! I've tried watering it. Just ask the neighbors!” But when my step-dad Kip stopped by one afternoon, I couldn't ignore his furrowed brow.

“You sprayed everything?” he asked incredulous.

I nodded.

“Wha....How....Why?” he asked.

“You weren't there! You don't understand!” I shouted. “The hose wouldn't latch and there were geysers, and...and...”

Kip just shook his head and chuckled.

“I'm learning!” I wailed.

Dammit. OK, now I had to salvage something in this godforsaken yard, if only to prove to Kip that I wasn't a total moron.

I know! I thought, eying one of the planter boxes carved into the backyard's hill. I'll grow veggies in that planter box! Lots of them! Then, when I visit my parents with the spoils of my harvest, they'll know I'm not a complete nincompoop!

I went to Home Depot, and loaded my cart with fledgling plants of green and red peppers, broccoli, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and onion. I smugly wheeled my cart up to the cashier. As he scanned my plants, I pulled up the collar on my peacoat. A frigid blast had swept in through the automatic doors. Brrr, I thought, and noticed the cashier shivering as well.

“Pittsburgh in March, eh?” he asked, still scanning away. “Sure is unpredictable. One weekend, it's 60, the next it's 30!”

“Yeah,” I muttered. Didn't matter. I had my smug to keep me warm. 

“You planting your first garden?” he asked.

“Yes!” I perked up.

“You know you can't plant these for at least, like, two months, right?” his eyebrow arched in an ever-so cocky manner I found incredibly irritating.

“Yeah, um, totally,” I said. Phssssh. It was spring(ish). Planting time!

“No, really,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “You have to keep them inside near a window so they get sun and water them everyday. I hope you've got a sun room.”

I thought of the limited counter space in my kitchen. DAMMIT.

“Um, you know, I think I might just hold off,” I said, grabbing plants from his hands and tossing them back into the cart. “This weather really is throwing me. I'm from out of town, you see.” It wasn't a total lie. I had just moved from ten minutes away. My old house had an entirely different ZIP code and everything. “I'll just take those.” I pointed to the pepper plants he'd already scanned.

The scanner levitated above the next plant. His brows pulled together. “You sure?” he asked.

“Oh yeah. I'm sure,” I attempted to be nonchalant as though I totally meant to only buy peppers.

Six weeks later, my teeny pepper plants were still alive and, dare I say, thriving from their perch on my kitchen windowsill. One May afternoon, I stepped outside and decided it was time to plant. I had lovingly prepared the front corner of the planters box for their arrival, upending the existing dry dirt and adding a few layers of Miracle Grow soil special for veggie growing.

 Moments after I scooped them up and headed outside, the phone rang. It was Kip. My parents had taken their annual trip to their favorite nursery and had picked me up a lilac bush. They wanted to come drop it off.

I would love to say my first thought was, “Oh, what sweet parents ! What a loving gesture!”

Nope.

“Finally, Kip will see!" I thought. "He will witness the fruits of my labor and realize that I am a yard master and worthy of all the praise!”

I had, after all, done way more than simply prep a planters box in the previous weeks. I had spent every weekend out there dealing with still-existent weeds (ironically the only thing to survive my yard apocalypse) until it was pristine. In addition, JT and I had taken turns attacking it all with our antique, engine-less push mower and electric weedwacker. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to keep the “Lazy Assholes Who Don't Maintain Their Lawn” label at bay.

So when Kip showed up, I was half proud to show off our work. I even scouted out an ideal spot to plant the lilac bush. I breathed in the flowery spring air. It smelled like vindication.

I pointed to the spot I'd predetermined for the bush's planting.

“See there?” I gestured with my brand new trowel. “It can go right there. Right above where I planted my peppers. See, right there. Just past the patch of grass I planted. To the left of the garden area I weeded. Just there. That'll do.”

Kip took one look at the spot and shook his head.

“You can't plant it there! There's no light! It's blocked by that tree,” he pointed to the nearby maple, its towering branches blocking out any semblance of sunshine.

“And those?” he used the bush to point to my freshly earthed pepper plants. “Those won't get any light either. They'll be dead in a week.”

I blanched. No no no! This was supposed to be my smug moment! But it didn't stop there. Kip picked up one of the discarded weeds from a pile I hadn't yet tossed over the hillside.

“Did you pull these?” he asked incredulous.

“Yes,” I said, sheepishly.

“You know these are perfectly good lilies?” he asked before losing it and laughing like a lunatic.

DAMMIT.

Kip continued to shake his head as he found a better spot for the lilac and used my shovel to dig a spot for it (“What, did you buy this a week ago?” BAHAHAHAHA). I hung my head in disgrace the entire time. All of my hard work was for nothing. This sucked. I sucked.

And that was the exact moment that I decided yard work blows and I will not be concerning myself with it any more. Now I mow solely to stave off any fines we might otherwise incur from the local zoning board. But other than that, I just didn't give a damn.

But turns out, others did. Because one weekend when JT and I were out of town, Bec and Jason rallied a group of our friends to "yard bomb" us. We came home to not only a perfectly manicured, re-mulched yard but also a freshly painted deck. So apparently giving up pays! Kidding - that was seriously one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for us. But after the big reveal, as we were thanking our friends in our driveway, an across-the-street neighbor came out of his house and eyed up our yard.

"Haha! Guess it took the old owners coming back to get some work done around here!" said the man who still, to this day, has never so much as introduced himself.

I fumed. That guy is on my list. He better watch out or some of my "Weed B Gon" might just end up on his yard next year. I  mean, that stuff gets EVERYWHERE.

 International Eric

As the sun shone bright overhead, I sighed and turned another page in the trashy crime novel resting on my bent knees. It was Day 3 of our Aruba honeymoon and basking poolside with a book and a pina colada had become my mid-day ritual. JT was waist-deep in the water, chatting up one of the several vacation friends we'd made over the last few days.

It struck me as strangely wonderful how routine things had become for us in such a short time on the island. Mornings were spent on chaises outside our room, the gentle waves rolling ashore a few feet away. After lunch, we'd end up at the pool where the relaxation-fest continued until either the sun or our pruny skin became too much. Then it was back to the room for a nap, dinner, drinks, and whatever entertainment our resort had planned for that evening.

Living such a predictable life among others doing exactly the same thing meant we got to know everyone at our resort fairly quickly. You can only bump into the same guy at the breakfast buffet then again later at the bar then again at bingo so many times without saying hello. We had arrived on a Monday and by Wednesday I was interrogating JT, the far more social and nebby of us, if I saw someone I didn't immediately recognize.

"Oh, that's Dana from Texas," he'd say. "She's here with some guy she's been dating, Todd, but I don't think she really likes him. She said he's boring, but he wanted to take her on vacation and hey, free trip!"

Damn, detective, did you get her mother's maiden name and the last four digits of her social security number while you were at it?

So imagine my surprise when, during the aforementioned poolside sitting session, JT asked for my help in identifying a fellow guest.

"Babe, check out this guy. Who is that?"

I looked up, even though I knew darn well there was no way I could have beat him to meeting this Mystery Man.

Without hesitation, I said, "That's my brother."

There was no doubt in my mind the man walking across the pool area was my younger sibling, Eric.  He stood a tall 6-foot-4, arms dangling down to his knees, stride longer than the average giraffe's. An over-sized hat blocked most of his hair, but I could tell from the sides it was shaved super short. And he carried a drink in one hand a cigarette in the other. Eric's signature accessories!

I watched as the man sauntered over to the bar, pulled up a chair and chatted with the bartender.  Signature facial scruff? Check. Squinty eyes when smiling? Check. Baggy shorts that would come down to the floor on most men but hit him just past the knee? Check! It was him.

I was beginning to think it was really odd that my brother, the best man in my wedding and one of JT's closest friends, didn't bother to tell us he was taking a trip, let alone the exact same one we'd planned. Just then, a busty brunette in a low-cut bikini top and denim scraps for shorts saddled up next to Eric. He leaned over and planted a kiss on her overly-lined lips. The fuck?! Eric had his own busty brunette, but this wasn't her! My sis-in-law Nik was nowhere to be seen.

That's it. I stood and began to march over to the bar. I didn't know what my brother was doing here, but I was for damn sure going to make certain it had nothing to do with this little "Mob Wives" wannabe. I stormed across the pool deck, and reached up to slap Eric upside his head. I almost toppled over as I stopped short. It wasn't him. This man was clearly a smidge older than my brother. His face was just a tiny bit rounder. And he had a tattoo on his leg of the flag of Argentina.

I turned on my heel and sprinted back to my chair.

"What the heck happened?" JT asked, as I leap-frogged a row of sunbathers.

"It's not my brother!" I scream-whispered. "It's his doppelganger! It's International Eric!"

And for the next three days, I did what any normal person would do who saw a person who resembled someone they knew but wasn't him. I stalked the shit out of him.

I was so intrigued by this person - who was he? Where was he from? Who was the brunette? Did he know how much he looked like my brother? I had to know. Any time he was within my sight, I'd watch his every move.

"Leave. Him. Alone. You giant creeper," JT said one morning, as I leaned forward to watch intently as International Eric spatulaed a helping of hash browns onto his plate.

"I can't," I admitted. "I have to talk to him."

"So go talk to him!" JT said. (Is it weird that my new husband was encouraging me to chat up another man on our honeymoon? I'm going to go with: less weird, more supportive!)

"I can't! He probably thinks I'm a nut case for charging up to him like that then fleeing without so much as a word!"

"Well, he'd be right."

But THEN, things got interesting. And it wasn't long until JT was joining in on my paparazzi impersonation. Because it soon became clear that International Eric was a big deal, and quite possibly, dangerous.

 ------------------

In addition to the flag on his calf, International Eric, much like my own brother, had several other tattoos. Some gothic letters on his forearm, a date stenciled across the nape of his neck. One day, he brushed past me as I sat by the pool and I looked up in time to inspect the large image spanning from ankle to calf on one leg. Guns. Lots of them.

"He's a gunrunner!" I told JT, who at first dismissed me. But then, it occurred to us that International Eric was rarely ever without an entourage much larger than the couple pairings most common to this haven for the newly-married.   

Brunette was always nearby, her outfits growing skimpier by the day. But they were also accompanied by another young woman, a petite blonde with hair down to her waist and a wardrobe similar to that of her darker haired friend. At times, International Eric would casually drape his arms arms around both of them as they sat at the bar, sipping drinks and keeping mostly to themselves.

This cozy group occasionally was joined by a burly older man, maybe in his 50s, who wore tight muscle Tees and kept his chiseled jaw clenched at all times. Much like a bouncer. Or a body guard. An attractive tall woman was always at his side.

So International Eric had a harem, incriminating body art and a possible hired goon. JT started to think I  might be on to something.

For the rest of the week, we created an entire back story. He "worked" in arms trafficking and was blowing off some steam before heading south to follow a shipment. But he had bad blood in nearby Venezuela, so protection was a must, even if no one would ever think to look for him in a tourist-trappy type couples resort. At least he could relax with his ladies for a few days before having to make the drop, collect his cash and kill God knows how many two-faced confidants in the process. So basically, he was every villain in every American action movie ever ever.

By this point, I had scared myself out of actually talking to him, despite JT's constant insistence. The clock was ticking, and soon, we'd be leaving Aruba and all of International Eric's secrets behind.

The last day of our trip, as we posted up at our usual pool spot, we watched International Eric and his harem saddle up at the bar. JT looked at me, I looked at him. We knew what we had to do.

We marched over to the two empty seats at International Eric's left. It was time.

"Hey," JT said, giving International Eric a bro-nod.

"Hey," he said back, in a non-"leave me the fuck alone" kind of way. We were in.

"We're here on our honeymoon," JT started cautiously. "You?"

International Eric exchanged a glance with his ladies. The slightest silence lingered, just long enough for me to accept the fact that JT and I would be offed before the pelicans stopped fishing for their lunch.

Then, he turned to us and grinned.

"Congratulations!!!!" he exclaimed in a thick New York accent and reached over to shake JT's hand.

Huh?

And by the next round, we had the whole story. International Eric was actually Paul, a Long Island native on a family vacation. The brunette was his girlfriend, a sweet medical office receptionist. The blonde was his sister. The burly guy? His dad, enjoying the trip with his girlfriend, the beautiful tall woman.

Paul worked in heating and air conditioning.

Paul congratulated us on our nuptials a dozen times.

Paul's response when I told him he looked exactly like my brother? "You know, I get that a lot!"

Paul found us the next day, as we waited for the bus to take us to the airport, and shook JT's hand  again, telling us how nice it was to meet us and wishing us all the luck in the world.

Paul made JT and I look like complete douchebags.

I did not get a picture with Paul. I was too embarrassed.

"Well," JT said, as we rode the bumpy route to the airport. "I guess we can't call him International Eric anymore."

"Like hell we can't!" I said. "That's what he was to us. That's what he will always be!"

And I'm not entirely convinced that's not who he really is. I mean, who goes to a couples all-inclusive with their "sister?"

Gunrunners, that's who. I mean, who else would make up a story that ridiculous?

Writers on vacation, that's who.

Burning Down the House

In the middle of all the wedding planning hoopla, JT and I decided we weren't going insane fast enough. So we decided to buy a house.

Truth be told, a one-year-old's birthday party actually decided it for us. My best friends, Jason and Becca, were hosting a shindig for their beautiful son when Bec looked around and realized the layout of the house wasn't exactly ideal for entertaining (upstairs, the rooms don't really connect in a way that lends itself to mingling, and the only way to get to the game room is down a set of steps - not great for older family members). That moment planted a thought in her head. Hm. Maybe it was time to think about moving?

And in typical Jason and Becca fashion, within two weeks, that was exactly what they decided to do. I was so sad. I loved their house, entertaining challenges and all. It was so homey, with its built-in shelves and window overlooking the entire neighborhood. I had helped them move in a few years prior, helped them paint, watched them make it their home. We had so many great memories there.

As I articulated all this, I saw my friends exchange a quick glance. When I ended my whining, Jason spoke up.

"Why don't you buy it, then?" he asked.

Well, that was an idea.

A few weeks and many conversations with JT later, we took them up on their offer. All of us were beyond excited. Jas and Bec were just moving down the road, so now we'd technically live even closer to each other than we did. They got to come back to their beloved starter home whenever they wanted. We got to become homeowners! Woo!

And then it dawned on me. This meant we all had to move.

The last time Jason and Becca moved, I spent a freezing cold January day slipping and sliding on the ice rink that had formed in the back of their U-Haul thanks to an endless barrage of freezing rain. Their marble end table cracked when it decided to perform a triple axel/double toe loop midway to the new house. You know the scene in “The Day After Tomorrow” when helicopters start crashing because they literally freeze mid-air? I expected that to happen to our U-Haul at any moment. 

Never again! I told myself. Helping friends move is the worst. Just, no.

But when you're the one nagging your friends to get a move on so you can get into your new home, “No” goes out the window. You just move. And in this case, I ended up pining for the days of sub-zero temperatures. This time, there were renovations.

Jas and Bec truly had no choice. Their new home, while lovely from the outside, was a legit nightmare past the threshold. The woman who had lived there prior had clearly been a student of "Better Homes and Gardens." Circa 1983. 

Every room of the four-story, five bedroom home had a different color carpet. That carpet matched whatever wall treatment this lady had chosen, and in most rooms, that meant wallpaper. Lots of it. Shiny, '80s, foil-like wallpaper in the dining room. Seashell patterned wallpaper in the powder room. Faux finish wallpaper in the sitting area. There was enough wallpaper in this house to coat Massachusetts. Twice.

The living room. Sweet Jesus, the living room. The walls were painted a deep maroon, which would have been tolerable, had the carpets not ALSO BEEN THE SAME SHADE MAROON. The far end of the room had clearly been an addition, so the big window that should have been there to provide some relief from this murder room  just wasn't. No natural light. Just red. It was like walking into a nightmare. Or being inside a “True Blood” episode. So. Much. Red. Everywhere.

The upstairs was no better. But perhaps the best of the worst was the master bedroom, which had a deep rose colored carpet. Here the decorating visionary decided to pair her pink carpet with an entire 18-by-20 room full of floral wallpaper. And because that's not enough, the drapes also were done in a heavy floral. And not even the same pattern as the wallpaper.

Within seconds of moving in, Bec had whipped out a wallpaper scraper and got down to business. My job was to follow after her with a warm rag, wiping off any remnants of paper glue. When Bec took her blade to the floral wall, a rosy pink revealed itself underneath the first strip of discarded paper. It was the same exact color as the carpet. We lost it. By the time all the paper was reduced to shriveled strips on the floor, Bec and I were in tears, standing in the middle of a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

Over the course of a few weeks, Bec and Jas basically existed off cigarettes, coffee and two hours of nightly sleep. I helped when I could, slathering on paint, peeling off paper and supervising wine breaks.

Once “Extreme Makeover: Jason and Becca's House Edition” ended, we were all exhausted, but I was also ecstatic. I knew the next step was the actual move, complete with U-Hauls and all.

I had but one more mountain to climb. I had to help Bec move. In true retail industry fashion, Jason had to work the day their truck was coming. So I broke my own rule and showed up ready to work.  

It will be fine, I told myself. It's not even freezing outside. It will be nothing like last time.

And that turned out to be true. Because the last time, no one had to call the fire department.

                                                                                                                                           

It was 8 a.m. on moving day. I stood in the driveway of my friends'/my house, dodging the pro movers. Having already stuffed my Honda Fit full of plants, pots and other last-minute random, I was now packing up the back of the pickup truck belonging to Bec's dad. As I considered the jigsaw puzzle going on the truck bed, I heard a siren in the distance. The house was a softball toss away from a fire department, so I thought nothing of this. Soon, it sounded like another unit had been called out, this one located a few miles away.

I listened as the sirens grew both louder in volume and higher in quantity. I turned to Bec's dad, who was surveying the back of his truck while holding a candelabra with one hand and scratching his head with the other.

“Sounds like an accident,” I said, gesturing to the direction of all the ruckus.

“Mmmmm,” he said, finally chucking the candelabra on top of the rest of the rubble.

Once the movers were ready, we all jumped in our vehicles – the movers in their truck, Bec's dad in his, me in the Fit and Bec in her SUV – and drove the three miles to the new house, Bec's dad leading the charge.

I was so focused on keeping the plant on the Fit's passenger seat upright, I nearly slammed into the back of his truck when we turned into the plan. Beyond him was a sea of emergency vehicles – fire trucks lined up back to back, ambulances at the ready, police officers holding out hands to stop us in our tracks.

The caravan pulled off to the side of the road, Bec's dad looking back at me with a “No idea” shrug and me mimicking it to Bec. After about three minutes, the sea parted to let an ambulance through. When I could see past the trucks, my heart sank. A dozen frenzied firefighters scrambled to douse the flames licking out of a roof two doors down from Jason and Becca's.

We all jumped out of our cars at once. As we waited in stunned silence, Bec's dad ran up to a man standing gawking in his robe on his front lawn, got the scoop then ran over to share with us.

“The roof caught fire,” he said.

“Really?” Bec seethed in hysteria-induced sarcasm.

Another neighbor wandered over, and took note of our truck.

“You folks moving in today? What a welcome to the neighbohood!” he joked.

Bec smiled and introduced us all.

“Which house is yours?” she asked.

“See the one with the flames shooting out of it? That one,” the man said.

Bec balked and stammered to find the right response.

“Oh don't worry about it,” he said, waving a dismissive hand at the mess. “They were doing some work up there, a guy dropped his cigarette. Not a big deal. No other homes are affected. No one was hurt, that's all that matters.”

Bec and I shook our heads. Here was a guy literally watching his house burn, casually making small talk with a perfect stranger. You would have had to take me away in one of the ambulances, I'd be so insane. He was seemingly fine. No one was hurt. A roof's a roof. Not a big deal.

It was a great lesson in perspective. It didn't make the stress of the last few days magically fade away, but it did make me a little ashamed of my initial selfish attitude about helping friends move. If this guy could take some time to greet a new neighbor in this moment, surely I could spend a few hours helping the people I love.

Though I don't think I should ever help them move again. First time brought an ice storm, now actual fire? What's next? Sharknado?

Probably best they just stay put for a while. Or forever.

Inviting Stress

In any good rom-com featuring pending nuptials (and really, which ones don't?), there's an obligatory scene in which the Bridezilla and her dopey, don't-wanna-be-there groom are in a stationary store, the woman ferociously scrutinizing font styles while the bored man rolls his eyes, makes a crack about every curly script looking exactly the same, then does something doofusy, like knocking over a pristine display of ballpoint pens or something.

Has this ever happened in real life? Do couples really invest much time and energy agonizing over whether they should go with “Fancy Script” or “Fancy Script – Bold?” Call me unromantic (or just lazy) but the idea of spending more than a minute pondering which font captures the love I have for my husband makes my eyes glaze over quicker than you can say “response card.” I prefer the invitation process to be quick, painless, and involve as little human interaction as possible.

When my cousin got married, she made her own invitations, and they were lovely. I decided to follow her example. She walked me through the process, and it sounded ridiculously straightforward. Step 1: Go to Party City and buy an invitations set, complete with response cards and envelopes. Step 2: Use the accompanying online program to design the invitations and response cards. Step 3: Take that design to Kinko's, hand them your Party City sets, wait a day, annnnnnnnd DONE! Address, mail, and that is it.

So I set out on a Sunday morning, sure as anything that I'd be sending my invites out on Tuesday. I picked out an elegantly simple set, ivory paper with a glittery flower border tucked into a glittery half-sleeve with a tiny white bow at its center. I figured I'd print today, stuff and address Monday, and mail Tuesday. Done and done. I bought three of the sets ($75 total, oh yeah!), and within an hour, was on my computer with JT nearby choosing our wording and font. The online program only offered about eight fonts, six of which looked like a child had scrawled them in crayon, so narrowing down the choice to swoopy (Edwardian) or super swoopy (“Formal”) required no effort on our part. Edwardian it was. Onto the wording.

This was when I made my fatal flaw. I decided to consult a wedding etiquette website and learned that invitations are supposed to be HARD. There's required wording for weddings in which the ceremony is open to all guests. There's another option for when the ceremony is private. There's rules about how parents' names appear. There's rules about how your names appears. There's rules about rules. I quickly learned that unless I followed each and every one of these rules, no one would come. Bah. 

It was just before midnight when I landed on a wording I thought would do the least damage. Thirteen typed lines = four hours of deliberation.

OK, so Step 2 had not been that easy. That was OK. All I had to do now was print out a prototype, take it to Kinko's and voila! Only problem was I don't own a printer. (Shut up. I haven't had a real need for one since college, and I can't justify the cost of buying one for the one or two times a year I do. Oh, and I'm cheap.) I called my cousin and asked if I could use hers. That was fine with her, and we planned to meet the next day to get it done. Woo hoo! Back on track!

Turns out, like an ass, I did not save the invitation properly in the online program. So as soon as I logged on, I was met with a blank invitation, its emptiness mocking me and sending a shot of panic up my spine. Yet, if it was possible to find a silver lining to the prior evening's hellfest, it was that I had agonized so intensely over the damn wording that I had memorized each syllable. I wrote it all up, checked it over twice (cut and pasted it all into a Drive doc because ANNOYING), hit print, and snatched up my prototype. Finally, progress!

But then, the hell? Despite the screen displaying no such thing, a thick black box ran around the text of the invitation in my hand. At this point, I had already invested more time and energy in this mess than I'd ever planned, so I decided that it was just a mock-up, and surely the copy place people could rectify this one tiny detail.

An hour later, the scowling face of the man behind the Kinko's counter told me I had been wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

Apparently, not only was there no way to eliminate the offending black box, but the entire hard copy was useless. The copy place literally could not make a copy of it. Creepy Copy Guy, with his greasy pony tail, '80s dad glasses and swarmy sneer, had acted like the mere suggestion bordered on blasphemy. They needed the whole shebang in digital form. The only other option was for them to build the whole thing for me in-house. Furiously annoyed at the idea of creating the whole thing AGAIN on my own, I figured handing it all over to the pros would be worth a couple extra bucks. I conceded.

“That will be $49.99, plus tax,” Creepy Copy Guy said.

I crooked an eyebrow skyward. Was he freaking kidding me? Fifty bucks for them to mess around on a computer for five minutes? Eff that! “Um....yeah.....no,” I said, pulling the stack of blank invitations back to my chest. “I'll do it myself, thanks. I'll be back.”

I stomped out of there, irritation itching all over me like ants on a discarded cracker. How had this been so easy for so many brides who came before me? Had Kinko's higher-ups decided that simply allowing customers to make copies no longer fit their business model? Were they expanding into psychological research, and was I nothing more than a guinea pig in their latest study? (“OK, they still think we're a copy place. Let's see what happens when we refuse to make copies. Mwahahahaha!”)

The next few days involved two more store visits, two dozen phone calls, countless emails and about 30 mockups until the Kinko's folks were able to produce something that could pass as an invitation. I'm still not clear as to the problem – something about the script font unhinging the printer's inner flux capacitor leading to a clash between the monitor's sensibilities and the parchment's ink-to-page ratio – but it literally took four people six days to fulfill my request.

When I finally went to pick up the invites, Creepy Copy Guy shoved them at me like he couldn't wait to be rid of them. I took them under my arm, feeling relieved yet utterly defeated. I had my invitations, but at what toll on my overall well-being? I was seeing fonts in my sleep, hearing Creepy Copy Guy in the voice of every man, twitching every time my phone binged, alerting me of a new email. Would I ever regain my sanity? Probably. Would I ever go to Kinko's again. Abso-fucking-lutely not ever ever ever ever.

I gave myself a couple days to recover, then called Mum and my sister-in-law, Nik, and asked if we could all get together and get these bad boys assembled, addressed and the fuck away from me. They obliged, and we gathered at Mum's one night to finally put an end to this BS. We laughed and chatted as we worked, all in an assembly line, me stuffing, Nik stamping and Mum address checking, when Nik stopped and sucked in a tiny gasp.

“Sis?” she asked, her face ashen.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

She replied in a near whisper. “There's nowhere for people to put their names on the response cards.”

I paused, head cocked slightly to the left. She was right. They simply said:

Attending?     Yes       No

Nowhere for their names. Granted, people could write them in if they remembered to, but there was nothing to prompt them so how many would really think of it? And the return envelopes were all posted, so not everyone would write in their return addresses. In other words, it was highly likely I'd be receiving RSVPs and have no earthly clue whatsoever who they came from. 

 

Mentally, I raised my fist and shook it furiously while shrieking “KINKO'SSSSS!!!!”

Mum froze. We all just stared at the pile of completed invitations in the middle of the table. I felt sick. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Why wasn't anything ever easy? Why was this the most complicated task I'd ever attempted? Why could my life not just be like one of those chick flicks, where planning the wedding happens over the course of a fun-filled montage set to the tune of some cheesy wedding-themed song?

And why, oh why, had I not just called the damn stationary store to begin with?

Updated: Thank God Nik realized our big gaffe when she did. We ended up devising a system in which we numbered each invitation and made a list of the corresponding guests. It was actually kind of fun getting the responses and being like, "Ooo! Number 32 is coming! Who's that?!" Crisis averted.