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. 

OHMYGODSHOES.

In the beginning, wedding planning was a snap. JT and I were very much on the same page when it came to crossing things off our to-do list. We banged out the big stuff fairly easily. We'd ask ourselves what we really wanted, consider if it was worth the trouble of exploring other options once we found it (answer: no), and moved on.

Conversations about the biggies typically went like this:

Me: “Ceremony?” Him: “Backyard wedding?” Me: “Agreed.”

Next!

Me: “Reception?” Him: “Not too big.” Me: "Agreed."

Me: “There's a nice banquet hall by our house.” Him (two seconds after we went to look at said hall): “Agreed!”

Everyone We Told About These Decisions: “Don't you want to look, like, everywhere else and drag this decision out for months and months, slowly driving yourselves insane?

Us: “No!”

Next!

And so on and so forth. It just worked. That went on for awhile, but I should have known it couldn't last. It soon became apparent that while deciding where 100-plus of our friends and family members would eat dinner one night is bizarrely easy, determining which hair piece I should wear the day of the ceremony is UNGODLY HARD.

Dammit if those details don't start dooming every thought in your brain, rendering you incapable of thinking about, talking about or dreaming about anything other than what color shoes your bridesmaids should wear: gold or nude? This shit matters, people. Or at least it does when you've already endured months of planning, the stress of which was building, growing somewhere tucked away in your subconscious, waiting to strike. You'll be going through your life, everything's hunky dory, then suddenly, the only thing you can conceivably care about is what color ink you're going to write the seating cards with.

Everybody hits this point during wedding planning. They make reality shows about women who can't manage to stay sane during the torture that is the last few weeks before the wedding. The word “bridezilla” is practically up for entry into Merriam-Webster. But I'm here to tell you that this can happen to anyone. Any bride can snap at any time about anything. And for me, that thing was shoes.

When I tried on my gorgeous, lacy, sparkly, perfect, ivory wedding dress, I was so pleased that it fit so well. As I spun and twirled, the tiny clear sequins shimmering, the delicate lace swishing, I looked down and realized it hit the floor perfectly. Just the ever-so-slightest bit of a flair in the back, but upfront, the length was absolutely ideal.

“Look how perfect it is!” I said to Mum, swirling some more and smiling ear-to-ear.

“It is,” she said. “But you're probably going to have to wear flats.”

I stopped, mid-twirl. Flats? Blech. That word was barely in my vocabulary. Yes, I'm 5-foot-nine, but that has never stopped me from rocking whatever footwear I see fit, and typically, that means sky-scraping stiletto heels, towering wedges, or pointy four-inch pumps. Sure, it basically leaves me as tall as a normal person on stilts, but I simply don't care.

The idea of flats, especially on my wedding day when I wanted to look my absolute best, was less than appealing. But she was right. The dress hit the floor so perfectly, there was no way around it. Anything more than a kitten heel would hike the gown up off the floor, like I was anticipating a flood hitting mid-ceremony. Ugh. Not good. Flats it was. And ivory ones at that.

And so the search began. Any time Mum and I were out and about, together or not, we'd stop in the closest shoe store and do a quick pass. For months, this produced absolutely nothing. Each pair was either 1. white, 2. silver, 3. too tall, 4. adorned with some massive bejeweled cluster at the toe that guaranteed to tear at the delicate lace of my dress. Initially, this was no big deal. We had months to find the right shoe. It actually became a little funny. Mum would call and say, “I found your shoe!”

“Great! What's wrong with it?” I'd ask.

“Oh, it only comes in lime green. But other than that, we're all set!”

We'd laugh, not caring because it really wasn't a big deal. We'd find it eventually. Everything else had come together so easily. It was ridiculous to panic.

And then, the three-months-til-the-wedding mark it. And suddenly, panic was all we were capable of.

“WE HAVE TO FIND SHOES!!!” Mum said for the eight-gillionth time that week.

“I know, I know,” I said between short gaspy breaths. “We'll make it happen. Sunday. We'll shop. We'll go to the mall on the other side of town, that swanky one with the Nordstrom's and all the designer stores? If we can't find shoes there, something is seriously wrong.”

Something was seriously wrong.

Row after row, and nothing even came close. Everything was too high or or too off-color. Every stinking pair. I couldn't believe it. And in a dazed shock, Mum and I walked out into the parking lot.

“I can't believe it,” I muttered. Mum just silently shook her head, too stunned to speak.

“How can this be?” I pleaded with her. “You cannot tell me that I'm the first bride in the history of matrimony to need flat ivory shoes! What is going on?! I'm gonna have to buy another dress!”

Mum snapped into action. She grabbed my wrists, and looked me dead in the eye. “Do not give up!” she shouted, causing passersby to gander over in our direction. “I need you to stay strong! If you give in, I'm gonna....sniffle....I'm gonna....”

Seeing the sheer desperation in her eyes, I knew I had to buck up. I threw my shoulders back, flipped my hair and look ahead. 

“OK," I said. "We can salvage this day. Let's hit up Charming Charlie's at the Galleria. At the very least, I can get my girls their jewelry.”

She gawked at me. Yes, I was technically giving up. But I couldn't look at another shoe. Sparkly jewelry would fix this.

Twenty minutes later, we were in the Galleria, on our way to Charming Charlie's, when a shoe store caught my eye. Some invisible force caught hold of me and dragged me over to the window display, like a meth head shuffling up to his dealer. I knew this was a bad idea, but I couldn't resist. But then, there on a shelf in the middle of the store, sat my wedding shoes.

“HAAAAAAAAA!” I gasped and ran into the store, Mum following and clutching her heart.

“You just scared the life out of me!!” she screamed, but as soon as she saw the beacon of hope I held in my hands, her fear turned to utter and complete joy.

“That's them!!!!” she shrieked, as I cuddled the gorgeous, flat, peep-toed, ivory flats in my hands. They were perfection. Everything I wanted and more. Hope surged in my heart as I flagged down the closest store associate I could find.

“Excuse me!” I waved excitedly. “Excuse me, but may I please try these in a size 9?” Mum and I swapped a secret smile of glee before the associate answered.

“Those shoes?” asked the tall, emaciated, forty-something woman, dressed in skinny jeans and a white blouse, a silk kerchief knotted ever-so-daintily around her neck.

“Yes!” I beamed. “These shoes! Size 9, please!”

The associate gave me a bored eye roll. “Flip them over,” she said flatly.

Flip them over? The hell? Um, is this some kind of fancy pants shoe-buying process I was unaware of?

She made a motion to indicate I should flip them over so I did.

“What size do they say?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Um, 7,” I answered. Was this a test? Was she deciding if I was even worth owning such a wondrous pair of shoes?

“Riiiiiiight,” she sneered, enjoying this. “And you found them on the clearance rack. So that means that's the only size.” She flipped her hair, turned and did her best Naomi Campbell stomp as she stalked off.

My mouth hit the floor, and I jogged to catch up her.

“Miss?! Miss!!” I gasped when I finally reached her. She arched her eyebrow so high it about hit her hairline.

“Please, I was wondering if you could maybe order them? You see, I really need this shoe...”

“No,” she spat out, then said the worst thing she could have possibly said at that moment. “Discontinued.”

A prickly heat washed over my heart, and my pulse hit Mario Andretti speeds. There was no air, only rage. My head spun, and when I opened my mouth, the voice that came out was not my own.

Oh, hi there, Bridezilla.

“Listen to me!” I boomed at the bewildered woman. “I. Need. THESE. SHOES!” The voice shrieked so shrill, I feared the store's glass windows would shatter. “I'm getting married in less than three months, do you understand?” I peered at her horrified face. I didn't care. She was going to do what I said, like it or not. “NOW! Get on that computer,” I pointed sharply at the store cash register, “And find out how I can get those shoes. I don't care if you have to special order them. I don't care what it costs. I don't care if you have to ASSEMBLE THEM YOURSELF. JUST DO IT. RIGHT NOW!!!!!”

The woman's face went pale. She said nothing as she slinked away to the register. I felt Mum behind me and swung around.

“That was....something,” she said, grinning sheepishly. But I couldn't laugh. I could only feel frustration and anger and complete panic. When the associate returned, she wisely kept a good five feet between me and her.

“I'm so sorry, but it is impossible to order them. They truly are discontinued,” she flinched.

I sighed and hung my head. “Fine,” I uttered.

I barely made it to the door before I felt tears sting at my eyes. Mum was at my side and she guided me to Charming Charlie's. I barely glanced at the endless merchandise. I was so done for the day – a day that I had essentially wasted when that was the very last thing I could afford to do right now. I just wanted to go home, down a box of wine, and forget anything ever happened.

But then, somehow, a tiny voice in my head began to squeak in the background behind Bridezilla's seemingly endless rant. She was still bitching about the shoe situation. But a voice, which sounded much more like my own, was pushing through all that racket.

“You get to choose how you act, you know?” it asked timidly. “You don't have to give in to this ridiculous fake stress. I mean, it's shoes. You yelled at someone and ruined a perfectly nice day out with you mom over shoes. You get that, right?”

In that instant, I realized that no amount of wedding stress was an excuse for me to treat other people that way. This ended now. In my mind, I tracked down Bridezilla. She was still raging, urging me to go back and get that snotty shoe store associate in a headlock. I concentrated hard, and with a poof, she vanished. Easy as that. The second you decide to stop letting those things matter so much, guess what? They don't matter that much.

In a couple of days, the shoes I had found online the evening of that fateful shopping excursion arrived. They fit fine, looked fine and would serve me well.

I crossed shoes off of my list and moved on to the next thing.

As I read the next item, Bridezilla seemed to whisper the word into my ear: “Hair piece,” she sneered, bursting with self-satisfaction.

Dammit.

Letting Go

My step-dad, Kip, came into my life when I was 9. At first, our relationship was rockier than an unpaved country back road. Still seething from my parents' divorce, I met every rule he set with utter defiance. Not used to being around children, he set impossible standards. It seemed we didn't stand a chance.

But somehow, we survived. As the years went by, resentment turned to understanding, attitude turned to appreciation and today, I consider Kip to be more than my dad. He’s my great friend, confidant and advisor. I know for a fact I would not be as driven, conscientious and detail-oriented as I am without him. And I happen to like those parts of my personality, so for that, I will always thank him.

When it came time to pick a song for Kip and I to dance to, I wanted something that was very....us. Something different. Something that celebrated our unique bond. None of this “Butterfly Kisses” BS. Something fun, upbeat, positive.

I wanted Journey.

During the course of countless family road trips, Kip had instilled within me a deep appreciation for Journey that has stuck throughout adulthood. Something about that odd mix of sappy sentimentality mixed with '80s electric guitar riffs resonates with me. Every time the tape would loop back around to “Don't Stop Believin',” I'd feel that inexplicable rush. Today, if there’s a jukebox nearby, it’s the first song I play. It is the only song I’ve ever karaoked to (extremely poorly and extremely drunkenly).

The closest I've ever come to death was when, in a packed Pittsburgh bar, I played “Don't Stop” on a jukebox. I figured everyone would love it as much as I do. I figured wrong. The town's beloved hockey team, the Penguins, were, at that very moment, facing off against the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup playoffs. As soon as Perry belted out: “Just a city boy! Born and raised in south Detroit!,” a bar full of eyes turned away from the TVs showing the game to glare at me. My brother, who realized my faux pas, downed his beer in one gulp, grabbed my hand, and got me the hell out of there. We stopped just outside the door so Eric could double-over with laughter, stand back up, look at me, and double-over again.

When it came to narrowing down songs to dance with Kip to, “Don't Stop” was on the top of my list. But when I pitched it to him, I got shot down quicker than you could say “Steve Perry.” Kip didn't want to do a fast song. He wanted a slow song. And he wanted it to be special. I was upset, sure, but I knew the moment was about more than just me. If Kip wanted something different, I could be open-minded. So I began to search the webs for some suggestions, and he did the same.

It didn't take long for me to realize Kip's definition of “special” and mine are two very different things.

A quick Google search landed me on a page listing the top 100 father-daughter dance songs. Some were easy to dismiss. (“Can You Feel the Love Tonight”? Really people? The lion sex song?) Others made it onto a list I emailed Kip, including a top three of “My Girl,” “Stand By Me,” and “You'll Be in My Heart.” “Surely he'll love one of these!” I told myself. Wrong again.

“He doesn't like them,” my mom told me during our fourth phone call about the song debacle. “He's researching more options right now. He's actually sitting at the computer ...crying.”

“Crying?!” I was stunned. Kip doesn't cry! Kip doesn't emote anything. Unless cranking up the volume when my mom and I dare to talk to each other when he's watching golf on TV constitutes “anger,” the only feelings Kip has as far as I know are annoyed and really annoyed.

“Yes, crying,” my mom, chuckled her signature Betty Rubble laugh. Yes, she was laughing as her vulnerable husband wept in the background. And that's why I love her. “Honestly, Rachel, I had no idea picking this damn song would cause so much drama.”

“I didn't know either, Mum,” I said. “What the hell is he listening to that's making him blubber like that?”

“I don't know, some song about loving you first.”

I groaned. I knew exactly what song she was talking about. I had ruled it out immediately for two reasons.

1. I had been to no fewer than a dozen weddings where a bride danced with her dad to “I Loved Her First.” It was just so predictable. I wanted something unique, not the Standard Father-Daughter Dance Song.  
2. Its message is so not us. The whole song is about a father loving his daughter “from the first breath she breathed.” I'm thinking if I hadn't breathed until age 9, I'd have more pressing problems than what song to dance to at my wedding.

So when Mum put me on speaker and they both asked me what I thought, I mustered the most excitement I could.

“S'alright,” I said.

“You don't like it!” Kip, who had composed himself, was annoyed.

“It's just not....us,” I said.

“Ok, whatever.” Really annoyed.

I sighed. “Look, we have a ton of time. We can keep looking. If we can't come up with something we both like, then I'll be fine with this.” Luckily, they couldn't see my shudder.

“Fine,” Kip said.

For the next few weeks, I got daily updates from Mum. Songs he'd vetoed. Songs he'd liked, but only kind of. Songs he wanted me to hear. Songs he never wanted to hear again.

“Just pick one,” Mum would implore. “Any one. I don't care. Just do whatever you have to do to put an end to this hell!”

By this point, I would have gladly agreed to do interpretive dance to “Butterfly Kisses” if Kip wanted to. He still hadn't found The One. And until he did, we'd all suffer.

Until one day, when Mum called me on my cell. The only reason I knew it was her was by the caller ID. Otherwise, I would have sworn someone was holding their phone up to an episode of “The Flinstones.”

“Hmmmmhmmhmhmhmhmh!” I heard the Betty Rubble giggle the instant I hit Answer.

“Oh, God. What?” I asked. When something strikes Mum as really really funny, she loses control. She literally can't stop laughing. There have been many times we've had to leave places because Mum couldn't get ahold of herself.

“Kip Hmmmmhmmmhmmm picked a song,” she said through gasps of air.

“Oh?” What could be funny about that? What had he picked? “Jungle Boogie?” “I've Got Friends in Low Places?” “Single Ladies?”

“Tell me,” I demanded as Mum continued to cackle.

“Oh, you'll have to hear it for yourself,” she sniffled a few times as she's laughed herself to the point of tears. “Check your email.”

I hung up, and pulled up Gmail. I had one new message. It was from Kip with the subject line “This is it!!” I opened the message, and clicked on the link to the YouTube page he'd sent. It took me to a song performed by a person named Crystal Shawanda called “You Can Let Go.” I'd never heard of either. I hit play.

The opening verse lured me right in. A five-year-old child tasting her first freedom while learning to ride a bike and telling her father he could let go. Cute. Appropriate. Kip had taught me to swim, drive, write a check. It was fitting. I was on board.

Verse two: A woman on her wedding day telling her father he could leave her in the hands of her new husband. Okay, a little anti-feminist, but lovely. I could really get behind this one. Until...

Verse Three: The father freaking dies! Literally, he dies. He's in the hospital, barely hanging on and the daughter tells him – you guessed it – that he can let go.

I called Mum before the song dad had even croaked.

“You've got to be effin' kidding me,” I said.

“Hmmmmhmmmhmmmhmhmhmhm!”

“He dies! Mum, the dad DIES. Is he joking? Is this some cruel joke? IS HE KIDDING?”

“He honestly doesn't see a problem with it,” Mum said, cracking up again.

“Okay, listen. Please tell Kip that death will, in no way whatsoever, be part of my wedding day! Is he insane? Is he trying to tempt fate? This from a man who already had one stroke and spent a month last year in the hospital with pneumonia??! Is he fucking kidding???!!”

“Right?!” Mum was enjoying this way too much.

“Okay, just tell him I've had a change of heart. Tell him I listened to ‘I Loved Her First’ a couple more times and now I really like it. Tell him that's the one I want.”

“As long as that's what you really want,” Mum said.

“It is. It's fine. No one dies in it. It will do just fine,” I said.

After Mum and I hung up, I sat back down at my computer and really did listen to “I Loved Her First” again. It was just as sappy as I remembered. It was cheese on top of cheese on top of sugar.

But after about the third listen, I decided I kind of liked that Kip saw our relationship that way. I could live with it. It would be great.

And everyone would make it out alive.