A Year Ago Today

Let 'em eat cake!

I had my cake, and ate it too. And, here’s a photo to prove it. I think the baker transformed my idea into a unique wedding cake. Would you agree?

The morning after

Fresh off the wedding and a quick getaway, I find it difficult to face this Monday morning. After a big event or a long weekend, it’s always hard to return to routine. But in this case, it’s not my job that I’m dreading.

It’s the LA Weight Loss woman.

A couple weeks back and in need of a miracle, I handed over $330 in order to participate in an 8-Week Body Makeover program with LA Weight Loss. For the cost of membership you get one week worth of supplements and a contract, which guarantees success so long as the loser follows the program, eats his or her Lite bars, and participates in one-on-one consultation with an LA Weight Loss consultant three times a week.

The company promotes these personal consultations as insightful and necessary. But in my limited experience, the one-on-one meet-ups are really designed to sell more products. Every time I go to meet my consultant, I prepare for it as though I am about to attend a timeshare presentation. Even so, I ended up buying an additional $250 worth of LA lite bars and shakes. If I don’t consume these supplements during the 8-week program, I could always store them away for posterity’s sake in the event I ever decided to build a fallout shelter. When you look at it this way, the bars and shakes are really a bargain.

For the record, this is the most restrictive program in which I have participated. Nevertheless, for the first 10 days I followed the program to the letter and lost about 5 pounds.

The LA Weight Loss woman was delighted with my progress, but her euphoria took a nosedive on the Wednesday before my nuptials.

"So, what’s your strategy for the wedding?" she asked.

"Well, I’m doing a spa day with my girlfriend, and then we’re heading on to the restaurant together," I replied.

"That’s nice," LA Weight Loss woman said. "But I am asking what your FOOD strategy is for tomorrow."

"Food strategy?" I asked. "It’s my wedding. Must I really have a food strategy? Shouldn’t I be able to enjoy the day? Can’t I have my wedding cake and eat it too?

I thought my response was funny, but the LA Weight Loss woman didn’t appreciate the humor.

"If you don’t go in with a plan for success, you’re going to be a FAILURE," she said sharply. Then came her ominous parting, "I’ll see you again Monday."

Even before I left our appointment, I decided to ignore her counsel. Maybe after eating all those bars, people lose their sense of humor along with the poundage. Besides, I had the right to enjoy my wedding dinner. What was the harm in going off the program for one night?

But one night, turned into the weekend. Since our honeymoon cruise was still a few weeks away, Max and I decided to take a “mini-moon” and visited the nation’s capital. Washington D.C. is made famous for many things—the monuments, the politics, a diverse crowd, fabulous restaurant choices, and, of course, Jamy of Grateful Dating. In one quick trip, we managed to sample the best that the city has to offer-- Thai food on Friday, and Indian lunch with Jamy (who is as entertaining in person as her blog is), Ethiopian dinner on Saturday… I could feel my waistline expanding with every delectable morsel.

At the time, these indiscretions felt more like right and appropriate courses of action. I again shrugged off the shrill LA Weight Loss woman and committed a near-mortal sin of leaving my Lite bars at home for the weekend. And, it all felt worth it—until the alarm clock went off this morning and I remembered her words, “I’ll see you again on Monday, Failure.”

I won’t even step on my own bathroom scale this morning to find out how badly I faired. I can feel it in my clothes. Even my new wedding band feels tighter.

So now I have two choices. Do I suck it up (literally and otherwise) and meet with LA Weight Loss woman today? Or, do I throw away my $580 dollars and pray for a nuclear incident?

I do

Today I will marry my friend,
the one I will live with, dream with and love.
I take you to be my husband.
From this day forward I will cherish you,
I will look with joy down the path of our tomorrow's
knowing we will walk it together side by side, hand in hand and
heart to heart.

Jitters

Today, Max and I head to the courthouse to get our marriage license and meet the magistrate who will marry us.

Tomorrow, my family arrives.

For all my pontificating, I will make this admission. Now, I am _ _ _ _ _ _ _.

But don't tell anybody, ok?

Are you _ _ _ _ _ _ _?

Admittedly, I stole both the title and subject for today’s post from expectant papa, Egan who, along with his wife, has grown tired of a three word question that keeps popping up as their delivery date draw near.

“Are you excited?"

That’s it. Are you excited? The question seems innocuous enough to those of us who aren’t staring down the responsibilities of parenthood. But even so, I can understand why it isn’t. I relate to Egan’s plight because Max and I are facing our own consistent inquiry as the wedding day countdown slips into to the single digits.

“Are you nervous?”

I bet we're asked this question ten times a day. Every time I hear the words my face grows flushed. Perhaps I read too much into the intent, but, like Egan, the query perplexes me. If I had any reservation this commitment wasn’t right, I wouldn’t be getting married. If I had nagging doubts about Max’s or my own ability to follow through on our vows, I would not have accepted his proposal.

This lack of nerves must be unusual because some folks seem dissatisfied with my response. So just to be sure, they have decided to ask the same question over and over--whether it be a week later, the next day, or during a single conversation.

Q: “Whew! I can’t believe the wedding is less than two weeks away. Are you nervous?”
A. “Not at all.”
Q: “No?”
A: “Nope.”

Maybe if I were a first-time bride, maybe if we hadn’t lived together, I could understand the inquiries. But in this situation, all I really want to do is answer the question with a few of my own. Do you really think I should be? Would that be healthier? Would you feel better if I were nervous?

Or better yet, perhaps I should have a few, prepared, snarky comebacks instead? These would be reserved for those who just won’t take no for my answer.

Q: The wedding is only a few days away, are you nervous?

1. Yes. Take my hands. Perhaps we could meditate on it?


2. Not really. The mail order groom program has a money back guarantee.


3. Nah. I got enough sedative in me to put down a horse.


4. Maybe if I was marrying a toad like the one you ended up with…


5. Not about the wedding, but definitely about my first time.

Sarcasm isn’t always my strong point, so feel free to add your own.

It’s all about the dress

It’s the Ides of May, and you know what that means. I’m off to the Redneck Riviera, also known as Myrtle Beach, South Carolina for my bachelorette weekend. Ugh.

While I’m gone, I’d like to get your thoughts as to which dress I should wear on my wedding day. The ceremony is being performed by the magistrate in front of a small group of friends and family in the wine cellar of a local restaurant.

A big, traditional dress seemed inappropriate for the occasion. So, I ended up buying two simple dresses. Because Max and I will be sitting for a portrait on Tuesday, I only have a few days to decide on the outfit. So I ask, which do you like?

Choice A

Choice B

The Uni-bomba

My post-wedding party invitations began arriving in guests’ mailboxes the other day, and the reaction couldn’t be more unusual.

You may remember because the party is being held at a Caribbean restaurant, I decided to send bottled messages (like the one pictured here) in keeping with the island theme.

So much for being creative! A few recipients said they almost didn’t open the bottles, thinking the invitations were actually direct marketing materials.

I thought I’d heard it all. Then, my friend James sent me the following e-mail.

“When my father-in-law brought in our mail yesterday, he said "there is this strange bottle with white powder, may we shouldn't open it in case it is from a terrorist".

Great, just great. I never thought anyone would mistake sand and shells for Anthrax, but I suppose in our post 9-11 world anything is possible. I can see it now. Guests will be calling the department Homeland Security mistaking my party invitations as a terrorist threat. Then when the government discovers the return address belongs to none other than a Mr. Max Mahmoud, we’ll be honeymooning in Guantanamo Bay. Oh well! I always did want to go to Cuba.

This is it!

Max heads to Virginia tonight to ask my father’s permission to marry me. By this weekend, I’ll finally be sporting the ring. Bring on the bling!

Ides of May

By the time a woman gets around to planning wedding #3, she has hopefully developed a clear understanding of what she wants and, more importantly, doesn’t want-- if not in her choice of husband, than at least in regards to the wedding itself.

With my impeding nuptials, I am pretty firm about what I don’t want, with the "don’t list" rivaling the guest list. In fact, aside from an open bar, a kick-ass cake, and the groom (not necessarily in that order) there isn’t much about this wedding that I feel particularly passionate about. I just want it over, legal, and with as little fuss as possible.

Some assume that I don’t feel "right" about celebrating this occasion, since it is not my first. When friends learn that I’d rather go for root canal than register at the local department store, or that I haven’t given a moment’s thought to what I’ll be wearing (other than it won’t be white), they look as if I’m the Grinch that stole the wedding.

It isn’t that I am against any of the typical bridal trappings. I’ve had them all before. Really, for a third-time, 40-year-old, bride, like me, all of the pomp and ceremony would seem to be a bit cliché, if not redundant. And aside from being married twice before, I am anything other than redundant.

But now, despite my protests, gal pals Jules and Sonia have decided to ignore my anti-bridal platform and gone and done something truly awful.

They’ve planned a bachelorette party.

Don’t think for one minute that my friends are trying to do something nice for me. I do believe their motive is revenge for the time I duped them into going to the bachelor auction.

To make matters worse, it’s not just a party. It’s a girl’s weekend in my honor in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina—the Redneck Riviera for those of you unfamiliar with the eastern coastline. Myrtle Beach is a place where Michelob Ultra and Budweiser flow freely, and where romping wet t-shirt contests take place under the all-knowing eyes of the black velvet Elvis hanging above. And while I can throw back a Bud with the best of them, a bachelorette party anywhere and for any reason is unacceptable.

I’m convinced that the whole practice dates back to the days of the Vestil Virgins of ancient times. These women, who were forced to remain celibate for 30 years under the penalty of death, walked in procession through the streets of Rome and were always a spectacle for its citizenry. I can’t help but think after one of the virgins finished her term, she threw one major bachelorette party complete with marble penises, phallic symbols, and every pagan in town. Ironically, my modern version of this ancient tradition is going to be held during the Ides of May—the very same time when the ancient Vestil Virgins of Rome performed a rite to ensure the supply of water for the coming year. This is a sign, for sure. And all I’m saying is that I'm hitchhiking back to Raleigh the minute the first penis necklace comes out of hiding.

Bah humbug!

Bridzilla

You’d think that doing a wedding “your way ”--sans the big dress, huge guest list, and all the formality--would make the whole build up to the big day a little less stressful, right?

Wrong! Even though I am trying to fight the tension creeping up the back of my neck, it’s there nonetheless. And, we are still three, long months away from the big day.

Max and I almost had our first fight, because Bridzilla (that would be me) reared her ugly head when he suggested we move our date to accommodate two military friends, who are being transferred July 1. It happened during a phone conversation with his buddies.

“I understand that you won’t be able to make the party, but maybe Diane and I can go ahead and get married before you leave. We’re just planning to go to the courthouse, anyway. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Maybe under ordinary circumstances, Diane wouldn’t mind. But with a looming, parental lecture ahead, Bridzilla went ballistic moments after she heard Max hang up the phone.

“Max, I can’t believe you would just change EVERYTHING without even talking to me? HOW COULD YOU?!?!?!”

The poor guy looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“Sweetie, what have I changed? Had we committed to an actual wedding date?” he asked.

Calm reason in the face of hysteria proved to be the wrong strategy in dealing with Bridzilla.

“You just aren’t thinking! We CANT get married on June 30th! Sonya is on vacation from June 23rd to July 1, which means that we’d have to move the wedding date to at least the 22nd-- three weeks before the party. WHO HAS A RECEPTION THREE WEEKS AFTER THEIR WEDDING!?!?!”

Actually, I knew plenty of folks who’d thrown post-wedding parties weeks after their big day, but that wasn’t the point. In reality, my reaction had nothing to do with the wedding or after party. Rather, it all stemmed from the sad reality that I was, and had been, making life-changing plans and sharing this happy news with everyone—except the two people who should matter most…

my parents.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do it to them; I can’t do it to me.

The time has come to share my joy with my family

…and let the chips fall where they may.

I’ll start with my sister this week, and head to Virginia this weekend.

What’s in a name?

I guess if there is a down side to my marrying Max, it would be this: I don’t like his last name. At least when coupled with my first name, it has a funny ring to it.

I’m quite happy with Mandy, thank you very much. Although Max doesn’t insist that I take his name, he finds one teeny tiny problem with my current one. It actually belongs to my ex-husband. I never got around to changing it after our divorce. The pairing, Diane and Mandy, has a nice sound to it. And since I had been using it professionally for over 10 years, changing it seemed like a bad idea at the time.

“Why don’t you take your maiden name back? I like your maiden name.” Max asked trying to be helpful.

He is a dear to suggest it, but quite honestly, Gerasimov, my original surname and of Russian origin, doesn’t really float my boat either. In fact, having a five-syllable, completely ethnic last name brought my siblings and I nothing but trouble back in rural Franklin County, Virginia, our home and land of Brown, Jones, Williams, Smith, and Flora. It wasn’t easy to spell; it wasn’t easy to pronounce. In high school, I wouldn’t have a chance at being popular with a name like Gerasimov. Class officer? Homecoming Queen? Who’d vote for me with a name like this?

Of course, Gerasimov surpassed, by leaps and bounds, my first husband’s surname, Weeble. Yes, I know-- “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” If I heard it once, I heard it a million times. The name, alone, proves I that married foolishly because it certainly wasn’t an improvement over my family name. Most importantly, while Weebles don't fall down, their marriages can certainly fall apart. Mercifully, I only lived as a Weeble for five years.

So with this marriage, Max’s name will be my fourth name in 20 years. And even though by taking it I’ll probably be asked if I know someone who’s being unlawfully held in Guantanamo Bay right now—it’s worth it. I may hate the name, but I love the man that comes along with it.

Time to dish, Mon

Max and I have decided to throw a Caribbean-themed celebration on July 14, 2007 the day before we honeymoon on a Caribbean cruise. I’m excited about throwing a party for our friends, although we’d rather have them all sailing to the Caribbean with us. But since this wouldn’t be feasible, our goal is to bring a touch of the Caribbean to them.

Friends will learn of the party, not from wedding invitations, but through messages in a bottle which might read something like this, "A tropical paradise is the setting, for a romantic getaway after our wedding. Please join Diane and Max for a wedding celebration."

The Caribbean restaurant, a casual place, will be perfect for our friends to come in their best beach or resort wear. We meet with the restaurant manager tonight to finalize a food and drink selection that will fit our island theme. I also hope to hire a steel pan drummer to entertain upwards of 60 guests.

I think that, instead of a flower girl, we’re going to have two children (dressed in tropical shirts and khaki shorts) greet our friends with shell leys.

Understand that Max and I have both been married before. I had two big church weddings, and he had a traditional Muslim ceremony. While respecting the wedding traditions of our forefathers, we realized, in retrospect, that it’s really what happens after the ceremony that matters. As we continue to plan the party, our goal is to enjoy the moment and share our excitement with people who have mattered most to us.

I suppose one of the only real wedding tradition we do plan to offer is cake. But our choice—sort of Dr. Seuss meets Hawaiian Tropic—isn’t anything you’d see in Martha Stewart. I offer this picture to show the concept to you, but keep in mind ours will be decorated differently and topped with palm trees.

That’s most of what we’ve decided so far. And although we are still talking about other details (flowers, what we’ll wear, etc), Max thought it would be fine if I shared current ideas with all of you. Feel free to offer any suggestions as we are still very open to ideas.

Notice that I didn’t mention the hows and wheres of the actually wedding ceremony… that, my friends, is still up in the air and somewhat dependent on how my folks reacts to the news of our engagement.

More on that later…