Sigh. The crisis is over.

Luckily my roomie saved me. She took me out to the pool, managed to pry my coffee away and gave me a Miller High Life instead.

She is such a cute, size four curly blonde - we are the youngest people here at the training. Intense and sharp and creative and driven; she must have noticed my bleary eyes and white knuckles. Last night we giggled and made joke headlines until 3 am our time.

She. Is. Hilarious.

This week featuring: The Paranoid Wreck.

I am in Texas for marketing training. I feel so awful and I don't know what to do. My stomach hurts and I am feeling very paranoid. PARANOID!

The wedding!
The house!
My job: I suck!
My mother!
Money!
My job: I am going to be replaced!
My job: Politics!
My job: Everyone hates me!
The wedding!
The house!
My job!

I just want to cry. I miss you. I miss you so much. I hate being here in Texas and I hate everything and I am trying to remember to breathe and that's the only thing that I could do to sleep last night.

I miss you Boy, please write me so I know you think about me now and then when I’m away. I miss you.

Diet soda test strip.

I wish someone would just sit down and invent a diet soda test strip.

I don't usually drink soda, but when I do I can't be wasting precious calories on a non-alcoholic drink. I have to save every available calorie for something worthwhile.

Like champagne and brie.

Here's the problem - when I'm served a soda, unless I open it myself, how do I know it's a diet? How do I know the waitress isn't maliciously tricking me into sucking down several hundred calories?

I need a discrete test strip, not totally unlike a pregnancy test, that would help me determine that what I am drinking is in fact calorie free. Just remove the plastic cap, completely moisten the absorbent tip and wait five minutes.

Two lines means you've got a diet soda
One line means you don't!

Oedipussy

It's a night alone again. The Boy is out working an overnight and I am here by myself.

I am here alone drinking my champagne and listening to morose Irish music. It's fitting somehow; those jolly jigs of death, depravity and despair.

I am Irish myself. German, Dutch and Native American too. The reactions I get from people who are curious of my nationality differ depending on location. My Native heritage is usually met with misplaced awe here in the Midwest, and with mild distain in Texas. Conversely, Michigan is flush with old Dutch families - generations of fruit farmers and small town dwellers. To reveal that one is Dutch here in Michigan is approximate to revealing that one breathes oxygen.

"It's true; I breathe oxygen!"

As common as my family may be, we will always have an unverified ace in the pocket - The Gentlemen Jim Jeffries. Handsome, no? Supposedly, I am a direct descendant of this boxer, a.k.a. "The Great White Hope," heavyweight champion of the world. (who, by the way, was beaten soundly while trying to establish supremacy over an emerging black boxer of the times, jack johnson.)

If it's actually true, is my adoration of the Programming Brawler some sick Freudian Oedipus complex? I choose not to examine it too deeply.

Never you mind Noir, just enjoy the music.

The wedding site

Oooh! Our wedding web page is launched! I am so thrilled.

It’s so sweet it’s makin’ my teeth hurt.

Now if only we could finish up all those other websites we promised people...

Hell hath no fury like a bride scorned

I made a special trip to Kalamazoo this weekend to meet with a habitually delinquent caterer who wants a website in exchange for providing the food for my wedding. He hasn't sent any of the information he promised me, is unavailable by email and often won't answer his cell phone. He's the cutest 50 something, gay caterer you'd ever meet - but he is giving me hypertension!

If you have a business in the wedding industry it is imperative that the bride trusts that you are going to come through on the big day.

He also insists on being called "Chef Christopher" which irritates me just a bit.

Noir: (calling from a busy restaurant where we were supposed to meet) Hello? Is this Chef Christopher?

Man 1: Ah no...this is Terry. (the boyfriend)

Noir: Ahhh...I see then. This is Noir. Is Chef Christopher available? ...We were supposed to meet at one. (ten minutes ago)

Man 1: Oh no. He's sleeping right now - we went to a huge birthday party last night and...just a sec. (background noise is audible through the phone - 'Chriiistopher ... Chriiistopher ... It's Noir on the phone ... She said you were going to meet her at one?)

Man 2: (audible in the background) Oh FUCK!

Man 1: (to Noir) He's freaking out right now...

Noir: (silence)

(a scrambling noise of a cell phone trading hands is audable) - Noir is very aware of restaurant patrons shooting "drop dead" glances to the cell phone user who is ruining their dining pleasure.

Noir: (silence)

Man 2: This is Chef Christopher, I am so sorry.

Noir: Did you get mixed up with the time change, Chef Christopher? (giving her best shot at kindness)

Man 2: Well...yes, a little bit... Oh my god... I am so sorry.

Noir: (meticulously pushing the tines of the fork down through the tablecloth) So, what do we do? Can you still meet with me?

Man 2: ...Yes! Yes, I can. What time can you meet?

Noir: (Rolls eyes) What about if you tell me when you can meet. (voice is tense but is trying to sound sweet.)

Man 2: What about 5PM? (voice almost pleading) Oh, I am so sorry.

Noir: Five it is. I will see you then.

To be continued…