On the futility of a Lingerie shower

Today someone asked if I was having a lingerie shower.

What's the point of having a lingerie shower? I'd be better off getting gift cards to dirty video shops and a good masseuse.

My fiance has no interest in lingerie. I wonder often if he's really interested in me.

What man doesn't like lingerie?

2nd mom says "Just wear it, and associate the wearing of it with sex with him, and eventually, he'll start liking it."

But why should I have to train my own future husband?!

My therapist reccomends another [i.e. sex] therapist, which Finace is staunchly set against.

Of course, there's the idea that it might be me.

I try not to think about that. But maybe it is me. Maybe if I just lost weight, he'd be more interested in what I wanted, and wouldn't think that I can just be treated any old way, or that I don't require certain things.

Anyone that asks, I just want a book shower. Or a shoe shower. I don't want to have to explain why lingerie won't work.

Sex-obsessed, or "What's your man got to do with me?"

The Drive is back, and it ain't even spring.

I'm reading Vin Diesel fan fic, rereading all my Emma Holly books, going over old love/lust letters/emails, listening to Sade and Billie, contemplating blowing next week's paycheck all at Good Vibrations and the local dirty video store.

Yeah, I've got a fiance, but let's be real: he's not around, and even if he were, he wouldn't be interested in any of this. Sex with him is more of an excercise of hope (that maybe he'll have grown an imagination since the last time) and faith (that he won't be able to tell that I'm just happy he's actually interested in sex instead of really, really enjoying it).

I mean, it's okay, don't get me wrong.

But it's not like I'd imagined. Or hoped. Or wished.

We don't talk about it.

The Drive doesn't care. The drive wants to get home so it can wear me out. The drive wants me to sit in my study, when it's dark, put on some sexy electronica and write about some fantasy lover so it can get off later. Sex drive doesn't give a rat's ass that it's been officially Over with my own personal Big for 3 years; it just wants to read the hot e-mails and feel that rush again. Sex Drive is glad that the fiance isn't around at night becuase we can download all the porn it wants and not have to hear anything about it.

SD thinks about 8" penii.
SD wants to buy lingerie and heels.
SD thinks it's a damn shame that the fiance doesn't appreciate sex except when he wants it and that he doesn't have the faintest notion that foreplay actually includes more than announcing he wants it.
SD thinks of extracurricular activites with federal building security guards.
SD smells a strange man's cologne in the elevator on the way to work and wonders what he tastes like.
SD has no concept of emotional monogamy, or of sacrificing itself to the fiance's ignorance.

Which is why I have to wonder if my sex drive shouldn't be forcibly put back in its little room (i.e. start taking the birth control pills again), or if I should repeat my mistake of having a conversation with The Fiance about this.

We both know I won't. I'm chicken, and Fiance gets too pissed off whenever I even suggest him looking at a book, or therapy, or even if I tell him 'softer' or 'lighter' or anything.

If porn weren't so arousing, i'd hate it for what it's done to my sex life.

Reasons Why Wedding Dress Shopping Sucks

I should have known better.

First of all, we went to The Store Which Strikes Fear Into My Fashion-Snobby Soul.

Then, the lady that was supposed to be my "bridal Consultant" (sort of in the same way the checkout people at Wal-Mart are "customer service representatives") decided she was "gonna get a bite to eat" and just walked away from the desk, with me sitting right there.

Then my thin-but-nice-so-I-can't-hate-her maid of honor showed up, and my pinch-hitter bridal consultant came in to help. I'd picked out some styles I liked, but alas, they "weren't in my size".

This alone caused problems:

• My mother is in denial about me being anything less than a size 16. Period.
• My mother, even after being informed that I was an 18w, insisted on picking dresses from the rack that were size 14 and 16.
• I felt like a complete whale because all the dresses "in my size" were horrible, save two.

And the fun didn't stop there!

As luck/fate/karma would have it, everyone else in the store was Smaller Than Me. Except for the thin bride-to-be's hairdresser/mother/aunt's(?) (who will henceforth be known as Captain Comment. ) sidekick (hereafter known as Parrot). I actually felt sorry for Parrot, who was my size. The night went something like this:

Captain Comment: What a lovely dress! [aside, sotto voce to Parrot because obviously fat people can't hear]: dresses in her size are cut differently; see how the material is stiffer? She should get something that visually pulls her in. Unlike [bride-to-be], who can wear anything! Thank GOD my daughter isn't fat like that girl!

Me: @#$@!effingBridalCrap...

Mother: How about this one?!

Bridal Consultant: (to self) How long until closing time?

Me: (to self) Maybe a Tsunami will hit this place. Or at least a meteor.

Captain Comment: Oh, now that is So Flattering! It Really does make you look less big!

Parrot: Raaawwrk! Yes, that is Flattering!

Me: Yes, it's a bit of all right.

Bridal Consultant: It's nice.

Mom: Does it come in a size 14?

Me: Okay, time to go...[to Bridal Consultant] Thanks!

Parrot (as I get my coat): I really liked that last one. It really looked good on you.

Captain Comment: (dead silence)

Bride-to-be: bye!

Me: (to all) Bye! (to self) Thank God! I can make my escape!

Captain Comment (as I am now 20 feet away) : TRY THE PRINCESS DRESSES! TRUST ME! THEY'RE SO SLIMMING! YOU HAVE TO TRY THE PRINCESS STYLE DRESSES! THEY'RE SLENDERIZING!

Me: RUN!

I've decided that it really isn't too much to ask that I be allowed to wear a white tailored suit to the wedding. I wish I could wear a tux. At least a tux would look nice. And nobody comments on men's weight in Tux rental shops.

lessons learned from a southern bridal show

Future Husband was really excited about the bridal show this past Sunday. Me? I was just glad we weren't on the couch watching his DVRed episodes of CSI and Law and Order again.

Personally, the bridal show was a helluva lot more fun when I wasn't engaged. I got to go around sans "Bride" sticker (like a bullseye to potential vendors, it might as well have said "Pasty!" or "Scam Me!") and eat all the free catered food I wanted, without having to listen to sales pitch after sales pitch and how everyone was there to make my day "more special".

What, my wedding day isn't special enough with me and FH there?

Anyway, I found a few vendors that I liked (especially a caterer, that is far out of my price range, but man, is their food excellent!). The almighty dollar, however, fuels my choices more than anything else. According to the ever-frugal FH, we can't afford much besides some stolen flowers and an ex-con to marry us.

Now that the reception is pretty much paid for and set, we're all about details.

I hate details.

I hate details almost as much as the $3,000 poufy white confections that they kept marching down the runway at the bridal show. I hate details almost as much as I hated (and, I'll admit, envied) the Scarletts-in-training that swanned about with their huge cushion-cut diamonds and their $400 casual tops-$200 jeans ensembles with their perfectly outfitted mummies. Daddies, of course, were not invited, as one does not have to see the merchandise one is paying for. I hate details like drying one's bouquet to put in a shadowbox afterwards, or having monogrammed chair cover ribbons, or matching one's place settings at the wedding to the ones in your home. I hate details almost as much as I hated the predatory, make-nice smiles that the vendors gave me while I passed by, and the size-ups as they looked at my non-designer duds.

Some of the more ritzy vendors 'forgot' to give me their cards as I passed by. Daddy's Girl with 3 carats on her size 2 fingers, however, was tackled.

Basically, I realized that:

• Poor people don't belong at bridal shows.
• Black people will only be pursued by black vendors (why?)
• You more than get back your $4 entry fee in free eats.
• Caterers, Florists, Photographers, and Dressmakers are all in it for the money. Your wedding is a meal ticket.
• No matter what I choose, I will wish I had chosen differently.
• I don't know what the hell I'm doing and really need to get a wedding planner (which FH says is another thing we can't afford; I hope we can afford psychiatric care and a straitjacket afterwards).
• The Wedding TM is not about marriage anymore, it's about "Your speshul daayyyy".

Ah, wisdom.
And it only cost $4 and 2 little cups of shrimp and grits.

SIze 14 Ain't Fat, or "Vogue" is french for weight-obsessed

I was watching CBS Sunday Morning just now, and damned if they didn't have a segment about people refusing to diet (as if that were something new; by March there will be more 'weight revolutionaries' than Zantrex-3 ads in women's magazines).

Carol Alt was presented as some sort of Brave New Woman for accepting her size 14 self, and there was a pseudo-serious interview with Wendy Shanker, the author of "The Fat Girl's Guide to Life" (who, big surprise, was shown in a grocery store, blithely offering food to the thin journalist).

I'm all for self-acceptance. I wish I could have some. But I spent an hour this morning reading Vogue too, (an old issue; one in which a painfully honest reader wrote in to the editors:
"My friends and I consider the Shape Issue the Fat Issue. Why does VOGUE feel compelled to be politcally correct by issuing content meant for those who don't exactly take care of themselves?"
Let's keep in mind that the "Fat" women in there were plus size models, at most a size 10 or 12 (In Kate Dillon's case, perhaps a size 14, but she's tall).

It's no secret that VOGUE , as everyone else in the fashion world, despises anyone with a double-digit size other than 00. And who can blame them? If fashion were meant for the Average Jane, they'd hardly be the elitist fantasies they're meant to be, and advertising would dry up. What's the fun in advertising stuff everyone can wear? And how could we be conned into buying things we don't need unless we were convinced we would be ugly, unloveable, and (horror of horrors) middle-class without them?

Anyway, I posted this on makeupalley.com in response to the segment:

Puh-lease. Size 14 ain't fat. I could care less if Carol Alt 'blew up' to a "whopping" size 14 to be a 'plus size model'.
Plus size models are size 10 and that ain't fat either.
So when they say 'don't diet', but juxtapose the statement with obviously unflattering pictures of fat people, what the hell am I supposed to think? Take the advice of the doctor that says "Focus on fitness?!"
Gimme a break. Said it once, I'll say it again: I wish I had the willpower to just Not Eat, and I'd gladly die at 60 if I could just be a size 8 for the rest of my days.
It's not about health. Nobody gives a rats @$$ about if oveweight people are healthy. We're treated as if we'd be better off dead anyway. It's about Being Thin and getting closer to an ideal.
So if I hear from anyone: my mother, fiance, or the
@#$@# TV tell me "oh, just get healthy," I'm going to sit on them until they take it back.
Eff health. designers, men, and job interviewers don't care if
you're healthy. Do you look right?

I wish I'd had the guts to say what I wanted to, which was "I wish i had the guts (pun intended) to be anorexic or bulimic." Nobody tells women with eating disorders that they'd be better off fat.
Nobody's better off fat. Even my own mother would rather me wire my jaws shut or throw up on command than gain another pound.

I can't say I blame her, or disagree.

Just don't tell my therapist.

Smoke 'em if you've got 'em

I'm about 18 days away from my Breast Reduction Surgery, and you know it's a bad day in Bridesville when having your mammaries sliced-and-diced is easier for you to stomach than place settings.

Since almost fleeing in horror from the surgeon I was originally assigned, I was a little skittish about choosing another. But find another I did, and boy am I excited!

He listened, he answered my questions, he was patient, and he even forgot to bring a med student to gawk at my enormous ta-tas!

Thanks, doc!

That said, my primary worries are
1. They'll be too small and fiance won't like them.
2. They'll be too small, fiance won't like them, and neither will anyone else.
3. I'll have a true pear shape, and everyone knows that Pear shaped women don't get the cute clothes.
4. They'll heal in a wierd shape.

I've always thought that having large breasts was a big part (heh) of what made me attractive to men. I can't help but wonder if I'll get the same looks after the surgery. Especially since FH is not the most reassuring when it comes to my physical appearance. It means a lot (not that I'd tell FH this) that other men find me attractive. Nobody wants to think they've fallen off the pretty truck.

I'll be going from a DDD to a C/D, which is nice. I can't imagine the clothes! Oh, wait. I can! (hello figleaves.com!). I'm excited on one hand to not have my neck, shoulders, and back hurt, but I can't deny that Big Breasts have their advantages (cleavage, making one's tummy look smaller).

That said, I'm just waiting for the 24th. Until then, I'll be leafing through lingerie catalogues and looking at myself sideways in the mirror, and hopeing that FH doesn't make any stupid comments about "bazoombies".

And I'm tossing his "Big Boob Bangeroo" porn DVD, too.

Is you is, or is you ain't happy to be engaged?

People at work come around humming "Here comes the bride" (doesn't anyone know "It had to be you?") and wonder aloud if everything is okay if I don't start grinning or giggle.

It's not fun. It's not one big joy orgy. I've done more thinking about a color schemes,weather patterns, the ideas that nobody will remember it anyway, so it doesn't matter & the idea that people will tsk tsk the whole thing, a life of genteel poverty, and wondering if all this wedding dream-killing is a harbinger of things to come than is proper.

I wish all the planning were over with and we could just get married already.

Things I'll wish I listened to; part 2

And another thing:

When you get engaged, it's a good idea to just focus on three things first:

1. Being engaged.
2. Finding a wedding location.
3. Finding a reception location.

Don't be like me and try to plan the entire ceremony and reception in 5 days. Just don't.

No matter how much your Fiance tells you "we have to do this now!" forget about the other details. Bridesmaids, groomsmen, caterers...just don't worry about it. Don't sweat it. There's enough worry to last you throughout your entire engagement, and to go around to your entire circle of friends.

You'll save a lot of problems, like:

• Having to 'slap [friends] in the face' because they aren't bridesmaids;
• Having dress problems up-front
• Having your mother get pissed off because you're considering other persons in the wedding besides the ones she likes
• Having your mother pissed off because she can't invite everyone she wants to (repeat for fathers and families-in-law)
• Awkward introductions between different sets of friends
• And Much, Much More!

I wish I could take back asking people to be anything. I wish I could just go back to the first day I was engaged and be happy without worrying myself into a tizzy over this stuff. I wish I'd had time to just sit and call my Fiance my Fiance, and cuddle and fantasize about our life together, instead of having this major Wedding thing in front of us to pull off.

But I can't. But there won't be any dress shopping or any more Bridesmaid Talk until the venues are picked and settled. Then I'll move on.

Things I'll wish I'd listened to pt. 1

The Furman Friends came thursday and yesterday to hang out and celebrate New Year's. Me? Yeah, I forgot all about NY and thought for some reason there was time to hang out with both them and The Fiance.

Um, no.

TF has been reluctant to hang out with the Furman crew -- or many of my friends -- thanks to my "but [the wedding] might not be good enough for them!" ranting last week. He, being a proud country boy, did not take well to this statement and announced that "We're having the wedding we can afford, and if they don't like it, they can go @#$! themselves."

Ding! Wedding revelation no. 1 (alongside of not telling your future husband that you're afraid of what The Neighbors/Friends/Coworkers, etc. Will Think):
"Have the wedding you can afford, and if anyone doesn't like it, they can go @#$! themselves."

This sentiment was partially (i.e. not including the @#$! imperative) echoed by one of my oldest and closest friends (who had a beautiful wedding, one that I have always measured every wedding since against -- to TF's frustration) , who wisely said,
"There will always be someone who doesn't like something that you did at your wedding. There will be people who will think you should have done things differently, and those who think your wedding is the most beautiful thing they've ever seen. They may never tell you this, but they'll think it. They will always have their opinions."

Furman really does put out some smart grads, I tell ya. It was exactly what I needed to hear.

I just have to keep remembering it. (maybe a tattoo?)

The only thing to do now is make TF understand that it's not my friends I was afraid of disappointing; it was myself. And I really did my friends (the real ones) a disservice by thinking that they'd think less of me if things weren't exactly as I have them in my head, or if I didn't meet some Martha-esque/Bridal Porny ideal that I've set upon myself.

(Much in the same way I used to believe that I would never let anyone see me naked because I didn't look like my friends (all size 10 and under) and no man would want me becuase I was 'fat' (I was a size 12, for crying out loud!) In the end, the insecurity I felt due to my own self-imposed ugliness damaged and robbed me of opportunities far more than any negative feedback about my body.

I really don't want the same thing to happen here and now.