Here Comes The Blog

Just Chill

2011-12-29T12:19:00.000-08:00

We made it. Our first Christmas away. It was super hard not to be with family, and even now doesn't seem like anything along the lines of holidays actually happened, but there was something special and enjoyable about marking an important time.

Today I put away our first Christmas tree. We never found a tree skirt and used a somewhat unconventional topper. When our super-cool German mobile I always admired of my mother's wouldn't turn in a circle, we broke the arm off of one of the kings and lit the candles anyway. We were pretty sure the traditional oyster stew would leave us both green in the face so for Christmas Eve we had beef stew instead. We had green grass in place of snow and didn't even make enough food for serious leftovers.

But with the calendar quickly thinning to the end of the year, I do have to chill out a bit and realize just how great of a holiday we had. Thanks to Skype we got to watch our family open presents and be there in real time with them for the moments that really mattered.

It all hit me when we were singing hymns in a chapel I'd never been to, surrounded with people I didn't know. The story is the same, and if you try a little just about everyone could go "off book" for those wonderful songs. The spontaneous sharing of what is comforting and traditional may have been the best gift I received. Of course the beautiful new shelving unit is nice too--and gives me somewhere to store all the stuff and finally feel settled in!

Getting to Christmas this year was a big feat, but putting it away was easier than I thought. I wrapped the special ornaments in paper and sucked up the fake tree needles with the Dyson, and before I knew it our home was back to normal--even though we are still establishing what normal means.

This season made me so grateful for a family I miss, and so excited to finally feel at home. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, now let's all eat a little more and do what I'd been failing to for the past four months: just chill.

How I Nearly Grinched Christmas

2011-12-23T01:57:00.000-08:00

Normally Maika loved Christmas a lot
But lately her cheer wasn't hitting the spot

She wasn't connected to the whole festive season,
And try as she may she couldn't find a reason.
Perhaps it was the home waxing disaster that started it all,
Some say her heels were two sizes too small.

Whatever it was it was turning her sour,
Zapping her of her normal holiday super power.
So she set out to run up her backyard hill
Attempting to sweat out any ill-will

With Katy Perry in her ear buds and shoes on her feet
She ran and ran and sang until a dog she did meet
(That's what happens when you run through a dog park.
This one was nice, even considering his English bark.)

At mile seventeen (or more like one-point-seven)
She heard a rumbling sound coming from the heavens
A C-130 roared overhead, startling her almost to dead
Just then she squished into a big pile of mud
And tumbled slow-motion to a face-planting thud.

"Christmas is killing me!" She snarled with a frown
"I've had enough of this festive little town!
All I need is a reindeer to help me take it all down..."

Just then the dog from earlier in the story
Arrived on cue in all his four-legged glory
He nudged the girl, still sitting in gunk
Somehow encouraging her to get off her trunk

So she got off her rear and pet the nice dog,
Knowing that somehow he was clearing the fog.
"Thank you, old friend, for saving me from my frustration.
Now let's run down this hill and end the grump rotation."

Though she showed up back home still covered in mud
Maika was slowly breaking out of her crud.
So she baked lots of cookies and sang some good songs
She Skyped with her husband to their homes for so long

They awoke the next morning on Christmas Eve Eve
To the sound of Christmas carols on newly burned CDs
The season was coming, so let it be so.
It was coming without mountains, big family or snow.
Just enough sugar, wine and time the two shared
Made the holiday special, if different than they prepared.

As she looked to the top of their newly lit tree
She saw Yoda where the angel should be
Some say her big girl pants grew three sizes that day
The moment she realized it's not where you play...

But with Who.

Her new Whoville may be far away
But it's a good Christmas anyway.
What really matters at the end of the day
Is loving and laughing and cherishing in every way

Thanks, random dog and holiday grog. You shook me out of my fog. Hope you're enjoying the blog.

If You Can't Join 'Em, Beat It!

2011-12-20T00:59:00.000-08:00

Lately my Christmas cheer has been more Scrooge than Saint Nick. I’m sure it’s for a variety of reasons. My husband and I have endured more change in the past year than I care to think about, exhausting our emotions, bodies and bank accounts. But this funk is seems somehow season-specific.
It’s less than a week until Christmas and I am on a week-long business trip to sunny Dubai. The hotel has a fancy tree and a glittering gingerbread house, but I feel about as far from festive as possible. I am getting very close to the day my family in the states leaves for our traditional trek to the Rocky Mountains, snow and all, but this sunburn I achieved while working poolside is one more reminder of just how different my experience is from candy canes and mittens.

Okay, pity party is over. It’s time to strategize. The nice new thing I’ve discovered from becoming a working expat in the UK is this novel idea of vacation days. That’s right, the country mandates every working adult take a certain amount of days off. Long live the Queen! Thanks to this brilliant labor law, I have found myself with a surplus of ‘holidays’ at the end of the year, possibly the perfect timeframe for Operation Merriment. I plan to beat the damn Christmas spirit into our lives at all costs. In addition to the time I will spend (still) unpacking our home and supervising some building projects, you bet your bowl full of jelly I will be baking, trimming, and a-wasseling. Okay, maybe not all of those. You can leave out baking. I don’t enjoy measuring things and someone shrunk all the English ovens.

So string up the (English energy efficient) lights and prep the (also English free range) reindeer. It’s highly-concentrated Christmas starting tomorrow. We will sing until we lose our voices and drink so much Buttered Rum even Bing Crosby would be jealous. Now count your gosh darn ginger-filled blessings and be festive!

Wide Awake Thinking About Shoes

2011-11-15T22:11:00.001-08:00

It hasn’t been so hard to sleep since Christmas Eve 1989when I stayed up all night hoping Santa Claus would bring me a pair of shinypatent leather Louboutins. Insteadhe brought me a sister. Both wouldhave been wonderful companions, but one was definitely a safer bet for me as akindergartener. Still, theanticipation has remained unmatched—until today.

Maybe I’m wide awake at 4am with a gut full of monarchsbecause Scott just left for his first flight in England, but let’s be honest, Iknow he’s a great pilot and it’s about darn time he gets back at it. Maybe it’s the frozen skillet mealswe’ve eaten for the last two nights keeping me awake. (There’s only so much variety to go around when you have abunsen burner and a microwave.) Ithink the most likely candidate driving me toward Ambien is the promise that athigh noon today I’ll be holding something new and shiny—not Louboutins,apartment keys!

Ninety-eight days, three continents and 18 beds later, ourmove will finally near completion. We get keys today and our things show up tomorrow! Never mind that I leave on a week-long work trip the day after that.For a few glorious hours we will have a home. I never could have predicted the comfort that comes fromfeeling even mildly settled. It’samazing how difficult it is to feel confident enough to talk to new people,work effectively, or even take a shower when you’re living rootlessly. Granted, Mick Jagger was on the roadevery night and apparently did just fine. But that comes with the territory. My territory, on the other hand, comeswith coffees and dinners and baked goods. Although maybe the groupie idea isn’t all that bad.

Barring any serious slip-ups, I will be bidding farewell tothe refugee hotel with the ancient creaky mattress and mysterious dog hair andhello to a sleeping bag in the middle of an empty apartment. As one girl with shiny shoes once said,“there’s no place like home.”

Food & Fire

2011-11-07T08:15:00.000-08:00

Guy Fawkes Day in Great Dunmow featured a gigantic bonfire and awesome fireworks--oh yeah, and 3000 people!

Traditional Sunday Roast at The King's Head pub in Beck Row

Falling...Falling...Fall.

2011-11-06T08:50:00.000-08:00

PermaFall outside our future flat

Autumn is my favorite, but in Nebraska I feel about Fall exactly like I feel about dessert: awesome while it lasts, but always over too soon. England, on the other hand, is introducing me to something I like to call PermaFall.
When we left the states, I was afraid we would miss my favorite season. I was used to a week of crisp apple cider weather followed immediately by snow and cold. Much to my delight, nothing changes that quickly here. The leaves take their sweet time changing and falling, and the coldest it gets is a good chilly rain. Unfortunately, the turn of the seasons isn't the only thing enjoying a bit of leisure.
As autumn sticks around, so does the never-ending move. When we left the states in September, I mistakenly thought moving would be a one-time event. Four weeks later we are still living out of suitcases we packed in August, counting down the days until we get to leave our refugee camp in hopes of a more premanent home.
Even nature is against us, as the sun now completely disppears by 4:30 in the afternoon. Time stands still in business, too. We found that even with a month's notice, it takes 14 days to turn on our internet.

A cool fall church in Norwich

Do not fear, there is good news to be heard. First and possibly most importantly, we just received our initial shipment of Sam Adams Oktoberfest, even though I believe it's nearly Winter Brew season at home.

We are taking full advantage of all activities autumnal, including Guy Fawkes Day, a celebration of one dude's failed attempt to blow up Parliament, which includes fireworks and bonfires to rival the best we've seen. We're snuggling into cask ales in local pubs and appreciating the fact that we don't yet need gloves or hats to go outside.

Jockeys flock to Newmarket, the home of horseracing.

So all in all, Fall can keep falling. We're still homeless until winter, but we have Oktoberfest to keep us happy.

What a Difference a [Good Hat] Day Makes

2011-10-31T10:44:00.000-07:00

Eighteen hours ago I was in the middle of a meltdown. When we say middle we mean full on, dropping words I didn't know I spoke into sentences that make even less sense than Ann Curry in a mistakenly unscripted emotional situation.
Luckily, I married MacGyver, and he made Xanax out of the Snickers I had purchased for trick-or-treaters. This managed to calm me into a sugar coma which I slept off for a whole night.
I woke up a bit overwhelmed in our second temporary hotel. This one is a bit more roomie, and you wouldn't believe the difference it makes to have a stove, so I overlooked the pet hair and ancient mattress.
Little Orphan Annie wasn't quite present, as the sun doesn't completely come out in England. But the haze came out, and I did the one thing I thought I could to to break out of my homeless funk--I unpacked. Seven suitcases later, the refugee camp hotel felt a bit more like home, and I felt a bit more like myself.
Of course the real Maika wasn't completely back, because I was still prepared to take a bye on my favorite day of the year, Halloween. I just wasn't feeling settled enough to tackle it, and all I could hear was my mother in the back of my mind every time I got districted before finishing vacuuming the house, "Maika, don't do a halfway job." I knew Halloween would be Halfoween at this point, and I was fully prepared to pretend it didn't exist. In fact, I may still pass on holidays until St.Patrick's Day. No one half-asses days with colored beer.
But this is a victorious story. Yep. One quick trip in the Mini to base, and I got to check my mail, buy Jennifer Aniston on the cover of an indulgent magazine, and enjoy the impulse buy of a super cool witch hat. It may have taken me until the register to realize my need for a costume, but I have now returned home to a glass (okay, bottle) of Chardonnay, the rest of the trick-or-treats, and a full-on witch costume.
Any day where strangers give you candy should not be missed, even if you're homeless.
Here's to Halloween!

Things My Future Kids Will Know

2011-10-11T12:42:00.000-07:00

1. The world's best kept secret is Turkish Coffee. Looks like black sludge. Tastes like heaven. Comes in a cool gold pot. Avoid the bottom of the cup.

2. There are more similarities across cultures than there are differences. Good-willed humor translates. High School Musical does not.

3. Don't go for a run in the desert at noon. Sleep at noon. If you can help it, don't run in the desert in the first place.

4. Smoke in a restaurant is okay if it comes from a genie bottle and smells like strawberry.

Not in Nebraska Anymore

2011-10-10T01:22:00.000-07:00

If you want to learn the most in the shortest amount of time, travel. If you're slightly crazy, travel a lot.

Just less than two weeks ago Scott and I scanned our one-way ticket from Raleigh to London, drove 2 hours north, and moved into a hotel on base at RAF Lakenheath. Since then, we visited more than a dozen homes to rent, chose one, bought a car, traveled back to London, met my new coworkers, and packed me again. Yesterday I hopped back on another 7-hour flight, this time for a place that I only thought existed in the imagination.

And this morning I woke up in Dubai. I'm here for 12 days, working with a really cool company and teaching them all about strengths and engagement--what you do best and how doing that makes your life better at work and beyond. Maybe at some point before I leave I'll start to believe I'm not in a dream. It's just so unlike anything I've ever known. The whole city is polished and pristine, even down to the tile on the motorways. The ride last night in the dark from the airport to hotel was the smoother and fancier than any luxury car, and it was a regular taxi.

Of course moving all over the world does present a packing challenge. Because we haven't moved into our new flat in England yet, we have yet to gather any of our belongings we packed in North Carolina. Luckily, when I packed our suitcases in August I had to plan for a week-long business trip in September. Thinking a business outfit is universal, before leaving my room today I put on my simple black dress and tights, grabbed a light jacket in case the conference rooms got chilly, and headed out to walk around the hotel and explore.

Within 30 seconds I nearly passed out. It doesn't only feel hot here, it looks hot! A second without sunglasses could be blinding. Perhaps this is why I saw maybe one other person outside during my noontime walk.

It's a great adventure and I can't wait to see what other discovery this brings. I do wish my travelmate was with me. It's been so much fun doing everything together--and a little jarring to explore alone for the first time in a few months. But all is well and I hear the shopping is great, so maybe it's not so bad to be all by myself with a big suitcase!

Invasion of the Packers (Not Trading to Jets, Just Moving for Them)

2011-08-12T07:18:00.000-07:00

And you thought the naked full-body scanner at the airport was weird.

If you’d like to bare all your secrets in a way nearly as intimate as your annual visit to the stir-ups, then you’ll love the new, improved, fully invasive activity of hiring a moving company!

Step right up and bare it all. That junk drawer you haven’t opened fully since Pluto was a planet? They’ll safely wrap every knick knack in it, down to the hardened Silly Putty. Your secret stash of chocolate? Found and packed. You’ll hope they’re not judging as they stow away your skinny jeans from two Today Show hosts ago. (Yes I will fit into these by the time they fire Ann Curry!)

It’s strange, lonely, and slightly embarrassing. But in a few days, they’ll be on their way, leaving nothing but a trail of cardboard and packing paper. The first group of movers leaves just in time for me to prepare for round two—the expedited shipment, which is basically all the junk drawers and dirty laundry I didn’t get to yet.

In the past year, the cast of Glee collectively lost 500 pounds, Kate Middleton took a million photos, and I moved three times. Thankfully, move number 4 will last at least long enough for Justin Bieber’s voice to change. In the meantime, I’m secret-free and pat-down prepared.

Keeping the Spark Alive & The Meat Frozen

2011-08-01T13:56:00.000-07:00

Preparing to move overseas is stressful. And sometimes even my best efforts to be happy and healthy are met with nothing but speed bumps.

In my never-ending quest to keep the beast inside me from indulging in food and drink at every possible minute, I’ve been on a recent product kick. I love Coconut flavored sparkling water. It’s naturally sweetened, which feeds my wannabe hippy side, it’s less than $4 at Target, which satisfies my monthly terror when I check my credit card balance, and most importantly, it’s completely void of calories.

I keep an 8-pack in the garage fridge at all times. Yes, this is the same fridge we tried to sell at a massive garage sale last weekend, but I keep filling it with beer and zero-calorie non-beer.

Today in the familiar attempt to keep from sitting at my email filling myself with ice cream and wine, I spent 40 minutes picking up a case of fizzy coco water and 3 birthday cards. When I came home to put the water in the fridge, I noticed something was off—literally. There was no magical fridge light.

And then my brain transported me back in time to the last time I thought fizzy drinks were fancy—5th grade sleepovers filled with prank phone calls. “Is your refrigerator running?” Mine was not.

I measured my fear of the gigantic spiders and roaches that most certainly have turned the space behind the fridge into their own summer homes. It’s apparently prime real estate for the buggy kind. I nearly walked away from the entire situation, realizing all that would be thawed was a dysfunctional quantity of alcohol, and we still had frozen mugs somewhere. Then I saw a then puddle beginning to form under the freezer next door.

After a brief Gene Kelly stomp in the water, I sucked up all my bug fears and reached behind the fridge to examine the wall outlet. How is it possible that no matter what angle you come from, your arm is always 2 inches too short to reach behind any major electronics? For a beat, I longed for the days of single apartment living when this would be the responsibility of the giant man who smells like onions and wears his name on his chest. But alas, I am a responsible grown-up who no longer enjoys such luxuries.

I kicked off my killer espadrilles and rolled up my linen sleeves and really committed to the endeavor. With one leg on top of a cooler, bracing myself with a bulk package of paper towels and my cheek squished against the cob webbed drywall, I managed to reach the plug-in.

And it just occurred to me how lucky I was to find the paper towels to climb onto, otherwise my momentary homage to Singin’ In The Rain would have mixed serious voltage and water. Hey—be kind. I’m trying to kick my chocolate and wine before 2pm habit. It’s a wonder I even noticed the problem in the first place.

Three tries to re-plug in, a failed flip of the magical grey box on the wall, and one additional dead wall outlet later, I found my solution.

I knew the outlet worked inside the house, and if I unplugged enough hair dryers and camera chargers to free up a power strip, I just may be able to save the quickly defrosting steak and Skinny Cow ice cream inside the dying freezer.
I’m almost positive I might still burn down the house, or at the very least, melt through the cockroach condos behind the fridge, but for the time being we have a way to keep my drinks cool, a home free of curling irons, and no need to eat 10 pounds of steak within 24 hours.

Ha! How’s that for healthy and happy? I may not know where we are going to live or what we will be doing in a month, but I am the great fixer of all things broken! I’m sure my husband will be so impressed with my rugged ability to fix things when he gets home.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t trip on all the cords first.

"Come With Me and Escape"

2011-07-25T14:38:00.000-07:00

If you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, then you will love the story of our first anniversary. As my good buddy likes to claim, "the first one is really all that matters for the next half-decade." If that's true, he completely schooled me. But it left me realizing more than just how much I like the dude I married. I realized the power of the Escape!

Beyond being my favorite filler song in my former life as a radio DJ, Escape reminds me just how important it is to get away from normal every once in a while. Our escape involved a rented Cessna and 24 hours on a nearby island. As we were enjoying some really great live guitar accompanied by a less-than-great voice from the bar next door to our B&B, I propped up my feet and asked my pilot a question I'm not totally sure I even understood.

"Do you think you could be happy enough living somewhere that you'd want to vacation there?"

Remember this idea comes in the middle of our fourth move in the span of 14 months, and on the front end of more than a decade of military living. His answer could very well have determined the fate of the universe. No pressure.

"Of course not. That's why we drink."

Okay, so maybe it wasn't deepest answer ever. But I like to think those old Greek guys in togas are laughing and appreciating the everlasting art of philosophy.

After we returned home we both remarked at just how refreshing it was to be truly away for a day. When you think about it, we are always in search of the escape. In Positive Psychology, they call it flow, the state of ultimate creativity where time flies and life makes rhythmic sense. Escape is the reason we love Harry Potter and football, sudoku and salmon-fishing. It's also why I run. And today, running finally felt like an escape! I cranked the showtunes and the miles ticked by! (All 3.2 of them, let's not get crazy.)

What a great reminder of the human need to recharge. It may not always require a beach or an umbrella drink. Cheers to enjoying wherever you are, blooming where you're planted, but stepping out of the flower box every once in a while.

There's a Spider in My Mailbox

2011-07-07T09:38:00.000-07:00

I love getting the mail. The 17 steps it takes to reach the end of our driveway are my favorite, worthy of their own John Williams composition leading up to the best part of the day. Even junk mail excites me.

Last week when I stuck my hand into the mailbox, I felt something other than paper. It was sticky and soft, and covered my hand in goo. As I bent over to peer into the dark mailbox, I saw it--the world's largest and most frightening beast. A spider had moved in and made my wonderful mailbox his home.

It took me three screams and half a second to run back into the house, leaving a trail of Publisher's Clearing House in the dust circling behind my trail.

It also took me four days and half a can of wasp spray to return to the mailbox. To be completely honest, I'm still afraid the ghost of that darn spider haunts me every time I reach for my bills.

Yesterday I went for my first "long run" since completing a half marathon. Sure, I had set out to complete several of these, but only made it past the 2 or 3 mile mark. For some reason, yesterday was different. I traded my mid-afternoon time for a late evening jog, downloaded new tunes, and really made this one count. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the dormant spider stress, but I made it 4.5 miles.

And just like returning to the mailbox after the spider was dead, I realized why I run! I am no doctor and the most I consider myself a marathoner is when TLC shows reruns of Toddlers & Tiaras all day long, but I think I finally have a handle on something all runners should know---we all have hills. Mine is apparently 3 miles long.

The first 3 miles of any run for me always go something like this: "I am running. I hate running. I am still running."

Mile 3-4.5 yesterday went more like this: "I am running. Running is hard. But I am free, and I'm almost enjoying this."

So let this be a reminder to myself: Kill the spider, get over it, and don't forget the good times. Yes, this is a sport that never loves you back, and the cobwebs will build in record time if you leave the track for more than 3 days, but if you can get over the hill, there's a fleeting mile or two of enjoyment. Also, download the new Marooon 5 song. Adam Levine helps a lot.

Rise Above the Wind

2011-06-15T15:25:00.000-07:00

Change. It's part of you. Even if you're not in the business of political bumper stickers or 'dimes-and-quarters only' parking meters, change is life.
This couldn't have been more obvious on a recent trip I took back to Omaha, my first and most beloved adult home.
In the 300 days I'd been gone, my city changed. Girlfriends became moms, construction zones became restaurants, and the Missouri river became a big, brown, smelly looming threat. The first 3 days I was there, the river rose nearly 12 inches, stretching banks and covering sidewalks.
All the while in the back of my mind, my own river was overflowing. I knew at the end of my week in Omaha, I would return to North Carolina to receive some rather big news--our next assignment with the Air Force. Most likely news that would change more than just our zip code.
One afternoon the entire storm of instability became too much, and in an effort to avoid diving into a vat of Chardonnay, I went for a hot, windy run on one of my favorite trails. Headphones lost to the TSA, I was forced to listen only to the wind and the sound of my own panting. There was nothing rhythmic or graceful about my run, and the buzz of people and static around me was equally chaotic. I kept wishing I could just float above the layer of heat and dirt and noise.
And then I did. (Well, first I struggled through a run that proved more ambitious than my body could handle. At times I even considered jumping into the river and letting it carry me back home like a giant moving walkway. Thankfully, floating, tumbling debris that could pass for Noah's failed attempt at an ark made me think it wasn't the safest idea.)
I flew home. When I landed there was plenty of wind and change to deal with, but before that something happened. I got a window seat. It's shocking how calm the world seems when you're above it. You never look down and expect clouds to stand still. But clouds don't move without wind.

So right now it may seem like I'm experience hurricane force change, but if I zoomed out, I'm sure it would just be one piece of the picture. I'm still unsure and overwhelmed and stressed, but I know there's a grander scheme of things, and flying wouldn't be as fun without clouds.

Man On The Run

2010-12-01T09:49:00.000-08:00

I think Harrison Ford was onto something with the whole fugitive idea. In the last 3 months, I've changed my name, address, and credit card information more times than Charlie Sheen changes his sheets. And now, as the song so appropriately goes, we are on the road again!

Today marks the second day I've hosted a new crowd of guests. It's our first time with a professional moving company, which means I get to know four people who get to know way too much about me--they're the packers, no cheesehead puns intended.

While it is nice to avoid heavy lifting and cardboard cuts, having strangers pack up all your earthly belongings is certainly a shock to the system. Yesterday they showed up bright and early and spent the entire day fondling and wrapping every single thing we own. You think you can hide your secrets, and then you hire a rag tag team of pirates---I mean packers. They looted every junk drawer, every box of goodies, every corner where I had thrown things not even I wanted to see again. Ever wonder how many random cables to outdated cell phones and cameras you own? Hire a moving company. They'll figure it out.

I keep telling myself it doesn't matter, that I'll never see these people again. But I still can't shake the sting. A man I just met told me tales of his seven ex-wives, three DUI's, and fourteen times in jail--all while folding my most delicate bright pink unmentionables.

For future reference, feed them well, treat them like friends, and hide in the other room until they're gone. Packers can't move liquor that's been opened, so hide with something tasty to help you forget the assault to your personal life you've just endured.

Just when I thought I had outsmarted the authorities and we were going to be home free, we found out this morning that Scott's graduation is not in fact today as planned, but tomorrow afternoon. This only slightly shifts our itinerary. All of our things will leave early Thursday morning, then we will stick around for the ceremony and escape Von Trapp style under a cover of darkness. We are headed eastward for North Carolina, hoping to find and fall in love with a home before our tailing truckfull of treasures catches up.

Round up the horses, my friends. It's a rugged vagabond life, with miles to go before we sleep!

Peanut Butter, Show Tunes & You

2010-08-14T07:25:00.000-07:00

Today is our 3-weekiversary! Although it seems like just a few days ago, I think there really is some truth to good things coming in threes.

Yesterday was a particularly tough day to live inside my brain. I now realize I had landed in a steaming pile of lonely and covered myself in cynical. They say bad things come in threes, but I’ve found good things enjoy the tri-pronged approach as well.

Three conversations brightened my world. A new friend with unique understanding for my details assured me life is good. An old friend reminded me I was not alone. And I got to have a great connection with my favorite friend and 3-weeks-official spouse.

It makes it a lot easier to decide how I would spend my 3 wishes, if that genie ever would get around to finding me. Stranded on an island, or lost in the wilderness I could survive on three things.

Peanut butter. It’s versatile, packed with protein, and always makes me smile.

Show Tunes. They travel light and pack a big punch. Plus, I’m pretty sure no one would mess with me if they
knew I still had one more verse of “Don’t Rain On My Parade.”

My Spouse. Mushy, but true. Let’s face it. He’s in a category with the other two best things in the world.
And if he’s as good as Barbara Streisand and Smucker’s Natural Chunky, I’ll keep him around for a while.

Yes, siree, life is good, no matter how the adventure happens. Cheers to climbing trees, eating bees, and loving threes!

Wake Me Up When September Begins

2010-08-13T11:16:00.001-07:00

Dear August 2010,
You dirty sneak. Years of secretly subscribing to bridal magazines and wearing giant Ring Pops to over-decorated trade shows had me believing the first month of marriage was to be spent making a home, writing thank you notes, and actually seeing my new spouse.

Even though you have impressed all of us by being the warmest month on record, let's just say I expected this time in my life to be much hotter.

July had me getting married and happier than ever. Then you came around the corner and stole my partner with three days' warning, whisking him away to the wilderness of Air Force Survival Training. I like to think the military had my best intentions in mind, but survival for being married to me? That seems a bit harsh.

August, you are a tricky one. You expect me to buy the story about getting married almost 3 weeks ago, and follow suit by introducing myself with a new name. I'm trying to play along by paying bills, writing thank-yous, and living with some extra gifts piled in the corner. The outside observer might actually believe I am now, in fact, someone's wife. However, I'm having a hard time being convinced time didn't actually run backwards. I'll keep the ring, though. Yes, I'm a little lonely and a bit more synical, but new jewelry always helps.

So step on it, August! Stop the chit chat and leave the room. September is coming, and he is bringing better party favors.

Yours Truly,
Maika

You Should Have Been There

2010-08-05T11:18:00.001-07:00

As the sun peeked over downtown Omaha, Maika Leibbrandt went for her very first run with her new name. She worked up a good pace as she chugged along down Farnam Street, under her favorite row of trees and streetlamps.

Suddenly without warning, three squirrels darted out in front of her and began to play what looked like a rousing game of keepaway. The coveted item? A piece of a bright purple tennis ball. The squirrels darted in and out between her feet, nearly tripping her.

"I wish someone was here to see this," she thought to herself.

Unfortunately, no one saw. It was early, and she didn't have her camera. All she could tell her friends was, "You missed it!"

The best part about having a great photographer is I'll never have to tell anyone they missed our wedding. I can share the whole thing through an amazing display of art thanks to Khara of KaBloom Studios. Better yet, I'll never forget anything---from the sentimental to the sarcastic.

When it comes to something important, there is a big difference between "You missed it!" and "You should have been there." The first implies the event is over, that there is no hope of experiencing it again. The moment is the main character. But telling someone you missed them, or "you should have been there," says the experience was great. All that was missing was you. Because my wedding lives on through great pictures, I can focus on people. And while I wish everyone I'd ever known and loved could have been at our event, they are still an important part of our lives--and the wedding can always be shared.

Thank you, Khara, for making art from life so everyone we love can share with us for all time. Now, how do you feel about joining my morning runs and capturing crazy rodent moments?

See Khara's blog, including some of our wedding photos, here.

Courtesy Upgrade

2010-08-03T14:09:00.000-07:00

Vegas. Where else would you to go celebrate something as sacred and wonderful as holy marriage? You go to Vegas, the land of sacred and wonderful debauchery, and gigantic margaritas.

On a landing approach from the greatest wedding we'd ever been to, Scott and I stood in awe in the middle of a fairy tale pyramid, known to common folk as the Luxor hotel. He leaned in and gently whispered, "Now's our chance! Act like a fool. Play the wedding card. You're better at being ridiculous than I am."

Let's be honest. It wasn't difficult to act like a crazy giddy newlywed, and even though we weren't exactly unique in the land of weddings, the woman behind the check-in desk reciprocated my excitement. As I raved about my new last name, she responded with the two best words I'd heard next to "I do."

"Courtesy upgrade."

Our mansion of a hotel room was certainly a site to see. Upon returning home, I found it difficult to adjust to life with fewer than 6 toilets in one apartment. As great as it was, it didn't come close to matching the upgrade I felt I had just experienced. Marrying my good buddy Scott sure is cool--even better than extra leg room in coach class or free checked luggage. If I had known how much fun this was, I would have saved so many more of my loyalty points. (Although the tiny ketchup I snatched from a one-time redemption of first class medallion status was pretty sweet.)

This new life is all the more wonderful given the storm of broken parts it took to get through the wedding. Team Family & Friends reigned victorious over the Saga of the Missing Pastor, the Breakdown of the Dress, the Battle of the Broken Transmission, Double-Booked Musicians, and the nearly deadly Truck Through the Church Wall fiasco.

But just as Grandma Garneta promised, all those problems are a long way from your heart. Thanks to my latest "courtesy upgrade," my newly official partner-in-crime is not.

The Perfect Storm

2010-07-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

The almanac lied. The sunny skies predicted for so long have turned dark and dangerous. The silver lining is the rain suit I'll need to wear will be more appropriate than the wedding dress which is currently in 12 disparate pieces on my floor.

Hurricane Louise hit dressworld, and left death and destruction in her path. The woman I thought to be my savior, an adorable grandmother in Enid, Oklahoma, was supposed to take a few simple nips and tucks. Instead, she botched my dress worse than Michael Jackson's third nose job.

Now we sit anxiously through surgery, as the Mother-of-the-Bride, a skilled dress surgeon, takes vital reconstructive measures in a last-ditch effort to save the cursed dress. I would be a stressed out mess if it weren't for the morphine drip. It's a long process, and the dress is in good hands, but Louise's damage may be catastrophic. The Red Cross is on retainer, and the prayer vigil is set for dusk.

The fiance assures me he would marry me in jeans--very sweet. But is there a nice way to say this isn't about him? It's not even about marriage. The wedding is the dress.

Plan B? I hear there's a lovely Heidi Montag bikini that will match my white lace rain boots.

Operation Save-the-Dress

2010-07-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

Dudley Do-Right got all the glory. He rode up on his stallion, untied the damsel from the train tracks, and saved the day just as the steam engine zoomed away. Imagine the millions of disappointed fans had the train stopped and the damsel figured a way to free herself. All that preparation and mood music for nothing.

For a solid 18 hours I planned my attack. I penned and practiced a verbal smackdown with Bridal Details worthy of ringside seats in Vegas. Even that Palin woman would have been envious of my bulldoggish repartee.

I calculated to the second the very best time to make the doomsday phone call. Just as I did, the villain answered with, “Oh hello Maika. I’m with another bride. I’ll call you right back.”

Twenty blood-boiling minutes later, she did.

“Your dress is on the truck,” she happily proclaimed.

Way to disarm my bazooka.

My attempted speech daggers fell on giddy ears. Not even when I proclaimed the experience to have made me “more stressed than a nervous labradoodle on a high wire” did it seem to make much difference.

So now it’s a waiting game for the mystery truck to arrive. Come on, Wells Fargo Wagon! Bring me that new trombone!

Meanwhile the most hilariously disastrous wedding of the century continues. The traveling exhibit at the reception site, a fantastic museum featuring all sorts of airplanes and adventure, is none other than the greatest anti-Dudley Do-Right villain of all…drum roll…Adolf Hitler. You can’t make this stuff up.

Murphy's Law of Marriage

2010-07-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

If it can go wrong, it will. The good news is along with my impeccable style and flawless good looks comes a refreshing sense of humor. But put me in the 2-week countdown to D-Day and my sense of humor feels like an old Stretch Armstrong caught between two greedy toddlers.

Buzz Kill Number One: The Missing Dress. Let’s put this into perspective. Never in my life did I fantasize about my wedding. Call me a Communist if you will, but it just wasn’t in my arsenal of dreams. Winning an Oscar, dancing The Sprain with Lisa Turtle, or successfully creating and quickly selling a witty dot com seemed a little more important. But there has been one thing I’ve always had an uncontrollable affinity for—all 3 of my wishes should I ever meet a genie. Fancy dresses.

Call it a passion or borderline obsession, but I know dresses. Which is why I picked mine out over a year ago. With very little preparation, I fell in love and put the gorgeous new cast member directly on my credit card. When it first came to me in December, I was thrilled to realize it was a full size too big. The folks at Bridal Details were gracious, and ordered me a new size, assuring me it would be here in time for the big day.

Let’s cut to the chase. I called to check on the dress in May. I heard it would arrive in 2 weeks. I called 2 weeks later, they told me 2 weeks. I called 2 weeks later, they told me last week. I visited last week, they told me this Tuesday. Sounding like a bad Shel Silverstein rip off yet? Today is not Tuesday. It’s after Tuesday. And still the response is “in transit.”

“In transit” is meant for new cars and middle eastern oil. Not dresses. The worst part of these reindeer games is the keepers of the taffeta are slowly but surely turning me into Werewolf Bride. One by one they pluck at my perfectly coiffed hairs, and test my patience and humor. A normal person would be completely full moon about now, but confrontation makes me crazy. I have plans to call again tomorrow, and then I will result to anthrax. Something silent, deadly, and traceable to Al-Qaida seems appropriate.

Do not mess with the dress.

Does This Glitter Make My Buttercream Look Fat?

2010-05-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

I have a new theme for my wedding: Julia Child was right.

On a recent date to a phenomenal chophouse with my favorite boy, he made sure to rip the calorie counter from my app-happy thumbs and point out a quote at the bottom of the menu: “The only time to eat diet food is while you’re waiting for the steak to be done.” Thanks for the reminder, buddy.

Armed with this tasty morsel of wisdom and my brand new SkyMiles credit card, I marched straight to the bakery and purchased a desert fit for Marie Antoinette’s entire army. The amazing part about trusting a baker is we completed the entire transaction on imagination and fairy dust—literally. There will be fairy dust on my cake. This isn’t cute blog-style metaphor. There really is fairy dust.

But I wasn’t always so inspired. This small victory came after 11-and-a-half months of misunderstanding how someone could spend the equivalent of two pairs of current season Christian Loubitans on one dessert. I’m no frugalista, but I do have my priorities. Nevertheless, I heeded Julia’s timeless advice, and jumped in, frosting first.

“I want people to mistake this cake for a cloud,” I told the young baker’s apprentice, “The puffier and more whimsical the better. Beyond that, do whatever it is you want.” She smiled as if I had just handed her the keys to Disneyworld. I figured this girl knew cakes better than I did, and if I had to be convinced that I needed to order one, I might as well let her work her magic.
“You mean you don’t have any pictures? No specifics? How will we know if we’ve gotten it right?” she asked, raising a skeptical eye. It was like I had told this baker it was okay to color outside the lines and that I was intentionally not going to check her homework. I could feel her wanting to run with the lack of boundaries I’d given her, but hesitant that I may have boobie trapped the path.

“We have a guarantee here,” she said, “We’ll deliver the cake, and if the bride doesn’t like it, we’ll take it back and fix it before your reception starts.” She beamed as if this would be impressive to someone who admittedly didn’t have a preference. “In fact, last weekend we did just that.” She then went on to describe some ridiculous bridezilla’s idea of royal peacock purple not matching her interpretation of pandemic plum, their efforts to rectify the situation, and the glory at the end.

I asked for a cloud instead of a cake. How hard can it be? I didn’t have the heart to tell her that sending a cake back to the bakery on the day of my wedding would likely be so low on my priority list that they’re almost guaranteed to impress me. And did I mention the fairy dust?
I’ve never met a calorie I didn’t love, and this cake is the size of a small third grader. Hello, wedded bliss.

Dear Toto, Sorry About the Basket...

2010-04-28T19:20:00.000-07:00

I don’t think I’m in dreamland anymore. Almost one year ago I hit my head pretty hard. Giddily, I slipped and fell into a kneeling suitor, catching my left ring finger in a Tiffany solitaire. The ensuing haze of engagement parties and bridal magazines kept me dizzy. I was happier than a munchkin at a witch-melting convention.

The unfortunate thing about Technicolor is it can’t always last for the entire film. This week I woke up in black and white, surrounded by eager wedding vendors and task lists. I swear I’ve seen these people before, almost like they were there in my dream. In all my imagining and creating of the wedding that seemed so distant down the yellow-brick road, I must have talked to them at some point.

My awakening was swift, no snooze button allowed. Thursday morning I was smashed square in my gingham gut by nothing softer than 62-inch round tables. They needed a home, a floorplan, and an army of eager young men to take care of them. Before I could recover from their 1-2 punch, a puffy, oversized buttercream cake fell from the sky and landed on my sister, the wicked bridesmaid of the East. She’ll recover, although I’m pretty sure she’ll be upset that I stole her shiny red shoes.

As if that wasn’t enough to shake me from my spell, the music needs selecting, the invitations need licking, and the scarecrow—I mean groom—needs fitted.

The good news is I have not one, but seventeen fairy godmothers, all ready to hijack the whole damn Land of Oz should I cry for help. The only question that remains is how to attack. But first I need some coffee and Tylenol to cure this strange headache—all I can hear are heels clicking together and someone somewhere whispering “Wake up, Maika, it’s almost May…”

Surving the Bridal Disease

2010-04-18T13:26:00.000-07:00

Strap on your colored wristbands. Pin a ribbon on your purse. Start a charity walk in honor of those gone before you. A new disease is sweeping the nation in epidemic proportions.

I call it B1N1, or bridal flu. Symptoms include loss of interest in popular conversation, shortened attention span during the NCAA Men’s Tournament, and of course—weight loss.
For the first time in my life I have dropped a whopping 10 pounds! My view of the world from a size smaller than I’ve been my entire adult life is glorious. And there is no secret. I joined no club, bought no book, attended no meetings. I did it the hard way—since the first of January I’ve been strategic about eating more fruits and vegetables and counting my caloric intake. And thanks to good old fashioned non-fad dieting and exercise, I managed to shave off an average of 1 pound a week.

This should be cause for celebration, and in my book it certainly is! I was prepared to feel healthier and for my clothes to fit better. What caught me off guard was the reaction I got from my concerned public.

“It’s amazing what can happen when you’re thinking about that wedding dress!”
“Just wait until after the big day. Then you can eat again.”
“Are you sure you want to buy clothes that fit now? You’ll never be able to wear them when you gain it all back.”

Like bellbottoms and Backstreet Boys, being healthy is simply a phase I’m going through. Never mind that I’ve sidelined the tank of ice cream I used to gobble nightly, or that I’m halfway through training for my first 13.1-mile race. It is all simply symptomatic.

The worst part of suffering from bridal flu is it’s a silent killer. People are quick to cure you with cream puffs and cognac, but before you know it you’ve somehow dipped your life in whole grains and hummus. The addiction is dangerous. One dress size down and you’re hooked for life. And eating well is the gateway drug to something even worse—exercise.
With the help of Kirstie Alley and an Ohlson twin, I’ve self-diagnosed my condition as stage 3 B1N1. This is the tipping point of danger. Given the right support, I may be able to recover and return to my old ways of Funyuns and high fructose corn syrup. But the potential of long term effects still lurks. Maybe, just maybe, I will continue this awful feeling of health beyond my wedding day, when—dare I say—eating well and exercising might come as life goals rather than side effects of planning a wedding. Oh, the horror.

Meanwhile I will continue to struggle through. Somehow I should be able to survive. And even if I waste away into an average-sized, healthy person, I guess my symptoms will always be there to guide me. Or at least I’ll have that half-marathon medal to keep me warm!

Keeping Yoda Warm

2010-01-31T09:16:00.000-08:00

Shakespeare: “Above all else, to thine own self be true.”

Great advice from a wise and poetic sage, but I’d like to see Billy Shakespeare plan a wedding. I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from the blogosphere, but I assure you, Wedddingworld is just as crazy as we left it. Every character in this play has a stake in the show. A woman on a plane last week told me my dress should be preserved in a box equivalent to the formaldehyde used to keep King Tut alive for centuries. A woman in the mall told me I am six months behind in growing out my hair to appropriate matrimonial length. Some players love the script and scenery, others know it is wrong, and exactly how to fix it. It's a circus.

In an effort to reconnect with my geographically distanced fiancé, I spent a fast and wonderful month working remotely, traveling to visit clients and returning to beautiful Oklahoma in between trips. This is no small feat for a headstrong working girl whose life revolves around her trendy downtown apartment. In preparation for the journey, I cleaned every crevice, threw out all perishable dairy items, and unplugged all my electronics. It was January 6, and I was ready to leave my home for over three weeks. Conscious of the connection my apartment has with me, and how much she would likely miss her lone tenant, I left a good friend behind to watch over things. His name is Yoda and he is a frighteningly accurate portrayal of the Jedi master in plush toy form.

“I’m off for the land of sweet smelling wheat and sweeping plane wind!” I told him, “Look over the place while I’m gone!” And with that, I rolled my little pink suitcase out the door, into the car, and 400 miles south.

It was a fantastic month. I got to cheer on Scott from a front row seat as he checked off yet another life goal. I spent time with his roommate’s rambunctious puppy, and I even began learning a new sport. Take that, new year’s resolutions! Work went quite well, too, as I seemed to be more productive when I couldn’t chat with all my friends for 7.5 of the 8 hours in day. All told, it was the best 24 days on record. But a tiny voice kept telling me something was missing.

On my six-hour return drive through the scenic and entertaining state of Kansas, that voice grew louder.

“Forgotten something, have you,” it whispered through my defrost vent. Unprepared for channeling any unknown ghosts, I drowned out the voice with a repeat track of Lady Gaga. But after the third installment of Bad Romance, the voice returned, this time even more distinct.

“Disappointed, you will be,” called the voice, “Deflated, your wallet will feel,” it continued. This was getting ridiculous. I couldn’t have forgotten anything. I am a smart, independent person with great wit and a winning smile. As I pulled back into my parking garage, the voice relentlessly chanted on. “Welcome, you are, back to your home!” Okay, maybe it’s a nice ghost.

Like the prodigal tenant returning to a heroine's welcome, I slipped my key back into the familiar slot in apartment 503. Elated to be home again, I flung open the door and called out, “Yoda! I’m back!” And then it all made sense.

My apartment was cozy. Very cozy. I live in Nebraska. And it’s January. Abandoned apartments are supposed to be cold, not cozy.

I left my heat on for 26 days. My drafty apartment, complete with historic-but-leaky picture windows, has been pumping out heat and energy for more than 600 hours of sub-zero outdoor temperatures.

What an inconvenient truth.

I was about to curse the universe for what turned out to be the last way I would imagined things going, when the tiny green Jedi looked up at me with beady glass eyes. At least he was comfortable as he kept my place safe.

“Well, Yoda,” I said dejectedly, “I’m glad you stayed warm.”

In a moment of great clarity, I realized this to be the defining moment of planning a successful wedding. That “big day” is big for more people than me. So, dear Maika, loosen the reigns! Let people pick their own clothes, give their opinions on the cake, and enjoy the custom embossed napkins you once thought superfluous. Appreciate the glitches, as they are bound to happen. Embrace the circus of players. In the end, it’s good to keep sages of the universe as cozy as possible.

The Ultimate Christmas List

2009-12-17T22:29:00.001-08:00

I bet Santa would flip his jolly rosy gourd if he had any idea what we Weddingfolk are doing. There is no letter. There is no checking it twice. No, boys and girls, there is a gun--a shiny, beeping, blazing gun the size of a Christmas fruitcake.

If you’d like to play Saint Nick yourself, it is now officially easy to inject joy into our lives. Simply visit the home goods wonderland known as Bed, Bath & Beyond, open Santa’s giant book, and find where the nice kids have been playing. You’ll be dazzled at the Christmas Spirit you’ll bring by investing in things like collapsible measuring cups and electronic rodent repellant.

My partner-in-crime and I felt just shy of mortified at the idea of creating a list of what people should buy us, so you can imagine our comatose reaction when Judy, our registry elf, told us our list of items should total in the hundreds. (Not one, not two, but the three hundreds.) What could two adults living quite effective lives in furnished living quarters in separate cities possibly need to the tune of 300? And more importantly, why didn’t Santa have the same political predilection to mass quantity?

Our mission was grand, but if the old fella can fly around the world in one night, we figured we could zap a warehouse full of goods in a matter of minutes. Judy didn’t. “If you need to break for lunch,” she told us as we clutched our still-steaming breakfast lattes, “just leave the gun and come on back. We also have snacks if you get hungry.” And if you need oxygen, there’s a Sherpa in the back room.

We set up base camp near the front door. First task: kitchen gadgets. Scott wielded the massive gun, ready to fire. One problem. Where do you aim? We started off sluggish, but gained pace once we remembered a sacred perk: You can return items you don’t need for store credit. One shift in our understanding of the mission and suddenly the kitchen section morphed into a firing range for trigger-happy gunmen. Fancy trash can? Shot. Organic garlic holder? Dead in the water. Multi-purpose egg timer that doubles as both a shoe and a phone? Piece of cake.

Our gusto got us through at least half of the gigantic store. I knew morale was waning in the ranks once we hit the throw pillows and I found my partner curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth as he whispered, “Can we please go back to the fun part?” We quickly zapped three bags of Twizzlers, a vat of Gummy Bears, and sixteen Ped Eggs and decided our day was through.

Now more than ever I support the job of the man in the big red suit. And he knows exactly what he’s doing when he leaves the zapping to us. As fun as it was, I’m planning round two of registering to involve milk and cookies and magically happen while we are nestled snug in our beds.

The Seven Month Itch

2009-12-11T20:40:00.000-08:00

So maybe when I make that graceful transition into the world of vacuuming in pearls known as marriage, I’ll be able to wait seven years before experiencing major meltdown. But in Wedding World, where the engaged girl rules and the only goal is gossamer and glitter, seven months is the cap on crazy.

According to my ultra-efficient iPhone application, we have 225 days until “I do.” This means in more time than it takes to hatch a fully-developed Labrador, I have to somehow figure out how to create some simple food and entertainment, and ensure a good time is had by all. Piece of cake. Bring it, checklist.

What? That’s not all?

I’ve decided that the only mistake a bride can make is succumbing to temptation—the temptation of believing and following the calendarized to-do list on theknot.com, or as I affectionately call her—Megarigid Dothisnow, or Meg for short. On a recent, seemingly normal Wednesday, the Meg shrieked orders that included everything from finalizing the order of condiments on the buffet to hiring a personal corn remover for my ailing bridal feet. How am I to ever conquer Wedding World, if the evil checklist doesn’t include the fact that my favorite seasonal wine came out two weeks ago and I haven’t even slowed down enough to taste this year’s crop?

So far my only solution is to discover a better answer to the question every well-intentioned friend, colleague, and random stranger on the street asks, “How are wedding plans?” This week I’ve graduated to a multiple choice approach. A) Great! We’re so giddily happy we might just end up serving food from the floor and urging guests to bring something for show-and-tell. B)Wedding? What wedding? I’ve been married for 15 years. Sorry you missed it. C) Thanks to the Grapes of Wrath economic situation, flights to Vegas are just like girlfriends of Tiger Woods: cheap and available!

Don’t get me wrong, I am excited to enjoy the day I have dreamed about my entire life. But to be completely honest, I’m not sure accepting an Oscar for Best Actress is happening any time soon. Until then, I’m just lucky to enjoy the dream of living with my best friend until I die, and conveniently for me, he is great at assuring me everything will be okay. And for everything else, there’s always Meg.

Something Black, Something Blue

2009-12-07T14:03:00.000-08:00

Life is a battlefield, and in the midst of turkey hangovers, the day after Thanksgiving is D-Day. Even despite the small number of overzealous shoppers and minimal evidence of department stores, my tiny hometown quite accurately held up its end of the deal in a convincing impression of the beaches of Normandy.

Mom and I waited until our troops had settled into their mid-morning football comas to sneak out and storm the frontlines. Our first few stops unsuccessful, it was up to the Mecca of mega-deals to fulfill our thirst for savings. I must admit, my hopes were fleeting as we pulled into the over-crowded parking lot, but as I approached those gleaming automatic doors, I was filled with a glee shinier than well-polished combat boots. It was bustling. It was exciting. It smelled like cheap peanut brittle. It was Alco.

You might think it is a difficult task to search and destroy such a fantastic deal, especially in the midst of so many potential treasures. But my mother executed with grace and ease. Making a beeline for the Christmas décor, she stopped dead in her tracks. There she stood, gazing up at the top shelf. Bright blue, shiny sparkling Christmas tree balls--Enough to decorate all of Rockefeller Center. We shared a silent moment of wonder. Look. Breathe. Attack.

We grabbed every ball in sight. Silver balls, silver balls, it’ll be Christmastime in July. Who needs flowers for wedding decorations when you have shiny balls in large glass vases? My only hope is that we pull it off to look like glittering polka dots, but even if we end up spreading a bit of holiday cheer instead, I guess you’ll always be able to chant, “Remember the Alco-mo!”

Finding The One

2009-11-06T08:04:00.000-08:00

We are so happy. From the first time I laid eyes on her, I knew we were meant to spend the rest of our lives together. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have met the dress!

It was a complete accident, and absolutely the opposite of what I had expected. I was at work, irreverently sifting through my leftover leaflets from the Bridal Circus, and I came across one flyer I had strategically planned on ignoring. It was the shop belonging to the woman who accosted me like a fly in her soufflé. And they were having a trunk show.

Trunk shows and sample sales are the real stuff little girls dream of. Well, at least little girls who walk down the street in stilettos sipping cosmopolitans. A tour of traveling tulle, more magical than an off-Broadway show, a trunk show is like catching a glimpse of George Clooney in a Detroit coffee shop. The temptation was too great to resist, so I set myself some ground rules. I would try on the dresses, but only to learn their names and track them down in the future. I would only go if I could get an appointment, and I’d invite my supporting actors to the casting call of dresses in a few weeks.

As luck would have it, the salon had an opening that afternoon. Immediately after work I packed up my things and sped to my own private showing. Not knowing what I would find, I managed to keep my expectations in check, which was a good thing as I arrived at a building that looked as if it had been condemned during the Hoover Administration.

Inside, the paint was falling off of walls, and the mirror pedestal was nothing more than a milk crate covered in frayed church basement carpet. But none of that mattered thanks to the glow of a fresh crop of dresses lining the quickly crumbling prison-gray walls. Each dress lived in its own plastic casing, hanging in individual worlds of wonder.

A short, round woman resembling a discount-version of a fairy godmother shook my hand excitedly and welcomed me to her shop. She was nothing like the Rabid Canary I had met at the Bridal Show. In fact, she was intriguingly warm and inviting. It was an uncharacteristically slow trunk show, and she told me I had full reign of the store. “Just take things one dress at a time,” she said. I half expected her to disappear into a bubble and float into the sky.

Like the two times I’d tried on dresses before, this experience started out rather uneventfully. First there was the ball gown with enough pick-ups and lace to make me feel more at home at a quincenera than a wedding. Then there was the Samantha Jones, which nicely showed off the carefully manicured skin around my belly button—sure to make for a quick ceremony and an even quicker reception. I played around with the Modern Doily, the June Cleaver, and even the Cher—featuring enough feathers and sequins to deserve its own encore. Just as I was about to permanently expect wedding dress shopping mirror costuming in a show, an exquisite little dress made her debut.

It was the second act of the appointment, and the audience was getting a little restless. I slipped into my newest friend and almost didn’t want to leave the dressing room. But, as always, the animated woodland creatures sang happy tunes and lifted me floating out into the corridor. The audience (now consisting of two women working overtime) gasped. The leading lady had finally found me. I knew instantly that the star of the show had finally been discovered. She is going to go places!

The only problem was the lack of publicity for this special moment. How was I to pull off such a vital PR move without my own personal paparazzi? Enter iPhone. No text message could conceal the standing ovation happening inside my head. A quick consultation with my agents and this talent scout was ready to offer a deal.

One swipe of the Disney credit card and the star was born. She’s now undergoing extensive training and will be prepared to make her big entrance right on time to take this show on the road. The dress and I would like to thank all the little people who made this possible. We look forward to sharing our love with all of you.

Fear of Commitment

2009-10-25T12:08:00.000-07:00

It was inevitable. As a skilled journalist and a strategic storyteller, I should have seen it coming. If you take a long intermission, the audience will cry for more. And it has come.

“Maika, how are wedding plans going?” they ask with good intentions.

“Errrr—uhm---I-uh…” I stammer, begging for the director to feed me my missing line.

I’ve tried to reason with the crowd, claiming that I had already mastered Act I: the church, the reception, the date, and even the groom. But still they begged for more. So I decided to start with that ominous question, “What are your colors?”

And this is where the commitment phobia set in.

Not completely being able to internalize the color question, I thought maybe it would help if I saw colors in person, standing out as their own leading ladies in the form of dresses. So I did what any normal talent scout would do, I tried on bridesmaid dresses.

Though I only had a limited amount of time before meeting a few friends for dinner, I set out to the Commercial Bridal Mecca, knowing there would be plenty of live colors awaiting their opportunity to be cast in my production.

I floated aimlessly though the isles of bridesmaid dresses, hopelessly auditioning every color from apricot to zucchini. As I ran my fingers though the cornucopia of color, I grew increasingly intimidated by the thought of declaring my loyalty and affection to just one. How can they really expect me to commit like this? One color scheme? It was almost too much to bear. Feeling dizzy, I sank to my feet, my entire body absorbed by an army of taffy-colored taffeta.

I was about to quit, when I heard a voice from above. “Hello,” the voice said sweetly, “May I help you?” I always knew I had a guardian angel. I looked up through the pile of polyester to find Mary, her silver hair shining through the fluorescents like a halo.

Mary helped me narrow the mess down to a few beautiful dresses. As she was showing me to a dressing room, she asked excitedly, “Is this for a special occasion?”

“Well,” I stammered tentatively, “Yes.”

Unsatisfied with my morsel of information, Mary’s face told me she needed more.

“I’m, umm, I’m a—it’s for a wedding,” I stated finally.

“Oh really? Did the bride send you to pick out the dresses?” she asked, apparently confused. The jig was up. “I’m the bride,” I said. More blank stares. “I’m just not quite ready to try on the white ones. I though I’d start here.”

In a fit of confusion, Mary’s angelic glow melted off her face. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea after all. I was beginning to feel completely responsible for the downfall of a perfectly decent bridal human being, an already endangered breed. In one swift move, I reached out and grabbed the hangers out of her hand.

“On second thought, maybe I’ll just come back later,” I said. “I’m late for dinner.”

The Greatest Show on Earth

2009-10-14T18:51:00.000-07:00

I recently survived a spectacle of splendor, a test of the imagination, an exhilarating romp on the wild side. I was shocked, impressed, and completely exhausted by my latest trip to Weddingworld, this time by way of a circus known as the Bridal Show.

Never has so much crazy fit into one room. Cake on a stick. Diamonds on a Kleenex. Karaoke on – well, steroids. Did you know you can even rent dancing animals to perform a unity sand ceremony? I can just see it now. “I now pronounce you man and wife. Please pause for a brief interlude from Fifi, the harmonica-playing purse dog.”

The only thing more interesting than the items on sale at a bridal show are the people selling them. One woman in particular will forever be etched in my memory as the queen of curious. When it came to wedding apparel, this ring leader of rouching had it in for me. I knew she was trouble from across the room. As I huddled nervously behind a tower of teal-tipped tulips, covertly slipping Disney themed dinner mints into my mouth, I heard it—a screech of Tarantino proportions. Thinking someone was hurt, my attention was immediately drawn to an extra large woman in a canary yellow blazer. But she wasn’t screaming in terror. No, this was very clearly her expression of laughter. I was just about to sneak out the back door when I realized her booth was in fact quite interesting.

Call me a failure of a bride, but I don’t yet have a dress. As someone who falls easily in serious love with dresses, I figured this isn’t a problem. I’ll have plenty of time. When I saw the Canary Queen was manning a booth of stunning ball gowns, I couldn’t dismiss it. I had to see those dresses. Like a lioness stalking her prey, I weaved my way carefully and calmly through the crowd. Just as Big Bird was occupied with a doe-eyed young blonde, I sneaked up to meet the first dress. She was a beautiful gossamer gown with impeccable crystal beading. It didn’t take long for the dress and I to make a connection, and before I could say “Do you come in ivory” we were lost in another place and time.

I was so busy absorbing the beauty of the dress I didn’t even notice the looming danger. Without warning, I felt five soft plump fingers on my shoulder. Still in a dress haze, I didn’t even turn around.

“Hello, dear,” the voice whispered softly, “When is your wedding?”

“The end of July,” I replied, still caught in a foggy dream with the dress. I started to turn toward the voice and was suddenly yanked out of my dream. It was the Canary. And I was about to be attacked. As if on cue, she rolled her promotional magazines into a makeshift Louisville Slugger and raised the weapon over her head, her blazing red hair fueling the rage and spunk. Swiftly she brought down her hand and slapped me on the arm with the blunt force of a bridal maniac.

“And you don’t have your dress?!” she screeched. “Girl! You should know this!” she continued, as if stopping to breathe would slow her crescendo. “It can take 8 to 12 months for a dress to come in! You could be dressless—or worse!”

Not wanting to seem like an outsider, I attempted to rationalize. But my efforts were futile. It didn’t seem to matter that I wanted a dress, not a new house. Or that I did in fact have 8 and a half months to find one. It wasn’t important that I had lined up a photographer, church, reception, food, and entertainment. In the eyes of the Crazy Canary, I was a failure. Dejected, I accepted the literature she gave me and obediently exited the show. Her suggestion was that I drive directly to the nearest dress salon, do not pass go, and do not collect 200 dinner mints.

In the end, maybe she was right. Maybe I am in trouble without a dress. I have confidence that I will fall hard and fast when I meet the right dress, and that if it takes longer to ship me the dress than it does to get troops out of the Middle East, well then maybe it was the wrong dress in the first place. Either way the show was definitely a show! I left with all the information on registries and cakes I could imagine. And if I missed anything, the good news is there’s another show next weekend. This time I’m fully prepared. I have sunscreen, bug repellant, a safari cap, and camo stilettos. And most importantly, I’m armed with a full arsenal of lies should I ever be asked about a dress.

Let Them Eat Fried

2009-09-17T17:45:00.000-07:00

It is true—I can have it all. Tonight as I was sauntering down the isles of my neighborhood grocery store, wandering aimlessly in my quest for nourishment, I came across a serious dilemma. I found the dinner I should have, and the dinner that made me salivate--the single dish that made me stop my stilettos in a knees shaking, jaw dropping, reach-through-the-freezer-door-and-grab-it-like-a-designer-bag-on-clearance sort of way. Buffalo fried mozzarella sticks. It was going to be a difficult uphill battle for the poor, lean, flimsy lemon herb tilapia.

Suddenly my brain catapulted me back to the fierce mistress of all weddings, the checklist--particularly the task I’d set for myself about thirty seconds after accepting Scott’s proposal, those ominous 10 pounds I swore to lose.

I was more torn than Jason Mesnick at a sorority theme party. In one hand I held dreams of winning Vogue’s Bride of the Year cover photo shoot. In the other, a solid five minutes of euphoria. Then again, I could make the healthy choice. Sure, tilapia might be the Ben Stein of fish, but one boring meal could inch me that much closer to ultimate bridal domination. In 10 short months I get to walk down that aisle, which means in ten months plus one day, I get to look forward to more face time on facebook than I’ve ever had in my life. I must look stunning.

I must have those mozzarella sticks.

To be fair to the fish, I triumphantly carried both items to the checkout. Five dollars and 76 cents later, the unlikely pair of food friends mingled happily in my grocery bag as I skipped home, giddy to complement my findings with the spice of seasonal Sam Adams.

But to have my complex carbohydrates and eat them to, I made a very healthy decision, one that I hope will leak into my wedding planning. I vowed to take equal stock of what my gut told me to do and what my brain advised me was right. In the end, my stomach won. But giving credit to my dreams to look my very best, I only ate four sticks of fried cheese, and I’m planning on ending with some nice, nutritional vegetables.

Cheddar popcorn is a vegetable, right?

Please: Leave Baggage Unattended

2009-09-10T14:09:00.000-07:00

I’m writing you from Music City. If any place in the world has embraced its own reputation, it’s Nashville. In one fantastic airport bar I can find my favorite drink, grab some great barbecue, and listen to live country music all at the same time. It’s such a treat to the senses that I don’t even mind waiting a few hours for my flight to take me home. I feel like a real “King of the Road.”

A great wedding reception is the same way. Last weekend in Kansas City I discovered such a party, the kind that makes you want to throw off your shoes, forget your coat and the door, leave your purse all alone at the table, and shout the sweet joy of Journey.

Julie and Kevin managed to host such a reception by using two main magical ingredients: music and sugar. Guests entered a Willy Wonka wonderland, between the towers of cupcakes and bountiful candy buffet. I’m sure the couple was “Living on Love,” but their guests were treated like royalty—living on sweet sweet sugar. It was the most beautiful diabetic nightmare I had ever experienced.

My friends love great tunes, and created a platinum playlist for the evening. Enlisting the help of a good friend with speakers and sound technician skills allowed them to let the great music roll on without stopping. Guests were welcomed, wined, dined, and invited to join the excitement as the eclectic mix of boy bands and classic rock drove the party late into the night. Mmmmbop.

At one point in the evening, I was so wrapped up in cupcakes and Cotton-Eyed Joe that I totally forgot I’d left my brand new handbag, complete with all my earthly belongings, to fend for itself on a deserted table. Frantically, I declared my concern to my fiancé, who wisely reminded me that in a situation where everyone is more concerned about the next song and their next sugar fix, no one is interested in my purse—evidence of a great party if I’ve ever seen one.

No matter what your focus is for a great reception, the key is simple. Remember your guests are guests. They are every bit as interested in being the benefactor of beer and blues as they are being the voyeur into your declarations of happily ever after. Treat them like tourists to Nashville and you’re golden.

Although my feet are still recovering from dancing barefoot for hours, I’m “Already Standing” on my own strategy to please all my friends and neighbors. Maybe I’ll ship a few crooners from Music City up north, complete with grits and gravy. That is assuming I ever make it out of this airport. I’m tempted to “Just Stay Here and Drink.”

Take it from Tyra

2009-08-25T21:13:00.000-07:00

My fifteen minutes as a top model are about to be spotlighted on the world stage. Whoever said reality tv was a waste of time obviously never had engagement pictures taken. I am lucky enough to be engaged to a naturally gorgeous specimen of humanity. My own ability to take a picture, however, is not so natural. Thanks to a close relationship with a talented photographer and years of listening to Tyra tell me how to elongate my neck and turn to find “the light,” we now are the proud owners of 4 dozen photos of ourselves.

Chris Lee of CLee Photography has been a good friend since preschool. We’ve shared birthdays, band trips and beers, but still I was apprehensive about being able to show Chris and his lens my best runway self. Luckily for me, our good buddy was better at finding my talent than Simon Cowell in England, and our pictures turned out to be a truly amazing representation of who I imagine I am on a good day.

Engagement photos are a funny monster. I suppose the reason to take them is two-fold. First, you absolutely must prove that you and your partner are symmetric enough to fit together in a box for your local newspaper. Second, if your great great great grandchildren ever want to travel through recorded history, you must have solid evidence that their ancestors possessed the ability to organize themselves into matching clothes, twist into flattering poses, smile simultaneously, and make it all look natural.

Regardless of the practical reason to host our own photo shoot, I had a blast. And as much as I tried to conceal my growing excitement to get to play celebrity power couple for an afternoon, the fun was contagious. Five hundred photos later, Chris the Wonderphotographer found our best sides, our winning angles, and our favorite audition shots for the upcoming reality series: Survivor: Weddingworld.

Seven [Zillion] Brides for a Whole Bunch of Brothers

2009-08-18T18:44:00.000-07:00

I might have been right the whole time. Jury is still out, but it just so happens the world may be revolving around me. I have a sneaking suspicion that this whole health care battle is just a ruse.

Exhibit A: Everyone is speaking my language.

Successfully navigating and surviving the safari of estrogen that is a certain national bridal chain on a Saturday takes more skill and cunning awareness than picking out the last Tickle-Me-Elmo at Toys-R-Us on Christmas Eve. Truckloads of women hungry for satin sainthood and ivory immortality scramble for the attention of available consultants.

As a dedicated bridesmaid in my best friend's wedding, I played the part of the supportive spectator in this particular outing. Upon arrival at the matrimonial mecca, we realized we had not come prepared. For starters, we forgot our hiking boots. But after trekking a 5K from our parking spot, we knew to be cautious as we made our entrance.

Herds of bridal lionesses clawed their way through piles of unsuspecting dresses. Straps and sequins flew before our eyes. Our mission was simple: search and rescue a veil to match Julie's dress. We came equipped with the make and model number of her dress, as well as any call signs and pop culture lingo possibly used to describe her dream gown. But it seemed our mission was coming to a screeching halt in the hands of one harried receptionista.

"I'm sorry, Miss, we simply cannot help you," the poor girl stammered. Part of me wanted to rip her bump-it out of head and explain the hellish walk through the wild we endured just to find a parking spot. But I behaved.
"It's okay," our bride responded calmly, "I don't need a consultant. I just need to match my dress."
At this our intern's cheeks grew pink, as if my bride had just told her she could see through her taffeta skirt. "But Miss, we don't have any open rooms. You'd have to--you know--change in front of other women." To me it seemed like the perfect beginning to a group song and dance, but not knowing the choreography made us nervous, so my bridal buddy graciously declined.
"No thank you, " she said, "Is there any way I can just see my dress on a hanger instead?"
This new, innovative, spectacularly unique idea was almost too much for our stressed-out support gal. "Do you--" she started, "Do you think--" she continued in a low whisper, "Do you think you can find it--on your own?"

My friend had only seen her dress seven zillion times, and she knew it would be a challenge to navigate past all the other brides, especially after the sugar rush of dinner mint tastings. What a trooper, though. She accepted the challenge.

Carefully, as if filling us in on a grand plot to overthrow a small government, the young receptionist drew us closer. "Okay," she said, "It's in the white section."

What a fantastic world this is. To an outsider, it may have seemed like the most vague of descriptions, especially in a bridal boutique. But not for me. Me and the millions of other people who showed up in the same place on the same day to do the exact same thing. The trick now is to find the correct shade of eggshell to accompany the angel's breath dress. As for my teeth, they're rapidly approaching more of a radiant marshmallow, which will match nicely with the baby snowmen veil we found my friend.

Eyes Wide Shut

2009-08-07T08:19:00.000-07:00

Wedding porn is turning me into a monster. Although I can’t take credit for coining the phrase, I am feeling the damaging effects of the industry.

Wedding Porn
-noun
1. The vast array of bride-targeted junk journalism primarily responsible for moving the needle on my crazy meter when it comes to wedding world.

It wasn't always like this. I used to be a successful, independent thinker with an eye for quality writing and meaningful thoughts. Contrary to what most wedding world propaganda will have you believe, the stork did not deliver me with a calligraphy pen in one hand and a wedding planner in the other. I always knew I would save that excitement for the time when I could plan my own wedding. This was a bad strategy. My pre-crazy diet of wedding-planning abstinence: no purchasing of wedding magazines, steer clear of bridal websites, don’t get too attached to shows on TLC. Like a crack addict leaving the bandwagon, I fell hard. I have overdosed, and I need help.

In the past 2 months, I have bought, borrowed, and yes, even stolen every single magazine I could find that had anything to do with tulle. I scanned the internet until my eyes bled for mentions of isle runners and rinoculus. At work I'd find myself sneaking out of meetings to check for tweets about frizz-free hair. I've zoned out of conversations with loved ones at the slightest mention of the words "mint," "buttercream," or "do." ("Do you want to have lunch?" "I do." I do. I do. I do take you to be my fondant-flaunting friend for life.)

The height of my struggle culminated in me nearly missing a flight because I just had to run to the newsstand and buy the latest issue of wedding porn to read on the plane. As my fingers danced giddily along the silken pages of glittering silhouettes, the buzz grew inside me. My pulse started to race as I learned about topping cupcakes with Tahitian vanilla grown by monks in bean fields far far away. I nearly hyperventilated when I hit the section on how to groom your groom. (Don't let him out of the house without leaving water in his bowl and checking the chew toy.) And then it hit me. In an article about recessionistas planning budget-conscious weddings. One bride openly admitted to betraying two vendors because,"Hey, they're not my friends!" She continued with the eloquence and grace of a saint. "It all worked out for me in the end. It seems like an aggressive move, which isn't my style at all, but it's a wedding."

Apparently a wedding is the ultimate excuse for women to morph into primal beings of bling and blush. It is time for a change. If we put a fraction of the wedding porn energy into relationship-building, the world would be a happier place. Instead, I have allowed myself to reach destructive levels of crazy over things like serving dishes and wedding diets. That's right, wedding diets! The wedding porn industry has such a stronghold on the brides of tomorrow that women will sell their soul--and their loyalty to Ben & Jerry's-- for the perfect day. And sadly, I fell for it. Hello, my name is Maika and I'm a wedaholic.

Don't get me wrong, I love a good expose on the dangers of beaded footwear, but misuse of bridal communication has lead me down a winding road to insanity. From here on out, I vow to take in the glory and the glamour of wedding porn in moderation. I will forgive myself for slipping, and continue cautiously through lace and lavender literature. I will slowly reintroduce nutritious reading into my diet.

I think I'll start with something healthy, like an update on Jon & Kate.

Bridal March of the Penguins

2009-08-03T09:45:00.000-07:00

We just attended the Wedding of the Century in Norman, Oklahoma. The bride and her gaggle of maids paid more attention to detail than a nuerotic lego builder moonlighting on the SWAT team. Every sequin was in place, every movement carefully coordinated, even down to the very last penguin. That's right, penguin.

After extended deliberation, Scott and I have decided the secret to a great ceremony is hiring the right talent to entertain your audience--erm, congregation. During what typically is the most awkward display of private affection, otherwise known as the lighting of the unity candle, this couple retreated upstage while Pavarotti Reincarnated sang the full Italian version of The Prayer. We needed to be belted in to resist a stanging ovation. Moral of the ceremony? Give the people what they want. No one wants you to take 2.5 minutes to light a candle. The people want talent and they want it now!

Fully invigorated by a five-star performance, we left with renewed energy for the reception. We arrived at the top floor of a downtown tower and were swiftly greeted by six caterers, each bearing a different wine. This proved to be quite the liability for the plush carpet and dance floor. As soon as we had our highly-stainable glass in hand, a 360-degree view of Oklahoma City nearly swept us off our feet. If the wind came sweepin' down this plane, it left glitter and glamour in its path.

The room looked like something beyond even Cinderella's wildest dreams. Tables were stacked full of food--mounds of meatballs, spreads of sandwiches. A 5-tier white cake glistened in like a beacon at the center table. Beyond the cake was the greatest embellishment of all, a church constructed completely out of cheese. This lactose masterpiece boasted a landscape of cauliflower bushes and broccoli trees with pepper and tomato brick leading to the front doors. Outside stood a proud line of bridegroom penguins dressed to the nines in their egg and olive tuxes and top hats, an essential at every wedding.

As I navigate my way through the sugar-coated candy forest of wedding planning, I can't help but enjoy the cloud of lavender-scented smoke that erupts when fantasy meets reality. I fully intend on creating a dream-like day for all to enjoy, but there is something endlessly entertaining about the glass slipper slope into going overboard. Just last week I received a magazine focused solely on silverware rental. Did you know you can actually have butlers hold your spoons while you use your fork? To the world of wedding madness, I declare my arrival. I'm so glad you are here for the ride. Bring on the crazy, bring on the fun, bring on the penguins.