ChgoRed, Girl Editor

Ring-a-Ding

It was waiting on my desk when I got back to work last Monday.  I opened it right away.

And then there was some crying.

The details:  Silver filigree.  Large dark red garnet in the middle.  Four small garnets and 18 seed pearls tucked into the filigree work.  Fit just about perfectly at first, got a little loose, but now fits just fine. 

I don't wear rings often, so it took a while to get used to, but now it feels like it's hardly there.

Did I mention I love it?  Because I really, really do.  And I love that it doesn't look like anyone else's engagement ring.

Mostly, though, I love the guy who gave it to me.  But you already knew that.

The photos:

(That little squiggle on top is a reflection on one of the facets.)

Gimme a B!

Yes, I know I ganked the list thing from Mimi. It's not stealing; it's an homage. Also, I have a lot of random stuff to discuss and this is the best way to make some sense of it. You go with what works.

KISS THE BRIDE...AND HUG HER, AND BRING HER A CANOLI

In the past month, The Boy and I have been variously kissed, hugged, congratulated and consoled by just about everyone we know. Even people we don't know, like that old lady behind us at Kopp's Custard in Milwaukee (hugged him and shook my hand when she found out we were engaged) or the agents on the phone at United Airlines, who kept telling us how sorry they were about our loss. A few weeks of that and it feels like the whole world knows your business.

It was more of the same during the trip to New York--introductions, hugs, congrats, so sorries, etc. By my reckoning, I met approximately 77% of The Boy's relatives, including a formidable brigade of Older Italian Aunties. Everyone we met was lovely to me, very welcoming, and very kind to both of us. Even if I remember none of their names, I will still remember their kindness.

I'm hesitant to say too much, because it was The Boy's dad, and it's really his situation to deal with. I will say that The Boy bore up wonderfully under a hell of a lot of stress--four days that felt like four weeks. He delivered a very kind, loving eulogy; handled relatives of all ages; sorted stuff for hours on end; and even wore a tie when it was required. I was so proud of him, for a whole lot of things big and small.

Still. Relatives. And eating. And meeting with the lawyer. And sorting out insurance. And lunches with people. And deciding how to divide up everything his father owned (which wasn't much, but it was enough). And feeling like we were putting all our energy into being ON and present and attentive to people. By the time we got home we went into a sort of psychic retreat. We spent about a week not really saying much, not really doing much. Just a lot of being quiet. We needed it. Only this week have we come back out of our shells.

THEM BRIDES SURE IS GULLIBLE

This is totally unacceptable. Not just because seven! spiders! having a meeting or something! in our house! But also because I spared the life of one of those bastards on Sunday.  Stupid "Bridezillas" marathon.

See, I was watching it Sunday while I tried to think up Christmas card ideas (more on that in a minute). Before the commercials they flash these stupid factoids (actually, "Factzillas"—yuck), and this week there was one about an English superstition that a spider in a wedding dress is supposed to be good luck.

Riiiight.

You know exactly where that came from. Some bride was getting dressed, found a spider in her gown, and freaked. Some well-meaning person, trying to calm her down, claimed, "No no, it's GOOD luck," and 300 years later a superstition is set in stone. When really, the actual good luck was in finding the damn spider at all before she got the dress on. I could have told them that.

So not half an hour later, I'm down in our apartment building's Creepy-Icky-Icky room, also known as "that room in the basement with the electrical breakers." And I'm only down there because hottest day of the year + 1920s-era electrical wiring + modern air conditioner = circuit breaker got tripped three times. I wouldn't go down in that room unless I had to. I saw the spider in the windowsill, almost killed him, and then thought, "Well, couldn't hurt to have a little more wedding kharma, just in case..."

And THIS is how I get repaid? Screw that. The next spider I see is going to be a smudge.

(Note: When the Boy said "trash," he meant the box flats that need to be taken down to our storage area. Not actual trash-in-bags trash. I know this because I took the actual trash down to the dumpster myself on Monday night. Alone. Without any help from certain other people who might live in my apartment. Ahem.)

CRAFTY BRIDE

So this card thing. I still don't quite believe it myself. Basically, I got a wild idea last fall that seeing as how I liked to make my own greeting cards anyway, maybe I could make a ton and sell them here: The DIY Trunk Show. Basically it's a funky, modern sort of craft show, full of funky, modernish stuff.  Lots of homemade goodness, but no cutesy bunnies, no costumes for your lawn geese (not even ironically). So as a sort of personal dare to myself, I applied.

Right after we got back from New York, I found out I'd been accepted as a vendor in this year's show. Me!

So, because a wedding wasn't enough of a project, this fall I will be designing, printing and boxing up my own notecards and greeting cards, for sale at the show in November.

I still can't believe it.

BRIDE IN TOTAL CONTROL OF HERSELF

On the bridezilla tip, so far:

—I suggested to The Boy that we tell everyone we were registered at Wal-Mart and the gas station, just to see their reactions.

—I told Teri that, as a wedding guest, of course she would have to dye her hair and get a tan.

—I warned my sister that I could always make her wear orange.

—I told two different people that being a bride, I now possess powers they could not imagine.

Unfortunately, no one takes me seriously. I'll have to work on that.

So far, though, I've been doing pretty good on this whole wedding thing. One moment of bridal entitlement, when they were putting the guard on my new ring, and all I could think was, "You'll be careful, right? Because It's MY ENGAGEMENT RING." Note that the jeweler, down in Jewelers' Row on Wabash, sees flashier rings than mine every day. And one minor money freakout, quelled by my sister, who is proving to be the right candidate for this Matron of Honor gig.

No further squabbles with The MOB. partially because I've been busy. Partially because she's throwing me a change-up, now going all, "It's your wedding, honey. Whatever makes you happy." Clearly, she's attempting to drive me crazy.

Bridal Party:

One Matron of Honor.

One Bridal Confessor (now established in San Diego).

One Bridal Consigliere. Yes, I said consigliere. (I already cleared it with my Italian fiance, so no grief, Sons of Italy.) He knows her, and knows that she has been a wonderful friend, counselor and sounding board to me for a long time. Plus, she's local, has been at or in a ton of weddings, and if I needed her to kneecap someone, she might very well do it. What more could a bride ask? The night she found out about our engagement, she immediately began planning my bachelorette party. And trust me--she's perfect for that job, too.

Action and Reaction

From The Guardian:

While concentrating on the emergency response and the effort to catch the bombers, Scotland Yard also activated long-established plans to reassure the public, especially ethnic minority groups who fear they may become targets.

Senior community figures were alerted immediately and members of Muslim groups were called to an urgent meeting. The Guardian has learned that within hours of the attacks, 30,000 abusive and threatening emails were sent to the Muslim Council of Britain website.

We Are All Still on this Train

This is what I am thinking about.

I am thinking about the train ride I took this morning, when the "extra security staff" amounted to two employees scraping gum off the platform.  And how if there had been an actual emergency, we would have been seriously screwed, thanks to all the intercoms on my train being either turned off or broken.

I am also remembering Madrid, and the sign that read, "We are all on this train."

But mostly, I am thinking about something I almost forgot.

Spring 2002.  I am in London, riding the District Line subway from Victoria Station.  The ride is uneventful until the conductor announces that we will not be stopping at Embankment.  I see someone give a puzzled frown.  The station is a popular one, as it's the main drop-off for the Abbey, Parliament, Big Ben and many government offices. 

As we approach Embankment, we hear a strangely calm recording over the station's PA system:

"Emergency.  Emergency.  Please leave the station immediately.  Emergency.  Emergency..."

My heart skips.  Passengers who were lost in their newspapers suddenly raise their eyebrows and trade worried glances.  We slow down at the empty platform but do not stop; in fact, we leave the station accelerating.  A few more glances, but no one actually says anything.  I wonder if they're thinking like I am--IRA?  Twin Towers?  It's been less than six months since 9/11. 

And the train moves on.

That night I check the news, but there is nothing about the disruption.  Whatever "it" was doesn't merit a mention. And all I can think is, Well, they've been through so much, maybe they're used to it.  Maybe this is what it means to live under a constant threat. 

Now I am thinking I was wrong, that you never get used to it.