…bygones

Kev has been recently tied up with a show he’s working on; one that keeps him occupied until 10, sometimes later. I like to kid him about it. I call him at 8pm.
Him: Hey baby!
Me: Dinner’s ready.
[click]

He’s been a little proud and a little nervous about this show, and for the first time in, I dunno, years he asked me to go to Press Night. I don’t normally go to press nights, but there’s free wine involved so I said, ‘Yeah, ok’. [Translation: Hell yeah!]

Unfortunately, I had a few problems which kept me from fully enjoying the events of the evening. The first was I felt a cold coming on. And I knew it was going to be a big one. No appetite, sore throat, headache. But I plowed on through for free wine.

Yes, there is no limit to what I’ll do for free wine.

But then there were also my shoes. No, there’s nothing wrong with my shoes, but there is something wrong with my feet when I wear said shoes for too long.

Don’t get me wrong, I love these shoes. Yes, they are high heels, and no they’re not the fanciest pair I own. But I wore them because they’re my ‘fall back’ shoes. They’ve never let me down. I danced for hours, hours I tell you, at a friend’s wedding in these shoes.

They are the secret of my success.

What I didn’t count on last night was standing for the entire night in one place. Oh, I walked from here to there, but mostly, I was just standing talking to other people.

Ow, and I mean, OW.

And now let’s take into account that I was bored stiff. I like everyone that Kev works with, so that was never a problem. The problem was that Kev and everyone he worked with were all working. And by working I mean working it. They were schmoozing. That’s what they’re supposed to do on press night.

I get it. I respect it. But, a yawn fest it would have been if I hadn’t been kept blindly awake by the pain in my feet.

I finally had to drag Kev away. I was in a foul, and I mean foul mood by this point. I didn’t feel well, I was bored, and my feet were absolutely in fiery pain. I didn’t even think that taking off my shoes would have helped a bit. I was convinced that my feet had now taken on the shape of a high heeled shoe.

Kev promised me a taxi home. Well, he was half-right. We got a taxi most of the way home, but when you’re sharing a taxi with his boss, you don’t really want to take the piss, so you get let off at the nearest corner and swear that it’s fine, you can walk the rest of the way.

I. Was. Raging.

After clomping up the hill, fast, yet tenderly, I shuffled into the flat and did I kick off my shoes right away? No. Because if you take off your shoes, after they’re in that much pain, having melded to the shape of the shoe, sometimes walking flat footed is just as bad as still wearing the shoes.

I had to sit down and massage them out. Yes. It was that kind of pain.

So, today I felt all guilty for yelling at Kev last night. Well, I didn’t really yell. But I did make him walk about a foot away from me on the way home, because he was drunk and kept walking into me, and it was all I could do not to scream.

But yet….guilt, and, guess what? Yes, a full-fledged cold. And what did he do all day?

Yes, he took care of me. Bringing me tea, making me scrambled eggs and toast. Covering me with a blanket, and massaging my congested forehead.

It’s treatment like that which’ll compound the guilt. But I guess in the end, I would have done the same thing.

I guess that’s what marriage is all about: Shoes and colds.

Wedding plans coming along with a slight snag from the Home Office. Without having returned our passports, they’ve sent us a letter asking for an affadavit describing when/where/how we met, and how long we’ve been dating/living together. It’s a nice letter, you know, like, ‘It’s not that we don’t believe you, we just need further proof…’

If I could bundle all my stress into a neat little package, send it to them, so that when they opened it, they’d know what I’m going through for this wedding…well…would they believe me then?

‘Don’t worry, hen, we’ll get you sorted right out.’

Eh?

‘For your hen night.’

Oh? You’ve spoken to ClairePepper?

‘Who’s ClairePepper?’

(Oh shit.)
My bridesmaid. She’s planning the hen night..

‘Ach, naw, hen, we’re just going to take you out one night.’

Umm… (crapcrapcrap) You’ll need to speak to ClairePepper. She’s organising all of that.

‘S’allright, Hen, we got it covered.’

Help.

It’s finally here. My grandmother’s engagement ring, which makes us all kinds of official. Mom was a bit timid about sending it over, and Kev and I had planned on going over for a visit to pick it up, but in the end UPS was just cheaper.

I love this ring; it’s so my style, and so my grandmother’s style. It’s got such a classic look about it, which is lacking in the more modern rings. Plus there’s something to be said for the romanticism of passing an heirloom to descendants, and continuing the tradition. And one day, maybe a daughter of mine will wear it on her wedding day, and then her daughter will wear it…and on and on.

But I digress, Sugar wore this ring for well enough 55 years, and the band is completely worn down and broken. I’m going to take it to a trustworthy jeweler to get it fixed and hopefully will be able to keep its original setting.

Kev did not get on one knee, but he did put the ring on my finger to which I exclaimed, ‘Yes, a thousand times, yes!’

It’s officially official now, not that it wasn’t before. But now it seem really real.

We’re getting married! Woo!

Ms Love, who does nothing but shop for a living nowadays, told me a couple weeks ago that she spied a wedding dress in a shop nearby, and that I should check it out.

So, I did and it was too small.

She offered to come with me and see if she could alter it for me so that it would fit, but, she said, it’s easier to get a dress a size too big and make it smaller, than to make a dress bigger.

When we arrived and found the dress again, we learned that it wasn’t available in a size 10, and that the dress itself had been discontinued.

Ms Love, with her experienced dressmaker’s hands, forced me into the dress, and when I say ‘forced’, I mean that I thought she had quite literally broken one of my ribs. So, unable to breathe, or bend, or do pretty much anything but grimace in pain, I stood in the dress while she took a picture of it.

But, we decided, the chances of us finding the dress in my size would be slim if they’d discontinued it.

On a whim, we decided to nip over to the bridal department at House of Frasers and see what they had. You know…’just to look’.

The saleswoman was very helpful, and even though we didn’t have an appointment (apparently you need one), she let me try on a couple dresses.

Well, the first dress, I thought, was the one I wanted. But Ms Love, with her keen seamstress eye, was able to pick out imperfections which, honestly, niggled at the both of us. Not the one.

The second was alright. It was a fishtail, and though I liked the way it showed off my shape, I just couldn’t get over the feeling that all that poofy at my ankles made me feel a bit like a cartoon poodle.

The last dress I tried was gorgeous. Ms Love and the saleswoman and I all ooohed and aaahed over it. Perfect. (Aside: You guys realise that I can’t describe it to you because Kev reads this, and he can’t know. Sorry.)

Now for the bad news: price. What else?

This dress is worth about 3 months rent and would take up nearly one half of our wedding budget.

Sulkily, I changed back into my normal clothes, no longer feeling like the princess and walked in a daze with Ms Love to Sloans where we bought a couple of lattes and chatted.

I was a bit pouty because of the designer cost of The Dress, but, Ms Love noted, she has a friend who makes wedding dresses, and maybe, (maybe!?) we could find the style, and she could replicate it for about half the cost.

Well, I’ll let you know how that turns out, as I’ll have to make an appointment with the dressmaker and discuss my options with her.

But suffice to say, I have found The Dress, and it is perfect, and it is everything that is me, and not only could I imagine marrying Kevin in it, I could also imagine wearing it every day.

Perfection.

♥

kevin sees snow for maybe the 2nd time in his life

Originally uploaded by Miss America Bygones

After many proddings from Kevin, I’ve finally gotten off my arse and booked our chapel for the wedding.

I don’t know why I had been putting it off, I hadn’t had any reservations whatsoever about getting married, but I suppose it just felt weird to me to book something a year in advance. Alas, that’s how it goes with weddings these days.

Anyhow, it’s booked for October 2009, and we couldn’t get the date we wanted (the 28th) because they only hold weddings there on a Saturday, so we’ve ended up booking the 31st instead. How cool to have a wedding on Halloween! Claire suggested we decorate the place with jack-o-lanterns and dried leaves to make it more autumnal.

I also saw a dress I liked yesterday, after a suggestion from Ms Love (who does nothing but shop for a living lately). She’d seen it in one of the shops and thought it would look good on me.

So, I went down to the shop and tried it on in a size 8, but couldn’t quite get the zipper all the way up. Apparently, size 8 also means ‘no ribs’. Roisin giggled as she tried to help me zip it, saying, ‘This will fit! It will fit. It’s a shame it doesn’t come in a 8 1/2.’

Too true.

I love the way it looks, but for the 1/2 a millimetre that won’t zip. I sashayed around the changing room, looking at it from all angles in the mirror and have put this dress on my ’short list’ of which this is the only entry so far.

So, Ms Love will accompany me on Saturday to try the dress on and see if she can take it out a little so I can zip it all the way up, and also breathe, an added bonus. Breathing is very important.

(Before you ask, a 10 was too big.)

It’s all happening now. Dress, chapel, and soon, a reception hall and invitations. My, how grown up we are.

In a brief follow-up to the previous entry, I had a chat with This Guy, and was tactful, diplomatic and helpful. While we’re not best friends, he is most definately now ‘on my side’.

♥