There's Something About Lucy

Sometimes I wish were my life were different. I wish I made more money. I wish that I didn't fit into my fat jeans so often. I wish I had been more popular in high school. I wish that I weighed less, was prettier, and had a different job. I wouldn't change anything about my husband, except that he would take his allergy medication every night before bed and not just when he thinks he needs it because he snores without it.

But I know that my husband loves me the way I am, except that I'm messy and hate housework. But he knew that going into it so if he expects me to change now, he's in for a surprise. It's really only I (whoo hoo for grammatical correctness) who thinks I'm more than flawed. I mean, we all have them and everyone's well aware of mine, I'm sure.

But I must have some redeeming qualities, right? I have friends who enjoy my company, a husband who loves me, a boss who thinks highly of me, a sister who (when she's not in a mood) likes me not just because I'm her sister. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I wonder who those people who like me see. I'm not entirely without charm and I have a nice smile. But what else? And it's not something you can ask.

I asked Omar once (okay, more than once. Just because you grow out of your teens doesn't mean you automatically outgrow the insecurity) why he loves me. And he couldn't articulate it very well. But then I can't really explain why I love him either. It's more than his loving, generous heart, his sweet smile and his beautiful eyes. He's funny and sweet and he expects so much of me, but he doesn't seem disappointed when I don't meet those expectations either. I'm not even explaining it very well to myself about why I love him. I JUST DO. And that was his answer too.

So I guess there's something about me, despite what I think about myself.

The Glory of White Trash

She's chewing gum.

She's chewing gum.

The white trash that is Britney Spears is chewing gum while being interviewed on Dateline. And she's so clearly lying about everything, because whenever Matt Lauer asks her about Kevin, she looks down at the ground. She's so totally lying. And even though she's pregnant, she looks fatter than pregnant.

Trust me, I wait on pregnant women all day long. There's bloated and then there's "My life is a shambles and I don't care how much weight I gain while pregnant." And she is definitely number 2.

Oh my god, she is such PWT (for the uninitiated: Poor White Trash).

Yet, I cannot stop watching.

Christ, her boobs are popping out of her shirt. She's such a trailer park princess. I mean, she's pregnant. Put those puppies away.

Anyway, I cannot stop watching. It's like when you're driving down the street and see a car accident and you can't stop. You have to stare. This interview is worse than a car accident. It's Armageddon.

She's CHEWING GUM. On DATELINE. Being interviewed by a man who's interviewed presidents, war hereos, etc. PWT Spears, I am ashamed of you!

Baby Sis is not watching this horrific event and I can't understand why not. This is just ripe for the two of us cackling. Baby sis just told me to stop watching this. I'm sorry Baby Sis, I love you and I respect your opinion immensely about almost everything, but I can't stop watching this. I can't. It's horrifically fascinating.

They gave her a terrible makeup job, her boobs are hanging out (she has DOUBLE BOOBAGE because her bra is too small and her shirt is too small). She looks like a whore. She looks like a whore who is fat, not pregnant from the boobs up.

And she just told Matt Lauer she won't talk about her baby because that's private. Private! Sweetie, if you want your child to be private, DON'T TAKE HIM PLACES AND ALMOST DROP HIM ON HIS HEAD. Don't be photographed with THE KID IN YOUR LAP WHILE DRIVING. Sweet fancy Jesus, you're stupid!

Why can't I stop watching this?

Here's the IM conversation I just had with baby sis:

Lucy: Please, please, please tell me you are the watching the white trash train wreck on Dateline right now, because I could live on this for weeks. She's chewing gum while being interviewed.
Auto response from Baby Sis: People living in glass houses shouldn't throw the chalupa, if you know what I'm saying.
Lucy: Crankster, I need you!! Please reply immediately!!
Baby Sis: I'm not watching. What?
Lucy: Britney Spears on dateline. It's both horrific and fascinating at the same time. It's frightening. And yet compelling.
Baby Sis: I'm sorry.
Lucy: She's CHEWING GUM. While being interviewed by Matt Lauer.
Baby Sis: Is she crying?
Lucy: Kind of. But she's definitely lying about being happily married. She looks at the floor and avoids all eye contact with Matt Lauer or the camera when she talks about being in love with her husband. And Julia Roberts should SUE her PWT ass
Baby Sis: Why?
Lucy: She compared herself to JR because they both fell in love with men who were with other women who had children with those said other women (Matt Lauer then had to clarify that JR's husband actually didn't have children so that Dateline wouldn't get sued)
Baby Sis: whatever helps the homewreckers sleep at night
Lucy: I swear to you, I can't stop watching it. It's horrifying. I feel like I need a shower.
Baby Sis: stop watching it
Lucy: I can't! It's half horrifying half fascinating. I'm horrified by the fascination. She's is such PWT and she DOESN'T KNOW IT.
Baby Sis: Turn it off, Sissy. Save your soul.
Lucy: I want to! But it's almost impossible. baby sis, she's CHEWING GUM. I can't handle it. And she has racoon eyes. The makeup: it's garish. The clothes: they're whorish. I can't stop watching it. Her boobs are everywhere!
Baby Sis: Sissy. Stop it. You can turn it off.
Baby Sis: I am going to go fold laundry now. Get yourself together.
Lucy: I can't. Baby sis, pray for me, please.
Baby Sis: I can't help you unless you help yourself.
Lucy: She just called Matt Lauer HONEY. It's tragic.
Baby Sis: STOP IT
Lucy: She doesn't know how pregnant she is! Sweet Fancy Jesus, go see a doctor!
Baby Sis: Sissy.
Baby Sis: I'm not talking to you anymore. I'm going to fold laundry. Turn off your television.
Lucy: I can't!!
Baby Sis: I have no sympathy for you.
Lucy: Please, please, please. She's scaring the children, Baby Sis! She's scaring the people watching this! She doesn't even know what home improvement is called (she calls it the redo shows!)
Baby Sis: Seriously, I'm walking away from the computer.

And she did. And Britney just blamed the streets and the press for almost dropping her kid. I'll buy that those things didn't help, but when you wear pants that are so damn long you need to be ten feet tall to see the cuffs, you're going to trip. Especially when you wear hooker heels.

And now she's trying to talk about religion. And she's going to design baby clothes.

I'm telling you. Life as we know it is ending.

The interview is almost over. I'm now going to shower.

AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SPEARS, BRUSH YOUR GODDAMN HAIR.

Julian Tavarez Sucks Ass

Okay, seriously? I hate the Red Sox bullpen with a passion. With A Passion. I do not how to emphasize this without expletives. Schilling just pitched an unbelievable game, backed by Papelbon, and Timlin and Julian Fucking Tavarez just let a guy hit a walk off grand slam in a twelve inning game. HATE HIM. Every time he gets out there I want to tear my hair out and then kill everyone in my path.

How hard is it to get good pitching? I love Trot Nixon, but Gabe Kapler is cheaper and he's healing well. Trade Nixon for some decent bullpen pitchers, because this crop sucks my ass. SUCKS. You fuckers are killing ME.

It is a hard thing to be a Red Sox fan. Even when they're in first place, even when they're kicking AL ass, we are convinced that they suck. It is the one constant in a Red Sox fan's life.

Sample conversation of Lucy with her husband:

"Omar, Schilling is pitching really well here tonight."
"Doesn't matter. They'll fuck it up. They suck."

Sample conversation of Lucy with her father:

"Dad, did you see that game? Ortiz was awesome!"
"Too bad the rest of them suck."

Sample conversation of Lucy with her husband:

"Omar, who won the game?"
"Texas."
"Those fucking clowns suck."

It is all we say. It is a whole festival of suck! They are the most disappointing team ever. The 2004 World Series was a deal with the devil. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. Someone sold their soul and I'm betting his name was John W. Henry, 'cause that dude is scary looking. He looks like the devil's on his ass.

Bright side? Kevin Youkilis is having a killer season. Even though Coco Crisp is my new pretend boyfriend because he's hot, Youk's my slice on the side 'cause he's talented.

And who knew Dave McCarty could clean up this well? Didn't he have like the straggliest beard and nasty hair when he played for the sox? He's much more presentable as a commentator on NESN.

Omar and I finally got the wedding's pics, sort of. They're on the photographer's web site. Now comes the fun part: choosing. Our Photographer took 3000 shots. 3000. That's like almost $2 per picture shot.

Now I just totally depressed myself even more.

Fucking Tavarez.

Thirty-Two Days Later

I've been married just over a month now. A month and one day. Thirty-two days.

I'd like to say my wedding day was stress free. Totally was not. To start off, all my bridesmaids were late getting to the house for prep. Even the one who fucking lives in the house was late because the Target run was apparently necessary.

It was a weird day. I don't know how else to say it. I had my hairdresser, who I've known since I was eight there, doing everyone's hair. This girl Caitlin, who I met through her sister, was there doing makeup. My best friend from college was there, my sister, my friend Jess, Omar's sister, my parents, my great-aunt. We had curlers, hair spray, and makeup everywhere. My poor, poor dad. I think he washed the driveway twelve times that day.

Plus, I was nervous. And I totally didn't think I would be. I'm twenty-eight. I've been dating Omar for over seven years. Realistically, there was no reason to be nervous. We've talked very seriously about marriage over the years, what it would mean for our relationship, how many kids we wanted, etc. It's not like these were big mysteries or anything. But my stomach was totally in knots.

My friends helped me into my dress just before my photographer arrived, while my hair was still in curlers. They laced me into my dress so damn tight I still had marks on my ribs the next day. It was that tight, but it stayed up and I didn't have to tug on it. The worst thing about strapless anything is the tugging, but this dress stayed up. Very well, actually.

And, if I say so myself, I looked beautiful.

I wore my hair down, with a tiara and a veil. Of course it was so fucking HOT that day, that the curls were gone by the time we left the church.

While we were taking photographs, my bouquet broke. The flowers literally fell off the stems. My photographer duct-taped them back on. Apparently, the look on my face was pretty priceless. But it was very upsetting to me at the time and I felt fretful. But that was pretty much nerves, too. By the time we got in the limo, my pulse was racing. We red-cupped it with some cheap wine on the way to the church, even my dad had a chug or two.

When we got to the church, I could barely hear anything the roaring in my ears was so loud. I felt jittery and out of place and I could not believe I was getting married. I kept thinking, I'm getting married. I'm getting married. I am getting married. In that church, Omar was waiting for me and we were going to get married. It seemed very unreal.

That's really the whole theme of that day. Surreality. It was the most surreal day I've ever had. But it was also the most beautiful.

When we got to the church, I felt terrified, nervous, and so excited I wanted to pee. The bridal march started, I started down the aisle, and started sobbing. Sobbing. I remember telling my father, "Daddy, walk slower. I need a minute."

I wish I could say I remember the ceremony, but I don't. I remember the priest telling me to stop crying, I remember our friends from college doing the readings, I remember my sister taking my bouquet from me. I remember saying my vows, my voice shaking, and putting the ring on Omar's finger.

It was so unbelievably warm that day, probably in the high eighties. And there was no air in the church. It took us both a couple tries to get the rings on because the heat had swelled our fingers. But the rings were on and suddenly we were going through with the rest of the Mass and then Omar was told to kiss me. We were smooching, we walking down the aisle, my dad high fived me and we were in the limo and I was married. To Omar. And suddenly, I felt giddy. I felt so giddy and crazed. We talked all the way to the reception about the day we'd just spent apart. Like he'd been at work or I had spent the day with a friend. It was so normal. Except that I was wearing a dress that felt like it weighed twenty pounds and he was in a tux and we were drinking champagne in the back of a limo.

We laughed, we talked, we even smooched some more. And suddenly all the nerves from earlier felt ridiculous.

Because we were married. And it was perfect.