Are You Out There Wedding Dress? It’s Me, Sara.

So the search for the perfect dress continues.  Yesterday, my good friend Shauna (who I just found out used to date a certain muscular man’s body double who also just happens to have the same amazing Eastern European accent, but a face that is about 1000 times cuter – how did I not know this???)…well, the two of us drove all the way out to Monrovia, California to find a dress.

Why did I do that, you might ask.

There I was at physical therapy having my neck prodded and poked, when my therapist told me that she had found her Barbie doll dream dress.  (Just so you know, she’s getting married in a year and a half.  Since my wedding is but months away, you can imagine my pleasure in hearing how on-the-ball she is.)  “Where did you find it?”  I asked, crossing my fingers that maybe just maybe this was a sign from God and that my search was about to end…And that’s how I found myself picking up Shauna and driving out to east-bumble Monrovia.

I knew the minute I walked into the store that I had made a big, big mistake.  Poof, beading, ruching, and long taffeta trails spread wall-to-wall as far as the eyes could see.  Why, Lord, why?  To appease the owner I stripped down to my underpants and tried on a few dresses/nightmare concoctions of lace and organza.  As I stepped in and out of poofiness, I realized that I’m on the verge of becoming a nudist.  I’m so used to being buck-naked in front of strange shopkeepers, I can barely discern the difference between clothed and unclothed except that when I’m clothed I don’t keep sneaking peaks at my thighs in the mirror.

After we all agreed that my small frame did not look good in a 40-pound gown that we had to cinch all over with jumper cables (that’s how they fit the dresses to you; they clip in the baggy parts with orange clips that look just like what you keep in the car to charge the battery.  between the cables and the horrible dresses, I feel like a clunker that nobody wants.  maybe I’m part of the cash-for-clunkers scheme)…well, after all that, Shauna and I went back to the city where we hit up Paperbag Princess, a well-known vintage store.  Eh.  Shauna loved one of the dresses, but the more I thought about it, the more I knew it wasn’t what I wanted.

And so the search continues…today I’m off to the Glamour Closet and a Kimono store in Japantown.  Maybe yards of embroidered fabric, white face, and a black wig is what I need.  Because this wedding dress thing is nuts.

Finding the Perfect Wedding Dress (otherwise known as needle in a haystack)

I have tried on more dresses than a dress mannequin.  First of all, who prices these things?  $4,000?  $5,000?  $6,000?  $7,000?  Believe it or not, those are the average prices I’m finding.  Do I look like a Maharajah?  A Sheik?  An oil tycoon per chance?  No.  And that’s why it makes no sense that I’m encountering such astronomical prices.  I’m not asking for a dress made in diamonds with a ruby zipper.  Just a little something that makes me feel like me.

On Saturday Mom and I went into a bridal store where I found just such a dress.  I put it on and for the first time in about 50 dresses, I felt like I looked good.  I mean, if the dress is a wow with a greasy ponytail and flip flops, think what it must look like when I really get myself dolled up.  Unfortunately, the dress is $3000, which doesn’t include shipping from France, alterations, and a hefty Californian sales tax.  So I did what any young girl would do, I asked if I could purchase the floor sample.  The answer was a resounding No.

Today I’m off to some new-to-you shops to see if I can’t find a similar dress.  I thought about the dress I love all weekend, but I just can’t swing it.  Unless I ask my guests to pack a lunch, a French lace dress is not in my budget.  I have a folder full of dresses that I like, but can’t afford.  My fingers are crossed that I can replicate or come close to finding one of them at a fraction of the cost.  The funny things is, I’m getting really excited about this big party and the planning of it is finally becoming fun.  If only the dress shopping came with a $1,000 coupon or let’s be honest, a $4,000 price reduction.  The mark-up on these gowns is absurd.

Photo Courtesy of Yves St. Laurent and David Barrie

Wilco at the Wiltern

Last night I saw a great show.  Great like how Tony the Tiger says it, “Grrreeeaaaaat!”  For those of you who don’t know Wilco, let me introduce you.  Readers, Wilco:

These clips obviously don’t do the sound justice.  Even mom loved them and that’s saying a lot considering she had never heard them before and had no familiarity with any of the songs.  They’re just one of those special bands that hold you captive.  And by the end of the night I remembered that hip hop isn’t the only music I enjoy.  Just because I can pop and grind to songs about bling, 40’s, and big, bodacious rear-ends, doesn’t mean I can’t get my groove on to great music like Wilco’s.

Wilco; for those who forgot or never knew how beautiful and organic jam bands can be.  Ticket: $46.  Experience: Priceless.

Wedding Wedding Wedding

On Tuesday Mom and I spent the day visiting stationers in the Los Angeles metro area.  Yesterday I drove two and a half hours each way for a site visit to the location and a final tweak to the contract.  Today I have appointments from the crack of dawn until sunset to try on puffy, white dresses.  If you haven’t put two and two together by now, I’m getting married.

Hitched. Hog-tied. Leg-shackled. Balled and chained. Buying the cow. Signing the death contract. Living happily ever after.  Whatever you wanna call it, I’m signing up.  The thing is, at the beginning of this wild ride, I knew exactly what I wanted; small, intimate, personal, reflective.  And now it’s like the thing has a life of its own and I have to keep jumping on its back and wrangling it down onto the ground.

People kept telling me to elope and have a party later, but no, I wanted to have my nearest and dearest there to witness the event.  Now I realize that planning a wedding for twenty, or planning a wedding for two-hundred, is the same amount of work.  But I am determined to give this wedding beast the what-for, the heave-ho, and the bigger is not better speach.  I’m going to teach it that not every celebration needs tulle and organza and cherubs throwing rosebuds.  Just a little magic, a little elbow grease, and good friends.  The rest is all, as they say, chocolate pudding.

Hollywood Justice: Beating On Women Is Okay

Just a quick note today as I’m off to pick up my mom at the airport…

Can you believe this Chris Brown “justice?”  What a crock.  He beats, chokes, and bites a woman and then gets off on probation?  I am seriously appalled by this.  What world do we live in that this is okay?  That physically harming a woman is nothing more than a few hours of community service?  Heck, if that’s the case, what’s the charge if we women get together and kick the bajeezus out of a few men?  Cause I don’t mind burning calories mowing grass at the local park if that’s all the punishment is for battery and assault these days.

What does please me about this kangaroo-court case, is the fall-out I’ve seen from the public.  People don’t want this to be okay.  People don’t want a message that says, “Hit her! Choke her! Bite Her!  She’s just a woman; not like there aren’t 50 million more where she came from.”  As a result, Chris Brown’s endorsements have been taken away from him and his record sales have plummeted.  I only wish the judge had seen his way to a proper punishment.  Maybe a beat down by Michael Vic?  That guy definitely knows what being a jerk is all about.

So a new rule in justice: beat up a woman and Michael Vic gets you.  Or Mike Tyson.  He knows what it’s like to sit in prison for assaulting a woman.  He could teach Chris Brown a lesson or two. <left hook, upper cut>

An Ornery Ayatollah

Let’s not kid ourselves, it seems clear that this whole mess in Iran can be blamed on one person, the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.  President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, most famous for his Saturday Night Live skit (Iran So Far Away), is merely a racist, homophobic puppet, dancing on the Ayatollah’s supreme strings.  And why are we so surprised by what’s happening?  A false vote?  A violent reaction by the powers that be when the people speak out?  Hasn’t this exact same phenomenon happened in our very own country?  Okay, so nobody got bombed with tear gas and riddled with bullets when they protested, but still, when Bush took the vote 5 years ago, a lot of people knew that something smelled fishy.

A Russian newspaper confirms that talks are being had by the high council to depose the Ayatollah.  I say, what’s holding them up?  Why is it so hard for 86 Islamic scholars to see that their Supreme Leader is not so supreme.  More like biased, shady, manipulative, and dare I say it, corrupt?  Maybe the Supreme Ayatollah should just be honest about why he ensured that Ahmadinejad was declared President.  Perhaps he can take a cue from another group of Supremes…because I think Iran is turning on him, Supreme leader or not.

The End of a Blog

Last year, just about a few weeks ago, I went to a writer’s conference in the hopes of selling my new book.  Although every single agent I met with asked to read 30 pages, not a single one of them got back to me.  C’est la vie.  What I took from the conference was that, as a first time author, I needed more platform to get my writing out there.  So I began this blog and the rest, as they say, is history.

I planned to write in every day for one year and as of June 3rd, that goal was completed.  Monday through Friday I sat down each morning and dialed in.  I wrote about new words, jokes, politics, and personal troubles.  I described movies, infections, people, and people’s bad habits.  I laid it all on the line and it’s been great.

When June 3rd came, I wondered if I was ready to say goodbye.  And then June 4th rolled around and I found myself reluctant to stop writing.  I have things to say, dammit!  With the accident, I’ve been in and out of blogging these past two weeks and I find that the days I don’t write, I feel a void.  All day it seems as if something is missing.  I lose my connection with all of these words that I love so much and the game of putting them together to express what I’m trying to say.  Surprisingly, I always have something to say.

So in an attempt to express how much I’ve grown since that first day almost one year ago, Hello World.  From June 3rd, 2008; my very first blog:

June 3, 2008…7:05 pm

Hello World!

So here I am, sitting on my sofa in a pair of size 100 pink, velour pants, hitting on the keyboard per usual.  Being a writer is a very glamorous life choice.  I recommend it if you have proclivities towards isolation and insanity.  My dog, aka Kiki the Wonder Dog, hasn’t had a bath for quite awhile and as she snoozes next to me I remind myself for the umpteenth time to haul her into the shower.

Sam, my boyfriend, is off at work and I’m supposed to be writing (which I am…kind of) and sending letters to agents (see the Day One page), but it’s not happening.  I’ve been working my other job like a mad demon and my brain is mush-mush-McMush.  All I want to do is eat some ice cream and watch a movie or seven.  Is 11am too early for ice cream?  I say no.

This is my blog.  Welcome to the world that lies within!  For the next several months I’ll be documenting just how fabulous it is to be me…and by fabulous I mean, ridiculous.  Why didn’t I become a doctor or a lawyer or a television evangelist?  Anything seems better these days than being a novelist with her second, UNPUBLISHED novel.  But times, they are a’changing and I can feel it in the wind.  Soon, I will be photographed in my underwear by Annie Leibovitz for the cover of Vanity Fair.  PerezHilton will slam me for looking like a 1980’s whore in said photo shoot.  Women will gather to burn their bras and read my nonsense aloud.  (This doesn’t really have anything to do with the photo shoot, but I’d like it to happen anyway.)  Oprah will extol my virtues and tag me with her book club’s seal of approval.  I can’t wait.

Until then…xoxxo, Sara

Dog Hammocks

Yesterday I had to purchase a new car and the first thing I thought about was, how do I protect this new car from my beasts?  Which introduced me to the world of seat covers.  Last night I spent about an hour on-line looking up seat covers and seat hammocks.  It’s a whole new world out there.

I finally decided on the Bowser Seat Hammock because it has flap that also protects the arm rest in the backseat.  My first choice was actually a nifty design by Duragear (see right) that allows you put down one side  if need be.  It also has pockets for water and balls and stuff, but no arm rest protection.  It was tough call because I really liked those pockets, but I went with the most protection.

The Bowser came in several atrocious colors and I went with houndstooth.  As you can see by the camouflage motif on the left, it was a lose-lose situation.  Hopefully I went with the lesser of the evils, which was another negative in the Bowser box.  Why all the terrible prints?  They had paisley, camo, houndstooth, and a grey marble look that reminded me of Dracula’s crypt.  What’s wrong with plain-old khaki or grey like the Duragear guys make?

I have my fingers crossed that this hammock situation works out, but I have a strong feeling that I sacrificed a lot of style for that extra Bowser protection.  I hope my new arm rests appreciate what I’m going through for them.  In the meantime, Lucky and I (that’s her name I think, my new car) will just have to put-put along without the dogs.  They can ride in the Prius until protection arrives.

Blah Blah The Hangover

Because I’ve promised not to write any more blogs about physical therapy, neck pain, and headache (that’s the blah blah blah part of this story) I’ve decided to write about a little movie I saw the other day called, The Hangover.  Before I say anything else, here’s the official trailer so you can see what we’re dealing with.

Now without seeing the movie, this trailer might seem confusing, crazy, violent, funny perhaps?  Which makes it fairly dead-on, but in a good way.  Although The Hangover has a male point of view, which made Old School so popular, it’s a much more intelligent brand of funny.  There’s no gratuitous mud wrestling, no wet t-shirt contests, and no “we gotta save the frat, man!”  This movie seemed older, as if it were reflecting the growth of the man behind the camera, Mr. Todd Philips.  Where as Old School left me confused as to how grown boys could still be so juvenile, The Hangover seemed like something every man I know could have accidentally stepped into.

Which brings me to one of the actors in the movie, Bradley Cooper.  Born in January, 1975 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Bradley Cooper graduated from Georgetown (honors English) before moving on to NYC to become an actor.  Smart and handsome?  And this isn’t even a good picture of the guy.  Now don’t tell anybody, but I spent most of the movie looking at him wondering why I kept wishing he would take his shirt off.  Does that make me a bad person?

But the best part of the whole movie?  The credit sequence, where (and I won’t give too much away) the dots are finally connected in vivid color, so we can all see what these men got up to in Vegas.  Naughty.  Shockingly naughty. I don’t how they slipped some of those pictures in without getting a different rating.  I can only guess that the person who rated the movie, turned it off before he got to the credits.  Even thinking about it now, I have to smile.

So for those of you looking for something nice and easy this week, The Hangover.  It’s worth your $12.  (or $14 if you live in L.A.)  The best part however, is that don’t get a headache the next day.  This hangover is pain free.

Like Being Beat in the Head With an Ugly Stick

First of all let me apologize for having taken so many days off from writing in.  To recap, at the beginning of the month I was involved in a terrible  car crash <see El Accidente from June>.  At first I thought,  “How lucky am I? I walked away from the worst accident of my life.”  Now however, my tune has changed and I’m more like, “This stinks.  This really, really stinks.”

My head feels like it’s been bashed in by a large stick.  And by the way my face has become pinched with pain, I can tell that it was an ugly stick that did the whooping.   I hate ugly sticks.  First of all, they’re more like tree limbs than actual sticks so it really hurts when one keeps beating you in the head.  And secondly, they make you ugly.  Enough said.  So Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were lost to me as I lied around with a terrible headache that seemed to run from one shoulder, up my neck, around my head, and back the other side of my neck.  It had me in a grip of pain that lasted morning to night.  It sucked the big one.

So I apologize for missing so many days of writing in, but let’s be honest…no one wants to hear about me getting beat-up by the ugly stick.  If I feel better tomorrow I promise to write in something more positive.  In the meantime, I pray none of you meet the stick.  It’s a beast.