Eat the Damn Cake

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I always get this sense that there are a lot of people (probably most people in the world) who know how to do things better than me. They were born knowing. They’re innately good at life. I think they probably handle most situations involving pressure better. And situations involving lots of people. And situations involving messy food. And in thinking this about them, I am probably like most people. But that doesn’t prevent me from imagining them, whoever they are, dealing with whatever it is that I’m dealing with, and doing that gracefully, while also sending the last, perfected chapter off to their editor at Random House, squirting symmetrical dollops of wild mushroom mousse into whimsically tiny homemade puff pastry shells, and French braiding their thick, shiny hair with whichever hand is free for whichever moment. I do not have any relationship with Random House. We’re not even casual acquaintances. I am not French braiding. I am sitting on the couch, sliding backwards into anxiety. I have a mixer, from the wedding registry, but the box fell off the couch and landed upside down, and I haven’t checked to see if it’s OK, because there’s no room on the counter for it anyway, and I’m intimidated by the stack of cookbooks I suddenly own (from the bridal shower). Continue Reading »

I got high heels for the rehearsal dinner. They’re really, really high. The salesman kept saying stuff about Project Runway, and “Only seven-thousand of these in stores!” Seven-thousand sounds like a lot to me, and if it’s not, the shoes were pretty cheap, so that can’t be right. And when I watched Project Runway once, the judges picked the designer who only did little shapeless gray dresses, because he was inspired by Japanese ghost stories, or something. I was offended. But I bought the shoes, because I never wear really high heels. And because I’m going to get married, which I also never do. Getting married feels brave. Much braver than wearing five-inch heels. So I figured now was the right time.

(Maybe I’ve been looking at too many high heels, but these look so hot to me right now. Source)

Now is not the right time for writing. Not this week, at least. But some news: I am about to become a professional blogger. That’s right. Someone is willing to pay me to blog.

Yesterday, the New York Times called. Continue Reading »

Everyone could always stand to look a little better. Even Angelina Jolie doesn’t like her cheeks sometimes. Or her thighs. Which, the magazines tell us emphatically, is endearing. It makes her a little more human. Because we’re all like that. We all know we really could stand to look a little better. Even when we don’t actively hate the way we look. Even when we’re having a good day. I’ve seen it so many times. I’ve done it so many more times. And because it’s so ubiquitous, I don’t have to think about what it is, or what it means. Or if I think about it, I can just say, “Human nature! We’re all striving to be better. That’s why we built the pyramids! Or, um, had a bunch of slaves build them…That’s why we enslaved those people in the first place! That’s why there’s civilization! Because we’re always tweaking. Always improving.”

Tweaking. You know, pulling at the edges. Straightening the lines. Fixing tiny details. Except that some tiny details are not so easily fixed. And then we get stuck, standing in front of the mirror, repeating under our breath, “If my eyes were just a little bigger. If they were just a little bigger.” And nothing is going to change. It’s just not. Continue Reading »

So I’m over at the awesome Australian women’s site Mamamia, talking, as usual, about my nose. And you can read my piece about Bear not being Jewish and me marrying him anyway, in Huffpo. Or you can just stick around here and read this:

It feels a little like winter, suddenly. Like a switch in the sky was flipped. A matching switch inside me abruptly urged me to buy a red flannel shirt and make butternut squash soup. I resisted the pressing suggestion to add a pair of smooth brown leather almost-knee-high boots to the fun. There was some confusion over the wording of the soup recipe. It said “seeded squash,” and I thought that might be able to go either way. So I left some seeds. Which turned out to be obviously wrong and led me to wonder how I could possibly have gotten confused over something so embarrassingly clear.

I am getting married in a little over two weeks. I don’t believe that, even as I write it. I also can barely believe how many seeds ended up in the soup (I’m eating it now). I swear, it looked like maybe thirty, tops, when I was making it.

(Apparently at 3, I was all set to get married. I don’t remember this at all.)

I feel like I’m doing something radical, getting married so young. Just read the wedding section of the New York Times. Which I don’t, but my mother does. Everyone is in their thirties. In their forties, even. When I submit my info for publication, I’m definitely going to be passed over in favor of a seventy-five-year-old marrying an eighty-year-old. When I told my friends I was engaged, I felt like I had to apologize. Continue Reading »