We love Dunsborough. So much so that every time we visit, we spend a great deal of time discussing when and how we can move there. This time I have decided I will become a full time writer. I’ll wake up early, walk the dogs along the beach, have an organically grown and locally sourced breakfast of berries and free range eggs, then I’ll head out to the balcony where I will spend the day ‘working’, overlooking the ocean. After a mid-morning nap.
Alternatively, we’ll open a wine bar/coffee shop that appeals to a gentrified crowd, sick of the young hooligans that now seem to have overrun similar ventures in town. Dean from Busso will not frequent our establishment. Preferring instead to loiter in and around the more ordinary watering holes where he feels completely at ease soliciting unsuspecting Perthites and other weekenders for money “for a set of boobs for this chick I have known for like 10 years. Well you know, I promised that I’d buy her a set of tits, so every time we head out, I ask people to help.” He explains, thrusting a middy glass containing a few measly bucks under our noses. We stared back at him in disbelief. I wanted to tell Dean that me and my friends didn’t speak bogan, or reveal to him that a good way to raise money was to get a friggin job, however being on unfamiliar turf, we chose instead to give him some loose change, hoping that he would be satisfied and scamper away, leaving us to pick up our jaws from the sodden carpet and pretend that never happened. But it just seemed to encourage him. What is that? When people have no comprehension of the fact that their presence is not required or desired? Dean went on to hassle our friends about why they were not yet engaged. The wench with the small tits piped up “OMG, I sell diamonds! I’ll do you a deal. I work at Garden City, come see me.” What? So you do have a job? Good on you for that. Obviously you don’t sell enough diamonds to buy yourself a pair of tits though.
These seem like the kind of people that might want to try and crash our wedding after party at castle rock car park with our DJ mate.
Anyway, if the wine bar thing didn’t work out, I’m sure we could find something else to do in town. There already appears to be a sufficient number of surf shops and clothing boutiques, bakeries and coffee shops. Our neighbours out at Dunsborough Lakes already had the mobile rock climbing wall business covered, so that was out.
After a particularly interesting cultural exchange whilst dining at Wise the previous day, when our French waiter served Fiance an interesting looking dessert plated in such a way, that the kitchen had described simply as ‘Viking Pussy’ and suggested that Frenchie use this expression when presenting the food. “My English is not so known but the kitchen people tell me that you might try this before. It is how you say – Viking Pussy? So I hope you enjoy.” He later was told what he had just said and spent the rest of the afternoon apologising profusely. “I’m sorry. Thank you for apologising me,” He said. Sooo, Fiance suggested that perhaps I could simply return to my university days and become a waitress. I could after all speak and understand English, which doesn’t appear to be a mandatory requirement in the industry but it can’t hurt.
Event coordinator? Wedding planner? A liaison for engaged Perthies getting married down south. Wedding celebrants seem to be pretty popular down here – how hard could that be? Yoga instructor? But my favourite is to become an artist and find a place on the Yallingup hills and wile my days away painting sunsets and writing screen plays. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem that i have no talent in either of those areas.
I guess it happens when you go on holidays. And that’s why we go. To escape to somewhere amazing that has the power to make you want to uproot your entire life and relocate there immediately. It’s a powerful thing.
One of the big pluses about Dunsborough for us, is the picturesque beaches, especially the one that, when the tide goes out, exposes the shallow sand bank and the many little ‘islands’ that can be walked out to. Especially handy when you have two crazy, overly sociable Staffys. Ingenious of us to walk them out there through calf deep water and then let them loose, water locked, so they couldn’t run away.
They loved it, frolicking through the shallow water, chasing the seagulls, forgetting the water and finding themselves in way too deep, sploosh! Jackson stopped every now and then to pluck a starfish from the shallow water or chew on a piece of seaweed. Until he spotted another dog on the beach that he thought he might like to say hello to. He stopped. He looked at the dog, then looked back at us, a plan formulating in his little pea sized brain. Pity he was surrounded by deep blue water. He looked at us again, then went for it. Swimming for his life, his stumpy little Staffy legs doggy paddling like they’d never doggy paddled before. Fiance sprang into Staffy rescue mode as little Jackson became less and less buoyant by the second. We’ll never know if he would’ve made it to shore or not, I think it would have been a miracle.
So, although it wasn’t an overly productive trip wedding plan wise, it re-established for us why we love the place so much and why we couldn't find a more awesome place to get married. It’s not hard to figure out why everyone who lives there is ridiculously happy and friendly. Figuring out how we can become a permanent part of the scenery is slightly more difficult!
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
8806 hours to go – Dunno Part I
Having just returned from a long weekend away in Dunsborough, where we will be married in approximately 8806 hours, all manner of emotions have begun to take over. At the moment, it’s mostly genuine excitement coupled with an acute awareness at how fast 8806 hours will disappear. It’s really not a long time when you break it down like that, but it’s a hell of a lot longer than the event itself – and that’s what this blog is all about. Acknowledging the journey that we are on, and appreciating that it’s so much more than the 8 hours or so in which all this work, planning and insanity will finally culminate. THE. BIG. DAY.
So, after lamenting the loss of Engagey and enjoying a short intermission in Wedding proceedings for a couple of weeks, I dragged out the awe inspiring pile of Wedding magazines gifted to me from MOH very early on in our engagement and packed them into the car, along with our two furry children and a milk crate full of booze, a sample size of Engagey’s most rewarding legacy.
We were Dunno bound. Not really with any major wedding planning activities in the pipeline, but for a short visit to recharge our batteries and to get the vibe of what the town and the region will be like for our impending nuptials. Frickin busy if this weekend was anything to go by. Better get those save the dates out sooner rather than later.
I had previously tried to make appointments with some suppliers that are already on the team, due to the busy time of year, I was only able to meet with one. The DJ. And he didn’t disappoint. I suggested we catch up for a cold beverage or two just to break the ice, put a name to a face and have a more in depth conversation about what we wanted and what he could provide. We decided to meet at his place just between Dunno and Yalls (Yallingup.) The directions I was given were reminiscent of a wild goose chase/ treasure hunt and Fiance and I were filled with both intrigue and intrepidation at meeting a stranger in the middle of nowhere. Follow the yellow brick road and take the 2nd turn on the right after the gravel road starts, look for the rainbow valley sign on the fence then keep driving past the house of terrors until you see the white guitar on the fence, then follow it down to the surfboard cut in half that directs you to my studio. Fiance and I shared a nervous giggle, thankful that we had brought a 4wd vehicle for this little adventure.
The DJ greeted us warmly and welcomed us into his studio – a bush shack/shed surrounded by trees and only 7kms from the beach converted into his own little creative space. We entered through the kitchen and he led us into a room filled with intruments and all his gear. He also had a special little semi sound proof room for his drums, cos “I’m a drummer – that’s what I do”. I literally tripped and stumbled over my words, as well as a set of bongo drums, taken aback by the amount of fun I could have in that room and clearly struggling to hold myself back from having my own impromptu jam session. Step away from the instruments. Fiance, knowing me and my penchant for creating magical entertainment all too well, instantly sensed my inherent desire to kidnap DJ, lock him in a cupboard and take over his studio for two or three days.
We spent the next half hour or so talking about options for our wedding, one of which included the offer of an after party in a nearby beach car park, at which DJ would bring along his ‘DJ mobile’ pop the roof and spin the decks well into the morning, suggesting that we could then walk back to town if we weren’t “too messy” or do a deal with the dunno taxi service and have people shuttled back to town intermittently as sunrise approached. We would just have to let him know a few hours beforehand so he could arrange some of his “crew” to get down there with generators and the like. “We’ll let you know…” Fiance and I responded, not wanting to upset the very musical, slightly eccentric apple cart.
He also suggested keeping the eating and other wedding formalities to a minimum in order to maximise time for dancing, everyone wedding supplier has their own little agenda to push don’t they! Hey, who knows – we might just turn the entire wedding into a dance party yet!
We lunched on the balcony at Wise Winery the following day, soaking up those famous views across to Geographe Bay and also the goings on on the lawn below as someone elses wedding was in the initial stages of set up. We wandered down after lunch to check it out a little closer and talk logistics. In doing so we were greeted by a man, resting on a speaker. “Are you thinking of getting married here?” he asked, beads of sweat forming on his brow seemingly from recent physical exertion, although I could only count one speaker having been set up. “We ARE getting married here”, I responded. “OK, cool…do you need a DJ?”, ah I see. “No, we already have a DJ, why? Are you a DJ?” “Yes, I’m DJ Damon. Who are you having?” We told him. “Wow, he is like the best DJ in the region.” “Wow, that’s a nice thing for you to say of one of your competitors!” “Yeah he is like a real DJ. He’s awesome.” We went on to recount the story of our recent visit to the studio. “Wow, really? You went to his studio?!” We clearly didn’t realise the preceding reputation of DJ before our visit but we are now very confident that we have selected a quality addition to team Wedding, and he is sure to be a hit…if he can keep me away from his percussion.
So, after lamenting the loss of Engagey and enjoying a short intermission in Wedding proceedings for a couple of weeks, I dragged out the awe inspiring pile of Wedding magazines gifted to me from MOH very early on in our engagement and packed them into the car, along with our two furry children and a milk crate full of booze, a sample size of Engagey’s most rewarding legacy.
We were Dunno bound. Not really with any major wedding planning activities in the pipeline, but for a short visit to recharge our batteries and to get the vibe of what the town and the region will be like for our impending nuptials. Frickin busy if this weekend was anything to go by. Better get those save the dates out sooner rather than later.
I had previously tried to make appointments with some suppliers that are already on the team, due to the busy time of year, I was only able to meet with one. The DJ. And he didn’t disappoint. I suggested we catch up for a cold beverage or two just to break the ice, put a name to a face and have a more in depth conversation about what we wanted and what he could provide. We decided to meet at his place just between Dunno and Yalls (Yallingup.) The directions I was given were reminiscent of a wild goose chase/ treasure hunt and Fiance and I were filled with both intrigue and intrepidation at meeting a stranger in the middle of nowhere. Follow the yellow brick road and take the 2nd turn on the right after the gravel road starts, look for the rainbow valley sign on the fence then keep driving past the house of terrors until you see the white guitar on the fence, then follow it down to the surfboard cut in half that directs you to my studio. Fiance and I shared a nervous giggle, thankful that we had brought a 4wd vehicle for this little adventure.
The DJ greeted us warmly and welcomed us into his studio – a bush shack/shed surrounded by trees and only 7kms from the beach converted into his own little creative space. We entered through the kitchen and he led us into a room filled with intruments and all his gear. He also had a special little semi sound proof room for his drums, cos “I’m a drummer – that’s what I do”. I literally tripped and stumbled over my words, as well as a set of bongo drums, taken aback by the amount of fun I could have in that room and clearly struggling to hold myself back from having my own impromptu jam session. Step away from the instruments. Fiance, knowing me and my penchant for creating magical entertainment all too well, instantly sensed my inherent desire to kidnap DJ, lock him in a cupboard and take over his studio for two or three days.
We spent the next half hour or so talking about options for our wedding, one of which included the offer of an after party in a nearby beach car park, at which DJ would bring along his ‘DJ mobile’ pop the roof and spin the decks well into the morning, suggesting that we could then walk back to town if we weren’t “too messy” or do a deal with the dunno taxi service and have people shuttled back to town intermittently as sunrise approached. We would just have to let him know a few hours beforehand so he could arrange some of his “crew” to get down there with generators and the like. “We’ll let you know…” Fiance and I responded, not wanting to upset the very musical, slightly eccentric apple cart.
He also suggested keeping the eating and other wedding formalities to a minimum in order to maximise time for dancing, everyone wedding supplier has their own little agenda to push don’t they! Hey, who knows – we might just turn the entire wedding into a dance party yet!
We lunched on the balcony at Wise Winery the following day, soaking up those famous views across to Geographe Bay and also the goings on on the lawn below as someone elses wedding was in the initial stages of set up. We wandered down after lunch to check it out a little closer and talk logistics. In doing so we were greeted by a man, resting on a speaker. “Are you thinking of getting married here?” he asked, beads of sweat forming on his brow seemingly from recent physical exertion, although I could only count one speaker having been set up. “We ARE getting married here”, I responded. “OK, cool…do you need a DJ?”, ah I see. “No, we already have a DJ, why? Are you a DJ?” “Yes, I’m DJ Damon. Who are you having?” We told him. “Wow, he is like the best DJ in the region.” “Wow, that’s a nice thing for you to say of one of your competitors!” “Yeah he is like a real DJ. He’s awesome.” We went on to recount the story of our recent visit to the studio. “Wow, really? You went to his studio?!” We clearly didn’t realise the preceding reputation of DJ before our visit but we are now very confident that we have selected a quality addition to team Wedding, and he is sure to be a hit…if he can keep me away from his percussion.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Engagey...
Engagey… I miss you. You were only a part of my life for 4 months, but you were an all consuming force to be reckoned with. And I reckoned with you. You were reckoning. And I reckon I will look back on our time together fondly. Engagey, you taught me things. Important things. Things I could never know had you not been in my life. Things about myself, things about others and things about things.
I have learnt that ‘over catering’ runs in the family. I seem to have inherited this little characteristic, exhibiting tell tale symptoms quite early on in the Engagey planning process. Being a proud owner of the ‘over catering’ gene, however, led me to discover that I could fit 41 cartons of beer into a Rav 4. No more, no less. One more carton and I think the Ravster would have had a complete meltdown and quite literally snapped into two.
I learnt who my most important allies will be for Wedding. No big suprises there. One of these allies will be a small bottle of Rescue Remedy. For Shiz.
Then I learnt that I still need my mummy. One slightly shaky phone call to MOB and 30 mins later she arrives on the scene, armed with an abundance of wine and champagne and 2 seven layer dips. She was my rescue remedy until the champagne kicked in.
It’s probable that when Wedding finally arrives, I’m going to feel 300 times worse than pre-engagey with an overwhelming and unexplainable wave of paralyzing anxiety, but at least I’ll be able to recognize the signs early and grab a MOB and a MOH and self medicate accordingly.
Engagey will live on in our garden, so long as the Summer is not too harsh and I remember to water the herbs that once adorned her. But otherwise she is forever gone from my daily life.
But the sun has continued to rise and with it comes the whispers of something beautiful, something big. Wedding whispers, soft and sweet.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
NBS - 'not being stressed' ta
One thing that many people associate with weddings is stress. Wedding stress, amongst other things, is the pre cursor to a bad case of bridezillaitis. However, Wedding stress IS NOT an inherent characteristic of all wedding plans. And guess what?? I’M NOT STRESSED.
I’m relatively immune to stress as I know it at this point in my life. Being in a high pressure jobs for a great deal of my career, dealing with non-existent lead times, deadlines, deadlines and more deadlines. Annnnnd Relying on incompetent suppliers for the most part to achieve said deadlines.
Mortgage stress? Well we don’t fit the technical definition but needless to say having to pay the mortgage isn’t the most favouritest part of my life. Sometimes having to think about disposable income and the way in which it is spent, can be stressful.
Stress fractures? Right at this moment (which is the only moment that you and I have FYI) the only repetitive stress of the foot striking the ground I’m likely to experience is through an impromptu interpretive dance fiesta. I performed one on the weekend and I seem to be fine.
Apparently there are 4 different types of stress that people experience:
Eustress – a good kind of stress that ‘provides immediate strength’. People experience Eustress at points of increased physical activity, enthusiasm and creativity. Comes in handy when motivation and inspiration are needed. Do you know what else comes in handy when motivation and inspiration are needed? Booze.
Distress – negative stress brought about my constant readjustments or alterations in routine. This may be acute or chronic. It doesn’t sound nice at all.
Hyperstress – occurs when an individual is pushed beyond what he or she can handle. This little chestnut is likely to result from being overloaded or overworked. Could perhaps occur during and after an office relocation when you have endured weeks of the sound of cheap masking tape shrieking as it’s ripped from its little cardboard spindle, never ending email instructions on how to pack boxes, left behind a 4th floor view over West Perth and Subiaco and found yourself in a red pimple of an office in a marketing ‘bunker’ with no natural light directly opposite ‘meeting room 3’ which may now be renamed the ‘Golden Palace’, ‘Yummy House’, or ‘The Miso Room’ due to the insistence of the admin girls to claim it as their lunch room when they are sharing a nice, aromatic Chinese lunch together.
Hypostress – is funnily enough the opposite of hyperstress. This occurs when an individual is bored or unchallenged, restless and unsinspired. Can’t say I haven’t been here before but with the recent distractions of post graduate study and pre-nuptial programs, this is definitely not a box that I fit neatly into.
Ahhhhhhh. So loving not being stressed.
The best part of Not Being Stressed or NBS as it will for here ever after be known, is dealing with the fact that everyone you know expects you to succumb. I don’t get it. It’s like your under this perpetual scrutiny of anyone who knows you going “oh. Yeah. Look out. Here she goes. She’s about to crack. Must be all the wedding stress”. Seriously people. Just. Back. Off. Phhheeewwwwww. I’m FINE. NOT STRESSED. Can pretend to be if that WOULD MAKE YOU HAPPY. But a combination of good planning, unparalleled organisational skills, an amazing support network, yoga and red wine protects my nervous system from such breakdowns.
And hey, I’ve totally been there. I have lived through ‘Bells Palsy’ amongst other things - as most of my close friends would know – not an easy thing, and not an amazing thing, not a life threatening thing but not a fun thing, and not something you want to go through more than once,but, something that once you have had, know that its more than likely may strike again at some stage or another.
It’s basically a nasty little virus that attacks your cranial nerve, resulting in partial facial paralysis for a period of time. In my case, it was about 3 weeks. That’s 3 weeks of not being able to fully or even partially close my left eye or even control or have any movement in my the left side of my face whatsoever. The cause is unknown, although, some might say as is the case with any virus it would be some issue with the central nervous system and the immune system succumbing to the virus and allowing the inflammation of a nerve that most of you wouldn’t even know existed. I sure as shit didn't.
Now I can say that I was in a fairly high state of stress when I woke up one day and noticed that my eyes were shutting at different speeds, that later on that day I had no feeling and no control over one side of my mouth and that even later on that night when the left side of my face completely ‘dropped’ and I thought I was having a stroke at the tender age of 28. I just wanted to go to bed, thinking that I just needed a good nights sleep but knowing that it was so much more serious than that.
Poor fiancé. Gorgeous fiancé, even then, knowing that something was at least visibly not right, would not tell me that I looked a little strange. Even when I screamed at him. I was stressed. He drove me to emergency – as luck would have it – on a Saturday night. Not ideal. We stayed there for a long time. I was prodded and poked and made an exhibition of to student nurses and doctors. All the while I would like to think I remained relatively calm, although I may have just appeared that way given my inability to control a whole one side of my face. At all. I was diagnosed with Bells Palsy, given the essential survival materials (a course of steroids, some tape to tape my eye closed and some eye drops) and sent home to fend for myself.
I'm sure that even the usually unflappable fiance experience an extreme period of stress knowing that the girl he loved may be not as pretty as she once may have been, for an unknown period of time - maybe forever... He stuck by me. Unconditionally and without reserve. I'm an unbelievably lucky girl to have someone like that so entrenched in my life.
So my idea of stress is a relative and very real thing. Little things are not going to send me facially paralysed. Needless to say, I can be a bit of a control freak but only when I have some control.
Impending engagey allows me such a privilege. I’m not stressed because I’m organised. This does not go down well with other control freaks.
I think I may be a victim of superficial stress, that is to say, I can allow myself to become overly preoccupied with things that are beyond my immediate scope of control. Those things currently include:
- The weather
- The actions of other people
- The perception of my actions/organisational capability to others
- Sugar flowers (watch this space, this is another blog topic altogether)
All in all, I think the result of my current condition of NBS is dealing with the non-recognition of others of my actual level of organisation and their inability to deal with my competence and sensitivity to actual stress. As soon as I feel the slightest sensation of a tightening between the shoulders, a persisting eye twitch, a sore throat or a little bit of moodiness, I’m onto it. My health is of paramount importance to me.
If I’m actually for real stressed, the god lord and baby Jesus and friends will know about it. If I need help, I am not too proud to ask for it, and if I come to you with half of my face hanging off, I think for certain you would’ve already seen it coming.
I’m relatively immune to stress as I know it at this point in my life. Being in a high pressure jobs for a great deal of my career, dealing with non-existent lead times, deadlines, deadlines and more deadlines. Annnnnd Relying on incompetent suppliers for the most part to achieve said deadlines.
Mortgage stress? Well we don’t fit the technical definition but needless to say having to pay the mortgage isn’t the most favouritest part of my life. Sometimes having to think about disposable income and the way in which it is spent, can be stressful.
Stress fractures? Right at this moment (which is the only moment that you and I have FYI) the only repetitive stress of the foot striking the ground I’m likely to experience is through an impromptu interpretive dance fiesta. I performed one on the weekend and I seem to be fine.
Apparently there are 4 different types of stress that people experience:
Eustress – a good kind of stress that ‘provides immediate strength’. People experience Eustress at points of increased physical activity, enthusiasm and creativity. Comes in handy when motivation and inspiration are needed. Do you know what else comes in handy when motivation and inspiration are needed? Booze.
Distress – negative stress brought about my constant readjustments or alterations in routine. This may be acute or chronic. It doesn’t sound nice at all.
Hyperstress – occurs when an individual is pushed beyond what he or she can handle. This little chestnut is likely to result from being overloaded or overworked. Could perhaps occur during and after an office relocation when you have endured weeks of the sound of cheap masking tape shrieking as it’s ripped from its little cardboard spindle, never ending email instructions on how to pack boxes, left behind a 4th floor view over West Perth and Subiaco and found yourself in a red pimple of an office in a marketing ‘bunker’ with no natural light directly opposite ‘meeting room 3’ which may now be renamed the ‘Golden Palace’, ‘Yummy House’, or ‘The Miso Room’ due to the insistence of the admin girls to claim it as their lunch room when they are sharing a nice, aromatic Chinese lunch together.
Hypostress – is funnily enough the opposite of hyperstress. This occurs when an individual is bored or unchallenged, restless and unsinspired. Can’t say I haven’t been here before but with the recent distractions of post graduate study and pre-nuptial programs, this is definitely not a box that I fit neatly into.
Ahhhhhhh. So loving not being stressed.
The best part of Not Being Stressed or NBS as it will for here ever after be known, is dealing with the fact that everyone you know expects you to succumb. I don’t get it. It’s like your under this perpetual scrutiny of anyone who knows you going “oh. Yeah. Look out. Here she goes. She’s about to crack. Must be all the wedding stress”. Seriously people. Just. Back. Off. Phhheeewwwwww. I’m FINE. NOT STRESSED. Can pretend to be if that WOULD MAKE YOU HAPPY. But a combination of good planning, unparalleled organisational skills, an amazing support network, yoga and red wine protects my nervous system from such breakdowns.
And hey, I’ve totally been there. I have lived through ‘Bells Palsy’ amongst other things - as most of my close friends would know – not an easy thing, and not an amazing thing, not a life threatening thing but not a fun thing, and not something you want to go through more than once,but, something that once you have had, know that its more than likely may strike again at some stage or another.
It’s basically a nasty little virus that attacks your cranial nerve, resulting in partial facial paralysis for a period of time. In my case, it was about 3 weeks. That’s 3 weeks of not being able to fully or even partially close my left eye or even control or have any movement in my the left side of my face whatsoever. The cause is unknown, although, some might say as is the case with any virus it would be some issue with the central nervous system and the immune system succumbing to the virus and allowing the inflammation of a nerve that most of you wouldn’t even know existed. I sure as shit didn't.
Now I can say that I was in a fairly high state of stress when I woke up one day and noticed that my eyes were shutting at different speeds, that later on that day I had no feeling and no control over one side of my mouth and that even later on that night when the left side of my face completely ‘dropped’ and I thought I was having a stroke at the tender age of 28. I just wanted to go to bed, thinking that I just needed a good nights sleep but knowing that it was so much more serious than that.
Poor fiancé. Gorgeous fiancé, even then, knowing that something was at least visibly not right, would not tell me that I looked a little strange. Even when I screamed at him. I was stressed. He drove me to emergency – as luck would have it – on a Saturday night. Not ideal. We stayed there for a long time. I was prodded and poked and made an exhibition of to student nurses and doctors. All the while I would like to think I remained relatively calm, although I may have just appeared that way given my inability to control a whole one side of my face. At all. I was diagnosed with Bells Palsy, given the essential survival materials (a course of steroids, some tape to tape my eye closed and some eye drops) and sent home to fend for myself.
I'm sure that even the usually unflappable fiance experience an extreme period of stress knowing that the girl he loved may be not as pretty as she once may have been, for an unknown period of time - maybe forever... He stuck by me. Unconditionally and without reserve. I'm an unbelievably lucky girl to have someone like that so entrenched in my life.
So my idea of stress is a relative and very real thing. Little things are not going to send me facially paralysed. Needless to say, I can be a bit of a control freak but only when I have some control.
Impending engagey allows me such a privilege. I’m not stressed because I’m organised. This does not go down well with other control freaks.
I think I may be a victim of superficial stress, that is to say, I can allow myself to become overly preoccupied with things that are beyond my immediate scope of control. Those things currently include:
- The weather
- The actions of other people
- The perception of my actions/organisational capability to others
- Sugar flowers (watch this space, this is another blog topic altogether)
All in all, I think the result of my current condition of NBS is dealing with the non-recognition of others of my actual level of organisation and their inability to deal with my competence and sensitivity to actual stress. As soon as I feel the slightest sensation of a tightening between the shoulders, a persisting eye twitch, a sore throat or a little bit of moodiness, I’m onto it. My health is of paramount importance to me.
If I’m actually for real stressed, the god lord and baby Jesus and friends will know about it. If I need help, I am not too proud to ask for it, and if I come to you with half of my face hanging off, I think for certain you would’ve already seen it coming.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Répondez s'il vous plaît
In the context of social invitations RSVP or Rsvp (or either of these with a full stop inserted after each letter) is a request for a response from the invited person. It is derived from the French phrase répondez s'il vous plaît, meaning "Please respond".
With Engagey looming on the horizon, I have currently received a number of replies to our invitation sent some weeks ago. However, the process has been enlightening to say the least and has led me to query to concept of répondez s'il vous plaît and its translation into modern day society.
I must say I was expecting a flurry of activity the minute those invites were hitting letterboxes across Perth and beyond. I had fiancé on standby to accept and respond to calls, text messages and emails with invited guests frothing at the mouth of the very thought of being thought of highly enough to have received an invitation.
To say the very least, we weren’t exactly overwhelmed at the response.
As it stands, we currently have 9 days until the date set for RSVP’s expires and invitations which have been ignored/not responded to will self combust in the lounge rooms, mail piles, on the refrigerators etc around the country leaving behind the stubborn stench of disapproval and a dirty brown stain. Emily Post (an American author famous for her writings on etiquette) will haunt the non responders, eerily reappearing every time a social faux pas is committed. She will loiter eternally in the gaping chasms that have become their social calendars, the ghost of etiquettes past ever present, urging them to respect the RSVP. “Anyone receiving an invitation with an R.S.V.P. on it is obliged to reply....", comes Emily’s haunting whisper.
Granted, RSVP’s are never really as important to you until it is your own function. This, added to the dilution and misinterpretation of the standard throughout time, have left the good old Répondez s'il vous plaît in left sitting in a stark shade of grey, snuggled right up next to negotiating roundabouts and opening the door for a lady. We’re all just a bit confused about it.
In some discussions on sending RSVP invitation to friends there is speculation that response ‘deficits’ can be attributed to those invitees who have misunderstood the RSVP as a request for reply only from those planning to attend.
Some highlights from the whole RSVP process so far include:
- The Man RSVP
Most of fiancés friends seem to have mastered the concept. They are kicking etiquette goals. Emily Post would hold them in very high regard. Especially when compared to the next group.
- The Referred RSVP’s
People who think it is acceptable to tell a fellow invitee that they will be attending without actually telling the actual inviter. These people have a serious issue with their ability to follow instructions and I would be surprised if they could find their way out of a paper bag let alone to the actual physical address of the function they have told a relative or friend of mine that they are/are not attending.
- The Social Media RSVPI didn’t send the invite on facebook so it’d be better if you didn’t rsvp on facebook but hey, you just did. I suppose I should be grateful that you’ve bothered at all unlike the…
- Non repliers
These people are either:
a) keeping their options open for a better offer
b) forgetful
c) rude
d) think they will surprise us by showing up on the night
e) firmly entrenched in Gen Y stuff and are not at all baffled by the concept, that just choose not to conform to social ideals and etiquette schmetiquette really
f) all of the above and I’m betting have never been through this process for themselves
I’ve had cause to contact some non repliers for other purposes during this time and sensing their desperation to completely avoid the topic of Engagey, have innocently queried “Did you get our invitation?” Their beleaguered response, “Yes, thank you. Insert passive non committal response here.” Insert raised eyebrows and eye roll here.
You know people, its fine. Sometimes you can’t make it to things. We know that, and we won’t be offended if you have other plans. We’d just like to know so that we can make adequate arrangements. It’s really that simple. Luckily, over catering features strongly on the agenda of both families, so should you continue to throw caution and the Emily Post Institute Guide Book to the wind, I’m sure we’ll have a spare cucumber sandwich and a copy of the 18th Edition of ETIQUETTE waiting for you.
With Engagey looming on the horizon, I have currently received a number of replies to our invitation sent some weeks ago. However, the process has been enlightening to say the least and has led me to query to concept of répondez s'il vous plaît and its translation into modern day society.
I must say I was expecting a flurry of activity the minute those invites were hitting letterboxes across Perth and beyond. I had fiancé on standby to accept and respond to calls, text messages and emails with invited guests frothing at the mouth of the very thought of being thought of highly enough to have received an invitation.
To say the very least, we weren’t exactly overwhelmed at the response.
As it stands, we currently have 9 days until the date set for RSVP’s expires and invitations which have been ignored/not responded to will self combust in the lounge rooms, mail piles, on the refrigerators etc around the country leaving behind the stubborn stench of disapproval and a dirty brown stain. Emily Post (an American author famous for her writings on etiquette) will haunt the non responders, eerily reappearing every time a social faux pas is committed. She will loiter eternally in the gaping chasms that have become their social calendars, the ghost of etiquettes past ever present, urging them to respect the RSVP. “Anyone receiving an invitation with an R.S.V.P. on it is obliged to reply....", comes Emily’s haunting whisper.
Granted, RSVP’s are never really as important to you until it is your own function. This, added to the dilution and misinterpretation of the standard throughout time, have left the good old Répondez s'il vous plaît in left sitting in a stark shade of grey, snuggled right up next to negotiating roundabouts and opening the door for a lady. We’re all just a bit confused about it.
In some discussions on sending RSVP invitation to friends there is speculation that response ‘deficits’ can be attributed to those invitees who have misunderstood the RSVP as a request for reply only from those planning to attend.
Some highlights from the whole RSVP process so far include:
- The Man RSVP
Most of fiancés friends seem to have mastered the concept. They are kicking etiquette goals. Emily Post would hold them in very high regard. Especially when compared to the next group.
- The Referred RSVP’s
People who think it is acceptable to tell a fellow invitee that they will be attending without actually telling the actual inviter. These people have a serious issue with their ability to follow instructions and I would be surprised if they could find their way out of a paper bag let alone to the actual physical address of the function they have told a relative or friend of mine that they are/are not attending.
- The Social Media RSVPI didn’t send the invite on facebook so it’d be better if you didn’t rsvp on facebook but hey, you just did. I suppose I should be grateful that you’ve bothered at all unlike the…
- Non repliers
These people are either:
a) keeping their options open for a better offer
b) forgetful
c) rude
d) think they will surprise us by showing up on the night
e) firmly entrenched in Gen Y stuff and are not at all baffled by the concept, that just choose not to conform to social ideals and etiquette schmetiquette really
f) all of the above and I’m betting have never been through this process for themselves
I’ve had cause to contact some non repliers for other purposes during this time and sensing their desperation to completely avoid the topic of Engagey, have innocently queried “Did you get our invitation?” Their beleaguered response, “Yes, thank you. Insert passive non committal response here.” Insert raised eyebrows and eye roll here.
You know people, its fine. Sometimes you can’t make it to things. We know that, and we won’t be offended if you have other plans. We’d just like to know so that we can make adequate arrangements. It’s really that simple. Luckily, over catering features strongly on the agenda of both families, so should you continue to throw caution and the Emily Post Institute Guide Book to the wind, I’m sure we’ll have a spare cucumber sandwich and a copy of the 18th Edition of ETIQUETTE waiting for you.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Lowest prices ARE just the beginning...
Marriage is the union of two different surnames, in friendship and in love, in order to continue the posterity of the former sages, and to furnish those who shall preside at the sacrifices to heaven and earth, at those in the ancestral temple, and at those at the altars to the spirits of the land and grain. – Confucius.
That all sounds great. So what changes after you get married?
I’m not expecting a whole lot will change for fiancé and I in terms of how our relationship works. We already own a home together which we live in together. We already know how the other reacts to certain behaviors and the remedy for disagreements. These remedies are arranged on a sliding scale in direct correlation to the extent of the disagreement/ undesirable behavior. Eg. A slight raising of the voice precedes a visit to Bunnings for some me time. There really is nothing quite as therapeutic as a big shed filled with tools, nuts and bolts, paint and plants. It’s a place where I can be free from my troubles, distracted, in amongst the latest in DIY render or bathroom tiles. It’s a place to potter and think. I know that I’m not alone.
I considered this just yesterday as I found myself in my local Bunnings - the big orange and green beacon for troubled souls, seeking refuge from their reality, whatever that may be, seemed particularly busy and yet there was an eerie calm. Some patrons are there for a specific purchase, for others it’s a place of asylum.
This day I took particular comfort in the nuts and bolts aisle, not an aisle I frequent regularly, however, I thoroughly enjoyed the vibe and I think I’ll be back. I must’ve stood there for 20 mins, staring at all the different nuts and bolts, washers and wing nuts. Mind boggling. How can there be a need for all these different sized little bits and pieces, all manufactured out of different materials? It’s crazy. And it had certainly sent a fellow patron crazy. He was loudly muttering to himself as he sifted through the high tensile bolts next to me. I’m not sure if he was speaking to the bolts or to himself. Reciting his little Bunnings mantra.
As I continued to stare vacantly, bolt-washed, a couple wandering up the aisle caught my attention. He – “I need something to do this to this part in the kitchen”. Her “What? How is that going to work?” Him “Don’t. Shut Up.” Her “What? Wait, I have an idea.” Him “Stop. No. Don’t you go getting any ‘ideas’.” Her “But it’s a good idea.” The Bunnings experience is not as enjoyable with a companion. It’s best as a solo activity.
I continued on my journey. I wandered aimlessly and yet with intent. Suddenly ‘remembering’ things that I needed and then becoming distracted by others on my way to find it. I noticed a lot of men with small children. I wondered whether they had escaped the family home voluntarily or whether their wives at home had somehow tricked them into leaving her alone. Maybe she had raised her voice and they had scurried to the car hurriedly, not knowing where they were going until they arrived, another soul drawn to the big orange and green beacon. I mean there were a lot of them. Bunnings should do a marketing campaign around this. Lowest prices ARE just the beginning… they are also keeping relationships intact all over the country!
Although we cannot predict the future, we can be aware of stories and advice from other married couples as well as a few assumptions thrown in for good measure.
I know that my surname will increase from 2 syllables to a whopping 4 in the process of changing from a 7 letter name to an unprecedented 12 letter name.
I am acutely aware that Fiancés Pecs will more than likely turn into ‘moobs’ over time.
I know that we would be ill advised to go to sleep angry after we are married, that it’s all about compromise, that we need to keep the lines of communication open etc etc.
I can only assume that the number one question I will be asked by friends, colleagues and strangers will change from “How are the wedding plans coming along?” to “When are the kiddies coming along?”.
Marriage may change other things as well. But in my view it’s all about the solution. Problems will happen and squabbles will inevitably be had. It’s how you deal with them that counts. My pitch will always be for a little bit of space every now and then. Time to be an individual and perhaps practice a little bit of self development so you can go back to that relationship as a stronger, better and more understanding human being.
And as I returned home from my jaunt to the local big orange and green temple, with 4 brand new bolts with washers to match, a ball of string, some dish cloths, and an attitude adjustment, the world was again as it should be.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Walking on Wedshells
Being on the bridal train is a special journey. It’s nothing like any other train I’ve ever been on. It doesn’t smell bad and you don’t need to listen to your iPod the whole way and wear sunglasses in a vain attempt to avoid eye contact and, god forbid, conversation with other passengers. Being on the bridal train allows you to sit back and bask in your acquired situational narcissism, in the full knowledge that no one of the other passengers (who are not the bride) can do anything about it.
That’s right –I’ve discovered that a ticket on the bridal train is like a get out of jail free card, you can say or do just about anything pertaining to Wedding and no one has any right of reply whatsoever - even if they disagree. You might catch the occasional exchange of an eye roll or two in response to your idea but I’m yet to come across anyone brave/stupid enough to verbalise their disapproval/disagreement. It’s fascinating.
Back in the real world, my ideas are met with objections, disapprovals and disagreements on a daily basis. But the minute I step foot back onto that bridal train, a blanket of silence descends. I’m greeted with big cheesy grins and lots of enthusiastic head’s nodding up and down. Even when prompted “Do you think that’s a good idea?”, wary fellow passengers exclaim “Yes, sounds amaaaaazing!”, followed by the usual disclaimer “It’s your day, as long as you’re happy.” Translation: “Omg you can’t be serious, that sounds ridiculous but I can’t actually say that to you in case you have a mental breakdown and throw me off the train and I would like to stay on the train it smells nice so I’m just going to agree with you no matter what.”
This is fine, I enjoy being agreed with. It could be dangerous. Things may get slightly out of control. Something like this might happen:
All because everyone was walking on wedshells. What are wedshells? Well, they are special little wedding eggshells, and if you break one a little bridezilla escapes and comes and bites you on the face.
So why do people walk on wedshells? Here are some reasons that I have adapted from some material on borderline personality disorder, which is apparently not too dissimilar to being on the bridal train.
Walking on wedshells describes a sense of feeling it is necessary to maintain an abnormally high level of vigilance, or an unusually high level of caution in a particular situation. You may feel this state of vigilance is necessary because you hope that by being very careful in all that you say and do, their "crazy bridezillarish" behavior might be reduced or avoided.
Everyone walks on wedshells from time to time in order to preserve the peace in their lives. The question becomes, "how much walking on wedshells is good for me and those around me? When does it become dysfunctional and unhealthy?"
If you live with someone who is on the bridal train, walking on wedshells has probably become part of the ‘background’ of your life. During periods of peace and calm, you may find yourself anxiously wondering when the next storm will hit, knowing that it may be unexpected and totally out of the blue.
Like walking on something thin and fragile, you fear that a single misstep or mistake will cause the bridal train to derail. You watch your Bride for signs of approval or disapproval of your every word, every thought, every action, and every behavior.
It is important for you to realize that you are a sane person in an insane situation. You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it and you certainly cannot cure it. You are entitled to a little peace in your life and to your own reality.
So, how do you avoid walking on wedshells?
Speak clearly, calmly and slowly. Maintain YOUR version of reality, while being as validating as possible. Lower your expectations that the Bride is going to act rationally. It isn’t going to happen. At least not overnight.
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