No strings attached.

So we’re < 6 months to the wedding.

What this means = It’s getting real.

How I feel = I’m ready to get married to Big, I’m not ready for the wedding itself.

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That’s probably directly correlated to the fact I’m an anti-Bridezilla. I’m a “hands off” bride to a fault. To be fair, I’ve had a few moments of enthusiasm for the planning part. The dress shopping is a no brainer— that was amazing. The flowers—I love, love, love flowers. They instantaneoulsy make me happy. So, talking to the florist made me…happy. And really, it’s not that complicated to talk about flowers.

But other than that, the rest of it makes me feel overwhelmed. 

For example, decorations. I’m keeping the amount of flowers minimal due to their painful price tag, and I’m supplementing where flowers would normally be….with hand-made items. And because God is good, he’s blessed me with “DIY” friends who are crafty, because I am not. One bridesmaid I started referring to as “Little Martha {Stewart}” years ago. She’s the girl who has her own sewing room in her home with reels of ribbon hanging from above. Another friend has recently taken up a love affair with crafting; she’s a Pinterest fanatic and has been perusing second-hand shops in her free time. 

It’s all way over my head.

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Today those 2 ladies spent 2 hours helping me begin to brainstorm decor ideas. While we sat there cutting glass, scraping labels off of wine bottles, and trying not to swallow spray paint fumes, the topic of my bridal shower came up. They asked me if anyone had offered to throw one for me yet.

"Yes. My matrons of honor asked, and…."

Next thing I knew, once I was done speaking, the entire bachelorette party, and shower, were planned.

Yes I accidentally planned the whole thing.

Because I’ve been a bridesmaid 11 times. And because I’m a bonafide project manager for a living. I can’t, I can’t help it.

So these crafty ladies politely told me to back-off.

"Mary, this is a very special time for you. I know you’re used to doing the planning for everyone else as a Bridesmaid, but you’re the Bride now—so stop it."

I have good intentions, I really do. The reason why I even started to verbally plan in the first place isn’t because I’m a control freak; it’s because of logistics and making travel/expenses less painful on everyone.

"There you go again. Really, stop. We’ve got this. You see Mary, we WANT to do this. We want to celebrate you. We don’t care if time is involved, or travel, or crafting. So don’t worry about protecting us."

Oh, ok. 

The ironic juxtaposition is this = I’m a DIY girl, it’s just not with crafts.

I’m not one of those brides who “hates to be in the spotlight.” I’m not shy and don’t have stage fright. But what I do fear is people feeling annoyed or overwhelmed or stressed out because of their bridal obligations. I’m hyper sensitive to that.

So it’s seems to me that life is handing me a lesson, as she usually does, and right on time.

Let go and let your girlfriends wrap you up in nothing but love, no strings attached.

jad·ed.

The lack of blogging over these last 2 months is a direct reflection on my lack of wedding planning.

The #1 question I get lately is, “So, how’s the wedding planning coming along?” 

My answer is always short & sweet.

"It’s not."

After we moved into our new home, which I am head over heels in love with, and juggling my work life, I have put minimal thought and effort into preparing for our nuptials’ celebration.

It feels like just yesterday that it was over 12 months away, and now suddenly, we are quickly approaching the 6 month mark.

Guess it’s time to get my act together, eh?

I do have some major items checked off the list, including The Dress, which I’m obsessed with. It’s absolutely perfect and better than I could have ever dreamed up in my wildest imagination. Ironically, and as cliche as it gets, it was the very first dress I tried on at the only store I went to. AND the dress color is called “Vintage” — another taste of irony because our theme is a throw back to the 1920’s. AND it had only just arrived 4 days prior and no one had tried it on yet.

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Meanwhile, my fiancé thinks I’m a weird-o because I don’t have the intense Bride gene. He was expecting me to be like the stereotypical woman who is neurotically micro-planning every little detail and loving every minute of it.

Not moi.

I think I’m jaded.

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I literally just looked up the definition to make sure that is the appropriate adjective to accurately describe what I mean, and it is indeed spot on.

I’ve had too much wedding. I guess that comes with the package of getting married at 35-years-old and having 11 bridesmaid titles under my belt, and that doesn’t count dozens of others I’ve attended as a guest. I’ve also seen the same details played out at countless weddings that it’s feeling very cookie cutter to me. The same “pick a seat, not a side” chalkboard sign, the same mason jar, the same sweets table. Been there, done that. So I want my reception to have some special, unexpected details…I just don’t know what the heck they are yet. It’s a bit overwhelming to think about it, so I choose to not think about it.

Don’t get me wrong — I want to WANT to plan our wedding. But it’s just not quite there.

In related news, I hired a wedding planner to help me out the day-of to deal with logistics and setting-up. I figure, maybe her planning gene will rub off on me?

I’m hoping that as time gets closer and I’m forced to make more decisions, that my project management skill sets coupled with excitement kicks into high gear.

One thing I’ve always passionately believed is that it isn’t just about The Day. It’s about every single day after The Day. 

After everything we’ve been through, I’m mostly just excited about growing old with him.

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New beginnings.

In one week, Mr. Big and I are starting our lives together.

Again.

We will be living under the same roof, alone, which we tried out in Baltimore and made a lot of mistakes over the course of those nine months.

Then we broke up for 1 year.

Our dog got really sick and she inadvertently brought us back together in a crisis — the only silver lining that came out of our little girl’s scary health condition.

Then, for the last year, we’ve been living together in his parents’ house while we waited to find a home of our own.

I’m not gonna lie — as you can imagine, it’s been quite challenging. The way I look at it is, it is unnatural for a couple in their mid-thirties to live with their parents…not in the United States anyway. By the time you’re 10+ years post-college graduation, you’ve gotten accustomed to not answering to anyone, on any level, outside of an office. You come and go as you please. You can walk around pantless should you wish to do so. You can pack the frig full of goodies that you enjoy. You can keep the bathroom as clean or as unclean as your heart desires. And you have the most precious gift of all — total privacy.

Next week we will close on our first home together. No more renting. No more leases. No more parking on the street in busy city neighborhoods with dinged bumpers. No more “sleep overs” at each other’s pads. No more. We’re moving on up to grown-up living.

Our new home is in a nice neighborhood. In fact, it even has a reputation for being semi swanky, whatever that means. There’s a golf course nearby and we even have our own community pool.

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Besides having a walk-in closet, and a super posh bathroom, the pool is what keeps me up at night. I’ve been mooching off of friends for YEARS to take a dip in their pools.

The United States Postal Office sent me an email notice recently, informing me that my mail forwarding service (to his parents’ address) is expiring soon…because it’s BEEN A YEAR.

One full year people.

I can never fully express how much I’ve grown as a lady friend, fiancé, daughter-in-law-to-be, and human being during these last 365 days.

Patience is a trait I always thought came naturally to me. It turns out: I have a threshold. 

When you marry a person from another culture, it comes with various customs and traditions that seem foreign to you (pun unintended).  So this past year has given me a glimpse into what it’s like behind closed doors, and the treatment families have for one another. It took some hard lessons for me to get it right.

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You see, growing up in my parents’ household as a child, we weren’t very lovey dovey. You don’t stand up every single time someone enters the home to greet them, particularly if they live there too. You don’t think too much about how you’re perceived by your family members, and if you’re engaging with them too much or too little. You didn’t think about much, honestly, other than common courtesy and basic respect.

But for the last year I’ve had to worry about how his family perceives me. Am I following all of the household rules to their liking? Do they think I’ll be a good wife to their son?  Do they think I vacuum enough?

The pressure has taken a toll on me, and on our relationship. We’ve both been stressed out, but have had no way out, literally. There was no escaping our situation.

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So I will enjoy and appreciate this imminent big move even more so than the average first time homebuyer. I’m not only thrilled to have our own space, but I’m thrilled to start over again.

Like I said earlier, Baltimore was a major bust; we learned from our mistakes. And then we’ve been living with his DNA ever since.

The time has finally arrived to focus on us, and prepare for our marriage.

I’ve put a big fat hold on all-wedding planning because the house has taken up so much of our spare time. Well, that and, I am not a big wedding planner as it turns out.

My life is full of blessings that it takes my breath away sometimes. I’m finally financially free because of a new business adventure I’m involved in with Nerium, a skin care company that’s exploding in popularity. Mr. Big used to be my full-time sugar daddy because of all the credit card debt I racked up in my past, but now I’m finally able to take care of myself, and I cannot put a price on what that feels like. My full-time job is a healthy work environment and is fulfilling too. My health is good, and my heart is whole.

There’s something sacred about new beginnings. We are moving into our new home on July 4th, Independence Day — how fitting. Our wedding date is set for the first day of spring.

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Big and I have had multiple “Take 2’s” and I’m incredibly grateful for the chance to start over. Again.

Tears & triumph.

I am coming up for air to tell a little tale, of tears and triumph.

Mr. Big and I have been looking for our first home together, for what seems like, every hour of every day, for the last 2ish months.

I. am. EXHAUSTED.

So much so, the dragged out process is actually making me cranky. So much so, I told him he can pick out our house. Rather, he can narrow down Our House, then I’ll look and give the final blessing. I just can’t spend one more waking moment looking at houses. When I get off a 9-hour workday, we go house hunting. On the weekend, we go house hunting. When we’re at our temporary home, we’re looking for houses online.

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My stress stems from the fact that I’ve found at least 8 perfectly fine abodes that I’d buy, but he finds something wrong with it. And secondly, I have many other things on my plate that need attention.

Which brings me to the wedding. I haven’t given it much thought since we started the war on house hunting. Then suddenly, on a random Thursday morning, Big asked for a status. And I didn’t have one. 

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"What do you mean? What about invitations? Why don’t we order invitations and get it over with sweetie?"

"Because. Sweetieeee. Invitations don’t go out until 6-8 weeks before the wedding and I don’t even know what time our ceremony is."

That’s just a teeny tiny snapshot into how well that conversation went. We hugged it out though, and both realized why weddings make people go mental. The financial burden is crippling. For us, anyway. Trying to prepare and purchase two of the biggest items in our lifetime at the exact same time — it’s too much for two humans to handle; mortgage lenders should throw in a pro bono counselor to make couples survive without any injuries.

I digress.

So between the mad dash for a house {mind you, we’re living with his parents in the interim, don’t forget that — no, no — don’t forget that part}, and a looming wedding that requires attention and 50% deposits, I have been running my own business on the side. I wouldn’t even call it part-time, I’d call it spare-time.

I’ve only posted about it once before, almost 1 year ago, because I don’t want my blog platform to turn into a sales platform, but too many good things are happening to not share. And frankly, the positivity of this company is keeping me grounded because I’m making a real difference in people’s lives.

NeriumAD, in short, is a magical skin cream (those are my words). The active ingredient is made from a plant, and this extract has a patent that no one can copy in the whole wide world. It makes our skin glow, the kind of glow only pregnant women normally have. It makes our wrinkles disappear. It makes loose skin tighten up. And it makes big ol’ pores diminish. Oh and it makes uneven texture & discoloration even out. It’s for all skin types, all ages. Even 1 year later and after seeing hundreds of before & after pictures, I still can’t get over how this stuff works, much less so fast. Here’s my girlfriend after only 2 months of using Nerium.

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So I’m soaking up the goodness, not only on my own face, but on the faces of my friends and family…thrilled that they’re feeling confident. Some forgoing make-up altogether. Some finally walking out of the house without tons of cover-up on over their blemishes. The list goes on.

But then, everything changed one afternoon in April.

Poof. A cellulite cream is born. Technically it’s called a contouring cream. But for me, this product is a God-given, dimple-defying, tidal wave on my thigh reducing, the holy grail in a bottle, beloved gift from Earth.

NeriumFirm works just like the face cream, but formulated for below the neck. These 28 day before & after photos taken in a clinical study are nothing short of a miracle.

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I happened to be at a national conference when the product launch announcement was made. Literally, tears fell from my eyes as they showed the pictures. Then, later that night, when talking to a brand partner on my team {who has NO cellulite mind you}, I tried to express to her why this is so meaningful to me but I couldn’t say the words without crying.

I was in a glass case of emotions.

"All my life I’ve had cellulite. Even as a child, a teenager — fit, athletic, on dance teams, soccer teams and gymnast teams, I had dimples where there shouldn’t be dimples. All my years, I’ve never known what it’s like to not have cellulite. It’s embarrassing. And there’s never been a solution to curb it. Even when I lose weight and am in a perfectly healthy range, the craters remain steadfast in their glory."

When the water works specifically kicked in would be when I replay scenes in my life, quietly in my memory. Like walking away from Big undressed, and patiently waiting until he’s not looking so he doesn’t see my backside. Or at the pool with friends, and covering up my lower half with a towel so no one has to see the sight. Or lounging at the beach with family, and, not running around with the children because that would mean my legs would be in plain view.

A long time ago, I came to terms with my cellulite-y situation. There aren’t any reasonable measures to get rid of it. Ok God, fine. You’re keeping me humble, I got it. And even the super expensive procedures don’t have staggering results, not that I could afford them a la Kim Kardashian.

So to think, that now I finally, finally have a chance to treat this insecurity of mine, it takes my breath away.

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During middle school, I suffered from horrific acne. Absolutely awful. Like pepperoni pizza acne. It made me insecure to say the least. I’ll never forget that feeling, maybe because I’m reliving it as an adult but in another form.

I took a very potent medication to kick the acne out of my system. Today, that medicine is now off of the market & the company was sued because it did so much harm to humans. Luckily, this cream by Nerium is 100% safe, has been through countless toxicology studies and proven to be strictly topical i.e. doesn’t break through our skin into the bloodstream. 

My very first bottle of NeriumFirm arrived 3 nights ago. I wouldn’t dare ask Big to take my “before” pictures, so I turned and twisted, trying to take selfie photos, of my ass, from my iPhone. When I finally got some in-focus images, and looked through them on the mobile screen, I cried — again. You see, I normally don’t pay much attention to the stubborn genetic reminders back there. In fact, I do everything I can to forget what’s happening behind me. But those pictures, they were tough to swallow.

I’m confident someday soon those tears will be happy ones. Because we’ll find Our First Home, and it’ll be just what we {both} need and want. And because we’ll have our wedding come together, within budget and just what we {both} envision. And because I’ll finally have more confidence this summer walking around in a bathing suit than I’ve had since I sported naturally blonde hair and when chubby legs with rolls were considered cute.

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Don’t get me wrong, I’ll probably still have a one piece on like little MaryB here, but I’ll play with the children without giving it a second thought, and I’ll walk around the pool without shame, and I’ll finally be free from towel wraps.

I shared my story today incase there is anyone out there who is like me. Be it that there’s something besides your smile that you’d like to enhance on your face, or “evidence” of post-pregnancy be it loose, stretched-out skin, or…dimples below the belt. We’re in this together sisters.

www.marybeththomsen.nerium.com 

Time to say goodbye.

When I entered the ICU to see my cousin Amy one week ago, who was on life support and had just given birth to her daughter via an emergency C-section, the smell that seeped into my nose the moment I entered the secure area of very, very sick people… was exactly the type of smell you’d expect at a hospital, in a critical care unit.

Medicine. Sterile equipment. Plastic. Fear. The cusp of death.

The very moment that vivid, but expected smell touched my brain transponders, I wanted to wash it away and never remember it ever again.

A week later, on Saturday night, I walked into my cousin Amy’s wake to a room full of flowers. There were too many to count, and each bouquet was a little burst of sunshine, wrapped in love. The tranquil smell of beauty danced in my nose and I could feel Amy’s spirit alive and well in every corner of the room.

Over the course of those next several hours, I consciously, intentionally, breathed her in. At the burial home. At her apartment. On the streets of New York City.

And time stood still. Literally. Everywhere I looked, the clock was stopped.

The calendar activities. The What to Expect When Expecting pregnancy book earmarked on the page where she had stopped and left it on the end table to pick up during her next moment of down time. The unused theatre ticket for Monday, March 17th on a shelf. The navy blue velvet high heel shoes with a sparkly jewel displayed on top of her casket, size 36 soles worn with laughter and fun, but ready to take on the world with many more steps. The set of silly photo booth still frames from a wedding her and her husband attended three short weeks ago. The cookbooks she poured her and her pregnant belly into, making her family of 3 eggs and porterhouse steak for breakfast. The remaining wedding favors of “I Heart NYC” shirts tucked neatly away in the closet. Amy’s wedding rings propped perfectly in front of a framed newlywed couple deeply in love.

On of my favorite songs in the whole wide world is Time to Say Goodbye, by Andrea Bocelli. I have never had any idea what they’re singing. But, it’s haunting, and beautiful, and takes my breath away. 

And because of this post, I decided to look up the lyrics’ translation. Now I know why it’s sung in Italian, because it’s far too overwhelming as a simple English-speaking soul to withstand the magnitude of this passion.

When I’m alone I dream of the horizon and words fail me.
There is no light in a room where there is no sun
and there is no sun if you’re not here with me, with me.
From every window unfurls my heart the heart that you have won.
Into me you’ve poured the light,
the light that you found by the side of the road.

Time to say goodbye.
Places that I’ve never seen or experienced with you.
Now I shall, I’ll sail with you upon ships across the seas,
seas that exist no more,
it’s time to say goodbye.

I’ll revive them with you.
I’ll go with you upon ships across the seas,
seas that exist no more,
I’ll revive them with you.
I’ll go with you.

You and me.

Andrea Bocelli is blind. I imagine his imagination is extraordinary, having to fantasize visuals and listen, really listen…because he cannot see.

My amazing cousin Amy, donated her eyes as an organ donor. This was done as a tribute to our grandmother who is essentially blind, as well as her husband’s grandmother. The ultimate sacrifice of giving, selflessly.

I don’t have a vocabulary of words available to describe my experience that evening, the evening where we said goodbye to Amy. So instead, I’ve captured it in photographs that speak for themselves.

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"What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.” - Karl Lagerfeld

The whole wide world.

I flew to Dallas this weekend for a non-profit group that I’m actively involved in as a volunteer.

When I was sitting in the afternoon board meeting, checking off our agenda items one by one…feeling accomplished, suddenly a mass email arrived that will forever be seared in my memory.

My mother shared tragic news with our family, because she couldn’t find the words to share the unspeakable over the phone. It took my mind several minutes to grasp the takeaway.

Cousin Amy, pregnant with her first child, is not going to survive. An unknown brain aneurysm ruptured. She is on life support.

Amy was slated to give birth the middle of May, in two short months. Once the surgeons determined that she couldn’t be saved, because lack of oxygen left Amy with no brain activity, they instead saved her baby girl, Mary Rose.

3 itty bitty blissful pounds.

When she first came out, it was a grim outlook. One of the doctors who helped rescusitate her said that when Mary Rose was delivered via C-section, she wasn’t responsive. But now she’s doing well: “I’m so glad we saved her — she made it.” The neonatal nursing team wrapped their support around her husband Peter, cried with and for him, and even offered to attend Amy’s funeral services.

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My family is large and wide and deep. Over 30 cousins line our roster, and of those, only a handful of us are girls. So we have a very special bond. No matter how many days go by that we don’t see or speak, the heartbeat of our bond continues to breathe across the miles.

Amy battled a disease for many years and it quite literally took over her day-to-day experience. She was trapped and held hostage by it; the illness, the medicine, and the pain. But then suddenly it seemed life was coming together and she was in a much better place physically. She also got married to the love of her life, Peter. When word broke that she was pregnant, a resounding sigh of relief and joy rippled through our family phone tree.

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When someone suffers for such a long time, there’s just something extra special about seeing them overcome.

Conquering the world.

Evidently this aneurysm is completely unrelated to the disease she faced for so many years. She likely had the aneurysm for a long time, maybe even when she was born. It’s unknown if her pregnancy, and extra blood used for the baby, had anything to do with the rupture.

Her husband is now a single father with a preemie baby. Her parents now only have one child, Amy’s brother, alive. It’s unfathomable, unbelievable, and undeniably horrific.

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Yesterday I boarded a plane to New York, in hopes that I could see Amy before she crossed over to the light. My arrival time wasn’t until 3pm and I prayed that would be enough. A few mountains had to be moved, and a bank account depleted, but the only rationale that continued to repeat over and over in my consciousness, was:

I don’t want the next time I see Amy…to be in a coffin.

My heart was aching to touch my family members, particularly being half way across the country — and whatever I had to do to make it happen — was the goal. My siblings (locals to the area) kept me updated from the hospital, and I was prepared that I may not make it in time. But her sweet family waited for me to get there before removing her life support, and there isn’t a price I can ever put on that gesture.

I sat next to the bed, rubbing the back of her hand for an eternity, and soaked up every morsel of her being. We have the same architecture and skin tone; freckles on our hands, elf-like fingers, and skin so silky it could rival the effects of fabric softener. Our grandmother is responsible for passing on these specific hands.

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By 6pm, our family surrounded Amy’s bed to say our farewell. I held her left hand the entire time and have never had a more profound, or surreal experience in my entire life. Once the breathing devices were removed, it only took a few minutes for her heart to stop. The passing was peaceful in nature, but the sadness was palpable. We walked away feeling numb, exhausted, and in a continuous state of shock.

Amy is the most vivacious, gentle, sweet, kind person. Her body, the shell, wasn’t her, but I could feel her spirit in that room.

She was thrilled to be pregnant, and it was a known fact that Amy was the happiest she had ever been. The “pregnancy glow” was created for people like Amy.

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With heavy hearts and stained cheeks, the group headed down to the NICU to meet Mary Rose. She is doing better than you’d expect, considering the early, and traumatic delivery. I had the honor of being a part of Amy’s divine passing, and then only moments later, the privilege of capturing her husband holding their baby for the very first time.

Peter started to sing to her, shifting from smiling, and then crying, and then smiling again:

He’s got the whole world in His hands. He’s got the whole wide world, in His hands. I’ve got the whole world in my hands…

Mary Rose has big shoes to fill. But, her angel Mommy will guide her every day, every step of her life (who, for the record, also has a deep kinship with shoes…another trait that runs in our family DNA. In between seizures the night before her passing, when Amy became conscious again and was told they had to go to the hospital, Amy asked Peter to grab a specific pair of shoes from the closet, believing she would be walking out of there). Instead, she had to fly.

Mary Rose will grow up with more love than she can ever imagine.

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Big trouble in little China.

So far in 2014, it turns out that the second I put something in writing, it doesn’t come true.

First it was gloating about doing a destination wedding in paradise. Only one week after posting the blog, the plans were pulled and now we’re getting married locally. Which, for the record, is completely fine because I’m over the moon with our venue.

Then I wrote about getting The (wedding) Dress at Saks 5th Avenue because a family friend offered me her discount. Turns out, she’s quitting in t-minus 2 weeks and I can’t make it to Manhattan in time.

So then there’s that.

Maybe I just should simply share the opposite of what I want to happen in the hopes that the contrary comes true. Or, maybe I just forgo my musings until post-wedding.

Nah, that’s no fun.

Since The (wedding) Dress shopping excursion is botched, I’m instead focusing on The (engagement photos) Dress. 

My gut tells me that The (wedding) Dress will be fairly understated; no Cinderella ball gowns for this girl. So I figured, hey, why not go completely ridiculous, over-the-top, ruffles and a train, and the whole 9 yards for our engagement photos. Really, why not?

There are a lot of images of Big and Carrie’s characters floating around from magazine shoots that make my heart skip a beat. They’re dressed up to the nine’s and I absolutely love it.

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The dress I selected was (allegedly) designed after a dress worn at the Emmy’s this year. Ironically, I saw a very similar silhouette worn at last night’s Oscar Awards.

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So I went for it and ordered a really big dress, accidentally, from China. I didn’t know that part until I hit “purchase” at the very end. Whoops. Nothing against China, I just wasn’t expecting that Customs would be involved in the transaction.

Five weeks later, my custom-made dress that passed through Customs was delivered. Inside the sad little cardboard box that traveled an ocean or two, was a gorgeous, royal blue frock with fabric that went on for miles.

Holding it up to my body with my hands, I showed Mr. Big and his eyes widened. I’m not sure if it was the sheer beauty that warranted his reaction, or the mounds of fabric that overwhelmed him.

As soon as he left the house, I tried her on. I ordered the size that I currently fit in, assuming it’d work just fine. In fact, I was hopeful that maybe I could even shed a few pounds in the five-week interim and have a little extra space to play with.

Things were looking good, until I attempted to pull her up over my ass. You see, my ass is really, really large. It has been since high school. Even if I’m up or down 20 pounds, which I average every other year, the size of the ass remains large. My figure is the Coke bottle kind, which has its perks. I own my curves and enjoy a small waist. But the damn ass can really get in the way, time and time again, particularly with jeans…and this was no exception. Big trouble came in from little China ~ evidently their sizes don’t convert for large American asses.

I shimmied like a penguin over to the bathroom mirror to take a look. When I turned around, I saw my exposed ass and naked back. The zipper was stuck in place at the very bottom. Let me make this very clear…there wasn’t even an inch or two I could pull up. Nada.

How fitting: The (engagement) Dress doesn’t fit.

So I shimmied back to the bedroom, pulled the very pretty roll of fabric off of my body, and contemplated what to do next.

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Well, the photo shoot (which is a plane ride away) is in two short weeks. I hate for this expense to be a complete loss. Maybe, just maybe, a professional seamstress can help a sister out.

Google helped me search for one with awesome reviews. One who can do some dirty work. We’re not talking simple hems here, we’re talking outpatient surgery.

I found my seamstress savior and was pleasantly surprised upon my arrival that her studio was legit. Ya know when you walk into a nail salon and you immediately know if their practice is shady based on the plastic flowers and ancient polish bottles…or, they’re more sophisticated because they have fancy machines and spa-like accents such as a trickling water fountain? This lady had the equivalent of a water fountain for her production room.

My mind was immediately put at ease that this woman could work miracles solely based on the waiting room aesthetics, and, the quantity of customers coming in and out of the door like a Starbucks on a Saturday morning.

She had a thick accent, which I couldn’t place. That is until I picked up her business card and saw her unpronounceable name which appeared to be Russian, or Ukrainian, or Romanian.

The owner instructed me to put on the dress, meanwhile she was fitting a bride in her wedding gown next door. I patiently stood in my dressing room for several minutes and wouldn’t come out, ya know, because everyone would see my large, bare ass. That is, until she noticed my back’s reflection in the mirror.

"Do you need me to help you zip it up?"

Slightly mortified, I responded in front of her other clients, “Well, um, that’s what I need to talk to you about.”

There was a pause.

"It doesn’t zip up, does it?"

I shook my head from side to side.

She smiled with an endearing, sincere expression, and said in her very thick Russian, or Ukrainian, or Romanian voice:

"That’s ok. You’re definitely not de first. We make it work."

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One hundred dollars later, I walked out confident that my new favorite person in the world will perform magic and/or an exorcist on The (engagement) Dress before I board a plane next Friday.

"You’ll need to come back two, or three more times in the next 2 weeks. Little by little, we’ll keep testing it out and see how it looks."

God willing friends, God willing. Now I just need to find a suitcase that is big enough for my big dress to cover my big ass.

In a city of infinite options, sometimes there’s no better feeling than knowing you only have one.
— Carrie Bradshaw
And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
— Walt Whitman  (via evocative-eloquence)

(Source: larmoyante, via eternally-flowered)