Update

Update: The Knot has me covered. Apparently there are legions of brides-to-be with "skin disorders," unsightly tattoos, freckles (egads!) and and bruises in need of cosmetic coverage.

Scrooge McDuck fantasies

Is TheTeet linking me a subtle reminder that I should post on this thing more frequently? Anyway, I'll take the gentle nudge. Some updates, and then some ranting:

At risk of jinxing things (I am ashamed to admit I fall into that category of not-really-superstitious-but-hey-why-don't-I-take-that-umbrella-outside-before-I-open-it), I think we've found a place for our wedding and reception. There is a comma in the cost of renting the site, a comma that pains me to no end -- I mean, there still is that blasted presence of TJIMHWIACB, after all -- but all things considered, it's not too too expensive. Yes, the WIC (er, wedding industrial complex, we're entering indiebride slang territory now) has broken my spirit, which, whatever, that's no big victory, as recent events have left it as brittle as an osteoporosis-hobbled centenarian.

In other news, the rash I developed in winter 2005, believed to be psorosis (a diagnosis that came only after seven unsuccessful attempts to draw my blood for allergy tests before a successful blood draw found that hey, I don't have any allergies) has returned, and this time, as in every good sequel, it's back with a vengeance. What I thought was a couple of bad mosquito bites on my left shin has gotten bigger, redder and badder, and similar spots have spread to my other leg, stomach, chest, back, both arms, right hand, right index finger and neck. My manic scratching has me feeling like Tyrone Biggums, minus the ashy lips and the crack habit. Bad genes are the likely culprit for my outbreak -- my dad has psorosis, too -- but the stress at work has clearly worsened things. But hey, things could be worse. Anyway, I still have some steroidal cream left over from last time. And let me tell you, there is nothing hotter than asking (The Boyfriend? The Finance? The Kyle?) to rub salve that smells like it was magically transported from a medicine cabinet in 1952 all over the raised itchy bumps on my back. H-O-T-T.

But here's the time for my girly confession: On top of my concern for ending this immediate problem, there's a part of me that's like, Oh, shit, what if my skin is like this when I get hitched? Am I gonna have to get some of that freaky-ass greasepaint that is supposed to hide, like, scars and birthmarks and such? Or am I gonna have to wear tights? What am I gonna do? Realistically, I know that I can just get a prescription for oral steroids, if need be, (and what aspiring Bridezilla wouldn't benefit from a lil' 'roid rage?), but yeah, I s'pose this evidence that I can't rid myself of all of my god-given girlhood. Next, you'll find me wearing pink and talking about my love for bunnies. Oh, wait.

Finally, I read a great entry on good ol' offbeat bride today about a service that provides expert service to help with wedding proposals. From the website of Go Get It (and let's just get it out in the open -- any organization led by someone named "Jenifour (also known as Jeni4, J4 or simply 'Four')" is going to be bad news):

Suppose you have a special occasion to celebrate. When you hire Go Get it, we will create a rousing adventure for you and your loved one. Along the journey, perhaps he or she will be boated across a moonlit river, greeted by a smiling psychic or taken on a romantic escapade through New York City.

Perhaps he or she will travel by a stretch limousine or mysteriously handed a map and keys to their fantasy sports car. Possibly they will be accompanied by their own publicist for the day or find that they have been turned into a star overnight with their pictures gracing the cover of People Magazine. They may arrive at a fantastic surprise Soirée with a room full of their closest friends flown in from all over globe.

So yeah, I've decided that Kyle's proposal isn't good enough. I want a Fairy Tale (nonsensical use of capitalization courtesy of Go Get It) proposal. Something involving a pegasus and a room full of coins I can swim through, a la Scrooge McDuck, should do the trick.

(Thanks to TheVom.com, which deconstructs the madness that is TheKnot.com for this.)

The yelling in my head is unstoppable

I just spent the last hour registering on TheKnot.com and looking via The Internets at various wedding/reception/future crime scene sites. Mostly, it's been a lot of The Jenny In My Head Who Is A Cheap Bastard (Or TJIMHWIACB, for short) screaming as loud as she can, WHAAAT? You expect me to pay how much for a two-hour site rental??? I have never spent so much as $100 for a party, and now the wedding industrial complex would have me pay around $28,000 for the one-day event. Sure, that's an amount that would make your average My Super Sweet 16-er rage about how cruel and penny-pinching her parents are, but given that I think my parents never ponied up more than, say $75 for a skating party when I was in the second grade, the thought of spending three figures on a party, never mind four, just blows the ol' noggin.

Of course, it doesn't help that I'm all hopped up on Diet -- excuse me, Sugarfree -- Red Bull and am procrastinating doing work.

Sigh ... it is times like this that imagining myself getting hitched by a greasy-haired, stubbly chested Elvis impersonator sounds not just tempting, but downright reasonable.

WHAAAAAT?????

Ooops, sorry, just working on my bridezilla yell.