Picking Up The Pace

I’ve run 30 miles so far. This puts me about 12 miles behind schedule, but I need to build up some stamina without injuring myself, so I’m not too concerned. I even ran in the morning today and I feel amazing.

A few HUGE wedding achievements:

1. We’re one signature away from booking the caterer and the photographer. The caterer is affordable and highly recommended; somehow I got a free wedding cake out of the deal? Really, nothing turns a woman into a living Cathy cartoon faster than combining the words “free”, “wedding” and “cake”. This will be a huge help since we’re going out-of-budget in some other areas.

2. We’re going with Ben for the photographer! I’ve wanted Ben to shoot my wedding ever since I first saw his work. His candid pictures are especially beautiful to me; he captures all these perfect smiles, sweet moments or great laughter. Justin and I had a long talk and we agreed that Ben’s worth a budget stretcg because he’ll capture our day the way we want to remember it. I’m so happy! Also, because I never get tired of brag-posting about it, he once made me this:
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3. We haven’t killed each other yet. Justin and I usually make decisions together in a snap. But when it comes to approaching big projects, we both have our own weird little process, and we’re complete opposites. Every conversation begins and ends with a happy hug and kiss, but there are some total meltdowns in between. The other night at a big group dinner, Jen remarked at how smoothly our planning seemed to be going. I said, “Uh, not really.” And my friend Chris, who was once engaged, gave me a knowing and borderline-traumatized smile.

Life is getting a little better. Running is making me happy and slightly less obese, so I might be able to get back into blogging soon. I still haven’t seen the Ramomas, though I’ve seen their shenanigans on Facebook and looked up their  white trash friends/lovers on Case Net, so that makes me feel better about myself and that’s what really matters, right?

My old roommate Tony is getting married in a month, and I get to room with BFF/Maid of Honor Liz! Yay! I haven’t seen her since our high school reunion 3 years ago. I’m also going to swing by Brooklyn to hang with Frank.

Speaking of Mr. F, I traveled for work for the first time and I stayed at the hotel chain that he designs for. It was like staying in an Anthropologie catalog. I felt like such a baller. Here’s a fuzzy slideshow that I took with my laptop  because (a) I’m resisting the iPhone for as long as possible and (b) why the hell would I bring my camera on a work trip?:

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You know you’re at a hipster hotel when even the bed has a scarf.

I’m adjusting well to my new team; my creative directors are both great and my current design partner always cracks jokes in broken English so clearly he’s amazing (also, astonishingly talented).  HOWEVAH I went through some recent work drama that was so (unintentionally) offensive that it immediately became the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ll write about it soon, maybe, but my live reading of the email is so much better than seeing it on a screen. Maybe after Jen gets the live show. It’s so good. My ex-boss was hooting and crying through the whole thing.

Runaway Bride

Dear blog, I’m just not that into you right now. I need some space. And endorphins. And real life friends.

However, since I’m nearing the 1-year mark to my wedding, I’ve decided I need a plan to keep myself sane and fit.

So, I’m running 100 miles a month, every month until the wedding. 1200 in 12.

That’s all I have the energy to write these days. Blame the dumbass Ramonas.

 

The Ramonas

Ramona isn’t their real name, but it’s close enough. We’ll go with Ramona.

Ramona 1 and I have known each other since the first grade. We were inseparable up until our mid-twenties, with that telepathic connection that you have with one, maybe two friends in a lifetime. However, Ramona doesn’t say “hi” when you call her, doesn’t ask you how you are. Ramona likes shortcuts, favors and fun without responsibility. While I’m far from perfect and she’s seen me at my absolute worst, her faults either became worse or less tolerable to me, to the point where I told her I no longer wanted to be her friend. We made a slight reconnect when my dad died, but that’s about it.

Ramona 2 lived down the street from me. From 7th – 12th grade and even part of college, I spent a few hours after school every day at her parents’ huge house. We could even see each others’ houses through the woods, so we could call each other at midnight if a light was on, or sneak over after our parents fell asleep. She was the complete opposite of me, but proximity made us close friends. Ramona 2 has like 1,000 Facebook friends. Ramona 2 is in a dance crew and goes to clubs every night. Ramona 2 is a bundle of hormones, energy and love, which works both for and against her.

The Ramonas both had blond hair, black cars, black cats, the same first name and last names that began with the same letter. The Ramonas have both struggled with major addictions, shaky employment, bad men, weird parents, bad tattoos and more. The Ramonas are both moms – one Ramona has a daughter, the other a son. Their kids are the same age. Both Ramonas are currently living with their parents. The Ramonas are trouble. In fact, for years I called them “The Scandalous Ramonas”.

The Ramonas are a huge part of my life. They were there for some of my biggest mistakes and struggles, my huge milestones, my first boyfriends, and more. They saw me every day, and we spent hours doing absolutely nothing in that adolescent way that somehow still feels productive. The Ramonas would sit on my back porch and chainsmoke half a pack with me in one sitting. Ramona 1 and I would analyze our entire day, Ramona 2 would invite boys over.

The Ramonas and I haven’t spoken for years. The Ramonas don’t know what I went through when I took care of my dad, weren’t there when I got my new job, and have never met Justin. The Ramonas don’t know what I’m like when I have my sleep disorder under control. The Ramonas probably don’t know that I can be a very rational, responsible, caring person. The Ramonas don’t know what it’s like to have a career, though they know what it’s like to have a kid so we’re probably even. The Ramonas stay out til 2 on a Monday. The Ramonas say “yes” to the wrong things and “no” to themselves. The Ramonas taught me what not to do.

Two weeks ago, the Ramonas both came back into my life. The Ramonas hung out with each other for a few days. Each Ramona claims the other Ramona is still on drugs. Each Ramona claims the other Ramona is a bad parent. Each Ramona claims they are okay. I still haven’t seen either of them; the Ramonas like to make plans and then not show up.

The Ramonas make me sad. The Ramonas make me simultanously nostalgic and relieved that my youth is over. The Ramonas make me want to hug my mother and apologize for things.  The Ramonas make me exhausted. Just thinking about the Ramonas is enough to make me too tired to write in this blog for weeks. The Ramonas make me want a cigarette, or two, or twenty. The Ramonas break my heart.

The Ramonas make me wonder how I turned out the way I did. The Ramonas make me proud of myself. The Ramonas make me grateful for all of you, especially those of you I know. Thank you for not being a Ramona.

UPDATE: The Ramonas are currently on a road trip to see Primus.