Previously on the Countdown to Bridezilla: A last tango in Blue Moon full of spittle and snot that were just slightly adorned for the tic-tic-tic of D'Arienzo. A post-April plan congeals and shimmies like the tastiest of lime jellos. A HOUSE emerges from the mists and beckons to our dauntless couple. And, a tremulous ceremonial moment of acquiring dual membership at a gym. By god there was dancing!
...
...12...
...In the midst of wedding crazies - a date day in Seattle!
Andrew and I packed up our caravan (well his SUV, bike, bag, etc.) and headed south to Seattle, whereupon I gathered all of my remaining vestiges from the home I've overnighted at for three years, and which I may never see again. We also had lunch with my college friend Jill, and went to the ballet for Modern Masterpieces (fortunately an apt and not ironic descriptions of the repertory performance we encountered).
It's fun to go to the ballet with Andrew. We started going in the cheapest seats up front when we first began dating and have since been blessed with season tickets as my annual gift from my father. We just both are so there for the experience and always have so much to discuss. But I think we also experience it very differently and sharing those differences adds texture.
For me, there are two elements of dance that will always be my primary experience: the music and the emotional effect.
Music is an intrinsically synesthetic experience. Tiny vibrations in the ear drums are interpreted as sound; those same vibrations are felt more viscerally throughout the rest of the body. All that oscillation melds touch and sound into a single unified experience. The body inherently adjusts to these sensations, by bringing itself into synchronicity. My heart rate, breathing, and even blinking slowly align to the musical pulse. The euphony runs through my body like an electric current, an irresistible catalyst for movement (as I'm sure Andrew can attest with the little finger shaped bruises in his thigh and palms, when I start idly tapping in time).
It's fun to go to the ballet with Andrew. We started going in the cheapest seats up front when we first began dating and have since been blessed with season tickets as my annual gift from my father. We just both are so there for the experience and always have so much to discuss. But I think we also experience it very differently and sharing those differences adds texture.
For me, there are two elements of dance that will always be my primary experience: the music and the emotional effect.
Music is an intrinsically synesthetic experience. Tiny vibrations in the ear drums are interpreted as sound; those same vibrations are felt more viscerally throughout the rest of the body. All that oscillation melds touch and sound into a single unified experience. The body inherently adjusts to these sensations, by bringing itself into synchronicity. My heart rate, breathing, and even blinking slowly align to the musical pulse. The euphony runs through my body like an electric current, an irresistible catalyst for movement (as I'm sure Andrew can attest with the little finger shaped bruises in his thigh and palms, when I start idly tapping in time).
I have read and rather like to believe that the brain processes music the same way that it processes interpersonal interactions - just as we mirror the little expressions and movements of interlocutors and enforce our own empathic connection with that individual, we mirror the mirror and internally create an empathic bond with music. A plaintive minor key, and tears well up (incidentally, will I ever learn that I am enough of an aesthetic sap that I should always bring a handkerchief to ballets/operas/symphonies? I will otherwise be wiping snot on my sleeve by the third act, regardless and this somehow adds bathos to the pathos in a fairly distracting manner). A jaunty major, and a grin pops up. The first stir of music, and chills branch through the body. Elements of anxiety in the music reproduce physically in the hearer. All of this blends sensory experiences beyond hearing.
Dance is the first natural extension of that experience - not necessarily an intent to move to music, but inevitable movement intentionally shaped as music moves through my body. Even sitting in a chair, attempting to be still, there is dancing. Minute, tiny dancing hardly visible to the naked eye, but internally roiling.
Concert dance weaves the visual into this sensory symphony. The artists hone their craft so well, reaching a mastery that allows them to demonstrate what the choreographers and dancers HEAR in visual form. The movements with or against the beat and timbre of the music, highlighting elements of the music, constrasting other elements... I could parse it in academic terms but ultimate it is an experience beyond words.
Music uses a certain familiarity that immediately relates to the brain and triggers emotion, but it crystallizes basic familiar expressions into pure and highly manipulable vocabularies and syntaxes. Dance does the same. I was struck, in particular, how one piece used gestures that unequivocally echoed paroxysms of grief and suffering, motions that mimicked fainting, brief but utterly encompassing embraces of consolation and desperation. They were stylized, but in a way that shed the dross of ordinary ambiguous human movement. He used these motions to create a cognitive dissonance between other very isolated, emotionless, and even despondent motions. Between these brief moments of grasping and even briefer connections, dancers moved past or away from each other like shades... pulled from each other's sphere by apparent winds. He deftly played the contrasts between motion and stillness, emotion and dispassion, and sound and silence (many moments where the music faded to silence punctuated by a tolling bell - something that sporadic audience members were moved to disturb the spell with smatterings of applause) to create an unease that immediately translated as experiences of love and loss.
I try not to speculate what another person experiences when they encounter an aesthetic experience, because people are so often wrong. From conversations we have had, Andrew brings a very different perspective to our experience in the audience. He self reports as having always had trouble "hearing the music," and - although he likes music - has not had the same sort of obsessive consumption of it that I have had through my life. He devoted himself very seriously to the study of dance, both academic and physical, and made it to the Joffrey Ballet in NY. He knows the dance world. He knows the stories and gossip. And eventually he passed over into the technical side of theater and worked lights and staging. He knows that part too, and these are the frameworks he primarily applies to his reflections. He may note the choice of white unitards over black ones and how this enables the lighters to show the dancers bodies. He may recall quite physically the experience of certain choreographies he has practiced, and the politics involved with getting such and such a solo. He may remark upon strength of the movements and his admiration for the way the choreographer did not strictly adhere to any one school of thought. And, as I say, those may be the things he's been given vocabulary to articulate so I don't imagine I know what he experiences in the moment, but what he expresses brings insights that I would not otherwise have made. I've learned to ask what about the pieces we see together really drew him, because inevitably it is something that I hadn't noticed or didn't emphasize. And this leads to interesting insights.
Still more interesting insights, of course, are had from the intermission-era fashion commentary we share. Because one of the joys of a man who maybe traveled in theatre spheres is that the boy knows how to snark just as good as I can, and there is such a diversity of style at McCaw Hall, it is fascinating to blend deconstruction, a little judgment, and a lot of speculation about the statements intended and made by passers-by.
To cap off my Adventure-in-the-City Day, I took a train back to Bellingham. Not much to say about that beyond "wow, travelling in a comfy seat on the water during Sunset... is there anything better??"
Dance is the first natural extension of that experience - not necessarily an intent to move to music, but inevitable movement intentionally shaped as music moves through my body. Even sitting in a chair, attempting to be still, there is dancing. Minute, tiny dancing hardly visible to the naked eye, but internally roiling.
Concert dance weaves the visual into this sensory symphony. The artists hone their craft so well, reaching a mastery that allows them to demonstrate what the choreographers and dancers HEAR in visual form. The movements with or against the beat and timbre of the music, highlighting elements of the music, constrasting other elements... I could parse it in academic terms but ultimate it is an experience beyond words.
Music uses a certain familiarity that immediately relates to the brain and triggers emotion, but it crystallizes basic familiar expressions into pure and highly manipulable vocabularies and syntaxes. Dance does the same. I was struck, in particular, how one piece used gestures that unequivocally echoed paroxysms of grief and suffering, motions that mimicked fainting, brief but utterly encompassing embraces of consolation and desperation. They were stylized, but in a way that shed the dross of ordinary ambiguous human movement. He used these motions to create a cognitive dissonance between other very isolated, emotionless, and even despondent motions. Between these brief moments of grasping and even briefer connections, dancers moved past or away from each other like shades... pulled from each other's sphere by apparent winds. He deftly played the contrasts between motion and stillness, emotion and dispassion, and sound and silence (many moments where the music faded to silence punctuated by a tolling bell - something that sporadic audience members were moved to disturb the spell with smatterings of applause) to create an unease that immediately translated as experiences of love and loss.
I try not to speculate what another person experiences when they encounter an aesthetic experience, because people are so often wrong. From conversations we have had, Andrew brings a very different perspective to our experience in the audience. He self reports as having always had trouble "hearing the music," and - although he likes music - has not had the same sort of obsessive consumption of it that I have had through my life. He devoted himself very seriously to the study of dance, both academic and physical, and made it to the Joffrey Ballet in NY. He knows the dance world. He knows the stories and gossip. And eventually he passed over into the technical side of theater and worked lights and staging. He knows that part too, and these are the frameworks he primarily applies to his reflections. He may note the choice of white unitards over black ones and how this enables the lighters to show the dancers bodies. He may recall quite physically the experience of certain choreographies he has practiced, and the politics involved with getting such and such a solo. He may remark upon strength of the movements and his admiration for the way the choreographer did not strictly adhere to any one school of thought. And, as I say, those may be the things he's been given vocabulary to articulate so I don't imagine I know what he experiences in the moment, but what he expresses brings insights that I would not otherwise have made. I've learned to ask what about the pieces we see together really drew him, because inevitably it is something that I hadn't noticed or didn't emphasize. And this leads to interesting insights.
Still more interesting insights, of course, are had from the intermission-era fashion commentary we share. Because one of the joys of a man who maybe traveled in theatre spheres is that the boy knows how to snark just as good as I can, and there is such a diversity of style at McCaw Hall, it is fascinating to blend deconstruction, a little judgment, and a lot of speculation about the statements intended and made by passers-by.
To cap off my Adventure-in-the-City Day, I took a train back to Bellingham. Not much to say about that beyond "wow, travelling in a comfy seat on the water during Sunset... is there anything better??"
...
...11...
...Time to start thinking wedding shoes - Well that's right, +Andrew Wright - after over a year of hawing more than hemming (upcoming sartorial joke in 5...4...) about his suit trousers from high school and whether they could be altered - has suddenly outpaced me in the race towards complete wedding ensemble. I, for my part, purchased a beautiful pair of beige chiffon leg curtains (I believe the common term would be palazzo pants - long flowy pants that resemble skirts when stationary, but have the flexibility of pants) from Nordstrom's roughly ten years ago and promptly forgot about this whole need to show up at my own wedding clothed. For his part, he went into Andrew mode and bought two suits (for the price of one) and a vest, then took his shirts in for repair. He also got new dancing shoes a while back. He is set. I'll have a very minimal look if I don't take some action. Given my current lack of official top, it would probably be very - er - educational for some of our younger guests. Hey at least my decolletage is daintily understated,so I think it would fit a tea-time sense of formality.
I under-exaggerate my progress, admittedly. I do suspect that I'll want to wear a particular shirt that I wore on the day Andrew and I had our first whatever magic moment that prompts us to call it our anniversary date and him to randomly say "you're wearing the shirt" when I wear the shirt. Still, since my pants are still being altered, I've not had a chance to try it on for an accurate assessment. I have another shirt that is quite pointedly flattering and appropriate that may also be in the running.
I've also not had a chance to decide on shoes. I have a reason! Kind of. I'm not sure how long the pants will be after the waist gets taken in. The waist required in-taking because no pair of pants that I own seems feasibly capable of sitting anywhere but on the cusp of scandal when I wear them. Something about women having narrower waists than hips that I suspect has eluded the pants industry for years, but my form seems to enjoy going hog wild with this already difficult concept. Also, I seem to go hog wild with refusing to replace my wardrobe with size-appropriate clothing and thus am sporting shades of sizes/weights past.It took me until this last month to finally get rid of all the underwear from three sizes ago. And yes, at that point, I think they're basically lady-boxes with funny elastics on them. Not flattering. I'm fashionable like that.
But yes, when the palazzo pants are hanging inches below the lowest theoretical tramp stamp, they are quite long. It appears they will not drag on the floor once they rise above their base beginnings and soar at glorious navel-heights. Depending on how drastically the alterations alter the length, I may be in for either two or three inch heels. Possibly the tango shoes and their staggering four inchers could be required, but I suspect I'm out of the woods on that for now. I had contemplated buying new ballroom shoes, perhaps blue ones just to accord with that old trope. Then I contemplated the fact that the ballroom store in town moved locations. Granted the new location is equidistant and equally easy to reach, but somehow the extra cognitive effort in remembering to go in a different direction starting off has stymied that plan. I also recalled +Molly Tasanasanta's last minute misfortunes attempting to do just that and ending up dancing barefoot all night because they hurt like hell. Ok, I remembered that after she reminded me of that yesterday. But it is a strong argument against them. And now I very strongly feel I wouldn't really want to deal with breaking in a new pair of shoes this close to the big shindigidoogle. So, best candidates are probably silver and worn, my fancy Freed's competition shoes, or two-tone swingers. Since I do have my wedding socks all planned out, there may be some trial and error to match the socks...
But of course I do rather think the boots from March 15th have a bit of a bridal theme going on. And then there are the boots from the 19th. These could be handy if there were a snow storm. For pure statement (and to match the gold accents on my possible shirt, I think March 12th is a winner... it's also my sister's birthday, so it would be specially sentimental. And I would basically die over the March 18th pair. Maybe not wedding shoes, but I would rather like to resole these and have them in my dance stable.
...
... 10...
....Serenity Now in a Life of Future-Tense - I seem to be in a final stretch of future-tensed existence. Language is peppered with "futures": My future-husband. My future in-laws. My future-landlady. Our future apartment. My future nervous-breakdown... Today is a full throttle future-day, albeit my particular future is well at hand in a way that looms less than it swings from the lines of an April calendar. Well, there may be some work peppered in (my future ex-clients, if all goes well!), but mostly future-work!
My future-focused day began in the past. Last night, my future(knockonwood) land lady called me in a bit of a panic (and if any one can do a fretful panic, it is a German lady), because she had not given us all of the forms required for her screening service to process us. She was a bit flustered about what the requirements were, but we had to provide various proofs of existence, employability, and whatnot. She also had to send us some more crap to sign acknowledging that the screening company could basically tear through our lives, interview our ex-boyfriends and fourth grade teachers, and do a thrice-over on our trash. This apparently was causing her concern because she was having significant difficulties emailing the additional forms to us, and because she had promised to process our applications first, while others were waiting to hear back. She more or less suggested before discarding the idea that perhaps I should schedule a midnight assignation with her to sign the final documents and give her my baby pictures. Fortunately, the email attachment route worked, and things are back on what I believe to be track, but it may have taken some of my morning to get them there.
The future continues ... in the even nearer future with our final meeting at future-wedding-site, The Majestic, to discuss paltry matters like (1) how they should set things up for us, (2) whether my laptop will mate with their stereo system to make beautiful music, (3) will we rent table cloths from them at $15 a pop or provide butcher paper and crayons like the coolest restaurants always do, and (4) whether they'd like that remaining 50% of the rental fee we still owe... Little things.
Following this, we are meeting with Deborra Garrett, Whatcom County Superior Court's newest judge. Yes, we're just gonna secretly get married today, how did you know? No, actually Deborra is our future officiant. She was my mother's boss and mentor throughout my childhood, and the likely culprit behind my own inevitable lapse into law (although with the Saint John's education, the history focus in regular college, and the secret love of economics, I was pretty much doomed from the start). I spent much of my teen years in her office, and it's pretty cool that she's going to preside over our wedding. I may have used this possibility as a major issue when promoting her otherwise also spectacular candidacy for the judgeship. A vote for Deborra is a wedding gift to Adella!
But yes, once we locate her unmarked chambers and give the secret pass-phrase to her clerk (the goose flew left and hit the moon!), we'll be discussing pittances like "what we've got planned for the ceremony" and what we'd like her to do. Since Andrew and I planned that out in some great detail, this means at least locating those details, printing them out, and making sure that the printed summary does not in fact read all work and no play makes Jack a very dull wedding over and over again into infinity. Odds are fifty-fifty.
I'm trying to take a moment in all this thinking to remember the present. Looking out at the sun rise over the mountains, listening to the building creak in its idiosyncratic toad-like manner... And thinking "god, I really made some weak coffee... maybe I should add some instant coffee on top, because this is tasting like water with a spriz of joe to me!"
Serenity now...
...
... 9...
...And a post-wedding consideration: A Tale of the Tamarin, the Loris, and Plenty of Coffee - As perhaps you have gleaned from my many restatements to this effect: Mr. (W)right and I approach the morning slightly differently. I wake up, generally, around 5:30 give or take (give or take, because I have not used an alarm in years). When I say "wake up" I mean it: I am completely awake and obstreperously up as soon as my eyes hit the clock (not literally, because ouch!). Continuing on an oral course of generalities, I am fed and clothed and out the door within fifteen to twenty minutes of waking up most week days. If it's a weekend, I am those things minus the out-the-door bit and doing a crossword or writing something within that time frame or sooner. Mr. (W)right is more of a gradual awakener and usually needs most of the full span of his hour of radio alarm and a good cup and a half of coffee to emerge from bed far enough to reach the internet. Breakfast may be an additional half hour in the coming.
Our cohabitational relationship has mostly fallen into a comfortable weekend routine, with some variations on the odd occasions where Andrew is up during a school break. I've usually just continued to let him sleep in and gone to work, but as I start to anticipate our future as frequent weekday cohabitators, I cannot deny the desirability of actually seeing each other while awake during the weekdays. He'll be commuting and possibly doing some crazy athletic person stuff in the evenings, so mornings seem like a nice time to spend a little bit of each day together. As such, he's been getting up earlier and I'm staying home later to meet somewhere in the middle.
The current experimental arrangement is that I get up at 5:30 and do some quiet-time puttering I might ordinarily do at the office. Around 6:00, I make coffee and breakfast, and once that is accomplished I stir the beast with an offering of coffee. In theory, we can then eat together and have a few moments before I head off to work and he'll have a little time to himself for his puttering (but will already be fed!) before heading out himself. It's working fairly well (well, he's not heading to work just yet since he doesn't start until next month but up until then), but of course there will be some adjusting for the tamarins and lorises involved.
This morning, all began as planned. During my time, I made a decaff that I forgot about and had to reheat before promptly forgetting it again. I wrote my "three things" and hid it and a bit of candy in Andrew's shoes. I checked my email and was satisfied that nothing was urgent. And I texted my sister about her morning misfortunes with missed sleep and dead batteries while trying to get Ian to school. Breakfast was ready around 6:15 and I ventured into the bedroom with a cup of coffee. Andrew blinked like a little mole rat and eventually sighed "oooh coffee" before sitting up to sip at it tentatively. Insistently I announced "AND BREAKFAST... but it's out in the kitchen. You'll have to come get it there," while handing him his glasses. He blinked at the proffered spectacles, and tried to put them on upside down. I tutted gently, before scurrying back to the other room to finish my last bit of breakfast (I make two breakfasts: one that's all butter and eggs and huge pieces of toast for him; and one that's egg whites, flax meal, cayenne, pepper, turmeric, and avocado for me)... and to add immediacy I shall now switch to present tense.
A door opens, but not the bedroom door. I realize he's gone to the bathroom. Having finished all breakfast preparations, I wander into the bedroom and hastily "make' the bed. I'm rounding up keys and moving the trash by the time he emerges. He moves the scale I've upended onto the chair (out of batteries) to get his robe, and I begin to chat about how it doesn't need to be there and how I need to ask him something abou- before realizing he has the raised eyebrow pursed lip face of of "huh?" I mutter "never mind... have some coffee," hovering over my food as if I were awaiting a starter's pistol to commence the repast. He circles warily, tentatively choosing a seat in front of his food. Since he seems to pause as he sits, I mention he can move the seat down a bit if he'd prefer. He apparently hears this as a command to switch seats and hies to oblige, an action which apparently inspires me to try further explaining myself into more and more morass of perturbation. I finally remember that maybe shutting up is the appropriate course of action and smell the heady earthiness of my slightly tepid coffee. Sneezing dramatically, he leaps from the chair to go find some allergy medication as I stare longingly at my food. It takes a while so I go to see what's happening and almost bump into him in the hall. He looks startled and begins to scurry towards the kitchen, so I stop him and kiss him a few times. He relaxes a bit, as do I.
Eating occurs. Oh glorious eating. Because my coffee is not warm enough to melt gold, I return it to the microwave. Andrew pours his second large cup. He is lucky that my coffee has mostly decaff in it and has been virtually unsipped all morning. We start to level out to each other about mid way through breakfast. I think I may have mentioned something about cars. This is a good waking up topic. If there is something engineery involved, there's a little magical part of Andrew's brain that could continue musing aloud for at least two weeks after official time of death and when I'm feeling energetic as I do in the mornings I can often channel that energy into questions about topics i don't generally understand. The conversation provides lubricant to an initially bumpy morning and I shrug at the clock (rather insistently telling me that it was around the time I planned to go).
Andrew blows his nose with Brawny. I insist that this ought to be their new commercial - Brawny for even your toughest nose drains. He systematically saturates three of them in a row, just to assure you that he needs paper towels instead of a tissues. I am now at least five minutes behind schedule, but he's moving to the couch and I so want to start the morning with a good snuggle. So I fight my inner punctuality demon with grand verve and join him, although I am unable not to inform him that I ought to be leaving right then and am only staying because he's so cute.
I'm glad I stayed. It was the best morning snuggle and the sun rising towards the bay was beautiful. When he gets up for another round of paper towels, I make my exit and find an office that didn't miss me all too much.
It will definitely be an adjustment, but I think we're making it.
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