La Meridionale Ballerina

We now return to Carissa’s Working from Home Adventures.

In our last episode, Carissa was almost attacked by a crazed Canada goose on her way to the library to do research.  Luckily, our heroine survived.  She is working quietly, adorned in her favorite running shorts and waiting for her incredibly slow computer to download something when there is a knock at the door.

She bypasses her better judgment and opens the door.  It’s her neighbor, whose name she cannot remember, but finds irritating since he always tried to talk to her, especially on days when she is feeling antisocial.  This is most days.  Strange neighbor guy, who lives in the apartment above, speaks.

"Hi.  Sorry for jiggling your door last night."

"Umm…that’s fine.  I didn’t notice."

"It was around midnight.  I was on the phone with my friend and got distracted and tried to open your door instead of going up to my apartment."

Our heroine is wary, especially considering Strange Neighbor Guy Who Lives in the Apartment Above keeps looking toward the floor.  This bugs our heroine since, hello, I’m up here and yes, I am wearing dirty socks.  I was just cooking something and it spilled.  What?

"Well…I didn’t notice."

"Yeah.  So, what are you doing?"

"I’m working.  I work from home.  Yeah, gotta get back to work."

"Oh, really?  I work from home, too.  I’m an engineer.  What do you do?"

"I’m, uh, a legislative research assistant.  I read laws all day.  Anyway, gotta get back."

Our heroine almost escapes, but SNGWLITAA stalls a few more minutes.  Similar conversation continues until Carissa is finally able to go back for her "2:30 meeting."

Yeah, I get it.  Trying to start up conversations with complete strangers is hard.  So is meeting new people.  But here’s a tip if you don’t want them to think you’re creepy: Don’t tell them you tried to break into their apartment around midnight! 

I’m going back to find that goose. 

Ah, a wedding.  A joyous occasion.  The "happiest day of your life." 

Unfortunately, with all that comes the actual planning of the wedding.

For me, so far, it’s been pretty fun.  The F (new nickname time!) and I spent a Saturday evening making engagement announcement cards by hand.  Contrary to popular belief, we had a ball.  The F especially liked that he got to play with the sealing wax for the envelopes.  We’ve been thumbing through some books and websites and toying around with ideas, most of which involve ways we think we can save money ("what do you think about toasting with water?"  "Think I can buy some silk sheets and sew a dress?" "You could totally draw some flowers on printer paper and make some invitations").

But the best part about planning is looking at what my dad likes to refer to ask "the underestimated power of bad taste."

Such as this idea for a heartfelt proposal:

http://www.partypop.com/Themes/ENGA0001.html

I wish I could make this stuff up, folks.  But no, you really did just read that someone popped the question while dressed as The Boy Who Never Grew Up.  Do I even need to touch on sexual implications of asking someone to be your "Wendy" (aka a "Mother" to you and your Lost Boys)?  Of the Oedipal complex surrounding this family and pulling in even the future father in law?  Of how disturbing it is that said future father in law could not convince his adult daughter to wear her "nightie"?

Maybe Peter Pan there really wishes he was Mary Martin…dressed as a boy.

In short, I’m confused.

But not as appalled as I am at this feature.

Yes, you can hire someone to write your thank you cards for you.  If that doesn’t smack of class, I don’t know what does.

Orsi and her roommate Lauren came down to visit!  Boy, let me tell you, between witnessing a woman having to spell out her words so her drawl could be understood to the infamous heat….I’m not sure they were all that impressed with Nashville.  But it sure was wonderful to have them around. 

I miss you already!  Please come back!

And everyone else out there, I’ve taken to cooking and cleaning in the evenings as entertainment.  This must stop!

Even my parents won’t visit for no other reason besides they’re lame.  You hear that mom?  You’re lame!  Who else am I supposed to filter through 8-pound bridal magazines with?!  Lame!

Ahem.

And now, pictures:

Orsi and me at the Hermitage, home of President Jackson.  That’s his garden and gravesite.  Orsi didn’t like it that the tour people kind of skimmed over the Trail of Tears part.  Oops.

Lauren, my hungry fiancé, and me eating catfish.  Look, we’re entertaining!  We have friends who come over!  I got over my noodling phobia long enough to eat Nashville’s famous dish.

Ug.  Me doing the obligatory SEGRF - Spastic Engaged Girl Ring Flash. 

Hey, I’m allowed one.  Humor me.

And come visit.  I have lots of magazines we can get started on.

The Boy and I are engaged!!!

Friday afternoon was spent on a gorgeous beach in the Bahamas.  Just before we left to get back on the ship, Matthew asked me to come look for seashells along the beach. 

I will not discuss here the fact that I was not in the most…affectionate of moods, since I had just disembarked from a Banana Boat and had endured 15 minutes of getting salt water sprayed directly into my contact-laden eyes (Oh, the burning).  I think my first reaction to his proposition to go seashell hunting was something like, "I can’t look for seashells since I can’t see."  Fortunately, I was convinced to "look with my feet."  Begrudgingly.

The beach is deserted since everyone is lined up to get back on the boats to get back on the ship (In fact, we are set to sail in less than an hour, a fact that elicited more protest from goody goody two shoes me.   Again, we will not discuss this here).  Matthew and I waded into the water and the next thing I know he’s kneeling. 

Of course, I think this is just great seashell hunting technique.  This understanding is reinforced when he finds a seashell within a minute. 

He hands it to me…and there’s a ring in it.

Then everything happens all at once.  He asks, "will you?"  I nod (I think), register that he slips the ring on my finger, and start to cry as a cruise employee yells at us to get out of the water so we can go back to the ship.  My knees are shaky and I can’t speak and I kind of hear him talking about his grandmother’s engagement ring.  I think I say something along the lines of, "I…seashells?"

And here’s the best part - I feel completely calm.  Not spastic, DeBeers girl screaming.  Just content and relaxed and excited. 

(Second best part: as we stood on the balcony of the ship, looking back at our beach, we remarked that we’d have to come back to the scene frequently to celebrate.  Upon further reflection, Matthew, always the romantic, said he knew he should have proposed at a baseball diamond.)

It’s perfect.