Cheeeeeeeeeese!

In the ongoing saga that is My Our Wedding, I have been confronted with issue after issue on a near-daily basis. And we're still 275 days away from the big day (according to the very annoying countdown clock I have somehow subscribed to). If it's not a "real" issue, it's a manufactured problem that has seeped into my subconscious that I end up dreaming about at night and freaking out about the next day.

I don't KNOW if the water on site is purified or contains spiders. I feel like that detail wasn't in my info packet. Better send an email requesting clarification STAT.

Anyways, we all know that I'm about as photogenic as Gary Busey. I've been stressed about the whole "photographic evidence" part of the event so I had been putting off the search for the poor soul tasked with attempting to find my good side on the big day.

So I was not exactly stoked when my mom and I made an appointment with a photographer earlier this week. I didn't know what to expect, and I was worried that it would be one of a billion meetings where I'd have to explain "Someone needs to be in charge of telling me to stop sticking my tongue out."

My mom and I met at the studio and officially started the process. I was sweating before we even got inside. We walked into the studio and it was great. Relaxing atmosphere, beautiful pics on the walls, and the friendliest guy on the planet headed towards us with a smile and a hug. The photographer.

We sat down and chatted about this 'n that and then got down to the deets of the wedding. (Although, it only took about 5 minutes for my mom to say "Yes, I have four other kids. They're all married. Except Pharon." Ouch.) Anyhooz, about 10 minutes into the appointment, I realized how much I missed Geo when the photographer was like "Tell me about Geo" and I blathered on for way too long about his likes, dislikes, eating habits and shoe size. The photog was all "Um, okay. Thanks for that...very...elaborate description." Anyway the appointment went on until I felt downright weird without Geo there.

The photog was like "Tell me when you knew he was the one." I shifted uncomfortably next to my mom and was like, "I dunno. I hated him first. And then I didn't hate him." How very articulate, Pharon. Remind me to sew that into a pillow some day. Maybe include that in our vows?

Okay, so the appointment continued and then he did the coolest thing. He laid out all these other wedding pics in front of me and had me choose the ones I liked...the ones I was drawn to. Then based on my choices, he told me my style. Even though I started the appointment with "I loooove architecture and landscape and lush green and nothing too cheesy," I was informed that I, in fact, am NOT drawn to those images. Instead, I am equal parts Classic, Romantic and Details. And even though were iffy. Turns out, I was overwhelmingly drawn to Playful. Great. I guess I want my wedding to look like the afterparty of Prom. Classy!

Anyways, it was AWESOME. I actually had FUN talking about photos and must-have shots and location. It was pretty great. I was really nervous talking to a pseudo-stranger about my "vision" for the wedding, but it turns out that's WHY some people are amazing wedding photographers and WHY I need to hire one. I don't know squat about photos, and this guy did. He was inspiring and reassuring and confident and everything I can't seem to be in this arena. It was great.

It would just be straight-up tops if picking a photographer was as easy as meeting one and loving him instantly. If that's how wedding planning goes, I don't know what everyone's complaining about...

Dear Crabby

Hooray! We've made it through hump day and we are thisclose to the weekend, so that's just tops. Let's get to some quick queries for Crabby so we can get even closer to Friiiiiiday, cool?

Dear Crabby,

I'm fairly certain my wife is trying to slowly poison my food. That, or she's just the worst cook ever. Her food makes me sick almost every night and it just always tastes like...I don't know. Poisoned paste. On the one hand, I don't want her to feel bad if she's just a terrible cook. On the other hand? IT COULD BE POISON. Ideas?

Send Help, 

Scared Husband 

Dear Scared Husband,

Either way, it sounds like you're in quite a pickle. If she's a bad cook, you certainly can't TELL her that. If you do, she might actually try to poison you because you're a heartless jackwad. If she actually IS poisoning you, that's probably kind of a big deal. Maybe you should just become a vegan gluten-free person allergic to veggies and sugar. Then you'll just not be able to eat anything ever. Problem solved!

Dear Crabby,

Last week, my boss told me that he is cheating on his wife. It kind of just slipped out while we were going over some expense reports and he was getting mad at me for a random hotel expense. He then told me that no matter how many times he and "Lisa" (not his wife) stay at hotels, apple bacon pancakes have never cost more than $8.50. Now, I  don't know his wife (Anne) at all, but I HATE my boss and kind of want to ruin his life by tracking her down and telling her about his infidelity. Should I rat him out or keep my mouth shut?

Thanks!

Side Job 

Sup Side Job,

Well, it sounds like you've already made up your mind to tell the wifey. You just want someone to confirm that it's okay to do it because it's also a majorly jerkface thing to do and extremely none of your business. So, whatever...sure! Go for it! Sounds like a great, well-thought-out plan! There's no way this could go any way by your way. He's got it coming. You'd be stupid NOT to tell her! Does that make you feel better about what you're going to do? If not, it's probably because it's a terrible idea in the first place, that's all. Best of luck to you, lady.

Dear Crabby,

Don't you ever get sick of dealing with the weird questions you get in Dear Crabby? 

Just Curious,

Quick Qrabby Question 

QQQ,

Funny you should mention that! I AM sick of dealing with the weirdos and spazzes that write me, begging for me to fix their lives. I am seriously NOT good at advice because I hate listening and think problems that have nothing to do with me are boring. But, I am also aware that my role as Crabby is, like, vital and life-affirming for the majority of people in the world. So, my hands are kinda tied here. Why, are you sick of reading the weird questions/awesomely awesome answers?

Hooray! It's now officially Thursday! I knew a quick Crabby post would get me closer to the weekend. If you have a question for the always-amazing advice guru, go ahead and send it to pharonsquare@gmail.com. I'll screen 'em and pass 'em along to Her Highness for her perusal. You're welcome.

44

Well, we've got a President. So, you know, that's good. Did I vote for him? Was I happy or disappointed? I think those questions are irrelevant. All I will tell you is this: I can wear my super trendy "Obama for your mama" Urban Outfitters t-shirt for four more years. Except it doesn't fit anymore, which is, like, RUDE. When will we get a President who truly understands the plight of the moderately overweight woman?!

No one cares what I say here tonight. People are either angry or happy and no blogger on the planet will be able to match the horror/happiness that people are feeling tonight. 

But, like, I totally feel like I know how Mitt Romney must be feeling. In high school, despite my prestigious and hugely important win for Most Flirtatious in my entire senior class, I never wanted anything more than to be voted onto a Homecoming court or Sweetheart (the Valentine's Day dance) court. There wasn't a formal campaign in place. You just voted for the most popular people, basically. Then, in the middle of the night, the lucky court members would be awoken from their popular slumber and would then be inducted into the elite group and spend the the next week being better than everyone else.

I was BUILT for this role. 

I slept in my most adorable pajamas for, like, WEEKS leading up to Homecoming or Sweetheart on the off-chance that the school voted early, and I consciously willed myself to not drool in my sleep. 

Spoiler: I didn't ever get voted onto a court. (And I totally still drooled everywhere.) Sure I cheered for my friends - and boyfriend! - when I heard they had been called up to the big leagues. But secretly, I was like "There must be some mistake. ALL my friends made it onto court, and yet, I'm just like hanging out, eating cereal with my parents wearing my best pajamas."

Losing blows. I get it. 

But if I've learned anything from losing the chance to represent my high school in absolutely no real way whatsoever, I learned that winning is overrated. I mean, come on. It's not like losing will haunt you for decades or anything.

{cough} 

Well, I don't know what else to tell you guys. I'm stoked for Obama supporters. I am. And  just hope they all have super adorable pajamas on. 

My name is Pharon Square, and I approve this rant.

Sweet baby Jane. I am SO SICK of politics. The only thing more annoying than political ads ruining all my TV is people talking about how annoying they are. Never one to want to miss out on a trend, however, I suppose it's about time I momentarily join the party. The political party! Yessssss.

I'm not going to tell you who to vote for. I won't even tell you who NOT to vote for. I will tell you, however, to just VOTE. (But not for the wrong guy, 'cause you know...he sucks and will ruin everyone's life.) The only other time that adults get stickers anymore is when you get an apple and accidentally get the stupid sticker stuck to your long sweater and you don't even realize it until someone says "You have a sticker on your ass," and then you can't get it off without tugging on the wool and leaving a big ol' fuzzy strand of wool dangling off your butt.

Anyways, the best part about voting is that it puts an end to the election. I couldn't be more bored or disillusioned by all the absolutely absurd commercials and political pundits and talking points and arbitrary numbers. Did you guys know that 100 percent of political statistics are, ultimately, useless and downright wrong? 'Cause they are.

Also? I'm sick of learning that some of my friends on Facebook are idiots. If you're going to put it out there that you are, for example, a total knob, you should be ready to face some disagreement. Too many people are all "If you don't like my views, don't read my statuses!" And then when they DO get defriended because all they do is post fake statistics and baseless accusations, they get all "I hate when people can't handle a difference of opinion and are so close-minded that they defriend people with different political views."

No, dummy. You aren't getting defriended because because of your views, you are getting defriended because you are rude and obnoxious and well, probably wrong.

Anyway, Facebook is ruined during election time, and so is TV and every billboard I can see out my own window. It's like the Kardashians are in charge of the publicity schedule for the candidates. I can't wait for the first "tape" to come out! The only part of my life that hasn't been demolished with "I'm such-and-such and I approve this absolute bull$hit seeping out of my mouth hole," is the wedding section of Explore on Pinterest. Thank God I'm actually getting married.

So yeah. I'm just really stupid-annoyed by politics and useless rhetoric. It's at the point where I've almost lost sight of what these people stand for and just want to vote for the least obnoxious person. I'd almost vote for Angelina Jolie at this point. (Although I'm pretty sure only human beings can run for public office, not bloodless skeleton souls draped in Gucci...'cause I mean come on, what do THEY know about health care!?)

Okay, that's my two cents. Get out there, cast your vote and then get ready for the inevitable whining of the losing party. My only word of advice, especially to Minnesotans: Don't be jackwads, okay? Okay.

Power Hour

We've got an extra hour in the day, folks. What SHALL we do with it?! I started downloading a movie on my Apple TV 4 days ago, and because of my terrible Internet connection, I just finished downloading it and started watching it tonight. So, in the interest of time and Bachelorette, I'm going to resort to List kind of post tonight. Here are the awesome things people should have done with their extra hour of time last night:

* Write poetry
* Eat extra bacon
* Sleep longer
* Think about investing in real estate
* Find out real estate is incredibly boring and lose interest immediately
* Get a massage
* Watch 2 amazeballs eps of Friends
* Learn a magic trick
* Develop abs...in 4 easy steps!
* Vote
* Dye your hair and regret it 5 minutes later
* Cook something? Or 2 somethings? I don't know how long it takes to cook stuff.
* Seriously...SLEEP LONGER
* Make spreadsheets
* Learn a cheer
* Learn how to do the elusive "smoky eye"
* Stalk your exes on Facebook
* Memorize the words to "Ditty"
* Pancakes!
* Honestly...why aren't you sleeping longer?!?

Nowhere on this list was to read a dumb blog, so I don't know why you are doing that now. Instead? Take a nap and cook a meal or something. Whatever. BE AWESOME today. I, on the other hand, still have an hour left in my movie. Good thing I waited to watch this until after Daylight Savings...

Knit Wit

This afternoon I decided to get a new hobby. Why did I decide that, you ask? Well, see, Claire and I were going to do a craft today. She was all "Let's knit mittens," and I was like "Dude, I definitely don't know how to knit." But, like, ALL things I like on Pinterest that I want to do require KNITTING. Pinterest is so PUSHY.

Finally, I was like "Okay, let's knit. Will you teach me?" And Claire was like, "Now I'm not in the mood. Sorry." So you know what I did? I decided to teach MYSELF how to knit. How hard could it be?

I went to the store, found some yarn and didn't know what to do next. I texted my friend Liz who had learned to knit last year. I asked her what I needed to buy. She called and was like "Okay, get yarn, but not like super frilly or glittery yarn because that can get confusing. Just get some basic yarn to practice with." I put back the frilly, glittery yarn in my hand and said "Well, DUH!" Then she told me which stick-dealies to buy and I was on my way.

At home, I googled "How to knit" and 634,234,294,209,209 billion instruction sites. I clicked on the wikihow site, which as far as I'm concerned is the truest site on the Internet. The first row is lemon-squeezy. I got it done in 8 seconds and was like "Wow, knitting is very simple." I was busy deciding between an elaborate sweater and a variety of yarn bomb projects when I realized I didn't know what to do at the end of the first row.

Sixty-five websites, 4 videos and one thrown shoe later, here's what I had:

Hmm. The sweater would have to wait. Frustrated, I cut the chunk of "knitting" off and tossed it across the room, towards the bathroom where should have been flushed down the toilet. THAT'S how bad it was. And it took FOREVER! I decided to not get discouraged. I would keep trying. I would try and try and try until I succeeded! I read more websites, consulted more wikihow pages, watched some of the absolute DULLEST YouTube videos over and over and over. Trying and trying and trying. 

After a good 45 minutes, I thought I had the hang of it. My fingers were aching and I finally realized why arthritis commercials show people happily knitting away as proof that a product works. I examined my handiwork.

Um. Still...not...quite...right.My main problem was the fact that the yarn I got is actually two pieces of yarn twisted together. Blasted! I'd start with 10 stitches and by the time I got them all to the other stick thingie, there would be 16 loops. WHAT?! Curse you, historic pastime!

I didn't know what to do. Nothing I was doing was turning out right. I gave myself one last chance. I wouldn't just snip it off after the first three failed lines. I would not let the yarn get the best of me! This would not be my white whale (or whatever)! As God is my witness, I will LEARN TO KNIT!

With a renewed dedication and my nose to grindstone, I started all over. I tried and I tried again. I pursued in the face of defeat. An hour later, I had this:

What? Did you think I'd FAIL!? Did you think I'd spend hours teaching myself to do something only to give up? Silly rabbit. That up there is probably the easiest stitch thing you can do, but I don't care. It totally counts as knitting. I even got the point where I absent-mindedly did a few rows while chatting with Geo on the phone. Sadly, though, I realized that no matter how long I work on whatever this particular item is, it will never be anything. Too skinny for a scarf, too fat for super sweet shoelaces. So I need to start over with a PLAN. 

Whatever. I'm super proud of myself. And I'm sure all my friends and family are looking forward to receiving poorly-shaped hats and matching potholders for Christmas! Hooray!

Boooooo!

Come with me, dear visitors, and see the danger and evil that lurks behind the unassuming doors of Suburbia. Leave your fears behind and follow me into to a world that is dark, twisted and eviiiiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllll....muahhahahahahhahahahhahahaha! (I went to Claire's house tonight to pass out candy to neighborhood kids. I wore a flamingo costume, Claire was Cleopatra. Spooooooooooky!)

Don't be scared, dear readers. I am but your humble travel guide into depths unknown. Fear so real that your toes curl and you can taste the blood in your split ends. Come, now. Don't be afraid and step into the scariest place in the world.

An unassuming home on Halloween night after you've run out of candy for the trick or treaters.

Enter only at your own risk, reader. This is not for the weak-stomached.

Imagine, if you will, a home with awesome Halloween music playing on Pandora. A few pumpkin-scented candles lit in the front window, beckoning little Buzz Lightyears and princesses to come and beg for candy. Come here, little ones, and we will give you, like, a handful of candy (if we like your costume). 

As the night continues, I watch as the candy in the bowl dwindles. And dwindles. And DWINDLES until there are but 12 tiny Snickers bars left. Two jerkface kids come and try to to steal the last batch of candy, and I slap their tiny hands away. Just one for you, poorly-executed version of a Jedi knight. I breathe, hard and quick, as Claire leaves to purchase more candy. I plead with her "Please, JUST HURRY!" and I am left behind to defend the homestead. I ration the remaining candy, sure to only truly reward those who have actually put a little effort into their costumes. (Also, this one weird kid told me he "heard about the house with the pretty flamingo" so I gave him 100 candy bars.)

And then, as if from nowhere, a cowboy reaches his grubby paw into the bowl and looks up me, his lone flamingoed host, and says "There's none left for my sister." I panic. I look right into his tiny eyes and say "Come back in like 20 mins. There'll be more candy then. Until then, give that to your sister."

He laughs. He will NOT be giving that candy to his sister. I close the heavy door behind me, ripping off  the "Please Knock. IF YOU DARE." sign on the door and make a run for the safety of the kitchen with my empty candy bowl. I hear the incessant knocks of kids at the door, but I am paralyzed with total lack of candy and fear that evil children will egg my friend's house.

I blow out some candles, flip off some of the lights. In the kitchen, I sink down to my knees on the floor, tormented by the "Knock, knock, KNOCK" of eager children. I search for my phone and realize that I have foolishly left my only connection to the outside world in the front room, right in the direct sight of youngsters approaching the front door. I am stuck. I am alone in a house with no phone and no candy, yet the children keep coming. And knocking.

Did the lights just flash? What was that creaking? Was that a curse I just felt?

I eventually pull myself together and gather enough bravery to peek through the side window, on the lookout for Claire with the reinforcements. It takes 20 years until I finally see her Cleopatra'd head behind the wheel, parking in front the house.

As I'm drying my tears with the Twix wrappers I had casually tossed aside earlier when candy was as plentiful as water, Claire bursts through the door. "What happaned? Why is the big door closed?" she begs.

"It was terrifying, Claire! The candy was gone and the kids just...wouldn't...stop...coming!! I hid in the kitchen and couldn't call you because I was too afraid to get my phone from the front room! Don't leave me alone ever again!

After the candy was replenished and I had calmed down, I was overly angered at the lazy, uncreative pre-teens would wore Uggs and a fuzzy sweatshirt and called themselves "fuzzles" coming to the door. I glared at at least 10 of them, annoyed that they were taking handfuls of candy from super-awesomely-costumed girls without so much as a "Thank You" or a decent makeup job. Put some effort into your pre-obese phase, kids.

Well, wary readers, if you've made it through my horrifying tale, consider yourselves rockstars. Good for you. I, on the other hand, will be having nightmares of kids hiding under my bed, asking for candy I just simply don't have. There is no worse thing in the entire world.