On Thursdays, I Only Eat Foods That Start with the Letter E

Hello internet! I missed you that one day without access for no apparent reason!

Here's a phone conversation I had with The-Guy last week:

Me: I got chicken sausage for dinner. You know? Those long kind?
Him: Yeah?
Me: You know, the long kind that look like...
(Pause as I attempt to find a way to distinguish between sausage varieties without referring to male anatomy)
Me: that look like...
(pause)
Me: that look like cucumbers?
Him: I just took you off speaker phone.

I've been deemed unfit for broadcast amongst his coworkers. Again.

I wasn't going to say it looks like a penis though. Because we were just talking about spring rolls the other day. And who wants to be known as a gal with only one simile to her name? Or was that metaphor? I can't remember my exact words actually.

In any case, in addition to eating a bunch of different foods that look like male body parts, we also got (pre)wedding pictures taken. I can't remember exactly why Jeff (friend/wedding photographer) said it would be good to get some pictures beforehand, but it was fun.
I mean it was like, actual fun and not that kind of "fun" that I'm supposed to be having trying to deciding what kind of tacos we'll be serving. Except for trying to find a decoy wedding dress to get the pictures taken in. That part was a little stressful.

I'm not wearing the decoy wedding dress in these pictures though. These are some of the casual pictures.

And also, I don't only eat foods that start with the letter E on Thursday. I just asked The-Guy what he thought was a nice wholesome letter of the alphabet. That way I figured I could balance out the whole body parts thing.

If You're Going to Get Married, Try Not to be Born in Washington, DC

We went to get our marriage license and The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken was born in Washington DC. It turns out that these two facts are not necessarily compatible. The form for a marriage license requires your birth city, county, and state. The-Guy didn't have anything to put down for two out of the three blanks, and it made the clerk upset.

She was doubtful of his claim that Washington DC is not part of any county or state. As The-Guy started to give her the full explanation of how Washington DC differs from other cities in the United States, I could see the look on her face change from one of confusion to something closer to mistrust or outright suspicion.

"Oh no!" I thought, "What if she gets defensive about her lack of political knowledge and doesn't let us get married?!?!?!"

Because by this time The-Guy, possibly from nervousness but more likely because of a true wish to inform, had moved into a full explanation of Washington DC's lack of representation in congress.

My fears were ungrounded, however, as she decided the best course of action was to call the Texas state capital and make sure that people from Washington DC were, in fact, allowed to get married.

And then we raised up our right hands and took some oath and she pronounced us practically just about married or ready to get really married or something like that and it was all very happy and official.

AND she gave us a booklet on being married published by none other than the Attorney General of Texas which is the exact person I always think of going to for marital advice...The booklet is full of sterile yet helpful information. For example, "Knowing what your spouse wants is only half the story. You also must know how to provide it to him or her." and "If you have not had a conflict yet, sooner or later you will." and "Arrange to spend time together on a regular basis."

Now that we've read the booklet, I'm pretty sure a successful marriage is practically guaranteed. I feel bad for all those poor suckers who got married before this booklet was published.

And also, I'm really glad we were both born here in the United States. Because if being born in Washington DC caused that much trouble, can you imagine how badly being born outside of the country would mess with the paperwork?!?!?

Weddings Are Like Oil Spills. Apparently.

I believe it might have been Disa awhile back who requested a wedding plans post. There are only two and a half more weeks to go, so I figure any wedding plans post has to be done kind'a soon.

The problem is, we haven't really made many actual "plans". I'm pretty sure the wedding is planning itself at this point, because once that man put an engagement ring on my finger, the wedding took on a life of its own.

It's like those large underwater oil plumes in the Gulf of Mexico. Except not. Because we created this monster ourselves. On purpose.

It will be fun though. I think.

Here are pictures of the place we're getting married. I've been calling it a bar, but apparently "honky tonk" is the more precise definition.


So yeah. All we need now is some wedding food. And some wedding plans.

Here's that darn cat, apparently waiting for his shower.Here's another piece of food that The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken grew in the back yard. You might not be able to tell from the picture, but this particular piece of food is a cucumber...... a really, really big cucumber.

So anyway, that's what's going on around here. It's summertime and the livin' is easy. I have declared our wedding more fun than a disastrous oil spill. The-Guy is growing Texas sized food.

In fact, maybe that one cucumber will be enough to feed all the wedding guests. We'd probably even have leftovers.

Some Jews Do Fix Stuff. But not that many I gather.

I think I've mentioned that The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken commands the plants around here. He told them to do this:
And this:

And this:

And this:
And they did, because he's in charge.

And he even told them to grow food, like this:
And this:And the plants did it, because they listen.

And then a few weeks ago I was out to dinner with some coworker-friends and I volunteered The-Guy to build something on our school playground. Apparently fixing stuff is not a Jewish thing to do.

The woman who teaches in the classroom next door to me interrogated the other women around the table, "Does your husband fix stuff?!?!?!" Everyone answered no, except my friend Missy.

But the other teacher was not so easily placated. About Missy's husband she said, "Well he's not Jewish. That doesn't count!" Apparently marrying someone Jewish does not impede one from performing household repairs.

She wanted to know if I was SURE The-Guy-Who-Knows-A-Song-About-A-Chicken was Jewish. He is. AND he's remodeling the bathroom. I didn't get a before picture showing the ugly wallpaper and mildewy shower door. But here's a halfway in the middle picture:"After" pictures coming soon! By the way, does anyone need any fresh yellow summer squash?