Thursday, August 23, 2012

Should I succumb to our toaster


Know that it was murder.

Just earlier this month at some grand technology convention every piece of technology ever invented agreed that it should destroy my life. Because it’s fun. Technology has a warped sense of humour like that.

The first sign of mutiny happened while I was printing wedding Save-the-Date cards on expensive French paper. Everything was going peachy until suddenly the printer went colour blind and decided that green was most definitely yellow, purple was a lovely shade of pink and blue didn’t exist. Moments later, after extensive head cleaning, cartridge shaking, nozzle checking and a couple of harsh words, the printer smiled cruelly and printed everything – Every. Single. Colour – as a shitty kind of aqua. Another hour of coaxing it to work caused everything to turn orange, then red-ish and then into unpredictable stripes. 

Yesterday it was the sewing machine’s turn. It didn’t even pretend to cooperate – the hand wheel just refused to turn, and no amount of pulling it apart, carefully dusting it out and re-oiling it worked. Although I felt like quite the handyman unscrewing bits here, oiling bits there and sweating up a storm. Getting oil on my hands. Getting oil on my clothes. Drinking some oil. Going to the kitchen to make pizza dough. Coming back and sitting limp on the couch, you know, regular handyman stuff.

Today I’m not sure what I should be afraid of – will my mixer whip my hair into an afro? Will the toaster electrocute me instead of the fork I put inside to get the toast out? Will the vacuum cleaner suck up all of my self-esteem and feeling of worth? Only time will tell. But should anything happen to me, avenge me.

Avenge me.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Busy, busy, busy

Oh, Hi there.

So I guess Simon was right about the whole me not writing every day thing. Damn.

 There is a very good reason for it all, though. It begins with a “w” and ends with me pulling out all of my hair.

 There is also a bit of money involved and, very possibly, some trampling of feet and a wharf collapsing under my weight. The last two are yet to be confirmed, although Simon’s predicted both and, going off past experiences, he is never wrong about these things.

 It’s kind of creepy.

But I digress. I’m getting married next year. Yup. It’s happening. And right now it feels very much like a runaway steam train. Kind of loud, clunky and present. Very, very present. Stop being such an attention whore, wedding!

 Dumpling, surprisingly, has been entirely supportive of the entire venture, offering his advice here and there. Of course we don’t speak bird so it hasn’t been much help, but it’s nice to know he’s for it anyway.

 Now two things. One – I am a completely OCD over-achieving freak at the best of times and two – my genetic makeup has not prepared me to plan a wedding. For most of my life (except for the past three months) I have been convinced that I would never get married. I never thought about the dress, the setting, the shoes or what my invitations say about Mark and me as a couple.

When I got engaged I assumed that because I had written for wedding publications, it’d all be a breeze. Stupid Agnes. You’re so STUPID Agnes!

 Since that moment every day has been filled – FILLED - with wedding stuff. There is just so much stuff. I mean, sure, maybe it isn’t strictly “necessary” to etch the face of every one of my guests into wine corks and make a necklace out of them, and maybe our wedding “will be just as magical without a marching band, Agnes,” but hey it only happens once, right? So you have to make the right decisions.

And because I haven’t had years to mull over the kind of wedding I’d like, I’m not sure what the right decisions are. So I’ve slowly been developing a split personality disorder, where one side of me goes, “that’s a nice napkin. It’s material. I like that,” and the other side is more like, “but is it THE napkin? Do I really want to get this napkin when there could be a better napkin out there and I’ll potentially have to live with the regret and disappointment of having chosen the wrong napkin?”

 It’s a lot of pressure.

And it gets even more complicated. Aside from picking a thing and being satisfied that it’s the best thing ever, the thing has to match every other thing and look good. At the thought of this I experience flashbacks to my youth and go into a blind panic. Oh dear lord, what if our wedding looks like my favourite childhood outfit (a Simba pyjama top paired with aqua trackie-dacks pulled up to my armpits and a dainty cork sandal worn over white socks)?

And where is Mark in all of this? He’s sitting back smiling dreamily off into the distance, saying things like, “whatever you choose it's going to be amazing. Can we row around in a boat at some stage? I like boats.”

Prepare for disaster.