I’d always been taught that you didn’t; tips are for service folks working for other folks – the ones who don’t necessarily see windfall when the business is healthy and thriving. To the owner of an establishment you frequent quite a bit (hair dresser, facialist) you give a generous gift at say, Christmas, but you don’t tip. Sometimes, though, I think maybe I’m the only one who’s under the impression that this is actually a rule and since I don’t want to get it wrong… I tip anyway. Like, I tip my hair lady, even though she’s no longer working for a salon and she’s out on her own. I like her a whole lot and she consistently does a great job, so the rule about not tipping the owner feels… weird.

And really, the one thing I hate more than being wrong about protocol is people thinking I’m stingy. Or ignorant of the rules.

Like, once upon a time, I was given three free spa services in exchange for some publicity on the blog. The day before I went in for my third treatment, I bought a nice little card, wrote a note and put in some cash for the lady who’d done the treatments. You know, because that’s when you tip, right? At the end of a service. Anyway, when I arrived at the spa, the owner pulled me aside and said that it “might be nice if [you] thought about tipping Elizabeth.” I just stared at him. I mean, first of all, tuh-acky. Tackier than not tipping, in my mind. Secondly, tipping comes at the end. It just does. THOSE ARE THE RULES. And finally, I really, really very strongly (can I emphasize this enough?) believe that tipping should always be something done discretely. In an envelope or given through the receptionist. I mean, does the waiter stand over your table and scan the credit card receipt for your tip? God, I hope not. That’s just awkward.

Anyway, I bring this up because we’re entering the phase of The Planning & Executing of the Wedding, wherein we’ll be paying service providers, many of whom run their own show and I would like to do it the right way – tip where it’s appropriate and well-earned, and not where I’ve been made to feel guilty.

Months of these unanswered, desperately flung texts could make a girl wonder why anyone of her sex would continue to send unrequited booty calls for eighteen months (that’s totally a dude thing to do), but also, they could make a girl really, really annoyed.

The first time it happened, the Boy’s phone was in my purse. We do that. Share phones. Leave them out. Answer whichever one rings. Know each other’s passwords. It’s like peeing with the door open – it might not preserve any sort of relationship mystery but it sure saves pretense and time. Now, having the same phones meant that, when drunk and exhausted from a couple hours of pool volleyball, I grabbed the wrong cellular device from my handbag that night and wanted to know, “Who the eff is Natalie and why is she hello strangering me?”

It quickly went from there to tears. Remember, I was drunk. And not on logic.

Anyway, she’s kept it up over the year and months since, and the Boy’s policy is simply to ignore, ignore, ignore. He’s chronically non-confrontational. Unless it concerns me and the pile of shoes that collects by our front door. Or how many towels I need. Ahem. We made her a household joke until… well, until Friday night when I’d had just. about. enough, borrowed her contact information and suggested none too politely that she might want to stop propositioning my fiance.

“Relax,” came the reply.

Hoooo boy! As the Dork Lord can attest, suggesting that, in a time of emotional turmoil, I should relax produces anything but the desired outcome. Relax. It’s so dismissive and insulting. I’m pissed and I deserve to be! So that’s when I suggested, also impolitely, that she invest in a… personal satisfaction device and a pack of batteries save everyone the trouble.

I know. Crass.

The actual wording of the messages had me laughing until my sides hurt. Not because being mean to strangers is funny (heh), but because really, it’s not every day that you get to play the crazy, “Imma cut you” fiancee. No, I didn’t actually threaten to cut anyone. My threats were a little more vague and reminiscent of that waterfall scene in Last of the Mohicans. Minus the affection.

But then when I was done laughing, I felt just the tiniest bit bad. I mean, yeah, she was desperate and sad, but no real threat to my relationship with the man who is only guilty of two-timing me with trigonometry and C++ textbooks.

“I was mean to a stranger today.” I confessed to my sister what I’d done. The “relax” bit made me grind my teeth. And feel justified. RELAX.

“Yeah, Heather, relax. She didn’t realize that in the past two years he could have possibly NOT been pining over her and her magical vagina.”

I snorted.

“Also, I don’t think that counts as being mean to a *stranger*. A stranger would be the lady at the grocery store who didn’t know she was in your way, she was just trying to do her job and stock a shelf. This is a skank. Skanks aren’t strangers. Everyone knows skanks.”

“Ha! Oh, hey, unrelated, I have a pair of shoes I want to send you.”

“I’ll take ‘em!”

“They’re black. Like your soul.”

I would also like to say: you absolutely adorable poppets who sent us presents! The registry doesn’t give me your address and thus, I am not able to fill out these here thank you notes that I have with your names on them. You should, then, send me your address at thisfish at gmail dot com so as not to cause me excruciating etiquette distress. DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN!

Saturday night, the Boy’s family threw us the most wonderful, intimate engagement dinner at his parents home. I wish you could have seen just how amazing every little detail was. Sunflowers and potted basil, burlap laid over the table linens to make it look like a charmed, rustic osteria, our names and wedding date on tiny bottles of olive oil. The theme of the wedding is “la dolce vita” (I went D-I-Y with the wedding website, as well) and if our reception turns out anything like that dinner, it will be everything I could hope for. Food, laughter and love.

Ok, ladies, here’s the (partial) outcome of the great make up chase of 2010. My face has officially said No, thank you to mineral make up. Disastrous. No amount of moisturizer made up for the drying it caused. However, my face is currently loving Nars blush in Orgasm – I absolutely love it. So fresh and pretty. Also, Lorac powder. Glorious!

Today I am letting the potential caterers know that we’ve decided to go in another direction – the direction in which no one will take advantage of us. See, my brother is a very gifted hobbyist chef. My mother and youngest sister also have The Gift. Sister Number Two (there are three of them, if you’re new to my circus) gently pointed out that with all this talent – and so much willingness to put it to use – I was just being silly indulging these catering companies in their cat and mouse games.

Does doing the food by ourselves take a whole lot more planning and coordination? Why, yes, yes it does. But guess what? I don’t have to do it! Sister Number Two has volunteered her services as Logistics Director. This involves many spreadsheets, a big, fat notebook and loads of research and scheduling – all to her delight. Turns out, she really wanted to go the Do-it-Yourself route for her own wedding this year and got vetoed. The Hunter-Griffith Wedding will be her take two and she will kick some serious ass at it.

Jessalyn, of The Shoestring Bride, will be on hand for coordination on the day of the wedding so that no family members will be involved in back-of-house activities during the event. Period. Time will tell, but this might just be the smartest decision I ever make in my whole life.

Sister Number Three, Director of Photography, and my friend Eleanor have graciously committed to preserving the day in various digital formats. I don’t know how I feel about those newfangled HD camcorders but hey, we’re doing this for posterity.

Sister Number One, who will also be serving as Maid of Honor, has been assigned no tasks yet (aside from, you know, picking a dress). But now that I’ve decided not to let the disgustingly bloated wedding industry have a pound of my flesh, she’s probably going to find herself with some floral wire, a yard of ribbon and dozens of Whole Foods’ finest blooms.

By wrong, I mean it seems irresponsible and you know, fundamentally icky.

Believe me, I am all for paying people for their gumption and talents. But I’ve already said no way, no how to a photographer (neither the groom nor I even kind of LIKE standing for photos and what’s more, I have never, ever heard a bride say, “God, I’m so glad we took so many damn pictures.That was the best money ever spent!”) because I can’t fathom how anyone really believes that two hours of their time is worth eighteen hundred dollars unless they’re performing some kind of life-saving surgery. Wedding photography and kidney transplants all rolled into one!

I can’t do this.

Why so difficult, Universe?

Clarification in the First: Don’t worry. No one is staying in Napoli. It’s just the closest transportation hub.

The event took place at a winery in the aptly named town of Grapevine. It’s a good thirty minutes away and my one experience with Grapevine consists of a date with a guy who lived out there – a lovely dinner, a trip to a wine bar, food poisoning and projectile vomiting. I went to Urgent Care in a brown silk dress and my date’s bright red hockey socks. I was recounting that unfortunate episode on Saturday night, and had anyone been in the know, they might just have gestured across the room to the wine tasting counter and said, “That guy?”

Because there he was. What are the odds?

And before I could remember if our association had ended awkwardly (which, um, it might have) I ran right over to say hello. And you thought my eye/hand coordination was bad. It gets even muckier when decision making skills are involved. By the time I got back to my friends, after a good round of oh, ha ha, remember so-and-so, I still couldn’t remember exactly how it ended other than, at the time, I was nursing a broken heart and that I probably had those red hockey socks in a drawer somewhere. All signs point to some degree of awkward. For a second, I wanted to face palm myself and then I thought, Hey! We’re in a winery. He has no idea I’m sober and embarrassed. In fact, given our surroundings, he might just be assuming I’m toasted and shameless.

Once upon a time on Saturday morning, I sat down at the kitchen counter to finish my coffee and write up a grocery list. Milk, eggs, bread – one loaf or two? One. There’s a back-up in the freezer. Broccoli, spinach. Apples. Coffee? Nope, I just bought that new bag two weeks ago. And then suddenly, with a sounding of trumpets, Bill Nye the Science Guy came down from the sky in a puff of dry ice fog.

“Two weeks ago?” Bill Nye asked, forgoing any good morning pleasantries.

“Yes, Mr. Science Guy. I was really excited because Sprouts had that Ethiopian coffee that I can never, ever get my hands on.”

“Please, call me Bill. So, you’re telling me, that two weeks ago you switched coffee brands.”

“Yes, and it’s quite tasty. Can I get you a cup?”

“Thank you, no. Two weeks ago. Hmmm,” said Bill Nye, tapping a scientific finger to his temple. “Wasn’t that around the time you developed that wacky eye spasm?”

“What are you getting at, Bill?”

I immediately put down my cup, and gave it the People’s Eyebrow. Could it be? My eye was already beginning to flutter, so Bill and I scheduled our little experiment for the next morning, when I swapped out my luxurious Ethiopian brew for ordinary old Peet’s French Roast and… wait for it… my eye didn’t do jack squat all the livelong day.

Why does Heather get to have all the fun? I never get to scrub pet stains out of totally gnarly apartment carpet!

I know, I know, but life just isn’t fair.

This is further proof, I say, that my life is perfect for reality programming. It’ll be like Keeping up with the Kardashians only with way more housekeeping, fewer names that begin with K and approximately the same amount of backside.

Which is all to say, lordy, I hope your weekend is going to be much more thrilling than mine. I’m afraid mine will reach its apex at putting a check mark next to “Buy New Brita” on my to-do list. Whatever. Domesticity suits me.

Speaking of. My mom called me yesterday afternoon from the middle of the forest. She and StepBob are on three-week hike along the John Miur trail in California. Just checking in, she said. They’ve seen bears and deer and oh, having such a nice time but they’re so dirty. And for a while, I was kind of jealous. I dig the outdoors and hiking and bears. But last night when I climbed out of the shower, slid into fresh PJs and then into a bed that was not made out of something I rolled out on a piece of ground, the selection of which was determined by pine cone population and relative dampness. Then suddenly, I wasn’t jealous anymore. Like I said, domesticity suits me. It comes with a down comforter and a coffee maker.

Like this morning, under LATEST NEWS, I read something like, Teresa Guidice files for bankruptcy. And I thought, “Aw, that’s too bad,” followed by, “Who’s Teresa Guidice?” The answer: Just another person who spent more money than they had. Like my dad. He filed for bankruptcy a few years ago, but I guess since he doesn’t get into too many cat fights on camera, it didn’t really make the news circuit outside of our family.

Dear CNN,

People Magazine headlines are. not. news.

Love and hugs and stuff,

Heather

You guys were super champs at the whole make-up thing; I thank you. There’s a general consensus about the greatness that is Bare Minerals (exclamation point, exclamation point) but I have also read many warnings about its shortcomings in photos. This will require further research and experimentation. Now, if you could only help me find the *perfect* MacBook sleeve (thirteen inches, please. Slim but protective) or a garment steamer (mine up and died and I am fresh out of trust for electronic gadget companies) or ballet pink peep toe heels with a bow on the back (that’s not too specific, right?).

I totally get why people hire personal shoppers, now. To quote the mean, rich chick (and SJP’s arch nemesis) from Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, “Decisions are the worst!”

Ladies (and Eddie), I need new make up. I’m mostly a tinted moisturizer kind of girl, but sometimes I want to get all gussied up, go all out and that’s where the trial and error comes in. The results haven’t been pretty. I started by googling this and then realized that you all are MUCH better at this sort of thing than the Interwebs at large. Also, I can generally trust that you’re not some cosmetics company’s hired gun out there makin’ up fake reviews. So. Tell me about a foundation that you just love, love, love. Nothing heavy; I can’t deal. Oh, and it has to photograph well (see, there is this wedding thing coming up and I don’t want to look like a ghost in those pictures). I don’t mind spending a little bit for a really nice product because, like I said, I definitely don’t go full face make up all that often.

Help a girl out?

Like Saturday. I said, Hey, I’ll go through all this paperwork I’ve accumulated and organize my filing cabinet right quick. Right. Quick. Did I not think I was going to read and reread everything before making the agonizing decision of whether or not to keep a receipt for a PDA I don’t even own anymore? Silly girl. A few hours and more than a few paper cuts later, I had a pristine filing cabinet and a totally lost afternoon.

And like last night. After an eleven hour work day, I came home to make a quick dinner (breakfast for dinner – it’s the meal that feels like playing hooky) so His Dorkiness could go up to the college to take a math test. Dinner was scarfed and tidied up by 7PM and I thought, Hey, that’s great! I’ll spend an hour (it should only take an hour, right?) on Task in the First: Organizing My Office Closet and then crawl into bed to rot my brain on the Interwebs.

Notsomuch.

At 10:30, when I finally took the last bundle of crap down to the dumpster, walked the dog and washed the dust off my face, the day was o-v-e-r. Hal was posted on the bathroom counter playing Taps on a tiny bugle. We get up at 5:20, you see.

Tonight’s task involves sorting through my bathroom cupboards and drawers for old cosmetics and hair product, so uh, it’s not likely I’m going to be communing with the computer because I know there’s bound to be an incident with a set of hot rollers. They’ll work this time, I swear.

Anyway, if I’m not mistaken, around birthday time every year, we get real interactive here and do a Q&A. You get to ask me all the things I avoid addressing in daily posts and I either answer them or cause a mighty distraction (is that a rabbit over there?) and keep on with the avoiding thing.

Topics to avoid: that whole New York musician thing, the baby jesus (that seems to get folks riled up) and the spattering of varicose veins I discovered this morning because, wow is it going to take a while before I’m zen about that.

Have at it!

Seven of us shared a vendor booth (a first for me. I’m usually a conference attendee and most likely the one really wiggly attendee shifting around in her chair, trying not to fall asleep. Not because it’s rude to sleep through exhilarating classes on budget or market projections – well, yeah, that too -  but because I’m likely to wake up covered in drool. That’s me. Class act).

Anyway, spending eight hours together trapped on a 12×12 piece of blue carpet will get folks acquainted pretty quickly and let’s not kid ourselves – I’ve been sharing overly personal information with strangers for YEARS now. Being inappropriate is my super power.

At one point, we were discussing workout equipment (Precor was also a vendor and they had some crazy complicated machinery on display) and one of the architects mentioned how he just can’t bring himself to climb on one of those things and stare at the wall for an hour.

“Gah, me either,” I said. “The only indoor thing I can stand is hot yoga, and that’s not so tempting when it’s 110 outside. Neither is jogging – the other thing I don’t hate.”

He nodded. He’s from Arizona. He gets it.

“I think I gain twenty pounds every summer just because it’s too stupid hot to do anything.”

At this point, one of the East Coast architects, a brusque, uncensored fellow whose charm was not as lost on me, but who most certainly needed someone with a bit of New York in her blood to appreciate, looked up from his laptop,

“You gain twenty pounds every summer?” The look on his face could only be described as complete horror. “I’d kill myself!”

I can’t remember what I said in response. I probably just shrugged because honestly, I’m over it. It gets hot, I get lazy. Fall comes, I trim up. Lather, rinse, repeat. That’s just how it is and I’m not going to beat myself up over it. I know. Look at me being so zen!

Conversation moved on, but as soon as that fellow left the magic blue square, the rest of us did a recap.

“Did he really just say he’d kill himself?” One of my new Midwest friends wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“Wait, he said that?” Another warm body had just joined the blue square.

“Yes!” I was having a genuine, deep from the (rather untoned) belly laugh over it. “He’s really lucky that I’m not the sensitive type!”

“I think I’m offended for you. Architects say the darndest things, huh?”

If the wireless card on my work laptop hadn’t been jacked up, you’d have all been on the receiving end of minute-by-minute updates on just how much I was enjoying solo time at the hotel. Turn down service was my favorite perk. After tossing my nephew around in the back yard all evening, I came back to the hotel to soft music playing, a robe laid out on the bed, chocolates on my pillow and bubble bath on the vanity. BUBBLE BATH. And a tub that filled all the way up without one of those annoying drains that leaks, glurg, glurg, the second you’re submerged. Pure, non-denominational heaven.

On Wednesday night, I sat in the middle of that big bed, propped up on an excessive number of pillows, nibbling chocolate, and feeling ninety-nine percent certain that hotel management was going to drop by any second to say they were ever so sorry, but there’s been a mix up and my actual, real room was just down the hall next between laundry services and the drill team and don’t worry, the cot is really very comfortable and could they please have that piece of chocolate? Thanks. Never happened, though, and I had three lovely bubble baths followed by three very peaceful nights of sleep. During which I missed my honey exceedingly. Naturally.

Nieces and nephew time was, by the way, so exhausting and fun. Abby, the newest, is five weeks old and is the most splendid, perfect thing I’ve ever tried to fit in my purse. My sister wasn’t parting with her, though, but did keep trying to get me to borrow her toddler for an extended period of time because seriously, Owen is effing impossible. If you think it’s out of reach, it isn’t. If you think you’re fast enough, you aren’t. And if it’s dangerous or gross, he’s all over it. Except if it’s a spider web, it turns out. Yesterday afternoon, he came to me with wide eyes and an outstretched hand, the thin gossamer of a web, barely visible. In fact, it took me a second to figure out just what was wrong.

“Eew!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Eew!” His vocabulary didn’t allow for elaboration and it was all I could do not to laugh.

I licked my fingers to pull the web of his pudgy little hand and he stood there for a second wiggling his fingers. Then he smiled.

“Dan due.”

“You’re welcome.”

Today has been one of those magical days where if something can go wrong, it has. Not like, life ending things – I made it to work in one piece and I’ve not peed on myself or anything – but Tuesday has been one giant hiccup. My favorite part was getting to the office at 6:45AM to prep for a Really Big Meeting… that got canceled. Oh, ha ha, Universe. You silly. It’s gonna be even sillier when I doze off in traffic on the way home.

Tomorrow morning I’m off for a conference in Salt Lake City, home of the Mormons and epicenter of babies, including my three week old niece, Abby Someone. I’m really effing excited to meet her. My sister keeps sending me taunting photographs of Her Preciousness with captions that probably amuse me way more than they should but hey, I am a sucker for this kid.

“Heather is coming and she’s not bringing you any presents!”

“I’m not liiiisteniinngg!”

“And she thinks your hair is dumb.”

“Noooooo!”

My jaw hit the sofa cushions. Is there not food to be made? I looked around for evidence that I’d made some magical trip in a DeLorean to NINETEEN FIFTY FIVE but nope, everything suggested that we were indeed in the most modern of times.

To. Be. Fair: He is used to coming home and finding me in the kitchen conjuring up something for dinner unless there’s… you got it… no food to be made, in which case, he takes me out to eat. So his question was, I suppose, based on precedent and meant more along the lines of, “Will we be going out to dinner?” But that’s not how it sounded.

The look on my face said everything. Which was good, because for a few minutes, I could say nothing at all. I was so insulted and offended. And strangely, embarrassed. I was a million things I couldn’t even figure out. I hit a wall of panic. Holy crap, was this the man I was marrying? He read my face and went upstairs to change.

I sat on the sofa for a minute trying to figure out what to do next. What I’d planned to do next was get up and make dinner – I was really, really hungry -  but was that even the right thing to do now after what my stinker of a fiance said? Wouldn’t the terrorists win? I got up and headed into the kitchen. And that’s where I was when he came down to apologize.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

“I know,” I said, not looking up from the onion I was chopping. “But I’m gonna be mad at you for a while.”

Rock the vote!

This weekend, I was invited up to my friend Amanda’s grandparents’ lake house in Oklahoma. Spell check disagrees with me, but I think that should be one word, by the way. Lakehouse. Like, clubhouse or doghouse or crackhouse. If we’re going to compound noun things, let’s not go about it half-assed. Regardless of the spelling of lakehouse, I had an excellent time up there and while some of that was the being lazy, floating around on the lake eating Oreos, a lot of the awesomeness was spending time with the grandparents. I’m not all that close to mine – a natural byproduct of growing up several hundred miles away – so it’s a huge treat to sit around the breakfast table with a faux-crotchety ole grandpa telling quasi-inappropriate jokes while grandma peels apples and contributes the occasional, “Oh, you stop that, Carl.”

And Carl would not stop that, not even for a second.

On Sunday, instead of going back out on the lake, we kept our sunburns indoors, playing hymns on Grandma’s piano and baking. Grandpa quizzed us on our scripture, and despite my current unbeliever status, I rocked that quiz, King James style, yo. I felt kinda like the Flanders kids, on some Biblical trivial pursuit. Yay! I get to clothe the leper!

Did I mention there was cake? Because there was. Cake and ice cream. And pie and ice cream. Thirty-two isn’t too old to be adopted, right? 

After years of commuting four miles or less (read: years of being spoiled and sheltered), I’m now making a twice daily, thirty minute trek and hoo boy, it sure is taking some getting used to. Now, I’ve already admitted to being spoiled and sheltered, so this is the part where if you were going to leave a nasty comment about how spoiled I am because your commute is like, eight times that long, in inclement weather on bald tires, you’ll find yourself having to scrounge for something else to be nasty about because I’ve beaten you to the punch. Yeah, that’s me. Always thinkin’ ahead.

Anyhow, last night, when it was eleventy hundred degrees in my car and I was trying ever so hard to make progress in the direction of Laura’s house and some margaritas, I found myself making flailing, exaggerated hand gestures and yelling things like, “You! You are a REALLY BAD driver!” at people who couldn’t hear me. And it felt so pathetic. I was actually a little embarrassed. So I turned up my Glee playlist and pretended (very loudly) that I was Rachel Berry until all my mad went away. Because there is nothing embarrassing about that. Nothing.