Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

ocd

a shark for places

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I have now been back from Europe and installed in my house for close to three days.

I’m slightly afraid to go outside. Half because I know I’m going to compare everything here to Paris and London, and here will lose out in every instance. But also because as I surround myself with my city the impressions of those other places will begin to fade.

Prior to (and during) the honeymoon I was eager to grump that I don’t understand the worth of spending money to go places. Even afterward that’s still true – when I tallied our total expenses last night I almost cried, even though they came out almost exactly as what I estimated.

That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the places. I loved Paris, and I liked what little of London I saw well enough. I just don’t enjoy vacations – being idle. On our slowest days in Paris I hated it, but when we turned Paris into work – multiple museums and neighborhoods to visit in one day – then I enjoyed being in Paris. When we turned London into a scavenger hunt – snapping photos and visiting shops – then I enjoyed London.

I would love to live in Paris – to be able to enjoy Paris while I am at rest. Paris was the one place I’ve ever been where I felt totally in-place, even as I stumbled through their language in every interaction.

Philadelphia can’t be Paris, no matter how many French books and newspapers I stowed in my garment bag. But I can bring that swim or sink vacation mentality back to Philadelphia – move or drown, create or die.

If I move fast enough, the scenery stops being significant.

St. Pancras

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We stepped off Picidilly line in King’s Cross and enjoyed actual London air for just a moment before stepping into St. Pancras, bound for our Eurostar.

My father graciously lent me his set of luggage so I wouldn’t have to spend yet more money on wedding-related expenses. During my packing apocalypse last night it seemed practically, reasonably large, but now that I’m tumbling on and off the tube with it seems like massive, obnoxious American luggage. None of the Europeans have luggage this big – right at the weight limit even half packed. It even says “American Tourister” on it, in case its fatness was not a direct giveaway of my nationality.

(To be fair, my father warned me that it was a bit bigger than I needed. )

Last night’s panic attack subsided once we were safely installed in PHL and found someone who could explain the difference between the current my laptop would need versus the current that my electric razor requires. Elise keeps zipping off in directions that may or may not be correct, and I have to keep reminding her that I travel in completely the opposite way that I commute – I constantly stop to collect myself and check all of my pockets; I never hurry or jaywalk.

My “I don’t speak enough French” panic attack also subsided slightly once I realized that I’d have just as much trouble understanding fast-talking Londoners, slightly returned when I bumbled saying thank you to the border guard, and was greatly beaten back by understanding the customs signage (even though I was sure I had a word wrong) and reading the entire Obama cover article in Le Monde.

We didn’t dally too long in King’s Cross, but as a nod to our geekdom we have situated ourselves roughly at track nine and three quarters as we await our chariot to France.

frakking jet plane

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So, I know I have to catch you up on the most fantastic wedding ever (i.e., mine), but right now I am primarily concerned with how woefully unprepared I am to fly to Europe in about four hours.

Leaving aside for the moment that I lost my camera at my own wedding, which eliminates about 50% of the things I was planning to do in Europe, and that I don’t currently have any power adapters/converters appropriate for my laptop, which was how we were going to coordinate the other 50% of the things we were planning to do in Europe, I am only about halfway packed and I’m missing some very important items like pants and shoes.

Also, my time to practice speaking French in 2008 was absolutely null, so though I continue to read it at a surprising intermediate level, my speaking vocabulary is basically limited to conjugating lots of verbs – which would be great if I wanted to rudely boss people around the entire time we’re in Paris, but in that case I could just speak English.

Placing that on top of the fact that I really and truly despise extended travel to begin with and will be traveling sans guitar, right now my desire to leave the country – or, in fact, the house – is about equal to my desire to watch a week long marathon of Two and a Half Men, breaking once a day to re-watch all of Donovan McNabb’s worst throws from yesterday’s utterly perplexing (yet entirely unsurprising) loss to the Cardinals.

I’m registering all of this now so that hopefully we can all appreciate the difference when I am delightfully basking in the decadence of my longest vacation ever.

Lest we get too optimistic, please recall that I was requesting an airlift home after about 36 hours of Bonnaroo, which cost about a sixth as much as this international nonsense, and at least there I was surrounded by music.

Back to packing.

a little ocd is still ocd

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Chaz and I were talking about something during the drumming rehearsal – I forget what. Could have been anything, really. Maybe lead sheets.

Anyhow, the point is I said something about being organized in a typically obsessive compulsive way and he just nodded in agreement and kept talking. Because we are equally as insane as each other.

I know I don’t have an actual problem needing medication, but let me just given you two samples of my behavior:

(1) Walking with Elise this weekend she took our street all the way out to the next main North to South block. When she went to turn North, I stopped her and asked, “Where are you going?”

She replied, “To the car, which is north.” And, I said, “No, I can only walk down this street if I’m turning south.”

We proceeded to have a fight about taking the street for the purposes of turning north.

(2) Sometimes in the process of blogging I have an idea about a future post, and I jot it into a blank post as a draft so I can remember it later. However, I absolutely cannot allow posts to go up outside of their numerical order in the database, even though it has no effect on the order they are posted. It just makes my skin crawl. I have literally spent an hour pasting from one draft to another in a daisy chain to make sure I get posts to come out in the right order.

I mention this because the post that is set to post tomorrow was jotted before this post, so it will technically come out of order. It almost physically hurts to acknowledge that in writing. Of course, the number is ultimately meaningless, but once this post is posted there is no going back. Unless I post it into an entirely new post. Which I still might do.

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Any time anything I do starts to feel excessive, I just remind myself, Peter, you are not compelled to vacuum your bedroom three times a day, so everything is fine. You still have not turned into your grandmother.

Bridezilla vs. The Groomlin

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As we hit the two-month mark on our wedding plans it’s becoming increasingly clear that Elise is the calm, measured one, and I am the rational, demanding one.

In layman’s terms, that would make me “Bridezilla.” Or, as we deemed me almost a year ago, “The Groomlin.”

Except, I don’t think my behavior has been all that monstrous. This is the most expensive endeavor I’ve undertaken in my personal life, but it pales in comparison to the cost of my projects at work. I’m being just as detail-oriented about the wedding as I would about a 300m-piece mailing, and there are plenty of details to orient to in both.

Part of being rational and demanding means holding the line when presented with unacceptal options. I carefully vetted caterers for ones who would take requests for vegetarian and vegan meals seriously. I had firm words with my jeweler when they nicked up Elise’s engagement ring without noticing. I refused to sign a contract with our first shuttle company because they were evasive and rude to Elise when she asked them to clarify their deposit policy.

Which brings me to the story of this weekend, my erstwhile wedding band, and the double-standard of “Bridezilla.”

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Elise knows I like unusual, modern design, and early in the band-shopping process she turned me on to tension-set rings. They’re typically titanium or stainless steel bands, and the strength of the band holds a jewel without any prongs or inset.

Since I don’t wear much jewelry I liked the utilitarian idea of a stainless steel band, and I loved that I could finally have an excuse to wear a sapphire, my birth stone. I picked a sample setting, and we set out to find a store that carried something like it.

We found said store in New Hope – awesome, since that’s one of my favorite places in the area to spend the day. We visited once to nail down the exact ring and jewel – a thin stainless steel band with tension set princess cut sapphire almost the exact height of the band.

The store didn’t have it in stock, but it wasn’t a custom design – just a more obscure band/jewel combination. They told us they’d order it from the company headquarters in Europe, and that it would be in shortly. Sure enough, they rang us barely a week later to let us know that the ring was in, which is what brought us back to New Hope on Saturday.

Once we were at the counter I was so aflutter with excitement to get the band on my finger that I didn’t really look at it before I slipped it on. As I turned it round my knuckle, admiring its fit, Elise immediately exclaimed, “That’s not it!”

I looked down, and saw that though the band was right the stone was wrong – round cut, not princess.

Of course, at the point you’re paying hundreds of dollars for a ring you’ll spend the rest of your life wearing you want the stone that you asked for. The jeweler’s wife understood completely, and she told us she’d ship the ring with the correct stone directly to us.

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That’s essentially how we recounted the story in Elise’s father’s kitchen later in the day, but as I told it I saw something in my mind that I hadn’t noticed earlier. As I turned the wrong ring round on my finger the company’s logo was etched on the rear of the band. But, why would it be marked visibly on the outside of my ring?

Elise, she of the eagle eyes, had no recollection of said branding. Maybe I had seen it on the inside of the band?

No. I could not shake the image of turning the ring around on my finger and noticing the mark as it turned. It was on the outside of ring.

Knowing me as well as she does, Elise thrust her phone at me. “Just call them,” she insisted. “Better than spending the next week wondering about it.”

So, sitting in Elise’s father’s kitchen with the entire assembly of her siblings around me, I dialed the jewelry store.

P – Hi, it’s Peter, with the tension set ring. I have sort of a strange question. When I was there earlier and I tried on the ring I thought I saw the company’s logo etched on the outside of the band. But, I’m sure it would have really been on the inside. Can you just look for me?

Jeweler’s Wife – Oh, sure, just let me get it out. (rummaging sounds) Here we are. Let’s see. Yes, yes, there’s the mark. It’s on the outside.

P – Well, that must be some sort of mistake.

JW – No, no, now that I think of it, all of the rings in the case have it on the outside as well, so it’s just like the one you tried on.

P – Yes, but they’re for display. They’re display models. Of course they would be branded. I didn’t think my actual ring would be branded.

JW – Well, that’s how their rings come to us.

P – Can’t we get one without a brand? Or, have it on the inside?

JW – I don’t think they do that.

P – Right.

…

P – Can you just hold on to our order for another day or so? I need to decide if I’m still interested in the ring.

JW – I don’t understand. You might not want to order the ring?

P – Yes.

JW – Because of the brand mark?

P – (firmer) Yes.

JW – But, why?

P – Because it’s my wedding band. It shouldn’t have any extraneous marks on it.

JW – But, it’s just the company logo…

P – It’s my wedding band, not a fucking Toyota.

…

P – So please hold our order until we call back. Thanks.

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Clearly I went a little Groomlin there, but the various bystanders in the kitchen forgave me. Of course I don’t want the company’s logo to be visible on exterior of my ring. Of course I was flustered by the jeweler’s wife treating it as a non-issue. No, it wasn’t unreasonable to tell her to hold my order. Aside from dropping an F-bomb the call had been entirely rational.

So, here’s my question for you: if I was a bride, would you say that I was a Bridezilla? And, if so, what does that say about the double-standard of weddings – that a man who’s concerned about having things his way is in-control, but a woman who wants things her way is a monster?