The Pledge

So it's been almost one full month since Jay and I got engaged. And what have I accomplished since then?

Nothing!

This is an incredibly overwhelming process that I'm not sure I'm prepared for, and I almost feel like apologizing for not having an answer at the ready for all of the well-meaning questions I'm peppered with: Have you set a date yet? No. Where will it be? Somewhere in New York, I guess? Who's in your bridal party? I have no idea yet. Chicken or fish? Um, both?

Then there are the "Oh! You should do this!" people. Luckily, I'm very good at smiling and nodding.

Here is what I do know: We will not get married in a church. Neither of us are particularly religious, nor do we like to be the center of attention, so an hour-long ceremony with all eyes on us might induce some panic on both of our parts.

I also can promise you that this blog will not turn into a platform for me to rant and rave about all things bridal. Throughout this entire process, I'm striving not to be at all like the women who post on The Knot's New York-centric Web site. Scaaary.

Mostly, I kind of want the wedding to be like the recent birthday party of Libby, Jay's now 4-year-old niece: wine, cupcakes and a karaoke machine that everyone knows how to share.

Pictures of the inspirational event here.

Idling away

I thought by taking a job editing, I'd be more inspired to write, but instead I just find myself picking out typos in everything I read. Bo-ring.

Which is what life has been lately, though I know those of you in more exciting and far off lands check here for updates on life in New York, so I'll do the best I can in trying to make an unexciting existence sound remotely interesting.

We caught up with Ratterman, Franklin, Vicki and the Lishegos over the weekend and everyone is doing well, with the exception of a minor meltdown over the lack of enough vanilla extract for some peanut butter macadamia nut cookies, which turned out to be pretty good. (See what fun you're missing?! Octoberfest in Germany? The Great Wall? Bah.)

Next week, Jay is off to Melbourne and Sydney (and perhaps someplace else in Australia?), for the first flight of something that has the wingspan of a football field. I am making him take my camera and will try my hardest to also make him blog about it, though for whatever reason his love affair with blogging has been short-lived. What happens in Seville, stays in Seville, I guess.

On a more personal note, we had a Meet the Parents weekend two weeks ago. The Boehmers, in town for the weekend, met the Merritts in a casual yet intimate dinner setting at Arturo's. All went well and I wasn't very nervous about it until I saw that my father had managed to singe off most of the skin on his chin (not an exaggeration) from a piece of cheese on a sausage and pepper sandwich. It was the sort of thing you could tell everyone was staring at but didn't want to ask about, so I eventually felt compelled enough to explain my father's leprosy.

All in all, it seems that our parents were more concerned about how they came off rather than formulating a real impression of the other set. So the good news is, I think we'll all be able to hang out again.

And that, my friends, is all there is for now. I'm trying my hardest to stay away from the obligatory "I promise to update again soon!" sign off.

Oh, wait.

The Girl's Gone Country

I'm about as country as Jessica Simpson, but it should be said that I spent the first six years of my life with cows for neighbors. My parents eventually upgraded to a town with a convenience store within walking distance, but the people without teeth still remained.

Back in those days, probably until I was about 10, the can't-wait-for event each summer was the Sussex County Farm and Horse Show, essentially a country carnival, complete with stomach aching fried foods and tractor pulls. It's where I experienced my first-ever thrill ride at the tender age of two, on some sort of red, dusty, merry-go-round contraption with a cow bell attached. Good times were had by all.

I haven't been to the fair in ages and for some reason I really wanted to go this summer. So I rounded up Jay and my parents and we took the long ride out to the fairgrounds via Route 206 in my father's 22-foot long diesel truck, for country-folk authenticity purposes.

I don't remember much about my past times at the Sussex County fair, but I have a feeling that not much has changed since my last visit, except that my father now has Jay to competitively eat against. (Usually he just eats.) Jay put up a good fight, but my father reigned, consuming a roast beef sandwich, pierogies, a cheese steak, popcorn, a slice of pizza, half of an ice cream waffle sandwich, beef brisket, corn on the cob, oysters and finally, a nectarine, all in three-and-a-half hours. For reasons unknown, the only item he refused was the remainder of my funnel cake. (Too sugary, perhaps?)

And just like always, good times were had by all. Pictures here.