My sister’s wedding was a perfect day in an imperfect world. I’ve never seen her look as breathtaking, or as glowingly happy, as she did on Saturday. All of her bridesmaids, myself included, took turns sniffling over how amazing she was.

The rehearsal and dinner took place on Friday night. The actual rehearsal caused a few moments of worry, mostly because the minister marrying her was new to the church and spent a lot of time clashing with one of the more active members, who wanted everything to remain exactly the way the last minister had it. Thankfully, H has excellent manners and handled everything with grace. The dinner was relaxing and delicious – a good thing, too, since I think at that point most of us were forgetting to eat.

On Saturday morning the bridal party went to Havre to get our hair done at a little boutique in the mall. They did a terrific job; we all looked like we belonged in shampoo commercials. When we got back to town we went straight to the church to get ready for pictures (H opted to take the photos before the ceremony, I think to expediate her escape). Side note: it’s possible we had the sexiest shoes EVER worn for wedding purposes. Too bad we didn’t get to show them off as much as we would have liked, since the dresses were all floor length. Anyway, the pictures took a lot less time than anticipated and we ended up waiting forty-five minutes to get started, which only made us all more nervous I think.

I was sooo nervous. Floor length dress + sky-high heels + flaming hurricane lantern = me tripping and falling flat on my face while simultaneously setting the church on fire, thus cementing my future place in hell. Thankfully, none of that happened. I clung to the groom’s older brother for dear, sweet life and no fires resulted from our traipse up the aisle.

The groom sang ‘I Cross My Heart’ by George Strait, and if you’ve never heard that song you should totally google it, because WOW. I’m not a fan of country, but he sang and played the guitar and he was so GOOD. H didn’t cry but I have to admit if it had been me, I probably would’ve, and I am not a public crier.

Then the ceremony was over - it was only about 22 minutes, pretty short – and the groom kissed the bride, and my little sister has a HUSBAND (my head is reeling over here). We all went to the reception where we ate fantastic hor d’oeuvres, including sushi which I’d never had before but now LOVE. Raw seaweed is awesome, is what I’m saying.

The toasts were as they should be, funny and sentimental, and the champagne was strawberry! Strawberry champagne, mmmm. It’s way tastier than the normal stuff. We all danced and socialized until we were almost asleep on our very sore feet, and then it was over. Just like that.

Two days later, I still feel sort of soft and fuzzy inside. I always thought H would be the first of us to tie the knot, and now she has and the curly-topped blond I remember from my childhood is all grown up and married, married, married. She’s his wife. Holy cow, I’ve got to start dating again.

One of my favorite movies in the entire world is ‘Love Actually’. You remember, right? It came out a few years ago, and to me it’s absolutely perfect. I watch it every year, and every year it makes me all mushy and shiny-eyed until I am SURE, utterly positive, that the world is indeed a magical, beautiful place where children’s parents race through airports with them in search of their true fifth-grade love, and prime ministers love the girl next door, and Colin Firth (big, wet drool) ditches that pretty Portuguese chick in favor of yours truly.

In short, everyone finds true love and those who can’t realize it give it up for the greater good, making them romantic heros. The only thing that makes this film particularly Christmasy is the glittering bows and boxes in the background, but that can be excused I think.

Christmas is actually nothing like that, of course. (Of course). Or maybe for someone it is, and if you’re that someone then please call me because we need to talk extensively about why my life is not exactly like yours. But in reality, my Christmases go something like this:

I work. After work, I go over to my Grams’ place to meet up with my siblings around a turkey and/or ham platter. We have a brief discussion about who says grace, and then everyone agrees that H should do it. Midway through the meal my younger sister says something outrageously inappropriate that makes the rest of the table turn Santa Clause red and stare contemplatively into our mashed potatoes while pondering how oh-so-naive we all are. Afterward we all shuffle discreetly around, while one by one trying to escape to the living room (nap-time sanctuary) and leave dish duty to some other poor bastard. We sometimes watch ‘National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation’ (another holiday classic) and sometimes fight over who gets first shot at the video games. At seven we plunk ourselves down in the living room and open our brightly wrapped boxes and bags, while looking at each other with an expression of, ‘What the hell? This is not what I asked for! I specifically said…’ while simultaneously chirping about how the gift is ’great, just great, it’s exactly what I wanted thanks’! Later, after a mental tally of the items we’ll need to buy for ourselves, we all migrate back to the kitchen (what!? no one did the dishes!?) for pie. After pie, people either start drowsing on unoccupied furniture or making noise about how they hate to go, but…ta!

I don’t expect this year to be unique in any way, and that’s something of a comfort and also just a teensy bit disappointing. I mean, one of these Christmases before I die I’d like to pull into the driveway on the back of a motorcycle, wrapped tightly around a gorgeous man who will earn the respect of my brothers and the slack-jawed oggling of my sisters. And in this little fantasy, I’ll be wearing an engagement ring – duh.

Despite all of that I believe that Christmas the way we do it in my family, every year…might be a little bit perfect, actually.

Have you guys seen the commercial for the RAZR2? No offense to Motorola or anything, but yikes. This guy walks by this woman after hopping off the subway, and his phone accidentally slices into her shirt. And then, obviously outraged (but in a ridiculously sexy way) she whips out HER phone, and they start cutting each other’s clothes off, using overdone matrix-style moves to battle it out. And then he takes her phone, and as she’s ducking onto the subway, he wings it at her and it sticks in the wall beside her head like a knife.

I ask you, where is homeland security when you really need them? I mean, clearly this phone is a national security issue. Don’t hold it too close to your head, is all I’m saying.

You know what sucks? Having a birthday within a few days of Christmas, like the 27th for example. You know what sucks more? Having a birthday right after the biggest holiday of the year and also right before your sister’s wedding.

I’m not unreasonably greedy or anything, but most of my life people have been handing me a Christmas gift followed immediately by the statement, “This is your Christmas AND birthday present – cool, huh?” NO! Not cool! Two of my siblings celebrate June birthdays, and you don’t see THEM getting one gift for everything. Of course, it’s not at all polite to point this out to the person WHILE they are handing you a brightly wrapped (Christmas-themed) package, and they are SO counting on that fact to keep you glowing with appreciation. For the record, I’m not a total bitch – I understand people are financially strapped at Christmas time and birthdays within the same span of time are incredibly inconvenient. But:

This year, with the wedding trumping my birthday in matters of importance (because it does, no question) I have the dreadful feeling that my family is going to FORGET my birthday. It’s like some kind of horrific flashback to Sixteen Candles, if I was a redhead. I mean, H won’t forget and neither will my friends, but I’m pretty positive everyone else is going to be so caught up in their own affairs + the wedding that my measly 26th birthday is going to pass unnoticed.

Maybe I’m being overly dramatic and pessimistic, you’re thinking – and yes, it’s been known to happen. But today while I was with a friend (and also a bridesmaid in the wedding) I mentioned that even though the 27th is my birthday, I agreed to work because I doubt anything ELSE will be going on. And she said, “No, you can’t work on the 27th – ” And then just when I started to feel vaguely appreciated  ” – we have to decorate for the wedding! ”

I’m happy for H. She deserves all of the best, and I know her wedding will be beautiful and memorable. I just wish I was a little bit memorable, too. All I want is a cake with 26 candles and maybe for someone to take me to see Sweeney Todd, because what’s more fun than watching Johnny Depp pretend to be a slash-happy barber? I can think of nothing.

My second date with the younger guy started out well. He cooked, and it wasn’t even a pizza. He got points for that, and for making great conversation. And then…

He wanted to ‘watch a movie’ so we went into the living room (there are no movie theaters here) and prepared for ‘The Amityville Horror’, which I’m certain would have been a cinematic triumph if I’d gotten to watch even FIVE minutes of it.

I won’t provide the jaw-dropping details, but let it be said that he was all over me, despite my telling him ahead of time (and throughout) that I’m not easy, and I preferred to slow it down. I was okay with kissing him, but after pushing for various activities far beyond mere kissing, he actually said that he expected a certain level of sexual play. So in addition to feeling annoyed, I got to feel cheap – what kind of moron TELLS someone he expects any kind of sex on the second date? Someone very inexperienced, that’s who – I’m thinking virgin.

I couldn’t help but conclude that he must have me mixed up with something plastic and inflatable, in which case he doesn’t need me at all, just enough gas money to get to the nearest sex shop.

I have a costly membership at the local fitness center, and while it isn’t as nice as anyplace I’ve been to in the city it’s more than adequate for what I typically do. Lately, I’ve been skipping a day here and there (or eight in a row) because the streets here are now snow-packed and the temperatures are below zero and let’s face it, that combo doesn’t exactly make for optimum levels of motivation. Unless we’re talking about getting motivated to snuggle up on the couch with season three of House and some homemade cookies, in which case I’m waaaay ahead of the curve.

Anyway, a fellow member of my sister’s wedding party has been saying she needs to get in better shape, too, and I helpfully suggested that she should get a membership of her own so that we can work out together. What a great idea, right? We can motivate each other! We can indulge in salacious gossip while we’re panting like overworked dogs!

Now I’ll confess to being shallow and say that although today was our first day of working out together, I’ve been working out for months, and of course I expected to be in better shape than she is. All of my hard work had better be paying off, yes? And she hasn’t worked out at all in months, but she does work as a waitress so that probably counts.

Imagine my surprise when, after quickly programming my elliptical, I glanced over and noticed that S had programmed hers for a full thirty minutes. Thirty minutes. Good for her, right? I mean, I was honestly expecting her to choke after fifteen or twenty, because she kept going on and on about how out of shape she was, but no. I did my ten, telling myself it was more than enough, and went on to do the weights. And she lasted for the whole thirty minutes.

I’m a competitive person, so I was vaguely annoyed with myself that after all my gym time, I haven’t pushed myself that far. But what really annoyed me was her smug, slightly sweaty expression. She was SMUG. As in, HA, I stayed on the elliptical longer than you.

To make matters worse, when she used the other equipment she did a variety of exercises I’ve never seen before, while casually commenting that she gets addicted to exercising if she isn’t careful, and she usually exercises for up to three straight hours. THREE HOURS? Oh, and she thought about going to college to be a personal trainer, I forgot that one.

I finished my own routine, except for the 8 minute ab video because there was no way in HELL I was going to grunt my way through that while she watched me with a thinly veiled expression of superiority.

And let me just say one more time, THREE HOURS? What kind of mutant woman wants to exercise for three solid hours? Or even two? I mean, life is short! I understand how you could be rock climbing or skiing or something and have no problems continuing for that length of time, because exercise isn’t really exercise when it’s entertainment. But just spending hours in a gym? Eeee. I hope she doesn’t expect me to spend that much time in the damn gym.

I was rescued by the senior citizens group. After they filed in, she decided the place was too crowded and we agreed to go back tomorrow night after everyone is gone.

I’m dreading it. Needless to say, I feel like total crap after spending an hour and a half comparing myself to her. The thing is, I know I’m in better shape than I was, and I even look better. But she looks better than I do, and she hasn’t even worked out in months, and the petty side of myself REALLY can’t stand it. But I guess I’ll have to.

Being myself, I was too impatient to wait for whatever sage advice you all might have re: yesterday’s blog. Truthfully, the date was already planned – this guy, he doesn’t waste any time.

The date was good. We did everything people do on dates – held hands, complimented each other on how hot we looked, danced, conversed, and shared more than one goodnight kiss, at which point he wanted to know when he can see me again. Hmm. He puzzles me. He’s a contradiction. He’s been an aquaintance for years, but he’s ruining all of my foregone conclusions. For example, he always struck me as being somewhat shy, and usually my intuition about such things is dead on, but no. He’s not shy. At all. Which is good, because I’m not a fan of shy guys. He asked surprising questions, which both pleased and irritated me, because let it be known that I am impossible to make happy.

I think my problem is this: he’s totally comfortable talking about his emotions and what he wants and what he likes, and equally interested about what I want and like. Yes, you’re all thinking, WHAT A TERRIBLE ASSHOLE, and by the way, have you taken your meds yet today? But I am NOT comfortable with my emotions, ever. I am an indestructible fortress of lame jokes, brilliant evasive manuvers, and sly double entendres, all designed to protect my ass from having to have any sort of real discussion about anything involving romance or sex. And normally I’m on top of things, but he kept me slightly off-balance and uncomfortable all night, and I’m still not sure what to think about it. I should probably work on not thinking about it, since I tend to analyze every little thing to death.

He’s also kind of pushy. I’m equally annoyed and turned on by it. More than you wanted to know, right? The point I’m trying to get across is that I’m confused, and I’m always confused about dating and I wish I wasn’t. I think to myself that if he’s for me, I wouldn’t be confused. I’d just know. Wouldn’t I?

Did you just know, a deepdowninyourgut knowing feeling, or were you blindsided and surprised and you’re still shaking your head, going ‘who the hell knew, because I sure didn’t'?

How would you guys feel about dating someone younger than you? Not by a year or two, but let’s say…five years younger, which would in fact make him younger than your sister and a month younger than her fiance, who is younger than she is. Ahem.

And is it just me, or does ‘younger’ look like it shouldn’t even be a word?

Okay, fine, I lied. It’s not hypothetical. Help!

I went to the devil’s store where they are monetarily ass raping people by charging six damn dollars for a box of cereal grocery store with my Grams tonight. I love my Grams, but going anywhere with her is always an adventure. Actually, it’s more like one of those choose your own adventure books, and it feels like I’m always ending up on the wrong page and scrambling to get back to page 16 or wherever, but by then it’s too late because I’ve landed on the ‘WHOA, you’ve just been eaten by a wild animal’ page.

We made it to the store without incident. We even shopped harmoniously. Then, as we were leaving, I made the mistake of commenting on a book I thought she’d want to read, because the author is related to another writer she really enjoys. I referred to the author as a male, because the first name on the cover was ‘Jesse’. The following conversation ensued:
Her: “You don’t know that. It could be a female.”
Me: “Sure, it could be, but that spelling is predominantly used for males.”
Her: “No, it could be short for Jessica.”
Me: “Well, yeah, but then it would be J-e-s-s-i-e.”
Her, with voice raised: “No, I know a lot of women named Jesse.”
Me, exasperated: “Fine. Let’s not argue. You’re right.”
Her: “Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”
At which point I made a noise of disbelief, because you should have HEARD her! The tone! It was insanely self-important, okay? She deserved the disbelieving noise, trust me.

And now a short break, where I describe briefly what transpired on Thanksgiving (you’ll be needing this bit of history). We were playing cards, and I casually mentioned that I got ‘jilted’ because of a bad hand. Grams interrupts me, saying that ‘jilted’ is not a word, the correct word is ‘jilt’ and I’m using it improperly anyway. I explain (I know, I know, why do I bother?) that I was using the slang, which is pretty much like saying I’m getting screwed. Screwed, jilted, it’s all the same, right? She shakes her head, clearly in disagreement, but is unwilling to pursue the issue thankfully. I forget the incident. Back to our story:

Her, approximately 1.2 seconds after loftily proclaiming that she is always right: “Oh, and I looked up ‘jilt’ the other day. I was right. Jilted isn’t a word.”
Me, with mounting disbelief and annoyance: “It was slang!” (And it was DAYS ago!)
Her: “No, it isn’t slang. It’s not a word.”
Me: “Why are you so concerned with my speech, anyway? You’re always correcting me!” (Me, who got A’s in English!)
Her: “You always correct me!” (NOT TRUE! Not even close to true!)
Me: “WHAT? I do not!”
Her: “Anyway, it’s not a word.”
Me: “Ugh!”

The end. Some days, I think I’d rather be eaten by a wild animal. Seriously.

H was bummed that I didn’t tell what she refers to as the ‘rhinocerus’ story, so I guess I’ll let you all in on it.

Friday night while we were hitting the bars, we were directed to one called ‘The Rhino’. Except that as we were on our way in, I noticed that the sign actually said ‘The Rhinoceros’. And being the total nerd that I am, I felt the need to clarify the oversight for the group. In my most school marmish voice, I said loudly, ‘The Rhinoceros’. Because come on, they HAD to know. Right? Right.

Anyway, the reason this is funny (by her reasoning) is that these two very good looking guys were also on their way in, and I didn’t see them in time to shut up, and they were all, “Oooh, are you going into The Rhinoceros too?” Ugh.

Although I should have taken the opportunity to flirt like mad, playing up my geekiness to my benefit (because let’s face it I am a totally charming geek) he had a girlfriend anyway.

Although the next day at the spa, one of the women helping us heard H giving me grief and pointed out that there is an actual DEBATE going on among certain individuals in Missoula as to the actual name of that bar. So there. I was practically local with my bad self.