changing the clothes

So this past week I saw Shrek 2 (cute) and Harry Potter Escape from Azkaban (the best one yet), had a manicure, bought $1000 in alcohol, got married, and did two weeks' worth of laundry. Of the past week's adventures, yes, I will admit that the marriage does rather stand out -- though really, Harry Potter is quite good if you happen to like that sort of thing, which I do -- and the evidence of its importance is reflected in our apartment, which has gone from its habitual slovenliness to a state of ungrace that would require a long-term federal bankruptcy and generations of shanty-townism to compete.

This is one of those things that will eventually clean itself up, I'm sure, just like the laundry eventually handled itself, and the kitchen will eventually handle itself: housekeeping pixies are a valuable acquisition. They came with my new husband, who regards the mess in the apartment with a wrinkled brow before his eyes glaze over and he drifts happily back to the TiVo.

The majority of the mess is split fairly evenly between gifts from friends and family, and the leftover drinks from the reception. Leftover drinks, it transpires, is something that will eventually plague you if you have a conscientious, professional caterer. Our caterer, Continental Caterers, was appallingly and terrifyingly professional. This is, in case anybody asks, a good thing. Being unaccustomed to dealing with people who not only know how to do their jobs, but do their jobs well, I found it an uncommonly comforting experience working with them, though "working with" is a rather deceptive phrase, as there could be very little intelligent interchange between a highly competent event coordinator and a bride whose IQ was rapidly approaching the level of teacup cozy. The event coordinator in charge of our case -- "case" seems a more appropriate word than "account" -- attempted to engage me in decision-making, but eventually gave up the effort after several encounters with my special wide, blank stare. Blondes may give you a run for the moron money, but nobody can beat a determined Asian for the ten-thousand yard stare. After all, it was our race that invented bureaucracy.

In the end, he gently took over everything, and I trotted happily off to entertain myself with something shiny. I arrived at the wedding site two and a half hours early, only to find the entire place was almost completely set up. I breathed a sigh of blissful relief and once more puttered off to play with string. It was rather like being cradled in the right hand of God, the left one being busily occupied in whipping up something tasty for my late-night posset.

It seems worth-while to note that there was very little actual work done on my part to get this wedding put together. The majority of my effort was spent collecting professionals to do the work for me: caterer, site administrator, photographer, musician, husband of matron-of-honor, matron-of-honor. Most of my exertions were spent in ensuring that the reception would be entertaining to all invited. In fact, it wasn't until five days before the actual ceremony that--

--well, more on that later.

My friend Tara, who worked harder than any woman should have to work for someone else's wedding when she isn't getting paid -- though the blank-eyed stare I gave her when the word 'bridesmaid' first came up should have warned her -- served as my matron-of-honor. My sister (shown above with John) served as my bridesmaid. The dress is from Macy's. The necklace was custom-made for the occasion by a friend of my co-worker's, Sharma Designs. The photograph was done by my great-aunt, Kanae Hirabayashi. Go ahead and do a google search on my great-aunt. At the age of 60, she taught herself bird-watching, e-mail, the internet, and digital photography. At the age of 70, she's become a famous photographer.

She sent the Guy and me some of the photos she took of the wedding, and casually mentioned in the e-mail that: "I was amazed that you both look so alike that as if you are brother and sister. "

The Guy has been haunted by that all night, pausing every so often to stare at me with a gloomy expression.

"Stop that."

"It's just so wrong," he wails. "You married your brother!"

I have no brothers. "I can live with that."

"Ew."

"Stop that."

"It's just so wrong!"

I've been getting irregular YM messages from friends who want to know, "So how does marriage feel?" My typical response to this is, "Itchy."

Insofar as adjectives go, there's probably a better one out there. It took a few days for the potential subtext to sink in, and by that time it was too late; we'll see if any of the Guy's friends sidle up to him, nudge him meaningfully in the ribs and demand, "Itchy? Why itchy? What've you been up to to make it itchy?"

Well, there you go. Married life is nothing if your spouse can't find some way to embarrass you.

Working on the vows...

"Okay. What do you expect from this marriage?"

"Let me throw out some words."

"Okay."

"Obedience...."

Silence.

"If you're not going to take this seriously, we might as well not do it at all."