HAVE A GREAT SUMMA

Hi.

And welcome to my wedding blog.

So for ONCE my Long Island accent worked in my favor. In order to get a permit to get married in a Brooklyn park one has to talk to one TOUGH COOKIE at the City Parks office by the name of Leora Manachelli. Leora-Brooklyn born and bred.

Leora was out of her office for two days. When she finally called back I made the mistake of saying, “Were you out on vacation?” to which she barked back in a smoker’s rasp and THICK Brooklyn accent,

“Vacation?! Vacation?! PHFTT! Yeah right! My knees was busted! If you people could just WAIT two seconds for me to call you back it would be NICE!”

The minute Leora used the term ‘you people’ I knew it was time to bring out the big guns. You see—‘you people’ is code for you rich fucking snobby bride bitch yuppie. Yet despite the difference between a real Brooklyn born and bred accent and a Long Island one-there is enough similarity in the two accents that if you bust one out on someone from either parties there is an instant unspoken connection of sorts that can often work in one’s favor. I took a chance. But I was right.

For those of you not familiar with a Long Island accent it is truly a wonder. Not only in it’s ear piercing decibel-cloying, annoying-but it what it really stands for. What it really means. The unspoken understanding from one person to another that says something like,

I’m with you and you’re with me.
We’re not one of them.
We got it. We understand one another (anotha)
Or plain and simply stated…fucking yuppies.

K: (full ammo) “Well SAW-ree! I hope ya feel betta! I’m askin’ ‘cause my motha is drivin’ me nutz! She wants a park (pawk) permit so she we can confirm a date and she can help me buy a weddin’ dress. I’m like MA! Yo MA! Leave me alone! They’ll cawl me when they cawl me! About the pawk permit!”

L: (silence and then a soft chuckle)…”Mothas! I swear!”

K: “Totally! So I says MA! I’ll cawl ONE MORE TIME and that’s it! Enough already! I swea…”

L: (sound of computer keys clicking), “Well…OK. I really shouldn' be pushin' this along without approval but what’s ya case numba?”

K: B-B like…Baw-bra, 74..35

L: (click click click) Well…you know you can’t have chairs!”

K: Yeah.

L: And you know you can’t have confetti or limos on the grass-nothin’!

K: Yeah.

L: Well…ok. I signed it. You should get the permit in the mail by Tuesday.

K: Thank you sooooo much!

L: No problem. Now tell ya motha to leave you alone! Sheesh! If she doesn’t believe you I can fax ha a copy!

K: Leora-You’re the best! And hey! Have a good summa!

DON'T FORGET YOUR DIAPHRAGM

So remember my previous bitching about how I’d never in a million years blog about my wedding plans? Well yeah. Whatever.

So here is a little piece of Brooklyn real estate info for ya:

If you are looking to get married in DUMBO Brooklyn you have two park options:

The BIG BEAUTIFUL NEWLY RENOVATED Empire Fulton Ferry Park. (state park) Unfortunately, no piece of beautiful Brooklyn property comes without a price:

$1000 for ceremony up to 100 people for 90 minutes
$150 for no more than 15 chairs
$150 amplified sound fee
$25 lawn permit fee
$100 photography fee
$25 photography fee permit
--------
$1450 Total

For a ceremony that is sure to last all of 15 minutes the above fees seem silly.

Option B however is the Brooklyn Bridge Park (city park)...$25 fee.

Sure it has a loud train overhead and a playground in the middle of it shaped like a pirate’s ship but whatever. Instead of I do perhaps E and I can respond with, “Arrr! Matie!!”

My favorite part of this whole process is my most recent conversation with the City Parks woman named Moniqua who despite the bureaucracy of her office has been quite kind and helpful.

K: If we rent the playground…I mean park to get married do we get the whole area?
M: Oh. You have to call the Park Manager about that. She'll give you a diaphragm.
K: Excuse me?
M: A diaphragm. Don't forget to ask her to give you a diaphragm...of the park.
K: Ok. Well great. I'll be sure to ask.

CALLING ALL FREAKS

Perhaps when applying for a job:

-Don't sound like Dr. Evil in your cover letter:

"I am most interested in securing employment for your quite fascinating sounding department. I find this opportunity with your company most intriguing."

-If the job requires that you are an Illustrator expert perhaps mention Illustrator on your resume

-Maybe don't sound like if we don't hire you that we need to send you a crate of Xanax,

"I don't have many friends nor do I really have social life because of my recent move from Colorado to New York and back to New Hampshire and then back to New York again. Because of my lack of friends, employment nor a domestic partner I have a lot of time to devote to work and projects."

THINGS THAT STAY THE SAME

This weekend my parents came to visit. Despite how old I get, you can still find me running around stuffing crap into closets minutes before they arrive. Perhaps some things never change.

It’s funny though, as I grow older I can’t help but reflect back on the slow progression of my domestic maturity and acknowledge an increased appreciation and sentimentality for their visits.

It started back as a teenager when mom or dad would dare step foot in my own personal hellhole (that they paid for) otherwise known as my high school bedroom. The very same room I once wanted to paint black and spray paint a giant palm tree in but they said no and I got pissed. When they visited my room I would ‘invite’ them in and push aside a mountain of clothes and teen mags and dirty plates to make a small opening for one of them to squish themselves into at the end of my bed.

Then it was off to college where I lived in a beer soaked carpeted dorm (that they paid for) and drove ten hours to for four consecutive years of parents weekends. At the time my roommates and I at least had the decency to clean up for their visits. But inevitably mom or dad made a reach for a plastic beer cup from the cupboard for some water and would knock down an entire mountain of empty Vodka and Bloody Mary Mix bottles that we piled neatly in the recycling bin but didn’t bother to bring out.

Then on to my first apartment (that they half paid the deposit for) out of college where they were forced to walk up seven flights of stairs each carrying a heavy box full of high school love letters and yearbooks from home that I just HAD to have at the time. The apartment looked fairly nice and also had fresh flowers in their honor. I was even able to offer them something to drink other than water and in an actual glass (with a chip).

This last visit I cleaned for hours beforehand. I bought fresh cut flowers for more than one room. I took the recycling out. I found myself at eight in the morning using Windex to clean the smudges on my washer/dryer and even made ice. When they arrived I was able to offer them, beer, wine or seltzer with lime (in matching glasses-no chip). Despite the seltzer being a tad flat and the lime a little past it’s prime, they enjoyed themselves and I enjoyed their visit.

As we walked around my Brooklyn neighborhood (in the rain) Dad in his little yellow raincoat and Mom in her green one with the hood up, it hit me like a ton of emotional bricks. Their continued visits are never about how neat my place is or how many of my glasses match. No matter where I live or no matter what good or bad place I may be in at the time (emotionally or apartment wise), one thing remains consistent. Their unconditional love for me. Their great attempts - no matter how far I move from them - to always come find me.