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Over and end of the day conversation with Each yesterday, we somehow got on the topic of songs that make us cry.
Let it be said, I’m a crier. I cry at movies, commercials, season finales (omgiod — I still lose it during the last Friend’s episode when they zoom in on the picture frame on the door. TEARS.), you name it. So it’s no surprise that songs make me cry.
Usually the tears start because it reminds me of a certain time or the words feel like they could be spoken from me to a particular person. In no particular order, here are some of the biggest culprits (liked to YouTube videos so you can cry along if you are so inclined.)
Because I Knew You — Wicked Soundtrack.
This song always makes me think of some of the closest people in my life, especially my friends.
“I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today
Because I knew you…”
True story: on a recent ride home from New York I put this soundtrack on and bawled down I-84. Safe, really.
Don’t Forget to Remember Me — Carrie Underwood
This one just reminds me of growing up, leaving home, saying goodbye.
“Before we hung up I said
‘Hey momma, don’t forget to tell my baby sister I’ll see her in the fall
And tell mee-ma that I miss her
Yeah, I should give her a call”
I actually can’t sing this song out loud without it having a teary impact.
Your Eyes — Rent Soundtrack
“I Should Tell You I Should Tell You
I Have Always Loved You
You Can See It In My Eyes”
OK yes, this is purely from the show because Rodger is standing over Mimi as she’s dying and pouring his heart out. Sob.
Alright, enough of me being a huge sapface. So admit it, which songs make you cry? (PS- if you feel like delurking now’s an awesome time to do so. I’ve been loving those of you who have been introducing yourself through comments and emails lately. Hi! You rock!)
I know you all have some because I cannot possibly be the ONLY sappy one out here.
Well, maybe not the only, but definitely the biggest.
Dear Mohegan Sun,
Thank you for providing me with endless entertainment of Saturday night. From the VIP section in your club to the raspberry mojitios to the Bobby Flay sighting to the endless people watching, you expertly delivered. Please tell your security, however, that when they see a girl walking without her shoes at 2 a.m. there is probably a very good reason. Like, her feet are throbbing and three more steps in her heels will result in a scene from Psycho. Remind them that she will not “step on anything wet” like she was told and she’s just fine thankyouverymuch.
Yours in weekend exhaustion,
You are sneaking up on me very fast, my friend. Don’t worry, I’m on to you. The rehearsal dinner invitations are just awaiting stamps so don’t think you can trick me by hiding around the corner. Three and a half weeks is plenty of time. Pleeeenty of time. (Gulps. Wipes brows.) Plenty.
Datebook in hand,
Dear wedding guests that never mailed your RSVP,
Chasing after you has been a blast. Seriously, totally cool. I had nothing better to do anyway. Oh, you sent the RSVP? It must have been lost in the mail? Umm hmm. I tried to make it easy for you, I really did. But I guess a stamped self-addressed envelope isn’t easy enough. So since you’re not using it, can I have the stamps back? They’re cute and I have some bills to pay.
Short on patience and postage,
Go away. Enough is enough. My hair frizzes, you know. And I can’t buy any super cute wellies for another month so taunting me with the dream of them is just plain mean. Plus, you make the dog smell and I’m tired of him thinking it’s funny to shake off in front of me. It’s not.
Under my umbrella (ella, ella),
Recently, Michael’s barber left town, leaving him with no one to cut his hair. In the past he had tried other local barbers, but usually left looking like he was in treatment for some severe medical ailment. The super duper short cut does not look good on him.
Also, the man is particular about his hair. The first time I witnessed the grooming ritual I made fun of him point blank, until I learned about his cowlicks and how the water spritizing and specified combing really make a difference.
And I suppose that men don’t really have a lot of options. Rarely do they throw on a headband or pull their hair into a ponytail. Aside from a hat, they’re pretty much at a loss on bad hair days.
Since he was suddenly without a barber and with the wedding being so close, I suggested he come to my salon and get a “real” haircut. I had my 6-week appointment last night anyway, so we scheduled to have him come in while I was there.
Has your man ever seen you in full hair salon regalia?
You know, the awesome cape, the roots covered in an unidentifiable color, the layer upon layer of foil making you look more like a baked potato and less like the woman who left the house in the morning.
No? Mine neither.
He sat across from me while he waited for his turn and the look on his face told me he couldn’t quite make out what was going on up there.
When it was his turn, my stylist gestured towards the sinks and told him to have a seat. That’s when he panicked. “Um, what? Oh, you don’t have to…really? Wash my hair?”
I explained that it’s part of the package and trust me, you’ll like it.
Not surprisingly, he did.
The rest of the hair cut was interesting, as he threw out barber terms that needed some explanation. Example, neither she nor I knew what he meant by “blocking” the back. Apparently he meant he did not want it square.
He left pretty satisfied, and a little shorter on cash since, well, it’s not a barber. But he is getting a free cut from her before the wedding so he really didn’t make out too badly.
I, however, am going through my usual 12-week post-trim freak out when I am convinced that the half of an inch taken off made my hair so short. I am aware I am crazy. You don’t need to tell me that.
Tomorrow is Michael’s bachelor party which means I will be drinking martinis elsewhere and most likely bringing him bottles of water at 2 a.m. and telling him to DRINK ALL OF IT before going to sleep.
It’s love, people.
Goal: To figure out a way to maintain my clutter, and therefor keep my soon-to-be husband around.
Reality: I really, really want to fix this habit of mine, but I think deep down I know I will always be a clutter-er.
Goal: To stop feeling stressed about money for one weekend after the wedding and treat myself to a fall wardrobe that actually fits.
Reality: It may not all be J Crew and Banana Republic (although, I really, really want it to be — damn you stores and your pretty catalogs), but I’m no snob to Old Navy tees.
Goal: To find something chocolate the fufills my daily craving, but won’t make me the size of a house.
Reality: Currently it’s Stoneyfield Chocolate Underground yogurt. It’s good, but it’s no giant bowl of pudding.
Goal: To master the open leg balance in my pilates class.
Reality: Well, I rolled backwards doing it last night, then pathetically onto my side, so this may take a while. A long while.
What are your goals?
Exactly one year ago today — on September 24th — Michael took me to one of our favorite spots and asked me to be his wife.
I still think about that day, often before I fall asleep to calm my mind. It is the purest joy I have ever felt. I loved him more in that moment than I ever thought possible.
I love him even more today.
Exactly one month from today — on October 24th — I will become his wife.
For the past year this end result has felt so abstract. I was of course always aware of the end result, the ultimate goal, but it often felt like I was planning something that would happen one day.
One day is upon us.
I’m taking today to reflect on how lucky I am to have been in a relationship for almost seven years with someone who makes every single day better. I’m taking today to thank him — my Michael — for being my friend, my partner, my rock — and for asking me to continue our lives together hand and hand.
We are getting married in one month.
I cannot wait.
All day yesterday I was worried about our meeting at the church. I was so afraid that we were going to walk in there to find our files spread out before us, a big red circle around my “unaffiliated” religion choice. I half expected to be met by the Reverend much like the evil monkey in Family Guy.
Thou shall be punished!
Luckily, it wasn’t even remotely like that. We were met by the Reverend wearing his baby blue Polo shirt and a big smile. We sat down in a warm and brightly lit office and began to discuss our ceremony.
“How do you see your ceremony?” he asked us. A mix of the traditional and the personal.
That’s exactly what it’s going to be. We will write our own vows and play our own selection of music, but we’ll also include some of the traditional aspects like the formal vows as well. This church decided that the vows will read “I give myself to you…” instead of “I take you”.
I love this.
Any suggestion I had, he agreed to. Any question I asked, he answered. I felt comfortable and happy and when we walked into the main church and I looked out over the pews, my heart started to beat a little faster.
It’s all happening. It’s really, really happening.
Because as a bride-to-be, I love looking at other people’s trials. But ugh, no makeup.
After hair up:
After hair down:
(See Kodiak on the left? He wanted to be in the picture too.)
I was going through my saved emails and decided it was finally time to save all the old photos my mom had sent me. Since it’s Friday and Friday should be Fun Day, I thought I’d share a few with you.
Growing up my mom had an amazing garden. I wasn’t always allowed in it (little feet stomp on delicate plants), but I have such fond memories of standing outside it asking for “more peas, please” and eating fresh veggies. I think I have carrots in this picture. (Also: NATURAL HAIR COLOR SHOCK!)
The plants were so tall and I was wee!
A whitey white girl must always be properly sunscreened. Also, I’m pretty sure I still make this face. I also kind of wish I still had a red bathing suit with such cute ruffles!
I have many more, but my sister may freak out if I post her baby shots on the internet. I’ll see if I can wear her down.
That’s quoted on a card one of my best friends gave me for my bridal shower. And how true of a statement it is.
She said it is sort of a metaphor for marriage and I have to agree. Past the ooey gooey lovey dovey, past the wedding, past the rings, there’s real life.
There’s laundry that has to be done. Bills that need to be paid. A dog that needs to be groomed and dinner that has to be cooked.
But I am happy to say that in between the mundane, there’s a glow. A warmth. A type of happiness I had never felt until meeting him.
I read a thread on the Knot recently where a woman said that while she loved her fiance more than anything, he was not her best friend. Her comment was met with mixed reviews. Everything from, “what? you’re crazy!” to “I totally know what you mean.”
I have to admit it shocked me. I mean, yes, I have a female best friend. But the person who knows me better than anyone? Who knows my secrets, my fears and my flaws?
It’s Michael. No question.
I don’t think it’s a requirement that your partner be your “best friend”, but mine certainly is.
He’s the one that talks me down of a ledge when our caterer throws us a curve ball, and then in the next breath asks me ever so nicely if I would kindly put away my mail instead of leaving it on the counter. He’s the one who wraps me up in the tightest of hugs, then tells me I’m stinky 10 minutes later.
He is my best friend. For better or worse.
What do you think. Does your partner have to be your best friend?
OK so hi. Yes, I’ve totally slacked on this column and I’m very sorry to all of you who have emailed me questions. I’m going to do my best to start working through them and post more often. I blame wedding brain. You can forgive an almost-bride, can’t you?
Dutchess of Kickball asks:
My Dearest Shoeru,
My best friend is getting married in January, outside at a golf course. She is thinking of having us bridesmaids wear silver strappy sandals. It brings about a dilemma. Anything with too thin of a heal and we are going to sink into the grass. Anything too chunky will probably throw me off kilter and make me bust my ass in the grass. Do you have any suggestions? Thanks so much.
P.S. And of course they have to be comfy for the long night of dancing.
This line of questioning seems to be pretty common so I’ll say what I’ve said before. Wedges. They are your best dressy defense against grass and will prevent you (mostly) from sinking.
This is the actual shoe my mom is wearing to my wedding. (It looks fab with her teal dress.)
If she’s set on you wearing heels, I would suggest a low, sturdy one much like this.
Which brings me to this interesting little tidbit. If you are horrified by the idea of your heels getting ruined in grass and dirt, you might want to check out SoleMates. The company claims that by wearing this product, you’ll never sink into grass again.
How does it work? According to the company, the plastic piece (that fits on most heels) attaches to your heel snugly, increasing the surface area of the heel and reducing the pressure on the tip that makes you sink into grass. The piece comes in black, white and clear, so matching it to your shoe should be no problem.
I have no first-hand experience with this product, but I can see how it would work. Now yes, it’s not super attractive. But unless you’re a shoe freak like I am (I always, always notice shoes), I doubt anyone will see a tiny clear piece on the heel of your shoe. Especially if you’re walking through grass.
A pair retails at $11.95 and can be purchased on the SoleMates website, or at certain retail stores. (Check site for locations.)
And now I want to share a Shoeru advice success story! I once answered a question about shoes to wear at a red and yellow wedding and was later contacted by reader Jen who was in a similar situation. We consulted through email and she recently sent me a picture of how it turned out.
It looks great, Jen! So glad I was able to help.
Got a question for the Shoeru? Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.