Falling slowly, eyes that know me/and I can’t go back.

My fiancé and I have a tradition in the few seconds before a movie is about to start at the theater. We turn to each other, make a setting-the-bar-low hand motion and mouth “low expectations.” It’s a silly thing that we do to try to avoid being too disappointed by the typically crudtastic movies released these days. Per usual, we did that last year as the lights were going down for indie flick Once. And within 10 minutes we were both tearing up. (I’m sorry, I was tearing up. He was just trying to get something out of his eyes.) It was the scene in which Guy and Girl–the lead characters’ roles are unnamed–sing together for the first time at a borrowed piano in a music store. I asked him later about his reaction and he said, “It was beautiful,” before adding, “They reminded me of us. Her walking along with her little vacuum cleaner, and then she shakes his life up and makes it better. You did that for me.”

That’ll do. For eternity.

Tomorrow night, we’re heading to the Meyerhoff in Baltimore to see the film’s stars, Irish singers Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, who perform together as The Swell Season. It will be a nice preview of sorts to our Ireland honeymoon, which kicks off with four days in Dublin, where the movie takes place. And our married life together in general.

No need for the low expectations hand motion this time.

My Workout Mix Better is Better Than Your Better

Within minutes of getting engaged, a message is beamed to all merchandisers on the planet alerting them to your new status so that they may begin the year-long process of clogging every media-receiving receptacle over which you preside. The most common pitch is the online advertisement encouraging me to get off my venti derriere and get in shape for my wedding day. Now, to my knowledge, the good people at Facebook, The Knot, etc. have no actual idea what size my rear is, but they seem to take the buckshot approach with all engaged ladies: you’re female and you’re getting married, you most certainly think you weigh too much right now. Many of these marketers tout “The Perfect Bridal Diet” or some variation thereof.

I don’t even bother clicking, because lately I’ve been tinkering with my own bridal diet. It consists of a little something I like to call gut-churning anxiety and exercise. As for the former, well it is what it is. I go through phases where I can’t eat very much and suffice it to say, I’m in one right now. The latter I can actually control, so in advance of the never-ending round of dress fittings that begin next month, I’m trying to be up in the gym just workin’ on my fitness, as the kidsthe Fergie says. Since literally one reader inquired recently about what I’ve got blaring in the old iPod when I’m at the gym in an effort to update her own work-out mix, I thought I’d share. Especially as I’m sure yesterday’s Coldplay fandom admission has you all clamoring to download the entire Bridal Bird’s Workout Essentials mix from iTunes. These are not my greatest workout songs of all time. Just what I’m listening to now.

1. Violet Hill, Coldplay — Yep, that’s how you still know I’m gay.

2. List of Demands, Saul Williams — There’s nothing like a white girl trying to burn off her mochaccino listening to some dude rapping angrily about reparations. To further boost my street cred, I remove my sorority-logo-emblazoned ribbon from around my ponytail when this comes on.

3. Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On), Robert Plant and Alison Krauss — I instantly have to knock the treadmill speed up a couple notches when this comes on because of the tempo. Also, this unlikely duo makes “Go f*** yourself,” sound so down-home plucky.

The Pop Crap Portion of the List (Look, when The Decemberists or whomever else it is that they’re peeing themselves over these days down at the Rock & Roll Hotel start writing songs I can run to, I’ll add them, but for now, pop songs are going on the list.)
4. No Air, Jordin Sparks with Chris Brown — I like a touch of the literal when I’m running and gasping for air.
5. Pocketful of Sunshine, Natasha Bedingfield — If I were on The Hills this would be playing as I drive around the city and look pensive. But I’m not on The Hills, so it’s playing as I do crunches and try to remember whether I locked the front door.

6. I Will Possess Your Heart, Death Cab for Cutie (hell yeah, the 8:35 version) — The four minutes of instrumental build-up is perfect. And then the rest makes for good stalker-evasion training runs.

7. Mercy, Duffy — Confession: I went around for several weeks calling her “Dusty.” I consider this a Freudian slip because she sounds a lot like Dusty Springfield.

8. Just Can’t Seem to Get it Right Today, Joe Purdy — Yes, this makes this the second song used in a commercial that’s on my list. But in my defense I knew both of those songs before they were used for the commercials. (Of course I’m lying. Everyone is lying when they make this claim.) Also, lately, if it’s a day ending in a ‘y’, I’m in agreement with Purdy.

9. Blood, Editors — I jumped around like a fiend when I saw them perform this live so it seemed like a natural fit for the list. Nine out of 10 times, I’m a lot less trashed when I’m listening to it at the gym.

10. Sinner Man, Nina Simone — This song has a permanent spot on all Bridal Bird Jock Jams volumes. Every. Last. One.

11. Weird Fishes/Arpeggio, Radiohead — Sure, there’s the song’s orchestral swell to keep me going, but there’s also the realization that I couldn’t fit an arm into one of Thom Yorke’s trouser legs. There’s nothing like a twee British alt.rocker’s size 0-frame to compel me to hit the ground for another set of prison push-ups.

12. Natural’s Not in It, Gang of Four — “The problem of leisure/what to do for pleasure,” is especially apt on the occasions when I’m working out while off during a workday. It’s the ultimate ladies who lunch anthem, if ladies who lunched also did a lot of blow.

So that’s my list. What am I missing? Bridal Bird readers want to know.

A Star is Born, Wait A Few Weeks and All Coldplay Lyrics are Applicable, Jenna Bush Gets Me a Wedding Present, and The Orioles Continue to Love Me Back

Because I can, that’s why.

1. Stylista, appearing this fall on the CW immediately after America’s Next Top Model, will be the greatest show ever in the history of television. I’m BFF-contractually obligated to say that. Why, you ask? Take a gander at fourth from the right. Look familiar? Yes, that’s our girl Johanna, all growsed up and ready to unleash her sartorial reign of terror on the entire country. I couldn’t be prouder. Mainly, because this means I’ll have an actual celeb at the wedding. You see how this all comes back to me?

2. When I first heard it, I did not think much of this. After multiple listens during a particularly angry session at the gym last night, I am now on board. And the first person who makes a “you know how I know you’re gay?” joke is getting banned for life from the comments for the crime of triteness.

3. There is nothing like the icy stab of fear that comes from suddenly seeing one’s daily stats jump by 3,000+ hits. My first thought is always, “Oh crap, who linked to me?” Well in this case it wasn’t an incoming link, it was that for some odd reason on Sunday and Monday, anyone Google Imaging “Jenna Bush” or “Jenna Bush wedding” or some permutation thereof seemed to find their way to BridalBird. Oddly enough, I haven’t posted about the first daughter in quite a while. As for the wedding itself, I will say that it sounds like it was lovely. In fact it’s the exact wedding we would have held had we opted for Plan B, which was to get married just outside of Austin. My only point of contention about the Bush-Hagar nuptials was the repetition in the press of the idea that Jenna was having a “laid-back affair.” Chickadee had 15 bridesmaids. Yes, I know she said her sister was her only bridesmaid and that the 14 female friends standing behind her sister in matching dresses were merely a “house party” but um, if it looks like a monster wedding and it smells like a monster wedding…But that’s truly nitpicking because everything else looked swell. Except a few names on the guest list. Obviously.

4. I’m a little in love with Jim Johnson today.

“Questo e la mia faccia.”

Last night I put myself in the delicate hands of a make-up artist for an audition of sorts and it represented one of the parts of the whole wedding planning process about which I was considerably nervous. Every day I head out into the world wearing very little in the way of facial adornment. It likely came from my mother who wears no make-up and who hews to the theory that we’re made the way we’re made and that ought to be good enough for everyone. When I was discussing meeting with the make-up artist, my mother seemed genuinely perplexed and said after a minute or two: “But you’re beautiful.”

So there it is: my mom thinks I’m beautiful.

Over the course of an hour, the artist brushed, smoothed, and glossed her way across the canvas. Periodically, I lifted a hand mirror to inspect her work, which was amazing. Features began emerging on my face that I didn’t even remember being there. And who knew? I actually have green eyes. (Technically, green and auburn, because I have two different colored eyes.) I looked, if I may say, incredible, for me. What I did not look like exactly, was me.

This was confirmed when I got home and my fiancé seemed a little unnerved that he suddenly had a different entity before him. A texting exchange with fellow bride M confirmed that her fiancé had the same reaction when she came home from her trial. We’d both tried explaining about how this was necessary so that our features didn’t get lost in the barrage of photos that will be taken that day. We both faced men who looked like they didn’t know what to do with their sudden and unexpected UPS My Little Glamazon delivery.

After considering my look throughout the evening—giving Narcissus a run for his money—I determined that I will have the make-up artist tone it down a smidge. I’d like to think that I’ve always tried avoiding being someone I’m not. And more than any other day in my life, on my wedding day, I’d like to know exactly who I am.

For a Dreary, Dreadful Monday

Experience
Some men tear your heart in two,
Some men flirt and flatter,
Some men never look at you,
And that clears up the matter.

Résumé
Razors pain you, Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you, And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful, Nooses give,
Gas smells awful. You might as well live.

Oh Sweet Lower 48. Let’s Never Fight Again.

We had a rule during sorority rush. If you knew that a particular potential pledge had a serious character flaw, instead of trashing her, you simply said “No comment” to indicate to the chapter that there was a potential problem with the young lady in question. I am reminded of that approach as I sit here mulling what to say about Alaska. In an effort to avoid inciting a mob of frozen-halibut brandishing zealots to march to my home, I will simply say “No comment.” In fact, I’ll actually go one further. I will say that I saw some incredibly beautiful wilderness there. Also, I did not get eaten by a bear. There. I’ve been quite magnanimous I think.

If you have nothing else to do right now, feel free to check out a mishmash of video clips culled from the Flipcam video I was shooting to keep my friends and fam abreast of my whereabouts. Basically, I was preparing a video diary for them to provide visible evidence that I had not been eaten by a bear that particular day and there was no need to send in the rangers. It was a good system.

Anchored Down in Anchorage

I’ve been in Alaska for the last few days. I’m here until next weekend. Report on the debacle that has been this trip next week. Here’s a teaser on how the first three days of the trip went, and it was par for the course:

Me (calling from plane, leaving message on fiance’s voice mail): Hey, I just landed in Anchorage but I don’t know what the Derby results are yet. I’ll take your offer for a bet. I want Eight Belles to win. I’ve got a good feeling about her!

In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

It was bound to come. The Wedding-Gone-Awry Dream. Last night it arrived, in full flaming glory. A sharp, nocturnal kick to the shins courtesy of Morpheus. Disappointments from start to finish. Following are just a few of the mishaps visited upon my sleepytime big day:

* It was also the same day my sister was getting married, so while getting ready for my wedding I missed hers. Throughout the entire dream I kept thinking, “How did we not plan this better?”
* Instead of getting ready in my own home, as I plan to on my wedding day, I was at an unfamiliar house on some estate. It wasn’t cool. It was unsettling.
* None of my accessories had been packed for me. It was just me and the dress. (No, this is not the stuff of tragedy. But I was decidedly miffed about it in my dream.)
* I didn’t know any of the guests.
* I didn’t know where the groom was.
* Everything was wrong.

It’s not the first time that my sleep has been interrupted by the impending nuptials. But I learned last night that it’s one thing not to get to sleep, it’s quite another to get there and watch things fall to shit faster than a Real World Reunion.

Here’s a little video tribute to the slumbering brain, jacked up on love and mild anxiety.

Ye Olde Marriage

I’ve been obsessing for the last couple of months over the soul-kissing awesomeness that is John Adams on HBO. However, my pointless pilgrimage to Pennsylvania last week meant that I ended up getting behind. Over the last two nights, I watched the final two episodes of the smartest mini-series ever made. (It’s science.) But you can imagine my horror to learn that John and Abigail Adams were actually parted by death. And what a death scene. He’s broken by grief, cuddling next to her in her sick bed, kissing her face streaked with their tears, begging her to hold on, pointing out the hydrangeas he brought her in a vase (note to fiancé: imminent death not a requirement for bestowing flowers.) I was curled up in my fiancé’s lap watching it and I am quite certain that I saw a little eye rubbing up above me, although it was hard to tell over my indelicate sobbing.

It should be said that the Bird does not cry at movies. Documentaries about war or a suffering people, maybe. The final scene in Love Actually when The Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” is playing and everyone’s hugging at the airport, yes. And the scene in Grosse Pointe Blank where John Cusack holds up the baby and has his swift spiritual kick upside the head. And pretty much every minute of The Bicycle Thief. But other than that, I do not cry at movies.

However, being engaged is softening my resistance. Watching couples like John and Abigail Adams say goodbye suddenly starts hitting too close to home. I begin doing the math in my head: fiancé is 11 years older than I am…women typically live longer than men…BLURG! Every time I watch a movie now I find myself pondering the timeworn, “Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” question. Is this normal? I don’t know. But I do know what the antidote is: Titanic or The English Patient. Because oddly enough, I find the endings of both of those flicks hi-larious.

UPDATE: My fiancé asserts that he was most definitely not tearing up. He was making a lasagna…for one. Muh huh.

The Elitist Express Heads North

Between tonight and Tuesday I’ll be in Pennsylvania trying to get the kid above elected president of the United States. If you have any friends or relatives in Pennsylvania, consider calling them and telling them that they too should make special voting booth sexytime with the candidate on Tuesday. Or, thanks to the 2008 miracle of phone banking from home, call total strangers in the Keystone State and pass along that message. If you don’t have anything to do this weekend, consider heading up to Philadelphia where I surmise they need volunteers for canvassing and phone banking, based on the roughly 148 phone calls I’ve gotten in the past week from the campaign seeking help.

Myself, I’ll be in “Eriesistible” Erie, ancestral homeland of the Bird clan on both the maternal and paternal sides. I’ll be catching a few minutes with relatives who haven’t seen me since I was wearing Jams and extolling the virtues of the My Little Pony Paradise Estate. Translation: free lodging and all the perogies and Genesse beer my tummy can accommodate. I’ll be staying in an early 1900s-era convent. No foolies. My aunt’s a nun. We’ll see if lightning strikes when I step foot inside, or if I get shanked, because all the nuns (being the good progressives that they are in this particular order) are Hillary fans. It’ll be worth being in hostile territory if I can get one of them to shrug and say, “Bitch is the new black.”