September 29, 2006

Skirting the issue.

Some insight into why I am so slavishly devoted to the lovely Angela of Mode Merr (the maker of my Bridal Skirt, and the auteur of a solid portion of my wardrobe).

"Here are some fun facts:

So far there are 64 yards of fabric in your skirt, Top layer with flames, 4 layers of tulle, 1 layer of wide eye net for extra poofage, 1 slipper satin petticoat with the shiney side in for an ultra lux interior! I may add a few more layers before I am through. I attach the under layers about 3 inches down from the waist band to eliminate bulk. I am assisted in this wonderful project by Gisele. She is a talented seamstress from France with over 60 years of bridal construction. Gisele is the the best."

The word "poofage" made my head fall off from joy. I may be decapitated, but oh, what a large and lovely skirt I'll have at my funeral.

Posted by Kat at 11:22 AM | Comments (0)

September 28, 2006

Birth and the maiden.

Verse in celebration of the 10th birthday of my sole wedding attendant, Miss Isabella Daou

In the town of Sharon Springs
resides the family Daou.
The middle imp - the girl-shaped one
hits double-digits now.
She dances to. She frolics fro -
while always looking chic.
Though vexed by brothers young and old,
one rarely sees her pique.
What wrought this creature, brilliant, fair?
Her parents know - they must!
'Cause meeting her one just might spy
a hint of devil dust.
Isabella, darling sprite,
with glint behind her eyes,
some might suspect - not wrongly so
when no one looks, she flies.

Posted by Kat at 12:00 AM | Comments (0)

September 27, 2006

Death and the maiden.

My favorite ex-beau on why he'd rather bring a date to a funeral than a wedding:

"At a funeral, no one corners you to ask, 'Soooo — when are you two thinking of dying?'"

And why yes - he *is* attending. Though shockingly enough, not bringing his (quite lovely) girlfriend.

Posted by Kat at 12:26 PM

September 26, 2006

Fugue and far-between.

The DSM-IV defines Fugue State as:

Sudden, unexpected travel away from home or one's customary place of work, with inability to recall one's past,
Confusion about personal identity, or the assumption of a new identity,
Or, significant distress or impairment.

It all makes sense now: Bridal Fugue. I can't remember a time before flats of Black Bacarra roses, invasive personal-grooming timetables, nightmares of blind cliff-climbing in tulle and restrictive undergarments, and having to measure my various physical attributes report said findings on what seems like a semi-daily basis.

Whither the girl who rode the subway wet-haired, un-dermabraised and blissfully ignorant of apparently vital weddingalia such as At-Home Cards, individually imprinted personalized after-dinner mints and Bridal Thongs? Who was that china pattern-less maiden who daubed her dinner cereal-gobbed lips with paper towels savagely torn from a battered roll while she sprawled on the divan in front of endless Law & Order reruns and never thought to promptly post RSVP cards?

If you see her, give her a kiss on the head and a Diet Coke and tell her she's missed, won't you?

Posted by Kat at 02:04 PM

September 25, 2006

Something bleu.

The cognitive level at which I am functioning today:

My Wonderful, Magical Friend Tony (Who Along With His Glorious Wife Vanessa Will Be Making The Food For The Reception): Getting 1/2 a wheel (8 lbs) of excellent stilton, lest you prefer a whole wheel? No savings to speak of, just more cheese.

Me: My inclination is 1/2 wheel Stilton. People love the blue cheeses,
but also fear them.

Had I been operating more clearly, I perhaps would have requested a more lavish portion, as Stiltons tend toward the soft, and seeing as Tony's son, my friend Sebastian, managed to bang his chin on a granite countertop and SHOVE HIS FRONT TOOTH UP INTO HIS SKULL this weekend and thus will be opting for the mushier noshes for the next couple of weeks. I'd hate to think anyone would go peckish at our wedding.

Posted by Kat at 04:08 PM | Comments (0)

September 24, 2006

Better wedding through chemistry.

Measures taken to forestall/temper pre-wedding anxiety attacks in the past several days:

1. Walking laps in the flower cooler at the Chelsea Flower Market
2. Fondling an unfilled Ativan prescription
3. Fantasizing about tripping the small child chatteringchatteringchattering and spinningspinningspinning 'round the subway pole directly in front of me
4. Entering a rubber stamp store and wandering within for the better part of an hour
5. Applying the aformentioned technique to stores dollar and grocery
6. Sauvignon Blanc
7. Determining which household rabbit would protest least violently and then clutching the selected candidate to my bosom whilst wandering around the bedroom and muttering
8. Apple Cider - meet Jim Beam. Jim Beam - meet Apple Cider.
9. Obsessively twisting bits of gold and red wire with needle-nose pliers
10. Smiling/nodding | nodding/smiling
11. Applying aforementioned (but slightly modified) rabbit technique to household dogs
12. Lorazepam! Lorazepam! Lorazepam!
13. Singing frequently, deliriously, and loudly to and about household dogs
14. Singing frequently, deliriously, and loudly to and about fiancé
15. Ativan and The Jesus & Mary Chain
16. Ativan and The Sugarcubes
17. Ativan and The Smiths
18. Having a fiancé who is still fully willing to remain such even after (and maybe even in part because of) occurrences like #14

Posted by Kat at 01:27 PM | Comments (0)

September 21, 2006

Wagging the dogs.

Today's thing out about which one only finds once one has tumbled down the bridal bunny hole: At-Home cards.

So as to forestall any "Well no, I'm actually *not* Mrs. Wagner, even though Mr. Wagner has been so gracious as to make an honest woman of me and rescue me from the sulphur and the brimstone and the having to spend Eternity making small talk with Caligula and John Wayne Gacy." chats, it has been suggested to me that we have some At-Home cards commissioned.

The standard wording is:

Ms. Kat Wagner Kinsman
Mr. Douglas Andrew Wagner
after the fifteenth of October
111 McSmorpleson Street
Brooklyn, New York 11215

And when I see it in print, I'll admit to a tad or four or crankiness. Yes, it is my decision to ditch my middle name (Ann) and sub in his last name, and I am also taking the opportunity to legally amputate the "herine" from my first name. The KWK is deliciously crisp and symmetrical and I love it. I'm just wondering why he's so reticent about wedging my consonant up on in his monogram somewhere. Actually, I'm not just wondering - I've come on out and asked ('cause luckily, that's how we operate). Sez he, he likes his name and has had it just so for 40 years, but does understand why I might like a palpable mark upon his personhood. Thus, I've taken (at least in my head) to calling him "Douklas", or noting a silent "K" at the end of Wagner(k).

And if nothing else, I at least insist upon hyphenating the dogs.

Posted by Kat at 06:21 PM

Tabling the notions.

On Sep 19, 2006, at 10:15 PM, Sean wrote:

Do you REALLY want someone to buy you a sterling silver
harmonica, or is the Tiffany's registry just one big prank?

--- Kat Kinsman wrote:

I'm banking on no one actually buying us anything from Tiffany, so I just went straight for comedy.

I'd like to think I'm pioneering the art of registry humor.
And yes - they do have a liberal return policy just in case.
Personally, I thought the meat forks and party horn were strokes of genius.

On Wed Sep 20 13:28:18 PDT 2006, Sean wrote:

I truly, truly do not believe you would return the party horn if one were bought.

You will be getting a WS box from me, but I doubt it's gone out yet.

--- Kat Kinsman wrote:

Dripless Bulb Baster
11-Ball Tip Whisk
Flavor Injector
Porcelain Grease Keeper
Reversible Meat Pounder

Is registry humor my medium or what?

On Sep 20, 2006, at 8:06 PM, Sean wrote:

You're the Dorothy Parker of mail-order.

--- Kat Kinsman wrote:

I wish I could drink like a lady
I can take one or two at the most
Three and I'm under the White Hemstitched Linen Tablecloth
Four and I'm under the Beau Manoir 4-piece Hostess Set

On Thu Sep 21 00:10:32 PDT 2006, Sean wrote:

Just for that, your wedding present will be an Army-grade Alexander Wool Cot.

--- Kat Kinsman wrote:

Not the Crate & Barrel Big Sur Benchley?

On Thu Sep 21 09:30:46 PDT 2006, Sean wrote:

And a matching Robert Sher Wood Table.

--- Kat Kinsman wrote:

And adorned with Monogrammed Hemstitched Franklinen Pierce Adams
Place Mats.

On Thu Sep 21 10:18:34 PDT 2006, Sean wrote:

And for all your slicing needs, a George S. Kaufmandolin.

Posted by Kat at 01:10 PM

September 19, 2006

Today's maritally-related literary punch to the gut.

Primitive by Sharon Olds

I have heard about the civilized,
the marriages run on talk, elegant and honest, rational. But you and I are
savages. You come in with a bag,
hold it out to me in silence.
I know Moo Shu Pork when I smell it
and understand the message: I have
pleased you greatly last night. We sit
quietly, side by side, to eat,
the long pancakes dangling and spilling,
fragrant sauce dripping out,
and glance at each other askance, wordless,
the corners of our eyes clear as spear points
laid along the sill to show
a friend sits with a friend here.

Posted by Kat at 09:53 PM | Comments (0)

Navigating the bridal path.

I have learned many things throughout the several-week course of our engagement, what with the reading of the bridal magazines, the watching of the bridal television, the reading of the bridal literature, and the whole being bridal, and I would like to share with you now these happy tips for a happy, sane planning time.

1. Marry someone who is really, really awesome. If you marry someone who sucks, chances are that your marriage will probably suck, too.

2. If you find yourself starting to suck, TiVo several episodes of Bridezillas. Watch until you see someone who makes her intended go in for a spa treatment against his will, or who screams, "BECAUSE IT'S *MY* DAY!" loudly on her cell phone while driving (this should only take about 5 minutes of your time), and do the exact opposite of everything she does. Because she sucks.

3. Have your family live very far away from you so that they may not "help" with anything. This will help you to you not cry or scream or want to hit people as much.

4. Try to pay for as much as you can without assistance. If this means you have to scale back and do without the foie gras luge and reception hippo and instead must serve your closest friends Tic-Tacs and powdered iced tea in the Taco Bell parking lot, then do that. If they are your friends, they will still love you and have fun and understand, and if they don't, then they suck. This is all because if someone offers to give you money, what they probably really want to do is sell you their tastes and input at the price of your soul. If you must accept money for something, make sure it's something you do not care all that much about, because if you do, you will end up crying.

5. If you go into any store or vendor with the word "Bridal" in the name, what happens to you is nobody's fault but your own.

6. No one who really, truly loves you would make you buy and wear mustard, brown, lavender, or seafoam. If they have you get your shoes dyed to match, it means they're really afraid their fiancé thinks you're pretty.

7. If you are nice and respectful to people, and not a crazy hosebeast, and make decisions (food, music, clothing) based on what you and your partner actually enjoy in your everyday life, and not just what seems "weddingy", you might actually even have a kind of super time planning your wedding - not to mention still like each other when the whole process is over, and you still have 50+ years of staring at each other over oatmeal and the Sunday Times.

Posted by Kat at 06:19 PM | Comments (0)

Before you die, you see the ring.


I'm not certain that my head is still attached to my body. But that's okay - I wasn't using it much, anyhow.

Posted by Kat at 03:33 PM | Comments (0)

September 18, 2006

White Out.

weemee_bride.jpgThanks to the charming websmiths over at, I no longer need wonder what things would have looked like had I opted for the traditional wedding raiment. I believe the universe at large is already on a slight wobble, what with my getting married in an ecclesiastical structure (let alone at ALL), so I can't risk knocking the whole damned thing out of orbit by dressing like a giant meringue. It'd be like providing a bright and shining target upon which I'm daring the cosmos to take a tremendous, stinky plop, so I'd best stay under the radar in my usual red and black color scheme. Maybe the Nuptial Gods will be fooled into thinking we're just having a really bitchin' kegger.

Posted by Kat at 04:40 PM | Comments (0)

September 15, 2006


Upon hearing the details of the bachelor debauch from Douglas, I just kinda rolled my eyes. Amateurs. It would seem that at Red Rock West, the bartendresses will sieze the bachelor/birthday boy/congressman, strip him to the waist, spit cheap tequila into his mouth, and whip him with his own belt.

Somehow, I'm imagining that my betrothed was one of the few patrons in attendance who could in all honesty say that if he wanted a professional flogging, he could just go home and get one from his fiancée.

The steak dinner sounded really yummy, though.

Posted by Kat at 02:24 PM

September 14, 2006

No go with the flow.

Reason 4,569,395 why I love my ladies:

I mentioned offhand in an e-mail to the glorious Vanessa Daou, that I was feeling a tad crampy. She, being an actual nurse and all, did some quick calculations and replied.

"According to my estimation, you will get period on honeymoon which is unnecessary bother while traipsing around countyside castle viewing--easy to avoid this if you want let me know."

I'd had this same thought, but was too crazed to make any medical plans about it, so just decided to deal. Looks like I may not have to now, but moreover, I think this pretty much encapsulates just why I have such a firm belief in the importance of the solidarity of women. I adore my pal Sean, but he ain't gonna think of that shit.

[Update] Her rec is for Mirena. If you've any experience with it, drop me a note?

[Update to the update] I just filled out a "send me more info" thingy on the site and it tells me it's only for women who have had at least one child. Gaaaggghhh! Not only have I been thwarted in my multi-decade efforts to get my tubes tied - now I can't even get the non-permanent birth control I want!

Posted by Kat at 04:57 PM

Gall and response.

Mlle Maura Johnston shared with me a deeply amusing anecdote about something her betrothed overheard at some nuptials a while back. Seems her gent was in close enough proximity to the pre-show Bridal Bullpen to hear the eponymous lady coaching her attendants.

"Whose day is it?"

"It's your day, Jenny!"

Reportedly the happy couple was neither of those things some nine months later. I'm shocked, Shocked!, but also deeply inspired, and have been doing a good deal of dancing around our Whippet while singing, "Whose day is it? It's your day, Posy!" and imagining the withering glare my sole attendant, Miss Isabella Daou (age nearly 10) would fix upon me if I even attempted such antics.

Seriously - all I really wanna be is an excuse for people to eat cake, get drunk, and have gnarly hotel sex with people they may or may not have met before.

"Whose day is it?"

"It's Jim Beam's day, Kat!"

Posted by Kat at 01:56 PM

September 13, 2006


I have two words for Allure Bride magazine. They are "munch" and "me", and in that order and delivered with beaucoup feeling. Would that I were not so inexorably steeped in my whole ghastly pallor/red lips/tattooed-up aesthetic, perhaps I'd actually go believing that if I didn't get my pasty ass to a tanning spray booth, celebrity dentist, and purveyor of needle-borne face toxins at least one calendar year before our wedding, our guests would pelt me with rotten fruit and hurl epithets in my general direction. Perhaps I'd even have to purchase a small bell to ring as I humped my grotesque carcass down the aisle, so as not to alarm the children with my hideousness.

Nope - seeing as the proposal took place approximately 83ish days before the nuptial event, I suppose our guests will just have to deal with actual, plain ol' scarily pale and criminally wrinkle-eyed me waddling down the aisle. Perhaps I'll have some blinders custom-made for them so I'm not actually legally culpable for anyone's death from revulsion.

Or maybe they'll just be pleased with my actually looking like me - just with a big dress and more makeup. Oh heaven forfend!

Posted by Kat at 06:22 PM | Comments (0)

September 08, 2006

Black candy.

Oy. I've been living in NYC for just over 10 years now, and every once in a while, something happens to remind me just why that is. Strike that - I generally remember why I live here, but rather it's the occasional poke to the sternum 'bout why I don't live anywhere else.

Case in point - this past weekend, Douglas and I were upstate, plundering a Tuesday Morning in a Schenectady strip mall for swank closeout napkins and potential reception table centerpieces (and yes - we TOTALLY scored). Douglas was off in another aisle fondling linens, and I was engrossed in vase and candelabra inspection when suddenly I could just sense that I was being monitored. I looked over, and sure enough, a girl of about 5 or 6 had an unnervingly nasty glare fixed upon me from the basket of her mother's shopping cart. I force-smiled at her and returned to my task, but moments later...

"Mommy? Mommy, is that that lady..."

I knew where this was going. It was far from the first time. It probably won't be the last time. But it NEVER happens at home in the city.

(loudly) "Mommy? Is that lady already ready for Halloween?"

Welcome to my adolescence. Mind you, I was not wearing anything in any combination that I haven't worn to work, out with friends, on errands, on any given calendar day. My shoes were pointy, my skirt red, and my shirt black. I have tattoos, but none of the larger, more colorful ones were exposed. My dark hair was in a simple ponytail. I looked like 34-year-old me, but I was transformed instantly to my 17-year-old Gothed-up, tortured-souled self, sticking out like a sore batwing, desperate and rabid to leave the small Kentucky town where bored boys with weak moustache efforts yelled "FREAK!" out of their truck windows at me.

Yes, I know she was five. Yes, I know it's not that big a deal. But consider how it feels to spend the first eighteen years of your life being made to believe that you have to apologize for yourself. I didn't ask or try to be out of the mainstream. I just am and have always been, and am lucky to now be surrounded by people who love and celebrate me because of who I am, rather than those who make sure I know how magnanimous they're being by loving me despite my perceived quirks and strangeness. There's a world of perceptual difference between the two. And I'm also damned grateful for who just simply hold their tongues, rather than feeling the need to let me know that they are passing non-silent judgment upon me - especially while I'm prepping for likely the most paradigm-embracing thing I'm ever gonna do.

She's five, but it starts somewhere. I smiled toothily, and in a voice oozing like pure high-fructose corn syrup informed L'il Miss that, "For some of us, every day is Halloween. Some of us like it so much, we celebrate it all year round." Mumsie nodded at me in silent thanks for not springing forth and ritually draining the lifeblood from her offspring, then botched it all with, "Honey? Remember how I told you that some people have different skin colors, or are from a different place, or have funny genes so they're not quite like us? Some people dress differently, too."

So wearing pointy shoes is like being Asian or French, or possibly having a birth defect. Great. Maybe I can start a foundation or offer a scholarship. Perhaps even get my own holiday parade.

My explanation would have gone something like, "You know how most little girls want to grow up to be all fancy like Cinderella or Snow White? Well, sometimes, there are little girls who grow up wondering where the Wicked Queen buys her shoes and gloves..."

They don't make wedding mags for us. Maybe I oughta start one: "Weird Bride". It'll sell dozens of copies.

Posted by Kat at 03:03 PM

September 07, 2006

Party politics.

My response to our dear pal's inquiry as to how I felt 'bout a bachelor party for Douglas: "Just don't bring him back with anything that can't be cured in one dose."

It's not that I'm a wackily lewd or permissive bride — it's just that I know I have nothing to worry about, wang-placement-wise.

Posted by Kat at 12:54 PM

September 05, 2006

Proof of life.

My billion dollar idea after perusing Modern Bride, Elegant Bride, Brides (UK and US) editions, Bridal Guide, et al:

Drunk Bride - "Because no one gets through this sober."™

6 issues for $9.95 or a bottle of Jim Beam Rye - either currency payable to me, care of the bar at 6th Ave. & 11th St. where I can frequently be found chugging prosecco & bitters, and trying not to eat my own hair.

Posted by Kat at 06:31 PM

September 02, 2006

Today's romantically-inclined literary punch to the gut.

From my ever-beloved Frank O'Hara.

"Having A Coke With You"

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluoresent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I'm with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o'clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it's in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven't gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn't pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvellous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

Posted by Kat at 05:34 AM

The first step is admitting that you're decoupaging.

I've entered the crafting phase of the prenuptial madness. There's really no coming back, once you've realized you're decoupaging, is there?

It's all just scrapbooking and bejeweled Quacker Factory sweaters for me from here on out. Douglas, may I pre-apologize for the next 40-50+ years of your life? I forsee a lot of hot glue, humorous cross-stitched bathroom wall hangings and geese in outfits.

(But that doesn't mean these tealight holders I'm making right now don't look totally, totally AWESOME!)

Posted by Kat at 05:26 AM

September 01, 2006

I'll sleep when I'm wed.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, tired_bride_mug.jpgsmall goofy whims seem to one's self to be huge, hilarious strokes of unparallelled awesomeness.

Hence, I present to you my brand slappin' new "Tired Bride™" suite of products.

Yes, that mug does say "I'll sleep when I'm wed." I'm very sorry. Please help me.

Posted by Kat at 01:24 AM