How I met my husband--our fairy tale

Greetings and salutations!

Yesterday marked an important day for Adrian and me--we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. It is frightening how quick a year can pass. I would say 5/5 of my "official" followers know our love story but I cannot think of a better time to write it down and save it on the digital space.

Yep...a sexy lady

Officially, I met Adrian when I visited London to stay with my then fling "J". At the time, Adrian had very long lady-like hair and I was jealous over its honey hue. He was heading off to the states to be a counselor at Camp Towanda (I know all of my Jewish friends know and probably played Towanda in soccer or boccie ball). We chatted about camp, the good ol' U.S.A. and that was about it. I was in Ireland for the summer, wrecking my body with Bulmers and getting my first tattoo, so we would miss each other.

Fast forward a year and I graduated, dated more men with temporary work visas and landed a job in media. I was living on the UWS with my nearest and dearest (five room apt...yes that's a lot of chicks) when my friend from London, Stuart, asked if he could visit and do a road trip. The road trip was from NYC to Canada and included Stuart, Adam (aka Kitten also a friend from my abroad journeys) and Adam's cousin Adrian.

The Awesome Foursome on a
road trip that changed my life

To speed this story along as this is a blog not a novel--initially Adrian was not keen on me...in the least. He thought I was brash, anal, controlling, boisterous, potentially manly and he was right. I thought he might be a bit too short for me as I was rocking the highest of heels those days (note:in these heels every man was too short for me. I made linebackers look like wee-little men). So we were not looking for love in each other.

However, being stuck in a car with two men on the prowl (yes, Stu and Adam) Adrian and I spent way too much time together. I would think that Adrian would claim "Stockholm Syndrome" as to why he fell for me but one night in Montreal magic happened. Magic comes in many forms, this time it was in beer and vodka. While our friends went off to a strip club we drank, shared stories, drank some more and took a cab two blocks to our hotel. Magic for sure happened and by morning I was smitten.

The rest of the trip was normal. I knew I liked Adrian but could not stomach another long distance relationship. He had been through the same tumult with another girlfriend. But we were both sad to see the trip end. I felt my heart tear as their cab drove away but chocked up the tears to something in my non-existent contacts.

I thought that was it...

Exactly 72 hours later my work sent me to London to help with a New Business pitch. I worked for a few days and then had the weekend to my disposal. I messaged Adrian and stayed with him in his tiny room and in his tiny bed. We went on a date to Brighton with Adam and I even rode a mechanical bull. In those few days, I officially fell in love with Adrian Laming.

We sustained our relationship via Skype and had five-hour long conversations almost every night. When you are long distance you have no choice but to just date...maybe have a little fun on camera (sorry roommates for the thin walls) but in the end we just talked and learned about one another.

Over Christmas, I visited Adrian and had the best week of my life. It was my first Christmas so I was unusually excited for an adult when it came to Santa and pressies. I might have pushed over his one-year old niece trying to open my gifts. We went ice skating, I maimed my body twice with tattoos (sorry parents) and spent time with his family...falling further in love with the Lamings as a unit. When I left, I cried so hysterically that a Virgin Air staff member walked me straight through security as I was making other travelers nervous---any time you are late to a flight CRY it works!

Our LURVE faces

We saw each other once more before I made an interesting proposal. Adrian was stuck in a job that did not use his artistic talent so he was pondering going back to camp. At age 26, I imagined he would be the oldest camp counselor and potentially be called "pappy". In truth, I thought this would end the relationship because it meant that Adrian's future was put on hold again and I would only see him during "Parents Weekend" when we would tour the camp in a golf cart and eat Hebrew National hot dogs and watermelon. So I offered that he move in and get a job in fashion--start his career and use his degree. I think I might have sold it with my amazing cooking skills and the fact that I could clean better than a hotel maid---he has since learned the truth.

For months I applied him to every fashion internship possible, redid his resume and pulled an all nighter to complete his portfolio...maybe my best work to date. To escape the apartment full of females, we moved to Queens to start our life in our own place.

About five weeks into his internship, they offered him a full time position because he is unbelievably fabulous (not biased in the least). One slight snag....he was not eligible to work in the states.

I knew this would eventually become an issue as I did my homework and spoke to several immigration lawyers. It was not fair for Adrian to continue an internship, make no money and eventually be deported. So marriage was quickly on the table. I think I shocked him with how cool and calm I was about the whole thing. But I loved him and I was not going to let a little thing like immigration stand in my way. I bet he is happy about my anal, controlling behavior now!!

The scene of our blessed affair.
<3 Queens

We decided to get married on a Sunday and by Friday we were officially hitched in the Queens Courthouse. My parents attended, his parents in spirit and the judge was a Jew from Flushing...how quaint. We spent the day wandering the city and eating at Da Nicos in Little Italy. There might have been a little karaoke jam sesh with a group of lesbians from the south. But it just added to the occasion.

Since we married so quick, he did not have time to propose. So our engagement happened after we got married with 80 candles and 22 sunflowers and a tearful "Will you marry me". It was the most loving memory to date. We had another reception with his family in attendance and exchanged our own vows. Perfect is the word I am looking for.

Maybe our story is not a traditional fairy tale and maybe our marriage doesn't follow the norm. All I know is that I love Adrian with all my heart. There is much more to our story and it will trickle out on this blog slowly and surely. He is the most wonderful husband and one last mushy note....he is my happily ever after.

My prince charming... a blushing british bride

I survived Cannes...barely

Hello five followers!

My apologies for the lack of the blogs being posted but I have just survived the triathlon of advertising...the Cannes International Festival of Creativity. For Corp Comm peers it is a mix of writing, event planning and negotiating your future fetuses to leverage your position against others. Basically, my blood, sweat and tears went into coordinating and executing a robust program for all of our partners and colleagues.

I will not go into my work as that is separate from what I personally experienced AND I am sure my company would not be thrilled with our backstage secrets being revealed.

While I have visited France before, I think the nine days spent in this country put things in perspective.

These are my learnings straight from France...again from my point of view.

Nadim, our French friend who explained
the wonders of olive oil

1) The French either love or hate Americans. There is no middle ground or luke warm feelings, they either laugh with us or laugh at us. The French do not pass judgement until you speak. I believe this is because they are trying to decide if we are American or from another English speaking country that they prefer such as the UK or Canada.

As soon as I spoke I either received, "Ahhh American, hooray!" or I would get a scowl, some cruses in French and then a lecture in French on why I sucked. I obviously preferred the first reaction but it seemed the latter was what I received most often---at least I learned to recognize french curses...what an education!

2) If you do not know the language do not try to speak it. I convinced myself that my minor in Spanish would take me far in France. I am not sure why I believed that because it could not be further from the truth.

The few times I tried to speak French I would get looks of confusion or horror. Even a simple "merci" can offend and ruin the impression. French is probably one of the most beautiful languages, and I managed to make it sound like I was trying to speak with gravel or glass in my mouth.

This was particularly difficult when ordering food. If the waiter did not speak English it was going to be a night of hand puppets. For whatever reason I thought since my mouth could not explain what I wanted, then my hands could. I was waving my hands trying to simulate a steak, omelet or even croissant to a very confused waiter. Many of them smiled to then curse me in the kitchen and spit on my food  resembling an ingredient in the Bearnaise sauce.

3) Stress and rushing do not mix with the south France. I was in Cannes to work and ensure that our events went off without a hitch. That meant running around like a crazy woman.

I might have bee rushing but the
view was fantastic

The first day in Cannes, I was juggling dozens of tasks and interviews and I was literally running up and down the Coisette without a thought of what I looked like. The Americans understood my rush and event supported me like I was in a race. They gave me water, pats on the backs and the occasional high-five. The French scratched their heads and looked for smoke or a fire as if that was the only reason to rush. Several times I was yelled at because it just seemed so odd for a person to run outside, in a dress and there be no natural disaster like a tsunami causing the sprint.

4) Lastly, all of France seemed numb to my jokes. In an attempt to lighten the mood with humor, I was actually causing more tension. When we were having a meeting, I was pooped on by a bird. It was not like a little poop hit me, no, it was like a flock of seagulls had a bad curry and unfortunately my dress looked like a toilet.

I tried to make a joke about this to the three french ladies that worked the concierge desk and I got blank stares. If getting shit on while in a meeting is not going to produce giggles then I am simply not funny in France and I need to give up.

So those are my lessons straight off the plane. The french folk are beautiful people but it seems that Rebecca Laming is much more charming/funny stateside. Next trip to Cannes I will arm myself with funny french one-liners. I will also learn basic words like bread, water, chocolate croissant, pain, stress and anger.

Also stay tuned for more regular blogs as I am slated to be home with the hubby for the summer..yay! Now we can bicker over dinner and whether or not the A/C should stay on throughout the night.

My wonderful husband decorated in my return.
Now was he happy to see me or tapping me out of the apt?

Getting back to nature...or being eaten alive in Vermont

Memorial weekend is my favorite holiday because it signals the start of summer and most likely the end of snowstorms (I say most likely because with recent weather phenomenons you never know). With summer knocking at the door, my brother decided to organize a trip to the outdoors, good ol' Vermont.

We set out at 11pm on Friday night, me, Adrian and my brother and his girlfriend to rid ourselves of the city grit and become one with the trees. While leaving at 11pm resulted in no holiday traffic, there is nothing fun about arriving at your destantion at the crack of dawn. By the time we arrived at the wrong house, then arrived at the right house, unpacked the car, identified a dozen unoccupied mouse traps and watched my un-handy brother give instructions on how to turn on the water to my relatively handy husband it was 5:30am. It is painful to try to fall asleep when your body clock is set to wake within two hours.

By the time we woke up the day was gone. My husband was frantically trying to figure out how to connect the TV to the satellite so he could watch the Champions League final. Luckily, it was raining most of the day so I did not mind watching soccer (football) and found myself gorging on hummus and salsa.

Our isolated cabin with "No Service"

Since we were deep within the forest, so deep the GPS was unsure where we were located, our cell phones did not work. Not one or two bars--just "No Service." Between the rain and soccer I was dying for a little YouTube and Facebook. I am also notorious for checking my phone and answering work emails regardless of my location. I answered a work email as my husband and I entered the courthouse for our wedding and I am sure if I was scaling a mountain I would still reply back to my boss. No service felt a bit unnverving. It also felt like the start of a scary movie where no one could call for help. Hello Jason!

We decided to leave our nature cave for dinner and landed at The Garlic. The name was true to its food. Everything was CAKED in garlic from bread to appetizers to entrees. After awhile we could not tell the food apart because it all just tasted like garlic...even the mousse cake. We came in two couples and left as four cloves of garlic.

After our garlic experience...smelling good

On Sunday, we awoke to hundreds of bug bites (why do bugs bite ankles and between the fingers? Are mosquitos just assholes and want to bite you in the most inconvenient areas?). I sustained multiple bites from a variety of bugs. I probably loss over a quart of blood in my sleep from these creepy crawlers.

To take advantage of the outdoors and actually do something other than itch my ankles, we wanted to go hourseback riding. Correction, three of us wanted to go ride horses, my husband was not keen on the idea. Adrian had never been on a horse and said the only thing he ever rode was a Lambretta or a donkey when he was three. We convinced him and ventured off to find some ponies.

Did I mention that my un-handy brother was also directionally challenged? Even after the lady from the grocery store clearly said, "Make a left at the end of the road and you can't miss the stables." He managed to make a right and take us 40 min and many miles out of our way. Once we realized this navigational error we  called the ranch to schedule our trail ride.

The ranch receptionist asked about our level of exptertise. Not to brag, but I was quite the equestrian in my teen days and I wanted to make sure that the ranch receptionist was aware so I obnoxiously screamed in the phone "professional." Not even sure what a professional horse back rider would mean. Then the ranch receptionist made a HUGE error and frankly executed a female "no no". She asked for everyone's height and weight.

Now I was in the company of three very physically fit people and anyone who knows me understands that while I am secure in my personality I am incredibly insecure about my physcial state. But I would imagine being surrounded by my body-building, quasi-vegan brother--his very attractive and slender girlfriend--and my husband who runs marathons--the average physically fit person would not like to declare his/her weight. I am below average just to give a gauge; I am not overweight, I am just overcurvy.

So everyone shouted out their weight as if they were lottery numbers to the cruel, inhumane ranch receptionist and I said, "Are you kidding me? Do we anticipate the horse cannot balance my size that we have to use an oxen? Will everyone be on ponies and I will be in the Oregon Trail cart with my oxen?"

My un-handy, directionally challenged brother sweetly said a weight that was significantly less then what I am. I am sure they had the most dainty horse ready based on those inaccurate measurements.

I would assume that they could gauge which females were pony princesses and which were ready for clydesdale mamonths. But again I am sure the average horse can handle me--I am sure they would prefer my light-weight, marathon runner husband but their beastly backs could deal with me.

Third Reich Cowboy

We ended up going to a different ranch that did not ask for our weight. We enjoyed the ride and my anti-horse husband seemed to enjoy the experience as well. He actually looked like a Aryan cowboy ready to lasso calf or be the poster cowboy for the Third Reich (I am Jewish so I can make those jokes).

The rest of the time we bonded by getting attacked by swarms of nats. I am positive that several have parked in my ear and are setting up permanent camp in the warmth of my brain. Adrian and I even managed to win a few games of  couples beer pong. My strategy was not to drink the beer as beer, especially dirty beer pong beer, tastes like pee pee.

So that was my weekend in Vermont. Other than the six hour trip back and the countless of mosquito bites (some in not PG areas) it was a fun way to spend the holiday. We were extremely happy to find out that while it poured during our weekend away the tri-state area enjoyed ample sunshine and pool perfect weather. The joys of driving several hours to greet the rain.

Being a bear...how I attracted Adrian