I once camped out all night for tickets to The Cure's Halloween show at Irving Plaza. By morning, our lives had been threatened with big knives by scalpers (I managed to smile and bribe the scalpers to stay behind us in line with my delicious Royal Canadian Uncle-Buck Size Pancakes, which were bigger than their knives, but that's another story), but that night we learned life lessons about camaraderie, New York sidewalks, and the best rule: No Save-sies.

I'm not saying you can't save a seat at a movie for your friend who has to run to the bathroom, or for one person who is running late, or another person who went to get popcorn. But those kiddos at the midnight Harry Potter Premiere last night ruined our evening by draping their Hogwarts capes and scarves over entire rows and saying, "These are saved."

At one point, theater officials came in and asked everyone to move to the center of the aisles to show available seating. Someone then cast the Imperius Curse upon the poor man and he zombie-walked out of the theater, defeated.

After waiting around for 45 minutes, and with still another 40 before the movie was supposed to start, we took our popcorn and left. Eventually, we found a manager, who was actually really kind, offering us a refund or reserved seating at another show another day. Good customer service like that means the difference between an infuriating and public angry blog, or just a silly one that reveals perhaps I should leave the midnight Harry Potters to the folks who remembered to bring their wands.

Happy Bastille Day! Because I am currently slashing a Giant To Do List, and because I would rather spend time with my mother than writing about her, I am going to link you to a previous Mom's Birthday Blog.

http://brigidkaelin.blogspot.com/2009/07/intermission.html

It usually makes her cry.

The night I met FWT, I was wearing about eighty-thousand dollars worth of diamonds. It was the 2006 Best of Louisville Awards Show, complete with a red-carpet arrival and an array of Louisville celebrities. My friend Tim Krekel and I were there to perform a song together, as well as to say, "And the award goes to..." several times. It was my one and only brush with the kind of celebrity where jewelry stores call you a week in advance to ask what you plan on wearing to the event.

This wedding is probably the only time in my life where I will know what I'm wearing more than an hour before the main event, and I remember just laughing and telling the nice woman from Merkley Kendrick Jewelers in Louisville, "I have no idea." She then explained that she was bejeweling the female awards presenters (I don't think she actually said the word "bejeweling," but I just love that word), and she needed to know what style accessories would complement my gown.

Because borrowing jewels is something I thought only Nicole Kidman got to do, I tried to help out. "It'll probably be something either vintage or simple and classic," if that helps. No, I didn't know a color or neckline ... no, I didn't know a fabric ...

The woman was probably frustrated with me, but she didn't show it. Instead she just said, "Diamonds, I think." That sounded find with me, and I moved on with my life.

I didn't think much about it the rest of the week, but I did manage to borrow a dress from a friend. Lacey, vintage-looking, and bright white, it fit beautifully. When I showed up to the Best of Louisville Awards that night, the jewelers smiled and adorned me with earrings, bracelets, rings, and a Harry-Winston-Eat-Your-Heart-Out diamond necklace.

Now I love sparkly things as much as any princess, but I'd never actually really worn diamonds before. I admit to having that feeling that advertisers want you to have. I just felt pretty ... like a princess, I suppose. So all night long I flitted and fleeted around the party talking to everyone I knew and most people I didn't. Actually, that sounds like what I do even without the jewels, but I did feel extra sparkly that night.

At the end of the evening, when I went to return the jewels, I asked the woman there how much they would cost to purchase. As I turned around and lifted my hair so she could remove the necklace, she told me the retail price of each piece I was wearing. I I turned around quickly. "Um, do you mind if I wear them for just ten minutes more?" She grinned back and said it wasn't a problem.

Then I flitted and fleeted for about five minutes before I got freaked out that I might lose them. Good thing I asked about value at the end of the night.

Hmmm ... I didn't really tell you how I met FWT, did I? This blog's long enough for today. But let's just say it involved friends, the room stopping for a minute (at least for us anyway), a truck, two and a half years, and ... cheese. Lots and lots of cheese.

The annual Brigid Kaelin Band Summer Show at Lakeside went fabulously well, if I do say so myself. It was hot as can be, which is so much better than outdoor winter events. When given the option, I generally prefer Speedos to fingerless gloves.

The boys in the band didn't man up this time though, and I was the only one smart enough to wear a swimsuit. Intermission featured a Diving Boards Spectacular between me and FWT. Imagine synchronized back flips between two young lovers ... are you sick in your mouth yet? The only thing better would have been if Steve Cooley and Peter Searcy had flowered swim caps and a little synchronized swimming routine set to some yodeling. Now try to get that image out of your head. You're welcome!

It was a good time. I'm thinking about having Adult Diving Team practice tonight. My back flip was successful, but not pretty.

I haven't been hounded like Princess Kate, but I've gotten more than a few inquiries about my wedding dress. It's not surprising, considering what a fashion icon I am. I mean, wear do you think Taylor Swift got the idea of a dress and cowboy boots? (See picture: I am two, clearly ahead of my time.) And still, I've not once been nominated for the Best Dressed Awards in Louisville. Do old t-shirts and thrift store jeans count for nothing? I do believe Chanel would approve.

I could have gone couture for the wedding. My future mother-in-law offered to make me a dress, even a replica of Princess Kate's if I wanted. Being unable to make a decision, I had to decline the fabulous offer, not wanting her to have to deal with me changing my mind eight thousand times. Not a good way to start off that relationship.

At one of those BridalWarStores, I was tempted by a fabulous ballgown (with pockets!) that would have perfect for riding off into the sunset on a white unicorn with my prince (We have had trouble locating a unicorn rental company, but I'm persistent). FWT and I have been adamant about keeping this whole soiree environmentally responsible, but I was starting to get annoyed that my sanctimonious morals were getting in the way of My Perfect Wedding™. In the end, though, it just didn't seem right to drop that much money on something I'll wear for about three hours -- not to mention all the oil miles and child labor (adult fingers can't do that kind of lace detail!). I left the store empty-handed, giving myself 24 hours to find something used.*

Somehow, I did.

At one point, I had five wedding dresses hanging in my closet, thanks to my dear friends who are either 1) not sentimental at all about their gowns or 2) overly sentimental and would love to see it worn by a friend. A bridesmaid and I had a fun night of margaritas and dress-up a few months ago, but none of the dresses really fit me right. The one that did fit just didn't make sense in a Kentucky July.

Less than 24 hours after finding that new dress in the store, I tried on one last used dress. It was perfect -- simple, classic, fits just right, and belongs to my oldest friend. Well, technically, she's younger than I am, and I go out drinking with her parents more than I do with her. Still, she's great, and I think it's wonderfully sentimental to be wearing her dress, especially since her wedding was the most memorable wedding I've ever attended. (The band was -- I kid you not -- The Rolling Stones. I don't think that will ever be topped.)

So, yes, I'm pretty thrilled with my recycled, meaningful, pretty, couture gown. It's been worn before, and it has the only tiniest of light stains here and there that are really only visible to me in certain angles and sunlight. I thought about having it cleaned first, but after learning that cleaning a wedding dress is hundreds of dollars, I decided to save the money and clean it after my wedding. Y'all won't notice.

Besides, once you see FWT in a tuxedo, you'll be wondering why you cared about what I was wearing at all.


*Again, I'm not judging you for your gorgeous new gown ... I just have that whole Catholic/Jewish guilt factor tormenting me daily.

** Louisville folks, check out A Class Act on Breckenridge Lane, near Nanz & Kraft. The owner is incredibly helpful, and they have a huge selection of wedding gowns in all sizes and styles. Bridesmaids and prom stuff too. If you've got a gown taking up space in your closet, take it there. I tried on a ton of gowns there. I didn't find the perfect one for my event, but I'd recommend that place to any environmentally-obsessed (or budget) bride.

When David and I hopped a flight from Glasgow to Belfast last year, we noticed the rest of the plane was filled with groups of women. They were distinctly defined groups, separated by their different t-shirts. Some t-shirts were black tanks with sparkly silver lettering that read "Jane's Hen Party 2011." Others were pink tees saying "Belfast Hen Party for the Ross Sisters!" The girls were also all doing shots of something blue and giggling wildly before noon. "Hen Parties" are bachelorette parties done up right. And by right, I mean extravagant, crazy, and taken very seriously.

Were I in Scotland now, or were I in a sorority back in the day, I may have been forced to hire a pink Stretch-U-V and wear a Scavenger Hunt T-shirt. Thankfully, neither of those things happened, and my wonderful girlfriends rallied in a much more sedate manner.

I didn't think I even wanted a Bachelorette Party. Then I just assumed -- in an Eeyore sort of way -- that no one would really be up for planning a night that didn't involve fruity shots or lewd party favors. When David's buddies decided they were whisking him to Nashville for the entire weekend for a Bachelor Party, I got a little sad, thinking I would just stay home alone cleaning out the basement all weekend. See, Eeyore, right?

My ladies rallied at the last minute, though, and put together a really nice evening. Would you believe it if I told you last night's Bachelorette Party consisted of watermelon, croquet (I was red, duh), chocolate fondue, frozen drinking chocolate, cakes, and lots of Live Tweeting (hashtag #brigidfest or #bachelorettepartyquotes)? We drank some martinis, and we laughed a LOT.

Also, I won croquet, with my never-fail strategy of placing yourself in last place, only to hit every other ball on your way down the homestretch, gaining two extra hits with each strike. They didn't know what hit them.

That, or they let me win. I have such good friends!

You may know about the classic actor's nightmare, in which just about anyone who's ever been in a play will dream that they suddenly have to perform in that play again, despite having forgotten every line, entrance, and costume change. I have it more than you imagine, and it's always about theatre, never about music. This past week, however, the wedding nightmares have begun.

It started with a dramatic "Graduate"-style scene, except reversed. David is, shall we say, popular with the ladies. That's being subtle, really. He's not a tramp or anything -- not even close -- but I've made a few enemies out there by sweeping him off his feet and making an honest man out of him. And so, in this nightmare, a bunch of ladies do the whole disturb-the-church-by-knocking-and-screaming-through-a-pane-of-glass routine. Girls, let me tell you now: It doesn't work, not even in the nightmare. Besides, we're not getting married in a church, so you'll have to learn how to climb trees if you want to create a scene. (By the way, just try it. It'll make a good story for our grandkids.)

Last night I had more stressful dreams than that. More stressful than a bunch of crazies interrupting the ceremony, and trying to steal the love of my life, you say? I'm embarrassed to say that in this dream, I cared -- and cared a lot -- about flowers and decorations.* My bouquet showed up, entirely made of white calla lillies. It was beautiful, but it wasn't what we'd talked about. In reality, should that happen, I don't think I'd care one way or another. But in last night's dream, I was in tears. Then something happened with my dress, and then suddenly Rudy from the Cosby Show was late in giving me a ride to the ceremony. It became complicated.

The worst thing about nightmares is waking up and feeling like you didn't get any sleep at all. The best thing about them is waking up.

Anyway, we've got three weeks to go. All the little things are falling into place, bit by bit. You know how I just adore details.

Read something even funnier on David's blog: http://louisvilleky.com/2011/07/bachelor-party-extravaganza/


* I do care about these things in real life, and I want them to be pretty. We all know, however, that visual design is not my strongest talent. I like pretty flowers, but I don't know how to arrange them. That equals stress to me.

Where are we going on our honeymoon, you ask? Answer: We don't know. Isn't it grand? My second favorite part about that answer is be able to check off the boxes on TheKnot that have anything to do with planning your honeymoon and remove them from our ginormous To Do List. My favorite part about it is that I get to have yet another adventure with my favorite person.

About six months into our dating, we decided one Wednesday evening that we would really prefer to be in Paris that weekend. It's not unlike me to make such grandiose statements, and it's not unlike FWT to think that's a grand idea. That's one thing I adore about him -- he never dismisses me as "Crazy Ol' Brigid." It turned out that the Paris flights were full, but 24 hours later, FWT and I were on a plane to Amsterdam. We arrived there Friday morning and were home by dinnertime on Sunday. And we didn't tell anyone where we were going.

Thus, it seems appropriate that we do the same thing for our honeymoon. Last week we went to the library and got travel books to pretty much every place that sounded interesting. We aren't getting our hearts set on anything. Our passports are valid, and our minds are open. I only have one rule: we aren't going anywhere that requires immunizations.

If you know me at all, you know the most difficult thing for me to do is to sit still. It's never caused me any problems, at least not with grades or work. The problem comes with my inability to relax when I need it most. This past weekend, I did my best to sit in a chaise lounge, poolside, and read.

It's a rough life, I know, to be housesitting in a gorgeous home in Prospect, a home complete with a beautiful pool, sliding board, and palm tree. (Yes, a palm tree!) Still, when I showed up, I was a big ball of stress, listing problem after problem, frustrated about RSVPs, frustrated about people not responding, frustrated about people responding with children or people who weren't originally invited (how do you explain that without sounding like a jerk?!), people breaking promises, homes in disrepair, wanting to take a honeymoon, but being completely out of money. There I go again listing not even half of the stresses, and I can feel my blood pressure rise.

The point is that I really tried my best this weekend to not think about any of those things. It's an impossible task -- to keep your mind off something particular -- but it's made easier with books.

So I lounged poolside, sipped a mojito, and read four books between Friday morning and Sunday evening. They weren't Russian novels or anything, so don't be too impressed. Two were terrible chick-lit (not romance, but not very deep), one a memoir, and another "Ask the Pilot," a book designed to help me with my newly-acquired fear of flying, but which really just gave me solid reason to be afraid. Still, 1300 pages (I keep track obsessively on GoodReads in a fiercely competitive battle with my dad) in a weekend felt good, something I haven't done in ages. I even made time for plenty of nachos, mojito refills, swimming, and a couple of movies.

My mind was assuaged only slightly, but it was enough to make me feel excited rather than stressed about all that I have to do. I love being busy, and, though I would prefer to be busy making records and touring and singing, I am trying to remember to be happy for an even better reason: that I get to marry David.

The wedding is only the tiniest bit of the stress, believe it or not, but I'm reminding myself that this is a really happy and fun time. He is amazing at keeping me calm, even when he's got similar anxiety over that silly party we're throwing. Everyone keeps reminding us the reason for the party, and I am trying to do the same thing. It's an adventurous time, and if he and I love nothing else, we love adventure. And the library.

Confession: prior to houseguests coming over for Derby, we hired a housecleaner. It finally occurred to me at some point over the past year that THAT is why everyone else's house is so much tidier and everyone's baseboards gleam brighter. Few people volunteer the information, but most of you seem to have someone who comes through a couple of times a month and cleans the house. So after years of crying and trying and wasting valuable writing time with a duster, we hired a professional.

He was here for over eight hours, and the house was sparkling when he left. It made me realize that our place -- though because of its age will never quite have the clean, crisp lines that new homes have -- can actually be clean sometimes.

Now it's been two months since he came, and I miss him desperately. The dust wins. This morning I just about cried while looking under our bed for a library book and seeing the bunnies who have revived their former home there. How does that happen anyway?

I guarantee you if I ever even had eight straight hours to focus on cleaning the house, I wouldn't get even half of it done. I'd start organizing books, or making a Goodwill pile, or whining that something needs fixing, and eventually end up with more tears and half-clean dining room. Not a good use of my day. And so ... I'm calling in the professionals again.

I normally don't pay much mind to my blog stats on here. It's a nice way to get distracted from the point of the blog, which for me is to entertain you and write the crazy out of my head. But today I clicked over, and I noticed that I've got a bunch of regular readers from the following countries: United Kingdom (not so surprising, considering I've toured there often!), but also, Germany, Australia, Ukraine, Canada, China, France, India, Denmark, and Iran.

I can tell where you're reading, but it's not as creepy as it seems. I don't know who you are or anything. Still, I'm curious, and I'd love to come play a show in any or all of those places -- perhaps a little house concert organized by a gracious reader? Worth a shot. Send me a message here, my secret readers from afar ... or an email brigid(at)brigidkaelin(dot)com ... or a FB message ...

Curiosity is torture!

More blogs this week. I'm getting up early the rest of the week to conquer my massive To Do List.

I took the bus yesterday. My friends in other cities are probably not so impressed, but in Louisville, this is kind of a big deal. It was mostly pleasant, as long as you don't try to read or play on your phone (I get motion sickness) and as long as you aren't in a hurry.

That's not to say you can't get somewhere on time using public transport here. It's just that the bus is not going to come when the route planner says it will. As FWT says, it's either "ten minutes early or thirty minutes late." It's hard to say which. A tweet from him this morning reads "bus is to schedule as hippo is to rain jacket."

The solution, I think, is just to relax and not worry about when you'll get there. That's not particularly helpful when you're going to work (as FWT this morning after one hour travel time from the Highlands to his downtown office, again most of which was waiting for the bus to arrive). I missed opening pitch of the Bats game last night, though I was at the bus stop 12 minutes before it was supposed to be there. The schedule told me I'd arrive 18 minutes early. The trip took -- from my house in the Highlands to Slugger Field -- a total of 50 minutes, but only about 20 of those were actually spent on the bus.

Still, it was a really pleasant trip because I don't really care about baseball. Not having to park my car was surely the biggest bonus because there was both a Bats game and Waterfront Wednesday going on. Downtown was packed.

Also, the last time I took the bus for transport here was two summers ago when I was car-free for a couple of months. After waiting at the stop 30+ minutes in 100 degree weather, I was swarmed and stung multiple times by sweat bees before I was able to run inside the Wine Market for shelter and chardonnay (confession: I actually despise chardonnay, but "shelter and chardonnay" sounded nice). I then called someone and got a ride, and I bought a car later that week.

Maybe I've just got bad luck with the bus in Louisville. It really was fun once I was onboard, despite the woman behind me shouting into her cell phone. The seats were clean, the driver was super-helpful and friendly, and I loved seeing Bardstown Road from the view of public transport. Our city looks impressive from a tourist POV, and I love not having to drive. I just wish things here ran like they do in Japan or Germany. Well, the bus schedules anyway.