tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55813596180637743252024-03-13T06:26:08.530-05:00MudlaneUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-77114220011196383692013-10-05T19:01:00.001-05:002013-10-05T19:01:51.290-05:00Birth days to remember, and remember again.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_fNUn9x0lObl9CMSfymWN8vZTdmwJgasO_I1n9JohD5CqMHdiruZfc4pwCI5Vj6Li-J1k4Gub0GRIz_hqU_gKr_lNJaVUx1VX4RbJw3xieeliae8RMBuAPD-uxYXIchoI_fS7R1Y6RIU/s1600-h/ellen+out.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439291106977679778" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_fNUn9x0lObl9CMSfymWN8vZTdmwJgasO_I1n9JohD5CqMHdiruZfc4pwCI5Vj6Li-J1k4Gub0GRIz_hqU_gKr_lNJaVUx1VX4RbJw3xieeliae8RMBuAPD-uxYXIchoI_fS7R1Y6RIU/s400/ellen+out.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 365px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 255px;" /></a><br />
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The Sophisticate was born in the wee early hours of February 15. That means that I labored on Valentine's night. Valentine's DAY - no labor. Valentine's night was fast and furious. This week, on Valentines Day I was telling Pretty Pretty Princess that for ME, Valentines Day is always about her sister's birth.</div>
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Then PPP's eyes glazed over and she leaned her head on the cool car window. If she could have, she would have put her ear buds in and listened to music....since she knew what was coming...the BIRTH STORY. I had already called The Sophisticate and attempted to have a similar convo with her - but she cut me off on the birth story. "I've heard it, Mom. I know, it was fast and you almost had me in the hall or something."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-tqkSRoNXClQi8S4skqtf6FWbbLWOjMVOSYTtOaQ2sdkg37cFhGmBvZQu_EeduipePkjQ57hxYUGNiOJGzpzJjYaJTd8sk2Rgj5G7WXlGrCKL957XrT19t_FIKRdFN8mhof9fTXnuyE/s1600-h/Ellen+1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438660357617253474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8-tqkSRoNXClQi8S4skqtf6FWbbLWOjMVOSYTtOaQ2sdkg37cFhGmBvZQu_EeduipePkjQ57hxYUGNiOJGzpzJjYaJTd8sk2Rgj5G7WXlGrCKL957XrT19t_FIKRdFN8mhof9fTXnuyE/s400/Ellen+1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 276px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>She thought it was interesting when she was a baby.</div>
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Most of the time my retelling of the birth stories need to be heavily edited. Since I worked for years as a Lamaze teacher, and have given birth a few times, I have no shame.<br />
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Nevermind all that - this is the Sophisticate's birth story. She was almost 3 weeks late. We went to the hospital in false labor on her due date. What was I thinking? It was the night of the Super Bowl and my mother had to leave a party to come and pick the 2.5 year old soon-to-be-big-brother. I didn't have the baby that night, yet all my mother's friends thought I DID have the baby that night. Thus the next 2++ weeks were filled with awkward encounters with people who thought I had the baby weeks ago ...yet still looked 10 months pregnant. Because I WAS 10 months pregnant.<br />
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So, on Valentine's night when I mentioned that I thought I might be in labor, BigD rolled his eyes. We called Mimi ONCE AGAIN, feeling like putting Brother to bed at her house was a better choice than maybe waking him up in the middle of the night. We had done that about 5 times between the Super Bowl and Valentine's Day. So, everyone assumed it was a false alarm, me included.<br />
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BigD was watching vintage <span style="font-style: italic;">Miami Vice</span>, on TV every Friday night at 9. He loved that show. He loved it so much he ignored me that whole hour, in which I moved from 'Maybe I'm in labor' to "Whoa, I need some help here." Remember that I am a classically trained Lamaze teacher, so I was all into the breathing and walking and the shower. We did all of that - once Miami Vice was over. About 10:30 I started begging to go to the hospital. BigD kept saying "Let's wait and see what happens" which is his standard response - to everything. Later, we went outside into the very cold weather and took a walk around the block. When we were FAR AWAY FROM HOME I had a definitive contraction. As a Lamaze teacher, I always told people "You'll know...it's a different feeling." That's ridiculous, you don't know. You just think you know. HOPE you know. Mostly, afraid you will miss something important. So we hurried home - as much as one can hurry when you are having contractions 2 minutes apart and are 10 months pregnant.<br />
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As soon as we walked in the house I was yelling "We're going now, I don't care what you think" and other stuff like that, only probably more profane. Definitely more profane. I don't remember whether we had a bag packed or anything, we just left. During the drive, I was begging for an epidural. I'm not sure how I thought I was getting an epidural in the car, but it seemed pretty urgent. I was also convinced that I was going to NOT EVER teach Lamaze again . . . because of the epidural I was begging for in the car.<br />
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At the hospital, I got dropped off at the door while the car was parked by BigD. We made our way to labor and delivery and the first words out of my mouth were "you better check me."<br />
Lady "Well, m'am, I can't check you. What's your name?" I guess BigD gave them that info, because all I said was "You better check me." When I got to a bed I just laid across it and told them to check me. The nurse took my blood pressure - which by the way was fine. I was quiet and appeared to be listening to her spiel. I signed anything she put in front of me. Except for some reason, I refused to sign permission to circumsize. We had no idea if BigB was going to have a sister or a brother, so for some labor-related reasoning exercise, it made perfect sense that I not sign that permission.<br />
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In a moment of clarity I said "Look, all this is great, but you really better check me." And she did. And her eyes got real big, and she hit the call button and said "I need some help." She looked at me and said "Oh, you've got a way to go. Keep breathing." That is what her mouth said. Her face said "Well, hello....we're getting ready to have a baby."<br />
Which of course, I had already told her - many times. Blur, blur, blur....people, people, people....blow, blow, blow. By the way, all that blowing they tell you to do - and I am totally guilty of having told people for many years that blowing counteracts the urge to push - anyway, all that blowing? It does NOTHING regarding the urge to push. When there is a 9 pound baby headed out of close quarters, there aren't a lot of options. (Right now, I could go into the physiology of this...but that part is a part I am editing.)<br />
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I then entered the bargaining phase. I looked at those nurses - and there were MANY of them in there (by now, I'm thinking it was about 1:15 am. For reference, we were eating dinner at 6ish, with not a sign of labor, we left our driveway at 12:30.) anyway - regardless of the time, I looked at those nurses and said - perhaps yelled - "I KNOW you can deliver this baby." RN: "No, honey, we can't." ME: No, I KNOW you can - you cannot trick me. I know it." That went on for a while. Then I started begging some more ME: Get someone in here to deliver the baby. Is there a resident here?" RN: The resident is in a C-section. Keep blowing." Me: Find somebody, the baby is coming now. RN: Keep blowing, bleh, bleh, bleh. Me: "Husband of mine, get down there, no one around here is going to deliver the baby, so you will have to do it. Get down there." He looked a bit startled, so I said "I can talk you through it, let's go." I have never had a clearer moment in my life - I was going to deliver the baby - no questions asked. You have never seen people move as fast in your life as those nurses did when <span style="font-style: italic;">DAD-delivering-the-baby</span> became an option. Next voice I hear is unknown male: " I'm Dr. D. and even though I'm not your doctor, it looks like I am going to deliver your baby. There are a few things I'd like to talk to you about before..." Me: "No talking, I'm pushing." Dr D: "Have we called anesthesia? <span style="font-style: italic;">(Seriously....I mean really? Anesthesia? What, more people to watch?)</span> Well, I just need to let you know...." Me: "I honestly don't care who you are, I'm pushing this baby out right now, and we're not waiting for anybody." The room was full of people yelling the word BLOW BLOW BLOW - it sounded awful, and all that yelling did not make me blow. Then, beautiful music...."Let her push, I'm here." and MY doctor - or the doctor on call from my practice, I had actually never seen him either - walked in, got himself a gown and gloves,<br />
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....hello... baby .... GIRL!</div>
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It was awesome. I felt like superwoman. OK, I WAS Superwoman. Flooded with hormones, I felt like Champion of the Universe. If we could bottle that...we'd have a big problem, because we'd have a whole bunch of women trying to run the world at the same time. The Sophisticate herself looked like she had been scrubbed with a Brillo pad. And she had here eyes squished closed and kept them that way for about 3 weeks.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEybKz3vqtqWKOufGFBwgAdDbJyHW8AP2mLs8saP63QBaxX_CpvBjwxfVqznAeNxlV8CbmcO3HVZ9SKLyO8ZeVYLu6hCHspWACyObUvkehTDWr6FR040gp9oGQiiBXeTaiKvJ-Pyjfoo/s1600-h/Ellen+3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438660341811092818" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEybKz3vqtqWKOufGFBwgAdDbJyHW8AP2mLs8saP63QBaxX_CpvBjwxfVqznAeNxlV8CbmcO3HVZ9SKLyO8ZeVYLu6hCHspWACyObUvkehTDWr6FR040gp9oGQiiBXeTaiKvJ-Pyjfoo/s400/Ellen+3.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 266px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
The next day we bought brother up to see the baby. He thought she was fine, and was relatively willing to have his picture made with her - but mostly he was fascinated with the way the hospital bed moved. He had a great afternoon pushing buttons on the bed.<br />
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And we went home on the day her induction was scheduled. And the daffodils were blooming. And this year, though not in FULL bloom, I see yellow in the daffodils. And The Sophisticate remains my most special Valentine.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-5953775341333526452010-08-15T21:08:00.003-05:002010-08-15T21:21:32.224-05:00Beautiful, Beautiful Boy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccvvCHZUiYqwW_kP5f0knxmeEc6Umt4J-ODQK2FzVHamiz7Hl7LEKHLbmQvt6zpW7haUjsCO6LjYJyAw8CUs3VB2M5ejG0lPKdHSIE-nCwGZ5wTps3_ZMPGjr8PBN7l4R8RD_NwcIYLw/s1600/wade+with+vitamin+water.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiccvvCHZUiYqwW_kP5f0knxmeEc6Umt4J-ODQK2FzVHamiz7Hl7LEKHLbmQvt6zpW7haUjsCO6LjYJyAw8CUs3VB2M5ejG0lPKdHSIE-nCwGZ5wTps3_ZMPGjr8PBN7l4R8RD_NwcIYLw/s400/wade+with+vitamin+water.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505826611820283490" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-18977475267515785092010-03-09T21:21:00.011-06:002010-03-10T16:25:46.059-06:00WEDDING RAIN PLAN<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhYjGwGvhb2Dm8eGLuR8NT-7nBzUp7ITUuIX_Us9OLJ_MrzTXB5L6ZaQkgUp_WG6qj8U5V-rrURPJx1ZxeCsWiSUAbE21cmA0y3NbSmUPu3jMhcM_4jsRH5t0IW2Ia1PM4mZ1bZrIYr4/s400/kennedy+wedding+011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447090208081452482" /><div style="text-align: left;">Rule #1 for a wedding planner: ALWAYS have a rain plan. A TENT is a rain plan. An inside option is a rain plan. Umbrellas are NOT enough for a rain plan. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqaxJXQcSbLiH_YRQOgl2qAPD6HPxIxezCfENpfAw7KK5sHdz9rv5R-RkeMMKYaxx8Kty-ofWXLEHQ6FE0Fz79KSO3gMUB5dTUNhcwKjwUNUKccnljgAa_XZyVopEefCX2EOHdMkysN4/s1600-h/6a00d8341bf8f353ef0128765325e3970c-800wi.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqaxJXQcSbLiH_YRQOgl2qAPD6HPxIxezCfENpfAw7KK5sHdz9rv5R-RkeMMKYaxx8Kty-ofWXLEHQ6FE0Fz79KSO3gMUB5dTUNhcwKjwUNUKccnljgAa_XZyVopEefCX2EOHdMkysN4/s400/6a00d8341bf8f353ef0128765325e3970c-800wi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447122896742115218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px; " /></a><div style="text-align: left;">The ONLY time people are forced to stand en masse in a drenching downpour is a funeral. Not a wedding.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Since I am a wedding PLANNER, my excuse to watch the latest Bachelor TV wedding affair - Jason and Molly's downpour - is RESEARCH. Research in what NOT to do. </div><div><div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds4V4BfkLojgm7VZfM6jOqbg5TmQWHBaQbblWy0wnFsazrs3W1S6ioEklD4C2HL1JGnBrlV7Xk7zNIgPVCdBiLhnkyADylrBrOL-TRK12YMPXKeg0KgtFxutmRhXMP-VDhDkRd5wklI4/s1600-h/16234__trista_l.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds4V4BfkLojgm7VZfM6jOqbg5TmQWHBaQbblWy0wnFsazrs3W1S6ioEklD4C2HL1JGnBrlV7Xk7zNIgPVCdBiLhnkyADylrBrOL-TRK12YMPXKeg0KgtFxutmRhXMP-VDhDkRd5wklI4/s400/16234__trista_l.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447106813417368610" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div>The last time I watched the Bachelor was when Trista and Ryan had their pink wedding extravaganza, which I think was about 10 years ago.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVNMvDC128H2QB5cJnZULgGyrsKhvEB1CMhVMYRfrhmcqMXR7B7Ca-vlZsiuURov0_x-SWG6Q7hshErf5YdxG0QgD4FGFCbM7cdJbO6_xBAeMv_Ifkis5BzqerLCSr64tjnN2Ib5Vfk0/s1600-h/JakeViennex-wide-community.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVNMvDC128H2QB5cJnZULgGyrsKhvEB1CMhVMYRfrhmcqMXR7B7Ca-vlZsiuURov0_x-SWG6Q7hshErf5YdxG0QgD4FGFCbM7cdJbO6_xBAeMv_Ifkis5BzqerLCSr64tjnN2Ib5Vfk0/s400/JakeViennex-wide-community.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447123216670531794" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 377px; " /></a><div> I mean, other than the Jake and Vienna train-wreck, which I pretended NOT to watch, but accidentally got sucked into that vortex of weekly jaw-dropping cliche.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446847633837262690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfjL0Xo5hIHkgXRQbx7Sdaj98JDrTX9a1e_3uR7toXNx5DXeEhWvhr_Acf2UsYf-E79zVb7X2Bzl0XjtA9XrcY0nJ8RUTGOoz0fSGc568yS1uao0ufOi0j5DTTBOq8sPZCI1SLghQKBA/s400/vienna+crying.jpg" style="text-align: center; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; width: 400px; display: block; height: 264px; cursor: pointer; " />I maintained blog- silence about Vienna and her antics and conniving, and her bad hair, and shameless manipulation, and overt pushiness... But this wedding-in-a-hurricane? It's caused me to break my Bachelor-Silence.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5WODLWWIy2Y/S5fu-5773rI/AAAAAAAAFXE/E2u9NCJzNYQ/s1600-h/the-bachelor-jason-mollys-wedding-1.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_5WODLWWIy2Y/S5fu-5773rI/AAAAAAAAFXE/E2u9NCJzNYQ/s400/the-bachelor-jason-mollys-wedding-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447085038799412914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>The LUCKY and HAPPY COUPLE "Jason and Molly, Everyone!" Is Jason saying "Awesome, we are married!" or more likely "Awesome, we can go inside now."? Molly appears to be apologizing to her guests who have bravely sat in a storm. Soaked - his sad little sideways boutenierre, her high dollar coiffure and make-up job, the upholstered benches, and every guest who did not get up and leave the storm site. Just guessing here, but most brides and grooms would have been happier getting married in a stairwell. </div><div><br /></div><div>The glass vases, lining the aisle, contain a LOT of water from the downpour. (No flowers or candles in there, because...it's raining.) Quarts of water. Take that local weather reporters - instead of inches of rain, it rained in quarts and gallons. And a Monique Lhuillier couture wedding gown mopping it up. </div><div><br /></div><div> Some of the lush upholstered benches had to be covered in the blue tarps you get from Home Depot or Wal-Mart. Thus, the guests who DID sit in the storm were sitting on plastic in puddles of water.</div><div><br /></div><div>Chris Harrison said cheerfully (at first, cheerfully, later <i>ruefully</i>), "This wedding is going on rain or shine." There was never any shine. A Photoshopped rainbow did NOT create the illusion that the sun did shine. Cliche. Accented with the song. More cliche.</div><div><br />Also, no WIND plan. They poor officiant could barely control his script, much less make himself heard over the wind and the rain. Poor pitiful Molly trying to say her heartfelt 'self-composed' vows with her hairsprayed hair whipping around all over her face. Really? Was that necessary? </div><div><br /></div><div>Long ago I had a bride who discovered about 10 minutes before her wedding was to start that she had forgotten to bring the veil to the church. The veil was still at her apartment, which was 45 minutes away in great traffic. One way. So, delay wedding start by roughly an hour +++. I gently suggested that she just get married without the veil, since the chapel was already full of her guests. Not to be, my friends. She said, "I paid $27 to rent that veil, and I'll be damned if I walk down the aisle without it." So, the organist took a break, her guests got up and went outside and chatted, she went outside on the balcony overlooking the courtyard where her guests were enjoying the warm spring day, and waved to them while she took a smoke break, and her cousin retrieved the rented veil. An hour later we convened the wedding, which took about 12 minutes, rented veil and all. And then everyone went back outside for more chatting and smoking.</div><div><br /></div><div>This Molly-and-Jason- tropical-storm-theme wedding felt like that. "We (we being ABC) sold all this advertising and got all this product placement, and we'll be damned if we aren't going ahead with our outdoor garden-of-eden wedding, wind, rain, cold temperatures and all." There must have been some huge cancellation clause in those contracts. HUGE.<br /><br />Certainly all those wedding vendors and planners and suppliers who had their wedding services featured in this $$$ wedding-dream-chance of a lifetime to wallow in excess, were especially thrilled to see their products highlighted. . . in a MONSOON. </div><div><br />I had to cheer for the wedding planner, who clearly demanded the right to say - thus salvage her career - "I would have had a rain plan, and we would be warm and dry inside right now." I guess she threatened to sue, since who in the world would hire a planner who did not have a RAIN PLAN?<br /><br />For clarity - umbrellas are not a rain plan. Cheap, clear umbrellas are a last-minute <i>faux</i> rain plan. Who got the job of running out and purchasing a case of cheap and not sturdy, clear (not black) umbrellas? The wind had no problem destroying them. Cartoonishly upside down umbrellas, drenching pouring rain, epic wind, and clearly cold temps - as most of the guys were coatless, and most of the women were wearing men's suit jackets. The new pashmina - your husband's coat. Or maybe it's the old pashmina.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba67iGLA4CXx_TU6l9QauWzPafFTFq79wD-E7E-sAdlX-scbPgX9CWctRh_1GJvkttCulPt5FZjPc1cK8rMl2mk9p9tRHCO5LnnPg73N1tE_IbvyLEuTYVBQX82JiHPNICwctbl-BphY/s1600-h/the-bachelor-jason-mollys-wedding.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba67iGLA4CXx_TU6l9QauWzPafFTFq79wD-E7E-sAdlX-scbPgX9CWctRh_1GJvkttCulPt5FZjPc1cK8rMl2mk9p9tRHCO5LnnPg73N1tE_IbvyLEuTYVBQX82JiHPNICwctbl-BphY/s400/the-bachelor-jason-mollys-wedding.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447085032642045586" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></a><div>QUESTION - how long between Molly and Jason's monsoon-wedding and the reception? Since EVERYONE had to go home and get into dry clothes. Also dry hair and new make-up. Also new and dry everything. Did they have a back-up wedding dress? A dry one? </div><div><br />So -<b> to assure anyone who wonders </b>- <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">I always have a rain plan. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhVvoRMSrPiHQJaVIhMYgP4QnM44905AnMzn6NZUbPus2LIOQuriME-mRB2iTncan4Bmkn_HmQneEWSTsG96wKkwYz3GtdmIKu2r-s-BjFm59Swf86hRZ_xcaVKeoOpMl6daUR3kstbo/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+029.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhVvoRMSrPiHQJaVIhMYgP4QnM44905AnMzn6NZUbPus2LIOQuriME-mRB2iTncan4Bmkn_HmQneEWSTsG96wKkwYz3GtdmIKu2r-s-BjFm59Swf86hRZ_xcaVKeoOpMl6daUR3kstbo/s400/kennedy+wedding+029.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447092360198606690" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div>Also a HOT plan . . .</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBSUkBhHlR98UbXTOQUHoVgOpioIFA-nqKf5DUVZe_P2p3YgQTjNNeOEfijNVCRk7XzbizhQjU6yF6N1BoasDkzay6jX4zVomy4bwWmc07t3FmNajLvDizRiAaVR_6lv27YZO_ShX4YDQ/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+016.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><br /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEqqOAWrFpJsgDb0T07vZHmCTB7rOT9MxRfqFYcXXi8sC7yvN246-VahfWjT4nck8F2lw7oJ1UbG3UD3_lK_IqhrSW6oz6qXo2Il-NiV2Z6_Fvuri9XSlJ2pkXSt8Pdt9pr0FEuGcyoM/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+016.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEqqOAWrFpJsgDb0T07vZHmCTB7rOT9MxRfqFYcXXi8sC7yvN246-VahfWjT4nck8F2lw7oJ1UbG3UD3_lK_IqhrSW6oz6qXo2Il-NiV2Z6_Fvuri9XSlJ2pkXSt8Pdt9pr0FEuGcyoM/s400/kennedy+wedding+016.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447106808861169170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></span></span></div><div>A MUD plan, for sure! Also wind. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOmzxYlWh8hJPZODCeo_kQWkQxJ2Gi2Yiyn0VQigGVjP0f3tzJZ4DTKoF1CGihsD_qMRO4cNBAQZuuOGBs2xR_rSL9xcigp761Ylohnsy1V1bF3CNgNVJ-WLtUNvf7SABmd5Ej0bL9PY/s1600-h/DSC01932.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOmzxYlWh8hJPZODCeo_kQWkQxJ2Gi2Yiyn0VQigGVjP0f3tzJZ4DTKoF1CGihsD_qMRO4cNBAQZuuOGBs2xR_rSL9xcigp761Ylohnsy1V1bF3CNgNVJ-WLtUNvf7SABmd5Ej0bL9PY/s400/DSC01932.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447090232779109842" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>A COLD plan , ice, snow, no power, caterer gets sick, florist miscounts but finds missing bouquet plan . . . </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUeY00r3G2jjaCbUdXfN_2X78m_WtDzdkg7DjJmDnZ7H3fHUr1MeWg56OV1jjhXPA4qBhKitftTYSGJh1gz-N2TDX3E_5SDXV4_4ruz51fbpEJ4d9YW-7aRxdlJ5B6PRClV_lbzfLCkgk/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+034.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUeY00r3G2jjaCbUdXfN_2X78m_WtDzdkg7DjJmDnZ7H3fHUr1MeWg56OV1jjhXPA4qBhKitftTYSGJh1gz-N2TDX3E_5SDXV4_4ruz51fbpEJ4d9YW-7aRxdlJ5B6PRClV_lbzfLCkgk/s400/kennedy+wedding+034.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447090226746072674" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Parking plans, for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCvZtVh2CttGufK12k18jpb225Efs6ar24ziSnD0oDEdCk10IHFbn4n1ocbrQwRYiSNqsHKTdvH8VMGi922eL69S17zDlbQDZkhm2NlHPXBtWf_TD-E-kL9TCiWJb_4D_89rODpIYeWM0/s400/kennedy+wedding+032.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447092351669767186" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>Band locks equipment in a garage and the power goes out but comes back on in time plan.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRyPvuEWkCUnhyvQ_ek2FDLzOjBVY7aVvF2gn753imBYYbgPFxuH9diY8nklEA7Cb6wkVStttm7-Czn4zHcAKjlXucUhXuI0LEwSEEIME4MdtNpqOL5EBSHWCOxh7iK-ZwF45LL5BHT0/s1600-h/DSC01935.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeRyPvuEWkCUnhyvQ_ek2FDLzOjBVY7aVvF2gn753imBYYbgPFxuH9diY8nklEA7Cb6wkVStttm7-Czn4zHcAKjlXucUhXuI0LEwSEEIME4MdtNpqOL5EBSHWCOxh7iK-ZwF45LL5BHT0/s400/DSC01935.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447090234928329730" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>Don't mess up the make-up plan, for sure! (It's also called a STRAW.)</div><div><br />We have plan A, plan B, and plan C for every single item. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNRx2KniJGHBZH8Kk2J5zm3hSj-TDLUXGD74yijw0ULvzyE4oLffSMQHabWu-ffL5A3q8xRtWPcraji2vawSVUkNlDF6RV3-4KrtsAp7Ti_LSCmCwt1F8TruTahHa1Cd8kmO-kmzy354/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+006.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNRx2KniJGHBZH8Kk2J5zm3hSj-TDLUXGD74yijw0ULvzyE4oLffSMQHabWu-ffL5A3q8xRtWPcraji2vawSVUkNlDF6RV3-4KrtsAp7Ti_LSCmCwt1F8TruTahHa1Cd8kmO-kmzy354/s400/kennedy+wedding+006.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447106800127342322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>Also 'PLAN Z' which is obviously the one we use.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-22196444279926416102010-02-06T10:58:00.007-06:002010-02-06T14:30:27.835-06:00Does your baby sleep all night?<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfQEB9dZwoQVjqLg9e92xvsvJSTYks87DEOrwE5CSUYMA78FqjqBkvTYZwb-kNXA6TtkoN79MIbWva5aswq-CUMIsda2J7V6ssMVZVdQ63f3Bl6GxDTkIKD5MkQXor5S8WM8NTq0oFc4/s1600-h/DSC01430.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgfQEB9dZwoQVjqLg9e92xvsvJSTYks87DEOrwE5CSUYMA78FqjqBkvTYZwb-kNXA6TtkoN79MIbWva5aswq-CUMIsda2J7V6ssMVZVdQ63f3Bl6GxDTkIKD5MkQXor5S8WM8NTq0oFc4/s400/DSC01430.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435226491927306466" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">The BIG question for parents is "when is the baby going to sleep all night?" If you are a blog-reader, there are lots of headlines in the blogosphere: "Baby sleeps all night" - until you read on a little bit to find that <i>sleeping all night</i> meant that the baby slept from 1 a.m til 5 a.m. I have heard that there are babies who go drift into blissful sleep at 7pm, and greet mom cooing and grinning at 7am. The <i>MYTHICAL</i> babies.</div><div><br /></div><div> In another life of mine, I was even the EXPERT on when babies slept all night. The title of one article was "<a href="http://archive.southcoasttoday.com/daily/04-99/04-02-99/b01li035.htm">Putting the baby on snooze control</a>," which makes it sound like "sleeping all night" is something that the PARENTS have control over, some magic button to push, an intricate plan, magic diet, specific blanket, baby sleeps IN a crib in her own room, baby sleeps in the room with parents, in the bed with parents, at grandmother's house, in a hammock in the jungle, lulled to sleep by a song and dance routine or voodoo chant. I am personally acquainted with all of those. They are the basis of <b>fallacy number two - that parents can somehow make a child sleep all night. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Fallacy number ONE is that the child is going to sleep all night. EVER.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>The question of course is not so much about when the BABY is going to sleep all night as when are the PARENTS going to sleep . . . at all? I am still asking that question. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like most parents of very young children, I got all into the "sleeping all night" question. All of our children had their own issues. The Sophisticate had <a href="http://mudlane.blogspot.com/2008/10/baby-sleeps.html">recurrent ear infections,</a> which pretty much meant we never slept all night. Our Young Son, being last in a line of demanding children went to bed with ease with the rest of the gang about 7-7:30. He took a nap until 10, then got up to play with his devoted parents for an hour. He figured out that if he wanted ANY one-on-one time he'd have to snatch it - so he woke up from a night nap at 10 pm, had a solid hour of riotous fun from 10 until 11, while the rest of them were asleep. It worked well for us - he got his need for attention met, and I didn't have to try to go back to sleep. Don't even ASK if I adhered to a formula laid out by some published expert. They all slept in the bed with us, nursing at will, until they were too old to do that. Then they began just roaming in and out through the night. It was a rare morning that I didn't wake up to find a child in the bed, and sometimes another child on the floor beside us. That kept on until maybe last year.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was an authoritative mother of very young children , it never occurred to me that when my youngest child was 17 I would still be asking the question "When will the baby sleep all night?" aka "When will I ever sleep all night again?"</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_B_dnXC51vreqbBEcAJ-DcZykbM3DVH88mM54UThvPklvDiNBAYeJL3hZ-QWerX-a3iYvrxXKGPGmqIZYScrpkX1-UGYmIkEW2P2iZIrphBdAsQEbOkcvrp8X26JMUrnIq3Nb04caUw/s1600-h/Graduation+017.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_B_dnXC51vreqbBEcAJ-DcZykbM3DVH88mM54UThvPklvDiNBAYeJL3hZ-QWerX-a3iYvrxXKGPGmqIZYScrpkX1-UGYmIkEW2P2iZIrphBdAsQEbOkcvrp8X26JMUrnIq3Nb04caUw/s400/Graduation+017.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435176621592819138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div>Notice there are no babies there. For reference: adjoining our room is another room with a bed. We use it for overflow, for sick people who need to be closeby, and for pets. The following exemplary incidents all happened in 2010 - thus the past 6 weeks - the nights all run together so these are in no particular order, but they all happened in 2010. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sleeping all night - woodland creatures in the house edition</b>:</div><div>Pretty Pretty Princess dashes into our room well after midnight, clutching her pillow "There is a chipmunk in my room and I am sleeping up here." We put the cat into her room, closed the door, and hoped for the best. No one else ever saw the chipmunk and the cat did not enjoy her night alone in PPP's room. She left us a 'note' to let us know.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks later, at about 5 am, BigB blasted in to our room "There's a full on rat's nest in my closet. I can hear them in there." Me: When was the last time you looked in your closet? Rats don't build huge closet nests in an hour or two." BigB: "I don't know, but what should I do?" Me: "Close the doors, put rubber band on the doorknobs, and we will deal with it in the morning." Someone mumbled "I think it IS morning." BigB: I can't sleep with rats in my closet. We have to deal with this NOW." Me: "Sleep in that bed right there - the sick bed. Put a towel under your door." He actually brought the cat in his room, put his earbuds in to mask the terrible noise of rat-scratching, and drifted off to sleep. He woke up to find the cat tossing a tiny mouse around. So much for the full on rats' nest. I did however spend at least an hour worrying about how bad our house was that there were rats nests in the closet. It's bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>Something small and scratchy lives in the wall behind my head. Don't ask, I'm not asking and I try not to think about it. Let's just say that there was at least one night this week that a mother of teeny tiny woodland animals was having a bad night herself, because they were squeaking and scratching in my walls ALL NIGHT LONG. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sick edition:</b></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYesRHXVJbzRo23P1yRK3H1WmDKNTfzz6He2CvH8_AtdTaAEzwBV7So8Z5lI_OJAs7XuS6jO-BIsInnbY2EmfMiF7pI5A8jXCwuxVBdBeYBPsL5x5vZPo_6RRFk32g2eVAkD6ET5XoIdQ/s1600-h/IMG_0117.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYesRHXVJbzRo23P1yRK3H1WmDKNTfzz6He2CvH8_AtdTaAEzwBV7So8Z5lI_OJAs7XuS6jO-BIsInnbY2EmfMiF7pI5A8jXCwuxVBdBeYBPsL5x5vZPo_6RRFk32g2eVAkD6ET5XoIdQ/s400/IMG_0117.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435226497362472130" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>Our Young Son had a gastro-intestinal viral infection. He threw up, wretchedly for about 6 hours straight, quickly becoming faint and dehydrated. He slept in the sick room, and thrashed around all night in delirium and bad dreams, and made a lot of trips to the bathroom. We all slept well that night. Not.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next night, when the sick bedroom door opened at 2:45 a.m., my question was "Who's throwing up?" It was PPP. An hour later, after I had drifted back to sleep, she crept in to ask for Zofran or something to make her STOP, because she had to go to class in 5 hours. Right. So, I got up and got the medicine. She did NOT sleep in the sick bedroom, but she did open the door every single time she threw up - which was a lot. So much for sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYesRHXVJbzRo23P1yRK3H1WmDKNTfzz6He2CvH8_AtdTaAEzwBV7So8Z5lI_OJAs7XuS6jO-BIsInnbY2EmfMiF7pI5A8jXCwuxVBdBeYBPsL5x5vZPo_6RRFk32g2eVAkD6ET5XoIdQ/s1600-h/IMG_0117.jpg"><br /></a></div><div>Next night, Our Young Son - again. For him a 24 hour virus lasts for a lot of days. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVTY5F_zwg8iV25piQft0JhuHQO_GCPyZXHdRoGOfTDivwkqOXOrjkAm2OwGFV-PK2gTa1rGLGp867vUngVUhWItaP6HOibasaduD41ctSDyNtYWBN825LBzs870N_bmOFpCvgutGvIA/s1600-h/DSC01940.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVTY5F_zwg8iV25piQft0JhuHQO_GCPyZXHdRoGOfTDivwkqOXOrjkAm2OwGFV-PK2gTa1rGLGp867vUngVUhWItaP6HOibasaduD41ctSDyNtYWBN825LBzs870N_bmOFpCvgutGvIA/s400/DSC01940.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435226500505095106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div>We have been playing a lot of Scrabble, also Words with Friends.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Semi-grown children go 'out' at night.</b></div><div>I sleep easier when I know that all who are supposed to be here are under my roof. Call me crazy, but it's just the way it is. When people arrive home, they check in with me. Even if I am sound asleep in my bed. In the way middle of the night. Pretty much that takes care of Thursday, Friday and Saturday night every week. From 11:30 until the last stray reveler rolls in...."Mom, I'm home." Sweetest words to this mom's ears.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>BigB is a night owl. The Sophisticate has recently landed here for a brief stay in between apartments. When she was getting up and getting ready for work one morning this week, BigB was rolling in from his big night out. Who slept THAT night?</div><div><br /></div><div>PPP and the hiccups. That was funny. It was also at 2am. PPP standing and chatting, sort of giggly, then hiccups. More giggling, more hiccups. And she thought I was surprised. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Study-related issues:</b></div><div>For the last few years, PPP had a habit of studying until she simply could not study any more. Then she just gets up - leaving the books, notes, notebooks, computers in place on the bed, and coming to climb in bed with me when her daddy was traveling. So, study til 2 am, and then come climb in bed with mom. This year, BigD isn't traveling, so she just flies through to brush her teeth and tell me she's going to bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>We do love to watch <i>Sex and the City</i> - preferably in my bed. It's a good thing that BigD likes to watch basketball. We study SATC, I guess. Oh - SJP - I<i> couldn't help but wonder </i>if your baby daughters are sleeping through the night yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not unusual for me to be reading/snoozing when someone comes in to ask a question like "How do you say '<i>Feel asleep in class</i>... in Spanish'" or "how do you translate the subjunctive.....?" or "How do I say "stayed up all night translating the <i>Aeneid</i> in Latin?" </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Miscellaneous:</b></div><div><br /></div><div>SOMEBODY has a habit of nudging the thermostat. Downstairs is a solid 15 degrees cooler than upstairs. Translation, if they are cool, I am sweating. I wake up sweating a LOT. Also with leg cramps. And I am not even pregnant. When are those going away?</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9nmQ1PXmfd-KlliKpZB99HxkhUhcrY7KsOQ90XhTXTPdkZHZI9uvynyThRQjGESTDsQHcjCvZhgSNmaZdmcRdz9VG1tng2WbnNoRg4H5di20IVXt59TVGf6G9j3nk7f9uu9ZBnTKrWo/s1600-h/DSC01795.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9nmQ1PXmfd-KlliKpZB99HxkhUhcrY7KsOQ90XhTXTPdkZHZI9uvynyThRQjGESTDsQHcjCvZhgSNmaZdmcRdz9VG1tng2WbnNoRg4H5di20IVXt59TVGf6G9j3nk7f9uu9ZBnTKrWo/s400/DSC01795.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435177854294103906" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>Me and my cat - she likes to join me for a snuggle. BigD doesn't like it so much, so she hides until there is a moment of quiet, then creeps in. If she get's thirsty, she likes to help herself to a drink from my water glass. Sometimes - as in EVERY NIGHT - she knocks the whole glass of water over - on me. Whatever. I feel her pain. There's nothing like being thirsty in the middle of the night.</div><div><br /></div><div>BigB came creeping quietly in about 4:30am to tell us "someone just opened our back gate?" When there was no response, he asked again - louder. Me: " Did you look out the window? That's a starting place. " We heard nothing more about that -but I stayed awake for a while to make sure that no one was going to break in the back door, since someone had opened the gate into the backyard. Wonder what that was about. Other than waking me up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bonus Boy - we never know when he's coming and we never know when he's leaving. He knows where the sheets are though - my closet - and if he gets here and needs some he just rolls right in and gets some sheets, pillows, blankets - whatever. He's not silent.</div><div><br /></div><div>One night our Young Son brought me a milkshake -late - I spilled it all over the bed. BigD was already asleep. I did not wake him up to change the sheets. I slept with the cloying smell of chocolate. Sort of slept. I kept waking up all night wondering what was sticky and sweet- smelling. </div><div><br /></div><div>BigD snores. LOUD. That is the end of the discussion about sleeping all night.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-10780209922780900572009-12-12T18:43:00.015-06:002009-12-15T14:54:37.180-06:00Dog LOST Dog Found<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSSuQ1YPlU7YSIuyJLl12AznalrMmdUXUgES1AUqmM73ycLuZ__XeXa3lKS1ATKcXH2RWquOuVy8KfGUuq3lE_iGAfgr5vUANTLT03sG-mFg4EHC2iq83J9wGwwejnH-0525VNAdCQ2w/s1600-h/Ben+with+Friends.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSSuQ1YPlU7YSIuyJLl12AznalrMmdUXUgES1AUqmM73ycLuZ__XeXa3lKS1ATKcXH2RWquOuVy8KfGUuq3lE_iGAfgr5vUANTLT03sG-mFg4EHC2iq83J9wGwwejnH-0525VNAdCQ2w/s400/Ben+with+Friends.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415557646187473698" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); ">When we went to bed Friday night, Emma was missing. We have two dogs, Emma, a standard poodle, and a yellow labrador retriever... Buckshot. Poodle - female: lab - male = she should be birthing highly lucrative Labradoodles, right? INCORRECT. Emma the poodle and Buckshot the Lab, have NEVER done the deed. Believe me, we have done everything to <span style="font-style: italic; ">enhance the experience.</span> The one who cannot figure it out is Buckshot, the lab. Emma is a freakin' genius.</span></a><div><br /></div><div>Early on, Emma figured out how to open a door handle that was a lever. THEN she figured out - painstakingly - how to open a door knob. I have watched her do it. I could literally leave her here to open the door for a repairman, but she can't write a check. She can use her nose to flip up a gate latch, she can smush herself flat and get under any fence. Electric fence? not so terribly shocking to her. She can hurdle over a three foot barrier and wiggle through a six inch gap. In short, she does whatever she feels like.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qSJ1kpi-HOEfBDYCqL_idqvibV5iyb8ms0aQkgZGsHOtYn3lQenzDyZ-5u5Nizjx46h00Si8kcIXuzXO1z6OBp9E3G9NHqEd2aIsfk-UJbVzxXWXiug9cn1mUG_47LK0TAcRWtboBbk/s1600-h/emma+in+sunglasses.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qSJ1kpi-HOEfBDYCqL_idqvibV5iyb8ms0aQkgZGsHOtYn3lQenzDyZ-5u5Nizjx46h00Si8kcIXuzXO1z6OBp9E3G9NHqEd2aIsfk-UJbVzxXWXiug9cn1mUG_47LK0TAcRWtboBbk/s400/emma+in+sunglasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414805727145388194" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a><div>She's nothing if not stylish. She hates collars, but is willing to wear a hot pink bandana and sunglasses. And when BigD rubs her on her little skinny tummy, she pees. Friday night, she was nowhere to be found.</div><div><div><br /></div><div> Now...this is the part where I am supposed to talk about how our precious dog is like one of our children, and I don't know how I am going to break the news to the children, and how it's all going to be about life lessons, and ....<div><br /></div><div>OK, not so much. Emma IS most definitely a part of our family, but the story didn't go down as scripted a la <i>Lifetime</i>. The home-dwelling big children spent hours IN THE CAR driving around looking for the dog - in the gutter - hoping to make sure she wasn't - you know - lying in the street. They were way more worried about telling ME that she was lying in the gutter than they were about finding her there. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our Young Son put Buckshot on a leash and took him for a walk to see if he could beckon Emma from someone's backyard. </div><div>YS: OK, Buck, let's find Emma.</div><div>Buck: <span style="font-style: italic;">Great idea, another walk tonight!</span></div><div>YS: Find Emma, Buck. Where's Emma?</div><div>Buck: <i>OH, look, garbage bags full of leaves. I like to lift my leg and innocculate every single bag of leaves I see. This could be a loooooonng walk, bud.</i></div><div>YS: Buck, come on, we're looking for Emma. Call her. Tell her to come home.</div><div>Buck: <i>I am busy peeing on every single object in sight. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>At 1 AM I got a direct report from Pretty Pretty Princess and BigB that there was no sight of Emma, living or dead, healthy or injured. They'd been driving around in the car for at least and half an hour. Probably drinking beer. ROOT BEER, I meant to say. </div><div><br /></div><div>Buckshot is Emma's COMPANION, her LIFE PARTNER. She is his DOMINATRIX. Buck went calmly to bed in his kitchen crate - until we all went to bed. Then we heard this lonesome 'woof'...pause 30 seconds .... 'woof' -Translation from dog language "<i>Hey, in here, in the dark kitchen! Emma is not in here, and if she doesn't have to go to bed now, then I don't have to, so come open the damn door." </i>Point taken. </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, this is where the children take markers and poster board and put signs up all over the neighborhood, right? Not so much. PPP sleeping. BigB also sleeping. Early on, our Young Son had taken another drive, no Emma. We called the Emergency Vet - no black poodle. Casually, I said - "What about Craig's list?" Within about 45 seconds our Young Son says...."Yep, here it is..."</div><div><br /></div><div>Craig's list: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Found - very mellow black dog. Respond to identify. Cannot keep"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></div><div>No kidding, if only you knew the depths of meaning in the phrase '<i>cannot keep</i>'. When she wants out, she gets out. Also - right here - <i>very mellow</i> - not words I have ever used to identify Emma, but BLACK works.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I emailed back "We have lost our black poodle, messy cut, female, tall but not heavy."</div><div><br /></div><div>Their response - "Not sure this is your dog - attached are pictures."</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gRB9OjKem32sBiD32pOXkz3-761n7kONeG2V1NdBg4ssnNG7vrov4hiMW3QoJCy29_1a6d1oTLTewEvaX5L1tYHyNBR8nbERsGjiqQw13iB9GSqhVpm2-V0rVqJdeZenU2HabuXnSfc/s1600-h/dog+002.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8gRB9OjKem32sBiD32pOXkz3-761n7kONeG2V1NdBg4ssnNG7vrov4hiMW3QoJCy29_1a6d1oTLTewEvaX5L1tYHyNBR8nbERsGjiqQw13iB9GSqhVpm2-V0rVqJdeZenU2HabuXnSfc/s400/dog+002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414534885833612610" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 224px;" border="0" /></a><div> Indeed, it was our dog. Looking pretty raggedy after her night on the town. Our Young Son took over, got the address and went over to pick her up. They brought her out on a leash - and our Young Son describes it "She kind of pranced up to me...<i>bye y'all, thanks for having me over to spend the night, see you another time. </i>She spent the night with <b>Huskie</b><i><b>s.</b></i>" </div><div><br /></div><div>She came dashing into the house, excited to see what had happened while she was gone! NOW we are supposed to be all about the sweet reunion scene in which the children are fulfilled and delighted and we are all remorseful about how we ever let her get out in the first place and without a collar. Sorry - most still sleeping.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We didn't <b>LET her get out</b> - she does whatever she feels like. If she wants out, she finds a way out. She HATES collars and will soon wriggle out of the one that PPP and our Young Son bought for her today, in their wave of responsible pet ownership. Along with the little blue tag. </div><div><br /></div><div>Someday a valiant soul will call us and tell us sadly that they found a collar with tag, but no dog. The DOG will be on the couch, snoozing, having shed her collar during another wild outing. Bless our sweet neighbors who tolerate her waywardness and just bring her home when she tries to join them on a walk.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back to the homecoming. Emma had spent the night in a home with other dogs. Thus, she did not smell right to her LIFE PARTNER Buckshot. He tried to restore her proper smell. She didn't like it. Joyful reunion? Snarling and growling actually. </div><div><br /></div><div>Young Son: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I hope he doesn't pee on her to make her smell right.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div>We think Buckshot did not pee on Emma (though that IS his technique for proper odor restoration when she goes to her hair stylist), however she DID turn on her Dominatrix mode with her own unique "I love you and you are mine" misconception of dog-mating that she uses to subdue the lab who weighs twice as much as she does. She has a woefully misplaced concept of dog-mating. Thus, no labra-doodle$. </div><div><br /></div><div>Emma is absolutely the dog of our Young Son's childhood. I got her - from what I now realize was a PUPPY MILL - naivete at its best - in the spring of a particularly difficult second grade year for our YS. Not difficult because he struggled with the work, but difficult because he finished the whole week's worth of work by lunch on Monday. So he was bored. Harry Potter I and II in alternating weeks while the rest of his class was 'doing work.'</div><div><br />I brought Emma home on impulse - how one ends up impulsively in a trailer at a puppy-mill farm in Mississippi is probably another story. I picked her up and she sat on my hip like a 2 year old. I was hooked, since my baby was no longer a two-year old. Emma and YS love each other. She has a tendency to NIP when challenged - and her favorite food is a whole loaf of bread. Thus, the day The Sophisticate tried to retrieve a whole loaf of bread from the floor, Emma NIPPED - OK, she might have sort of bitten, and it left a bruise. SMALL bruise. In short, she's hard headed. Emma is.</div><div><br /></div><div>But she's our hard headed nutsy dog. I'm not ready for the dog of our Young Son's childhood to be just a bunch of stories. I want her in the crate at night with our dumb-as-a-brick Lab.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYaS73goqAMssuSvhrcuoBhyrmLqgsZWdTwRuQAgsnim17QBBk6G8SG1aJh0grz3tvtPIpNxGA1VgFbusQxzntIlqP17LUpBejmq0gxM-LlKEU58C5AT-IhFo8iwyREzkQwIhUHQOyG0/s1600-h/Buckshot+with+Ball.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYaS73goqAMssuSvhrcuoBhyrmLqgsZWdTwRuQAgsnim17QBBk6G8SG1aJh0grz3tvtPIpNxGA1VgFbusQxzntIlqP17LUpBejmq0gxM-LlKEU58C5AT-IhFo8iwyREzkQwIhUHQOyG0/s400/Buckshot+with+Ball.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415553639178418722" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px; " /></a><div>Because SHE'S the only one who can manage him.</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-67011783734846443512009-12-05T15:22:00.014-06:002009-12-05T22:21:10.770-06:00Bird of paradise<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvwxd-lNT2gyjyfDIbDz2DsUBnseajXJXf5QNyUuOLfcQHs2r7NzJgccdfCSmm78zM31E5iheUvbBY0iZeJ52JEZoIQn4ydChbye1pCwcyw-am_rAOAOT8LlRPaAfc2vD1VLcvMLNdEM/s1600-h/bird_of_paradise.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnvwxd-lNT2gyjyfDIbDz2DsUBnseajXJXf5QNyUuOLfcQHs2r7NzJgccdfCSmm78zM31E5iheUvbBY0iZeJ52JEZoIQn4ydChbye1pCwcyw-am_rAOAOT8LlRPaAfc2vD1VLcvMLNdEM/s400/bird_of_paradise.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411912771384254018" border="0" /></a>The question is...when you are the mother of the groom, do you REALLY have to be quiet, wear beige and do as you're told? Answer....Let's ask my buddy Molly<img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/STUDEN%7E1.L3D/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot-2.png" alt="" />, who has done it with fire and style.<br /><br />Molly is like a <span style="font-size:130%;">Bird of Paradise </span>- that remarkable unfolding flower. The more she opens up, the more color and passion you see. And she doesn't hesitate to share that fire.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Molly is ALL about the PEOPLE. That right there makes a good hostess. Also a good mother, sister, wife...and for me, friend.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few years ago I met Molly and he<img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/STUDEN%7E1.L3D/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot.png" alt="" />r daughter -remarkably named Molly - when young Molly got married. I helped them plan her late spring wedding. It was a fine affair, and fun was had by all. Molly remembers that there was an air conditioning problem that day - and a vivid memory we share is that my husband worked so hard that his dress shirt was soaked with sweat. Also, our Young Son was about 10, and worked as hard as his Dad. I pray that's not the most vivid memory of that wedding day....just the most vivid memory she shares with me. Not only was it a beautiful day, and a lovely gathering, but the planning was fun. I really love both Mollies.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVll8twYjFxUUt8q8pIRFvFMf_qt93x1FZCLEebrx9w5whskeB_JQVvrHQtxRfJM5uJVbNIOqlgf786vc_XtEYf58Kk8MKcrduDeJrdWmdPyOkrgPAv9ubu9XSx0PjZBmhdaxdEKpde2M/s1600-h/4091177160_aa0906f625.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVll8twYjFxUUt8q8pIRFvFMf_qt93x1FZCLEebrx9w5whskeB_JQVvrHQtxRfJM5uJVbNIOqlgf786vc_XtEYf58Kk8MKcrduDeJrdWmdPyOkrgPAv9ubu9XSx0PjZBmhdaxdEKpde2M/s400/4091177160_aa0906f625.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411971435196268018" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div>Molly has one daughter and two sons.( And someone else in that picture. I can still count.) And what was the likelihood of TWO of her children, neither natives of my hometown, marrying here? Slim.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WcPRV3TXA-3A93QGq2nWT8n9cbawenRPo4o0oD9RwRztRq84sXRUCjJuegQqJ1w_CYJZaDfAuHE1hlu2Bc1jpsS7TfFLb2K31y09BgpLv-QMlVH9pztqXdq_Yov8TQ4gJzDoQUvfcc8/s1600-h/young+molly+and+julia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7WcPRV3TXA-3A93QGq2nWT8n9cbawenRPo4o0oD9RwRztRq84sXRUCjJuegQqJ1w_CYJZaDfAuHE1hlu2Bc1jpsS7TfFLb2K31y09BgpLv-QMlVH9pztqXdq_Yov8TQ4gJzDoQUvfcc8/s400/young+molly+and+julia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411915050922134530" border="0" /></a>Young Molly did what brides do... babies, then she moved out of town, so.... our paths not to cross again, perhaps? Probable by statistics. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bSABTkTlpGmK6zhojBnQLjmpeWlnVN8VRg0Ib0t0ozje6GOL08PFjo_l9-2SXIeOwUBdP9m98aIbGhVHgpL0RB4TyC6Wlgy6Y8co_bJbhhvs55XPSlXTnNefpfiRLfV3QDwOjr7Iq4A/s1600-h/4091164908_59aa77e7f0.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bSABTkTlpGmK6zhojBnQLjmpeWlnVN8VRg0Ib0t0ozje6GOL08PFjo_l9-2SXIeOwUBdP9m98aIbGhVHgpL0RB4TyC6Wlgy6Y8co_bJbhhvs55XPSlXTnNefpfiRLfV3QDwOjr7Iq4A/s400/4091164908_59aa77e7f0.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411968913811304818" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div><b>Not so</b>, my friend. Her son found himself a local bride, and Molly called in the early stages of planning HER party. Some call it a Rehearsal Dinner - but in Molly's case, we will call it <span style="font-size:180%;">wedding-eve love-bash</span>. Plus. Plus + plus.</div><div><br /></div><div>Molly knows exactly what she wants when she sees<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> it</span>. So, we investigated a lot of places...but she didn't see <b><i>'it</i></b>'. Then we found <b><i>it</i></b>, but <i><b>it</b></i> didn't look right. She wanted fall colors, lamb chops, no visible beer bottles, and no gourds or pumpkins. She repeatedly told me "You know what I want." Yes, indeed I did. </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8C2faGY5S__Gi25MJgvKf7IzzagWJ9oqRrKx7BDffpkw9mhBJZ0uEK_4XaNEh5cWKAwoED5-t3fVTTp8B57M69uAWp_FMCFsBL8E36yWNuCt-E2Aa7Ey5M5QbGOvFQ5L7PfVwYrOEObY/s1600-h/molly+and+her+men.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8C2faGY5S__Gi25MJgvKf7IzzagWJ9oqRrKx7BDffpkw9mhBJZ0uEK_4XaNEh5cWKAwoED5-t3fVTTp8B57M69uAWp_FMCFsBL8E36yWNuCt-E2Aa7Ey5M5QbGOvFQ5L7PfVwYrOEObY/s400/molly+and+her+men.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411913321228616018" border="0" /></a><div>When I asked her if she wanted some music, she said "There'll be so many people talking . . . We don't need music. We have each other." </div><div><br /></div><div>How then can one plan a party when someone is in one town and the party is in another? Good question.<span style="font-family:arial;"> E-mail. Telephone. Text. Starbucks. Trust. </span><br /><br />Sample monthly exchange, June through October:<br />Molly: <span style="font-family:arial;">I haven't heard from you. Are we OK?</span><br />Me: <span style="font-family:arial;">We're good! How do you feel?</span><br />Molly: <span style="font-family:arial;">I'm fine if you're fine.</span><br />Me: <span style="font-family:arial;">We're in great shape.</span><br />Molly:<span style="font-family:arial;">No gourds, no pumpkins.<br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Me</span>:</span> Right, no gourds, no pumpkins.<br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcqFYgbxBZLkO2L8pk0cmnrWB_uMUpJ4AXWNT-xg45fhaFWEQzzN06-EbmKBBxolOZm6zhJXzDvv1lmioo33B52OEgvtWnuWSxmSrEs5p-h5lArl2zGlOdz1NbxuogVYADK3YMMGsv3fQB/s1600-h/head+table+lomax.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcqFYgbxBZLkO2L8pk0cmnrWB_uMUpJ4AXWNT-xg45fhaFWEQzzN06-EbmKBBxolOZm6zhJXzDvv1lmioo33B52OEgvtWnuWSxmSrEs5p-h5lArl2zGlOdz1NbxuogVYADK3YMMGsv3fQB/s400/head+table+lomax.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411896012037121538" border="0" /></a><div>So we had a party. I did my part which was the rich fall colors, no pumpkins, no gourds, lambchops and no visible beer bottles. She did her part which was PEOPLE. Everytime I looked up, I saw her at a table leaned over and talking to someone. I looked up later, and saw her at another table, then another, and another. The music of conversation and laughter carried the evening.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">These </span>things make her a genuine southern hostess (I guess it could be a non-southern hostess, but with a south-Mississippi home, and a deep allegiance to Ole Miss, let the 'southern' stand):</div><div><br /></div><div>She greeted each guest at each table and had a conversation. Not a passing hello, a conversation. </div><div><br /></div><div>She did NOT make strangers sit together. Tables were friends and family. </div><div><br /></div><div>Molly made sure that her guests had fun, but had fun left for the next day - the wedding.</div><div><br /></div><div>She went back to the kitchen to meet the caterers and servers and thanked each of them.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiS3KOCOEepE0wq6A4w2_gPxDkl8pZKjSKhrgwlPlhpLofJqPz2F1hXBkTnjKgmkfqJPOJnINNKOAjswQNRnqa8-0GGfhLmqDewVNuYc2T0i4t0JyD4ERpzCZH7R5SQSvBgJta35uwzFQ/s1600-h/4091187028_a6134c2b90.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiS3KOCOEepE0wq6A4w2_gPxDkl8pZKjSKhrgwlPlhpLofJqPz2F1hXBkTnjKgmkfqJPOJnINNKOAjswQNRnqa8-0GGfhLmqDewVNuYc2T0i4t0JyD4ERpzCZH7R5SQSvBgJta35uwzFQ/s400/4091187028_a6134c2b90.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411971425248898226" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div>It was a family party, and everyone had a responsibility, everyone. It was NOT "The Molly Show." That takes some planning, and most of all, confidence in those people you know the best. Grace in action. Molly in action.</div><div><br /></div><div>She thanked the bartender for the 'no-visible-beer-bottle' thing.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bTgllmgz5_Y9gRSfKcmo_AJQiIt7msJPLJdadt6Z10vgH7azpj6qk8ydv27bkeowfmOKxq8otWktXo-1TcJm7C4-AQ8qMkd_R5ALnaD8URGfGRBT6GA3roxoSp0f7E9nekK2ayzeh-4/s1600-h/molly+and+julia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0bTgllmgz5_Y9gRSfKcmo_AJQiIt7msJPLJdadt6Z10vgH7azpj6qk8ydv27bkeowfmOKxq8otWktXo-1TcJm7C4-AQ8qMkd_R5ALnaD8URGfGRBT6GA3roxoSp0f7E9nekK2ayzeh-4/s400/molly+and+julia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411896026513817250" border="0" /></a><div>She did not make her young granddaughter come to the wedding eve party, or for that matter walk down the aisle the next day. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAmvybJLjNP1AgrN97r26nANgKydy1TSkFxnNJQxm-K8tUWaRPSSQT9pykmFq6CjNGtitAngektehhnSlkpRYjfbHV_lUwhv33vNpDts3NUs9BoJxp5aoyIulpTIgNxJ_PQPkM7x-1n1k/s1600-h/4090383293_23f0f8110c.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAmvybJLjNP1AgrN97r26nANgKydy1TSkFxnNJQxm-K8tUWaRPSSQT9pykmFq6CjNGtitAngektehhnSlkpRYjfbHV_lUwhv33vNpDts3NUs9BoJxp5aoyIulpTIgNxJ_PQPkM7x-1n1k/s400/4090383293_23f0f8110c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411968907000073938" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>More important that baby-girl's memories of the night were the hazy, fond memories of a little girl at a really crazy party, than that she was shown-off in her total adorableness, which speaks for itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Molly made sure <b><i>our</i></b> Young Son ate. She let <b>her</b> son take home some left-overs.</div><div><br /></div><div>She told every single guest good-bye as they left. Hugged most. Even if she didn't know them.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlM9FNgDVx6XFoPhyZRa6jlFmVRvNLwtSqrc_v8K_blozElBvaQvJ1-0bVuqByYaat_LYTZzSJBo4YbJgOYfUAsMjnJdiyEzVGQVH-je6EvoTW3K6NnQfMVqHAdpHvKQ-xmwaZxVc6-k/s1600-h/lomax+mom+and+dad+wedding.jpg"><br /></a><div>She served fried oysters, because you know...they're south Mississippi oyster-types. Case closed.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlM9FNgDVx6XFoPhyZRa6jlFmVRvNLwtSqrc_v8K_blozElBvaQvJ1-0bVuqByYaat_LYTZzSJBo4YbJgOYfUAsMjnJdiyEzVGQVH-je6EvoTW3K6NnQfMVqHAdpHvKQ-xmwaZxVc6-k/s1600-h/lomax+mom+and+dad+wedding.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlM9FNgDVx6XFoPhyZRa6jlFmVRvNLwtSqrc_v8K_blozElBvaQvJ1-0bVuqByYaat_LYTZzSJBo4YbJgOYfUAsMjnJdiyEzVGQVH-je6EvoTW3K6NnQfMVqHAdpHvKQ-xmwaZxVc6-k/s400/lomax+mom+and+dad+wedding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411896019974837954" border="0" /></a><div>If you want to have a party - take some pointers from Molly.<b><i> I</i></b><i><b>t'</b><b>s all about the people. </b></i> A wedding eve love-bash it was. With fried oysters and a bird of paradise. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-18432585357753191922009-12-02T18:13:00.002-06:002009-12-03T12:51:39.036-06:00Home-style Wedding Love<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruTwDuKADwqGcDbAoApHlnz_ihHoOssLAA_dbYwW_-EQOW2ZP-Uv6EtZ20KNArhBJ9VSVzeeXQ9MxehgpFBxZ9JjQJOES6OLj3m_neu0T6NkcmOfwcnf5sYppSvHzSS6V8xauPk8xSyoj/s1600-h/140.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruTwDuKADwqGcDbAoApHlnz_ihHoOssLAA_dbYwW_-EQOW2ZP-Uv6EtZ20KNArhBJ9VSVzeeXQ9MxehgpFBxZ9JjQJOES6OLj3m_neu0T6NkcmOfwcnf5sYppSvHzSS6V8xauPk8xSyoj/s400/140.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411057521160243746" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">The love story that continues to inspire is the love story of families. Family love stories yield tales told and retold, at the next family wedding, around the Thanksgiving table, as the Christmas decorations are hung, and even sometimes, out of the blue, when you just walk into the kitchen and remember THAT NIGHT.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As I went through the invitations for the luscious winter wedding that's just around the corner, I was wondering who in the WORLD are . . . Well, what do you know, it's my lovely JUNE bride, only now...Mr. and Mrs<i><b>.</b></i></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jYFWiaV03Nu60hx7c8IMPpHxv8fJiSx5QdqJb4FCe1EwDk0d8aKyHRW3rCVd944dQNaT4P51LPmWP_WDKhtj4um4IcXfdQHYTsDggUHLAcU5dlHBr56Kod1fVupZqz7qdV3-onCpCSqz/s1600/PC062277.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 328px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jYFWiaV03Nu60hx7c8IMPpHxv8fJiSx5QdqJb4FCe1EwDk0d8aKyHRW3rCVd944dQNaT4P51LPmWP_WDKhtj4um4IcXfdQHYTsDggUHLAcU5dlHBr56Kod1fVupZqz7qdV3-onCpCSqz/s400/PC062277.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410085748071483154" border="0" /></a>This time last year we were deep in the process of ordering her <a href="http://mudlane.blogspot.com/2009/04/how-to-buy-perfect-wedding-dress.html">wedding dress</a> - which turned out to be a marathon road trip for MOB and me. It was awesome - 15 hours in the car talking, and shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue. What's not to like? <i>Does anybody want to take a trip to buy a wedding dress? With me as your guide? Because I am FIERCE at that. Not kidding.<br /></i><br /><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">My June bride honored her parents by wanting nothing more than a wedding reception at her home. The first question her father asked me when we commenced planning 10 months out was "Are you seriously thinking we can put 300 people in my backyard?" Actually, 350ish, but who's counting?</div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlYhsF4qjztiUXuF2nRjJxQP_7N2FNTOJJY9WUx8jBRUm9WPtkn4Wri1ewQPlTpVauFC5wNqND05COY4Ic5xWaN-3ntHroToGQASRthA0JfoAkalfjd3zLO5fGxtanNYxD57zbPZcVNbv6/s1600/frank+at+the+door.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlYhsF4qjztiUXuF2nRjJxQP_7N2FNTOJJY9WUx8jBRUm9WPtkn4Wri1ewQPlTpVauFC5wNqND05COY4Ic5xWaN-3ntHroToGQASRthA0JfoAkalfjd3zLO5fGxtanNYxD57zbPZcVNbv6/s400/frank+at+the+door.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410369477198059154" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">So this gracious family opened their HOME to their guests - every single guest. THAT's a love story worth talking about.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFjgkbYI-kO1l77J9Pa78jMF377NgrpYPPWfkOH8xQDrc2kRr5WpxKiv-hbUkIVf-xXafAbJmbh8G0CSFwVvdS1Iyy8YZPT3h-eMhlYEY5P27CcRa-utQ6xxyF0hM5uN9g9_2vEgH4X-Z/s1600/P1042372.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFjgkbYI-kO1l77J9Pa78jMF377NgrpYPPWfkOH8xQDrc2kRr5WpxKiv-hbUkIVf-xXafAbJmbh8G0CSFwVvdS1Iyy8YZPT3h-eMhlYEY5P27CcRa-utQ6xxyF0hM5uN9g9_2vEgH4X-Z/s400/P1042372.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410360988478684434" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a>This Mom is a meticulous homemaker and planner. She is a gracious hostess who loves to have her friends in her home. She is organized and thorough in ways I could only dream about. She thinks about things from so many angles that it could make me dizzy. COULD make me dizzy. Did not ACTUALLY make me dizzy. But she let me help her. What an honor! <i>No pressure</i>, either.<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeaDcyCWwB0qUQrWhjDpTpnv-xPIdrbrvoDFL32jbRrathdC1ooWzj2aJPM_bZ6D39KsEYvxoILnLSV2E3qsiyH_tE2OKu6zwNWxzgSnUuCbCb1EGasd5y-B14TBj9SYqADn5uzUkbePeA/s1600-h/150.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeaDcyCWwB0qUQrWhjDpTpnv-xPIdrbrvoDFL32jbRrathdC1ooWzj2aJPM_bZ6D39KsEYvxoILnLSV2E3qsiyH_tE2OKu6zwNWxzgSnUuCbCb1EGasd5y-B14TBj9SYqADn5uzUkbePeA/s400/150.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411041804861228434" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></a></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">DAD is also incredibly meticulous and cautious and generous. He made sure we had plans A, B and C - and then a backup plan for each. (Note that he is WEARING a shirt, yet has another shirt in his hand... always a backup) He made me stretch my thinking in novel and often alarming ways. He also made fresh pesto from home-grown basil in the fall, froze and pulled it out to serve at the wedding. Seriously - a menu item was Dad's pesto on bruschetta. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I've done a lot of weddings, so FIRSTS are hard to come by - but that was a first. I dream about that pesto. I crave that pesto. I want that pesto....</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></span></p></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>SO....August, September...December -<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVibVdIzdqux-Cgwa4QozM-4BcE0GId_4MEBk0u_KYaHH1XJO_yTrsUmy47tk-XvF9pwkjtBt1FDcZBBJ7VxaiqTZ7sDV7ewOrDmdty6iBMQy4eLvUiAVcOQtE29rt3yYaM278ZRItrKP/s1600/PC062269.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVibVdIzdqux-Cgwa4QozM-4BcE0GId_4MEBk0u_KYaHH1XJO_yTrsUmy47tk-XvF9pwkjtBt1FDcZBBJ7VxaiqTZ7sDV7ewOrDmdty6iBMQy4eLvUiAVcOQtE29rt3yYaM278ZRItrKP/s400/PC062269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410092517873463698" border="0" /></a>buy the dress.....plan, plan, ...<i>just so you know, by this point in the planning, I already knew where the Diet Cokes are kept, AND even more critical, this gracious family ALWAYS has limes cut for me, since - you know - what's a Diet Coke without a real lime?</i></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWxPxnTGXr6KI6qcu6B2jFTcO6T2dYO6xtWU0wYkZPpW8oKTe-DTKqYb0MsRwNrle-z6vDc1WO9hPW7Pyjhlm47tT5Z57Xk9_Ilg3i9HHKLNbhdBj-acNeI_ZJOLAqzRv4N6JzQwgYJHU/s1600/P1042371.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWxPxnTGXr6KI6qcu6B2jFTcO6T2dYO6xtWU0wYkZPpW8oKTe-DTKqYb0MsRwNrle-z6vDc1WO9hPW7Pyjhlm47tT5Z57Xk9_Ilg3i9HHKLNbhdBj-acNeI_ZJOLAqzRv4N6JzQwgYJHU/s400/P1042371.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410360980503981106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a><div>January....host a <a href="http://mudlane.blogspot.com/2009/01/weddings-aka-family-pa-looza.html">party for another wedding</a>. NO. BIG. DEAL.</div><div><br /></div><div>April and May - - the invitation-frenzy in which the list is revisited as if it were a new and different document... JUNE wedding. </div><div><br /></div><div>Plan, plan, replan, unplan, de-plan, overplan. <i>Mother was concerned that I <b>had</b> the plans and the contacts and I might possibly get hit by a bus, and the wedding would somehow not come together. I actually have my own plans B and C, just for the bus-type contingency , but also, luckily did NOT get killed by a bus. </i> </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrHhOePwSPZC9-1DvbdXmFZo473RBgw_dtU4IpC3Ok8B7uDSAAYFKPys4OI6T-CEBLNTiOqMQfPz3jH_V4xSdOcMJZ2B54I4fdIczAdR71xwFHSUyFRPh3hi8Gl613r61RJcZkTcgymVC/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+001.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrHhOePwSPZC9-1DvbdXmFZo473RBgw_dtU4IpC3Ok8B7uDSAAYFKPys4OI6T-CEBLNTiOqMQfPz3jH_V4xSdOcMJZ2B54I4fdIczAdR71xwFHSUyFRPh3hi8Gl613r61RJcZkTcgymVC/s400/kennedy+wedding+001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411068931797153074" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>AND the week is here, when one must essentially turn a home into a country club/dormitory/gift shop/commercial kitchen/parking lot. Also, continue to live there. Not much to ask.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinA7JwwrSXBTXBV2tSpoe0femt_SUhFC-9ioYyFkUZJjn5PNfH_CHimzt5ifkNMuiq1JmwvZjtPkJiuC_7w5uLPGVqujQesc1C3VmVD7a9JE6ebBvL81APhtHjU8uzU9aOoy2E0HSlsxjq/s1600/kennedy+wedding+011.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinA7JwwrSXBTXBV2tSpoe0femt_SUhFC-9ioYyFkUZJjn5PNfH_CHimzt5ifkNMuiq1JmwvZjtPkJiuC_7w5uLPGVqujQesc1C3VmVD7a9JE6ebBvL81APhtHjU8uzU9aOoy2E0HSlsxjq/s400/kennedy+wedding+011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410057093409378370" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a>Since we were into CONTINGENCY plans, we had a tent wedged into the backyard. Not actually wedged, just fit into every available square inch. In case it rained that day.<br /><br />Rehearsal night brings a drastic thunderstorm, along with a loss of power. All over town. Thunderstorm with high winds. NOT. A. PROB. LEM. We have a contingency plan, called a TENT. Often after a thunderstorm we will get a little cool down. Outside wedding reception + cool down = a good thing in my mind.<br /><br />THIS night, the thunderstorm was not just a little summer affair, it was huge, long, loud, windy and damaging. Strong enough to possibly <b>blow a tent into a pool,</b> and then pile the tables and chairs all over it. The power out all over the city. When the power is out in the summer, it's not JUST the lights, it's the air conditioning. Also the fans.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div><br />Oh, yeah. Tent in the pool. Trees in the street. We would need a plan for that. Our Young Son had one. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGKKfYaq01WSb2CbY940USenwQIqbsvSnxXolvYyXmGaxef5RA6kwfXTgMpC7QNJ0JkJ6czqTcbMvZHQA32xHS966eVmqGHtogsyuj0Z0IztmoLOLFVugQmsyCBV2fCPC3CsH2qzNoRAh/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+006.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZGKKfYaq01WSb2CbY940USenwQIqbsvSnxXolvYyXmGaxef5RA6kwfXTgMpC7QNJ0JkJ6czqTcbMvZHQA32xHS966eVmqGHtogsyuj0Z0IztmoLOLFVugQmsyCBV2fCPC3CsH2qzNoRAh/s400/kennedy+wedding+006.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411068948344323922" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>BUT the tent was NOT in the pool! Morning dawned bright and clear and clean and this mom and dad had been up since REALLY early out in the yard picking up the trash from the storm, and neighbors stopped by to help! Neighbor love.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>It got a little muddy - <i>does anyone but me remember the mud? And the plywood we used to cover the walkway. Also, that Dad obsessively watched out the kitchen window to insure that no tire ruts were etched into the mud along the street in the front yard? Anybody? I remember that part, because we had to move a lot of cars. Problem solved by a line of luminaria and valet parking. </i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I love the moments where so much lies ahead. It's a midsummer evening ripe with possibilities, antcipation of family and friends, heavy with memories for the taking.</div></div><div><br />Everybody ready? Sun shining, photos taken....and, at last ....time to go to the church</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_DPNPYdoqbYjWJ3A3ceGDRiv2Hw-DHZntn2AC36pAjO5Tj9GnrcyOJ6gjUsDd0dyF6bfBFJ4Jc2w2-TBeJQKuW2X5y7vqXjo1W5qwGsPP_DtXyJdnyg_vuYbaZ4kErHMV4GQMJQr3Zi9/s1600-h/146.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht_DPNPYdoqbYjWJ3A3ceGDRiv2Hw-DHZntn2AC36pAjO5Tj9GnrcyOJ6gjUsDd0dyF6bfBFJ4Jc2w2-TBeJQKuW2X5y7vqXjo1W5qwGsPP_DtXyJdnyg_vuYbaZ4kErHMV4GQMJQr3Zi9/s400/146.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411040125865592066" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></a><div><i>Is it just me, but is that sort of like the very first time you put your baby in the carseat? When it takes a LOT of hands, and a lot of thought, and it's such a CAREFUL process.</i></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKi_4jYTY2j6SaU-OIOB64ZkZ2YFckgc4O2fSDzRhbWJvKR5ZTrLhp_EImEoUJ6UhkyCf2ALHYkrpThKxObxEGNfm842zNKSoz_3IToWLYvf-RoFvom1TYhczBHIdp6cT1wBGxXJhYcKde/s1600-h/493.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKi_4jYTY2j6SaU-OIOB64ZkZ2YFckgc4O2fSDzRhbWJvKR5ZTrLhp_EImEoUJ6UhkyCf2ALHYkrpThKxObxEGNfm842zNKSoz_3IToWLYvf-RoFvom1TYhczBHIdp6cT1wBGxXJhYcKde/s400/493.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411059151959623218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></a></span></b></div></span><div>And suddenly, it's a party! Candles, music, laughing, hugging, dancing, chatter.</div></b></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDddMvT-gY8SV34BxwEGMj0-v3RixEmpixpWCxcvGJJujU5_cEbrdSPFA2-sXlXuON5KxPuYfQ_36gHcm6GNM0RAo9iSEHal-xpP2kbBcPgUtAFad9PxDHdr7lf8_UF6SGBSXpxl8jqMng/s1600-h/434.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDddMvT-gY8SV34BxwEGMj0-v3RixEmpixpWCxcvGJJujU5_cEbrdSPFA2-sXlXuON5KxPuYfQ_36gHcm6GNM0RAo9iSEHal-xpP2kbBcPgUtAFad9PxDHdr7lf8_UF6SGBSXpxl8jqMng/s400/434.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411057531790492882" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></a></div><div>I imagine there were a few people who were taking pointers for their OWN upcoming wedding. There is almost ALWAYS someone who falls in love at a wedding. Someone who meets someone REALLY cute, who sees someone and a conversation starts....</div><div><br />I love the part where the parents - the hosts - do their hosting thing. This family greeted and hugged and danced and talked and hugged more. </div><div><br /></div><div>Father of the bride? took the microphone from the band and said a blessing for the marriage and the food. In the tent in his backyard. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5zjgfE58etb41d02gPMg5_REpJWLN5t0qDrpfjY48lCUsjhWcTMSS5SYr-eSqdPLKdtEwTnPgE2HT9zozJZvJ_38wFqNLF_WHNCT3uLtLZ01-SWU78oYwCphZxY8sTzmn8x1eH0kvyOb/s1600-h/519.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5zjgfE58etb41d02gPMg5_REpJWLN5t0qDrpfjY48lCUsjhWcTMSS5SYr-eSqdPLKdtEwTnPgE2HT9zozJZvJ_38wFqNLF_WHNCT3uLtLZ01-SWU78oYwCphZxY8sTzmn8x1eH0kvyOb/s400/519.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411041817093853618" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></a><div>Mother of the bride? Danced with her brother like nobody's business. They were gracious and cordial and gave their guests the run of the house, the yard, the driveway,the shower, the patio, anywhere and everywhere. They LITERALLY opened their home to their guests - that's a LOT of LOVE.</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimA9VcS7Coxulhm9RFhwMOD3RvYIM2w7Ns5Kg9a02LGtZN5YVxYYkjSAiI5rZQItyN9nCeYDmz-2oC3BWlaXeKM8xKN8HqQMLdMMIF6L8ekmQIZRl4jnPjZknWDnEfn0j24CYXnS4jADtD/s400/403.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411041811708231842" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></span><div>High school friends - yep, gathered together in the living room for a picture, just like this group of girls has done on so many occasions. If nothing else, when you graduate from <a href="http://http://mudlane.blogspot.com/2009/05/commencement.html">THIS girls school</a>, you know how to line up as a group and get a photo. They know who is tall and stands in the back and how to huddle in so everyone is in the picture. This pose looks a lot like their Kindergarten class photo. Not so much. Nobody was wearing a silk dress and heels in Kindergarten.<br /><br />Then, it's over as fast as a thunderstorm and with as much energy expended. It took 9 months to plan, we were about 3 deep on back-up plans and contingency plans on EVERY. SINGLE. FACET. It took about 16 hours to set up, and it takes about 30 minutes to break down on the night of the party - with another 3 hours to follow the next day or two. Does anybody know that math on that equation?<div><br /></div><div>I do - the answer is INFINITY. Always. Forever. As well-worn as phrase is, this wedding journey was about 'making memories' in the grandest way. </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpDRtLb8J8QsTLtlp9zzySkIhZHbGcDaMAvruQKd5SpAfdzzTTAJuRfD_ERM31a6_Rmr5ZUvudKCXqYY6bemXLCEEOEw4szESLi7XZQdOKbLW3ZwDMNZeuKJG4awdeJzk9ZjJJq2L8I5A/s1600/kennedy+wedding+028.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpDRtLb8J8QsTLtlp9zzySkIhZHbGcDaMAvruQKd5SpAfdzzTTAJuRfD_ERM31a6_Rmr5ZUvudKCXqYY6bemXLCEEOEw4szESLi7XZQdOKbLW3ZwDMNZeuKJG4awdeJzk9ZjJJq2L8I5A/s400/kennedy+wedding+028.jpg" border="0" /> </a>No matter what happens at that kitchen island, it will ALWAYS be the place where the beautiful antipasto bar was.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTh2hHHAXLBLIuIxB43h4VhXFdy68fc3N9m-affyWB4ZHfiDasB8_ng8VUYdrBlBL1Sy8Bl0FVE_uxOHrtQ3u_Qq2CDTZMbXwsQbKMI3uMXd3CHb119VHd6_gENT_exTFL05v92e9D9VEg/s1600/lauren+and+merrit+front.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTh2hHHAXLBLIuIxB43h4VhXFdy68fc3N9m-affyWB4ZHfiDasB8_ng8VUYdrBlBL1Sy8Bl0FVE_uxOHrtQ3u_Qq2CDTZMbXwsQbKMI3uMXd3CHb119VHd6_gENT_exTFL05v92e9D9VEg/s400/lauren+and+merrit+front.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410097537670716210" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 300px; " /></a><div>No matter how much WORK is done on the desk in the study, the definitive picture of the study is a wedding day picture, and the definitive use of the desk is the day it was turned into a bar.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was the whole episode of the groomsmen who left his phone on the bus....he thought...the bus company was called, located the phone on the floor of the bus, and we had a cab bring it to the reception. Our Young Son was the point person on that, waiting in the side yard with the valet parking guys to pay the cabdriver, retrieve the phone and find the guy it belonged to. And yes, that worked out perfectly, as if it had been choreographed since March. (<i>Don't tell, but actually I have had to do just that thing before-only we were looking for a person, so it was choreographed 4 years ago, but the illusion of spontaneous, on-the-fly improvisation works well for me.</i></div><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZSMmtzALPwY8ozhXTgIOkFia3E7kMZisgHTcLjLfr2_6JVpKOIzQpHyvdodHegvhlRdxLi1frCqw-gK1mKo-Zmj7Uh5wy3LZSRMVRaWZI4KriRxqYPSL1gpmNSAIpQmSL_xqxVQC1XgB/s1600/kennedy+wedding+020.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZSMmtzALPwY8ozhXTgIOkFia3E7kMZisgHTcLjLfr2_6JVpKOIzQpHyvdodHegvhlRdxLi1frCqw-gK1mKo-Zmj7Uh5wy3LZSRMVRaWZI4KriRxqYPSL1gpmNSAIpQmSL_xqxVQC1XgB/s400/kennedy+wedding+020.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410057092929950386" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">Those very cool greenish-bluish bottles are vintage bottles, from Mom's own collection. </span>Mom's bottles - they are on the kitchen table now, but remember that we used them at the wedding? Where did we get THAT MANY bottles? </span>That, my friends, is HOME-STYLE wedding.</span></div></span></div><div>As many times as you look at a single<a href="http://http://74.93.158.225/%7Ezanone/KenDak/KenDak_index.html"> picture</a>, it calls up a story. June bride's cousin was married a few weeks later, thus memories to cherish and build on. Forever, cousins married that hot summer, just weeks apart.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQhQMG5CK2ppFBbtM-6mBmI1fm_eYZ6tY2LbdtM-ILX78UIWEAf_4j3Nm6FdzlwDTvZb54_E6_nETAtXwExYW_e4HZgpiECQHrSfA_24wkGvRBHkIdcqabP_OQmakVjEAoxXLjP2nYKjD/s1600/P1032348.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQhQMG5CK2ppFBbtM-6mBmI1fm_eYZ6tY2LbdtM-ILX78UIWEAf_4j3Nm6FdzlwDTvZb54_E6_nETAtXwExYW_e4HZgpiECQHrSfA_24wkGvRBHkIdcqabP_OQmakVjEAoxXLjP2nYKjD/s400/P1032348.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410065907280399282" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px; " /></a><div>Hey, Brother, who by the way is a champ at tying the elusive perfect bow tie ...."<i>do you remember the night after the wedding when the back of your truck was filled with wedding trash bags, and the boys drove around til they found a dumpster behind some grocery store? Two trips! And you didn't even have to haul the trash away.....who did? Oh, yeah, those two guys."</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZDtxtPPnXqB9AkEGaECtlXveGwFhedVk1ruEc36BzH591TGIHtn66ieiLDJOMhZLrsBxh5h7hitPPOfoLiqiUMb9nrlQ3iO4KoKWvWJDhCG-IlzFCe1W2zk_BTbLviWF4K0TLjDTTKoD/s1600-h/kennedy+wedding+033.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ZDtxtPPnXqB9AkEGaECtlXveGwFhedVk1ruEc36BzH591TGIHtn66ieiLDJOMhZLrsBxh5h7hitPPOfoLiqiUMb9nrlQ3iO4KoKWvWJDhCG-IlzFCe1W2zk_BTbLviWF4K0TLjDTTKoD/s400/kennedy+wedding+033.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411068940291174242" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div> Remember the BAND!!!! <i>It was awesome, because the people from the band were long time church friends, so they not only entertained, but sat at the kitchen table, had their own dinner and wedding visits. </i>Church family love.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stories around the Thanksgiving table? Tablecloths?"<i>Remember that we had plans for a sheer white overlay over the burlap cloths at the wedding, to make it more wedding-ish? Remember that we pulled every single white overlay, because the plain burlap was just so...RIGHT? Did we PLAN that?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwsRgl-IuYBjAJMx1OgyT3HTIHWwsgK5tQYlf7Z1HZaUnIk-7G5tV72F40imxhWXvEaLR-1tZFPfO2oSM3SGK2gUcrLODjToKUgNnEzrrJWT45RSNdCMeGiCRDwx68MvPKDPPXPrrGoYdK/s1600-h/465.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwsRgl-IuYBjAJMx1OgyT3HTIHWwsgK5tQYlf7Z1HZaUnIk-7G5tV72F40imxhWXvEaLR-1tZFPfO2oSM3SGK2gUcrLODjToKUgNnEzrrJWT45RSNdCMeGiCRDwx68MvPKDPPXPrrGoYdK/s400/465.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411041823246773682" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>Christmas lights? "<i>Remember all the twinkly lights that night? It looked like the Magic Kingdom. It WAS the Magic Kingdom</i>" Love stories every one.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW4CyFaqbIRzr23eyhSId3fATg2gbjjazzvfMPQ7JZIgFYIry535HjHwtzFVb4oIZmsigGkzOy1YbzfjyrCRmz3Nd97iE_Rf5joYkMRy4HxVMkaHWmv6o5omh0OHMKQKmRfir9ljFLFEra/s1600/lauren+wedding+cake.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW4CyFaqbIRzr23eyhSId3fATg2gbjjazzvfMPQ7JZIgFYIry535HjHwtzFVb4oIZmsigGkzOy1YbzfjyrCRmz3Nd97iE_Rf5joYkMRy4HxVMkaHWmv6o5omh0OHMKQKmRfir9ljFLFEra/s400/lauren+wedding+cake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410060896039002978" border="0" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div>Family dinner in the dining room? <i>Remember the wedding cake? The orchids in the chandelier? And feeding each other the cake? Carrot cake, cream cheese icing.</i></div><div><br />SO....back to the contingency plans. We DID have a plan B and a plan C. It was a hot summer night after a big storm. All over the city the power was out. At each of the other locations we considered for this wedding - country clubs and public venues were our PLAN B - the power was out. The weddings that took place at those locations - our plans B and C - took place in the <b>dark</b>. Also the <b>HEAT. </b> Club food was prepared in the <b>dark,</b> without the benefit of refrigeration or stoves. If we had gone with Plan B, the country club plan, we would have been in a mess. As with most things, there's no place like home.<br /><br />Home is where the love is.</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. The pictures. Yes, the really, really clear and awesome pictures - courtesy of <a href="http:/http://www.zanone.com/">Mr. Zanone.</a> The others - Facebook snags, my little P+S, etc.<br /><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-63267593097510480242009-11-30T11:15:00.002-06:002009-11-30T12:13:51.575-06:00Thanksgiving = graduation flashback<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtvat_jhdV5HrTNOWYOQ7kQoUiwPvNtFBedkJm5SHzQOFOIFgcsTTdPYPaco7172hvZpUc_3HxsADGFgal8PPTpadT1iyqJSus0YQ2IyMCFipbaAKTljr0vb5bJmtHjTO8i-HfrmlEDAT/s1600/graduation+123.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtvat_jhdV5HrTNOWYOQ7kQoUiwPvNtFBedkJm5SHzQOFOIFgcsTTdPYPaco7172hvZpUc_3HxsADGFgal8PPTpadT1iyqJSus0YQ2IyMCFipbaAKTljr0vb5bJmtHjTO8i-HfrmlEDAT/s400/graduation+123.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div>The thing about graduation is that the graduates think it's all about them, and their class, and the robes and the speeches and the practices and parties and partying.<br /><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXM1SceOYEb0E0BYg01SJ75HXyVbjH8RhkHt_2yg0GIGDajkho8WIW5nW8EvB7lpvQlklAOAatddnNmPNffu-t26VaUZwXwJfj1LoRiJctWG7TWq4lCHUgL7nDfxzAjGOuW973s_mH2mW/s1600/graduation+126.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXM1SceOYEb0E0BYg01SJ75HXyVbjH8RhkHt_2yg0GIGDajkho8WIW5nW8EvB7lpvQlklAOAatddnNmPNffu-t26VaUZwXwJfj1LoRiJctWG7TWq4lCHUgL7nDfxzAjGOuW973s_mH2mW/s400/graduation+126.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div>When in fact, it's all about this. One proud Mama and one proud Daddy, thinking about what's ahead, but even more about what's behind. <br /><br />But looking ahead.<a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" alt="Posted by Picasa" style="border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: border; -moz-background-origin: padding; -moz-background-inline-policy: continuous;" align="middle" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-4872560408196193872009-08-10T21:03:00.002-05:002009-09-02T10:21:58.093-05:00Teach Your Children Well<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBiz7YGVFPkDyQ6APv_WWbHwS667QrdUS2ni06T-VdZY7lpMaOofxeIt9JCUtQk94atPxksrUBETUxgJmy8Q2XiPq5p6xcKjfXKG2GtfDDTILhyphenhyphenDKUpwp_HjU7qFf4Xx8nX3KWEhvSPway/s1600-h/Ben+full+face.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368164421420499010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBiz7YGVFPkDyQ6APv_WWbHwS667QrdUS2ni06T-VdZY7lpMaOofxeIt9JCUtQk94atPxksrUBETUxgJmy8Q2XiPq5p6xcKjfXKG2GtfDDTILhyphenhyphenDKUpwp_HjU7qFf4Xx8nX3KWEhvSPway/s400/Ben+full+face.JPG" border="0" /></a> When I was in the 8th grade, I chose the language I would study in High School. There was only a single criterion considered: speaking in public. Because I did not want to speak <em>my native language</em> in front of a room full of people, much less a foreign language in a room full of people, I chose Latin. Seriously? Who knows how Latin sounded back in the day? And we're not going to the Vatican. Case closed. I studied Latin. I tutor Latin. I have taught Latin. Our Young Son is a Latin scholar. <em>Scholar</em> sounds better than <em>student.</em><br /><br /><div><div>Fast forward to college, where I found that to do what I wanted to do in my sorority, I would have to talk in front of women to be an officer, I stepped up, opened my mouth and spoke. A LOT. TOO MUCH. Then I became a teacher. Speaking to children, even teenagers, wasn't a big deal. Then I became an actual public speaker, by virtue of the fact that I had no choice if I wanted to stand in front of an unruly wedding party at a rehearsal, or speak at a large national convention of childbirth educators. Let's just say I have become comfortable with speaking to a group of people, even a large group of people. Even unprepared.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our Young Son was asked to speak for his Mission Team at the Mission Supporters' Dinner, an annual affair, at church. He has poise, he is calm, he can run a whole wedding reception single-handedly, so I wasn't so ruffled by that. Then I totally forgot. I guess you could call it denial. I should have realized why he got his hair cut a whole WEEK before school starts. The night before we talked about a couple of things, and I tossed off some casual advice that I had actually heard from a TV show (<em>Madmen</em>, in case you wonder how I waste hot summer afternoons): Pick one person and make eye contact. Don't say anything that doesn't support the point you are making. Tell your story, don't make a speech.</div><div><br /></div><div>Imagine my surprise when I walked into the huge fellowship Hall full of several hundred people, I got a knot in my stomach. A GIANT-SIZE knot. What's up with that? Our Young Son was speaking, not me. To hundreds of people, from a podium, with a microphone. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368150420962182002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg121ZWHvsnHi1GzdM5vkz7V3TWM5SvCL2fT-DB63CPdnHAq1ergB34NnbHqp08fjKc5FYRWao5AyZYXe1unGcU-enaLzhyphenhyphenah5uArtniHajUX09dVbnCOYmYcBHairyWpMuFlwa_48Zj6A-/s400/DSC01670.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>I discovered a truism of my life as a mother: <em>I would rather speak to 100,000 people, unprepared, than be in the room when one of my children is speaking. </em></div><div><br /></div><div>I had a hint of it when Pretty Pretty Princess gave her <a href="http://mudlane.blogspot.com/2008/11/so.html">Senior Speech</a>, but her school is such a tight, close-knit community, that while I was on edge, I wasn't flat-out uncomfortable. The ginormous Fellowship Hall at church, with hundreds of parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, MINISTERS....that spooked me. For him. I didn't want to sit at a table - we were late, so that was hypothetical, there were no table seats to be had. I couldn't eat dinner - but I don't like white meat of the chicken, so that was covered.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was undeniably nervous for him. Sweating-type nervous. Note that he, himself, our Young Son was self-proclaimed: NOT nervous. He didn't speak first, so as soon as the people started telling their stories, I started feeling ....scared? Nervous? Something unable to be named?</div><div> </div><div>I texted him -</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: <span style="font-family:arial;">"Be sure to say your name, stand up straight and hold your head up."</span> </div><div><br /></div><div>Young Son: "<span style="font-family:arial;">I'm going to go up there and mumble, look at my feet and chew gum."<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368150422102957490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnY-N4TDvx-98qfQ_1_YSwq4a7wqX9UPU4rJuZ25Hp-WUIGIR3SKMmCKeHfl516EF9R03WEq_b_qZDTCZnaR3p2W5CtC4f5Y-AJYlUkLhCdmIPaKVQB6v7eZnks1GITP2uWkmd9ggYgJkP/s400/DSC01673.JPG" border="0" /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;">As he approached the podium, La Petite Jockette came to attention, apron and all. She didn't appear to be too concerned. She had been in the back scraping dishes, so I guess that's some perspective.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368150417243571058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwYCxVVSbZ6piicbL-Nw0IXNLUFld4Un89U1s6E7zP5mO5BXqs9Bguptxy76FSvrVS5Id_RyLNrSVrgbfp2LqKZg5huh3mjJ76nbEoXy0DFH6-G-T7wOkn0AmIeLdOZIvIHlmMsGAdxnU/s400/DSC01674.JPG" border="0" /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Our Young Son has grown this summer. He's tall and lanky, and self-assured. From where I sat, he did not look tall and lanky, he looked small in a BIG ROOM. Sorry. He stood, said his name and gave a taut, well reasoned talk, with a solid balance of fact and personal stories. People laughed at his stories. Three times. If you have ever spoken to more than 5 people, you know that the laughter is what makes you able to keep talking. Silence is deadly. The room wasn't silent.</span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368150412651553122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz5xoE8o16uMhIc6bDwz4H6q-6Oiz2MtvL7rz9coPMHg6eeKTqHFR1ZV1QqSnH8ICJyy3EuFPMJ5ilWe_yIdZpG1NIprHSWiS89ckM7d3pMIrgW-qKfVYppRe53OENr55t_lbeVxHJMXS4/s400/DSC01676.JPG" border="0" /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;">When it was over, he came to the back, and before he sat down with Jockette and relaxed a bit, he pulled from his pocket his little piece of notebook paper with bullet points, which as it appears, is a solid 5 paragraph essary: </span><br /><ul><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Intro - Name, grade school</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Baltimore: what we did - park, movie, zoo, DC</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Why I went - had fun last year; wanted to be a leader, Uneasy about being on daycamp</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">Differences - no visual goal/progress; harder work for me</span></li><br /><li><span style="font-family:Arial;">What I learned . . . </span></li></ul><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">He told funny stories about how running a daycamp for 4th graders was more difficult than the manual labor of building a house with Habitat for Humanity, he talked about how he struggled because he couldn't see solid, measurable progress at the end of the day, he revealed that he napped daily. Our Young Son talked for about 7 minutes, from a folded, handwritten set of bullet points</span> </p><ul><li><span style="font-family:arial;">What I learned...</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></li></ul><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">As it turns out, what our Young Son learned, and what I learned as he spoke, are the same - and this I can quote verbatim:</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">"I learned that God will use me how He wants, not how I want.</span><br /></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">"I learned that God has a plan, even when I don't see it."</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">"I learned that God will always choose the right path."</span></p><br /><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">Man, I hope we both remember that.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368150403976162498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 286px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikohANvLmltJ3tpOGSjeUljIYoDgDYU9MjWjCASutQcBEP8x5EsfNi33eWj97Ipsvdco-tak0ho-JD4Tfk_R8MZpowijVSJ5_fRVyHgWDZZbz-h-4u7mBKs1Vj_-tcJNgEWmKSrJzVvNh8/s400/DSC01678.JPG" border="0" /></span><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Still a church supper.</span> </span></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-21647763242375937962009-08-08T18:32:00.005-05:002009-08-09T20:29:45.661-05:00Summer of Love - Neel's Wedding<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAwKxzGHix_2WoZVg-3v19vWx8IvMs1y7orKLQwebOetgpO-pG6Ylp52R6WNygwrRqLn4IyPSBen5uG10on1bX6ldXLT7WVRJIs_ZwfTWinFud2ustLdolssXemgsyTQc9U_1NF4JZhVZ/s1600-h/Neel+and+Jon.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijAwKxzGHix_2WoZVg-3v19vWx8IvMs1y7orKLQwebOetgpO-pG6Ylp52R6WNygwrRqLn4IyPSBen5uG10on1bX6ldXLT7WVRJIs_ZwfTWinFud2ustLdolssXemgsyTQc9U_1NF4JZhVZ/s400/Neel+and+Jon.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Neel and Jon got married this summer. Yep, I snagged that photo right off <em>Facebook. </em>It was a glorious evening, full of all the unexpected things that make weddings more than just a party. Those things are stories - and there are lots of love stories in this wedding weekend!<br /><br />Neel wore her mom's dress - altered just a bit. It has such a vintage feel, with a very contemporary cut. Lovely. Feel that mommy-love, just oozing everywhere?<br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368040894968139714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 242px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwzrSPYZAaZRspfYBs_HsWsr4eW3OCNEU7Ve52boBY7Zur0R_UH_CVn6MTuLjOAUtY-JL0P6OBdNbtjxtIzMcE8x_IKqvH_XYkycKRZyS_AjA6hl2F2pB0pqhCg5mTRQkGBleYCbI8CwNH/s400/heckle+015.jpg" border="0" />I'm sure Mom was lovely too. In that dress I mean. That's her finger, showing me the cool details. Me, the <em>wedding dress afficionado.<br /><br /></em>Mom - who we will call HAPPY, just for fun, was lovely on Neel's wedding day - which I know, because I was there with her. Her mother-of-the-bride dress has a story. A sister story.<br /><br />Happy wore a sublimely cute dress - gauzy and bare, with a floaty, flirty skirt. Her sister, we'll call her RUTHIE, whose daughter was recently married, had bought an adorable dress which she wore to her daughter's rehearsal dinner - little straps and a glittery bubble-esque tulle skirt. Navy. (<em>Hold that thought</em>)<br /><br />Fast forward in time. Happy ordered a dress for Neel's wedding - which unbeknownst to either sister - was identical to Ruthie's. Good thing Neel's mom Happy didn't try to pull a Red-Carpet like surprise and just show up at the wedding in her glam new dress. Because Happy and Ruthie would have been dressed like twins, as Ruthie was planning to wear said dress to Neel's wedding. Now, many years past living in the same house as sisters, whenever they get dressed up, they have to check and make sure that they aren't going to show up at some big gala party or wedding wearing the same dress. (Actually, they would probably be fine with that - TWINKIES for the night!) Not just a similar dress, but the identical dress, down to the navy color. Lots of sisters borrow and lend dresses - nope, not this duo. They each PURCHASED one of the same party-dress. Without talking about it. That's living proof of some bizarre sisterly connection of love.<br /><br />And AS IF that wasn't enough of a story, Happy got to the church and realized that she had forgotten to bring her little sheer and glittery wrap that she was going to wear to make the dress less bare for the church. To be - you know - covered, sort of. This was the conversation:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Happy: Oh, my thingie that I was going to wear. That shawl thing. That I bought just for this wedding. It's not here. Somebody call Dad right now.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Laurence, bride's sister: Is he at HOME? Or you mean call him and make him go home? ......OK, what do I say? Mom, I don't think you need it.</span> (Laurence is meanwhile dialing....not to worry)<br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Happy: I don't care. I bought it. I want it and it's in the attic. He's going to kill me. Oh, he'll deal.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Laurence: Hey, Dad. Are you still home? Mom wants you to get her wrap thing. Mom - where is it?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Happy: It's in a box in the attic. (<em> at my house, that would have been a deal breaker</em>)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Laurence: Dad, it's in a box in the attic. Mom - what does the box look like?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Happy: Tell him it's in a white box, on top of that thing that sits next to those boxes that hold....bleh, bleh, bleh. (Remember, Dad was in a tux)</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Laurence: I know it's hot, Dad. Mom, I don't think you actually NEED that wrap. It's pretty like it is. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Happy: Tell him to keep looking, the box is about 8 x 12 inches and is white. He'll find it. (<em>I'll be honest, at this point, my mouth was hanging open. In our attic a white box the size of a sheet of notebook paper - not in a million years.)</em></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Laurence: I know, Dad. I know. Yes, she wants it.<em> </em>I think it's like a really <em>thin </em>shawl<em>. </em>Yeah, I know it's hot. Yeah, we're hot but she wants the shawl.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Happy: Tell him....tell him....tell him...Oh, I don't know. He'll find it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">20 minutes later a knock at the door. It was DAD, who will from this point forward be known as HERO-Dad, standing with the white box. He didn't cross the threshold. His opening words:</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Hero-Dad: (from the door) Oh, Happy, you look awesome. But here's the box. The thing's black right?</span> (<em><span style="font-family:arial;">Don't tell - but Hero-dad had eyes for HIS bride first and all night long).<br /></span></em><span style="font-family:arial;">Happy: Navy blue. Give it to me</span>.<br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A frenzy of tissue paper and tulle ensued as the box was opened, followed by </span><span style="font-family:georgia;">various</span> shaping and draping the sheer-tulle-with-glitter-and-beads shawl. With lots of "What do you think. This way? With this part to the side? " The end-game? She did not wear the shawl. Or wrap. Or blue thing in the white box. Hero-Dad never said a word (that I heard, anyway). That's the kind of story that makes a wedding soar.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368040891160073554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDfvsG1oAYh9AHVnE-JVsEE2mISP_d_nEdwe_XBUuY3HvLZSmEzjXUfLUegoTfWsqAj_sLcgYvSJXmLF15C0SOJAKRoNChRrsvocMhonMfudWfZxUHlDAowbwWvQUlUXbXGrpvptFt_8_6/s400/heckle+019.jpg" border="0" />So - we got everyone dressed and ready to rock and the photographer came into the brides' room, which is an overwhelmingly female domain. Nonetheless our photographer came in to give instructions about going outside to take some pictures. The instructions centered on how hot it was outside, and how quick it was going to be.(The photo-shoot was not short, though it was really, really hot.) I know they are headed out the door because of two things - one, I see that the bridesmaids all have their bouquets in hand. Two, I see the veil in Neel's hair. I jammed that comb on that veil up into her stiff-wedding-day-hair. Hairspray and bobby pins are two of my BFFs, especially when it's 104 outside. I only jammed it up in there about 12 times before she ever got down the aisle.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368046668159241794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQL0ISYn1ijAKWrVMZ5nUmwydoEPdRphpJMsXJ3SXstdyDhAEkFAQYd3aRcpZEo27i37KPtiIowJQNVl-Vgw9jTdk06mAN4o53naWEyfEDuRrq3BEDbSJElgY7oTy1ViTgSIewe-6EPGy/s400/heckle_011.jpg" border="0" />This was Neel's flower palette. That's what Greg-the-florist-god and I call it, to make me sound all professional. If you had X-ray vision, or if I had photographed it, you would know that cascading from the flowers was some gorgeous ivy, that grew on the front of Happy's house. For this wedding, she had been 'growing out' her ivy so there would be plenty. (OK, don't tell anybody, but her house had enough vines hanging off it that one might consider second story window entry a possibility, using only ivy as a means of access.) Happy told Greg to cut as much as he needed - "there's plenty, there's a LOT and it's driving Hero-Dad crazy." And so that was the first summer trim of Happy's ivy. It was lush, heavy, home-grown ivy , and nothing makes a wedding story like home-grown.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368040888734248802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc4shS6YhyphenhyphenOlH9hL9CMf-feXCJR-GbSBT1NLKYcHOK9cN9MvhTnPAw8BYgLQ5IYqxM_mfSgSEsfjdfaZJODAeFxD7TYr-vTXYwpRcuE8IVuvIR4wr298XSznFHWM42AKbt5FtgWfuzZOHm/s400/heckle+024.jpg" border="0" />Once they got down the aisle, the plan, <em>per the program</em>, was for two scriptures to be read. I had the doors open because there were people standing back there in the foyer, peering through the tripods, and because I wanted to hear the scriptures (also, to see the trailing home-grown ivy, over the door, because that kind of stuff matters to glam wedding planners) </p><p>The preacher totally blew over that <em>minor </em>part of the worship service - the BIBLE. Two scripture readers - professionals at that - stood as cued, waited as instructed, and gloriously at some point realized that there was going to be NO SCRIPTURE read at this wedding, so they unobtrusively slid back to their seats. One of the readers had come all the way from GERMANY. God knew. Also, each person in the packed chapel who was reading the program knew. (Side note, the planning of that ceremony, the selection of songs and scripture and structure of that program took about 139 man hours - at least 75% of that in the groom's time alone. Everytime I mentioned it - that we needed to just decide and move forward, Neel looked at me and said "What can I say, he's a lawyer! Can you tell?" Ahhhhh - young love! A necessity for survival of Marriage, Year 1)<br /></p><p>The preacher apologized profusely for his omission. Then, he proceeded to dance like the village shaman at the reception. All. Night. Long. (Preachers usually show for a meet-and-greet for wedding receptions, because, well Sunday is a pretty taxing day for them - so props to the preacher on the night of dancing with the natives, and I'm so, so sorry I missed his sermon the next day because it was probably really short.)</p><p>SO: Pray, pray, pray, vows, vows, vows, marry, marry, marry. And we're done. Did I mention that it was HOT? Because it was. It's the same weekend we got married, lo these many years ago. Hot then, hot now. Why is HOT <em>still</em> an issue? We shall see, my friends, we shall see.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368040882389749330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ_KfvsY1pGw3e4TsHHUWdVSzrQ_YzqGDn762R808KhX-3oP4LOtQilBYXbO9SP9ErtEaPYtbR7U3QTgqck0cKMPaWEDxHFL01d5-VE2cXkYJWtIid7tGdBcuv-m2L4wnYz0LWG9xcsPVz/s400/heckle+001.jpg" border="0" />Nothing like a glass of chilled champagne with berry in the sunset. Especially when the sunset means that it's still hot. Let's have a primer on air conditioning lore, which we can call "A Comfortable Room." At best, a typical air conditioner unit will provide a 20 degree difference in the indoor and outdoor temperature. Ask any airconditioning guy when he's trying to fix the a/c in the 110 degree heat. Don't expect 60 degrees. Expect 90 degrees inside. </p><p>Our Young Son and La Petite Jockette were at the Club acting as point-people. I got a couple of calls from him. Maybe about 6. His rule for calling me - something's wrong. I hate to see his name pop up on the screen.</p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">YS: Mom, it's ...uh...pretty hot here. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Me: How hot?</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">YS: It's hot. Too hot, and I have told them but now I can't find anybody who works here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Me: Is it so hot that the cake is going to melt?</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">YS: I guess we'll see if the cake melts. Just warning you. Also, the violin people aren't here. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">ME: Keep the doors closed, every single door. Turn off the overhead lights. Put foil over the west windows. Stuff newspaper in all the cracks. And if you find someone, make them turn it down to 60 and open up the doors to all their kitchen boxes and put fans in front of them. Also, leave the chairs for the musicians.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">YS: Yes m'am. I'm just telling you though, it's hot. And I'm leaving to change clothes. It's too hot to do it here.</span></p><p>Voila! 100 degrees outside, 80++ degrees inside. We were actually glad to get 90 degrees because the power was off at the Club the entire week before this wedding, so NO air conditioning was a distinct possibility. (Yes, yes, yes, I did have a very sound plan for addressing the issue if there was absolutely no power at the Club. I did. <em>Nobody asked</em> what that plan was, but I promise, the alternate plans were absolutely in place. Because I'm like that. No flying without a safety net in the glam wedding business)</p><p>Part two of "A Comfortable Room" - when you put 375 people in a small enclosed space when it's blazing hot inside and a dance band driving the action, it gets hot. Not just a little hot, but a lot hot. Way TOO hot. And at the end of the night, a club staffer finally filled me in that one entire 'chiller' of the 3 we needed for the space we were using - one WHOLE CHILLER- wasn't working at all. Killed in the storm of the previous weeks. </p><p>There's a complicated equation (which I never use, because I have *<em>another way*</em>) to figure out how hot it is inside. Temperature - a/c - 1 chiller +crowd + dance band - champagne + men in tuxes- beer x age of the Mother of the Bride = HOT, way too hot. </p><p>The most reliable indicator of the temperature at a wedding is the *father of the bride*, in our case HERO-Dad. Everytime he caught my eye we had a version of this conversation</p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Hero-dad: It's awfully hot in here. Is there anything we can do about it, oh Glam-wedding-planner that you are!</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Me: Yeah, let me see if I can find somebody. (Note, I am sweating profusely myself - profusely is too mild a term, actually)</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Hero-dad: Is it just me? This tux? I think people are going home because it's so hot.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Me: OK, let me see what I can do. Why don't you dance with Happy? What can I get you to drink? Eat some of that Ben & Jerry's ice cream from the cart over there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">INSERT THE ICE CREAM STORY: I will, thank you. The groom LOVES Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, so the bride decided that it would be a delightful surprise to have a B&J ice cream cart at the reception. It took roughly 17 conversations - conversations at her house, text conversations, conversations in the carpool line (taught at same school last year), conversations via email, whispered conversations... to decide what flavors to choose. Also how and where to set it up. We had all that contracted and diagrammed out - but still, our Young Son realized early that they were setting up a bar in that spot. We didn't want a bar! Ice cream there! We physically rearranged the tables on the spot. The ice cream cart had a steady and long line for most of the evening. Men in tuxes, women in silk, with champagne in one hand and ice cream in the other! Stunning! Summertime and the living is easy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">NOW - back to the "Is it just me, or is it sweltering in here" story:</span></p><p><span style="font-family:georgia;">So - then I walked around, sweating, for 20 or 30 minutes until I found a Club manager </span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">ME: It's like a thousand degrees in here. We talked about this! We agreed that you'd cool it down...we agreed that we'd keep the doors closed all day long...bleh, bleh, bleh on the ass-kicking.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;">Club Guy: I know, but when it's this hot outside.....when there are this many people.....bleh, bleh, bleh - excuse making.</span></p><p>Then - 30 minutes later, repeat the cycle. Eventually, I told Hero-Dad to take off his jacket. Being the HERO that he is, he kept the jacket on. As did his son, a groomsmen. Genetic heroism in tuxedos.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368040885227885810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 268px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaKhemQIynut13ULUfg7Bq5eWaJUeL2sVMaL-AtVYdftMJuarg0LMFOmu3jOF5dvN2IybueHIUpKrrAiQlQR3YPQ3EpxOwAwftDng9mqpEZMNVVNaBoPwjTY9h0V9_PVlZttl7b13PvhE/s400/neels+dress.jpg" border="0" /></p>Did the heat seem to bother the bride? Not at all? She rose to the occasion. One facet of this occasion being the weekend of Michael Jackson's death. Thus, every cover band in the nation did a whole Michael Jackson set (just guessing on the whole 'every band in the nation' thing.) We had our own little MJ Memorial. Neel presided.<br /><br /><br />LOTS of men were NOT heroic and did take off the jackets.<br /><br />Way over in the right corner there, in the green dress ....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-gKkYmXIA23k9WLS0CA3NYcbaNMLnG_DiQt7GkhyERBIT6kwgdCBLzMDjkhzxyCWNthtywFrfGs3dTFF2ab52PdyWYJmqYS5E_o4ZEpO_fs5CPZHKfRH3Fv4-UTGS9N0RNUhNU9-4onw/s1600-h/neel+and+crowd.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-gKkYmXIA23k9WLS0CA3NYcbaNMLnG_DiQt7GkhyERBIT6kwgdCBLzMDjkhzxyCWNthtywFrfGs3dTFF2ab52PdyWYJmqYS5E_o4ZEpO_fs5CPZHKfRH3Fv4-UTGS9N0RNUhNU9-4onw/s400/neel+and+crowd.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />. . . is Laurence, the sister of the bride,( last mentioned on the phone with her dad about the not-to-be-worn-but-awesome-shawl.) Next to her is Spencer, her husband. Laurence was my bride a few years ago. Her wedding anniversary and Neel's will forever be just one day apart. Laurence's husband, related to this tux-wearing family by marriage, straddled the dress code. The jacket is off - but the tie is ON (Remember that HERO-Dad and semi-heroic brother stayed in the full get-up) Jon has a bit to learn.<br /><br />A wedding is a family love story. We plan and plot, we get quotes and contracts, and we draw layouts. Honestly, not sure how this was done without cell phones - oh, yeah! I did it without cell phones.<br /><br /><br />For this family, the last weekend in June will ALWAYS be a weekend full of love stories. No talk about those contracts and layouts, no worries about flowers and bands. They will remember that Neel wore Mom's dress, how Happy and Ruthie ALMOST wore the same dress, that Uncle Mark wore one flip-flop, how Dad became a HERO by finding a box in the attic, the preacher forgot the scripture, and grandmother sat on the front row, with a little help from the two Marks in the family, that MJ died the week before, so songs like <em>Billy Jean</em> and <em>Man in the Mirror</em> formed the soundtrack of the wedding week. They will remember the hot summer before Laurence and Spencer headed to Chicago for graduate school and brother Mark to medical school, after giving a live demo of his doc-worthy gentleness with his grandmother. They'll remember the ice cream and the champagne, and they'll laugh as they tell the stories again and again. What a job I have - seriously! I'm so, so grateful I get to be a part of those love stories!<br /><div style="CLEAR: both; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: 0% 50%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial" alt="Posted by Picasa" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" align="middle" border="0" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-28022636040002762492009-07-04T18:44:00.004-05:002009-07-04T19:30:58.155-05:00Summertime and Target is Gleaming.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMS_Vg2Zu1yorlWa9bL3jWchefKR0oYsbvl-V74xqmMeJ8SPN_gcRmhgKbRSUsNWhkFV-m6G6ryzHB4AGEKSuWePjKu-laF3I8TvdLH_2jFC3uEwzbOhTpoKC0ojMvGnvHC4LKFfzjiJVv/s1600-h/PC062263.JPG"></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354756084064890546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYYi0xqG_vsNxdp6cfhKNqLCd1a5Pg7LfimTsQhlZHdASsAUhShChds4bt5yHubmdP83P1N3LOhDwN8WqWBe0wOozAODdyc5wsvslKXj_dOhh9rug7OLaiu4vt8P19dMK9opJS91ojVLC/s400/my+stuff+001.jpg" border="0" />So, I think I will just pretend that it hasn't been 7 weeks since I posted anything. Will you play the pretend game along with me?<br /><br /><div><div><div>The Sophisticate and I went to Target the other day. That would be OUR Target, not the NEW very clean, wide-aisled Target that just opened closer to our house. We are loyal. </div><br /><div>Several things stood out. First, the lights shine on the floor at Target. And to think that I thought only Saks Fifth Avenue did that!!! What was I thinking? Note, our floors at home do not look like that. Good thing I'm not in retail. I am not hardwired to desire gleaming floors, nor to achieve them. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354756093207330050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtmDQHMNhBQ9wP7JQKUcrYppYor04v0T7OJCQz97fIYmEE6lWhH1Ru_NcPHuOU_2TKUC0_kJ7gnqTLfw0Zkd8tR0O7oR5fEm5lvsxwBx_6qmtevuMBteO37C1mSELqRZQSIId5aXJ1w_z/s400/my+stuff+002.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>And here is my hand, holding the things I am buying in my hand, with my vintage Blackberry on top. First, note that I am buying a BOOK. Not a book about potty-training or sleeping through the night, either. A book that I am going to read. FOR FUN. Read. Book. Fun. All in the same sentence, pertaining to me.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Notice that I am not pushing a cart. Not a cart full of stuff, not a cart full of kids. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I can't even think about the number of times I pushed a cart full of children through Target. We had a method, someone sitting in the seat of the cart. Someone sitting in the <em>actual cart</em> part. Someone standing on the cart hanging on to the handle, between me (pushing) and the handle. And one (or more) <em>theoretically</em> walking, someone usually was also riding on the front end of the cart, facing me. That made the cart weigh roughly - a lot of pounds. Also, it meant that there was no room to put anything in the cart. I don't know that I remember how I handled that (and we KNOW I don't have a picture of it, because seriously, who takes pictures in TARGET?) We always had Tide, so...whatever I did, it worked. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This week. No cart full of children, though I passed a woman in serious discussion with the two children riding in her cart. She was into the intense negotiations about what they would buy and what they wouldn't buy, and what they would do later in the day IF....the trip to Target did not end in a toddler-sized meltdown. IF. I mean, it would have been IF, with me and my kids. And she was pretty much headed toward "Meltdown on Aisle 12."<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354756096312763586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOr1P3AbhmLZPEx5DkNpl6XIJgNyc1-ClFNZEKWNrkf32_QkJGaJtnqKu4_raMmXy6xZNzHqPfDsjx4j1VYQMyYxI4HaumiY7lG1IThh5Yo7_GEGJxOoar9kx3gjL79GXkDc_ZRObzsDXL/s400/my+stuff+003.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>There is my girl. Walking. Not in any way riding in or on a cart. She was bringing me that book that she wanted to buy. I mean that which she wanted ME to buy. Some things don't change.</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-30866959989058349552009-05-19T11:32:00.002-05:002009-05-19T11:52:50.157-05:00Commencement<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337574523082002418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 271px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRv0pFOSdneK-L3bUq503pLXkSZdHQDUz6dXm5cVlJiHvhZVK9FAWM9Xpzak19mbzQLDM8utw_0AoIPWvjR1Ybg1nUmyfx0exf0B4FD1junU-W_va319ibJPzwsd4PvKtcVv_hK7EZv6p_/s400/beth+grad+day+face.jpg" border="0" />It was indeed a beautiful day in our neighborhood.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337574527407032290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 307px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-u63FrKcqbeO5h5QDRVjKINljNFBAzYv5UsH-ZZuCz64JvtqHgYC7iLs0E_lU2ojLasBZocuX3XrYIollKiJPQh4_5SQ3ymLr1L4p5Jum1kf9mVf4G-rkbMAP8d3F0XTEmhY7_j1SA8qz/s400/beth+with+flower+girls.jpg" border="0" />Yes, Pretty Pretty Princess has shoes. She just wanted to take them off. This being her Princess Day . . .no shoes.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337574529771649858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 246px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyFaOJyTBgf-_cMwTjmaoo_Ij-fiD3sq8YC35wysggZ9xQpa-5JVUSgv0Be49mU8bUswCc_ho7lq8zazACoqtDevM5rFYvPNUd2VAIM7kcK76fO-eBd9468UuCx4CIL-txKQ1q8N-b7_c/s400/beth+with+handkerchief.jpg" border="0" />A careful look reveals a few of her heirloom graduation gifts.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337574533734908786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixJjy_yBtLVfpj4NTY8a5cQdv6wdd62CTEvBjbKxXfp0v8KG3Uw2YdgKTPBp79ef-XXYlVmLzVs5oOFhDSTGb4dPP77To6icj3shQjfSb-NWzXUZcuHM40ctK_crs8WHbycCpQxYgogu0Y/s400/beth;s+fan+club.jpg" border="0" />Sharing the deepest of friendships, these came - in spite of more exams today - to spend some time with her...watching baseball. Also I lured them with food. <br /><br />A good day. It was a really good day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-34577670898580944222009-05-03T13:28:00.008-05:002009-05-03T17:34:01.754-05:00The beginning of the end<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQjobpfGK4aHGKMGE4XHJ0MYWyPQ_G1JA8hA53VZxsPz_QN8Jrg07t4iVThV_KKHsThuybkJ6UfUS8ouoFnw8Ky9Irh0MQQEl4sMmYrAkun2MEFq5Ke-1dB93csC6uY6o7NjcZxqXWFE7/s1600-h/beth+senior+day+lax.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331727918052960258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 396px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQjobpfGK4aHGKMGE4XHJ0MYWyPQ_G1JA8hA53VZxsPz_QN8Jrg07t4iVThV_KKHsThuybkJ6UfUS8ouoFnw8Ky9Irh0MQQEl4sMmYrAkun2MEFq5Ke-1dB93csC6uY6o7NjcZxqXWFE7/s400/beth+senior+day+lax.jpg" border="0" /></a> The school year won't officially be over for days. But Pretty Pretty Princess is graduating, and that means that we are ticking off a long list of things completed, things to be put in the past, things that won't be EVER the same.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331666697226349282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqTpqlv7KYwhBatBCSznWcrirRh2kR0ST13LwQFZmFD4_TmJ1r9s-n14Ib5cowBxb9yvNW4qCbHrZ3YvYYeJn_CLEPv8wzERJkILO92q_XVEy4z_q-DMpT6cv_0w_aX1zQ8UuV0XNvzOd/s400/Beth+goggles+thru+fence.jpg" border="0" />We can officially call this one DONE. Done with the mouth guard, done with the goggles.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331719923278250498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq98J8UPn3PEswP6vGYKShKayCLz2r1IBRbhMNMkwnNt34hQe0wZVcXe44t9e-pORb2i5zMGw3EfTeJBVZh6FOnZ9YYbe86VGfekdeUrVghtHD0nblXO9x5T1FduUgPHYm0doRshjcYrlL/s400/DSC00802.JPG" border="0" />The Sophisticate joined us to bid farewell to those two pieces of equipment. <div> </div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>We aren't a particularly sentimental bunch around here, saving our tears for things like <em>Grey's Anatomy</em>. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331719934216784978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixLLolWsx1qNVdyofHhejww3iIp1EBQMsDGyjmHF8c9S2GFFGfwhV7l5NBaw9X3ARo8KF9Cxz35n6qZCDuFXitNqT7Vodba_gzW5-TR4vKmq3pkffRGH6tSORIufBv3b-6hFapwaycSJ7H/s400/DSC00805.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>But the leaving behind of lax touches a nerve. PPP started playing lacrosse the first year of high school. She played every year with Bob. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331719929754228258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCEuuTmCIMRkmwoxIoQbhSIc0qop9dkWZLiC4omtXOuQBsBzmKYErw9e3RPMTmolzcmQTZIhoUxFZKQTLjKwJ4NtvdTpwPY1kryKLZhItaGFOd8zHOw5LmSmznKJOB5hxCtDMv11rfJvM/s400/DSC00804.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>And Stargazer. They bought those "Captain" bands; typically I think they go on the arm, but the leg is fetching, nonetheless. She started on the Varsity Lacrosse team, all four years. We think it's because she is tall, and fearless. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331722487967764722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhOJmGMBFlNEcE7vODVyg8HzB1qPPhML84sHC5rCd5WszAnWijbo9yjCpd85Nv_4c94fFcIaiqtTxag-XQPdVF3qpR54iH6tNHHKoYPIOsoK9GDN2wB1cXt0ectEQpVk6WGc7Fg5BROHF/s400/DSC00791.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>PPP found her style of leadership - steady and not so pushy. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331722477958951218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsb6kUJsAuDQJy3nV4jjvP6Si7lHOkegROuua_yhI_CKWRGWRs1PtwZtNQsORNcIjrA5NpohtMb92LL9gQqg-u4GkPlqcYdESiuZ5FALxC4C3WddgXUqiEqmRRb8TV-M_uEw4oaKVFs5sn/s400/DSC00812.JPG" border="0" />Her mantra this year - as one of the senior co-captains - was "We are a positive and encouraging team" And they were. They are.</div></div><br /><div><div>To compensate for the loss of playing lacrosse, she's already been helping out with the Middle School team as they finish up their season. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331719929363151858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZarc4RIP3dyJ8XaLTpk8exaCFKfx3iuHuS6WjLuBzrKmRSMPqbtFWTRoGyg5oHfzc3npjeEmlNwRUv8hmrFnTba-wgj-gHSXJu6t6s23rplm9LyBWtOPYHUEKLCXQQD1EJMtalV_vuOYf/s400/DSC00819.JPG" border="0" />The plan is to do the same next season - next winter, when we remember why we say "There is no COLD like Spring Lacrosse Cold" - she plans to be right there with the Middle School girls, sharing with the them her mantra "We are a positive and encouraging team."<br /><br /><div></div>See....it's not the end. It's the beginning. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331722484538719922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZg4DGGwuZUKGLNi-IPL2QLURbYxzul07uCn5mwZ5ixkMWUr8sRcORYA8Ad3YmSmQ1_7SOLAqx42rTaIe6M5NKufe4PNTT87o0sHyHEEZFamEa1m4TOQZEoVXyEsdSzH-0SVomD2KUavc/s400/DSC00782.jpg" border="0" />And now, how to get rid of that tan in a mere two weeks? </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-71199155272617318032009-04-22T18:00:00.002-05:002009-04-22T21:38:19.345-05:00Bridesmaids' dresses: Graceful Saga part une<div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326868711421555906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WHN5F2Fmu5f-3jI9YuqkCb7nbqHMSffNS5oV7x59yeX-WmSJ8UXargN8azG6n2BhyaWfv8klggSJrZ0RKfSK1UfCoVhGIysIvdNQgvtmpu1S9gNry9mt-3Qreq2WWeD6bl7pOG6nvGsY/s400/dresses+from+above.jpg" border="0" />Pretty Pretty Princess and I took a little road trip to NashVegas this weekend. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327590574156265058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7iD6tvrEeudQ6zei0nsgbPbyGKroLJ9riLq6ZPvS8LXo_X16q727uJKpG2Ycn3ByZ6NIsbSdkquW1rmbxF482OdoUwB6yPaPgdwroRU7vLwOMGvI5ZISVag4OGU9kYexk1OMCT3cxIuJ/s400/DSC00602.JPG" border="0" />It's not even hardly like a road trip anymore. I just go there and turn right around to come home. I can't think of a time I have spent more than 24 hours there. It's numbing, actually.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327536392569477362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 318px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWu_gJeArjaVAO6qEwL9gdf79BApj5xlg-XX94KHymzDKX-YzbijN24yEzdkq5YrF05gtp4ZWzP_tjJuoDOvk4wY5EdZZiQe3cz05BxKimzl0fKW710YGS6FdAZ1fy8i_IveeMZ45tviJP/s400/brentwood+girls.jpg" border="0" />ANYWAY! To play some lacrosse, we made this little trip. I promise it was about lacrosse. We requested a hotel with a <em>Twilight</em> vibe - <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327536376812478850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo-uCf03BZXPDyuERUjPmHjCOiaOUaa4oA0V3m97tQn7ecQ5rPbjaHsdbpiqMcqv_4e22TjQEHoYtpMe4XEm4ccIZf-aOR65GyR9r4-OUMz-o42DMopcyUlN9wM-my3Tcv6-wTRvaSPmhS/s400/DSC00618.JPG" border="0" />Voila, we're in the middle of a waterfall a la <em>Twi.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327590579392655010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzS7mAm5xJO1KTxpWourptTnuXx2XQPolMGp13-xLMWw6-3IpAArI4hxiYIF-lq9mwjp9C6W_lALe0WIb4f_Y5ufjxcyojKWdGETOdfSjxZDGgekOYMUMZvY2niHcgOgBXNdg5hhx6H9Ha/s400/lobby+of+the+opryland.jpg" border="0" /></em> Voila again - hometown lacrosse wherever we looked.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326868725637540098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiZ2N5Vy2xUyjaqfNdI7te8axBIDqsEEQIWYUJWp4GTKxuNrSI91vVwTNSWelhmXbqawYe6jo_pLRx99715Pz2bbVuKfah-isM5UmDo-mTHjVL8hJCdqnkjQVo0IIntr1sVGe0OjxqwQxa/s400/opryland+wedding.jpg" border="0" />We came across a <strong>wedding </strong>set up. Seriously? You want to get married in the middle of a hotel lobby with men in plaid shorts carrying goodie bags from a convention? I mean, awesome!!!! How romantic!!! I would love to plan a glam wedding in the wide open lobby of the Opryland Hotel with about 20,000 tourists and conventioneers wandering around. My privilege. Call me if that's what you want.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327654425587375698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 314px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpaBkF8NtYpxwBmAiiyWqHIxzMkYW0vhhnuhQZq-WbTijGny8P-WsZ3AjI-HXFKaC5OLHiZ-p2oRGSv4p-6vgCWha2QbbWFkogXUO4K_Kg8jSb93KcUJQ8E3FNhxOhgwHK8l96WYzy6iwy/s400/Beth+and+Mary+at+StBen.jpg" border="0" />The glam life called us from the lacrosse mission - temporarily. We had to go try on some bridesmaid's dresses for the Graceful Bride. So, off we went from <em>Twi</em>-zone to Princess Palace (aka <a href="http://www.bhughesbridalformal.com/">B Hughes Bridal</a>) to try on dresses. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327543348532455826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 306px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97B_4C9PLMSfaPf89nFNcTzu6MDyYlAGT_ULjsSNgQGydfKvQUqzoVGsTw4ysursxWn-KACYcfFCE71YXqInrqExR03i-Tm0pJrsrf8m4T_uOYDgECJTGBHUlawTDTPHz0OoP0p2r2jgB/s400/beth+purple+blue+back.jpg" border="0" /> <div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>Actually, we were on a mission from the Graceful Bride to try on a single specific dress.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327548616120671938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 228px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVN-3p_UGsb2sAqazKkn1oSsuv5OPuJ3L7qqR9DW8_Hqq2yX2ca3YsWG8yFWyomTMVyGWL98oaaIm2mAi93d9I1Yp9w-9qIeI3X6OCNE47Dik5J0PHPunOGpo9DsEwLdJyOoGQAWNwAgs/s400/mary-purple+and+blue+front.jpg" border="0" /> But I'm not about to get 2 high school lax players out of bed early to go try on one dress. Also, I get to illustrate the step by step process of picking a bridesmaid's dress.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327548620683037010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJE-s3ttZ2iUOtrLVQuz2vd7IRxtpsXp7mr5jJojTVP9bCerhFJ81m_6qlg47Ha2yefmJ4PZlk9UDDYs7ofTNeHLond1jnrrAyI38HE5FDD5Hl0iJhJiXukF6o3OArD6966gbv1pe6nyey/s400/mary+texting.jpg" border="0" />Not so fast, Sister. Texting Graceful Bride, I'm sure, but still....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326868715178864258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAcXwtvBCgL9CV97NWb4wGWKBrRvgmMzGvFuJ8t_ZOEFbTBsNJWoqqJYedpNBjIrBumYjTLbAY8godMRw4XQiuHHkEgnOXhxybJAcfayyg3EH5WqPL-NrvY-bvNlDMo1mHG2CdiXp7PTv/s400/mary+and+beth+dressing+room.jpg" border="0" />Yeah, sorry. Rule #1 - we're going to try on a few more dresses. It helps to have at least two girls (not the bride) try on dresses. </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326867464101162290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoyLImIMzAMx8tUlgomHnSSj_bMSW2rVyoDxp5WMJ69ZcP75ZVHYDirpSMnX8J9pdcr8Jq6Xodrc91hB15IdImNlz0kA5TYUuY5V6KOP46YXc3ZKtBd_k3wHMouM2Tr7b9J6cakYogh0tW/s400/beth+navy.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>That step thing helps a lot too. Everyone looks better tall. Taller, I meant. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326881412226634098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLH2ep5gVtsNns7sZaOwMB3sGNzH_02jz0rxDTdCyXYlxgB35MRCd55cp0X6LmSBCkPakvwL1zQlVyEhaAu5Out0zSBeAbdFCHtDWdBpwGs46yy6cDwliYFwvtQiiw8yBeUYNXPssB7WrU/s400/mary+solid+navy+back.jpg" border="0" />You can see how the dress works on different people. The bride doesn't actually have to try on the bridesmaids dress because the bride won't wear it. 13 of her dearest friends do. We need to make sure we don't make it look chaotic up front in the church.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326881410490521682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 233px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUf1LIfrLKfsetdjqUHFTw84H5DuB2n8KPJvz00sv3vS6PoKOJdxjnL-DlttvFrX4qxafY-fn4t_Gq8c8hwLOrzgLkqUKvfnwFFzjEM0dMwESgFjFpZkvFYX7L6fIR7zoiJyaf7TB1wWKR/s400/mary+hands+in+pockets.jpg" border="0" />Yes, this dress does have pockets. Let's get pockets in the bridesmaid's dresses to carry....oh, the lip gloss! Yeah, that's it.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326867451537596786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpOwjtFGl6A0sktv4MQzBH_yWYT0uH_9JyiWkHrXy0avfzAY0pCdZh673AW_xxfxbEto0VsYoj8HZGAgrae4Okznm8IAfVeGhRIgLUO8GvDEFIOQgYTFqQuH2sDlL51AHRsJAHOkM0thZ/s400/beth+hands+in+pockets.jpg" border="0" />NO, we don't keep our hands in said pockets while modeling, because it makes the shape of the dress do odd things. I think the pockets are to carry the phone. Because who doesn't want 13 bridesmaids with one whole side of the dress hanging down with the weight of a phone that girls will whip out for a quick text during pictures. Pockets, pockets, pockets. There's a wedding conundrum for you. I vote .....<span style="font-size:78%;">(no cell phones in pockets during weddings, please).</span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327536387443685794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUGUoXRZKPJHOYActm4afm4ty6_buquhNLKhcgOzEqHlamyoBaNMCxy1qDQ6yA-sF81AMB5FQGqdvrkU1jvBYk-Z9syDR-RfZTO1GWCGXQccbYdSweFF2pvX_xcbNpIx9weB8bGbbPIqr/s400/mary+in+red+front.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>It didn't take Graceful Bride's sister long to get the hang of modeling - what with the step-up box and the huge mirror. We are here to look at <em>the dresses</em>. The hair....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327554133601479026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmAcHeP4ZGBd1iFp1ChpHzzYrkibzD7divxqx56An2aIPZcP4gYtJKfxMfOaxE0V92cU5ZnIE248yVAqVyCqMF_C48XFicMBNgZIwUEVSWHEnf588pkShXhirTQP51Zo1CdPcyCxCJaEo/s400/DSC00658.JPG" border="0" />Thank you. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327548625253328690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAhvEbo6a4el8NrSLRAmpRkxz4tWdf4A5yr1oQsr7GpMH_7vbMk_46yVY9q2aCP_yiFbFk14RlIT0uxhUlBd7rMytVr7aVcpMXJqntQzE2GxvxxSjlJBd6Ttx4OXfZ1AcUmiaee3bhejc/s400/mary+grecian+back.jpg" border="0" />What? You may not like the color. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327548607141151810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1m4fM8jMq2C8tPGJTQ6Jb0K93fW4iqqaMp1vxnf0MKUg-mGKRIjMvpqbLCJokpdvFcMxL6JJ4Qxtffjb21BOGbXESsdvDR36jaTy8oeExp-cpX3KtDuGUh4v2POp5ZNbTtqtzX3kHy5e/s400/DSC00621.JPG" border="0" />That's why they make a swatch card. Pick ANOTHER color. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326871853306213730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwrwYbWEXyOF7QCh9Cu0_lxBZ6WGxeey9inWWuCFSQCpTBf0cxc0QBkO_5QMkXjyJbQI6NVhk_PWW97zH5kYcyunK6sJG1GcEj4AwvHqUjQSquyArYYX4jkf-j7DCzqyMZwNt4AusxQTQ/s400/mary+grecian.jpg" border="0" />Not so sure about that whole swooping piece in the front? Well, being the professional glam wedding planner that I am, I have a special tool to take care of something like a stray swoop. SCISSORS are a wedding planners best friend.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327575328440833442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDVOeO4HMVjf_eqayJ8HGChSPPxuvYSTCk6kse1Grv9hotkutmW-rNeace4B8eOqr38jq6oBmL9DvJrGJeiZYFxNWTqfggG5ceVCUPBZAjrR0VYSymok9LK1tmkhPh9WZH66Z7NHtluU27/s400/mary+red+front.jpg" border="0" />Some dresses are super- flattering to pretty much everybody.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327554124776536386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitaFBXM0DauaZIUIHCdsVlLtaQLr4VFn5Ok6Mx5tcenLBUdxSULCgHXvc3ZxH70G4PXLWOReNLNcxGDgpTYODhHrJRwl6DIBkxFJBFDRnug7g7te0zDJ0S8BVVC1r5lI73m732_t_Yjb9C/s400/DSC00650.JPG" border="0" />This is one of those dresses. Front . . .<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327572720337270226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Kjn3iw6cicKbSMDAPictQEmZ0aMFV8eqZl85AHPa-Cgd02sU0mAo-twX7ZXni1Piido2WCfT1M3eI-56tT9_-dC262Q5ACjd9T-pzowc1ZNXU5ntD-bESM6v6rHkZS_gegvomZSsNdsr/s400/mary+red+back.jpg" border="0" /> <strong>back . .</strong> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326882351418042498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU4kh8FCLCGNvmCdWLsEATAEtWxnq8aKXl0fe7iURqyg5fPDdauo3O01Spgwex6jMiXzbm5FbXtHQl_PtgE9rN2RR5xrQ6YZ0F4PyM-2Hat1gk5IXBS3CtFK7GeN1SGmzo9C58a7iWyaDc/s400/beth+in+red.jpg" border="0" />sideways - flattering.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327554128358188706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGa2ajwwr9f50E8hI3_025aPPIPV3jQ_YmI7OirGpncEIBM4IbTlowaBtj-OjfcjUO3igLYiWz6MpclEpw-HJp_tIQafKcaNLaUECVtfA4XvJHARUUkx8QXpmUDpjmqibcJXO_ya6Co9zc/s400/DSC00651.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>The Home Depot industrial construction clips help. Those black strings are there to help the dress stay on the hanger. We tuck them in or cut them off before the wedding. We do not cut them off in the store. They won't even let me in the store with my trusty scissors.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327580216625667714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vVYo7DJGVGEcGnR2GtCcNxBlOYuOwPXZjKagfP1KPcbaJFoPXaYb47RZPAmtzPUn_KZxLl2L9EA53CqehPl0TGYh1mfmz0Pygnj14R3W6dR02660iyVaKwyghvgJHgxbQQJ94MnwzdVe/s400/mary+self+examination.jpg" border="0" />We think we pretty much like the first dress, but maybe if it were all the same color - say the navy....<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327536367848082690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0eNsHovxxttTmFJdKmZ3nvKwoJT6qfAH5vE4w0LC9zZwWoMoJXgMlyIbArU6-EkngL7k9o6Kax9LlaLgbKBrOspcXZtAeUctWx3xGeAPjqIcqsQzh3BuyRKkxhw3LKb6_FrvBmWaLaF3V/s400/mary+navy+front.jpg" border="0" />Not the exact same dress, but a solid navy dress. Navy photographs pretty dark.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326882337438536674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh74hJF7sBXKFjQi5KZDW_QYPum6tcvbN2xdROV1x66p94e5i0WML8nYfZdLA02YCg9bhNugI29aH9D5sQccrJA4_TxIl9W5cq_WmUk-d-Zg7RjVRdhlFfkzXU7SsoWDE5gba9XXNARR3Uf/s400/beige+beth.jpg" border="0" />So what does a light colored dress look like? <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327572722315861138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib4iixwszGLbIE98Jx_LbA6vRFYCHNNqFQaCZ2qNaLAnOT400OpNBLb9gsgjqy6qI3sGTDG_NGJMjvxzJ6Ks846tHut8_swqJgkZEnrNQLViN3Nrky5_JTgZYjT46pdXACTeqgQ9fW82Vl/s400/mary+beige+ivory.jpg" border="0" />Remember, it doesn't have to be THIS dress, this is just a light colored neutral dress that we tried on. You see a lot more detail with a light color. Nice palette for flowers.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327572737307613938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4F6RlCLNB0hSM5ijPLzHc2C8NY9BsvhsiT7qRLXBzcVKaKaH4JYNYvI_PeXLr3jSqYsGOpVqtW656bznRyb5gZjxLLl0qC-89vznyDWQu29sUuEYTF-l5PGHdIRvecpaQUWFKdh1kPud2/s400/DSC00657.JPG" border="0" />This one doesn't quite fit right, even with the industrial Home Depot clips...and maybe a bit too much of <em>the girls</em> on display?</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327575318091263938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8O_ulaCwN9Z-ukKvBY1XHy2yk3pgLzS0OVAHaOmDu2HnurpPCfOF4-I6o22YdeVgxyMlUzxqbTbslEHgF2xG3CtqYvZPxvN43tcs4E8B5etGDwWa7rG0kGTfGnBoHPIk8II66TdNqSac/s400/Beth+and+Allison.jpg" border="0" />Let the lady who works there every day help. She knows how to - shall we say - adjust things. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327589146216370274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcH5BI0ZLcWssK6w2uBmzk2YjmsmHQBh5fJEi2GVh_-uT7O6s2Wf6iGY431qE6SJ8W6YaMNtGNyklWcWhHehee3A-_03AvmG9Bp-x9aMDqN6SGV8p2NEgdXhLZM0GUscIkhAy4GLWFv35y/s400/DSC00681.JPG" border="0" /> Yes, we know this dress is 8 sizes too big. Whatever. The REAL dress will be ordered in a size that fits withOUT the Home Depot clips, and then will be altered to fit the bridesmaid. It's not unusual for one thing to be not quite right.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326871831432071138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizHSJnYOfIXYUp7J0cka4dr1NF8QrEL5cyFvJHpLcj2QdWrG_cwJGHKigIwZLuyJ6Ov-Y3oIOUctSNoRFoUKdAs1OTTSpQX4liogAomkcDczlu7wQp8Jst7AegLyvSsW2mGUkmpLqFKq5a/s400/swatch+card+vw+satin.jpg" border="0" /> Remember swatch cards? <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327575333349637826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheivUBRFTtrum7fdkQBTdQ_xsjlTKOy0WrkU5Qpgsgj3Y7EovrNmr8X8zrKh9vgA0FFVvUfd9K92osjoERFFJ375yj_odUD0-8uK1DSo5_3d9ze8EohUbs8_EYG4Ok-Aw6rXww5NiQTOeR/s400/beth+in+black.jpg" border="0" />Some dresses...just...no. No. NO.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327548604587855794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUQGryn3dPAGmap4yhPqRgqngvGiMsjqe0RpZkYT0LazySZpoi0D9_mDTcaNGyE-WJG3uTLzuamGZjpXPW2iwoXGIcU3sEVRnXrM9oVlEY9vpLXAHq7TF3wZcs1mQvY3WDh6SNkj9F_cA/s400/beth+lax+tan.jpg" border="0" />I told you she plays lacrosse in a racerback jersey.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327536383047297698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSQxszedn5MJXtoZIIq9so2GB37bX6_tXz4na3K7FqH9DZSThH1nL36Vda1fVwpXiyb-fHQCKKL2OM3mnEjPRJta2yyb7p6YJjOH5P-hlikPk4B-qI-QkTaJl9kNIInUya6neXM5oxjMCx/s400/mary+and+beth+waiting+for+lunch.jpg" border="0" />Then, feed the hungry girls after a long morning's work. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326868707732217682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_zYGvHiWLisHDFafiiePrb7ZGlrW2zlResnjlFZx-JvT-lv_H35DxdgURroSjdCuxQxcgpN5l0np_GtUvhC5yr-QJnLtYsGEkVOI8I8ZCLp54xe7dP0Elt6rBMeHwvCiJB7w8z88lSvI/s400/breakfast+in+Nashville.jpg" border="0" /> Because they have to play lacrosse. Again.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326871837396839074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 342px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLQ1VMh1URHJa_MvOM25-KgSCKgULM2dgu035xh8JNf8W5rb8c4T9om__Hesc14eC2lweO29qNCXbblK3sDyAi4IbZyQlM-QKMB4o71S7mtpGDYxznyIknUTyBfmJbByR5__ccaK9xWW3f/s400/Meredith's+mom.jpg" border="0" />I know. Frustrating, this whole thing of 5 games in less than 24 hours. How do you think I felt when we added in the dress expedition?<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326871849710141698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDg-slj-CnADTR_bukm_dzgz5O9eA9DCWG-nYa5Ptcj-tMoyoaqXJx_TRI_E3RqjGyXE6QO_cOgacMudrfgQOphE-vDqJhMpBm_h_zb75ZzCnvjrpLWEkZ1OAcAVoHT8ZZvp7s0qPqV0I6/s400/lax+girls+photo.jpg" border="0" />I'm not the only one who wanted a picture to prove they played lacrosse this weekend. "We are a positive and encouraging team!" Indeed.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327572730515062050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6aZvPxGx3nA50FRR-nVyAzSfedUyH0rZBQz35wB8OR6N74LdtQ2TCIb2TGEzBHwlPDymCT1nxlVdN95OQAm7X5xx4Cs4uy3AVVAo7PDm1xNtsg02y3CFe2mSvw0EFCv0YQiqz2r0chzlh/s400/DSC00711.JPG" border="0" /> Hey, Bonus Boy. It's always good to see you. He missed the dress-expedition. Looks a little sad about it, you say?</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-18187374427735082062009-04-19T22:57:00.005-05:002009-04-19T23:50:11.881-05:00Secret Conversations at Lacrosse<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326624606894211826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRdQdExu8xcBCkxOqMjTNupKvCgKl1547XlS1lY0P_Z-KzlaoBk8sbNJQ5pYAF0ChdMtNPt6ppwi3x_ET9HSjUOUoXlLx7F1e96QtKWdUJLRrKeoQ0e8De5XB0A3FHANPYRGVvDU8LDOUa/s400/DSC00591.JPG" border="0" />I wish I had had a visual record of every lacrosse game that PPP has played, with my commentary. I do. Wish that.<br /><br /><div><div>Nope, I was lying. I don't wish that. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326628123701636050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi531XIQ2VtYKIH7G39L93NW4HPFkt6pE-B_fCEW3NJ1otvjykVIeyiNwXglxzxco8cBPm1nAxZcGXQfKK0qcx2h6fYlVOm4B1aSypsOoTP7Bo_sZy6Jym32cAWbMtESRLm-Kjgha8iH3n-/s400/DSC00703.JPG" border="0" />I like this part. They line up and say "Good game! Good game! Good game!" and they say it even when the game has been horrible and unfair and wicked. Also they are hoping that no one has spit on her hand. That stuff I like. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326628955356584770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYIrtuuEhoIJMSn7o-r88GrYJrY6b3IEkQxg2QtAowxUY_zRpmEK864sGOATpOGIfvI54_4IUIc6AOf1hdESGq3cFpxIV5q4cF90s63XyvZ_q21HsOT6fVjk10m_dBB6DplMQoBt9ptn4/s400/DSC00712.JPG" border="0" />PPP and our Young Son aren't lacrosse All Americans, but they just have so much fun playing the game. It's really fun to watch. </div><div><br /><div>And I do love to have compelling and uplifting conversations with the other parents during the games. The MANY games we go to each and every week. </div><br /><br /><div><div>Filmster: <span style="font-family:arial;">What's your Young Son's name? Isn't it something like Edward ? Cullen? I can't quite remember. Does he actually PLAY in lacrosse games<em>?</em></span></div><br /><div>Me: <em>Bleh, bleh, mumble, mumble...</em>stunned into silence. I don't multi-task as well as I might, and am easily stunned into silence by...well, you know, unexpected questions. Phrased unexpectedly.<br /><br />Filmster: <em><span style="font-family:arial;">(into the camera)</span></em> <span style="font-family:arial;">That was a bad call. Reffing is terrible. (to me)</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">Oh, but does he ever actually PLAY?</span> </div><br /><div>Me: <em>Do you think I sit in the freezing rain, the horrible cold drinking nasty hot chocolate just to watch Big Russ play? Though Big Russ is pretty awesome.</em></div><br /><div>Filmster: <span style="font-family:arial;">Well, does your Brutus actually play? Maybe he's on the JV team? (<em>Into the camera</em>) Not my PreshBabe's fault! Way to go Babe!!!!! (<em>Really loud, Babe can hear</em>)</span></div><br /><div>Me: <em>Do you think I sit in the beautiful afternoon sunlight with my friends, chatting away awaiting Babe's breathless arrival to see Big Russ play, because...</em></div><br /><div>Filmster: (<em>into the camera</em>) <span style="font-family:arial;">Not Babe's fault. Dirty Shot! Shake it off Babe! (<em>to me</em>) </span><span style="font-family:arial;">So, your young Son, what's his name? Emil? He does stuff like keep score? Is he on the practice team?</span><em> </em><span style="font-family:arial;">Run the clock, Blow the horn? What is it? Francis?<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326628118426644514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8avuSgPba6537HYeh-rwJBpWl38S3i37ukyPKcOX9fRPnOUJk6bqYd-cyoDc6eEL9FF1Ko-ZkTxp8Yu0W3y7OMbiE4L-Ex-m7bCNHuCo_g6m7YmUI80mGWXEas0QTfs62lBu5XWzWF_4v/s400/P4070244.JPG" border="0" /> </span>Me: <em>NO, actually he plays. PPP does the clock and the horn.</em></div><div><br />Filmster: <span style="font-family:arial;">JV though, not on the real team? (<em>to the camera</em>) Somebody else didn't give good coverage! Good move, Babe!</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span> </div><div>Me: <em>Yes, on the JV. He's like a water boy. Sometimes they let him wash the dirty socks.</em> <em>The socks of Big Russ</em>. (Is that the right answer - the one that will make this end?)</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326624608329405538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQ-Z2byPK7rLtqRsCb8KoGSHvowaQhshzOC3yXvRW7E5FONzIkF0DShG0cW35-fPG0G8VDDh-4b2QcBN-Z0cDDZvrng1HkNQCd-KaAPW8sYdCkxRn1TeT51MgwJsCtwX_0DWYSrvxdpjz/s400/P4250349.JPG" border="0" />Filmster: <span style="font-family:arial;">Way to go Babe...Yeah, that's what I thought. What's his name again? Otto?</span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326617965677315666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJU2P9GsyYMeugVwumUg4yklojvDihv0i2lhRtH0RkmAyrgxV1QwTJ30xCchvRatEW2tTvbrDvySey80NB0f4uxtN5hztHW2h1vGqGDgOkxIhGKwxdBc2-6jNJEeXL94Erbc8sx3XgPQu/s400/DSC00606.JPG" border="0" />Even though I don't have a visual record of every game PPP has played, I do have a visual record of....well, you know. Interesting stuff. </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-60496274103550776282009-04-05T10:38:00.012-05:002009-04-06T23:29:22.450-05:00How to buy the perfect wedding dress<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321712397390484290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBQ-UjQjqPHlSZHDsG9cACWh0LFY0w6uo8p_XvMf8Qfvr3asdMY3Mbd7xv61XFHRauQb3yRHC88DABl19k1h0onJA9EBcBVIPlDG-mmEwNutqyBvDwvC6yMDfXUnCxAQceif3vqoV3aFrE/s400/lauren+walking+in+store.jpg" border="0" />Way back in December, we went shopping. It's a special privilege of my glam life as a Wedding Planner. It was the week of finals for this Pretty Bride, so her mom and I took a road trip, since she lives in Big D, and we live in little m. More cool glam stores there. All we did was eat and shop. Pretty glamorous! OH - and I got to spend the night all by myself in thoroughly clean-ness and absolute silence. Spectacular road trip, and all I had done so far was check-in. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321716679313055426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgki2OXkio9iGT9CyYhHPs7AxwAqYOhx-3O0PwOL7NGEjbg8BroEBEULS4V9rWm-Fw8bSTUTc1IXXgW76onF66AZOr8vx1LxLAnSoBSiePf4J6btgXiKhd2SAfHu2xbqQNLxlYcgEpd3ZeR/s400/PC052255.JPG" border="0" />They must have known I require a lot of pillows! A matched set of pillows standing at attention across the bed. And the pristine quiet. I was so stunned by all of it, especially the little marching pillows, that all I could think to do was take a picture. Who does that? Who looks through her pictures and find images of hotel rooms? <br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div></div><br /><div>Pretty Bride had pre-shopped all fall. In fact 'the dress' was the first dress I saw her try in early October, on a <em>different</em> wedding-dress-shopping road trip. It was perfect then, and the standard to which all further dresses were measured. All 264 more that she tried on, including this dress several times. Several times. It's <a href="http://mudlane.blogspot.com/2008/06/shopping-for-lovely-bride.html">my experience</a> that when <em>that Perfect Dress</em> is located, there is no turning back. Not too many girls debate once they have found THE dress. Compare, yes. Doubt? Not so much.</div><div><br />So...we shopped that weekend in December. At one store. I had called ahead and made sure that the potential "Perfect Dress" was going to be in the Bridal Salon. Our Pretty Bride brought a friend, which is only fair, since her mom had brought a friend, which would be me. The friend brought coffee, and I spent a good bit of the morning wishing I had brought coffee too. Oh well, the fear of spillage on the wedding dresses haunts me. Coffee + wedding dresses + stores = not me.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321712390283378098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 262px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0anR_S7u6z5BJoyj0tovQ5cYi7AHrtWA0x-NZtytyJ8EQd5SL9Rpz3iIWPAR5auOGNgTVUaYQGdEmQ9rs3gIF_YHnlmAhx5Q1ZxNseiLQ39wJEp0mLcMYXO2Op4A_5BWhOPGBvsaO5IZ/s400/clips+on+the+dress.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>Those clips on the back are covered with a vinyl coating, so as not to snag a delicate dress. They look like they come from Home Depot. Because in fact, they DO come from Home Depot. Did you want to know that? That gorgeous special princess dresses can be made to appear to fit using carpentry tools from Home Depot?<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321712399610582930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSxfVdP9H4rt76zeUpE3lu3jKPja1rg04EBK1MZ_lKLYpyXMf_7S19iZbOeuiPaFi8ST_h-loDQ-BE1K8Q7UaBShW0JSTzMsOl3etCa0xdQonaAv75F2lUmtXmm0Qk0poQgizt7_wUmcW/s400/lauren+in+another+dress.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>Next step is to try on another dress that you are absolutely NOT going to buy, what with the dark jeweled affair crawling down the shoulder. Try on another to walk around in for comparison. Just one more try on....just one more to be sure. Then, stop trying on. </div><div> </div><div>Being in the wedding salon is a luxurious experience. It's enough to make a girl feel like a princess. Princess I believe is the effect we're going for.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321712409147603698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 184px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-IyFvDdvmdjV7es5q41dHzqr3ebf9m-oYAoe0zPW7ldyJwb2d6tUpLb3eg4PejT5GbXcRp2S4bhzenhnxolJ56ty39Hldja_qlObXO9ToLn6Cg6J0-mMsJKIUUZISE8FwcBMGqi0Aar2/s400/suzanne+with+camera.jpg" border="0" />Moms take pictures. Why else did you bring your mother for such a momentous and costly purchase? The costliness maybe? No, pretty sure it's the pictures.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321254302447614658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhORCcErn9rFKLhyphenhyphende4dwoeikWCNcoLWLkvnU5dETB2sL6B2xRZtkNCGcwYrRun4Hw971pCLX4EnuHzUnYKOlt4nmua_yShj2eDfZtbOfp9TtcuJGsEZ0qH8rEYXoNcDsbcU4gkTVJIaE/s400/Beth+dress+in+box.jpg" border="0" />Months later, when my own Pretty Pretty Princess was standing at the door with a gigantic brown box in her hand...<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321254316338818130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaNWhQkEZ1wlp4t9BLJJPVCCKLkjQ5Zoh7Mg33C7exsEmkJEuBeAEYhZ7JGZyN5_OrDBfw8HI-VmxhEUy9k0pERhmEznWe-Y_YNwbmgb2PAJvQj6qekIGxsJdkMb-9U9IsTzD9I3_WJ-ca/s400/smiling+suzanne.jpg" border="0" />Mom was surprised! Delighted! Thrilled! Relieved!<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321254311180354114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 345px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7GO5ugsv4Wh-HAaq7Afx4pzjz6vcYlU0bnVZnBVtXsjBbySd29G8JnbelqM0_XOgr2hqhogGjLNxDfhr5IaENhmLHw4VWCXVLWUUnKNNmuSWm6c0pdha77B75qEO9fYe4A6vHxkEeXEV/s400/opening+the+box.jpg" border="0" />Honestly, it's kind of anticlimactic -<em>for a teensy minute</em> - when the packaging is a regular brown box, without a hint of what's inside. It's the same size as a lawnmower box or a table lamp box. What if we had opened it and found a table lamp inside the plain brown box? <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321252635777311570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 227px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 390px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW_ILxRJpiUUU7lb1ufvT1VBcwwzKsn4QcT5d3TqRDaY1RUQ88_-azzeTpsJZVykIixr516-nE_hju_Ne2EL7FWOrWsiar70sD5q0cEQ5CI5VJYPBMCLcSiN5sN2_F4ibhQTeUJslPFwwK/s400/surprised+Lauren.jpg" border="0" />When our Pretty Bride came home, she thought SHE was the one with gifts in hand - since she came home bearing Mother-of-the-bride dresses for Mom to try on. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321252638118878642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 236px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 397px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_JaPd0TM_EMHTnbq2K-n98sC-YCkQI3gn8YB5pyWL73zOVNB5_KspyHt8LnS8PbTEj6CSoDesgJQqZDVM-RAAQooAfRrB9SBY07zCCYJbryc1PVwCFdIo9M_oPAl9BBYe9vTnr68lS0Pf/s400/LK+smiling+re+dress.jpg" border="0" /> Surprise! Not a lawnmower. Not a table lamp.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321252633634751266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 283px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 315px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5aOIyd3lvjMbkORvqmrqj9XAdTIyRk4qVqHKlIBORmoMr4im7Rf-WVmF4rt30UrT5VhgYDjniFx5Etu3dcAjxRLTz_ivu3Pj9ZbC6zL2vqS50IM0MgYBYvDc6l6xoqiwUlJGK7XlrtACo/s400/lauren+hands+on+dress.JPG" border="0" />Yes, we do, we do indeed think it's the most beautiful dress in the world. And elegant. And even prettier than you remembered from way back in the winter, the week of finals.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321252632693070370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 258px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 91px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEjiZE3gbXIa9qTY4_ujaOpfscbM-ExuNUdyEabSqd0W9CUgI8bvXWVMdsjfapv5Tv4A2U-uGOeICgYHIwBgtN-QabuqfKK7BivCaqztoDtN_De0Ghw1nbJRFy7xPiqIBtOuf0L6BPtw2/s400/lauren+and+the+dress+on+hanger.jpg" border="0" />Sorry, I'm not showing <em>The Perfect Dress</em> yet. Just the smiles.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5321252642871238850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 291px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMiOiTzcKRSAEOAKbm_67aTUjerO-GE6NH64heu1-TrcJLsDWLNJ1EEA-eTmHsYvkNypkVJBFYam3F6NQQgPfd1cotK8oK4oheQeJY-4ouZ6vROba-MVOtIV-8DOPONiSikzF0WhOCXQYq/s400/lauren+and+suzanne+blurry.jpg" border="0" />How do I know it's THE dress, <em>The Perfect Dress</em>? In my professional opinion? I look for this moment...the moment when Mom wipes her tears in her daughter's hair, as she watches her girl transform herself into a bride.</div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-71277380172200857052009-03-28T11:44:00.005-05:002009-03-28T15:52:40.094-05:00Bored? Try Twilight<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318321838387585666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-U75KdmW83VwcV9TIoqTNybN1UdPUUspKB5qBSx2ep3LkoAsKMX3mo3k5GfivKxBn7AiVgnrwypb6qjPFAVaZHTvf8q_JIVBOQX-g-a6WrZ_qqbfOS2hwDeFui8TqaxlAnqkcaTf17dU/s400/DSC00503.JPG" border="0" />BigD reminded me last night that I haven't written anything to entertain him or the 3 other people who read this in TWO WEEKS. WELL...for starters between the two lax kids there have been something like 13 games in 8 days. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318317369870311762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZvNPYorWQU4Wi-EGkE8eSxl9oPDIA2AN2jAs0EgDqbIPY6tddBm_GwPpWf2ufN4DGfzTpiHpQXHcWpyJ2fH319jVr91JN26vNmfAICm8-6tjH78nG_1wMXMDPFRvp7CpEaMnQrQinMZdo/s400/DSC00505.JPG" border="0" />It's been either raining or freezing, or both.<br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div></div><div>Loathe to write about lax yet - though I feel sure it's coming - I went to Imagination Prompt Generator! </div><br /><div>Last quarter at school I taught an 'elective' <em>Creative Writing</em> for 8th grade students. Elective means it doesn't actually count. <em>Creative Writing</em> means you get an A unless you turn in absolutely nothing. That's what it means for students. For the teacher it means come up with something stimulating (Facebook) and 'worth my time' (<em>Twilight</em>) for a group of incredibly wise 8th graders. A solid characteristic of the 8th grade is that all students are bored, all classes are useless, all assignments are pointless and all teachers are numbingly stupid. <img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 440px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 496px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://www.baltimoremagazine.net/maxspace/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/twilight-backlot-21.jpg" border="0" />Also, most have some strong opinions about <em>Twilight.</em> </div><div> </div><div></div><div>In my search for constant 8th grade stimulation I found this little gem: <a href="http://www.creativity-portal.com/prompts/imagination.prompt.html">Imagination Prompt Generator</a>. It has a "Next Prompt" button that one clicks for a series of deep and stimulating questions, about which one might write. Whenever a student finished my genius assignment too soon (as in 5 minutes), I directed them to <em>Imagination Prompt Generator</em> and told them to write as much or as little as they wanted about as many or few prompts as they chose. If nothing else, it held their attention as they clicked 'next prompt' and snickered about the lameness of the prompts. Let's see what it does for me!</div><div> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Does God care?</strong></span> <em>Whoa, strong way to start! The answer is YES. Next prompt? </em></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>What should you be doing instead of sitting at the computer right now?</strong></span> <em>Nothing is more important than absolute obsession with BravoTV and the lives of strangers strewn across the United States. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318321848105884770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixXEJwhacCGpgjDfJ2Wco4bv3qtC_yD-t1bCMSzTrei1GGs9Y8hmcmyOeMgZfTAU_3R_bNwG4e3lTON_GJuZs640aNbSep6zcWeEw2fzb_FhSm2D1qh52GGrjgQuESOW0D9ewTtvmqyais/s400/serious+stretching.jpg" border="0" /></em></div><div><em>Maybe laundry. </em></div><div><em>Maybe not.</em></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>What remains constant in your life?</strong></span> <em>Laundry. </em></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Describe a trip downtown as a youngster</strong></span><em>. "Youngster"? Seriously? Even I think this is lame, due entirely to the word "youngster." Next.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318317368082406674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglGFZamIKiGSRFPJVOtsVIL0lhXFn_elf885iCfP625H3jnz7F5CbmZF8lutaJzqtWR3xLTYhKKBJPipezpyKVVgXwMBLCoEVr0vJSah3YXKtmYWNzo5fupqR5bXbMFPyn9cE0kXKQCN_X/s400/P9081320.JPG" border="0" /></em></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>My three closest friends....</strong></span><em> The people who are sitting next to me in whatever bleachers I find myself.</em></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Feeling low? Why?</strong></span><em> Is the other choice, "Feeling HIGH?" Not EVEN going there.</em> </div><div><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">Look out the window. Write about what you see</span>.</strong><em> I see a bunch of yard work that needs to be done. Do you really want to know about that?</em></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>What do you do with all of the things that you write about?</strong></span> <em>Sorry, I don't understand the question. At all.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318321840479542674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjl1B_GrOmktnwJ5b7_WSrYjeiW31Dz9Ow30kRkBwMxTaYTI2xatElgd8QUJvEn-Sj15uivqA-RsBx8g8ynSPBziW2xReIhqYibpw_jdOMv_MhXrC-vI9ys0bdxlr9KcEUFFRi1LbmBErr/s400/wet+clothes.jpg" border="0" /></em></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">List five things you need.</span><em> <strong>Will one do?</strong></em> </div><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 640px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 427px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://static.screenweek.it/2008/11/11/Twilight-Immagini-del-Film-10_mid.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>How old would you be if you didn't know your real age?</strong></span><em> I would be a vampire and I would be 17 forever. </em><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Ten people who are alive today I would love to meet (and why).</strong></span><em> You can tell a teacher wrote this one because it is supposed to take a long time to write the answer.</em> <img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 500px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 333px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://thecullensliveforever.webs.com/movie_cullens4.jpg" border="0" /><em>Alternate answer: the whole cast of the Twilight movie.<img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 600px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 335px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://terbsworld.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/twilight-movie-9.jpg" border="0" /></em></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>What was the last CD you bought?</strong></span><em> Debussy, like Edward Cullen. Because I live for Twilight.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318317356213588978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZr_xQpo9FBovzg-J99hdbrOqPNnJHUpu_58kCfxOnsNv9jMmbP1IGC5J8dtEGEH50sAfwpctjo2oLZ1qkn5gUQrP6vcXjTqIniGTi08naYL8gaXzyGPcwhWJJmB1pkUkYwjSYv6Vvm8Y5/s400/emma+in+sunglasses.jpg" border="0" /></em></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Write about your favorite pet</strong></span><em><strong>.</strong> Lame. Next prompt.</em><br /><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Did you have a bicycle?</strong> What was it like?</span><em> Pink, I think. I read Fat Cyclist, does that count?</em></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>When someone asks for your opinion, are you always honest? Why or why not?</strong></span> <em>Oh, please. Next prompt. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318321854058625618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcG0SyM-qx401LbvOzN9Bn0i5hf7kvfmeXkDFOpLCcRUGdtBxadinI27bJCNvm495mk9TCLthRiusehdALbThniN31IEuQPa__9oZlYm7h4WVqWzqtFAMn_Tli9b9VFH9_4GxHcjgnKfl/s400/ben+and+beth+after+lax.jpg" border="0" /></em></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Without my children, I'd....</strong></span> <em>not be spending my life at the lacrosse field, that's for sure.</em> </div><div> </div><div></div><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Do you have choices?</strong></span><em> Yes, and I choose <strong>next prompt</strong>.<img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 600px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 323px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2008/11/21/movies/21twil600.jpg" border="0" /></em></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>How do you feel today?</strong></span><em> Bored, perhaps I will watch Twilight the movie.</em> <em>Oh wait, I forgot, the school play. Cinderella. Same thing.<br /></em><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>How do you feel about the holidays?</strong></span><em> the ones where I should cook, clean up and decorate? or the ones where I don't have to go to school? </em></div><div><em></em> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>Does belief in a higher power matter?</strong></span><em> Again? See first question.</em></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>What is YOUR meaning of life?</strong></span> <em>I'm done.</em></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-20902406723325704612009-03-13T19:30:00.002-05:002009-03-13T20:09:41.039-05:00The rules of Mouth NoiseI have about 1876 pet peeves. Mouth noise is at the top of the list. And to make it worse, I have super-hearing, specifically to mouth noise.<br /><br />I was born this way. My siblings made it worse. In those days, I called it SMACKING because that is what they did to make me crazy. I have a vivid mouth-noise memory involving salad. I was in what we now call the tweens or Middle School years. They should be called the miserable years, because I was miserable to be around. Especially when there was an abundance of smacking.<br /><br />One particularly miserable night we were sitting at our little kitchen table, eating supper involving a salad which we were required to eat. Salad=crunchy, right? Right. Just ask my sibs. They used that opportunity to combine crunching of salad with the smacking enhancement of salad dressing. They could really tune it up. <br /><br />ME: STOP SMACKING<br /><br />THEM: Smack, smack, smack! Lickety smack.<br /><br />ME: STOP IT! You are doing it on purpose. Stop smacking.<br /><br />Them: Smackity, smack, smack, smack <em>(leaning over right next to my ear) </em>Slurp-smack.<br /><br />ME: <em>YELLING</em> Mama, make them stop. I can't eat. (<em>note, I didn't need to eat - perhaps it was some perverse diet thing they came up with. )</em><br /><br />Them: Smack, smack, licking wet smack, stick-out-the-tongue-to-show-the-chewed-food SMACK!<br /><br />ME: <em>now screaming</em>: You are doing it ON PUR-POSE. <em>(ya think?)</em> I'm going in the dining room.<br /><br />The dining room was on the other side of the wall from the table in the kitchen. By moving to the dining room, I was moving roughly 6 feet away. The better for them to smack at me. I tried to slam the door, but it was a swinging door and wouldn't slam. That was a shame. I could have used a good door-slam about then.<br /><br />Them: <em>holding the door open with a foot and laughing hysterically.</em> SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK. <em>Mouths wide open and food spewing everywhere.</em><br /><br />ME: I'm going to tell Daddy when he gets home. <em>Now crying</em>. <br /><br />They did this a LOT.<br /><br />Imagine my dismay when I got out into the whole wide world and found out that mouth noise of all kinds makes me crazy. It is the root of my hatred of gum. What is the purpose of gum? Only two things - to generate mouth noise and to attempt to cover up something on one's breath - say smoking, which I never did. <br /><br />So, I trained my children carefully to chew with no mouth noise. Which is impossible. Everybody makes mouth noise. Unfortunately, not everyone trains his or her children to eat with his/her mouth closed, which is rule number one of table etiquette. <br /><br />I was horrified to make my first visit to my potential in-laws home to find out that no one taught them to chew with their mouths closed. It was bad. Old country manners, and open mouth chewing, plus talking with mouth full - <em>EH, paesano...how about closing up your Italian mouth when eating that sloppy lasagna? </em> Actually I didn't say that. I thought it. Lots of times.<br /><br />To make matters worse, I have some sort of uber-hearing related to mouth noise. Think of the whole drive-you-insane heart-beating scene in Poe's <em>Telltale Heart</em>. You know what I'm talking about, everyone in the world read's Poe's <em>Telltale Heart</em> in Middle School and again in High School. It's the MS/HS English teacher's dream story, because there are all kinds of recordings of it which take a bunch of class time. Except for me, who has never, ever done that for any reason. Bell-to-bell, every single day.<br /><br />For me, it's not a beating heart that follows me throughout the house, it's the mouth noise. It seeks me wherever I go. Smackity-smack, smack.<br /><br />And then, to top it off, I ended up with a child who has TMJ and so when said child chews, on top of mouth noise, we have the popping of the jaw joints. Pop-pop-pop, minor-smack-crunch-pop. Can't help it.<br /><br />Also, I have children who go hide to eat, because they know I hate mouth noise.<br /><br /><strong>My rules for mouth noise are these</strong>:<br />Don't make any.<br />Ever.<br />If you must, don't do it around me.<br />No gum. The sound will seek me out and find me.<br />I do not want to see your chewed food.<br />I do not even want to think of your chewed food. <br />I also don't want to hear your chewed food.<br />Ever.<br />Thank you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-87639561289513463252009-03-07T13:51:00.005-06:002009-03-07T20:41:23.309-06:00Clean-up Fairy<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYxKh5fG2WRX_xTuE-Qkkimfk4Ws2hsFOv5NDVQjNoaZ1ceka8jCKto97yhasHU1YoO72N0iDh4ITMrRyL13Q6ZLzFGcD3P5hwUe41mRfLUVKrBRrGl8t43OWtIz0RXRSoawIAJGZikOV/s1600-h/P2202452.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310627142862528786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUYxKh5fG2WRX_xTuE-Qkkimfk4Ws2hsFOv5NDVQjNoaZ1ceka8jCKto97yhasHU1YoO72N0iDh4ITMrRyL13Q6ZLzFGcD3P5hwUe41mRfLUVKrBRrGl8t43OWtIz0RXRSoawIAJGZikOV/s400/P2202452.JPG" border="0" /></a> Considering that PPP and I took a road trip, I missed two days of school. I anticipated that things would not be as I had left them. Never in my wildest dreams did I anticipate the train-wreck caused by the clean-up fairy.<br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div>Ms K met me at the end of the hall when I got to school, walked down the hall, hovering at my elbow, murmuring apologies that built in urgency. Something tragic must have happened. Was somebody sick? Somebody fired? Did I get fired while I was gone? That seems to be a trend these days, it just seemed only natural.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310537211858930290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1gGT5q0jRvyM6cVHWP_ygebSW5sLWWxBWQOEOfG3XnKhgQgitsEj3p4CTRodkJf_kYw8AbdE0E-zKYo7hLdQqGdCf7TQEj-T6hQRLjoZZ95CTlb98L6GDtirnjmg4QmWUPuLwx8JoqIVK/s400/my+room.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>At school, I use the "organized stacks" filing system, in which one carefully stacks sets of papers on strategic geographic locations on the desk, behind the desk, beside the desk, on the window sill, sometimes even on the floor. Papers are in alphabetical order, and the stacks are in date order. Every class has a stack. I know what's in each stack and mostly what order things are in, and I know where on the desk each stack is located. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310537199270369522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJnRUogeontObbAKL4sqomvEeXzo73RjhmiKa-ekiyzhM2HKFgCIs4xw0d2-m4G50WXgNMjTcD6t6rztxsL4aAS-Nw_qW4rvKNbnyvXqwJM3rXRH0a8KEXLzFlYG1VS-ZCjp_RmrFGsyx/s400/my+desk.jpg" border="0" />Perhaps there are sometimes extraneous papers and pens and cups spread around, things get knocked off but I manage that fine. The point is that it is MY stuff...MY mess, if you <em>must insist.</em><br /></div><br /><div>When we walked in Ms. K said "Isn't this going to be a <strong>big help</strong>?" I couldn't at that moment figure out what "this" was. "I knew how much stress you're under, so I cleaned up for you while you were gone." <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310536932081583410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqW2VPB466YPBrcGnwdG76Z2zUeXFJ6sNnBSIFcdK1L41cwxFJLtIh6V0VYpDbKwRj4sS7GujhGZy9J2bziIQHM6h4pLK0gzMFB6PIwx5idk-v2oo-w_GJT9BGDMIUonbuokc13ySgy1lT/s400/clean+desk.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>NO $*#! Surely, I had already been fired, my desk cleaned out, and I was there to just pick up my A to Z book ends. There are no stacks, no piles, no geographical landmarks on my desk to tell me that the 6th grade papers are here, while the 8th grade papers are there. Cleaned up? Wrecked? Same thing. </div><br /><div>So...I started with the effusive thanks. Thanks so much for being so considerate. Thanks so much for all the time it must have taken. <em>So, how much time did you actually spend in there?</em> Thanks so much for ... thinking about me? <em>And where might my umbrella be, since I have carpool in 3 minutes and it's raining? Also, any notion where the sub folders are? </em></div><br /><div>I used to have a paper blotter, face up November, 2008. It's gone. Gone with it are lots and lots of phone numbers, like the cell phone number of my favorite florist and email addresses and websites that I have made note of for the past . . . however long. Tucked under those pages were receipts and more notes and more stuff of mine. Also gone. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310536923335020674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTxxNawRfTXkhAqS8TWeYXrKEe3pQcf24Ff-dqSP9EMaHsFZAA3jHxsrOhi_1FzHpHdeTmD51hzFcmxxDeDb2wAdS-wMBroCVGOMPHGW71SHICJlWnlSmGI-u47eYlzt2O37oyiXhx0qwe/s400/windowsill.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>I had some boxes of text books that we don't use any more, since we are a tech-forward LAPTOP school No more boxes. Now I have those un-used books stacked by size and color in my window sill. </div><br /><div>How thoroughly sweet! The clean-up fairy cleaned up! She gave the sweetest and most sacrificial gift she could give me - her time. She made MY world look like HER world. Side effect - thoroughly unable to find anything, most crucially the things I had left ready for that very morning's worth of children, who would come pouring through the door in 18 minutes. </div><br /><div>It has come to my attention that I am not a classically neat person. I am organized - in my head. It has been a point of contention with my mother ever since I got old enough to "make a mess." I don't see it as mess. It doesn't register in my consciousness as mess. It registers as stacks. And I know what's in each stack. Papers are in alphabetical order, and the stacks are in date order. I use the same system with my clothes, and I always have. Stacks. When the stacks get unruly, I clean up, but I always end up with more stacks. That has never been a popular position with Mimi, who believes that somehow I am doing an injustice to my family by using this organizational system. It does not seem to bother them, because for the most part, they all use the same system.<br /><br />When I finally came around and sat down in that big blue chair I discovered that not only had she cleaned up my desk, she had cleaned up my trash. I had a box beside my desk for recycle paper. Beside it is a crate that holds things like last semester's exams, and projects, and study guides. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310536943674977842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimKmmeR7SsdneJfzMCkqbZAgQTRArgcPZuWHKguRSwVVixa4qSI4KOs_ZyinWDy1i7kOagjWp3M4MA_kXvPvJrjy1al0wLnl8P4QSaDwjZrKVCbXrtoHwDOG4c47rLuOGpo3kYDmInZxmo/s400/box+of+trash.jpg" border="0" />Not any more. NOW, there is a box in which all of that paper - trash and exams, are stacked neatly - in one box. Somewhere in the corner of the window sill is another stack. One single stack. Five classes + trash in one stack. Cleaned up my trash - sorry, I am horrified. Also, terribly ungrateful. Ms K gave up a DAY to clean up my trash.</div><br /><div>As the week went on, people stuck their heads in the door to ask "how was your trip....and how do you like your new room?" Apparently, the clean-up angel had started in on Friday morning, roughly 12 hours after I left the night before, in full clean-up regalia to TACKLE the project. She worked all day. She spent <strong>an entire day</strong> in my room cleaning up. And going through my every note and receipt. Also, plowing through my trash. And everyone in our school knew what she was doing and how much time she spent doing it. Everywhere I went people greeted me with thngs like "How is your new clean room?" or "Wasn't it great to come back to a clean room?" Those chipper people did not have their world re-organized, only with no key as to where things might be found.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310637397157765522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie4xcbewsU6q7xUJSbTn-TfBDJgADzSFMtyDtVl1wl2tkTBuwUMB6O7S6wij9GBRN-6hiJL2eMkvsh2gztnPFB_c6aCBo4L6fZZXZRe9TDoj0RD_GuyC8doEoVmvsWSinfFXzAt1UHaCu2/s400/laundromat+roanoke.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>So, while I was here with the Princess, the clean-up fairy was creating her own reality show "Extreme Classroom Make-over" in my room. One particularly perceptive colleague said "I wondered how you were going to feel about that." Yeah, wondered.</div><br /><div>She gave up a whole entire work day, to spend it in my room, dealing with my mess, re-organizing my bookshelves, looking through my calendar, <strong>going through my trash</strong>. <em>Is there not a piece of that statement that's a little bit creepy?</em> Stupid, ungrateful me - feeling creepy about this genuine, loving, helpful gift. See? </div><br /><div>I asked her if anyone else who might be in a position to care - principle? students? headmaster? parents? God? - had complained that my room was messy. NO, she assured me. No complaints. Did she have an inkling that <em>people</em> were talking a because my room was 'messy'. NO, it was just her, all her, and her desire to serve me. <em>Because I am so, so ...what, pitiful?</em> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I have spent the last days in serious conflict. Feeling bad because Ms K spent a whole entire work day in my room, and I am not squealing with joy. I'm feeling guilty because I feel so invaded; feeling wicked for my un-grateful, whiny response. Paranoid because someone <strong>went through my trash</strong>. Also concerned, wondering what actually was IN my trash. </div><br /><div>I am waiting to feel the delight and relief that a really good clean-up offers. I'm not feeling it. I guess I would feel better if I had my order in my world, and not someone else's verision of order installed in my absence.</div><br /><div>Is that pathetic? Am I that pathetic?</div><br /><div>Before I left this week, I made sure it was at least a little neat. I flipped the pages of the calendar book, which I had carefully replaced at just the right angle on the clean desk. On the pages of this week was written in big colorful letters "<span style="color:#ff0000;">Spring Break</span>" Seriously? I needed some stress relief from the clean-up that I didn't do.</div><div> </div><div>A teacher on our hall has whole boxes of chocolate and candy in her cabinet. We all make frequent stress-relief trips to the cabinet. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310536957626069746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZgudYKfabRO7vhYkRmaBg7coJHTElQt6yqICYhNI1j0-kL2EGKbiBPgpEuumheI0yF771NT9U8KgpvgJ0XmXFDs2XX1JFJfld5RjG4_Gm_qwHtI87xVx32tgLkMj34CA5T6qVSU2f22I/s400/charlene's+candy.jpg" border="0" /> Not so much. Lent. </div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-46470779257607838772009-02-24T21:17:00.002-06:002009-02-26T22:04:48.991-06:00Hollins gets its Science going<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306942601359644994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0BTPfV6fGwMczQ0j_un0sYm8z6m2RwByijm3FiaPqRmAGtKWYwCpy5GgVqIC1g4Fn42jczro6qGPQgfxKEi7u7sciEjQ7HRIfjxfFEnXNHfAKXSJZWIn6KhsFkk5gRc_Vo_B-9BeavF3x/s400/DSC00457.jpg" border="0" />Oh LOOK! Still not my window! The last day of the trip to Hollins was more positive on the science front. It HAD to be more positive on the science front because all the other days had been filled with horses and creative writing. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306944971098147474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 394px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLjtm-ilFKIaghYNgT-keNQoZWaGzfaT65Qr4Mr8gDjsyMLV5zNpZ5K3GWJfmjKXH65jR_Ffi5S-ckSabrjSe9oljz_0tCPpX63KpY_CYHS6yXEAQs7tV2faEExCpU91yblbMUqlTajDf/s400/animal+blankets.jpg" border="0" />In the laundromat just down the road from Hollins we saw a sign warning about blankets with animal hair. I am not the least bit veterinary, but the only animals I know of that have blankets are horses. Have you ever heard of a goat blanket? a rabbit blanket? a chicken blanket? No, you have not. You have indeed heard of HORSE blankets. So, PPP's possible trips to the laundromat at Hollins are potentially laden with girls sneaking their horse blankets into the laundromat. Another scary thing for her to fret about. <div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div> </div><div>Take a look at PPP - because her body language will tell us about her college hunt.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306944974292896130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGN52_bAG4m3asoSz1iZ05Ubwh_WYZOl5H-3alWOb229L9UvxUEeX7OGHOimcINkj6eoQzMxDzz5SO2VQDHiIWTOLfSpzV7-KOnMsWK3ldXVXGg-pTOwMngjMOvpZnrT4oFvVRIm57qAVF/s400/harriet+beth+downtown+roanoke.jpg" border="0" />So...happy, smiling PPP with Auntie Bootza on her 18th birthday, pre-horse farm.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306944983221225426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQ05IlamHxfycYcMSVZB800V3QAbP9FpTb8VNpIMSum7BzCAmBBfswIW0V65go9n7664_vdEK2H2I-qEkhPB0gUO-05z_raylbeJkWAjaz7OiySTHDoBlanP-9NlWSEAlNNXU6ihjHL7T/s400/hollins+tour.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>And....PPP, freezing on a tour of Hollins that included nothing of interest to her. . . with random snow flying around.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306959927963067154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXW2j4w46V1Ghpc3ZcXc9u1ASAltXArDOsTsZ5NtU5fI-6mj0tIPw7gi2rIbfUv4aLcFtr8pCW8HJU4UcmZwUfRq64qRdYkqwql4IE-KkyAK2chENrgmxWXwfokAn6EMq3wpBGwa8wXiK/s400/DSC00462.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>If you cannot read body language of our 2nd daughter, that posture says: "Fine. Just FINE. I'm going, but I don't want to."</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307307260118131122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5roYV-Z-BNFR4oTlikBRAs5Cv-nWMSlMwOiBM_xW75bdrpIDSoikKp3Ef8GPkG49OdzRmtJ4EjP6JLoGIMzPWcfUrACJx-lGNxuDpqOjDWDvZpSZzZ2VMdoK3uuf3wqSaiBGIUAlF2nfw/s400/hollins+main.jpg" border="0" />"And NO, you cannot take my picture."</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307307266296150802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrlJPiTnimjq8Vqtv4IHqWm22F91GPv4ivLa_zVp3Vzjr-mLNxLm-tU79v9-QXWfSgSemTJLlpgm8QlLkpaMdAZm5Vl8OFSHa6isCYjjEaOWrq51_JXEMBK1IBs33aaV7-UDuZUtlEiRE/s400/batten+luncheon.jpg" border="0" />And this says exhausted and possibly bored. PPP spent the night....with a very, very sweet creative writing major, whose assessment of the student body was "Pretty much everybody does Creative Writing here." There was a party planned for the girls visiting for the weekend. Hostess Laura offered a 'slam poetry performance' at a coffee house instead. <em>Did they intentionally engineer this situation so that PPP would be discouraged?</em> <em>I have visions of girls huddled in the corner of their dorm rooms, crouched over a notebook writing poetry, in their riding boots, with hairy horse blankets piled on the floor. Don't tell</em>. Also...coffee house? Didn't that expression end in the 60's? Don't we say 'Starbucks' now? Perhaps coffee shop? </div><div><br />PPP got up at dawn, and went to a chemistry class in which there were 3 people. Lunch with a chemistry professor, one of three in the whole school, confirmed that the ratio of equine creative writers to scientists is about 750:3, considering that the undergraduate enrollment is 753. Perhaps our girl will make that 4 science majors. She also met the lacrosse coach, which was a nice touch, since all we had seen was one lax goal, pushed off to the side, and a field with some faint lines. They gave us some slick recruiting papers about the strength of the science department. And they were totally awesomely nice to us both. That would be <em>after</em> I had a chat with the President of the University, the President of the Parents Council and the Assistant Director of Admissions. My basic premise was that we had driven really, really far, and thanks for asking us....but if they are so all up in the sciences, where exactly are the people? We met all of them the next morning. In rapid succession. Things got awfully scientific after that. Then we drove home, because of the impending first lacrosse game of PPP's season.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306959929236820770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmF64FamaxlLM8G7CshmfqQufOJtWCI-5NllkUaE9Ni8ksYv_foJMHCC42j0iFZIaAPvaJBEUmGSyTyzhgGBnTNkVV-lfNMaLcRNyPgUbAqkkw7SHEML9TDcP5B9Li1gzrBiDspu16YOud/s400/DSC00478.jpg" border="0" />The afternoon was warm and westward - driving home. PPP and I got pretty sleepy. But we drove fast. AFTER we left Virginia and it's militant highway police who dare to stop people in the middle of the night. <em>Sleepy + fast = don't tell.</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306941487790508370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-frdfkXOgrOMJVEKoaGyYz6K0elTAAxJZzuMhD_TLurnfbYPXDUdRExz1enh5kMU0Xdw4jedGWqd00T7qSKFcFowVpNqk7_CXNTXRvxFO4Un9_0kRnQFuDqK4CQyurTZD0HRUV0Dg5QM/s400/DSC00485.jpg" border="0" />We stopped, for coffee.We stopped for chocolate and Diet Coke, anticipating the Lenten fast upon us.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306941508659320114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFXMnDT2VVIjFqTs2l-BOe0r-yXb3KP6gBZD7luo1zwPJ9xMuyBRm24BZduYLJM-M68wYzn90RtYy6xczb8xG_-yihKymF4Y_Tk2W_M7WFNSqiRoM70XGBdFRQFCHPC5z3JvgETm7TzKP/s400/DSC00486.jpg" border="0" />And with all the stopping for coffee and Diet Coke and Green Tea, we stopped some more to relieve ourselves so we could drink some more.<br /><div> </div><div><strong>10 hours 30 minutes worth of random observations from the drive home:</strong></div><br /><div>Things were a lot better in the morning at Hollins than they were the night before. Still, it looks better to Mom than to the potential student.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307307255906470306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 396px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkNNZV6oWI-LXIHZAs75PtdYqSmWSj_LmRhb3egl-nyWtcEX9Mkq0OxT2g9M9aVpPMlXEKiowKNOqYo8PfAUzv2MK_bprA8wLrcqgHKtieeGr_VLacg97kT4E5vEjZEkpTUhJ4tClB7yL/s400/harriet+pointing+out+the+window.jpg" border="0" />Bootza was right...every single time she told us about the mountains and their blueness.<br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306941511703905794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizG88MLjwx2ZVbJgZ41q_4Wmhoc1q2G5hRsLsf5cR6Ye2yN6F0My9XktU1iA9onA8VsQHcRyRBPVODJ8K32t-UlsdkN2KI8vYA0yr-Lk9F-G8_z82jScsm9egZZfDizR2wpaUeBGYY71yy/s400/DSC00483.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>The Blue Ridge Mountains are blue.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>We appreciate the value of a women's-school education. Bleh, bleh, bleh. Not sure about the slam poetry.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306942638842962578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-2BclrANIT4vnFzA_EN5upP3DDEL0rDBR0mI5QBDy_WMJFoyDPsvH7AW6_vRfOn3k_G5NpnEB9JmxGvzBw7K0fFmkS-jN5hbqmR75xAHbY1I3MQ9iObeZpgoWw69z3eBozAX_SnBgmyU/s400/DSC00455.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>Internet access is SO worth $10 a day.</div><div> </div><div>Which is better? A ton of personal attention for 3 or 4 science students or a enormously competitive and peer-challenging course of study? Hmmm...can we flip a coin? <em>Also, is there actually a job market big enough to absorb all these art history majors?</em></div><div><br /><div>What is slam poetry? We had to phone a friend to find out. Stargazer reports that it's random and twisty and makes no sense to anyone but "the poet". Sounds like the 60's to me.</div><br /><div>Why didn't they bribe all the bubbly fun Hollins girls to spend the weekend at school, so that it didn't look so deserted and mopey? Attracting scientists doesn't compare to parties at schools with boys.</div><br /><div>Hollins is a really good school. And it might be a great place to go. While we were about 37 seconds from going home on Sunday night, we didn't. I''m glad, because they fell all over themselves to make PPP feel like...a science Princess. That was nice.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306959940187444194" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsS7yG3ZSw331wERXILe3xFQ7VtfGZcXelmck1TPIFd6hUifYc7ncLJZi9hQCbTM0mfA4ZH5-UV7oUVOK_GzRNwc0ugEGi_1YNIZU100vWYCZKfqbc5mYVuu-VzfJS-NLDARNd63S5HV2k/s400/P9131352.JPG" border="0" />PPP is definitely not a creative writing/equestrian/art history major with a minor in performance music. Ruled out completely.<br /><br /><div>It only took us 10.5 hours to get home, rather than the anticipated 12. I cannot fathom how fast we must have driven because we stopped every hour.</div><div> </div><div>PPP does not eat gas station hot dogs. Just...no. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307305549063449026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5wRBsYgttV_JvK7YQZMDFEQpo47Q8t59Svdycf_WnJyngsdlA73o3G_409_UijovXgOZfOFd-cgvLwaKDi_4wm_OdWkbDe_SrkE_n-yfsWeeeMmF5yF9YS1fG_29w-Z_Ebbqq8IsPvFJ/s400/fall+rhodes+tour.jpg" border="0" />There's another place that she really likes a lot. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307305542645631938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 374px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP-37VCaHgn04x_t0Rf0fkDYx265GFgWkYHscShUQ3GxLBNLuVIgGZOgYzsZerj12k5XalMws5UuS8XsgtA3Us7RDGfULPy-88w4ksMWpoE7grJuBw7dAho4plW7MKWxkZEbyUy-gcwobn/s400/smiling+beth+at+rhodes.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>A whole lot. Anybody can read THAT body language. </div><div> </div><div>We're listening. We really are.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-19266689125211781502009-02-23T02:11:00.002-06:002009-02-23T02:11:00.774-06:00Still Looking - or How PPP spent her 18th Birthday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFG-NIzEu8I64sGfkzqnHW0MwFrlRIsOuTKZ3S-PeC6TiAh2sJFF08B3JVFfO0R7fAYNjArMFr7CHOW-PLGYkL9RiRiJdwG4aU_7mGHGhQvstoh4zs5HJY7XdHoGxC828aiPoI_v4hSXUQ/s1600-h/P9131360.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305888042212175266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFG-NIzEu8I64sGfkzqnHW0MwFrlRIsOuTKZ3S-PeC6TiAh2sJFF08B3JVFfO0R7fAYNjArMFr7CHOW-PLGYkL9RiRiJdwG4aU_7mGHGhQvstoh4zs5HJY7XdHoGxC828aiPoI_v4hSXUQ/s400/P9131360.JPG" border="0" /></a>Still looking at colleges. What? That's not February, nor is it Virginia? Right on all accounts. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305859317930723922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjW0Yvfvv4PRS9_CploCIDyXzhAbpc1Hz7slrv7N5XO3vlRT0Csei_DUMipW25k90-N1RRdiiuenneQPxDN_mOU6fRXYjoay3uUKKcbexzPT0KcYwyPySGee0WRLiWNCWSk0li_-jZzqr/s400/PB212010.JPG" border="0" /> <div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>It's Rhodes. But about now, they are all starting to look <em>kind of</em> alike. </div><br /><div>In Virginia at Hollins, it's neither home, nor beautiful November. It's the middle of winter and roughly 47 degrees colder tonight than when we left home. Not roughly, EXACTLY. Anyway, everytime the heater ROARS to life in this hotel, it wakes me up. And every time I wake up, it's still not my window. And we're still looking at this college.</div><br /><div>Thank you Hotel Roanoke, I love your gorgeous restoration, and the fact that I have to pay to park about 7 blocks away, and that the maid stared at me when I got another tiny bar of soap. Also thanks for letting me stay in your hotel on POINTS, because BigD has spent so many nights in your sister hotels. PPP is particularly incensed that we have to pay for internet access. Internet access at any time or place is a GOD GIVEN RIGHT, as any self-respecting 18 year old will tell you. This trip, it's worth $10/day. </div><br /><div>Saturday, PPP and I made an early trip out in search of a laundromat, and washed her jeans. That is the way we celebrate a birthday in our family - we go to the laundromat.</div><br /><div>We took a sneak peak at Hollins. Early on Saturday morning, not a creature was stirring. Shades drawn, silent, deserted. Not even the horses were evident. Hollins has a big EQUINE program. Just ask them. </div><div> </div><div>Auntie Bootza arrived, fresh from DC (call it DC, that's what locals call it - DC), we went and found lunch, and discovered that Roanoke is all retro-hippy, and has a 'thriving art scene' and 'niche-y galleries and art hot spots.' Bootza gets all excited about that stuff and used to live here, so that was fun. However, Wal-Mart is Wal-Mart where ever you are. </div><br /><br /><div>Also, back to Hollins. Saturday afternoon, still not a creature stirring. Well maybe a couple of creatures. Someone had let some horses out, though they were inside a fence and wearing coats. <em>A picture would be nice here, but I cannot find the little cord - here yesterday, gone today.</em> </div><br /><div>For us with no equine savvy, it was a relief that the horses were behind a fence. For all the talk about the EQUINE program, we were concerned about the horses roaming free in the Quad, and wondered exactly how they kept the campus clean, what with all the horses. So...good to know - no free roaming horses and someone was actually ON CAMPUS this weekend. </div><br /><br /><div>We tooled around town, until we were through. We walked the many frigid blocks after parking, to find that yet again, the Hotel Roanoke had rolled the red carpet out for us. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305859323758059570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3cr9QCXAUKKTzA6vh7mKwyqMYDlYEs7q5AQ8uFs98BqUUYTDPP6pgHJQ1LYXQoe_HBbAH_a8znMmJ53FQv8zz9CCpd64kvcFjYlslWj9Yd4L5vQ27u3RwTlP281rPj0u_sRgpyhIirkJz/s400/beth+going+in+hotel.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>I guess they rolled the red carpet out to make up for how cold it is when the parking is a mile away. Also, the internet thing.<br /></div><br /><div>Sunday was the BIG DAY. First, we had to re-shop for some warmer clothes. Target is Target where ever you are.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305859323854796418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDrgYsW3Ajfd1RSR7Z0YmPfHwGoQtAyNWQTdu0YMcYAnW43_TYBjVT35g47nqc87Fo3xosdM6aXsqLEdsB6csw9hIl1ZXxMbj472aOw0DhqDej0K6mBNWTUBKqVxVr2IgthfGlt0MOv81n/s400/PB212018.JPG" border="0" />College shopping involves maps, tours with student guides walking backwards, bottled water and Starbucks.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305888035660223202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6eU85iSbfsZ-E3X7GHwQAjgMDhTzA5EioJMn3YCH07YD4I_-nSx6Jp0qsxwDw2bvPgxrZknGmIssnOCWXwL6Vys3cYE3qnrycuDNbfcXInzHGpReFMLT52JAjQX1cU-90G4sS2FInqg0R/s400/P9131362.JPG" border="0" /> One must consider what they tell you, in their slick brochures and DVDs and cool little recruiting tools, then find actual evidence that what they have said does indeed exist. On paper, every college is the perfect place to learn. <em>I know that isn't Hollins, it's Rhodes - remember the whole 'camera/cord' issue?</em></div></div><br /><div>PPP wants to study science and is afraid of horses. Hollins has a huge EQUINE program and one of very few Creative Writing majors in the country. We knew this much. BUT.... according to the Admissions reps who are attentive and effective, they also have a thriving pre-med program, a swim team that is growing, and a lacrosse team that is not overly vicious. They also claim that there are lots and lots of appropriate inter-collegiate activities including young men, and a thriving social life on campus. (which explains the totally deserted campus on the weekend? I guess the social-ness must thrive elsewhere) </div><br /><div>They want PPP. In fact they want her enough to invite her to compete for a big honorary scholarship. So we came. Seriously, I really, really didn't MAKE her come. </div><br /><div>Today - speeches and panels: The student panel consisted of 2 art history majors and 2 creative writing majors - all of them pretty excited about the downtown Roanoke gallery scene, and the business of art. We learned that they have a big HORSE barn. And championship horsewomen. Also, lots of studio art, theater and creative writing. It snowed while we were walking the campus tour. S. N. O. W.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305888026910804642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyB15WHXjGoQ5TbJJcKVUxbJ1AQdkmq1ZTGCFh8vTxkMhNB3dssEYdMOIpW_bBNvkvfVErudrdPfBVpyvW2f18mrHHm8VxMuxJUkKHlgOWIIIHX2dFVVicAKXbeirHS7Tr1OdUbx6wyt0v/s400/P2142436.JPG" border="0" />For easy reference, this is what home looks like now. In the flurries, our college tour guide never made it to the science building, though we did hear about Siberia, the parking lot for freshmen. We saw the outside of the theater, the art studio, and the grass quad that nobody can walk on except seniors. </div><div> </div><div>Things we did not see: Science building. Labs. Students who were not musicians, writers, photographers, art historians. Teachers. Anything to do with lax or swimimng. Siberia. </div><br /><div>The girls went to 'spend the night on campus' (which was slowly re-populating) while Hollins entertained the parents at a lovely reception at the home of the President of the University - lovely home, lovely food, lovely President. Since I am the parent, I got to go be lovely. Every parent I talked to had a daughter coming to study creative writing. Three are bringing their horses along with them. Their own personal horses. </div><br /><div>Coincidentally, I had 3 separate conversations too: with the Chair of the Parent Council, with the Assistant Director of Admission and last but not least, with the lovely President of the University about the sciences- as in do they <em>teach</em> science here, or just write creatively about it? Also, do they have labs here, or just barns? I mean seriously, they surely could have told us this information on the phone, prior to the drive and missing 2 days of school.</div><br /><div>I don't know that there's a more homesick hour of the day than Sunday evening. It was always for me, and I went to college about 15 minutes from home. When BigB was far away, he and I BOTH got homesick on Sunday night, and I was AT HOME. </div><div> </div><div>Tonight, as the sun was going down and homesick rose in my throat, PPP and I stood in a cold hall, amidst a lot of very talented creative writers/horsewomen. We have had a frigid tour, heard effusive presentations about art history and creative writing, and discovered that out of all the classes available for her to visit tomorrow, only 2 were sciences, Organic and Inorganic Chemistry, at the same time. We have seen one lacrosse goal, and determined that they have a pool. The swim coach wrote her a note with a cell phone number. </div><br /><div>PPP wondered aloud "Is there anyone here like me?" </div><br /><br /><div>It's well after midnight, and I am wondering the same thing. </div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-63049671364638782292009-02-21T07:30:00.004-06:002009-02-21T08:09:14.218-06:00<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MuEHOIc2-uHgb4eEKU3VfYBfu3FG2AUADDxSonHfVYzkUnX1-Zw2Uf4dM0pcSJTNU0GC5qvGeJu7vCHM7pAAU7L_CqRdjDcZSRRDrrgAP4-vrLCB6sswsyEMZFdGTUuKfPzQEYJV4mdn/s1600-h/sunrise+out+the+window.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305244219143510978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MuEHOIc2-uHgb4eEKU3VfYBfu3FG2AUADDxSonHfVYzkUnX1-Zw2Uf4dM0pcSJTNU0GC5qvGeJu7vCHM7pAAU7L_CqRdjDcZSRRDrrgAP4-vrLCB6sswsyEMZFdGTUuKfPzQEYJV4mdn/s400/sunrise+out+the+window.jpg" border="0" /></a>This is not my window! I woke up at my 'regular time' of <em>way too early </em>anyway. Even though the sun is coming up on Roanoke, Virginia. At this time, it's still dark in my bedroom at home, some 20,031 miles to the west. Pretty Pretty Princess is on the hunt for college. This particular weekend, Mom and PPP are on a road trip. The road to Hollins for an interview is circuitous. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305245368344122546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSC2mdWuUQEk1ShLaNIpu2LpX6l2CaYOMFnfy-F6NrNaOFFCZtTDrRf2pSwmrQiwAk8TJxItADv-_ARaIeIsD8xSXMDu7VW3nYCB69uKEajf_UhcP780AfcQC3L4SjR4FTD1FtGZpJEDa/s400/map+to+roanoke.gif" border="0" />Why, might you ask, would we go hundreds of miles out of the way? Or, as BigD said, "What the hell? You're adding 5 hours." Why indeed?<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305243722147086530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 289px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidt83REJDDYxtN0CYGkTiKLE7_OOeSM5VNIof6NnkzbqK9uo4mAG2TJuOssnl_SzklXG0wha8VEvdwP9P7BUMnJSioUMrCTN5mji2FquMAG_7qE0ctCc0KksdYiSLNahVoUfW02cHuzhS1/s400/beth+with+packages.jpg" border="0" />Hello, my lovely. Pshheeh! Why would we add 5 hours? <em>(Don't tell, we SPENT 4:35 hours there, which means we added way more than 5 hours.)</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305243725763657842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy559LlO0mCgBma_F2WG0Y-u0on3GAZYUQHMFWRP7j9CxeDiJjEq8bsyJbiTR48xtrRhyphenhyphen1VWNXhf0rsGENrU8Vvz0DshoXa5NrY7OKel2Qm-otsjTjycU2w0hR4MYzFpcdzylaTsqIbjJo/s400/out+the+window.jpg" border="0" /> <div><div><div><div><div><div>Most of the day looked like this.</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305243730379444722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhHcKOWAKgPtZSqaegx68wnZlkg1uLnEEnTDjutwGxVKmVzsoSa_HbXaNUiR5cxWFT2w-ChyphenhyphenaD85gcPMMm5ZlsSqlcWpOqkMF2zrnpl8YfNTOdBshfKR2uUY6PkoEV2bOrfLQL77AHS9x/s400/P2202446.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>We stopped at no small number of drive-through's in search of an elusive GOOD cup of coffee. Note: there are no readily avabilable Starbucks or Kinko's on that route. This lady talked to somebody for a solid 7 minutes, waiting for change, which was all $1 bills. We made a total of 3 full on U-turns, and got stuck in a traffic standstill at Chattanooga, and flat out lost navigating the poorly marked detours in Knoville, but found our way thanks to a policeman we found beneath an underpass in a sketchy part of town. Not before we a significant dent in another side trip to Lexington; then I realized that it was Lexington, Kentucky the signs were pointing us to, not Lexington, Virgina.</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305243729486085522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg31akN8hcqSUXLZTg1Xd_SAeYxXFtn4zRfNuLg_X1OrzByQS_fAxLrumAuPIqnJydhRawP8uNPWlVEdr2I-Rz6QVkZE2BCYUlB1cpcf0QUdcMEIkw30LfkBlyqddyAJSCekC-OYS8UPPqO/s400/P2202447.JPG" border="0" /></div><div>This was PPP's daytime picture of danger. Mirrors were busted out. DANGEROUS for the weaving in and out of traffic.</div><div> </div><div>Her NIGHTIME version of dangerous was when we passed Mr. Nice State Trooper at 11:50 p.m., going....well, fast. More dangerous when we saw the blue lights. MEMO: Despite popular belief, you CAN get pulled over for going way too fast in the middle of the night. I think he anticipated a car full of crazy drunk guys, or maybe a car full of illicit substances hurtling through Virginia at 21 miles over the speed limit. He got a mom and PPP, who quickly said "It's my birthday in 10 minutes. You aren't going to give me a ticket on my 18th birthday, are you?" He was about 10 minutes on the other side of his 18th birthday, and somehow that all worked in her favor. WARNING: That's what she got, instead of reckless driving, which indeed would have been a bad way to start the birthday.<br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305244214025070498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFG6JG6Dug1wskS461Cr0crN_XOWUhaIzrlaE2VzGmN7FWjvnQlQLfF_d6AvmU8rEM6AMtWd9wHWdHN8auOuVQKDpam7Iy66s3wOz_HQvuUeN2N3zpkHLVnd7gFJEvjVkoF3GVFb1QbUTL/s400/entrance+at+night,+hotel+Roanoke.jpg" border="0" />We got here late. My contacts were dry, and it is a full 20 degrees colder than it was when we left home. I'm sure the Hotel Roanoke didn't roll out the red carpet just for us, but it sure felt like it. Game on, Hollins. </div><div> </div><div>First, we're going to find the laundromat, though.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-65550601373137525292009-02-16T21:12:00.008-06:002009-02-16T23:41:28.745-06:00Valentine Wedding - Like a Box of Chocolates<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303603204387768418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjogisfOHBRPYkD4MgFoIS7kZMNAyHM3GGl1EueUjxh-Zf0iZvSNgWa0Y44NRtvE2QNYdo2BsjWW-zj2Knk4otpVXNN0J8z8YrFiD8x5ijNRRbsxBCElCV5gsCkSzxKfLPMaUJht0fVLmW/s400/P2142423.JPG" border="0" />I dream about THEME weddings. If YOU were getting married on Valentine's Day, what would <em>you</em> do? <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303600054811268370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 222px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg60EwcJ_oz2OxDjWJHok0liwaMpTyQDgMFGJJMrcvetsmj2aYTHZDa4-TL8DmrScqeGApJ_OvkYylDZQZ9yAFrNj6csgOtf9Lvy3fVMnnTLKNVZGrF2VvxWHDu3rmPyzidDCRU-ITgoPt/s400/cupcake+dresses.jpg" border="0" />You know, to carry out your <em>Valentine theme</em>? De-lish bridesmaid's dresses that look like cupcakes? <em>Chocolate</em> brown satin with a big red silky sash. Like a heart-shaped box of Valentine candy. Only poufier.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303600067798438306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHViy6qSkjaibtCO098XiF99pg7BAT_UWSeIDI5SYPLLflxZ4wcgC2O2o0MUDifTmlkbY_PCCvpwqC20SCweEkgSqkfUAzK_2JixJzUszBJzirM_8jIbBpDE4zyfjp3SWteoioJ8PxnQi1/s400/P2142421.JPG" border="0" />Would you put your Junior Bridesmaids in the opposite or reverse or whatever you call it? Red satin cupcake dresses with big chocolate brown bows. Just like the heart boxes of candy.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303600057399402786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 309px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisGNzpNfVPaY5bGxe6hZETAETCRw7Xzgr7haspLuYFcixM_x9gdimyLwGpCsA76aoAHn-dz1F_RWynDYkZgsYzhsTrgd_SBPypUA9EBDSEBR1gUJCtpyERcijq4j4pvQzztrB5T-l6tCJo/s400/photo+of+cake.jpg" border="0" /><strong>Every</strong>body wants to take pictures on wedding day. <em>However, not everyone is ready to be photographed, and if I were the lady smack in the middle of that picture?...Just sayin.'</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303600062886713330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 307px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pkvsCd3eTY59fleSfrpaC-5YA86_d-PumDNmmAqIQ5WR_PbAfwEAyNwMNCKli8rKhDryZRhua8PInxslmF4qw4lNWRaeqfpo8fTKRWn_jp5pcsOTS8FQphAGZLOpkFgUIKE3OP-kXr03/s400/red+cake.jpg" border="0" />Especially when one has a lipstick-red Valentine-ish wedding cake with chocolate brown flowers pressed on to the very red cake. With a chocolate faux snake winding its way across the top. I don't think that's actually supposed to be a chocolate snake. I think further adjustments were made. Snake on cake? Not so much, even for Valentines Day.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303603203184747106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgq4nmdg4qewgJVY01Pi7wqmyXv5RjRkFSpH2p78IBtVfB0YvvIAotjMEK7_L_XCFtCLVPUOKB-g-TVu38NFjlTO3-4LEUmqFesnjN65zv6qwCHOJTQnGPuF43ucpzbNch5Phy6TAgbtHb/s400/P2142424.JPG" border="0" />Red tablecloths over white. Chocolate scented candles, perhaps? Red satin dresses with brown satin sashes, brown satin dresses with red satin bows. Nothing says wedding like satin and big petticoats. "Strapless" could come close. <br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303600063408723554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 269px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lJ9AUVe9yYaxN_Cw3ZYOCyKqu8I8DxuIZdoDe0et9emR8NXSsqSVn8RDfgzEm21_I-QT9vbMP288S3prBEXDsLRzCtck7rKVUKMwX8NlSRGhbTUIetNn5Eo_kjf-NV71za3AJ_6dupEd/s400/val+day+at+St+Johns.jpg" border="0" />The bouquets? Luscious Valentine ruby red roses with lacy white hydrangeas. A virtual doily-and-heart-valentine bouquet. Virtually. The men wore red vests and ties with their tuxes. Big lip-smacking red roses for bouts. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303606965326303234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqc047rwy5204w0TvPWyjOPa7Z23HIo4P2nIDcGIcgjQAFQMADytOHTH682bl-S96Lh9DYmGdsK0fqATtNsSQHrc4V6bVvMOd2WGs6sqhR0s2KPCGPjP6ZfhHw5zZQEJOMf6kLyR3JHig0/s400/DSC00310.JPG" border="0" />Not these delicate luminescent fuh-reeeee-sha. BO-RING! Remember the theme! This is a full-onValentine's Day wedding. <br /><div></div><br /><div>Valentine's Wedding....like a box of chocolates! I knew you'd do that whole chocolate and red roses theme thing! Love was in the air. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-2810412577174073392009-02-12T10:00:00.000-06:002009-02-12T10:25:24.593-06:00Matrimonial Editorial<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300576059921284994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Oi0d3exbA2u_J8br5mQ9_Wf0hcH4pSGbk1oaeGgSpnt6RJXkPbWabke_fiLILcSTbDPwmcHmULnoXrU82_Tfpch8hwM-2NXKLGoNce8WrkDSgKndQaNLWsuoXc5sYDJEp1iWNFLLfcGE/s400/whit+pre+portrait.jpg" border="0" />A few weeks ago, and a lifetime ago it seems, <a href="http://drizzleonyourbiscuit.blogspot.com/">Chilly</a> and his Lovely Bride were the <em>Rock-Stars of the Week</em> at their wedding. The <a href="http://www.commercialappeal.com/weddings/">announcement</a> was in our local newspaper. I wrote, Chilly edited, and it was pretty terse. It actually worked well, because the pictures pretty much tell the tale :<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301764748702200882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1UgJ5mJ23CCbg8kvC70iLtjdHxZv680e_2Fizy-qp85hoLsHI3_j61HEwO7fOe13y6upFPu3QPBWHPspDUFs3T_uURp7ebUU9YlCS58VKhjvpiNl6ObfA4cqklJo_wHU0gDPtaMqHncj6/s400/happy+couple.jpg" border="0" />those two are just flat crazy about each other.<br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>Back, back, back in the day the announcements went into exquisite detail about everything - fabric, flower, music, parties, doodlie, doodlie, doo. Not so much anymore, at least not in our paper. I wrote us a real old-school wedding announcement, <em>with my comments. Just between us. Don't tell.</em></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Special to the old-school wedding newspaper....<br /></span><br /></span>On a fine warm evening in mid-winter,</div><em>which caused us to sweat all day,</em> the Lovely Bride,<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300576060366701106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 280px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuIzOsWT8g330j1Y81lU893gc03d2NSzFxJ3Pdu4KDbcrZSnDGEpiBPCS8QlM5WUUkjcEnFNAF9D6OOt9R6187IqzGmMkRWKbjr8uBDC0M7wTxixUhHJR25VZZKv8Ng_Wfln8bNyzlnuQ/s400/tome,+diane,+whit+in+the+kitchen.jpg" border="0" /> daughter of two doting parents, married Chilly, son of two more doting parents. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301736252014440002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 268px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWBVqLzJIYtgwkp43BN36nCxCL4V07ju7HzUgmmVagqdq69J_yK_D7-FNvM4PfS5yMxFsHK0PjM9RvJXppHu21zuW4xhmL7BWiXhJzKhlRfLTjQabA0gpKsViiya375_mW0rjwYsb60Ws/s400/engagement+party+backs.jpg" border="0" />Doting bridal parents began the festivities last spring with a gala cocktail reception in the garden of their home, to introduce Chilly <em>and the whole Chilly entourage</em> to their dearest friends. <em>Also, just to celebrate at home. </em></div><div> </div><div>The very closest associates, friends and family<em> of the Bride and </em><em>Chilly and the whole Ginormous Chilly family-entourage</em> were personally invited to join the wedding festivities during the winter holidays. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300539572277019938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qxyw-Zd1tc01VjmdAVDEd_3X8OVCdOHZnI1Xiz8wanFj0cMffGaqDIGSKSuV-0tSS1nPAx7k6Oq2KoxFcYEZQ0NGN6bVdqdQh-l2y95NK-yTJ8NrpCzlRN43GeZab17K6TUrWNqYGxWV/s400/P1292404.JPG" border="0" />The Spencerian script invitation on a pearl white deckle-edged card was enclosed in a french, silver filigree-tissue lined envelope, <em>ordered from the above <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.paperhouseonline.com">genius Paper-Doll</a>. Biker-Mom, the mother of the bride, on the phone, me and Paper-Doll doing the design. Do you think I would take Biker mom, my bff, into that overstimulating little space? No, this was a phone-a-friend occasion.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300539554811408354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 344px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUvsNKSvvunu6XwvnXLhavjlIhnlcL00XvH29UOeGqIC4csES-H6m4nwizu4tNiojJ48xZieBgIU7JQimz3Dxx_SkTYPexP4v7ukLdY4fnfT3_Og3hHYDEQGzPQXJfvIOwZPkMihJ9AJ6/s400/beth+licking+invitations.jpg" border="0" />Each invitation was hand calligraphied, then stuffed, then stamped, then checked, then each and every one had to be licked. <strong>Yummy</strong></em>.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301736271298536498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPiE9DBy2o7UnmtmtFf0q2P4-KRFftWEoJTfZpK9-raLe6z_OQm8g9NjrW1zbxriZtsVPj4VWGkInAqilg6MAlmfcaXEy17ZaikX9bHJRn3bGilVNrg6LhLDCWRo4PbtyNRsXUWzJjB8aa/s400/tulips+in+the+foyer.jpg" border="0" />Guests entered the candlelit foyer of the church . . .<em>Ok, this was technically before we lit the candles....</em> before being escorted to their seats.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301736275162360930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebepZG2wgnUnkAd805IqA04xJ4P8eYeIjIkPPebJ3lNDK6utEMdiZwu2WKQex421sbvB201uz_5yU8Hxhih3IL9rer-ySFgXwrgdLb0WfaFvLHkcUXnhRAYbYOInh89mleV51kkv0BCjF/s400/groomsmen+texting.jpg" border="0" />Groomsmen, brothers, cousins, friends, neighbors of the bride and groom attended the groom. <em>Apparently they were using their "phone-a-friend lifeline" too.</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300640432598514850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQtyXdUWA5cdVAl5ZSEjFCVaHoDxihXO_o8jHb3wp6I271LbJB5Pn1uO9KZ5JNslOlHqQdZKicNPI6ZBXgmrgWwmzTLaWhGq_AyTB97GLs3LTs5cm6mCmThvSAcRAp8UGTPEmo6TOHApSi/s400/P1032348.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Their ties were not the fake pre-tied kind, but were hand-tied silk, tied by a professional bow-tier just hours before the pictures started, and that was early in their day, my friends.</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300539571569273394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU7xcd4GtfzcSbZ-YBPQ31Jj9gznyUwx48GiFzM0bNhZo_6lE3urryamNOSzVLwFOmaegfU7vIfxFPxjca2uedQf2FGSSp9o21xovCyq6M-tw4nM13BbFG1v6PAmBqWVz2x7vwpQJOiB9y/s400/DSC00307.JPG" border="0" />They wore boutinierre's of <em>some little white and green flower that I cannot remember the name of. (PPP says "Is it FUH-REEEEE- sha? Yes, in fact it is. Freesia. She's good.). And I ask for these bouts almost every time. By name. It's a good thing the flower guy knows what I'm talking about. And boy, he does know exactly what I'm talking about - from start to finish, every time. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300539575295892818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7DS64fCFOWSJn_xbqMCZ0o6EPZwoGOQwEjzgi_QdvjuN-u9qa80njSKddtGJmAcC6se_KEVM8CePy6rlpwAgrPFZouRlz41wr3Q789-N6PS8BYa2bsq5sWQJHGk4DbOlijY18azhoTHK/s400/DSC00133.JPG" border="0" /></em>The <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.gardendistrictmemphis.com">Garden District</a> <em>genius-guys</em> created a double squared candelit arch, adorned with fresh white flowers. <em>I was absolutely obsessed with the arch being squared off, not oval, and I am so, so glad. Just saying.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300566675176071026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGcgdIch70wL1kEyuxN0JjgApJ4nBRvSCQVLvyB5Xbxwd887b2b9vy2U9uw9fcdlfsSXFBDSX0VESz9HYdK1BZaSjiRSO18g9FFfcfAgaDYOGvToybbzy8rU-OrdYVrJt99vxivAZa2b3J/s400/DSC00132.JPG" border="0" />The guys who created that magic actually BUILT structures to hold up all the flowers, and then lighted them to make it even more stunning. One of them wears a full-on tool belt with a power drill. I love these flower guys.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300626882711804946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 231px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytx09_7Ztk_HR0JF9FMZSEFn2lTWacGYAMfBuc-ugXH4kev-sRFH2lH56mNOFa9HaKtSKn5_NT5zwWO5cKXzl_gHIxVc889G63iNccL-iTR6CT0B3oRarr7F4oHkX2T-TglTzkNN5v1v_/s400/brides+bouquet.jpg" border="0" /> </em>The bride carried a boquet of white parrot tulips and. . .<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300626889794812914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpoWfytULQzOXaHR8aHgNDcQESAT4LEc6K-7eJm47VDJwZQKUKtjSEJZWCBoz1WYWrMkMm7luJSJJyI4fVCUA7mTSi9BfY0j6oi7I7a3cbK2WnT5Hhsya0bOxzxslfPBkfD7ge9w_svce5/s400/P1032306.JPG" border="0" />. . . enormous fresh lilies adorned the pews enveloping the sanctuary in the aroma of spring. <em>The flowers were overwhelmingly beautiful. Also, smelled really good. Eau -du - matrimoniee.</em><em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301747570896461938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2hbU7zGk-rTCUfBt-Qp_VThgfQ3-flAaH4EHcisC5XlMBckYMGLoW9OH-59PiSyabgqKElhaFfM6jBHy2zrMEKIvbDDNJr189SjwtvnsQYhI1-Ex_tiN7kgEyJDr32f1qbvNJ2-Kg6jD/s400/DSC00176.JPG" border="0" /> Add candles. Lots. Candles = magic.<br /></em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300640389548712290" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiln4s9PrAMJYs6zabE-TaISWjgPRzQJioxSLY8mvT_-26L0rVr5qjNSdpTGvIgzFo9hFUqsEiVcYvwjsfPv8dQgBUh2pYU_8HsGkdj5Al36Sx-Fo9xVxkSOOI40aenUVb3KpVWC5km_37M/s400/lunch+table.jpg" border="0" />The bride was attended by her closest friends, who celebrated at a bridesmaid's luncheon, one of a whirl of parties honoring the bride. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301736259437372226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwegjg8OfZnuDqBmVF6b2Axhu3hj2D0d0ThkWjMKi4uBbf-Z2Z4DxoMKFaK0ThYHYWiqiB1ZbDWtuIO0AKtxvOXUV71SFWbZkU8LpLYxBVtUXPZGoQzAYEPo4_0ffpbVthbfIRBPKfcpcG/s400/DSC00163.JPG" border="0" />The bridesmaids wore Aegean blue taffeta dresses which were painstakingly ironed - with ruched bodices and ballroom skirts. <em>So, the backstory on the dresses? OMG. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300634380887200226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 174px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-V-CsqGVc5y_dqHTmw0hirxiAQ1o3gIS0WUY3DJwlHMrDxyv_0oqICDLf0kC9xsy99OhDvOfxjSCTQawI34S70SIkxjbS7_K3aqfs6h2gSkT_S1YIsVZfw6SkZUJC_9H__3ft9pfZwABz/s400/bridesmaid+dress.jpg" border="0" />In late summer we ordered some OTHER dresses from LOW'S and after a million phone calls, they finally told us on November 21 that the original dresses had never been ordered. I was alerted to this while in the midst of a college visit with PPP, receiving frantic text and phone brrrrppps from Bride and MOB in quick succession. This could be a serialized newspaper story called "Disasters in Wedding Planning" but it's not! It's called "Triumphs of calm problem-solving!" My calm and confident bride found herself some dresses from<a href="http://www.saksfifthavenue.com/"> Saks Fifth Avenue</a>, I tracked down the girls and their sizes, with a big help from the MATRON of Honor, a newlywed herself. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300576042234699938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 344px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6olMPGII44nS0aNtXSbc__6679NDQjXHXRjJwRZF9TTiU_Hpt0N8l1UTZBnja9nr5ZEmlPmMAI50T62vG7calMnnKzPnfapmssyS9iy_EDktzoLWZV6Cp80ZKkzNpmoGU0QRseMgX_OJU/s400/beth+and+ellen+model+dresses.jpg" border="0" /> VOILA, within days my able assistants were modeling the new dresses in the bride's bedroom over the Thanksgiving holiday. I mean seriously, that's a quick turnaround, from no dresses to 9 dresses! So, if you are looking for wedding planning hints, let me just say, LOWS - at your own risk. Universally agreed, the new dresses ROCKED. The old dresses? Don't know, because Low's didn't order them. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300539559693591154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjynT2yx4Tx7vp1tUlEQdsaQNxDPVt3Fdew1JSj749Ut18hyL5pE-WBjSnNIyDKlZa9OEntJI7rRLewgu94GLZcwGoMk7y3QI7uEOUYBk_e22CGdT_uKevxsxbLY-8bBT0sxOGxZgkB640t/s400/quitman+makeup.jpg" border="0" /></em> The bride's hair and make-up was done by Quitman. <em>That's Quitman, putting on the fierce make-up. Wait, is that someone ironing? Quitman was also in charge of flooofin' up the hair.</em> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300566676805129426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHOCbjPmn2nn8JKFjlo73iQ_kjIeHBFqfIKOk9EHkO1rgcTfq9QCNgYgiG8aj3WqTY9K-c24zD-wLJuayWnymYEweLDlAUhTYo6fdVgTPVdt3S6pulMAHKFTl0HM-567GwoynEDMLJ-bnw/s400/DSC00173.JPG" border="0" /> Lovely Bride wore her hair in a bundle of cascading curls to highlight the fingertip veil of silk illusion. <em>Also the bridesmaids, every last one of them, got curled and floofed up. And the mothers. Also, grandmothers.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300623869280173250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8sfv7TW2qqNGbLyUB_WGEwZySi5TgyPbYHJA2zwC__DroXHjX444RzRcF2faPy2uCxPLsvlWmLZpSfTa4nF7I9cA2pMLhHSEXCd-zgwSjl-VyK6nxlop5RIQuipbRdsFTEUplD9uDxO1g/s400/bridesmaids+hair.jpg" border="0" /> Quitman brought a helper for all that hair. Mother of Chilly got poufy, for sure. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300634396730719234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 355px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdKQ8FgQr1w-HzEEWjHcC3ZcFPeGv-mJeMxGlFG50hwj9ZCah5nJQRY4CYUQgYUqwXyzEcaTwT63LSaNStntq-VmLUOp4IQMhRpJ_Nuqnui8OKU2v1aOE7Eu2SXDx9LwhCkRR1bxK4R8h/s400/Helen+unfluffed.jpg" border="0" /><strong>Not poufy.</strong> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300626894684115586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIA_4fFfBgJNGP_49XE_5eMK0h2yUqDhnywQRzKqyCNPNs31DXm4MJMdSfnwF78dOfSWRlh6v7WK9L74U99T2aejdn-CtK2ddTb2F6tkskr_z5JiooK0YBu3NtMhWN4HZ5SKVTEt7iLSQ/s400/P1032357.JPG" border="0" /><strong>Poufy.</strong> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300576049424191026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgODJR3LnJbEf0M5Da9cc44-0880fUJEEjqqwjixLJHgrDv8F8ljvBTcs6ng-dHo2PhORB_W5rQqybsHs5We_bsw08z1XjjJ5yFoJ45tK5ASZZYa0GedGV8cOfZCvFONzx1bMppdd9nrxgD/s400/unfluffed+morning+after.jpg" border="0" /><strong>Not poufy.</strong></em> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300623886474700050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjID7ic4Txrt9CA68qruErM_vXKa4EuD5F2TbQj0EH2NVbYfi5zjaG4ZHsvD_kOm52vicnJjsZYMHQWlDUlSEaUmp-4sPekqfsT41ODvBXybH1sYoNeZi7bH62oMKhrbUkOtjY2Epc8wrTu/s400/DSC00164.JPG" border="0" /></div><div><div><div><div><div>The MOB wore....<em>OK stop right here! Biker Mom ironed all afternoon with curlers in her hair. Keep your eye on the left hand.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300634385792472130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIXu1k11IXelb7NDNRJNyMAjOApcO5PAcdOn8rTA_3FUU0_5kmsMin7ec12-RZ1AGmqe5jC4_djfCQtH0FToynv6k9l7Hqp1oshqh3IAwulHI8Cq5H_m4SxkzFKEPDmchxcG-84-ymcST/s400/P1032340.JPG" border="0" />I think she ironed every single bridesmaid dress. Once she QUIT ironing....</em> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300576052118945538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtr2y2grSGTyTI5C384YVolahxeQzFFH0IzXFG8ffyp85UmeLGEK8HGaifxOXhgwASop_w7eu_LCGGgKANuMiibiRzWWQrE5xzmOUWx6A7GT_U93wmYO0q1hFS5xYsjRaNXmp52h5YFsbZ/s400/diane's+dress.jpg" border="0" />The mother-of-the-Bride wore a navy silk tulle strapless gown with bolero<em> actually, this started out as a sort of aubergine color dress, but there were so many flaws in that aubergine fabric that her personal stylist ordered this great navy blue swirly dress with sparklies all up in the Cinderella skirt. And it was SO not black. Navy. And that furry little shrug-like bunny affair? Lovely Bride wore it at some point, before she got way too hot - MOB got it from E-Bay, just for the occasion. Mr. and Mrs. Chilly's future children will enjoy playing dress up with that little shrug.</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300623884424500946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 346px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheWNBAUPj62NnDX8Rin7NeG-fLyoj__vxivJ0g-11IgKaPwL5GgANUDngIqm03L53lazwIQIOJtLisjVVFfVe2BGCLV5WoIsSCiVbZrrHr5iTcTqb4KjdU0BMUUnlsdJFc748b5xBeL2J6/s400/helen+poufy.jpg" border="0" />The mother of the groom ...<em> did not wear beige. She wore red and she wore it triumphantly.</em> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300626897094161746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ05ZeooOb_QgJFOT6bYh9f1LMPs-l8QUabsYX3jiM-Rl4Sj5Gfu6NrbhoFsQ1SXWMYrLf9oLmwPd1lFBwTeSVls_FUFBW8XmoUYnO4u8XUMtrAOy9qPh5HwbV_brLxgC2Bn5V7yA1NZ3F/s400/P1032337.JPG" border="0" /> <em>Also, it helps to bring along an ironer. A professional ironer, who does a sort of ironing dance. Someone with an advanced degree in ironing. Like an ironing doctor. One might say an M.I.</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300623874918086274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeJNXQyC66f0jgBYFOZSAc4Bv-bN5xLANJz1kl_6ZLuPENMUc3oyVevD3VKsq5EQWFH7qAz92LQlnKti6SMn7meW0yI2ebAaYVXpIjwmdNNuX88vKv1P443g0iHzvc-6CXmkb0pzUSqlTl/s400/DSC00184.JPG" border="0" /> <em>It got scary in there...between the floofing of the hair and the makeup and the manic - ironing. SCARY. GOOD scary, but still scary.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300566686016667682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbXxnueOxbFt9VZDPMUaOLGe3tYsl5JW_C71j_ujnQrc0X3q1k-FLkzc_TMTXCERuTYo5ta56Uj9zk8iFc4KHAQr_1WnSeRfp23lCtPY8IZ_TigMle0zLkb7xHhJ5HTLQ-M5BPrQC9gEP0/s400/whit+trey+windowseat.jpg" border="0" /></em>Professional photography service, including bridal portrait in the home of the doting parents, was provided by <a href="http://www.treyclarkweddings.com/">Trey Clark</a>. <em>Starting on Christmas Eve, when somehow, someway we got hair, make-up, dress and photographer together with the bride, and took a portrait, in her home. 17 phone calls, 24 text messages. On Christmas Eve.</em> <em>Consider that. On Christmas Eve.</em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300634395659284226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92vt2HnYboaxNDrILmGuC6mEpaQfqGehDuO5LWRfBp7v6jlQYnp0aQKvL80D2OdFuz18SVEHf_V4V-RBc5qrZn27VaNVFGAvsBB1hldbRFkIuCuM43exXmkJSzYlFJXeZNvxpvLmZQ_ZO/s400/DSC00105.JPG" border="0" /><em>Semi-professional photography provided by every parent, aunt, uncle and cousin, with Trey watching behind.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300626888765995570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkcW0kp-ELs6I9q8a1glPA9M0nHRrjfIMuFJvZ7PS_Plhk9X_yE8FoKsm3VCBNHv5F8eiCElJCtlm7itR9VvZKwmqKNWQr2YRMTSsDJzp_OVphaE_t74MvUuySOVuZ9N8rX5e3mEYhJMBl/s400/P1032302.JPG" border="0" /> Totally amateur photography provided by me. So, I don't rock in everything.</em><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300610006936906306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-FKXb947G6_iTSObJ0RY_p8Nl1nQaeOXLiy2HetVNURbaifKXg8Z9eGxmNS11FJCbwxZQBrVS0bESFZKag_sUWve4wpWKRoaHfwFFO5wciuRv6fRKT1ocXszaIZiv8xIc_LbVaKG1Wp4N/s400/DSC00306.JPG" border="0" /> Video by Jamie Hill. <em>I love it when the wedding party tells me that they had no idea that the videographer was even there. </em><em>Not sure how you can miss the big tripod in the back of the church, but whatever. It was a pretty wild day. I meant to say that it was an wildly exciting day. I think.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301764745955447186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiGVUyHSj0uuc0DnLvTIp3FD1gsDahp27-z8wbun4TNXQEtGGfweqjIniD8vYXqrqphbieswHYAnfpKgaHf5JfRNMDStZAHT8Vc6GP5n20poH1JBIzXsUnuKg0202uvDIBOBzw088wl0A/s400/whit+larry+recep+sweaty.jpg" border="0" /></em>A gala reception followed, and a good time was had by all. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301764745245929522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidV-bSoyVH7yHq3e7IFqmxRhnXe9QiK_IUB5vY6rqcsGExk_16q6ox6F7kW2fNWqYJwnQmMa864n1DIvd_R3Zpadle2mYD3rKaaQ2h9y_alV8vcCxNTvTAV0VXiIfcwCXNb747DKw8T4GE/s400/n2204063_46485335_7985.jpg" border="0" />Chilly threw his bride around the dance floor like a dancing fool. I took no pictures of that part. Trust, me though. They danced all night. And then they left. </div><br /><div></div><div>After a honeymoon in Mexico, <em>during which they turned off their cell phones and did not communicate with anyone including their parents, one of whom believed that they must be sick and stranded in some wayward Mexican emergency room They weren't. Sick that is. They were just HONEYMOONING - a sign that they applied some sound married decision making to the whole honeymoon concept. </em></div><div> </div><div>Mr. and Mrs. Chilly will live in Atlanta . . .<em> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300644922557316418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 318px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwyhfRTVFJKLnfUqquRCn5EtWIZTXFHRuNBtOFYj3FgQEuGLkYPnHXxdlmo9a1VdN7fmaq0KJ_Bm075lyoIf0sDCk1Qrj5dveDqLTi_TM5-0DyMlC0mni1q48iV2FPiUHXIYL8CyXO1V_/s400/New+Years+AM+-+Larry+and+Whit.jpg" border="0" />and go back to being normal people. (That's Chilly eating cheese. That's what normal people do.)<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300640446180231042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGrQKckE7_7HTmJRFZ-u8LFJ_XBSyN-14_ch7wQSkbFVbSQrbi5Z4f5eoMAYV7KZNRZtVLQIQhqNxe4TfRwCJ6wBX6BzYIeX_sftmqLp4t-dVl2HUifnEeVYEkHw6nDArLVkCKFYGMlQ90/s400/P1032352.JPG" border="0" /> </em><em>Nobody tell Big Lar this part, but the Mother of Chilly emailed me this week to verify a charge, noting that she "threw her credit card at everybody all weekend long." I thought I gave her a lanyard to tether that card to herself. Scary, I tell you.<br /><br /></em><em>Their parents are still recovering. </em></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5581359618063774325.post-31886155842570109422009-01-24T22:04:00.002-06:002009-01-24T23:06:30.038-06:00At Home with a Super-Mom<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295017788066147618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzDai_BJueKtOe2SZkExxbyMDAkTotsDs0uIA_-GhJurv7vL1jYDK71_huSTg-uFmMUs_lt7Mm49c_KH5HV30cuZ_WefdJa_l9IbUrqVvqCcwauH-FSoaB8lYu_6FM7njzBn3tJbjRshh8/s400/pew+bouquet.jpg" border="0" /><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-size:180%;">Yes,</span> there is more about the wedding, but later. (Is it just me, or does that lily look...particularly matrimonial?)</span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295036257512253042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWN1hUGC5Xe5ifGjLgDK6GVsvCFqy-aTArGdwI9A3I6US_16xuAD8o0Or2fwDR7EMmjI60WdMkTBXpi647KVq-YdrPL_iHkx1z-nLgsltItT-ox0YBRs1GgXGjZVXoP1Rl4955v2F8vKAY/s400/beth+as+indian.jpg" border="0" /> It takes a while to process. Today: <em>True Confessions of a Reformed Super-Mom.<br /></em><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295069325084928978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 264px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_-MOR9a0x4s5LLAdI0YYjlBw6LTDum5YELIllctuvO1UNyrhm0For0R4amU5dziweK584_5yjJcDAyn7mCI6dV1DVNLUKs27d1SUJo6-EOcO6FeKRKDTGRWDq9agBBZBVxVBxS_B4yXu/s400/wade+at+mimis.jpg" border="0" />When I was the mother of <em>young</em> children, babes indeed, I was all about the <strong>outings</strong>. There were Bible studies, and volunteer work, and actually working, and going to the museums and the parks and the walks, and exercise class (I know, it's a distant memory, but I did) and the birthday parties, and then more Bible Study .. and the practices, and the....bleh, bleh, bleh - all that good-mother stuff I did. . . and did I mention the Women's groups and Bible studies?...and the whatevers I could find to get out of the house? I was all about the outings. <div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295067282033398210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 272px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LZCkuVpRkMVvSdDbVUVKune6abad5WO8CUiFrhB909pFBuQ6TFPpiJAmqGS4N-R3XwTZxJ6-EB8oiP29pqWEZkgMX5FNt59nAakZ_KVz1Q7i4L9dBKyVxdOP32bpPIIZo-rhnhLZ1ian/s400/skating+party+tay.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>I lived life fast-paced, and interesting, and challenging, and super-charged and way cool and the pace of our life was frantic. I was frantic. Also busy, and so very proud of myself for how much I could get accomplished with all these babies around me. Rock-star in the mothering world. Ask anybody. Ok, maybe not. I was probably scary in my Rock-starness.<br /></div><div><div><div>Also, I didn't so much like to be alone with myself, and my thoughts, and even our children. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295069828654387906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhehuflivhimiX7gnSNimwuzQrhqICvNg_SIPqfNoTM1Igu93SbIV1aNc9LRvj_XsYUhNbEvJefvqco25RY6a2iuNtsTHwNv5FdTG9fUqSj4PZUl433ojHlUhmsT35etqjB2dv35gJcJFn/s400/ellen+and+wade.jpg" border="0" />They were scary. What if something happened that I couldn't manage? Would I be a failure?<br /><br />A wise mother of children older than ours asked me "WHY?" Also she was brave. Because I knew so much about mothering and was I so damn COMPETENT, I cannot imagine how anyone dared to challenge me. Our children spent more time with the church nursery ladies and the exercise nursery ladies and the Bible study nursery ladies than they spent with me. To this day, The Sophisticate and BigB take great pleasure in talking about all the many, many nights - even hundreds of nights - they had to eat a frozen TV dinner (the kind with the little square portion of corn, because fast food would have been a sign of bad-mothering) and then go to the exercise nursery. They speak as if it were some kind of torture. And I thought they were having FUN, with nursery toys, and an ever-changing cast of caregivers.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295036258420728578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 245px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 227px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyaj7b7nASmVoRqO4mxIREWnT8wu5LW93dmADZfUu1sQO5mj1fTgwaRYTksRt9rpTJc6aRbnw9nNSFKWzp8Hnwikks90h1Y56mb6vMZUvv1fC-ilN6WgSQ1gOB-Q6s8j3VoQNlMQC5sewb/s400/ellen+birthday+hat.jpg" border="0" />Also, I had some chronically cranky children who didn't really know how to entertain themselves at home. (Yikes).<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295026016636052418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 394px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQXuC44k6hWMSpCuhvg6rG2QoRVyhQF05bRfwX6gEpozzgLOiwOCuFU66eA7kbjwuG8PXF3Q2_VGi8jI13jAkIdI0c7hpM4aT30yD_D_2Jb4gA9F5AQgVCsiVN6tbAOlSj_7daDP2SmWp/s400/baby+halloween+party.jpg" border="0" /> Why would they? I was busy entertaining them. Or paying someone else to entertain them while I entertained myself. Watch out.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295067294623882418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsovrg5y1C6E12GJLCQRWgLRrJyOw_J_NvTEXQWUtSsuikeXXtKMwaRwbOy9PbfhRc5xUrsBwVZx_Zx1okQm8fTiGfGiPofwTCErFgtapU-aKMATtVeNHkNn0uBip5Qg9EvV1Zn15pa_hM/s400/baby+easter.jpg" border="0" />I got them out of the house because<strong><span style="font-size:180%;"> I</span></strong> wanted to be out of the house. I also wanted to keep the house neat and orderly, as a sign of my competence. With them there, then they made a mess, which had to be cleaned up. I also didn't like being imprisoned with our little ones. </div><div><br />One day, our wise big boy (who was probably all of 4) said - "Mom, can't we go somewhere to play, only it's home all day?" His sister had been expressing that for days by refusing to cooperate with getting dressed, (i.e., she didn't want to wear the really cute outfit with matching panties, but instead wanted to wear pajamas all day, preferably accessorized with an unfortunate pink vinyl belt) and arching her back when it was time to get in the carseat. Competent, I tell you. </div><br /><div>So, eventually I listened, since they always tell you exactly what they need. I did just as LittleKidB suggested - I designated a day at home all day, no outings, no errands, no Bible Study. A day at home every week. It seemed blasphemous and ungodly, but I did it anyway. I wish I could remember how it happened, and I am sure I could make up a dramatic story that would bring tears to my eyes, but honestly, I have no idea what pushed me over the edge. I had to be pushed over the edge to stay home. Contemplate that.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295017794945160514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 252px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpYZuf9Q8VVdwM6E3v38PIxf-epqPNxehKQWQtuF2621VlovoyFRoEgI1lWCM6o2zSTi3KnN-G4uSxwseYkV4bWnyZTk_H-SdiChRE5zsspqiayVkIv48NFQtW987FAf7Rm6q70lCMlxMw/s400/wade+with+play+doh.jpg" border="0" />What I found out is that they really wanted to be home and just piddling around home without interruption, without me directing every minute. They didn't want to be interrupted in the middle of playing "boats in bubbles" in the tub, or fashioning frozen dinners out of Play-Doh simply because I was ready to go somewhere! And pajamas all day, with or without accessories are fun too. Actually more fun than the exercise nursery.<br /><br /><div>So - I learned to give them a day at home at least once a week. It became Tuesday. When my other two babies came along, my Bigs were in school, so we still did a lot of running - <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295067290651524818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 262px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQAJKDpSwDe7XBCo1PZZhR75OV2dNrSnGNPF1yR0j1gyxuSVMtbD-kWEFErFbDyA6DVZRbu4ZPrWmqDYnxzHZcypMa5xhricmfHkRYyyeqP7HbISKrf4ow2rpYNG02tbNMZm3cswmTCN6/s400/baby+ben+on+the+phone.jpg" border="0" />but I tried to give them at least a couple of mornings and afternoons that were ONLY interrupted when it was time to go pick up the sibs from school. It made me a better mother, and our children more calm. Also, me, I got more calm. My house got messy. We have since progressed to dirty. There's always a trade-off.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294717196642641730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ78MisB5uN0r2p-bq1o1WQW3UadlYiA2pDuKtJoV8ixzLQ6OgDxeJpG0rlw2z2uYgxgJAKgmQbpR5Lnu24NZ3QfvAo0fvJVvaEBYKvIgXcSsHwfQ5Wd0FsLOfgu4PkFqa_ugihKtwJITN/s400/ellen+and+wade+on+deck.jpg" border="0" />Fast forward to the NOW - our older two children, who I trundled all over and kept all of us busy with entertainment and excitement and stimulation - those two want to go OUT all the time, and consider themselves boring social misfits if they aren't going OUT. OUT somewhere. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295067291222381586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 270px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRXFf85Dg8OfCscQ6KHMRXBq053PZXqT9FNPR4P9qQ_74T3IjQWQG9sckC1VYL57huFjIoGdv3KF-cwh7I1RTHp6huRVeDrwiEg7xblmMTr5Pr5dssN5csSPchvSXGBHB8UkZM4JCwZhAt/s400/beth+and+ben+in+swing.jpg" border="0" /></div>My younger ones - the ones who didn't have to do all that crap (due to my frantic-ness) . . .<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295017797105601666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqM0NvF3xq8LTJqZjL7RjvwhLVwqPOgr8S5Y1LXcEIZFrvz9LefRlvc4ERcOhom02B9n4pAFwyt3Kn5lVDrVgB57ADT9ocTDvYhna4FUi0tAESw2Vp-ndMu16LeAKtrmpoiwec8hLMTsBz/s400/ben+working+Long%27s+pool.jpg" border="0" />have an easier time entertaining themselves - <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295036254070326226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMmswgClBWoETIKH7Dxc0Vv_ZKTztPlwWpbRuabXac8tVavL69gD2jhCpQK9SUdWsjXajhOIXlXFofJS8vttB94yUS3vaC15a2HedpMrn7SV_aQ07IGk6EBixArIRRYRANxtqKsZ5dWr2O/s400/ben+matthew+cam+in+tuxes.jpg" border="0" />and seem to be able to pick the outings that are right for them. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295026017255194114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9W_amn8v4D1vw_wavY5wuXBsOPCekRwhEjMydssA5ZG9UjLGHcgLLZCkAnPsThPuVm26bNbUOaDPbbFZ_G2UNka5QXqpPmTHQOnZfzwv8jWUeo4BeNwxI8rQTdFkrwu8jYqrIHcGyfm4K/s400/more+jerrys.jpg" border="0" />They decide when to go out,</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295026013193894546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 299px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlnXcKjA3O8LrRb7YZ7QPadAqooohWWvoW6bk4tFjNF5xZnyrPCXpuF86uEEF6wzUtsvHlhIcFRHM1udTMshxARCNTlzLyZmk5f64_QE2tL9EYiJEsVSg5vuy1mT_pDglYaN8UDrKsb2Z/s400/beth+%2Bpie.jpg" border="0" />but don't hesitate to stay home. And make pies. For me.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294717190427212338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIIeI7fuZt-YGOkQ1449jm5V4iOUZxtVel84yuM5hOzzXdyrGY4t_uonSxHvnasvuYGLrNy_XQdoSBt-tedVBxa6_1KBBdZKYm6UVhij9zmcsrmCERg_84e_LYo6xrEqoYI-eMwlj3b2eO/s400/4+on+the+deck.jpg" border="0" />I cannot attribute it completely to what we did when they were small -because much is due to inherent temperament and personality, <em>but I can't help but wonder</em> (Oh, how I long to be Carrie....) if I taught them in those wee years that home was NOT a fun place to be, and that we needed to be GOING to be doing something important.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295026016186320770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsk83StzZ3S-bdKPFyDIW71X9Upw9xtgv6Gdq45-f70mOJDUGEFxsRH4Kq7PLXskOcdn4g7Pc6D461N1ch5uO0Wiq56H6SQJD4PnMCSx8aizQgJ-nfc8cDTQ795Jcu-7gyWNXN85izJgFL/s400/beth+and+ben+on+deck.jpg" border="0" /></div><div>It's hard to know why, but our Young Son and PPP seem to be content at home, when it's home-time. The Sophisticate and BigB? They have had to <em>learn </em>how to be alone with themselves and to be content with 'finding something to do.' Did they learn that from watching me?<br /><br />ME? Today? I'm agoraphobic. Totally. </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1