Blog post with teeth

So I got my teefies cleaned today. My hygienist, Terri, told me they are great, barely scraped me with her poky metal wand of unbearable screech-making and sent me on my way. AFTER the dentist told me I need a crown to replace a big old filling. I am putting it off till May. Then I will have to make the AWFUL choice about whether I want to get the sweet, sweet embrace of Morpheus' gas OR watch a movie during the 1.5 hours of "shaving down" my tooth.

I want every distraction I can get, frankly.

So in May I'll have to come up with the perfect movie for getting a crown to. It will need to be involving (obvs) without being too scary (duh) or too emotionally fraught/talky. I am up for suggestions.

In the meantime, I have posted some preliminary France pics from the honeymoon on my Flickr page with commentary.



I learned to like pink wine in France, BTW.

I also learned that the French like it when buskers play music like I play in the banjo band:



(You can't see all the people clapping from this pic, but believe me, there was a crowd!)

I also learned about 3/4 through the trip that Ray understands and speaks French a lot better than he was letting on. When I asked him why he'd been letting me take the lead, he explained that he thought I was "cute" and liked the way I gesticulated with my hands while talking.

Another cute thing about Ray: At the Louvre, when we saw the Venus De Milo, he told me he thought her body looked exactly like mine. He appended, "not like skinny, but strong." He gets a lot of brownie points for those observations. What woman wouldn't want to be compared to Venus???

Yeah, this marriage just may last out the year. ;)

Newlywed bliss

"Hey baby ...



You having fun yet? We've been married less than a week and so far we have had an exciting visit from our families ...



A night's stay at a Pacific Beach motel, where we ate yummy food and partook of the hot tub...



... and you finally got the sleep that would take that haunted look (above) out of your eyes.

"We frolicked in the cold ocean (well, I did, as you can see in this picture):



... saw clam shows that blew your mind ...



and even took time to pet the wildlife (in this case, anemones)



and do a little rockhounding for providential and precipitous rocks



But this is our first weekend as a married couple, and we can't waste it with frivolities anymore.



Time to seal the asphalt! The weather is perfect and it really takes two people to do a good job.



You really have to work the stuff in with the broom, babe. Oh, what is it? I dunno. It says a blend of water, silica sand and asphalt. I'm sure it's totally safe.

Could you mix this bucket up for me?



Love that get-up. If only you could do this in rollerskates."

"Now that we're done with that, let's head out to the hinterlands for U-Pick blueberries and follow up on that tip your boss gave you.



Keep pickin', babe. What, we have nine pounds of berries? Right on."

"Hopefully the rest of our married life will be as fruitful as this weekend."

-- Ray (as imagined by his wife)

Happiest Day Of My Life.

Seriously. I thought I was too jaded and ironic for this sort of thing. About a week before the wedding I read through the vows. They didn't move me. I was sure I was too cold, too detached, or something.

Little did I know the weekend would have me all crazy before it was over.

(Side note: I didn't take a lot of pics, and haven't heard yet from Sara. I will post pics when I have some good ones. Promise.)

The drama started Wednesday, when mom, dad and Doug came up. I got them at the airport and took them to Indochine, which was delicious (I didn't get anything, just picked off their plates). Thursday we hit Westport for crab. Ray took the day off. I heard him socializing downstairs while I was Facebooking upstairs. It was cute, since he's so reserved and my family is so outgoing. We played the banjo and clarinet for Doug and Dad. Although Doug is Joe Cool, he actually smiled while we were getting down on tunes like, "Sleepy Time Gal" and "Five Foot Two."

Friday the drama had a bit or foreboding culmination when we were getting ready to leave and Ray took my banjo out to the car. It made it through three rooms and a flight of stairs before falling out on the pavement and breaking at the neck. Ray showed me and I cried. Oh my Lord how I cried. This banjo survived the Depression, people. I taught myself to play on it. There is a lot of sentimental value there. When my car was stolen I didn't shed a tear for it, it was strictly transportation. But this was different, even though my parents kept telling me it could be replaced.

I knew Ray felt terrible, but I couldn't stop crying. I called Andy, who sold me the banjo and restores them, but the line was busy. We headed out to his house, and I left the banjo with his wife, who assured me the banjo would be fine and so would I. Apparently it is now getting back to normal. I kept crying almost until we left Central Park, then I perked up. Janet really soothed me. She also gave me a loaner banjo, so we could play for the family.

And that was sort of the end of any trauma. I was worried this was foreshadowing Something Bad happening. It didn't help when Ray sliced two fingers open on different occasions the next day, one of those times being by breaking Jonathan's shower head (Ray put in a replacement. We are conscientious house guests). But that was the end of the bad juju.

We made it to the chapel for the rehearsal almost on time, but Dave, our minister, wasn't there. He got there in plenty of time to walk us through our rehearsal, though. The chapel was lovely. But I worried it would get too hot in the impending 90-degree weather that was forecast. (It didn't)

So my whole family practically showed up. We got pizza and alcohol Friday night and the first arrivals started hanging out. Ray learned some of the depth of the nerdiness of his family when Meegan criticized Charles' World of Warcraft mount as "too slow." Later, he would tell me, "It's amazing how your cousins are all familiar with D&D." Yeah, babe, you will fit right in, I told him.

Saturday I took it fairly easy. Beth took me for a mani-pedi, my first ever, and it was not half bad. "I think you like!" said the pedicurist who attended to my feet. I had another Asian lady working my hands. It felt a little awkward, but I may have to do it again in the next five years or so. We also got my dress steamed and picked up Beth's, which had been altered. It was the night of the rehearsal dinner, which (and this will be a theme here) did not go off quite as planned because my million relatives got to put in mixed drink orders instead of having to go to the bar and pay for them themselves, thanks to a kind of mess up on the part of the restaurant, which was otherwise delightful. And as I learned over Friday and Saturday nights, my peeps can drink. Like a lot.

Luckily, everyone seemed to get along fine. The Wilmoths and Whites didn't all know each other, and everyone seemed to make time to talk to Ray Elgin. Bonnie commented that I had a happy, social family. Yessiree, Bob. That I do. Although my mom and aunts had concerns about my 87-y-o Pa coming, he seemed thoroughly delighted to be there, surrounded by his family. He talked everyone's ear off and had three beers, which he doesn't do that much anymore. "I love Pa because he's so sentimental," Andrew (now Andy) said. Yes, he is.

Kris showed a slideshow of pics of me and Ray from birth to about now. It was a hit. She found a lot of pics of me with guns, though. I've only been shooting the once. I guess it was very well documented.

The afterparty was mostly my cousins talking about the dorkiest things they do. Bryan watches "So You Think You Can Dance." Andy said something in Math language that I don't follow. Stephen's girlfriend Nicky, who lives in a notoriously hipster section of NYC, kept trying to prove her dorkiness but we weren't having any of it. She posts on message boards about music groups, she said. Erin, Bryan's gf, is a tax nerd, which comes of her job at a bigtime CPA firm, even though she is not an accountant.

Then Ray and I did the dorkiest thing we do — duets of old-timey music. We played "The Codfish Ball" and "I'm Looking Over a Four Leafed Clover," for starters. I hadn't tuned the banjo, so it sounded pretty bad, and Ray had to transpose, so he had issues too. But in all, we shocked people with our competence and extreme dorkitude.

So with all this partying it might be becoming apparent that I did not get a lot of sleep? Yeah, like four hours max. I was one strung-out little puppy. It was hard to eat a regular sized meal.

So Sunday everything gets insane. Kris comes over to make the CAKE. Actually, just to frost it. She brought over the flowers from her garden to decorate it at the Varsity, which I feel I must at this point distinguish from the catering company The Vault, which was the company catering our wedding. Because we are finding it quite hard to say nice things about this catering company at this point. There were some issues with setting up the room. And we had some conflict over drinks. Some disingenuous stuff was pulled on us, partly due to sheer disorganization but also what could only have been flat-out untruths on their part. We are dealing with it. But the catering was the major portion of our budget, so that's a disheartening thing. Luckily we're never marrying again, and we're able to separate our dealings with the caterer from the intense joy we felt from our ceremony and party.

Beth comes over to get me into my dress. After I put on makeup, I prepare to put on this hot, heavy thing for a day forecast to be 90 degrees. Bleah. I have to wear Spanx and a bustier, both of which kind of press into me in funny ways. As she's zipping me up, I say in my best Vivien Leigh impression, "I have to have a 16 1/2 inch waist! Ashley Wilkes is going to be at Twelve Oaks today!"

Sara comes over to start taking pics, and as we're preparing to go outside to do location shots, Ray gets a call from the caterer. It was more drama, but it was handily resolved by a) my decision to throw my mom and aunt Sandy a bone and have them craft the centerpieces so they were on their way to the reception venue, b) Beth offering to stay at said venue until the caterer returned to give her back the one key. I told Ray later that if she was late we'd delay the wedding as long as it took. Beth was the trouper who helped save the day there.

We head out to the Museum of Glass and Sara managed to get nice pics even though I'm feeling ragged and Ray's a bit agitated.

Then it's off to the Murano to see where Sara's staying and get some shots in front of its cool green glass sculpture.

Then we got cokes at the Mickey D's drive through. Ray said, "Mmmm. I can see this being an anniversary tradition, going to McDonald's." Hardy Har Har. I basically associate their food with poison, so I don't think that'll happen. But the symbolism is what it is.

At the chapel, I lay down on some seats in the back and Kris takes photos. Thanks for preserving my dignity, sister in law. Eventually we go downstairs to wait because people are about to show up and we have entrances to make. The organist starts playing the piano. He plays the "Star Hustler" theme song, which makes this former Astronomy TA's heart warm. His name is Jeff Orr, and he's very good, BTW.

Then Ray gets a call on his cell from Mickey. She is shocked it is on! We all are! She said the 7th Street peeps are late! They are in traffic! So we naturally decide to delay until they get there. Plus, they are not the only Harborites who might be stuck. The last people to make it in seem to be the Jacksons. We just chill in the basement while dad goes to check who might be in the house.

So finally it is go time.

You know how I was saying I was all jaded? Well, apparently not. As the prelude is winding down I feel a crack in my dam of fortitude. As the doors to the chapel open, and "Thaxted"/"Jupiter" (from Gustav Holst's "The Planets" suite) plays, I lose it. People later told me they couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying. Mostly the latter. Out of happiness. The dam burst and I got my face red and my eyes puffy, just as Sara is taking pics of me. She said, "Liquid joy," that's what tears are. I still feel kind of weenie about it all. But damn, people, I was SO OVERCOME.

I mean, there I was, about to proclaim in front of virtually everyone I hold dear my love for my absolute and most amazing best friend. I was about to be joined in holy matrimony to the one person I care for most in this world. And how much I love him never stops astounding me, as does the fact that we went through a lot of coincidences in our lives on the path to meeting each other. What ifs? abound. But, as Ray's friend Jim said, it seems God preserved us for one another.

Seriously, you get married for the first time at 35 and up, and it isn't just another ceremony. I seriously think our ages have an impact on how you take a wedding. We had waited a long time to get to that point. We have had a lot of life experiences.

So the vows go by fairly quickly. Ray was sweating like crazy and his lower lip was trembling. He was clearly working to hold it together. We chose some fairly awesome readings, including one from one of the books of John that says, in part, "be slow to anger," which I liked because it reminded me of Ray, and also speaks of how one's "righteousness" is baloney, which reminds me of my attitude towards self-important people.

Finally, we kiss and work our way down and out, before Dave can say he would like to introduce us as husband and wife. We went to the basement again and I lose it all over again. We had a moment.

So the family took some pics afterwards. I, with my makeup totally gone below my nose and in a streak across my cheeks. Well, so what. Zach was cute, yelling, "WEDDING!" instead of cheese. It works, people!

We made our way to the reception, and we started off the buffet. We were a little surprised to discover so many people at the bar when we had so much wine for them to drink, but it had not yet been set out on the table. For some reason, habit, I guess, I got broccoli at the buffet even though it was technically my day and if all I wanted was to eat cake and prime rib that was my right.

I hardly ended up eating anyway, I was so busy talking to people.

So Dave kicked off the open mic wedding slam with Betsy and, yes, her raffle for our license witnesses. Ray's cousin Brian and 7th Street hardcore volunteer Lane won. Also, Lane is a deputy coroner, so the symbolism, I told the crowd, was appropriate. The raffle raised over $400 for the theater.

We had toasts, Hugh started, and pointed out that we both disliked a past boss as I waved my hands in the classic, "STOP!" gesture. "I'm being inappropriate," he said. "When you're 83, you get to be inappropriate!" Applause ensued. Jeff told everyone how Ray liked the WWF back in the day and about their wrestling nicknames, "True Cod," (Jeff) and "Parakeet" (Ray). Beth said she was glad I finally found someone smart, with my values, and gave me what she said, which she had written down, which was awesome. Jim said he was so glad Ray was not alone anymore and that he is a great guy, which is the gospel truth, and that he liked Def Leppard and Metallica, which surprised me. Ray later said he had them confused with Iron Maiden, which he had told me about. Weird Al, Tom T. Hall and Iron Maiden. Some taste he's got there. Doug warned Ray that I would steal his GI Joes and take away the remote while he's watching cartoons so I can watch General Hospital, but also that I will stick up for him. He made me cry. Dad told a story about how I told him I'd smoked my first cigarette (I just wanted him and mom to know that I was developmentally appropriate, which is kind of weird), then talked about my tracheotomy. I'm not sure how that fit in, but I do know it traumatized him and mom for a while. Finally, Paul got up and testified to Ray's good character, excellent taste and brilliant mind. (Later, when Jim asked if I had ever played "Facts in Five" with Ray, he was surprised to learn that I almost always win. Ray can beat me at air hockey more consistently than any board game.)

My mom and dad worked the room. I think it helped them understand Ray more, since he's so reserved, to talk to people who love him so much, to understand what I was getting into and why I was doing it so willingly. (When I told my mom I was dating Ray, she said, "What does he do?" I said, "He's a lawyer," and she replied, "Is he DIVORCED???")

Then the DJ started and we danced to U2's "One," which is a little sad but also has the social justice themes we were going for. We DO have to all carry each other, carry each other. We served the cake, none of it ended up smeared on the other's face because we are classy and besides, that was homemade stuff! No wasting it allowed! Riley Jackson, so totally cute, played photog. He asked if I had his dad's email (LOL, yes, he's my boss) and I could get some pics that way. I said I'd like the first cut, and when Riley seemed confused, told him his dad would know what I meant.

Finally the DJ cranked up the jams and my entire family came out to boogie. Enduring images include my uncle Phil getting busy, even doing the "make a splits and pull self up by collar" maneuver, Klaus just shaking it like he's braking it, mom dancing with her pink reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and (while this isn't a visual) my hair being soaked through with sweat, same with my legs under that superhot taffeta skirt. Also the family doing the Cha Cha Slide. Which is about as explicit in directions as my family needs. We are desperately honkified here. "Two hops! Left stomp! Slide to the left!" Seriously, we needed that help.

My cousin Maddie, who will be going to college after next year, told me she loved that I picked "Poker Face." You know, the one that futzes the "po" sound to be more like "fuh." I also danced with Joey, who married my cousin Melanie. The next day I saw them at the hotel and Melanie was rubbing her strangely pokey-out and taut belly while Joey asked if she felt okay. I was all, "What is this thing you're doing with the rubbing? Either you have an impacted colon or you're pregnant." She was pregnant. With TWINS!!! They didn't tell me earlier b/c it was "my day," but holy cats, I was so freaking happy for them. Also, Meegan and Nathan sold their house, which they had just put on the market days earlier. Lots of good news.

I couldn't believe how many people danced for a seriously long time. I danced with, I think, everybody. Some of them made me gasp for breath since I was squashed in my foundation garments. My legs were killing me for two days after. Not Pa, though. Even though he was afraid of falling and breaking his hip he came out to dance with me a little. "All it took was saying, 'Please,' " aunt Carol said.

I took a break to hitch up my skirt and ventilate. Sara sat down next to me. She said it was the best wedding she'd been to in a long while (her own, probably). She pointed to the dance floor, where almost everyone was slowdancing to some old song. "Look at that. That is love. You made that happen. That is really something," she said. What an encouraging thing to hear.

I did make Ray dance the last dance with me, "Over the Rainbow" by Bruddah Iz. Cute song, and I have such positive associations with Hawaii that it made me very happy, and I was already over the moon.

Anyway, we got out of there at about 10:30 or so, and we were so keyed up from adrenaline we couldn't sleep. We just kept talking about how awesome our wedding was, how lucky we both were, and how promising our future is.

We are really, really lucky people. I feel an immense sense of gratitude every day for having Ray in my life. He is the best, and I am so, so happy he feels the same way about me.

Engagement photos

Got these taken like a MONTH ago and it has taken forever for me to get them up. Sheesh.

Anyway, we met with the lovely and talented Sara Gray last month in Seaside, Ore. She is our photographer and did her darndest to get me to smile with teeth showing. We wandered around in the quite-chilly town along the boardwalk and downtown while she took pics with her assistant, her husband Eric Hensley.

Here are the results:



That's the shot we used in the local papers. Love amongst the condos.



More of the same spot.



Laughing! Loving! That's us! On the boardwalk!



Sand dunes.

Sara Gray is very good at making people who are pasty, pudgy and not photogenic (like me) look like acceptable members of society. See more of her work at saragrayphotography.com.

Well, we got the marriage license today, so we're on top of the game. And with one month to go, that's a good thing.

I am officially an old fart

Sent to the NYT today when it was noticed that the acrostic is only availble online from, I presume, here on out.

Dear Editor,

I'm WAY too young to be writing a letter complaining about a redesign in the magazine, and especially in regards to a much-beloved feature moving online, but the acrostic. Seriously. This is my main motivator for buying the Sunday NYT. Everything else I can get online that I want (minus the crossword, which I like to do, but my real affection is reserved for the acrostic) on Sunday. But I spend the money (even the new extra dollar), and sometimes I have to drive way out of town to get the paper (I live in a small town). I hate what it does to my carbon footprint, but I also hate the Acrostic DTs.

Seriously. The Acrostic. I know the redesign has messed it up; I know you're straining at the news hole. I know T Magazine has had some issues and now its elements are being crunched into your newly-teensified space. I know all this. I knew I would eventually pay for the fact that Craigslist has decimated classifieds and free online content does not pay like the paper version, with its expensive display ads. I just didn't expect it would be the acrostic. I thought it would be my job as a reporter. THAT I was prepared to accept.

I suppose my only recourse is to get the games subscription and forgo the physical paper altogether. Heck, it may prevent me from feeling that little dopamine drop that comes with abstaining from reading the magazine preview articles as they become available online.

Well, I'm sure the Acrostic has become to you, poor clerk who has to sift through the letters, was to me when my old paper decided to change the TV listings from vertical to horizontal channels. Except maybe NYT readers are less likely to threaten physical violence (true story, and at least I hope they don't). I feel your pain, too.

Henry Rathvon, Emily Cox, I remain devotedly yours,

Callie White

(What I did not say is that I am sure HR and EC are real people who look like they belong in an early Agatha Christie mystery. If you know the truth about Rathvon and Cox, who I would like to think solve murder mysteries in their spare time, like a much cooler Tommy and Tuppence, don't let me know. Or do. I've already suffered so much disillusionment.)

More Banjo Madness

Today was the big Second Annual Fretted Instrument Guild of Western Washington Four String Banjo Convention. A mouthful, no?

The GH Banjo Band rocked the house, needless to say, during the Round Robin when every band takes turns playing a song. A guy in the Orphan Banjo Band (so called because it was made up of people who were either not part of a regular band or their band was not represented in the Round Robin) turned to me and said, "You guys have got pizzazz!" Why thank you, sir!

We also have video, courtesy of Ray and a little Flip we got as part of a wedding registry that only had the Flip and a tripod on it. I am going to figure out how to use it momentarily and post video. We got Linda doing the Charleston and she is so precious! Oh, and Linda has apparently found my blog while googling her dad's name or maybe Grays Harbor Banjo Band. Hi Linda!

We had Dick Lewis with us. He performs under the monniker "Montana Red" and he is terrific. Ray said he overheard Montana Red asking Hank, the unofficial leader of the Orphan Band (aka "no-name band," but that's just all complicated) for a squirt of something from a can with a guitar on the front. Ray posited that it was for easier finger sliding on the strings. But since a little oil/anything can mess a string up I am curious about this substance.

Before we hit the convention, we went to the Olympia Farmers Market and got some Washington cherries of a variety I can't remember. Ray was impressed because they were so early, I was impressed because they were so sweet and flavorful, even though they were kind of soft. We also go a loaf of Wagner's cinnamon bread, and I don't care how much cinnamon bread you've had in your life you haven't truly had cinnamon bread until you have had the very thinly-rolled and generously-becinnamoned European style cinnamon bread Wagner's sells.

Then the convention was mostly organized by the Tacoma Banjo Club, and was held at the Little Creek Resort (it's really a casino, too, though). I noticed that the readerboard was advertising MMA fighting for tonight (6/6). Well, it was advertising, "Extreme Cage Fighting! Meets No Mercy! Carnage at the Creek! June 6 2009!" where an exclamation = screen switch. Too bad we couldn't stay.

There were us, the orphan and Tacoma bands, as well as the Seattle Banjo Club, the Kitsap Banjo Club and the 101 Band, which appeared to maybe be three people, one on banjo.

There's a lot of overlap in banjo band repetoire. I heard "Side By Side," a kind of Depression-era "we're poor but who cares if we have each other" song, and we all were expected to play "Bye Bye Blues," which I kind of vaguely remembered playing before and especially that tricky Aflat7 chord, and "God Bless America." God Bless Ernie for having the sheet music with him so I could read it!

After the Round Robin, I returned my self-busting busted sunglasses to Target (Ray had taken to calling them "Collette Reardons") and got new kicks for working out that I hope won't hurt my legs like my other sneaks did.

We had dinner at Lemongrass and it was delicious. Also we did more French CD learning. I find French a disheartening language full of words that all sound exactly alike and not nearly close to how they are written. I suppose this is how English learners must feel, only more often, so I should suck it up and continue.

Upon returning home I got a Friends of the Library newsletter and some devastating news: The Timberland Library will have to reduce the number of holds available to each person from 100 to 25, I assume in fall when the other Timberland changes as a result of the failed levy are going into effect (like charging for printing and overdue fines. Yeah, we're totally spoiled). I have a perpetual 80-odd items on hold, people! This will ruin me! This is my summer of (ahemming) or getting off the pot with some of those books! I will have to read like the wind! Why was this NOT IN THE PRESS RELEASE when I wrote about this a few weeks ago! I could have read harder and cleared some items off my plate!

In the meantime, I am freaking out. This is very new news to me. I will have to push my finishing of "The Egg and I" to the back burner, apologies to Kris.

(I recently read Big Box Reuse and Rethinking Thin (I recommend that review, for it has the same reaction I did to the book — i.e. yeah, but, Wha?) and am on P.D. James' The Private Patient. My God that woman is, in the first few chapters anyway, such an amazingly skilled and literary writer for her genre, and she keeps it up even though after 14 Dalgliesh novels alone she could rest on her laurels. Brava!)

Notes on a nearly-feral child

The Tulip Terrorist is beginning to leave his toys on our property. He left a dumptruck up by the rear door in the little enclosed space and a scooter back by the yard. Ray said I should go all Rita DelVecchio on his tuchus: "You leave it on my lawn, this is my dumptruck now!" I also worry it heralds an escalation of his invasion of the house area and specifically he's going to mess up my herb garden. So help him I will throttle his little neck if I catch him ...

Oh who am I kidding. Ray and I totally are disempowered talking to him. We're do-gooder non-confrontational types and the kid is basically without conscience. I can try having a conversation with him, but I know he won't take it seriously.

According to a neighbor his mother was "on meth when she had him." This, combined with his mullet, will just stigmatize him for life. Comfortingly, I guess, the little terror apparently knows right from wrong but doesn't care. I say comfortingly because at least he is aware there is a difference! When I told him those flowers weren't his to pick he may not have cared what I was saying, but he understood. He is not completely feral, then.

Oh, Sara Gray posted some engagement pics on her website so check out how matronly and old I look and how youthful and photogenic Ray is.

In other news: We finally tried razor clam sausage. We were told you had to like razor clams (we do) to eat it, but it tasted a lot like regular sausage. We ate it with sauerkraut.

Big banjo band playout on Saturday — the Four String Banjo convention. It's the Round Robin. Drama will ensue, I am sure!

Bless their hearts.

Tuesday night, after a sweltering and long board meeting, I gave a moment's thought to just not showing up at banjo practice. But then I remembered Leona was keen on my attending and besides, I needed some practice for the upcoming Four String Banjo convention (though no dice, they'd played the six songs they were going to do already so I am kind of hosed). But I am glad I went after all. The ladies of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band had a special surprise for me: A mini-bridal shower.

The banjo band ladies are the unsung heroes of the band. They generally sit in the back with their knitting and crocheting, just going to town, but they also bring most of the food when there is a party.

It turned out they had been putting things together for me for the past few weeks — Leona made me a doily and some lovely potholders, Clydene made slippers and potholders, Blanche made a soft white shawl and some potholders, Betty gave me a lovely bouquet of roses from her garden and a recipe book with some recipes in it and Penney had some dishrags and scrubbers for me. All of the things were handmade. It was really overwhelming. Those women are so sweet to think of me, I am really blessed to know them.

By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea

Okay, so Google ads is churning out such losers as "Aberdeen mom cures wrinkle problem" and "Aberdeen mom whitens yellow teeth." In Aberdeen, the obvious solution to these problems is not to remove the wrinkles and yellowness as it appears but to take preventative measures by not smoking (meth). Since the Aberdonian solver is a mother, I can only assume she is inculcating anti-drug messages into her children. And since I don't smoke anything, I think I am ahead of the curve there, too. So Google ads, you can stop that.

So Ray and I headed out to Seaside for a weekend of relaxation and adventure and engagement pics, which I will post when Sara sends some my way but it was just last night people. We biked at Fort Stevens, did a hike there, walked the promenade and it was chilly and because it has been so nice here, I hadn't packed long sleeved anything. Still, there were plenty of people out in shorts/tanks/flip flops.

To get there, we headed through Astoria, where we ate at the Silver Salmon Grill, a really nice restaurant with the added bonus of having a magician performing at tables. His name was, no kidding, Dale Dvorak. A carpenter "up at the college," Dvorak's passion is magic, and although he has performed for 8,000 ppl at the Tacoma Dome (he says) he likes to keep the close-in stuff as part of his repetoire. That's the tough stuff, really. He did a mentalist trick with me, where he set out five cards with different symbols and he produced a card with the same symbol from a little wallet in his pocket. I have a pretty good idea how this trick is done, and the same with the card tricks he did.

Ray mentioned to DD that I am a former member of my high school magic club, so DD realized he had to step up his game. I apologized for being a tough audience, but knowing some of what to look for has spoiled me for magic. DD understood that, and said as a magician, he was onto other magicians all the time. So when he saw a magician do a trick that he couldn't draw a bead on, he would have his mind blown. And possibly because I mentioned I was bad at prestidigitation, he did such a trick for us, with an English penny and a half dollar that involved alternately dropping them into his pocket and making them reappear in his hand or vice versa. Very smooth. It was very impressive, especially when, apparently without moving his outstretched hand with a half-dollar in it, he made it disappear. Excellent misdirection and prestidigitation skills, Dale Dvorak. He is at the very least a 9th level mage with a dexterity score of 16.

We made it to Seaside in time for a walk on the chilly promenade.

The next morning at Fort Stevens we avoided making eye contact with some reenactors, who were waiting until 11 to set off a small cannon and were dressed in Civil War regalia. What, you ask, was Oregon's role in the Civil War? Small. Incredibly, incredibly small. A man filled with "sessecionist feeling" (i.e. booze and redneckery) walked down the street in Eugene, Ore. in 1865 saying "Praise Jefferson Davis, and damn the man who won't," and was arrested so as to quell pro-sessecionist feelings. It apparently worked.

While the Union worried about sessecionist feelings breaking out in Oregon territory, it must have been apparent from the start that it would not make a great slave state, so although there was Fort Stevens, the Civil War aspect is so small, that you can read this in the Oregon Blue Book: "For many of the soldiers the Civil War in Oregon was a monotonous, numbing assignment. In their monthly post returns, officers recorded desertions, suicides, and bouts in the brig because of drunkenness and misbehavior. The Indians were quiet on the Siletz and Grand Ronde Reservations. The rain was predictable and depressing. 'Nothing transpired of importance,' recorded Royal A. Bensell, a soldier at Fort Yamhill. Too many days brought that refrain in his Civil War diary."

Mostly the forts were used to quell Indians and do the Manifest Destiny thing. Fort Stevens was also set up in WWII to fight the Japanese.

At any rate, Fort Stevens is now a pretty big state park with a lot of bike trails, hiking spots and a beach with a shipwreck on it, which seemed more sunken into the sand than the last time we were there. It's a nice place. I highly recommend it. I saw a vole, too.

Back at Seaside, we did more promenade walking. While doing that, we saw three teens on skateboards, two of whom were having an argument while balancing. It went like this:

Girl: You don't ever contact me.

Boy: THAT'S NOT TRUE I text you like every second day!

Girl: THAT'S NOT TRUE I check my Yahoo every day!

Etc. while balancing. Jeez, what is with the texting? I wanted to applaud the young man for refraining from texting every hour on the hour, as some kids apparently do. Now that they've finally managed to hang out, why is this even an issue?

We also saw a guy who may have been busking or possibly hired by the ginormous condo complex to sing on the street backed up by CD. He was a very suave-looking older black guy in breezy cruisewear and his songs were jazz standards sung in the swing style. I heard him tell some dude he'd "love to sing at Branson." I don't think Jazz is a thing there, bro. A grungy emo kid with a guitar and a neck tattoo was set up far too close to the dude and he was playing his own crappy songs until he realized nobody cared, I guess, because when we came back he was playing along with Suavitay's CD. I appreciated his musicality in that he figured out the key and the chords he'd need. Cheers, emo kid.

Another guy who sounded neither suave nor emo was playing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" further down the promenade. Ray and I seriously need to consider busking next time we hit the shore.

Possibly the worst thing we overheard was a non-stop real estate conversation while eating lunch at the Pacific Way Cafe in Gearhart. It's a great place to eat, but these two phony-looking people were talking about waterfront property, investment properties, yard redos, inside redos, "Have you been in Jerome's place?" how much stuff costed ad nauseum. Because Ray and I were hungry, we basically were kind of forced to listen in. Ironically, the woman, who started off at the cafe ON HER CELLPHONE got all antsy with the waitress, telling her she wanted to move because she felt "confined" in that spot. Oh, please. WE were the ones who were confined. Like animals.

Gearhart is a precious little place. So precious, it must be on a hellmouth or something. Honestly, I defy you to travel through Gearhart and not feel that there must be something vile under all those pleasant shake facades and well-manicured yards and precious commercial corner (no center in Gearhart, it's that small). There simply must be a zombie problem there. I refuse to believe there is a place that idyllic without a dark underbelly on this earth. That said, I bet their city council meetings are fraught with tension and self-righteous entitlement. Which is as good as a dark side to me.

Some Random Thoughts

1) Why trust makeup counter ladies with their knowledge of what foundation is the least cakey and most like your actual skin when they look like they've put their own foundation on with a trowel?

2) Does Weird Al know how much deep wisdom there is in "Whatever You Like?" It's about having an array of terrible, and terribly limited, choices. It describes the situation of millions of Americans who, like the character in "WYL," are working jobs with terrible pay. The narrator does not appear to have kids or really any responsibilities, but still, his fancy options are large fries. We laugh because we assume he has no taste, or that he is ignorant of what is out there, but in reality, there are millions of American children who have never eaten at a restaurant with tablecloths before.

3) I believe carbonated drinks are best from a fountain and not a plastic bottle for reasons that have to do with carbon footprints, portion control and also flavor (but they can taste bad when the syrup is low). Ray is surprised I have thought this deeply about sodas.

4) The nice day blues. Some days, when it is beautiful out, I have no desire to be outdoors after working. Because there are so few nice days to take advantage of, I wonder what is wrong with me. No one should feel like a punk because they want to do what they want to do.

5) Kelly and friends are providing garden protection. Ever since Ray got the Dumpster back for Kelly's family (their slumlord landlord forgot to pay for it) via phone call (he didn't do it alone, the real estate company that manages the building also called the guy), Kelly and her friends have been watching the Tulip Terrorist so he doesn't bang up the flowers or even ride on our macadam (which he does anyway in spite of their "Stay out of their yard!" screams, the kid is kind of sociopathic that way). Thanks, Kelly! Come and get a can of tuna for your cats any time!

6) Why did "Wanted" have to have a Loom of Destiny? That would have been my first clue, as an assassin in their employ, that the company's model was very, very stupid. And how did Morgan Freeman ever do that scene where he introduces said Loom without a) cracking up or b) crying that he was having to sell this dog's breakfast?

Remembering the dead through sales

So Beth and I went to the Supermall for Memorial Day because I looked like a hobo in my threadbare and dated clothes, and Beth needed some enabling in her life. We learned a special lesson in how old we are, too.

First we got our dresses from the dress shop. Surprisingly (or not), and in complete contrast to how well we were treated when we were buying, while picking up said dresses, the staff was kind of curt and "whatevs." Beth thought it was chintzy that they had a steamer but did not offer to steam our dresses, and especially my wedding dress. I kind of agree. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but it's really a fundamental value for retail.

Then we headed to the Supermall, a place designed to make minds go loose. We first hit Nordstrom Rack, where I bought a pair of $100 (discounted from $275) Cole Haan booties. And seriously, I kind of had to because they were Cole Haans, a detail in an old John Hughes column that made such a deep impression on Ray he once mentioned it and we managed to turn it into an inside joke. Obviously the hottest shoes are Cole Haan shoes, or something.

Anyway, those boots, though not necessary this time of year, replace the utterly useless stiletto-heeled black suede boots made by a white devil. The bottoms were made of cardboard, which in this weather soaks straight through. So although they were cute as hell (and did not have the name of that evil man emblazoned all over them) I had to give them up. The Cole Haans appear to be much better made.

Nordstrom Rack is a seriously disorganized mess of a store. I know it's by design, or buy design. But they could try a little harder because I got wore out the minute I left the shoe section. Also, their cashiers aren't uniformly bright. I pointed out three $7 eyeshadows I was getting to the chick checking me out and she still didn't ring them up. Oh well, they were getting shed of them anyway. I made a good faith effort, anyway.

Now, I can't talk about every item I got because we'd be here all day and even I can't do that. But suffice to say, Beth and I discovered how old we were when we went into the Liz Claiborne outlet. Beth was all, "We're too young," and I was like, "But that red polka-dot dress is cute," and she was all, "well, then let's see what we can find," and I was all, "This dress is $40? Maybe I should try it on?" and I found Beth and was like, "Is this totally boring for you?" and she was like, "I started a changing room already. The shirts are cute and $7.50."

Needless to say, I got the dress and we both got some cute shirts.

Beth tried to justify liking Liz Claiborne because Isaac Mizrahi designs for them now, and I'm pretty sure Tim Gunn was recently brought on to freshen up their look. But I've seen Isaac's stuff in Target and it's either for ironic skinny young women or non-ironic old women with no in betweens, so I'm not cutting him any breaks for being "youth oriented." No, I will give it all up to Tim Gunn.

Funny, I did not get the things I was looking for — cute shoes I can walk around in a lot while on the honeymoon and semi-technical capri-style pants for biking on said honeymoon. Because biking will happen, I swear.

I had a bubble tea and she had a pretzel. Auntie Anne's now puts calorie counts by all their pretzels and it scared Beth into only eating one. Me, I'm pretty sure the bubble tea was a nightmare of faux fats, sugar and tapioca starch. But it's all good because I am working out like a maniac. On Tuesday I did Levels 1 and a bit of 2 on the Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD after the Yoga mat I got off-gassed significantly (it reeked). I will give her props, she is motivating and the exercise is pretty good, even for a first level. Only problem is, I am straining something in my legs every time I work out, something between my ankle and mid-calf, and all the jumping jacks don't help. I was about to die in Zumba from the pain tonight. What, see a doctor, you say? Pfft. I don't trust doctors. They just want to take your money for your two-minute visit and can't solve your problem.

Besides, I probably just need new kicks, like I was going to get while shopping on Monday but didn't find.

Unfortunately, I may yet need to go shopping again within not just the year, but the next few months.

Survival of the Fittest

So the other weekend while visiting Ray's dad, we couldn't make it to see Ray's mom (the nursing home was on quarantine lockdown because someone had the flu — not swine, not like it really matters, all flu is bad for the compromised), so we went mountain biking. I had a hard time keeping up, in part because we were shooting straight uphill and in part because I had worked out for about two hours the previous day.

I would say I was in recovery mode, but Ray saw it differently. He thought I was getting my butt kicked because I don't work out hard enough with Zumba and whatever else it is I am doing at the Y. "I don't think you're keeping your heart rate elevated for a long enough time," he said, as my eyesight went purple and red with rage and disbelief.

True, Zumba does not have a consistent across-the-board high heartrate inducing situation happening. There is a warm-up and a cool-down and fast songs interspersed with slightly slower ones for about 35 minutes before the floor work starts, which lasts about 25 minutes and rounds out the hour. The amount your body works is pretty much dependent on A) knowing and following the steps and B) Pushing yourself on the faster workouts to kick your knees higher, bounce a little more and generally be as inefficient as possible. Why do you think aerobics instructors scream out, "SQUEEZE THOSE TUMMY MUSCLES!!!" all the time? They want you to think you're shrinking your abs, sure, but they also want people to push themselves a little harder. A tough workout — it is possible to get.

What Ray does is, however, incredibly consistent. It is so completely consistent that sometimes I wonder that he isn't overtrained in some muscles. To wit: Ray has the most jacked-up treadmill, set at an incline that could train an Everest climber. He gets on it about three or four times a week and walks for 30 mins at top speed (about 3 mph) and then takes 2.5 mins to "cool down," which does not seem significantly slower to me, then does some pushups and sit ups, always the same sort. Now, Ray is the best hiller on bike or foot that you have ever seen. He marched up Mt. Elinor like it was flat pavement. He bikes up hills that I'm walking up. He is like the Terminator or something on grueling hikes.

So I challenged Ray to come to Zumba with me. Now, Ray knew that Zumba is the kind of environment that may drain a man of all his masculinity for 30 minutes or so, but he bravely tagged along to a Saturday morning lesson, which was only sparsely attended. He had a hard time keeping up. I'm not saying he was floundering like a bottom feeder or anything, but Zumba is not as obvious as walking, after all. But he was very game and I was very proud of him. Also, one of the creepy hillbilly-type people that stare in the Zumba classroom from the house out back was out on the porch staring in. Ray got the full experience.

At the end, he thought his legs might be kind of sore from the floorwork — "Just the hamstrings though" — which was his concession to me that Zumba may have benefits. He has not changed his assessment of the inconsistency of the heartrate, however. Of course, Ray is all about the consistency.

In spite of his refusal to truly accept Zumba as a legitimate form of exercise, he did make me a really nice dinner Saturday night.

Say what?

So Ray and I are trying to teach ourselves some foreign language before we go on our honeymoon later this year, and that means CDs from the library. So far we listened to some on the way to Oly for the big banjo band playout at the First United Methodist Church (where we drew a record crowd for the Saturday afternoon "Potluck and a Program") from the Living Language series. They weren't that great. Maybe for review, since they're all in my iPod? So we moved on to the Instant Immersion series, which is an improvement.

Now, the Living Language series scores some points from me for its "cultural facts" portion. Because the cultural facts are so ridiculous it's hard to believe they aren't trying to get one over on us but then again, the French love Mickey Rourke and Jerry Lewis and only one of those cats has had a comeback. According to Living Language All-Audio French, the French are obsessed with graphology and if you apply for a job there they may send your handwriting off to a grafologiste who will divine your personality traits. When we heard that, Ray and I looked at each other and went, "Wha?" On the other hand, in Latin America they are really into astrology there, in a way people aren't up here.

Other news: Went to Longview, where Kris was assembling a mock 7th-street cake. She was going for a whole-building effect; I thought she would try to recreate the facade (un mot francais (perdonnez-moi, je escoute les CDs, non escrives pas). It was kind of a wash though as it looked funny, so she was on the verge of chucking it, but Ray and I took it home and had Mickey over to share the manifold delights of the 7th Street cake, which was from scratch yellow cake with an entire bottle of red food coloring in it and buttercream frosting tinted the fleshy tone of the theatre.

It looked like a fake-limb cake. Not sure which limb. It tasted good, though. Anyone ever read the Armistead Maupin books about San Francisco? Remember the guy who couldn't remember anything but hated roses? And it turned out he was part of a Catholic cult with the crazy ideas about transubstantiation? Well, this cake could stand in for that guy's cult — and much more deliciously and less repulsively.

The mountain biking was meh in Eufala Heights, which this weekend could be called "You Fail-a" heights. Trees were down, we got lost, my legs got all scratched to heck, Ray didn't feel he got a good enough workout (gee, we only pushed our bikes up a hill for a couple of miles). We had a forced march around Broadway hill and up 6th Street and then back down through the post office. Ray impugned the aerobic benefits of the Zumba, too, because I was dawdling and sweaty. Not everyone wants to pretend they're hauling it up Mt. Everest for 32.5 minutes (no warm-up, the extra 2.5 mins are the "cool down") on a treadmill set to "almost vertical" while watching Lil Kim and Derek the dancer jive to "Jailhouse Rock." Some of us like and need the sociality of Zumba.

OH! MAJOR NEWS! I BUSTED THE TULIP TERRORIST RED-HANDED!!!

Little boy was holding a tulip I'd had my eye on for a week in his hot little grimy hand while riding bike circles around me as I asked him, "Do I go into your yard and pick your tulips?" (shoulda used the word "flower," in retrospect). He was all cagey about where he got it — "I got it somewhere." But eventually he fessed up — "I got it there" (pointing to garden). Other tulips were missing. I was annoyed. I don't think TeeTee learned much, but one can hope.

TeeTee also played what appeared to be chicken with us when we were about to leave the driveway for the grocery store. With his bike. He came right at us on his bike, swerving almost at the last moment at our (stopped) car. What preschooler has thanatos? Does he feel some sort of existential angst — la nausee (is nausea masculin ou feminin? Je ne sais pas)? What is up with this kid?

I told Ray if we were to spawn our kid would probably get beat up by TeeTee while simultaneously worshipping him.

The temps this weekend was gloriouse. Notre premiere weekend de la ete. More, please!

We saw the Driftwood show, "Crimes of the Heart." Nice set! And it was really good. Debbie's daughter was in it and she was as precious as she could be, and so was Ray's distant cousin Julayne. Anyway, it was a really well-done show. Apparently, because I went in and sat down while Ray hit the bathroom, he couldn't find me and it took half of Livin' Harmony (the local barbershop quartet) to point me out to him. I was reading the program so I missed out.

This is such a small town. Sometimes it is hard for me to get over. Although there are a lot more social problems here than in Stars Hollow, there are a lot of similarities to that fictional community, too. Like when Hoquiam thought about banning chickens, pigeons, ducks and geese the other week. Small town governmental decision-making at its finest (it was voted down — let people have their poullets).

Banjo madness continues

Saturday night the Banjo Band took Olympia's First United Methodist Curch by storm. They have a "dinner and a program" every other week, and this Saturday, we were that program.

The benefiit of the dinner part was we all got to take part in the potluck. Let me tell you, there is no finer eating than a church potluck. Not only are you exposed to the culinary heights of mac-n-cheese with summer sausage mixed in, devilled eggs and QFC Fried chicken, you are risking food poisoning because non-professional cookery is the number one way people get that stuff, which makes eating kind of like an extreme sport. It is fascinating what people cook, too. The best thing I ate was what appeared to be a rhubarb bar. Like a lemon bar, but with a different, rhubarby top. It was spectacular.

Obviously my eyes were bigger than my stomach, which was pretty big (I'm not sure why I was so hungry, since the extent of my day had been sleeping in, returning my books to the library and powernapping). But I needed to sugar up before hitting the banjo.

The organizer told us this was the biggest crowd he'd seen at one of these potlucks, and man, they ate up every song, from "Carolina in the Morning" to "Bicycle Built for Two." They even screamed for Linda to do the Charleston. If there had been a venue where banjo-smashing was appropriate, this might have been it. Except we all love our banjos. Best of all, they actually knew the protocol for the service songs. And although this was a United Methodist Church, they hollared with appreciation for Frank Andy's "God Bless you and God Bless America." Frozen Chosen? I don't think so.

Ray and I listened to French tapes (well, mp3s on the iPod) on the way up. Maybe something sunk in, but the instructions are a little confusing. Although he took French back in the day, Ray said he is expecting me to be the primary linguist on the honeymoon. The tenses are giving me a sad, however, because I thought (why?) they'd be like Spanish and Portuguese, which have virtually identical verb conjugations, tenses and moods. Le sigh. Anyway, I can now say "bouteille de champagne," which I already could, except I can say, "Je achete une bouteille de champagne," which only sounds more moronic with the verb in place.

Finished "A Fraction of the Whole." Tres, tres bon. I recommend it wholly. Also demolished "The White Tiger" which won the Booker. I was not as impressed with it, but it's not bad. The symbolism is more obvious, the plot less ambitious than FOTW, but it's got a lot of description. I'm in agreement with the Guardian writer who was like, "The White Tiger got the Booker? Say what?"

Who's up for "Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet"?

So Friday night was the Young Artists Showcase, which I hosted, at the 7th Street and it was really good. Ray thinks it was the best ever. I started off totally nervous and freaking out and tweakery like always but soon warmed up a bit and even made some ad libs. Like when Shaylyn's shoe came off while she was dancing, she left the stage and I was like, "She danced her shoe off for you and that's the best you can do?"

The dance acts are always fun to watch, this year there was a 14-y-o named Spencer who did a hip-hop number to a medley called "Get Your Swag On," which I would like to link to some lyrics for but Ray told me he YouTube'd to see if it had any swears and heard the phrase "hos on my (you know what) like a health dept. condom," and since I already know all the words to "Get Low," I don't want a potentially dirtier song to replace its stature as "Song I know with the iffiest of morally redemptive quantities." It also brought up a fundamental question for me: Shouldn't those hos and the health department condom be simultaneously on the rapper's, uh, you know? Does he think rubbers are for fashion? Has the health dept. in his neck of the woods not been doing its job?

Fundamentally, however, I think it's just flabby lyrics that are the fault of the writer. And I'm worried I'm bringing down the town of my already not-high-toned blog with this information.

Anyway, Spencer was the big hit among the 13-15 y-o girls backstage. "I LOVE SPENCER," one breathlessly proclaimed to me while running down to see him. The feminazi in me wishes that boys would show the same amount of approval and validation to girls that is shown in the other direction, but instead they usually just lap up the attention.

The other backstage drama was the nonstop chatter. It was like Erika Wishnoff, who I went to elementary school with, was there with Sara Hutchinson or Greta Galuszka. Erika was seriously the Chatty Cathy of that triumvirate, the other two couldn't help but get sucked in even though Greta was a goody two shoes and Sara was introverted. Erika got told to be quiet more than anyone else I ever went to school with.

Let's see. There was also singing, which was all very good. If I were to pick out particularly poignant moments of singing, I would say there was Jordon, who Ray said was just good his first time at the showcase several years ago but has developed into a real artist since. I would also add Cora, who asked if I would tell the audience that she has a cold, but I said, I don't think they'll notice much. Well, she blew the roof off. There were also instrument-players, and I have to say, I was really impressed with Laurel's interpretation of a Chopin nocturne, even though Jonathan, who was also playing Chopin (and excellently), is the local pianist one thinks of when one thinks of Chopin. He did amazingly well, as he always does.

Anyway, Ray said he thought this year was as good as the showcase has ever been and he's worried it won't be as good next year. Well, maybe if you can actually line up Miss Grays Harbor it will suffer from not having my incisive intros, I told him.

So Saturday we headed to Tacoma to get my wedding dress! It fits great and looks really pretty and although for a minute I thought maybe I should have gone white or ivory so other women won't feel silly wearing blue, it suits me. The woman who helped me try it on wasn't the same cool chick who helped last time, but she managed to make it sound like she thought it was okay that I was getting married in a blue bridesmaid's dress anyway.

We went to Woody's on the Water for lunch, and because we're holding our rehearsal dinner there and thought we should at least eat at it once before committing to it body and soul (and because we hadn't had a contract faxed to us and thought we ought to just show up in person). It was yummy. You lucky bastards eating rehearsal dinner will love it.

We then headed to Nordstrom's to look for a tie to match the dress, but failed. The thing that was most surprising about the mall was that it was jam-packed with people. This is a scene from the recession? Where we're all supposed to be saving money? Ray theorized it was a pre-mother's day crowd.

Since we almost never go to a mall, and the one in Aberdeen is basically dead (I should do a podcast tour of it. Lots of "here is a closed storefront that now is a holding space for Sears riding lawnmowers" kinds of stuff in it), we decided to cruise the Tacoma mall. A quick jaunt up and back. Also that way I could get to drink my mocha from the Nordie's cafe (where they have Aphrodite-flavored Greek Gods yogurts! I ate one! It was vanilla with a hint of cinnamon and vanilla, it was delicious! Hermes is still my favorite, though at 250 calories or more per teensy cup I don't eat a whole lot of it.

So not a lot is different at the mall, but there is a new store we saw called "DA RELM." I feel like I should add a huge "SIC" next to it. That kind of combination of ghetto-styled spelling with its cheap, gothic-fonted sign, plus its customers, of whom there were more than 10 and all of whom seemed to know waaaay more than necessary about the kind of sword Aragon used in Lord of the Rings PLUS the two-bladed battle axes with spiked handguards PLUS the knives with built-in brass knuckles PLUS the plastic sculptures of dragons and wizards for sale at the other end of the store leads me to quote this Twitter Tweet from Drew Curry, who I did not know up until I Googled "Da Rel" Tacoma: "Next time your at the mall go to DA RELM hahahaha u will laugh your butt off."

Or maybe we should have registered there (sarcasm alert!).

Then we went to REI, which was packed. Apparently they are having a sale or something? Anyway, I was looking for travel shoes and a good travel purse for the honeymoon when I had a mini-decompensation attack and had to sit down. I overheard a sales person tell a customer that when REI built the Tacoma store they only anticipated 6,000 new members to join from it. Well, it was 30,000 in one year and now they realize they were thinking too small in the store. Well no kidding, I could have told you that with my first visit there six years ago, ding dongs. The Tacoma Ys are packed to the gills, we are not a lazy city! We are Seattle's suburbs! All our public trails and parks are VERY WELL USED and REI is like the unofficial religion of the unchurched nature lover that makes up 80 percent of the population of western Washington state. And of course they built in a lot they can't easily expand in or from.

Anyway, I did end up getting a purse identical to Beth's, with stainless steel mesh in the straps and bottom and a clipping zipper. She got it for her trip to Italy this December because of all the pickpocket warnings in the guidebooks. Do people still pickpocket? Seriously is it that much of a problem? The purse is so theft-proof I'm sure I'll end up forgetting it at some cafe or something. It's even the same color as Beth's. I was hoping for a less brown or black option, but in retrospect if I get tired of carrying it Ray won't feel too feminized if he has to tote the thing.

We then returned to the Harbor in a downpour that got so crazy near Ft. Lewis that we had to slow down to about 30 on I-5 and still couldn't see that well. Mom said Arkansas had some real bad rain and called it a "frog strangler," which I'm pretty sure is what my old boss John Hughes would have called the conditions on I-5.

When we got back we were starving, so we picked up a pizza from Casa Mia and cracked open a bottle of wine. Ray let his hair down and we polished the bottle off (anyone who knows Ray will know that his drinking three glasses of wine is !-worthy) then played banjo and clarinet duets while buzzed. No, that's not a euphamism for anything. We played "Spanish Eyes," "Banjo Polka" and a medley of "Red Wing" and "Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet." Then Ray, who has to transpose everything in his mind when he plays his B-flat instrument in C notation, busted out his clarinet book and, to prove that he doesn't stumble over accidentals, whipped like a pro through the most difficult song in the book, a Klezmer ditty (called "the Klezmer's Hora") that had all kinds of symbols in it I'd never even seen before. He did this while actually moving his head up and down and side to side, unleashing his inner gypsy. Three glasses of wine and in thirty minutes he's doing what his clarinet teacher had been after him to do for more than a year.

We think we should play a few banjo/clarinet duets at the rehearsal dinner, or outside before or after along the waterfront (I can prop my banjo case open like we're looking for donations), for our peeps, to show them how we're totally meant to be. Who's up for a little "Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet"?

Making my move to be Grays Harbor's Billy Crystal

You know, how he hosts the Oscars all the time? Or is that Whoopi now? I dunno, not like I watch awards shows.

Anyway, I get to host the Young Artists Showcase again and it's been two nights of talking to kids and reading their little bios and stuff and, hey, what can I say, I dig the gig. It's my little way of supporting the arts and the people who are working their tails off to create a vibrant arts community in a Harbor that hasn't always been a real receptive audience. Anyway, the kids are always so excited to do this event. It's precious.

Oh, a YAS first this year: A married, pregnant performer. She's 23 so although she's young, she's not THAT young.

I'm thinking of debuting a dress I bought like two years ago at this thing. There are not a lot of opportunities to wear a sleeveless anything in Grays Harbor. Even though it is almost May it gets up to the high 60s with lots of wind. There is a reason the Pacific NW/grunge look was flannel and jeans, and it is the weather here. Seriously. One chance to wear (this) nice dress in two years.

Still reading "A Fraction of the Whole." It is amazing.

Made a huge batch of rice pudding with leftover rice. It was ploughed through in about four or five nights. Man, I love sugar. I balanced it with salads and stuff in my lunches and dinners.

There are still many, many block party baked beans in the fridge. Perhaps because the kind of party they throw keeps the neighbors up with the noise and the garbage left all over the street. Metaphorically speaking.

The Depression

Well, I'm not saying it has come to Aberdeen, even though Weyerhaeuser basically pulled out the other day, taking with it the reamaining 54 in-town jobs it had, because we haven't had any bank runs, even though WaMu got dissolved and is now Chase. Things like the FDIC are very good.

So things here are kind of on the bleak tip, not too different from normal, actually. But I think, like our neighbors in Europe and to the south, when the US gets a cold the rest of the world gets pneumonia, that kind of applies to the Harbor, too. The rest of the country or state suffers a setback, the Harbor gets kneecapped by it.

I'm not really sure how "The NOW Habit" fits into this, with its anti-procrastination advice that includes an anecdote about the author's jumping out a plane in airborne training that he manages to sound like he talked himself into taking control in a bad situation fits in when the discussion is about a community, but it seems it might be one way of going about. Embracing the bleakness, taking charge, surging forward as if it comes from volition. They're rambly ideas, but maybe not such bad ones.

The perpetual bland sitcom comedy of my life with Ray had a pretty iffy episode this weekend. Ray decided to make a recipe for "Block Party Baked Beans" from the new Cooks Country and I was like, "as a main dish?" and he was like, "that's what it is." And I was like, "I think it's a side," and he was like, "it has meat in it," so I had to concede that point.

Among beans you get in a can it has lima beans and green beans in it, even though it's more of a smoky-tangy-sweetish dish. So I was all, "let's swap out the lima beans for peas," but you cannot get Ray to freestyle with a Cooks Country recipe. So I have been eating some lima beans, people. Lima beans. Disgusting. They get worse as they age, and the final of these lima beans that I eat will be really bad because that Cooks Country apparently intended the recipe to feed a block party of hungry people. We've got frozen beans. And the green beans in the red sauce are not exactly floating my boat either. They're kind of crunchy so it ruins my ability to tell myself I'm eating chili or maybe sloppy joe stuff without a bun.

Other than that, and the intense bloating from the gas, I'm enjoying the beans. Cooks Country is fun.

We went to the Shorebirds Festival this weekend with Beth and Chris. The alleged shuttle bus ran maybe every half hour, which I think means it should not be called a shuttle bus. And the weather was iffy. But we saw some birds. No peacocks or ostriches, but the excitement among the bird people seemed to indicate we'd just missed the bandersnatches. No, seriously, Winged Migration (note the sourpuss who wrote THAT entry!) is an amazing thing, but once you've seen the movie you can't just experience the cold, wet, very distant reality of the boring brown birds the same way.

If I sound unenthusiastic it's probably because the Scotch Broom and some sort of tree pollen are sucking away my ability to feel joy. They are making me anhedonic, as well as unable to breathe through my nose. Life as a mouthbreather is not for me. I feel acutely unproductive and I'm embarrassed to talk to people face to face as I'm also a sneezing mess.

Instead, I prefer to curl up with a good book. So far, I've been finding that good book in A Fraction of the Whole. Also see this site for a brief synopsis of the ideas in it. It is just profoundly interestingly written. I am digging it deeply. Every page is dynamic. (And here comes the forced anhedonia part) I'm only a couple chapters in so... (okay back to rave) I'm sure it will be great all the way throughout. Oh please let it be this good throughout.

Next up is "The White Tiger," which actually won the Booker prize. If it isn't as mind-blowingly AWESOME as "A Fraction of the Whole" or "Sea of Poppies" I'll be annoyed. But it sounds pretty awesome too, no?

Oh, speaking of putting "no" at the end of a sentence, I have managed to create my own sentence in French: Ne touchez pas ma poulet, cest sensetif. (Don't touch my chicken, it is sensitive) Apologies for spelling errors and also maybe ma should be mon. But see, French is like English in that when it comes to pronunciation of spellings you can kind of fake some of it with nonchalance and a low voice. At least, that's what it seems like. I'll probably be gutted by any actual french people.

MA POULET EST SENSITIF.

Updating is hard

So much has been going on that it's hard to keep up.

First things first: There is documented video of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band. If you're a FB friend, check out my videos IF YOU DARE. We were playing th Bluegrass by the Bog festival at the Cranberry Hall in Grayland. We do not play bluegrass, although a couple of 5-stringers who have infiltrated the ranks can pick out "Blackberry Blossom" and "I'll Fly Away," so we have some filler for the peeps there. According to Ray, the reaction from the watchers was more excited than you'd think. The president (our benevolent dictator) of the Banjo Band announced the songs and people were like, "Oooh! 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame!'"

Next things next: My birthday gift. I RODE IN BETSY's IZETTA! She picked me up in her itty bitty car and, so inside, there's one little pipe that brings in warmed air from the teensy engine. For fresh air, there's a little sliding vent in the door, which is the front of the car. The gearshift is on the left and is about the size of a car's dipstick. We went to the 7th Street and ate lunch, then Betsy ran me back home to get my gym bag and we went via Scammell hill. Now, on the way to try to cross the street Betsy almost got us T-boned (on my side) but not really. That car is so tiny that even if it had gone out into the street an approaching car can easily dodge it.

So you noticed I said Scammell Hill. Now, this is a famously steep hill. It is seriously steep. And we were going to go up it. In a tiny car that was already kind of underpowered. I was halfway expecting to have to get out and either push it up or just try to keep it from careening downhill by grabbing it from the side window. Oh well. Lemondrop, as the little yellow car is called, totally made it and didn't have to be put in second gear. Betsy, as usual, was laughing the whole way up.

Other news: The sun came out this weekend! It was great! But I was working so I didn't get to enjoy it until Sunday, when Ray and I went biking, first out to Junction City and then back around to Hoquiam. Then, at four, we saw the Olympia Choral Society perform some stuff. The program was kind of Americana with one piece called lambscapes that was Mary Had A Little Lamb in the style of Handel, Schubert, Verdi, "Carmina Burana" and sons of the pioneers, which I'd never heard of.

God help me, when I hear "We Shall Overcome" I get all choked up. I'm supposed to be too cynical for that.

Today I took advantage of the sunshine by walking my errands (I thought I'd bike but I changed my mind at the last minute: Too much locking the bike up over and over in too little a space of time to make it worthwhile. This meant I was in my dipes (i.e. padded bike pants) the whole time). I stopped at Rosevear's but they were closed. Like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story," I pressed up against the window and saw that there was a five-string banjo. Drool. One of the five-stringers showed me how the five-string has a chord already tuned so all you have to do is put your finger across all four strings. Making a minor chord is another situation entirely, as is a 7th or a diminished. Still, I'm game.

I also pulled out an old crummy media shelf of Ray's from the basement (it did not survive the transition of going from being his room to our room) and put it on the porch. I dug out some old pots I'd once had dreams for and got some herb seeds and starts and potting soil and I'm going to try and make those fresh herb dreams come true: Cilantro, sage, mint, basil, thyme and tarragon. Do you know how tiny mint seeds are? Almost all the seeds, really; they're all part of the mint family. Yeah, I'll drop some Linnaeus.

Well, I'm hosting the Young Artist's showcase again. Wish me luck! No accidental cussing! No whammies!

My very first playout

This Saturday I had my very first playout with the Grays Harbor Banjo Band! This has been months in the making since I started going to Banjo Band meetings this winter, practicing the dickens out of the Program 6 book (naturally we played from books 1,2 and 9, which I only recently received and haven't been able to get fully under control).

I got in my new pair of black pants (can you believe I didn't have any?) a button down white shirt and, of course, my Banjo Band maroon vest. If only I'd had the sparkly black bowtie (have it now) and a straw boater I would have been a hot little organ grinder — or organ grinder monkey, whatever.

So Ray and I head out to Elma, where the Banjo Band is playing at the Music Factory. Now, from the name you might think this is a big place and be kind of confused because Elma is not so big. It's kind of an old-timey multipurpose hall that its owner, an older guy named Dave (I think?), has been patching up the past decade. It has a booth above the floor that is accessible by a staircase, painted seafoam green, that you can hoist up along the wall. The stage, about a foot above the floor, was staggered so everyone could be seen. There was a very large picture of Jesus — you know the one, the iconic one where he has the light hitting him from the front and behind, only the shoulders up kind of pic, this in tones of brown instead of the usual blue — behind us.

I had to cram in between Jim Redding and the piano, and I saw Eloise (Frank Andy said she was the oldest member of the band at 86 and she hollered, "I'M 87 GOIN ON 88!!!" so there you go) and asked how she was doing and she said not so good, she'd had a terrible fall but the Lord gave her the strength to get up and call her daughter, so praise the Lord for that. Eloise is fiercely independent.

Then we got rolling and I really had no idea what all was going on half the time. But it was fun! Linda Hall did the Charleston to 5-foot 2, and she is actually that tall and has eyes of blue. She and Marilyn Redding both wore their fringed blue dresses with red, white and blue feathers in their hair.

We played "Alabamy Bound," a train song that meant putting on conductors hats. Luckily Linda had an extra for me. I am starting to think being a member of the Banjo Band = slight chance of clutter. Ray, who was sitting in the back, tried to take pictures but it was too dark and they came out blurry. He also said whenever the band played a song, people would sing along, even if no one was singing. They did this with "Bicycle Built for Two" and "Wild Irish Rose," which Andy Hall sang and dang if he didn't sound just like an Irish tenor. The guy is so musical it's ridiculous.

We also played "Spanish Eyes," during which Eloise got out from behind the piano to play maracas. She used to get up and dance but she said she just can't do that anymore. Still, she played the dickens out of those maracas. Shake it, don't break it Eloise!

So the last number -- aside from the encore, "Banjo Polka" -- was the service songs. Now, I may be a former Quaker school student with limited experience in all things military, but I do know that you're supposed to stand when you hear the service song played for the branch of the armed forces that you were once a part of. The Music Factory crowd, though all of the so-called "Greatest Generation," did not seem to know this or had a collective senior moment. The first song was "Anchors Aweigh," and a guy in the band was a Navy guy and he stood up for the song and like the whole audience stood up! And Ray said he tried to wave them down like, "Hey, that's not what you're supposed to do! You're messing it up!" but nobody paid attention or understood. Then they stayed standing throughout the rest of the songs. Maybe I got it wrong and they were all members of the Navy, Army, Marine Corps, Coast Guard and Air Force. It could happen!

So I had another practice tonight before our playout at Bluegrass by the Bog in Grayland on Saturday. For the third month in a row we had the election of officers. How does the election of officers get continued as old business for three months? And although it has always seemed like we have reelected our benevolent dictators/only people willing to take a leadership role each month has it yet been definitively done? Only time will tell. This was supposed to be the annual meeting so maybe so.

Because it was the annual meeting everyone brought food. About five people brought in devilled eggs. I'm going to have to learn how to make them because my generation is not a devilled egg making generation, and if there aren't devilled eggs at a potluck something is dreadfully wrong. At least, that's my take on things. And not because I'm such a devilled egg fan, either.

Also there was some jamming, and Ernie Walls jammed with me — he played "Summertime" and I sang. It was fun. He's just a sweet guy.

Ray has been helping me practice some of the unfamiliar songs. I can't follow the music too well and I'm too excitable to stay on beat (I know, I'm a real asset to the band, huh?) so I kind of have to know the tune so I can, you know, feel the music or whatever.

Ray said at the "rehearsal dinner," we should pick out a few songs for entertainment of the guests and play them together. My family is very tech-savvy, and I told him we might be plastered all over the internet if so. Two people, playing old-fashioned music together, a little sloppily (he has to transpose on the fly), letting their freak flags fly.

The only other wedding update is Betsy wants us to have a raffle for the 7th Street as part of the ceremony. We're considering it since we need to give people SOMETHING to talk about.

Boring wedding stuff

This is not my wedding dress



But I do look pretty cute in a Barbie wonderland bomb, no? This was me playing dress-up after getting the dress I'm really going to wear, and which was more than $1,000 less than this. I just asked the nice clerk at The Wedding Bell if she had something big, white, sparkly and poufy to try on just because how many more times am I going to be wedding shopping? Like, never.

So that mission accomplished.

Then, a week or so later it was on to Longview, where Kris has been gung ho about producing the ultimate delicious wedding cake. Apparently she's been busting out the algebra calculating the precise ratio of baking powder to batter weight for a 12" cake round (an uncommonly large size) and buying a thingy you soak in cold water then wrap around the cake pan to prevent the sides from cooking too fast compared to the middle. Actually, she bought two and McGyver'd them together. Then she did a test bake (judged by all to be a smashing success) with three kinds of icing options. This cake has been a challenge both mental and gustatorial!

The cake (which you can see here, and do check out the photostream, where it shows the steps to fill it and her hummingbird infestation) was coconut. The icing options were all coconut, rum-flavored filling inside, and lemon in and out. Ray and I absolutely adore all-coconut. We took that and the rum-filled leftovers home and I swear I ate a decent sized piece of cake twice a day for a week, and Ray had his cake, too. And ate it (goes without saying). Kris used the Alton Brown coconut cake recipe, modified for the cake size. It was also doubling as my pre-birthday birthday cake.

This is going to be the best-tasting wedding cake I've ever had. And all my lovely guests too. Kris is also making a red velvet cake for the "groom's cake." We're pretty sure there will be multiple servings per most people necessary because they're great cakes and the buffet will probably be serviceable buffet food.

So I had a dream last night that I had superpowers and there were these people who were also superpowered were out to kill me and they killed everyone I know and I found my old Philly house smeared with blood everywhere and I barely got out of there alive. That's where my dream kind of ended. Lots of my anxiety dreams have me running down this little path that cut through the block. Don't know why. That was a lovely little place when I was a kid, one I think back on very fondly.

But anyway, although my dream was technically a nightmare, I never really felt the kind of overwhelmed freaked-out feeling that I got at Macy's today setting up a wedding registry. I felt a little dizzy at one point.

I kind of picked myself up a bit and realized I was not spending this money, someone else might be. And I felt a little better and a lot guiltier. But then the bridal consultant showed us that almost all our items were under $50 (everything is basically on sale because there's a depression on), and even the sheets I said, "We're spending $200 on sheets?" about, are on sale so they aren't nearly that expensive.

Funniest registry moment was at the towel display.

Me: "I like these. Which colors you like?"

Ray: "These" (points to cranberry-colored towels)

Me: "No. And not the brown ones either. No more brown and white. I like these."

Ray: "Uh, okay, those are fine."

Me: "How many towels should we get? Four?"

Ray: (consternation in voice) "Four??!! That's a lot of towels. Just get one."

Me: "Who gets one towel? That's just weird."

Ray: "We don't need four new towels. We have a lot of towels."

Me: "Well, yeah, but getting one towel? One? Isn't the point to have multiple towels that match?"

Ray: (shrugs) "Yeah. Get two."

Me: "Okay."

Later in the car:

Ray: "I've been thinking about the towels. I have some towels that are kind of old. Maybe it's time to get rid of some of them."

The cheapest item is a lemon reamer (on sale, $3.99). On the website it just calls it a reamer, which, paired with its pic, makes it look totally naughty.

Oh, and it goes without saying that there is a non-profit that will be even more grateful for donations than we are, the 7th Street.

So there is your boring wedding stuff update.

Goings on around the Harbor

So Ray and I went to see "The Women" at Driftwood Friday night and poor little Cora Foss, in the middle of her little emotional scene while pounding the floor and screaming "MOTHER DEAREST! FATHER DARLING!" was interrupted by the craziest senior moment I've yet witnessed. An older lady in the third row appeared to wake up when Cora started her speech and yelped, "WHAT'S GOING ON!" Although it sent a ripple of annoyance through the audience, Cora kept going. Go Cora!!

Saturday night we went to the Hoquiam Shows Its Best auction where for my birthday Ray got me a ride with Besty Seidel in her Lemondrop, a BMW Isetta. The ride also entails a sundae at the Sweet Shoppe.

What I have been hinting for is a way to get a bedside table and lamp by my side of the bed for more convenient reading.

Speaking of reading, I finished three books this weekend!!! (one exclamation point per book). The first was "Authentic Happiness," about positive psychology. Basically it states that we all have a baseline of happiness and there's not much we can do about that permanently except volunteer more and do more fun stuff and work on our capacity to love and be loved. For people who do not have so many of Maslow's Hierarcy of Needs met that they can pursue these ways to be happy, well, tough luck. Actually, people in poor countries tend to be happier than people in rich countries. Seligmann, the author, posits something that comes close to why Mildred Kalish, who wrote the last book I read about growing up in the Depression on a farm and all the chores and stuff she had to do, loved her childhood. It had a lot of purpose, a lot of work that was challenging but accomplishable and although her folks were "hearty handshake Methodists" (i.e. they did not hug and kiss on meeting) there was a lot of security in the family.

Basically, we'll all have to be sustainable agriculturalists before we get back to being happy.

I also learned from the online assessments that I am in the top tier of happy people. I scored in the 80th percentile compared to my gender, age, occupation (probably even higher in these times) and zip code. Ironically, I am also among your more vengeful and avoidant types. If you've wronged me, chances are, I'm p.o.'d about it still. This is made even more ironic by my "core strengths," which include broad-mindedness and fairness/justice.

Perhaps this explains why I think I can write mystery novels. I KNOW why people want to murder. I don't DO it, of course (my style is avoidant, so if I'm not looking at you while you talk to me, well, if you have half an inclination to social skills, figure it out). But I understand. ;-)

Sign up and test yourself at www.authentichappiness.org.

In "Guyland," Michael Kimmel really does us a service by doing an anthropological and psychological study of a bunch of "guys." Male entitlement and frustration abound, and the misogyny he uncovers will freak you out. If you are a guy, you should probably read this, especially if you feel like your disgust with your situation hasn't found a voice, or that the ones that are popular, like Howard Stern and Rush Limbaugh, are selling you a bill of goods that are too foul.

But absolutely the best read and the most enlightening was "The Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw" by Bruce Barcott. Although he is perhaps too sympathetic to the protagonists of this real-life fight against ecological destruction, developing world corruption and the arrogance of multinational corporations that fly beneath the radar, well, the protagonists ARE fighting ecological destruction, corruption and arrogance, not to mention the undermining of a young democracy and the people's rights to know and to health. Read this book. If you like the writing of Michael Pollan, John McPhee or you just like the style of the New Yorker, this is a non-fiction book that you'll totally like and it will take you a little further than Pollan will on the meaning of sustainability.

So, ah, there you are. After my feminist screed on the dumbness of weddings I hope this is remarkably more positive and enlightening. Oh yeah, I am back to my happy baseline. The prospect of a ride in Lemondrop with Betsy has totally picked me up.

Weddings are STUPID

Part One. (Because I haven't read a single wedding mag or visited "The Knot," I am sure there is a world of crazy out there that I have yet to encounter.)

So weddings = supposed to register. Apparently the whole world will be waiting with bated breath to find out where Ray and I are registering. We are too, as we have no idea what an inventory of stuff we need would look like (indeed, we both seem to feel awash in stuff right now and willing to not own more stuff, or, if we do, to get it our own selves).

HOWEVER, should we register, the people who are interested are supposed to find out how? By seeing that we're registered on our invites or enclosures in the invites?

Oh Lord God Almighty NOOOOO!!! HERESY!

They have to learn by Word of Mouth.

Maybe that worked back in the day, when going from Aurora to St. Paul was a big deal (circa 1925 or so actual distance: about 17 miles. In people's imaginations: GOING TO EUROPE, info from GMR). Today, when I have family and friends all over who don't really all know each other, that doesn't work so well.

If you are a bride who ignores this etiquette rule, you are a BAD PERSON. Check out the comments here. And God forbid you ask for money! I dare you to type some query along the lines of "I'm a bride and want cash" in Google (there is some pro-asking for cash advice, but it's all "this isn't classy and it takes tact," and the comments are all bile). Even Chinese people get mad about it even though we've all seen that scene in The Wedding Banquet where the red envelopes come streaming in. (Note that if you are a groom you are presumed to have limited, if any, agency.)

So this means that people have to come up to you or your family to ask where you are registered. They are forced into a conversation about someone's wedding. Maybe they want to talk about it, maybe they don't feel like getting sucked into the mountain of crazy that is wedding talk from someone invested in a wedding.

Frankly, I come down on the side of, just tell me on the invite so while it is on my mind, so when it occurs to me, I can go straight to the Internet and buy you something. I cannot be trusted to remember to ask someone or even know whom to ask. I appreciate the bluntness and ease and do not need to do some sort of pearl-clutching over breached etiquette. I do not feel I have been assaulted by someone's greed. People who feel like they are being assaulted by a line of ink that reads, "we are registered at the Sharper Image" need to take some Prozac, grab a ladder and climb over themselves.

Also frankly, it seems to me that there is a lot of free-floating bride hate out there. This culture absolultely hates when women decide to remove their (purely theoretical) sexual availability from the public pool. They hate women having a "day." They do everything they can to denigrate and hate on brides in particular — like the groom has no agency in having a celebration that is "too lavish," "too weird," "too selfish" or too whatever, or worse, that he's being suckered by a succubus so his masculinity is diminished. Even if all the trappings of a wedding are patriarchal and so are its roots, I think it bothers some people that women are taking control over their weddings, as much as they are their marriages, their careers and their fertility.

It bothers folks that women are able to spend their own money on weddings, that we're able to obtain credit to pay for it, too (although, hello, not really the best use of credit). They don't like that we're able to pick who we want to marry. They don't like that we feel we should have control over our own weddings and get mad when we find relatives doing things like inviting people we don't know, imposing their own feelings that they had a mediocre wedding and if only we do what THEY want it will be perfect because sad experience has taught them, or just generally making brides mad. It's always the bride's fault, in their narratives.

I'm not saying there aren't immature brides, but I'm saying they are the vast minority and the stereotype that is used to make all us other brides cower in fear of being compared to them. I'm also saying that they are playing into the culture's expectations for them. You think the magazines and the bridal-industrial complex are playing NO ROLE AT ALL in the creation of the stressed-out, bitchy, entitled Bridezilla? You think they're innocent bystanders? NO WAY JOSE. It's another sexist method of control and they are playing right into it.

It's time to liberate Bridezilla. It's time to unhook her from the culture of consumption, to unhook her from her frightful associations. It's time to recast her. It's time that all that energy be harnessed for some better project.