It's a Nice Day for a White Wedding

I told you the love story for Valentine's Day. This story picks up practically where that one left off.

"I'm pregnant."

"Are you sure?"

"Peed on a stick..."

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to get married."

(hugging me and kissing the top of my head) "We will be the happiest family ever."

That was our romantic proposal. Jealous?

We talked about just rockin' it City Hall style given the circumstances, but my mother wouldn't hear of it. She and my father had eloped and she'd always regretted the fact that they hadn't had a wedding. I was going to have a wedding, damn it.

So we threw one together in three months. It was not a dream wedding. I realize this may be surprising to those of you who had always aspired to be 33 and pregnant when you walked down the aisle, but it's true.

My mom hired a photographer - the only one she could get at the last minute. She chose the cake (I couldn't make it to my hometown, where all of the preparations were being made). We bought a dress. It was not a lovely, feel like a princess dress. It was - what's the word I want? - tasteful, you know, given the circumstances.

Tom's aunt, who had served as a mother figure after his mother passed away, enthusiastically offered to do the flowers. Silk flowers. Oh, kids, I love fresh flowers. I try to have some in my home all the time. I can assure you that I did not want silk flowers on my wedding day, no matter what the circumstances were. Did I tell her that? No. I thanked her profusely and accepted her generous offer. I really wanted his family to like and accept me. A refusal of such an enthusiastic offer didn't seem like a step in the right direction. I didn't feel like I had much leverage, given the circumstances.

We talked to the pastor in preparation for the wedding. We stressed that we were equal partners in the relationship and that we did not want anything in our vows or in the service about a woman giving it all up to become subservient to her man. He smiled and nodded and made some notes.

Mom found a DJ who listened to every word we had to say.

The big day arrived. I spent the morning like most brides do, getting my hair done, pampering myself a little bit. Making sure the reception hall looked nice. Tom used the opportunity to peruse some of the places of historical significance in my hometown. Namely, the Johnstown Flood Museum. Yep. He spent the hours leading up to our wedding immersed in learning about the single greatest disaster my little home town had ever known. Despair. Disaster. Devastation. Now get me to the church on time!

We didn't have miles of attendants in matching dresses in my favorite color - we just had my sister and his cousin stand up for us. More, I was told, would've been inappropriate given the circumstances. The pastor devoted his entire sermon to women becoming subservient to their men. If it hadn't been for - you know - the circumstances - I may have walked out right then. Tom later confessed that he would have, too. This was not what we had agreed to agree to. But agree we did.

As our guests headed to the reception, we stuck around for pictures. Apparently when you hire your photographer at the last minute, you get what you get. We got a lot of JC Penney catalog worthy pictures of me in my tasteful dress with my silk flowers attempting to hide my thickening waistline.

"Why yes, I DO have the time..."

The popular 'newlyweds in front of the heating vent' pose.
Notice how strategically the photographer has placed the lovely bouquet. There are a whole lot of things about this picture that aren't fooling anybody...
And no, I'm not wearing a bustle and you're mean for asking.

Then we headed for the reception ourselves. I'm sure you know without me telling you that it was raining. I swear to God, if one more person had told me "rain on the bride is good luck" I probably would've greeted them with a roundhouse kick. Circumstances or not. No bride wants to be rained on. Luck, schmuck. (Chuck Norris has nothing on a pissed off/rained on pregnant bride!)

Things took a turn for the better at the reception. The food was delicious. The DJ had indeed listened to us and respected every one of our wishes. And best of all - the guest list was small. We were able to not only spend some quality time with each of our guests, but we were also able to have a good time with each other. We danced - and not only the obligatory bride and groom dances - we danced when we liked a song. And - remember? - the DJ had listened to us. We liked a lot of songs. Oh - for my Western PA readers who may be wondering - there was no money dance. My mother informed me that it would be inappropriate, you know, under the circumstances. But we had a blast. We started our married life on a very happy note indeed.

That was all fourteen years ago today.

Since then I've been to beautiful, storybook, dream weddings. I've been to elegant weddings. I've been to intimate backyard garden weddings. I've heard of insanely romantic proposals. I've seen wedding pictures that are so beautiful they make me want to weep. A couple of those marriages even lasted...

So, yeah. The proposal was lame. The wedding will not be used in any wedding planner's portfolio. The honeymoon did not exist. But the marriage? Solid as a rock. Maybe we should put the emphasis back where it ought to be. A nice wedding is, well, nice. But the happily ever after? That's the endgame, ya'll.

I think the past fourteen years have gone pretty well.

And the circumstances turned out pretty well, too.

Greetings From the House of Hormones

My youngest daughter became very angry at me last spring when I suggested we take down our swing set. We don't have a huge yard and it takes up a nice sized chunk of it and Tom hates mowing around it. I was ready to see it go. She was not. She loves swinging and still swings quite often. I actually do love reading on the deck to the steady squeak of the swing set. No rush to grow up, Liv. Swing on!

And boy, does she.

Jumping off, she says, is the best part...

Yesterday we met friends for coffee at Barnes and Noble. When it was time to go, it was no small feat gathering everyone together. My friend and I had found our younger daughters but were still in search of our elder daughters. We asked the younger if they'd seen them. Liv responded, "Well I was with Lea and I gave her a playful little push..." at this, my friend and I sort of - well, in retrospect I guess we did sort of laugh at her.

"That cannot have ended well..."

We looked behind us and Liv was not keeping up. She had stopped in her tracks. Her face had gone full red and her left eye was twitching a little bit. "I SAID," she said, clearly working very hard to maintain reasonable modulation, "I was being PLAYFUL." Child was seriously angry at - us? her sister? the world?

Not ten minutes later, she informs me we've run dangerously low on feminine products. OH! Ok. She wasn't angry at us, or her sister, or the world. She was angry at Mother Nature. That made sense. Mother Nature can be a real bitch. (just ask Kathy B.)

So off we go to Walgreen's, where we face the huge aisle of monthly decisions. The Theme From A Summer Place was playing on the Muzak - or whatever we're supposed to call it these days. We agreed that it was a pretty song. Then Liv, my angry little Liv who, not an hour earlier had only just managed to suppress steam from coming out of her ears, burst into dance in the feminine product aisle at Walgreen's. It was a very expressive, arms out, leaping sort of dance. She did not hold back. Still dancing, and going into a little twirl, she said, "I feel like I want to be barefoot wearing a Sleeping Beauty gown and dancing in a meadow with a boy dressed up like a prince." There's a child firmly grounded in reality. She's not waiting for a prince. Just someone who dresses up like one. And what is it about feminine products and meadows, anyway?

I've told you about the paradox that is Liv, before. I've told you that she is a gentle vegetarian, tree-hugging speed-metal drummer. Ask anyone who was in Walgreen's yesterday afternoon and they might tell you, based on appearance only, about a skate punk ballerina.

I don't think we'll be getting rid of the swing anytime soon.

And We Danced

Remember when you were very young and you would spin and spin and spin until you couldn't maintain your balance anymore and you would fall down, preferably into a big pile of sofa pillows, and watch the world spin while you laughed at nothing in particular? If you were a little girl, perhaps this feeling was enhanced by a wonderfully twirly skirt that made you feel beautiful as well as carefree and dizzy. I've often said that most of us who indulge in alcohol or drugs when we get older are just trying to recapture that feeling of spinning and spinning and spinning. (Then, somewhere along the way, most of us decide we don't really like that feeling very much at all. But that's another story for another day)

I have always loved to dance. I have never been any good at it. Grace is not my stronghold. I have rarely cared. Dance like no-one is looking was never just a platitude for me.

I remember Jr. High dances. Sitting with the girls on one side of the room while the boys lined the other. Maybe awkwardly dancing with girlfriends for a little while before dissolving into giggles when we realized the boys were watching. Tentatively swaying with the boys during slow songs. Beth? I hear you callin'. But I can't come home right now...

I don't remember high school dances as much as I remember going EVERY weekend in high school to the underage disco, The Glass Diamond. Now say what you want about disco. You'll probably be right. I've probably said it too. As a musical genre, it was deplorable. But as a scene? Honey, even the underage scene was on fire. I remember putting on my deep scoop necked Danskin and a black wrap skirt and ridiculous heels and heading to the diamond. It felt so sophisticated and grown-up to enter that disco and say, "Hold my purse. I love this song." And then proceed to boogie ooggie oogie till I just couldn't boogie no more. I remember practicing steps and moves diligently in girlfriends' basements to get ready for that one night a week. Saturday Night Fever was not entertainment, it was a How-To-Guide.

College led to dancing on beer-sticky basement floors in frat houses then small apartments with the furniture pushed back, then finally, senior year, in clubs. College was dancing like Belinda Carlisle. College was trying to learn the "Thriller" dance without the benefit of a VCR. Or, you know, the aforementioned grace. And, if any of my college friends are reading, it's 10:00. What song is on the stereo? (Godzilla) And where are your feet? (not on the floor)

Post college involved a lot of dancing and clubbing, too. At least twice a week, quite often a lot more. DJ, VJ, live band - it was all good. And it was all an opportunity to dance. For inspiration.

Then dancing became something I only did at weddings. Celebrate good times, come on!

Then dancing became a lovely form of synchronous reciprocity when I danced with my babies and they responded to the gentle rhythms.

And I thought maybe that was it.

Every now and then I'd dance around the house with the kids. Every now and then at a concert or festival I'd feel my shoulders start to move. Even more rarely my hips would become engaged. If I thought no one was looking. On rare occasions I'd headbang a little. Which is, as everyone knows, the same but different.

Last night I got a gift.

The pizza shop had karaoke night.

From a business standpoint, it was a complete failure. But the very thing that made it a failure for the business made it a resounding success for me. It was like a private party. A private party for girls. The only folks there were myself, my two girls, my sister and her daughter, our friend, one other waitress, and her friend. Everyone (but me - I have my limits) took a turn on the mike. That was fun. But more fun than that? We danced. I mean we DANCED! No little shoulder dancing, no shifting weight from one hip to the other, full on dancing. We forgot we were too fat or too skinny or too old or too young or too any darn thing at all and we danced. Me? Who has spent the last couple decades trying to be invisible so no-one will have to be offended by the ampleness of my behind? Child, I was doin' the butt. I was a brick house. I p-pushed it real good. And I did all of this with women I loved who were doing it too. And we laughed. We laughed so hard and so well. And every bit of it was laughing with, not at. (ok, the young boys who were working at the shop might have been laughing at. But if you're not living your life in a manner that is amusing on some level to adolescent boys, you're probably not living it right.)

Moving like that felt AMAZING! I felt like that little girl swirling in my pretty dress till I couldn't swirl any more. That was cool. But cooler still was that I was sharing this experience with my girls. This wonderful, multi-generational girl power feeling was just palpable. I hope they never forget it.

I know I won't.