Girls & Boys (to copy Jonniker and title my post after a song)

First off, this post is totally gender-divided, with the first bit primarily for the ladies and the next for the gents. My apologies to the feminist movement, any guys out there who are planning their weddings and ...everyone else. I think it's also a testament to the (potential) power of blogging, linking, commenting and sometimes, just screwing around with the Google.

That being said: As a wedding planner, I struggle with the "Wedding Industry" as a whole.
"What a crock!" some of you are exclaiming, "she perpetuates the Wedding Industry! She's hawking those eight-pound magazines like a New York hot dog guy! She obsesses over invitation ink colors and envelope textures!" This may be true, but wait, wait just a minute here - allow me to explain myself. Yes, for some people, hiring a planner is more of a luxury than a necessity.

My clients, to a person, have all thanked me for a) Keeping them, their relatives and guests happy and oblivious of any issues b) Not allowing them to waste their money on any of that Godawful Wedding Crap c) Occasionally, gently reminding them that, in the end, it is (or should be) about the Marriage, not just the Wedding.

I often cruise around online, looking for "alternative" wedding website. It was my delicious, buttercream-y surprise to discover Ariel Meadow Stallings' blog, Offbeat Bride and to get a copy of her book, Offbeat Bride (Taffeta-free alternatives for independent brides)

Yes, I am totally encouraging consumerism: Buy This Book!

And as for the lads (and ladies who like the Lakers) - I am not the sports fan in the family, as you all know. However, this story here is so completely hysterical, even I am amused by it. Charles Barclay has challenged Dick Bavetta (video here) to a footrace, because he claims Dick is old and slow. If you aren't familiar with him, Dick Bavetta is an iconic basketball referee, the Chick Hearn of refs. He is a spry, lean guy with the age spots and sideways grin of someone who has Seen it All. The players, by and large, respect his calls and don't talk back to him very much. He responded to Barclays' challenge by offering to donate $5,000 to "Charity" under the name of the winner. I can't wait to see this.

The Veteran The Challenger

VS.

Of Gorillas and great food

I actually have one of my clients to thank for showing me this video last night at our tasting. Did I ever mention that as part of my job, I sometimes get to go and eat food? For free? Really delicious food? And sometimes taste wine? That, my friends, is a Certified Perk, if I ever heard of one. Any rate, last night I was here (don't let the name fool you, they do everything) and there was fooood, glorious food. I actually fasted yesterday so that I would be hungry enough to eat from this menu. Check it out (not if you're hungry, though):

Starters:

• Trio of soups served in espresso cups for a warm 'sip' starter (no spoons needed!): Lobster Bisque, Red Bell Pepper and golden tomato basil soup topped with creme fraiche, cream of Butternut Squash with cinnamon and spices. Winner: Red Bell Pepper!
  
• Sourdough bruchetta topped with balsalmic vinagar reduction, goat cheese, fresh fig.
  
• Grilled tequila-lime shrimp served with drawn butter.
  
• Herb-grilled asparagus wrapped with procscuitto, served with a lightly spiced remulade dip.
  
• Cheese/Polenta Bites topped with osso busco in a wine sauce. Deeelicious, and I don't eat lamb. Ever. (My note about bites: Anything that says "Bite" should be A BITE. Served in a spoon or a neat bit size. There is nothing more awkward than doing this number at a party, "Mmmhmmm..thith ith...rwrreally goodth" because the bite is too big. These were the correct size and came in an unfussy spoon.
• Cherry tomato bite, stuffed with cheese, fresh herbs. Yummy!
  

Salad - Spring Green Pear Salad with caramelized walnuts, pears, feta cheese and a balsamic dressing. *I love this salad, but it's better with a Gorgonzola or a crumbled Stilton.

Main Course:

• Mesquite Grilled Tri Tip, horseradish and salsa. For those of you who aren't familiar with tri-tip - click on that link. If I only ate beef.
  
• Barbeque Chicken Quarter
  
• Cedar Planked Salmon with a brown sugar dry rub.
• Cheese Ravioli in a tomato basil cream sauce.
• Potatoes au gratin, Corn souffle* and bourboun baked beans*, garlic bread
  
• Grilled Vegetable Medley - included portabello mushroom, peppers, heirloom tomatoes, and eggplant. Delicious!
  
• *These two are the owners' family recipes and are easily over a hundred years old. People come in and are offered all kinds of more sophisticated sides, and pick these. I could eat the corn souffle alllll day long - it has fresh baby corn as well as sweetly creamy cornmeal all together. Mmmmm!
  

Dessert:

• Fried Brownie (no, you did not mis-read that....fried brownie) bite with raspberry sauce. Seriously good, and majorly rich - one bite is all you need.
  
• Warm white-chocolate macadamia cookie and vanilla ice cream, fresh berries.
• Veuve Clicquot. Hic!

Good thing I took a long, fast-paced walk afterwards, isn't it? This business can be dangerously delicious.

Ohhhh....yeaaah!

Oftentimes, work is still WORK for me. Not so this time - Check this out - and
a special note to Janet: May your Mexico wedding be at least This....much....fun! 
By the way: I realize I didn't post yesterday- and I have only one thing to say about
that: I'm really, really glad I don't work at an office anymore.
Thank goodness. We're scheming to head up to Monterey, down to Disneyland,
and than to TJ for some more dental fun, so I feel a distinct slacker-vibe coming on.
Just in time for NaBloPoMo.

The irony.

No Do*

Disadvantages to Working from Home, In Ascending Order:

-Cats not known for their ability to bounce ideas around with you. Unless by 'ideas', you mean treats or corks.

-The Ability to wear ones' morning clothes all day long is not the Right to do so.
-Limited human contact may result in over-excitement on mail carriers' arrival, lack of 'blink breaks', watching E! True Hollywood Story.
-Potential for distractions are almost endless. See: Laundry 101, Project Closet Makeover, Bathroom Remodel, cats, and looong lunches.
-Construction workers hauling huge chunks of new sewer lining directly outside your 'home office' and running what sounds like a lawn mower on steroids twelve hours per diem may make you a rather crabby.

Advantages to Working at Home, In Ascending Order:

-Thirty second commute.
-Flexible hours, no harsh lighting.
-Complete disregard for cat hair on clothing totally acceptable.
-Limited human contact means almost no chance of three to five people per diem will ask The Question.
-Absolutely no chance that your frustration at this behavior will cause you to have the following conversation between myself and a Clueless Individual (who should really know better than to ask about these things):

Me: "Hi, Clueless! Good to see you!
CI: "Hiii! So are you back working at the office?"
Me: "No, I'm just subbing in for a little bit - it's easier for (Old Boss) than hiring a temp."
CI: "Oh, really? You should just come back full time."
Me: "Oh no, I left to start my own business - I really don't have the time. How's ____?" (identifying trivia removed here)
CI: "You mean you didn't leave work to have a couple of kids?"
Me: (Appalled by the notion here that women leave work for two basic reasons: Maternity or Sexual Harassment) "Nope. Left to do weddings, I love it. I've been really busy - the work is wonderful."
CI: "But you are going to, right?"
Me: (Aware this may be a tender subject, trying to be tactful) "It really isn't likely, no."
CI: "Noooo...you haaave to - I always thought you'd be such a good mom." This based on our annual office parties? My consumption of potent fresh margaritas and bean dip? My work attendance? Or possibly my large, square hips? I'm not sure.
Me: (brisk tone, warning smile) "Nope. Really, I don't have the room, time, money, patience to do it the way I'd want to. Plus I'm really enjoying my job."
CI: (Pushing luck) "Reeeallly? Are you sure?" (Said in a tone that indicates I may not have the mental capability to make a reasonable decision for myself.)
Me: (Smile now etched on, tone of voice sugar laced with vitriol): "Yep. Pretty sure. But I'm taking up a collection in case I change my mind....you're welcome to donate."

Exit, Stage Left.

Too rude, you think? Come on, be honest with me. What should I say/have said?

*No Do: This phrase is sometimes used in our house in lieu of "don't"; refers to a phrase made famous by a little girl my sister used to babysit. The kid was a holy terror, wrapped in a pixies-like appearance. She used to dig her tiny, razor-sharp nails into my sisters' forearm, furrow her tiny brow, and say in a miniature-threatening voice, "DOING?" - as in, "What the hell are you DOING, you insolent fool?

Thank You, Everyone

Oh, you thought I'd gone? No, I've just been so very, very busy with my most recent wedding. It was beautiful, thanks for asking. The bride, groom and their son were glowing, grinning and looking cherubic, respectively. The rehearsal went smoothly, if not precisely on time, and the dinner went well. Their guests and family were lovely people, inside and out. Plus...we got so very lucky with the weather - there was a 70 percent chance of rain on Saturday. Guess what? We had a beach ceremony, followed by a rooftop reception (read: Meaning that rain would completely, absolutely ruin the day, contingency plan notwithstanding) Guess what? There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Yessssss! Watch me do the happy dance!

Actually, think of the guests doing the happy dance, since Scott DJ'd the heck out of the reception.

Sunday we'd planned a champagne brunch for most of the guests, to be held at the zoo. I do weddings and receptions at the zoo all the time, it is one of my favorite places to work and does not smell of elephant poo, thankyouverymuch. Again I did the "pleasedon'train, pleasedon'train, pleasedon'train," dance, and it worked. Scott did the music for them, and I decorated. By three we were done with brunch (Brunch! BRUNCH... as in "breakfast + lunch") and headed home to catch up on our much-needed rest. We passed out in a happy heap, surrounded by snoring cats and visions of smiling faces. Later on, we ended up at The Palace, stuffed with Crawfish Pasta Lafitte and rosemary muffins, happily tired and 'reviewing' each other and all the other vendors.

You'd think I'd be glad for a day or so of rest after that, wouldn't you? I got a call this afternoon about another wedding in November. I'm sooo fired up. This is a sickness, I tell you, a sickness.

I am not a workaholic. I am not a workaholic. I swear.

Glam Squad

Wanna see something funny? Or possibly....really sad? I'd like to blame this video report on bubbly, but sadly that cannot be done. Watch here for the Glam Squad Report that is my life. I mean, job. Embarassing but oh-so-true. Well, its 4:25 a.m. and I have a seven o'clock meeting tomorrow (p.m. not a.m. come on now, I'm not that crazy!)

PS. Please be nice to your waitstaff. They could put bodily fluids in your food. I'm just sayin'.

Happily Ever After

I tell you what, y'all - if all my weddings were that wonderful, smooth and easy...well, shoot, I'd be working every weekend from last week till the end of October. Wait a minute, I AM working every weekend from last week till the end of October. Huh. Innnnteresting. Well, without going into too much detail, I just have to say how very much I enjoyed the entire day.

Every last one of the (many) vendors, from the excellent caterers/bartenders to the photographer, to the band to the guy who we hired to motor the bride and groom in his excellent 64 Caddy (totally re-done, chromed out and very, very loud) said the same thing: That was the most fun wedding we've done in a long, long time", and, "What a great couple! They're so genuinely happy!"

Thankfully, the weather was absolutely perfect...the rain held off from soaking my paper lanterns that we'd hung in the trees on the patio until late Saturday night, or maybe it was yesterday morning, I'm not sure. At any rate, yesterday the weather was entirely gray, drippy, rainy and cooler than yesterday by quite a few degrees. It was as if fall arrived in our sleep, and I can't say I'm entirely displeased, despite the problems I will have if it keeps up like this.

Speaking of weather...in our family, we do this a lot. Rarely do I get a message from any of them that doesn't start with a detailed two or three-minute synopsis of what the it's been like (cold/rainy), what it was the other day (snow in the mountains) and what it's like right at the very second of the call (fall leaves, windy, beautifully crisp). I was listening to my dad on the phone a few nights ago and realized, "Weather, one of those 'safe' topics that other families talk about when they're skirting some other delicate issue...is of major interest to all of us." I pondered this for a couple of minutes and decided that its how we keep connected. They need to know what temperature the ocean is and exactly how the fog is rolling in so they can picture this, their home for so long, and figure they'll return the favor so I can try and imagine the Colorado mountain country in fall.

I realized that by bringing this tenuous thread of conversation up in the beginning, we've managed to transition to talking about all manner of topics. We've covered everything from substance issues to old friends and memories to death to the many things we disagree on (love of camping, appropriate weather for winter, necessity of computers for daily life, etc). Thankfully, there are many more things that we agree on (gaucho pants are ugly, the super-abundance of spoiled kids now, cremation). Communication, after all, is the key to a happy family. Speaking of which, I'm sending out a special congratulations to Eric and Rebekah and their new family. May you live happily ever after.

I'm guessing Martha Stewart would call these a "Bad Thing" for a dinner party

The Good Part of my weekend, via the magic of a list.

How to have a lovely dinner party, in Sixteen Simple Steps:

1. Infuse two bottles of vodka with fresh ginger, rosemary for a week. Mmmmm
2. Purchase gorgeous (cream brocade= tablecloth), (chocolate brown velvet = runner, other items), (champagne satin = napkins) and other fabrics at a couple of discount stores.
3. Set the table with the good silver and china, lavendar tucked in the napkins, magenta dahlias floating in a pretty dish.
4. Make ginger and nectarine/grapefruit simple syrups, cool in the freezer and store in pretty labeled bottles.
5. Purchase champagne, salad and split-pea soup makings and dessert bites at Trader Joe's, quiches at Costco.
6. Spend far, far to long doing the following: Making oversized namecards for you and eight of your friends (attached with velvet to chairs, natch), perfecting your Rosemary Lemon Drop/Ginger Nip mixology (sampling results), teaching your friend to how to do a pocket fold* with a napkin.
7. Add a heavy dose of candles (different kinds on every surface). Bonus points for not showing any irritation/comforting child when your friends' kid smashes the hell out of a candle/container on an outside stairway. Drink champagne to self-soothe when friends' husband shows you the enormous tarantula he caught at work. The one he was keeping in the bathroom in an open topped five-gallon bucket with live crickets.... until an hour prior to the party, without your knowledge. Where you dried your hair and applied your makeup.
8. Re-style bathroom, furniture, pictures, etc everywhere that shows to good advantage. Drink champagne to cool down.
9. Take seven minute shower, rub makeup and eyeliner on, apply Little Black Dress and heels, 'brush' hair. Sample martini.
10. Quickly pan-sear garlic, large shrimp (stuffed with red peppers and herbed goat cheese) and wrap in proscuitto. Sip martini, mix drinks for guests. Glance outside nervously in the direction of G.T.
11. Greet guests, offer excellent appetizers, ply them with drinks (sip yours), accept accolades on appearance of house. Note that enormous tarantula is being handled by a six year old. Scan for ice packs, spider bite kit.
12. Be married to/friends with someone who plays guitar quite well. Make sure they bring their amp. and new 'dj light', as well as iPod Nano/speaker-things. (This is key, of course. Without this ingredient, you may as well bring out the board games.)
13. Serve soup (homemade), accept lavish praise. Same with salad (candied pecans, onions, green apple, baby herbs *NOT SPINACH!!* Stilton, dried cherries) and quiche (Costco special). Sip martini. Tell witty wedding-related anecdote.
14. Retire to living room with your drink and friends, be entertained by singing/playing of Entertainment d' Nuit. Notice that male guests are quite enraptured with Giant Tarantula, go outside to see what the fuss is about. Timidly stroke G.T., suppress a shudder.
15. Make Entertainment Person continue to play songs on guitar and 'DJ" for you, sip drinks, dance with friends, serve dessert. Completely block Giant Taruantula from your mind.
16. Oh, yeah, here's the other key tip: Have said Dinner Party at your friends' house. Success is yours.

How to do a Pocket Fold: (I realize you have like, totally known that since, like, second graaade, duuhhhhhhh! but figured, just in case there was one of you out there....well, here you go.)

• Start with a square-ish napkin spread out flat.
• Fold top about four inches down (A to B)
  
• Fold bottom up (C to D) so there is a generous edge that laps over the outside edge that came from the top (A)
  
• Fold "D" edge (bottom that came up) over/down about an inch. Repeat. You should now be looking at two approximately equal-sized folded 'flaps' with a little inch-wide strip going across the middle of them. There should not be any top/bottom edges showing.
  
• Holding the 'middle roll' firmly so it doesn't unfold, flip the entire thing over, fold it in thirds.
  
• You should now be able to slip a flower/silverware/Small Tarantula into your 'pocket'. Now go practice. The first one's always sloppy.
  

Click to Enlarge!

In honor of the fact that my day has been, lets see, nineteen hours long... I give you a quick n' dirty set of pictures from today. As you know, I am not a Morning Person. Somehow the full moon conspired against me last night and kept me up... and I rose at barely-five this morning to meet one of my clients. We headed to the LA Flower and Fashion District, which was lovely - a paradise of textures, colors, patterns, embroidery, toile, tapestries....

I picked up these heavenly-scented Stargazer Lilies for ....wait for it... four dollars. No, not each...four....dollars. Total. My whole house smells like a dream. Fynn and Edie approve. Note: Each one of these flowers is larger then my outstretched hand.

By the way - I don't normally allow him to hang out on our dining room table - he's just looking very "Still Life with Cat and Candlesticks" here, so I let him stay.

Detail of one of a bunch of luscious, huge black (despite the bloody flash, which turned it reddish-purple...) callas. Truly - the entire flower, pistil and stamen are a far deeper shade then eggplant (say it with me in Italian: "Aubergine" - isn't that much better?) - there is really no underlying purple or red tone in it at all. This one is a 'double', making it extra-rare.

The Animal. His Highness is a bit put out, because he and Edie had been posing for me for half an hour already. What a life!

Just for scale - the only thing I found that went with these exquisite flowers was this huge tropical leaf. Edie's about to pounce on Fynn and almost knock the whole shebang over.

Georgia O'Keefe, I am not - thankfully, talent isn't required to make these look amazing.

For contrast - leaf and calla.


Look how inky they are! Sorry....I'll stop rhapsodizing in...oh, about a month. These are by far the best flowers I've ever purchased for myselt. Cost: $18.00. Pricey for what things cost down there, but not compared to the $20.00 for the teeny-tiny, short ones I get wholesale here.

Demonstrating exactly why all my house plants now live outside; the blur on the left is Edie, about to bite down. I'd already barked, "Edie! NO!" about six times here.

Evidence that I am a direct descendant of Job:

The Tour de France and World Cup overlapping each other. Yes, I do find George Hincapie attracive in a sort of horse-faced, anorexic way. I love picturesque chauteaus in Brittany as much as the next person... but really what is the Tour to me? Three weeks of watching what really amounts to not sport so much as legal human torture. There are heartbreaking losses and crashes and every day I hear some chap with a lovely British accent say, "Oh! look! The peloton seems to be coming around yet another corner...and there's three, no five, no, twenty-two riders down...what a dissapointment for team Leakygas." (I'm told the correct spelling is "Liquigas", and also to please grow up.)

Then Bob...whatever his name is, (he's the guy with the gap big enough for one of the riders' arms to fit through his front teeth) goes off into a ten minute solilliqy about how "in 1964, we had only a chunk of hardtack and two unicycles pegged together, and we raced our hearts out. I personally had a broken fibula held together with duct tape and gauze, but by gum, I kept riding. Those were the days, Bob, those were the days." Seriously - right this very minute he was just commenting on the peculiar smell of burning flesh that pervades the races - the riders get suntanned, and then their hot flesh goes smearing across the pavement when they fall, creating a lovely eau de human barbeque smell. Eddie Izzard would be compelled to comment here that it probably smells of chicken.

This, combined with the last month or so of "GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL!" and "the referee is taking out a yellow card, oh, no, wait, a RED card...this doesn't look good for Botswana, Mic, not good at all.." proves that if its not the NBA, its OLN, or NFL, or some other channel with three letters that translate into hours and hours of droning, punctuated only by commercials for trucks or tools or Levitra, and that weird "inspirational" music they always cut into the shows with.

Bella (age three, not thirty-three, remember now) turned to me in the midst of our Sunday services last week and asked, "Where's your kids?". Out of nowhere, thin air, the little dear put two and two together and figured out that I need to be hounded at every possible moment. I leaned over to Scott and whispered, sotto voce, "That was officially the Last Straw! We are moving to a deserted island next week!" He just blinked and gave me the, "you need medical help, if not a strong tranquilizer" blank stare.

This morning Fynn left me a sort of tiny, mustardy "chocolate chip" on my freshly changed sheets. Nothing says, "I love you!" like the chance to scrub a tiny bit of turd out of a sheet and throw it back in the laundry (with bleach, don't worry). It was an accident, and you don't want to know any more detail, trust me.

That nice check I just got? Pretty much half of it will be going directly into our mouths, and I will be left dead broke... again. When I look outside at the sad state of our "yard" and imagine how lovely it would be if I had a single spare dollar to spend on it, I seriously want to cry. Mostly because that single dollar would need hundreds, really thousands, of friends in order for that tiny area to not look like the cursed earth that it is. Instead of crying, I just shut the curtains and hope that people walking by are looking across the street, and pour myself a drink. (Water, people, water!)

Remember how I mentioned that I was really excited about the wedding I had the other week? It was lovely and charming and everyone loved the music Scott was spinning. Things were fabulous, right up until the point where they crossed the line from, "happily buzzed" to "absurdly, sloppily plastered" and I got to do the following (in four inch heels, no less) Fun Things:

1. Sprint down a ramp barking, "No pool! Nooo poooll!" in order to prevent a Vera Wang-clad bride, groom and who knows how many other people from jumping in the pool and probably hitting their heads and drowning. Which would lead to them suing the hotel, me, and everyone else for every penny we have. (Which, in my case: None....)
   

• Lift and half-carry someone who had "accidentally" mixed post-surgery pain pills with her Patron and posh champagne. Uphill, upstairs and through the v. posh lobby, where nature took its course...all over the couch of said posh lobby (blaaaaaaaaaaah!). After swabbing up someone else's $150.00 vomitus, in front of the entire check-in staff, ten smirking bellman, a pissed-off Head Valet and all the cute boys that work for him, I had the pleasure of rounding up fifteen drunk people and forcing them into a cab. My job is suuuuuuper-glamourous, no doubt about it. *Note to horrified, raised-eyebrows-of-intense-dissaproval-at-me guests in the lobby: Did you notice the part where my back was spastically and involuntarily arching in order to keep myself from puking all over the place due to the intense stench that is regurgitated filet mignon with garlic? No? Did you know that I could have let those people puke wherever they liked, and get in the car and drive and been well within my rights? No? You didn't? I could, just so you know....but I think that saving someone from death or a DUI is worth a little mortification on my part. Maybe you disagree; I'm so dreadfully sorry to ruin your thirteen-dollar martini. PS: I can get a better one for like eight bucks.
  

I think someone new has moved into the apartment building next to our house*. They have loud child(ren?) and they smoke. I believe that they exhale directly at our bedroom windows, which are open because a) it is summer b) I must have 'fresh' air to sleep c) I don't think air conditioning for homes was invented when our house was built. Awesome! Now every load of clean laundry I bring inside to fold, our clean sheets, and my hair will be permanantly redolent of a French film noir, or an old bar.

*This is the same apartment building where the landlady refuses to pay to have the bloody massive, bi-forked oak tree (the one that drops crap on my house 24/7/365, attracts spiders, bugs and other vermin, and doesn't let any light hit that side of the house....yeah, that one) because she "thinks its pretty". Gaaaaaah! Oak trees, jackarandas (we have three in the parkway on the other side of the house, because the Santa Barbara Planning Commission suffers from severe cranio-rectal inversion) sycamores, and pine trees do not belong next to a house. They belong in a field, far, far away from anyone, preferably with a sign that says, "These are pretty trees that belong outside in a field. If you plant them by your house, you are a blithering idiot. Now go home and enjoy your non-shedding, light-trimming, spider-free, no-raking-every-day-required yard."

Before you remind me that I can legally trim all the 'overhanging branches' on my side of the property, let me remind you of two things: The entire tree/s 'overhang' and trimming the stuff on my side would leave two large stumps and equal a very angry neighbor lady, plus future awkwardness when we want to remodel or have a party. Also: These are Oak Trees, which means I have to have permission from afore-mentioned planning commission... who would likely require the owners' permission. Which puts me back at square one, as well as in the "Mean and Complain-y Neighbor with Crappy Yard" category. I was really hoping to avoid that one.

Bring on the boils, baby.

Oh! I forgot! I was also attacked by giant cockroach last night after going to see a friends' band. Someone would not even step on said bug for me, and it ran right towards my dainty, naked, sandal-clad toes and bare, bare legs. I'm going to start drinking (not water) in the afternoon if this keeps up. Also, I put myself on 25 Peeps. How embarassing is this?

Ray of Sunshine

Well, after that loooong silence, you'd think I'd have some scintillating tale - not so much, as it turns out. Today, it rained all day and we ended this evening with a full downpour. All week I've been ok with the weather - gray, clammy and cool - it works out really well for doing flowers. Wait, whaaat? Flowers, you say? Don't you plan weddings? Isn't that a completely different job?

Answer: Yep. Definitely a different job. As in, one that should be undertaken by an entirely seperate team of people. Much like trying to build someone a cake and also completely re-cover your couch in a lovely striped canvas while juggling a litter of rabid Chihuahuas, these are not projects that should be taken on at the same time. That is...unless you are a complete masochist, or enjoy working sixteen to eighteen hour days while wearing heels, full makeup and a big smile. I do actually enjoy that, and also have the added bonus of living across the street from a small pack of Chihuahuas who have a rather questionable rabies status, so lots of practice with the juggling bit.

Did I mention my Saturday wedding ceremony was on the beach? Visualize with me, now... Bride + Groom + beach (dolphins included) + train tracks + 100+ guests/chairs = Wedding! The weather, which was freezing and sprinkling for our Friday rehearsal and seventy person rehearsal dinner, turned beautiful on Saturday about two hours before the ceremony. The night went so well I had to boot everyone out (very sad, as they were quite the fun-loving and attractive bunch) of the reception. In order to understand the great amount of joy the good weather brought me, you might try something like ... winning an Oscar or discovering you will now be able to eat whatever you like, forever.
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Fynn and Edie have been troopers - he's now camped out on my lap (we call it "honkering" because we are dorks, yes). I'm sure he'd be perfectly content if I stayed here and fed him tiny nuggets of foie gras. Edie is in one of her 'caves' under the TV, a soft, white bed. When she closes her eyes she looks like two floating blobs of gray fur. In a few minutes, we'll all be a big ball of love in bed, so I leave you with that for now. More (hopefully) tomorrow - wait till I tell you about the hilarious halter-top tan I have from the Ten-Dollar Dress.

Again With the No Posting...

I'm back, but am very-super-duper-busy with two weddings this week. I'd be mighty surprised if I post again before, oh...Sunday or so. At which point my brain will be mush. Suffice it to say that this weekend? Rocked!

Reality? Bites!

So... I was shopping the other day (shut up, it was for work, people, work!) with some clients (see... my clever use of the word "clients" subtly denotes the fact I was in fact, working and not just screwing around downtown!).

True story - part of my job includes selecting various items (ie dresses, invitations, linens, etc) with my clients. So shopping is part of the deal for me - the irony of which does not escape me. Why is it ironic, you ask? Because the only shopping I do for myself is: shoes, underwear and the occasional tank top or dress (provided such are under $40). Darling S. is one of a series of blokes that I've dated that were so much, much more fashion-concious than I'll ever be. At times, it's been a bit embarassing. Put it this way: of the last six or eight pairs of pants that I have, he's bought ... five to seven of them. It's not that I am unable to pick

clothes I like

and I'm not truly likely to end up wearing anything like

Dukay's pants

or the like (no offense to Dukay here but SCROLL DOWN, you'll see)... but if you were married to someone who came home with cute jeans for you on a semi-regular basis - would you rock the boat? Yeeaah! I thought not!

Moving on - let me just say the clients I was shopping with were a baby, his mom and her mother, a nice tri-generational bunch, plus me. We tooled around a bit, before we stopped for chai and cookies at Pierre's (Two words here: Farm . Cake. Share, they are huge!). Since it was a sunny day and all of our limbs were working, we ventured into the wilds of Macy's to see if we could find a formal dress for Nana. I say Nana because she does not look at all like a "Grandma" type. Now let me say: My previous expeditions to Macy's (Scroll down to the bottom of "Dirty Pretty Things") have not been completely successful, but I'm nothing if not an optimist.

I should have known better. The four of us wandered around for a bit, and then I decided to ask where we could find womens' formal dresses - a reasonable query in a department store, I thought. Nana (again: very young looking) was holding little "Short Round", as I call him. "Hi, we're looking for your ladies' formal gowns...where would those be?" I asked the sixteen-year old sales girl.

"Oh! What for?" she chirped.

"We need a mother of the bride dress," I replied, nodding towards Nana, who was dealing with the baby at the moment.

"Congratulations! Wow! You look so young! Well, we don't really have a formal-wear section here, but you could look around and see if you find anything you like..." (she was still addressing me at this point, folks. Me. As though I was the Mother. of. the. flippin'. bride?)

"Ah-ahemmm....No, nononono, its notforme," I said, feeling something halfway between a huge roar of laughter and a primal scream of "Ohh gaaaaahd! Where is the nearest Botox station located?," bubbling up inside my sternum like so much acid reflux. I stood and watched as the slow, gradual realization of the fact that Lil' Miss Macy's had just mistakenly referred to me as the mother of the bloody bride dawned on her face.

"Ohmygosh! I'm sorry! Well, you do look really young to be the mother of the bride..." L.M.M. replied, doing a ditzy backpedal. She kept staring at the three of us, looking as though I'd just given her a trigonometry problem in Latin.

"I'm twenty-six.... I am really young, this is our lovely mother of the bride," I smiled back, hoping that neither tears nor flaming daggers were shooting out of my eyes. She widened her eyes as though I'd given her the answer to the problem, and the real backpedaling started.

"Ooohhhh, I'm. so. sorry! Ohmygod, I'm so, so sorry!" - she squealed, not realizing her profound apologies had now just insulted Nana by default. I could tell she was waiting for me to be REALLY. REALLY. ANGRY. (Nana and her daughter are already starting to giggle.)

"That's ok, now if you could just direct me to the firming eye cream department...," I snarked back with my best sweet smile. The three of us dissolved into the kind of laughter I usually try and save for happy hour or Eddie Izzard.

The question still lurks though... Do I seriously look old enough to be THE MOTHER OF THE BRIDE? Please, click to enlarge both of these pictures and give me your eye-cream suggestions.