Proposals
I have never been proposed to. Considering that I’ve never been engaged and/or married, I didn’t think this was at all odd. Proposals = engagements = weddings, right?
Then, I was out with a single friend who mentioned “one of the guys who’d proposed to her.”
“One of the guys?” I said. “How many people have proposed to you?”
“Three, I think,” she said.
“You think?”
“Three sounds right.”
“How long had you been dating this particular guy?” I said, going back to the original proposer to try and make sense of it all.
“A few months, but he had the ring before he met me. He was looking for a wife. He wasn’t necessarily looking for me.”
Fair enough. We discussed the other two proposals, and life went on.
A few weeks after that, I ran into someone else who talked about her engagement rings. As in plural.
“How many people have proposed to you?” I said.
“Just the two,” she said.
"Just two" still seemed high to me (not in a bad way, just an unexpected way). I mean, having zero proposals under my belt, I’m easily trumped by any number, but still. Two drunken boyfriends (at different times) each said, “I’m gonna marry you,” but I don’t think that counts when you consider how many beers were involved.
Admittedly, my type before the age of 25 was unemployed and emotionally unavailable, but I still had no idea so many men were running around with diamond solitaires out there. (Is this what EHarmony is for?)
Mulling the subject over for the bit, it finally hit me – I had been proposed to! The only problem was that I was nine at the time.
In third grade, our elementary school welcomed a new student, and he became rather instantly smitten with me. (I only wore red, black or white and had a perm. I’m sure you can imagine what a catch I was.) Years ago, I vowed not to use real names in my writing, and you have no idea how much that is killing me right now because this particular boy had one of the most awesome names ever. I hate having to replace a rhyming name (complete with alliteration) with Harry, but a rule is a rule.
What I remember about Harry is that he loved to wear a yellow Starvin’ Marvin t-shirt, and he had no qualms about making his love for me known. He referred to me as his future wife on the playground and brought me lots of gifts like erasers and colorful pencils.
One day, before lunch, he asked me to marry him. Now, before you dismiss this story as not counting as an actual proposal, I need to add one key detail – he had a sapphire and diamond ring with him. And that ring was far more impressive than the plastic happy-faced ring he’d presented me with the day before.
I was all set to give my usual “no” when I saw the sparkles. “That’s nice,” I said, instantly entranced.
“Please, please marry me,” he said.
“I need to think about it,” I said. What I really needed to think about was how to get out of being betrothed before I got to junior high and managing to hold on to that ring. Mulling it over with my best friend, I said, “Can I say ‘no’ and keep the ring?”
Clearly, I was a sensitive child.
While I was still wrestling with whether or not to marry for money, Harry’s mom called the school. It seemed it hadn’t taken her long to connect the missing ring from her jewelry box to her son’s classroom crush. I guess Harry had (correctly) realized he wasn’t getting my attention with the trinkets he could afford – erasers, colored pencils and smiley-faced rings – and stepped it up a notch.
Unfortunately for me, before the end of the day, the ring (which was beautiful) was locked away safely in Mrs. Treater’s desk drawer until it was time for our parents to pick us up. Harry had some explaining to do when he got home, and my dilemma was over.
While I know I can’t count that as a real proposal, I am changing my number to a .5. It seems fair to me, and this is my blog. So there. (Oh, how the sensitive child has matured in the passing years …)
What Every Bride Wants To Find On Her Wedding Day
This past weekend, as we were sitting in the bridal suite preparing for my friend's wedding, we discovered every bride's dream -- a giant, costume rabbit head in the closet.
So many questions, so few answers: What was it doing there? Who put it there? Where's the rabbit's body? Why would anyone need a bunny costume in November when Easter is usually in April? Can we even be sure this is an Easter bunny? Could plushies have been nearby? Would they come back?
I'm pretty sure that if anyone had had a bag big enough for this special souvenir, he wouldn't be in New Jersey anymore. After all, it's not every day that you find your very own costume bunny head.
Also, I must apologize for the quality of my bunny head photo. I managed to spill water in the bottom of my purse while I was in Brooklyn, and now all of my pictures are a bit on the blurry side. As a blogger, I need so few tools, and I still managed to ruin one of the few that makes my life easier. Oh well.
In Which Laurel Attends Another Wedding
This November, I will be in my 10th wedding. That's right, in a few months, I will officially reach bridesmaid double digits.*
I tell you this not because I'm about to complain about showers or dresses or even having to hear "always a bridesmaid ..." like the person speaking thought of that phrase themselves just that very morning and it is the most clever adage ever coined. (No, I'm not bitter about that one at all. Can't you tell?) I tell you this because apparently my regular appearance in wedding parties has turned me into a completely inept wedding guest.
This past weekend, I was invited to a wedding in Atlanta. It was a lovely invitation to be with a lovely couple. All I had to do was show up. There was no toast to come up with, no hair appointment, no aisle-walking. You would have thought it would have been the easiest thing in the world. (Or, at least, something that I, along with the millions of people that attend weddings every day, could handle.)
However, without my pre-ordered outfit and rehearsal, I was a little lost. I think I drove my friends crazy with questions: What do I wear? Do my shoes have to match? When do we need to get to the church? What do we do when we get to the church? Are we supposed to have programs? When do we leave the church? How will we get to the reception? Where do we sit? Is it OK to get on the dance floor yet? Is it time to greet the bride and groom? When do we leave? Should I get out of this picture?
Keep in mind that this is in addition to my other standard barrage of questions: Should I wear my hair up or down? Do you like this jewelry? Did I do my eye liner correctly? Do you think there's cilantro in that dressing? Would you call this ecru or beige? Do you think the cake is white icing on white cake or white icing on lemon cake? Where is the closest bar?
And so on and so on.
I'm lucky I still have friends (especially ones who invite me to their weddings), let alone those that don't seem to mind gently reminding me that the wait staff will fear me if I continue to attack the woman in charge of passing stuffed mushrooms.
* I am honored each and every time someone asks me to be part of their wedding. It's just a bonus for me that it also comes with a detailed schedule and coordinator responsible for most of my moves.
Four Camp Memories* and a Wedding
There are plenty of places I've been that I thought I would never see again. Camp McDowell in Navou, Alabama was definitely one of them. Despite the fact that Camp McDowell is the Episcopal camp in Alabama, and I am, in fact, an Episcopalian from Alabama, one week back in the summer of 1993 was more than enough for me.
There are only three things that I can remember about that week (and the name of my pictured cabin counselor is not one of them, Dawn?):
1. A boy with a mullet had a crush on my friend Leah. He came over to me at the swimming pool one day and asked me if she liked him back. I had to turn him down for her. The next day, we saw the same mullet-ed boy making out with another girl in the pool. It wasn't so much the betrayal that shocked me as much as the seeming lack of hygiene and supervision. All I can remember thinking is, "All of these people in one body of water, and now those two are tonguing each other in the middle of it. This can't be sanitary," plus, "Why doesn't the lifeguard care?"
2. Another boy would come around each night and serenade all of the girls' cabins. He played his guitar and sang Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train." It was quite dreamy. One of his friends would accompany him. I don't think the friend did any singing or guitar-playing, but he seemed to recognize that his friend had figured out the key to getting girls' attention, and he was hoping to pick up the leftovers. (Hey, maybe he, too, could make out with someone special in the pool that week.)
3. We learned the song "Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goal Posts of Life." This was a problem for me on many levels -- the title, hand motions and metaphor being just the beginning. Since I'm sure you're all dying to know, here are the lyrics:
Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life/End over end neither left nor the right/Straight through the heart of those righteous uprights/Drop kick me Jesus through the goal posts of life.
Yeah, I still don't get it either.
It also appears from my seventh grade scrapbook that we had a '70s night that involved dressing up, but what we did that night, and why the camp assumed that a bunch of 13-year-olds would travel with time-sensitive outfits for theme dressing, I don't know.
I do know that what I'm wearing had to be borrowed since this was not from my closet -- now, then or ever.
However, a few years ago my sister ended up working in the Environmental Education Program at Camp McDowell. (No, I didn't visit. Please don't judge my sister-ing.) While she was there, she met another employee of the Environmental Education Program, and in the classic story of boy meets girl, after they met, they fell in love and decided to get married.
So, this past weekend, I made my first trip back to Camp McDowell in 17 years for their wedding. The wedding was beautiful, and I learned that camp is much better when you can stay in lodges rather than cabins and are of the age to legally drink.
I even re-visited the same pool, but since I spent most of the time playing with my cousins and their children, I'm happy to report no traumatic make out experiences.
The one thing that was most definitely the same? The heat, but that's just an Alabama summer for you.
I now give you an updated photo of me at Camp McDowell, and in case you have trouble recognizing me, I'm two over from the bride on the right in a sage green dress two other girls are also wearing. (It's probably the tan that's confusing since I'm usually pretty translucent. Don't worry about my skin's health though -- it's a spray-on.)
*Yes, I'm counting the photo from '70s night as a memory even though I don't technically remember it. You have to admit it improved the title of this post.
Mine!
I have a pace for walking down the aisle that is near perfect, and I can remember the names of family members and their relation to the bride and groom with about 85% accuracy. With all of the experience I've been getting lately, I really am that good.
Anyway, this particular wedding was for my friend Sarah who I have known since kindergarten. And, since I do have a blog, I thought I should take this opportunity to address a rumor/possibly embellished story that has been bantered about since Saturday's big event: I might have gotten a bit too "enthusiastic" during the bouquet toss, but I would like the chance to explain further.
First of all, I was the tallest bridesmaid in the wedding. This was quite a shock to me. Other than my summer as a Mother's Day Out teacher for two-year-olds, I have never been the tallest person in the room. In fact, I'm normally the shortest person around. During class pictures in elementary school, I was usually off to the side in a little chair because I was the shortest person in the entire grade. And, today, even though I'm pretty average in height, I'm still on the short side.
I tell people that I'm 5'6", but the truth is that I'm barely 5'4". Fortunately, due to a carefully plotted history of lying and never being seen without heels on, most people, including my own family, have no idea how short I really am.
But getting back on task, the point is that I was the tallest bridesmaid, and since nothing like this has ever happened to me, I think I let it go to my head. Plus, it only got worse when I got my hair done, and the hairstylist added another inch and a half to my height with the volume on the crown of my head. I loved it, but there would have been nothing out of place about me performing the best loved hits of "Diana Ross and the Supremes" at the reception.
Well, unfortunately, during the bouquet toss, I was placed next to the shortest person at the wedding. Which means that I may or my not have used my height advantage to grab the bouquet out of her reach. And, there may or may not have been an incredibly awkward moment afterwards in which we both had our hands on the bouquet and wouldn't let go. And, there may or may not be photographic evidence of said event. (I will say this in my defense - eventually I conceded the bouquet.)
There are several factors, other than the height, that might have contributed to my mild wedding faux-pas.
1. I know how awkward it looks in pictures when no one goes for the bouquet, and it just hits the ground. I couldn't let this happen to one of my best friends. After all, humiliation lasts for a few moments, but wedding albums are forever.
2. Weddings make me feel a bit single. A bouquet might have given my hope. Sometimes we all need a little encouragement from the cosmos.
3. Open bar.
4. I had been wearing my super spanx/girdle since 2:30 that afternoon. I was spandexed from just above the knee to right below the boobs. This probably prevented a lot of blood flow to my brain. It's hard to think straight when half of your body is lycra-ed.
And, while all or some of these factors might play a role, I think the biggest truth lies in the fact that I just have quite a competitive edge. I was never good at sports as a child, but when board games or opportunities to excel are on the table, something happens.
At that moment, it wasn't about the bouquet, it was about beating other people. Just like I think you should have to provide the full, given name in Trivial Pursuit, I think you should accept the fact that if someone can grab the flowers out from above your head, you've lost.
What can I say? I come to play, and I play to win.
Not My Kind of White Wedding
I just don't think I can move on with my life until I get these feelings off of my chest. In short, I need to vent.
Here's my issue: This woman is ridiculously wealthy. Ridiculously. We all know this. Yet, even with what should be "the best that money can buy" she still seems to make so many missteps.Let's look at the facts.
Misstep #1: Her plastic surgeon. Tori has the most plastic looking breasts I have seen on a woman outside of a pink Mattel box. How did this happen? Her father owns Hollywood. Couldn't Daddy Aaron refer her to someone capable of not turning her chest into the equivalent of the upper half of a mannequin? After all, he found someone capable of covering up all of Alyssa Milano and Rose McGowan's tattoos on Charmed. He made Gabrielle Carteris popular for awhile. He even tamed Shannen Doherty briefly -- at two different points in modern history. He should be able to keep his daughter from play-doh boobs. Come on.
Misstep #2: Hair. It looks more crimped than casual, day-on-the-beach wave. If a passerby looks at your hair and even thinks "crimped," it's bad.
Misstep #3: What is going on with this dress? Why does it appear to have a strange, unnecessary cut-out in the back? Did Tori want to assure everyone that she was indeed wearing a bra by specifically setting it off from the rest of the dress? Is the wedding dress really just an elaborate cover-up for her swimsuit? ("We were lying on the beach in Fiji when I just tied this old thing over the front of my bathing suit and said, 'Dean, let's get married!'") And, what's with the explosion of eyelet in the front? I just don't understand. My eyes are overwhelmed. Do I look at the bow? Do I stare at the lace ruffles? Patch of exposed back skin? Tori's button nose? Wafting hair ends? It's too much. I just feel tired.
And, that was all before I saw the bottom half. Why is she encased from torso to knee and then outfitted with a rounded tuft of white? This picture clearly shows Tori dancing, but I have a hard time believing that with the style of this dress she can really move her legs in a way that is conducive to dancing or walking.In fact, I imagine much more shuffling.
Is anyone else reminded of Donna Martin's mermaid costume from the high school Halloween party where Kelly was almost date raped in her slutty witch get-up?
Anyway, all I'm saying is that I ever earn an income that lifts me into a decent tax bracket, I promise to use my money for fashion good and not evil.