Why I Won't Be in Your Wedding

Please note: I didn’t title this one – “Why I won’t be in your STUPID wedding” and despite that, all of my friends saw the title and collectively gasped about the subject. See, they secretly believe (and some are not quite so secret about it) that I can’t write a post that’s not specific to the stupid wedding sideshow I refuse to be in (I get one freebie in the post). I consider this a challenge. They’ve thrown down the satin elbow gloves with pearl heart cutouts and I’m here to prove them wrong (to the best of my ability).

Let’s start with the basics:
1) I’ve been in all the weddings I care to be in and if you’re still single, God made the Justice of the Peace just for your special occasion. Trot him out to your backyard if a court house is too impersonal. I’ll be there.
2) Dresses – There was a time that I could be talked into petticoats or the occasional hoop skirt – a time when sea foam green with matching dyed satin shoes wouldn’t force my eyes into the back of my head. That time was 15 years ago. Unless you have a time machine, you’ve missed your window. In fact, the best dresses came from Anna & Jonathan’s weddinng. If I knew where those pictures were, I’d post them. (hint: Anna). So basically, you’d still have to have that time machine and you’d have to become Anna to get me into a bridesmaid dress and I’m fairly certain, Anna isn’t going to let you possess her body on that day – she’s got control issues.
3) Hair – I’m not getting it done. I’m not paying $100+ to have some sadistic hairdresser shellac my hair in Aquanet while stabbing me in the head with a million bobby pins to get that perfect up-do.
4) Nails – It will take an act of God to ever let anyone touch my nails again. The last time I tried to be “girly” I got my toe cut off. The attendant, or whatever you call those vicious little sharp instrument wielders, and I looked down at my gushing big toe in horror. Everyone who was there, including me, shared the same thought “oh shit, that’s it for Beth.” Plus, if we’re talking feet – it’s like putting make-up on the dog – there ain’t no point, these guys don’t get any cuter with polish. Now if we’re strictly talking fingers, suffice it to say I’m not masochistic enough to have anyone grind my nail beds down with a sander ever again. I accept that my hands look like I dig rocks for a living and you accept that super gluing ceramic anything to them won’t make them prettier. My hands look great digging up rocks, so unless you’re getting married in a quarry or a mine, don’t ask if I’ll stand up for you.
5) Hats – My big melon does not accommodate most dainty lady hats. (See analogy about make-up and your pet.)
6) The Beer Fountain and Goldfish – As lovely as that sounds, it will just be blog fodder. Please don’t force me to whip caterers around to make that happen. I’d rather be in the audience or gargling glass.
7) And the big one. I’m at an age where my friends got married and had kids – the stage where I’m waiting for graduation invitations so I can write a check, wait 4-5 more years and write another check. I’m moved past the “yay, I get to be in a wedding phase”.

Of course, with everything there is an exception. If you seriously want me to be in your wedding or your re-wedding, here’s the condition you have to meet: You must get married (re-married) at the Star Trek Hilton on the bridge of the Enterprise. You do that for me, and not only will I attend, I’ll dress for the occasion. I may come as an Andorran! You never know. Other than that, I’ll see you at your kid’s weddings – heck, I'm even willing to help out at those.

(Psst, How did I do?)

Sorry, I'm not Running Away

Jonathan and I were recently talking about people who want to “leave everything behind and just run away to the mountains” to escape their mundane existence, their horrible jobs, their extended family’s Christmas plans that suck up your own personal vacation time and leave you with a poorly fitting handmade sweater you have to feign delight in, some bad pictures and indigestion – you know that impulse, the one that says ‘you and me and the wilderness – now THAT would be living” The gist of it was that people want to escape their lives and this was a convenient way to express it. We agreed that for us, the lack of technology would always keep us close to home… or at least civilization.

I may dream of running away to some remote unreachable location, but the sad fact is I could never be out of reach of cable, internet service, air conditioning, pizza delivery or UPS. I recognize that I desperately depend on these things and that being in the middle of the jungle where I must machete path to my house isn’t conducive to my personal living style. Not to mention, if Orkin can’t reach it to spray down the tarantulas and wrestle the pythons, I have no business being there. I’m just not a fan of bugs, underbrush, wild animals and angry villagers AND I’m definitely not sleeping anywhere that requires buckets of Off and mosquito netting.

See, I wasn’t made of the same stuff that drove my ancestors out of Europe to settle places like Jamestown (the 2nd settlement) or board the Mayflower (true story). That gene that made people think loading up into a Conestoga wagon to answer the call of Manifest Destiny were long diluted by a recessive gene for weaniness. In fact, if you were to transport me back to the 1700’s and someone said “Elizabeth, go forth to ye ol’ Colonies” verily I would die before ever stepping onto some rickety boat – forget making it to the inevitable scalping (which would happen exactly 5 minutes after I survived the boat, because my life is nothing if not ironic.)

And with all that said, let me add that I also hate camping, which is a lot like running away to the mountains only you usually get to go home after two sleepless nights and one too many marshmallows. Blame one too many camping trips in Girl Scouts that finally tipped the scales or that trip to Inks Lake where it rained and the other campers insisted we eat gourmet food (hot dogs were too pedestrian for their tastes). But here are some facts about camping I’ve come to take to heart:
• When you pitch your tent, no matter how flat the land looks you’re always on top of some unperceivable hill - the apex of the hill will always be in the dead center of your tent so that when you go to lay out your sleeping bag, your head will ALWAYS be facing downhill. Nothing like a head rush to go with your lack of sleep.
• When you are laying your sleeping bag down that hill, you will also have failed to notice the large boulder you threw your tent over in the first place. You'll discover it in the dead center of your back when exhaustion forces you to go to sleep.
• If you camp at a KOA, you will end up with your sleeping bag in someone’s old, deep tire ruts. (Again, no matter how flat the land looked BEFORE you threw up the tent.)
• If you don’t pull the flaps down on your tent in a rainstorm but instead sit in wonder, your tent will flood. However, if you whine enough about your personal bedding being soaked and keep everyone else from sleeping, they’ll always share their dry bedding.
• If your flaps are down in the rainstorm, you’ll always mistakenly touch the sides of the tent which will again lead to a flood. Be sure to try to climb a muddy hill the next day that is greater than 45 degrees for some mudsliding adventures. Nothing says "I love camping" more than mudstreaks down your torso.
• The air never moves when you camp.
• Fire ants like camping, too. So do raccoons.
• Stories about Cthulhu told around the campfire are not scary. It’s best to snore and be disruptive.
• Stories about a young couple listening to the radio about a serial killer with a hook for one his arms who speed off from the make out spot only to later find a bloodied hook attached to their own car ARE scary and should be avoided.
• Smores are overrated.
• Burnt marshmallows with hangar coating are also overrated (unless they’re that perfect brown toasted gooey yumminess that your friend is enjoying after your blackened marsh-nub fell into the fire).
• Banana boats in the Girl Scout tradition are underrated. (Cut out a V shaped wedge out of the top of your banana, set the top to the side, fill the banana with mini marshmallows and chocolate chips, replace the wedge and wrap the banana in aluminum foil – stick into the heart of your fire and wait about 5-10 minutes – retrieve banana, pull back the peel of the wedge leaving the banana “meat” behind, grab a spoon and dig in!) (Ask me for more GREAT camping recipes! I have several that are both fun and yummy! Hey, Girl Scouts was good for something.)
• The natural habitat for a newt is the community toilet. (It is possible to go hours and hours without using the restroom upon this discovery – your kidneys and bladder love this kind of challenge. Oh and guys with their natural ability to pee standing up to avoid the rare Toilet Newt, suck.)
• Campgrounds typically don’t have wireless networks set-up for your disposal, Denny’s is not across the parking lot
• Building the world’s perfect bonfire while shooting cans from the hip on someone’s private property is the only perfect camping activity. Embrace your inner hick.
• If the smoke from the bonfire is hitting you in the face, it will follow you wherever you move. Your only salvation is to say "I hate rabbits". The smoke will head in a different direction because what self respecting smoke would bless a rabbit hater. It's true - try finding anything on Snopes to the contrary.

These days my preference for camping involves the words “4 star”, “pampered” or “luxury”. And where I used to mock people who brought out their big ol’ trailers, I now see the wisdom. The only camping or “running away” I want to do these days have the words “Motel 6” attached to them – where it’s a lot like roughing it in since they typically don’t offer a “continental breakfast” (which to La Quinta means bad coffee and donuts) and the cable choices are limited. However, you might get the “magic fingers” that you seldom find in the Hilton. God bless the mini-fridge!

The Pin Ups

My Mom was the athlete – she played tennis, volleyball, badminton, basketball and a little known game called speed ball. In high school, she lettered in several sports, received trophies and there’s more that one year book picture of her that’s an “action” shot. Unfortunately for Mom, the day I was born I came out with a pair of glasses and pale white skin (a color that has never changed) with an undiagnosed allergy to sweat. Sure Mom tried to enroll me in tennis lessons, swimming lessons, gymnastics, martial arts, softball, etc. but what she learned from many a coach was I was naturally ungifted. In fact, Mom had to fight to get most coaches to take me off the bench by waving the rule books at them. I know those people cursed her, “damn rule books letting wimps play… we’re getting an amendment next year! We’ll instate a non-wussy policy!” In fact, I can safely say our softball team wasn’t #1 because I spent a lot of time out on the field.

In contrast to my Mom, my yearbook showed me in German Club, National Honor Society (I’m not smart, they just had a vacancy and someone had to fill in), Mu Alpha Theta (get it… it’s the M-A-TH club – there’s even an old IBM computers in the shot – one of those original, you can kill a person with it, it’s so large varieties), and orchestra. For extra curricular activities, I had String Project, music camps in the summer and did a brief stint in Junior Achievement (we mass produced flashlights… wow.) All this to say that I was not the young Babe Didrikson that she had hoped for – I more closely resembled some of the pages from Dad’s yearbook where he’s smiling with the Chess and Slide Rule Club gang.

Somewhere along the way Mom threw me into bowling leagues, which I took to better than most sports. Maybe it was the shirts or shoes I found appealing or even the smoke filled dens of beer and poorly made fried food, but I still feel at home in it today. Mind you, I’m by no means a good bowler. I can beat most small children and people with atrophied arms on a good day. Yet, today I find myself on a league with my aunt, cousin and a couple of family friends as the weak link.

The way I’ve decided to overcompensate for my lack of skill – obnoxious looking gear all in hot pink and black which includes my ball. All of the pieces can easily be paired with my Halloween bowling shirt that declares my name as “Roxy” on a team called the “Pink Ladies”.

Our team is called The Pin-ups (although, in hind site I think we should have gone with The Pin Downs because we’re living up to our name – those pins stay up a lot – vindictive things). We’re the only all girl team on a mixed league and they actually had to hold a vote to see if they’d allow all girls to play on a team. (Six people said no, but fortunately I wasn’t there to see who they were or I’d be forced to hold a life long grudge against each of them and life long grudges can be so tedious especially when my neighbor is my top grudge priority.) So far, all the teams have been really helpful and nice – they cheer for us, high five us when we hit pins, and give us all words of encouragement – although, I’m a little concerned that they all seem to tell us “well, at least you’re here for fun – that’s really what it’s all about… I mean, I used to be bad” (followed by an unspoken “too”) “until I played for several seasons and now I’m on the pro tour” (ok, that may not be exactly what they say, but it’s what I hear – there are some amazing bowlers and one guy really is on a bowling tour).

As the weakest link on the team I’ve managed to accomplish two amazing things. 1) After bowling my big 99, I followed-up with a 52 – forget I ended with a 108 – that 52 screams at me… I haven’t bowled a 52 since I was 10. 2) Last night, I pulled my butt in big stupid ways and had to sit out last night where instead of being the supportive team cheerleader, I through a pity party for one and whined – good one, Beth. But seriously, who pulls their butt? And my butt just gave out to boot – not just a pull – I can’t support my weight on that leg without acting like a huge baby. CLASSY!

This next week I need to focus on stretching said butt so at least Mom can be proud that I’m able to do something that is vaguely athletic. (Mom happened to be a fairly good bowler, too – there’s just no escaping that shadow.) And since I’m never going to be a good tennis player, golfer, basketball player, etc. – I have to hope that I can do ok in bowling. I may need to lower those goals next year and stick to sports like hopscotch – I can see a future for me there.

The Protagonist Blinked

Sam, lost in thought as she prepares to send psychotic neighbors over the edge.