A Not So Royal Wedding

I am sure today many of us are looking back on our own wedding day, although most people won’t come close to the pageantry of William and Kate’s (or Billy and Kathy, if they were here in the states) wedding day celebration.  I also wonder if they still give out pieces of cake to their guests to take home.  Old legend has it, that if you sleep with a piece of wedding cake under your pillow, you will dream of your future spouse. I know William’s grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, handed out small parcels of her wedding cake.  How do I know this you might ask?  My mother actually received a piece!  She was a young woman, working in London, when the Princess Elizabeth, now the Queen, married Prince Philip. One of her pals worked in the palace at the time.  The young bride kindly handed out pieces of the cake to the staff. My mother’s friend snagged an extra piece for my mother. I asked her if she slept on it, and dreamed of my father.  “No, I ate it!” was her reply. Guess she wanted to be surprised.  Can’t say I would do any different, I love a nice piece of cake.  But it makes you wonder what that thing would have been worth on e-bay!

Watching the newlyweds brought back fond memories of my own wedding day, and the accompanying missteps. Every bride wants to look her best, hair, make-up, and the all important beautiful wedding gown.  On the afternoon of my wedding I was getting prepared at my parent’s house. I had the dress, a lovely lacy confection, a new pair of open toed white pumps, with killer heels, and the requisite veil. I also had a gift in mind for the groom.  I had decided, as demure and virginal as I might look on the surface, there would be nothing demure about what I was wearing underneath.  I had planned to wear a garter belt, and sheer white hose.  This was pretty racy for the times, it pre-dated Madonna!  Now being a tad over 6 feet tall made finding hose long enough to reach my thighs no easy feat.  Remember, there was no internet, and I didn’t know what a transvestite was, let alone where he shopped. Luckily, the kind ladies at Milady Lingerie Shoppe were able to procure me a pair.

As I was getting dressed, my father noticed that his rented Tuxedo Shirt was missing all the buttons. He didn’t have a set of studs, nor would we have known what they were. The last time he had worn a Tux, was well, never!  My mother ran downstairs, to go through her sewing supplies, to try and rustle up some buttons, and do a little sewing. Meanwhile, upstairs I finished dressing.  My mother entered the room, and stopped in her tracks, her mouth fell open. Oh yeah, I was rockin’! I expected her to say something to the effect of “you look beautiful!”  But, that is not what she said.  “Oh my God, you look like a lady of the night!” was her comment. Apparently the extra long slip I ordered was a tad on the sheer side.  You could see right through my dress, right down to the label on my new garter belt. “You cannot walk down the aisle looking like some tramp.” She informed me. She started pulling all her long slips out of the dresser, tossing them my way. I put on another, and another, and still the Hookers R Us get up was still visible. “Here is some pantyhose, lose the prostitute underwear.” She said as she handed me a pair of Leggs in a lovely Taupe shade.  Did I mention that they also had reinforced toes, and heels, and I was wearing open toed shoes? I peeled off my “Groom’s Surprise” and hoisted up a lovely brown pair of pantyhose.  Another thing to note; my Mom was only 5’8, I am 6’1. Where do you think the crotch on this pair of hose was?  If you guessed 5 inches below where it should be, you would be correct. For the sake of decency, we decided that I would also wear the 3 slips under the gown, just to be sure!  We made our way downstairs for pictures, and the kindly photographer didn’t snap any candid’s of me trying to pull my stockings up, through my gown.

Off to the Church.  Surprisingly all went well.  Walked down the aisle, the groom showed up, and we got ourselves married. Next stop was the local park, for photographs.  As we were walking to a picturesque spot, I started to trip up on something. I looked down, but couldn’t see what was impeding my progress.  My Gallant new husband knelt down to investigate.  Apparently one of my mother’s slips had decided to give up the ghost; the tired old elastic lost the spring in its step, and was now pooled around my ankles. My husband retrieved the old thing; looked at it in horror, and asked “didn’t you even buy new underwear for your wedding?” “You wouldn’t believe me, if I told you” I replied, as I tried shimmying up my droopy brown pantyhose, with the reinforced toe.

Everything after that point went well.  Had a great time at our reception, laughed and danced with friends and family (minus the pantyhose, which I ditched, when we reached the reception hall.) And here we are so many years later, still together, still laughing, and would still do it all over again.  Congratulations William and Kate.

Elementary Martha Stewart

Who does the “special” projects for school in your house?  I swore when I took this position as mother, that I would NEVER do my child’s work for school. I must admit that my stand has been reversed. I came to this decision after viewing a diorama or two in first grade. These architectural masterpieces seemed way beyond the scope of your average 6 year old.  I quickly realized that the majority of parents were stepping up to the “arts and Crafts” plate, and the competition was fierce. I also realized that handing my boy a glue gun and an exacto knife was the first step on our journey to the emergency room.

The first project I tackled was recreating a Native American dwelling.  Step one was stopping by my local craft store to pick up the obligatory pipe cleaners, Popsicle sticks, and my first glue gun. I lovingly crafted faux animal hides out of brown felt, and began attaching them to my pipe cleaner infrastructure using the glue gun. I quickly discovered that there outta be a law against my operating this piece of equipment. I couldn’t quite get the hang of it. I was glue gun challenged. Strings of molten glue festooned my wigwam, kitchen table, and more painfully, my fingers. I powered through, and after adding a little fake fire ring, I was extremely proud of my creation.  There was a tense moment when it was discovered that I had glued the structure to the table, but, I was able to gouge it away, leaving a loving divot memento. At back to school night, all the abodes were on display. Obviously some of these moms and Dads had way too much time on their hands! There were wigwams and teepees that would put the real deal to shame!  Some even had twinkling red lights nestled under orange tissue paper, to simulate a crackling fire. My son’s teacher sidled up to me and whispered, “Do they think I don’t know who constructed these Indian dwellings?”  “I would much rather see the child’s work, just like what your son made.” “Just shocking,” I replied. I had the arts and crafts skill of a 7 year old.

The years rolled on, and I made dioramas, volcanoes, and earthquake proof buildings. My best work, in my humble opinion, was a diorama of “Mr. Popper’s Penguins.” I constructed a stage with dancing penguins and an appreciative audience.  I was so proud of this work that I would actually take it out to show my friends! Imagine my shock, when this piece only garnered a B! Obviously junior had fallen down on his end of the project, with the book report piece. I had brought my A game. Where were my children, when these works of art were being constructed, you might ask.  They were busy coating their palms with Elmer’s glue, to make fake skin! If only they had a project calling for the study of palm prints, we would have been made in the shade.

As my two youngest went off to elementary school, my work load doubled. Since they are twins, I was forced to make 2 of every project. I couldn’t handle the stress, so by fourth grade, I retired my glue gun and handed in my resignation as ‘special craft project manager.” You are on your own. Shortly after my retirement, one son was assigned a project on Egyptian weaponry. He needed to construct weapons used in ancient Egypt and wanted to go to the local craft store to buy supplies. “I don’t believe there was an AC Moore’s, or Michael’s Craft Supply Shop in ancient Egypt.” “I think they used things they found in nature” I told him. “Go forth and forage!”  He went out and gathered sticks and stones. He made a sling shot with a y shaped tree branch, a spear with an aluminum foil point, a club with a log, and some rocks and stones to hurl at enemies.

Once again, at back to school night, all the Egyptian projects were on display. There were children dressed as Pharaohs, meticulously constructed pyramids, a replica of the Sphinx, and enough power point presentations to knock your socks off. My child came in lugging a MACY’s shopping bag with backyard debris. He stood proudly by his project, happily explaining how spears and rocks were the weapons of choice back in the day.  Meanwhile I was busy removing my name tag, knowing the other parents were itching to know who the lazy mother of this poor child was. At the conclusion of the evening my son excitedly told me that the teacher had given him an A! This was the first A any project originating from our house had ever received.  I was proud, but I was still not putting my name tag on.

Down my basement is a stockpile of projects from over the years.  “When are you going to toss this stuff?” my husband asked. I never plan to get rid of them.  I plan to pass these projects down to my future daughters in law. They may not realize the importance of these gifts right away, but I know the day will come! Recycling at its best.

Remotely Interested

As we move through marriage and parenthood, it becomes increasingly apparent that some items in our house “belong” to specific people.  Usually this is decided by who uses said item the most.  Based on this formula, I am the lucky owner of the oven, cook top, vacuum cleaner, washer, dryer, and hand mixer. I didn’t choose these items, I won them by default. If I didn’t take them over, they would sit around collecting dust, and eventually fall apart. My sons own the video games, air hockey table, foosball table, lap tops, I-pods, and flashlights. (I believe the latter plays an important role in man-hunt.) My dear spouse has only one cherished possession, the TV remote.  It wasn’t always that way.

A few years before I met my future husband, I squirreled away some money and bought myself a colored TV. Prior to this watershed moment, I had been enjoying my 10 inch black and white model.  You remember the kind I am talking about, no remote, and a circular dial, where you clicked around the 7 or 8 channels that were available. At night, I would check the newspaper TV listings, and plan my night’s entertainment. I might have to get up once or twice to change the channels, but since my apartment was the size of walk in closet, this presented no overwhelming challenge. Well this new beauty, all 19 inches and 2 tons of it was wonderful!  I was living the high life. TVs still didn’t come with remotes back then, but the living color was astounding! I reviewed my budget and decided I could afford cable TV as well. I had arrived. Upon hook-up, I was presented with a remote the size of a lap top, which was attached to the TV by wires that snaked across my living room to the couch. Although convenient, I still only changed the channel once or twice an evening. Sadly it did cut out my only daily exercise.

Shortly after I became “wired” I met my future mate. When he came over, I would cradle the remote in my lap, and politely ask if he had any preferences to shows that evening.  He would politely give me his suggestions, and being the good hostess, I would turn them on. I now realize we were in the “I’m going to fake you out” period of courtship. I no more wanted to watch the NCAA basketball tournaments, than he wanted me to control the remote. One fateful evening I handed him the remote, and said sweetly, “why don’t you choose?” That was the last night that I have controlled the TV remote.

My man took to it like a fat kid to cake! He was clicking those buttons so fast my TV screen resembled a disco ball.  Commercials became a distant memory, for they would be clicked away in a nano second. I marveled at his ability to know he didn’t want to watch a show, after one brief flash. As our relationship progressed, he could be found stretched out on the couch, with the remote lovingly perched on his chest.  To be honest, I think my ownership of a remote, tipped the balance in my favor, when he was contemplating marriage. (I know it wasn’t my cooking.)

We married.  Me to him, and him to me and my remote.

Shortly after our marriage, we bought our first home. One of our first purchases was a new TV and VCR set. Technology had advanced to the point, which all TVs and VCRs came with wireless remotes. No more tripping over wires in our new abode. I discovered that we now had 2 remotes!  We each had our own. Oh happy day, it was time for me to get back in the game. Sadly I had underestimated how agile my beloved had gotten with the remote. I would flip to a channel, and before I knew what hit me, he was clicking away to beat the band. He played that thing like Itzhak Perlman on the violin. I would have to up my game, or cheat. I chose cheating.  One evening, before he arrived home from work, I removed the batteries from his remote. I knew which remote was his, as it had sustained a sizable crack when it flew from his hands during a particularly tough Giants game.  One of those games, when no matter how loud he yelled at the TV, Phil Simms just wasn’t taking his pointers. His remote was draped in a swathe of duct tape; it was the perfect solution to the problem. 

But I digress. Later that evening we sat down to watch a little TV.  I merrily changed channels, watched all the commercials, and basically had a good old time. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed himself furiously punching the buttons on his remote. He even got up from the couch to try and get closer to the sensor for the remote, to no avail. If they ever needed a picture of frustration for the dictionary, he was your man. Eventually he figured out the problem, and surmised who the culprit was. He replaced the batteries, shooting dirty looks at me for the remainder of the evening.

That Christmas he bought a new TV, which he said, was for me.  I never asked for a TV, and certainly didn’t fancy one for our bedroom. He promised me, that this TV was strictly under my domain.  I would have complete and utter ownership of the remote. True to his word, he didn’t grab the remote when he came to bed at night.  This lasted about one month.  Slowly but surely, I noticed when he thought I had fallen asleep, the channel would change. And change, and change. Many mornings I would wake to find him fast asleep with the remote grasped tightly in his fist. He tried, but I think his DNA is wired to remote dominance.

As I have mentioned in the past I am mother to three boys.  I am seeing first hand that this is a trait passed down from father to son.  The hierarchy is age based. If my husband is not home, remote “control” passes to the next oldest male in residence. They too have inherited his agility and finesse on the channel buttons. No commercials or soap operas are in evidence.  I am so proud.

I have a word of advice, for any young ladies contemplating their future as my daughter in-law. Hand over the remote, and half the battle is won!