Love is in the air in our family.  Both of my sisters, Melissa and Kaye, are getting married.  Both of them found great guys who will make great husbands and, more importantly, great brothers-in-law.  

Preparations have begun.  Dates have been chosen, venues selected,dresses ordered, and attendants invited.  I’m honored to be a bridesmaid in both weddings, Melissa’s in October in Los Angeles and Kaye’s next May in Northern Virginia.

Weddings always make a woman think of her own wedding, whether she’s a girl dreaming of the future or a matron thinking back to her own big day.  My sisters’ preparations bring up all kinds of wedding-related memories for me:  the flowers, the guests, the dress, the ceremony, the handsome husband. 

I’ve been reflecting on what succeeded brilliantly (walking down the aisle behind a bagpiper was pretty sweet) and what failed miserably (here’s some advice:  don’t let your stupid drunk-ass friends slosh red wine near your ivory silk-satin dress).

I’ve discovered with surprise that some of the opinions that I held strongly as a bride have now completely changed.  Some of this change comes from experience.  I didn’t realize at the time what would work and what wouldn’t; it’s amazing how much is riding on one day that you (hopefully) get one shot at.

Some of my changed opinions are due to my different life situation.  As a mom, for example, I’ve been touched that people have invited my kids to be part of their weddings, so I would have done the same. 

Some of this evolution I’ll optimistically chalk up to maturity.  My different perspective would have led me to emphasize slightly different things.

On the whole, though, I think that I became more reasonable after my wedding, as I turned back from my crazed green hulk bride to my normal, saner self.  It’s a common, well-documented phenomenon, and it definitely happened to me.

This brings me to a realization: the best thing that we can do for a bride is to simply get out of the way.  It might not be all about her, but it sure as hell isn’t about us.  If she makes a mistake or two, we need to stay steadfast in our support.  In cases of real bridezilla emergencies we may need to give her a firm shake or a hard slap, but in general we simply smile and nod.

Here’s a mantra that might help.  Silently (never, ever speak this aloud) repeat after me:  [Insert Bride's name here], I love you enough to let you temporarily act like a total whack-job bitch and not hold it against you for years to come.

Weddings are our number one cultural flashpoint*, bar none.  A girl’s wedding day is built up to be the most important day of her life (which it isn’t) and the most public (which it is).  Add to this everyone else’s dearly-held opinions about everything wedding-related and you’ve thrown figurative gasoline and a lighted blow torch on the nuptial powder keg.

To be fair, a bride can’t help but to piss some people off.  It simply can’t be avoided.  Someone won’t get invited, or chosen as a bridesmaid.  The bride may accidentally swipe someone’s favorite song for her first dance, or demand that her attendants wear dyed-to-match turquoise shoes. 

When this happens, you just need to let it go.  Repeat the mantra above thirty or forty times and you’ll feel better about it.

My point is, she was your friend or sister before her wedding, and she’s probably going to live another eighty or so years after her wedding, so keep the big picture in mind. 

As you’ll probably hear during the ceremony, “love is patient, love is kind…love bears no record of wrongs…”  St. Paul was talking to you, Missy, even if the bride did make you wear green taffeta and not let you bring a date even though you schlepped your sorry butt all the way from Michigan to get here (ahem, sorry about that). 

My sisters, by the way, have been models of bridal graciousness.  Perhaps they’ll continue this perfect behavior all the way to the chapel, but I doubt it, and I’m ready.  Bring it on, ladies; I can take it!

Thank God my own bridesmaids must have followed this advice.  Eight years later they are all still speaking to me, and they’re still my beloved friends.  Either I’ve redeemed myself or the open bar really paid off.

 
*Definition:  A critical situation or area having the potential of erupting in sudden violence.  Equally applicable to the Middle East and your average wedding.

I was just writing about how I gooned up two batches of caramel corn by not reading the recipe carefully.  It takes about 90 minutes to make a batch and I screwed up both of them by not carefully reading the recipe.  That, and scorching the last batch.  All totally my fault, and the result of excessive multitasking.

I sat down to write about the experience.  The writing was remarkably cathartic, and I was feeling better with every word.  I felt the stress leaving my body.

I hit “Save” and got a “Page Not Found” error.  My save attempt happened at a moment when my internet connection burped, and my text was lost.

I’m done.  I’m going to start drinking now.  Or at least watch a relaxing episode of Dora the Explorer. 

Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

My minivan is clean today.  It’s actually been clean since yesterday, which is a record.  OK, I haven’t driven it yet today, which makes it easier to prolong my streak, but it’s still a landmark accomplishment.

My car is generally a disaster.  I can’t have the doors open on both sides because I’m worried about what will go flying away when the wind blows.  My kids assume that getting to their seats involves stepping through a precarious obstacle course of clutter.  In a clean car they would probably still march gingerly with knees high to their seats, because that’s how they’ve always done it.

It’s not that I don’t clean my car.  I do that all the time.  My hands are full — with children, art projects, cell phone, etc. — every time I leave the car.  But the verb here is easier than the elusive adjective; the fact that I clean doesn’t make my car clean. 

My cleaning efforts are nothing in the face of the dark forces of anti-clean that constantly invade my vehicle.  Those kids are small, but they’re remarkably adept at transporting clutter.  Toys, books, and snacks are brought along “just in case.”  Daycare trips mean extra clothes, art projects, and letters that end up in the “almost there” limbo land of my minivan.

My car was so filled with the debris of everyday life that it actually broke my new vacuum.  Twice.

As I used the brush attachment, the rotating wheel began to sputter and then fail entirely. 

I couldn’t figure out the problem, nor could my usually handy friend who was staying with us.  I called vacuum customer service, where the representative told me at least five times that he “would surely help me.”  After a twenty minutes on hold, he told me that to be surely helped I would need to order a new brush head for $12.95 plus shipping.

I decided to try to fix it on my own, and while cleaning the bristles I spied several pieces of popcorn wedged in the bowels of the brush hose. Once the popcorn was gone, the brush spun like a top again.

Popcorn wasn’t the only food I discovered while cleaning my car.  The food in my vaccum canister would feed a family of four for a week.  There were pretzels, granola bars, lollipops, goldfish, and a petrified fruit snack which required all my strength in a tug-of-war posture to remove.

It was a combination of large food crumbs and my daughter’s fledgling pebble collection that broke the vaccum the second time, though this time I knew how to fix it quickly. 

I eventually got the car vaccumed, but the final scoreboard still read Car Crap: 2, Vacuum: 1.

The clean isn’t going to last long.  The numbers are against me:  it’s three of them against one of me. 

For the time being though (the next two days, maybe?), my late model minvan feels like the ultimate luxury driving machine. 

Baby Bennett got his fat lip of the week this morning, so I cleaned him up and sat him down with a Slow Melt Popsicle.  I’m not sure what chemical cocktail makes them melt slowly, but it’s a great solution for icing a lip.

Slow Melt Popsicles advertise natural color and flavors.  They have 40 calories and 10% RDA of VItamin C.

Another new discovery this summer:  soda flavored icee pops.  They come in several flavors, including Orange Crush, A&W Rootbeer, and 7-Up.  They have them at Walgreens; not sure where else.  Way better than the traditional ones, though just as messy!

My post Saturday was a little deep and bleak, so here’s a recipe to lighten the mood.

Since my new recipe experiments generally taste like poo, we were surprised and delighted that this super easy recipe turned out great.  Prep time is about 5 minutes, and it appears to be foolproof.

It’s slightly adapted from a recipe I found at Cooks.com.

I want to be David Sedaris.  Or at least have his job.  Or at least write half as well as he does.

Erma Bombeck or Carrie Bradshaw might be more likely role models for person like me — and I do admire them too (never mind that one is fictional) — but this middle-aged, self deprecating, gay man is my hero.

I cracked open Sedaris’ new book last night before going to sleep.   My husband kissed me good night and rolled over, perchance to dream. 

My beloved doesn’t understand my fundamental need to read before bed.  He can’t sleep with the light on and acts like the gentle whoosh of my page turning has the decibel equivalent of a Whitesnake concert.

Not wanting to bother him (or catch any grief,) I tried to keep as quiet as possible.

I lasted about thirty seconds. Sedaris had me at page two.

I giggled as quietly as possible once or twice.  SJ rolled over and muttered something like “Here we go.” (He knew what he was in for; he bought the book at my request earlier that day.)

I kept reading.  Two minutes later SJ informed me that the violent bed shaking caused by my restrained laughter was more annoying than the giggles.

I offered to go to the guest room, but we agreed that I could have ten minutes of reading — including full-on chortling — if I’d turn off the light when my time was up.

Ah, sweet, sweet, ten minutes.

I love how Sedaris sees the world. He considers mundane things from a unique perspective.  He wonders how a person’s life would have been permanently affected by hosting a parasitic worm in 1968.  He ponders

the contrasting symbolism of our Easter Bunny compared with France’s Easter bell.

Sedaris’ family provides him with much of his material.  Every family member seems a little eccentric or nutty, depending on your point of view.  Stories that pair his profane brother, the Rooster, and his straight-laced dad are comic genius.  I defy you to read “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” (here’s a sample) and not laugh out loud.

He seems like a nice guy.  He doesn’t want to force his elderly mother-in-law to move heavy furniture by herself down a flight of stairs, but she offered!

“I just mentioned in passing that we rarely used the dresser, and that one of these days someone should take it downstairs.  I didn’t mean her, exactly, though at age 76 she’s a lot stronger than Hugh gives her credit for.”

I just noticed that Sedaris is coming to DC on October 4, a.k.a. my husband’s birthday.  I’m not sure if I dare ask to go.  SJ kindly allowed me to bring David Sedaris to bed, but spending his birthday with him might be too much to ask.

I dropped my kids off at daycare on the way to yoga last week, wearing a hoodie jacket over my workout clothes.  My lycra was tighter and my hoodie smaller than I had realized, giving off a more “hootchie” vibe than usual.

I ran into a friend on our way into the daycare building and I commented that I was feeling a bit exposed in my outfit.  She politely laughed it off and we went on our way.  I didn’t think anything of it until Beach Day.

Thursday was Beach Day in three-year-old Serena’s preschool class.  The kids wore swimsuits and brought in their beach accoutrements — towels, sandals, sunglasses, hats, etc.

Serena put on her adorable duckie bathing suit and we stood in front of the mirror as I combed her hair.  As we finished up, she paused for a moment and cautiously asked me a question.

“Mama, is it bad to wear my swimming suit because of your exercise?”

Huh?  I was clueless about what she meant until she repeated herself three more times.  I knew she was serious, because she had a very earnest and concerned look on her face.

Finally it dawned on me.  She had picked up on my embarrassment the week before when I wore my workout clothes to school.  In her own revealing outfit she was asking me for cues about her own feelings.  Should she worry about how people would see and judge her when her own shape was on display?

Damn.  I thought she’d be at least four before we started having conversations like this.

There’s a lot to process from her observation and question; it brings up so many issues.

First of all, kids are listening all the time.  They are observing when you forget they are there, and they understand way more than we give them credit for.

I need to be more careful about the behavior that I am modelling, particularly for my daughter.  I need to not make negative or judgmental comments about others, and I need to model self-worth too. 

When someone gives me a compliment, I need to just say thank you, rather than minimize myself by brushing it aside.  I need to watch the self-deprecation, because there’s a quiet little one beside me taking me at my literal word.

Serena innocently and unknowingly held up an emotional mirror for me, and I’ve got some room for improvement.  We women waste so much energy worrying about what other people think.  Do we look old?  Fat?  Inappropriate?  Who the hell cares???

I don’t want Serena to waste one precious moment worrying about something so trivial, and I ought to value myself enough to live the same way.

I should spend more time thinking about what I think.  What does God think?  What do my loved ones think?  If I spent more time reflecting on this, I’d get more powerful answers, and I’m sure that the questions themselves would change along the way. 

For better or worse, Serena is going to inherit my opinions and flaws, so for her sake and my own I need to take my behavior seriously. She’ll have plenty of time to develop her own insecurities; I don’t want her to start out deep in the hole that I’ve dug.

Back to Beach Day, I think that I talked Serena out of her Beach Day anxiety.   I want to protect that duckie bathing suit bliss for as long as I can.  It’s hell trying to get it back.

Here’s a family favorite caramel corn recipe.  I made it for a party last week; it’s great for making ahead since it keeps for up to a week in an airtight container.

You can easily convert it to a vegan/dairy free recipe by using Earth Balance, margarine, or other butter substitute.

A note for those of us who barely remember non-Microwave popcorn.  Popping the corn is done best with an air popper, says my mother.  If you missed that fad from 1985, you can do what I did: use a large covered pan or dutch oven.  Put a little oil in the bottom of the pan and add a cup of uncooked popcorn.  Stir it or shake the pan constantly, or you’ll burn the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of the popcorn, like I did on my first try.

This recipe is courtesy of my loving mother, who got the recipe from my Aunt Becky, who “got it from some cookbook.”

Caramel Corn

6 quarts popped corn
2 cups brown sugar (I used light)
1/2 cup white corn syrup (like light Karo)
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 sticks butter/margarine/vegan “butter”
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon water

Pop the corn and put into two separate big bowls and set aside.   (The recipe says keep the corn warm in a cool oven, but I did fine with cool corn when I made it.)

Boil all other ingredients except the baking soda in a large pan (3 quarts or larger) for five minutes, stirring constantly.  Remove from heat and add baking soda (it will bubble.)  Turn on oven to 200 degrees.

Pour mixture over popcorn and stir well.  Spread onto two cookie sheets covered with aluminum foil.

Bake at 200 degrees for 1 hour, stirring every 15 minutes with a spatula.  Be diligent; popcorn can burn easily if you don’t turn it!

Cool on wax paper.  Store in ziploc bag or other airtight container.

To soften the blow of ending our lake vacation, I took the big kids — aged three and five — to see Kung Fu Panda when we got back home.

We all really liked the movie.  It wasn’t quite at the level of Finding Nemo or Happy Feet, but it was very enjoyable.  The animation was great, the fight scenes were dynamic, and the voices were very well cast. 

Jack Black gave a surprisingly entertaining, charismatic performance as Po, the title character.  Dustin Hoffman played against type as the tiny but fierce Kung Fu Master with a vaguely Asian accent.  Perhaps he was channeling his sweaty lawn workout from Meet the Fockers.  Angelina Jolie provided girl power as the tigress.

There was plenty of diversity among the characters in the form of various accents, shapes, and sizes.  The mantis was just as big a bad-ass as the tiger, and the pudgy noodle seller became the dragon warrior. 

The message was great, if time-worn:  have faith in yourself and you can achieve anything.  It worked for Dumbo in 1941, and now it works for Po; the magic feather is now a dragon scroll. 

I actually quoted the movie last night when I was giving a friend a career pep talk:  “You don’t need the dragon scroll, Scott!  Be confident at your management meeting!”  Yikes…

There were a few scary moments.  The villain, Tai Lung, was intense, with glowing yellow eyes and a ferocious growl.  My five-year-old was in my lap for most of the film, but he was more thrilled than really scared.

We left the theater satisfied, singing the theme song.  Colin practiced his Kung Fu moves on the way to the parking lot.

Po the Panda says that “there is no charge for awesomeness…or attractiveness.”  We paid $23 for our matinee tickets, but we considered it money well spent.

Once upon a time, alabaster skin was a thing of beauty, an object of desire. Ladies of substance shielded their complexions from the sun’s harmful rays; tanned skin was an unseemly mark of the proletariat.

In the 1920’s, however, the French figured out that a suntan actually makes one appear healthier, thinner, and generally more attractive. By the time I arrived in the 1970’s, white was merely a sundress color designed to show off a savage tan.

Thanks for nothing, Coco Chanel.

I raged for years against my pallid destiny. Every June during my teens I would head to the backyard with sunglasses, iced tea, and Coppertone in tow for my annual attempt to get a tan. I would sit in the sun for about half an hour before getting too bored and hot to continue.

A subsequent hopeful look in the bathroom mirror always revealed the same thing: about 800 new freckles and glowing white strap lines on my pink shoulders.

In my thirties, as I’m growing more intrigued by Botox than by Sun-In, my perspective on tanning has evolved. Last week I sat around the community baby pool with three other moms, all of us covered in hats, glasses, and pareos. We looked over at the skinny, firm young things in the adjacent big pool and sighed.

Each of us women had recently had a run-in with our dermatologist. One woman went in for a cosmetic pick-me-up and ended up getting pre-cancerous cells removed. Others had suspicious moles removed. My doctor had the nerve to refer to my ubiquitous freckles — properly known as angel kisses! — as pervasive sun damage. All of us wanted to shake some sense into the bikini-clad girls — a.k.a. our teenage selves — roasting in deck chairs nearby.

I’ve tried sunless tanning. This year I tried Loreal spray tan on my legs. It worked pretty well, except for the places where I accidentally dripped water onto my leg right after applying the spray, thus causing an interesting but not attractive Swiss cheese effect on my inner thigh.

Four years ago I tried Mystic Tanning. The results weren’t great (I got freakish orange marks all over my hands and feet), so I waited awhile before trying again. Last week I did, and the results were better, but still not ideal.

Some findings:
1. It’s expensive! One visit costs $26. Multiple visit packages are cheaper per use.
2. The orange marks on my hands and feet were much improved, but still a bit off-putting. Applying the “Blending Cream” to prevent these marks is an art, not a science.
3. The color is on your outer layers of skin, which has its drawbacks. A hearty scratch left light claw marks on my skin. Also, I ran into a knee-high bed post, causing the darker skin to peel off like celophane, leaving a conspicuous white circle in the middle of my leg.
4. The color rubs off on your clothes. The inside of my bathing suit had a weird “Shroud of Turin” effect after a day of swimming.

The salon itself (I went to Palm Beach Tan) was a little depressing as well. It’s like the Eighties never left. Despite all the warnings we’ve received about UV exposure, they still talk about “healthy tans” and “getting a base tan.” I saw a beautiful little redheaded girl with gorgeous peaches and cream skin. She was using her unlimited monthly tanning bed pass. I guess they skip the backyard pilgrimages these days.

You can’t fight city hall, and you can’t give a redhead a safe tan. At least my children are luckier; I expressly married a man with some pigment to give them a fighting chance. Despite the sunscreen I slather on them, they’re all at least four shades darker than I am.

As for me, I’ll never give up hope. The perfect product is out there somewhere; look for more orange knuckles coming soon.