The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Showers of Blessings.

OK, pity party's over.  I've decided to play on 'Team Otter' with all of you as my sponsors (who wants a t-shirt?).  I'm going to work hard to not let the annoyance of my new bff, fibromyalgia, get me down.  It's kind of ironic that I call it my "bff" any way, because it sounds like 'my algebra' and I never liked math. 

Nonetheless, I have resolved to continue in my quest for a better (healthier and happier) me, even if it kills me.

August was a very busy month for the owners of the bridal shop.  Not just because of business, but because of the up-coming wedding nuptials of the owner's oldest daughter (and co-owner's sister) Kristen, and her  beau Danny, at the end of the month.  So, on the last Saturday of August, instead of the usual business of preparing for the wedding of others, the bridal shop was closed to celebrate a wedding of it's own.

The morning of the wedding brought with it not only the announcement of a special celebration but also the arrival of hurricane Irene.  She made her presence known quietly, though, as a fine warm mist against the country estate background of the outdoor nuptials.  The gentle drizzle brought a blessing of it's own, enriching the senses of sight and sound and subduing any sunlight that might have drained the deep colors of green, purple and white that surrounded the guests. In addition, Irene politely held back the wind (that came much later in the day) as if a personal gift to the bride and groom.

We all sat under the comfort of white tents and listened to the officiating minister talk to the couple about "showers" of blessings.  It all played out as if nature had listened in on the wedding plans and had decided to orchestrate it's own gifted part in the ceremony.

As I watched the happy couple kissing for the first time as husband and wife, I thought of my own two daughters.  I quietly prayed to God, asking that he would allow them to experience this blessed and sacred event for themselves one day. 

As the newlywed couple walked hand in hand down the cobblestone walkway, my prayer continued for each of my girls.

I asked that God would bring into each of their lives a man that would truly love and cherish her, a man that would cup her face in his hands and look at her...truly look at her...as a person...and the woman he loves.  May he be the kind of man to hold her and protect her and to gently kiss her on her forehead and tell her what a beautiful person she is because he really sees her that way.  And may he be someone who is honest about his short-comings and man enough to say he is sorry when he's wrong.

That's the true blessing of marriage...a man cherishing his bride and being blessed ten times over in return.  I've seen this happen over and over with this special family and I'm sure I'll see it again with Kristen and Danny.

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Garcia! 

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...pondering my thoughts.

 

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)..my new bff and Tinkerbell's plea.

I wish I was an otter.  Preferably the North American fresh water otter.  Not the South American otter that swims in the murky brown rivers of the Amazon...too many big snakes and crocodiles lurking in, around or on the water for me to be able to enjoy myself.  It's very important that I be able to frolic carelessly while in the water. 

That's why I'm not real keen on being a sea otter either, although furry, fluffy and just dog-gone adorable. The thought of being fatally thrashed around like a rag doll by Jaws or Shamoo unexpectedly while I'm floating on my back, smashing a clam (using my paws and a rock), is just not appealing to me.  I must be able to frolic and play with my fellow otters in clear, fresh water with little (unsuspecting) chance of becoming someone else's meal.

Otters are the star characters (emphasis on characters) in nature's own permormance of "Cirque du Soleil." They're the limber dancers, acrobats and silly clowns of the forest who make their lives fun and fancy-free effortlessly.  No complicated social structure with ottters; they live peacefully in families and easily co-exist with others in their community because that's their nature.  Simply put, otters are the bringers and sustainers of the all night animal party.

They are the ones who truly live their motto..."No worries."  And they can do that because they have no cares of the world or burdens to weigh them down.  I really wish I was an otter.

You see, as I sit here writing, nursing a probable stress fracture to my right shin (no joke), I'm also pondering my future with my new bff, fibromyalgia.  Think of having the flu minus the coughing and sneezing, but keeping the body aches and fatigue.  That's fibromyalgia. 

But just like the ads on "As Seen on TV", there's more.  There's the fatigue and the mental fog and lack of concentration.  And of course, the nagging aching muscle pain all over.  And now at night I have a restless leg kind of thing going on where I have to hang my right leg over the edge of the bed and swing it back and forth like a pendulum.  Then I can't fall asleep and when I do, I toss and turn over all night long like a chicken on a rotisserie stick.  Poor Cliffy g (aka the man)...sleeping with me is like sleeping on a trampoline.

There is this component to fibromyalgia that shows a possible relationship between this condition and depression.  It's like a chicken vs. egg thing.  Does having fibromyalgia make you depressed or does depression lower the threshold of pain, causing more sensitivity to pain?  So now I'm struggling with both pain and some pretty bad blues...good times.

I really noticed that something was wrong with my body when I started the personal training. I'm not blaming the rigorous sessions for causing my pain, I'm just saying that I think they exacerbated it.  Figures, I was finally moving in the right direction with my plan to better myself this year, and whammo.

I think the last (and probably final now) workout with Zack did me in.  I wrote about it in my July post and now when I think about how incredibly grueling (more so than before) it was for me, I now know why.  After I came home that night, I didn't feel right.  Then I developed a low grade fever and intense muscle/body aches.  The next day I was totally wiped out.  I haven't been back to the gym since.

It's sad because it's been over a month since my workout with Zack and he hasn't even called to see if I'm  alive.  I guess I was just another overweight middle-aged woman to him.  I really thought we had something special (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).   I will get to see him again though, when I give him my doctor's excuse (ending my training contract) and to gaze into those intense blue eyes one last time for a while.

You know, I feel like I was a contestant on "Wipe Out" where I was doing so well until BAM I got nailed by a rotating punching bag and fell into that yucky muddy water only after slamming into every obstacle on the way down.  Then I hear the announcer say "aw, that's a shame...she was doing so well, but folks, she is out of the game."

There, I've told you all now and I don't have to pretend like everything is honky-dory.  I told you because 'it is what it is', and it's part of my story now and will ride heavily on my back thru this journey called life.
Remember in the story of "Peter Pan" where Tinkerbell almost died because people didn't believe in her anymore?  Well, in a strange kind of way, that's how I feel right now.  I feel lost and discouraged and definitely out of pixie dust.

 I'm not angry with God, strangely enough; I just don't understand what He's doing with me. I'm not throwing in the towel either; I just need a little pep talk, that's all.

I'm the worst person at asking for help, trust me, I am.  I'm good at clapping for others, but not for "Team Mary Pat."  Could you "clap" for me?  Maybe even talk to the big guy upstairs for me? I could really use some rallying from the troops out there.  I just need to be reminded that I am not alone and that I have the love and support of others who will raise their pom poms for me. 

We all have had our own set backs now and then, right?  Well, I want to hear from you about what gives you strength, courage and hope to keep on keeping on.  If I don't hear from anyone, I'll just keep singing that ol' Negro Spiritual..."Nobody knows the trouble I've seen...nobody knows, but...Jee...zus."

One request though.  Please do not try to "minister" to me with christian cliches like "...and we know that all things work together, etc" unless you've clung to that verse and came out a better person on the other end because of it.  I want to hear how God brought you through your own pain and I need you to be honest.

OK then.  Time to decide...shall I continue with the dismally gloomy "Team Eeyore" or slip into the fresh, clear water and carefree world of "Team Otter"?

I know what my heart 'otterly' wants.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Mirror, mirror on the wall...who the most indecisive of them all?

Forgive me audience, for I have sinned...it's been over a month since my last blog.  I'd like to blame it on a much needed vacation to Bermuda or the Mediterranean but it actually wasn't anything to do with what I was seeing, but rather the problem with seeing.

Since about March I've been having trouble with my "near" vision.  My eyes got all blurry when I tried to focus on tasks like reading and writing.  Then my "distant" vision wouldn't clear right away (like it used to) and things that were once clear far away stayed fuzzy.

Since about the eighth grade I've had to wear glasses only for reading.  I actually had to have bifocals.  Now remember, this is back in 1983 or so, so picture BIG round dorky frames with very noticeable lines in the frame to denote that they were not only super uncool but also bifocals.  I had to stop wearing them because my eyes could never adjust to the bifocal thing and I kept getting headaches.  Plus I looked positively absolutely goofy...like poor Jan Brady.

When I was in college, I had a really cool preppy pair.  But after my first pregnancy my vision corrected itself and for the past 19 years I've had perfect vision.  Until now.  So, now I have officially joined the ranks of eccentric cat ladies and librarians alike who wear bedazzled colorful spectacles that rest on the end of their noses and who peer up to look at you as if you are annoying them.

I really need to take that extra step and get a beaded cord so that I can walk around with my specs hanging from it like real respectable professionals do (ha...re'spec'table, that's funny.)

Any way, I couldn't really do any writing because my concentration was off because my focus was off.

Since my blogging was temporary on hold, I will attempt to catch you all up on what I have been up to this summer.  Life at the bridal shop on Saturdays continued to be busy even though the bridal business (as a whole) is notoriously slow for June, July and August.

Precious Gloria and Michael graced us with their prescence one last time before tying the knot in July.  And guess what? We're facebook friends now.  You should see how the two lovebirds talk to each other online...all gooey and sweet, just like the man (aka cliffy g, aka my hubby) and me.  No, not at all.  When Gloria and Michael speak to each other the angels in heaven sing.  When me and the man converse, crickets chirp.

I've learned more about how much I hate to be patient this summer.  I worked with this one bride who came in to the shop to try on veils.  She came in by herself (bad idea) so I had to be more involved in the selection process.  Remember, my concentration and focus are off.  Not to mention that I really didn't know much about veils except that they go on your head.

Although she was very plain to look at (as in mennonite-kind of plain), she came out of the dressing room in her gown and va-va-va-voom! Here this wall flower of a girl was transformed into a flowery, ruffley and sparkling little sex kitten.  Ok, maybe not "sex" kitten, but she sure was not pious-looking either.  She definitely chose a dress where form beat out function.  And it was in bright, pure snow white...of course.

We started out fine, with her liking the first veil very much.  And, since you can't just settle on the very first veil you try (silly), you have to keep trying on veils.  One after the other.  And then re-try some on again. And again.  Before I knew it, I had about 15 different veils of all designs and lengths spread out all over the shoe table. 

You have to understand something.  I wasn't just working with a bride; I was literally becoming nauseated with the indesiveness of this pretty young thing who spoke with the tone and inflection of Snow White; the original 1930's Walt Disney version.  I kid you not.  I half expected to see birds and small wildlife gather around her as she started singing "Someday My Prince Will Come."

Her voice I could handle because it wasn't her fault that she sounded like a cartoon character.  It was the repetitious "Gee, I don't know" that was workin' on my nerves.  And she would do the Bashful dwarf motions as she said that line, blushing and stroking the veil like it was her own hair.  Where's a poisoned apple when you need one?

You have to understand something else; I am not dainty...there isn't a soft dainty thing about me.  I'm what you call "rough around the edges."  Veils are dainty and require delicate handling.  And, since I was neither, I knew this task was going to be fun, but not in the good sense of fun.  Add the fact that I didn't really know what I was doing, and I was the fore-runner for the consultant with the most miserable appointment for the day.

It is well known that working with someone who is indecisive takes patience, with which I seem to struggle here.  It's really ironic because as an RN (at my real job), I work with dementia patients and do fine. But when you are trying to help a customer who just can't seem to make a decision because 'gee, she doesn't know,' you start to get a little frustrated.  Add to the mix the taking of pictures with the different veils on (using her camera phone with my poor vision) and you're well on your way to a migraine.

  You see, there are a lot of decisions to be made in selecting a veil. There's the placement of the veil; more in front, in the middle, way at the back or down below on top of a bun.  Then you also have to decide if you want a blusher or not.  A blusher is the piece of material that goes over a bride's face and is lifted by the father who then kisses the bride and then flips the blusher over the back of the bride's head and hands the bride over to the groom.

Then you have to decide on the length; shoulder, elbow, cathedral.  Do you want a finished hem? Do you want embroidered or scalloped edges?  Do you want the name of your groom tattooed on the back of it? I can't really help you unless you put your big girl panties on and make some hard decisions.

About an hour and a half into this appointment with no ending in sight, I happened to catch Alyssa, one of the co-owners of the shop, out of the corner of my bloodshot right eye.  I sent her morse code for S.O.S in the form of  "Hey Alyssa, could you come here for a moment please?" 

I didn't care that it was the middle of the summer; to me it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day.  As soon as Alyssa stepped in, I stepped out singing (in my mind of course) "Free at last, free at last...thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!"  Then I went and peed.  Then I hid in the back until the store closed.  No, just until I ate my lunch and gained my sanity back.

The bride left without making a decision, but did come back later that week with two friends who helped her decide on a veil.  She picked a short, modest one trimmed in plain white thread. The trim had seperated from the veil netting in three different places (it was a floor model and got man-handled a lot), as one of her friends had pointed out to me.  She then asked if the bride could buy it for 50% off the cost. 

First of all, this is a bridal shop and not Saturday's market where you can name your own price.  But in this case, the owner was happy to sell it but at a 35% discount.  Satisfied with the deal, the bride left with the one veil that she did not try on during our venture into Sherwood's forest the Saturday before.  At least I can't remember if she tried it on...my brain was fried and my eye sight not so good.  However, it was the perfect veil since it was understated and didn't take away from her beautiful flowey gown.  She was going to be a lovely bride for her prince.

So, if I were to gaze into my magic mirror right now to spy on my little Snow White, I bet I would see that she and her Prince Charming are living happily ever after (minus the dwarfs)...in the wonderful land of matrimony. 

Me, well I'm just happy that I can SEE anything, thanks to my Prince Charming, the optometrist...he's 'spec'tacular.

The end.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...My New BFF...

So, it's been a while since I posted anything, but I'll explain that later.  I've had some Saturdays off due to family obligations; one for my my daughter's birthday and another for the 66th Annual Greene Reunion which is always held on the last Saturday in July.  My mother-in-law is a Greene...her father was a Greene as well as his 13 brothers and sisters.  They all got married (not to each other of course), made more Greenes, and so on, yada yada yada, and hence, the Greene Reunion.

I've missed the last 2 reunions, which I was reminded of when I showed up this year.  Several people came up to me and said that they hadn't seen me in a while. Well, I have a family too (albeit a crazy one), but we too occasionally are required to come together and do family things.  And since I gave 30 days notice explaining why I was going to be absent, I was excused and forgiven.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...It Is What It Is...

I wish I was playing basketball right now.  That's the random thought that popped into my head as I stared at the cement wall, stretching out my burning thigh and trying to catch my breath.  I was at the gym, in the middle of a tortuous workout (with my trainer Zack) that was kicking the crap out of my legs.

We started this whole blessed event with knee lunges.  This is where I take a step, dip one knee down to the ground, then stand back up, step out with the other leg, dip the knee and stand back up, all while holding ten pounds in each hand.  I must do this about half the length of the gym and back again...three times.  I really shouldn't complain; Zack lets me do other miserable exercises in between, to show me that there are even more ways to make my thighs feel like jello. 

Rapidly following the lunges are the ever-so-lovely aerobically-challenging step up...step downs (on and off a stool) while carrying ten pounds in each hand.  Thirty times I must do this process...three sets.  But just to spice things up a bit between sets,  I get to do wall-sits for 30 seconds.  Of all the things that could make me swear, those dang-nasty wall-sits are at the top of the list.  I absolutely hate wall-sits.  This is where you have to lean your back against the wall then sit real low as if in a chair.  Oh, the burning and the trembling...and the pain...oy vey!  This is called muscle overload and apparently you want this to happen.  The muscle tissue has been ripped and torn apart, and now must work to restore itself, thus requiring energy...aka burn calories to do so.  I guess there is some truth to "no pain...no gain." 

I finished up the whole brutal thigh-beating with a 50 minute walk-run.  Ok, it was more walking than running, but  it's hard to do any movement when you can't feel your legs.

Any who, in my year's journey to a better me, I'm finding out that I'm a lot stronger than I thought I was...emotionally, physically and mentally.  When Zack did my measurements about 2 weeks ago, I lost inches everywhere (except my calves...I've always had big muscular calves) and I gained 3 inches in flexibility.  Total weight loss...(drum roll please)...4 pounds (wha...whah).

I knew that my weight hadn't changed much and I really didn't care at this point.  I looked different, I'm wearing smaller sized clothes now (rather hip, I might add), and I feel more confident.  I felt like "Mike", the green one-eyed creature from "Monsters Inc.", when he saw himself on the cover of the magazine.  It didn't even seem to bother him that most of his face was covered up by the UPC label...he was just so excited to be "on...the...cover...of... a...magazine!" 

The fact that I didn't lose any significant amount of weight didn't bother me at all;  I just relished in the fact that I lost a bunch of inches...I was shrinking...and I was doing it the hard way...blood, sweat (tons of it) and tears.

I was expecting the "disappointed with you" speech from Zack.  It would be hard to hear, but I was ready to own my lack of eating better.  After all, I thought to myself, 'it is what it is.'  But you know what?  He was really cool about it.  Although he did say that he had expected to see more weight loss, he was proud of me.  He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes and told me that tomorrow was a new beginning.

Aw...that softy.  I wanted to smack his arm and say "you like me...you want to train me....train me and like me", but I didn't, on account that it would totally freak him out.  Instead, I've been bringing him salads, made with lettuce, cucumbers and onions from the garden.  And I've been trying to be more responsible in eating better.  I'm coming to grips with the fact that eating well AND exercising is the only real healthy way to lose weight...who knew? 

As I continue along my path to health and healing, I will allow myself to enjoy food though.  I'm not going to become obsessed about my weight.  I'm almost 43 now, and my goals are different then they were when I was in my 20's or 30's.  I must be kind and forgiving to myself and not be pressured to fit a specific mold. 

I must take better care of myself, though, and Zack is helping me with that.  More importantly, God in his unfailing love and mercy is showing me that it's ok to love myself...for in doing so, I can then truly love others with the same love that I've received. 

However, me loving me is a very foreign concept; but I must allow God's grace to show me how.  To allow myself to see me as God does...his beautiful creation, created in his image, and loved beyond measure.  I have to tell you that doing all this is really hard for me; believing that God cares about me and wants to be involved in my healing process.

Well, gotta go now and put my words into action...as in walk/run/jog/walk/run/jog/ then a whole lot more of walking on the treadmill.  I have higher powers to which I must answer; the one WAY high up...and the one with the piercing blue eyes.

                                                                                     

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Once Upon a Time...

After Mindy's divine encounter with Carrie, the rest of the day was pretty quiet. There was this cute blond that came in with her friend, asking if we had party or "reception" dresses.  Let me expand on this term.  Apparently, the current trend in regards to wedding dresses is that one is not enough.  Now, women need one dress for the ceremony and then one for the reception, hence the term "reception" dress.  I guess weddings of today are more like Taylor Swift concerts with outfit changes between sets.

This little chick-a-do explained that her wedding was next month (July) and although she already had a dress, she felt that she would be too hot in it, since the ceremony and reception were going to be held outside.
Here she had already spent $800 on a dress and now is willing to spend more for another one.  And, with the wedding less than three weeks away, she would have to buy something off of the rack since it was too late to order anything for her.

She picked some dresses out and fell in love with the first one she tried on.  Literally, she LOVED it.  When she came out to the three-way mirror, her whole countenance changed.  You know why?  Because it was the dress she was meant to have.  There she stood in a billowing fairytale gown made of layers of soft dotted-swiss netting.  It was perfect for a naturally beautiful young girl.  It was very romantic and youthful, with a bit of whimsy, like her.  The color was ivory, but it was more like buttermilk and was so pretty against her fair skin.  I didn't know much about this girl but I knew this dress defined who she was at heart.  And the cherry on top was that it fit her perfectly...no alterations needed except for a bustle.

Now, the girl who was with her was a true friend because she tried to keep this distracted bride from making another bad decision.  It's not that she didn't like the dress; she was truly worried about the cost.

The bride-to-be did come down from the clouds enough to tell me that she had bought her original dress last August from a bridal shop that has since gone out of business.  She had the dress with her and I asked if she could bring it in and put it on for me and Mindy.

When she walked out with her dress on, I didn't say anything right away.  Standing there in front of the mirror, she looked pretty.  It was a completely different dress than our dress, so I couldn't really compare the two.  It was strapless, sweetheart neckline, A-line, in white satin with crown-shaped gold embroidery all over the dress.  It fit her curves very nicely, but it just seemed too formal...too old for her.  I kept wanting to say "Anastasia...oh my Anastasia!"  Give that girl a velvet robe and satin gloves, and she's ready for her coronation as queen.

Still, I found myself obligated to talk her into keeping this dress.  Some bridal associate I turned out to be; I should be trying to sell her a dress...not talking her into keeping the one she has. I brought out a gold satin sash that had the same pearls and crystals on it that her dress had and tied it around her waist.  BAM!  It was the perfect accessory...as if it was meant to go with it in the first place.  Man, I'm good.  Then Mindy and I played dress up with this life-sized barbie, picking out earrings and necklaces and hair pins and flowers to go in her hair.

After we were done playing barbie, the overwhelmed bride did feel better about keeping her dress.  She was going to order the belt, but later.  She and her friend thanked us and left the shop, with the original dress in hand. 

About a half hour later, the girl came back and proclaimed that she had to have the fairytale dress.  She couldn't stop thinking about it.  She tried it on again and was transformed into the woodland fairy princess (minus the wings) that had danced out of the dressing room an hour ago.

Mindy and I once again played barbie, accessorizing our fairy princess from head to toe.  I got so caught up in the moment that I suggested that she put her hair up in a messy bun, accentuating it with a white silk flower hair clip above her ear.  I went to show her how to do this style but stopped suddenly, with a wad of her hair still in my hand.

In the midst of my excitement, I totally forgot about the fact that I had no clue how to style some one's hair.
I just plunged forward with the notion of showing this girl how a soft loose bun would compliment the romantic beauty of the dress.

I had the picture in my mind and I had the (unusual) self-confidence to do it.  It was the realization that I didn't know HOW to do it that made me stop.  If she would have asked me if I knew what I was doing...I would have said "No, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night."

The awkward moment ended when I opened my hand and let (the now) tangled ball of hair drop to the girl's shoulders.  I regained most of my composure by diverting her attention to jewelry.  I'm pretty ok with jewelry.

It was settled.  This cute little apple-cheeked young lady was walking out of the shop with a new dress.  Mindy, being the caring Mindy that she was, knew of a seamstress who sold dresses on consignment.  She called the woman who was willing to take the dress. 

So, as if by the wave of an imaginary magic wand, I witnessed a young woman enter as a plain jane but leave as a fairytale princess...minus the mice, the pumpkin and the midnight curfew.

Hopefully, she'll live happily ever after.

The End.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Mindy, Patron Saint of the hopeless.

It was odd for me to work during the week, but I was asked if I could help Mindy out at the shop on Tuesday.  Running extremely late (probably the latest yet), my commute should have only taken six minutes; however, timing and traffic made it more like twenty.

Due to my late departure from home, I unexpectedly ran into the local elementary school's dismissal of the children.  I not only had to slow down to turtle-mode but I also stopped to let the long convoy of buses out; it was the right thing to do to keep them on schedule.

Then I waited at the red light.  As the light finally turned green, I had to wait for the car in front of me to turn left. I got through the light only to get stopped by one of the school buses (that I let out, by the way) that was unloading kids from school.  The wait seemed forever and I was getting a little impatient because there were no kids getting off of the bus.  But then sure enough, this little girl with obvious physical handicaps (thick metal leg braces and two canes) came out from the front of the bus and slowly walked across the street with her mom.  Bless her heart...curse mine.

The flow of traffic started moving again, but only about a hundred yards due to the red light at the square.
After the light cycled and turned green again I was only minutes away now, as long as no further obstacles hindered me from getting to work. After I parked the car, I high-tailed it up the back steps and into work, hoping Mindy wouldn't notice just how late I was.

As I scurried past the dressing rooms I took note that they were empty, so chances that Mindy wasn't busy(and didn't need my help right away) were pretty good.  The store was quiet except I heard Mindy's voice and I assumed she was talking on the phone.  However, I discovered she wasn't alone when I walked in on her and a customer.

It wasn't an awkward interruption.  The conversation looked like it was coming to an end, any way.  I walked in to hear the girl thanking Mindy for listening to her.  She said that she really needed someone to talk to; someone who would understand.  I, not even knowing what the conversation was about, smiled and announced that Mindy was the perfect person for that.  She really was.

As the girl left, I caught a good glimpse of her face.  Pale, flat...lifeless.  And sad.  Very sad.  The front door chimed as she walked out and back into the world.  Mindy let out a big sigh and proceeded to tell me about her encounter with this girl.  The girl's name was Carrie and she had come in to see if we bought wedding dresses.  She told Mindy that her fiance had walked out on her and her two children so she didn't need the dress anymore.  She shared with Mindy a very sad and tragic story that she obviously felt comfortable telling Mindy.

Mindy recounted to me the events of this girl's life; sexually abused by her father until she was fifteen, her mother blaming her for it all. Her brother is in prison for attempting to kill their father for what he did to his sister.  Then more molestation by other men, one being the stepdad she now lives with along with her two kids.  The pain digs deeper with the knowledge that her 10 month old daughter has a rare blood disease that will eventually kill her. 

She told Mindy that she did have a case worker who strongly suggested that she move out of her current living situation and into one of the women and children shelters in Harrisburg.  She then confessed that she didn't know what to do; she felt like their was no hope for her.  She even had begun to explore religion and faith, searching for answers.

And that opened the door for Mindy to share her story.  Mindy had told me that as Carrie was sharing her life with her, she was having difficulty finding words to say to this poor soul.  All she could do was listen.  Let me tell you something about Mindy.  She never...EVER...is at a loss for words.  But when Carrie had revealed that she was open to hearing about faith, Mindy said that she suddenly felt empowered...led... to open up and share her own story of her time in darkness.

Rewind to two weeks ago.  Apparently, Miss Mindy openly and boldly prayed for God to bring into her life hurting people who needed someone to listen to them.  She then could share with them her own life experience and how she is the way she is because of what God had done for her.  She wanted the opportunity to share hope with the hopeless, just as someone did with her.

That's the beauty of Mindy as well as the other women in the shop.  They're accepting without being judgemental and that allows God to love others through them.  There is no hidden agenda with them; they just know, from their own experience, the pain of being in darkness.  But they also know of the redemptive power of a loving God who reached down himself and pulled them back into the light.  And that's why I'm finding my way out of the dark...because these lovely ladies were kind enough to throw me a miner's cap and some rope to save me from my own loneliness and isolation.  And with that, I'm open to trusting again, because I trust them.

God can redeem and restore someone without our help.  It's just that he is a relational God and by working through us, we have relationship with him and fellowship with one another.  That's how he rolls, I'm finding out.

Back to Mindy's debriefing at the shop.  When she was done telling me about her incredible encounter with this girl, I apologized for being extremely late.  Mindy looked at me and told me that it was totally ok because she prayed the whole time that no one would come in and disrupt their conversation.  So, with my delay of 20 minutes, Mindy had almost two hours of uninterrupted time with this girl.

Hence all my obstacles keeping me from getting to work on time.  God moved heaven and earth to prevent me from coming in any earlier because he knew that I would not be as therapeutic as his darling Mindy.  I'm my own 'work-in-progress' and I seem to be struggling with cynacism.  First, I would have had a hard time believing the girl's sob story, thinking that she was scamming us for money.  Secondly, I would have chided her for not doing all she could to protect her children.  I would have tried to "fix" her situation.

And that's why God kept me out of the equation.  This beautiful child of his needed someone to listen to her.
She didn't need me trying to fix her; only God can do that.  Through Mindy, God ministered to this girl, showing her a glimpse of hope and light, even if just for a short time.

The next time Mindy and I worked together, she told me that the day after meeting this girl, she had had this overwhelming feeling of being overwhelmed.  She admitted that she didn't think she could help this girl.  She had promised to research some things about faith for her and get back to her, perhaps meet with her again.  Mindy was even hoping to invite her to church eventually.  Now, Mindy was afraid that she bit off more than she could chew.

I laughed and reminded Mindy that she had PRAYED for this and that she was created for this kind of stuff.  She didn't have to worry about the outcome; that's God's job.  All she had to do was what she was already doing...being there for others, listening to them, letting them know that she doesn't have all the answers but she'll be there with them, praying them through.

And what Mindy prays for...Mindy gets.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...America's Next Top Model...not so much.

Since it was after Memorial Day, I ventured out to work in my new white linen capris that I bought myself from the Ann Taylor Outlet the other day.  I mention this for two reasons: one, I'm gaining more confidence in expanding my wardrobe possibilities and two, I'm actually fitting into Ann Taylor stuff.  That's huge.  Heck, it's monumental in my book.   

You see, I just always assumed that I could never fit into clothing at that kind of store, so I never tried things on there.  Well, this week I got to experience some pay-offs from my Zack-attacks at the gym and now I must work to pay off the results of my pay-offs, if you know what I mean.

So I strut in to the shop, in my crisp white capris(which blended in nicely with my pastey white legs), a navy blue batik tank and yellow cardigan.  I had on one of my big bright flower pins for which Nancy, our seamstress, calls me "boss" because of her days at Gimble's in Philly where all the floor managers wore flowers on their lapels. 

Today, I was sporting a bright yellow flower pin which complimented my cardigan very well.  Now, there is a clip beneath the pin part of the pin so I could wear it in my hair if I wanted to.  I opted out of this style because I felt like I should walk around with a ukulele, singing "Tiny Bubbles" and welcoming everyone with "Aloha...ahuke mauke tauke mona luau."  All that was needed was a skewered roasted pig, some pineapple and a couple of lit tiki torches, to complete my Pacific oasis. 

As if on a cat-walk, I modeled my colorful little outfit down the runway(aka the hall), stopping to strike a pose at customers and letting them know that I fit into Ann Taylor now.  "You see my capris?...Ann Taylor...yeah, I fit into them."

Usually with confidence (about something in my life) humility follows right behind to remind me of what an idiot I really am.  Today, it came in the form of tummy control panties whose waistband decided to fold over on itself. This caused a rather large dollop of belly flab to spill out, pushing my capris down low onto my hips and making me look all 'gansta'-like, which was not the look I was going for at all today.

In junior high, I had this English teacher who always wore polyester pants with a baggy butt.  There was nothing to fill out his backside and rumor had it that he got his butt shot off in 'Nam.  Now, thirty years later, I'm sporting the same look. Sigh.

I doctored the problem with a safety pin and hoisted the waistband of the key element of my ensemble back up to my waist.  I regained most of my composure and headed to the front of the store to escort a young bride-to-be back to a fitting room.  She was here for her second and last fitting before her wedding next week.  Months ago, she had bought her gown from our discount rack.  When she came in for her first fitting a month ago, we could not zip up her dress; there was about four inches of skin separating both sides of the zipper.  And there was not enough extra material to fix the problem.  She was going to try to lose weight before her final fitting.

She came back today, with a corset from her Renaissance Fair wench outfit (don't ask).  She said that it was suppose to cut seven inches off of her waist.  Poor girl, it didn't help her at all.  She was to be married in one week and didn't fit into her dress.  The owners called a seamstress who designs dresses and she was willing to see the girl right away.

I don't know what the outcome was, but I hope it worked out.  It seemed that wardrobe malfunctions were the theme for the day as I found out while working with a grandmother who needed to find a dress for her grandchild's wedding.  She found a beautiful bluish-grey long gown that she liked very much.  The funny thing was that even though it fit her very well, she pointed out (literally) that her boobs were down on her stomach and the bra pads (that were sewn into the dress) were way up at her collar bone.  She kept pushing in the pads and laughing. She soon had me laughing too, as I hiked up my capris again.

The day ended with me rescuing a vanity panel from a bride's crack.  The panel had slipped sideways down over the girl's butt crack and I had to delicately maneuver my finger under the panel and work it back up into it's rightful position underneath the corset lacing.  It was like a freaking game of "Operation"; I had to perform the task without poking my finger into her crack, which was barely covered by a neon green thong.

As sweat beaded down my nose, I was able to fix the issue without any skin contact.  After wiping away the perspiration from my face and hiking up my capris again, it was time to close the shop.  Well, it was close to 4pm (closing time) but a bride who had an appointment at 3pm decided to mosey on in at 3:30.  Oh well, who cares if we're inconvenienced.  Four o'clock came and went and we were still at the shop.  Mindy let me go after the chores were done, while she stayed to work with the bride (who ended up not buying anything anyway).

I pulled up my capris, pulled down my tank and adjusted my sweater one last time before leaving.  I was headed home for a wardrobe change, knowing that my tummy control undies were headed for the trash.  And the next day, I was headed to the mall for some SPANX.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...You win some, you lose some.

Even though the highlight of my bridal shop experience so far was definitely the sunny day that Gloria and Michael waltzed in through the door and into our hearts, I will have to say that the icing on the cake was when the co-owner later that day, presented me with my name tag.

Yep, it's official; I am now a "bridal associate" of The Bridal Emporium.  At least that's what it says on the tag.  I noticed that it didn't say "sales associate"; it's probably because of my lack of math skills and inability to figure out discount percentages.  Any way, the owners saw fit to consider me a valued member of their team and crowned me an official staff member.  Now, I could come into work the next Saturday proudly displaying my name and my position to prospective customers and valued clients.  In reality though, all the tag really does is let people know "yeah, I work here."

The next Saturday, unfortunately, did not start out as glorious as the Saturday before did.  It started out with Cliff, my husband, asking me "don't you have to work at ten?"  I opened my sleepy eyes to see "9:34am" on the clock radio next to my bed and Cliff hovering over me. Crap.  I flung myself out of bed and got dressed as fast as I could.  My hair was a mess (shocker there) and I only made it worse by rubbing some anti-frizz stuff into it and then adding a coat of hairspray, so that the shine of my hair grease was now permanently cemented in for the day.

I didn't get to eat my keeps-me-regular-with 10gms of fiber-kashi cereal with fresh blueberries or have my token cup of coffee.  Usually this would not be a problem because the owner always brought in food and snacks for us.  But she was not in due to having surgery two weeks ago, so no food in the fridge.  Good thing I threw a pack of cheese and crackers and two tasty-cake coffee cakes into my purse before I left.  Breakfast of champions...not...but it tamed the rumbly in my tummy for a little while.

Late as usual, I headed to the front of the store to check in and give the owner yet another excuse as to why I was late this time.  As I briskly walked passed a dressing room,  I saw Nancy, our seamstress, with a frazzled look on her face as she worked with a woman in a mother-of-the-bride dress.  I wouldn't have thought anything about it except for the ice cold mist of tension that blew out as I walked by.

When I got to the front desk, I saw the same exasperated look on the co-owner's face.  She explained to me that Nancy was attempting to meet the needs of this woman, who apparently admitted straight out that her life was a mess.  Apparently there were tears and a lot of gloomy talk from Nancy's client. 

You have to understand something about Nancy.  She, being a seamstress, and a very good one at that, is very task-oriented.  She's not a bartender or counselor who has time to hold someone's hand while they tell her how miserable they are.  Nancy just wants direction, to be told what is needed of her so she can stick her pins into it, that's it.  I did hear from Katie, another bridal associate, that Nancy did her best to cheer the woman up, trying to make jokes to liven up the mood.  The woman was just one nut that wouldn't crack.

Apparently, this woman bought the dress and extra material to add to the bustline, for a more modest look.  She was told by the owner that that wouldn't be a problem and that Nancy would be able to alter the look.  Today, it turned out that the woman was unhappy because she felt that Nancy should have known what to do with the dress without this lady giving her any direction.  In other words, Nancy should have been able to look at the dress and change it without knowing what the client wanted.  "Where there is no vision, the people perish." (Proverbs 29:18). Well on this day, with no direction, the dress perishes.

When it was all said and done, the woman originally left the dress with Nancy to be altered, but then later came back in to pick it up because she felt uncomfortable throughout the whole appointment and she was told it was going to be an easy fix, but somehow it turned into something more complicated.  Yeah, lady it turned out complicated because you made it that way.  Wanting someone to make your dress into your dream dress without telling that person what that dress would look like, is just plain crazy. And Criss Angel
mindfreak only performs in Vegas, not in our store.




Our owner ended up giving her the name of another seamstress who actually makes dresses.  Instead of a thank you, the woman had the nerve to say to the owner "why didn't you just give me her name in the first place?"  I wanted to respond with "well, why don't you just get out of our lives and shut up?!" (Thanks Napoleon Dynamite for that brillant line). Of course, I  said it to myself as I hid in the other section of the store so I didn't have to deal with the woman myself.  That's management's job; I'm just a bridal associate.  I deal enough with unhappy, cranky people at my real job.  Here, I'm just a grunt.

I will have to let you know that a month earlier, the owner had worked for hours with this woman helping her pick out a dress.  The owner was kind and caring and compassionate, like she and her daughter always are, but this woman was a miserable mess from the get go. It makes you wonder what happened to this woman to make her so unhappy.  I hope she allows someone into her life to help her out of her misery.  Not to be confused with "put" her out of her misery, mind you.

With the tension of the earlier event sliced, diced and gone now, the overall mood of the shop improved.  I enjoyed working with a mother of the groom, assisting her in finding a dress.  She really didn't need much help since she knew exactly what she wanted and found it.  It was an elegant black taffeta dress that had diagonal rouching at the waist, creating a gorgeous hour-glass figure for her.  It had a sleek 3/4 sleeve length bolero with a pointy collar, giving her a regal appearance.  She looked hot.  And she knew it too.  However, even after all the praises I gave her she had to ask Katie her opinion because Katie could offer her a "young" person's perspective.  Ouch.

This lady tried on some other dresses just in case and found a brown chiffon dress with a crystal-hemmed jacket.  She really liked it and was torn between this one and the black one.  I did not like the dress on her.  It made her look dowdy and as if she was going to throw rose petals on the floor, light a bunch of candles, and then leave a note for her husband telling him to meet her in the bedroom.  But guess what?  I kept my comments to myself.  I just didn't want to spoil her moment; she really liked herself in it.  I did breathe a sigh of relief though, when she settled on the black taffeta dress that she wanted in the first place.  I handed her over to the owner who sealed the deal.  This lovely lady left happy with her choice of dress as well as choice of store in which to purchase it.

The day winded down with an attempt to work with a bride who kept pushing her appointment back and then once she got there, she told me what she was looking for, gave me a budget and then disappeared downstairs with her mom and sister to look at bridesmaid's dresses.  Katie and I pulled a variety of dresses well within her price range.  The room was all ready for her, but she never tried any on. 

I went downstairs to nudge her back up (for her appointment that she had made), but got the feeling that she was just hiding out down there.  She eventually came up and I just had that feeling that she was going to leave.  I asked her if she was leaving and she said yes.  I did tell her that we picked out dresses within her budget.  She told me, Katie and the owner that she didn't really see anything that she liked...she actually found three "beautiful" dresses elsewhere and wanted to see if she could find something to top any of them  here at our store.  Finally, a little honesty from this shady little redhead. 

She thanked us and then left.  She didn't even have the courtesy to go back and look at the dresses that Katie and I had picked out for her.  I did hear myself saying "ok, well thanks for coming in anyway." 

The day ended with tux fittings for some young guys who were going to be in their high school friend's wedding.  Here, the bride, the groom and the rest of the groomsmen all grew up within blocks of each other.  They all knew each other well and as they waited to get measured, they joked around and teased the bride, as if she were their sister.  They were a happy group of guys who loved each other and were definitely the kind of friends that would be friends for the rest of their lives.  That was going to be one fun reception, if you know what I mean.


I did my chores and then took off my name tag, leaving it on the shelf at the desk so as not to lose it.  I would hate to accidently put that on for my real job and then wear my  badge at this one.  That will happen one day I'm sure.

I can't really tell if the day was truly a bad day or good day.  It had it's ups and downs, just like life I guess.  In this game called business, I'm learning that 'winning some and losing some' is par for the course.  I'm just glad that I don't get paid by commission.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Love...Plus sized.

Today was by far, the best day of work I've had since starting this job in January.  For starters, for the first time in over a week, the sun was out and shining like...well, the sun.  White fluffy clouds were nudged along softly by a gentle breeze through a beautiful and most welcomed blue sky.  Birds were chirping and in my mind I heard the guy from the musical "Oklahoma" singing "Oh, what a beautiful mor----ning."  I felt like grabbing the microphone from our karaoke machine and joining in.

I left the house but not before stopping to enjoy Bambi, Thumper and Flower peacefully grazing in the front yard.  They were being serenaded by Snow White, with her head in the wishing well, wishing for the one she loves to find her.  Then that guy in the Colonel Sanders suit wrapped things up by his rendition of "Zip-A-De-Do-Da".  And lo and behold, he even had a bluebird on his shoulder.  The whole scene (which was in my mind the whole time) brimmed with joy and elation of this sun-shiny day.

As I strolled on into work, I sensed the same good-feeling mood in the air.  I gladly worked with a young bride who was easy-going and open to trying on any dress.  She didn't have any hang-ups about her body and appreciated my input.  The only downside was that she had a thong on, but I could deal with it.  She had that bohemian-chic vibe to her and kept smiling saying "it's all good."  Her biggest concern was that she would be able to do the booty-dance in whatever dress she picked.  You go girl!

At the same time I was working with this bride, Mindy, another employee, was working with a plus-sized bride named Gloria.  First of all, if I could have a little sister, it would be Mindy.  I just love her.  Mindy is the Mother Theresa of the homeless and hopeless.  This includes people and animals. She's nurturing and compassionate and has the wonderful gift of loving others with reckless abandonment.  And she's madly in love with her hubby Michael.

Any way, back to Gloria.  I actually met Gloria first as she came in through the back door and walked right into the area where I was with my bride.  She was this stout little plump gal with a big smile on her face.  She looked at me and said, in a slow southern drawl, "hi y'all, is it ok that I came through the back?"  Honey, with that sweet voice and matching smile, you could have came through the roof and it would have been ok.  I asked her if she had an appointment and she said yes and that her name was Gloria.  Of course it was because this girl was (as my daughter would say) an "ange."  A precious ange. 

I directed her to the front desk where she could check in.  A big kind of guy followed her, all smiles too.  As Mindy worked with her, beautiful precious Gloria would come out of her dressing room, beaming, and float over to the pedestal as if on air.  She smiled and giggled as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.  She would then yell back to my bride and tell her, in her distinct southern twang, just how beautiful my bride looked in her dress.  And then my bride would compliment her as well and everyone was happy and smiling and I felt like telling everyone in the store that we were going to have a group hug. 

It's amazing how God orchestrates events in our lives.  God, in his great love for both Mindy and Gloria, brought those two together that day.  For one thing, Mindy is plus-sized herself, in a voluptuous pear-shaped way.  She is one hot mama with curves in all the right places.  Not like my kind of plus-size shape which is a "B" as in blubber.  Another great reason for Mindy to work with Gloria was that Mindy, being plus-sized herself, knew the challenges that slightly larger women face when looking for bridal gowns.  The options are very limited but Mindy knew just how to make Gloria look as beautiful on the outside as she was on the inside.  Plus, Mindy and Gloria just clicked; I'm sure that they were facebook friends by the end of the day.

Mindy helped Gloria find an absolute gorgeous dress and all the accessories that went with it.  While Gloria was getting dressed, Mindy told me that the big fella with Gloria was Michael, her fiance.  Since her maid of honor couldn't be there for the appointment, she brought Michael because she said that he was her best friend.  Precious...simply precious.  Mindy described to me how, during the appointment, the couple would dance, as if it were their wedding day, gazing into each other's eyes with all the love and admiration their hearts could convey.

Even Mindy, who absolutely loves her hubby Michael, said that she and Michael have never looked at each other the way this couple looked at each other.  That's saying a lot because Mindy really loves Michael and Michael really loves Mindy.

After the well-wishes and hugs of congratulations from all of us, we sent the happy couple on their way.  And although they left the shop, they did not leave our hearts.  I told Mindy that this will be the couple, who fifty years from now, will be dancing in their kitchen with that same loving look in their eyes.  He'll hold her close and tell her that she is even more beautiful then the day he married her.  She'll blush and say, in her gentle southern style, "I love you too, Michael."  (Excuse me, I need a tissue.)

So thank you God, for proving to us daily that love, true and pure love, comes from you.  You give it freely to all of us, in all our various shapes and sizes, in hopes that we will see that love is blind and beautiful and meant for all of us.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...4:44am Part 2.

Even though I had been up since 4:44am, I was still five minutes late to work at the bridal shop.  I'm always late, but today there was no excuse for my tardiness.  I just couldn't kick it into gear that morning; my brain was functioning, but my mind was off in a fog somewhere.  It didn't help that my body was in the painful state of just that...pain...from my G.I. Jane session with Major Pain the night before at the gym.

My Zack-attack pushed me physically, of course, but really more mentally this time.  He had me do "box" jumps which consist of standing in front of a stool and then jumping up onto it.  Zack's foot was on the base to stabilize the stool while I jumped on and off twenty times.  Three sets. Piece of cake, right?  Not so much.  It wasn't the amount of work that was ahead of me that had me worried; I knew that I wasn't going to survive the three reps of twenty any way.  It was the starting aspect of the exercise that had me concerned.

 I kept swinging my arms back and forth, saying to myself, "I'm gonna start now...yep, I'm gonna do it," but just couldn't do it.  I couldn't overcome the fear of hurling my thundering mass up into the air, overshooting the landing and then pouncing upon Zack like Aslan did to the White Witch at the end of "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe."  However, I did manage to get myself going finally, keeping most of my dignity and cardiac status intact.  And Zack was not harmed.  I, on the other hand, had to deal with the resulting pain (similar to the aftermath of fifty dead-leggers) for the rest of the weekend.

So, despite not being up to par mentally or physically and being five minutes late, I will have to admit that I looked great in my NY and Co. peach flowered blouse and coordinating jewelry.  And I dressed myself, thank you very much.  Seeing my reflection in the mirror, I accepted that even though I didn't feel great, I looked good.  What a deadly combination...beauty and moodiness.

I should have taken a mental health day, for every one's sake, but alas, I put my big girl panties on and walked on in.  Bad idea.  The first thing that happened to make me even more miserable was me touching a bride's naked butt cheeks when I was asked to help the seamstress take the bride's petticoat off.  As I pulled the slip down over her hips my hands inadvertently skimmed the naked flesh of both cheeks due to the thong that she was wearing.  Apparently, she did not read my earlier blog about that subject.  Luckily I remained calm, apologized for touching her butt and got out of the room as fast as I could to find the nearest bio-hazard station available.

After thoroughly washing my hands and re-gaining my composure, I went back to work only to more miserableness.  I had a bride who was a size 12 pick out dresses in sizes 8 and 10, even though I showed her where the size 12-16 dresses were.  Seriously?  Did you not listen to the instructions I gave you?  Sorry, you're out.  Well, I was any way, as I gave her to my boss and promised to take the next appointment.  Wrong move on my part.  This bride decided that she wanted to work "alone" with her friends and didn't need our help.  Figures.

I then worked with a mother of the bride who started off with the same song and dance that most mothers sing.  She didn't want strapless and she didn't want to look matronly.  And,  she wanted a jacket because she didn't want her arms to show.  Oh, please, not the arm thing again.  Lady, if I find you a dress with those requirements, you're going to look matronly and old.  And you're going to look like someone who's waiting in line to get their picture taken with the ship's captain on formal night.  Plus, you're going to sweat to death because the wedding is outside in September.  Good luck with that.  She ended up buying a dress that had capped sleeves; sleeves that are basically just thick straps that cover the top of the arms...the rest of the arms and all their flab are still exposed. 

Excuse me while I slice some cheese to go with my fine "whine."  It's just that there was no spirit in this cheerleader; it got side-lined the other day when I got called a snake.  Usually, I'm "we got spirit, yes we do...we got spirit, how 'bout you?!"  But today I took more of a Dr. Phil approach: "...and how's that workin' for you? (being stupid)."

The dark black rain cloud that hovered over me all day managed to follow me home.  I figured it out when my little "friend" announced it's arrival later that day.  And brought her cramps with her...how thoughtful. But it did explain a lot.  A whole lot.

As much as I would have loved to have had a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other, I settled for ibuprofen and some chocolate.  The next day I was back at the shop, pom poms in hand.  My emotional injury was healing and my spirit was ready and willing to cheer on anyone who came in that day.

I decided to give into the moment, to the experience of being a part of a happy and joyful time in a woman's life.  There is too much pain and sorrow out in the world; no need to wallow in it and carry it with me.  This little bridal shop is it's own little slice of heaven...to those who venture in as well as to those who work there.  For some blessed reason, the owners tend to attract broken people.  They don't try to fix anybody, but they do have the sacred gifts of listening, understanding and acceptance.  What a rare find among all the coldness  that the world has to offer.

I helped two brides say "yes to the dress" and they told my boss that they really enjoyed working with me
 and that I made the whole process fun for them.  It's amazing how taking the focus off of yourself can change not only your attitude, but also the mood of the people and vibe of the space you're in.  This little cheerleader was doing high-kicks (figuratively speaking) and fist pumpin' all afternoon.  I helped to cheer my team to victory that day...financially speaking, of course.  Stella got her groove back on, and Miserbella got  benched for the rest of the game.

A little pre-game ritual of ibuprofen and chocolate didn't hurt either.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...4:44am. Part 1.

Two days ago I did something that I'm not really comfortable with or exceptionally good at; I actually spoke up for myself.  It's part of my year-long plan to become a better me.  Speaking up for oneself is suppose to promote confidence and boost self-esteem.  At least that's what the Anthony Roberts Assertiveness Seminar tapes that I've been listening to have said.  This incident, however, arose from a "mama had had enough" moment and I snapped, passionately voicing my frustration over a situation that has been out of my control for several years now.  My venting came from the pain of feeling unimportant and invisible.  It was perceived as "venom" and unnecessary.  Ouch.

Flash forward now to 4:44am Saturday morning. That's the time when my eyes popped wide-open because my brain had just figured out (I'm a little slow) that I had been called a snake(remember the venom reference from the day before)...without actually being called a snake.  And this from someone on my side.

 And there you have the summation of the past few years of my life; expecting a little "tea and sympathy" and some understanding when I get overwhelmed, but receiving only the proverbial letter "W" on my forehead for being a whistle blower.  Wow...no, more like Shazaam! I finally put a name to my role in all the mayhem that has been my life for the past 3 years. Seriously, just right now, after seeing the word "whistle blower" on the screen, I realized why I've become so "unclean" to the church and to those in it that I thought were my friends.  I should stop writing right now and call my therapist to let her know that I have had a serious breakthrough.  Wow.  It was only two days ago that I had had a total emotional meltdown and now today, like the demon-possessed man that Jesus exorcized, I sit  "dressed, and in my right mind."  Well, maybe more of a clear mind with perspective.

Let's go to the visuals:  the accepted definition of "whistle blower" is an informant who exposes wrongdoing within an organization in the hope of stopping it.  Yeah, I like this definition; it makes the informant seem more like a hero instead of the Wiki-leaks guy who had to go into hiding in fear of retaliation for compromising the lives of  American security agents and US soldiers in "sensitive" jobs.  Whether that guy had mankind's interest in mind, I don't know.  I know that I did.

 I view myself more like Roy Scheider's  police chief character in "Jaws"; notifying the proper authorities (as his rightful duty as police chief) that there was a dangerous predator in the water and that the beach needed to be closed until the man-eater could be caught and killed.  Prudence and proactiveness needed to be followed in order to protect the lives of the townspeople and unsuspecting vacationers.  But the higher-ups disregarded his plan of action, and we all know what followed; the shark was left to stalk the waters near the beaches, plucking swimmers from the surface like they were fries in a happy meal.

Now,I didn't go running in, making a big scene...believe it or not.  But I did notify the proper authorities of a dangerous predator and basically got "disregarded."  How fun it is, to be told "thanks, but no thanks."  Crazy people, christians are.  And sometimes complete asses and schmucks all wrapped up in suits and carrying their bibles, thinking that if they ignore the facts, the facts somehow don't exist.  Stupid people.

I just do not want to ever be confronted by a grieving parent, like in the police chief's scene in the movie where the mother of the boy that was attacked and killed confronts him because he knew of the danger and did nothing to stop it.  And then she slaps him.  I don't want to be slapped.  I want to be part of a team that works together for the betterment of mankind.  I want world peace.  But for now, I'll settle for the peace of mind and soul I have when I lay my head down at night.  I did all that I could barring jumping into the ocean with a suit made of chum to get the shark myself.

I'd rather be on the beach, getting all sweaty and reading a Dean Koontz book...leaving the life-guarding to the guys in the red shorts.


 





                    

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Prom-e-nade.

Well, yesterday was my youngest daughter's junior/senior prom.  After a quick stop at the bridal shop for a last minute dress adjustment, we then headed down to the mall for her hair and make-up appointments. Three hours later we were back home, Paige got dressed, and came down looking absolutely stunning head to toe.  She chose a vibrant silky purple halter dress embossed with crystals over the bodice and straps of her dress.  Her hair and make-up only added to her radiance. Of course, being her mom, I'm biased, but trust me when I say ooh-la-la!

Her date showed up-on time-(he gets points for that)-in an all white tux with matching purple tie and vest.  Oh, and white shiny shoes.  He gave Paige a hug and told her she looked really nice (more points) and said hello to us and shook Cliff's hand and called him "sir" (even more points).  However, he lost most of his "imaginary" points for not opening the car door and helping her into the car.  Poor kid, I think we had him so nervous that he couldn't think straight...we have that effect on people.

After all the token prom pictures at the house and then at one of her friend's house, it was off to the Masonic Village and to the rose gardens for the official picture-taking of the high schoolers in all their regalia. Their parents and family members were present to act as unofficial paparazzi for the event.

  Looking down at all the festivities, were residents of the Masonic Village, who look forward every year to the grand display of formality and the gathering of so many young people.  It connects them back to the time when they were young and had their whole lives ahead of them.  Now, they gather together, their youth gone, but not their memories, to take in the beauty and splendor of this time-honored rite of passage.

After seventy million pictures of Paige and her various friends, Cliff and I got the hint from her that our presence was no longer needed so we could stop following her around.  So we made our way through the maze of kids and up the garden stairway where I tripped and fell forwards, landing on my hands and stubbing my right big toe in front of a bunch of kids and their parents.  Usually, when I do something graceful like this, Cliff bursts out laughing and then runs as far away from me as possible.  However, because I recovered so quickly, he didn't have time to bolt.

With half of my right big toe nail gone and throbbing, we made our way to the cultural center where the ballroom was set up for the prom.  Let's pause for a minute.  When did "the prom" become just "prom"?  I missed the passing of this very important legislation that formally changed the name.  Probably someone got offended by the word "the", so they had to remove it from the title to avoid a lawsuit.  Maybe it was just a typo, I don't know.

Any way, Cliff and I found his aunt Doris, sitting with two other ladies, waiting for the promenade (pun intended) of prom couples marching in two by two like the animals on Noah's ark.  More older people were positioned inside, waiting to view the prom fashions of the evening, before retiring to their apartments for "The Lawrence Welk Show" at 7pm.

 I had my eye out for girls who had bought their dresses from the bridal shop so I could report back to the owners on how gorgeous the girls looked in the couture dresses from the shop. Watching these kids as they shuffled along in front of us, I couldn't help but make some observations of the differences as well as the similarities of proms gone by to this prom of tonight.

The first thing that struck me is that no matter how well the guys wash up and look all charming in their tuxes, they still look like little boys in grown-up suits.  And yet, for some crazy reason, there is always that one kid who looks like he's thirty five. He usually has a lot of facial hair. He's the guy that you'll see at your 10th-year high school reunion that will still look like he's thirty five.

The girls all looked amazing in their colorful body-hugging dresses, and spray tans.  You go girls, I thought to myself.  Those plunging necklines, open backs, and skin tight slinky gowns would never have gone beyond the front door of my house and the king of it, James L. Rossetto, my father. "Why are you wearing a slip to the prom?", he would have asked in amazement.  "Better go put your dress on, or you'll be late."  "But dad, this IS my dress!"  He would have just stared at me until I went and put on a cardigan or bathrobe over it. 
So, more power to you girls; enjoy your youthfulness and liberating fashion while you can. 

My biggest prayer for all of the kids there was that they would forget about the labels they carry within the walls of high school. I wished that they would just enjoy the night, being with their friends, and making memories that they could cherish for years to come.  I wished that they all would realize that tonight is a magical night where everyone is a king or queen in their own right (aw...touching right?).

 After the parade of couples had gone by, I realized that prom had changed--perhaps progressed--since my "Pretty in Pink", Molly Ringwald and Duckie prom of 1986.  Instead of OMD (Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark), the expression "OMG" came to mind.  For example, I saw a prom couple who brought their child, dressed in his own tux, for pictures.  I think I saw my first same-sex couple(if you know what I mean).  I saw guys with earrings and skinny jeans and girls with tattoos.

Unfortunately, what was truly tragic was seeing kids distracted by cell phones.  Instead of old time, genuine face-to-face conversations amongst themselves, I saw too much of ear-to-phone-and face-to-ground action.  Seriously?  Kids you're never going to truly experience life until you turn off your phones and work on your social graces.  Especially on prom night.  Hands are meant for holding hands, not cell phones. 

 And guys, come on, you gotta be brain-dead not to have your eyes glued to the beauties all around you.

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...What's Thong with This Picture?

Before I enter another post in my bridal diary, I must first stop and make a public service announcement.  For any and all brides-to be: please wear underwear and a bra to your appointment.  Seriously, I mean it.  Being a nurse, seeing people naked is nothing new to me.  It happens quite frequently.  Heck, sometimes it's expected.  But not when I walk into a dressing room to find a woman looking like Eve in the garden before the fall.  Hello!...not pretty, and definitely not cool.

Oh, and thongs do not count as underwear.  Let's discuss.  First of all, I blame the flat-chested radical feminists from the 70's.  They burned their bras in liberating fashion, letting their "girls" hang all out in opposition to a male-dominated world. Now, today's liberated woman takes it a step further and basically wears underwear that isn't really anything but an upholstered shoe lace.  Being a slightly larger woman myself, I've never worn a thong before.  Oh wait, I take that back.  I have had a wedgie before, and come on, that's basically what a thong is.  Instead of just taking a normal pair of undies and ramming the fabric up into their cracks, (which would be so much cheaper), today's women actually pay money for these glorified pieces of dental floss.

Whatever the thong is for, modesty has nothing to do with it.  Not only are your cheeks exposed,  but for some insane reason, the "waistband" pops out in the back so that whenever the little lady bends over,  she announces to the world that "yep, I'm wearing a thong and I'm proud of it."  She's a modern woman who is not going to wear her mama's underwear.  We're not asking you to wear our underwear...we're just asking you to WEAR underwear.

Not only is it a modesty issue for me, but it's also a matter of hygiene.  I'll explain.  About a month ago, I was asked by one of the owners to work with a bride.  She was already in the dressing room, waiting for someone to help her into a gown that she had picked out.  I walked in, smiled and introduced myself.  She had on the proper attire of a strapless bra and underwear.  Well, at least I thought she was wearing standard-issue underwear.  It wasn't until I was helping her step out of the gown. With her back  towards me, I had to lean forward towards her lower back to get the gown down over her hips.  Bending my knees to a squatting position now, my face was just inches away from her butt...from her exposed buttocks and a thin piece of yellow fabric wedged between them.  The alert level just went from DEFCON 5 to DEFCON 1 for the highest risk of direct skin to skin contact (my face to her butt cheek).  And I was without  proper OSHA-approved protective face gear.  Luckily, thanks to my jedi-like reflexes, I was able to quickly turn my head away, avoiding the potential biohazardous event that was heading my way.

Please ladies, listen to my plea for decency.  You are not at the Cleveland Zoo, and I am not Jack Hanna.  I have no need nor desire to see your "call of the wild" at anytime, ever.  I think I can say with almost 100% confidence that most reputable bridal salons are not "undergarments optional" places of business.  There are also no disposable paper underwear vending machines anywhere in these types of establishments.

So, until the invention of disposable underwear or paper-lined wedding gowns,  I'm going to suggest to my bosses that they post on the front door:  "no bra, no underwear, NO SERVICE."

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...beauty and the other white meat.

To my sausage-arms bride, all my lady-friends out there and myself...we are all beautiful. 

The Train Station...(aka The Bridal Diaries)...Zack and sausages.

In my new endeavor to take control of my life and better myself and all that jazz, I have not only joined a gym, but also hired a personal trainer.  His name is Zack and I pay him to yell at me to do stuff that's good for me.  Plus, he counts my reps and carries my book.  He has me running on the treadmill because it's harder than the eliptical machine or the bike. No easy street for me, no sir!  He checks my log/journal to see how far and how fast I ran and then eyes me up as if to say, "you're such a loser."  He may not think that I'm doing all that great, but I am r-u-n-n-i-n-g on the treadmill.  I haven't ran since my army ROTC days in college.  So despite twenty-two years later and forty(give or take) pounds heavier, I have hit a milestone in my quest for a better me.  Yeah me!

Zack says that I'm one of his favorite clients (yeah right) because I don't complain.  First of all, I'm just trying to catch my breath and not fart or vomit on the guy. Secondly, why complain when I can just talk about him in my blog!(shh...don't tell).  He tried to get me to buy these diet pills with caffeine in them that they sell at the gym, but I told him that I worked really hard to get myself this way and I'm willing to do the work to undo as much as I can...the hard way.  One time, when he had me doing core exercises, he told me that I'll have a six-pack in no time.  I told him that I'd be happy just to see my feet again.  He was not amused.  I usually end up quoting the frat pledge's line (after he just got whacked with a wooden paddle) from the infamous movie, "Animal House": "THANK YOU SIR MAY I HAVE ANOTHER?!

OK, so back to the bridal shop and sausages.  A couple of weeks ago, a middle-age bride-to-be (or just "bride" as we say in the business) came in for an appointment.  This was going to be her second wedding and she brought in a co-worker/best friend to help her find a dress. The bride was pretty; the dark hair, fair skinned and Irish-eyes pretty.  She was pear-shaped...very much so in the rear area.  She was thinner through the waist but very wide through the hips and butt.  She did comment on this fact to me several times throughout the appointment, but not as much as declare (with great disgust) how much she hated her flabby arms.  She called them "sausages" and jingled the flab with her fingers.  She really hated her arms.  She told me that no matter what dress she decided to buy, she was going to have sleeves made to hide her disgusting sausage-arms.  Oh, this was going to be a fun appointment. 

Her friend and I did our best to encourage her and to compliment her on how lovely she looked in the different dresses that she had selected, but all she saw were the "sausages."  I never thought much of them because I had my own bratwursts jing-janglin' off my shoulders.  It was my goal to help her find something that would make her forget about her arms...for a while. However, throughout the appointment, I was waiting for this debbie downer(whah-whuh) to literally start flogging herself out of deep disdain for her own body.  I felt sorry for her, truly sorry for her.  I mean, hey, we all have our own body image hang-ups, but this woman honestly loathed the body that she walked in.

Thank God that my thought "filter" was working that day because I wanted to tell her to quit whining or I'd have to call the "w-h-a-m-bulance."  Instead, I looked right at her and calmly told her that with each dress that she had tried on, I never once looked at her arms.  It never even crossed my mind to do so really, because I was too busy focusing on how beautiful she looked.  And she truly looked lovely in most of what she tried on.  She got quiet and I could tell that she wanted to believe in what I was telling her, but all she saw and smelled were those stupid so-called "sausages" that hung from her body.  She refused to allow herself to be beautiful for that moment.  I should have started to sing "You are beautiful...in every single way..." (Christina Aguliera), but that would have just ticked her off even more. Plus, I can't sing...shouldn't sing, really.

Of course, she wasn't happy with anything that she tried on because they didn't do anything to hide her dreaded sausages.  She left with her tormented soul in tow, never to return again.  Maybe she found a blazer or cardigan or parka to wear for the ceremony.  I should have given her Zack's number...a couple of weeks of Zack-attacks would melt the fat from those flabby pork-link arms like butter in a frying pan.  Maybe she could be happy then with leaner, turkey-sausage arms.  Or just switch to patties...I really don't know.  I bet Jimmy Dean would.