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."