Fall has come upon us and with that the start of a busier season at the bridal shop. We are now open on Sundays, a very smart business move, because we have been very busy.
I've been trudging along steadily in my rehab of sorts, accepting appointments with more willingness and patience. I've done okay despite some challenging brides testing my tolerance level.
Back in September, I worked with a bride who spent the entire appointment texting on her phone. At least while she was in the fitting room with me. In a small fitting room, made smaller by all the "poofy" wedding gowns she wanted to try on. And in a small room with no circulating air, so it was warm which made me sweaty.
So there I was, in this rather small space, door shut, big dresses everywhere, no air, sweat dripping down my nose as I laced, zipped and buttoned this distracted bride-to-be into gown after gown. She would lift her head from her phone to pull her hair up for me or to glance at herself in the mirror, once the gown was on, to offer her (non-expressive) opinion.
Now, one thing I must tell you; if I was at my "real" job, as an RN, I would have words with this chick or any patient who was too busy on their phone to engage in conversation with me. Your time may be valuable, but so is mine, as well as the other patients that are entrusted to me. You can talk/text to whomever you want, just not when I need to work with you.
It may sound like a "power" trip, but it's not. There are just certain things that have to get done as soon as possible, in a medical setting, and those things trump some one's need to be on the phone. Nurses just can't keep coming back to a patient, to check if that patient is available yet. Time and the law don't allow for that.
In a bridal shop setting, however, being an assertive RN, doesn't make for a good appointment or for happy owners. There were several better ways to handle (delicately and tastefully) this dis-engaged bride, but I took the most non-confrontational route and didn't make the phone an issue.
For one thing, I simply chose not to make it an issue...she still was a client (with a rather big budget) and I didn't want to make the appointment any worse by pointing out her rather rude behavior.
Secondly, I was having a hard time remaining professional with all the sweat dripping off my face from the close quarters in which I was working. Thank God she had her face down to her phone so she didn't see me literally wiping the sweat onto my sleeves. Thank God I had a busy print on, to hide the make-up smudges.
And thank God that I remembered to use deoderant that day.
What was more remarkable was that even after probably the most awkward appointment I've ever had, I was able to find a dress that she liked. Although she didn't buy that day, she did bring her mom back a week later and bought the dress. Not only did she buy a $1600 gown, but she told the owners that she really enjoyed working with me!
There is a saying that Christians share with others, to comfort them. They say "What Satan meant for bad, God will use for good."
It's a paraphrase of Genesis 50:20; "You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives."
Christians take from Romans 8:28 as well: "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
This past summer, my husband and I witnessed the power of those verses played out in a wedding ceremony that shouldn't have happened. And one to which we should have never have been invited.
Let me explain. The bride involved was not a bride from our shop but rather, like my daughter, an unfortunate victim of sexual abuse by the same man.
Prior to the start of the investigation that led to this man's arrest, this girl's family and ours went way back, connected by the mutual "friendship" with the man's family. Although the families got together from time to time, our two families never really associated together without the other couple.
We discovered, during the police investigation, that the couple had managed over the years, to keep all of the couples (involved with the case) from associating with each other separately, by telling lies and half-truths (about each of us) to the other couples. We had tolerated one another for the sake of the kids.
When our family and this girl's family were thrust together into the same nightmare, something unexpected happened. It wasn't "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" kind of reaction, but rather the realization that what we had believed about each other for so long, had been wrong.
There grew to be mutual understanding and support for each other as (together) we dealt with the humiliation and embarrassment of being deceived by two people whom we trusted.
Over the course of the four years since the investigation, the silence that had been created between this girl's family and our family had been replaced by the chatter of frequent phone calls and text messages to see how each other was doing.
Then it came...the invitation requesting our presence at the wedding ceremony of the couple's beloved daughter.
The very same daughter who, at the sentencing hearing of the man who molested her, was just a tiny shell of a human being, with no light in her eyes. We all cried in that courtroom as this girl, through her tears, told the judge how she didn't want to live anymore.
Now, this same girl, who four years ago, had to break-up with her boyfriend because she couldn't stand to be touched, had come far enough in her recovery to let love in again.
So there Cliff and I were, guests at a wedding that shouldn't have been, had the devil won.
Rather, there we were, eating and laughing with the bride's parents, hugging and wishing the newlyweds all the best in the world...and knowing that the only tears shed that day were happy tears.
The last two blogs kind of zapped my energy so I took a break, sorry.
I will say that once I pinpointed the issue of my bridal-associate funk and got it out in the open for me to see and finally deal with, I felt much better about work. Even though work had nothing to do with the problem, it was effected by it.
I'm not going to speak of the Jerry Sandusky/Penn State scandal anymore except to say that the chaos that has followed is what happens when human beings choose not to do the right thing. Innocent people get hurt. Everyone suffers the consequences.
OK, enough of that. Work at the bridal shop seemed to have new life in it as my lack of motivation dissipated and I found myself in a better mood with an actual desire to work with people again.
The lucky bride to encounter this newly restored attitude was a bride on a very limited budget. And a limited time schedule as there were cupcakes in the back of her car and it was July.
Although she was very big-chested, the rest of her was tiny. In addition, the dress that she really loved had several layers of chiffon softly draped down over the chest. The rest of the dress was plain chiffon and she just looked like an inverted triangle.
Now I should have been more of an advocate for another style, since this particular pattern made her look even wider at the widest part of her. But she was so in love with it, I didn't push the issue because there wasn't really time to do so.
I did get the chance to steer her in a better direction when she made another appointment two months later, and requested that I work with her. She had really appreciated the time I spent with her.
(I bet that was God arranging the whole thing any way, to get me back on track, being among people, and not hiding from them.) He was throwing me a bone.
We revisited the same dress again, but I did encourage her to try on different styles, to give her a chance to see herself in other simple, yet elegant dresses within her budget.
I put her in a classic bridesmaid dress (they all come in white or ivory and will save any bride tons of money) in which the bodice crissed-crossed below a slightly plunged neckline. What a difference a v-neckline and some ruching makes on a well-endowed woman! Oo-la la!
She liked the look, but kept coming back to the very first one. At this point, when the client seems set on dress, I'll have one of the owners come in to see if she can offer any suggestions on how to make the dress better for the bride, if it can be done. The owners have way more authority with the brides than I do!
Of course, the owner simply came out and told the bride that the draping on the first dress made her appear "wider," which was the truth. I kept that fact to myself because she loved the dress, which wasn't in the best interest of the client. My mistake and now the owner knows it too.
A small reprieve came when the owner did agree with the classic "X" shaped bodice of the other dress. I left the two of them alone as the owner gave a strong argument for that style verses the draped bodice style of the other one. In the end, the bride saw the light.
I can't blame that mistake on being a rookie. I knew better. Being an RN and a mother for 20 years, I've gotten good at advocating for what is best for the well-being of the individual. That is true even when what the person or child may want is not what they need. It's my job to step up and help them to see this reasoning.
I weakly did my job with this bride, but the owner stepped in and made the case, and the bride left happy.
Nonetheless, what I didn't do weakly was go into an appointment with a bad attitude. And it seemed to be the case with the other appointments that came my way. I didn't get annoyed. I truly enjoyed hearing brides explain their visions and tried to help fulfill them, bringing in the help of the other associates when I couldn't see where to go next.
My dread for interaction with others continues to wane and it shows by brides returning for second appointments, asking for me. I've even sold a few dresses, without even making that my goal. I don't work on commission, so it doesn't matter who gets credit for the sale any way. I'm just thrilled that I am helping the owners build their business.
And I think they're just happy that I'm back in the saddle again.
As much as I loathe the church and school involved in our own Sandusky nightmare, I must state that (as far as our case was concerned) no criminal acts occurred on church or school property. That fact must be understood.
My vile contempt for those two institutions has to do with what they did once they knew there was a predator on their campus. Let this be a warning to us all, if we want to be counted as decent human beings in a civil society...it's one thing if you do not know that something is happening. It's a whole other ball game if you know something and then choose to do nothing about it.
It's what you do once you know that counts. For our civil society to remain civil, we all must be held personally responsible for our actions. And there must be swift accountability and justice when our actions affect the most vulnerable of our citizens...our children.
Edmund Burke said it so powerfully: "all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." I guess the administrators at Penn State and those in our situation didn't understand the heart of the statement. Or just didn't care. Whatever the case, they made themselves perfect examples of it's truth.
Unlike any of the above mentioned people, I know that I can go to bed at night with peace in my heart, knowing that I did all that I could--once I knew what was going on--and my children know it. If I live to be 84 and am diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, I will not be saying "I wish I had done more."
Although I will always carry the guilt of having not protected my child, I will be able to die with a clear conscience regarding this matter because I did the right thing, once I knew.
The only regret I do have is not allowing the "mama bear" in me to come out sooner. I was stupid and naive to think that I was dealing with like-minded decent people, who believed that the safety of children was more important than the rights of a child-predator. My bad.
Just a word to anyone who dares to mess with me now: I'm what you get when you crossbreed a female Kodiak grizzly bear with (Hugh Jackman's) "Wolverine." I can't show you a picture of it, but I can guarantee that you will not survive an encounter with me.
I hate to say that about myself now, but being screwed over by people who call themselves "Christians" has made me so. My rose-colored glasses are off now, and you're only a christian if you can prove to me that you're a decent human being first.
Thus my beef with church...not so much with God anymore, but rather with those who claim to represent him. My biggest struggle is learning not to throw out the baby with the bath water, so God has me learning that lesson in a little bridal shop in town. Little by little he's giving me small doses of true Christianity in the friendships I've made with the ladies at the shop.
Our oldest daughter actually had the job before I did. These ladies were there for her while we were going through our personal hell, and they've been there for me, patiently, as I recover.
I guess anyone who is in rehab of any kind needs a sponsor...I have three.
In attempts to move forward, I must pause and face reality for a moment. And by allowing you to see what has been my reality-my life-for the past several years, you can better understand the real me.
The best way to start is the good old "Law and Order" way and "rip" it from the headlines, mainly from the Jerry Sandusky/Penn State scandal that has been the headline of the news in Pennsylvania lately.
I'm not speaking from the prospective of a victim, but from a parent of a victim. If you just substitute the name of our daughter's predator and the name of the christian school/church for Sandusky and Penn State, you get our story, basically.
Before I turn off any Penn State fans out there, I want to speak frankly about something. In no way, do I lump all of Penn State people into this issue. In fact, I applaud not only the jury (made up of mostly Penn Staters) that convicted Sandusky, but also the students that stood in solidarity for the victims last fall. That's the true reflection of who and what is Penn State.
My issue is with those who knew and yet willing chose to do nothing to protect the well-being of innocent children. Those in authority at Penn State thought they were above the law because of a football empire that seemed, for so long, untouchable.
For that reason, a few powerful men chose not to do the right thing because of what would happen to this dynasty if word got out about what Sandusky was doing. They chose to protect themselves and a pedophile over the welfare of children. Testimony and e-mails prove it and that's what makes me want to vomit.
And this is the reason why I have been distracted lately. For the past 4 years, my family and I have been making great strides in overcoming our own "Sandusky" tragedy. Due to the immense strength and courage of our daughter and seven other girls, their monster is now in prison.
Time has gone by and we have been doing our best to move on. We've struggled with the tremendous burden of grief, but somehow, have managed to be functionally dysfunctional while we have tried to make sense of what has happened.
Then the headlines light up with the whole Sandusky thing, and there you find yourself reliving your own experience again. Your child has nightmares and overwhelming anxiety. Your own anxiety heightens because you feel helpless as you watch your child struggle with her demons, once again.
And yet, no matter how broken or shattered we should be from the immense pain that crushes us over and over again, we remain standing somehow. I think this is what is known as God's grace and we seem to be the poster family for it.
I guess that's all we can ask for right now; to continue to be as whole as possible in the life we have been given.
Well, after six weeks of recuperating from my broken leg, I have returned to the bridal shop. The ladies are glad to have me back and I am even more happy to be back with them. I've missed being with them; missed being appreciated, accepted and called friend.
I haven't really missed working with brides though, as I found myself busy helping different brides-to-be in their quest for that one special dress. I still haven't been able to regain that pep that I used to have when working with someone. I find myself once again, just going through the motions of trying to sell a dress instead of focusing on making it a memorable experience for the bride.
I am working on this issue and have made strides in exceeding in customer service since I've been back. One notable example of outstanding customer care was with a bride that I had no desire nor intention of helping at all. I didn't really care for her or her family and when I saw her name on the schedule, I even told the ladies that I would not be dealing with her, so someone else would have to do it.
Of course, nothing ever goes as planned with me, and the bride's mom spotted me and started talking to me, and the next thing you know, I'm telling the bride that she looks lovely in her dress, and her shoes are perfect, yada yada yada.
I found myself actually enjoying the conversation, catching up on family stuff with the mom. Then I willinging helped them check out so they didn't have to wait for the seamstress. I gave advice about the best time to pick up the dress before the wedding.
And to top it all off, I found myself saying words that I never ever intended to say to these people: "It was so good to see you guys today!" Then I smiled and said something equally sweet like "take care, and congratulations!"
What in the world did I just do and say?! I was pleasant and kind and acted like I cared. And honestly, it wasn't all that hard to do. I really was trying to be nice and it worked. I think knowing that my behavior was a reflection of the shop, helped keep me in line. Plus, I'm really more bark than bite, when it's all said and done.
When I relayed what had just transpired to the owners, one of them had said that "God was working on my heart." They know, as well as God, that I have allowed it to become hard over the past few years. I've not only built a wall around it, I've built a tower around it, added a castle and a moat. No one is ever going to be able to easily get to my heart again.
Although, I think being around these beautiful bridal ladies must be doing something to me. Somehow they've managed to get me to soften up a little, thaw a little, so that God's' mighty chisel can finally start to put a dent in the wall of the tower, in the castle that I have built to protect it.
Maybe one day my heart will be out on my sleeve again, rather than in a kingdom far, far, away.
"Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" That was literally the predicament I was in three weeks ago after a dog ran full-force into my left leg, knocking me down like a bowling pin and leaving me unable to get back up.
And to top it off, I was stranded on the ground for two and a half hours until a neighbor saw me and came out to my rescue.
What started the whole ordeal was my 10 yr old yellow lab, Macguyver. He was sniffing around in the field with his canine friend, Koho, when he spotted the vultures. There were about 30 of them, flying low, circling slowly above the corner of the field.
Let me explain to you about "Guyver" (as we call him) and vultures. You could be anybody; the UPS or FedEx guy, the mailman, or any stranger for that matter and he would let you come right up to the door.
An exception has to be made for the Amish on their scooters or roller blades; he doesn't like them and will follow them out onto the road and chase them. I think he somehow knows that they are not kind to their animals, and therefore feels the need to vindicate his fellow animals.
Getting back to the vultures. Guyver will let anyone, basically, onto our property, except for vultures. He absolutely goes nuts when he sees them in the air. Now we are surrounded by farmland, so there are always vultures in the air, patrolling the fields for any good pickins'.
Guyver will bark and run all around the yard, "chasing" these birds out of our air space. He goes nuts. I guess he feels he must protect his family and property from these creatures of the air.
And that's exactly what he did out in the field 3 weeks ago. He started barking at the air, running after the vultures, who didn't really seem to care. Then Koho, who thought Guyver wanted to play, got all wound up and started to run around, and in all the excitement, barrelled right into me, head-on.
Koho, probably knocked silly by the impact of his head with my knee, immediately laid down next to me.
Guyver, the nut case, still obsessed with ridding the air of these winged pests, was oblivious to the chain reaction that he had just caused.
Consumed with excruciating pain in my left knee, I went down in the grass, eyes shut tight and breath held.
I swore a little too. I knew something was terribly wrong because I couldn't move my leg without unbearable pain. Which meant that I couldn't get up and couldn't get help. My daughter was in the house, but dead to the world, off in la la-land, and was of no use to me.
You see, the real problem, which everyone points out to me, was that I didn't have my cell phone. Yes, that would have solved my dilemma. But I'm someone who doesn't live and breathe by having my phone attached to me.
I still have a flip-phone and absolutely cringe at the thought of having to get a smart-phone or any other touch screen kind of thing. Touch screens make me think I'm ordering a sandwich at Sheetz.
Regardless of what kind of phone I like or don't like, I didn't have mine with me, and therefore, laid on the damp grass, with two dogs, for two and a half hours until I was saved by my neighbor lady.
I tried to crab-walk, drag my left leg, crab-walk my way to the house, but only made it about forty feet down the grassy slope.
I stopped and pulled out two stakes (that were keeping newly planted trees upright)
and used my jacket to make a splint (thank God for my days at Camp Batawagama) but had to ditch the idea when I felt the pitter-patter of lightly falling drops of rain.
I remember thinking to myself, as I was unprotected from the elements now, damp and muddied by my fruitless maneuvering, "Well, this sucks." I had to abandoned my make-shift splint and put my jacket back on.
I was able to drag myself to tree cover, only after crawling through tick and poison-ivy infested grass. I thought to myself that after I was rescued, I was going to write to Animal Planet to try to get on that show "I Shouldn't Be Alive." I may not have had to cut my leg off, but I did feel like I was gonna be a gonner.
And you know the whole time, being with a lab whose breed is known for service, I found myself thinking where was Lassie when you needed her?
All I got were face sniffs and licks from two dogs who, occasionally felt the need to check on me. They would lay down next to me off and on, before getting back up to sniff the ground, pee, and eat grass.
The one good thing about me moving to cover, was that the dogs followed, then went ahead of me. In doing so, they were spotted by my neighbor, who was looking out her window. She thought something might be up and was able to catch sight of me on the ground. She came out to see if I needed help and I was saved!
And that's when the infamous words "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" came out of my mouth. I knew she wouldn't have been able to help me get to the house, so I had her call 911. I used her portable phone to call my husband.
Knowing that crazy stuff like this always happens to me, to cause him more headaches, I just came out and told him that I was going to be going by ambulance to the ER.
The phone cut out before I could explain what all had happened, and within about 5 minutes, old Cliffy g was there, shaking his head at me. His boss followed behind him, to catch a glimpse of the freak show.
Good thing they came, because it took them, the neighbor lady, her daughter, and the two paramedics to push the stretcher up the wet, slick grassy slope to the ambulance.
The whole time this was going on, Guyver kept trying to jump on the stretcher with me. He even tried to get into the ambulance, bless his heart. He's my buddy, and I could never be mad at him for causing all this ruckus in the first place.
It turns out that my husband was home, putzin' around, at the time of my incident. He told the ladies at the bridal shop that he actually saw me on the ground, but thought that I was picking flowers. How perceptive.
Any way, I didn't have my cell phone, so it was all my fault, and let this be a lesson to us all.
During my trip to the ER and after x-rays of my leg, it was determined that I had a probable fracture of the bone directly below my knee. Apparently this is not an uncommon injury that is seen in the ER. I was given a knee immobilizer, a prescription for Vicodin and was instructed to see an orthopedist for further treatment.
The following day I saw a surgeon who called my tib/fib fracture a "crack" and told me that no surgery was required. Then, after being wowed by all the swelling of my knee and thigh, he stuck a syringe with a very big needle into the side of my lower thigh and drained 100cc of blood out of it.
It was not the most pleasant experience of my life, but my knee sure felt better. He told me I had to wear the immobilizer at all times and use crutches until he saw me again in 2 weeks. I was given the OK to walk, drive and work, with some minor limitations.
So, once home, I was a captive to the family room, living out of a little suitcase my daughter packed for me, and sleeping on the couch for the next few weeks. And of course, I was limited to sponge baths, and washing my hair in the sink.
Cliffy g did his best to keep things running normally. He's really good at housekeeping (after all, he is German,) and he took in stride the extra duties that were required of him.
The wonderful ladies at the bridal shop came to our aide and provided delicious meals for the first week. They sent flowers and cards, letting me know how much they missed me and that they were praying for me.
The kindness and caring acts of my bridal shop friends made me miss church. A church that reaches out to those in need is a church that truly understands Christ's mission and purpose. A church whose members come alongside a hurting fellow sister is a church who gets the concept of love.
The ladies at the bridal shop get it.
However, since I was shown more love, loyalty and compassion by two dogs than by those in my previous church, I won't be stepping foot inside any building of God, in the near future, though.
I'm thankful for the words of Paul, in Acts 17:24-25: "The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by hands. And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything, because he himself gives all men life and breath and everything else."
Those words really struck me about a year or so ago, when I was really really angry at the church. When you come out of a cult-like environment, like I did, the truth of those words was the magic key that unlocked the chains of legalism in my heart and mind.
And they got me thinking that God must be way bigger than I thought he was. And despite my feelings about church, I've haven't branded God with the same failing grade. The ladies at the shop are helping me with that.
So, as I convalesce at home, I'm grateful for the non-seriousness of my injury, for a loving family, for caring neighbors, and loving friends.
And for a loyal, loveable and silly dog, who kept the air free of vultures, who may have mistaken me for their next meal.
Although I continue to look forward to working at the bridal shop, I haven't had much desire to work with brides lately. Luckily, I've managed to keep myself busy with prom girls over the past few months, leaving the brides for the co-owners and Mindy.
Now, I will gladly help Mindy, Alissa and Mary Ann as they work with brides...get the rooms ready, put dresses away, comment on how lovely their clients look in their gowns. I'll straighten up the bridesmaids area, tediously putting the dresses in order according to size and length. I'll fix the toilet, replace the toilet paper, and empty the trash.
I'll even answer the phone; something that I absolutely hate to do. But I'll do that over working with a bridal client, given the chance.
During one of my mandatory union breaks (which I've instituted myself), Alissa commented on my noted disappearing act when it comes to appointments. She gave an analysis of why, which I found to be quite accurate.
She said that I do better when I work one-on-one with someone, rather than with a bride and her entourage. Alissa apologized, because she didn't mean to offend me by saying that to me. I didn't take offense at all because it was the truth.
I think that the nurse in me has influenced my actions as a bridal associate. As a nurse, I'm trained to be an advocate for my patient. Sure, I must consider the patient's family, but first and foremost, the patient and his wishes are my priority. If I feel that the family is causing undo stress and strain on my patient, I'll step in and voice my concern.
When a bride comes in with her group, an associate must work tactfully to include the feelings of these people as well as keep the desires of the bride in mind. That's hard for me to do; I think it actually confuses and frustrates me. I want to focus on helping the bride find the right dress, and comments from more than just the mother or a close friend distract me from that goal.
So, since I can't ask the family to leave (like I can as a nurse), I just avoid these types of appointments if I can. Because of course, that's a healthy way to deal with challenges, right?
But now with prom season over and no place to hide, I'll be getting more opportunities to work on my attitude.
And you'll be getting more blogs about the adventure.
One dress pony, actually. That's the only ace I have up my sleeve when I run out of options with a bride.
My only solution to the same problem leads to one dress. This dilemma is what separates the pros (like Mindy, Alissa and Mary Ann) from the less-polished amateurs such as moi.
Let me explain. Mary Ann, when faced with the challenge of an unproductive appointment, will re-group and go back to the photos that the bride brought with her. She'll then pull several more similar dresses to present to her client.
Alissa, usually confident of her choices for her bride, will often re-try a dress on a bride, knowing that sometimes fresh eyes can see new things. And for Alissa, watching the bride's pleasantly surprised expression in the mirror, she can rest in the success of her strategy once again.
Mindy is able to do what I cannot seem to do when an appointment isn't going anywhere. She is able to get a feeling during the appointment if the bride she is working with will find a dress. She will not go and try to find other dresses; she'll just wrap up the appointment. She doesn't waste time trying to make something happen that obviously isn't going to happen.
Not me. When it seems like my bride-to-be is not connecting with any of the dresses she has tried on, I'll resort to the only plan B I have; the flow-y size 12 ivory/silver gown made by Jaqueline, if she'll fit into it.
You see, at this point, I will have been with this bride for probably two hours now, sweat dripping down my face and frustration on my brow. Any seasoned bridal associate would never allow an appointment get to this point, but since I'm not one, the situation drags on hopelessly.
By now, Mindy and Alissa are usually wondering what's going on with my appointment. No right-minded bridal associate would allow an appointment to continue for this long. But they know better than to check on me because they know that I'll slip out somehow and go into hiding, leaving them with the client.
Eventually though, I'll have a moment of clarity and remember my dress of last resort.
If the shop had this dress in my size, I would wear it everyday. I absolutely adore this dress. Imagine a fluffy skirt made up of layers of white pleated cup cake liners, opened and flipped upside down. Attach a bodice with diagonal tight layers of chiffon and add a string of pearls mixes with crystals and silver embroidery across the chest, and voila! you have the most romantic, whimsical gown in the store.
Whenever a bride adorns this precious gown, wildlife should surround her as she steps out of the dressing room. I wish we could keep some white doves and butterflies in the back so I could release them as the bride leaves the dressing room.
The birds, of course, would be trained to carry a veil that they would softly drop onto her head at just the right moment as the bride approached the mirror in the center of the store.
That fairy tale moment would seal the deal, for sure.
But alas, the owners would never go for it, with the birds flying all around and pooping all over the place.
Back to reality. The real issue here is that the bridal business requires experience and skill, neither of which I have. Sure, as a veteran nurse, I can persuade a resident with advanced dementia to take his pills, get him to put his shoes on, talk him out of leaving a unit. But to get a woman to buy a bridal gown...now that takes a whole lot of tact and refined talent (that I obviously don't have) to accomplish.
Come to think of it, I never make selling a dress my goal when I come to work. I don't really have any goals...I just show up and do as I'm told. That has always been my game plan.
But I'm finding out that God has another plan for me at this little shop...one that involves rehabing my attitude about Christians, friends, my faith and life.
Making me a stellar bridal associate...not so much.
I had my first encounter with a bridezilla two weeks ago. It was a Sunday, and as usual, I was late. When I walked in, I noticed that one of the dressing rooms had dresses in it, so I knew we had an appointment. Well, I mean someone else had the appointment because of course, I was late.
As I walked up to the desk, I noticed a women looking at prom dresses. I asked if she needed any help and she told me she was here with her daughter, looking for a bridal gown. She was waiting for her to come out of the dressing room.
She had told me that the ceremony would be at their church and the reception would be at a country club.
She was nice; didn't seem snooty or demanding at all. I had a good feeling about her.
But not about her daughter who had just walked out of the dressing room.
Something wasn't right and I had confirmation from the co-owner's facial expression as she followed the bride out. Mary Ann looked as if all the color had drained from her face. She looked miserable.
Beth, another associate working that day, pulled me aside in the other room and filled me in on what was going on. She said that the mother was wonderful, really patient and kind. The bride, on the other hand, was a b*@#! who was really giving Mary Ann a hard time.
She had brought in pictures of dresses from the designers that we carry, but didn't realize that we don't carry every single one of a designer's dresses. Mary Ann had picked out several dresses that were similar in style to the ones the bride had wanted to try on, but the bride had nasty comments about all of them.
When Beth had relayed to me how mean and rude the bride was being to Mary Ann, my protective instincts kicked in and I stepped in. Literally, I walked right in front of Mary Ann and took over the appointment. No way in the world was I going to let anyone mess with one of the nicest and dearest people in the world to me.
Although it's an unwritten rule in sales to NOT steal a client away from another associate, I felt a rescue was needed at this point. Nobody was going to come onto our turf and push us around. I was in thug mode. Recent events in my life had brought that quality out in me, unfortunately. Plus, I knew I could explain my sudden maneuver later.
Apparently my slick move was not offensive but rather much welcomed in the eyes of Mary Ann and she gladly stepped back and out of the way as I started to pretend to care about this little bridezilla.
While I re-inforced Mary Ann's choice of gown that this little brat didn't like, I simply stated that this dress did not express who she really was. She seemed pleased with my assessment of the situation and led the way back to the dressing room.
Behind the closed door, the girl thanked me and asked if I wouldn't mind working with her instead of Mary Ann. I smiled and told her that I would love to help her. Help her out of her dress and out of the store.
She proceeded to tell me what she was looking for; something with a lot of bling and that showed off all of her wonderful curves. She had to have a dress that showed off her boobs and her butt! Her words, not mine.
Oh my. Someone needed a reality check and it wasn't me. Here I was looking a girl with no make up on with damp hair pulled up into a bun, with no chest (that I could see) and absolutely no hips or butt. At least not like JLo, whom I think she thought she was.
My first impression was a test tube. Not that she was perfected in one, but rather she was shaped like one. And she had nothing visibly displayed that shouted BLING. Her mother had more bling and make up on than she did. I thought that if you were to slap a black smock over a dark purple shirt on this girl, she could easily hop in a buggy and pass for Amish...that's how plain she was.
After she had given me her stipulations, she then told me that she would not be trying on any of the dresses that Mary Ann had picked out for her. I had to pull some other gowns for her, but she was so caught up in her unrealistic image of herself that nothing really pleased her. There was one that she liked, her mother liked, it looked good on her, but she, in her snotty way, never really acknowledged that this was THE dress for her. Sigh.
Having to contend with that kind of attitude plus the fact that she had been rude and mean to her mother throughout the entire visit, pushed me to my limit. This behavior had gone on long enough and I thought so did the appointment, so I ended it. I kindly instructed her to get dressed and left the room. That was that. I had had it. There was nothing here that would please her except little oompa loompas running after her, kissing her butt...if they could find it. Oops, did I say that out loud?
She was prepared to just leave the store without any information about the dress that she did like. Seriously? After all that time that I spent with you, giving you the royal treatment, you are going to leave with a simple "thank you and goodbye?"
Then it hit me. This is how she conducts her life. She is the queen and everyone else is just staff. It turns out that this was the 6th or 7th bridal store that she had been to with no perfect dress to suit her demands.
When I found out that her pursuit for the blinged-out accentuating her so-called boobs and butt dress had been a lengthy one, I actually felt better. I knew that we were not the problem, she was.
There's something to be said about a bride who, dress after dress, still cannot find one. Maybe she needs to look within herself to find true beauty instead of the imaginary self she seems to see in the mirror.
Life at the bridal shop this winter had an early boost in business with the unexpected early arrival of spring.
This fact was reinforced with shipments of new spring bridal gowns and the anticipated fashions of Prom 2012.
Since early February, eager teenage girls have been coming in with one goal in mind: to discover that singular "holy grail" of dresses that will set them apart from every other girl on prom night. Whether it's slinky, puffy, dramatic, or classic in style, these girls want to be adorn in red carpet fashion.
The dilemma is that mothers are all for the glitz and the glam but have no idea of the price they'll pay for it.
OK ladies, let me hit you with some helpful information: don't go into Neiman Marcus expecting to pay JC Penney prices. By remembering this tip, you will avoid the ghastly gasp of horror when you finally look at the price tag of the dress that your daughter absolutely loves and in which she looks absolutely gorgeous.
I know that this moment has happened when I hear "oh, gees" or "holy crap." I'll peep over at the prom section and see a girl in a beautiful dress and her mother standing there, frozen, holding the price tag in her hand. No ma'am, that's not the style number but the actual price of the dress. Shall I help you get your jaw off of the floor?
Moms, you need to remember that you are in a bridal boutique that sells couture prom gowns, hence the ridiculously priced dresses. But no, you'd rather act like you're at a flea market and ask for a discount on the dress. That's when I let the owners take over, because it can get ugly when mothers hear that there is no discount on new gowns.
Listen, I know that times are tough right now, economically. That's why I advised you on not going into Neiman Marcus when you can't afford it's prices in the first place. And for heaven's sake, look at the price tag before you daughter even steps into a dressing room.
My girls got their prom dresses at the shop because the owners were gracious enough to give me an employee discount, one that involves them taking a loss instead of me. They know that there's no way on earth that the man (aka my husband) would ever spend that kind of money on a dress unless it was a wedding dress.
Moms, don't blame the owners for the high-priced merchandise. They don't set the selling price; the dress companies do. The owners are under legal contract to sell the gowns at the set price. If the owners lower the selling prices, they violate this binding contract and forfeit the right to sell that company's line of dresses, plain and simple. We need your money to make our money.
So, if you happen to make the investment and buy one of our lovely prom dresses, let me remind you of what you are getting besides the hefty price tag: the guarantee that no other girl will attend your daughter's prom in the exact same dress. Now there, don't you feel better?
As I pointed out in last year's prom blog, having two girls showing up to prom in the exact same dress is apparently a major disaster of epic proportions. We here at the bridal shop, are committed to preventing that horrific mishap from ever happening to your daughter during one of her life's most sacred rites of passage.
But until Jesse J's business model works for the shop, it'll cost you.
What brought me to the bridal shop was not a desire to work in one. Having grown weary of being an RN for 20 years, I had decided to look into pursuing my childhood dream of working with animals.
Ever since I can remember, my family always had some kind of pet. My sister had a parakeet named Kazoo. My brother had a gerbil, chameleons, an iguana, various tropical fish, love birds and a parrot. I always had the furry cute pets like guinea pigs, rabbits, mice and rats. We always had a dog.
Me, Mouse and our dog Jack @ 1974
Having a dad on active military duty meant that my mom was busy running the house and raising three kids by herself. My brother and sister were older so they had the priviledge of going off with friends. I got to stay home and entertain myself, all the while staying out out my mother's hair. I think it's safe to say that my nanny was the family dog.
I played with barbies and dolls as well as with other kids, but you could often find me in my room, wearing my mom's red cross uniform, playing vet. I'd read, announce and then check off the name of one of my animals (real or stuffed) and then perform a thorough exam on them. The stuffed animals always made the best patients, but my guinea pigs, rabbit and dog didn't give me too much of a hard time. They were used to be "girl"-handled. I was a natural with animals and was going to have a happy career as a vet when I grew up.
Me, Pig, and Jack @ 1974
How I ended up a nurse and not a vet amazes me. It was a money issue. Vet school is very expensive. I don't regret my decision and have enjoyed being a nurse to people for most of my career; however, I just got to a point where I didn't want to be a nurse any more. I wanted a change.
A career with animals was the most likely new step in my life...and I was going to prove it when I got the chance to horse sit for my neighbors last summer. Last fall I had already shown them great potential when two of their horses got loose from their pen and I wrangled them back up to the barn all by myself using a lead as a leash. I thought if Cesar Millan could handle a pit bull with a $.35 leash, I could do the same with a 2000 lb. animal. I just had to never let the horses see me sweat. I showed those horses who was boss and I was prepared to do it again.
That's why I was devastated when all seven of the horses had gotten loose overnight (while I was suppose to be watching them) when their owners went away for a weekend last June. I had just finished working 11-7 and was on my way home. I checked my cell phone and was stunned to hear a message from my (very groggy) neighbor stating that he got a call from the horse vet (from down the road) who noticed a group of horses at the elementary school across from her and wondered if they were his horses.
Holy crap. By the time I got to the barn, the owner's brother had all the horses back in the pen. He assured me that everything was OK and the horses were fine. Fine? I'm left in charge for one night and the horses escape, gallop through growing crops and then wind up on the school's playground, swinging on the swings and messing up the sandbox.
And lets not forget the mounds of manure they left everywhere. Seven horses, gallivanting around for hours, make a lot of poop. You should have seen the barn. Hay bales and bags of grain ripped open and thrown everywhere. Bins of food tipped over. Horses aren't supposed to have a lot of grain. They could get blocked up and die. And mounds and mounds of poop, everywhere. All for me to clean up. And me without my inhaler or sleep for 24 hours.
Four hours later, the barn was swept and cleaned and all the horses were back in their stalls. By the way, we did get a Christmas gift from our neighbors last year, but the horse incident was never mentioned nor was the possibility of me caring for the horses again.
A month after my failed horsesitting stint, I had the opportunity to dog sit for our other neighbors for a couple of days. The challenge for me was to manage three beagles; a mom, a dad, one of their grown puppies and eight beagle puppies from a new litter. This job consisted of feeding and walking the three older dogs, cleaning out their pens, and then feeding the puppies and cleaning up after them.
I ran into trouble the very first day. As I was latching the leash onto the older male, he got a whiff of something and took right off, the younger male following right after him. I just stood there with my mouth open, watching as they disappeared into the field of wild grass beyond the property. Did I mention that they were trained hunting beagles?
They both came back eventually. When I finally got the nerve to tell the owner about the mishap, he laughed and said that they always come back because they were trained that way. Well, that would have been nice to know, before I spent an hour traipsing through high dewy grass, yelling my lungs out for them.
I think if I had been younger last summer, I would have chalked up the horse and hound mishaps to rustiness and just been happy for the experience. Rather, I suddenly found my desire for a career with animals dwindling.
I had been working at the bridal shop for a couple of months already when I decided to play pet nanny for my neighbors. I was beginning to accept that maybe the bridal shop job was just enough of an escape from my RN duties so that I wouldn't have to leave nursing completely.
For some reason, I'm meant to be at the bridal shop and not working with animals right now. Perhaps, I'm meant to still be an RN; I do love my job and the people with which I work. I think that the job at the bridal shop helps me to better like being a nurse when I have to be one.
What ever the case may be, it is obvious that I'm not suppose to quit my day job.
Being newly diagnosed with fibromyalgia this past summer, I was forced to abandoned my personal training sessions due to the widespread muscle pain I was having. It was a big blow to my plan to better myself last year, but it was something that had to be done because the exercise was actually making my pain worse.
In a way, though, I may not have sought treatment for my pain if I hadn't started working out with Zach. I thought that the body aches were just normal because I was so out of shape. However, that was not the case, and I ended up with a condition in which my muscles are constantly tense and cannot relax.
So, farewell to Zach (and those ice blue eyes) and hello to my new friend, Douglas. He's my acupuncturist.
He has nice eyes, but even a greater smile. And he's calm...very calm. I guess that's a good thing since he's delicately sticking little needles all over my body.
I had read about acupuncture being effective for the treatment of pain and had heard positive things from friends that have tried it with success. I knew that I did not want to treat my pain wholly with just modern medicine alone; I didn't want to be reliant on any more pills for the treatment of my pain. Since I had read that acupunture could help, I thought that I would give it a try.
One thing I really appreciated about Douglas during my first visit was how much time he took just interviewing me. And he was calm and soft spoken with an even tone to his voice. No, is isn't Chinese, if you're wondering.
Prior to beginning my treatment, he didn't take my vital signs but rather "listened" to my pulse. He felt for my radial pulse, moving his finger around my wrist. He told me that he was checking for the strength of my pulse, which over the course of my treatments, has strengthened, which is a good thing, in acupuncture.
He also always looks at my tongue. I guess there's a lot that the color of the tongue can tell about the wellness of a person, according to the Chinese. I remember Douglas telling me once that the tip of my tongue was red, which meant that I was dealing with anxiety. Yep, every day of my life, Douglas...every stinking day of my life.
I am also amazed to find out the correlation between where I react and what I am experiencing in my life at the time. Usually, a reaction consists of an irritation of the skin which could be redness or temporary itchy feeling at the needle stick site. I will feel the stick (often I don't) and then heat. The sensation does subside quickly, usually.
Douglas will also make mention of a scant amount of bleeding at the site after he removes the needle at the end of a treatment. Now, this doesn't happen all the time. When it does,the Chinese believe that there is a "blockage" of energy or build up of heat in that energy pathway, causing blood to be released. This is a good sign, and will help Douglas in his next course of treatment.
That's were the amazement comes in. I usually have these kinds of reactions in areas that relate to anxiety.
I always react to treatment on the right wrist near where the radial pulse would be taken. That area relates to anxiety of the mind...of the spirit. It has to deal with what the heart/spirit wants...a question that I won't allow myself to answer. Or ponder for that matter. Recent past events have frozen me in a bitter realm of reality which keep my feet firmly planted on the ground for now.
Any way, I tend to bleed after removal of the needle right between my eyebrows. Douglas informed that this area relates to anxiety of the mind. I told him that I'm surprised that blood doesn't gush out like a geiser!
Douglas has proven to me to be very knowledgeable in the treatment of fibromyalgia. He always knows where all the tender points are and is also mindful of the other symptoms that plague a person with this conditions such as insomnia, restless leg syndrome, chronic pain, fatigue, headaches, anxiety and depression.
Since starting with him in August, I noticed that I had more energy and clarity of mind overall. My headaches have subsided as well as the pre-menopausal-like hot/cold flashes that I had been experiencing over the summer. I've been sleeping better too, which has made a big difference in my life. And sometimes, I'm not even aware of my pain.
I think awareness has been the greatest benefit from acupuncture. Finding out about how much anxiety has taxed my body, mind and spirit has helped me make important changes in regards to my life.
I've also discovered more about God through my experience with acupuncture. At first I thought that it would conflict with my christian faith, but the more I continue with my treatments, the more I see how God is using them to help me. Christian friends, who have meant well, have told me during my dark time to "be still," to "let go and let God." When you are dealing with anxiety, that's a concept that is hard to understand. At least for me.
I believe that God felt that it was a time for an object lesson. When you're lying on your back, stuck with needles all over your body so that you look like that character from "Hellraiser"(no, not true) and soft mellow chinese music is chyming in the background of a dimly lit room, you really have no other choice but to be still. Plus, it will hurt if you move during your treatment.
All I can do is lay there, focusing on calming my mind and re-learning how to breathe. I'm forced to be in the moment, totally trusting in my practioner and God to not make my life suck so much. It's being aware that I honestly have no control over things I have no control over, so I need to decide what's worth worrying over and what's not. Actually, it's more like knowing there's a difference. That's the biggest challenge for me...giving up control and trusting the help of others.
Douglas himself, with his calm demeanor and perfectly pressed shirts and pants, combined with my tazmanian devil-like personality, is making for an interesting pit stop on my journey to a better me. He even came and spoke to the pain task force at work (at my real job as an RN). He educated staff on acupuncture while I spoke about my treatment.
The seminar went so well that Douglas and I have decided to go on the road together...like a vaudville act. No, just kidding. (But we should.)
I'll leave the work to Douglas and his acupture skills, where sticking it to me never hurt so good.
In October, I went to my 25th high school reunion. It's funny because I didn't feel old enough to have been out of school for 25 years, but there I was, among 30 or so other people (probably thinking the same thing) from the West Hazleton High School Class of 1986.
Now, you must understand that technically I did not graduate from West Hazleton High School. I actually moved at the end of my junior year to Mechanicsburg Area High School and then spent my senior year there due to my dad getting a new job which required us to move.
Since my dad had been a career military man, I had been used to moving; however, this move--my 5th move since birth--was the hardest for me. I re-visited that pain, standing in the reception area at the reunion that night.
You see, I graduated from one high school as basically a nobody, among kids I didn't know. Yet here I was, at a reunion of a high school (from which I didn't graduate) among friends who cared enough about me to make me an honorary member of their class. Although I didn't really belong to either school, here I was included and treated as one of their own.
Most of the kids that I knew and hung out with back in the days of Duran Duran, a newly birthed MTV, jordache jeans and big hair, decided for what ever reason, not to attend. I couldn't imagine not showing up...I waited for it all year long. Being there with this class was something I would never take for granted.
I never really belonged anywhere, having to move so often, and these people meant something to me; they reminded me that, for a short time, I did belong somewhere. I was liked and accepted, I had friends, and I was happy. It would be a long time until I ever felt that way again.
I had butterflies in my stomach as I waited at the bar for my coke because I hadn't really recognized anyone yet. But then, as I turned around, my friend John was standing there. He said hello and then pointed to his name tag in case I didn't remember him. I smiled and told him that of course I remembered him and hugged him. He introduced me to his wife and we talked for a while.
Talking to John calmed my nerves enough to look around and discover others that I hadn't seen since high school. Now, I should say that I had stalked and re-connected with some via facebook, but seeing them in person had been since high school. Like my junior high school buddy, Scott.
My fondest memory of him was sitting next to him in homeroom, laughing hysterically at his imitations of the shop teacher. The only time I ever got sent to the principal was when I "pantzed" him (pulled down his shorts...we had a bet on who could pull each other's pants down first...sick I know, thinking about it) in gym class. I remember sitting in the school office, scared to death, waiting for Mr. Schneider to return to his desk. Mr. Wooditz, the assistant principal, came in and asked why I was there. I told him what I had done and he busted out laughing and told me to get to class.
After giving Scott a big hug at the reunion, we reminisced about our glory days at Rock Glen Jr High. We lost touch in high school, but being with him again that night was just like old times. The same thing happened with my friend Matt. Everyone just called him "Feeko." He was cute (don't you ever tell him I told you), with a mullet-like haircut, and he was really really funny. And he and I shared the same deep hatred of our 10th grade geometry teacher.
Now Feeko was all grown up, mullet gone, but still cute and funny and married to someone way out of his league. He and his wife had 3 boys and a happy life. Good for them.
Just before the group photo was taken, my friends Leesa and Becky come in. I wasn't sure if they were coming, but I was so relieved to see their faces. Neither one had changed since high school. Even though Leesa had been my college roommate freshman year, she still looked the same since high school. We went seperate ways our sophomore year, and I failed to keep in touch with her, something that I deeply regretted because she was fun to live with. I was glad that I got the chance to tell her that before the night was over.
Our friend Becky, was still saucy and spicy as ever. She had the incredible gift of speaking her mind. I was reminded of that when she announced to everyone during dinner, as Duran Duran's "Girls on Film" was playing in the background, that I would not believe that the song was about pornography. I laughed and replied that I thought that they were just talking about taking pictures of models...I was soooo naive back then! I refused to believe that the greatest band since the Beatles would sing about stuff like that.
Sitting next to me, was this guy named Adrian, who had to be one of the nicest and all-around decent people I ever met. He was a kid that we all had picked on at one time or another in junior high. I remember him never retaliating, though. Once, during typing class, he was getting picked on and the teacher joined in. I could feel my blood boiling when I stood up and yelled "why don't you all just leave him alone?!" Later that night my dad got a call from the typing teacher telling my dad that I had been disruptive in class that day. I told my dad what had happened and he bent down and gave me a kiss on my head and told me that he was proud of me.
Here, over 25 years since that event, we're all sitting together, laughing and talking like one big group of friends.
Talking with Adrian, I was honored that he remembered me as a friend and not someone who had made his life miserable during those earlier years. We filled each other in on our lives and talked like old friends. I learned that he still lives on his farm and takes care of his mom. Boy, what a catch he would be to any of you single ladies out there.
In addition, to that last statement, both John and Adrian were not the jocks, or outwardly popular guys back in high school. They might have been labeled "geeky" (no offense guys), but they grew up to be quite handsome and successful men. That's the beauty of awkwardly geeky high school guys...they grow up to be wonderful boyfriends, husbands and fathers. Trust me girls, they do grow into their ears. So don't be so quick to write these types of guys off, you'll be the losers if you do.
The night winded down and most of the group headed off to one of the local bars to continue the fun. Since I can't really handle liquor, I settled for a sprite that Scott had treated me to. I sat and listened to Tom ("Tommy") as his speech became more and more slurred after the countless numbers of beers he drank throughout the night.
It was funny to hear how more dramatic and non-factual his stories got the more he drank. His wife would just look at us and shake her head a little to let us know that the story didn't play out the way he made it seem.
I left with that same feeling of acceptance and belonging that I had come to know during my high school days there at West Hazleton High School. I may be a dork for holding onto those days, but I don't care. I will cherish those special memories and the people in them until I end up with dementia or die.
So, to all my West Hazleton High School buddies...freaks, geeks, jocks, heads, preps, etc: Please don't forget about me.
