Pulling The Plug

I used to think that the most idiotic tradition ever invented was the playing of dorky parlor games at baby showers.  But recently I’ve changed my mind.  A few weeks ago I was invited to a baby shower for Anna, a young woman I work with.   After swigging a couple glasses of extra sweet fruit punch and wolfing down about eight of those tiny triangle shaped cucumber sandwiches, I prepared to make a discreet exit.  I started toward Anna rehearsing an excuse in my head about how our dog needed her meds exactly at 7 PM. But just as I reached Anna, a stunning blond with huge teeth stepped right out in front of me.  “Time for games!” she announced and shooed me along with the rest of the guests into a wide living room where chairs were arranged in a large semi-circle.  Anna and her swollen ankles took the seat at the center of the room facing the rest of us.  As the guests all tried to balance little cocktail plates on their laps, daintily grasping crystal punch cups and dabbing their lips with blue and pink lacy napkins; I dropped grumpily into a chair thinking,  “Dang-it! I was almost out the door…just a couple more feet and I would have been home free.”

      Hostess Big Teeth rapped a tiny cocktail fork against her punch glass. “Instead of playing a traditional parlor game, I thought we’d try something different.”  She announced.  “Since this is Anna’s first child, she’s a little apprehensive about labor and about the first weeks of caring for a baby.  So, I’d like to go around the room and ask each of you to answer one question that I will read off of a card.  Each question is created to give you a chance to share a short story about your experience with pregnancy, raising a child or about being a new mom.”

“All right!  Now this is something I could get into!”  I thought eagerly.  I have always loved a good story.  What I would have given to have a story game at one of my showers.  Instead, I was blindfolded and forced to pin a diaper on a doll.  What a pointless game.  How many moms do you know that have had to diaper a baby in the dark?  Now if they had made me tie a hand behind my back and pin the diaper one-handed, that may have been a skill I could have used. 

“Do I have any volunteers that would like to go first?” Big Teeth asked.

My hand shot into the air.

“Great!”  She beamed.  “Here is the first question: ‘What is the one thing you wish someone would have told you about being pregnant?’”

Immediately I thought about my Financial Advisor who just told me a few days ago that the average family spends a quarter of a million dollars raising a child.  But I figured that probably wasn’t the best tidbit to share at the time.  I’d save that one for later.

Then it came to me.  I knew the perfect story to share with the group.  I took a breath, looked slowly around the circle at each guest, waited for the room to quiet and began my tale:

It all started the night I went into labor.  So there I was in my hospital room, alone and giggling with anticipation.  My husband was in a plane somewhere overhead rushing back home to try and make it before the baby arrived.  It was late at night and quiet. I really didn’t mind being alone.  It was kind of nice to have a little time to myself.  In just a few hours, I would be a “mom.”  I sat there in that hospital bed thinking about the little person I’d meet soon, and waited for the next contraction.  The pains felt like rippling waves of pressure.  Each contraction only lasted about ten seconds and would come and go about every twenty minutes or so.  The doctor told me to get comfortable because he didn’t expect me to go into full labor until the next day.  So I settled in for the night and tried to get some sleep.  After about an hour of gentle contractions, I felt the need to use the restroom.  But earlier, the nurse had made some modifications to my in-room toilet. See, as a precaution, she was measuring all of the liquid I was consuming, and therefore she wanted to also measure all of the liquid leaving my body.  She had warned me that I would have to pee into what looked like an inverted clear plastic top-hat.  I was not looking forward to that experience.  But with an eight pound baby sitting on my bladder, I opted to test out the plastic potty hat and stumbled to the bathroom.  Holding onto the handy metal bars on the side of the commode, I lowered myself down over the little hat.  I relaxed and let out a sigh.  But that’s the only thing that came out.  Puzzled, I peeked into the little hat.  Nope.  There was no liquid.  “What the heck?”  I thought.  It felt like I was peeing, but there was no pee.  I had just started to lift myself up off of the commode to investigate further when a giant glob “plopped” down into the hat!  Horrified I stared at what looked like a huge ball of snot!  It was the size of a grapefruit, was the consistency of grape jelly with strands of gooey white ooze and blood dripping off of it.  It really did look like it just came out of a giant nose.  I reached out with an index finger to poke at it.  It jiggled like my Aunt Martha’s Jell-o salad.  All I could think of was that black and white movie I saw in the second grade about a giant Blob from space that roamed the earth eating people.  “My Lord, I’m not having a baby, I’m giving birth to an alien!”

            Panicked I yanked on the emergency cord in the bathroom.  I pulled again and again as fast as I could.  The nightshift nurse (who, of course, was male) raced into the bathroom to find me cringing against the wall with my undies around my ankles, my face white as a sheet, trembling and pointing at the alien blob, and screaming “What is that?  What is that?!”

The nurse leaned over the toilet and inspected the glob.  After a few seconds he came over to me and gently placed his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes.  Speaking very slowly, he reassured me over and over that I was fine and the baby was fine.  “It’s okay Mrs. Waldron, you are going to be fine.”

“Just tell me what that is.  What is wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you.  You just passed your “Plug.”

“What the hell is a Plug?”

“Think of a bottle of wine.  The cork keeps the wine in and the bacteria out.  The plug does the same thing.  It keeps the baby inside, but the bacteria out.  This is a good sign, it means your body is preparing for birth.”

“Oh.” 

It was at that moment that I became acutely aware that my panties were around my ankles and I was plastered against the bathroom wall in what had to be a fairly exposed and un-ladylike stance.  I tried to gather what little dignity I had and crawl back in bed.  I wanted to pull the covers over my head. 

            And that is how I learned what the Mucus Plug was.  I guess it is usually a topic covered in Lamaze class, but I must have missed that week.  In my defense, the Plug isn’t usually that large, but still you should be prepared.  I wish someone had told me that there was a chance I’d piss out a giant ball of bloody snot. 

***

Satisfied, I looked around at all the guests who were speechless after my tale.  I’m not really sure if it was something in the sandwiches, or perhaps an episode of that third trimester heartburn, but after listening to my story, Anna looked quite pale and had to lay down for a while.  Unfortunately we didn’t get to finish the game or hear any other stories, which was really a shame.  I was so looking forward to hearing some good stories, and I wanted to share another tale about how a pizza delivery guy accidentally walked into the delivery room at the exact moment my son was squirting out.  Apparently the mix-up was due to a case of bad handwriting.  The pizza guy thought he was supposed to deliver the large pepperoni to OB (obstetrics) but it was really supposed to go to a couple of doctors in OR (the operating room).  Oops!  You should have seen that pizza guy turn green.   But next month another co-worker of mine is having a shower and I think Big Teeth is hosting that one too.  I can share my pizza story then.  I still haven’t received my invitation yet, but I’m sure it will be coming any day.

Alaska, It’s A Wild Life

                  When our Alaskan Governor was thrown into the national spotlight as Senator John McCain’s Vice-Presidential running mate, Alaska was also thrust into the news.  I watched the television media smiling to myself at the excitement people have about our state and laughing at how they described it.  One announcer actually stated that the local McDonald’s features moose-burgers.  Sorry, but that’s not quite accurate.  Although I will say that if Micky D’s did start carrying moose-burgers, I’d probably become a regular customer.  There is a fascination with Alaska that feeds the popularity of shows like the Discovery Channel’s “Deadliest Catch,” and The History Channel’s “Tougher in Alaska.”  Every Alaskan I know loves to have family come visit, because ‘Outsiders’ remind us about our unique state and some of the weird stuff that happens every day that we just consider a part of the Alaskan experience.

                  When my sister came to visit a few years ago, I took her all over the state to see the various tourist attractions.  But when I went to visit her afterwards and looked through her scrapbook of her Alaskan trip, I was shocked at what she highlighted about her vacation.  Yes, there were a few photos of aqua-green glacier ice and moose crossing the highway, but the main feature was a front page article she clipped from the newspaper discussing the ban on rat roulette at the state fair.  (For years the Alaska state fair hass featured betting on a modified roulette wheel with a live rat racing around the wheel and then diving into one of the numbered holes for a treat.  Due to some sort of regulatory issue with gambling, the game was in danger of being axed from the program and Alaskans were quite upset)  Now I admit, four pages of coverage in the Sunday paper may be a little overkill, but it really had been a very popular event. 

                  Every one of our relatives that has come to visit us in Alaska, seems to leave with a different perspective than before they came.  My Father-in-law was floored by the prices we pay for fresh produce.  He couldn’t believe that I would actually pay thirteen bucks for a small watermelon.  Or that I would spend the same amount on a steak as I would a tiny bunch of grapes.  My Brother-in-law Rob found the names of our businesses very funny.  He especially loved one bar called, “Skinny Dick’s Halfway Inn.”  I kept explaining that it was named that because the bar is halfway between the city of Fox and Fairbanks, but I don’t think he heard me.  He was laughing too hard.  He also loved the fact that a Hazelnut Butter rum latte is called an “Exxon Valdez” after Captain Joe Hazelwood and his affinity for rum.  What can I say; we Alaskans have a sick sense of humor.

                  When my Dad came to visit for the first time, Burke and I were living in Fairbanks.  As a young couple struggling to finish school and also working forty hour weeks, we lived in a tiny efficiency apartment that was really a converted army trailer.  But we had a clean comfy couch and my Dad was very gracious about the accommodations.  On the first night of his stay, we decided to drive into town for dinner, but my Dad asked if he could take a shower first. 

                  “No problem, Dad.  The hot water dial is on the right and there are clean towels under the sink.  Enjoy your shower and I’ll call and make reservations.”

                  My dad returned a couple minutes later looking concerned.  “Um….Jan, there is something in the shower.”

                  “Oh!  That’s right!  I forgot to mention that.  Burke went up the road earlier this week and shot a caribou.  But it was frozen solid by the time he returned, so we had to hang it and let the meat thaw out.  We don’t have a heated garage, so the shower was the only place to hang it.  Burke says it will take a good four or five days for that sucker to thaw out.”

                  “Oh.  So you don’t have a shower then for a few days – no problem, I can—“

                  “Dad, you can still shower.  That’s why we hung it on the far end of the bath tub.  Just climb in near the faucets and there should be plenty of room.  But please be careful not to get any soap on the caribou.  It will make the meat taste funny.”

                  My dad didn’t look thrilled about bathing with a caribou carcass, but I think he was nervous about insulting our hospitality so he climbed into the tub and showered.  I did notice though that he didn’t have much of an appetite at dinner.  Must have been that long flight, it will do that to you.

                  So if you are planning a trip to The Last Frontier in the near future, you can buy those tourist books and visit the websites.  You will even leave with pretty photos of whales and puffins.  But I’m willing to bet that when you return home, it will be the oddities that you remember from your trip and highlight in your scrapbook.  Like the Moose Dropping Festival in Talkeetna where an entire weekend is spent celebrating moose turds.  Or the Valdez snow-bank drive-in where a movie is projected onto a giant snow-bank and the audio is broadcast over the radio for an authentic drive-in movie theater experience.  Or perhaps even a weekend of winnings from the “Rat Race” at the Alaska State Fair.  If you really win big, they let you have your picture taken with the rat.  Now that’s something to put in a scrapbook!

Dante's Tenth Level Of Hell: "Parent's Night"

I read in the newspaper the other day that money, addiction and sex are the main causes for divorce.  But I think the author overlooked the biggest cause:  Parent’s Night.  There isn’t a couple I know that doesn’t break into hives or involuntary twitching at the mention of having to sit through two hours of assemblies and parent/teacher conferences.   I have seen solid unions reduced to ruins after only an hour of enduring a fifth grade teacher conference.  They ought to consider adding something in the vows about Parent’s Night.                                        

My husband and I have been married for many years now and we have reached an understanding.  If either of us is unable to escape attending Parent’s Night, then the other must change their plans and also attend Parent’s Night.  It’s simply too much to ask one partner to endure alone.  Just another example of the great sacrifices required to maintain a healthy and long-lasting marriage.  But it wasn’t always this way. 

When my oldest son was in the third grade and my youngest son was in the first grade, I arrived home from work to find the yellow astro-bright flyer from the elementary school announcing “Don’t Miss Parent’s Night Next Tuesday Night.”  Since my husband had been ‘conveniently’ otherwise engaged for the last couple of Parent Night affairs, I decided that perhaps a different strategy was in order this time.  I slipped the notice into my purse and waited until Tuesday night. 

When I arrived home from work Tuesday evening and found my hubby settled in front of the television, I asked, “Hi Hon, do you have any plans tonight.”

“Nope.  I am planning on parking my butt in this chair and watching the game.”

“Oh. Well sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but tonight is Parent’s Night.  We have to be at the school in an hour.”  You would have thought that I had announced I was pregnant.  Slowly shock turned into suspicion and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t remember seeing a flyer come home for Parent’s Night…”

“Really?  I’m sure it is around here somewhere.  No matter.  It’s tonight and I’m so glad you don’t have any plans so that we can go together,” I called out as I hurried from the room.  My husband always refers to these types of incidents as conniving female manipulation.  I prefer to call them Effective Strategic Planning (ESP) tactics.  

We gathered up the two boys and piled in the car, both my husband and I sulking grumpily.  Since we had waited until the last possible minute to leave the house, we were forced to park six blocks from the school and walk which did little to improve our moods.  Then bad went to worse when we entered the double doors and were greeted by the Principal.  Did I mention that the Principal and I had a little spat?  It was nothing really; a simple questioning of the logic behind the creation of the school bus route.  I still can’t believe she hung-up the phone on me.  I mean, I thought Principals were supposed to have a lot of patience and encourage debate?  Anyhow, she must have been nursing a grudge because she led us to what had to be the worst seats in the house.  I didn’t even know the fire codes allowed seating behind the boiler.  My husband started to mumble something about Karma and what goes around comes around-, but I cut him off reminding him, “Hey.  I don’t want to hear a word about the Principal.  Do I need remind you of a certain nurse to whom you gave a speeding ticket just two days before I went into labor?”   

My husband glared.  “You can’t use that excuse again.  It’s not fair.  You’ve reminded me a million times about that.  Are your going to hold that against me forever?  I mean, how could I have known she was going to be your nurse?”

He did have a point.  And I did kind of overuse that guilt.  But come on, the woman delayed my epidural!  That is simply inhumane.  I ought to at least get ten years free use of guilt on the pain factor alone, regardless of the absence of malicious intent on the part of my husband.

The one saving grace of our boiler seating was the convenience to the exit.  When all the teachers for all six grades and all the administrators finished ‘sharing’ their excitement over the accomplishments of the third quarter, we were finally released to visit our student’s classrooms.  We burst from the room dragging our children behind us.  Our first stop was Mrs. Laux’s third grade classroom.  Jeffrey is our oldest son and at that point in his life, the best word I can come up with to describe him is: confident.  Jeff led us into the classroom and seated us at his desk while he raced around the room gathering up various projects that he had completed.  I picked up the “Student Led Conference” overview sheet and noticed that the teacher had given the students two questions to answer.  The first read: THINGS I AM GOOD AT.  To which Jeff responded: Everything.   The second read, “THINGS I NEED TO WORK ON:” to which Jeff responded: Being Humble.   Chuckling, I showed my husband and then slipped that piece of paper in my handbag. (I plan to bring it out in the future at various milestones in my son’s life).  Jeff stood proudly in his crisp Dockers and button-down shirt, and showed us his many perfect projects.  I peeked a glace at some of the other parents and noticed that the rest of the kids were displaying a book that they created.  I looked at Jeff’s stack of work; no book.  “Hey Jeffrey,” I interrupted, “Where is your book?” I asked, pointing to the parents seated next to us who were oohing and ahhing over their daughter’s illustrations.  Jeff looked pale.  Our youngest son Patrick announced, “I’ll get it Jeffrey! I saw it on the wall.” and he raced over to un-clip it from a large bulletin board before Jeff could object.  Patrick thrust at me a stack of construction paper bound with bright red yarn.  I looked down at the carefully printed title: “How My Mom Spreads Germs.  By Jeff Waldron.”

I glared at my husband who was laughing so hard that he’d fallen off of his third-grade-sized chair.  “Jeff, Honey,” I smiled through clenched teeth, “What is this?” 

Jeff took a deep breath.  “Mom, you know how you are always drinking out of the milk jug-“

“What?  I do not!”

“Yes, you do.  And you lick the spoon when you make cookies too,” Jeff said pointing at me.  “And when I tell you that it spreads germs you lick the spoon even more!”

“But Jeff, we are family.  It’s okay if we’re family.  We all exchange germs every day.” I explained as I gazed at an unflattering illustration of me casting hundreds of green and purple tentacle-laden bugs in all directions and little stick figures of Jeff running away in horror. 

“Mom, germs make people sick.  You cook for us.  Mrs. Laux said that’s when it’s most important to be careful of germs; when you touch food.” 

Great.  So he’s been talking to the teacher about my household hygiene habits.  What’s next?  Is the gym teacher going to ask about my sex life?  Grumbling that it was getting late and we had better head to Patrick’s classroom, I hurried everyone out the door.  As I followed them, I noticed my husband’s shoulders trembling as he tried desperately to keep from laughing.  Bastard.

Patrick practically skipped to his class.  Outside his classroom door was a huge sign that said, “PARENTS! Please read before entering our classroom.”  Puzzled, my husband and I stepped up to the sign and read:

Dear Parents,

Our students are studying the life-cycle of salmon.  Recently they made mobiles and they are hanging throughout the classroom.  Despite what the mobiles may resemble, they are supposed to be salmon fry.  We hope you enjoy our Parent’s Night.  Thank you for coming.

-- Mrs. Babcock

Curious, my husband and I stepped into the classroom.  We were surrounded by sperm.   Or at least they looked exactly like sperm!  No wonder Mrs. Babcock posted a warning note.  She had probably learned from concerned inquiries following previous parent’s nights.  Giant eggs and sperm filled the space above our heads as Patrick dragged us around his classroom.  

Mrs. Babcock was a tiny woman in her fifties who smiled with her entire face.  Even her eyebrows and bangs wiggled when she grinned.  Flashing wide teeth, she raced up to us, “Oh Mr. and Mrs. Waldron, I am so glad you could come to Parent’s Night.  Mr. Waldron we missed you at the last two Parents nights,” she chided.  I grinned as Burke squirmed.  “Could I have a moment in private?” She asked as she tugged me towards a corner.  “I really need to talk with you.” Concerned I followed her.  “I’m having a small issue with Patrick,” she hissed through her smile.

 “What kind of issue?”

“Well, as you can see we sit in small groups.  The children each have their own desk and I’ve arranged them into groups of four.  Patrick is a very busy boy.  He has many interests.  He will drag out a million different things and won’t put things away.   When I ask him to finish one thing before he starts another project, he tells me that he is very good at multi-tasking and capable of doing many things at the same time.”

“Did he really say ‘multi-tasking?’” I asked, secretly suppressing parental pride. 

“Yes, he did.  And it’s becoming a real issue, just look at his desk.” 

I turned to follow her pointing.  In the center of the room was a desk all by itself that was so stuffed with paper that the top of the desk wouldn’t close and papers stuck out of all four sides.  The hinges even looked sprung.  My jaw dropped open.

“I told you, it’s a real problem,” Mrs. Babcock said wringing her hands.  “I don’t know what else to do.  I’ve kept him in at recess, I’ve taken away privileges.  The other children are requesting not to sit near him because his papers fall onto their work areas. Can you try speaking with him?” 

“Yes, of course.  Both my husband and I will talk with him tonight.  I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” I explained.  “I’ll send him with two large garbage bags tomorrow.”  How is it that the same parents, same genetics, and the same womb can produce such completely different results?  One child was so neat that his bookcase was arranged by publisher and the other never wore matching socks.  I wandered back over to my family in time to catch Patrick’s explanation of his drawing.  A large bulletin board contained 23 drawings, each stapled and labeled with a typed title.  It wasn’t hard to find my son’s.  His was the one with liberal use of black crayon.  Pat explained that the teacher had asked them to draw a picture of a fairy tale.  Most of the children had drawn pictures of princesses and knights in armor.  There were of course lots of castles and green pointy dragons.  Pat’s masterpiece looked like giant flames surrounding a small black shriveled raisin.  Patrick stood in front of his art smiling madly.  My husband peered at the drawing and asked, “Pat, can you help us out a little and tell us what is happening in your drawing?”

“Daddy, it’s a knight!  The dragon just burned him to a crisp.” Pat announced, beaming and waiting in anticipation of his ooh’s and ahh’s.  Burke caught my eye and we both dissolved into hysterical laughter.  Pat just grinned wider. 

On the way home, we stopped at the store for extra strength garbage bags and a travel pack of sanitary clothes and disinfectant for Patrick’s desk cleaning project.  As Burke and I settled into bed that night, we agreed that all future Parent’s Nights, band concerts, choir concerts and school talent shows were considered dual parenting activities.  We even created a rather complicated exchange rate chart that we’ve maintained and perfected throughout our marriage.  The chart allows single parent attendance at some events provided the other parent attends an event of equal value.  For example, a 7^th grade Tuba concert is worth two ninth grade debate tournaments.  We’re thinking of applying for a patent.  Dr. Phil could save hundreds of marriages with our chart.

The First Post: The Double D Bridesmaid and A Minus Me...

There are few things Alaskans relish more than a trip “Outside.”  Going Outside is what we refer to as traveling out of state.  So when my sister announced that she was getting married again, I gleefully calculated how many Alaska Airline miles I’d accumulate between Anchorage and Portland, Oregon.

Since it was a second wedding, I figured my duties as a bridesmaid would be minimal; perhaps taking the bride to the spa, or maybe a girls-night-out for champagne.  No problem.  So I was a little startled when my sister sent me an e-mail with an attachment letting me know that she had decided on a dress for the bridesmaids and to please order right away so it would arrive in plenty of time for the wedding.  Matching bridesmaids dresses?  That’s a little formal for a second wedding, I thought, but it’s her day.  If she wants us to match, I can live with that.

I clicked on the attachment, expecting to see some tasteful business-casual number that could be used again at a weeknight dinner event or maybe at the grand opening of the new Target store.  (Hey, we Alaskans take new franchises seriously.  You should have seen the ta-do raised when Olive Garden finally came to Anchorage.  You would have thought the Pope arrived).  So I was completely unprepared for the extravagant lavender ruffles that filled my computer screen. 

Was she kidding? 

Come on!  This was the bridesmaid dress from hell.  It even had petticoats!  She doesn’t live in the South.  We don’t even know anyone in the South.  And it was strapless.  Strapless dresses are intended for BC (Before Children) figures with perfect bosoms.  I am an A minus cup, and the other Bridesmaid is a double-D.  I would be struggling to keep the dress from falling off, and she would be struggling to keep from falling out!  I know the bride wants to be the center of attention, but in these dresses, we were going to give her a run for her money, for all the wrong reasons.

This just wouldn’t do.  I picked up the phone and called the other bridesmaid.  “Hi Theresa, did you get that dress photo?”

“Oh….my…word.  She doesn’t really expect us to wear that, does she?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.  What is up?  That is the most hideous dress ever.”

“Tell me about it.  I have a huge tattoo on my right bicep.  The bridesmaids stand on the left which means my arm will be front-and-center in all its glory. My mother hasn’t even seen that tattoo yet!  Oh well, maybe it will distract from my cleavage.”

“You‘re actually making me feel better.  No one will be looking at me.  I’ll just stand really close to you.”

“Funny.  She’s your sister, can’t you talk to her?”

“You’re her best friend and the Maid of Honor, why do I have to talk to her?”

“Because you live thousands of miles away, and she’ll forgive you before you get down here.”

It took me a week to finally get through to Mel on the phone.  She has five teenage girls.  And even though they have call-waiting, phoning their house is like playing Powerball; you punch in the numbers, hold your breath, squeeze your eyes shut, and pray hard, but most of the time you end up disappointed.

“Mel, Sweetie, about those bridesmaid dresses-”

“Oh!  Don’t you just love them?” she gushed.  “I have always dreamed of a big traditional wedding.  I didn’t get to do that the first time around, and I’ve always regretted it.  This time I’m doing it right.  It’s going to be big, full of family, and filled with tradition, right down to those stale mints on the tables.”

“Really?  I never knew you wanted a big wedding.  Please tell me you aren’t going to have those tacky tissue bell decorations?”

“I’ve got them in lavender and teal.  Why?”

My sister was thrilled to be marrying a fabulous guy and planning the wedding of her dreams.  Who was I to complain?  So I pulled out my Visa and purchased The Nightmare in Lilac.  And since misery loves company, I then fired off an e-mail to Theresa to warn her that she had better talk to her mom about that weekend in Vegas and the tattoo. 

I flew down two days prior to the wedding to help with the never-ending list of details. It took exactly one hour to remind me of one of the main reasons I live in Alaska: my family. 

I live far enough away that they have to call first before visiting.  Now don’t get me wrong, I adore my sister, my mom is amazing, my dad is wonderful and I have terrific stepparents.  I have oodles of cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, and all of them are great, usually.  It’s when you take two or more family members and put them in a confined space for a period of time, that’s when the trouble starts. 

So you can imagine what happened when over eighty of our closest fold gathered together with the added stress of a wedding…Hello drama!  It erupted the day before the ceremony.  The bride unintentionally offended the soon-to-be-mother-in-law by not including her enough in preparations.  The mother-in-law countered by informing the bride that she and her husband would not be attending the rehearsal dinner (which, by the way, was scheduled to take place at the house of said mother-in-law).  The bride burst into tears and ran out of the house; the groom took off after the bride which left Your’s Truly standing alone in the middle of the lawn when the caterer arrived.

I’m pretty sure Miss Manners has never addressed this particular issue.  Is it Kosher to hold the rehearsal dinner at the home of the groom’s parents even though they just informed you that they are refusing to attend?  I wondered.  I gave the caterer the key to the in-law’s kitchen.  Thirty hungry relatives were showing up in a couple of hours.  Let Mom hang out in her basement, I concluded evilly.  I once saw a Brady Bunch episode where two of the siblings divided their room with a long strand of duct tape.  Perhaps I could come up with a similar concept for the rehearsal dinner.  The guests would get the main floor bathroom and the kitchen; the in-laws could have the hallway and the stairwell.  I even had left over lavender streamers that would make great color-coordinated dividers.

I could feel a headache coming on.  Thankfully the bride was not requiring us to wear our flamboyant lavender garments for the rehearsal.  If I had to deal with petticoats right then, I would have screamed.  I popped two Advil and started walking to the church.  My sister was marrying into a wealthy family.  Her new in-laws had a front yard that was larger than most community parks.  When they built their home, they bought up the rest of the vacant lots on the street and reserved them for their children.  Mel was going to live only a couple of houses away from her new sister-in-law, next door to a brother-in-law and of course her mother-in-law lived at the end of the street.  During last Sunday’s sermon, the preacher asked us to picture in our minds what hell might look like…I think now I had a pretty good idea.

I had just rounded the corner when a cloud of dust and flying gravel sent me diving for cover.  The Bird Family convoy had arrived.  (I need to take a moment and explain some things about my Mom’s side of the family.  My Mother is a polished gracious lady.  You would never guess to look at her, that her family has an affinity for Harley Davidson motorcycles and leather.  My Grandmother has tattoos that she still won’t let me see)!  In front of me stood a half dozen jacked-up 4x4 pick-ups, a 1970 Volkswagen van and several RVs with motorcycles trailing behind.  My uncle Duane hopped down from his truck, long gray pony tail swinging and gave me a big hug, “Jani! You’re looking fine.  Mel told us we could park on the street. So, should we just set-up anywhere?”  I glanced at the big “Git-R-Done” motif on his windshield and the bumper-sticker plastered below his grill that read, “What Happens in the Backseat, Stays in the Backseat.”    I grinned. 

“Uncle Duane, I think you should park your truck down at the very end of the street right in front of that really big yard.  In fact, I think there is enough room for everyone to park down there, and it will be convenient too, that’s where the rehearsal dinner is tonight.”  Okay, so maybe I was being a little devious, but she started it!  

My sister and her stressed-out groom showed up at the church minutes before the rehearsal.  She’d obviously been crying all afternoon.  So much for the $200 spa day I’d treated her to; those bloodshot eyes were going to take a week to clear.  I was starting to feel a little guilty about the motorcycle gang that I’d sent to camp out on her new mother-in-law’s lawn.   But I figured it was probably best not to mention it to Mel right then. 

When all of the practice “I do’s” were said, Mel pulled me aside.  “Jan, we have a big problem.”  Figuring I was busted for my little improv camping stunt, I confessed,

“Mel, I’m sorry.  I just couldn’t resist.  Your Mother-in-law was being such a witch and--”

“What are you talking about?”

“Uh…nothing.  What’s the problem you were talking about?”

“My in-laws are Mormon.”

“Okay…so what?”

“They don’t believe in consuming alcohol.”  Oh boy.  This was a big problem.  Our family not only loves motorcycles and leather, they love to party.  I mean, they really love to party.  I had seen at least two kegs in the back of my Aunt Shelley’s truck, and I’m pretty sure that I saw my Uncle Bill carrying some sort of contraption with a funnel and rubber tubing.  Mel was staring intently at me.  “You can’t let any of our relatives bring alcohol to the dinner.” 

Now I understand that the bridesmaids have duties and are supposed to handle the grunt work for the bride, but this was too much!  In our family, weddings and alcohol are like oil and vinegar, or salt and pepper. You just can’t have one without the other.  I looked back at my sister and her tearstained puffy face.  “Of course Mel, leave it to me.  I’ll figure something out.”

For the second time that day, I found myself walking on the street, fighting off a headache and popping Advil.  How could I politely address this rather touchy issue with my Mom’s colorful clan?  That Miss Manners chick was really starting to get on my nerves.  Why didn’t she ever write about tips that apply to real life?  Twice in one day I could have used some solid etiquette advice.  By the time I reached the mother-in-law’s front yard, I’d come up with a compromise.  I gathered together the motley crew for a group meeting.  When I’d finished explaining that no alcohol was allowed at the rehearsal dinner, you would have thought I’d announced that the president had been shot.  My Uncle Bill looked stunned, “But I don’t understand?” He said.  “How do you git hitched without booze?  I’d have never gotten married if it wasn’t for beer.”  That brought a snickering round of laughter and jabs about Bill’s many ex-wives. I waved my hands to quiet the crowd.

“I’m only saying that there can’t be any ‘booze’ at the rehearsal dinner.  Now the rehearsal dessert, that’s a different story!”  I had to wait for the cheers to die down.  “Following the rehearsal dinner, we’ll all meet on Mel’s front lawn for ice cream and beer.” 

Miss Manners, eat your heart out.

Mel wasn’t quite as enamored with my creative compromise, but after the day she’d had, I don’t think she had the strength to protest.  I was able to convince her to go to bed early.  While she slept, I quietly scrubbed and polished her entire house.  It was nearly 3:00am by the time I finished.  I looked around and admired my handiwork.  The house looked good enough to grace a photo spread in “Better Homes & Gardens.” I’d even filled vases with cut flowers, and set the oven timer to bake a blueberry streusel coffee cake at 7:00a.m.  I was determined to do what I could to make sure the morning of my sister’s wedding started off a heck of a lot better than the night before.  Besides, I needed to get her in a good mood before she walked out the front door and had to step over the various relatives that were passed out on her front lawn.

The big day finally arrived.  Mel was delighted with her surprise house cleaning and she finally started to smile and glow like a bride should.  I, on the other hand, looked a little like Phyllis Diller after a hard night of drinking and a stint in a windstorm.  The bags under my eyes matched the hideous lavender dress, and the whites of my eyes were more bloodshot than Mel’s.  The bride had come up with a camouflage solution for my diminutive bosom and Theresa’s tattoo and cleavage issue.  She’d ordered these long matching lavender satin caped shawls to drape about our shoulders.  I adjusted my stole in the mirror, and pondered how much I looked like a Twiggy version of Scarlet O’Hara from Gone With The Wind, when the phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Oh Thank God, you are still there!”

“Theresa?  What’s wrong?”

“Last night I tried on my dress and literally busted a seam.”

“Uh-oh, you mean busted out?”

“Yup. My husband was zipping up the back, and the puppies burst out the front. The bodice was ripped open, even the lining split.”

“You better not be calling to tell me you can’t wear your dress, ‘cause there is no way I’m going up there in this lilac number alone.” I spit out.

“Man, wish I’d thought of that.  Instead I asked my Mom to fix it.  She’s a seamstress, so she was able to make repairs, but not without inserting some new fabric panels.”

“Wow, I’m impressed.  Where on earth did she find material in town to match?”

“She didn’t.”

“Well, but how did she-?...Oh, no.”  I knew where Theresa was going.  “Let me guess.  She used your shawl for the extra fabric panels didn’t she?”  I asked.  “And now you’re calling me to try and get me to give you my shawl to cover up your tattoo, aren’t you?”

“Please?  I’m sure Mel doesn’t want a tattoo of a big sword and a teardrop in her wedding photos.”

“Back-off, Chicky, I’ll let you borrow it for photos, but there ain’t no way you’re prying this sucker off until I am done walking that aisle.  I’ll loan you a purple marker and you can color your tattoo to match.  Besides, I’ve already practiced holding the shawl in front and balancing my bouquet so that it covers my chest.  I even paid extra and had the bouquet made extra large as camouflage.  No way.  You’re not getting it.”

“I’m willing to buy it.”

“Not selling.”

“You know Janet, when you want to, you can be a real Bitch.” 

“Not working.  See you at the church Theresa. Bye.”  Sure, I felt a little sorry for her.  And maybe I was a little selfish, but cut me some slack, I was suffering from excessive family drama overdose.  I didn’t have the tolerance built up.  I slipped into my matching lavender satin shoes and headed out the door again to walk one last time to the church.

I’m convinced it was Divine intervention that allowed my sister to have the beautiful ceremony she dreamed of.  Her mother-in-law arrived for the wedding, the precious flower girl and adorable ring bearer performed their roles perfectly.  All of our relatives sat properly in their pews with combed hair and pressed shirts.  My Dad beamed as he led my sister down the petal covered aisle.  Mel was gorgeous.  Her long beaded veil sparkled, and her satin dress shimmered in the candlelight.  She finally had her storybook wedding and her handsome prince.

I bowed my head and gave thanks to God.  I thanked him for giving Mel another shot at love.  I thanked him for giving me the strength to endure three whole days of intense family drama without any serious injury or violence.  And finally I thanked Him for giving me only one sister and asked him to please promise that He will never make me endure this ever again.  Amen.