Category: Shiny Things

PARADE AND PUNISHMENT

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DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A REPEAT OF THE ST. PATRICK’S DAY POST THAT REMAINED UP FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS, THEN SOMEHOW DISAPPEARED. TECHNOLOGY IS NOT MY FRIEND.

Let’s say I did it for science. Why else would someone over the age of 25 attend a St. Patrick’s Day parade they have managed to avoid for the last 20 years? Dallas has hosted this parade since 1979 and it has grown to over 100,000 party-goers.

I attended once before. In the 90s. After being pushed and shoved, having beers sloshed all over me by strangers (and myself), I decided to forego the event indefinitely. Even though we’ve been living within a mile of the parade route for nearly three years, I’ve had no desire to participate.

However, Friday, Robert informed me we were attending this year with his friends.

What?

We’re going. It’ll be fun.

Harrumph.

So, Saturday morning I awoke at 8:00 AM. Unheard of for me on a weekend. By 9:00, our guests were here wearing bright green shirts, beads, and headbands with shamrocks on springy antennas. I looked positively funereal in my camouflage pants, gray t-shirt and sunglasses. My spirits lifted a bit when I was handed a tumbler of champagne and orange juice. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I slurped my vitamin C infused alcohol from my red plastic Solo cup with a guilty eye toward the clock, 9:30. We piled in the car and drive .07 miles to a parking place, where the ever-prepared and much more awake friends offered us beads, a green bowler hat and shamrock stickers to apply to our persons. I passed. Robert looked splendid in his bowler. The threat of tequila shots avoided, we made our way to the street and perched against the barricades lining the route.

The parade began at 11:00. At ten ’til, I was on my second banana, pineapple, vodka something. People-watching was entertaining. Two college aged boys were holding up signs as they moved through the crowd. “Free hugs!” Genius. Women were lining up. Some guys, too.

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I had to stop watching because I could sense people moving in on my space. Widening my stance and extending my elbows, I returned to claiming my territory, lest some interloper edge me out of my front row view. Nothing worse than being tipsy at 11:00 in the morning and losing your spot to some munchkin who manages to sneak in under your guard.

As we listened to Snoop Dog’s sound check, “Check, check, check, check,” ad infinitum, I wondered for the hundredth time when I could go home and take a nap.

Wait! The parade! Down the street, we saw the approach of police lights and could hear the faint wail of bagpipes. A picture’s worth a ridiculous amount of words, so here you go. This way, you can say you saw the parade without having to attend.

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Float occupants tossed beads to the greedy, screaming crowd. They really need to practice this, as beads either skidded across the asphalt, the strand breaking before coming to a rest about three feet from us on the wrong side of the barricade, or they whipped past us at a velocity that caused me to duck and cover. Every now and then, I’d shoot an arm straight into the air mid-duck and find my hand gripping one of the coveted necklaces. Robert and his pal were a bit more aggressive, plucking them from the air and placing them over our heads until we were weighted down. I kept repeating, “Tim Gunn would not approve. Fashion dictates you take a look in the mirror and remove one accessory item.”

I was ignored.

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We were home by 12:30, and I was sound asleep by 7:30 PM, at which time my husband shoved me toward the bedroom. I awoke at 1:00 AM. WIDE AWAKE.

There you have St. Patrick’s Day in Dallas. I am the proud owner of a dozen strands of beads, if not more, a cookie from the Hare Krishna float (don’t ask), and three koozies.

Give me another 20 years and I may be up for this again.

BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

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I’ve done what women fear most. I’ve broken up with my hair stylist.

As my friend Doug often writes, <clutch pearls.>

Guys may not understand, but a girl’s hair stylist is sacred. It’s easily right next to mother, sister, best friend, and cat on the list of those we tell our secrets (and everyone else’s) to.

The one I left had been doing my hair for almost 20 years. We’ll call him Mark. He had all the aspects of a great stylist – he was gay, handsome and vacationed at the best destinations. Mark was introduced to me by my mother, who has gone to him forever. He owns a posh shop in a ritzy location and caters to beautiful people. Models stomp through the salon all day showing off their shoes and a variety of outfits I can’t afford. There’s little that reduces your self-esteem like wearing a frumpy black smock and sporting little hair sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil on your head as some 6’1″ goddess with flawless skin and hair twirls in front of you.

And the cost! The expense of the haircut/color/highlights versus the result was just not balancing out. Frankly, for the $225 before tip that I forked over, I should have been swooning every time I saw myself in the mirror. I definitely shouldn’t be going home and staring in the mirror making angry face.

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The realization that I needed to change finally sank in when I attended my mother’s 70+ birthday party. I looked around the dining room at all the dozen or so women in attendance and realized they very nearly had the same haircut as my mother – each and every one. I sassily pointed it out to my husband who responded, “Ann, you are dangerously close to having your mother’s haircut too.”

<GASP. Clutch pearls.>

He was right. Time for a new gay.

I mean guy.

A STRAIGHT guy at a convenient location that is not nearly so hoity-toity.

D. has attitude, a wife and kids, and tattoos.

He even tells me I came in sporting “Soccer mom hair.”

That’s the kind of opinion I NEED from a straight guy. Believe me, soccer mom hair was not viewed as a compliment by me, nor was it meant as one by him. I was actually wandering around with soccer mom hair. Kill me.

At the end of an hour that little situation was corrected. Soccer mom is dead. Long live the cross between Jenna Elfman and Robin Wright (in House of Cards.)

jenna-elfman4Robin Wright

Let’s just pray D. does some good color, because I’m going to be very sad if I have to crawl back, ask for forgiveness, and explain to Mark why my hair has been razored.

“I was attacked by a hair dressing gang of ruffians…”

THE DRAGON TATTOO

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In November I started thinking along dangerous lines. My birthday was approaching in early January, which always makes the reflection on the past year and the impending clean slate of the new year even more overwhelming.

So, I tried to think of things to do that would cheer me, or inspire me, or terrify me. Something to distract me from the impending click of my life’s odometer. But what?

Sky dive?
Absolutely not.

Take a class?
Meh.

Face lift?
Not just yet.

What did I decide to do? Something I NEVER thought I’d do in a million years.

I went online and started researching… I got recommendations, I looked at portfolios, I collected inspirational images, I interviewed, I made an appointment.

I got a tattoo.

Yes, for some unknown reason I decided I couldn’t live another year without a tattoo, even though I spent my whole life happily without one. Not to mention all those times I told my stepson, who always came home sporting some new drawing on his arms or hands that he absolutely, as long as I had breath in my body, was not going to make such a permanent statement.

My husband offered helpful advice like, “No words, no Harry Potter, and no unicorns.”

As I researched images, I ran across a lot of bad choices. It was getting down to the wire and I still couldn’t decide what to get. It seemed silly to have something tattooed when I obviously had no burning desire for any particular image, yet I stubbornly continued researching. Finally, it paid off. An image I wanted. Plus, I was able to attribute it to several reasonable and concise explanations. 1. My first trip out of the US was to Wales. 2. I am of Welsh descent. 3. I dug it.

The image selected was a variation on the Welsh dragon. I knew it was a good choice when the tattoo shop owner/artist, Rob, actually appeared interested.

Rob told me I could have an appointment about 3 weeks later and he would draw his interpretation of the dragon the night before my appointment. In other words, I would show up for my appointment not knowing exactly what my new forever friend would look like. What the hell. If one behaves insanely, one gets what one deserves.

Speaking of insane, my marketing crew wanted to go with me as a team outing. I decided that me plus five young ladies using my insanity as a team building exercise was probably not in the best interest of my professional future. Therefore, I trekked one afternoon, alone, to the “tattoo parlor.” Meanwhile, text messages from a friend instructed me to drink immediately. I refused on the grounds that alcohol makes you bleed more. (And choose bigger tattoos.) No one wants that. However, my friend, Ms. Bad Influence, was text-tsking up to the moment I lay down on the table, “You’re the first sober tattoo recipient ever.”

So be it. I may be insane and sometimes willfully rebellious, but I follow the rules when it comes to blood.

After an exhibition of what the process was going to feel like, and a warning to let him know if I felt like I was going to be sick or pass out, we began. At first, I was smug. “Piece of cake,” I thought to myself as I stared at the ceiling and made small talk. Eventually though, after over an hour of having the same areas pierced over and over again with needles, the smugness faded. The nerves in my skin sent messages to my brain that said, “Someone is tearing your skin open.” I knew this was not true, but the signals were pretty convincing. I told my tattooed cronies in the shop that if they wanted pain, the should try getting their faces fraxel lasered.

Afterward, I made my way over to the full length mirror to take a look at the finished product. Red, irritated skin surrounded my new friend, the dragon. With a thumbs up and a much discounted payment, (I think he was glad I had not vomited, whined, or passed out), I wandered to my car and buckled up, quickly realizing the first of the challenges associated with the chosen physical location. Seat belts = bad. Waist bands = bad. By the time I got home, anything touching my skin = bad.

And if you think the process of getting a tattoo is painful, the healing process was worse. It lasts WAY more than an hour and involves words like “oozing,” “scabbing” and “sloughing.” At the back of my mind was the artist’s comment as I left the shop, “You can come back for a touch-up after it heals.” I cringe now when I see there are indeed a couple of spots that could be outlined a bit more. Guess who’s going back for a  second round? Hey, at least I’m committed to perfection.

(Meanwhile, I’m a little concerned about what next year’s birthday will involve.)

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CHRISTMAS: I’M NOT READY

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As usual, my dread of shopping has resulted in a last-minute frenzy. Amazon.com is my new best friend. I think we’ve probably placed a dozen orders, and they’re all due to arrive on Christmas Eve. Before 8:00 PM. This could cause problems since we have one of the three family tree events on Christmas Eve around 6:00. But I BELIEVE. I BELIEVE UPS will deliver. I have to believe that or I will be forced to consider the alternative: “Thank you so much for your thoughtful gift. Yours is in a truck en route to my house as we speak. I’ll drop it off sometime before New Year. You’re welcome.”

Second issue: We have lost the box of wrapping paper, ribbon and gift bags that I collected (hoarded) for the past 20 years. We have climbed into both attics, dug through every closet and looked through every pile in the garage. Nothing. I’m not too panicked about that yet as there are only two gifts that were actually purchased “live and in person,” so I’m not surrounded by unwrapped boxes. Yet. Worst case scenario? I either buy all new supplies or let my lazy side win and wrap all the gifts in newspaper. Wonder if everyone would believe I was suddenly concerned about the environment and was making a “statement”?

Nah. They know me too well. I’ll wrap the gifts in aluminum foil. They’ll resemble well-packaged leftovers.

It’s just that kind of year. I wouldn’t even have all the decorations out if not for Austin. He decided he didn’t like my minimalist Christmas (tree and wreath only), went into the attic while I was at work and dragged everything out. When I got home the stockings were hung by the chimney (with care) and the baby Jesus & Company adorned the side table in the den. If he does the same thing in reverse before January 2nd, I’ll consider my wildest Christmas dreams realized.

Okay, not really. But close. My wildest Christmas dream is being somewhere on an island, with warm temperatures and crystal clear blue water lapping at my toes as I sip a rum drink. Sigh.

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Instead, I’m going to enjoy the tried and true traditions of a drive with the boys (and Daisy) to look at Christmas lights, a late night viewing of White Christmas, (somehow I managed to convince Derek to watch it with me when he was younger and now it’s our tradition – often enjoyed by just the two of us), and the Christmas Eve candlelight service that always manages to make me well up when they dim the lights and the congregation sings the last stanza of “Silent Night.”

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Now, pass the eggnog. I’ve gotta’ get creative with the Reynolds wrap.

HOLIDAY SIDE EFFECTS

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For those who read A Pain in the Neck, you will understand there is no possible way to take five prescriptions without there being some side effects. Mine include heart burn, nausea, blurred vision, slurred speech, hallucinations, drowsiness, and a sudden desire to be crafty. As in MAKE CRAFTS.

It all began when Derek arrived home on Tuesday from Mizzou. I knew he was home because he’d parked the car in the driveway which makes it impossible for me to drive UP the driveway and pull into the garage. Austin arrived Wednesday and parked where he is supposed to park. In front.

Anyway, once the boys are here, the world revolves around football. Wait, I take that back. Whether the boys are here or not, the world revolves around football. College football.

Despite the drug cocktail, I knew I was licked. As I tossed back half a Valium with a glass of Chardonnay, I had a brilliant idea. It normally takes a wild pack of dogs to get the boys to bring the trusty artificial tree out of the garage and set it up. This time, I would motivate them in a way they’d never expect.

“Guess what we’re going to do this year with the Christmas tree?” I asked the three statues in the den whose eyes were focused on THREE television screens that were maniacally playing marching band music while inane announcers solemnly intoned, “They’re really going to have to come out in this next half and take control of the ball or they’re going to lose this game.”

Obviously riveted by this insightful commentary, I had to try the dazed trio again. With enthusiastic holiday cheer I did not feel I enthused, “You’ll never guess!”

Sigh. “We’re going to forget all about those precious, handmade Christmas ornaments my late grandmother made from SCRATCH and INSTEAD have a football themed Christmas tree.”

Mizzou, Baylor – all the schools that accepted my sometimes under-achieving yet personable men (including Robert’s TCU) would be represented. Alabama would also be included by default as it is “grandfathered” in.

NOW I had their attention. For about 30 seconds.

“Cool.”

“But how?”

“Is this a trick?”

Indeed. How I would carry this off was anybody’s guess, but when you’re a painkiller into the day, the details just tend to take care of themselves. First, the color theme. We needed to incorporate black and gold, green and gold, deep red and white, and purple and white? Or black? Whatever.

I didn’t even have to Google or Pinterest to know I would have trouble with the black Christmas ornaments. I did the only thing that made sense. I left the house the next morning before the boys were awake and made my way to Michaels.

I still had no plan. Michaels is no place to be without a plan. I headed for the Christmas ornaments, elbowed an adorable gay couple out of my way, and found packages of eight for 50% off. (50% off ornaments, not gays.) I quickly scooped up red, purple, white, green and opted to pick up a couple of packages of clear ornaments as well. In order to destroy the clear glass, I grabbed a can of glossy black spray paint and a nifty glitter spray called “twilight.” A few glitter pens of gold, silver, white, platinum, black and handsful of red, silver and gold letter stickers signaled the end of the shopping trip – until I spotted thick wire-edged ribbon in red, gold and purple. Because you just never know.

I returned home and spread my bounty on the dining room table. Then, I strung the clear glass ball ornaments in the garage and began to spray paint like there was no tomorrow. (And before Robert could come out and tell me I was doing it wrong/and or was going to blow myself up.)

Back at the dining table, a Christmas miracle happened. Derek and Austin pulled up chairs and began “crafting” right along with me. It took us HOURS, and some creative slogans, but I can honestly say it was one of the most enjoyable times I’ve spent with them in ages. The best part about it was we weren’t really DOING anything. There was no TV. Derek played some Christmas music, and we just CHATTED. Truly, I thought they’d drift in and out as I did the work, but they were right there the whole way. We laughed, we encouraged each other, we helped each other spell challenging words like “Missouri.”

Who’d have thought I’d be hosting a Christmas ornament decoration committee with my 20+-year-old boys? For proof, lest it actually be one of those hallucinations mentioned earlier, I have evidence.

Derek and Austin “crafting.”

Christmas miracle number two? By the time I got home from errands this morning, the tree was up and lit. The three TVs were still in place – or out of place – but every miracle comes with a price.

I have no idea how the tree will actually look, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s our first tree to make as a family. I’m just sorry it was overdue. I’ll post pictures when complete. In the meantime…

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Update: I was pleased to see the boys insisted on adding some of Grandma’s old ornaments. I guess those little felt and sequined ornaments remind them of their childhoods as well.

Now, if we can only find a Heisman Trophy replica to place on top of the tree, we can all burn in hell together.

A PAIN IN THE NECK

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I realize it is never interesting to hear about someone’s ailments.

Too bad. I am going to explain my behavior over the past three weeks in the hope that my experience can help others.

Due to the fact that I apparently have a target on the back of every vehicle I’ve ever owned that says “Smash into me HERE,” I have suffered neck pain of varying degrees on and off for years. Currently, we refer to it as a degenerative problem. In other words, it is not getting better. We just find ways to make it bearable.

I have tried physical therapy, chiropractors, facet injections, medication… I have yet to try acupuncture, but as soon as insurance decides they will cover it, I’m first in line to be a pin cushion.

I never know what will set it off. Lifting a dog, a niece, groceries, raising my arms above my head, working on the computer, sleeping, lugging suitcases, and possibly, most recently, holding my iPhone in front of me for 15 minutes as I video taped a wedding ceremony. That’s the only thing I can think of that might have brought on this latest flare up. I wouldn’t put it past the airline seats either – as the head rest seems to lock your neck into a position that the Spanish inquisition would applaud.

After a week of dosing myself with what was left of my Hydrocodone and Baclofen, I decided to give a chiropractor a chance to sort things out. I did issue certain rules and restrictions. NO SNAPPING or YANKING on my neck. We must go about this process gently and stealthily. After an X-ray revealed the bones in my neck were leaning to the right – as though I were standing on the side of a hill, the doctor explained my left side was locked up in a spasm as it tried to pull the spine back to center, while my right side was pinching all sort of things – nerve endings, blood vessels, etc. That would explain why, when he moved my right arm behind my back and checked the pulse, there was none evident. This also explained the pain and tingling down my right arm and into my fingers. (Not good news for someone who spends about 10 hours a day on the computer.)

We began treatment with me lying face up on a table while he slipped his fingers under the base of my skull and gently pulled. He then pressed against one side of my head and the other as I attempted to resist and push against his hand. Ouch. Flipping over onto my stomach, he exerted pressure on my first rib, attempting to do a little realignment. Instead of snapping my neck around, he applied a device that used little taps to nudge the disks back into the desired position. After three such visits, he assigned simple exercises. Stretching a rubber band straight out at shoulder height and pulling with your left and right hands outward until they are extended into a T formation.

By the next day I was miserable. When my next visit rolled around I refused to participate in any more exercises, as they were either going to kill me or cause me to punch someone in the face. A combination of constant pain, lack of sleep, and frustration is not a happy place. Desperate measures were proposed. The chiropractor wanted to skip this tip-toeing around and seriously adjust my neck. It would either result in relief, or indicate there was a more serious issue that would require an MRI. Or, cause me to punch him in the face.

This sounded like a TERRIBLE plan to me. Instead, I opted for plan B. Contact my orthopedic surgeon, beg for forgiveness for ever venturing away from him and plead for drugs. Or surgery. Or an anvil to knock my unconscious.

Luckily, unlike my hair stylist, who, if I had “cheated” on him would have “accidentally” shaved my head, Dr. “I Have a Prescription Pad and Know How To Use It” started scribbling. Due to the fact that I could barely move my head, and my shoulders were twitching uncontrollably and hunched up just below my ears, he suggested that perhaps the chiropractor had pushed a bit too hard and inflamed the nerve endings, which needed to calm down. Thus followed what I refer to as “Christmas.” I exited with prescriptions for Valium, a steroid pack, an NSAID, an anti-seizure medication and pain pills.

“I take these all at once?” I queried.

“Yes. As prescribed. Not as needed.”

“Wow. And I didn’t get you anything.”

“Avoid alcohol if you have to be functional.”

“Oh. Not a problem. I haven’t been functional in weeks. No one will notice the difference.”

No one it seems, except the people at work who catch me muttering, “Now, did I take that pill or did I just get the bottle out and get distracted?” And my friend Max, who has taken to calling me Judy Garland. Apparently my speech pattern is a little slower than usual and a bit slurry. He speaks fluent Judy, though, so is happy to translate for me in company.

The good news is, I feel SO much better. I no longer want to burst into tears or punch people in the face for bugging me with “unimportant” things like work, chores or responsibilities. People tell me they like this Ann.

Personally, I think they like relaxed Ann because she tends to walk around in circles a lot, having forgotten what it was she got up to do.

I like this Ann because… it’s time for her meds again.

A JOY-OUS OCCASION

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After a slight delay for physical and mental recovery, I am prepared to share the details of the wedding of the year. Amongst those participating we’ve got a bride – the Viscountess, the groom – a Mr. Joy, the Viscountess’ ex-husband – a Spanish Viscount, and his fiancée – Carlos.

(Pausing while everyone catches up. Are we all together after that last sentence? Good.)

How could this event be anything other than fantastic? I was with royalty. Or nobility. Or titled personages. The wedding and reception were themed “The Great Gatsby.” Add in a plethora of lovely ladies, some well-groomed, dapper gentlemen who are suspiciously adept at the theme attire, and you have blog nirvana.

The bride and groom spent the week on Marco Island where they rented a HOUSE. Not some dinky beach bungalow, but an all capital letters HOUSE.

A circular drive caused some dismay and intense maneuvering for The Duchess when we arrived, but no planters or shrubs were damaged, so all-in-all, it was a victory. We ascended the steps to the front doors of the “mansion” and marched inside where we were greeted by friendly faces and a half-dozen beautifully set tables. The scene was perfectly set with an ocean view and pool. It was terribly gorgeous and well done. Another thing that was well done? The number of guests. There were less than 40 of us, including children. It was enough to feel like a real party, yet be intimate. Plus, I could always get near the wine and/or champagne without having to stand in line. (Hey, priorities.)

As for the Gatsby theme, my apologies for misjudging the men in a previous post. I assumed they’d be lost regarding attire. I obviously underestimated who we were dealing with. The men embraced the theme from the top of their newsboy caps and Panama hats to the bottom of their wing-tip shoes. These gents were owning it. The ladies were no slouches either with their T-strap heels, faux jewels, boas, beaded headbands and stylish hats. Between the house and the charming attendees, I felt I’d been transported to a movie set. Where’s Robert Redford when you need him? Yes. Robert Redford. No Leonardo DiCaprio for me.

After teetering up the insanely steep stairs to say hello to the bride and her minions, we watched as Amy’s mother fastened the pearls around her neck, and explained, “My husband gave me these. They were from Spain.”

Amy, the minx, quipped, “As was my first husband!”

This is why I adore her. She can take a moment when you are becoming dangerously sentimental and instead make you snort. A much-needed talent, as the group of ladies was swinging from an emotional zipline, careening from laughter and hugs to tears in the blink of an eye.

Luckily, with almost no prompting, we became way too excited about taking pictures of our footwear. Seriously, the rest of the evening would be interesting indeed if we were THAT excited about taking pictures of our feet so early in the festivities.

Downstairs, we watched our dazzling Amy approach her smiling groom on the verandah as the sun set. Although the wind had been blustery all day, it seemed to calm remarkably throughout the ceremony. Either the wind actually DID die down, or the obvious affection of the friends who formed a semi-circle around them invoked a protective barrier.

I’m going with protective barrier. I’ve met those people now and I believe if anyone could do it, they could.

The group in attendance was made up mainly of people Amy has collected throughout her life. (Dave’s turn is coming at a party in the U.K.) I must say, Amy is an excellent friend collector. She does so wisely and with considerable flair. Those people LOVE her. Madly. It was written all over their faces. It was also evident that same brand of fierce devotion has been extended to Dave.

Following the sit-down dinner, Amy’s mother, Liz, stood and explained (quite eloquently) the pattern defining the friendships and family in attendance – from childhood to adolescence, young adulthood, and more recent adventures that revealed how we all fit together – like threads in the weaving of Amy and Dave’s lives. It was lovely. And touching.

Just when we thought our hearts couldn’t get any more full, the shade of a friend glided into our midst and squeezed our hearts until we thought they’d burst. (Or that we’d become watering pots and have raccoon eyes for the rest of the evening.) It was bittersweet, the realization that if not for certain unpleasant realities, we (The Duchess and I) would have known OF Amy and Dave, but would probably not have accomplished the level of friendship that led to our being guests at the wedding.

But enough of that. As I said, emotions were swinging wildly.

After dinner, the dancing began. I could go on to describe the first dance of Amy and Dave Joy, but as I am not a judge on “Dancing with the Stars” OR “So You Think You Can Dance,” I’ll not offer a description other than to say the guests sighed with pleasure, applauded, then joined in.

Instead, I offer you the unexpected entertainment for the evening. Leah’s boys, Oliver and Wyatt, had reached the point of exhaustion/excitement that resulted in a break dancing frenzy. Enjoy. (Wyatt and Oliver.)

To Amy and Dave – I wish you every happiness in the world. I cannot tell you how much it meant to be included on your guest list. You’re never getting rid of me now. No, really.

This next part may test the accuracy of my spelling skills, but the important part is, I DID NOT MAKE THIS UP.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Viscountess Magnificant… Joy and husband, Dave. (That’s Mr. and Mrs. Joy, thank you very much.)

For real.

Aren’t they lovely?

HURRICANE SANDY ATTENDS A WEDDING. OR NOT.

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

Tomorrow I travel with The Duchess to attend the wedding of Amy (the Viscountess) and Dave (not titled, but we forgive him because he’s a prince of a fellow.)

Potentially making a surprise appearance at the romantic beach/Great Gatsby themed event is none other than Hurricane Sandy. This is particularly amusing/ironic because the non-hurricane Sandy, my Wales traveling companion and all around great human being, could NOT attend the wedding because of her regretful, but much appreciated (I hope) work ethic.

I think we can all agree that “work ethic” Sandy would be more welcome.

Regardless, a little wind and rain (or a lot) will not dampen (sorry) our enthusiasm for the celebration. In fact, it will no doubt be an excellent adventure and hopefully provide blog fodder for days to come.

Tomorrow evening we have a pre-party warm up at the local pub. Saturday, we rest, relax, beautify and imbibe until the evening, at which time we stroll to the beach (if it is still there), and solemnly view the ceremony. Okay, probably not too solemnly.

Afterward, it’s the reception, or as I call it, “who are these people and why do they all want a drink at the bar at the exact time I do?”

Please, please, do your anti-rain dances and regroup here in a few days for the low down. Oh, and join me in raising a glass to Amy and Dave, a couple of the loveliest people on the planet. I promise, they will toast you in return.

Regardless, at some point or another, we will ALL be toasted.

IN ANTICIPATION OF THE VISCOUNTESS’ WEDDING

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Today I begin the countdown to the wedding of the century. Why today? Because I’ve been back from France for over a week and I need something to live for.

Okay, maybe it’s not the wedding of the century, but it is definitely THE wedding for the month of October. My friend, the Viscountess,  a real one, mind you, is marrying a lovely British bloke. They are traveling to the states from their home in England, and the nuptials will take place around Naples, (Florida) basically. The theme? Great Gatsby, of course.

If it were just a tad cooler, I could wear a mink stole along with a long strand of pearls,(knotted), and a headband of rhinestones. Maybe an ostrich feather. Rumor has it that boas will be making an appearance. The feathered ones, not the ones you tend to find in Florida swamps. At least, I hope that’s the case. If not, I’ve read the wrong Great Gatsby.

So how is it that I’ve come to know a Viscountess? Through my late friend, Leah. Leah could always be counted on to introduce me to all sorts of things that could get me into trouble and/or be way too much fun. Or both. The vodka luge, for instance. Cosmo’s Bar. Mid-afternoon movies. Allowing her too many martinis, thus engaging the “grab your face when you’re not paying attention and give you a quick smack on the lips, Leah.” So, it just follows that she would be responsible for the Viscountess and her fiancée.

Well done, my friend.

We are very much looking forward to what promises to be a highly entertaining and moving event. A love story in our midst. An ocean, a house party, and Great Gatsby.

I feel like Walter Weinschel, ready to get the scoop on the fabulous guests.

Will other royalty attend the wedding?

Will there be drama?

Will we get tipsy and go in search of boas?

Only time will tell. And only if I get the okay to “report” from the bride and groom. They SHOULD have some say in this after all. Otherwise, I cannot be the official gossip columnist of the wedding of the month!

Meanwhile, I better book my flight or I’ll miss the whole thing.

FRANCE FINIS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

We made it through Versailles on the morning of Day 9. The crowds were little better. This time we did find a much shorter audio guide line, so grabbed the little phone-type device and headed into the clump of people in the history of Versailles rooms. We quickly figured out that if you waited until the audio device recording for each room stopped and you let the crowd move on en masse, you could time your viewings of each room between the group ahead and the group behind, thus minimizing the “herd” sensation. This time I took only a couple of photos and concentrated on the history.

Somehow, almost as we were exiting, we came upon another area of rooms we had not viewed before. They seemed to be a bit off the main path and not clearly marked, so they were much less crowded. We still are unable to get past the size of the palace, and can’t keep from wondering what people DID there all day. Roam around the hundreds of rooms? Stroll the gardens? Write letters? Eat? I would have put on roller skates and gone sailing down the vast corridors, around and around until I was hopelessly lost.

With a final goodbye to the palace, we tripped down the hill and back to the hotel to collect our luggage and check out. At this point, we were headed back to Paris, to Charles Gaulles Airport where we were booked at a hotel for the evening, in hopes of boarding our 8:00 a.m. flight to Frankfurt, then home. We were a little concerned because Lufthansa had already held two days of strikes, and was planning a third for Friday. Our departure was set for Thursday, and Robert prepared me for a potential “surprise” strike day that might mean we were trapped in Paris or Frankfurt. Plus, we were using “miles” for our business class seating which meant we could be bumped to make room for someone else if they decided to evacuate before the planned strike occurred the following day.

Luck was with us, and our flight crew had a good laugh at us when Robert greeted them with a relieved, “Boy, are we glad to see you.”

“You were expecting someone else?” the male flight attendant asked.

We explained our concern and they were all too happy to assure us we would make it home today. They were going from Frankfurt on to Latvia and had plans to spend the next 24 hours there. 

Without incident, we made our way through “customs” at Frankfurt and on to our D/FW flight. Lufthansa flight attendants are the absolute best. They were friendly, helpful, friendly… they seemed to enjoy their work and took pains to make us comfortable. At one point I was feeling a bit blue, as you tend to at the end of a vacation when returning to the real world. On one hand you miss home and your family and friends, but on the other, you have had a wonderful experience and are sad to have it end.

Plus, the white wines I had been offered with my in flight “lunch” were AWFUL. I was sinking into  a pit of despair, knowing I was at the tail end of my French adventure and was now trapped for my 10 final hours with mediocre to poor wine (as far as my taste buds ran) when the flight attendant told me he happened to have a bottle of something different. (They were transitioning and often change the white wines out after a few flights, I suppose.) He poured me a glass of Chateau de Rully Premier Cru, 2007. As he passed it by Robert, my nose began a happy dance. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. Creamy, smooth, vanilla and toast… Heaven.  I must have looked absolutely transported, because when next the flight attendant passed, Robert’s overhead bag was open on the seat and my new best friend slipped a bottle into it and winked at us.

As Robert drifted in and out of sleep and I watched Hysteria, Big Bang Theory, Sex and the City,  some terrible show called Enlightened, and The Avengers, we would chat a bit about the trip. Some thoughts on France:

1. We both agreed, when sitting in the crowded brasseries or restaurants, you are in such close proximity to your table-neighbors that you can hear every word of their conversations. Sitting between two such tables of people rattling on in French gives you the feeling you’ve just been dropped into the middle of a foreign film. I kept looking for subtitles to go along with the drama or laughter I heard on either side. Whether they left first, or we did, it felt as though we were walking out in the middle of a movie, or it was walking out on us – and we would never know how it turned out.   

2. France (Paris and Versailles, at least, in my experience) is no place to be physically challenged. We stumbled up and down cobblestone hills, dusty streets with steep curbs, construction zones, narrow walkways wide enough for only single file, metro stations with stairs that I swear were put there for no reason whatsoever. We climbed monuments and up and down steps at museums. Some of these places had elevators – most of which were out-of-order. At one point I turned to Robert and said, I’m glad we did this now, because I don’t see me surviving all this if we’d waited another 10 – 15 years. If I did make it through the trip at that point, once home, I’d be bed ridden for two weeks.

3. No offense, but the wayfinding signage in France is a disaster. I don’t know how to explain it, except to say there is no reason why two adults who are somewhat intelligent cannot find their way to an airport gate or out of a metro station. An arrow pointing diagonally upward and to the right should mean you veer to the right or that you go upstairs and to the right. Such is not the case. An arrow pointing to the right at a 45 degree angle should mean turn right, not “go upstairs here.”  I felt like a mouse in a maze.

4. The euro is pretty money.

5. We debated for about five days whether we loved the European license plates or thought they were silly. We settled on silly. (We were fooled briefly because they were European, which made us assume they were cool.)  

6. I don’t understand how they can wedge their tiny cars into tinier parking spots (and I heard more than a few crunches as people’s bumpers met with others’) and yet have no dents in their vehicles. I swear there is no way you could get a car out of a space without hitting the cars both in front and in back of you. All I could picture was the scene from the  Austin Powers movie when he’s trying to turn the golf cart around.  Yet, when standing at the traffic circles, I never saw a single dented car. I see them everywhere here. Maybe there’s a government program in France that fixes dents?

I think that’s about it for the France diaries. We got home safely to a very happy dog, did laundry for three days and have since satisfied our cravings for hamburgers, Mexican food and Chinese food.  I miss my morning croissant and cheese, and have returned to being a coffee drinker, rather than enjoying a less aggressive English Breakfast tea.

Au revoir, Paris and Versailles! We’ll always have these memories. And photos.