A Weekend Follow Up

What I thought would be a quick, simple wedding setup wound up taking most of Saturday. Sweet Bubba gave me his whole day as my right-hand man, except for one brief moment when we were loading the cars that he went missing and I found him around the side of the house digging a hole. I told Mom about this and she just said, "Yeah, they do that sometimes."

We took this happy girl...

... out to Bowens Island, a beloved shack that Brett has never been too. Over the years I've carpooled Brett to many lavish, luxurious venues. He's become accustomed to an oak driveway ending at a Southern mansion. We pulled up in the Bowens parking lot and Brett said, "Oh my goodness. This place is a dump!" and he said it loud.
"Shhh!" I sneered, "That's the point."
Brett had a chip on his shoulder about this venue all day. Ne'ertheless he helped me dress up the old dock house with white drapes and greenery, then he hung golden hoops, and finally he set the tables. He didn't need me at all. I mostly fluttered around him in circles, checking my watch and going over all the things that needed to be done.

When we came back at 11:00 to clean, we found a bunch of wandering drunks in formalwear, but I got almost all of my vases back so I mark the whole thing as a victory. 

On Sunday, Brett became determined to get that propane tank out of our yard. So he dug and he tugged. He dug some more, and when the time was right Papa Union came over with wild delight in his eyes. They hooked that tank up to the Jeep and drove it right up out of the hole. Then they admired their work. 

"Now what?" I said, staring at the rusty submarine smashing one of my few grassy sections.

"Well," Dad said, "I don't know!" and he let out a hearty guffaw. 

"We could roll it on pillings," Brett said, "like  medieval times."

"Uh huh." Dad grunted. He was deep in thought.

"Let's get it into the trailer." Brett suggested.

"But how. We can't lift it."

Assuming I'd be glancing out at the Iron Maiden for the next week or so, I left the guys in the backyard and went to the grocery store. 

When I came home, I found the tank here ...

... and Dad was climbing out of an oak tree.

"Why do I get the feeling I missed something extraordinary?" I said. They both just beamed at me.

That evening we went home for Sunday Dinner where Dad and Brett recounted that one time they pulled an old propane tank from the earth and hung it from an oak tree. 

I guess they just do that sometimes. 

Trailing Flower Thoughts

In an effort to keep up with my sidebar numbers game (have you noticed I'm going for five post each month?) I'm going to do a cop-out post about flower things because I'm actually quite busy today, preparing luscious blooms for tomorrow's wedding. In case you were wondering, my flowers did come in yesterday and I can't really complain about it because overall I feel relief, but some of it doesn't look like it's going to make it through the big day so I've got to run out and buy a little extra today. I will accompany todays' thoughts with pairs of photos from some pretty weddings I got to be a part of.

That gorgeous bride up there with the feathers in her bouquet, well she's an archeologist and about two months before her wedding, her job moved her to Edinburg, Scotland. She's pretty much the coolest. And she writes emails like Shakespearean sonnets.

You know what I hate? I hate when brides send me photos of flowers they like and what they like about the flowers are the colors except that the photo has been edited by the photographer and the colors they're seeing aren't what the flowers look like in real life. That's something people don't think about. Then I'm left to find flowers in the perfect shade of photoshopped lilac. I always suggest "accenting" their ideal color schemes with what I know the real colors will be, that way they won't be shocked and appalled when their "silver" bouquet shows up grey. It doesn't always work. That's when I whip out the spray paint. (I'm giving away top secret florist business.)

I spray painted some of the flowers in that red bouquet up there, but I'll never tell which ones. I toot my own horn about my realistic flower spray painting - except that I can't tell anyone when I've done that. So it's a little personal toot. As all toots should be. 

Even though I have the best fake job ever and in return I get sent pretty photos like these, sometimes I wonder how long I'll get away with this. And what's next? Have things leveled out and I'll just keep chugging along or will I come up with some kind of genius wedding innovation and that'll be what I work on for a while? 

Today I've got to work out how to make fluffy bridesmaid's bouquet using only a few kinds of linear greenery. There aint nothing fluffy about linear greens. 

A Quick Photo Update

Here's a picture of Brett and Jeff looking like a gay couple.

And here's a picture of Brett and Jeff performing some improv comedy last week... as gay lawyers in the midst of a lover's quarrel. I'm sure it's nothing to read into.

Last week was the big comedy showpiece and Brett and Jeff stole the show. Jeff has a creative and silly brain while Brett is quick-witted and animated. The teacher intentionally never paired them up (on account of a pair of brothers having a natural back and forth) but he put them together during the show and it was the best skit of the night. I was a sweaty mess and even dressed according to the confidence I had in my ability to become damp and clammy. Brett also brought a second shirt with him. We're a real muggy pair. But he did great! And I was so proud! And afterwards we went to dinner with 10 friends and ate BBQ to burn off the high.

Here we have Scenes From Home: A Study of Brett and Pip.

Sometimes I wonder if people think I don't love Grace because she's rarely in stories or photos. So I'd like to add now for the record, that I think Grace is wonderful. She's just anti-social and is usually off somewhere by herself, thinking about the Human Condition. Pippa, on the other hand, places herself in your path so you don't have the option to live life without her. It's less that I don't tell stories about Grace and more that Pippa brings stories to me.

Since the warm weather, Bubbs and I have been doing lots of yard work. Most of the time, I work until I get sleepy and then I tell Brett we should pack up for the day and take a nap. He'll always say an encouraging, "Ok. I'll be right behind you." and then I wake up hours later and he's knee deep into a project I didn't even know he had on the docket. Most recently, we elected to dig up and level out an old, overgrown flower bed from homeowners past. We dug and we tore. We sweat and we panted. Hours passed by in the warm Spring air. I dug up old daffodil bulbs and planted them elsewhere in the yard. Brett dug up old pavers and made a mosaic walking path. We were being so productive that I thought to document our stamina. But then Brett's shovel collided with a hunk of metal and we both looked at each other and then the dirt. We unearthed some valves and nozzles and then Brett broke off a skinny pipe and then we suddenly smelled gas. "Eh crap." he said.

We called Dad who came right over, delighted by a potential disaster. Dad offered his thoughts, shrugged, and then went home to take a nap. I suggested we also go in and take a nap. Brett called SCE&G who came over, took a quick gander and said, "Can't do nuthin' about that son. That's propane. You gon havta hire somebody to dig that sucker out."

So we put up our tools and came inside for a nap.

As for the flower business, I had a break in weddings there for a minute but am back, hot on the trail. I've been doing some big-time shop maintenance on account of flower bits and stumps that fling away from my clippers and then roll up under the counters and then begin the decaying process. You can't find those little squirts unit they're almost in a liquid state.

Brett has started building us an enormous compost bin for my heaps of flower clippings. After each wedding I've got a big pile of "organic matter" that needs somewhere to die and I've just been piling it up along our fence. And boy is it an impressive pile.

This week Brett has a doozie of a project due and yesterday, one of his bosses put in his two weeks, so a lot of that guy's work will fall onto Brett's desk. "Eh crap" he said. 

I've got a Bowens Island wedding on Saturday and I'm fairly confident that my floral order didn't go all the way through but I won't find out until Thursday, so I'm preparing for a mad-dash flower scavenger hunt at the end of this week. I'll keep you posted. 

In the meantime, enjoy this picture of Bobo in a basket.

Morning

The hours of 6:00am to 9:00am are the best of my whole day here at Black Pig Farms. I've heard reports that Brett's alarm blasts into the silence at 5:30 each morning but I never hear it. Supposedly he showers and meditates or reads for a little while, but I only come-to around 6:30 when he wakes me up gingerly with sweet nothings or by his favorite method, which is to shriek a continuous "Lulululululululoo!" in a high-pitched voice from whatever room he happens to be in when he decides he's ready for me to get up. Mostly he does this from the kitchen, so I often wake up to the smell of coffee and sound of his birdcall. Overtime, the call and response of "Lulululoo!" has become how we find each other when we get separated or he's so deep into the garage that I can't find him.

At about 7:00 the low morning sunbeams pour through the kitchen window and illuminate tumbleweeds of dog hair that are only visible when light shines directly on them. I'll come back later with a vacuum and I can't find them. The sunbeams are the best part of the morning. They drift through the kitchen and back outside again where they light up the yard in golden patches. It stays bright and sparkly until the sun gets too high around 10:00. It's the Morning Light Show and I'll make Brett stop and look at it even though I've already instructed him to prepare my breakfast.

The pups move from the sofa to our bed and then back to the sofa. Pippa loiters in the kitchen while Brett makes his lunch because sometimes he'll fling some ham or a slice of cheese. Grace cannot be roused in the mornings until she is rested and ready. This takes a different amount of time each day. She prefers to be cuddled immediately upon waking up and then will only accept pets begrudgingly for the rest of the day. Both pups get a floor cuddle with Brett after he has eaten and gotten dressed and fed me my breakfast.

During this time I am in a state of groggy happiness and will cozy up in a blanket with a warm mug of coffee and listen to Brett talk and yap about whatever is on his mind. He's the most talkative in the mornings before The Man has beat the spirit out of him. This morning he discussed the different personas of comedians compared to their normal dispositions. Last week he taught me about exploding stars. Every morning is a new adventure. By 8:00 the Brett-tornado has circled through the house and out the front door, leaving behind a trail of dishes and shirts, and one very putout dog. Grace sulks when he leaves. Pippa looks at me expectantly, as I'm up next for entertainment.

Instead, I let both of them down and take my coffee to my 'morning chair' by the window where I enjoy the light show and say my prayers and muse about the day. Sometimes I get to having discussions with myself, out loud. I play it off like I'm talking to the dogs but usually they've wandered off and gotten back into our bed. By 9:00 they're ready to go outside to announce their arrival to the neighborhood and I reluctantly get to work on my emails.

I wish the whole day had the same lazy pace that mornings do.

Dancing Queen

There was a period of my life where I was devastated not to be a member of the Brady Bunch. While I stand by this notion to this day, I still do not know if my fixation on this TV family was due to the novelty of a singing and dancing home life or it being one of the first “grown up” shows I watched after moving on from cartoons. I loved the hubbub in a house full of six kids, the parents, and Alice, the lovable, witty maid. I loved the groovy clothes, the weird furniture, and the fact that Mike had is own room for his drafting table. How confidently selfish of him, jamming in three children per room but keeping a private art studio downstairs for himself. As the youngest child and a natural born entertainer, the concept of singing and dancing about your feelings really delighted me. What a happy place the world must be. I lived as though each day was a new episode of the Brady Bunch … except that nothing noteworthy ever happened in the first grade and Ellen didn’t like me much and my parents rarely communicated in song. As quickly as I was energized and motivated to live like Marsha Brady, my hopes were shattered. Real life proved to be quite dull and I would go on to feel a longing for musical camaraderie for many years.

So instead I signed up for dance classes. I was born to dance. I was sure of it. Mom helped me pick out little pink ballet shoes and some tights that gave my legs the glow of a mild sunburn and I twirled off to my dance class. As the youngest child and a natural born entertainer, I was oddly disturbed by being significantly taller than the other girls in the class and standing out made me very insecure so I quit that dance class shortly after.

World's tallest child ballerina.

As elementary school carried on, I thought lovingly about the Brady Bunch. The warm companionship of so many siblings, a mother and father that shot flirty eyes at each other as they sang… was there anything better?

Turns out yes. By my tween years I discovered a British Pop sensation by the name of S Club 7. Seven, twenty-somethings singing and dancing; except these ones were all very attractive and adventuresome and didn’t have to live by the pedantic rules of Mike and Carol Brady. S Club 7 existed in the same modern world I lived in, so becoming a member of this band seemed much more attainable. Not just a band in real life, S Club 7 was also given their own scripted tv show where they played a British band trying to make it in America. To make ends meet they worked at a run down motel in Florida and throughout the triumphs and trials of each episode, they’d break out into song. It was the dream life. I was re-enlivened and once again my urge to groove got the best of me. As the youngest child and a natural born entertainer, I signed back up for dance classes.

This time around I was much less concerned about being too tall. What set me apart this time was my rail-thin frame and naive disposition. I was too old for the children's class and too young for the adult class, so I became the sole eleven year old in a hip-hop class with two buxom twenty-somethings who had ample booty to shake. They were confident and sexy and cool. I was skinny and sweaty and quite mortified by the chest pumping and butt shaking because I had no parts to jiggle. When you have no parts to jiggle, no meat on your bones, any dancing beyond a delicate waltz or perfectly pointed toes looks clumsy and spastic and like a bent wire coat hanger unfolding in a trash can. We danced our recital piece to Beyonce's “Bootylicious." I stood next to my voluptuous classmates and shimmied my boney chest with gusto. I swung my narrow hips hither and yon and I'm certain no part of my routine looked appealing or tantalizing. This was not the role I envisioned for myself as the eighth member of S Club 7 so in addition to being embarrassed, I was also feeling unprepared for my TV debut. It was shortly after the Bootylicious affair that I quit dancing forever, for I just seemed to never fit in with the people in dance classes. 

I spent the entirety of my high-school years refusing to be seen dancing. At night, after supper and homework and Ellen's meltdown, I'd go down into the playroom and close the door, turn on the fan, and bring down all the blinds. Sometimes I'd hang a towel across the glass door so that Mom couldn't peek in on me. Then I'd turn on my tunes and boogie. I'd leap and twirl and lip-sync for a a good hour or so before I wore myself out, took a bow and exited stage right.
My stage fright towards life only increased as I got older and I skipped all geeky school dances and parties thrown by folks who I knew would be playing "club" music. Sometimes I'd get trapped and boy, nothing makes you want to dance less than someone harassing you to dance. During this time of closeted performances (which became increasingly rare and difficult after moving into a college dorm with two other girls), I watched the film version of Mama Mia and I could hold back no longer. I bought the soundtrack and played it on repeat for about a year. I don't recommend the film mind you. Unless you're a whimsical dreamer that isn't looking for reasons to dislike a film, you probably won't like it. My own mother didn't like it and she's been looking for opportunities to groove her whole life. One time I came over to her house and caught her dancing by herself in the dining room. She had headphones on and didn't know I was watching her for a good minute of rug-cutting. She expressed embarrassment in that endearing way she does. I digress. Mama Mia. How I longed to be one of the anonymous background dancing singers. Not only were they flown to Greece to sing and dance, but they got paid to sing and dance! Since my viewing of this cinematic masterpiece, I vowed to boogie anytime I feel the urge to boogie and I have not looked back.

I write this now, eightish years later, having recently watched the new sequel to Mama Mia. I believe this film got even worse reviews than the first one but my fatigued dancing limbs were reinvigorated by the Grecian scenery, pop music, and the young tanned cast of singers and dancers. Throughout these twenty years of longing be part of a theatrical performance, I've always been much younger than the people playing the parts I wanted. I was ten years behind Marsha Brady and fifteen behind my beloved British buddies. I'll admit to you that just this past weekend I looked up to see how old the Mama Mia actors were just to see if I'd be an eligible candidate. I'm proud to announce that I am. Finally, in my late twenties, I'm in the same age and girth category as the rest of the cast members. I spent this weekend singing show tunes to Brett and dancing around with increased vigor knowing that people my age are paid to do so. Brett has not seen this amount of enthusiasm from me before and I'd argue he seemed mildly concerned as I shimmied circles around him while he took out his contacts.
"You're going to crash so hard when you finally sit down." he told me. I did a double pirouette and let out a high note C.
"AhhhHaaaa!! Not a chance. I'm in my prime!"

I fell asleep as soon as I sat down. I don't remember going to bed or turning on my alarm or anything.
Guess that's just part of life as a performer.