A Rambly Old Time Post

Remember those blog posts I'd do where I had a bunch of random photos and a bunch of random statements, and that's all I'd give you? I was rooting around in my computer for a recipe I saved and I wound up on a photo album bender. I came up on lots of sweet moments but I'm just going to share a few. 

Most importantly, this one of my beautiful mama.

And here's a tiny montage of Ellen whilst traveling. 

It's hard to get her to participate. 

Finally, I found this one of the day I met Liv, and it shocked me to remember how small she was. She's a big, bossy, bruiser now.

While on the topic of Ellen and babies, she and Nick are happy and healthy and he's started kicking her when she eats supper. It seems he already really likes ice cream. I think we're 10 weeks from his scheduled debut. Seeing as Ellen exploded the last time, the doctors are taking Nick early via another c-section. Ellen is thrilled about it because she gets to be pregnant approximately two weeks less than expected. (She's always in a rush.) Mom and I are getting ready to prepare Liv's Big Girl Room since Nick will be taking over the nursery. We haven't settled on what murals to paint in their little rooms this time around.

EisenEars and I are still mulling over our big adventure plans but we've gots lots of fun thought pots on the stove. #vanlife (Brett has been saying that a lot lately.) Yesterday brother Jeff came over and gave us a presentation on joining the Peace Corps. We were not dissuaded. At the moment, Brett and I are both experiencing whine-worthy back pain and neither of us feels compelled to move around which really puts a damper on planning to be young and free. 

This is turning into a rambly post isn't it? Like the good ole blogging days.

Let's see what else. I've been writing articles for the newspaper man, wrapping up my weddings for the year (I have one more next month), already started my holiday baking season, and have been coming up with creative ways to tackle Brett to the ground when he leasts expects it. I'm his Cato Fong.  

Our favorite friends, Alex and Jessie, have moved back up to Rochester so now we have an absence of philosophically witty people that come into our house, kick off their shoes, and then stretch out on the sofa and ask personal questions. That's my favorite thing. They're such comfy people. I went over to take photos of their house for the listing and I took this picture of their pup Sadie growling at me.

Sadie really loves Brett in particular. She does this strange little dance whenever he comes over to see her. Did I tell y'all she once spoiled our surprise visit? She caught a whiff of us somehow and did the Brett Dance and then Jessie knew we were hiding in the house. 

Anyways, the house sold in three days. So they just packed up the rest of their stuff and left. We all knew they were moving, but we also all thought we'd have more time together so it's a little bit sad. We sure will miss them. And Sadie. 

I guess I'll wrap thing up here. I'm excited about the upcoming cozy home time. Christmas trees and whatnot. Brett is making eggnog as I type this. He's supposed to be working, but tomorrow is ole T-gives, you know. That's actually my favorite holiday. We'll have a big celebratory family lunch and all be napping by 4:00. It's the perfect day.  

The Mystery Date

I love surprises. As the unofficial head planner of this household, I've always already worked out where we need to be at what time and with what things. It's just a benefit Brett reaps by living with me. He gets to live all drifty and floaty and I just pull his little raft into the sunshine before he gets too chilly. I like doing it - I like being prepared. I don't like work surprises. But I love fun-time surprises! The kind of spontaneous weekend adventures that you aren't wearing the right pants for are my favorite. That's how you know you're having a true extemporaneous existence. 

Brett planned a date night and didn't tell me anything about it. He told me when to be dressed and ready, and he put that call-time into my calendar. I watched it get closer for two weeks, giddy by the mystery of it all. As I got ready that night I asked Brett to pick a shoe. He looked down at my heeled boots and thought for a minute. "I'd have never noticed that those are different shoes," he said. I chuckled at him. "Which ones are more comfortable?"
"These ones."
"Which ones could you run in?"
"Run in? What are we doing?" I declared, "But these ones. Should I wear flat shoes? Where are we going? No don't tell me!"
"Do you have any cleats?" he asked. He knew I was trying to pin down our plans. 

As we drove down Calhoun, I ruled out restaurants and options. "Ok so we're staying inside the Crosstown," I deduced. 

"Quit deducing."

"Are we going to pass King Street? Oh we did. We did pass King Street... Oh boy Meeting too? Where are we going?" Then Brett did a U-turn. I gasped with excitement. But then he parked and we jumped out of the car and he pushed me across the street. I couldn't guess where we were going until we got there because I'd never heard of the place. He took us to a little oyster bar in an old Charleston Single. The kitchen and bar were on either side of the staircase and the two dining rooms were upstairs. We sat up there and had a fun fishy meal and then Brett looked at his watch. "We've got to go. We've only got 10  minutes."

"Ten minutes to what?" I asked, "There's more to the surprise?" 

We paid our bill and pulled on our coats and made our way down the narrow staircase in the middle of the house. A waitress waited at the bottom of the stairs for her turn to go up. "Oh excuse us," we said, happily chatting with her as we made our way down. Then I slipped on the last step and nearly fell into her arms. She and I laughed about it but Brett was behind me on the stairs, making fun of me. Then he slipped on that last step too and stumbled into the both of us. The visual of this from the waitress' perspective is something I burst out laughing about that night in bed while Brett was sleeping. That tall, gangly couple wiping out on the staircase.

Out on the street Brett checked his watch. "Remember how I asked if you could run in those shoes?"

"Yeah."

"Well I was kidding then, but we're going to need to hustle. We have two minutes." So we took off running down Calhoun Street in our nice clothes. We cut across the church parking lot onto Meeting Street.

"Oh boy are we headed to the Music Hall?" I asked as we passed Marion Square. Brett grinned at me. "I love the Music Hall!" I exclaimed. "Is it a concert? A comedian? A puppet show? I hope it's not a puppet show."

"Hush up, woman." We scampered passed the pink hotel, and then Hutson Street, and we turned left on John. A crowd was gathered outside of the Music Hall. "Do you think we can get in without me figuring out what the show is?" I asked Brett. He was enlivened by this challenge. 

As we tried to jump in at the back of the line, a security guard stopped me. "Ma'am, we have a clear bag policy." All the people waiting in line turned to look.

"What does that mean," I asked him. He pointed to my purse.

"You can't bring that inside. You have two options. You can take that back to your car or you can purchase a clear bag for five dollars. It was in the email. You should have read it."

"Well I didn't get an email," I told him. "I'm on a mystery date." The big security guard looked down at me, up at Brett, and then grinned.

"What do you mean?" he asked smiling.

"I don't know what the show is," I said. "It's a surprise." The security guard and all the eavesdroppers thought this was the best thing. 

"So you don't know what's happening here?" he asked.

"Nope," I said.

"Dude," someone in line said to Brett, "You didn't even tell her what she's seeing? That's awesome!" 

"Shh! Shh! Don't tell her!" someone else said. Everyone really liked our surprise date, but they still made me pay $5 for a plastic beach bag. 

I'll have you know that I did make it all the way in with no clue. There was an opener playing though, so I quickly deduced that it was a concert. I turned my head away from the merchandise table, just in case. Finally the opener blew it and announced that Shakey Graves would be on soon. We really love Shakey. We've come to see him three or four times now and it's always a real show. We've spent two New Years Eves with Shakey. On one of them we were broken up and not supposed to be seeing each other, so it felt extra dangerous and fun. 

The opener came and went and we were still waiting for Shakey. The house lights turned back on and people clustered together near the front of the stage or wandered off to grab a drink while we waited. "Oh man," I heard Brett mumble. I looked up at him. His face was scrunched. Disgusted. Someone had pooted. "That's awful," Brett said softly. I looked all around us, accusing bystanders with my eyes. 

Truth is, it was me. I don't make a point of doing such things in public but it came on as a sneak attack and I was left with no choice. I felt a tectonic shift deep in my guts. I startled me, like some little worker bee in there dropped a stack of books. Clunk! Mere seconds later was a I forced to sully the air around us. Here's the best part. Brett was behind me. On either side of me were pairs of good ol' boys twice the heft of Brett. If a casting net dropped from the sky, capturing everyone existing within the stink cloud, and then we were all lined up for trial, no one would have accused me. Not that sweet looking girl in the little skirt and tasseled ankle boots. No, it was certainly the big guy in the stained tank top. 
I beamed up at Brett, which he knew to take as my confession. "Lue!" he shouted, equal parts amusement and outrage.
"No one will believe you," I told him.

By the time Shakey came on, it was past Brett's bedtime. Did I mention this was a Tuesday? We eventually found some seats, like old people in heeled boots that can't stand up for too long without getting back pain. Four or five songs in, Brett got sleepy.

"I don't think I'm going to make it through the whole show," he admitted. 

"My feet hurt," I admitted. 

"You ready to go?"

"Only if you are."

"Sorry I didn't think about your shoes. I'd have made you wear flats if I'd thought about it."

"Oh that's alright, I was thinking about the last time we were here and that girl in front of us..."

Before we knew it we were just having a casual chat over the booming Jazz-Metal stylings of Shakey Graves, so we went home and ate ice cream.

"Can We Meet To Discuss?"

Before you watch this, I'd like the record to show that I didn't intend to make this public. I chuckled to myself thinking of all the different people I encounter because of weddings and how amusing these characters would be in a montage. I made this for myself mostly, and Mom because this is exactly what we're cackling about when we get together and chat weddings. Sure I'd show Brett, just to remind him what a lunatic he married. Maybe Mom would make Dad watch it, but that was the extent of it. 

But Mom told me how much you'd like it, so I'll take one embarrassing hit for the team. This is based on my interactions with my brides. Many statements are direct quotes.

Another Mountain Adventure

We hit the dusty trail and took ourselves back up to Asheville. We had such fun up there last year with Ellie and Caroline, we thought we'd recreate it. We also elected to bring a pup with us. I made sure to book a pet-friendly Air Bn'b and then Brett and I took to deliberations. We sure weren't going to bring both girls. Who knows what dark and windy mountain trail we'd have to take to get them to the pet hospital emergency room. No, we'd bring only one. But which? We offered pros and cons for each dog. 

Pippa: Pros- would enjoy it more, Cons- unreliable when unsupervised
Grace: Pros- would appreciate being selected, Cons- disinterest in most activities 

In the end we brought Grace. "She's got less time to enjoy life," Brett said. Grace bristled at this comment. "I'm only two years older," I heard her sneer... in my mind. Pippa does well spending the weekend at Buddy's place and since Grace hates most living beings, we decided not to leave her attitude in the hands of any untrained pet-sitters. 

I'll tell you that she did enjoy moments of our adventure. She was burdened by the drive up, perturbed to have arrived in the dark, and already prepped for disappointment when she woke up the next day only to watch us sit around and drink coffee. But eventually we all left to climb some mountains and Grace's big bushy tail, triumphantly raised, forged the dirt path a few yards ahead of us. She got to do a lot of hiking without a leash and she reveled in the freedom. Ellie and Caroline frequently checked in with us about Grace. "Is she ok?" they'd ask as she laid curled in the far corner of the living room. 

"Oh yes, this is normal," we'd reply. Grace still huffed and sighed and never made any other noises. 

"Do you thinks she's happy to be here," Caroline asked. 

"That's more of an existential question for Grace," we said, "and we don't know."

We did all the things people do when they go to the mountains. We hiked, drank warm beverages, and watched scary movies at night. We ate scavenger-style breakfasts and then gorged on hearty, delicious suppers. 

We spent time enjoying the sunshine and the loose dogs that you find at breweries (Grace stayed home for that bit) and found ourselves wondering how breweries became an acceptable "family activity." There were children everywhere. Little ones! Which A) is not what one thinks of when visiting a beer based building where people go for alcoholic consumption purposes, and B) How do drunk parents manage their childrearing? What about all the crass, staggering patrons that your wee little munchkin will be interacting with? Because the parents let them run loose you know, poking at people's thighs and handing them rocks. I felt bad about the children and then realized that I don't have to worry about how those little tikes turn out ... which is something I can't help but worry about, so mostly I sat at the brewery and felt sad. Then Ellie and Caroline beat us at corn-hole which I really took personally. 

One morning we stumbled upon a dahlia farm so Brett pulled over just to let me frolic. They also sold pumpkins and jams and apple cider donuts. Brett bought lots of things from the farm, and it took everything he had not to eat all six donuts right there in the car. They were "donuts of perfect consistency."

We laughed and ate and napped and explored. By the end I had convinced everyone that we wanted to move there to open a farm animal sanctuary. Caroline would keep her job because she's the breadwinner and can work from anywhere. Ellie's job also transfers nicely and leaves her with lots of free time to hike trails and beat people in assorted sports and games. So Brett could be the grounds keeper (I volunteered him for this) and I'd just cuddle the sweet critters, bake cakes, and make sure the bills were paid on time.

Strangely, everyone agreed with the decisions I made for them, so I don't know what we're waiting for.

A Brief Edisto Visit

Back in September, Big Mama rented a little beach on Edisto for a week. It's a special place for her, you know. She was all whipped up and excited about her beach vacation but as real life so often does you, most of us couldn't join her. She went down there and sat by herself anyway. (That's not true really. She had a sitcom cast of characters come in and out throughout the week.) I went for one day before I had to get back to wedding business but Ellen and Livy came through and we all had a beach day as a family. 

Chris and Nancy enjoy the beach. Don't they look like they're having fun?

In home news, Brett has had to go back to the office Monday through Wednesdays. The office has asked folks to work a majority of the week from the office, and lots of people just aren't doing it. Brett doesn't complain about much so I don't know how he really feels about it, but neither of us can imagine ignoring our bosses and staying home. It's made for interesting, dramatic times over at the engineering firm. 

As months of experimenting have passed, we've gotten Pips down to a low dose of medication that holds her platelets at a healthy level while still allowing her to enjoy her natural high. Though she can be a little standoffish at times, she's mostly back to blasting through her day and crapping out by bedtime. Here she is dozing off during the party. 

I've been hustling through the wedding season and can see the light at the end. After this month, I've just got three left for the year and it's perfect timing. I've got so many other things to do - I just don't have time for my job. More on that later. 

Here's Grace; just waiting for sweet release.

Makeup

Next year I get to be a bridesmaid and I'm very excited about it. I've been a bridesmaid only twice, and both of those times I was also the only bridesmaid. It's a notion I'm honored by, but it is certainly a different experience to sit quietly with the bride while we wait for the show to begin, as opposed to whooping it up with snack trays and a Shania Twain playlist. At least, that's what I assume goes on with a real bridal party. I've been imagining what the wedding morning will be like. Though I hope I'm not forced to wear coordinating pajamas until we all get dressed, I'm excited to have my hair fixed by a real professional. I'm nervous about the makeup part.

I have complicated feelings about makeup. Oh I wanted to wear it so badly when I was little. I'd watch Big Mama brush out her eyelashes as she sat in a little upholstered chair at her vanity. She looked so glamorous and feminine, like old Hollywood. What a dainty fun thing us girls get to do. I wasn't allowed to wear makeup until I was thirteen and even then it was just mascara and what was essentially flesh-colored lipstick I used to hide my pimples. In reality, I think it only highlighted the pimples, splotching the skin around it with peachy peaks and valleys. It was hard to find concealer in my skin tone. I had to use a color for skin with no ethnicity to it. The only olive tones they had were taupe-ish and those made my pimples look like bruises. So I chose a color I would describe as "German Sunburn" - Covergirl's attempt at a white person with an end-of-summer tan. It was too light. It acted as a spotlight for my blemishes - a fingertip sized circle of white smudged around my imperfections. Sometimes I'd blend German Sunburn with a color that was too brown, to create a blob of paste close to my skin tone. That would work until the seasons changed and my skin would take a drastic turn from light to dark to light again. It was exhausting.

 
In college, I nixed it altogether and simply cut bangs to hide my topographical forehead. I made the best of it at the time, but now that some time has passed, the bangs did me just a few favors as did my finger-painted pimples. Now that the world has become more racially sensitive, they do make concealers and foundations for people who are neither British nor Somalian. In addition to that, I don't spend near as much time in the sun, so my skin is lighter now and can be hidden or highlighted with products named, "soft honey" or "golden natural," but I'm also officially opposed to it all. 

Tough times...but Jared helped.

While I watched Hollywood Mom dusting on a layer of fine, shimmery powders, the sunlight glinting off a glass bottle of perfume, I'd also get real impatient. It sure took a long time for her to get her face on right. Dad joked about the different phases of her makeup routine. "She's on the Bondo layer now," he'd say as waited to leave for church. I began to resent the amount of time make-up took from the day. Poor Mom wouldn't even take a walk around the neighborhood without at least the first few layers on. I began to worry that I'd become a slave to the makeup chair, and it's because the stuff works. It sure does make your skin look smooth and your eyes look bright. I think my mama is beautiful, and with a dash of mascara she really sparkles. Dad disagrees about the whole thing. His thoughts on makeup are as follows: "If you're pretty, you don't need it. If you're ugly, it doesn't help." We all scoff at this and tell him he doesn't understand the true power of makeup - which he doesn't. 

So as a teen, I decided to draw the line at concealer and mascara, maybe eyeliner for special occasions. I decided I didn't want to get used to my face in its best state - that state being smoothed and accentuated and pretty - because then I'd never be able to go anywhere without putting my face on first. Mom balks at her own beautiful face without makeup, and I don't want to live that way. 

When I was sixteen or seventeen I started working for local event planner/ interior designer/ butler. His name was Stephen and I really liked him for being able to see through my timid demeanor and acknowledge my "good taste and creativity." Adults don't get excited about teenagers unless they play sports. Stephen made me feel hopeful about being artsy. I was his bashful assistant at assorted events and efforts around town. I made flower arrangements, set tables, helped paint rooms and determine throw pillows to match, and I often hand washed fine china.
Stephen's sister worked at Sax Fifth Avenue and when the store would bring in a new line of Bobbi Brown makeup products, Stephen would be called in to plan the "launch party." During these parties, I was the food and beverage service. I walked the store with trays of hors d'oeuvres and cocktails that I had prepared in one of the dressing rooms. Stephen was busy with other aspects of the party so I sliced bread, piped mousse, and garnished with sprouts, etc and when my tray was full, I'd step out of the dressing room and work my way through the crowd. One year the store wouldn't let us use the dressing rooms so I did all of this in a utility closet about the size of a refrigerator. It was a secret panel in the wall that you pushed and it would turn sideways and roll back two feet. It was very James Bond-y but I felt silly emerging from the wall with a tray of cosmos. It always startled the people standing nearby and then they'd want to see where I had come from, and it was dark and sad in there.

But the bad part of the make-up launch parties is that I'd have to wear the new line of products. They made me do it. Stephen's sister would plop me down at the Sax makeup counter and some strange woman would paint my face with layers of creams and powders, and worst of all, lipsticks in unflattering shades. Lipstick on an oily and unsure teenager is a sad mockery of a woman's potential. The makeup artist would spin the mirror around with a smug air, as if to say, "Look how I fixed you. You're welcome," and I would stare at my bumpy, bloated face with humiliation. A Springtime color palette does nothing for on olive complexion. Why would anyone pair a bilious green eyeshadow with a hot pink lip?

I was so embarrassed by the mask I was wearing that I did the worst thing a person could do at another person's product launch party. I would apologize to the partygoers for my face of makeup. It wasn't as though I walked through the crowd muttering a consistent diatribe against Bobbi Brown, but when people would strike up a conversation with me, I would volunteer "by the way," that I was forced to wear the makeup and that I didn't like the way it looked. I hadn't yet learned that no one at a makeup launch party was paying attention to the waitress, nor had I worked out that saying things like this made people feel that they had to disagree and give you compliments. To do this, they would then have to study my face for the first time, and look for redeeming qualities. That's when they would really see my face. The lumps, bumps, the cakey layers of desperate coverage. I eventually stopped doing this, but my morale stayed ever so low. As a final blow, I was allergic to something in the primer foundation. You know when you get chilly and your arms fill with goosebumps? That texture would rise up out of my entire face the next day and stay for three days after the launch parties... every time.

As an adult that doesn't use most the of the "fixes" available to me, I am curious what I'd look like decked out in the current makeup trend - this Kardashian-inspired exotic eye and dewey, contorted cheekbones. That's what teen Lu would have wanted as she sat in the vanity chair surrounded by luxurious powders; something to accentuate her ethnic color scheme that no makeup brand could fathom. I'd also love to see 1920's Lu with angled eyebrows and rosy cheeks or the electric colors of the 80's painted on in wispy patterns. I haven't worn blush or lipstick since my last day working in the Sax closet, except one time recently... just to make you folks laugh. 

Three Years

I don't kill bugs. Not on purpose anyway. In addition to understanding the role they play in our ecosystem, they only get about three weeks. Who am I to shorten that pocket-sized lifespan? I think about all the bug mamas waiting for their critter babies to come home, but they never will. They've been smashed. Flattened. Crushed beneath the feet of the white man. 
So I catch them and I take them outside, and then shimmy, flick, or fling them back into the open arms of Mother Nature. In the case of roaches, I run from those at olympic speeds and then call for reinforcements. 

Since being married, the reinforcement is Brett. Before him it was Dad. In the college years, it was whatever male human lived in the apartments next to mine. Roaches are the one bug I can't bring myself to handle. 
Like so many before Brett, buzzing insects are but an inconvenience to overcome with little effort. An easy victory. He can crush a minuscule exoskeleton without considering which experiences the bug hasn't gotten to yet. He is what you would call, a normal person. Overtime, Brett has wordlessly taken on the role of Head Critter Catcher, and he studies the bugs in their glass enclosures before he sets them back outside again. 

Our home is a no kill shelter for bugs, some of which we just leave where we find them because they're just doing their best being bugs. Spiders in high corners, tiny moths hugging the ceilings, those guys can stay if they stick to the perimeters. We even have a lizard that lives behind our oven. We tried to catch her once but she was too quick, so we just let her stay back there. She keeps the bug count down and in turn, we fire up the oven each night so she can bask in the warmth of it all. She really likes being warm. Claudette (the lizard) has outsmarted the others of her kind and developed this symbiotic relationship. She's a trailblazer. She's welcome anytime. 

Occasionally, Brett's sense of competition will overtake his compassion and he will shoot flies out of the air with rubber bands. He has an alarmingly high accuracy rate with the rubber bands. I'm forced to choose between pride and sadness as a blue ring of rubber, stamped "produce of Ecuador," somersaults through the living room, intersects with an unassuming creature of tiny proportions, and hitch kicks the poor thing in a direction no one could anticipate. The little inward curled legs as it lays on the floor... the guilt may or may not occur to Brett. 

What I'm getting at here are wasps. A huge family of them set up multiple camps on our front porch. As a big fan of the world's pollinators, I hate to see the number dwindle. As a concerned resident, they can't be loitering on the front porch, smoking cigarettes and making guests feel uneasy. We discovered the giant wasp nest while sitting on the swing enjoying the evening air. There is was, all brown and porous. Threatening us with it's contents. I did not make a case for the wasps and left Brett to decide what to do with them. (He is boss of Exterior Maintenance.) 
While Papa Union and brother Jeff offered wasp sprays and chemicals, Brett took on a new tactic. An "Enraged Mother Nature/ Global Warming" approach. He has spent the last month creating wind and rain on our front porch. He first knocked the nests down and then ran like hell. Each day since, as the wasps try to rebuild, he sprays them with the hose and then turns on a commercial grade workshop fan that blows the porch plants sideways. 

"Whacha doing out there?" I ask him when he tells me not to go out the front for a while.
"I think if I create bad living conditions, they'll decide it's not the best place for a nest."

I want to remind you that he is a normal person - spent the first twenty seven years of his life handling nuisances the way humans have throughout history. He's out there encouraging a bunch wasps to move somewhere else because he loves me. 

Today makes three years married and I'm so proud of that big guy. Can't believe he talks to me.