We came. We conquered. We bought.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned OR a bride-to-be stalking a sale at a bridal shop. With the wedding mere weeks away, we had to find the perfect gown. And guess what? The local bridal shop just happened to be having a fantastic sale. Armed with my checkbook and having no idea of the imminent danger I faced, I accompanied both daughters to the store.

She’d done her research. Surfed the net and decided on just what type of gown she wanted. The store’s website provided a sneak preview of the lovely dresses crowding the racks. I never realized until we stepped through the doors just how many people shop for wedding apparel. Yes, I know it’s summer, the season of love. But GEEZ, the store brimmed with future brides and their muscle.

We spied the section marked “SALE” and made a bee-line for it. Daughter #1 started at one end, Daughter-to-be-married headed for the other. I dove into the middle of the fray, prying dresses free of their protective plastic and holding them up for my children to rate.

Daughter-to-be-married perked with interest at about the third dress I’d fished out of the over-stuffed wall of silk and tulle. Daughter #1 came up behind me, leaned in close and whispered, “Mama, whatever you do, don’t let go of that dress.”

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck immediately stood on end. Hackles raised, I glanced to the right. Three women glared at me as if I stood between them and their last meal. My survival hearing picked up the desperate hiss the young girl in the middle whispered.

“Momma, I want THAT dress.”

I locked my arms around the waist of the gown and through bared teeth instructed my daughter. “Get your sister over here now.”

We stood as one. The coveted dress locked in my arms and marched victoriously to the dressing room to try on the prize.

The dressing room assistant asked my daughter her size. After all, one must have the proper undergarments to fully appreciate if the dress will work. She returned with a bustier and one of those smoothing half slips that squeezes everything into all the right spots and then slicks it down so the faintest dimple doesn’t show.

I didn’t really understand why daughter needed such a contraption. She’s quite a petite young thing. But what do I know of high fashion? My idea of dressing up is ironing my jeans. So, she stepped into the suction cup slip and we started pulling it into place. After considerable hopping and expelling of breath, the torture chamber finally locked and loaded.

And then came the bustier. A frustrating contraption with fifty-bazillion hook and eye closures running up the back. I eyed the thing and asked, “I’ve got to fasten EVERY one of them?”

Daughter nodded, holding it in place, she gave me her back and said, “Go for it.”

The bustier was as bad as the peel-and-breathe slip. It was like stuffing ten pounds of sugar into a five pound bag. “Exhale more,” I instructed as I yanked it tighter around her.

“If I exhale any more, I’m going to pass out.”

She reddened a bit from lack of oxygen but we finally clamped it into place. Then I slid the dress down over her head and zipped it.

She stepped out of the dressing room to examine the results in the triple mirrors. The glaring enemy dress stalkers stood nearby but when I viewed my daughter, I felt no fear. I felt only pride at the lovely young woman on the pedestal.

We bought the dress and emerged unscathed from the shop. I’m just hoping when my other daughter decides to marry, I’m given enough time for a few preparation workouts at the gym.

Seasonal Muse

I’ve concluded I’m gifted or cursed (depending on your point of view) with a seasonal muse. I’ve always considered myself somewhat of a winter spirit anyway. Early in the fall when the first crisp wind whistles through the trees, that’s when my energy level soars.

But now it’s summer. I’ve got a new manuscript plotted. I’ve wrung out the words through chapter three and it’s just not happening. I already realized a long time ago that the wee hours of the morning brought the best words to the pages. But this is the first time I ever sat back and realized everything else I’ve ever written came together during the fall and winter months.

I’m a firm believer the muse can’t be forced. So for now, the new characters will go quietly to sleep and I’ll tweak a finished manuscript that needs a bit more polish.

And until my beloved seasonal wheel turns to please my muse, I’ll draw strength from the serenity of my own backyard. Enjoy a few pictures of some of our latest visitors and a few of our flowers. I’ve also included some pictures of the ice storm a year ago, just to please the muse.  

Note: Between the squirrels and deer "visiting" the birdfeeders each day, the birds were starving to death.  We finally gave up and started putting out ears of dried corn for the birdfeeder bandits.  It took me a while to get these shots of the doe while she ate.  Thank heavens for a zoom lens.

Trapped inside the Manuscript Daze

Twice this week I drove past my exit to work.  The reason? The chatter in my head infiltrated all functioning systems and left me with what I like to call "Pre-manuscript System Failure".

I've got a new work in progress on the back burner and haven't had the chance to sit down and fully plot it out.  Until I purge it onto my spreadsheets and post-it notes, I'll be a prisoner to my muse.

I become quite crazed when a story's cooking.  Once while plotting a manuscript, I ran out of my precious yellow sticky pads.  I happened to glance at our freshly painted bedroom wall, so nice and creamy white.  A primeval plotting beast raged within me, hungered for the stretch of wall.  "Do it.  Iz smooth.  Iz clean. Iz white," the beast growled.

Then my gaze shifted to my husband's photo on the nightstand.  His expression and the premonition of what would happen effectively broke the demon muse's spell.  Is your muse ever naughty or crazed?

A fish fry, two secrets, & a diamond...

There’s never a dull minute around my family but last weekend proved especially interesting. Saturday dawned hot and sunny, the perfect setting for our annual fish fry that my husband hosts every year. You’ll notice I specifically stated my husband is the host because my sole purpose in the festivities is clean-up. He orchestrates a wondrous spread that I’d never dream of attempting. To give you some idea of how he does things, I arrived home from work to a bathtub brimming with fish fillets and fifteen pounds of potato salad. But that’s another blog.

Anyway, here’s the first secret of the day. My daughter also appreciated the cooperative weather since she’d planned a surprise birthday party for the special young man in her life. Her plot was they’d come to our house and help with the fish fry then she’d take him to his friend’s house to pick up his gift that had been too large to store at her apartment. Of course, the friend’s house hid the party. I couldn’t believe the boy was that gullible but finally decided he had to be a really good sport or was so twitter-pated he’d follow my daughter without question.

While my two daughters and I scrambled outside with preparations, I happened to notice that my husband and my daughter’s fella had disappeared into the house. My antennae twitched and I headed after them to see what was up. As soon as I walked into the kitchen, both men turned and gave me that deer in the head light look as though I’d interrupted them in the middle of an illegal drug deal.

The young one bolted with an armload of paper plates and grinned at my husband. I cornered my husband between the center island and the kitchen sink and demanded to know what was going on.

“He just asked me if he could marry her.”

“And what did you say?”

“Well…I told him yes.”

And so, the second secret of the day unfurled. My other daughter chose that moment to interrupt. This child’s had radar since birth and always sensed when her father and I are attempting to have a conversation.

“What’s going on?”

“He’s going to ask your sister to marry him.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. But don’t say anything. We’ve got two secrets now. His surprise party and we can’t let your sister know he’s going to ask her to marry him.”

“Well, he needs to ask her now so we can all watch.”

“No, stay out of it. That’s between the two of them.”

“Fine.”

Needless to say, word spread fast through our guests. Nobody in my family has ever been able to keep their mouths shut, me included. Quite a few at the gathering knew about the birthday party and quite a few knew about the pending question to be asked.

As the day stretched on, my daughter got a little antsy to leave the fish fry because she knew her other guests would be waiting. But her as yet unknown fiancé didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. He figured they could pick up his gift anytime. He didn’t realize his gift happened to be a bunch of people waiting to wish him happy birthday.

My daughter fidgeted around me and hinted at getting her father to nudge the boy out the door. I nixed that idea. We couldn’t very well boot them out. That might put a bit of a damper on the pending proposal. The one she had no idea loomed in her very near future.

Finally, she pried him away from the corn-hole game (You have to be from the South to appreciate it. You toss a beanbag into a board with holes in it) and the young couple left.

A few hours later, my blackberry rang and the conversation went something like this:

My daughter: “So, did YOU know he was going to ask me to marry him?”

Me: “Of course.”

My daughter: “He said he asked Daddy for permission.”

Me: “He did ask Daddy.”

My daughter: “And you both kept it a secret?”

Me: “Yes.”

My daughter: “All day long?”

Me: “What did you expect?”

My daughter: “What else do you know?”

Me: “You’ll never know for sure, will you?”

By the way, the ring she accepted is lovely.

The Things We Tell Our Children...

The other day while at a family gathering, my nephew sat with his chin propped in his hands and the corners of his little mouth pulled down into a frown. When my daughter asked him what was wrong, he commented the other kids had teased him about all his freckles. She tousled his hair and told him he should like his freckles because those were angel’s kisses. Of course the child rolled his eyes and looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Then he asked me if he could have an extra piece of cake since the other kids had been so mean. I even added ice cream.

This conversation reminded me of some of the tales I’d been told while growing up. So, I thought I’d list them here.

1. Don’t cross your eyes. They’ll get stuck like that.

2. Cats eat mice head first so they can use the mouse’s tails for a toothpick.

3. The sound of thunder is Thor throwing his hammer. (I must have Scandinavian ancestry somewhere.)

4. The sound of thunder is the angels bowling. (This was from the other side of the family.)

5. I found you under a cabbage leaf. (No one in my family even said the “S” word much less ever committed the act.)

6. When I was young and saw a pregnant woman, I was told she’d swallowed a watermelon seed. (See item number 5.)

7. You can’t have coffee. It will stunt your growth. (My aunt must’ve had a lot as a child. She’s just 4’8”)

Were you told any stories as a child?

How Rude!

Have you ever encountered the type of person who's so miserable with their own existence that they're determined to make everyone's life just as hard to bear?  I was unfortunate enough to run across just such a young man the other day. 

I had to get a prescription filled.  The line stretched back about four people deep and this young man didn't want to be at work that day.  As each of the elderly customers ahead of me cringed when he barked for them to come to the counter, he'd pound on the computer a bit harder each time, cursing under his breath when the computer rebelled as the keys jammed due to abusive pounding.  This boy really hated his job.

My turn came.  I smiled, paid and told him I hoped his day got better.  I was rewarded with a shoved bag across the counter and a snarled, "Yeah, whatever."

At first, I thought I'd complain to the manager but then my twisted sense of humor got the best of me when I remembered this old joke I'd once heard, so I just laughed out loud and left.  Forgive me, if you've already heard it.

Two southern belles were swinging on the veranda sipping their tea.  The first southern belle turned to her friend and said, "I want you to look out there at my beautiful new car Daddy bought me.  Isn't it just the loveliest car you've eva' seen?"

The second belle nodded and replied, "That's nice."

Then the first southern belle waved her hand toward a prancing stallion. "And look over there.  Daddy paid more money for my new horse than your Daddy has eva' seen.  Have you eva' seen a  horse so fine?"

The second belle nodded again and repeated, "That's nice."

By this time, the first southern belle is a little perturbed. She sets down her tea and says, "So, tell me.  What has yo' daddy eva' bought for you?"

The second belle takes a sip of her tea and then says, "Daddy sent me to a fine southern charm school."

"A charm school?" The first belle huffs. "Well, what did they teach you at this so-called fine charm school?"

The second belle dabs her napkin to her lips and says, "They taught us to say, That's nice instead of Go to hell."

Chivalry Lives!

I'm happy to report chivalry is alive and well...at least in my neck of the woods. After several hours of power shopping, my husband and I paused for a much needed pit stop at the public restroom.

I went my way, he went his and that's when things got a little interesting. While my husband stood attending to business, an elderly woman, bent and clutching her purse to her chest ambled in behind him, entered the stall and locked the door.

Anyone who knows my husband would laugh out loud right now. I'm not sure what the Kentucky equivalent of the Blarney Stone is but I’m sure my husband has kissed it several times. In Ireland, it’s claimed to bestow the gift of eloquence. Here we call it the art of BS. My husband is a grand master. He's also a prankster and if he likes you, he'll aggravate you to no end. On the other hand, if he doesn't like you, there'll be no doubt left in your mind about that either. But I know that old bear to be a truly soft-hearted man even though he’d be the last to admit it.

Since he was the only male in the restroom, he finished up, washed his hands and rushed to block the door. Soon another man approached and the scene unfolded something like this.

"You can't go in there."

"Why not?"

"There's a lady in there."

"You’re kidding."

"No. She's just a little confused. She'll be out in a minute."

"Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll wait."

By the time I finished up and made my way out of the women’s restroom, my husband and two other men stood waiting outside the door.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“We can’t go yet,” he replied and explained the situation.

At that moment, the door swung open. She excused herself as she toddled between us and shuffled her way down the hall.

I hope when I’m older and a bit confused there’s someone to watch the door for me.