Woulda Coulda Cana

Last weekend I was in Indianapolis visiting my fiance.  On the agenda was a little bit more than our typical make dinner at home/visit the Indianapolis Museum of Art/Rene's Bakery agenda.  Oh no, we had a date with the Catholic church for a Pre Cana weekend.

There are a few hoops to jump through in order to marry in the church.  Besides the typical baptism records, you also get to do a natural family planning class and an engaged encounter weekend.  However, in Indy the nearest retreat house is 4 hours away so they use the shortened version, Pre Cana, as its sub.  Think of it as premarital counseling via cliff notes.  My fiance and I began to wonder if we were cheating the system by doing the condensed version, so we sought counsel with Father Stan.  He said that if it counted good for them, who is he to say that it isn't. 

Sunday morning came and we actually made it to church.  I'm not a big fan of the newer movement.  The altar is more out into the audience and the pews have been rearranged to go around it in a semi-circle of sorts.  I think they wanted us to feel included more, but all I could think of was a run way at Fashion Week.  (I'm going to Hell for that one.)

Moving on, we took advantage of our small break and had brunch, but we were a bit late to the engaged couples meeting.  Surprisingly, it was a big crowd and we got to sit in the front row (only space left).  I made up for us being the disruption by calling further attention to us by winning the prize because I had traveled the furthest for the weekend.  It was a cheesy ring holder from the archdiociese.  And the instruction began!

We mingled a bit on cue with our couple next to us.  Allison and Jeff.  Met 2 years ago.  Getting married in May.  They are also socially stunted because they didn't ask us one question back.  The first volunteer couple instructors came forward to talk about Family of Origin.  I began to tune out because it was social work 101.  They went on and on about how holidays can be tough and divorced in-laws can be challenging.  No kidding.

The second session was on communication.  A new instructor couple emerged and literally handed out a worksheet entitled, "Rules for Fighting."  #1. No physical violence.  Ok, its just a sad statement when this really needs to be said, and I suppose, some inthe room probably needed to be reminded of it.  The one thing I can say I liked is that they did say it was ok for you to fight in front of your children as long as they also see you make up.  They handed out another "fun" sheet for a "date" night that listed things like, favorite number, favorite color, favorite meal, etc.  Then I got down to, "favorite position."  I stopped and whispered to my fiance, "Aren't we NOT supposed to know this yet?"  He smiled and whispered back, "I know mine.  Full back."  Trying to keep my giggles quiet was a challenge.

After the break, the NFP class was next.  A young couple came in and began a fairly persuasive presentation on this.  The fire and brimstone was left behind and only small amounts emerged in their "testimony" of sorts.  On some level it made sense, that is a medical healthy perspective.  The debate of when life began was touched upon, but not drilled.  It was rather nice.  They also made an argument about how it brought  closer communication and intimacy.  Ok, really, this made sense if your morning dialogue included things like basal temp, mucus viscosity, and potential breast tenderness.  "Good morning, honey, how did you sleep?  I dreamed I was flying and by the way my temp is 98.9 and the fluid resembles egg whites."  Ooh, sexy.  I'm certain that kind of talk will really encourage some hot heavy mornin' lovin'!  All joking aside, they did also say that couples who practice this method have a less than 2% divorce rate.  Whether this is true or not, I'm not certain.

The last class was taught by Father Kevin.  He was a roly poly man who waddled in, adjusted his glasses, and immediately announced UConn's upset.  I liked him already.  He began to talk about God's grace in marriage.  He was married before becoming a priest.  His wife, Carol, died to ovarian cancer.  He told stories of the intimate moments.  The happy moments, the sad moments, the anger moments...all of them devine moments.  He was witty, genuine, and was literally the highlight of the day.

Many people dread this requirement of the Catholic church.  I'm just thinking they didn't have the right location. 

Small Lake City and the Name Game

I apologize for not writing for a couple of weeks.  Its been wedding drama left right and center.

Occasionally I will use the term, "Small Lake City," to refer to my hometown when 6 degrees of separation seems like a severe understatement.  It seems like everyone knows someone you know.  I had one boyfriend who lived out of town and everytime we got on a plane leaving Utah, I knew at least one other passenger.  This seemed comical to a guy from the East Coast. 

Two weeks ago I flew into planning mode again to appease my anxiety.  I began with the photographer.  My mother and I went to interview one, Duston Todd, who was highly creative and edgy, but my gut said to move on.  I began to call others.  I realize that I'm a bit jaded by names after working at a children's hosptial.  It seems that all Destiny's, Celesitial's, or Nevaeh's (Heaven backwards) are destined for a sexual assault, Brooklyn's have some sort of congenital heart defect, and Ashley's usually overdose.  Rule of thumb I've learned is the funkier the spelling of the name, the worse the medical diagnosis.  With this being said, a photographer with two first names caught my supersition-salt-throwing-avoiding-black-cats kind of sense.  Like I said, I moved on.  The names got worse, but the creativity got better.

Pepper Nix.  Great photographer.  Already booked.  She spent 45 minutes one Saturday morning giving me advice to help me find THE photographer and then went on about flowers, lighting, invitations, etc.  She was amazing to the point that I sent her a thank you note.  She led met to Davina Fear.  This woman rocked.  Mom and I met with her and I booked her on the spot.  (Yes, these are all their birth names.) 

With the contract signed and deposit check written, Mom and I celebrated with a glass of wine.  About an hour and a half later when Mom had left and I was settling into the couch, Davina was back at my door.  She was distraught.  She had pitched to another bride days before and promised to wait a certain amount of time, but had gotten caught up in my excitement and booked with me for the same day.  Ethics vs. legal vs. emotions vs. logic all played out as I invited her in to debrief.  I wasn't certain if my role was to play social worker, friend, customer, legal advisor, or what so mostly I listened andreframed.

A rough 24 hours passed and she called thanking me and reassuring me that she would honor her contract and do my wedding.  Phew!  With that done, I began to move onto the flowers.  Met Shawn, booked him on the spot.  (How can you resist a male florist who says, "Oh goodie!" when you tell them you are going to book them?) 

Then the band issue the following day came up.  I investigated a few bands.  For the most part, musicians are flakey (including my brother).  With my type A personality the contract of, "If I don't show up, I don't get paid," doesn't work for me.  My fiance was against my first choice because they sounded schmaltzy.  (Interesting word, it makes me think of an accordian player in a powder blue tux.)  But then the others were flakes.  I found J.D. Moffet.  Great guy.  Turns out we had all sorts of connections in Small Lake.  For example:  my grandmother and his mother in law are best friends, he taught my brother guitar, he played at my uncle's funeral, he knows the anesthesiology dept at work very well.  I went to see them play and we booked.  He said he had a tenative engagement scheduled for the same night, but we were practically family so it really wasn't a question.

He called the next day telling me about his experience cancelling the other party.  When he told them he had another engagement at Log Haven the reply was, "Unbelievable!  First she gets my photographer and now she got my band!"

Whoever this bride is, I'm certain she hates my guts.

 

Super so Far

In the tarot deck, number 17 is The Star.  I generally like this card when I read for people.  Its simple message is duty vs. authenticity.  Its a battle every one of us faces over and over again throughout our lives.  However, sometimes the timing is exquisite.

My brother has been on the straight and narrow.  Now that he is not playing my roommate, I can be a bit more objective.  He has escaped the drama of an engagement that never should have happened, landed a nice place down town, has been really successful at work, became more emotionally invested in the family, and even bought a great set of wheels.  Wouldn't you know that once he became stable, fate would twist the plot?

I don't think anyone truly dreams of some of the jobs we end up in.  No one ever grows up and says, "I always wanted to be an accountant."  Usually little kids say things like fire fighters, veterinarians, or a rock star.  My brother fell into that last fantasy.  He pursued music most of his life whether it was the piano, trombone, drums, or guitar.  He has talent.  He's been in many bands.  For the past while he has settled for playing covers for a loyal audience at the local meat market.  He has a good time and it's easy for him.

Last Sunday he got a phone call to audition for a band that is close to signing and got offered a position.  If he joins he will be giving up the security of a "grown up" life as he will be on the road a lot.  He came over to my parents to talk out the process the next night.  "Angst" doesn't even begin to describe what he was going though.  The music sounds like something he wrote.  The style is his.  It is a now or never kind of deal. 

His life has been great up until now, but it holds the promise of what dreams are made of.  Ironically, the name of the band is, "Super so Far." 

www.supersofar.com

Retro Fit

The past two days I've been home.  Its given me time to nap, play with Edgar, dwell on the wedding details, and reinvent the comforts I knew 20 years ago.

My girlfriend gave me a very cool photo album.  www.kolo.com  She gave me the basic black album and photo corners.  I actually got caught up a little bit on this task and got through 2003.  As I sorted through the boxes of photos I could discard the ones where I look drunk (but I'm not), the ones where heads are cut off, and the others that really didn't contribute to the photojournalistic style I was going for.  I actually come from a very talented art and photographic family, but I didn't get that gene. 

While attaching the photo corners, I realized that the style of the album was pretty familiar.  My grandmother did a lot of albums. She had 6 kids.  Enough said.  I used to love going through the albums.  Sure the pictures were cool, but the stories and the memories were amazing.  Grandma would tell tales of river adventures with a travel group, her dude ranch experience when she was 16, and all of the family trips to southern Utah were documented. 

My fiance and I are in the process of picking a photographer.  This, by the way, is a nightmare.  When you realize that when all is said and done, all you will have left is a dress and some photos the pressure is on to pick the best you can.  One blessing is, a lot of them include an album they assemble with the photos you choose in the price. 

Ah, well back to the whole retro thing.  Yesterday I found the inspiration to make a crock pot recipe.  I called my parents to invite them to dinner tonight.  It takes hours/days to prepare a "simple no fuss" meal, ironic eh?  When I told my dad I would be making Carolina pulled pork sandwiches (don't know why this even sounds good) he asked how I even had a crock pot.  He hadn't seen one since 1983 when it mysteriously got "lost" in a move.  One of my Aunts gave it to me cleaning out her house years ago.  Its a nice crock pot.  It is beige with pastel pink and blue flowers on the outside and a deep brownish red pot.  Very, very 80's. 

This morning I woke up and had a Pop Tart (something I haven't had since I was in grade school, but it sounded good so I picked them up at the store yesterday).  I then began to assemble the recipe.  "Recipe" is a loose term.  I studied about 12 of them and combined what I thought sounded reasonable without paying attention to the measurements.  Could be good, could be gross.  We'll see in about 8 hours.