You might expect that this revelation was the most important discovery of the day, and for a normal, heart-and-feelings type of bride, you’d be correct. We all know I’m not normal and the last emotions I expressed were for a heavenly box of Pop Tarts. The real light bulb moment was, of course, that I’d successfully conquered my fear of crafts and assembled my very own invitations with minimal bloodshed. Today, I’m excited to give you a Very Bloggy sneak peek of the very cordial Cordially Invited’s that you, my very favorite wedding planners, helped make.

One of the first votes rambling‘s readers rocked on this blog-planned wedding adventure was selecting the perfect invitation. Given several brilliant designs by the spectacularly artsy Amy Adams of <strong>{a} Printables and Amy Adams art & design, you made my day by picking my secret favorite, the modern and playful Fabric Stencil design.

But there was a problem. My name isn’t Anna and I’d bet a dollar my son does not take after Eamon.  Paternity foul! This problem turned out to be no problem at all as Amy customizes every design, incorporating a fabric of our choosing and, as luck would have it, even our names. Yet another bloggy poll was taken, and the final fabric background selected was a funky paisley number perfect for a Spring wedding in the South.

We selected some off-beat wedding jargon to slap on those pretty invites, and Amy got to work turning Anna & Eamon’s lovely print into an invite fit for a budget-weilding queen. I approved the last proof, thanked Amy a million-and-one times for her creativity and kindness and overall coolness, and considered that wedding task complete.

The Bell Controversy

But you know I can’t help but bring some hot mess to every perfectly simple scenario. Amy’s gorgeous designs are created and e-mailed as PDF files. The customer, like say me for instance, can print the file at home. This hand-printed/ professionally made situation allows the designer to offer her product at a ridiculously affordable price, and lets a bride on a budget (like say me for instance) cut costs without compromising quality. It should be a win/win. But as my ill-spirited gym coach always reminded me “There’s always a loser. Today it’s you”.

My master plan for the invites was to let Amy do all the artistic stuff. My role was as extensive as “lick envelope here”.  Not ever one to read the fine print or even the very large, extra, super duper BOLD! print, I e-mailed a local Print & Copy shop to get a quote for printing the file. Last time I was left alone in a room with an ink printer, carpets and a few walls had to be replaced, and the thought of then cutting said printed materials to size with scissors, well, I just knew I couldn’t risk losing an ear. I was overjoyed when the company owner responded with an insanely low price. I didn’t stop to wonder why his quote was roughly 80% cheaper than his competitors. I didn’t stop at all. Two hours later I was skipping into his office to pick up my fabulous prize.

I returned home with a handful of tiny, flimsy wedding invites. While Amy’s design looked truly spectacular, the thin and shrunken prints looked better suited for a little squirrel’s tea party. Disappointed, I checked the mail. I pull out two massive packages, and remembered I’d ordered a ton of brown bag envelopes for the invites just days before. This was the wrong time for remembering, I decided, as I pulled a few of the giant, oversized Kraft paper monstrosities from the box. Apparently envelopes come in different sizes. Apparently, I chose the largest size. Apparently the company does not accept returns on account of my being bad at thinking.

I was bummed and worried that all of Amy’s colorful genius was about to go to waste. I would have to send infant-sized mutations of her work in hulk-sized envelopes. Unless….

I could  undo twenty-something years of total craft destruction and, just this once, turn my hot mess into a happy accident. I purchased all necessary supplies for the mission: paper-cutter,glue, a King Size Snickers bar (arts & crafts make a sister snacky),  a bajillion yards of burlap string (thin, rough-edged twine), glue, more glue, and a giant stack of ice blue/ linen texture cardstock, lots of glue, a rubber return address stamp, and a rosary (best to start praying before disaster strikes, right?).

Hide yo wife. Hide yo kids. She cuttin' errbody up in here.

Tom asked if he and the baby would be safer staying in a hotel for a few days while I “crafted” with sharp and otherwise toxic things. I didn’t respond. I was too busy staring at the pile of DIY tools in front of me and panicking at the thought of having to actually use them.

I complete the first two invitations with only two paper cuts, one chopped off nail, and fourteen ounces of tears. I trimmed the cardstock to make a thick border around the eensy weensy invite. Then I wrapped the whole shebang  in a few strands of twine, adhered the twine to the back of the invite to keep it sturdy, and slid the RSVP card inside. I used a picture of the same fabric from the invites to create custom stamps on Zazzle.com, and when added to the RSVP card and the outer, gigantor envelope, the colorful stamps added just the right amount of color and tied the whole thing together.

Tom, shocked at the lack of blood and ugly scattered about the coffee table, praised this victory in Not Ruining Everything. With pla-enty of room to work with, I used metallic ink to hand-address the huge brown bag envelopes, rubber stamped a return address, finished them off (ha! This one time I do not mean I killed crafts) with a sassy postage stamp, and voila! I fixed a mess I created without causing a much bigger mess and managed to end up with some pretty stinkin’ cute wedding invitations.

With guests already reserving their spots at this not-so-swanky affair, I count myself lucky to have survived a round of Crafts For Dummies, two-times-the-lucky to have gotten the chance to work with such interesting artists like Amy Adams,  and luckier still that all of your hard, bloggy wedding work will lead to a not-so-distant, really real day of love.

Hand-dyed lace doilies to be used as table runners

Vinyl records melted and morphed into decorative flower cones to dot the aisle

Sanded and spray painted cowboy boots to act as twangy centerpiece vases

Tea cups mounted to platters lacquered onto candlesticks to create shabby chic… shabby chic… shab- I don’t even know what the hell I’m making.

A self-proclaimed Anti Craft (akin to the role of Anti Christ to the world of Glitter & Glue Sticks), I typically respond to claims of “quick and easy” do-it-yourself projects with a sassy “Fine. You do it YOURself, homie”. Knowing my strengths but most of the time weaknesses in this department, I am often and always content with the hand-bought, home-made-in-someone-else’s-home approach to things. That was until I began organizing our upcoming hitching party, and the hand-crafted look we so desperately desired wanted nothing more than to suck some dollar bills from my pocketbook. Add the word wedding to any purchase request, friends, and watch prices balloon like my waistline over Christmas.

Fellow thug, Jamie Foxx (so foxy one ‘x’ wouldn’t cut it) once spoke the wise words “blame it on the juice”, and I am here to tell you that, spurred on by copious amounts of coffee and a cheap-bone that will never be broke or broken- I was overcome with the sudden urge to behave wildly. Wildly, crunk and crafty. Yes. I- the same girl who brought you the Pimp Stick Double Torpedo of Love Valentine’s project- would save some cents and tell those expensive artists to take their hand-stitched, custom creations and shove them (after unsuccessfully pleading, one more again, for a discounted price, of course).  In the world of arts & crafts, I decided, I could do bad all by myself.

I eyed what looks to most veteran/ remotely functioning diy-ers like a simple to-do list with the greatest of worry:

Floor-to-ceiling ribbon wall installation: Mounds and miles of patterned ribbon, a rope, the hot fire of a thousand glue sticks. What should be a simple task requiring one to simply glue a piece of ribbon to a rope caused me severe anxiety. I am only a little ashamed to admit that three strands in, I pondered my hefty weight and the rope’s strength. I would leave a note that read only “Crafting made me do it”, and I’d leave this world on a particularly sturdy yard of plaid, all festive and forlorn like.

Hand-dyed lace doilies to be used as table runners: Somehow bleach seemed like the right thing to do. Doilies now look like an aged coyote suffering from leprosy. At least I think that’s how they look. Must remember to point spray bottle away from face regions. Also, must remember that retinas don’t take too well to bleach.

Vinyl records melted and morphed into decorative flower cones to dot the aisle: After trying to bake the records into bendy submission, I realized that I’d already managed to murder three Pop Tarts, two slices of toast, and one pot of boiling water that day in my kitchen (where tasty comes to die). A poor 45 served as a blasphemous Johnny Cash sacrifice. Per usual, after five minutes I was scratching and twitching to get out of the kitchen, so taking a short cut (the road less sensical) I grabbed a staple gun and went to town on the unassuming vintage finds. I’m out of records to maim now.  Thanks to four rouge staples, I am also out of eyelids. 

Sanded and spray painted cowboy boots to act as twangy centerpiece vases: And hour of fruitless sanding left me perturbed. I realized I had been furiously rubbing the rough grit of the sandpaper against my hands the whole time. My boots remained bumpy. My remaining 9, errr, 8-and-a-quarter fingers looked spectacularly shiny and smooth. Purposefully inhaled paint fumes from a can of #1026 Candy Apple Red to ease my crafting woes.

Tea cups mounted to platters lacquered onto candlesticks to create shabby chic… shabby chic… shab- I don’t even know what the hell I’m making. : With all the necessary supplies laid out before me, I couldn’t for the life of me remember what they were for. I decided 11 am on a Tuesday was just the right time for a shot of whiskey…out of said precious tea-cup, naturally.

Currently, I am dripping fresh blood onto the pristine cross stitch fabric interrupting my freedom as it looks up from my lap.  Driven still by the desire to take old Southern items and give them a modern twist, I’ve decided a dozen cross stitched hoops are just what this retro/ country wedding needs. This might surprise you, but I’ve never attempted to master this art of needlepoint before today. In fact, friends and family have been known to hide all needle-like objects from me after the Great Infant Nose Piercing of 1989 incident. Like the fallen projects before them, these hoops are born of inspired ideas and a creative mind. They will find their resting place somewhere next to some small-pox-ed doilies and a tipsy teacup or two. Two hours into my latest do-it-myself endeavor, I’ve stitched a crooked ‘s’ and a shape that ( if you look past the blood spatter and disregard the smell of tears) looks almost in a way kind of similar to maybe a heart-ish figure. I’m pretty sure this tiny art I’ve created translates into this:

and maybe also this:

As I bleed forth to glue another edge or zig-zag-wobble stitch another masterpiece, I try to remember fondly the one, ONE, wedding project I’ve been able to pull off so far. I invite you to come back tomorrow and check out a thrilling little Bloggy Wedding sneak peek I’m thinking of calling “Paper Cut: I bleed crafty wedding genius”. I also invite you to act incredibly impressed with what will probably strike you as the most elementary of artwork. Literally, it kind of looks like a room of hyper school girls got a little happy with the glitter.

A final word of advice to brides contemplating a hand-made-until-your-hands-fall-off wedding: Crafting to protect your budget? $1,246.83. Protecting your eyebrows, eyelids, cheekbones, wrists, calves, big toe, pinky nail, belly button, home’s air quality, Johnny Cash’s sacred legacy? Priceless.

Check back tomorrow as I brag incessantly about what most consider a feat not unlike tying my shoes.

Are you a crafty, do-it-yourself-er?

Wanna come over?

I’m wearing slick socks to ensure a definite lack of creaking floorboards, I’ve turned off the television much to the dismay of my pint-sized president of The Mickey Mouse Fan Club of America, and I’m whisper typing these sentences despite my ritual of singing the words of a post to the beat of 80′s rock. After a hectic four-day trip to Nashville with toddler in tow, I hear-under the muffled cartoon plot line of a in-car DVD, the chatter with a girlfriend over cocktails, and the blaring of hilarious YouTube videos my mom insists we must watch- that tiny piece of peace and quiet is begging (in hushed tones, of course) for a trial run.

Bags are unpacked. Zippers zip. Laundry is sucked into a rocking swoosh of a rickety washer. Radio hums a commercial for two-for-one entrees at a fine country-buffet kind of establishment. Faucet drips water into drain. Kerplunk. Toddler bangs head on a refrigerator door, a cruel obstacle in his search for sugary apple juice. Thud. Angry cries slice through the air. A boy learning the dangers of using his head to throw a tantrum. Coffee maker sputters, kicking exhaust and dripping caffeinated oil into a gracious mug. Dog scratches at the door. She groans, a low moo to remind us she is outside in the rain. Rain ticks against window’s glass. We will be stuck inside today. Television teaches a sore-noggin-ed toddler colors and shapes. His cries rumble once more because apparently orange triangles are flat infuriating.

A few short hours into our morning and this self-proclaimed siren of a blah-mouth is overwhelmed with the constant hearing of it all. Normally one with the loud, I worry we are missing the benefits of silence like, say, silence.

I dig the dog’s bark collar from a junk drawer. She eyes the torture necklace as a shock-n-shut-up styled device of doom. Without words, I point to the thing. She inches her mouth open as if to give a rebellious bark. I pretend that I am cranking the sucker up to high voltage. She swallows the bark and opts for a quiet nap in the closet.

The key to keeping a toddler quiet is simple. There isn’t one. Still, I hope his recent head trauma and the bottle of juice now corking up his mouth regions will help. I challenge the energetic tot to a staring contest. He laughs within seconds of staring down my crooked, tired eyes. We reinvent the game until it becomes something of an inanimate face-off with walls. He impressed me, staring at one particularly plain wall for two minutes and eleven seconds before caving and trying to beat his head against it. Quiet Mouse has a headache.

Next I insist he helps me with my morning exercise routine. We will perform an intricate flow of yoga poses, I explain. He becomes antsy upon discovering that I only intend for us to do Savasana, otherwise known as Final Rest or Corpse Pose. I think he throws a fit, but can’t be sure. I fell asleep twelve seconds into working out.

After breaking such a sweat I treat dog and baby to a refreshing game of Drinking Water. For the first time all morning I rejoice in a fully silent house, air not yet polluted by sounds. My son, proud of his most stealthy ninja sipping, cracks a smile before masking it with his hands. I see a flash of worry, just for a moment, as he fears his happiness is audible. As this morning has taught me, the silence never lasts in this house. But this time it is the most unsuspecting of noisy perpetrators. I feel a wave of ha-ha rush up and through my smile. I snort, forgetting to stop gulping my water, and cough laughter into this quiet place. The boy stares stunned that I have broken all the rules I have made. He peels his fingers one-by-one away from a smile that never left. We choke on our water. We choke on our laughter. We set the dog’s bark collar off with our riotous giggle fits. She barks- maybe from a slap of electricity, maybe just to join the fun. I like to think she is laughing, too.

Clearly, calm and quiet is not our forte. But if all these decibels mean defeat, well, then losing is the sweetest sound. “Conspicuous failing” is music to my ears.

Do you fail quiet?

Can I interest anyone in a round of Loud Ass Mouse?

A family member had to break the news over the holidays that he would not, in fact, be able to perform a short, couple-song set before and during the wedding ceremony. What was at most meant to be a casual way to entertain guests while waiting for all the love and marriage to begin couldn’t happen. No big deal. We’ve dealt with the sudden mention of $2,000 rain tents, the ever-adjusting budget busting add-ons that come along with wining and dining several tens of people. Hell, we’ve even handled the issue of downtown traffic. Such a little change of plans by no means should be the end of the world, especially to a no-frills, barefoot-already-been-pregnant bride like me.
But there I was friends, up Awkward Silence Creek without a banjo, feeling like the loss of that little chunk of live music at our Music City ceremony was about as big a disaster as any I’d ever faced.

With a budget bordering on nothingness, I consulted my creative friends to fix my entertainment woes. “Flame Throwers!,” one particularly festive friend suggested. “I hear you can actually hire rhythmic hula hoopers,” another added. By the time that conversation ended, the best affordable alternative to live music given had been a freakishly flexible pal’s generous offer to perform freaky, circus-quality acts of contortion while juggling. On one hand, I think my grandmother would totally dig that. On the other, I’ve seen her do a chin-to-floor belly bend while tossing oranges with her toes, and it makes you want to gag and ice your butt cheeks before un-friending her on Facebook. Let’s face it. I hardly have the budget for offering complimentary barf bags as wedding favors.

After weighing the gross, gross options, I came back to square one. We so desperately wanted to welcome guests our wedding with live music. We wanted to give them a taste of what Nashville is all about. That- that earthy, home-grown feel of a front stoop pickin’ party crashing against the neon buzz of city streets- was exactly the irony that made us love this little, big city. No fist-pumping DJ, no mix tape, no stunning silence. We needed some organic groove. Naturally, I spent one afternoon watching YouTube tutorials and strumming a child’s training guitar. I’d play the music myself, I decided. I can do home-grown. I can tap my toes (albeit poorly timed toe tapping complete with shin-splints). If I had a front stoop, by god, I’d pick and party on that sucker. I would… I would… I would manage to sprain my pinky and abandon all plans of playing guitar while walking down the aisle.

Still on YouTube (cursing those talented, musical folks), I came across a video that would warm my heart and make me do a celebratory high-kick:

VIVA LA SPOONS!!! Dani Nash is the young talent on the often under-appreciated spoons. I was Dani Nash’s height in fifth grade. I was Dani Nash’s talent level…never. To the side of Ms. Dani “Dessert Spoon” Nash, as luck would have it, I spotted a twangy little Mister with some serious chops. One e-mail later, I thanked the country music gods as Dakota Jay swooped in on a lyrical white horse and saved the wedding day.

Perfecting the Cowboy Fence Lean since 1982.

Dakota Jay spends his days running a Nashville hostel for traveling musical acts, spends his afternoons jamming with said acts passing through (I’m talking about you Dani “Where’s My Fork” Nash), and spends his nights tearing up local honky-tonks with original music described by radio personalities as “marrying modern sensibility with old soul sentiment”. As I listened to his edgy take on classic country, I was sure he would want nothing to do with our little, backwoods wedding. Then the urban cowboy went and added Nicer Than Nice to his list of talents, not only agreeing to join the Bloggy Wedding fun but also to give a lot of talent for an itty bitty price.

Dakota, who is quickly becoming the most impressive man in a cowboy hat I know, also wowed us with his lengthy repertoire. In addition to learning a few of our favorite modern-meets-country songs to play, he had a list a mile long of tunes he’s already perfected. Dave Matthews? Check. Johnny Cash? Of course. How about a little Sinatra to really surprise the panty hose off some unsuspecting guests? Hopefully Dakota will treat us to a few of his original songs like this cool take on a love song:

Midway through the list, I spotted one song that made me laugh and buy the guy a trophy. If you’ve never heard the TLC R&B hit “Scrubs” given a little country flair, then your life just isn’t complete. Tom, unfamiliar with the hip-hop standard, wasn’t up for walking down the aisle to lyrics like “I don’t want no scrub. A scrub is a guy who can’t get no love from me. Hangin’ out the passenger side of a his best friend’s ride, tryin’ to holla at me.” but the fact that such a southern crooner would have the good humor to give that one a whirl made me have serious respect for the guy.

So, since Tom don’t want no scrubs, we worked out a cool mix of country, folk, and modern songs for Dakota Jay to play. Among them? “Chicken Fried” by Zac Brown Band, “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg” by The Temptations, and a little Counting Crows to boot.

Eclectic playlist settled, I pulled a Woman-In-A-Car-Lot and began discussing the intricate details of sound equipment and setup. Yeah, the smartest thing I could think to say was “So you, like, play that funky music, white boy?” with nary a clue of what an amp is and why it’s crucial to music and hearing things. Luckily, Dakota made that simple, too. He shows up with his own fancy pants equipment, sets it all up, delights the masses with his musical stylings, and- if we’re really lucky- doesn’t get freaked out by my mom’s off-key maiming of lyrics.

Just yesterday, I informed my back-bending, produce-juggling, circus freak of a friend that her services, by the grace of George Jones, would not be needed. Dakota Jay’s got it handled, I told her, and thank God for that. I hope you’ll take a minute to check out Dakota Jay’s awesome artistry and- if you’re in need of a cool, new friend- like his Facebook page! A big, big thank you to Dakota for adding the funk to this funky little wedding. I bet your mama told you that you were talented. Mine told me that a time or two. The difference? Your mama was really right.

EXCITING ANNOUNCEMENT: Dakota Jay is set to release his debut, full-length album “The Time Is Right” the same month as The Very Bloggy Wedding. That’s April 2012, folks. To get involved in his creative process click here. To blow your speaker’s mind and listen to his hits on iTunes, click here.

If you answered an illiterate dalmatian, you’d pretty much be right.

I ain'ts got duh readun skillz 2 good.

But for the sake of blogging the answer is…. are you ready for it?….still ready?…. wait for it…… THIS POST!

So I fail at riddles but could find no better way than to tease the masses for tomorrow’s Very Bloggy Wedding post. We’ve got some exciting new news as opposed to boring old news, and through a series of strange photo clues and fill-in-the-blank sentences, I aim to confuse the bejesus out of you before shedding some light on the subject tomorrow. If all goes according to plan, none of you will have the slightest idea of how to solve this silly puzzle, the lack of knowing will drive you insane, and you will click like a maniac every hour on the hour for the hope someone will just tell you what’s going on already.

CUE MYSTERIOUS PHOTO MONTAGE!!!!

AND SOME CONFUSING WORD MESS FOR YOU!!!

“REAL ___{this is a blank}____ THAT’LL MAKE YOU LAUGH, CRY, AND DRINK.” 

I find it promising that amid the finding and posting of these photos I forgot what I was hinting about.  So answer me this:

What’s bird, spoons, 90′s funky pop, cowboy (with a dash of stripper), that makes a person giggle, weep, and beg for a drink?

That’s not so much a riddle as a legitimate question.  Anybody? Answer? I’m hella confused, and it’s driving me crazy.

Fill in the blank below, and let us know what you think the Bloggy Wedding has in store for us tomorrow!

“What? What? Wha- Where am I? Ughhhh, my whole face hurts. Wha- Wait. Who the hell are you?,” I speak some kind of English punctuated with groans and whimpering. Just then, Tom emerges skips from the kitchen, delighting over a freshly brewed cup of coffee. “That,” he points to the furiously dancing little monster, “Would be your son, dear”. I crumple onto the couch. The boy plays with a vivacious spirit that at the current moment makes me want to die a little. He’s far too happy to be mine, but for now his true identity is only the smallest of mysteries unsolved.

I beg the wide-awake man of the house for a greasy breakfast, a metric ton of pain killers, and an explanation for the train wreck occurring in my liver. I shake my sore, sorry head as images flood my mind. These snapshots of the prior evening, what was to be our very romantic Valentine’s date, make little sense at all and leave me with more questions than answers: “Did you take me to a Fight Club? Did I lose? Wait. Wait. Did you date rape me? Slipped me a Mickey, didn’t you? Oh, God. I date raped somebody, didn’t I? Crap. Did we murder anyone? Sweet Mother Bloody Mary, I’ve got paper cuts in really wrong places. Who put these business cards down there? But as the old saying goes, with time (and Advil) comes wisdom, and by noon that day I’d started piecing together what had surely been an adventurous night.

 Hey. I said I put the pieces together. I didn’t say the puzzle made any kind of sense.

   Together with a miraculously un-hungover beau, I came up with a several promising leads: Air Five, Air Guitar, Air Hockey, Seth Rogen, Clean Plate Club, Sven, Clown Car, Military Bunny Ears, World Famous Bloggist, Austin Powers, Dixie Land Princess, Grapes, Deerfield Inn $39 room plus complimentary breakfast and bed bugs, Yale, Memphis murder, Wine Snatching, Chocolate.

    I began to worry about the  likelihood of having engaged in some illicit drug use. Tom shrugged off this theory as if an epic binge was a totally acceptable form of Valentine’s wining and dining. Wait. Wine. Wine. Drinking Wine. 99 Bottles of Wine In My Mouth. I found our camera beneath a rogue high-heeled boot and pair of tattered tights. I added Bear Attack to the list of clues and kept on investigating. If pictures are worth a thousand words then my camera was the big-ticket lottery winner. The photographic proof coupled with my raging headache and sudden urge to watch Seth Rogen movies finally pulled the story together. This story, I learned, was the kind that made no sense at all and made you doubt reality as truth most certainly is stranger than fiction.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Saturday night, I prayed for circulation as I wrestled my thighs into a pair of sassy stockings. I zipped up high-heeled boots, marveled at my NBA-quality height, and pouted at the injustice of having to wear a bra out on the town for the sake of social decency. My dad arrived toting babysitting essentials: a fully loaded Nerf gun and a 2-liter of Diet Coke. We smiled and  fought off a worried toddler for a boring picture as Tom refused to oblige my desire for a darling Prom pose… letting me play the manly, Big Spoon role since my towering, high-heeled frame made me the most natural casting choice.

     My dad fired off a few rounds of styrofoam darts at the boy. We seized the distracting opportunity to flee, and thus began our night of romance and freedom but mostly freedom. We drove. We drove a lot. I pondered the plans my loving partner had made for us. As city streets gave way to rural roads, I worried that Tom had forgotten his country upbringing and orchestrated a fine night of premature cow-tipping. As the sun had yet to set and cows had yet to stupid slumber, would we find ourselves surrounded by an utterly furious herd of heifers? I looked down at my fancy leather boots and willed this not to be the case. Manure and Death By Trample doesn’t look good on me. The most obvious choice in such a small town, I decided, would be a simple dinner. Never one to miss seeing me in real, humanly decent looking attire, I worried again. Did he beg me to dress up for a night at Cracker Barrel’s country kitchen? Last time I wore makeup to that place every Tom, Dick, and  Hillbilly in a ten-table radius took me for a hooker. I did get free sweet tea, but that was hardly worth the sleazy winks. For those first ten minutes of the drive I contemplated these stirring questions while taking in the scenic beauty of fields and green fields and corn fields and cow fields. From the 11th minute on, I spied too many remote ditches and questionable burial grounds, and I knew all too well what Tom had in store for me. Dateline special. Surely the only reason a woman is led to such a faraway, isolated spot was to “get gone”. It made so much sense, after all. A man can only tolerate so much snoring and humiliating poop jokes before he snaps. I accepted my fate and hoped they’d get the white-haired, creepy-voiced anchor to title the televised story of my disappearance something cool like “Murder In The MOOOnlight: A Twisted, Twangy Tale”.

    The car came to a stop suddenly. I looked ahead to spot the tiniest red clown car I’d ever seen. Parked sideways across two lanes, I worried these fools were about to steal my Dateline Special spotlight. A couple approached the sedan. A small woman climbed swiftly into an even smaller back seat. A burly man then proceeded to fold his huge self into quarters, cramming all twelve feet of him into the passenger’s side until only a giant foot hung from the door.

  We followed this circus act up the road to a Tuscan villa standing without reason in the middle of the Tennessee countryside. All signs read Crown Winery, and after that drive I welcomed the idea of a glass or twelve. Tom, well-coached against the silly, stereotypical display of affection on Valentine’s Day, guided me into the winery for a night of home-grown spirits and delicious dinner.

    With glasses of Strawberry wine in hand, we scanned the crowded room for a place to stand. Happy Hour got a whole lot happier when a young couple, a small woman and her enormous husband, invited us to perch next to them at a pub table. I’d know those giant feet anywhere, I thought. Over wine and wine and wine, we learned the details behind the couple who we’d watched perform contortion into a red, clown car just moments before. From Memphis by way of Baltimore, the young lovebirds instantly wooed us. Her name is Airlia. I want to call her Air Five or Air Hockey or invite her to a rocking riff of Air Guitar. Airlia (of the cool name persuasion) runs 10-mile sprints and saves lives in local hospitals. He  works for a prominent fast food chain and went to Yale and has a voice so eerily similar to Seth Rogen that I fought the urge to demand recitations from Super Bad all night long. He says his name is Greg. I’m thinking he is at the very least Seth Rogen’s third cousin. Upon learning of our out-of-wedlock-out-of-our-minds lifestyle, the clearly superior duo proved themselves the perfect dinner guests by flexing their humble muscles and thinking our bizarre, Baby Daddy situation was more cool than creepy. One hour, three drinks, and two new best friends later, we took the fun to the dinner table where Fate sat us with four more sip-happy strangers.

Italian Winery... In the middle of Tennessee... With a British owner... and Northern stranger friends.

    The newest additions to our party train were locals, two couples living just down the street from the vineyard. The men, both military veterans casually handed us business cards while their wives, through sharing town gossip and brilliant stories of their college years, made my heart smile. By the second course, we’d managed to learn all but their social security numbers. By the third course we’d all managed to eat from one another’s plates and laugh like old friends. By the fourth course I maxed out my capacity for wine intake, but thrilled with this weirdest of date nights opted to keep on chugging. I think there was more food. I know there was more wine. And I KNOW my cup runneth over. As I contemplated licking dessert remnants from our new best friend strangers’ plates, it occurred to me that this night, this backwoods, backwards night, was exactly perfect.

New military friend: experienced guerilla training in Combat Bunny Ears

That "One Too Many Drinks Was Twelve Drinks Ago" Face

The perks of shamelessly loving strangers piled up. The local couples were long time friends of the winery’s owners. Because nothing about this night makes a lick of sense, I learned the owners are a married couple: a tall, entertaining British man and his Southern, former Dixie Pageant Princess wife. As door prizes were lost and dinner wound to a close, we eight old chums sat tight (or drunk squinting and wobbly) talking about it all through gulps of locally grown grape goodness: from parenthood to cigarettes, from wild days of youth to how to properly clean one’s plate with a dinner roll.

   We measured minutes in bottles of wine, the conversation loosening its tie before melting into a puddle of drunken hilarity. Pretty soon I was laughing aloud at the inside jokes of this night: Seth Rogen goes to Yale. Airlia insists I am a dark-haired Uma Thurman. My new friends were anxious to tell the empty hall of my position as a “world famous bloggist”. I didn’t correct them. A friendly server shocked us with her surprising other job as a high school guidance counselor and awed us with goblet after goblet of party juice. I accidentally on purpose call Tom a host of obnoxious pet names. Sven- part friend of the owners, part employee, and the first groom of the very first wedding- joined the table. I could barely contain the good humor of it all upon finding out he’d been the kind traveler stopping his red, baby-sized sedan to offer some guests a ride. Airlia made my heart go pitter patter as this educated woman scanned the rows of abandoned tables, collecting half-full glasses of wine before filling mine with a splash of some guys chardonnay and a dash of some lady’s blush concoction. We both disregarded social graces and downed the blended spirits. I air-fived Airlia in lieu of telling her I think I am in love. Yes. I am a dark-haired Uma Thurman in love with this strange night.

And when the party came to a close, we stumbled from the winery victorious in outlasting Last Call. I stepped heel onto shins stabbing high-heeled puncture wounds into my tights. As I fell into the car I left no room for doubt of my drunken debauchery, completely forgot my morals and hummed a Ke$ha song on the long drive home. It started as a  romantic, candlelit dinner for two. It turned into Wine & Wild Rumpus, Party of 8. For a girl who gets uncomfortable at the thought of love poems and avoids the sappy Valentine’s Day traditions like The Plague, it was the wackiest, loveliest night I could have hoped for but never expected. I’m left today a few friends richer, one liver poorer, and reminded of a lesson some sloppy frat guy bestowed upon me some years and bad decisions ago:

    If you hurt the next morning, it was a hella good night.

*I don’t know what hella means; 

my guess is something incredibly profound or enlightening. 

I  also cannot verify that said frat boy 

wasn’t in fact the creepy, 50-year-old 

campus security guard.

 Ick. That life lesson was gross.   

    I am just here for the dairy, so I push a buggy past these Valentine’s rookies bidding them good fortune for all their sweet-hearted effort. I think to call Tom at that moment and leave a three-word message. “I love you” would be appropriate, I guess, but I was thinking something a little more along the lines of “You are welcome“. For years, I’ve high-fived myself for missing the Demanding Diva memo. My low-maintenance insistence that I could really not care less about the showy gestures of love I took to mean that I was doing my partner a favor. Every year, as stores stock shelves of pink and white goodies and flower prices skyrocket like a bad mortgage, I remind my most lovingest dude how blessed he is to have me (mostly for my modest and totally humble demeanor but also for a number of other great qualities). Despite his impressive understanding of my easy-to-please self, he still asks what I’d like as a token of his affections on this annual Day of Lovey Dovey. Clockwork. I recite the following monologue and wait for his all too gracious smile:

Flowers? How about you just hand me $50?

Jewelry? The only piece of jewelry I ever coveted was Susie Wilcox’s turtle-shaped mood ring in grade school. That snarky witch traded a 5th grader a Twinkie for the jewels one day at recess. Oh, what’s that have to do with Valentine’s Day? Nothing much, I guess. Just to say I’m not interested in bling unless it’s shaped like a reptile and will glow red when I’m pissy.

Whatever, Cartier. Can it tell me if I'm feeling "blue".

Candies? I’m eating healthier which is to say I’M STARVING. Come at me with some chocolate, and things are bound to end poorly. Possible outcomes: A) In a fit of hunger-rage, you’ll lose a thumb in the process of handing me said treats or B) I’ll have no choice but to assume you are a terrorist, forming sneaky plots to undermine my taut tummy with sugary sinfulness.

Cards? You love me like the fire of a thousand suns? Life with me is heaven? Images of rainbows and love birds and glitter worked into one greeting from Hallmark? That sounds like a wicked bad acid trip. Find me a card that says something real: Thanks for not making me sleep on the couch/ I just so happen to love stretchmarks/ Your snoring is sweet, sweet, wilderness music to my ears, Lady Bear.

Oh ick. Just ick.

That's more like it.

   Weeks ago, when Tom skirted around this issue of what the skirt of the house would like for Valentine’s Day, I jumped paragraph deep into the multiple reasons gifts are whack. Just as I finished Point XXVI and started in on my thesis statement on why loading the dishwasher is far superior to buying roses, I noticed a disappointed look on the sir’s face. All of these years I’d assured the poor mister he was the lucky one to have such a practical gal, I’d overlooked one major argument:

   Sometimes one can be so severely low-maintenance

that high-maintenance makes things look easy.

  In case you don’t follow scientific speech, I was the “one” in that little revelation. That flustered, sighing look in his eyes made one thing abundantly clear. He didn’t mind the $50 flowers, the sappy cards, the crowded store aisles, the effort. He wanted to do something nice for me, and by chopping all socially-acceptable gift ideas off at the knees,  I’d made his heartfelt gesture feel like a headache

   Love is compromise (and cards and roses and cookies shapes like hearts). So over the next few days I made an obnoxious number of mentions about my sudden and serious love of flowers, heart-patterened gift bags, and love sonnets saturated in magestic rainbow imagery. I would undo years of denouncing sweetheart gifts and throw the generous guy a bone. I would convince him to get me these somewhat stereotypical trinkets because it makes him glad to show his love for me. Quite frankly (and despite my crude frankness) I am gladder than glad to get that love.

   Just when I thought I’d sold him with genius lines like “Nothing makes my heart happier than carnations and bows and also mystery chocolates in cardboard boxes. Hint. Hint. HINT!”, he flipped the script on my anti-sappy self and announced that we would be doing something different for Valentine’s Day this year. Different? Different just when I told you Same Old was okay? Different like I’m going to have to wear a bra? Stay up late? Eat like a lady? I talked myself into a mushy, sugary sweet corner. There better not be violinists. I will get downright hostile if I see a dainty salad fork.

What do y'all mean you don't serve chicken nuggets? Why's this menu talkin' all un-American?

   Saturday night approached. I painted my nails. I fastened my bra. I spritzed on enough perfume to make myself sneeze and for the love of fancy, I wore tights. Tight, tight tights. As we pulled from the drive, Tom beamed with the pride of a man who’d outdone himself. I began to sweat. To my horror, his plans for the evening were enough for him to actually woo himself. I cursed myself for convincing the poor guy to go the roses-and-ridiculous route. I willed myself to suddenly love things that normal ladies love. I pleaded with myself to think Brad Pitt was dreamy and flower arrangements were significant and diamonds are my very best, best friend. I snapped the digging band of tights I had no business wearing, and said a silent, beggy prayer: Dear Funny Valentine, please don’t woo me. Don’t wine and dine. Don’t shmooze me. Here’s to hoping for a sap-less evening of arcade games. Here’s to hoping for the comfortable kind of love where we wear sweatpants and watch re-runs. Here’s to hop- God. Here’s just to hoping.

So I ran out of gift ideas. But I DID find some kid scissors and tissue paper.

    TO BE CONTINUED…

Check back tomorrow to see what The Dude’s big date involved. Three bucks says I ripped my tights and offended most of everybody in town!

What was your favorite Valentine’s gift/ date?

Are you so low-maintenance it hurts?

 {Warning: This post containts pics that will be disturbing to all living things. Viewer fleeing is advised. }

My working theory is that this is all somehow my mother’s fault, that perhaps I am genetically predispositioned for taking a perfectly pretty face and skewing the living daylights out of it on camera’s cue. I’ve also looked into the fact that I might be physically allergic to photographs and/or that when people were dishing out those aforementioned jokes about the terrible, horrible bee sting & paint chips scenario that they weren’t so much joking as giving me an detailed oral history of my infancy. Whatever the origin, I just can’t seem to act normal in life and especially on film.

Other than family photo albums in which I am an ever-present, never-seen Ghost Mom, this whole unphotogenic mess hasn’t been so much of a big deal. I am happy not to be photographed and so are my XL paint-stained sweatpants, thank you very much. But as wedding plans began to bloom last Spring, I was forced to face my fears and acknowledge the terrifying truth: Weddings need photographers. Photographers, from what I’ve heard, take photos. I forged ahead, busying myself with thoughts of reader-led wedding votes,  invitations and color schemes, cocktails and catering menus, anything to keep from dealing with the unfortunate fact of the matter. It’s hard to duck from the camera when you’re wearing a giant white dress and when you are one-half of the whole point of the whole day. So, I’ve spent quite a bit of time training my face not to twist, my tongue not to stick out, my eyes not to cross. I’ve spent even more time looking for a photographer who could take this goofy mug and manage to make some beautiful wedding photos.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Months ago, I wrote a little post about being a broke budget bride. While wedding professionals rolled their little eyes at our modest wedding fund, my sweet blog readers swooped in to assure me that a little creativity goes a long, long, cheap, long way. More than a few of you offered tips for slimming costs and finding affordable wedding professionals. More than two of you gave the brilliant idea of searching sites like Craigslist or contacting local Art & Design schools. If I’ve learned anything it is that Craigslist is awash with spammer robots and female “companions” of questionable character, but that as out-of-the-box as you Bloggy Wedding planners seem to be, you are always, always right.

I scanned through a few Craigslist ads for Work From Home “companies” who would need just a $100 check and my social security number to put me on the path to personal wealth. One guy tried to sell me a truck motor while another lady e-mailed to tell me I should take her Exotic Oils Foot Rubs seriously. I was beginning to lose faith in Craig and his list when a post for a professional photographer caught my eye.

I contacted Celi Mosley, and to my delight my computer wasn’t swarmed with killer viruses. I soon learned that in addition to not spamming people, Celi also counts painter,blogger, fashion/wedding photographer, Swede, and wife of a rockstar as talents. Svenska när jag har drabbat jackpot! {Swedish Meatballs! I have hit the jackpot!}

Celi made a 2010 move from her native Sweden to Music City, and my photo-dysfunctional face rejoices that she remembered to pack her camera skills in a carry-on. Celi Mosley Photography & Media takes a “modern mixed with country & bohemic” style and creates stunning images. Immediately I felt a glimmer of hope that for once, just maybe, I could be stunning, more shockingly beautiful than shockingly sticking my tongue to my nose. Surely a woman whose artistic eye can create ethereal woodsy shots and slick modern editorials could take THIS…

And turn it into THIS:

It seems whatever this Swede touched turned to picture gold. I contemplated asking her to rub my head, but settled instead for trusting her Photoshop abilities. Celi has managed to capture the pretty in every nook and cranny of Nashville: from pageant shots to detailed capturings of wedding decor, runway fashions to sweet bride and groom pics. I instantly appreciated how many different styles and looks one very creative photographer could master.

I instantly high-fived the universe when I learned that Celi, despite her five-star fancy services, offers unbeatable pricing. Whereas a majority of professional photographers offer high-priced packaged services, Celi takes a more flexible approach and adjusts according to a customer’s budget. Learning of my bags-o-pennies budget, Celi was able to customize to suit our needs and personalities. {Note: Accomodating my personality is a feat deserving of a medal of honor}. Good news for other Nashville Almost-Brides, Celi is now booking for 2012-2013 events. If you too suffer from the eye-blinking, nose-snorting, teeth-baring debilitating photo disorder or even if you’ve got an all around normal face, I recommend you give Celi a call to capture your little Big Day!

As I work with the talented Celi Mosley to fix my prettiest ugly face conundrum, I’ll turn the wedding planning over to you crazy clever kids.

Clearly Celi has the picture-taking thing down pat, but what picture are you just dying to see?

Want me to see the bridal party spell out a human word? Want the bride and groom to jay walk across Broadway? Who wouldn’t want to see the lucky pic of my mom attempting to dance all bootylicious like?

Leave your double dog dare suggestion for a posed wedding photo below! The winner receives a special prize. The rest of you still get to see some humiliating something forever captured on film. You know as they say in Sweden, “Vi är alla så vinna hela tiden”. Tis true, young Swedes:

We are all so winning all the time.

A big thanks to the fantastic Celi Mosley for being a part of this circus of a wedding. Be sure to show her some bloggy love by checking out her blog, and if this Friday finds you really feeling lovey, click to be Celi’s friend on Facebook!

*Cannot be held accountable if my Swedish

translates to terribly inaccurate

or otherwise offensive English.

Internet translators? They be sketchy.

UNTIL. NOW.

I chose the path of Foster Mother for a few hundred yards of fortunate ones: Satin, Plaid, Wired, Toile, and even that rough-and-tumble Burlap despite his tough exterior and behavioral issues. I would love these ribbons as if they were my one. They are my own, as I paid a good $3 per roll. I deemed myself a bit of a modern-day, foul-mouthed, too-tall Mother Teresa to these homeless trims, giving them the coziest corner of my closet to rest in, letting them out for bow-tying exercise, and occasionally telling one or all of them just how cute they are to me. I was saving ribbon lives, but I couldn’t do it alone.

I assured these wide-eyed ribbons of their bright future. I did my best to encourage them to seek higher education, and know their worth beyond the depths of a bargain bin. They could look forward to working hard and one day, one day, one day in April like maybe the 14th of this year which just so happens to be my wedding day, each strand of shiny string would be celebrated for his or her efforts. No longer an orphan ribbon. No longer alone. They’d work hand-in-hand for progress of decorative-hemkind.

My plan for the ribbons’ Glory Day was to craft a ribbon wall for our upcoming wedding. Floor to ceiling lovely is what it would be. We’d use the colorful display as a funky alternative to a guest book, and you- readers and supreme planners of the little Big Day- would send in a little love in the form of notes, doodles, lyrics, cash money (that last one was a joke… unless you thought I was serious… in which case please make all checks payable to Ribbon House Of Hope/ Tori Nelson/ Me). We’d call it a Wonder Wall, and with the special added touch of your personalized cards it would in fact be something wonderful.

ribbon wall: does not come with hipster guitarist

Ribbons rejoiced atop my shelf as they finally found their purpose in life. I checked my empty PO Box every week just sure that this Tuesday or that Thursday would be the day your letters arrived. A few lovely letters trickled in and then, heartbreakingly, nothing. It might occur to someone in this situation to perhaps remind her very busy readers of their philanthropic duties to young, orphan ribbons of America. This would be the simple solution. So I veered wildly the other way, instead devoting many days and even minutes to orchestration the greatest guilt party this world has ever seen. Taking a cue from a plethora of sad, sad, shame-gagging ad campaigns I’d cried over in the last day, I would put together a solemn, gut-wrenching commercial that made PETA’s pictures of dead baby seals look like a tea party.

Starting small, I attempted to wrap my son in ribbon and begged him to frown. He is a fast and furiously happy little sucker, and what resulted was a mess of ribbon twirling through a play room accented by joyous giggles. He was a mummified Katy Perry. He was far too cute to portray the angst of forgotten spools. It might occur to one to give up the PSA plan and opt for a quick-and-easy reminder post. It might not occur to one. Onward to sadder pastures…

I decided to create a video montage chronicling famous orphans and the horrible lives they go on lead. The most prominent child peering up at me from the Google search screen was this flame-faced little missy.

Your life is horrendous. Stop smiling at me, Annie.

I tried to remind her that her parents were gone, but she just kept up with all the smiling and the tap dancing. She was even cuter than Katy Perry’s ribbon-wrapped mummy. I was infuriated. It might occur to one to trade this tricky ribbon orphan cause for a short blog post to remind readers to send in their submissions and save a ribbon’s life. It might not occur to one. I pulled out the big guns and reached for my I HEART ALL DOGS CUZ I AM SUCH A DOG PERSON shirt and got to dialing.

I called Sara McLachlan’s publicist. I’d cursed her angelic whisper singing for years as those slow-motion, sad-dog ASPCA ads had forced me to cry against my will. No one could turn tears into charitable contributions like Miss Lilith Fair. She was just the kind-hearted soul I needed to help save these victims of ribbon neglect. I was on hold for 2 hours and 36 Sara McLachlan tracks on repeat like heavenly elevator music. I was more fascinated than peeved as I knew of only three of her hits. One hundred and twenty minutes later, I was humming the Lil Wayne rap remix of “Sweet Surrender” and having a hard time remembering why I’d called. Her publicist answered, gave a quick rejection statement and explanation that Sara was far too busy with one-eyed cats, three-legged dogs, and hairy-arm-pitted alternative rock fans of the world. It might occur to one to scrap the idea and settle for a reminder to send in your notes to help clothe the shivering, naked ribbon orphans of Tennessee. It might not occur to one. To the United States Postal Service of The United States!

I lugged a bag of unruly ribbons into the local post office. Approaching the first, crisp blue uniform I spotted, I mimicked the door-to-door religious philanthropists who’d beaten my doorbell into submission the day before. I would speak loudly and quickly so as to get the message of the damnation awaiting those souls estranged from Jesus the eternal misery of a ribbon left unloved across. I was on the fifth point in my speech before the kind postal professional had so much as stopped helping the customer ahead of me: ”For the low, low cost of 49 cents or whatever a stamp costs, you CAN make a difference. Every day this PO Box is one step closer to death by starvation. These beautiful ribbons are forced into a life of bedazzled pageantry, beaten mercilessly by three-year-old pageant princesses doped up on Pixie Sticks and spray tan fumes. Find it in your heart to give this infant-sized mail cubicle a warm meal and give these helpless ribbons a warm place to hang”. I was just about to ask him if I could draw a bony rib cage across my sad PO Box, you know, for a powerful visual plea, when the interrupted customer asked me if I was a single parent and how stable on a scale of 1 to 10 was the boy’s father and then he left to make a call. From behind a mask of pearl and red plaid ribbon, my toddler mewed like a cat and asked for a juice cup. The postman, no doubt appalled by the first customer’s dismissal of my important cause, rubbed his brow and shook his head. “Total jerk, right? I bet he hates dogs,” I commiserated with the employee. Flustered he asked my box number. I gave it to him, excited at all this progress my plan was about to make. He tossed me a key and gave me a flippant hand. It might occur to one that the postman heard nothing of the seven-and-a-half minute lecture and just wanted to get me out-of-the-way. And for once, one and I were the same. It DID finally occur to me that this plan, this sad, sad song-and-dance (STOP DANCING, ANNIE!) to shame you all into giving a little love and tenderness to the ribbon mess would not work. I’d have to go home, look that mountain of ribbon in the cardboard price tag and settle for a simple, beggy post.

I grabbed the tiny ribbon mummy’s hand. We made our way to what would surely be the growling, empty stomach of a hollow PO Tomb. An envelope. A box. I blinked and thought for a moment how lucky this was. I’d managed to break into someone else’s PO Box by accident, and it held some treasure. To my surprise the goodies were addressed to me. I was delighted in that disappointed kind of way. Two brilliant reader submissions managed to fix my problem and ruin my lonely ribbon argument in one fell swoop.

happy ribbon iz happy.

All that research, all the Sara McLachlan lounge music, all that campaigning in the post office, all that public concern for the welfare of my child. You, dear readers, wasted a perfectly depressing commercial opportunity, all while doing exactly what I’d asked of you AND letting some discounted discount-priced ribbon feel wanted.

The gorgeous and clever Christy from The Daily Dish sent in this perfectly accurate quote on marriage from George Burns:

” Do you know what it means to come home at night to a woman who’ll give you a little love, a little affection, a little tenderness?

It means you’re in the wrong house, that’s what it means.”

www.thedailydish.wordpress.com

Everyone knows the way to my heart is through my liver, and Andra Watkins of The Accidental Cootchie Mama sent me nothing short of a heartsong. Homemade hooch for the hoochie. Yes, the lady made me moonshine: “May the sun, moon, and stars shine on your union”.

www.andrawatkins.com

So this morning, I’m adding a little moonshine to my coffee, Sara McLachlan is still busy, some lady from Children’s Protective Services keeps blowing up my phone, and I’m writing a simple post to remind the  rest of you charitable hearts to do the right thing. Give a PO Box a snack. Give ribbon a chance.

To decorate my wedding save some toile or plaid or even polka-dotted victim, please send your Wonder Wall submission to:

Miss Tori “Hannigan” Nelson

PO BOX 11241

Jackson, TN

38308

]]> http://torinelson.wordpress.com/2012/02/09/sara-mclachlan-loves-one-eyed-cats-other-reasons-my-plans-went-to-hell-in-a-ribbon-basket/feed/ 24 torinelson january12 001 imagesCAQQNX4H annie sarah_mclachlan_aspca january12 002 january12 003 january12 020 carol burnett annie http://torinelson.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/the-best-bad-mom/ http://torinelson.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/the-best-bad-mom/#comments Tue, 07 Feb 2012 01:35:00 +0000 Tori Nelson http://torinelson.wordpress.com/?p=3799 ]]>    I read a book once. It was all downhill from there.

  When a little plastic stick told me a baby was on the way, I gave that solid pink line a fake smile and swallowed some panic. This would be the first of many improvisations as a mother to be followed by a steady pace of acting the part. I researched the role of Mom, reading every last word of every last parenting book I could get my swollen hands on. I learned what to expect (the unexpected), how to origami hog tie my bundle of joy (the artful swaddle), and even devoted one horrifying evening to paragraphs on how to nurse my down and out post-labor vagina bits back to health (kegel party…not unlike but totally unlike a keg party).  I  spent nine months memorizing these lines just as I’d studied textbooks as a child. I would ace this test and look to the proud new papa to supply a golden star sticker for my scholarly efforts.

And true to books’ accounts of human gestational periods, 40 weeks later a son was born. I was content to play this part, I decided. I was calm. I was educated. I was the boss of this motherhood deal. I was just about to give the room a tutorial on my boobs and how they can feed folks when the devil entered and wrecked the world. She claimed to be the hospital’s Lactation Specialist. As I muffled giggles at what a doozy of a job that had to be, she showed me there was nothing to laugh about. This Ice Queen in sheep’s scrubs slapped a frigid hand atop my bosom and pinched. Frozen Fire! I shot wide eyes at her, unsure of what I’d done to deserve such fresh a hell and also worried that I’d skipped a chapter on What To Expect When You’re Not Expecting A Stranger Nurse To Tweek Your Lady Lumps. Without ever taking her gaze from my milk jugs, this cold stranger calmly stated what two years and one toddler later I know to be the truest of parenting truths.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

A woman asked why I would supplement my infant’s diet of breast milk with powdered formula. I read an article to be sure a few ounces of fake juice wouldn’t hurt the hefty boy. A relative insisted sleep training my son would cause boat loads of harm to his development down the road. I read three books, two magazines, and one doctor’s letter to be sure my kid wouldn’t start killing people and kicking puppies as a result of letting him cry at bedtime. A friend insisted I only feed the young dude organic, steam-cleaned tofu something-or-another. I spent a day or five in the library to ensure that once-in-a-while meal of mac-n-cheese wouldn’t cause the child to grow a tail. Homeschooled kids are better testers. Well-dressed Gap babies learn early on to make better first impressions than, say, small humans clad in discount duds. Children who play an instrument, speak a foreign language, and perfect circus tricks are much more likely to avoid a life of crime. And as I most recently discovered after reading Dr. Shefali Tsabary’s The Conscious Parent, Shefali is a silly name, and children raised by highly engaged parents are scientifically proven to be 104.26% more successful individuals than those kids largely ignored by Mom and Pop. The doctor explains that when parents dedicate pure and singularly focused attention on their little ones, said younglings will become well-rounded, secure, and generally happy people. On the flip side, parents who are often distracted, flustered, and otherwise absent can lead to children developing behavioral issues. While I couldn’t stomach spending $50 for a mini pair of designer skinny jeans or serving my kid a bland and boring plate of cardboard tofu for a snack, the idea of being a more active presence in my child’s day didn’t seem so out of the box. I would win Hands-On Parenting, I vowed. I would win Mom.

As a stay-at-home parent, my days were already focused around the smallest, soggy-drawered man of the house. If I wanted to truly dominate this interactive mompetition, I’d have to take it up a notch:

- I used his tiny toothbrush in an effort to bond. He spit and mumbled “icky”. I like to think this was his incoherent sign of approval of my tartar-controlled show of solidarity.

- I get particularly hands-on at meal time. More specifically, I like to interact with his Happy Meal to show him that even this mama’s taste buds are in sync with his. Su McNugget es mi McNugget… err something like that.

- Story Time for the supremely cohesive mom & tot crew is a joy. Ever the gracious one, I insist he read his favorite books instead of listening to my boring, old tale-telling. As he cannot speak English, I observe as he picks his nose and reads silently. Dr. Shefali’s book promised brilliance, and despite the boogers and upside-down books, I just know we are getting there.

- Seeing eye to eye with a toddler is tricky, mostly because I am a solid six feet tall. So this hands-on mom got knees-on and spent one sunny Monday shuffling around on some halves of legs. The pint-sized precious thought this newest parenting trick a hoot for a few hours. He mimicked my broken gait and crawled about on his knees as well. To accommodate his shrinking I broke myself down to upper thighs and elbows and slid about like a fine, young Army recruit. But he copied as copy-cats do and slithered on his tiny arms. By noon we both flopped flat on our bellies unsure of the next logical step. Not to mention we’d yet to check the mail.

- Against all medical studies and parenting advice, I let my child watch TV. I remedy this alleged shortcoming by interacting the hell out of those colorful cartoons. Defying all sense of pride and rhythm, I make a point to participate in wild-armed, loud-voiced song-and-dance routines, joining the choir of limber Disney characters and encouraging my son to do the same. He sits still and staring at the floor most days with a demeanor some might mark as severe shame. I like to think he’s studying the art of The Hot Dog Dance.

- We aren’t your average couch potatoes, though, and some days stray from the sofa long enough for some lively, outdoor rumpus. To prove myself the ultimate interactive parent, I shove my person into wonderfully compromising positions for the sake of playtime. There is no Tonka truck I will not zoom, no puzzle I will not solve, no tunnel I will not squeeze through to show this boy his mom is all about some hands and putting them on his toys.

Rollin' with the homies, naturally.

- So apparently the kid hates sharing his toys, and quickly begs to play the tantrum game. I oblige, matching his screams and wailing until we are both so engaged and interacting with decibels and fury, and I finally let him when we gets red in the face or cries or both. That, parents, is dedication.

- I, the much improved maternal robot, took to napping when he napped in the afternoon. I’d like to say I read somewhere that babies can sense a mother’s moral support three rooms and two levels of deep sleep away, but mostly all this hands-on activity just wore me out.

Cribs have so-called "weight limits". Ask me how I know.

- The rubber ducky, aptly named Dub Rucky, hijacks a neon race car and sends it flying into a sailboat just as the vessel capsizes from striking the massive tip of a wash cloth. I swirl my arms through the soapy water, showing my sudsy son how on my hands are by orchestrating elaborate toy scenarios. He shrugs, ready for the lights and my hands to shut off, yawning towards bed. He lathers and rinses his own hair. Repeats. Best not to interrupt the mama when she’s interactive parenting.

   Weeks of extreme hands-on parenting was exhausting. I was annoying myself and spilling obnoxious onto everyone else like a bottle with a busted nipple. Busted nipple. I found solace in this thought one night, two years and millions of failures after my first night as a mother.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

This nurse, this stranger, she clamped my nipples with her frosty hands. I shot beggy eyes at her, silently pleading for her to go easy on me with the harsh words and harsher grip. I began to cry on mute, unsure if the titty twister or the imminent threat of bad news opened the flood gates. I held my son, a boy I had grown forever but only just met. She held my boob, a dry well  which she seemed to be all too familiar with. I cried. She gave an exasperated humph and shook her head. I cried. She palmed my other boob and this newer, more arid blob seemed to infuriate her. I cried. It was the shame in finding you are so horribly lost when you could’ve sworn you knew the way. And as I wept tears flowed onto my chest cradled by a stranger. Perhaps the kindest words she could muster that night remind me today of why in life and parenting sometimes oblivious-&-winging-it is the absolute right wrong place to be:

“Ugh. You’re doing it all wrong. At least you’re trying, I guess.”

Cupcakes for breakfast? That's definitely in a parenting book somewhere. Definitely.

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