A Break from WoTCII: Halloween Verklempt

Parents, be aware that you will take a picture of your children tonight before they go out to trick-or-treat, and you will wake up tomorrow and both of the bees will be married and the bunny and jack-o'-lantern will be adults with actual jobs and 401k plans.

And you will be delighted that you don't have to come up with costumes, but you'll kind of be a little verklempt. 

Eat some therapeutic chocolate. You deserve it.

Wedding of the Century Part Deux: The Head

Oh, you lovelies! So, so, so kind about That Dress, and about the way it made me feel. Enough of you commented about my inner and outer beauty that when I came across this shot on my phone I could only assume you were basing your judgment on scans of my lovely pancreas.

Because look at that face.

That is the face of a mmphty-plus-years-old person in the hairdresser chair of the bridal suite, surrounded by lovely young things who honestly take your breath away with their fresh faces and thick, waist-length hair. At the age of mmphty-plus everything above the neck is pretty much interlocking wrinkles and aspiration. (Okay, fine. So is everything below the neck but I avoid looking at that part in  the mirror.)

The Mother of the Bride, who may be the kindest person I've ever met, invited me to participate in the gussying-up morning of the wedding, a session that included both a hairdresser and a make-up artist. This is the first time, ever, in my life, I've had that kind of simultaneous pampering. I've had my fabulous barber doing stellar work with my hair for decades, because when your hair has the texture of cotton candy you'd jolly well better have some stellar work being done or invest in a lot of hats. And I had avoided sunbathing because ick, sweaty and buggy, so my skin is fairly well preserved for mmphty-plus. But hair and make-up at the same time? Nope. Never.

When I slid into the hairdresser chair right after the attendant with the most beautiful red hair I've ever seen, I'm sure Hairdresser Ashley sighed a deep inner sigh and perhaps even had the thought I've imputed to her in the thought bubble above.

"I want to look like I always look, but better," I told her, ignoring the fact that I'd met her four seconds earlier and she had no idea how I usually looked. "I just want to avoid looking like Minnie Pearl showing up at the Grand Ol' Opry." Also ignoring that she was way to young to get that reference, but whatever.

Twenty minutes later she had--well, I'm not sure what she had done but I loved it. My head was tousled and fluffed so artfully that it looked as if I'd slept on a fancy pillow in the most wonderful way and just jumped out of bed to go to a wedding.

But that face. Oof. As I got into the  make-up chair, I was fervently wishing I could turn back the clock and moisturize faithfully for a couple of decades.

Fortunately, make-up artists don't become make-up artists just because they like Halloween. Or maybe they do, but they pick up a few tricks to disguise the passing of years. My own make-up regimen takes a flat two minutes from the time I slap on the Oil of Olay and a dab of tinted moisturizer to the time I've put  the cap back on the mascara wand. This session took a flat 40 minutes and a full tackle box of age-defying potions.

I had brought Lovely Girl#1 with me as my security blanket--"You're responsible for making sure I don't do anything dumb," I told her. "If I ask for a cat-eye eyeliner or some kind of fake tattoo, you have to override me."

Maker-upper Jessica was soothing and chatty, complimenting me on my skin (thanks, Mom, for the good genes) and eyebrows. (Hahaha! I know! This blog is built on a solid foundation of my complaints about my eyebrows.)

Anyway, she was almost done when she said the magic words that may have changed my life:

"How do you feel about fake eyelashes?"

I...had no words. Me? In fake eyelashes?

"We don't have to do a full strip--I could just add a few to pump up your natural lashes." And she held out a box of individual lashes. They looked like spider's legs. "Really, it wouldn't feel heavy and it would look great."

I could practically hear Professor Harold Hill singing about trouble in River City and the first big step on the road to de-gra-day... And yet..

"Here, let me try it on one eye, and if you don't like it, I'll take them off." Jessica dabbed a lash in glue and set it on top of my own lashes. It felt strange, but not painful and strangely light. She added another, and another, six in all, and I was sure I was looking like this:

via GIPHY

I turned to my security person and Lovely Girl both yelped and gasped. My immediate reaction was that it looked as bad as I had feared, but she was grinning.

"You have got to do that. Seriously, you have to."

And that's why I spent the day of WotCII with false eyelashes,batting them every which way and enjoying the breeze. It was fun, and when I washed my face with hot water later and saw those spider legs crawling down my face and disappearing into the drain, there was a moment of regret.

It was fun to be pampered in a manner worthy of That Dress, and to remember that I'm simply a female female with my eyelashes all in  curls.

Blah blah blah more sexist lyrics, but I enjoyed being a girl.

Wedding of the Century Part Deux: That Dress

The dress, with bonus look at fancy hotel room

I've remarked before that the Mother of the Groom has a wonderfully easy ride when it comes to wedding planning. With the heavy lifting of wedding planning done by the bride and her family, the MoG's most important work was done 30 years ago (see also: big-headed babies) so it frees up brain space for obsessing on the one thing friends ask about, over and over:

What was I going to wear?

Oh, dear reader(s). If only you know how much mental energy I spent on this issue. On the one hand, it was much fun to have a good excuse to surf the 'net looking at beautiful dresses. On the other hand, wedding pictures are forever. Those "for better or worse" judgments also include the style choices of the wedding party as seen by future generations, and those choices can be either timeless or ridiculous.

As soon as Boy#2 and his Lovely Girl announced their intentions (or, ahem, perhaps before the announcement) I was scouring the interwebs for what I would wear to the WotCII. The Mother of the Bride and I commiserated during the search--she called it one of Dante's circles of hell, and I could not dispute the description. If you are in a similar search, I'm holding up a fist in solidarity because this path is fraught with brambles, and those brambles are sequined, chiffon-ed, and cellulite-revealing.

 In my case the search was even more difficult because I loved my first MoG dress. I can recall feeling absolutely beautiful only two times in my life--the day I got married, and the day our oldest Boy was married--and in both cases this was partly because I loved my dress.

With six months to go until the wedding I already had five different outfits hanging on the guest room closet door. Each of them was...okay. One was a muted version of the first Wedding of the Century's choice. Another was lavender and sequined, so...not so much me, but time was ticking toward October with no dress love in sight.

Finally my barber suggested I try one of the fanciest stores in nearby Big City. I had assumed it would be out of my price range but she'd found her own MoG dress there, so I took a deep breath and braved the upscale environment. I walked through racks of clothes normally chosen by women way above my social status and was already planning which department store I'd visit next when I saw it:

That dress.

Hanging near the back of the store was a floor-length ball gown with a form-fitting black bodice and absurdly huge roses on its full skirt. And it was in my budget range.

I carried it into the rose-carpeted dressing room and Dianne the saleslady slipped it over my head. I gasped. It felt exactly right--heavy-skirted, posture-enhancing, no sequins in sight. 

Except that it wasn't exactly right. It was sleeveless, and I am not in the minuscule percentage of women who can wear sleeveless dresses at mmmmphty years old. Every look in the mirror reminds of Garrison Keillor's names for his third-grade teacher's upper arms--Hoppy and Bob.

"Oh, I love it, but I can't do sleeveless," I told Dianne sadly.

Never have I seen a sales person move more quickly. She zipped back onto the sales floor and within 10 seconds was back with a filmy chiffon jacket. It was perfect.

I walked out to where Husband was waiting in the show room, and I'm pretty sure he was only looking at my face when he said "Is this the one? Yes? Then I can tell you that lavender and sequins are not you."

I don't have a good way to wrap up this post that doesn't sound like I'm asking you to tell me whether you do or do not like this dress. (Black for a wedding can be a controversial choice.) I can only say that I now have three times in my life that I have felt absolutely beautiful. Happiness can do that for you, but it doesn't hurt to have a dress you really love.

This was that dress.


Next up on the WotCII chronicles: MAKE-UP! HAIR!

Wedding of the Century Part Deux: Chapter 2

Boy#3, Boy#1, Lovely Girl#1, Lovely Girl#2, Boy#2, MoG, FoG, Boy#4

This is the largest photo I have ever attached to a post in this site, and my apologies to Boy#4 for hiding his handsome face behind a description of his mother. No, I did not intend for it to take over the entire top half of your computer/iPad/phone screen, but once I had hit the wrong size button I realized that in some ways this little error was emblematic of the WotC: It was not exactly what I had anticipated but oh, how I loved it.

When they were growing up my mental picture of what our Boys' weddings would look like was heavily influenced by what Husband's and my wedding looked like--a nice little ceremony in a pretty church, with cake and punch in the church basement following. My brother and a dear friend sang our favorite songs, and my father-in-law officiated using the little black book he had used during decades in the pastorate.

Fast-forward 30-odd years to Oct. 13. I have not yet seen the videos of Boy#2 and Lovely Girl#2's wedding, but I'm suspecting they will be strongly reminiscent of this:



In so many ways our wedding was reminiscent of that other little party, from its setting in a gorgeous historic church to the Anglican ceremony to the throngs of people waiting outside the church doors. Okay, those crowds were not actually there for the wedding but for the book fair being held in the adjacent square, but not a person walked by who did not smile and call out congratulations during the pre-ceremony photography session.

The day had started out gray and misty, and at one lull during that photography Lovely Girl#1 and I ducked into the National Public Radio tent to get out of the chill.

"Hey! Mother of the Groom!" one of the NPR workers called out. "Have you had anything to eat today?"

"Not much," I admitted.

"Here!" she said, thrusting a bag of potato chips into my hand. "You're going to need some energy. And take this, too!"

It's like she knew me: Chips and a  Stand With the Facts t-shirt from WBUR in Boston are my love language.

Even better than the spectacular setting and the kindness of the passersby, though, was the feeling in the air that all was perfect, just as it should be.

I had worried that our side of the aisle would be undermanned. The distance from Kansas, the expense of travel, even the unexpected hospitalization of my father (he's doing fine but was deeply disappointed that he couldn't travel) meant only two rows had to be reserved for the groom's family.

But wedding magic is real. The same joy that was sealing the marriage of our son to his beloved was weaving together the families and friends, and there was no "us and them," only "us."

Tomorrow (or soon, depending on computer access that has been spotty during my writing hours), I'll start writing about the things you've asked about. My dress, which I know is what you're really waiting for. The best moments. The groom-and-mother dance that almost was danced to what would have been the creepiest symbolism ever. My make-up, although I promise I will not post more than half a dozen pictures of that.

Almost none of it was exactly what I expected. Almost all of it was better.

Wedding of the Century Part Deux

When Boy#1 married Lovely Girl, I remember feeling a little sorry for his three brothers. She was so funny, so smart, so very kind--she was all the qualities we prize in the House on the Corner. And she clearly loved our Boy.

"The only thing that worries me," I told Husband, "is that she's setting the bar so high for other daughters-in-law."

And I continued to be a little concerned as the years passed. The bachelor brothers dated, although few of the young women reached the critical stage of meeting the rest of the raucous, nerdy, pun-loving crowd that grew up in the House on the Corner. Were our Boys looking for perfection that might not exist?

But then friends of Boy#2 decided he was not getting out nearly enough as a graduate student, and they signed him up for an account on a computer dating site. On the other end of the computer screen was M., a beautiful third-year medical student whose friends had done the same for her--and the two of them were a 99% match. They decided to meet; it was the first and last computer date for either of them.

I'm guessing Two fell in love within two sentences. He introduced himself  and asked how her day was going.

"It's going great!" she sighed happily, her eyes crinkling in a smile. "I just got a haircut!"

How could you not fall in love with that? Is that not the most wonderful, revealing, nerdy opening you've ever heard? Everything that followed was just added detail, but it turned out she was funny, smart, hard-working, and so very kind.

As the father of the bride explained to their wedding guests, he suspected right away that the two might have something special so he called his son (who was studying at the same university and had met Two) for a report. The brother described our son as kind and thoughtful and smart.

"What you have to realize," he explained, "is that he's just M. in a big-boy body."

Saturday afternoon, in a ceremony that was surreal in its beauty, our Boy#2 married his own Lovely Girl. As I witnessed their vows and saw the intense love with which they spoke about their new life together, I realized I had completely underestimated any new members that might join our family.

I've learned that while we value kindness and puns, we only require love. These women will not even be looking at the bar set by Lovely Girl#1: They are setting their own bars.

Welcome to the family, Lovely Girl#2. You are perfect.

My Best Marriage Advice

Another picture of my nails! Lucky you!

So we here are at the gangplank waiting for the Queen Mary to sail. Our trunks are being carried aboard by burly stevedores and we're kiss-kissing the cheeks of family members who are seeing us off.

Not really, of course. What we are is frantically packing to get ready to leave today for the Wedding of the Century Part Deux, because we are so, so close to the big day. When I talked to Boy#2 Sunday I was able to remind him that it was only six more sleeps until the wedding. (He had already done that math, but he appreciated the sentiment.)

I had carefully planned these final few days, pacing myself so I wouldn't be ready too soon and have to sit around idly stewing. Yesterday's mani-pedi was the final checkmark on my to-do-at-home list before the final folding of the MoG dresses for carrying on the plane. Last evening was to be a few hours of quiet contemplation and knitting, maybe a bit of sentimental scribbling.

All was going well, in spite of the torrential rains that were falling outside. A brand new manicure was making me happy (I like the shellac nails so much better than the dip version that was my test run, and Nail Genius Kelly says they'll last at least until the weekend). I was knitting a new complicated-enough-to-be-fun lace project, and Midsomer Murders was on Netflix.

And then I heard it. The basement sump pump was cycling on. And off. And on. And off. And on. Etc., etc., etc., ad nauseum, because nauseum was my immediate response.

The House on the Corner is at the intersection of a big hill and one of Small Town's major drainage streets, and in truly torrential downpours, that street becomes a whitewater course. Twice in our 31 years of living in this house that whitewater has overwhelmed the storm drains, and the run-off knocks on our basement drain saying "Please, may we come in?" Then it does, with vigor.

Last night was the second of those times, so I guess the overall average of 15 years isn't bad. After all, the basement is unfinished concrete, and the water coming in is clean rain. The timing, though, was terrible.

Instead of quiet contemplation and sentimental scribbling, Husband and I spent the evening hooking up the auxiliary drain pump, using the shop vac to suck up gallons of overflow and schlepping it up the basement steps to dump outside. In the rain.

In the process I completely borked my new pedicure, tripping and stumbling on the steps so often that my left big toe was shredded and the I'm Not Really a Waitress red polish was destroyed.

But do you know what? Husband is a total rock star in situations like this. He'd been at a school board meeting when I heard the ominous rumbling from below, and even though he's board president he turned over the meeting to the vice president and came home when I called because he heard panic in my voice. Then he handed me gloves to preserve my manicure, and took the heavy side of the rain-filled shop vac on every trip.

Then he said "I have a plan--" and explained how he'd set his alarm for every two hours to make sure the pump was keeping up with inflow, and I went to bed and got a good night of sleep. This morning a dear friend heard about our predicament and offered to babysit our basement while we're away, an offer that made me cry at how blessed we are by our people. The plumber, even as I write this, is in the basement fixing the problem.

And that, Boy#2, leads to the best advice I can give you as you start your marriage. When what you have planned does not go according to your script (and that will be more often than not), be the kind of husband your father has been. Recognize panic in her voice, even if she doesn't say she's panicked. Carry the heavy end of the shop vac. Make good friends. And tell your Lovely Girl that you've blocked out time for her to get her toes repaired, even if she decides she'd rather just wear closed-toe shoes.

We love you, and we'll see you tomorrow!

Following Up to a Gushing Endorsement

via GIPHY


Oh, my gosh, guys!

Truly, I did not post the picture of my stripey eShakti dress yesterday just so you could flatter me and tell me pretty things and make me smile and blush all day long. No, that was just a wonderful side effect, but I could not be more grateful to each and every one of you. I've been kind of rage-y in the past week, and this was a wonderful antidote.

Seriously, have I told you lately how lovely you are? You are lovely and I am humbled that you are my friends.

But a couple of details I realized later I had omitted:

1. This is not the MoG rehearsal dinner dress. This was the starter dress I bought in May to see if eShakti was a scam. It was not, and I loved this dress so much I wore it at every opportunity during the summer and (gauchely) after Labor Day. Because I love it.

2. The MoG dress is much more appropriately fall-ish, and I also love it to distraction. Pictures will follow in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS!  Woohoo! Wedding ahoy!

3. Yesterday's post was not sponsored except by my own strongly-held opinions. eShakti is not paying me, or at least not paying  me in anything other than what they would  pay anyone else who recommended them--a coupon code for potential customers, and a (smaller) coupon code for me. In fact, they do not know me at all except that they know every single one of my measurements, which, come to think of it, is more than anyone in the world knows about me except for my Husband. And my gynecologist. And the TSA screener in Boston last summer.

So because y'all made me feel so wonderful yesterday just because I posted a bad selfie of myself in a cute dress, I have a suggestion for the next few days:

The past week has been one that has filled people with rage for a variety of reasons. I am one of those people, and my reason may have been the same or different from your reason. Your lovely comments yesterday were quite literally soothing to my soul.

How about if you find another person, and compliment that person even if she/he isn't wearing a cute stripey dress or making a gushing endorsement? I intend to pass on the loveliness, and I hope you keep the chain going.

We're all in this together, and it could soothe all of our souls.

Caution: Gushing Endorsement Ahead

You can't imagine the wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth that accompanied posting this picture. I am the world's worst selfie-fyer. I mean, here I'm staring at my phone as if I am expecting some kind of terrible news to be revealed, and the streaky full-length mirror is original to House on the Corner (ca. 1927) and I have nothing on my feet except a summer sandal tan. Worst of all, the dress had been pulled from the shipping box two minutes earlier and I didn't even take the time to run a steamer over it before its digital immortalization.

That's what happens when I open a box from eShakti.

I mentioned in my last post that my MoG rehearsal dinner dress came from eShakti and the lovely Swistle asked for details on my experience. How do I describe it? Wonderful? Exciting? Fortifying?

Fortifying. Yes. That will do it. Ordering clothes from eShakti has made me feel stronger and more in control of my wardrobe. I'm no longer at the complete mercy of ready-mades.

As most of you know (Hi, most of you who are my friends and family in real life!) I am a plus-size girl. I have been a plus-size girl all of my life with a couple of momentary dips into regular sizes, and except for those few (very, very) brief moments, clothes shopping has been a decades-long  nightmare.

It wasn't just that for most of my life plus sizes didn't exist in regular stores. It's also that my top half and my lower half are two different sizes, by several numbers. I'm long in the leg and have assorted and sundry quirky body variations that combine to mean that as I reached adulthood I settled on almost exclusively wearing skirts and tops. No dresses for me.

But then a non-standard-sized columnist I follow mentioned that she had tried eShakti and liked it, so I clicked over and looked around. What I found was unlike anything I'd seen in clothing.

The short description is that this company custom makes a dress for you, based on your size or (if you're like me and don't have a standard size) based on your measurements. You can buy any of the dresses, skirts, pants, tops, etc., on their site and it doesn't matter if you're normally a size 0 or a size 36--it's available for you.

So I took a deep breath, pulled out a tape measure and started documenting every inch of my amplitude. Not just bust, waist, and hips--I measured from top of shoulder to waist, circumference of upper arm, bent arm from shoulder to wrist, hip to knee, etc., etc., etc.

And then I chose the cutest dress I could find on the site, entered a coupon code provided by another happy blogger, took another deep breath, and hit the order button. Then I waited to be disappointed.

People, when the dress arrived two weeks later and I pulled it on I almost cried. Do you know how seldom bigger women get to wear cute clothes? Oh, I usually think I look fine when I leave the house. But I never look cute. This dress is cute.

Straight out of the box, it fit well, which is also unheard of for oddly-sized women. The eShakti folks apparently know me and had thoughtfully provided some kind of undergarment that smoothed the drape of the skirt. The stripey dress was of a knit that was perfect summer weight--not clingy or see-through, but not hot. And the dress had POCKETS! (All of them do, unless you request that they not be included.) I LOVE POCKETS!

It's no wonder I immediately took a selfie to send to the enabler who provided my coupon code.

The biggest surprise is that the company does this magic at prices that are not custom-made prices. The base cost of most dresses is $50-ish. Customizing (using your own measurements rather than giving a standard size) adds $10, but is so, so worth it. Oh, and if you like a dress but want a different neckline or sleeve or length, you can change that, too. There are always sales and coupon codes available. All told, I think my first order cost something like $45.

And frankly, that was my one concern with the company. Was my dress being produced in a sweatshop that took advantage of its workers? An online review said this: "It’s true that eShakti manufactures most of its clothing overseas. Its largest production facility is in India. India, however, has fairly strict labor laws that match those of the international community. The laws in India are much more stringent than those in Bangladesh."

In the box with each of the dresses I've ordered has been a card thanking me for my business, and naming the women who worked on it--Kamlesh the pattern make, Shyam the cutter, Miraj the tailor, and Kunwar quality assurance. I like to think that my business is helping them make a living wage for their families.

If you don't like the dress you ordered (and I wasn't crazy about one I received) a postage-paid label is included so that it can be returned.

So, eShakti. All the thumbs I have enthusiastically up. Or they would be if I didn't have pockets.

Want a coupon code for $35 off your first purchase? I can hook you up, and get a slightly lesser code for my own next purchase. Just leave a comment here or message me on the Empty Nest Feathers Facebook page.

If I have not yet convinced you to take this plunge, I have only one final word:

Pockets.