Saturday, September 25, 2010


I have an idea for a new TLC show – MOBZILLA!

Everyone has seen the expected Bridezilla. The one going off on her bridesmaids for looking better than her. For not allowing them to color their hair or tan days before the wedding. Even those brides that insist the bridesmaids gain weight so that she, the bride, can be the skinniest.

Well, I have invented a new reality show, MOBZILLA. Yes, I am the mother of the bride that went ballistic.

It was bound to happen. Everyone kept commenting on how mellow and together I was through this last year. Calm, cool and collected, that’s me. Not really. I am the epitome of passive aggressive. The bride would make me angry; I would have a glass of wine and just not talk to her for the night. The groom would irritate me; I wouldn’t buy him beer for a few days. Just a few subtle ways of me dealing with my anger. Probably not the text book way of doing things, but it works for me.

What does this lead to? Let’s see, there are a lot of ways to describe it. Rivers run deep. Cold as ice. A disaster waiting to happen.

Well it happened. . .

And who should be the brunt of my explosion? My best friends.

A perfect wedding ceremony.

The flower girls made it down the aisle!

The bishop didn’t even mention eternal life or being sealed in the temple. Bonus!

The groom cried, priceless.

The bride panicked because she didn’t get her ring before the I do’s!

The untraditional Father-Daughter dance was beautifully executed.

Bar tab came in under budget.

So what went wrong?

The stupid flowers got thrown away. And who did I blame? My best friend. The one, who wrote a beautiful speech, spent countless hours sewing flower girl dresses, filling petal boxes, shopping for baseballs, getting me wine, holding my hand and encouraging me for the last year. And that is just the tip of the iceberg.

It was a few seconds in lapse of my judgment. Why cry over flowers that will die in a week? I didn’t. I cried over hurting my best friend’s feelings – all of them.

I have pictures of the flowers and that is what will last. Every bride tries to save her bouquet but in years it is thrown away. It is the memories that stay. That is what I forgot. No one cared that they got to take an arrangement home for a week. But they will all remember that I blew up for a split second.

It wasn’t just hurting my friend that gave me anxiety, it was the thought of the bridal bouquet that kept me up. On it was pinned the something borrowed: KyKy’s god-daughters baptism rosary that we had blessed by the Pope when we were in Rome and the something old: Kyky’s Great-Grandmother’s watch that her Great-Grandpa gave her grandmother on their wedding day. The same something old that my sister used on her wedding day. Things that only have meaning to us. Silly I suppose in the realm of things. Friendships are more important than objects aren’t they?

But I was the MOB. KyKy was texting me from her honeymoon to make sure I got her bouquet and the treasures off of it. How could I tell her it was gone for good? Compacted in the daily garbage?

To make you feel better . . . I dumpster dived! Knee deep! A very nice non-English speaking facilities man escorted me and Spermy down to the trash bins and together we tore through eight dumpsters. We found nothing but a lot of hotel room garbage. I mean nasty stuff. Dirty q-tips. Kleenex. Room Service. You get the idea. I stunk! Not sure my hands are clean yet! Where was Kir for those pictures?

Our good friend Ron proceeded to dive through several more, eventually finding THE flowers!

Scott, the hotel manager took charge of holding MOBzilla’s hand through the crisis. A reward was put out to find the bride’s bouquet.

Monday morning, 8 AM I received a call. It was Scott. “I have good news, I’m holding the bouquet!” He insisted on delivering it to my room.

Needless to say, the concierge, the bell desk, the check out guy and the valet all asked if we found the bouquet. I am the crazy mother of the bride. Not sure I wear it proudly.

I thank my friends for forgiving my selfishness. They did not deserve my tirade.

The bouquet, watch and rosary, are drying for the bride who knows nothing of the event.

It Takes a Village

Calm cool and collected . . . that was me. The epitome of the perfect mother of the bride. Not anxious. Not nervous. Why? Because my girls had my back.

They spent hours fussy cutting fabric to create perfection in a flower girl’s dress. The use of ninja sewing squares to insure precise mitered corners on custom sewn table runners. Toting steamers and irons up a canyon to eliminate press lines in provided linens. Climbing ladders to hang column wraps to disguise avalanche cement columns. Every detail covered, nothing left to worry about.

They were up to their elbows in rose petals stuffing Chinese take out boxes ‘til wee hours in the morning to shower the wedding party during the recessional. Meticulously pulling scissors to curl chartreuse ribbon on the handles while affixing the little programs. Making it all a party with glasses of wine. These are my friends, my best friends.

Who deserves friends like this? Ones willing to take the background as second string bridesmaids?

I’m not sure how I became so lucky as to have so many women love me. Do I deserve this? I’m not sure. For the last year all they have heard from me is wedding, wedding, wedding. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Yet they hold my hand, run to the fabric store or the sporting goods store, stay up late, lose time with their own loved ones and help me pull off the most perfect wedding ever.

The week before the wedding all they would say is list, list list. Give us your list of to do’s. Your job this week is to relax and enjoy your daughter and the joy of the weekend to come.

Incredibly, that is what I did. I had no worries. They took care of everything. The last minute details were divided amongst them. I got to go to dinner with my daughter and laugh and enjoy life. Hems were sewn. Linens were starched and pressed. Beautiful speeches were written. I slept without waking to terrors. I have great friends.

The day of the wedding they showed up in force to make sure my vision came to life. Friends from out of state hung pillar wraps. Husbands hauled outdoor heaters into place. Bridesmaid bras were sewn into place and priceless photos of the entire event were taken.

They say it takes a village . . . and the village rallied and came to my rescue.

Thank you to –

My second string bridesmaids:

Kel, Sandy, Mia & Kir

My second string groomsmen:

JD & Corey

Honorary Line:

Ron & Eileen!

The MOB has been MIA

As much as writing this blog was therapy, I ran out of brain capacity to keep it up. Between meetings with florists, bakers, photographers and alterations I completely lost all capability to do anything but wedding. My mind has still been running while I sleep with blog ideas and in my spare seconds I have written them, yet not posted. So now, it is time. The bride and groom are relaxing in Mexico. I am still having an anxiety attack now and then but am ready to share the events of the past year. Please forgive me for my laziness but realize that I was busy trying to be the best mother of the bride I could be.

It is in retrospect that I make these posts now.

Monday, March 15, 2010

My Little Pony Won’t Fit Through Airport Security

Have you heard that if you get a doctor’s note any animal can become a service animal? That is crazy. Of course it is, the new rule applies to the crazies that can’t cope without their dog, cat or yes, even miniature horse. Restaurants have to seat them, hotels give them turn down service and airlines are required to let them fly in the cabin.

Animal dependency is no longer confined to owning a purse dog.

What does this have to do with the wedding? Snowbird is up Little Cottonwood Canyon which is a watershed area meaning NO PETS ALLOWED. Fenway cannot attend the nuptials! That or just pay the $1000 fine if we get caught with him.

The idea of boarding Fen is very upsetting. Kyky is trying to convince me to seek psychiatric care and get him a service dog license. I refuse! Not because I don’t want my tiny man at the wedding but because I think the psychos that are doing this are ruining a system. Tadaki and his fellow CCI graduates have been through intense training and are incredible dogs. They have earned their certification and perform a valuable service for their companions. I hate these people that are making it hard for true service dogs to get on airplanes or into restaurants.

However . . . recent events have me thinking about joining the asylum.

My sleep pattern has changed in the last few months. I find myself waking up with clinched fists and a racing heart beat! Suddenly I can’t remember by usual psychedelic dreams. Sometimes when I wake up I wonder if I have a subconscious desire to take LSD. Instead I wake up with an overwhelming sense of panic and draw a complete blank to the dream that sent me there. I physically unfold my fingers, get a drink of water and try to get back to sleep.

I’m told I’m having sleep anxiety attacks. Great! Maybe I really do have a need to see a shrink.

Then Kyky noticed a new pattern. When Fenway sleeps over I don’t have these anxiety attacks. Instead of having night terrors, I have insane Fenway dreams.

SeaWorld introduces their newest Shamu trainers – Abihell and Fenway! Come see the world’s youngest Killer Whale trainer Abihell and her sidekick weiner dog Fenway. Yep, that is my dreams latest advertising campaign for SeaWorld. I went to see the show. The grand finale is the two of them surfing Shamu around the arena and splashing guests. Oh no! An accident. Fen fell off. And of course he is wrapped in a down comforter to keep him warm while working in the arctic waters. The down comforter takes on water and pulls him under! No worries, Baby Shamu to the rescue. Suddenly Fenway bursts to the surface on the nose of Baby Shamu and jumps back into place next to Abihell. The arena erupts and he waves his little paw as they finish the show.

Abihell loves this dream and constantly asks me to tell it over and over.

I’m hiking in Driggs, Idaho -- showing off the quaint little town to a few of my friends. This has to be a dream, I DON’T hike! We stop at the Targhee bar for a beer. OK, the dream is becoming more my style now. My guy friends have to go to the bathroom so Fenway and I wait out by the lockers for them. And who is there taking off his sneakers, why Michael Jordan of course. Fen jumps out of my arms and runs up to start kissing Michael’s legs. “Fenny get back here! No kisses! It is rude!” I was so embarrassed. My dog is licking the legs of a basketball God and he won’t stop. To my surprise, Michael tells me it is ok. Then he bends down and with his championship ring encrusted fingers lifts Fen up to his face. “Oh Fenway, you are so cute.” Michael then makes little googly kissy lips and lets my dog lick him all over his face. Next thing I know he is posing with my dog for a photo shoot. We chat a little about the NBA Finals between the Jazz and the Bulls and how I saw his last shot as #23.

The morning after this dream I had to Facebook my friend from Chicago to let him know that my weiner dog got to meet Michael Jordan and his haven’t! I’m pretty sure he tried to conjur up his own dream meeting between Michael and his dogs Zeplyn and Russell.

Fen is growling. He never growls in bed. He only growls and barks at things in the backyard. I roll over to see if I can figure out his problem, and there, standing at the bottom of my stairwell is a man dressed all in black. OMG, it is Richard Ramirez The Nightstalker! I can tell by his trademark tennis shoes! Holy crap! What am I going to do? There is no escaping my basement. Then all of a sudden Fenway transformed into a weiner dog version of Cujo. His teeth were enormous and his growl extra vicious. He stood in prairie dog stance and sort of reminded me of The Crane from Karate Kid. My dog was going to kick The Nightstalker’s ass! Richard Ramirez raised his pentagram tattooed hand to calm Cujo and whispered, “Holy Satan.” He then calmly and quietly backed his way up the stairs. Fen chased him out the back door while I called 911.

OK, maybe Fenway and I watch way too much Truecrime TV. But my 8lb dog chased off The Nightstalker!

I don’t need Valium or Prozac, I just need my dog to sleep with me and the anxiety attacks don’t happen. Kyky is calling to get me an appointment. Fenway might make it to the wedding after all. And I might have a custom made black satin straight jacket.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Blood and Wine!

Did you know that there is a cab called Gladiator?  It was a truly thumbs up moment at the liquor store today.  And the thumbs were saving me.

It has been quite a week.

A nineteen hour road trip to the middle of nowhere Montana with my mother.  Kyky is lucky that there will be a GOB at her wedding after that.  I truly wanted to throw her from the vehicle at ninety miles an hour several times over the course of the thousand mile trip.  She was an anxious, mean  and selfish passenger.  I was supposed to be greatful that she accompanied me.  It was too dangerous for me to go alone.  Really?  What would she have done for me if the car had broken down?  If I was attacked?  If I got lost?  Broken down - she would have told me to call my dad.  Attacked - I would have been murdered while in the process of trying to gather her oxygen stuff and prod her out of the way of danger.  Lost - really, isn't she always lost?  I'll be nice.  The couple of hours that she actually visited were kind of nice.  I still took a valium when I got home!  But the trip was well worth it.  I paid tribute to a woman most deserving of the life celebration her community and family honored her with.  And my best friend appreciated my being there, even if she didn't say it.

My dad's best friend passed away on Tuesday.  An awful death.  He was alone on a business trip and had a stroke.  The hotel staff found him twelve hours later after his wife made a distressed call looking for him.  My dad is on vacation in St. Maarten.  Unreachable to most.  Unable to make it to town for the services.  I am his ambassador.  I will send a card of condolences to John's widow.  Kyky and I will make the drive to Idaho for the services.  We are not my dad, but we can represent him.  It is important to him, and therefore, important to us.

Finally, though kind of trivial next to two deaths -- bridesmaid dress shopping!  Kyky can't think about bridesmaid dresses without overwhelming anxiety.  How much can she expect people to pay?  Should the Maid of Honor be dressed differently than the rest so she stands out?  Short?  Long?  Strapless?

Last night we found a great dress and at a good price.  Four out of five loved it and even said "I'll totally wear it again."  Silly saying.  Everyone knows they won't! The dress is like the jeans in the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.  It fits the busties as well as the less endowed.  It fits the bridesmaids blessed with height as well as the shorties.  The jock and the tree hugger both like it.  The future sister-in-laws liked the price and loved the pockets.  The only one with an issue -- the girl who doesn't like her legs.  The one desiring a full length gown rather than a sexy above the knee hem.

Problem solved -- just add a laser spider vein removal to the wedding budget and everyone is happy.

Stress, Stress, Stress.  How to escape?  It is Friday and that means a new episode of Spartacus.  An evening of tiny loin clothes and abs of steel.  A game of how many times can the word cock be used in a single hour.  And what would gladiator battles be without a glass or bottle of red wine?  A stop at the liquor store and my evening is perfect.  The week's stresses fade away just like the lovely Thracian's past.  The bottle of Gladiator Cab is fading away pretty nicely too.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Jerk Off Those Relief Society Arms!

I have insomnia.  Do you?  Do you find yourself watching those stupid weight loss and exercise infommercials in the middle of the night?

Obviously I have.  And the wedding and my appearance in my MOB dress has effected my common sense.  For the first time in my life I have wanted to order something from those fakies that only appear in your subconcious at 2 AM when you don't turn your TV off!

It is the Shake Weight.  Just the sight of it makes me giggle.  Can I really get rid of my arm flab and back fat by giving a simulated hand job for six minutes?

I bought it!

I have done my 6 minutes for the last few days.

I'm pretty sure a man who had a weak wife/partner invented this product.

Will my arms look like Michelle Obama's at the wedding?  Probably not.  But will I be able to break the Guiness Book of World Records for the longest hand job -- YES.

That accomplishment might actually get me a date for the wedding.  Please send all eligible bachelors my way!

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Sexy Time . . .

a foreign term to me. I got the guilty pleasure of having Kyky to myself 24/7 for her entire life. She was four years old before I sent her camping for a night with T. I had finals and couldn’t get away for the long weekend until Friday. T and Kyky had Friday off and were eager to get to the lake with everyone else. She packed her own little bag and was ready to load up in the bumpy truck for a night of fun and excitement, knowing that I would be there in time for lunch the following day. My parents gave me grief -- both telling me how she was probably crying herself to sleep. Talk about a guilt trip!

I drove into camp at Yuba the next day to find Kyky and T riding a wave runner and having a blast. T admitted that she had a few sniffles but he told her a story and she fell right asleep. It was a comfort to know that she loved him enough to be without me. It also made me think what life would be like if I had let Spermy in. Nah – T didn’t have legal rights. I could take her away at my discrestion. Greedy, I know. But I couldn’t imagine giving her up for more than a night every four years.

Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter – all mine. One year when I was dating Otis and I had to leave Kyky for a couple of hours to go to his parents’ house for Turkey dinner and it felt really lonely. Ky and I have spent her entire life together. Sure there have been a few long weekends apart. We’re not joined at the hip! The last couple of years she has shared her time with Stretch’s family over the holidays. It is nice. So far everything has worked out perfectly. Turkey morning is spent with the Stretches. No need for me to start cooking that damned bird at 4 AM! Christmas morning starts at our house. PJs all around!

So I have never had to share Kyky but now there is Fenway. Yes, Fenway, Kyky’s little Chi weenie. A tiny little wiener dog named after our beloved Fenway Franks. I bought him for her for Christmas last year. Her first dog. And don’t think I’m some mean mommy. She had bunnies and fish. Ky has just never been an animal lover!

Problem is, we both love Fen and think of him as ours! What am I going to do when she wants to move out with him! Who will make him scrambled eggs once a week to keep his coat shiny!? Who will buy him ridiculously priced clothing? Who will dip his chips? He doesn’t like tortilla or potato chips without dip! And Ky doesn’t know that he likes chunky salsa!

I guess joint custody is the answer to our dilemma. I’ve never tried this before but it works for my divorced friends. I’m figuring holidays won’t be a problem because Kyky and I spend those together. It is the rest of the year that is going to be tough. Currently I get my time when she doesn’t want him -- basically when she has a date, school or work.

Things are going to have to change though. I need a schedule. I need sleepovers. I need my time! This week has been our first test. Stretch’s parents are out of town and after the whole Grammy Dearest incident; Kyky has been living over there! She drops Fen off in the mornings when she has school. He has had two sleepovers when they have wanted to host Beer Pong tournaments. Nothing scheduled or documented though.

So I propose Sexy Time. That is what single moms call it. The time where your kids are away and you can have dates or just one night stands. It doesn’t matter. It is mom’s sexy time.

I want one night a week to spoon with Tiny. He is the best at curling up in the nook of my knees.

If I have a day of press checks, he is mine! He loves a nice drive in the car.

When I’m sick, he gets to be my nursemaid. No one else lies by my side and looks up to see if I’m ok every time I wiggle. If he could only get water and make soup he would be perfect.

Oh, and Sunday nights are a must. Those are our True Blood and red wine nights. He gets three little nips of wine and is the only one that loves vampire movies as much as I do. Well, besides Lost Boys. That one scared him under the covers.

The rest of the time will be my Sexy Time! Mama gets to be a MILF or whatever she wants time! Damn, I’m going to have to start dating. Sexy time cannot be spent on the couch!

Fen, we will work it out. Don’t worry. You won’t be hurt in this change of living situation! We all love you, just remember . . .

I know a tiny man,
He owns a weenie stand,
He sells most anything from hot dogs on down.

And in my future life,
I’ll be your tiny wife,
Fenway, we love our tiny man!