MOBzilla

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

Mama Needs a Free Hand!

We met with the first florist today -- he was great. Totally got the look and feel Kyky was going for and suggested beautiful autumn flowers that fell in her color scheme.

Then the oddest question when it came to MOB flowers. Did I want a traditional corsage? A wrist corsage? or a bouquet that I carried?

Traditional flowers pinned to my silk dress?! I would feel like a granny!

A wrist corsage? My dress would be safe from damage but I would feel like I was a prom.

Bouquet? I can't carry a bouquet! I need a free hand at all times to hold my glass of wine. But if both hands were full I wouldn't be able to hug, only do the little pat pat.

This is going to be a tough decision.

Grammy Dearest

Have you read The Almost Moon? The much anticipated third novel by Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones.

I remember how I anxiously awaited its arrival on the bookshelves. But it left me disappointed and unfulfilled. All my time waiting to read it and I was left with a very empty feeling . . . until today.

The novel is about a mother-daughter relationship and as I read it I thought of me and Kyky and I just couldn’t relate. I couldn’t imagine such a tumultuous relationship. That is until now. I should have been reading it with thoughts of my mother running through my head. She is the crazy mom that should be smothered, not me! I’m the murderous daughter, not Kyky! Now I’m thinking it might be one of my favorite books ever written!

Through the air vents I could hear screaming, then doors slamming, crying, more yelling. I couldn’t imagine what was going on upstairs but I knew I wanted to stay hidden in the sanctuary of my basement bear cave. You see, we all live together. Mostly, not happily, but dutifully. That is me and Kyky, not so much Gram. She thinks we are indebted to her; not the other way around. Anyway…

Straws finally broke on both ends – Kyky and Gram were at each other’s throats. Kyky locked herself in the bathroom, Gram picked the lock! Kyky ran down the stairs, Gram followed. A feud that has been brewing for weeks was finally boiling over!

Kyky can be a total bitch to Gram, but Gram usually/always deserves it. I should scold her and remind her to treat her eldress with respect. But how can you respect someone who is so self centered and never admits to being in the wrong? Someone who has to make everything about her, even this wedding?

Details about the fight are not really necessary for this story. Kyky left with her Elvis bag in tow, filled with enough clothes to be gone for days. Gram threw herself a pity party that no one else attended, no matter how many people she tried to invite. A typical end to their brawls.

So tonight I have been stuck with my pouting mother sitting on the couch by me. She keeps trying to carry on a conversation. A conversation that she always tries to bring back to how she was right and Kyky was a bitch no matter if we started talking about dinner or the weather. It always ends with Kyky in the wrong and her feelings being hurt.

I try all my normal diversion tactics to get her to retreat to her room. I made her watch the new Starzz Spartacus. A brilliant series full of blood, raunchy sex and beautiful half naked men in sandals and loin cloths – something she would hate! Way too vulgar and disgusting. But she stays. Her only comment is that the barbarians don’t dress very warm for the snowy weather they are battling in.

I play fetch with Fenway who she despises and I get him all riled up, growling and running around out of control. She grabs the damn toy and joins in!

I can’t take it!

Then I remember how Sebold's main character Helen shows up at her mother’s house and suffocates her. Wraps up her body and puts it on the porch. She cuts off her braid as a keepsake. My mother has short hair. What can I take? Damn, I wish she had bigger feet. She has a great shoe wardrobe. I would take all the ones that are too high for her. The ones she buys thinking she is still thirty-something and unable to walk in.

Ok, so Helen’s mother lost control of her bowels, mine lost control of her mouth. Lucky for me . . . I won’t have to do the sponge bath after I kill her! Helen’s mother was mentally unstable, mine is just crazy, mean and narcissistic!

Helen does have something else going for her, besides the fact that she is a nude model at age forty! OK, we don’t share that similarity. Well maybe if I were a model for a sketch class studying the classic middle-aged body, the ones with saggy boobs, tummy pooches and big, curvy, dimpled butts. Helen has an x-husband, an accomplice that helps her cover up the murder and move the body. Who could I call to help me!? Not Kyky. She would be too overjoyed jumping up and down in sheer excitement. My brother-in-law, though I am sure he would appreciate what I had done, is a lawyer and couldn’t possibly break the law. My dad would help – but he is 3000 miles away. Can a body keep till he gets here? Maybe in the cold garage? Mom thinks it is a good enough refrigerator for Thanksgiving leftovers, why wouldn’t it work for her? No, I would have to dispose of the evidence myself. Good thing I’m an Investigative Discovery junkie! All those sleepless hours of watching true crime might pay off for me.

My mind is just racing. Must keep filling my glass. Must buy bigger wine glasses to save my energy.

Finally, she has fallen asleep on the couch. Still in my space, but at least the constant nagging and lecturing has stopped. There is a pillow, a possible murder weapon.

I waited too long. My window of opportunity has escaped me. She raises her head and notices that Conan starts in ten minutes. She can’t miss his last show! Conan saved her.

Besides, my bottle of wine is gone. And she has already bought her dress for the wedding. I guess I’ll have to let her live.

Oh, God! Her dress for the wedding, that’s the next episode.

Mama’s at Laguna Beach Peck, I mean Park.

A long day of meetings in LA was welcomed by an evening of beautiful beach volleyball players on Laguna Beach accompanied by a bottle of Chardonnay. Half dressed boys with beautiful bods.

I’m talking buff, tan, glistening 20 something year olds. In their full glory of low riding surf pants with sun bleached hair. Not the frosted fake stuff we see in Utah. One was even so dashing as to do a back flip off the boardwalk for my cute bombshell blonde of a friend . . . Mama Mia. Then he looked back and flashed a wide white glistening smile. It made her day. Happy New Year to her!

Yes, our hotel room is within walking distance of the public beach. You know the one where Karch Kiraly used to play a game of pick up in the sand with Lagunatics. Are you too young to know who Karch is? Google him! He is the god of USA volleyball.

We are looking forward to four days at this glorious retreat.

Wake up call . . .

Did I mention I’m standing at the beach with my big black boyfriend Tadaki and he just pooped in the sand? Don’t Google him, he is just Kel’s dog. Not the god of dogs, but our dog god none the less. I’m the fairy dogmother that takes him poop and pee at all hours of the day while Kel lays in bed. Even poop bags in Laguna are awesome! The cool rich artsy fartsy people want to pet my dog.

Wake up call number 2! . . .

Mama needs a wallet. Or a sugar daddy.

First Kel’s card was declined at the hotel. Mama Mia rescued that one. Next, my card was declined buying wine at World Market! Is this our omen that we shouldn’t be traveling AGAIN!? Or that we should have waited until Friday – Payday – to fly out? No worries, we have five bottles of wine, snacks and an ocean view room. Things always work out for the mamas.

Did I mention our meeting on Saturday with 80 Firemen? Outdoors where it will be hot and they will probably just have to wear their boots, helmets, bibs and suspenders. Shirts would be too hot. That is the dream vision of firemen right?

Regardless of what has happened. I just got back from “hurrying” Tadaki on the beach. He isn’t opposed to going on sand. My luck, we walked by starlight and listened to the waves crashing. There is nothing like a romantic walk on the beach with a big black man.

Happy New Year

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld land syne!

For auld land syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

I’m Scottish, and this is a Scottish song about love and friendship in times past. The lyrics relate to a drink shared by men and women to symbolize friendship. Is this song telling me something on this night of a new decade? Should I welcome 2010 and old friends with open arms as the Waterford crystal ball drops in Times Square? Should auld acquaintance of twenty years ago be forgotten and left in the 80s? Can I really forget the past and welcome my old friend back into my life as if nothing ever happened?

Can I really drink a cup o’ kindness? Well, maybe if it is accompanied by a sidecar.

So I need a little encouragement to face the future. Leave me alone. At least I'm willing to face and accept it/him.

I have been really proud of myself so far. Mind you, I have only seen Spermy in person three times since his resurrection. The first time we both talked on our phones to avoid personal conversation while he bought Kyky’s first b-day present. Afterwards we spent over thirty minutes on the phone. The second time, I surrounded myself by thirty other people while he met Kyky’s family and I met his for the first time! The last time, my 40th birthday, we actually hugged. I have to admit that touching him after twenty years was weird. I know, a bad adjective to describe such a milestone, but it is really the only one that works for me.

It just turned midnight. A new decade. The ball dropped. Dick Clark slurred his new year wishes and should have embraced retirement no matter how much of an icon he is in this yearly tradition. A new text wishing me a Happy New Year. Ryan Seacrest with his bleached smile. JLo in her nuddy bodysuit. Where was Bon Jovi? My kid left after she attempted to open her first bottle of champagne.

I like having my friend back, even if it means I’m the dirty little secret.

Happy New Year to everyone. I hope that your dreams become reality, no matter how absurd they are. Remember sometimes dreams come true in ways we never expect . . . and if not, . . sometimes they are still AWESOME to enjoy.

Cougar Crossing

I got a new sign for my birthday. It is a bright yellow diamond with a silhouette of a cougar warning of crossings. Not because I’m a BYU alum. Yes, I went to Happy Valley U for a few semesters. Don’t be shocked. I did get pregnant and it was not a Virgin Mary immaculate conception, there was a penis and ejaculation involved. I also opposed every question my Book of Mormon professor ever asked. I even paid higher tuition for being a heathen. I have an entire blog entry for that part of my life for a later post.

I have a cougar crossing sign because I just turned 40! I can no longer pretend like I am a bobcat. If I even look at a boy younger than twenty-eight I have to growl. But then again, if he excites me I can purr. A cat is a cat, no matter how big or how small, or how young or how old. Right?

Honestly, I don’t mind being the big 4 0. I remember driving in my car and listening to a radio personality interview a caller. She was talking about how she was 20 and her 40 year old mother was complaining about some loud concert they went to together. Out loud I mocked the old mother and said if she was that old she shouldn’t be going to concerts. My little first grade passenger quickly did the math and asked, “Mom, won’t you be 40 when I’m 20?”

I wanted to eject her from the passenger seat! Damned that accelerated program!

This is the child that I took to a Garth Brooks concert when she was 2! With tickets that I bought from a scalper outside of the Delta Center while holding her on my hip. The same child that went to see The Backstreet Boys because I slept out for tickets in the rain. How ungrateful! But I have to admit, hearing that interview made a 40 year old mom with a 20 year old kid sound really old!

It was all relative. When I turned thirty and had an eleven year old I didn’t feel old at all. It turned into my story and my life. Age is what you make of it.

Now I am forty. My daughter threw me the best birthday party ever! A Chinese theme celebrated the fact that I always promised myself I would go to China when I turned forty. All of my friends and family helped me celebrate the new decade, including Spermy and his family. It was perfect.

I might be forty with a twenty year old bride to be, but life couldn’t be better. I can take vacations with my friends without worrying about a babysitter. My daughter can run to the grocery store, and next year, the liquor store! We both obey curfew for each other, but don’t question where we were.

People think I should be honored when others ask or think that we are sisters and not mother and daughter. I used to say I was going to start calling Kyky my sister so that I seemed younger. Then I would joke that I either had to become her sister or start lying about my age and by so admitting that I was a teenage slut. People can do math. I was 18 when I got pregnant and 19 when I delivered. There are only so many years that you can deduct before it becomes unbelievable.

Truth is, I got pregnant too young. Could I have made other decisions? Of course I could have. Did I want to? NO. I am proud to be a young mom. I think I have done a great job. I have a best friend that throws me great parties. I have a close relationship with my daughter. Could I really want more?

I lived my younger years as a mom. My older years are mine. I’m going to find adventure whether it is alone, with a friend or with a partner. It doesn’t really matter. Life has been good so far, it can only get better.

Skinny Bitches

Kyky finally decided to try on wedding dresses! I'm so excited. I've been waiting anxiously for her to decide it was time. Today is the day and just the two of us are escaping to a Vera Wang trunk show. How much more wedding can you get than Vera Wang!?


Alta Mode is an adorable little boutique in downtown Salt Lake. The kind where you walk in and are personally greeted, offered flavored water and a cookie. Plush couches flank three way mirrors. Carpeted boxes act as little pedestals for the brides to spin and primp on while their adoring fans give the thumbs up or down. The cute little bridal consultant sat down with us to take down Kyky's information: Wedding date, location, dress preferences, size.

Kyky has never been one for glitz and glam. Her prom dresses were always beautiful, but in a simple and elegant style. I expected the wedding gown to fall into the same category. As soon as she walked in she saw a Vera dress adorning a mod mannequin. Strapless, subtle but with glamorous beading adorning the empire waistband that lead to the flowing silk chiffon skirt. She was hooked.

Then the look . . . the one where the cute little bridal consultant's face changed. She tried to sugar coat it but all she could say was that the dresses came straight from the NY fashion show. You know, where the models that walk them down the runway are all size 00. Kyky is 5'12". Yes, six feet but she won't actually admit to that height. She is curvy, with the hourglass figure and ginormous boobs. Greek Goddess like, not Twiggy-ish.

She lets us know that so far today, only one bride has almost fit into the dresses. But she pulls dresses anyway.

Kyky is a good sport. She is trying on anything and everything that the consultant recommends. Well, everything but a ball gown style. No POOF allowed!

Dresses have to anchored on with Home Depot industrial style clips with bungee cords to keep them closed because they can't possibly zip. The consultant is pulling and holding and trying to explain that when it is ordered in the right size everything will lay just right and it won't be dangling five inches from the ground.

A flood wedding gown, corset and muffin top hanging out and bosoms overflowing. Really? This is not how dress shopping is supposed to go. No matter how much cute little consultant assures us that tulle and bling vomit can be changed. How are you supposed to spend $3500 on a dress that looks like it might possibly fit an anorexic 12 year old!?

This is not reality. Brides should be voluptuous. Curvy. Sexy. Not flat and walking skeletons!

Rather depressing. Mama should have been served sparkling wine, not sparking water. KyKy needed a shot of Tequila!

No worries. We went to lunch and bitched about skinny runway wedding dress model bitches. Nothing makes you feel better about yourself than bashing others!

Next week - Davids Bridal where they carry normal girl sizes, like a 10!

Can the MOB Spank the Bride?

I have heard that brides can be temperamental but I didn’t expect it to happen so early into the planning!

Ky, Stretch and I all made it through choosing the ceremony and reception center without a harsh word. We were all on the same page. Ky’s biggest concern is that the chairs are blue. Stretch's biggest concern is that he won’t have a decorated get-away car. Both can easily be fixed. Chaircovers.com will make everything match. No one needs to know that their get-away car is only going to drive from one lodge to the next! There will still be Oreos, window paint and a few blown up condoms on the antennae. Mike gets his traditional groomsman prank and Ky gets everything matchy matchy just like she likes it. A win win!

Next milestone, I caved, let Spermy pay half of the initial down payment for Snowbird. I didn’t want to be the one to cause the first scene. No matter how badly I wanted to handle it on my own! A 50/50 start.

Save the Date photos . . . Stretch wore red!!! And changed into different outfits. He is a good sport. He toted his backpack up and down the mountain with his cowboy boots so that he would match from head to toe. No complaints. He kissed and smiled for almost two hours.

Things are going smoothly.

I suggested a desk calendar for Save the Dates, a little less trendy than a magnet and more personal than today’s email notification. But Ky liked it!

The big calendar vote:

1: Utah Scenery
2: Famous Couples
3: Movie Couples

The winner by vote was Utah scenery, but we vetoed and decided on famous couples. Weddings are not really a democracy. We all know the bride makes the final decisions no matter the outcome of a vote.

Next step, the criteria to get a month:

1: You have an anniversary in that month
2: The photo is on their wedding day in wedding dress and tux
4: and it photo must be unique

Ky is busy. She is a full time nanny and a college student trying to plan a wedding. I have free time at night; I can find the couples and pictures. It took hours of Googling to find the perfect couples with an anniversary for each month. Elvis for Ky and Johnny and June for Stretch, the musical icons. Those were must haves. Princess Di, Jackie and JFK and The Obamas filled the class category. Nostalgia met with Marilyn Monroe and Lucy. And what is a wedding calendar without Elizabeth Taylor?

Then the trouble started.

I saw every Adam Sandler movie ever made because he was Ky’s favorite actor from a very early age. Happy Gilmore and Billy Madison are classics. The Wedding Singer felt like I was back in High School. Plus how can a movie with Billy Idol be bad? Then there were the real winners. Waterboy! A rere with a Cajun accent driving a lawnmower. Mr. Deeds and Little Nikki, need I say more? But Adam redeemed himself with 50 First Dates and Click. He kind of grew up. He was the guy I loved from Saturday Night Live again. He deserved and earned June! Bonus, his picture is funny.

The MTV generation needs Speidi in April! If we lived through all of their fake weddings we should get to celebrate the actual legal union. Plus her fake boobies with the bleached hair matched with his curly blond lockes and blinding pearly whites are worth looking at for thirty days.

I showed props to Prop 8, Ellen and Portia get August!

Ozzy and Sharon, music icons of today. Their picture is great; Ozzy is actually biting her, like a vamp. How Twilight of them!

I found the picture perfect couples for every month. Ran each one past Ky and got them ready to send to the designer.

I brought them home for the final bridal sign off. BIG MISTAKE!

Suddenly she started enforcing the dictatorship of a wedding. Vetoing many of my pictures and hours of hard work! The bride wanted all the couples to be classic. Meaning their original wedding photos should have been black and white without a click of a photo editing button. Adam, Ozzy, Ellen, and Speidi were all put into the recycle bin! But Will Smith survived the cut? I didn’t understand!

The first glimpse of my very own Bridezilla was showing. She insisted I start over on half of the year!

Doesn’t she understand how many hours I have worked on this?

Doesn’t she know how hard it was to find a famous couple for every month?

Then it happened. She said the words . . . THIS IS MY WEDDING. NOT YOURS.

I was arguing with the irrational two years old that wanted to run past her boundaries. With the sixth grader that wanted to wear flip flops during a blizzard. And with the Junior who thought a fellow male student could room with the girls on a High School field trip.

Would there be foot stomping? Crying? A full blown temper tantrum?

I have never spanked Ky. I grounded her once and regretted all thirty minutes of it. But today I seriously considered both. Can I throw her over my knee and inflict any pain? Can I steal her car keys and hold her hostage in the house?

No. She is bigger and stronger than me. Getting her over my knee would probably end with me in the ER. Grounding her to the house would only be punishing me. I would have to endure the wrath of the bridal bitch for hours until I finally pleaded with her to leave or vanquished myself to the basement.

How do I win this battle of the Save the Date Calendars? How else? With the wallet! It may be her wedding, but mama is paying.

In the end, we compromised. I gave a few months and so did she.

I would like to say that this was my intent on giving her a lesson on compromising to make things work. But no, it was a fight. A my idea is better than hers girl fight.

Can’t wait for dress shopping :)

I Think I was a Tricycle in a Past Life

I just got invited to go to lunch with my friend and her old boyfriend. I regretfully declined with the response that I didn’t want to be the third wheel.

Now I’m thinking about it. I’m ALWAYS the third wheel. Why would this lunch, dinner, or vacation be any different from every other relationship in my life?

For years Kyky and I vacationed with my best friend, her husband and two kids. I got along better with him anyway so I was sort of a distraction to their bad marriage. I acted as the buffer. I made things more fun for the kids. I stopped the bickering. Of course we would get the typical looks every time someone would ask where we were from. The answer of Utah would always get us a snicker. Nik and I often wanted to don long braided wigs and Gunnie Sax dresses so we could fit the poly stereotype. Instead we bought Otis a Polygamy Porter T-Shirt to wear.

One time we switched it up. It was Mickey’s Pride Days. This time Nik and I got to be the couple and we referred to Otis as donor while we waited in lines filled with same sex couples. He was very uncomfortable and retired to the House of Blues for the majority of the weekend.

Nik and Otis’s marriage finally came to an end. The years of vacationing as polygamists ended. Nik has since remarried and we have only gone on one weekend vacation with her new hubby. Don’t see that happening again. Otis became my boyfriend. Vacationing with him and the kids as the solo girl was not nearly as fun. I am a much better third wheel than girlfriend.

Even in High School I was the token third wheel. All my close friends had boyfriends. Not me. I never wanted the serious boyfriend. Instead, I would usually end up being the extra safeguard that parents liked being on their kids’ dates. In Utah extra wheels are encouraged. Group dates are the thing to do. The other extra wheels and I never felt out of place. Little did we realize we were the church’s way of implementing birth control.

After I had Kyky, I brought the third wheel. We took her everywhere. Ky gave us reason to go to the zoo and to Disney movies. No one cared that we had to have a high chair or go to early movies. They all took turns holding her or pushing the stroller.

Nowadays I hang out with my best friend Kel and her hubby JD. They nicely invite me to their private dinner dates. Time they get together is precious because of their work schedules but they never let me feel like I’m intruding, though I know I am. They include me so much they joke that I’m in their wills; whoever dies first has to leave the other complete custody of me. They even told their kids they had to move out of the basement so I could move in. That is true friendship!

Last night my friend Les and her hubby had me over for drinks and dinner. After a very long day at work I arrived to a waiting martini and the aroma of a homemade dinner was filling the house. Todd cooked and kept the glasses filled while we chatted and giggled.

I wonder if Kyky and Stretch will let me continue my tradition. They say that as soon as they can afford it, they will build a house with a mother-in-law apartment. I think it’s just because they want a cook and a dog sitter.

Maybe it will be time for me to try a two-wheeler. I’ve never been really good at two person relationships though. I guess I have a balancing problem. I have a hard time choosing where to focus my time and energy. Work? Home? Kid? Family? Partner? It always seems the partner gets put last on my list of priorities. Then again it is probably just as much a commitment problem. Like a kid trying to get rid of the training wheels – I can’t quite give up my freedom or admit I might actually want to be dependant on someone else.

I’m thinking I’m going to have to give it a try. I don’t want to be a newlywed tricycle. Awkward! No way in hell can I manage as a unicycle. I would end up a hermit on Prozac without friends and companionship of some sort. And we all know that my other room mate – the GOB – doesn’t offer much in the way of companionship. Maybe now that Ky is older and moving out on her own I’ll break my rules and have guys over to my house. Actually let them think I want them to be a part of my life. Silly how that might make a difference in giving a relationship a go!

Of course, anyone that wants a third wheel, give me a call! I make for a good threesome.

Guilty Pleasure

Twenty plus years ago I wrote a letter to my x-boyfriend. The guy I thought was the love of my life. The one I followed to a university that I would have never otherwise attended. You know the one down south that costs more for those of us that don’t believe in their strange teachings. I followed my best friend because I loved him. One semester later I was leaving a note on the windshield of his parked Yugo. It told him that I didn’t care what his thoughts were on MY pregnancy. It was our baby, but I made the final decision. I wrote the letter telling him I didn’t care what he wanted or what he thought was best for him/us. I told him I could do it myself! Yes, just like I was two and wanted to put on my own shoes. I can do it myself. I don’t need you so go to hell. Yep, that was pretty much the message I left. I’m not sure that the windshield wiper of that Yugo was sturdy enough to hold onto the folded weight of my revolt. The coveted graduation gift of a car that everyone wishes their parents can afford. However, that Yugo was about $4000 brand new. The gas gage broke after a month. The driver’s seat had to be unbolted and moved back so that Spermy could maneuver his long legs behind the wheel. They even gave one away in a drawing at the local burger joint. Kind of like winning the daily lunch drawing over winning the lottery don’t you think? I was jealous of him then, I think he is jealous of me now. Silly me, jealous over a dorm and a Yugo? Who even remembers Yugos!? Poor him, jealous over missing out on his kid’s life.

Yep, I walked away from everything as did he. We went our own directions. I finished up the year down there in my maternity clothes. He worried about me spilling the beans and ending his turn on the Cougar volleyball hardwood floor. I passed my ecclesiastical interview being seven months pregnant and single. He turned down an opportunity to play ball at Pepperdine. He dated while I wore my great-grandmother’s wedding band on my left ring finger, keeping the faithful at bay. They assumed I was one of them -- getting an early start on my perfect little family. If they only knew the shameful truth, they probably would not have sat by me or offered me their lecture notes on the days I just couldn’t crawl out of bed and make the forty minute drive. I didn’t know what struggles he was facing and he didn’t know that I was trying to fit in doc appointments, work and finish school with passing grades. We split. Our once daily conversations during our commute were over. No one picked me up from work with a cold Diet Dr. Pepper. No one skipped Biology with me for a fall drive up Provo Canyon. No one scowled at me when I raised an objection during religion lectures. We went to class separately just like we were living our lives. We managed to avoid each other on that small campus. I fed cravings of fig newtons and chocolate covered raisins from the bookstore and he gorged at the cafeteria. I studied advertising, he focused on business. The only chance we might cross paths – on days when I was running late and couldn’t face the eight flights of stairs from the distant Y parking lot to my first class. On these days I would brave the elevator in the business building to carry me to the main level of campus. I feared we would run into each other while secretly hoping he would catch a glimpse of my growing belly. Would that make him come to his senses?

So, back to the letter . . . I can do it myself right?! I have, for over twenty years. It is strange to have him finally enter Ky’s life. He is trying to do whatever he can to help. I have to remind myself that he is making up for a lot. I am trying to let him because it makes her happy. I have to admit, the extra help is nice but I can’t help but remember what I said so long ago. I am stubborn just like I was when I wrote the letter. I needed to prove to myself, him and everyone else that I could survive and even strive as a single mom. I didn’t need him. I haven’t needed him. This makes me wonder, should I feel guilty when he hands Ky a $100 bill to help pay for books? He just told me about thousands of dollars in legal bills he has to pay. He has six kids for gods sake! Should I be angry and resentful that he wants to help pay for the wedding? If I let him help pay, does he get a say in her life? He didn’t help pay in the beginning. He didn’t get to help choose her name, what religion she followed or where she went to pre-school. Does he get to help in decisions now? Does taking his money give him a say in where she lives, if she finishes school or where she spends Thanksgiving?

NO! Ky is an adult. She makes her own decisions now. She appreciates my guidance and opinion but I am no longer the majority decision maker in her life. Nor is Spermy. Neither of us have a controlling interest no matter what we are providing her. We are both a support system now and I trust her to continue on the path that I started for her so many years ago. I didn’t choose the traditional path, it has been bumpy at times, but the hills and valleys are what have made our lives exciting.

It is all about sacrifices. I am mad at him for the fact that I had to go on WIC to pay for formula and milk. I went to county child services for Ky’s first year immunizations. What humiliations did he face? He continued life for years denying that he was even the father. Maybe he is facing those self imagined looks and snickers now. He finally told his other children about Ky. His neighbors ward members and friends know that he has another child. Did the humiliation catch up with him finally? Does life have a fair payback? I got to spend Ky’s entire life with her. Enjoy the first steps, first words, first dates. He missed that. Sure I was embarrassed to take help from WIC and get free diapers from the University. But I did it to survive. I did it to do it myself without Spermy’s help. Do I feel guilty for letting him give her money and support now? Am I guilty or angry that I am no longer doing it by myself? Screw it! I think I like him helping. I have an extra hundred dollars that I wasn’t expecting. Maybe Ky and I will go shopping for something frivolous with that money we were going to spend on books. Extra help with the wedding means open bar! Welcome back Spermy. It is a pleasure to accept your help now. Maybe I should have taken it years ago. No, I’m glad I was selfish and got Ky to myself. You deserved to wait for her, but I’m glad you’re back.

A MOBster's Got to Know How to Keep Her Mouth Shut

Ever since my bourbon induced verbal bulimic episode my friend has nicknamed me the MOBster. I’m not sure if she was referring to the scary, hairy beasts that hide under your bed and jump out of you closet. Or if she was thinking more along the lines of heat packing guys from Jersey in exquisite tailored suits hanging out at the sleazy Bada Bing. I prefer fashion over horror so I’m going with the mafia theme on this nickname. Maybe I’ll find a pin striped dress to wear to the wedding as a simple reminder to Stretch what I can become if he upsets me again. Just kidding, that would never make it past Kyky’s list of appropriate clothing for me.

Plus MOBsters are known for keeping things on the down low. I can totally lay low and act inconspicuous. Stretch knew I wasn’t holding some crazy vendetta against him. We had made up and were on the take together for this upcoming sting.

A few weeks after asking permission to snatch my daughter’s heart, Stretch showed up with the goods. The block of ice that would adorn Kyky’s hand as a symbol of commitment for life. I approved. It was big. It was worthy of her finger.

While she would sleep just feet away from us, we would plan the wedding, the engagement, the honeymoon. Would it be Vegas and the Elvis impersonator? A cruise or a sandy beach? What should the song for the first dance be? We made all sorts of plans behind her back. She never caught on.

Stretch came up with the proposal alone. He let the romantic side of him slip from the shadows for a second. The plan was set but he needed my help with the actual drop. Stretch had arranged the location for the disposal of the bling. Their love for baseball made the choice easy. The holding location was a suite at the Bees game. (Okay, so the beer patio at Fenway would be the real dream, but we live in Utah. ) My job was to get Kyky there on time and completely oblivious of the situation. Oh, and to keep the secret for six weeks. He made me promise not to tell a soul. I almost didn’t snitch. I told my two gals that wouldn’t rat me out. It was too big of a secret to keep.

The original plan of a simple kiss cam engagement got whacked by the higher ups at Franklin Covey Field. It was too simple. They wanted a show; Stretch was going to propose on the field in front of the entire crowd.

The suite was overflowing with our families. That should have been Ky’s first clue that something was up. I had my crew of girls in the bleachers -- armed with multiple cameras and camcorders to capture the moment. Stretch had his guy casing the banks of the outfield to capture the announcement on the scoreboard. Two more hints to set Ky off to the plan. Nope, she was still clueless.

Stretch was sweating bullets and drinking draft after draft to keep his nerves hidden. Big D was snapping pics. I kept Ky detained in the suite until it was time.

Eighth inning, the fix was in. Down they went to the field to compete in the dizzy bat race. It was fixed. Ky would spin faster and make it to third base before Stretch. All an elaborate plan so that while she was running, Stretch could run just enough behind her to finish second, get down on one knee and open the little velvet box as Ky will you marry me flashed on the big screen.

Stretch pulled it off without a hitch. Ky was shocked. Not because she cheated and the crowd booed her for winning. Not because the 3rd baseman told her to look at the screen with her name in lights. But because she had no idea that Stretch was going to propose that night, in one of their favorite places, in front of all their friends and family. None of the many coincidences clued her into the surprise. They kissed in front of the entire stadium of clapping, congratulatory fans. They were happy. My sister cried, my niece cheered, and my mom yelled at me for not spilling the beans! It was a good night.

Stretch hit a home run. He gave his girl a diamond, on a diamond. It couldn’t have happened at better place for this couple. Plus, BONUS it was Thirsty Thursday, Mama got beer for half price!

May I See Your ID Please?

When I tell people that Ky isn’t getting married until next September their first reaction is to laugh. Is it because people in Utah don’t know how to wait that long to get married? Do they think that her hormonal urge to give up her virginity is going to move the wedding date up? That is why most engagements in Utah only last a couple of months. The poor little return missionaries return home with blue balls that need to be tended to. The normal Mormon wedding day is to get married at 7:30 in the morning. Run from the Temple to the nearest hotel, usually The Anniversary Inn, and ruin the bride’s up do. Then to show up to the reception, stand in the line, like nothing happened. Do they realize that people know her hair is different than it was earlier in the day? A little muffled? And that he is smiling more than normal? I can’t even imagine staying at The Anniversary Inn. First, because it is themed. Second, I can only imagine how many young return missionary Tarzans have swung from the vines in the jungle room to de-virginize their Jane. Or perhaps I should imagine how many Juliets have jumped from the balcony to jump their Romeo. No matter what scenario I come up with, all I can think of is how bright those mattresses must glow under black light.

My kid isn’t Mormon. I’m not saying that I know what is going on in her bedroom . . . but I know what was going on in mine when I was that age and I’m not thinking that is the reason she might move up the wedding date. I know for a fact that the earliest she would move the wedding date up would be late June. Why do I know this? She wants to party and she won’t turn 21 until June 15, 2010.

At least I thought I was safe with this reasoning until my friend got her the perfect fake ID. Ky has tried for a few years to get a coveted fake ID. But do you realize how hard it is to find another girl that is 6’0” tall and resembles you? She used to think she could get away with my little sis’s. The only problem is Colie is only 5’4”. That would never fly with a good bouncer – maybe only with one that was blind! I honestly thought I would be safe until Ky decided to cross dress as one of Kris’s smaller football players. I was hoping that her tall stature would finally work in my favor. Dammit, it owed me after all those hours of looking for prom dresses that were long enough! For finding pants that were not floods. Not to mention how I used to have to dry her cotton pants weighted down so they would stretch beyond their wanted length. Leave it to my friend Kris – the sports trainer who works with female athletes on a daily basis. Not only does she work with female athletes, she works at the University where they are all a little older than Ky. It took some time, but the perfect opportunity finally showed up on the softball team. At least Kris learned from her own experience and got the actual ID from her student rather than her birth certificate. That plan landed her in cuffs and the backseat of a cop car. She learned from her mistake and Ky benefits from her wisdom. Woo hoo!

Ky has tried out the new laminated toy a few times and it works beautifully. She, Kris and Stretch partied at the Top Gun bar in San Diego while I headed back to the hotel with the kiddos. I felt old. She drank beer at the bowling alley with Stretch – she should have felt old. Who hangs out at the bowling alley bar these days?! Worst of all, she got a beer band at the Brad Paisley concert, right after they put mine on! What is that Utah Department of Alcohol Beverage Control campaign? The one where the mom has a string attached to the beer bottle and reels her kid in like a big mouth bass? The bright yellow tags that are all over the liquor stores warning us against letting our underage kids drink? They obviously have not made an impression on me!

It’s true . . . I encourage or rather support her drinking habit. I buy her cheerleader beer, the beercicles, and all those other wine coolers of 2010. I am under the belief that if you are old enough to fight for our country and vote for our leader, you should be responsible enough to buy a beer. How can you encourage someone to vote for your future if you can’t entrust them to buy a cocktail? It is ridiculous. So yes, I buy my underage daughter booze. I let her drink at my house. I let her come to my parties. I don’t let her get out of control. I’m hoping that she is responsible and she is. The problem is I might not be!

At the concert, I was the one sneaking in the booze in my wine bra. Yes, a wine bra. The greatest flask ever invented. It is a simple booze bladder that hides inside of a regular sports bra. It has made many an airline flight, movie, and concert more enjoyable. Sometimes you need more than beer! Sometimes a movie needs something other than a $5 soda. Pirates of the Caribbean with a rum and coke – doesn’t that sound good? Sex in the City with a Cosmo? How Carrie! OK, those ice cold drinks were not the best idea! Thank you Mr. Leno for introducing me to this marvel. Plus it makes my boobs huge! I never have cleavage without a little wine rack.

Kel smuggled in a box of wine in her chair. The bag that is hidden inside of those boxes can easily be mistaken for a cath bag. Besides, who is going to question her?

The best smuggling had to be Jeffries. The tiny little hundred pound girl had not one, but two flasks shoved down her tight jeans just so she could enjoy an Appletini.

Not one of us got caught at security. We weren’t white trash. We weren’t being cheap. We just wanted our favorite drinks. OK, we were a little white trash.

Ky and her beer band got me a pale ale. It was sweet. I’m not going to lie. I liked staying on my blanket while she went on the beer run. Then suddenly the thought crossed my mind . . . she doesn’t have to wait until JUNE! How the hell am I going to pull this wedding bill off before then!?

Relax, have another beer mama. Remember, you put a deposit on Snowbird yesterday. She is stuck with September no matter how good her fake ID is.

Wait! Wait! There's Still Room on my Dance Card!

Ky read the last post and has made a special request for that dance montage. What would her young life have been without some of the crazies I dated! She rarely met any of them. I kept them hidden at their houses. Most didn't even know where I lived. I wasn't some hormonal raging slut that just snuck out to get some. I just didn't see the need of introducing her to everyone that I might go to dinner and a movie with. I was very protective of her when she was little. Now that she is old enough she has heard all the insane stories. Well, they might still be a little edited for her little ears.

Her first request was Stan the Mountain Man. I dated Stan when I was 20, he was 40 something. That drove my mother nuts to say the very least. Stan only cut his hair once a year and he never trimmed his mustache. He also believed bathing on a daily basis was not a necessity, just a waste of water. He donned tie dyed shirts, shorts and Birkenstock complete with wool socks. He really wished he had been born an Indian. He spent his weekends naked in sweat lodges with Medicine men, Indians with beautiful long hair, as well as other white wannabes. His favorite movie had to be Dances With Wolves. We had to go see it several times. Each time he would tell me the history of the Indians and the old west. I never reminded him that I did score a 5 on my American AP test and that I was thinking about majoring in History. I let him tell me about musket guns and scalping while we ate the pizza that he would smuggle in. You're thinking how classy right? It gets better! One day Stay showed up to work with a little leather pouch hanging from his neck. Yep, broke that golden rule of not sleeping where you work more than once! He was always doing strange things so it didn't really alarm me. Then at lunch he did it, he finally shocked me! Dinners on the floor drinking out of oyster shells didn't do it. Having him sweep smoke over me with an eagle feather didn't do it. Flesh hanging in a pouch around his neck did it! Over the weekend he had cleansed himself in the sweat lodge. Part of that cleansing was to remove the venom from yourself by cutting away a piece of your flesh then carrying it with you to remind you of your sins. My boyfriend had a piece of his own flesh around his neck as a piece of jewelry!

Check . . . dated the older man.

I'll add Stan to her dance card. I just hope he isn't on another garlic diet.

How about Bren. He was my pot smoking college boyfriend who asked me to marry him at the end of every date. We met because we were the two bored people at a New Year's Eve party. We ended up getting kicked out of the bathroom a couple of hours later. Bren was fun. He played baseball at the U so he had great forearms. Oh, and did I mention he was a pool boy? He never smoked pot in front of me or asked me join. Hanging out with him was pleasurable, a mindless few hours that I could spend away from home. No need for deep conversation, he couldn't follow it. No need to find a great restaurant for dinner, we just ate junk food to fill his munchy cravings. He left me cute little notes on my car at school that made me laugh. Like the one where he informed me that my coveted A parking sticker at the U didn't stand for Anywhere. This is the day he found my car parked on a snowbank. I was running late! Most importantly he saved me from a crazy stalker just by intimidating him with his mere size. Once I even let him meet my dad. Not sure what I was thinking that day! Luckily he had red hair that kind of distracted dad from his bloodshot eyes.

I would add Bren to the dance card but he is in prison in Alaska. They allowed him home for his Grandma's funeral with an ankle monitor, but not sure that is the look Ky wants at her wedding.

Check . . . Everyone needs a prisoner on their list of boyfriends right?

How about Dan? The tall, dark and handsome OB/GYN from Chicago that I met in Vegas. Oh the trouble that Dr. Bobs at the NYNY Piano Bar can get you into. Girls weekend in Vegas. OK, so we were really staying in Mesquite. Have you ever been to Mesquite? We survived one night only to see Kip Attaway then we had to escape the land of the retirement casinos and white hairs and drive the hundred miles to Vegas! Let's just say we made the most of it. Right off my flirty friend Nik had hooked a cute guy. A doctor and she was so proud. My other friend Les snagged his twin brother! My night was quickly plummeting. I'm not outgoing. I don't really flirt. Luckily, neither did their friend. We were a perfect match. He said hello. I said hi. He asked if I wanted to leave. I answered yes. Wow! I was an easy catch that night! I snagged a doc! I got my first taste of truffles that night and they were decadent. I got my first naughty limo ride up and down the Vegas strip. Complete with neon lights, a disco ball , zebra print carpet and a very discreet driver. When the doc found out we had to drive back to Mesquite he quickly got us a suite at the Monte Carlo but I graciously declined. I wanted to stay so badly but felt guilty taking advantage of his drunken credit card usage. Instead, I just went to his room to wait for my friends. We broke a rule. We didn't make a meeting plan before going our separate ways. Just then my phone starting vibrating with a text message. It was from Nik. "Meet us in Dan's room in 15." I looked at my doc and said, hey, we're supposed to meet my friends in Dan's room. He said great, I'm Dan! Oh, I just realized I never asked his name. The perfect one night stand.

If I only knew Dan's last name, I would add him to Ky's dance card.

Check, check, check . . . everyone needs a great, nameless one night stand.

I haven't seen Stan since he got married in a tee pee and moved to Durango. I still have a healing stone that he brought me from a hike. It reminded him of me and I was to carry it on me at all times to keep me safe. It is in my jewelry box.

I saw Bren a few years ago. He looked just the same - good. And still smelled like pot. I thank him for being so enamored with me. I needed it.

Dan, well, he is a great story to tell friends about. Luckily Nik and Les were there to prove he was real and not a liquor induced dream.

Sperm.com Didn't Have the Answer

Some parental jobs are defined by gender. Moms are supposed to soothe the owies, do their hair, cook them dinner. Dads teach them to ride bikes, enforce curfew and give them that evil eye that let's them know they are in trouble. Mothers of the Bride get to wear tacky dresses and corsages, fret over meetings with florists and close a gazillion buttons while looking for the perfect dress. Fathers of the Bride get to grant permission to marry their daughter, walk them down the aisle and have a daddy daughter dance.

So what happens in our nontraditional family? Our family where Kyky gives me both Mother's Day and Father's Day gifts because I am both to her.

I taught her how to ride a bike and I enforced curfew. I never was able to give that evil look though. I always ended up giggling which became contagious and then we would forget what naughty deed started the entire hysteria. I also bandaged the scrapes, fixed her hair and made sure she was fed.

I can guarantee I'm not going to wear a tacky dress. Let's not forget the dream of the MOB being a MILF. My dress will be sexy, well, appropriately sexy. I can't be embarrassing. It won't be red. I've already had meetings that make me fret over this entire event and I am dreading the task of finding the perfect dress all the while looking forward to doing up the gazillion buttons.

But what about that granting permission? The walk down the aisle? The daddy daughter dance?

That's where her sperm donor was supposed to come in. But Spermy has just recently made an appearance in her life. He hasn't yet earned the rights to these traditions has he?

I made it through the first task when Stretch came over that night to ask me to marry my daughter. Once I got over the initial embarrassment of what I had done to him just days before I bucked up and took on the role of the fatherly figure. I thought about what my dad had said to my brother-in-law when he came with the same question. I got as serious as I could. Asked about their future plans, talked about the importance of finishing school and not rushing into things. I think I did OK. We had a good talk and he had a plan and good answers to all my questions. I felt successful. I went to bed thinking I couldn't believe I just had that conversation! It wasn't supposed to be my job but in our little family, all the jobs are mine.

Would Spermy have been tougher on Stretch the Suitor? Asked tougher more pertinent questions? I don't think so. He didn't get to grant permission. He didn't get to answer the all important question in his daughter's life. I did and I was proud to be breaking the gender barrier.

The aisle -- I'm not walking her down it. I think that would look stupid. Some traditions need to be kept. A bride needs to be on the arm of a man. A man that loves her and has watched her grow into a woman. Not on the arm of a mom. Two dresses, two up dos, too many flowers are not a good thing. Plus is kind of lesi. It isn't the right picture. The picture is supposed to be a beautiful white dress accompanied by a dashing black tuxedo. Maybe she'll walk down alone. After all she does like to think she is independent. That seems lonely. Do you really want to make the longest and most watched walk of your life all by yourself? All eyes on just you. No one to steady your nervous steps towards the altar and your future husband? No one there to push you forward, to cue you to take Stretch's hand? The last option is to find that special man. She says Spermy hasn't earned the right to lend his elbow and give her away. Gpa is her other choice. He would be proud and the GOB (grandma of the bride, divorced from the Gpa) would be so envious. That might make the decision for Kyky right there. She loves to piss off the GOB. I know this is a tough decision for her. Ky doesn't want to offend anyone. If Spermy hadn't entered her life I think she would have already asked Gpa. A way to repay him for all the tractor rides, mac n' cheese, pool parties and trips to the dump. For her love of the Red Sox, corn and her natural ease at finding klutzy accidents! But then I think there is that part of her that wants her "dad" to walk her down the aisle. I don't think she is worried about offending Gpa or Spermy, but me. Would I be hurt if Spermy were to walk her down the aisle? I think if the wedding were soon, my answer is yes. But I have a year to get used to the idea. I don't know that he has earned the right yet, but he has time to redeem himself, to earn the right. Plus I keep reminding myself that I truly loved him and because of that love I have Ky. Maybe it is me that owes that walk to him. He gave me a great give with that sperm donation twenty years ago. Maybe this is my gift to him . . . letting him revel in the pride and love that that donation created. Obviously I'm going to have to start thinking of him as more than sperm.com. Mama will be going to the bar to get used to having him around again! Don't think he gets to answer the question of "who gives this woman in marriage?" I am answering that! Whoever the hell walks her down the damned aisle!

Now for the dance. What is a wedding with dancing and no daddy daughter dance? Spermy has earned that by finally contacting Kyky. Not to mention with the cash that he is giving for this bash! Or maybe it should just be a montage of the men I have involved in her life. My dad, who helped me raise her. My first real boyfriend after Spermy, T, who helped drive carpool to Challenger School, introduced her to her love of country music, and loved her as his own. Or maybe Otis, my best friends x-husband and my x-boyfriend who has known Ky since she was one. He has been there through everything until this last chapter. Breaking up with someone can do that. He isn't aware that Spermy is back in the picture and he isn't in the loop of the wedding. But he has seen her grow into a woman and he has loved her as his "oldest" kid for a long time. We'll leave out the losers that we all want to forget!

When it comes down to it . . . the decisions are Ky's. Walk with who you want to. Steady yourself and proudly take that step towards Stretch all on your own. Or have the arm of Gpa or Spermy to guide you into your future. It is your choice. Dance with everyone who has loved you as a daughter and enjoy every beat. The night is yours and your decisions will be right.