Wacky Wedding, Part 8

You wouldn’t expect to get married at a day camp, right?  I mean, it’s a camp — full of kids activities and rustic buildings and playgrounds and ball fields and everything.  But we decided to take a look, since we’re going the casual route, and found this day camp not far from our house that has held weddings before.

The guy who gave us the tour was the owner.  He was quite relaxed about the whole thing, and only gave us a few strange looks.  You know, looks that said, “I hope they realize this isn’t going to be a typical wedding….” and, “gee, she doesn’t seem like the type to want to get married outdoors.”

We looked at the mini theatre and the Indian village and the old rappelling wall, and “Fernway” (instead of Fenway), and the pool and the pond and campfire circle.  As we talked, he seemed more inclined to believe we were serious and that we might actually like to get married in such a neat location.

Toward the end of the tour, he showed us the hens in their coop.  “Good morning ladies,” he said, talking to the hens, “Would you like to go outside today?  Here we go, let’s go.  Would you like some fresh eggs?”

Strange, I thought to myself, why is he offering the hens their own eggs?  Oh, is he talking to me? “Oh!  Are you talking to us?” I asked aloud.  I couldn’t keep my eyes off the hens until the owner handed me two fresh eggs.  Then I couldn’t keep my eyes off the eggs.    I was sure I was going to drop them.

It felt somewhat surreal to be standing in his office at the end of the tour, talking over the available dates and some of the logistics while holding fresh eggs.  Part of me was thrilled: we could hardly get more local than these two eggs.  Part of me was terrified: I’d never touched fresh eggs before, let alone pulled them out of a hen’s nesting box.  What if I dropped one?  Would he be angry?  He didn’t seem to think it was strange at all, so I managed to keep a straight (ish) face and hold tight to my eggs.

And then we left!  With eggs!  Does anyone else think it’s odd to go to a wedding venue and come away holding eggs?

Follow my progress as I chronicle the weird things that happen around this wedding with the Wacky Wedding series: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

Thanksgiving Blues

(source)

I’ve got the Thanksgiving Blues.  I want to hang out with my family.  I like my family; they’re full of fun, and I haven’t seen them in a while, and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  But I don’t want to drive down to Connecticut.  The traffic is going to be horrendous.  We live in one of the worst areas for traffic.  Even though we have one of those EZ Pass things, it’s going to suck no matter when we leave, and it’s going to suck even worse when we come back.

There, I’ve said it.  Of course we’re still going to go to Connecticut for the holiday and brave the traffic.  I just needed a vehicle for my rant — and the pictures of those turkeys eating a cranberry pumpkin pie.

The Worst “Craft” Fair Ever

“Craft Fair!” the advertisement told me.  I’m a sucker for craft fairs, especially since at the last one I went to, I found an amazing handcrafted wooden toy set for $5.00 for a certain great-nephew.  A few more craft fairs like that and my Christmas shopping would be all done.

Unfortunately, this craft fair was nothing like I had hoped.  It was truly frightening.  I convinced Seth to go with me on Friday night to this fair at a church across town.  As we approached, we realized that the cars lining the street were probably for the fair.  “I didn’t know this was THE event of the season,” I said and laughed.  We pulled into the parking lot.  Then we drove around the parking lot twice, then up the street, then down the street, then back into the parking lot, then down the street and finally into a parking space.  It took us fifteen minutes.

In my naivete, I thought the lack of parking spaces meant that the craft fair would be Really Good.  In fact, it was Really Bad.  We could hardly make it in the door, there were so many people crammed into the church’s annex building.  Let’s make this clear: I get anxious in large crowds.  I’m one of those socially inept people who doesn’t like large crowds or low ceilings or the combination of the two.  Call me crazy, but it makes me feel like things are caving in.  But I figured I could handle it for the sake of crafts.

I couldn’t.  There was one table of crafts, and it was things I could make for myself at home.  The rest of the stuff there was junk.  It was as though people had cleaned out their basements and decided to call it crafts.  I realize now that they were masquerading their junk as White Elephant gifts, aka Yankee Swap, aka really tacky gifts no one wants.  But if I wanted to give someone half-burned candles for Christmas, I would just give them the half-burned candles I have at home.  I wouldn’t go out and buy someone else’s half-burned candles.

Well, people were fawning all over this White Elephant junk — partial sets of cordial glasses and broken clocks and kitschy 1970s decorative owls and old telephones and cracked vases and orpahned mugs.  We had a hard time getting into one room in particular (as a self-described Masshole, let me explain: people were stopping in the middle of the room and shuffling slowly to look at stuff and inexplicably changing direction.  It was a traffic nightmare), and then we had a hard time getting out.  To top it off, everyone was sneezing and coughing all over everything, and the ceilings were low.  One guy turned around to wipe his sniffly nose on a hankie mere inches from my face, instead of wiping it over the junk.

On our way out, I spotted a donkey planter that would have made an excellent gift, if we were giving away a plant this Christmas.  “How much is it?” I asked, hoping to see a 50¢ price tag.  No such luck; it was $1.00.  Could we picture ourselves handing my brother a ceramic ass with a plant growing out of its back?  We didn’t have time to hem and haw over it, as right at that moment, the heavens shined down and parted the sea of people by the door so we could make a clean getaway.

We took the opportunity and hurried as fast as possible out of the annex.  Then we saw the stream of people making their way to the church basement where the kid stuff was.  I was desperate for a good experience from this craft fair, and convinced Seth to take a quick peek.

The room was smokey and smelled like cooking grease.  There was a lounge singer against the far wall playing a keyboard that sounded like an electric organ, and half the room was full of old people resting at tables, clutching their broken picture frames and pillows crocheted from teal yarn.  We made our way to the kids sale section, and realized it was full of grimy toys.  The lounge singer started doing bad comedy.  “Let’s get out of here,” we told each other.

Right as we made a break for the exit, Santa appeared.  He was swaying drunkenly and greeting kids, and we didn’t want to follow him out.   There was no other exit.  We crept along behind him, hoping he wouldn’t turn around and ambush us.  An over-excited kid almost gave us away.  “Did you see Santa?  That was Santa!” she was shouting.

Once outside, we made a circuitous route to our car.  As we drove by the church for the last time, Santa waved tipsily from the driveway.  “Don’t make eye contact!” Seth said.  I ducked down so Santa wouldn’t see me.

Curse that wretched donkey planter.  What a perfect gift.

[Disclaimer: That was not the actual donkey planter we saw.  The seller was giving us the evil eye, so I didn't dare pull out my camera.  That, and I was afraid if I dropped my camera, someone would snatch it up and purchase it for $1.50.  Rest assured, the donkey planter in question was just as ugly as the one pictured here.]

The Woman in White

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you — Nobody — Too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise — you know!

How dreary — to be — Somebody!
How public — like a Frog –
To tell one’s name — the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!

Ah, Emily Dickinson.  I relate to Ms. Dickinson moreso than to, say, Louisa May Alcott, or even Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I relate to Louisa May Alcott’s sister, Beth, as well — maybe because they were a little eccentric and a lot shy.  Beth Alcott was too shy to go to school, and played the piano, and loved her cats.  That sounds familiar.

Emily Dickinson wore white all the time, and didn’t leave her house and yard for the last portion of her life.  She wrote hundreds of poems and hid them in her house — and she used dashes all the time: dashes that went up, dashes that went down, angled dashes.  Dashes everywhere.  And then the publishing company came along and changed all her poems after she died because her dashes were unacceptable.

How can you tell if a poem is Emily Dickinson’s?  Well, look for the dashes, for starters, but sometimes you don’t see them because of that crazy publisher.  So you should sing the “Gilligan’s Island” theme song with Emily Dickinson’s poems. That’s a dead giveaway.  Also, look for the themes about nature and life and death.

It’s strange how, even though I’ve become a more outgoing person, I still relate most to the shy characters.  I feel like this poem today, like an outcast and proud of it.  Can you be a shy, proud outcast?

Annotated Linkography

Here are some links to get you going today.

The Story of Stuff with Annie Leonard.  This is a 20 minute video about where our stuff comes from and where our stuff goes when we’re done with it.  It’s an interesting movie that everyone should see, even though Annie Leonard sounds like she’s talking to a 7-year-old.

The Skin Deep Cosmetic Database.  Go here and look up the brands of shampoo and conditioner you use.  Go ahead.  I dare you. I bet your toiletries are linked cancer.  Mine are.  If you’re one of those cynics like Seth and me, you might say, “evertyhing causes cancer,” and just dismiss it.  But it’s so pervasive.  I mean, look up every toiletry and cosmetic item you own: soap, facewash, toothpaste, lotion, makeup, perfume, sunscreen.  Everything is in here, and it’s all scary.  And we’re putting it on our faces and hands and ingesting it and bathing in it every day.  Also, if you click on each item, you can see whether or not they test on animals.  Yikes!

Earth 911.  This place let’s you look up where to recycle all your junk.  You have to be pretty specific, for example by saying “polystyrene” instead of “styrofoam,” so keep trying if you don’t get any results at first.  I learned yesterday that Staples will take my old batteries and my old electronics, but I have to pay to give them my old electronics.  Bleah.

The Meatrix.  A series of animated short movies that parody The Matrix about factory farming.  I’ve only seen the first one, but it was good.  Well, as good as learning about factory farming can be.  And you thought you’d get away without some vegetarian propaganda.  Ha!