The Delicate Issue of Steps...

...And I don't mean the staircase you descend on your wedding day!

Consider yourself unusual if you and your spouse-to-be both have parents that are still married to each other (not your parents to your fiancé’s parents of course, cuz….well….that would be just…well….WRONG, but you know what I mean—both of your respective biological moms are still married to your respective biological dads!) I don’t have any firm statistics, but based on the number of couples I’ve seen, I’d offer a guess that only about one in 10 fit this mold. The rest of you have parental units that are some mishmash of divorced, divorced and single, divorced and remarried, divorced and living with a significant other, divorced and gay, or even divorced, remarried and divorced again. Multiply that by four and the possibilities for stress are endless!

The first thing you need to do is assess the situation. Remember that you are under no obligation to include anyone and everyone in your wedding ceremony. It’s your day! Easier said than done, however, if you are trying to be respectful to everyone but your mother won’t get near “that” woman and your dad will not acknowledge your stepfather’s existence. There are some however, some tips to get you through the worst of it.

Much will depend on the timing. If your parents divorced when you were young and the “step” was an integral part of your upbringing, then you will probably want to give them a higher level of involvement than the step who didn’t come into your life until your adult years.

For the most part (and I will acknowledge that there are exceptions to every rule) it is probably best to put a priority on the feelings of your biological parents—unless they just being plain unreasonable. Always mention them first and include in your ceremony in the highest places of honor. Generally, these include escorting the bride down the aisle, helping the bride get dressed (definitely reserved for your biological mom!)lighting the unity candle, the etiquette of being seated (i.e. bride’s mother is always the last to be seated, with the groom’s mother just before her), being given front row seats, inclusion in the prayer of thanks to parents, being thanked via a toast at the reception, inclusion in the receiving line (of there is one) etc.

Regardless of the closeness of the “step” relationship, please remember to give each parent (and “steps” are parents even if they are not biological ones) a corsage/boutonniere. It’s inoffensive to all, inexpensive, and subtle and the gesture will be appreciated.

Here are some other ways to include your step-parents in your wedding day, based on the comfort level of all involved:

Have your step mothers seated as part of the processional. Just make sure they are seated before the biological mothers.

If your stepfather has been an important part of the bride’s life, then think about having him escort you part of the way down the aisle, or joining you and your dad as you arrive at the front row. Check with your dad first!

Have your dad escort the bride down the aisle (in traditional fashion). When the officiant asks, “Who gives their blessing to this marriage?” ALL the parents (even the groom’s) can answer “We do.”

Have one of your step-parents do a reading or recite the final blessing.

Include your stepparents in the prayer of thanks to the parents. Out of respect for your parents, you’d have the officiant refer to your biological parents first, then your stepparents after that.

Blow off the entire idea of including any of your parents. Walk down the aisle alone (or with your groom) and just have all parental units be guests. That way, no one gets offended!

Have your biological parents do all the honors for the wedding, but include a special word of thanks to your parents AND stepparents in the program.

As far as seating goes, traditional etiquette (which can always be flaunted in unusual circumstances) dictates that married couples should be seated together. According to the rules of those etiquette mavens in the know, it should look like this (it’s the same for both bride’s and groom’s side, so we’ll just list the bride’s side). Your mom gets the first row and she should be seated next to her husband/significant other. Stepmom goes in the second row, seated next to your biological father. In cases where there is enough seating and everyone gets along, then all four parents (if there are that many) can be seated in the first row. The order should be (from outside in) mother, stepfather, father stepmother. Of course, if your father and stepfather are ready to kill each other, you’ll need to modify this arrangement. Use your common sense and get your officiant to help you—etiquette rules are there to make people comfortable. If following them has the opposite affect, then toss them and make up your own rules.

If the situation among your parents is really tense and you truly like and respect your stepparent but want to respect your biological parents’ wishes, then go along with your biological parents’ wishes for the big day, but be sure to arrange some special time with your step parents beforehand so that you can tell them how much you value them in your lives. Take your stepmother out to lunch, have dinner with the groom’s dad and his wife a week or so before the wedding. Make them feel special and let them know you are glad they will be there on your special day, in spite of possible difficult circumstances.

Alert your officiant and your wedding coordinator, if you have one, to possible volatile situations, sources of friction, etc. We’ve got experience in this field and a word from us in a recalcitrant parental ear often works wonders!

We Know Who You Are!

Evil communication corrupts good manners. I hope to live to hear that good communication corrects bad manners.

Benjamin Banneker

The Internet, for all the good it does (I, for one, can't imagine a life without it) has not been without its downside. I really think that the cloak of anonymity it provides causes some people to think they are exempt from all accountability for their actions. Let this be a wake up call to some of you: just because you can surf the net without being detected (and even that is not a guarantee) it doesn't transfer over to being rude in public. We can still see you picking your nose in your car, you still hurt our feelings when you scream at us and yes, we know it is you when you are yelling into your cell phone at the library!

As you know, I recently placed my house on the market.Now, if you've ever listed a house, you know that the first people to investigate are the Looky Loos--most likely your neighbors who are just dying to either A. See the inside of your house or B. See how much it's selling for so that they can get an idea of how much their property is worth. Okay, we'll give you that. You're not fooling anyone, but we'll acquiesce on the point that it is human nature to be both greedy and curious. Heck--I've done it myself!

What I can't understand is the rudeness...no...the downright anger of some people. I've never seen anything, except maybe a wedding (and I know all about those) that brings out the emotions in people. And I'm talking about people that have nothing to do with the sale of the house! I'm gaining a new respect for real estate agents--who now rank up there with junior high school teachers in terms of being deserving of combat pay. My agent, Diane Peltier of Keller Williams, had been fielding more calls than I could have ever imagined on my property. Some people kindly admit that they are just curious and have no intention of buying, but others are downright hostile. One man, cowering under the anonymity of the telephone, bullied her into explaining "where the heck she got THAT price from" (the price is right in line with the house's appraised value and this man has absolutely no idea of the amount of remodeling and updating that has gone on inside the house) and proceeded to berate and yell, finally hanging up on her in spite of her polite responses to his questions.

Is this man interested in buying? Of course not--he is a neighbor on the other side of Sloan's Lake with an ax to grind. Wow! Here I was thinking I was simply selling my beautiful home so that I could downsize and give someone else a turn at pursuing their life and dreams inside its protective and beautiful walls. Instead, I think I've created the new talk of the neighborhood.

Kind of gives new resonance to the term "get a life"!! Gosh! Let me save many of you the trouble of calling and hassling my real estate agent. The house is listed for $424,900 with 3% back to the buyer with a full price offer. It is gorgeous inside and I will be very sad to leave it, but it is time. The hardwood floors gleam, the basement stairs are steep and scary, there's a patch on the kitchen ceiling where I once overflowed the bathtub above it and the gas fireplace lends a charm that I've not seen in any other home. I've married people here, had arguments here and drunk many glasses of wine here (sometimes after the arguments). I've laughed myself silly within its walls, hosted my family and friends for Thanksgiving here and pondered my life into the wee hours of the morning--sometimes while up to my neck in bubbles in the clawfoot tub. Nothing creaks (except the owner) and the faucets on the bar sink in my pantry are reversed. My favorite thing about the house is looking out the window watching the seasons change over Sloan's Lake. My least favorite thing is the pigeons that sometimes gather on my roof. You can see more details at http://www.lyssabeths.com/ .

You can still call us if you're just curious--it's kind of flattering, actually, but if you can't be pleasant--leave Diane alone!

Labels

I've decided to sell my house. There--I've not only said it, but now I'm sending out to the World Wide Web, so it must be a reality. It's time. This 115 year old Victorian has been both the bain and the joy of my existence, depending on much money it cost me at any given moment and it is time to move on to the next adventure.

Yes, it is time. Jeremy and I want to travel more and do yard and house work less. My offsite wedding officiating is flourishing and it is truly where my passion lies. Oh sure, it's been fun to host small intimate weddings in my home; there have been many happy couples coming through my doors. But in reality those weddings comprise a very small part of my business and more often than not, these couples want only the basic civil ceremony which, while being very cost effective for them, does little to tap into my creative genius! The truth is that couples can get a basic ceremony anywhere--they don't need my talent for that.

So, today, my friend and colleague, Diane Peltier of Keller Williams will list my house. Ironically, it was the house that prompted me to get started performing weddings in the first place. It has served its purpose for me and it is time for someone else to fulfill their dreams here. When it sells, I will no longer be a home-owner, which is something I've been for most of my adult life. It feels strange, but it also feels liberating. I've conditioned myself to believe that owning a home is the financially responsible, adult thing to do. Does not owning a home make me flighty, irresponsible and (gasp) without roots? Probably not, when I actually think about it. Like most preconceived notions about labels, it is inaccurate when exposed to the light of examination and reflective thought. It got me to thinking about the labels we place on ourselves and others and how limiting they can be when we cease to stop and examine them.

At various periods of my life, I'm sure I've been regarded as the following, compete with the stereotypical attributes of each: college student, a soccer mom (I protest this one vigorously as I refused to ever buy a mini van, but I must admit that all the other characteristics were there!). I've been a DINK, (very briefly) a Yuppie, a single mom, a hot date, a bitch, a teacher, the difficult ex, and the doting wife. I've been employed, unemployed, self-employed and "between jobs". A sports-car owner, a "glowing" mom-to-be, a lapsed Catholic, an empty-nester, a divorcee, a writer, a daughter, a sister, a Grandmom (which I ain't given up for nothin'!) a familial black sheep (see lapsed Catholic and divorcee, above) and the doted-upon youngest grandchild. I've been considered a gym rat, a sugar-aholic, overweight, tall and slim, a handywoman, damsel in distress, victim (once, for about 3 minutes in my early thirties) and health nut. A risk-taker and a worry-wart. A comedian and a businesswoman (you need the former talent to succeed at the latter, I've learned). Saint and sinner. Self-righteous and problem-solver. A New Englander. A Coloradan. A liberal. A moderate. (I don't think I'll ever cop to being a conservative.)

Wow! Talk about dichotomies! Some of the above have been accurate perceptions; others not. I think the wonderful thing about careening toward 50 is that you cease to care. So what do I want to "be" after I am no longer a homeowner? A loving partner, a traveler, a dynamic and creative entrepreneur, a compassionate and fun wedding officiant, someone who doesn't give a rat's patoot about what she or others"is".

Oh yeah! The adventure has just begun!

Making an Entrance

Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success.

Henry Ford

Wednesday is Tip day--the day I post a tip sheet (for brides or just anyone looking for creative ideas) on my blog. Here's this week's

Make an Entrance! 10 Ways to get you and your Entourage down the Aisle

1. Groom waits up front with best man and groomsmen. Bridesmaids enter one by one, unescorted, followed by flower girl/ring-bearer, with Bride entering last. Note: This is the best choice if your numbers of men and women in your bridal party are not equal.

2. Groom wait up front with best man. Groomsmen and bridesmaids enter as couples, followed by children and then Bride.

3. Groom begins processional, either with his best man, or by escorting his mother to her seat. Bridal party to follow as couples, with Bride entering last.

4. Same as #3, except that groom is escorted by both parents.

5. After everyone else is down the aisle, Bride is escorted by her father or both parents.

6. After everyone else is down the aisle, Bride is escorted by her father (or other male escort). Upon arriving at the front row, Bride’s mother joins Bride and her father, taking Bride’s other arm, and walks the following few steps to meet the groom. (This is a great option if you want to include your mother, but she doesn’t want to escort you all the way down the aisle)

7. After the bridal party enters, the Bride and Groom walk in together. Why not start your ceremony as you live your life…together!

8. The bridal party enters. As the Bride begins her entrance, either with one or both parents, she has no flowers. Her father (and mother) hand her a flower and she begins walking down the aisle. At the end of the rows, lining the aisle, the Bride’s girlfriends, bridal party, or any family members stand and hand her a flower as she passes by—giving her a hug as they do so. The Bride is gathering her bouquet as she makes her entrance! (Consider having your groom, or your grandmother hand you the last flower.) Once at the front, the maid of honor, who has brought a ribbon just for the occasion, takes the Bride’s flowers from her and ties them into a bouquet.

9. Forgo the processional altogether (it’s nerve-wracking anyway!). Simply meet and mingle with your guests until the ceremony starts and then have your officiant gather everyone around. It’s very informal and intimate.

10. Wow your guests at the start! Dance, skip, ride your bikes, or roller blade in!

It's the Little Things

continued from 02/06...

I can not figure out why people describe the Spanish as being a lay back people. The general impression appears to be that they work for a few hours, knock off for siesta, toil for a few more hours (maybe!) knock off for the day and head out for tapas. Hmmm...come to think of it, that's pretty accurate. That all changes in the grocery store, however, where it's everyone for themselves! They don't meander or mosey--they scurry. Loudly. Very, very loudly! Once the imperturbable Spanish cross the threshold of the Supermacado they morph into zealous predators, single-mindedly intent on hunting down their prey (i.e. groceries) and returning to home and hearth triumphant!

After maneuvering our wagons up and down the jam-packed aisles of hyperactive natives, we were a little farther along then when we started. Jeremy braved the fish department and succeeded in purchasing an amount of shrimp roughly equal to what we'd consume at a meal. or so we thought until we realized that the little devils were sold with the heads still on, the removal of which shrunk our haul considerably. We managed to find fruit and bread and potato chips (battatas fritas...yummy!). We had the very good fortune of bumping into our temporary neighbors, Ian and Alison, who patiently explained that the 50 cents paid for the shopping cart was actually a deposit that was returned to the customer upon nestling the cart back into the queue and locking it to the one in front (no wonder the man had glared at me as I'd tried to release his cart from his grasp!). With Ian and Alison to guide us, our courage returned and we were actually able to come home with some food that we'd actually eat.

But then came the adventure of the heavy cream. Having decided to make both seafood pasta and chocolate mousse for our delightful British neighbors, Ian and Alison, the acquisition of heavy cream became imperative. Back to the Supermacado. But this time, we were prepared, having looked up the words for cream and whipped cream, I figured we could noodle it out. I delegated the finding of the cream to Jeremy and set about picking up the remaining ingredients. After a long time, he zig-zagged his way through the throng of shoppers (it helps that Jeremy is 6'3" so I can always spot him towering over the shorter-statured Spanish) and triumphantly handed me a smallish round container, confidently proclaiming that he'd found the heavy cream. "It doesn't look like heavy cream," I noted. "It is," he replied confidently, "I asked the clerk for it." "The English-speaking clerk?" I asked hopefully. Well, no...but he'd made the motion for beating the cream and she'd nodded vigorously. "I don't think this is heavy cream," I mourned, "I think it is light cream. " An-in-depth discussion in the fruit aisle ensued, followed by me nagging Jeremy into taking me over to the area of the store where he'd found the alleged heavy cream so I could have a look for myself. Hmmm...my gut told me this was not heavy cream. In fact, I was quite sure it was coffee cream, or light cream, but not the whipping variety. With nothing better to offer, I picked up our of the containers, put them in my basket, sighed, paid, bagged, retrieved my 50 cents and left.

Of course we arrived home to discover that we'd purchased four containers of sour cream. I found out later that the "slang" word for heavy cream is actually the Spanish word for "mountain" followed by the word for cream--indicating that when it is beaten, it forms peaks. Duh......

I love America......

Market-ing 101. Spanish Style

When thou art at Rome, do as they do at Rome.

Miguel de Cervantes

So here I was in Spain ready to attempt my first try at the grocery store. On the plus side, I had survived three visits to the DMV in Denver the month before (see my earlier entries) so I was a least prepared for some stress!

I took Jeremy with me for support and plunged into the Super Sol, which I had been told by “my people” was more “English-friendly”. Ha! That’s what I get for listening to the British!

We actually sailed through the shopping part quite smoothly. The gal at the deli taught me the word for turkey (parvo) and I meandered up and down the aisles repeating it over an over so I could sound smart in case I am at a Spanish cocktail party and need to jump into an in-depth discussion of the merits of white verses dark meat. And although it’s a long shot, if I do come across a large dumb-looking bird gobbling whilst out for my morning constitutional in Spain, it would only be the polite thing to do to address it by name, don’t you agree? Of course I was lulled into a sense of false security, which became quite evident when we went to check out. Piling everything from my basket onto the belt, I gave my friendliest “hola” to the clerk and began fumbling for my credit card. The first few items slid through without incident, but when she got to the fruit, there was much gesturing and rapid speech, indicating that we’d obviously been remiss in something. Damned if I could figure out what it was, however.

“Maybe they don’t like selling fruit to Americans,” I postulated to Jeremy, “perhaps it behooves them to keep us vitamin-deficient…or (gasp!) even constipated!” No, that wasn’t it. After a few more points and inarticulate syllables being flung our way, we warily picked up the fruit and shuffled back to the fruit department. Apparently we were supposed to weigh and bag the fruit there ourselves. I found the scale, but as I didn’t know the price of bananas or what the heck a kilo is, it wasn’t much help. Finally a kindly English lady took pity on me and told me that I had to bring the fruit over to the gal who works in the department and she’d be happy to weigh, bag and price it for me—which she was. Back to the line, where the people behind us were being mercifully patient, I gave the fruit triumphantly to the gal, handed her my credit card, even understood what she wanted when she asked for identification (although I felt compelled to offer an apology for the Bush administration as I handed her my U.S. passport) and we were off—relatively unscathed for a first attempt, I felt. Ha! I didn’t cry once!

Of course, the way Jeremy and I eat, this paltry amount lasted barely a day and then we found ourselves once more in need of sustenance. Having had only the one issue at the Super Sol, we felt confident to venture into the Supermercado, which caters primarily to the Spanish community. That’s where the adventure began!

Keep in mind that space in most cities in Europe is tight. This is not Texas, my friends, so parking is always at a premium. Don’t think for a minute that it’s like dashing to the Safeway for a gallon of milk. After circling the underground parking garage for about as much time as it would have taken us to go out to lunch, Jeremy finally squeezed the car into a spot. We alighted full of energy and ready for our first real Spanish shopping experience. Spotting a man returning his cart to the queue, I smiled and held out my hand to take it from him (figuring that was pretty much a universal gesture). To my chagrin, he threw me a malevolent look, slammed the cart in to nestle with the rest and then, glaring at me reached over the tip of it, where he picked up a lock that was hanging there and bolted it to the cart in front! Glaring at me once again, he stomped off to his car. I desolately walked back to Jeremy, who was having his own issues-- fiddling with the elevator buttons, trying to see if the store itself was above or below us. “They don’t let Americans use the shopping carts, I lamented—they lock us out of them. I think you have to know some secret Spanish code to get them unlocked!” “That’s crazy,” said my beloved, “we’ll go into the store and figure it out.”

Sure enough, upon alighting from the elevator, we came upon more rows of locked-up carts. Upon further investigation, we found that the secret of freeing one of the coveted wagons was to insert a fifty cent piece into them. Doing so popped the lock as if by magic! Bristling at having to pay fifty cents for a shopping cart (yet relieved to find that everyone has to pay, not just the tourists), I opted for one of their smaller baskets, which are a little larger than the carry-around baskets we’re used to and they have wheels and a pull-handle so you can wheel them around behind you like a wagon. So they two of us started out with our wagons, Jeremy shaking his head about my refusal to spring for the big cart and me spouting epithets about the people who try to make a buck off absolutely everything!

To be continued……

To market, to market

The familiar is everything

Nicolas Roeg

It's a funny thing about supermarkets. One doesn't think much of them until they become less than second nature. Let's face it, you probably haven't spent too many sleepless nights wondering if your local grocer has an adequate supply of Chex Mix or if the avocadoes are soft to the touch. You may peruse the Sunday ad, clip a coupon or twelve, choose between organic or processed, create a list (or not) and then make the ultimate choice between paper or plastic, but for the most part, you must admit shopping for food is one of our more ritualistic behaviors.

Until it’s not. I remember when this realization dawned on me. It was many years ago and I had just moved from Rhode Island (where I had always lived until that time) to Vermont. This was a distance of some 250 miles—hardly the equivalent of going from… say New York City to a peasant village in Botswana. Nonetheless, it was adjustment and on one particular day in the first week of our arrival, after dealing with a 5 year old with an ear infection (and not knowing where the local emergency room was located, let alone a pediatrician) a crib that hadn’t been delivered by the movers (they just couldn’t quite locate it) leading to a very over-tired and cranky 17-month old and a assortment of other things gone wrong, I took upon myself the task of stocking my new kitchen pantry. Bad idea. I have a distinct memory of walking down the aisle of the local A&P (fortunately without the children) and just sniffling and then ultimately sobbing because everything was in the wrong place. This was not my Stop and Shop! Nothing was familiar; my usual products weren’t available; they grouped things in odd arrangements (Vermonters had a lot of time on their hands back them—they probably still do!) I suddenly had a new understanding of the words “comfort food”. I had subconsciously undertaken an endeavor that I thought would add a modicum of normalcy to my newly chaotic life and found instead yet another arena in which I was in need of adaptation.

It was a lesson I’ve never forgotten. To an avid cook and a mother who nurtures her family with food (among other things) I have learned that I worship at the altar of King Sooper, Grand Union, Price Chopper etc. and that shopping in an unfamiliar store feels, to me, like the equivalent of participating in an exotic or foreign religious ritual. Sacrilege! Talk about being out of your comfort zone! I’ve been very careful since that time never to underestimate the influence that the local supermarket has over me. With each move--be it to a new state or a new neighborhood-- I cautiously approach the various options….sleuthing them out. Hmmmm... what kind of energy does this one exude? Who will it be? The one closest to home? Who has the best customer service, the best prices? How are things laid out? Who else shops there? What is the ratio of squeeky-wheel shopping carts vis a vis the number of shopping carts overall? Oh yes, a monumental decision to be sure. An aside note here--when I moved to Colorado, I was appalled to learn that the "natives" call shopping carts "buggies". Now I'm all about adapting to the local customs, but I've yet to bring myself to call my shopping cart a "buggy" and I've lived in Colorado since 1995! I just can't do it!

Now that I have learned that I have…well….certain “issues” in the area of "grocery store chi", it has become an amusing pastime of mine to observe the behavior of my fellow shoppers—especially in stores that are new to me. As you can imagine, I approached the task of marketing in Spain with great gusto. Okay….and a little intimidation given my bawling episode in aisle 5 of the A&P, so I took Jeremy with me. The tale of that escapade will need to wait for another day, but believe me, it will be well worth the wait. For now, it is time for siesta. Adios!