Wedded Bliss-ters

Digging into my mental museum, I decided to share with you the true story of a wedding from Hell, which I attended fifty years ago. And, YES, it is still exceedingly memorable. The formal wedding and reception dinner were held on a Sunday evening, in December, in the sanctuary, and adjoining reception room, of a little congregation, in a small town near Chicago---where many of the grooms relatives lived.

The wealthy parents of the groom had arranged for a private bus to ferry their fancy Chicago friends to the wedding. Since my husband, Warren, was a groomsman; we arrived a couple of days early.

Saturday morning, Warren looked at the sky and said, “It looks like rain.” He was wrong. It didn’t rain, but late Saturday night, it began to snow. The groom arrived. He hadn’t forgotten to bring his tuxedo, but bringing the wedding license had slipped his mind. Luckily, one of his uncles woke up a sleeping judge, who ordered the powers to be, to open the license office, and by Sunday morning, when the bride arrived, the license was well in hand. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to bring the wedding cake. It kept snowing!

The groom’s aunts had planned an elegant champagne lunch, for out-of-town guests, at the only hotel in town. As we were seated, and the heartfelt toasts were being made, the private dining room doors flew open, and 30 unexpected relatives of the bride (from Detroit) burst into the room, shouting “Is this the place for lunch?”

One of the aunts almost fainted. Another aunt explained, as politely as possible, that since she had not been informed that they were coming, food had not been ordered for them, but she would arrange for some sandwich platters, if they could wait quietly. They decided not to wait, and began to take rolls out of the breadbaskets. When another aunt said, “Please stop doing that,” they left. The breadbaskets were empty. As a matter of fact, they took two of the baskets with them. The almost fainting aunt kept mumbling, “Not our side of the family. Not our side of the family.” Unfazed, the bride said, “What a nice surprise! I had no idea they were invited.” By now the snow was coming down very fast.

Radio commentators reported, “Chicago traffic is backed up due to blizzard conditions.” Most of the guests had decided to get to the wedding early due to the increasingly bad weather. The chapel was beautifully decorated with roses. We could smell them, but no one could see them, because as soon as we all were seated, the lights went out. It was like sitting in a nice smelling coal mine. It was pitch black inside the chapel when the busload of bejeweled and mink covered guests arrived, in their wrinkled tuxedos and gowns, from Chicago. Carrying a flashlight, one disgruntled man said, “I’ll buy the damn electric company in this Burg, if they turn on the lights!”

Candles were lit, and I prayed that they wouldn’t burn down the chapel. Warren prayed that he wouldn’t be poisoned at the dinner, because the refrigeration in the wedding reception area was also down and out. I couldn’t see the bride come down the aisle, but I assume she was present when the vows were said. After the ceremony, the candles were brought into the reception area. The melting ice-sculptured swans looked more like pigeons, and the champagne was a bit warm, but the food had not spoiled. I’m not sure what I ate, but it kind of tasted good.

“Dancing in the Dark” was a good theme song for the wedding, and then it was time to leave. By now, all of the cars in the parking lot were totally covered with snow. Two of the drunken Detroit relatives had located a couple of shovels and asked Warren, “Where’s our car?” He showed them where to dig.  When they were finished, they had dug out our car. Oops! 

The snow removal truck had only cleared the street that led to the hotel. There was no way we could go anywhere else. So everyone, including the bride and groom spent the night in the hotel. The next day, the bride’s relatives returned to Detroit with their newly acquired breadbaskets. The wealthy people returned on the private bus to Chicago, without buying the electric company, and we were free to go home.

Esther Blumenfeld (The marriage was kaput in a year. I guess they turned on the lights.)

Volenda Esski

In her book, The Middle Place, Kelly Corrigan writes, “Parents define you first.” If she’s right, I guess perhaps they see you as you want to be seen, and then again---perhaps NOT.

Recently, my brother, David sent me some letters he found in his attic. They were written in 1945, when he was an infant, and I was a 9-year-old spending a couple of weeks in summer camp. I hope through the chuckles, you will catch a glimpse of the woman I became. I know I did.

“Dear Mom and Dad,

Boy, am I having fun. We sang songs on the bus and Rosalie dropped her letters into the water.”

“My Darling Daughter,

I bought 3 movie magazines with pretty actors, and I will save them for you, so you can cut them out for your scrapbook. Be a good girl and wash your ears. Mommy”

“Dear Mom and Dad,

For breakfast I had raisins, Wheaties, milk and toast. I went swimming and am in cabin #1.”

“Dear Daughter,

I imagine that you were so busy enjoying yourself that you did not find the time to write.  Mommy”

“Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m very sorry I didn’t write to you, but I lost my pencil. Now I have to go row a boat.”

“My Dear Daughter,

How are you getting along with the other girls? No fighting? Do you sleep well in your bunk? How does it feel to be on an island? Daddy”

“P.S. The spot on the paper is drool from your baby brother.”

“Dear Mom and Dad,

I saw two raccoons last night. They say there are deer on the island. The cabins are full of spiders, but they aren’t poisonous. How many dishes did Daddy break since I left?”

“Dear Daughter,

Please don’t bring any spiders home. Please don’t forget anything at camp. Remember the BLANKETS belong to Mrs. Dworsky. Are you washing yourself good? How about your ears and neck? Do you treat them well? Be a good girl Mommy”

“Dear Daddy,

I am writing a play for you.

(Signed) Volenda Esski”

So, I grew up, washed my ears and neck, and wrote some more plays and a few books. I don’t know where I picked up the pseudonym “Volenda Esski.” Sometimes, I still find excuses not to write, but eventually I manage to find my pencil. I’m not collecting photos of movie stars anymore, but I still keep scrapbooks that have preserved some sweet memories.

My breakfast habits haven’t changed much. I still enjoy swimming, but can’t remember the last time I rowed a boat. And, I never “fight” with my friends. I’m still not afraid of spiders, and occasionally when I drop something, I realize that I have become almost as clumsy as my Father. However, I never dropped 8 dinner plates at one time. In all fairness, the seat of the chair he was standing on broke through. He was okay---the dishes---not so much.

Esther Blumenfeld (“It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn’t.”) Barbara Kingsolver

Mad About The Girl

There are worse things in life than dropping a sizzling, hot baked potato on the floor, but when I did it twice, I recognized, that using an oven mitt would have been a good idea. Of course, I know the difference between a microwave oven and an oven oven.  It’s not stupidity. It’s hubris. I was impatient, in a hurry, and wanted my baked potato---NOW!

I am woman see me roar, but in this case I was roaring, “Hot! Hot! Hot!” Naturally, as I wiped smashed potato off the floor, I was angry with myself, but happily, I can’t stay angry with anyone. Anger is more corrosive than rock salt.

In contrast, the next morning, on my way to a dental appointment, I encountered my first experience with “road rage,” which is way scarier than dropping a hot potato.

With cars streaming in both directions, I sat behind the wheel of my automobile, at a busy intersection, waiting for the traffic light’s left turn arrow. It was safer to wait, because I couldn’t see around the cars that were going to turn on the opposite side of the street.

A young man, in the car behind me got my attention as he sat in his car flailing his arms, yelling, and honking his horn (not his horn but rather the horn of his dilapidated car). My windows were closed, so I couldn’t hear what he was shouting, but I got the impression that he was very angry with me.

In a few seconds, the green arrow appeared, I made my left turn, and flipped on my right turn directional signal since I immediately was going to turn right onto the road that led to my dentist’s office. The man in the car behind me was still honking, and yelling and waving his arms, and he continued to follow me—very close. At this point I was concerned that he was steering his car with his feet, and that he might decide to shoot off something more than his mouth. This guy didn’t need anger management. He needed nitwit management.

As I parked in front of the dentist’s office, my brave, pudgy, little dentist ran out with his drill going full blast and scared the road raging fellow away. No, that part of the story isn’t true, but I think a couple of well-placed shots of Novocain, would have done the enraged man some good. Happily, he sped off, tires squealing, obscenities spewing, ready to face the rest of his venomous day. This is when you want to advise someone to; “Remember to always be yourself, unless you are a jackass.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Whoa, who peed in your Cheerios?”) Becca Fitzpatrick 

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

With the story of Narcissus, the Greeks cautioned us about obsessing over our looks. Narcissus, the handsome hunter, looked into the water, fell in love with his own reflection, and unable to stop admiring himself, died there all-alone.

No one wants to end up like poor Narcissus, but vanity and the pursuit of beauty, subject to the whims of trendsetters, has led to tortured bodies throughout the ages. From the bound feet of women in China, to the metal coiled neckpieces that turned necks into stalks in Myanmar, and corsets that withered muscles, broke ribs and atrophied organs of women in Europe and the United States, bodies as well as self image suffered.

At one time, women were celebrated for their natural bodies, but the standard of beauty has gone through drastic changes over the years. Art historian, Anne Hollander said, “Nudity is a costume.” Benjamin Franklin would have liked that, because he had a tendency to write in the nude. However, he was relatively clean compared to other patriots in 1776 that were a smelly, dirty bunch.

Our Founding Fathers had a bath once or twice a month, their hair was a home for lice, and dental disease was the norm.  Wigs for men and hairpieces for women covered greasy hair, and everyone wore perfume to hide body odor. Because it couldn’t get much worse than that, they were able to form a more perfect Union.

In the 14^th and 15^th centuries, full-figured women were glorified. In the 1800’s, women were pale, plump and perfect. But in the 1900’s, as women began to play sports, the slender figure became ideal. Women joined the Olympics and Eleanor Roosevelt taught calisthenics and dance.

The 1920’s brought the flapper era of the “washboard” boyish figure, but in the 1950’s, thanks to Marilyn Monroe, curves were once again in fashion. The 1960’s brought a wave of eating disorders, because of the British teenager, “Twiggy,” a 5’7” model who weighed 92 pounds. Things turned from bad to worse in the 1990’s, when 5’9”, 100 pound model, Kate Moss introduced the “waif” look, and models began to eat Kleenex to satisfy their hunger pangs. Fed up with diets, women as well as men then turned to plastic surgery for fat-sucking procedures to realize the desired silhouettes that used to be achieved by steel and whalebone.

However, in 2014, there seems to be a push-back---as store mannequins are beginning to look more realistic, reflecting bodies of average women---with love handles, thicker waists and breasts that don’t protrude beside arm pits. Stores are now making an effort to display mannequins that look more like the women who buy their clothes. It is also helpful to customers to see a mannequin who doesn’t look as if it has just suffered the guillotine. The headless horseman might be okay if you are shopping for pumpkins, but not a wedding gown.

My 77-year-old friend, Deborah, is a natural beauty. She recently attended a party where a woman bragged about her recent face-lift, looked at Deborah, and said, “I’m a year older than you, but I look so much younger.” Sometimes, beauty is a sty in the eye of the beholder.

Esther Blumenfeld (“You’re born naked baby, and everything after that is drag!”) RuPaul

Great Performances

After a morning of reading about China’s foreign policy, an afternoon of story writing, and a bout with arithmetic (preparing my taxes), I just wanted an evening of television entertainment.

Fifty years ago, FCC Chairman, Newton Minow said, “Television is a vast wasteland.” Now it’s even vaster and more wasted, but some shows are still worth watching. However, on this particular night, they were not to be found. I think if I could have combined some of them, I might have watched; “How the “Pickpocket King“ met your mother”--- the “Mob Wife” at “Bad Girls All Star Battle.” Or, I might have watched; “The Bachelor”---“Finding Bigfoot.”

“Bizarre Food” shows can be fun. However a “Texas Garden” usually won’t grow “chopped pickled sausage,” and I’m sure a Texan would shoot a “squid whelp snail.”

In a “Face Off” there might be a “New Girl” who becomes a “Person of Interest” and then a “Trophy Wife,” after a major “Wife Swap.”  All in all, the “Fashion Police” might have enjoyed fixing the “Collateral Damage” with a makeover on the “Survivor.” Oh, if I only had the intestinal fortitude to watch that show!

Getting desperate, I almost watched, “World Gumball,” and “Hardcore Pawn,” but didn’t think I could take the violence of “Shocking Hip Hop Moments.” It was getting late, so I decided that “Moonshiners” had the right idea, and I made myself a cup of tea with honey and a shot of whiskey.

Instead of watching, “Dog With a Blog” or “Ink Master,” I decided to have “The Last Word.” I turned off the TV and instead of “Counting Cars,” I went to bed, counted a few sheep and fell asleep.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll watch “Storage Wars” instead of peeking at that “Iron Man,”Wolf Blitzer in the “Situation Room.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“I Can See Clearly Now”) Dr. Wayne Dyer, PBS