Miss Scarlett & her champagne

Last time I drank champagne in the afternoon, I wound up with my hands resting peacefully in the thick sugary frosting on a slice of wedding cake.

Things like this happen when I make an internal observation that I’m ever-so-cool.  That’s when I am brought face-to-face with a more humbling reality: I’m really not that cool at all. 

Those moments – the ones where I cannot ignore the truth of my awkward-idity – arrive with such impeccable timing that they cannot be denied. 

And they’re abetted by champagne.

So – I went to two weddings in one day, back in the day.  Two cousins.  Across town from each other and across a wide gulf in style. 

The first, a lovely morning, mimosa brunch affair set in the Rose Gardens atthe Philbrook Mansion, timed to side-step the Oklahoma heat.  The bride’s dainty flower girl wore a halo of baby’s breath.  The pristine, tiered white cake had strawberries around the perimeter.  The champagne flutes were frosted with sugar.  And the Mumm was ice-cold.

I drank two.

As I replay the events of that day, it seems plain that I most likely arrived at the second soiree with a bit of that sugar glaze on the corners of my mouth.  I hadn’t felt a thing.  Imagine.

The mid-afternoon timing of this second cousin’s nuptials was an accommodation of the NASCAR schedule.  She and her groom would catch a honeymoon flight to the Pocono race track where they would whoop it up as husband and wife.

Her vows were exchanged in the chilly confines of the Southside Baptist Church’s basement rec room.  The ping pong tables were covered with white plastic sheets and the words “Patsy and James Together Forever,” stenciled in glitter and attached to 10lb. test weight fishing line were strung up between the Fire Marshall’s mandated utility windows.

The Korbel was iced down in a galvanized trough, brand new for the day but to be turned out to the farm for watering the cattle after.  Linoleum tile and folding chairs completed the ambience.


Am I starting to sound snooty?  Well.  There you have it. 

I had begun to feel my Scarlett O’Hara, perhaps the effect of a couple more – or was it three? – plastic cups overflowing with the bubbly.

I looked good for one thing, or so I thought, compared to my cousin’s country friends.  I had the best hair.  The best dress.  The sexiest shoes.

It was in this superior state of mind that I took my Styrofoam plate with a big chunk of Sam’s Club wedding cake and a plastic fork and found myself a seat. 

Rather than digging in right away though – how crass! – I sat and smiled serenely at my male cousins and their buddies who clearly had an eye for me. 

I crossed my ankles, just so.

Oh, here comes Terry with his friend Junior.  They certainly do have goofy grins. 

“Hey Carolyn!”

“Hi Terry!  Can’t believe Patsy’s tying the knot!”  I admit it – champagne brings out my tendency toward the inane.

“Hey Carolyn!”  This was Junior, giggling.  Not the brightest bulb in the pack.

“Hey Junior.”

“You gonna eat that cake?”  Now why, oh why would he ask that?  And that infernal giggle.  Honestly.

There was plenty of cake for everyone.  But OK.  I don’t want more cake today.  He can have mine.

But when I went to hand him my serving, I found that the back of my left hand had eased onto the icing ever so gently and rested there like a goose settled onto a clutch of eggs.  The weight of it had pushed that whipped confection out into fat bulges on each side. 

My right hand, set palm-to-palm with my left, just as Miss Manners prescribes, allowed those down-turned digits to dip into the frosting also, giving them perfect sugary-white gooey fingertip caps.

That’s when those big corn-fed country boys burst out laughing and pointing to smarty-pants me. 

I cannot recall the rest.  I only hope the commotion didn’t draw too much attention away from the bride.

So you can see why it is with some trepidation that I prepare to attend a champagne ribbon-cutting ceremony this afternoon. 

I don’t know if I can be trusted.  What if they serve Moet & Chandon?  Whatever will I do?

Therefore, I have a plan:  Mr. Plath will accompany me.  His instructions are to spirit me away immediately following the toast.


Fiddle dee dee!

Miss Manners has left the building

Judith Martin ~ aka Miss Manners ~ like Santa she knows when you've messed up!

Let me just begin by saying there is a waitress at that restaurant who is pregnant.  She’d be about seven or eight months along by now, by my calculations.

So perhaps a person can be granted the tiniest shred of empathy.

Both waitresses are young – of child-bearing age.  Both wear their hair up.  Both have names that begin with “J.”  (Not their real first initial; this thin veneer is part of my flustered, bumbling attempt to explain the explainable.)

Some days they worked together, the J’s, almost interchangeably, one coming to the table then the other.  Both with flawless skin and sweet dispositions.

Then their shifts changed, I guess.  I didn’t really note the specifics.  Obviously.  

All I know is that I was having breakfast again last week with my smart and sassy friends, all witty and urbane and full of good breeding.  I am just there trying to blend.  An Oklahoma girl through and through.

One of the J’s was working her way around the circumference of our circular table, taking our particular orders for eggs scrambled soft or hard, oatmeal with or without raisins, tea or no – just hot water, a latte, all on separate checks.

J did this with her characteristic good humor.  She has learned the names of most of the regulars and caters to our whims and eccentricities as though it is her pleasure.

Inch by inch she worked herself around toward me until she came to a spot where my neighbor’s chair cinched in close to a jutting corner of the room.  Up on her toes J stretched, drew a breath and sucked in her girth to pass between.

We smiled and chuckled and, and, and…here it comes...God help me...with the kindest most motherly affection I truly felt in my heart of hearts, I said, “You made it!”

And I patted her belly.

I know.  That in itself is so far beyond the pale that you may be swooning.  Take a moment and brace yourself.  There’s more.

“I’ve forgotten your due date,” I said.

You have probably figured out already that this was not the pregnant J.  This was the other J.  The one with her hair up and the lovely smile.  The one who is in the prime of her fertility, but alas, not with child.

That one.

“Oh, I’m not pregnant,” she said, her smile a wistful memory.  “You must be thinking of J.”

The other J.  Of course!  The other one with the hair and the smile and the bun in the oven.  The one who is probably due right about now.  That J.

I have an internal Thesaurus that began rifling through all the synonyms for “clumsy.”  I think they began to flash across the neon billboard on my forehead:  awkward; inept; inelegant; gauche.

J, though, was gracious as ever.  She accepted my apology readily.  She understood how I had mistaken her for the other J.  Ha ha ha, we laughed uncomfortably.  She went on about her duties, seemingly unfazed.

My clever well-mannered friends chatted on, having not heard my gaffe.  I glanced under the table to see if there was room for me there, but no.

So I sat slumped, wearing my self-made dunce cap.  What a ridiculous thing!  How in the world?!!

Who says that?  Who does that?  OMG.  I do.

I have no theory to explain how good intentions and affection can become entangled with ungainliness in such a way.  And why?

Normally, when I make a fool of myself this way (yes, sadly, for me this seems to be normal) it is when I am feeling especially smart and showing it off.  That is when I usually mess up.  I figure it’s the Universe thumping me on the head and keeping me in my place.  I must deserve it.  But did she?

I went to her and apologized again for hurting her feelings.  She pretended not to know what I meant.  Then, she said, “Oh!  That?!  Don’t worry about it!”

I told her I wouldn’t.  So I won’t.  Not after this anyway.  I’m done with it.  Not another thought.  So help me.

It's Not Too Late for Resolutions!

In conducting a mid-year (it is mid-year, isn’t it?) check on my New Year’s resolutions, I discovered that I didn’t even remember some of the things I promised to do!  It appears my resolutions were shallow and without commitment.  Time for a mid-year correction.
  
Case in point:  I promised to make a pie!  Here it is August, and no pies.  No pies!  I am very disappointed in myself.  Of all my resolutions, I felt certain I would have completed this one.  Instead, I just let it go.  Forgotten.  No juicy fruit purchased for the purpose.  Not even canned fruit in the cupboard.  No homemade or frozen crust.  No rolling pin.  No pie.  I may have to go to Safeway and bring home a motivational sample. 

Given my failure on the pie resolution, it’s hard to explain why I’m only grams thinner than I was when I so earnestly made that resolution to get ounces thinner.  Did I mention I’ve switched to the metric system? 

I believe I deserve some credit since the scales tipped for a little while this year.  But then…alas…regression, inertia! 

So now, at the mid-year checkpoint (on the Aztec calendar), I redouble my efforts at slimmin’ (the British word for diet and exercise).  I can’t leave this resolution behind as it follows me, more literally than I like to admit, no matter my selective memory in a given moment. 

I resolved to dig out from under a desk in disarray.  A quick review of my surroundings reveals that I may have taken a positive step on the path toward tidiness; though in good conscience, I can’t claim it’s been as deliberate a step as the resolution implies.  Still, on a subterranean level the suggestion must have taken hold, as the desk itself is now visible.  Granted, there remain a couple of heaps o’ stuff that I haven’t figured out a more suitable situation for, neither item by item nor en masse.  But they’re smaller heaps than in January.  That counts, doesn’t it?

A key resolution was to be more generous in my manners and forgiving of those who might be lapsing in theirs.  I’ll give myself a “B” on this one.  I’m pretty automatic in holding doors, excusing myself, saying the magic words.  Why, in the produce department the other day, I pulled a plastic bag off the roll near the asparagus and gave it to a man who waited patiently for me to take it myself.  He said it was the first time that had ever happened.   

But I can’t rest too long on those laurels - in the privacy of my car, I’m still cantankerous and stingy with access to my lane.  If someone weasels in without permission, I get sarcastic unless I get a “thank you” wave, which is practically never.  I’m probably sending bad vibes into the cosmos.  I’m culpable for that.

Speaking of neglected resolutions, remember back in January when Congress resolved to behave better?  Recall when they mixed it up and crossed the aisle, sitting Democrat – Republican - Democrat for the President’s State of the Union address?  They did very well making nice that day.  Way back then.  In January.

I’m trying to be generous with them…but come on.  That was during the post-Christmas white sales.  Where’s the civility in springtime and the sweetness in summer?  Ok.  The President and the Speaker displayed a modicum.  I heard the President say a couple of times that Mr. Boehner has a tough time persuading his caucus of things he and the boss have agreed to.  That’s a generous statement.  He called Mr. Boehner a “good man.”  He seemed sincere. 

But past that, now it’s their promises that seem shallow and without commitment.  They took an oath to serve their constituents and our country, and to do so professionally, in good faith and with good will.  They're supposed to make the world a better place. 
They re-read the Constitution in January.  I suggest they read and refer to Robert’s Rules of Order and Miss Manners' Guide to Domestic Tranquility: The Authoritative Manual for Every Civilized Household.  That should cover the White House and both Houses of Congress. 

Somewhere in those two guides they’re bound to find an array of worthy resolutions like: listen, take turns, don’t interrupt, acknowledge others’ efforts, and validate their work.  Use your time wisely.  Play well with others.  Keep your eye on the prize.  Compromise. 

It’s not too late for a mid-year correction!