It’s that time of year again, Wedding season. It’s the time of year where you see some beautiful acts of love along with some pathetic acts of desperation.

I have never been engaged before I was engaged to my husband. I’ve never bought a bridal magazine and I never spent hours fantasizing about being a bride.

Before I was married I did have these faceless groom dreams where the wedding was more about some kind of coercion than a day where I was the queen.

I have seen my share of failed marriages and rushed “I dos”.

It seems like, as with having children, the focus is on the wrong thing. With 50% of all marriages ending in divorce, the focus should be on the marriage, not the day of the marriage.

Don’t focus on the dress, the food, the location, the guest list. Don’t focus on who will be the focus. Pay attention to the marriage.

So many people get married because they feel it’s the thing to do. Get married, spit out kids, accumulate stuff. Anyone knows that marriage is work and it takes a commitment to make it work. You need to value your marriage, consider your spirituality about it and work daily on putting others first.

Personally, I’d rather have a 30-plus year marriage than a large diamond ring. I’d rather have pouring rain on my wedding and have a faithful, loyal, supportive spouse.

Too many people are tossing around marriage like plaything. It’s become a commercial event more than a sincere act of love. I think about the people that got married during the Great Depression or before a fiancé was sent to war. They knew that even though money or time wasn’t there for the day, the relationship would endure.

So all you Bridezillas and Batchelor party bozos out there, I say, good luck. Sure a wedding is a stressful event, but if you can’t handle a wedding with grace, you probably won’t handle the marriage with any either.  

It’s cutting edge! It’s futuristic! It’s so green it hurts!

My Toyota Corolla still gets better gas mileage.

Put more money in my piggy bank.

A best friend, English major, and head of the largest girl posse I know, has invited me to join a book club. I signed up right away because to be English major you have read to boatload of books. Also, her suggestions are always wonderful.

In a party-line style email, the name of our book club was born via her sister who wrote sarcastically:

“So, I’m only in if we say things like, ‘I truly appreciated the metaphors
that the author used to represent love. Namely, the empty red urn.’ and
‘I loved the ending when the sisters found each other again and they
lived together until death. It made my vagina glow.’”

The comment was followed with quips like, “I’ll be there with my glowing vagina” and this one:

“Way to go!  You gave us our official name:  ‘The Glowing Vagina Book Club - Denver Chapter’ Hee hee”

Our first book is Atonement by Ian McEwan.

Commence the glowing.

Yesterday Zach was kicked out of daycare for having pink eye. I was able to get him into the doctor right at nap time, so his mood was fragile.

In the car on the way to the doctor, he kept asking for candy, apple juice, fruit snacks, everything I didn’t have.

I dug around in my car looking for a novelty to dull the whining. In my console I found an unused flask (for liquor) that my husband acquired from a client who runs a liquor store. It was part of a promotional thing.

If you have small children you know that smooth, cold metal can entertain for hours. So, I gave him the flask.

He’s never seen a flask or held one, but instinctively he put the capped, empty flask to his mouth like he was taking a swig.

I looked in the rear view mirror and laughed.

Of course this caused Zach to laugh and do it more.

Then I thought about all the other people at the stop light during the lunch hour rush who might be looking in my car at this toddler who looked as if he was chugging down booze in a flask. There was probably a few double takes.

Quality parenting right here, folks. Quality parenting.

Yesterday afternoon my mother-in-law boarded a flight to Chicago from Denver.

The plane took off as normal. Once in the air, the plane began to circle and they announced they would land in Denver.

While on the way down to land, all the passengers noticed several fire trucks and police cars on the runway to escort them to the gate. No announcements were on why fire trucks and police cars were needed. No one was told what went wrong.

On the runway the passengers could all smell a strong burning smell. They then were told that they would switch planes.  The delay was long, so my mother-in-law requested another flight going out today. She told my husband that after years of flying she had never been more afraid.

Do you like the smell of freshly mowed grass? Do you like a fresh lemon wedge squeezed in your ice water? Do you like over-ripe grapefruit loaded with sugar on top? Do you love a big, crisp Granny Smith Apple?

If you said yes to these things, I recommend the ultimate summer white wine: Tangent Sauvignon Blanc 2006. For $14, it’s springtime in a bottle, alcoholic, no less.

(On a side note, $14 bought a kickin’ top in 1989, how times change. It was a whole night’s babysitting fee.)

I’m seriously in love with it. I may be tempted to yell for this stuff all summer the way my son yells for his “Apple Juice! Apple Joooooooose!”

Tangent, sauvignooooooooon blanc! Tangent sauvignoooooooon!

(p.s. Tangent is paying me no money, but I will take free wine…hint, hint.)

If you’ve met me for the first time, you may think I’m stupid. I’ve been told several times by people who I consider friends that when they first met me they thought I was a flake. But then when they got to know me, they realized that, no, I’m not a flake, I am just thinking about multiple things at one time, all the time.

My husband suspects that this could be ADD.I already know I have anxiety, but I’m not certain I have Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. When it’s something I’m interested in, like writing, reading, or sewing I’m very focused.

I think when the subject matter, like what is discussed by my estimating team, is boring as watching paint dry, I don’t focus. For example, when someone says to me “I need you to compile a list of bidders for the IGMP estimate where the MEP and the structural drawings will be different but the specifications and instructions to bidders will be the same…yadda, yadda.”  I start thinking about how I’m going to do these things while they are continuing with their jargon. So therefore, it looks as if I’m not paying attention.  In reality, I’m paying attention and translating for myself, what the Hades they are talking about.

That goes for anything that doesn’t interest me. My mind tries to make it interesting and relevant, instead of just accepting the information at its dry, face-value.

I was even like that as a kid. I hated math, but I was drawn to the number 5 because I though it looked like a sideways man with a hat and a belly. Also, math with fives is easy; they stick together and follow a clear pattern.

It would be nice to have less chatter upstairs, and be able to be calm and collected in quiet, thoughtful repose.

Maybe I should do more yoga or meditation. Anyone else out there suffer from ADD as an adult?

So, my review came and went, and as I predicted, I was A-Bombed. They nuked my communist town. Damn, damn capitalist pigs.

They were even critical of my three-hole punching and stapling ability.

Damn.

I have to admit that, for an A-bomb, year review it was very professional. They offered lots of suggestions on how I could be the biggest, most-annoying, anal-retentive turd. Whoopee!

Of course, because I am an adult, I will follow the said suggestions, and by the next review my three hole punches and staples will be a shining example to all those who attempt to do these tasks.

My new motto is, play the game and then retire. Even if the game leaves you a towel boy in the game of life…squirt that water bottle straight, beee-atch!

On another note, I recently read an article that stated, in China over 4 million college graduates compete for 1.2 million white collar, middle-class jobs. To get into college they spend five hours a night on homework for twelve plus years to pass the equivalent of the SAT with steroids. They call it the Tall Test. In some schools they require children to know Pi to 100 by three years-old to be admitted to certain kindergartens. And to top all those crap odds, you are your parents’ only child and since their futures were crushed by Communism, they have no qualms about pushing their dreams on you. Happy.

I guess the “Enjoy what you have because they have it worse it China” stories your mother told you are still true.