Happily Never After: On Thrift Store Wedding Gowns and Second Chances

As I was making my weekend thrift store rounds (a quasi-religious practice), I couldn’t help but notice the yards of shimmering white fabric and gauzy tulle adorning chipped smiling mannequins in the windows of, respectively, The Salvation Army, the Youth Ranch, and St. Vincent dePaul.

 It’s wedding season. And I was not the only woman gawking, in that ironic but wistful manner only the sadder-but-wiser girl can convey, at the ridiculous but iconic costuming that is still, to this day, at the heart of every girl-turned-woman’s personal fairy tale.

“Isn’t that simply beautiful?” one woman sighed, turning to the rest of us as she reverently fingered the ivory silk charmeuse of one gown, retail price $850, Goodwill price a mere $45. It was, we agreed. Simply—minus the 423 buttons, the elaborate train, and the slip large enough to hide six or seven children—beautiful.

Actually, it was ridiculous. Let’s face it: wedding dresses are ugly. White is a bad color for just about every person on the planet. The implication behind the color—that the person wearing it has not had sex yet—is simply unrealistic in the age of on-demand birth control. And yet women everywhere spend months or years planning their big days, spending sums of money on a dress that could provide drinking water wells to third world villages, all in the name of an archaic ritual that has little meaning for the modern world.

(God bless gay marriage, by the way—maybe FINALLY someone will bring some taste and style to the costuming of this silly ritual).

But really, is there any article of clothing more tragic than a thrift store wedding dress? A wedding dress in a thrift store, by implication, is no longer a cherished thing. The story behind the dress is, implicitly and explicitly, we did not live happily ever after.

I did not live happily ever after. But when the sorting was done, and the boxes were packed, I couldn’t bring myself to toss the dress. I was not the sort of girl who gave much thought to my wedding day. I let my mother plan most of it. But I did know exactly what I wanted in a dress. I designed it myself, and my mother, a skilled seamstress, sewed it to my exact specifications and measurements. The dress was matte ivory silk (not white! Not that I couldn’t have worn white, symbolically speaking!), a bodice of the finest Venetian lace, sleeves and neckline trimmed with pearls.

I felt like a princess in that dress, on that day. It was the happiest day of my life. But 13 years later, we woke up to find that happily ever after was too much work for both of us.

I’ve almost reached what would have been my 16^th wedding anniversary. On facebook, my friends are posting anniversary pictures of themselves in poofy white gowns, surrounded by their embarrassed children, standing beside their sheepishly grinning husbands.

I’ll never be able to post that picture. But I dug up the dress, tried it on, smiled to find that it still fit after four children and all those years.

Will I ever wear another off-white dress on a day of goofy rituals? I can’t say right now that I see the attraction to that particular fairy tale. These days, I prefer the one where Cinderella breaks through the glass ceiling. But if I do decide again to don the costuming of love, I’m pretty certain of two things: 1) I will love someone enough to wear a silly dress for him (this is no small amount of love), and 2) I will buy the dress at a thrift store. Because every wedding dress deserves a second chance. 

Ad hominem--(spoiler alert! The Anarchist Soccer Mom is actually a Libertarian)

Ad Hominem
In the Sandbox of History, Mudslinging Won’t Win Points for Either Side

Conservative bellwether Andrew Breitbart looks like the Hollywood liberals he loves to hate. With his wrinkled khakis, long greying hair, and addiction to name-dropping ("Would you believe Rob Lowe is a Conservative? What about Gary Sinise?"), he would fit right in at a Hollywood liberal function--until he opens his mouth. To hear Breitbart talk, you’d think conservatives are waging some kind of holy war for the hearts, minds, and souls of Americans. At stake, he says, is our very concept of freedom. And besides, it's fun to make fun of liberals.

Andrew Breitbart is an asshole.

The worst thing is, he’s on my side. And this essay is about why a rude comment like the one I just made should never, ever be part of a meaningful political dialogue.

I have a bit of a confession to make: I'm a closet conservative with strong sympathies toward libertarian political views (yes, rumors that I sang the National Anthem at Raul Labrador’s Tea Party Endorsement Rally are entirely true). When it comes to questions like the role of government, income taxes, choice in education, and the environment, Breitbart and I probably agree on just about everything. But after hearing him speak at an Idaho Freedom Foundation celebration last week, I found myself more than a little uncomfortable with his methodology—if only because it’s so lazy.

Of course, conservatives aren’t the only ones resorting to ad hominem attacks (though the six-year old bully in me wants to point out that we are better at it, thanks to a long tradition of knife-tongued commentators like Rush and Ann Coulter). In fact, Breitbart and his liberal name calling counterparts personify what is wrong with the political climate in America today, where ridiculous sideshows about the President’s birth certificate take precedence over serious matters, like, say, national security.

I’m willing to bet that most Americans, like me, are sick and tired of all the mudslinging in the political sandbox. It's no wonder people on both the left and the right have left the playground in disgust. People like Breitbart are not debating—they’re demagoguing.  

Here’s a thought for Mr. Breitbart and others like him: maybe the people you’re calling stupid have thought hard about their erroneous opinions. Maybe they care as much about America as you do—they just have different solutions. I have several close friends who are ardent supporters of President Obama’s agenda. They point to the success of Scandinavian socialism as a role model for what America could become if we successfully balance a social safety net with the incentives-based regulated capitalism. These are not “stupid” opinions and observations. I trust that my liberal friends have thought about their political positions as hard as I have thought about mine.

What characterizes political discussions with these friends is the positive energy that comes from sincere, respectful people who value diversity and appreciate that the problems facing our nation are complex, with no simple solutions. I think listening to liberals and considering their opinions is way more fun than baiting and eviscerating them. We tacitly agree to disagree about issues, but we share a sense of respect, mutual ethics, and appreciation for diversity. Sometimes we even learn something!

I think Breitbart and his friends may be on the wrong side of rhetoric, but they are on the right side of history. A big federal government will not solve our dependency on foreign oil—companies like Dynamis Energy will. The government cannot fix healthcare, they appear to be unwilling to reign in the national debt (the single biggest threat to our national security), and they refuse to enact meaningful immigration reform laws.

But we have forgotten that most liberals and conservatives want the same thing: life, liberty, and happiness. That we disagree about how to attain those worthy goals should not be hijacked by pointless ad hominem attacks. One thing I really admired about President Reagan was the way he treated other people. Reagan-loving Conservatives should take a page out of that leader’s book. Stop using “liberal” like it’s a dirty word and start listening to what liberals actually have to say. We might be able to share a sandbox again—and forge compromises that will lead to meaningful change.

A Tale of Two Gymnasiums

I went to church today in two different gymnasiums in Provo, Utah. If you know anything at all about Provo, you’ll guess correctly that one of them was a Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The other was Saint Francis Catholic Church, a growing congregation that serves a multi-cultural community.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect of a Catholic church in Utah Valley, where the population self-identifies as 96% Mormon. I found the same service I would encounter anywhere in the world, on the Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time. We sang, we stood, we sat, we kneeled. In a community of Africans, Koreans, Hispanics, we recited the Lord’s Prayer together and said, “Peace be with you” to our neighbors, who were as likely to be wearing jeans and t-shirts as their “Sunday Best.”

The gym had been transformed for the service with an altar and crucifix. The Stations of the Cross adorned the walls. Near the front was an image of Saint Francis, and Mary with the infant Jesus looked on from one corner. The candles and vestments, the altar servers and liturgy, all spoke of oneness, of a truly catholic faith.

Later I went to a service in the religious tradition in which I was raised. The Latter-day Saint ward my brother attends is housed in one of the older church buildings. Like the Catholics, the Mormons boast that you can attend a service anywhere in the world and feel right at home, a claim I have found to be generally true. Like the Catholic service, the Mormon service follows a strict pattern, beginning with a congregation-member leading a hymn and a prayer. After the bishop conducts ward business, the sacrament is blessed and taken “in remembrance” of Christ’s sacrifice. On Fast and Testimony Sunday, ward members then have the opportunity to share their feelings about their faith—what evangelicals call witnessing.

The standard Mormon testimony consists of three parts: I know that God lives and that Jesus is His Son, I know that the gospel was restored to the Prophet Joseph Smith in the latter days, and I know that a prophet of God leads the church today. Members will also often talk about the importance of eternal families, or some other gospel principle, sharing their gratitude for church teachings and stressing the positive impact the gospel has had on their lives. After the testimonies, a song and prayer conclude the Sacrament service.

In my brother’s ward, I looked like everyone else. Mormons dress up for church—men wear dark suits, white shirts, and conservative ties (you can spot the rare liberal male members because they wear colored shirts and green suits with trendy ties). Women wear dresses or skirts, plenty of makeup, and have carefully coifed hair. Children—there are plenty of them—are dressed in matching outfits and wriggle in their seats while their parents scold them in hushed whispers. The whole event bears some resemblance to a late 19^th century upper-class British cricket match, minus the entertainment.

There are no images of Jesus anywhere in the sanctuary.

The climax of the Catholic Mass is Communion, when the priest recites the ancient prayers that transform bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. “This is our faith,” he says—and at its root, all Catholic dogma, doctrine, and teaching rests on that single moment, when Christ told his apostles, “Take, eat. This is my body.”

In contrast, the Mormon Sacrament is blessed early in the service.  The talks which follow are as likely to be about food storage as they are about the Savior. I know many Mormons who have a sincere desire to know Christ, and who seem to find what they need in that second gymnasium. But for me, the weekly fashion show wasn’t enough.

This is why I am no longer a practicing member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They/We are good people. They/We love family, church, country, and God. But where they/we differ is on that last point. I want the mystery and majesty of the Trinity. I want to surround myself with symbols of an ancient faith. I want a modern day gymnasium to become a place where a miracle that has been happening for thousands of years continues to have relevance in my life.

 .

Who Needs Adverbs? Life, Death, and Beauty in Ken Rodgers' Passenger Pigeons

Ken Rodgers taught me to write without adverbs.  He loathes them, those lazy lounging “ly” words that let the verbs get away with murder. I found just one offender in Rodgers’ latest lean and sinewy collection of poems, Passenger Pigeons (it’s on page 43, and it works hard, for an adverb).  Rodgers excels at communicating—with strong verbs, whenever possible—the essence of two essential things: nature’s immutable, infinitely variegated beauty, and death’s heartbreak/horror/joy (yeah, you heard me—I said “joy.”).  

Since it deals with lots of big, uncomfortable stuff—death, war, heartbreak, loss, Joseph Stalin, for starters—this little book can be tough to chew on--no amuse-gueule here. But the stringy parts are seasoned with lines of sheer beauty, especially when Rodgers juxtaposes life’s little, banal horrors with nature's impartial and placid beauty. In the first poem, “La Luz Canyon” (which I can and will argue, with fists if necessary, tops Dylan Thomas’s “Fern Hill”), the themes of change and permanence settle around the reader like aspen trees shedding their leaves in autumn. In the Spartan, elegant “Japanese Poetry” (perhaps the most succinct description of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder ever written), nature provides a respite from “memory’s black scent of death” (p. 40).

I like words that make me uncomfortable (“Jap Camp/Hard words/Bleak words/Jap” p. 12); words that challenge me (“small asteroids delivered by the god of cuckoo clocks” p. 16); words that force me to look them up in the dictionary (“Lenticular clouds glower over the front behind the town” p. 46). I like images that pile around me (“Arrow leafed balsamroot/stabs the noon-day light/devoured by a vast tyranny of yellow” p. 28); that drift like snowflakes {“And the light    a subtle syrah/Like rubies” p. 6); that come on sudden like a Texas thunderstorm (“And the glass shards on the piazza/And the shattered hands of baby dolls” p. 32, in a poem with the delightful title, “Are Disney Stars Selena Gomez and Nick Jonas an Item?”). There are plenty of those kinds of words, those kinds of images, in this book.

Don’t be afraid to die. More importantly, don’t be afraid to live, to see, to experience the aching, transcendent beauty of your existence.  That’s what I took away from this powerful collection, a lifetime’s work, from a man who has, at times, been afraid to live—but is not afraid to find the words to tell about it. As long as those words are not adverbs.

A letterpress, life, and other stuff

In March 2007, I loaded my two oldest sons and their gear into my beat up but beloved teal green Volvo station wagon and pointed myself in the direction of California. I was driving to Hollywood to pick up the 35th birthday present I had purchased for myself: a vintage cast iron Craftsman tabletop letterpress, fully restored, currently in the possession of a big shot casting agent who never had any time to play with it.

In those days, whenever I wanted a toy—a new serger, a thermal heat book binder, a set of fancy design software, or in this case, a 250 pound cast iron letterpress—I would sell enough stuff on eBay to purchase it. I never felt entirely comfortable asking my husband for money for what he plainly considered my “frivolous” pastimes. “Are you busy?” he would ask, the minute I sat down and started to design a new paper pattern or work on a customized alphabet book for one of the children. “We can buy those things at the store,” he’d say, scowling whenever I pulled out the serger and started to sew a jacket or pair of pants made from recycled vintage linens for our baby girl.

He just didn’t get it. So I stopped asking and found ways to purchase the things I required all by myself.

I’d been looking for a letterpress for a while. When I was a seventh grader, all the other girls took home economics. To my teachers’ astonishment—they had formed a certain image of me based not entirely unfairly on my long blond tresses, the number of ballet classes I took each week, and my corresponding penchant for twirly skirts—I decided on a whim to sign up for shop.

Letterpress was my favorite. I loved taking the tiny ink-stained 10 point font lead-cast letters from their trays and setting them in neat rows, creating order out of chaos, meaning out of randomness. The first thing I ever printed was a bumper sticker slogan that pretty much summed up my nerdy ways: “Keep on Tolkein, and Frodo Lives” (the only reason I didn’t print it in Dwarves Runic was that we didn’t happen to have a rune font on hand).

When I was setting type, my hands were occupied with a task that connected me in a real, tangible way to the rich past of my favorite material object: the book. I would imagine myself in a filthy, crowded, 15th century printshop, its wooden trays crammed with hand-cast type of varying shapes and sizes, loading composing sticks with type, my arms smeared to the elbows with ink. I could see myself hunched over, stitching hand-cut quartos by candlelight. Each printed text was magic, containing within its carefully typset pages the power to transport its reader to another, better world.

Flash forward to California. On the drive down, I became suddenly, violently ill. I’m the sort of person who refuses to get sick on principle (I’m also deliberately not too assiduous about washing my hands, but that’s another story). I couldn’t keep anything down, and my head ached so badly that I couldn’t string two thoughts together in a sentence. I can hardly remember retrieving the letterpress (the boys must have helped me do it). Afterwards, I somehow made it to the Aquarium of the Pacific, where I had promised to take the boys.

When we got to the Aquarium, I called my husband. “I can’t make it to your mom’s,” I moaned. “I have to get a hotel in Long Beach.”

“You aren’t that sick,” he said. “Besides, you didn’t budget anything for a hotel. And I’m not paying for it.”

That was that. I lay down on a bench, my skin like ice in the warm California sunshine, and prayed to God to take me right then and there. I imagined that my body had become liquid mercury, that I was slowly melting/freezing/melding into the park bench beneath me, until I could no longer feel where I began or ended. I don’t remember anything else for a few days, when I woke up hungry and blinking in the bright sunshine at my mother-in-law’s beach house in Dana Point. I was alive, and more to the point, I had my letterpress.

On the 12-hour drive back to Idaho, I did some thinking. And this is what I thought: I am 35 years old. I have accomplished every goal I set for myself. I married the handsome magna cum laude law student in the temple. I bore him four beautiful, brilliant children. I earned a fluffy masters degree that makes me look like I’m smart. I am miserable, and I want to die.

What did I really want, back in seventh grade, when I took that shop class? Did I want a house, a home, a husband? I don’t think I did. I think I lived and planned and dreamed my whole life based on the things that other people wanted from me.

So when did I decide that I was so unacceptable to the people around me? Why did I spend my whole life pretending to be someone I wasn’t?

And the truth is that I have no idea. Maybe we all do this—maybe we are all just acting, like Shakespeare said, and all the world’s a stage.

But for me, living a life like that is a lie. It comes down to the difference between Plato’s first form—the essence of a thing, as it exists in the mind of God—and the second, a mere image, a mirror of true reality.

I want to know—not the answers—but the questions. I want to stand in a field surrounded by sky and practice the verb “to be.” I want to listen to the wind and see ghosts and dance beneath stars. Above all, I want to be present in my life. It's not much, but it's everything.

If you want to use my letterpress, you can--contact the bricolage girls who are its current babysitters. http://www.bricoshoppe.com/

Requiem for a Deer Hunter

My NPR Three Minute Fiction Entry--599 words, one joke, and not one but TWO crying characters.

            We went to lunch on Saturday, the day Buddy Cooper died.  My Dad’s sunburned head was dusted with a soft silver peach fuzz.  I listened as he chanted the litany of leukocyte counts and chemotherapies, the cancer patient’s catechism, while my cousin Maria's hands fluttered. 

            Maria was translating for my Aunt May, who was born deaf.  How do you explain leukemia to a 58-year old woman who doesn't even know what a cell is?

            All Aunt May knows is the Miss Deaf America pageant.  She was Miss Deaf America once, before she married Rex who cheated on her and broke her heart and left her with nothing but two hearing daughters.  But that is an epicycle.

            Epicycles are what the ancient astronomer Ptolemy used to account for the observable erratic motion of the stars supposedly fixed in their crystal spheres.  Though the explanation worked in a convoluted fashion, the whole system was based on the false premise that the universe revolves around the earth.  Astronomy has no more need of epicycles, but they are still marvelously descriptive of human nature.

            At 11:30 on Saturday morning, my grandmother, alone in her mauve-carpeted living room, felt suddenly ill.  She went to the front windows and pulled back the lace curtains, looking up at the mountains.  She knew then what we would all learn later: that Buddy Cooper was dying.

            “It’s not so bad, really,” my Dad, an ex-Marine, quipped as Maria signed. “You know what I’ve always said—I may be slow, but I’m weak.”

            I smiled at the well-worn joke, but May looked confused.

            “I went to church once in Provo,” May signed to my father. “I met a man who looked exactly like you, and his father was from Kentucky, like your father.  He might be a bone marrow donor for you.”

            I don't know if that's what May really said because I don't speak her language.  I read once that American Sign Language, contrary to what most people believe, is much more than just a sign/word equivalent for English.  It's actually a highly complex language with a grammar that resembles Navajo more closely than our own. 

            My Dad smiled sadly as Maria translated.  “It has to be a close relative,” his hands said haltingly.  “Like a brother or a sister.”

            “Then I can donate?”  May asked, her dark eyes filling with tears.  No, she couldn't. Her father, who died before she was born, was not my father's father, who died when my Dad was seven of a massive heart attack, just like Buddy Cooper. You see how there are epicycles, and they explain everything. 

            I concentrated on the ice cubes in my water glass, wondering as I tried to freeze the tears coalescing in the corners of my eyes what kind of heat was released as something melted.  Was it heat of condensation?  Vaporization?  No, it was heat of fusion. 

            Mom leaned over and whispered, “I wish that he could just say it.”

            Say what?  She can't say it either.  Death is always unexpected, even when you've spent your whole life preparing for it.

            Buddy Cooper, age 56, in perfect health, had just killed his buck.  “Get help,” he told his young grandson, unable to drag the majestic animal himself.  The boy ran in the direction of the others.  When they returned, they found him on his back beneath a tree, as dead as the deer he had killed only minutes before.  When his wife heard the news, she said quietly, “He was doing what he loved.”

            There are worse ways to die. 

My Turn

This Year, My New Year’s Resolutions Are All About Me

Allow me to be smug for a moment. Because when it comes to New Year’s Resolutions, there just is not a lot left for me to do—and I’m not even 40! Hike Mount Whitney? Done it. Natural childbirth? Yep. Learn Chinese? Ni hao ma. Read The Iliad in Greek? Matthew Arnold is entirely correct that swiftness is an essential quality of Homer’s poetry. Learn Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, even the third movement? Tres passé! Solve the Rubik’s Cube? Over and over and over again. Start a non-profit? Sure thing. Write a novel? What the hell do you think my facebook page is, people? (no, seriously, I’ve done that too).

This year’s resolutions are all things I’ve never done before. Since I’ve only got one year left to say I’m “in my 30s,” it’s time to start thinking about Numero Uno, aka my 13 year old son. No, wait, I mean ME!

• I resolve to spend $250 on new clothes for myself someplace other than a thrift store. They don’t even have to be on sale.
• I resolve to buy myself a new iPad rather than buying one for my son and taking his old one, as he proposes.
• I resolve to figure out how all my 40+ friends manage to look like they are 29 and to do whatever they do, even if it involves injections of deadly toxins.
• I resolve to go to Mexico. While there, I will not learn to speak fluent Spanish or construct an orphanage. I will sit on the beach, cerveza in hand, and read a novel. The novel will not be War and Peace. It will be some fluffy chick lit confection that Oprah loved.
• I resolve to stop selling my services and abilities short. When people want a project bid, I’ll include overages to account for the inevitable scope creep. Not many people can write 10 engaging articles on everything from financial services to spine surgery to tattoos with a turnaround time of three days. I am one of those people, and I deserve to be paid accordingly.

My son says I’m much more likely to succeed with more conventional resolutions (e.g., “run a marathon,” or “cure cancer.”). I say, I'll see you at Anthropologie. Just as soon as I lose ten pounds.