Toy Planes

I don’t sleep on planes.

I’m a face sleeper. Not only will I need Botox because of this, I can’t handle an upright position. Since sleep isn’t happening I settle for ignoring those around me, especially if I’m flying with family, and/or screaming children. In order to facilitate this, I have my personal item. No, not the first personal item that was so heavy the straps almost broke. My second one contains a book, a pillow, ear buds, thick socks, a drink, and an eye mask. If you check the fine print, as long as you don’t cart on Bleach Volumes 1-379, these items don’t count towards restrictions. With hours to kill I meander through the airport and look at the exhibits.

The vases weren’t as cool as the one they had the last time I flew out of there---I love sci-fi stuff, so I took a million pictures back in 2009 of the exhibit---yet all we have at Sac International is a lovely Chili’s Too “exhibit.” I board the plane in the last group, which I think is a joke. Do you know who should really board last?

The first class passengers.

Don’t you hate how they look at us, like we’re nothing but petty pathetic peons who don’t deserve to share the same airspace as them? Sure, in an emergency landing they’ll be on rafts instead of huddled on the wings, yet they look so smug I’m tempted to scream, “Might I remind you the Pets.com people flew first class, too, and where are they now? Oh, yeah, that’s right, it no longer exists, just like American job security.”

But I’m too classy to do that.

Settling into coach, I took off my faux feather earrings, wrapped them in the 3 toilet seat liners I lifted from SFO, and waited for something to annoy me, which didn’t take long at all. Instead of finally reading Devil in the White City a whole year after no fewer than 3 librarians recommended it to me, I’m so nauseated by the constant movement of the plane that I give up and put on my eye mask. Big mistake. My eye mask is just a little too tight, something an ophthalmologist wouldn’t recommend, but hey, it was free with purchase. As we near our late landing at O’Hare, the flight attendant begins reading off the list of connecting gates. Mine is not read. Looking at my printout I discover I only have 20 minutes to get off the plane and get to my gate. Bringing the paper up front, American Airlines give me a reason to write yet another letter to company head quarters.

The flight attendant doesn’t know how to read the ticket.

That’s right. This nincompoop (and I don’t say that lightly) tries to convince me that the time on the ticket is actually the date (“It’s June 6, 2005? Really?”) and that my boarding time is 6:50. To which I ask, “How can board at 6:50 when my flight leaves at 6:20?” Instead of arguing with her, I race off the plane into Concourse H and latch onto the first person in an airline uniform, who correctly directs me to Concourse K. Problem is, I can’t really see. Everything past 15 feet is blurry, meaning I’m walking, as fast as one can in heels---they were easier to wear than to pack---and hoping its in the right direction since I couldn’t read the signs. I shouldn’t have worried. Being so late meant I could have simply followed the voice. That’s right, I am so close to missing my flight that my name is being paged. Badly, of course, but paged none the less. I ‘m limping as fast as I can thanks to the earlier ankle injury, and when I get there they grab my bag, place a valet tag onto it, hustle me into the plane and shut the door.

Having booked a completely different flight, I was assuming I was going from one big plane to another plane. OMG, nothing could have been further from the truth. This was some American Eagle you-should-have-flown-Southwest-teeny-tiny itty-bitty 34 passenger plane. The plane was so small it looked like a 747 gave birth to it. While I'll admit to dreaming about being in a plane that small, the dream involved me owning it and having my own massage room, not sharing the space with 33 other doomed people as we fall smack dab to earth. The flight attendant aboard told me they had changed my seat assignment and, “You’re now on an exit row. Should you not be able to perform your duties we can reassign you.” Which made me think, “Exit row? Can I exit out of it now and board a real plane?”

Of course not.

I strap myself in and start my inner dialogue which went something like this:

“I’m going to die!"

"This plane is made of tin foil and Betamax parts and I’m going to die!"

"They'll have to use dental records to identify my crispy corpse! Let it be quick and easy!"

"Maybe I should buy another drink. Then it really won’t hurt when we crash. Or maybe I’ll even survive. In car crashes drunks always survive after ruining everyone else’s life. Didn’t they have a crash where one person survived? Wait a minute, I should have cleaned my house! Now everyone is going to know I haven’t straightened up since I signed for a short sale. Short my inner thigh! How was I to know it wouldn’t close by now? I gave them a June 24th deadline! This is horrible! People are going to pick through my belongings at a garage sale and offer fifty cents for my cashmere sweater that retailed for $150. I should have written an extremely detailed will. Stephenee always liked that sweater. I should text her and let her know she gets first dibs on my clothes, and Amy can have my books since she's my only non-library friend who actually reads, and April can have my exercise DVDs, and Margaret can have dibs on any accessories my mother doesn't want, and no, she can't send my things to my oldest sister because she has no taste at all. She draws her eyebrows into a near unibrow. How many times have I explained the side of nose, corner of eyebrow equation to her? At least she's not as bad as that one woman who looks like her brows take after McDonald's golden arches but it's embarrassing to be in public with her! And what’s my mother going to do? Who will tell her how to use the remote when she insists its plotting against her? Who will stop her from answering the phone when annoying people call? If she goes to live with any of my brothers they'll tell her to get rid of all her stuff because, "There should be white space. A man needs somewhere to rest his eyes." Don’t they understand that if we didn’t want something we wouldn’t have bought it in the first place? I'm glad I didn’t leave them any money. You can have all the white space you want with my $0 contribution to your net worth. What am I saying? I don't want to die! Oh lord, please don’t let me die! How unfair it would be to die when I haven’t even had time to enjoy my life post student loans!”

About 5 minutes later I realize I’m getting hot. My calf is against the emergency exit door, and it’s hot outside, therefore I’m hot, and after studying the seat in front of me I realize it's simply a floatation device and there’s no parachute attached. Then we hit turbulence, the captain told us to stay in our seats and I started thinking:

“I’m going to die! For the love of God, please, someone get me off this plane! I shouldn't be able to tell the weather by feeling it on my leg! If you let me live I promise to be nice to people and eat green stuff other than parsley and Jello and clean my house...or hire someone to clean it, and I'll lie more because telling the truth all the time is plain mean, just let me live!"

Suffice to say, we landed safely.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

You can have the best laid plans, but if an airline is plotting against you just forget about it.

At noon I jumped into a Blue Van 2 hours before my flight to DC for the ALA conference. Remember back when you could arrive 30 minutes before a flight with a Big Gulp while your family stayed with you at the gate while they left their car parked out on the curb? I remember being fed real food with real utensils and even getting invited into the cockpit. Today you go the airport prepared to be strip searched, your drink confiscated, your carry on bag packed to the gills and your "personal item," i.e. big-bag-o-stuff, almost breaking from the weight of everything in it. You used to have 2 carry on bags and a personal item. Now if you want to bring a laptop you'll need to place panties in a manila envelope and slip it in your case. I skipped the laptop and took a real bag because I like stuff and I like choices. Yes, I took 5 pairs of shoes with me on a 6 day trip. By day 2 I'd already worn 4 pair.

But back to the story at hand.

I arrive at Terminal B early. If you haven't been to Terminal B it's because you booked on a better airline. Terminal B is an after thought. Terminal B is the equivalent of thinking you're giving birth to 5 kids and they find another kid in their during deliver, meaning you're in such a scramble to find a name the kid ends up stuck with Epidural or Invitro. Complete. After. Thought. No massage bar. No cute stores. That's Terminal B for you.

I slide through security with my bag-o-liquids was still inside my bag-o-stuff. Yes, the official packing program lecturer says you're supposed to get liquids on the other end of your flight, but she's white. The rest of the world can buy conditioner at the airport kiosk. Blacks have to go to the...how shall I put it...questionable side of town to get products, meaning I spend the night before a flight squeezing shampoo into Barbie sized bottles. Anyway I get through, I have lunch, some nice miscellaneous military man heading to Mississippi pays covers my tab (how thoughtful!) and before we even exchange names we get the news...

The flight was canceled.

Yeah, my thought exactly.

An AC unit broke, meaning they'd have to fly at a lower altitude, meaning if they did so they'd hit a mountain. (BTW, what a pleasant thought to put in the minds of passengers who are about to fly over mountains, thank you very much.) They sent us downstairs to the counter. Too bad they didn't tell the poor woman behind the counter what was going on before they did so. While she was staving off a panic attack my fellow passengers were saying things like, "It's always American Airlines!" and "I knew I should have taken Southwest!" Then a woman passes out the airline phone number as we stare at her because how fast can we really get through to a live person when there's 180+ people calling at once? And what good will it do us when they hadn't officially canceled the flight? So after they cancel the flight we call and are all told, "Oh, we are so sorry, and we'll get you on the same flight tomorrow," which, in airline speak means, "Didn't you learn life sucked way back in kindergarten?"

I'm ready to burst into tears, knowing I can't do anything unless it involves a time machine and booking on Continental instead, when I get a great idea and call back and ask, "Is there anything leaving SFO to DC?"

"Which airport were you going to?"

"Whichever one that has a plane flying to DC."

"I can get you on flight 1522 to BWI tonight. It leaves at 11:45 pm."

I do a mini happy dance, run out the airport, and catch a Blue Van to Amtrak following a call to the KP desk for their number in which I am told, "you really need to get an iPhone!"

I arrive, meet some nice people, take the train to Emeryville, the bus to the Ferry Building, and taking the Embarcadero station BART to SFO.

I get there, bash my ankle with my carry on bag which weighs about 300 pounds, and head up. I go to the check-in line, slide in my card, and outcomes something unexpected...

A notice saying it was too early to check in because my flight wasn't scheduled until the following night.

This is about when the internal meltdown started.

Ever dealt with a screaming toddler and when you go to pick them up they lift up their arms, slide out of your hands, and start bawling on the ground? Just pouring their little 2-year old hearts out on the carpet you just steam cleaned because, "Mommy says I can pee in my pull up!" and no matter how you try to convince them that not letting them watch Dora the Explorer/eat chocolate cake/pry the electrical safety cap with a fork is not the end of the world they're still upset?

That was me.

The person behind the counter said, 'We're not supposed to do this, but you came from Sacramento, so I'm going to put you on this flight." I had to stop myself from screaming, "WTH? Your fellow employee booked me on the wrong flight but you risk getting in trouble for fixing his mistake? What's wrong with you people?" Instead I just told her what anyone in my situation would tell another person.

"I need a drink."

Honestly I could have had a massage instead. A massage is therapeutic. Alcohol, on the other hand, can get you into a bit of trouble. But a 30 minute massage at SFO runs $80, versus $10 for a drink. I'm frugal. I had the drink. While I'm certain the whole restaurant heard me screech, "What do you mean you're out of Mojitos?" and "What do you mean you're out of chocolate cake?" I settled for a top shelf margarita and a vanilla cupcake. As one fellow librarian put it, "A margarita massages your insides." I felt a lot better after I swallowed half in one gulp before slowing down.

All was well.

At least for the moment...

PTS---Conference Style

ALA is coming to an end. I can still here the sounds of the crowds stories above me as they eat cake and down as much alcohol as possible following the Michael Printz Awards reception. What should I tell you I have enjoyed the most. Is it running into amazing librarians from all parts of the world, including one from Bangladesh? Is it doing the author version of speed dating? Was it simply making it here after the chaos of travel, which I will walk about later?

For all of you who have never gone, a national conference can be a real PITA. You're there, everything you want to go to takes place simultaneously at spots across town, it's crowded, and there aren't enough hours in the day. That being said, there must be a reason why I've gone 4 years straight, paying out of pocket the last 3 times. (If any of you want to contribute to my Visa bill, please e-mail me. I'll take it all---dollars, pennies, pesos, whatever.)

It's...magical in a way. This week I spoke with Toni Morrison, if only for a second, sat down next to Laurie Halse Anderson, taken pictures of John Grisham, and sat on my knees in the front aisle to sing along with Natalie Merchant. There were old friends to have lunch with, new friends to make at breakfast, lost connections made at parties thrown by vendors in an effort to intoxicate you enough to sign a binding 5-year contract you won't remember until the invoice arrives on the director's desk. It's wonderful, yet it's awful to know I have to go back to work and rejoin Library Land after going to truly innovative programs and no one telling me their child just peed on the multi-colored furniture.

But most of all, it's just plain fun.


To be continued...

PARC and Wreckreation

Was I the only one to breathe a sigh of relief when the PARC system temporarily went down?

After weeks of, “OMG, I don’t know what I’m doing!” and an hour long training that made me certain that yes, I was completely clueless, there was a part of me---I believe it was my brain---that made me grateful to have a bit longer to figure this out. Who would have thought I’d be nostalgic for the old paper system? Let’s see, 1 hour spent on my 2009 evaluation vs. months spent pulling out my hair trying to determine the meaning of life. And it’s not even the unwanted hair I’m pulling out, so we really have a problem.

Honestly, do I really need goals? My job consists of telling people where to find Magic Tree House books, avoiding paperwork, pointing out where the bathrooms are, telling teens lower the volume on their iPods if they hope to have any hearing left by the time they hit the old age of 25, playing movies, telling stories to classes, and making crafts, mainly paper bag puppets, with toddlers. So far we have made a pig, a cow, a dog, a cat, a bunny, a lion, and even a Christmas tree complete with presents and bows. Go figure. After looking at my schedule and discovering I’ll put on over 130 programs over the next year (movie nights, toddler times, class tours, DCA, summer reading) I think maybe my goal should be to stop looking at craft sites and other library systems’ events calendars and saying, “I wanna do that!”

But a person has to have real goals, right? So I thought about it and created a few that should do the trick:

1. Lose the inches I’ve put on since I started working here.

Time line: By my class reunion.

Is it measurable: Very!

I’d feel better if I went down a size. In turn, I would treat people better. In time this kindness would trickle down to actual patrons. In order for this to happen, an hour of my shift should involve hitting the gym, with another hour devoted to taking a shower and doing my hair. Since I’d feel more comfortable showering at home, where I have all my products and won’t tell a fellow bather, “Those are fake,” I need another hour for travel time, plus one more to get a massage at Mellow Me Out to relieve the tension.

2. Not strangle anyone.

Timeline: Ongoing

Is it measureable: Yes, by number of incident reports.

Adults are not too happy that they can’t use kids’ computers. I get so many complaints. The majority of them boiling down to they are doing their kids homework for them helping their kids out, or the reservation sent them downstairs because they’ve been using their kids’ cards to avoid paying the $700 fine they owe. Then I get the stray adults who want to sit in the purple chair, lay on the bean bags, and are most upset that they have to take the elevator up to the 2nd floor to get to a bathroom when it’s so much easier to walk down a flight of stairs and to the ends of the earth to use ours. Whatever it is, they’re not happy with me, and the feeling is reciprocal. I’d hate to hurt one of them and end up in jail while waiting for my lawyer to get me off scot-free. Jail may have worked out for Martha Stewart, but I’ll take a pass.

3. Stop buying things from patrons.

Timeline: Ongoing

Is it measureable: Yes, in the amount of money I save.

Whether it’s candy or pizza, somehow I am guilted into buying items I don’t need, don’t want, and can’t use in order for some kid to get to Sly Park, Sutter’s Fort, or some other miserable, God forsaken middle-of-nowhere, don’t-know-why-they’d-want-to-go-there place. Can’t anyone go anyplace nice with air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and something entertaining to do? I have yet to have a child say to me, “My class is doing a spa retreat in Carmel and we could really use your help getting there.” Instead I’m wasting my (sometimes) hard earned money so a kid can get frostbite while panning for fool’s gold in the dead of winter.

4. Read more juvenile books.

Timeline: Ongoing

Is it measureable: Quiz me.

The only time I seem to have to read kids’ books (discounting board books and Where’s Waldo) is when I’m on a trip. I read The True Meaning of Smekday during a Thanksgiving gathering at a vacation resort, and The Lightning Thief on my flight to Florida. Seems to me it is in SPL’s best interest to send me on as many trips as possible to enhance my reader’s advisory skills. I’ve always wanted to go to the French Riviera. Just think of all the books I can read on the way over!

I’d write more goals, but I have to be realistic. These four will be hard enough to accomplish.

LH Has Left the Building!!!!!

This is for LH. I can’t believe she’s escaped deserted us! Because she’s a great worker with the organizational skills of a 4-star general, she’ll most likely be replaced with a person who is one step away from an amoeba and couldn’t make chocolate soy pudding to save his or her life.

LH said her old town frowns on dancing---while it’s not a sign you’ll burn for eternity, Satan was reserving you a spot. I find this sad because dancing was one of my pastimes and it keeps teens out of trouble. After dance rehearsals even if you could muster the strength to rob a 7-11, you stunk so bad they could smell you a mile off.


At one time my friends and I all knew this complete dance. It is my greatest hope that by the time LH finishes her library degree and returns to Central (this is not an option---you have to return!!!) she will have learned this whole dance and can perform it for us at Training Day. The rest of you, feel free to join in.

Off to Florida

It’s time to head out to Florida.

It’s interesting to fly in this age. When I was 8 years old and flying to Chicago, the pilot invited all us kids into the cockpit to show us all the really cool things. We ate food. Real food. Not sample sizes and vending machine packets. With metal forks and knives.

Fast forward a few decades.

We can’t have liquids. If you pump, be willing to drink your own milk. They wouldn’t give us blankets last time because of swine flu, you can’t bring on more than a pocket protector without paying $25, and the last time I was really fed on a flight was when I wore my bikini top under a cardigan and the male flight attendant asked twice to see what I wearing beneath the black knit and me, being me, showed him both times.

That’s it, I’m getting my mid-twenties body back by May 31st.

While I was told (gleefully) by the SPL safety person that I would most likely be subjected to embarrassing search techniques on my way back home, I figure I’ll be tired to care…

Because I’m going to have fun!

My Big Fat Visa Bill For This Wedding

I am not a wedding person.

My brother IC had a destination wedding. I got a free week in Florida and one in Aruba.

IC is my favorite brother.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have said this on camera because another brother, NC, won’t even bring me a cup of water from across the room. (“Why don’t you ask your favorite brother for a glass?”) And now NC’s getting married, and he’s shown me why he’s not my favorite…

Let’s just say there will be no subsidized massage in a beach cabana this time.

Yes, I know they can’t pay for my travel expenses. Yes, I know they want a nice wedding. Do you know what I want? A house and thin thighs. But do they care that their wedding is costing me half of a liposuction procedure?

There are days in which I hate weddings.

Sure, sometimes wedding hoopla is fun, like when I helped someone plan their wedding. She told me, “I want everything to be perfect. After all, how many times does a person get married?”

Then we laughed.

It took a few minutes and telling each other, “Girl, you’re soooo funny!’ and, “That was a good one!” before we could return to the task at hand. There were interesting incidences, such as when we went to one venue and I asked, “Didn’t you get married here before?”

Yes, she had…

Then there are times I’m completely fed up with the wedding industrial complex telling everyone their union is doomed to fail without the aid of ice sculptures. They seem to forget many of these unions were already doomed. It’s not like commitment and love are marriage requirements. More than likely one night you looked over at the person with the frozen feet lying next to you, realized they had better health insurance, and decided the next logical step was marriage.

New Law Would Ban Marriages Between People Who Don't Love Each Other

Some folks are against gay marriage, which I don’t get. After all, everyone should have the right to lose half their worldly belongings if they do something stupid. I, on the other hand, say we would be better off banning weddings.

Weddings are mostly about money---who has it, who doesn’t, who’s faking having it, and who thinks their guests must be loaded. They’re also about making other people jump through hoops to prove their love. They’re a venue to show off your creativity and entertainment expertise. But more than anything, they’re a place for us to suffer through.

Things That Get Me About Weddings

1. Invites:
Doesn’t matter if you send an e-mail, a postcard, or a twenty page $80 floral-embossed certified document; either we’re coming to the wedding or not. Perhaps you consider e-invites tacky. Just remember, one way or another, your invitation is likely going into the trash. I got one which was a message in a bottle with sand and shells. Because this was 2004, as soon as I saw it I screamed, "Anthrax!" before remembering I'm not important enough for someone to send a bio hazard to me.

Also, if I’ve bought a plane ticket to get to your wedding, believe me when I say I’m going. Don’t follow my “I’m going and I bought the ticket” sentence up with, “When are you going to mail the RSVP card?”

2. Parties and Gifts
Brides used to have bridal showers. Now they have a bridal shower, a lingerie party, a bachelorette party, a Jack and Jill, a bridesmaid luncheon, a Pampered Chef party, the wedding itself, a post wedding day breakfast, and all these other events no one has ever heard of before. Brides make up parties like Hallmark makes up holidays. This whole set up must have been created by the same people who brought us payday loans because you think everything is wrapped up, but it's not. If I as a single person threw a party for myself it would be considered tacky, but once a ring is on her finger, she can have as many parties as she wants. You’re expected to bring a treasure trove of gifts, and then when you ask about a thank you card they say, “I’m busy planning.”

One woman (who I barely know) sent me invites to her gazillion “gimme” parties. Included were her sizes. Because I am a sweet, demure, tactful person, I didn’t call her and say, “Hey, Heifer, you two have lived together for a decade and you quit work to stay at home with the kid. Seeing as I’m not impressed with the home schooling skills of a person who barely made it through high school, perhaps instead of sending me a wedding registry list longer than my leg, you should get a job. And are we really supposed to believe you wear a size 6?”

3. Food
Low end: Paris (name has been changed to protect the guilty) threw a wedding in the middle of summer…

And didn’t provide us with any water.

It was 100 degrees and there was 4 gallons of punch, a the tepid red concoction housed in what appeared to be an industrial-sized mayonnaise container with a spigot at the bottom, to be shared amongst 150 guests. Chatting up the bartender (which scored me a free bottle of water) I discovered the bride was given the option of bringing in non-alcoholic drinks free of charge…

But she chose not to.

Skank.

High end: Okay, what’s up with the spoons of food? I don’t want a spoon of food. I want a spoon in a bowl of food. With all the Barbie-sized portions I’m not certain if I’m at an upscale wedding or sample day at CostCo.

Food reality: Men kept staring at me at my sister’s wedding, and it wasn’t just because my bridesmaid dress was cut three inches from my navel. I was eating the kids meal---fruit salad, chicken strips, and French fries. After seeing it, they asked the servers to bring over any spare kids’ meals. That’s right, you’re dropping a boatload of money on people who’d rather have a #7 at McDonald’s.

4. Kids:
I don’t like kids at weddings. Being a children’s librarian means folks think it’s okay to dump a bunch of kids at my table with coloring sheets and few boxes of crayons. I don’t get it. My sister’s a cop. No one puts criminals at her table and tells her, "Keep an eye on Uncle Steve. Sometimes he likes to take things."

But if kids are excluded, there inevitably will be a parent throwing a hissy. “Why Madison loves everything we do together! Like when we go to Mommy and Me play group, or get crazy at keg parties, or tour nuclear power facilities, or when she asked the technicians all those questions while I was getting my yearly mammogram. Madison would be crushed if you didn’t invite her to your evening wedding with its open bar!”

But there are reasons why people have a child free wedding:

a) We hate Madison.
She’s a snot-nosed, tantrum throwing brat. Because of a quirk of fate (co-worker, shared DNA) we have to invite you. If we could get away with it, we’d only disinvite Madison, but then we’d have to finally tell you that you’re a crappy parent with boundary issues. Most likely you’ll bring her anyway and ruin our night out.

b) Kids are expensive.
Certain wedding venues treat kids like “Horton Hears a Who”---a person is a person no matter how small. Even if there is a kid’s meal at your venue, you’re in for an ugly surprise. An adult plate will be $70, a kid’s plate $35. But that doesn’t include beverages, which are $15 per person under 21. Or the chair cover, the sparkling cider toast, the extra cake, or the cutting fee, all $2.50 each. Or the tax and gratuity, which is 8.75% and 21% respectively. Suddenly you’re paying $80 so a preschooler who should be home sleep can regurgitate mashed potatoes on your rented organza overlays.

4. Shades of Blackness.
Brides are really into fake tanning. It’s like being black but without the racism. It doesn't matter that many look less like blushing brides and more like Senator Boehner. Speaking on behalf of all the black community (as I had to do in college), we'll let the tanning slide…

What we won’t let slide is having a gospel choir at your wedding but no black people in attendance.

I was watching Platinum Weddings. You know, the show in which couples spend more money on favors than you did on house payments over the last 5 years. I watch the show because I'm waiting to see some, I don't know, shock and awe maybe from the bride. Because they're rich nothing phases these women. Doesn't matter that daddy spent $4.5 million wedding venue because she didn't like the other ones, or that the flowers were flown in from an outer ring of Saturn, these women will just display the same polite smile I do when a crazy person is chatting me up on public transit.

Maybe the Botox has something to do with it...

Anyway, in this episode the bride and groom decided they wanted a gospel choir to sing when they were pronounced husband and wife. And there was not one black guest. How do I know for sure there were no black people there? I asked someone who worked the event, “Were there any black people there?” Nope. Which I find quite strange, seeing as there are plenty of black people around. I scanned the crowd for blacks, Latinos, Native Americas, Indians, and other natural shades of brown, red and yellow, yet the only minorities I could spot was two Asian people who were probably seated at the same table because, “You have so much in common!”

New Rule: If you want to listen to a live gospel choir, you must either a) sit through a 4 hour church service in which the collection plate will be passed no fewer than 3 times, or b) invite twice as many black people to the wedding that there are in the choir.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “When it’s your day you won’t hate weddings!” Maybe not. But I live on Earth not on Planet Bride. I know it's not my day. It's a day, one of 365 days that happen every year. And I’m fairly practical. When I marry either it will be to a man loaded with money (possibly a former executive at AIG) or I will use the many books available at the library to keep costs down without driving everyone crazy. There’s “How to Have an Elegant Wedding for $5000” and “Cater Your Own Wedding” and “Let’s Elope” (and put everyone out of their misery). I likely won’t go as far as making the $10 wedding dress out of extra large men’s T-shirts. It’s a cool idea, but there’s a little something called Macy’s discounts which are made for these events. No matter what the scenario, I will feed the guests recognizable food in pleasing portions and not force any of them to drink out of a water hose to quench their thirst. And despite not being engaged, I already know the perfect day to get married:

Training Day.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to get out of this event. Someone in HR (who shall remain nameless) about strangled me when I suggested we use the day to catch up on all our work, but hey, I liked Training Day a lot better when we had money. Remember the massages and yoga and author visits? Now I have to console myself with bringing Ziploc baggies and Tupperware containers and making off with the next day’s lunch and all the cookies and brownies they were going to toss. (Is there a reason why we’re not putting the extra stuff in the 5th floor staff lounge?)

Either I can marry right before Training Day because I can’t be denied a honeymoon, or I can marry that day at the courthouse. Better yet, why not just hold the ceremony in the Galleria during break? Talk about multitasking! Everyone would be happy. I’d be happy because my co-workers would get to see me get married. All of us would get paid to be there, parking would be covered, and the meal is already catered. Plus we can wear our regular clothes.

But why stop at weddings? JP and LP, since we never got to see your ceremony, how do your feel about having a vow renewal as the second session of the day?

Just a thought…