Tattoos everywhere, on every part of their bodies, (as far as we could see): 5-pointed gold stars with black edging; flowers in assorted colors on legs, huge skulls on outer upper arms—quite a display. Probably expensive too. Beautiful hairdos in assorted colors and lengths, nose jewels, ear rings—even the grooms with a 2” diameter guage.
Recently a client of ours—not this group—wanted a family portrait taken. I overheard the whispered conversation between the father and the gauge-eared son. “Could you take those things out of your ears, please?” I think he said, “Damn things out of your ears.”
The boy replied that he couldn’t. The father asked again, this time with more of a serious tone. The son replied that he could, but that his dad wouldn’t like it if he did. The dad insisted, so the son spent a few minutes and stretched one of them loose.
His mother grabbed her nose and gagged. The father took someone’s name in vain, and the son said, “See I told you that you wouldn’t like it.” He explained that the ear lobe is continually stretching out, like a cut or wound of sorts, and therefore never healing—always being stretched. Rotting flesh was the odor—a continuous problem with gauging your ears. Pick another form of punishment if you desire to destroy yourself.
Back to this wedding . . . . Everything was ok, in spite of the rain that came up and forced everyone indoors. While the wedding party was outside taking pictures, the other family members were eyeing the buffet table. The sign said, “Take one please.” I guess it got interpreted as, “Take at least one, maybe take your fill,” because the 100 were gone in 10 minutes—and only 25 people were eating. That’s about 4 each; do the math.
Begins the whine: A heavyweight aunt in purple, with a Barbara Wa-Wa twang in her voice, “The wedding party didn’t get none!” I explain that the bride put out a sign to take one. She explained that she wanted more than one. I carefully replied that she was one of the culprits. She didn’t like that. She wanted to know what we’re going to do about it. I explained that we’re not a kitchen, not a restaurant, that we just have our kitchen crew make up exactly what the bride ordered and paid for, that we don’t just have a bunch of chicken croissants sitting around in the cupboard.
“But,” I am being helpful. “You can go up the road . . .” I point straight east. “about 3 miles and there is a place that sells burgers.”
She doesn’t like me, I can tell. In the meantime, the heavyweight wades through the $300 worth of candy on the shelf, grabs 2 or 3 cream puff desserts, and disappears. I don’t think she diets—ever.
Well, that’s today’s event. We’ll see what next week brings.
6/13/09
5/28/09
The Virgins
A number of years ago, a friend of my son’s decided to get married. A good kid from a nice family. Very likeable. So was his bride to be. In fact they were so good, they figured it should never rain on any of their parades. Well, they called the Marriott, the one in Los Angeles and told them they were virgins and they were getting married (something quite rare nowadays, actually) and they were coming to LA for their honeymoon and wondered, inasmuch as they were chaste, if the president of the corporation would give them a free honeymoon suite, because they had kept themselves clean and pure.
Word of the request traveled throughout the small town just under the speed of light. “He what?” the first asked. “They what?” the next couple asked. “Sweet (a curse), that’s the craziest thing I’d ever heard,” said a third. And on and on the surprise traveled. The day came for a letter to arrive in his mailbox (sometime before emails flew back and forth). We were all gathered within earshot of one another, pretending like we were busy, waiting for the boy to open the letter from Marriott corporation. We all wanted to hear the reply at once.
Surprise! They had agreed. The boy was elated. So was his bride. The town was breathlessly quiet. “Do you think they will rig a hidden camera in the hotel suite to capture the uncovering?” asked one. “Do you think the word has passed among the entire 1000 employees at the hotel?” asked another.
The day came for the marriage, performed in a very decent environment. The wedding breakfast was over by 2:00. The couple had a brief reception receiving lots of gifts. Parents loaded the gifts into a couple of pickups so the bride and groom could fly to LA.
Once in LA, he applied for a rent-a-car. They wouldn’t let him have one. He looked too young. He looked about 16, though he was 22. He showed his driver's license. They still wouldn’t let him have one—too young. He called his dad and someone else to talk to personnel. Somehow he got a car, but in his dad’s name.
We assume things were consummated correctly. We also hoped that hidden cameras didn’t record it.
But, you know, in spite of their naivete, isn’t it refreshing that there are still virgins. As for me, I’d give a free room to a virgin; and I’d throw in free flowers; and I’d give them movie passes—I think it’s cool. Better, anytime, to be a virgin, than a slut. You can quote me on that.
Word of the request traveled throughout the small town just under the speed of light. “He what?” the first asked. “They what?” the next couple asked. “Sweet (a curse), that’s the craziest thing I’d ever heard,” said a third. And on and on the surprise traveled. The day came for a letter to arrive in his mailbox (sometime before emails flew back and forth). We were all gathered within earshot of one another, pretending like we were busy, waiting for the boy to open the letter from Marriott corporation. We all wanted to hear the reply at once.
Surprise! They had agreed. The boy was elated. So was his bride. The town was breathlessly quiet. “Do you think they will rig a hidden camera in the hotel suite to capture the uncovering?” asked one. “Do you think the word has passed among the entire 1000 employees at the hotel?” asked another.
The day came for the marriage, performed in a very decent environment. The wedding breakfast was over by 2:00. The couple had a brief reception receiving lots of gifts. Parents loaded the gifts into a couple of pickups so the bride and groom could fly to LA.
Once in LA, he applied for a rent-a-car. They wouldn’t let him have one. He looked too young. He looked about 16, though he was 22. He showed his driver's license. They still wouldn’t let him have one—too young. He called his dad and someone else to talk to personnel. Somehow he got a car, but in his dad’s name.
We assume things were consummated correctly. We also hoped that hidden cameras didn’t record it.
But, you know, in spite of their naivete, isn’t it refreshing that there are still virgins. As for me, I’d give a free room to a virgin; and I’d throw in free flowers; and I’d give them movie passes—I think it’s cool. Better, anytime, to be a virgin, than a slut. You can quote me on that.
4/15/09
Unreal Expectations
Have you ever tried to talk someone out of a stupid idea? It can’t be done. Stupid got them there and stupid keeps them there. For instance…
The phone rang Monday a.m. A girl wants to know how much it will cost to feed 400 people a full course meal at our place, with a wedding reception to follow immediately—maybe even feed them a big meal all night long—she didn’t know which.
I kindly explain that we’re not a restaurant, that we only have room for 65 people to eat at the same time, and that we wouldn’t have enough time to clean it all up afterwards in time to start a reception the next moment. She didn’t care; in fact, she didn’t listen to me. She wants to come see me anyway.
She brings her husband to be. He looks 17, but is 20. He’s nice. He’s also naïve—along for the ride. Whatever she wants must be right, he thinks. Wrong!
Half our life is spent trying to educate, or remove false thinking. They get something in their little brain and it won’t come out—like a stubborn weed that is in hard, dry ground and can’t be pulled.
I go through it again, including him in the conversation, thinking maybe he can be taught. He can’t. He isn’t really listening. He’s just, oh…I don’t know what. He’s just a post.
The girl has 12 bridesmaids and 12 groomsmen. What’s the matter with her? We don’t want 24 people running up and down our stairs all night long using our bathroom. And what if they each weigh 400 pounds? Nah, I’m not excited about this one.
She insists on bringing her mom to see us the next night. “She can’t get here before you close. Will you stay until 7:00?” I tell her no, but then relent. They arrive at 7:00. There are now four people. I don’t know who the spare is. The mother barely speaks English.
“How much you charge…feex beeg dinner…400 people?” I don’t know Spanish, but I say, “Too much!” She wants an answer. I add it up for her. “Twenty dollars a plate for a full course dinner, for 400 people. That’s $8000. Too much, huh?” I hope it discourages her. Apparently she understands the value of the American dollar, and I can tell we pray to the same person because I recognized the single-syllable noun.”
“Why you not geev deescount 400 people?” I don’t want to offend her, so I describe our average scenario: 2 or 3 bridesmaids, 2 or 3 groomsmen—no more; 150 people average attendance. She is not impressed. She wants a better answer.
“Because, my kitchen crew does not want to do it; and I don’t want to do it—it is far too much work and wrecks my place. That’s why.”
“Can we do our own food?” The bride asks. I reply that she can’t. She wants to know why. I give her the same answer I give all the others—that it is unfair to the caterers and it’s messy and too much grief, and a health hazard where we can't control it.”
“Sheet,” she exclaims, though I think she meant something else. I tell them of another place (which I’m sure feels the same as me). “We already try them—they want too much and don’t want do it.”
“I’m sorry,” I finish. They leave. I’m tired of trying to defend myself. I need a sign that says “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.” But then, that would bring on home-land security, wouldn’t it?
The phone rang Monday a.m. A girl wants to know how much it will cost to feed 400 people a full course meal at our place, with a wedding reception to follow immediately—maybe even feed them a big meal all night long—she didn’t know which.
I kindly explain that we’re not a restaurant, that we only have room for 65 people to eat at the same time, and that we wouldn’t have enough time to clean it all up afterwards in time to start a reception the next moment. She didn’t care; in fact, she didn’t listen to me. She wants to come see me anyway.
She brings her husband to be. He looks 17, but is 20. He’s nice. He’s also naïve—along for the ride. Whatever she wants must be right, he thinks. Wrong!
Half our life is spent trying to educate, or remove false thinking. They get something in their little brain and it won’t come out—like a stubborn weed that is in hard, dry ground and can’t be pulled.
I go through it again, including him in the conversation, thinking maybe he can be taught. He can’t. He isn’t really listening. He’s just, oh…I don’t know what. He’s just a post.
The girl has 12 bridesmaids and 12 groomsmen. What’s the matter with her? We don’t want 24 people running up and down our stairs all night long using our bathroom. And what if they each weigh 400 pounds? Nah, I’m not excited about this one.
She insists on bringing her mom to see us the next night. “She can’t get here before you close. Will you stay until 7:00?” I tell her no, but then relent. They arrive at 7:00. There are now four people. I don’t know who the spare is. The mother barely speaks English.
“How much you charge…feex beeg dinner…400 people?” I don’t know Spanish, but I say, “Too much!” She wants an answer. I add it up for her. “Twenty dollars a plate for a full course dinner, for 400 people. That’s $8000. Too much, huh?” I hope it discourages her. Apparently she understands the value of the American dollar, and I can tell we pray to the same person because I recognized the single-syllable noun.”
“Why you not geev deescount 400 people?” I don’t want to offend her, so I describe our average scenario: 2 or 3 bridesmaids, 2 or 3 groomsmen—no more; 150 people average attendance. She is not impressed. She wants a better answer.
“Because, my kitchen crew does not want to do it; and I don’t want to do it—it is far too much work and wrecks my place. That’s why.”
“Can we do our own food?” The bride asks. I reply that she can’t. She wants to know why. I give her the same answer I give all the others—that it is unfair to the caterers and it’s messy and too much grief, and a health hazard where we can't control it.”
“Sheet,” she exclaims, though I think she meant something else. I tell them of another place (which I’m sure feels the same as me). “We already try them—they want too much and don’t want do it.”
“I’m sorry,” I finish. They leave. I’m tired of trying to defend myself. I need a sign that says “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.” But then, that would bring on home-land security, wouldn’t it?
4/7/09
interuption
Have you ever waited in line to get served, and the clerk kept answering the phone instead of waiting on you? So have I.
We have a policy that we don’t pick up a ringing phone when a live person is in front of us, or when a wedding is going on. Occasionally, we answer the phone during a wedding because it might be the mother of the bride and she is lost and we have to talk her in.
But, I had to pick it up Friday and answer it because it kept ringing and ringing.
“Hello?” I’m almost mad.
“Yeah, uh, can we come and have a tour at your place, like right now?” she asks on a cell phone that keeps cutting out.
“I’m awfully sorry, we’re right in the middle of a ceremony,” I whisper from the kitchen where people won’t hear me.
“Well, we need to tour your place, like now, because we’re getting’ married next year and we’re tryin’ to find the best and cheapest place.”
I wish she hadn’t said “cheap,” because to us it means a raucous, ill-mannered, thoughtless clientele. “Oh, I’m sorry, we can’t; we’re right in the middle of a wedding,” I reply, hoping to end the conversation so I can take care of things.
“Uh!” she grunts her displeasure.
“Then can we come tomorrow night?”
“I’m awfully sorry; we have a wedding Saturday also.”
“Well, when can we come?” I can hear her uncouth boy friend mouthing obscenities in the background.
“Monday is fine,” I reluctantly give her an appointment and end the call.
Somehow, I don’t think she’ll show up. So, I call her Monday a few hours before her appointment.
“Oh,” she is surprised by my call. “I was just going to call you. We decided to have it at a different place.”
I ask the name of the place. She stutters and can’t think of it. Finally, she names a place. I tell her they will do her a nice job. She reminds me that the reason she isn’t using us is because I wouldn’t let her come Friday or Saturday during a wedding.
“Yeah, that’s ok," I explain myself. "It was another bride’s wedding, and we don’t interrupt a wedding for another appointment, just like you wouldn’t want yours interrupted by the same. But, thank you for your call. Goodbye.” I get off the phone before she calls me something.
Sometimes this business is fun—yes, at times like this, it’s fun.
We have a policy that we don’t pick up a ringing phone when a live person is in front of us, or when a wedding is going on. Occasionally, we answer the phone during a wedding because it might be the mother of the bride and she is lost and we have to talk her in.
But, I had to pick it up Friday and answer it because it kept ringing and ringing.
“Hello?” I’m almost mad.
“Yeah, uh, can we come and have a tour at your place, like right now?” she asks on a cell phone that keeps cutting out.
“I’m awfully sorry, we’re right in the middle of a ceremony,” I whisper from the kitchen where people won’t hear me.
“Well, we need to tour your place, like now, because we’re getting’ married next year and we’re tryin’ to find the best and cheapest place.”
I wish she hadn’t said “cheap,” because to us it means a raucous, ill-mannered, thoughtless clientele. “Oh, I’m sorry, we can’t; we’re right in the middle of a wedding,” I reply, hoping to end the conversation so I can take care of things.
“Uh!” she grunts her displeasure.
“Then can we come tomorrow night?”
“I’m awfully sorry; we have a wedding Saturday also.”
“Well, when can we come?” I can hear her uncouth boy friend mouthing obscenities in the background.
“Monday is fine,” I reluctantly give her an appointment and end the call.
Somehow, I don’t think she’ll show up. So, I call her Monday a few hours before her appointment.
“Oh,” she is surprised by my call. “I was just going to call you. We decided to have it at a different place.”
I ask the name of the place. She stutters and can’t think of it. Finally, she names a place. I tell her they will do her a nice job. She reminds me that the reason she isn’t using us is because I wouldn’t let her come Friday or Saturday during a wedding.
“Yeah, that’s ok," I explain myself. "It was another bride’s wedding, and we don’t interrupt a wedding for another appointment, just like you wouldn’t want yours interrupted by the same. But, thank you for your call. Goodbye.” I get off the phone before she calls me something.
Sometimes this business is fun—yes, at times like this, it’s fun.
no kids allowed
What would a wedding be like without toddlers and little gangster-wannabes? Wonderful! How do we know? A bride put a notice on her invitations, “No children, please.” Thank you, thank you, thank you. And her wedding was just fine—the best we’ve had for a long time.
Civilized people, people who are in the know, realize that even though kids seem cute, it is expecting too much for a youngster to sit still for several hours and not make a nuisance . They can’t even do it in church! Why would a wedding be any different. Besides, people don’t tend their kids. No one but me and my kids know how to tend someone anymore. It’s a lost art. They can train their dogs, but they can’t discipline kids. Oh, well—that’s another subject for another time.
Civilized people, people who are in the know, realize that even though kids seem cute, it is expecting too much for a youngster to sit still for several hours and not make a nuisance . They can’t even do it in church! Why would a wedding be any different. Besides, people don’t tend their kids. No one but me and my kids know how to tend someone anymore. It’s a lost art. They can train their dogs, but they can’t discipline kids. Oh, well—that’s another subject for another time.
the cancellation
A bride cancels her wedding, then decides to go ahead—this weekend, several months before it was supposed to.
“I want to cancel my wedding; we’re not getting married after all. I’d like my $600 deposit back.”
We get a few of those a year. I know what to say. I ask what happened; I get a vague reply. I explain the non-refundable deposit policy. They either go ballistic or they accept it. She accepted it. An hour later the phone rings.
“Ok, we’re getting married then, seein’ as how we can’t get our money back. But, we don’t want a reception, just a ceremony.” She wants it this Friday!
“This weekend?” I gasp. “Friday?” The date is open. Just as well let her have it.
“Yeah, and there’s 60 people coming, and we won’t have no cake or nuthin’, just the ceremony; then we’re havin’ an after-party where we can drink and party at a hotel becuz’ you don’t allow it at your place.”
We do ceremonies for $600 without a reception. I agree because I want this over and done. The girl must be nuts.
“And we don’t need no rehearsal; we know what we’re doin’, we’ve seen enough weddings between us.”
I smile to myself. I can hardly wait. “Do you know where to stand and who does what? And do your people know what they’re supposed to do?”
“Well, If they don’t they’ll soon figure it out.”
Two days later I’m watching them line drive in—one car followed by another. They’re all late. I figured. It’s now 7:30 p.m. The officiant arrives. He glances at his watch and smiles at me.
The bride arrives in a whirlwind of emotion, leaping from the car and shouting at her little sister to get out of the way. She curses. (I figured she would).
Comes time for the ceremony, the bride barely knows her own name. “Where am I supposed to stand?”
I can’t resist. “I thought you had that all figured out. You can stand wherever you wish—it doesn’t matter to me.”
The bridesmaids—4 of them—have the same question in their mind and would have asked me if they weren’t so busy chewing a wad of gum.
“Do you want to walk in to music?” I ask.
“To what?” she replies.
“To music—you know, ‘Here Comes the Bride?’” I almost sang the second stanza, “Big fat and wide,” as it was so appropriate. But, I refrained.
We got through it—thanks to me. Soon she was gone, along with her odoriferous photographer. The guy must have eaten a sack of onions and forgotten to brush.
“Gee, this must be a fun job you have….” We hear that a lot. Sometimes it actually is; mostly it’s just bizarre.
“I want to cancel my wedding; we’re not getting married after all. I’d like my $600 deposit back.”
We get a few of those a year. I know what to say. I ask what happened; I get a vague reply. I explain the non-refundable deposit policy. They either go ballistic or they accept it. She accepted it. An hour later the phone rings.
“Ok, we’re getting married then, seein’ as how we can’t get our money back. But, we don’t want a reception, just a ceremony.” She wants it this Friday!
“This weekend?” I gasp. “Friday?” The date is open. Just as well let her have it.
“Yeah, and there’s 60 people coming, and we won’t have no cake or nuthin’, just the ceremony; then we’re havin’ an after-party where we can drink and party at a hotel becuz’ you don’t allow it at your place.”
We do ceremonies for $600 without a reception. I agree because I want this over and done. The girl must be nuts.
“And we don’t need no rehearsal; we know what we’re doin’, we’ve seen enough weddings between us.”
I smile to myself. I can hardly wait. “Do you know where to stand and who does what? And do your people know what they’re supposed to do?”
“Well, If they don’t they’ll soon figure it out.”
Two days later I’m watching them line drive in—one car followed by another. They’re all late. I figured. It’s now 7:30 p.m. The officiant arrives. He glances at his watch and smiles at me.
The bride arrives in a whirlwind of emotion, leaping from the car and shouting at her little sister to get out of the way. She curses. (I figured she would).
Comes time for the ceremony, the bride barely knows her own name. “Where am I supposed to stand?”
I can’t resist. “I thought you had that all figured out. You can stand wherever you wish—it doesn’t matter to me.”
The bridesmaids—4 of them—have the same question in their mind and would have asked me if they weren’t so busy chewing a wad of gum.
“Do you want to walk in to music?” I ask.
“To what?” she replies.
“To music—you know, ‘Here Comes the Bride?’” I almost sang the second stanza, “Big fat and wide,” as it was so appropriate. But, I refrained.
We got through it—thanks to me. Soon she was gone, along with her odoriferous photographer. The guy must have eaten a sack of onions and forgotten to brush.
“Gee, this must be a fun job you have….” We hear that a lot. Sometimes it actually is; mostly it’s just bizarre.
3/23/09
working
Most businesses struggle with the same problems. Few, if any, have blue sky. Mostly cloudy, hazy, windy, and some snow if you know what I mean. Take a conversation I had the other day, for example. A guy comes up to me at church.
"Hey, how's your wedding business going--probably great guns this time of year?"
"Oh, we're greatful for whatever business we have. But, it's a heckuva lot of work and not as much money as you'd think," I reply.
"Really?" He acts surprised. "I figured your business is pretty well recession proof--I mean, people have to get married don't they?"
"No, they don't. They shack up. They don't feel the need."
"Really? Never thought about that. I guess it's true though. I've got this uncle up in Utah who says that he's busy as heck, but there's not enough profit to hire anyone. So he has to do all the work himself."
"Yeah," I reply. "Exactly!"
He thought my husband had retired and had nothing to do. I explained his duties. "There's no retiring here. Several acres of pruning, mowing, planting, weeding, painting, repairing, and the list goes on and on--steady throughout the entire year--not even figuring in the wear and tear of people destroying things and making messes everywhere. But, that's ok. We believe in work."
"Huh," he acts a bit stunned. "I never thought of it like that."
But we have. And we're smart enough to know that as hard as we try to make a go of it, others in the same occupation are doing the same. They're all good people working like heck for a living. Something in the Bible about that...earning your bread by the sweat of your brow, all the days of your life. It's in Genesis. Read it. Believe it. Do it. I'd rather be busy working than busy worrying.
Not complaining. Just a little sore in the ankles and picking up strange bruises here and there that I don't remember what I kicked into to cause it. I guess I'm getting older. In fact, I just picked a little wart on my knee and it's bleeding like crazy.
"Hey, how's your wedding business going--probably great guns this time of year?"
"Oh, we're greatful for whatever business we have. But, it's a heckuva lot of work and not as much money as you'd think," I reply.
"Really?" He acts surprised. "I figured your business is pretty well recession proof--I mean, people have to get married don't they?"
"No, they don't. They shack up. They don't feel the need."
"Really? Never thought about that. I guess it's true though. I've got this uncle up in Utah who says that he's busy as heck, but there's not enough profit to hire anyone. So he has to do all the work himself."
"Yeah," I reply. "Exactly!"
He thought my husband had retired and had nothing to do. I explained his duties. "There's no retiring here. Several acres of pruning, mowing, planting, weeding, painting, repairing, and the list goes on and on--steady throughout the entire year--not even figuring in the wear and tear of people destroying things and making messes everywhere. But, that's ok. We believe in work."
"Huh," he acts a bit stunned. "I never thought of it like that."
But we have. And we're smart enough to know that as hard as we try to make a go of it, others in the same occupation are doing the same. They're all good people working like heck for a living. Something in the Bible about that...earning your bread by the sweat of your brow, all the days of your life. It's in Genesis. Read it. Believe it. Do it. I'd rather be busy working than busy worrying.
Not complaining. Just a little sore in the ankles and picking up strange bruises here and there that I don't remember what I kicked into to cause it. I guess I'm getting older. In fact, I just picked a little wart on my knee and it's bleeding like crazy.
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