Happy

What are the happiest moments of your life, so far?

When I asked my 91 year-old neighbor, she said, "Having my three kids." Then she paused. "I've had times when I've felt happy, like at weddings and things. But my happiest moments were having my girls."

My list includes:

1. My wedding, every single moment of it
2. Nearly every memory of playing as a child
3. Unwrapping the plush version of Camel with the Wrinkled Knees and "Angely" at two separate Christmases long long ago
4. Seeing Rodin's "The Thinker" in real life for the first time
5. Seeing Half Dome in Yosemite National Park for the first time
6. Driving with BMG to Sanibel Island from the Fort Meyers International Airport in the convertible with the top down

Happiness, for me, feels like being full - of emotions like delight and joy. So full that I'm on the verge of being overwhelmed, and can't possibly take in any more.

Like my neighbor, there are many moments of my life when I've felt happy, but these are the moments, today, when I remember feeling happiest. 

The Cherry Pitter

I live in a tiny house. A tiny house with a tiny amount of storage space.

This tiny amount of storage space, combined with my natural propensity for simple living, are the reasons why I tend to shy away from single use kitchen gadgets. Things like egg slicers (knives work just great), grapefruit spoons, and spaghetti servers. Yeah, nope. Don't need 'em. Don't want 'em.

But, I *do* have a cherry pitter.

This is a tool that expels the pit of a cherry into a small chute, and then with a poof, pops it into a waiting vessel (like a hand or a bowl). The sound of the pit being forced out of the fruit sounds like a gnome-sized nail gun to me. And the part of device that presses into the cherry to push out the pit looks like a gnome sized pick-axe.

The result of the pitter's work is tiny piece of stone fruit with a gaping flesh wound that looks as if a bullet has passed through it. While it is no longer gorgeous, but it is also free of the tiny pit you need to awkwardly and ungracefully dispose of every time you consume one cherry.  

I've owned mine for three years. And I've used it maybe four times. It takes up precious real estate in my limited drawer space. By all rights, it is not the sort of thing I would ever own.

But I'll never get rid of it.

Because every time I use it, I'm reminded of my father-in-law.

In the short time I knew him, he introduced me to the magic of the cherry pitter.

It was a weekend day, long before BMG and I were actually married, and I was visiting with him and my mother-in-law. As I chatted with them, my father-in-law was discreetly flexing his hand and causing a small popping sound.

"What are you doing?" I remember asking.

And he explained the cherry pitter, even letting me take the reins of the device and giving it a squeeze.

I may have scoffed at the need for a cherry pitter, perhaps extolling the diverse virtues of the knife or asking "How hard is it to eat around the pit?"

I remember my father-in-law laughing and telling me the cherries were much more delicious when they were pitted. And that was that.

A couple of years later, after he passed from this earth, BMG and I were planning our wedding. I insisted on putting a cherry pitter on our registry. BMG raised his eyebrows at me (he knows me well), but I insisted. And that was that.

*****

I much prefer to infuse everyday objects with meaning and memories, rather than holding onto other types of mementos. Doing so gives me regular opportunities to reflect on the person or event that I associate with the object. The size of my home makes it harder for me to display or interact with other types of memory devices, like photos stored on Facebook or in print albums or souvenirs from trips,

And I don't need them. I don't need a photo of my father-in-law to remember what made him such a special person. I don't need to hang onto every gift he ever gave me to make I don't forget him. Nope. All I need is to pit a few cherries and boom, I'm reminded of how much I hold him in my heart.

It's raining! It's pouring!

My first bridal shower gift arrived in the mail yesterday.

I came home from work, and espied two packages along with a pile of mail on the kitchen counter. Before I even fed the very noisy cat I tore into the packages. The first was bow ties for two of my nephews to wear in my wedding.  (They aren't quite the right color, so I may return them. Or I may not care. Still deciding.)

I then turned to a small square box, trying to remember what I had ordered from Amazon.com that would be in this shape. As I sliced the white paper packing tape that sealed the box shut  I realized it wasn't from Amazon.com, but rather Crate and Barrel.

I stopped what I was doing, feeling confused. "What did I order from Crate and Barrel?" I thought. I drew a blank.

And then it dawned on me.

It was a bridal shower gift.

I knew BMG's godmother was embarrassed that she had not yet given us an engagement gift. Even though I told her it was 100% fine for her to wrap up an unused tension shower curtain rod. (We need one, she has one, voila! Present!) But, knowing the godmother was asking about our registry, and thinking she might be of the generation that believes regifting isn't appropriate for engagement gifts, I thought the box was from her.

As I broke into the box, I discovered a tiny note card. In it was a kind note, not from BMG's godmother, but from the wife of one of BMG's friend who will be invited to our August nuptials. I've never met Mrs. Friend, but she sent a lovely gift and an even lovelier note.

The process of showering me and BMG with love and stuff has begun. I'm feeling excited. And grateful.

A Tweetise on Customer Service

A treatise, I learned today, is a long exposition on the principles or philosophy of a topic. A treatise is generally longer than an essay.

I would like to rant about customer service, but don't want to write a treatise. (Bet you don't want to read one either.) So I'll keep it short, a tweetise, if you will.

Through both the wedding planning process and the home renovation process, I have been continually astonished at the poor response times of sales people. As a result, I have the following advice to anyone who is in the position of selling anything - from widgets to ideas - please consider the following:

1. If reaches out by phone or email to inquire about spending money at your business, respond using the same method they used within two business days.
2. If someone says they are very interested in spending money at your business, respond even faster than you did the first time.
3. If you tell a client you will be in touch with pricing in 24 hours, be sure to get that pricing ready in 24 hours - or be prepared to reach out and say you need more time.
4. If you are not interested in responding within these time frames, consider shutting down your business, or at least shutting down your business development systems. Because you clearly don't need new business.

Some businesses, like the bank giving you the construction loan to finance your home renovation, have you over a barrel and can take as long as they damn well please to return a call. Other businesses, like a caterer or kitchen designer, are presumably in the process of continuously nurturing new clients.If I've taken the time to call you, I'm potentially ready to make a buy. So call me back. Please. Call me back.

Saying "yes" to a dress

My older sister was helping me try on wedding dresses yesterday. Three of the four sides of the cramped space was dripping with puffy dresses in puffier bags. We were day two into our dress shopping experience. My mom, and each of my three sisters were with me, on our own version of a Kleinfeld's tour across Syracuse.

"How am I supposed to know which one is the 'right' one?" I asked her.

I had tried on everything from chiffon bridesmaid dresses to heavy taffeta gowns with 4' trains. While I had never had wedding dress fantasies as a child, I came into the wedding dress shopping experience with a very clear image of what I wanted my dress - and the celebration of my wedding - to be. I wanted to wear a dress just like the one Elizabeth Taylor wore in the film "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." - short, casual, flirty, non-traditional. No strapless (I'm too busty), nothing too traditional (I had never planned to have a wedding anyway), and nothing too expensive (I'd rather spend the money on travel). If I couldn't find a dress like this while shopping with my family, I was going to buy it online for $130.  

And now, after trying maybe 20 dresses of all different sizes, most of them for the fun of it, I was confused.

"Well, from everything I've read and seen on tv, you just know," she replied.

So far, on this appointment, my 6th stop of the weekend - I had worn a tea length, satin dress with a ruched bodice, a full length white cotton gown with a modest ribbon tie at the waist.

I slipped on a full length, sheath style-white gown made of a bold cotton lace that gave the appearance of being covered in white roses. I stepped into the crowded, mirrored hallway, where the rest of my family waited. I looked at myself and said immediately, "NO! This is terrible." Everyone agreed.

Back in the tiny dressing room my sister said, "So, now you know how you can tell which dress ISN'T the right one."

Next I slip into a antique ivory, strapless, beaded, organza, tea length gown with a tulle underskirt. It has a slightly vintage energy. I stepped out of the dressing room with my older sister and grinned.

My mom said, "There's the face! The giddy face."

Yup, I felt giddy.

We walk across the rows of dressing rooms and families towards a large bank of mirrors. I look at myself. I feel beautiful.

My "bridal consultant," Miranda, slips a large ivory cloth rose into my hair, pulling it slightly away from my face. I turn and look at my family now 30 feet away from me. They are all smiling.

I walk towards another bank of mirrors, conveniently located in the shoe section of the store. My sisters follow and dig out a pair of lace covered, peep toe pumps. I slip them on and look at myself in the mirror.

I say out loud, "This isn't the dress for the wedding BMG and I have planned," I think. "This is so much more formal. I can't wear funky shoes with this dress (it would be too busy), and I don't look anything like Elizabeth Taylor. But, I really like it."

My sister helps me return to the other tea length gown, the plainer one that WOULD allow me to wear funky shoes and jewelry. I emerge from the dressing room and the women lining the halls, waiting for their brides to emerge from their tiny changing boxes, say, "Nope, go back to the other one. THAT one is special."

Miranda approaches me and says, "I have seen many women try on the other dress. And no one looked as fabulous as you in it. You might think I'm bull shitting you to make a sale, but I'm not. The other dress, the beaded dress, that's your dress."

Still wearing the plainer tea length gown, I finish the short walk to where the rest of my family waits, near the bank of mirrors by the shoes. And I start to cry. "I miss the other dress. I want to put it back on," I say. My older sister hugs me and says "This is how you know which dress is the right dress."

The Liz Lemon Effect

Did you see "30 Rock" last week? Liz Lemon and her true love, Criss Cros, get married because they want to speed up an adoption process ostensibly stalled because Liz is technically single. After deciding to get married for bureaucratic reasons, Liz rails against the "wedding-industrial complex" for causing women to lose all sense of reason in their pursuit of their "special day."

Liz shows up for her city hall nuptials wearing sweats and carrying a Duane Reade bag filled with toilet paper (hey, she needed toilet paper and the Duane Reade was on the way). Experiencing all the other couples enjoying their modest weddings causes Liz to, ironically, lose all sense of reason. Why? Because deep down inside a special part of her wants to be a princess and have a special day. She never thought anyone would want to marry her, so she sublimated this desire and chose to deride weddings as a coping mechanism. I call this the Liz Lemon Effect.

*****

Jeff asked me to marry him today. I'm wearing a platinum and diamond ring he had specially designed to look like the fake engagement ring he gave me six years ago.

I've been shaking for nearly an hour.

Because I suffer from the Liz Lemon Effect.

I'm 42 years-old. I'm of average build and looks. I bite my nails, come from a wacky family, and work way too hard. There is a tiny and yet enormous part of me who identifies as an unlovable fat girl.

And yet I'm wearing this beautiful ring on my finger. Which proves that someone loves me. And wants to marry me.

Maybe when I stop shaking I'll start crying. And when I stop crying I'll start grinning from ear to ear. And then we'll plan a wedding.