Renewing My Commitment To No

You ever had one of those moments where you said YES to something and about five minutes later you realized you should have said NO? But, of course, you didn't reverse the decision. Maybe you felt obligated to the person. Maybe you thought no one else would step up for the need. Maybe you took pity on the situation and its principal players.

Or maybe you need to JUST SAY NO! Seriously. Let's practice it here. no. No. NO. NO! Got it? Get it? Goo-o-o-d. Now, repeat it back to me with enthusiasm. Like you mean it. As if you believe you possess the inalienable right to lob such a response back upon the asker. Maybe if you practice this mantra enough times . . .

. . . I'll catch on!

Yesterday afternoon, while surreptitiously trying to absorb multiple drops of perspiration against the brown satin side of my strapless bridesmaid gown in the middle of a full-on vow renewal ceremony (I kept referring to it as a 'vowel renewal'), I reminded myself of how very useful the word NO actually is. As these drops made their way down the entire length of my inner arm and collected at my elbow, I reiterated to my inner service-oriented self that I should learn to use NO at least as much with others as I use it with my kids.

Roughly two and a half months ago I was cold-called by a woman at my church who I barely know. Her mother was recuperating from a rough stay in the hospital; one of several she has endured in the past year or so. I believe it's congestive heart failure or something equally serious. So, this woman, let's call her Jan, tells me how she is having a vow-renewal ceremony because her mom was unable to be at her wedding 7 years ago; and, she, Jan, weighed over 200 pounds at the time. She regales me with tales of people unable to be in the ceremony, and then she pops the question: would I take the place of a gal who had to bow out? Without thinking that perhaps if I asked my husband, or phoned a friend, or polled the audience, I might have received advice to the contrary, I blurted out, "Yes." I felt sorry for her mom. And, really, how big a deal was it to simply stand next to Jan at the front of the church while she and her husband repromised themselves to one another?

Almost immediately she replied, "Oh, good. You can pick up your dress at 'David's Bridal.' My bridesmaids get a discount. You only have to pay $100." On the other end of the phone, I balk -- bridesmaids? -- but stand my ground. Big, HUGE mistake! That $100 dress ended up costing me, and thus my family, $220 by the time I added the sash, a last-minute alteration to the bust because there was no size 6 available, and a special strapless bra to create a wee bit of dimension where none actually exists. Granted -- confession time -- I put off fitting the gown and purchasing it until last minute because I thought, er, maybe hoped, Jan would realize this was all a bit much and cancel. Foolish thinking does NOT remedy a comedy of errors.

In the meantime, though the date was scribbled on my calendar for July 18th, I promptly forgot how quickly that would arrive. And, I neglected to contemplate how it would affect my big trip out West to see my brothers. Between the family road trip to and from Wyoming, and bringing my mother-in-law back with us for the entire summer, and all the sundry business of kids at home and the like, I procrastinated just enough (again wondering if the event might be cancelled, called due to rain or heat or lack of funds or some equally acceptable reason) that my plane ticket ended up costing me double the miles I'd planned on redeeming.

See how those ripples on the pond expand?

Fast forward to July 17th. I'm fresh off the plane after 18 days in California. The double-dip bride's phone number is defunct; I don't know what tailor she used. Facebook comes to my rescue and a brave seamstress, friend to my pastor's wife, tackles the last-minute job. I'm going to pay her well for her troubles! I finagled an appointment, again through a reliable friend, with an expert colorist to begin the restoration of my platinum blonde locks to brown so as not to appear to peacockish at the ceremony. She's not cheap. I leave her a generous tip.

Two hours later, Jan calls to say the 'wedding' must be postponed as her husband had last-minute oral surgery and they are low on money. The date is moved to August 1st -- two weeks away. We're still in the race.  Sigh-h. On the plus side, the seamstress will be very pleased to make a bit of money: she did a fantastic job. I recommend her. And, the Tres Amigos which appeared out of nowhere on my bottom lip, three nasty enormous oozing cold sores, would have time to heal.

Screech! Back up to late June. I've already missed the bridal shower that her ill mother planned for Jan; I was in Wyoming. Attendance was low. By now, I realize there are individuals who feel this entire endeavor is a bit unconventional in a negative way. Not appropriate by societal standards regarding such things as vow renewal ceremonies. Maybe a bit advantageous. Not well thought out. This had not occured to me. Now, it is the Sunday before my big adventure out-of-state. Jan approaches me to follow-up on another cold-call: that had been a query about going on Saturday night before the nuptials, the day after I returned home, to cook at her house because she decided to prepare all of the food. Fried chicken. My instincts did kick in here. I told her no over the phone. But I would make a dish of some kind to go with it. She could let me know. Well, she let me know.

"Gloria, Gloria . . . " she pursued me out the door, "I decided what you could make." There is a slight pause, so slight I feel I may be mistaken, "Fried chicken and potato salad." Deadpan delivery in her very loud, slightly strange voice. I stutter-stepped but handled it, "No, NO, I can't make fried chicken," for possibly 50 people on my own dime in a state of jet- and emotional-lag, "but I can make baked mac n' cheese and potato salad." She feigned surprise at my unwillingness to fry the chicken, gushing that I was such a good cook, then informed me that she hated mac n' cheese, and stated potato salad would be fine, but with Miracle Whip and relish. No onions. That's how she likes it. I agreed. I planned to make that one and ask my mom to whip up a medium batch of her special mayo recipe for the 'other side.' (Mom delivered her beautiful bowl of Southern comfort hours before I was informed of the cancellation; my husband and I ate it every day, twice a day, until it was gone. We only like her recipe.)

The Sunday before the rescheduled date, Jan's husband tells me how he wanted to create a slideshow but can't figure out how to get pictures of their wedding onto a disc via his phone. He was clicking pictures of pictures, yet in their album pages, with his cell phone. Being the honorable bridesmaid that I am, I volunteered to take them home, scan them, and create a DVD for him. No problem. I do it. Jimmy and I discover how to use our Apple computer's photo program. Very cool. Time consuming.

The Sunday of this ceremonial pursuit, I am once again approached with a desperate need. They lost their wedding music CD. I realize they had planned on using the same one from 2003, but had only begun the quest for it the night before. There was a list of songs and a request to download them -- I used up my meager I-Tunes account funds -- and put them in order on a CD for that very afternoon. During the time we planned to rest a bit, cut veggies for a tray, gather the dress and food, arrange the cut flowers I volunteered from my garden with fern fronds in four large vases, and round up the supplies my daughter would need to do the bride's hair. Yes, Jan asked if I could do her hair. Hair-illiterate me volunteered my daughter. My lovely spouse of 21 years -- all without a renewal ceremony, than you very much -- compiled that disc. Guessing, correctly, on two ballads without artist's name attached. Again, no valid phone number. No way to reach them. He and my son also assisted in the set-up and clean-up of the affair. I love them all the more for it!

I was denied the use of my $15 pale blue sash that I had ironed earlier because the other bridesmaid didn't have one. The other bridesmaid also had a wardrobe malfunction: her dress did not fit, leaving at least a foot wide swathe of worn white girdle showing in the back where the zipper could not join the fabric to its regularly scheduled meeting place at the top. With copper safety pins from the sewing kit I brought along for possible emergencies, I neatly pinned the brown satin edges to the dingy inner garment, feeling rather sorry and amused at the turn of events. The woman, quite full-figured and generously endowed in the bust line, insisted that just a week ago it had fit like a dream. (My little brother, upon hearing this story, erupted, saying that must have been some week! HE said it.) Nothing else could be done. She limped down the aisle -- her leg was broken and still in a bulky contraption -- with as much dignity as she could muster. I followed in old wedge sandals -- couldn't afford shoes -- with my left big toe all bandaged up to hide the fungal infection I had uncovered beneath my nail polish two nights before. The sweating had already begun courtesy of OTC meds I took earlier to combat an oppressive sinus headache; this went well with my muddled medicated brain and ringing ears. We were a classy affair.

Despite a few, by now, trademark Jan-moves during the ceremony -- awkward stretches of several songs as we all stood or sat watching the principal players stare at each other, an interruption of the kiss to demand that the crack baby they are attempting to adopt from a friend who has had two other such children be brought to the stage for the moment -- it was all over rather quickly.  (And, after all, she was just being the bride -- second go-round or not.)   Her mother was present, wheezing and dewy from the heat and exertion on her ailing body. I think she was happy to witness it all. But I could tell she was aching for a nap, too.

We rolled out the food. Three burgeoning disposable aluminum pans of baked beans. Two small same pans of those little weenies wrapped in packaged dough and baked. No fried chicken. And, besides the 10-pound batch of Miracle Whip potato salad my mother-in-law graciously prepared this time around before she returned home to Colorado, there were two other batches of it! Erroneously, I believe they all had onions. Even mine. I forgot! The veggie tray laid out with my daughter's assist -- in the packing, I failed to ask for help, and in my garage it fell to the ground, sending bell peppers and cucumbers onto the little rug in front of the extra fridge, causing me to scream in frustration, but we sprayed and rinsed everything, and reorganized quickly back into a presentable array.

My baked special recipe mac n' cheese was a hit . . . once we were able to free it from the oven. Somehow, the door had been locked, the latch refused to give, and it took a screwdriver and several people with multiple attempts, my son included, to take apart the door, after breaking the handle. That was pure hilarity. One of the highlights of the entire event in my mind. That and the pics the pastor's wife snapped of the before, during, and after. The cake, courtesy of the mom on crack, was not what the bride wanted, but it was tasty. Satisfied my sweet tooth.

Once the tablecloths were thrown away, the clean plastic glasses salvaged, and the flowers transferred from my vases, our Yukon loaded with the cooler and sewing kit and hair products, we made the quick wagon-train trip to Woodbury to drop off my mom's car. And then my handsome man, decked out in his crisp white shirt and blazer, took me out to dinner. No fried chicken. We dined at the new hot dog eatery just down the road from our house. I had the Polish dog; Jimmy ate the Coney dog; Zachary ordered the hot wings with fries but we huffed our way through more of them than he did. Believe me when I say we introduced an element of class to the joint that our son described as "possibly a family-friendly bar?"

All of this was mine for the bargain-basement price of an unassuming Y-E-S.