This is my brand spankin' new husband and me, nearly 26 years ago.
I would like it noted that his arm fits snugly around my waist; you can even see fingers.
This of course was before peanut butter M&Ms had been invented.
I mentioned recently that my oldest child is getting married in March. We love this boy. We love the girl he's marrying.
But of course the real star of any wedding is, naturally, the mother of the groom. You know perfectly well as you wend your way up the sidewalk softly illuminated by fake lanterns, past the 11-year old keeper-of-the-sign-in-book, through the Gauntlet of Gift-Nabbing Nephews, and finally into a hall which could not be more appropriately called "cultural" than it is tonight, on account of there actually being girls in fancy dresses and not a basketball or crab soccer game in sight, that the question on everyone's minds is, "Will the MOTG be so riveting, so eye-gripping, so jaw dropping in her visage that all other women - including the bride - will fold themselves into the accordion curtain separating the receiving line from the chapel, or will she not?"
I know I haven't attended a wedding in 30 years where that wasn't the third thing I looked for, after scoping out the chintziness of the refreshments and determining that my old boyfriend Ken wasn't in attendance. That's the order: Is Ken here? Are they serving Costco mini-quiches? How crushingly beautiful is the mother of the groom?
Thus, my family went out and took some pictures today, because it was that or go shopping for tires for Vanessa's Blazer, and really? Was there any doubt?
As I perused the many shots, I concluded three things:
- Vanessa's a fine photographress. Yes. That's the way I'm going to spell it from now on.
- I have fantastic legs.
- For a Weeble, that is.
Brett's looking a bit concerned because he knows that between those heels, my bifocals,
and the narrowness of the sidewalk,
I'm just one totter away from tugging us both into a very chilly, very leafy pool.
Okay, this one rings the bell on the coolness scale...
...and I admit. We all look pretty damn hot in this one.
We think Jacob is communing with cherubim in this shot.
It's the only explanation for that beatific grin.
And this one's not too bad if you don't bring your abacus along
to count the chins on the MOTG
But this one, which has so much potential, particularly if we were to decide to mount our horses and start robbing mail trains, would look much more like a Wanted Poster if that
second bandito from the left
didn't appear to be smuggling koalas under her blouse.
That whole koala thing really just has to go.
Which is why I've joined my family at the gym every day this week (and yes, I realize it's only Tuesday, so that's enough of your sass) in a full-scale assault on all those peanut butter M&Ms and that fudge and the other delicious atrocities which have been visited upon my person over the last many weeks. My son David is attempting to either A) get me into top, hot tamale condition in time for his wedding in ten weeks or, B) kill me without leaving any visible marks. He may look sweet and unassuming, but so do those cuddly little creatures on
"Galaxy Quest" right before they bare their fangs and
order that sick, crippled one to do 20 more minutes on the elliptical trainer.
And then eat him.
So if you can't find me here, check the "Zumba for Mental Patients" class at our local YMCA. Since I'm pretty sure Mexican food helped get me into this mess,
Salsa dancing can just help get me out of it.
Oh, and speaking of finding me, I've bought my own domain called - wait for it, it's very creative - www.denaehandy.com
Click on the link et voila! it'll bring you...um...right back here.
I take careful notes at all these blog conferences I'm invited to speak at,
cuz they all say the same thing:
If you don't own your own domain, you've probably got basic cable and iDumb phones and still think of lined paper and a pencil when you hear the word 'notepad',
and seriously? that's just sad.
Well I don't need your pity, people! I don't! I own my domain! It's denae handy dot com! Save your sympathetic looks and your prayers for my salvation
and your offers to let me touch your Kindle. I don't need them!
I could, however, use a little support when I wrap up my first Zumba class next week. I'm terribly concerned that poor little koala's gonna fall right out of my tank top.