Pre-Nup

Well, I don't know about you, but I've junked my boring old bridesmaids gifts in favor of three of these:

And, of course, a charming little something for me:

You can get it personalized, girls! In rhinestones! I'm getting one in every color!

Fortunately there are people of better taste out there, people like Sarah The Former Student Who Is Now Sarah The Reader. Sarah took care of the wall sconces, everybody, both of them. I shall live in a sconced home, and every time I scrape the hardened, sooty wax out of the bottom of the votives, I will think kindly of Sarah.

Wall sconces, like scoops, are the sort of things I never thought I'd own. Sconces, pfffft-- I had highway construction signs to nail to the wall. Same deal.

I am now in a highly realized state, a woman with a scoop, and many checklists, and a sconce. Two sconces! Thank you, Sarah.

small defensive earthwork or fort at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com

Drunk Hair

It's a splendid idea. It's perhaps the first splendid idea I've ever garnered from a bridal magazine.

The Knot, you see, has reproved me for not planning my hair properly. It carried an article which suggests that all brides begin nuptial hair planning a year ahead of time. That's when you need to start thinking about it. Six months out, you're allowed to pretend-style it. Then: The beer.

I was supposed to start conditioning my hair with beer many weeks ago, and now I shall be married beerless.

Perhaps there's a way to rectify this. Suggestions?

hmmmmm at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com

His Majesty's Happy Meal

There is no limit to my stark devotion to my godchild; all I have is his--stuffed manatees, gummy Lifesavers, all. This Jim The Small Child Nephew often repays with casually glancing at me, then pointing in the farthest direction from himself and pronouncing, "Aunt Beth that way."

At least he's only booting me from rooms instead of entire houses, but that doesn't make it any less tempting to close the door with slightly more force than is necessary when I suddenly become popular again as I depart to procure His Majesty's Happy Meal.

Not to be outdone by his big brother, Will The Baby Nephew hurled scorn upon me when last week I had the temerity to change his diaper; horrid aunt am I, wiping his own poop from his butt. Once we were finished, I set Will on the floor, still wailing--he is at that tortuous semi-walking stage for adults, when he is mobile only with a bent-over grown person's fingers supporting his princely balance--and he accepted my help, all right, but only while occasionally pausing in his furious toddlings to look up and make sure this awful person was still holding him up.

"But that," their pending uncle solemnly pointed out, "is exactly what we do to God sometimes." Ah, he's forming an excellent understanding of Catholic guilt already.

Yesterday, however, the trinity of us had a grand time chasing one another; Jim stood on one side of the the room, shrieking, and Will and I roared after him. Little brother headbutted his elder, and the process was repeated. It was a good twenty minutes before either one of them demanded my ouster.

Holy indeed.

fries at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com

Things Remembered

Today during a massive wedding setback, I clenched my fists into two very small balls and trembled a little bit, a thing my mother (half amazed, half frightened) said she hadn't seen me do since I was six years old. Before you step into Big Girl Marriedom, I suppose, there's one last stop at childhood. The bridesmaids' seamstress, currently farting around with one of the dresses in HONG KONG, sees to that.

Carah The BFFE came in last week. This is yet another sign that This Is Happening; we're importing people from Scotland now. It's a little more serious than when the mailbox door swung shut on the invitations. Ink and font, you can recall. Airfare, not so much.

It is good that she's here, as perhaps the best bridal advice I have ever received was gathered while watching her on her wedding day. An hour and a half before the wedding was scheduled to start, one of the bridesmaids approached her:

BRIDESMAID: Carah, there's a problem with--

CARAH THE BFFE: Is there anything I can do about it?

BRIDESMAID: ...No.

CARAH THE BFFE: Then I don't want to know.

Wise woman, the BFFE.

oh, and I have a 25-page article to write too at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com

They're Off

I wasn't exactly eager to return to Louisville, given that the last time I was there I was looking for a place on the AP scoresheet to mark "Student dotted i's with little hearts and must be terminated immediately." Last week, however, somebody brought horses.

Churchill Downs is a true American landmark in the sense that the second you see it in person, you're all, "WAY smaller than I thought it would be." The bourbon billboards are higher than the bloody spires.Now I was curious to try an official mint julep, for, as longterm The Readers may recall, when I tried making these for a Derby party, the resultant elixir wound up tasting like a candy cane steeped in ethanol. Clearly this was my own ineptness at work.

Turns out they're supposed to taste like that, so here's to me and my outstanding bartending skeelz, for I can make a $7 drink double as Celestial Seasonings Frosty the Snowman Scat for way less than that.

The gentleman in the background raising the roof, BTW, is Mr. Pat Day of this fame.

It was Stephen Foster Handicap Day, which meant that the bugler prefaced each call to post with the refrains of "Beautiful Dreamer" and "Swanee River." This lent a delightful touch of nostalgia to the handicappers howling "I HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE YOU!" at the horses who skipped happily home four years after their gatemates were back in the barns.

Josh The Pilot especially enjoyed the bugler's little house on the infield, and decided that he lived in there. I decided that nobody looks good while accessorizing with an index card.

It was 92 degrees that day, and everyone wilted around all, "It's 92 degrees," including Josh. I did not. At one point I reflected casually upon the fact that my back was soaking wet with further perspiration on the way, but as the humidity was somewhat below the Florida average of eighty thousand percent, I deemed the weather rather pleasant.

At that moment realized that I am in for one fugly Northern winter. The first time I experienced wind chill after I became a Florida resident, I used my pregnant sister for a windblock. And now I'm going to lose my heat index immunity-- a small price to pay, however, for being cast into the Atlantic Ocean by low-pressure systems with fetching names.

Speaking of, please do meet the mare Quite a Bride, who was running in the Early Times Mint Julep Handicap (it's not just a mixed drink apocalypse, it's a race.) My betrothed and I glanced at one another and contemplated betting on her, then agreed that this crashed right through the line of wedding-adorable into wedding-puke.

"Watch her win," I said as betting closed.

Or break a track record. See, it's never enough, in racing, to feel stupid. Horses often take care to flip you off as they cross the finish line.

Just before the main event, the Kentucky Derby trophy was officially awarded, the Colonel having gotten it back from the engraving counter at Things Remembered. All of Street Sense's connections, including winning jockey Calvin Borel, charmingly spattered from the previous race, were on hand to smile uncomfortably as the race was replayed on the track screens.


This was also the cue for one of the genteel public to heap congratulations upon the owners, who recently announced that Street Sense will stand stud at Darley, a Sheikh-owned breeding farm: "HEEEEEEEEEEEY! HEY! Why'd you sell him to an AY-RAB, if you love him so much!" It was almost as awesome as the time when I heard a fellow horse lover shriek "YOU'RE SHORT!!" at jockey Edgar Prado.

Todd Pletcher had a winner. You remember Todd, trainer of Belmont winner Rags to Riches.

This is Todd on the phone, and also holding what looks suspiciously like a purse. Todd was on the phone during the trophy presentation. Sorry to interrupt your day with the gigantic Waterford crystal bowl, Todd. I hope Todd is calling whoever was in charge of his pants cuffs.

Todd was formerly famous for training something like 99.9999999% of a field in Grade I races, then proceeding to lose horribly. I am glad to see things looking up for Todd. He had two entrants in the Stephen Foster. They both lost horribly.

Horseracing: The most dependable sport around.

also short at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com