Post-Party Euphoria

Yesterday was our Birthday Carnival extravaganza and I'll write more once I come down off of the circus peanut sugar high and have some photos to post.  At first this morning I was feeling a bit wistful.  I had worked on the party every day for the past five weeks and now there was nothing to do.  But the memories are so wonderful!  We were surrounded by our incredible family and friends who we love very much.

I got this sign from Etsy to display at the party.  Seeing it on my desk this morning changed my mood from wistful to deeply grateful...

Five More Days...

Ho-lee-cow.  What's a girl gotta do to get a cake around here?  I'm... just... flabbergasted.  This is what I'd like: 

Nothing too fancy.  Our main cakes are going to be two full sheet cakes.  We're getting them from Meijers, of all places and no one has given me any attitude.  (Plus their cakes are really yummy!)  But when I saw this Big Top cake on Oriental Trading Company, I thought it would be a cute addition.  I also figured that a bakery could easily duplicate it.  It's just a basic layer cake with a top, right?  I'll supply the lollipops.

So this morning I called the bakery in the nearby town of Shawnee and asked if there was time for me to order a cake for this Saturday.  "Sure, fine, what kind of cake would you like?".  I began to explain that I would like a small cake shaped like a circus tent and that I had a photo that I could show the baker at his earliest convenience and that it's not as elaborate as it sounds but I didn't get any further than "circus tent" when the lady interrupted me with "Ma'am, they can't do that.".

Now, when you read those words you've got to hear them in your head in the most dismissive tone possible.

"Ma'am, they can't do that.".

Not, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but with such short notice our bakers can only do sheet cakes."

Not, "I'm sorry, ma'am, there's plenty of time for us to make you a cake but our bakers are not capable of making anything other than sheet cakes."

I have no idea what she meant because I was too stunned to process anything.  I just sat at my desk and stared at the photo of this simple two layer cake and wondered how this lady knew the bakers could not make it, even though they were not being given the chance to decide that for themselves.  After all, she interrupted me before I could offer to bring down the photo.

So I just paused for a long moment and said, "They can't?".

And she said, "No."

I almost laughed at how surreal this conversation was.  Seriously?  She was not going to clarify?

Then I said, "Ohhhkaayy, thank you." and we hung up.

Alrighty then.  Scratch that bakery off of my list forever.  I've got one more possibility.  I thought it was way out of my reach.  Cake Nouveau is in Ann Arbor.  They usually do elaborate cakes along the lines of this:

That is so beyond darling that I could just die from cuteness!  Just that lower level is the most adorable thing I've ever seen in cake form.  As you can imagine, that sort of artistry is worth top dollar.  But now they are offering Dessert Cakes along these lines (and for less dollars):

That's not too much different in shape than the Big Top cake, right?  Just add a top and different icing colors and there ya go!  I'm going to go out tomorrow and see if I can have any luck.  I think I'll bring the birthday boy along and hope that his charm influences the nice ladies at Cake Nouveau.

A Sticky Wicket

Sometimes certain delicate situations arise when you live in a very small town.  It's not that the situations are unique to small town living, it's that you don't have the benefit of an anonymous solution.  In fact, I don't even want to say too much here... on a blog that few people read... in the off chance that it might offend the offenders.

But here's the thing...  If the owner of a service-oriented shop in a small town provides less than stellar service, what is a resident to do?  The economy in Michigan stinks.  The economy in small-town Michigan is even more dismal.  Every few months another shop downtown closes.  And our "downtown" is only one block long to begin with!  So if the one bakery or the one widget shop treats you rudely, you do not have the option of taking your business to another local bakery or widget shop.  I'd like to keep our money right here in Mayberry but that isn't always possible.

I realized this morning that several elements of baby's party were coming from the neighboring town of... uh... Shawnee.  It's one thing when it's circus peanuts from the CVS in Shawnee.  Mayberry doesn't have a CVS.  I had to hit up CVSs in the surrounding towns of Chester, Shawnee, Salty, Ann Arbor and Adrienne to get enough circus peanuts.  (But they didn't cost me anything, thanks to ExtraCare Bucks!)

It's a different ball of wax when what I need is available right here in Mayberry but I just don't want to get it here.  Folks at the party might ask, "Nice widget.  Did you get it at the widget shop here in town?".  None of my friends are the gossipy type.  Word doesn't travel because anyone sends it on its way deliberately... but it does travel.

On the other hand, I think this lack of anonymity is a good thing.  It forces us to be careful in our actions and in our words.  We can't just mouth off thoughtlessly since we have to live with these people.  Possibly for decades.  So we need to find a way to get along.  These situations are a good exercise in tact and diplomacy.  I'm still working on it.  I was not pleased with the widget shop owner's customer "service".  She needs to learn how to speak with customers.  I'm just sorry that I have to leave town to get our party elements.

I Mean Well...

My sweet, sixth, last little baby, known here by his middle name of Walter, turns one at the end of this month.  His birth was so amazing.  Pete, the midwives, my step-mother and I were all laughing while the baby was being born.  And then he was out and the mood went from joy to terror... he wasn't breathing.  He wasn't moving.  He was gray and floppy.  And the midwife couldn't fix him.

A call was made and a team of doctors came running in.  Thank you, Jesus, they were able to resuscitate him, although we took no chances and baptized him right there on my bed.  He recuperated beautifully and two days later we went home.  Three days after that he spiked a fever and we raced back to the hospital.  This time we stayed for three weeks.  Turns out our little pup has some serious kidney issues (completely unrelated to his near death/birth experience).

All of this is to say... We're throwing one heck of a first birthday party.  I know that Baby won't remember any of it.  He won't even be aware of most of it while it's happening.  But every detail that I'm putting together is a labor of love.  Sometimes I think actual labor would be easier.

Argh!  I'm so bad at this stuff!  I have no creativity or skills.  So I cheat by copying other people's ideas.  One blog that I stumbled upon was this one:  http://jackandizzy.blogspot.com/2010/05/jacks-party-in-park-part-1-dessert.html  This photo blew me away:

Everything matches!  She did all that by hand and it all matches!  The lunches are in individual boxes.  The water bottles have personalized labels.  Apparently that's a thing people are doing.  I'm totally "encorporating" that idea.  (Sounds nicer than stealing, doesn't it?)

I got another idea for decorating from Martha Stewart's blog which led me to this blog:  http://wethreepilgrims.blogspot.com/2010/06/trevor-and-i-were-so-thrilled-to-have.html  Just look at these dreamy paper pom-poms (another idea I am encorporating!):

I have to be honest, my initial reaction was to hate these women.  Here are these beautiful women with their one or two beautiful children and their beautiful homes with their beautiful party decorations crafted by hand.  I even said outloud, "Wow, their friends must hate them.".  Perfection like that makes me feel so inadequate.

I'm trying to put together a carnival for baby's birthday.  It's only 12 families but they're all Catholic, so it's 100 people.  I've been working on it for nearly a month but I feel like Sisyphus rolling that rock up the hill over and over.  No matter how much I do, I'm not getting anywhere.  Looking around at my parlor (and my bedroom and my kitchen) I see carnival supplies everywhere.  Why won't it all come together like it does for these perfect women??

Then I read more of their blogs.  Oh drats, I couldn't hate them.  They're not trying to present themselves as Practically Perfect in Every Way.  They actually sound quite nice and... normal.  In fact, as I struggle with my invitations not being centered perfectly and my pom-poms not having the ends cut perfectly and the gift tags not being hand written perfectly I want to thank Paige, the second blogger I mentioned.  She wrote the following and it has helped me immensely... I can't even tell you how much.  I hope she doesn't mind me quoting her here.  I'll go ask her.

I think that as fallen people, our creativity has several functions. It points others to behold the One who is the author of beauty. My hope is that when people take in art, they are pointed to the One who created human beings with the capacity to create like he does. I love that I can be like my Creator when I am creating. Yet this creating is done out of weakness. Everything I make bears markers that reflect my finiteness, my brokenness. Out of my weakness, I create imperfect things that are feeble attempts to talk about Beauty with another language. Even in this weakness, Christ is magnified. These things that I create are not in themselves eternal. They do not last. They can only capture tiny reflections of the Light. Christ himself is the only one who can satisfy our longing for beauty.

Wow.  I never thought of it like that.  How true and how beautiful.

Calling Andy Griffith!

Even in a small town, crime happens.  It's important that we don't let down our guards too much. After a lifetime of diligently locking my car doors everywhere I went, I stopped doing so in Mayberry.  It just felt like a vote of no-confidence in my beloved quiet little village.  Against my instincts well formed by my policeman father, I deliberately do not lock my car doors when I shop downtown.

But then I saw the police blotter in this week's issue of the Mayberry Gazette:  Loose Change Stolen From Unlocked Vehicles.

Loose change??  As in... quarters and dimes?  I'm not sure which is more perplexing... that someone stole loose change or that it made the newspaper?  I know that if it had been my unlocked car that had been rifled through, I'd feel violated regardless of what was taken.  It happened to us many years ago.  But I just can't help finding it almost funny that it wasn't CDs, cell phones, sunglasses or shot guns that were stolen but loose change.  I bet the criminal used it to buy some Big League Chew and a Mountain Dew afterwards.

Also in the police blotter... the report of a lost goat.  "The goat stands two feet tall and responds to the name Millie.".   

The police reports sure are different here than in Detroit.

Thanks, Brad

Last night I was out by myself so I had the radio on. I heard a song by Brad Paisley that I've always liked... "Letter to Me"... in which he sings about what he would tell his 17 year old self. That got me to thinking. If I could go back in time, what would I tell myself at seventeen?

What a depressing exercise. It was full of Don't do this... Avoid that... and on and on. I thought of Frank Sinatra and his "Regrets? I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention."

Seriously? I've got too many to list!  Just about the only things I wouldn't do differently are the Big Three: What Faith to Convert to, Who to Marry and Having These Children.

But here's a slightly less she-needs-therapy version...

Dear 17 Year Old Jennifer (8/3/1987),


Shut up, yes you are thin enough. One day you'll look at that skirt and wonder how you ever got in it. But you might want to lower your hemline a couple of inches. Your skirts are too short. You're not going to believe this, but bell bottom jeans are going to come back into style, only this time they're going to call them "boot cut". Honest to goodness, you'll actually buy a pair.


Look around you. There are some really wonderful classmates that you should be getting to know better. Conversely, one of your bosom buddies won't even give you the time of day at your ten year reunion. Some folks get too big for their britches (even the boot cut kind) but others you don't expect will become your Facebook friends. Don't ask me to explain Facebook. Oh, but you know that portable telephone idea you had? It gets invented!


Your suspicions are right... this relationship with your high school sweetheart isn't going anywhere. It's time to let it go and focus on having a fun senior year without that stress hanging over you. In fact, forget about boys for the next few years. Take your college studies much more seriously. Nurture your female friendships, even if you have to drive around the country to visit them. In twenty years when you need someone to sit with your sick baby overnight, it will be your girlfriends who step in to help.


Right now go around to all of your classmates to whom you've ever been less than kind.  This could take a while since you've been in the same district since kindergarten.  Sincerely ask for their forgiveness.  Forgive those who were ever unkind to you.  I know there were plenty but consider how unhappy their homelives seemed.  I'll grant you one exception... your 6th grade teacher.  The day you graduate from high school go find him and tell him what a mean m.f. you think he is.  You'll regret it if you don't.


I guess there will be one guy you'll need to date because it's through him that you'll meet Pete.  When you do meet Pete it'll make things a lot easier on everyone if you'd recognize right away that this is the man you're going to marry.  But do not... I repeat, do NOT agree to move out of state with him.  Insist that you stay in Cincinnati. 


You can quit eating carrots out of a desire to preserve your perfect eyesight.  At the age of 40 you'll get bifocals.  They're kind of cute, though. 



When you spend time with your grandparents, go home and write down everything they said.  Look them in the eye and really see them.  Cherish every moment you have with them because the years before you're reunited will feel very long without them.


Don't sweat the small stuff and it's all small stuff.  (Someone else will make that up.)  I know it all seems so important now but it just isn't.  In 25 years you'll be standing before a woman who just lost her teenage son and trying to find something... anything... to say that is of any value.  Then you will learn how insignificant your worries are, bifocals and all.


Just a few more things... invest in a company called Microsoft, keep practising your Spanish, wake up early on September 11th, 2001 to pray most earnestly and on that June day in 2008 when 13 year old Michael comes to you complaining of a tummy ache, do not give him Tylenol for his "stomach flu".  Get him a CT scan STAT!


Don't worry, hon.  Despite lots of regrets (and a much cleaner life than Sinatra's!), you're going to have a pretty awesome life.


XOXO,
Yourself at 41