We’ve drifted apart some as our lives have taken us (okay, me) to distant lands over the years, but she was my best friend for a long time and I wouldn’t have missed her wedding for anything. Mym had to work, so she let me bring my mom as my date. It was lovely and delicate and so like her with it’s victorian flair. She just glowed, which is always good to see on a bride, but he had the same aura. Usually grooms get that deer in headlights look. I can’t really blame them since, not generally having much to do with the planning stages, they have no idea what to expect until they see this huge production unfold with yards and yards of crushed velvet and silk and lace and oh-my-gawd the flowers! It’s all they can do to keep their eyes in their heads and remember what the officiant said two seconds ago. Granted, I don’t know him very well, but he looked genuinely happy about the whole affair and spent a lot of time gazing lovingly at his new bride, so I have high hopes for this union. Yay!

Her dress, which was designed by a person she met at my wedding, was gorgeous and cleverly designed in two pieces so it could be worn again as separates. I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m not really a veil girl. So it’s no small thing to admit that the little girl in me wanted to twirl around in hers. Really badly. I might just have to make one of my own to wear around the house while I dust. Which would mean I’d have to start dusting more regularly, but that’s a good thing, right? Not waiting until you can write your name on the top of the tv? So I’m a busy woman. I know I’m not alone in shirking the not strictly necessary household chores.

Every wedding has it’s focus; the one thing that is most important to the couple. Their choice was music. It was all live, some instrumental and some vocal (the bride even joined in for a song) and just beautiful. As I stood in the buffet line listening to the violinist, I noticed that a long, bright white tag was sticking out of her black shirt and running right up the back of her neck. With her hair cut so short, how could she not know it was there unless she was lost in the music? I just had to tell her, so I stepped over during a pause in the music, caught her attention and in a stage whisper (loud enough for her to hear but hopefully below the crowd’s radar) said “hon, you’re tag is sticking out of your shirt.” She got a rather horrified look on her face until I tucked it back down for her and she realized what I had actually said. “Oh, thank god!” she explained. “I thought you said I had a large deoderant stain on my shirt. A tag is much better!” True that. In retrospect, it would have been smoother to just reach over and quietly tuck it in while complimenting her on her wonderful playing, but I’m usually only that subtle after it’s too late. Unless I’m too subtle, which tends to rebound into overloud bluntness and cringing, so I guess I did okay.

I had planned to take the train up to central CA this weekend. It would have been nice to avoid the traffic completely and just sit back with my knitting. Maybe get a little nap in on the side. Or two. Unfortunately, the tracks are still out from the recent mud slides, nevermind the suicidal idiot who parked his jeep on the southern tracks the other day and then changed his mind and walked off to the side to watch THREE trains come along and hit the vehicle. Ten people died. Ironically, he may get the death penalty.

So I drove. The upshot is that it allowed me to drag my grandpa out to lunch at my favorite greek restaurant in the valley. Even better, the food they make there is good for me. Woot!

I had to stop by the decal office on my way out from work today to get some stickers for my car. The young woman who helped me had a lovely tattoo on the inside of her forearm of a celtic triangle knot (representing the maiden-mother-crone triad of celtic lore) with a floral (sans flowers) spray woven through it from behind. I’m sure it had a deeper meaning for her that I, as a complete stranger, would never be privy to. When I remarked on it, she said her mother and grandmother also had the same tattoo. A little surprised, I asked when her grandmother had gotten it, expecting the answer to fall within the last few years. “A looong time ago” was the response. Right then and there, I wanted to be her friend.

That’s what a tattoo should be. An image with meaning, intended to remind you of something important. Not some frivolity you got after having too much to drink that you’ll be having sanded or lasered off in a few years. It’s a commitment akin to marriage (another thing treated too lightly these days).