MOTB

The air is abuzz with Chelsea Clinton's upcoming wedding. Her mother Hillary, the woman I'm not ashamed to say I voted for in the last Presidential election, is our country's ideal Mother-of-the-Bride (MOTB). While traveling around the globe she has managed to keep half of a lid on their secret plans, which include: a Stanford White mansion in Rhinebeck, NY; flowers by the artistic director of the George V hotel in Paris; music by Jimmy Valli, a world class wedding planner from Boston; and a wedding dress by Oscar de la Renta. Nice. Oh, and I believe the guest list is a paltry 400. Maybe I should re-think this whole blog thing? I mean if the Secretary of State can plan her daughter's wedding while dealing with Pakistan, I should not complain about one itsy bitsy thing, right?

I'm only dealing with my daughter, her father, and his Mother and Step-Father (aka the Officiant). The Bride's Grandparents (my in-Laws) were here this weekend for a mini-tastings-redux. We ate a late, hurried dinner at the rehearsal party restaurant straight off the train. There were a few things on the agenda. My Father-in-Law happens to be a retired, some might say lapsed, Baptist Minister who was a widower when he saw my MIL, a feisty and fetching divorcee, across a room. One thing led to another and the minister married the Jewish marriage counselor. Pastoral counseling commenced and now he is a great carver of totem poles. But for six years he was a missionary in Ghana; building roads, wells for fresh water, and by the way, a hospital and church. His son's daughter is our red-headed Flower Girl. Over the years he's married close to a hundred couples and I asked him about their track records, but he laughed and said he doesn't know. I guess that marrying people is akin to being an ER doctor, no follow-up required. The Officiant wanted to see the orchard, the place for the ceremony.

While the Father and Grandfather (Gpa) of the bride toured the orchard and sampled their wine, I took my MIL shopping. We were on a mission to find dresses for the wedding. First we went to the fancy shop, and boy are those saleswomen good! I almost had the tailor pinning and cutting a multiple hundred dollar concoction, but luckily I came to my senses and said I'd have to think about it. The dress had a peplum. What woman with hips in her right mind would buy such a dress? My MIL, who we all call Gma, I found out is very opinionated. Gma would shake her head no with each new offering - "It's not elegant enough," "You have too much style," "We can do better." And then we were off to Chico's. This is her go-to spot for clothes. But she was not in luck and we were pooped. Day one, orchard tour = 1, wedding dresses = 0. But I did manage to put together a salmon dinner with my husband's freshly picked garden produce.

The next day we spent the morning weather-proofing the new deck furniture. Gma is a real trooper. Together, in ninety plus degree heat and clad only in our underwear and latex gloves, we treated that eco-friendly eucalyptus wood to a nice rub-down. After lunch, we ventured out again hunting for a dress, or two. Without a Nordstrom in sight, we found Belk to be less than exciting. Meanwhile, the men put the finishing touches on our totem pole. Gpa carved it especially for us twenty years ago. It has meaningful family symbols running down its trunk. But my favorite bird, the cardinal, which had proudly spread its wings atop the pole, had been absent for repairs. The final crowning, complete with new termite-less wings, was a joyful affair. I love to keep projects waiting around the house for them to tackle on their visits. They make quite an amazing pair in their 80's, not afraid to roll up their sleeves and get it done. Gma once told me she is a "pot stirrer." Of course she uses the Yiddish word to mean she's always busy. I'm always a little sorry to see them go on the Amtrak express back to NJ.

Her parting words to me? "Go to Nordstroms."