Three Simple Words

Little Stone Church, Mackinac Island, Michigan. Photo by Robert Jerstrom.
As you may already know, today is Jill and Josh's wedding day. We are on Mackinac Island, and don't worry, I pre-wrote and pre-published this post. I'm not holed up in a hotel somewhere in the Upper Peninsula writing this...I plan ahead.

When they asked me to be a part of their wedding, I immediately knew that a toast would be involved. I’m a tad of a sap and therefore knew I needed to put it down on paper for fear of getting too emotional and forgetting all the nice things I wanted to say.

But, when it came time to actually write the words to express my congratulations for the happy couple, I realized it was simple.

It all comes down to just three words.

Three words that change as our lives do, three words with varying meanings, three words that grow and bloom as we mature, three words that will last forever, from this day forward.

In the beginning, it was “Hi, I’m Jill.” as we formed a friendship that would last for a lifetime.


After our introductory two years in Chicago, it was “Let’s move again.” as we continued on as roommates and ‘better halves’ for five years.



Not long after, it was “I met someone!” as Jill celebrated the joys of a new romance.


Proudly, Jill announced, “This is Josh.” as he moved to Chicago and became a part of the life we’d formed in the city.


Then it was, “I love him.” as things with Josh got more serious, and their relationship grew into something special.


Last July, it was “We’re getting married!” as the promise, and the ring, sparkled in the sunshine and they took the first steps towards becoming husband and wife.


Put simply, three words to describe Jill are kind, spirited and thoughtful. The same can be said about Josh, and I gladly hand over my better half to him.

(To be fair, though, I’d probably have to admit she’s really only my ‘better one third’ because of our significant differences in height).

Jill and Josh, I toast the beginning of your life together with three more words:

Congratulations, my friends.

Step Right Up (At Your Own Risk)

This weekend featured St. Joseph, Michigan's big affair. The main attraction. The grande enchilada.

The Venetian Festival.

The musical offerings were a bit light this year, with the main act being "Loverboy," an arena rock band six-hit wonder from the very early 80s, and some kid who sings in the show "Hannah Montana." Luckily, we were fortunate enough to hear Ty Maxon and Brett's sister Brittany perform, and they made it all better.

Sadly, the fireworks were rained out on Saturday evening. The food vendors likely lost out on serious revenue opportunities to sell their elephant ears, roasted almonds, sno-cones and other fair foods to the visitors who usually travel from all over Southwest Michigan.

Weather ruined most of the weekend's activities. However, NOTHING could stop the carnival from coming to town. When the rain finally let up, and the grey haze and dampness moved on, the resulting day yesterday was nothing short of gorgeous. The sky was blue, the clouds were sparse, the sun was out and the lake breeze was perfect.


And, the carnival rides were sparkling in the sunshine. Or maybe that was WD40 dripping off of the bolts holding the frighteningly precarious metal ride pieces and parts together?


As an adult, those things frighten me. Not because I'm wimpy and afraid of the speed, or the height, or ever unpopular with Brett's family...the stomach drop!

Nope. I am afraid of carnival rides because we should be. Let's overlook the fact that they are painted in extremely creepy ways, including one yesterday that featured a distorted Michael Jackson face and bright colors that are designed to make you squint, and discuss the real scary thing.


They look like they could fall apart at any second, they creak and moan under the weight of the participants (well, it was a rather LARGE crowd), and they barely eek their way over the top for each "go." Water was dripping out of many of the buckets, and I'm fairly sure I heard a sizzle or two as the ride geared up.

Ropes zig-zag around on the ground just begging to trip a small kid running for the next ride. Wires and cords are en masse laying in puddles here and there, tempting fate for a good spark. The ride operators are either a) barely out of middle school, or b) barely paying attention.


I felt like an ancient curmudgeon as I wandered through the carnival rides, zig-zagging like the wires and ropes beneath my feet. And, then, the Carnies started flirting.

"Hey pretty lady, come over here and throw a dart to win a giant bear!"

Uh, yeah. Just what a 31-year old childless urban professional needs. An enormous 5-foot pink bear that has a babydoll tee on it that says "Heart Breaker." And, where would I put that? Which room's decor does THAT complement?

The Carnies (and no, that's not derogatory—he used it himself when explaining that "Carnies offer kisses for good luck," eeeww) were all smoking, eating, chewing something homegrown and spitting. All at once.

I didn't understand exactly what they had to say, and their transient lifestyle and secret language had me curious. So, I did my research. More precisely, I turned to Google and Wikipedia.

According to Wikipedia, a Carnie is anyone who runs a "joint" (booth), "grab joint" (food stand), game, or ride at a carnival.

Not surprising.

However, the language of the Carnies is. Look how fascinating!

Though these terms are traditionally part of carnival jargon, it is an ever-changing form of communication, and in large part designed to be impossible to understand by an outsider. Sadly, most of the code-words are created to trick the carnival-goers.

Alibi
A technique used where the player has apparently won the game, but is denied a prize when the jointee invents a further, unforeseeable, condition of the game.

Bally
A free performance intended to attract both tips and visitors to the nearby sideshow.

Blow Off
Rush of customers out of an exhibition.

Burn the lot
To cheat players with little or no attempt to conceal the subterfuge, in the Carnie's expectation that the same town will not be visited again.

Butcher
A carnie that will take every penny from a mark by confusing them and then forcing them to pay.

Flat
A game that is rigged so that you cannot win. Illegal in most states.

Gaff
To rig a game so as to make it unwinnable.

Hammer-Squash
Used to describe an individual as dumb or stupid.

Mark
A target for swindling, especially one whose gullibility has been demonstrated. Derived from the covert use of chalk to mark the backs of especially ripe targets. The term has entered the popular lexicon, usually as "easy mark."

Oats
Stolen money from a concession.

Patch money
Money used to induce police officers to turn a blind eye. Also known as juice or ice.

Sugar Shack
A concession or food-stand that doubles as a front for drug commerce & trafficking.

Store
Can mean any joint, but is usually used to refer to a "straight store" where there's a winner every time. The store is basically selling stock, usually slum, for a handsome profit.

Two-Way Joint
A game that can be quickly converted from a fixed, unwinnable game into a temporarily honest one when police officers come by.

--
Don't you feel smarter now? Watch yourself, in more ways than one, if you decide to visit a traveling carnival this summer.

I'd suggest you stick with the food and beer tents. A soggy funnel cake is a sure thing every time.

At the Speed of Life

Michigan is the kind of place that causes you to slow down, think big, dream out loud and make plans.

The state is lush, musical, vivid, theatrical, simple and serene. The towns that line the lake feel a bit like a scene from a movie.

A pleasant PG-rated romantic comedy set in a place where they serve coffee in big bowl-sized mugs, everyone slows to wave as they pass you by, the local brewery's selections are on special every night, dogs run along the beach milking the last moments of sun-warmed sand, all sweatshirts have big soft hoods and hand-warmer pockets, the road-side fruit stands are always in season, the waves crash against the sandy shores in time to the clink of happy hour cocktail ice, and the bullfrogs sing you to sleep while the rain trickles down the window panes.

Driving through downtown St. Joe, along the river that nudges politely out into the lake, we bumped gently along cobblestone streets beneath vintage wrought iron lamp-posts, ducked under oversized hanging planters with fresh blooms, and crested the hill at the top of the rocky bluff. The lighthouse came into full view, with the setting sun high above it, casting a golden hue on every flower blossom in our midst. The new houses going up along the lake pay homage in style, shape, color and form to the houses of an era bygone, and the views from their porches will nod to the future the residents will create as they enjoy life along the shores of Lake Michigan.

I began to daydream, choosing my favorite house, mixing in someone else's third story porch, the landscaping of this one, with the color of this one's shutters, and that one's beveled stained glass front door. I called dibs, in my own mind, on that one's view of the beach, with the backyard of that one, littered with flower petals from the dogs brushing against it as they played in the late day sun. I made plans to sit on that person's front rocker, with that lady's ice tea, and hear that one's music drifting over that guy's picket fence crawling with hydrangeas.

The weekend was about finding some respite, some corner of serenity, and gaining a little stash of perspective. Leaving the bustle, stress, sights and sounds of Chicago behind, we danced in the setting sun on the sandy beach, skipped some rocks and tossed the frisbee, warmed our toes by the bonfire as dusk turned into night. Visions of a summer cottage along the bluff filled my mind, reflecting and bouncing off of the graceful images that would accompany that type of home.

Arriving back in the city late into the night after such a wonderous weekend, I was glad to be back, but know that I've been wooed. Wooed by the state of Michigan, by the tempo of the life along the other side of the lake, and will be tempted not so far off into the distance to find a way, any way, to make a little part of that my own.

I better ditch the piggy bank for a bigger savings jar. I'm gonna need all the pennies I can scrounge.

For now, however, the photos are valuable and the memories are, to be trite, priceless (and free).


For those return readers, the full "social circle induction, part one" went perfectly. Couldn't have asked for a better guy, with great friends, amazing family and a lovely hometown. His dog was darling, too.

They Could Be Fockers

Laura, Jenny, Colleen, Liz, Lauren, Mandi, Heather; June, 2007

The whole "introduce your significant other to the parents" scenario is one thing, but in my book, equally as important (and possibly as scary) is the induction into the full social circle.

As you've likely read, I have a great and very hilarious group of friends that I've been close to since the early days. As in, elementary school. Like, pre-puberty, pre-drivers' licenses, pre-dating, pre-marriage, pre-jobs friends.

[Insert birthday shout-out to two of them, Elizabeth and Jenny, who happen to share today as their day, and happen to be celebrating together tomorrow night. I'm green with envy. HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my two favorite Geminis!]

Back on track.

Anyway, these friends, or "The Posse" as we've affectionately referred to ourselves since about 1992, are my rock. Despite the distance, these are the girls that know everything about me, good and bad, and love me anyway. Tease me incessantly about some of them, but let them go. These are the girls that were there when I made bad choices, have funny character flaws or embarrassing moments.

To save them the effort, I'll recap a few that are public-safe:

1. Alcohol lessons.
Vodka and Hawaiian punch = throwing up on condo carpet on Spring Break = nicknaming me "Resolve" after the carpet cleaner.

2. Character traits.
I tell stories. Long ones. And, if I get distracted, I often lose my point and digress and regress and eventually make my way back to the point. And, since I don't want to leave out a single detail, I often have to go back and retell a specific point. But, this style has deemed me worthy of only two backtracks per story, to keep things moving. Whatever works.

3. Communication skills.
Despite the fact that I am in client service and communicate for a living, I am pretty bad at communicating with my personal contacts. Meaning, I don't call. I'm terrible at this, and often am even bad at returning voice messages. Or emails. For weeks. If ever. I think that the girls have finally stopped taking it personally, and even forgave me for it long ago. Let's hope?

Ok. Moving on, lest I dare to backtrack yet again.

The point is, these are the people that matter. Yes, meeting the family is huge, and when you bring a new significant other into that mix, anything can happen. I have parents and a sister who know and love me, and want what's best for me, but they also know that I have to figure things out on my own. Especially the affairs of the heart. They're unconditional. That's part of the deal.

Girlfriends, however, are not that way. They are going to tell it like it is. They're not going to let you forget the silliness or the bad choices or the embarrassing moments, or the terrible outfit or the time you made this exact same mistake before and didn't learn from it the first (four) times you did so. These are the blunt speakers of truth. The honest reflection of what's what.

And don't we love them for that?

This fact just means that when it comes to bringing your new (and lovely, charming, smart, handsome, kind, generous and thoughtful) boyfriend into the mix, it can be interesting.

I'm not going to go as far as to say that I'm nervous, but with the Costa Rica trip coming up in just eight days, I've got to say that I'm saying secret little prayers to God that it all goes well. I want them to like him, to see what I see in him, to appreciate his humor, to find him attractive (but not TOO MUCH), to laugh when he laughs and to let him be himself.

And, on the flip side, I want him to offer up those things for them, too.

I want him to fully GET IT.

I want him to respect our history, allow us to wander down memory lane, welcoming us back with open arms when we return to the present. I want him to get to know each of them, to respect their differences yet appreciate how we all fit together. I want him to develop opinions on each of them, to be able to comment later to me that he "really likes how Mandi is always the one listening to my stories" or that "Lauren has the best laugh and I can't help but get caught up in it" or "that Jenny, she sure talks fast, but her comments are so funny that I stay with her" or "Liz sure does remember everything, but it just shows how much she cares about you" or "Heather surely is well-read and well-traveled, my she's interesting!" or things like that.

Ok, not in those EXACT words, but you get my drift.

To dress myself in these same clothes, to really feel the pressure I've put upon him, I'm allowing myself to be put in the parallel situation with his guys. I am going with him to his parents' house in Michigan tomorrow, for the long weekend, and I already know I adore them, and his sister, too.

The biggest "test" will be the huge group of high school and college friends that he has invited to Saturday's beach party and bonfire. I already know their names (or their last names, or nicknames, or whatever they answer to when called) but I have yet to go any deeper. I look forward to getting into it, hearing their stories, watching them interact, and participating in the teasing that I'm sure will ensue for him bringing, gulp, a girl home.

It will be interesting, but the saving grace is that it is for only a night, rather than the seven days in Costa Rica captive in a house with my girls and their "men." It doesn't hurt that I have a pretty good memory for names and faces. I'll be able to relay several items back to him, keeping up the facade that I "remember EVERYTHING" like he already assumes. (Not true, incidentally).

And, there will be a keg of beer on which to blame any mishaps, or Focker-like behavior. There's always that.

70% is Almost Failing

Today's news announced that in the last 61 days, it has snowed 43 of them in Chicago. Not all of that was big snows, but some traceable amounts have been recorded in 43 of 61 days. That's 70%.

And is it any wonder that people get a tad bit crabby around this time? It FEELS like it should be Spring, the calendar makes us THINK it is around the corner, and turning back the clocks made it even SEEM closer than ever.

But I think we're all fooling ourselves.

Pretty hard to believe that Lake Michigan ever gets warm enough to swim in it—if you're willing to dodge the garbage and ignore the E. Coli, that is.

Photo taken in Waveland Park yesterday. I resisted the urge to lick the posts.

Snow Right

While riding home in a cab last night, skirting past the beaches along Lake Michigan, this thought occurred to me.

Snow doesn't look quite right on sand.

It almost looks like God got distracted while in the middle of that whole weather thing and mixed up his elements. As if he was busy with other tasks, and just forgot where he was. Might've even left the room for a bit only to return with a confused look on his face, and no idea where to start again. Kindof like when I burn the macaroni.

I know, I know, he's omniscient and shouldn't have these problems, but let's give the guy a break.

Now, if only the sand here (in January) felt as warm as sand is clearly, certainly, heavenly-dictated to feel between your toes...

Right before the hypothermia kicks in.