You can't get there from here

On Saturday, when Brett and I were in Roseville setting up for a homecoming dance at their local high school, he asked if I would run to the Radio Shack to pick up some cables for him.

Roseville is not my town. Most of the time when I try to find anything in Roseville, I get lost. Even if I have been to my intended destination a thousand times before, I will probably get lost. Knowing this, and knowing we were short on time, I resolved to call the Radio Shack and have them give me directions to their store.

The following took place between 11:03 and 11:04 am.

Me: Hi. I need to get directions to your store. I'm at Roseville High School right now. Can you tell me how to get there.

Radio Shack Employee: I don't know where Roseville High School is.

Me: Oh. Well, I'm just off Highway 80 at the Eureka exit.

RSE: Hmmm... well, we're next to Big Lots.

Me: I don't know where that is. I'm not from around here.

RSE: Big Lots is in the Harding Plaza. You know, where Random Store #1 and Random Store #2 are. We're right next to Random Store #3.

Me: I'm sorry. I don't know where any of those stores are. Maybe you can just tell me how to get there from Highway 80.

RSE: From 80? Well, uhhhhhh...

Me: If I'm on 80, what exit should I take?

RSE: Uhhhhhh... Douglas?

Me: Great. So, after I take the Douglas exit, which way should I turn?

RSE: Uhhhhhhh... I don't know. I, uhhhhh... don't drive that way.

Me: *patient sigh* Okay. When you drive to work, which roads do you take?

RSE: Uhhhhhh... I don't know.

Me: You don't know?

RSE: Well, uhhhh, it's just... we're next to Big Lots. Just go into the Big Lots parking lot and we're right there.

Me: I'm sorry. That doesn't help me at all. I don't live around here, so I don't know where that store is.

RSE: *suddenly excited* Oh! Oh! I know! Do you have internet? I can give you the address and you can get a map... just go to mapquest.com. It's totally cool and will give you a free map. You can even put in the address of the place you're coming from and it will give you directions and everything. That would probably work great for you.

Me: *gritting teeth* No. I do not have internet access right now. If I DID, I would NOT have needed to call YOUR STORE FOR DIRECTIONS.

RSE: Oh, yeah. Tee hee. Silly me.

So, who a) doesn't know where the high school in their town in located, b) can't give a customer any useful directions on how to get to their store from a major freeway, c) can't even tell someone how she gets to work in the morning?

There are really two kinds of direction-givers in the world: Dead Reckoners and Landmark Navigators. A Dead Reckoners will actually give you directions to get to your destination. "Take the Douglas exit. Turn right at the light. Turn right at the second street. Go down one mile and it will be on the left." A Landmark Navigator flails around, throwing out places she thinks you might recognize and then says, "Oh, you do know where the Wal-Mart is? Well, we're right next to Wal-Mart." Of course, this approach is completely useless if the person receiving the "directions" is not familiar with your landmarks.

In the interest of time, I terminated the conversation with Radio Shack #1 Employee and proceeded to call Radio Shack #2.

Me: Hi. I'm at Roseville High School and would like to get directions to your store.

RSE2: I don't know where Roseville High School is.

Me: Okay. I'm on Highway 80 coming from Sacramento toward Roseville. What exit do I take?

RSE2: Oh, okay. You, uhhhhh, take the Highway 65 exit then go to the Pleasant Grove exit, turn left and we are in the first strip mall.

Me: Thank you! Now just to clarify, when I take Highway 65, I'll be going north, right?

RSE2: Uhhhh....

Me: Like, in the direction I would go to get to the mall?

RSE2: The mall? No way! We're not near the mall AT ALL. It's the exit after Galleria Boulevard.

Now, as previously mentioned, I get all turned around and lost a lot in Roseville. But the one thing I do know in that the GALLERIA MALL is on GALLERIA BOULEVARD.

I drove out there and found the Radio Shack. I also found that I could see Galleria Mall from their parking lot. But, dude, if it makes you feel better to think that you are not near the mall AT ALL, whatevah.

So, you're getting married?

Let me be the first to offer congratulations! Your wedding day is going to be one of the most memorable days of your life. It's a day to look your finest, revel in romance, and enjoy the undivided adoration of your family and friends.

As you probably are aware, planning the perfect wedding will not be easy. Many things that you feel are earth-shatteringly important will be out of your control. My best advice: find wedding professionals you can trust and let them do their job. You will be surprised how well they can bring your vision to life while managing the many, many inevitable crises which will occur on your special day.

You will draw inspiration from many sources. Your perfect color scheme might be inspired by the season and local flowers. Your gown may be plucked from the pages of the most fashionable bridal magazine. Your choice of caterer could be decided by sampling from a variety of restaurants. The wide world beckons with the seeds of ideas to make your own.

Go! Reap the bounty the world offers! Plan your heart out! Be the most phenomenal bridezilla ever!

I offer this single, solitary nugget of advice:

Having an outdoor wedding in the middle of the day is stupid.

If your inspiration for the perfect wedding comes from a movie and said movie features beautiful people laughing and dancing and having a great time at an outdoor reception in the middle of the day, be assured that said movie is lying to you. This does not happen.

Brides the world over consult almanacs to pick the best days for outdoor receptions. "Why, it hasn't rained in Sacramento on June 9th for over 80 years! The weather will be perfect!" It won't. It will, will 99% certainty, be unseasonably rainy, windy, hot, cold, snowy on your special day.

But let's say you are the Chosen One. The weather is indeed movie-location perfect. There's not a cloud in the sky and a gentle breeze carries the perfume of a thousand flowers to your reception site. The guests are not too hot or too cold. Even your 90-year-old gramma is comfortable sitting outside for six hours. Your reception will still suck.

Do you know why?

Regardless of the weather, no one likes to dance when the sun is out.

It's a simple concept. If you are planning on having three hours of dancing at your perfect middle-of-the-day outdoor reception, plan on ending early. You will dance your first dance with your new husband. You may dance with your father. You may be able to force your bridal party to dance in an effort to get the party started. It won't work. The party won't start. Your guests will clap politely and then begin to leave. There's not enough alcohol in the world to convince people to dance outside in the middle of the day at a wedding.

So, plan accordingly. Move the dancing indoors, turn out the lights, and go to town. Or, alternatively, do not attempt to have dancing at your outdoor in-the-middle-of-the-day reception. Have a luncheon, cut the cake, toss the bouquet, and call it a day.

And by all means, if you should ignore your trusted DJ's expert professional opinion and choose to have your blasted wedding outside in the middle of the blasted day on the blasted most unseasonably hot blasted day in 80 years, please refrain from saying, "DJ! All my guests are leaving! Do something!"

At that point, it will be beyond his poor power to add or detract.

A moment with the minister

I'm recording the events of this weekend for posterity. I think Brett could someday write a best-selling book about his DJ experiences.

Take a moment to imagine the scene:

Mild spring sunshine filters through the trees into the wedding garden. A crisply whitewashed gazebo awaits the arrival of the happy bride and groom. Guests have begun to arrive and find their seats on white folding chairs festooned with bunting. Family members, ushers, and bridesmaids gather behind the scenes, anxious to receive their last-minute instructions.

The minister, a very round woman in her early forties, arrives on the scene just moments before the ceremony is scheduled to begin. Our hero, the brave and intrepid DJ, approaches the portly minister with the lapel microphone which she will be wearing for the occasion. He quickly briefs her on the operation of the mic and suggests she clip the small receiver-box somewhere inconspicuous. She chooses the elastic waistband of her ample skirt.

Alas, the weight of the small box is too much for the elastic to hold. The receiver crashes to the cement below. Without thinking, the minister opens her mouth and and cries, "OH F***!!"

Mouths gape. Heads turn. The elderly wince and adults scramble to cover children's' ears. The minister looks up and says, "I probably shouldn't have said that. I, uh, I am the minister after all." Twenty heads with mouths agape nod their silent agreement.

Brett retrieves his lapel mic from the ground near the minister's feet. With utmost professionalism, he says, "That didn't seem to work so well. It might work better to have it clipped to your bra."

Completely unfazed, the minister replies, "I'm not wearing one."

Ew.

Snap yo' fingahz!

I helped Brett with a daddy-daughter dance last weekend at the elementary school I used to attend. Well, it wasn't an elementary school when I went there in 7th and 8th grades, but it is now. There were about 150 little girls in attendance, all dolled up, some probably wearing make-up and high-heels (in public) for the first time. Their daddies squired them proudly, if not somewhat abashedly, around the small, dingy gym which had been decorated with a Hollywood/Oscar theme.

The majority of the girls looked to be about 8 - 10 years old. And because "hanging out with daddy" is not sufficient entertainment for more than about 3 minutes for a 10-year-old girl, Brett played games with the group and even taught a few dances.

I helped wrangle the kids during the games to make sure the younger ones didn't get trampled and also helped demonstrate the such sophisticated dance moves as "Macarena" and "Chicken Dance." (Neither of which I can do very well, by the way.)

Kids this age are especially malleable. They enthusiastically try anything the DJ suggests. "Ok! This is a really great new dance step! Everyone stand on one foot, stick your tongue out, and then hop over and lick the wall! Great! You're doing it and you look AWESOME!" And with any crowd, (even those who might think twice about licking the wall), it's so very important for the DJ to look like he's having a good time. It adds to the energy and excitement of the party.

I try follow this rule of thumb, even though I'm only the behind-the-scenes helper of the super-cool DJ. I rarely like to get out on the floor and full-on dance (mostly because I look a lot like Elaine from Seinfeld when I do), but I'll move a little bit to the beat of the music or snap my fingers to keep me from looking like a bump on a log. I don't think anyone notices, and that's the point. It's much more conspicuous to be sitting behind the DJ table, stiff as a poker with my hands folded in my lap.

So, last weekend, between the YMCA and the Hokey-Pokey, the girls and their daddies were dancing (and by "dancing" I mean frantically jumping up and down in one spot) to a popular hip-hop song with a heavy bass line. I was standing at the booth, putting CDs away, just swaying a little bit back and forth and occasionally snapping my fingers.

At every school dance, there are kids who want the DJ to notice them. They dance very conspicuously as close to the DJ booth as they can get. Sometimes they are hoping for prizes. Sometimes they just want the coolest person in the room (the DJ) to notice them and maybe give 'em a shout out. This dance was no exception. There was a line of little girls dancing as close to the table as they could, every now and again sneaking a peak to see if Brett was noticing them.
They had been there all night and I had pretty much stopped paying attention to them. Until I noticed that they weren't dancing by frantically jumping up and down in one spot like all the other girls. They were just swaying a little bit back and forth and occasionally snapping their fingers.

I strained to see across the dark dance floor what exactly they were doing. Were they too tired to dance like the others? Were they not having a good time anymore? Did they not like the song?
Then I realized. This whole line of little girls were watching me. They were doing exactly what I was doing. When I snapped, they snapped. When I bobbed my head, all ten of their little heads bobbed, too. If I stepped to the left, they followed. (Some were quicker-steppers than others, though, and someone in the middle ended up getting trampled.) When I pumped my fist up in the air and shouted "Snap yo' fingahz!" in time with the music, well, they tried.

I was the coolest person in the room. I was the one these girls, who wanted so desperately to be noticed, wanted to be like. I had The Moves. All of them. And they were eating it up with a spoon.

I wonder if they went home that night and said, "I want to be the wife of a DJ when I grow up." Because that frumpy, thirty-something, jiggly-armed, no-rhythm lady out there, she was working it. Yeah baby, she was working it.