Please Happy

Pekka was at a conference once where each audience member had a noisemaker. If a question asker started promoting his or her own company, the audience was instructed to click the handheld machines. I could have used one yesterday during a panel on Wikileaks here at South by Southwest (follow that panel on Twitter = #sxswwiki) when a question asker stayed at the mic for three rounds of exchanges with the panelists. The only reason I didn’t start humming loudly and clearing my throat to remind her that there were Other People in the Room is that I was busy admiring her shoes against the carpet.

I am easily irritated. Especially when people don’t follow rules put in place to benefit the commons. Such as lining up their mats at yoga on the dots so that everyone can see themselves in the mirror, putting plastic bottles in the appropriate recycling bin (not in the trash receptacle next to the recycling bin) and parking within the space allotted in the lot.
Didn’t we learn common courtesy ages ago?

So grateful to The Gmail Team (a.k.a. office.updateaccess@gmail.com) for alerting me to my imminent (and apparently randomly chosen) account deletion. Don’t worry, I have sent them all the necessary information and including my mother’s maiden name, credit card number and photograph along with my Pass.Word.

So, I thought this post was going to be about how lonely I was shopping for my wedding dress alone. How much I miss my mom right now. How much I wish my sister lived closer than Brussels. How, I waited until the last second to invite local friends. Maybe because I didn’t want to put them out. Or, I didn’t want them to think I had no one to go with me. Maybe I don’t know anyone out here well enough to really feel comfortable asking for company to such a meaningful experience.

But, this post isn’t about those things. It’s really just about a drive down the 110 and across the 105, then back across the 105 and up the 110.

Sunday morning, I drove, alone, down to Manhattan Beach. That’s where Encore Bridal lives. It’s an online shop that opens its doors twice a month for brides-to-be to see if the Vera Wangs and Monique Lhuilliers actually look as good on real bodies as they do on the models’. The site promised champagne bonding with fellow brides. I was nervous. I wanted Jake to come. I wanted someone to be there. And, I also wanted to be alone.

It took 20 minutes to find a parking spot. Sunny day, sidewalk dining, great surf = no parking. When I finally walked up to the shop sweaty from the seven-blocks-away parking spot, I expected to be stuck at the end of a long snaking line of beautiful betrothed women with way more style, makeup, height, boobs, organized wedding binders, money, smarts, _______ than me.

What I found was a locked door. An empty store.

I waited.

I called the owner and left a message.

I waited.

I saw a couple with a dog, the woman carrying a padded blue cage on her back. Inside, a grey pet parrot.

I waited longer. Called the owner again. Checked the website.

Saw a flyer next to the door that said the next event is August 29. Not August 22.

The website had been wrong. The Internets had deceived me!

Walked the seven blocks back, happy I hadn’t dragged along a new friend. Drove back east, then back north. Listened to NPR. Relieved and regretting.

So, I’ll go next week. I will plan ahead. I already know what to pack (see the essentials below). And, two of my friends here who are getting married some time in the next 13 months, will also come. And we can be girly. And find gaudy garters. And sip champagne. And enjoy it together.

Essentials (from top to bottom of picture):

Shakespeare and Co. bag to remind me of Paris and to hold all my stuff.
Passport (for buying and for driving because I lost my Wyoming license).
Seltzer water.
Scarf from sister Anna.
Notebook and pen (always).
Leica (always).
Checkbook (you never know.)
Wallet.
Padded bra (strapless dresses need something to hold them up).
Wishlist print out.
Headphones, charger for iPhone power and car talking.
Best American Short Stories 1989 (to read while waiting in the long line of brides).

Posted this pic earlier this morning. Then, it disappeared. Conspiracy?

Anyway, snapped this with my favorite camera (iPhone) the other day at a local café.

For more thoughts on our culture of consumers, please see Michael Maniates. He blew my mind when I read his work last semester.

Next time, I’ll get the flag lit up.

I once wrote about Under Armour’s atrocious packaging for its trendy undies. I naively thought that a company that seemed to care would use recyclable packaging.

Tonight, on my homemaking rampage, I bought a bunch of GE’s Energy Smart “cool natural light” Energy Star approved light bulbs. An environmental bulb’s packaging would be recyclable, right?

Nope.

But, I’m putting it in the recycling bin anyway. Or letting the cats play with it until it’s in shreds. Which is almost as good as melting it down and making it into hot jackets.

Next time, I’ll buy the ones in cardboard, I guess. But, at Vons, those mini boxes only contained broken bulbs that clinked and jingled.

We can do better than this.