June 29, 2011

The Other Royal Wedding

Pop quiz:

1.  Did you know that a royal wedding is happening this Saturday, July 2?

2.  If you did know, can you name the bride?

I didn’t think so.  And that’s my point exactly.

We’ve gone from the biggest royal wedding in history to a royal wedding two months later for which no one is even bothering to purchase new hats.  Let’s explore why.

First of all, the wedding in question is that of Prince Albert II of Monaco and former Olympic swimmer Charlene Wittstock.   Hmmm, a prince marrying a commoner…this sounds familiar and compelling…so why isn’t it?

Let’s look at the less-than-appetizing facts:

  • He’s 53.  She’s 33.
  • He has already fathered two children out-of-wedlock with two different women; his daughter is 19 and his son is 6.
  • Charlene has spent the last four years living in an apartment in Monaco, paid for by the prince.  She hasn’t had a job in that time, and seeing as she’s only just learning French, it doesn’t seem like she could have obtained one.

But before I get too critical, let’s not forget that she is going to be a princess.  Of MONACO, easily one of the most fabulous areas of the Mediterranean.  She’s going to live in a castle, with staff, with nothing more to do than produce an heir and appear at state events.  Sounds like a good deal to me.

Oh, and she gets a ring that takes up half her finger:

On second thought, I don’t think I would take all of that if it meant marrying him.  No offense, Al.

One advantage Charlene has over Kate is two sisters-in-law to turn to for guidance.  Kate married a man with one brother, while Charlene is marrying a man with two sisters, Princess Stephanie (shown below) and Princess Caroline.

One can imagine it would be quite helpful to have a few experienced princesses around to show one the ropes.

Though apparently they haven’t been jumping to serve as fashion advisors, seeing as they are both ill-qualified.  I can’t decide who looks worse — Charlene or Princess Stephanie.  No, Stephanie definitely looks worse.

Apparently Charlene agrees.  In a recent Vogue article, she spoke of this particular fashion misstep (at the 2007 Monaco Red Cross Ball),  “Finding my fashion feet has certainly been the biggest challenge,” she says.  “I was literally a fish out of water. I thought it was all fun, fun, fun, and didn’t give my outfit any thought. I had been playing beach volleyball all day, painted my nails red, and threw on a dress. I thought I looked great at the time, but looking back, I realize that my debut into Monaco society should have been better executed!”

When she’s that honest with herself, how can you not feel for her? 

I am the first to admit that any lady entering the world stage would probably fail in comparison to Kate the Great, but I can’t help but shudder at some of her choices.

Try not to jump back in your chair when you see this pantsuit:


But that’s all behind her now.  Soon she’ll be walking down the aisle in Armani.  Soon she’ll have designers at her disposal.   Soon she’ll be looking back at all of this and laughing over a glass of Veuve Clicquot.

Which leaves me with the final task of watching and evaluating the big day.  No matter how Charlene looks, one thing is sure: we know there will be hats.  Guests may be pulling them from the back of their closets, but there will be lots of hats. 

Stay tuned.

7 Comments

Filed under One WORD (Current Events)

Tagged as , , , , , , ,

June 22, 2011

Finding What We Were Looking For

Our journey to the U2 concert two weeks ago was more complicated than driving from our home to the stadium.

I bought the tickets for Mike in October 2009.  No, that is not a typo.

I gave them to him for Christmas that year, as we had always dreamed of seeing U2 live.  Seeing them in Seattle was second only to seeing them in Dublin, so we were both thrilled it was finally happening.

Like thousands of other fans, we were crushed when we got the email in March 2010 that Bono had hurt his back and the concert would be delayed.  We were absolutely slayed when they decided to delay it by an entire year to June 4, 2011;  it felt like they had said, “Whatever date sounds like it will absolutely never arrive — that is the new date of the concert.”

Toward the end of 2010, a couple in our Bible study announced their engagement.  We were utterly thrilled for them and so excited to watch them take the next step in their relationship.  We didn’t give a thought to the date they chose, because their wedding seemed close, and we thought the concert was impossibly far away…

…until one day in mid-April I was driving to lunch from work and heard the announcer on the radio excitedly mention the concert coming up on June 4.  I nearly careened off the road as I dove for my phone to call Mike in a panic.  He said we could talk about it that evening.

Talk we did.  Many times.  We even prayed about it, because the last thing we wanted was to hurt our friends’ feelings.  Finally, after much discussion, we figured out a way to honor their wedding and make one of our dreams come true — we would do both.  Thankfully, the fabulous bridal couple graciously understood.

I forgot to mention one little factor.  They planned to marry in Yakima, which is 2.5 hours outside of Seattle.

The wedding was at 4PM.  The concert was at 7PM.  This was going to require some James Bond Mike Reph driving skills.

We dressed for the wedding, packed alternate clothes for the concert, and made sure our tickets were in the glove box.  We hauled tail over the mountains to Yakima and made it there at 3PM so we could help with wedding duties.  The wedding was beautiful and we were so thankful we didn’t miss it.

We pulled away from the church at exactly 5PM and by 6:55PM we were circling Qwest Stadium.  Mike shaved 35 minutes off the drive time.  If that’s not James Bond, I don’t know what is (luckily Lenny Kravitz was the opener, so we took our sweet time snubbing the $50 parking lots in favor of the $15 spots half a mile away).

After arriving at the stadium, we realized we couldn’t find our section.  We walked back and forth between 236 and 238, but section 237 started to feel like the 13th floor of a hotel…nonexistent.

A concerned stadium guide saw my baffled expression and asked which section we were looking for.  “Oh!” she said.  “You’re on the club level!  It’s one more flight up!”

Club Level?

I didn’t buy Club seats!  I am far too cheap for such extravagance.  But buying them without knowing I was being a spendthrift was too good to be true.

We walked inside and gaped at the difference — 75% fewer people, no lines for the bathroom, and a far greater selection of food and drink.  Then we found that our seats were a mere six rows back from the balcony, our view was stellar, and we were on the aisle.

The whole situation was beginning to feel like a winning lottery ticket covered in sprinkles and delivered by carrier pigeon with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing the Hallelujah Chorus in the background.

Without a doubt, the concert lived up to what we had hoped it would be.  I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I actually cried – more than once.  I couldn’t get over our deep sense of gratitude, the beauty of the music, and the magic of seeing the greatest band on Earth.

Knowing exactly how cheesy it would sound, but unable to contain myself, I turned to Mike in the middle of the concert and said, “Merry Christmas!”

He just laughed and pulled me in for a hug, which is how we stood for the rest of the song.

8 Comments

Filed under The WORD (Faith)

Tagged as , , , ,

June 2, 2011

The Opposite of Art Sophisticates

Mike and I each set off a museum alarm while in Europe.

One of us did this intentionally.  The other did not.

Both of us didn’t get caught. 

Here are our stories.

We were walking around the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, exploring the decorative arts (read: furniture) of the 16th century.  There were several-hundred-year-old chairs and beds, expansive red-velvet hangings and silk bedspreads.  I was enthralled with the idea of seeing how people actually lived in their homes, as opposed to just seeing what they’re famous for (their works of art, for instance).

Mike was walking a room or two ahead of me (medieval home furnishings not being a topic that makes him gasp with excitement), and I had slowed to look at a particularly ancient carved wooden chair.  I started thinking about all of the hundreds of people who had sat in that exact chair over the last 500 years, and it gave me little goosebumps.  Those little goosebumps took me straight back to being eight years old, at any of a number of historical sites with my mother.

“Abby, think about it, George Washington LIVED HERE.  This was HIS ACTUAL BED.  You have to touch it!  You have to touched what he touched!  This is HISTORY!”

So, inevitably, I would touch it.  I touched everything I could get my hands on, particularly in Williamsburg, and always at the urging of my mother.  She and I shared a special history-obsessiveness, and touching things was the only way to separate us from the throngs of passing public who merely looked at each exhibit. 

As I stood in front of the chair at the V&A, however, I failed to account for the nineteen years of museum technology that had occurred between my preteen illegal activity and now.

I looked around the room.  Empty. 

For just a split second, I reached across the rope and put my hand on the armrest of the chair.  Satisfied, I started walking to the next room.  It only took three seconds for the alarm to activate.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

I jumped at the sound and started walking faster toward Mike, who was far enough away not to hear the sound.  By the time I reached him, four guards had appeared at the scene of the crime and were walking around looking for the perp. 

But I was too smart for them.  I’ve watched cop shows, I know what to do — the opposite of what a law-breaker would do: talk to the guards.

I walked up to the nearest guard and explained that I was looking for Da Vinci’s drawings.  I expected a quick answer that would dismiss me from suspicion, but apparently I chose the one guard who had been looking for his chance to show that he knew every corner of the museum by memory.

“Da Vinci is in room 24, which follows a series of rooms that explore several artists’ significant contributions to…” I glanced at Mike in misery that we had just been trapped, as the guard continued, “…or alternately you could take the Asian exhibit route which would show various periods of dress from the seventeenth to…”  This was never going to end.

Luckily, it did, and I never brought up my little dalliance with the law with the husband.

Until…

Five days later we were at the Musee de l’Orangerie in Paris, appreciating Monet’s enormous murals of his water lilies in Giverny.  We decided to venture downstairs to the temporary exhibits, because we had yet to see any of Picasso’s work while on our trip.

We noticed as we walked room to room that there were small metal rails blocking people from getting too close to each work of art.  But the odd thing about the rails was that they were only 12 inches off the ground, and they were extremely sharp and squared off on the ends. 

When we found the Picasso area, we moved slowly around the room, looking at each piece of art.  Without Mike realizing it, I left the room and moved into the next, and as he glanced up and saw that I was gone, he turned too quickly and jammed his leg right into a rail. 

He immediately lost his balance and gave a shout at the pain, and tumbling forward, he smacked his hand against the wall for support.  Only his hand didn’t land on the wall.  It landed on a Picasso.

Cue the alarm.

Suddenly Mike came hobbling toward me with the look of an animal in the crosshairs of a hunter.  He was grabbing his leg and reaching for the bench I was sitting on.  He pulled up his pant leg to reveal a three-inch gash on his shin.  But he didn’t care about his leg.

“Oh my gosh I just smacked the Picasso.  Oh my gosh.  Oh my gosh.  Look at the painting, I just smashed my hand into the glass.  Did they see?  Did they see me?”

Just then a female guard came running, literally sprinting down the hall toward the Picasso.  She stopped directly in front of it and started waving her arms around in the universal “Who did this?  Who did this?” gesture.  She turned around several times, as if the idiot who assaulted the painting would be standing there ready to be escorted out.

“Keep your head down,” I said to Mike.  “And stop grabbing your leg!  She’s going to put two and two together!”

The woman circled the area once more and then threw her hands in the air in exasperation, as if she had conducted a full investigation and come up empty.

“I can’t believe I just set off the alarm.  Who does that!?” Mike asked me.

I decided the only way to make him feel better was to come clean. 

“Well…” I began.  “At least you didn’t do it on purpose…”

11 Comments

Filed under AwkWORD (Humor)

Tagged as , , ,

May 19, 2011

Je Voudrais un Verre de Vin Rouge

Tomorrow Mike and I depart for a trip to Europe, and we’re both acting like children who’ve just injected a mixture of sugar and Christmas morning straight into our veins.

We both feel pinch-me, tell-me-I’m-dreaming happy, and we can’t wait to see what this adventure holds.

We prepare for it in different ways, of course.  Mike arranges the purchase of our pounds and euros, and I arrange to have my nails painted in a polish with a French name.

To each his own.

Wouldn’t you agree that “You Don’t Know Jacques” is the perfect gray/clay color for a stylish Parisian wannabe?

The best part is that the polish is the new OPI Axxiom, which won’t chip for 14 days…the exact amount of time I need it to stay put.

This is our first overseas trip together by ourselves (we went with my family in 2009 and it was fabulous, but this will be fabulous in a different way).  We are going to London and Paris, and yes, I am ecstatic to be visiting the land of Wills and Kate.  I will try to compose myself when entering Westminster Abbey, but I can’t make any promises that I won’t stand there and wave like I’m the bride (I’ve been there before, but that was before the wedding of the century).  Additionally, if I get arrested by Scotland Yard for trying to break into Buckingham, I’ll be sure Mike takes a photo so I can post about it here.  Priorities!

To prepare for Paris, I took a 90 minute French class at Rick Steve’s Europe center in Edmonds.  The title of this post is a result of that class (by the way, it says, “I would like a glass of red wine”).  Yes, I am a nerd.  But at least I’m trying to be culturally sensitive…let’s be honest, I’m just trying not to make a fool of myself.

I will likely fail on both counts.  My solution?  Blame the red wine!

In another over-preparatory effort, I had lunch with a French coworker of my father’s to get her insider advice.  We sat down at the restaurant, I pulled out my multi-paged spreadsheet, and she burst into laughter so hard she couldn’t speak.

“Oh my…oh…oh….yes we are so much alike!  Zis is exactly what I would do.  I, too, would make zis.  But no, no, you cannot zee Paree zis way.  No, zis will ruin everyzing!”

I asked her what she meant and she gave me a quick lesson about Parisian culture.  Eat.  Walk.  Drink wine.  Eat.  Shop.  Drink wine.  Eat.  Eat.

She began slashing at various museums I had listed on my spreadsheet.

“Zis is a waste of time.  No.  Not zis eizer.”

“But I have to see everything!” I protested.

“And you will ruin your trip in ze process,” she replied.  I relented.

Later, when I recounted this story to Mike, he cheered.  He’d been begging me all along not to over-schedule us, to let us just walk around and experience life there.  Point for Mr. Reph.

Several of our friends have also warned us on the fashion front.

“However formal you’re thinking of dressing in Paris, double it,” they advised.  This both excited us and sent us into a mild panic.  Surely I can’t be expected to traverse the city in heels?

“Well, heels for dinner for sure,  but you can wear flats the rest of the time,” they conceded.  “But if you show up for dinner in denim, expect to be ignored.”  Noted: denim = scorn.

Though I do care about looking sharp, I mostly care about getting so wrapped up in each city that I forget about myself entirely.  Isn’t that really the goal when traveling?  My parents always taught us to see new places and swallow them whole; to lose ourselves in whatever there is to discover.

They also taught us that rest is for the weak.

“Life is short!” my mom always says when we’re all exhausted and on our tenth activity of the day.  “You can sleep when you’re dead!”

Mike and I are currently working on our own catch phrase for travel.  We’re thinking of something that reflects our family history, but equally portrays our developing attitude.

So far, we’re working with, “Life is short!  See everything!   Then stop and have a glass of wine!”

3 Comments

Filed under One WORD (Current Events)

Tagged as , , , ,

May 15, 2011

Happy 2nd Birthday, WBO!

Oh little blog of mine, you’re two today!

I honestly didn’t think I could keep you alive this long, and let’s be honest, I can’t make  any promises about how much longer you’ll survive.  We’re kind of on a month-to-month basis, aren’t we?

But we’re still together!

You’re the one that keeps me writing, the one that keeps me on my toes: “It’s been TWO WEEKS since you’ve posted,” your dateline always tells me.  Sure, I’m not the most frequent of posters, but I’m certainly among the most determined.  I haven’t given up yet, and here we are on our 90th post.

I’ve essentially written 45 essays a year, and I’m not even in college.  What was I thinking?

I love it.  That’s what I was hoping, and that’s what’s happened.  I love to write and I love to share it with people.

So, cheers to my little blog that could!  Here’s hoping we make it to your third birthday, and that I post more than a handful of times before then!

12 Comments

Filed under ForeWORD (Intro)

Tagged as

May 13, 2011

Designing Woman: Part Three

People may think of a number of descriptive words for me, but D0-It-Yourself is not among them.

One of my favorite blogs that I read all the time is Young House Love, and they are all about the DIY.  But they’re DIY on crack.  They knock down walls and paint brick and tear out concrete.  They do an incredible job of making it look accessible, but it still scares the junk out of me.

Enter our hideous bar stools that the previous owner of our home left us — and refused to pick up when we found she had left them (but we could hardly blame her — they’re hideous, after all):

Not only is the pattern like something from a Ringling Brother’s Circus, but one of them was actually stained:

How did we live with them for 16 months?  If I think about that question too long I will go into convulsions, so in the interest of time, let’s skip that question.

When Mike and I decided that we finally had to get rid them, naturally we planned to throw them away and buy new ones.  But then some DIY-type friends heard our plan and were aghast that we’d waste money and resources on “such a simple project.”

Sure.  Simple for you.  This coming from the people who carve their own dining room tables.

We promptly ignored their suggestion and proceeded to look for new bar stools.  However, upon finding that any decent bar stool was at least $150 a pop, we figured why not try to fix our current ones?  If we fail we can always throw the embarrassment in the garbage and THEN spend the $450.

Off to the fabric store we went.  We chose a fabric, bought a staple gun and some backing and headed home for the dirty work.

First we took the stools apart to determine if we’d need to strip the fabric.

We decided that the backing on our new fabric was thick enough to prevent any of the old fabric from showing through, so we left the seat fabric on.

The fabric on the back of the stool, however, had to come off.  That was not a fun process.


We then proceeded to iron our new fabric to ensure it was perfectly smooth.  When I say “we,” I mean “he.”  We all know I don’t know how to iron.

Isn’t it a beautiful pattern?

Everything worked like a charm until this point.  The next step was nothing short of maddening.  We had to align the fabric perfectly, staple it correctly and tightly, and make sure the corners didn’t look freaky.  We alternated between talking to each other through gritted teeth like seamstresses on Project Runway, and cheering each other on like we were at the Mathletes Finals.

After dozens of removed staples, we finally had it:

…and then we realized we had to do it again two more times, and we almost decided it would be easier if we just sold our house and left the new owners with two torn apart stools.  Let history repeat itself, we said.

But we motored through, and finished all three seats and one seat back.

Those of you paying attention realize this leaves two seat backs unfinished.  How long do you think it took Mr. and Mrs. Reph to finish those last two seat backs?  I’ll give you some hints:

  • it’s the same amount of time it takes to get five credits at a university
  • it’s the same amount of time it takes to grow 1/3 of a baby
  • it’s the same amount of time that Seattleites enjoy the weather each year

Three months, people.  Three months.  For three months, two of our chairs sat there without backs.  For three months, we told our guests we’d “just started” this project and that we were going to complete it “this weekend.”  It was sometimes the last thing one of us would say to the other before falling asleep, “You know, we really need to finish those bar stools.  No seriously.  It’s embarrassing.”  The other would always dutifully reply, “I know.  Totally.  Let’s do it this weekend.  Oh wait, we’re out-of-town.  Next weekend, then.  For sure.”

This went on for three months.

Until this week.  This week, in a fit of energy, we decided it had to come to an end.  We got home from a date, walked right into the dining room and started stapling like it was our jobs.

Ladies and gentlemen:

Victory!

Aren’t they pretty?  But really, the attractiveness doesn’t even matter to me at this point.  The point is that they are done, complete, finito.

And just as I hoped, they bring in the red from the family room behind them, and help add a little color and interest to the space.

The other side of the victory is that what should have cost $450 ended up only costing $35 ($20 for the fabric and backing, $15 for the staple gun).  Even though they aren’t perfectly done, I’ll take imperfect at $35 over perfect at $450…at least for now.

Instead of teaching us that we are DIY-capable, this certainly proved to us that we should never remodel a home.  It took us three months to do the backs of two stools; I don’t think we should be knocking down walls and replacing granite counter-tops.  For the sake of our marriage, obviously.

To read about other design projects we’ve conquered managed, see here and here.

6 Comments

Filed under UpWORD (Beauty)

Tagged as , , , ,

May 2, 2011

A Royal Wonder

It was, to borrow the popular British expression, absolutely brilliant.

I shot awake at 6AM PST, an hour ahead of my alarm, and I literally only had one thought in my head, the way you only have one thought in your head on Christmas morning, “It’s done!  They are married!” 

I know this should be embarrassing to admit, but I got over that admission about a decade ago.

I turned on my DVR and fast-forwarded through Bah-bra and Diane’s two-hour pre-wedding coverage to get to the point of the day — her dress. 

Needless to say, it did not disappoint.

I always wagered that she would use lace, if only because it matches so perfectly with her style and grace.  And, it must be said, she had grace in spades on her wedding day.

If I were an alien visiting Earth on April 29, 2011 and happened to land my spaceship in London, I would never imagine that this lady in white was joining the royal family; I would assume she was leading it.

And as she joined her prince at the front of the abbey, I was only thinking one thing: it’s a shame he couldn’t keep his hat on for the duration of the ceremony.

One of my favorite things about the service was that those leading it managed to use the word “betwixt” not once, but several times.  How utterly English is that?  For the remainder of this post I shall now use that word in place of ”between.” 

Though we all know I could write the entirety of this post about HRH The Duchess of Cambridge alone (just writing her new title makes me happy), I’m afraid that if I start down that road it will prove as endless as some of the hymns sung during the service.  So let’s move on to the attire of the attendees, shall we?

First stop: cannot be avoided, must be mentioned and condemned immediately:  Princess Beatrice.

I don’t care that she’s wearing Valentino.  I don’t care that her hat is Philip Treacy.  It is absolutely abhorrent and she should have been escorted out upon arrival.

On the other end of the fascinator spectrum lies that other British princess, Victoria Beckham.  Now THAT is a perfect topper.

On a sadder princess note, my former favorite mistakenly thought this was an Easter service and got a little carried away with the color peach:

Without question, a real winner of the day was the bride’s sister and bridesmaid, Pippa.  Wasn’t it obvious she was doing all of the work?  And she was doing it in a difficult-to-walk-in, awkward-to-bend-over-in dress.

She had to escort the little royals down the aisle, which could have gone wrong a hundred different ways in front of two billion people.  She had to carry her sister’s train for what seemed like weeks, and looked like she was happy to do so.

Also, did anyone else notice a little flirtation betwixt Harry and Pippa as they walked down the aisle? 

And who could blame him, when he’s used to dating this:

Let’s just say the difference in level of sophistication betwixt the Davys and the Middletons is akin to the difference in hair coverage betwixt William and Harry.

But I digress.

When they arrived at Buckingham Palace and the crowds were given permission to surge toward the front gate, the sight of a sea of humanity filling the entire mall was overwhelming.  It’s no surprise that Catherine was seen saying “Oh wow!” when she stepped onto the balcony.

In true break-the-mold style, the couple kissed two times.  It almost seemed like they were saying “We actually like kissing, because we actually like each other!  This is not just for show!”  Anyway, I bought it.

After all of the fashion analysis fades and the wedding stops making headlines, I think those who watched it will remember it one way: as a happy event.  It was undeniably exciting, and despite the grandeur it managed to feel strangely intimate.  Somehow Will and Kate brought us all along for the ride, and as silly as it sounds, this fan-since-she-was-13 is grateful.

Here’s hoping the love betwixt The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge is as strong and long-lasting as the stone pillars of Westminster Abbey.

To read about the wedding from someone who was actually there, check out my friend Maggie’s post.

12 Comments

Filed under One WORD (Current Events)

Tagged as , , , , , , ,