The Rhode Island wedding: Part two.

Allison and Patrick's wedding, May 29, 2011 in East Greenwich, R.I.

We saw "Bridesmaids" last night, and while extreme, it did a good job of depicting what is most crazy-making about weddings. We throw together people of different colors, religions, socio-economic standings, political parties, value systems and world-views, and expect them to get along simply because they know people in love with one another.

Brides have a tendency to look to the past and honor childhood friends, acknowledge those who are newly important to them, and incorporate relatives when choosing a wedding party, which can be disastrous. At least it was in the film.

Zipping Ally's dress.

In my first wedding I chose bridesmaids who had been my friends since elementary school. I never see any of them now, and my closest friend growing up I didn't see once after the wedding. We had drifted apart after high school (as evidenced by my finding a Barbra Streisand cassette in her collection), but somehow it seemed important to have her there.

The lead character in "Bridesmaids" is feeling left out, and can't quite deal with her engaged buddy's new best friend: the super-rich wife of the groom's boss. She has to come to grips with the bride's new life, and has to learn that although nothing will be the same, the love between them is still there.

My homegrown bridesmaids.

That's what I had to learn, too. Roughly a month before my own October wedding, my daughter Allison announced that she would be moving to New York with Patrick, her oenologist fiance. Like, immediately. So she packed up, he headed out, and she and her cat Darby stayed with up for two weeks until our wedding, and she left for Long Island a few days after serving as one of my bridesmaids.

Grow your own bridesmaids and flower girls, that's my advice. That way you'll be sure to see them again....

I barely had time to wrap my head around her being 3,000 miles away, then she was here for a few glorious weeks, and then gone. And I was now married, a state that my daughters needed to get used to; I wasn't always available 24/7 like I had been before. 

Then came the announcement that the wedding would be in six months. In Rhode Island.

Pop-Pop making foghorn noises
to make Charlotte giggle.

This trip was the first time I had been to her apartment since she moved, and it was cool seeing in person what I had only seen while we Skyped (yes, it is a verb, lucky I don't have a copy editor, they'd be arguing with me). Then we were racing to tip of Long Island, past Gatsby country to catch the Cross Sound Ferry to New London, Conn. on onward to Rhode Island.

Allison has always been family-oriented, wanting to have family game night and just hang out together, so it was no surprise when she brought out the "Authors" deck on the ferry. We played this Go Fish-like game for hours when my kids were little, gathering "books" of Shakespeare, R.L. Stevenson, Poe, Longfellow, Sir Walter Scott, and Louisa May Alcott. Having her new love playing her childhood game — that must have thrilled my youngest.

A post-Authors card game on the ferry.

Perhaps I am too acculturated to the desert now, but I have to say: there are entirely too many trees back East. When one is used to seeing the horizon in every direction, having your sightline reduced to a 20 or 30 foot diameter because of trees and bushes felt a little claustrophobic. I now understand why film director Wim Wenders says that Germans are so taken with the American West — because they can see so far.

Rhode Island may not have the Black Forest, but it has many, many trees, and roads so idiosyncratic that  my husband and I were lost, together and separately, for five out of the seven trips we took by car. East Greenwich, the location of the church, was founded in 1677, and has those piled-stone walls you've seen in every Revolutionary War movie. You can practically see Redcoats marching by while ragged Americans crouch behind them.

The backyard of Ally and Patrick's apartment.
See what I mean? Too many trees..

I guess the town grew up around water sources, and then roads were built to connect everything, because following directions is impossible. Sprint coverage must be spotty in that location, because my GPS wasn't working, and often, when you were supposed to stay on a particular road, you actually had to make a left, because if you went straight, the road changed. Rhode Islanders must take Yankee thriftiness to extremes, because there were no road signs. You could find out the name of every alley-way off the highway, but not the main drag you were on.


We checked into our hotel, and the wedding weekend began. The bridesmaids, mother and grandmother of the bride, and the bride's father's fiance had a rather sedate, although scrumptious Italian dinner out, and I dropped some of the above off at a tavern for more raucous entertainment at what the Brits call "a hen party." On the way back to the motel, I got lost for the second time.

Charlotte had stayed with my husband, and she drove him crazy demanding to be taken first to "the hot pool" (spa), and then the "the cold pool." When my daughter picked her up, she had passed out in front of the television (a rare treat). Apparently she got annoyed because Pop-Pop couldn't rewind live television like her parents do her DVDs. A commercial would catch her fancy, and she became annoyed when her cries of "Again?" got her nowhere.

It was only the beginning of a very busy weekend for Charlotte....

A gratuitous shot of Charlotte and her mommy, Megan.

The Rhode Island wedding: Part one.

The whole reason we were traveling to first New York, then New Hampshire: the wedding of Allison and Patrick. This is from her photographer's blog. You can view the rest here.

So, how many times has this happened to you? You log on to the airline's website to print boarding passes the day of your flight, only to receive a message saying you can't do that, please call the airline.

When you call, you are told that your tickets were for the day before, and you were a no-show. Yes, you can re-book, but there will be a $150 fee per ticket, and there aren't any more flights that day.

No, this has never happened to you, only to fools like my husband and me, who book red-eye tickets and can't keep the dates straight? You want to know who knew when we were supposed to travel? My daughter, the bride, who kept saying, "I thought you were getting in Wednesday, not Thursday, are you sure?"

Thus began the most hellish (and expensive) voyage of my life. There were three missed flights, a full-body pat-down by airport security, a nearly-stolen laptop, bags arriving on the wrong carousel, and forgotten iPods, books and a sweater.

Flower-girl Charlotte, the blonde imp,
with her sash crooked.

At the end of this trip was a beautiful, flawless wedding (except for a certain blonde imp crying for her mommy) and an incomparably lovely bride, but the getting there took some doing.

I hadn't packed yet when I got the bad news about the flight, because I had been getting things arranged for my substitute teachers, sewing Charlotte's flower-girl dress, sewing sashes for the other two flower-girls, making a silk nightgown for the bride, and finding a bag to match my new shoes.

So when told I would have to take an earlier flight, I just threw things in a suitcase. We had to get to Las Vegas to catch a flight to La Guardia via Atlanta. (Don't quite get that? Me neither.) I considered driving, but was overruled by my husband, who after much swearing and lots of money, got us an American Airlines flight.

Racing down the 405, we debated whether we could take the Van Nuys Flyaway. I consulted the smartphone and found out that if we didn't make the 5 p.m. bus, we wouldn't make it. As we neared the Roscoe offramp, a long line of weary commuters waiting to exit made the decision for us. Parking at LAX was to be our fate.

Whipping out the smartphone again, I found a long-term lot with a free shuttle for $4.95 a day, versus the official airport parking of $12. We got there to discover that fine print said the price was for 30-day or longer parking, but it was still $6.95, a bargain. That was for an internet price only, so I had to sit in their lobby and finish the paperwork on my phone.

The other people got off the shuttle at the first stop, Southwest, and we whipped through all the rest of the terminals to get to American Airlines, our carrier. There we tried to print boarding passes, only to be denied by a computer for the second time that day. Apparently, you have to check in 40 minutes before departure, we now had only 30 minutes. Physically missing a flight is one thing. Being told the plane is there on the tarmac, we're just not letting you on, is entirely another.

Perhaps if I were younger, prettier, and could cry on cue, I could have pressed our case, and made them let us on. But I'm not, and I didn't.

Cool lighting sculpture in McCarran Airport in Las Vegas.

Same story as before: $150 per changing fee, which was damn near the price of the ticket, and oh-by-the-way, that was our last flight to Sin City. The counter person looked at her screen and told us that Southwest had an 8:10 p.m. flight, which would be a push to make our 10:30 connection, but we had to try, or forfeit yet another airline ticket.

I haven't had the heart to total up the damages in wasted airfare, but I know it is multiple four-figures.

So we trudged all the way back to Southwest, in Terminal 1, dragging all our bags from Terminal 5, and paid for a third set of tickets to McCarran. I tripped the metal-detector and had to have a pat-down from a female TSA. It could have been erotic, had she been more attractive and not wearing industrial-strength rubber gloves. Oh, and the fact that when she got to "sensitive areas," she used the back of her hand. Well, what the hell fun is that?

It turns out that my silver necklace with the MG logo was the culprit, so I learned how to avoid that particular thrill for the rest of the trip, but while I was getting felt up by a government worker, some woman walked off with my MacBook Pro computer.

Apparently she thought it belonged to her son, and was quite snippy when my husband said quite loudly, "That's not yours!" He was retrieving my stuff from the conveyor belt, and narrowly avoided disaster. Then we sat down in the terminal, nervously looking at the board that said our flight was delayed, and I went to pull out my iPod, only to find that I had left it in plain sight in the car we just parked.

Instead of watching the feature film I had on my iPod, I was frantically calling the foreigners who had my car, asking them to put my iPod in a less conspicuous place. But like me, they were busy, so I never got a call back.

I could feed a one-armed bandit, but not get a drink, in Vegas.

All I wanted to do was to get to Vegas and get a drink. On the plane I ordered a Scotch with a ginger ale back, but I was told I could only have one or the other, if I didn't want them mixed. Apparently, they had to make another trip for the soda, and the flight isn't that long.

We got to McCarran only to find that I could play slot machines, but all the bars were closed in that part of the terminal. We had to walk
forever to get to the baggage claim, and we were freaking out about not missing our flight.

All of the passengers were standing around waiting for bags, and I decided to go check in for our next leg. Apparently, my poor husband kept checking the signs on the carousel for 20 minutes, only to have our flight inexplicably change baggage locations.

Had our flight to Atlanta not been delayed 45 minutes, we wouldn't have made it, but the travel gods at last smiled on us. Another airplane change in Atlanta, and at last, we were New York City bound. I finally understood the couple who had been stranded by the Icelandic volcano eruption who spent $12,000 to get home. At that point, I would have severed a limb to get to my destination.

I couldn't sleep, and looked for the book I had paid full-price for in LA when I realized I had no iPod, and remembered I left it, and my husband's sweater I was using as a pillow, on the last flight.

One of my crappy photos of bridal party members,
including binky-faced Charlotte.

My daughter and her fiance met us at La Guardia and deposited us at our Long Island hotel. In the sweetest gesture I have seen in a long time, they returned with pancakes and Eggs Benedict from a nearby aluminum-sided diner, the only hot food I had eaten in the entire 18-hour trip.

And then we slept for three hours.

Next week: The beautiful wedding and getting lost five out of seven car trips in Rhode Island.

Wedding weekend

My daughter getting zipped into her wedding dress. The wedding weekend was a wild ride, but ultimately, everything worked out. Column to follow....

Coatis, gibbons and mountain lions, oh my!

Kat with a barn owl at the Family Circus at Moorpark College's
 Exotic Animal Training and Management on her graduation day.

(Editor's note: While I get ready to go to my daughter's wedding in Rhode Island, my husband graciously volunteered to pinch hit for me, and reflect on his daughter's graduation.)

By Jim Skeen

In just about every great photo I have of my daughter, Kat, there is an animal. There’s one of her feeding a giraffe, another of her getting a kiss from a beluga whale. There’s one – actually several shots – of her with a llama.

When Kat poses for shots, she tends to be a bit stiff. In pictures with animals, you can see the joy she has in connecting with the creature.

At zoo camp in Busch Gardens,
Tampa Bay, Fla.

Growing up, there was also an animal around for her. There was Pinky, the beautiful calico cat; Chip, the cat with the pretty blue eyes; Dottie, the beautiful, but spacey Dalmatian; Star, the loving mutt; and Punky, the fat tabby. I think that she has never had a minute without an animal – if there was a time, it didn’t last long.

I have a theory that her love of animals was cemented at about two-and-a-half years old. We were relaxing in Golden State Park in San Francisco when a squirrel chasing after a prospective mate ran up Kat’s leg. The creature stopped about midway up her thigh and the two of them just froze looking at each other. The squirrel was probably paralyzed with fear, Kat stilled by wonderment of such a close encounter.

I bring this up because Kat  just recently graduated from the Exotic Animal Training and Management program at Moorpark College – a program known as “America’s Teaching Zoo.”

At graduation, Kat was joyful and was looking forward to the next phase of her life. I, on the other hand, was experiencing the bitter sweetness of the joy of her accomplishment mixed with the feeling of a connection being broken with her school.

Getting a kiss form a beluga whale at Sea World. San Antonio, Texas.

Like other long-term relationships, I can’t remember exactly remember when our relationship with Moorpark started – it just seems like it’s always been part of our lives. I think I was looking for something for the two of us to do and came across a listing for the school’s weekend openings for the public. This was at least 12 years ago.

Kat loved the idea of a school where you learned about animals. Shortly after we started our visits to Moorpark, Animal Planet ran a series called “Moorpark 24/7” about life at the school. Kat was hooked and she knew exactly where she was going to go to school.

A snow leopard cub at the LA Zoo.

To help her get into Moorpark, she started volunteering at the Los Angeles Zoo – first as a general volunteer, then a student volunteer, and then as an enrichment volunteer. She worked with a zookeeper, Dani, who was a Moorpark graduate herself. With Dani’s help, Kat not only got to work with a lot of animals, she also got some great quality moments – like holding snow leopard cubs and getting a kiss from a Sumatran rhino.

I started volunteering at the zoo as well. Over the years, I got to meet a lot of Moorpark students, who are required to put in work days at the L.A. Zoo as part of their course work. I kept thinking about how I couldn’t wait for Kat’s zoo days.

A quick history on Moorpark, or EATM, as we often call it: It was established as a major at Moorpark College in 1974.  Bill "Briz" Brisby, a professor at the college, started the program with one animal —"Kiska" the wolf, according to a history on the school’s website. The animal collection and the education program grew over time. The zoo now has about 200 different kinds of animals.

EATM graduates go into all kinds of animal work – training guide dogs, working with dolphins for the Navy, working at zoos and theme parks, working for conservation programs, and some even go into TV and film work.

Practicing behaviors with Kissu, the mountain lion.

The program is very popular and each year it gets more applicants than it has spaces for so there is a lottery drawing. Kat missed getting picked the first year she applied, but got in the next year.

There is a good reason why the Animal Planet was called “Moorpark 24/7” — the students are responsible for most of the care, feeding and well-being of those animals. Animals require constant attention and the students practically live at the school. Days off are rare and precious. If I wanted to see Kat, I had to go to EATM. I went to that school so often, I felt like I had an ownership stake in it.

Moorpark gave Kat great opportunities. She got to work with a skunk, a gibbon, a chattering lorry, a water buffalo, a coati, and, her favorite, a mountain lion named Kissu.

Kissu the mountain lion waits for dinner.

During her time with Kissu, he had to have surgery to remove a large mass from his stomach. Kat was part of a 24/7 watch on him afterward and spent much of her time helping with his recovery. For an all-too-brief time, Kissu rebounded, but a few days later his health sank again and he had to be euthanized.

At Kat’s graduation, one of the things she was recognized for was making Kissu’s last days quality ones.

On graduation day, I had one more walk around the zoo. I kept thinking about all the years we had talked about getting Kat into the program, about how she hoped her name would get picked in lottery, and how she would do. A decade-plus of planning and hoping was over and it seemed to have vanished in a flash. I felt a great sadness.

I will go back to Moorpark. I will bring Charlotte and any other grandchild that might come my way. Charlotte will be looking at the animals; I’ll be looking at the students, knowing what they had gone through to be where they are and the great moments they are having.  I will think of Kat and Kissu.

America's Teaching Zoo is open every weekend from 11am to 5pm. Admission is $5 for Adults, $4 for children and seniors.

Moorpark can be reached by taking the  118 freeway west to the Collins Exit. Turn right at the offramp stoplight and continue past the next stoplight (Campus Rd). Turn right into the second entrance past the stoplight, directly across from University Drive.  Turn to the right in the parking lot and continue right up the short hill to the right.

At left, is a book written about EATM.

Blue furry creatures and alligators

Mission accomplished! Having their photo taken with Grover.

We had to go to the zoo last weekend; there was no way around it. Grover was going to be there.

I'm not sure when my daughter's obsession with Grover began. I used to read her "The Monster at the End of This Book," and we watched inordinate hours of Sesame Street while I was waiting for her sister to be born. (It helped that I was the size of a beached whale, had sciatica and could do little else.)

But something about this affable blue creature just captured her imagination, and he was her favorite character on the Sesame block. When he was shunted aside for the obnoxious, screechy Elmo, my kid was bitter, even though her Sesame Street watching days were long past.

And then Elmo got his own feature, "Elmo's World." That really stung. One hardly saw Grover on the street anymore. It was hard to find blue furry monster merchandise that wasn't Cookie Monster.

My future son-in-law risked an international incident getting a SuperGrover stuffed doll out of a claw machine in a weird hamburger joint/bowling alley/arcade near Shannon, when we went to Ireland.

Charlotte holding hands with the SuperGrover
thief, AKA Daddy, and my daughter, Megan.

After feeding about 20 Euros in the machine and various close-calls, he gave up in disgust and stuck his arm up inside of the chute and grabbed the superhero. I didn't actually see this go down, but the owner was very suspicious, and the next thing I know, the kids are at my elbow hissing, "Let's go! Right now!" The proprietor followed us into the parking lot, doubtless to be sure we didn't steal anything else.

You can say what you want about the morality of this, but the guy got paid almost $50 for an 8-inch plush doll that probably cost a quarter, and we got a great travel story. I feel no remorse. And I believe that act of chivalry cemented the kids' relationship. "Faint heart never won fair maid," and all that crap.

Hey, you're not a cookie!

So when the Los Angeles Zoo announced that Grover and Cookie Monster would be there to promote the "Sesame Street Live" show coming to the Nokia Theater, where we were going on be on Mother's Day was never in doubt.

I didn't wait in the big long line, but did show up in time to see Megan and Charlotte get a big furry hug. My husband was doing his impression of Grover spoofing the Old Spice man, which you can see here. 

Megan was annoyed at the people in line who obviously didn't read the advertisement and thought Elmo was going to be there. "Elmo's coming, right?" they would ask, and my kid would snap, "No! Grover and Cookie Monster!"

That must have disappointed the scads of people wearing Elmo's simpering orange mug on their T-shirts.

The ambience at Reggie's Bistro belies its great food.

I knew we were going to be eating at the zoo, and had resigned myself to cardboard hamburgers. But during the last remodel, the LA Zoo put in Reggie's Bistro, right across the path from the infamous Reggie the Alligator's pen.

The food is pricy, but amazing. Everyone else had hamburgers, which looked great, and I had a grilled chicken sandwich with teriyaki sauce and a thick slice of pineapple on a high-quality bun, served with sweet potato fries,  and washed down with beer on tap. It was Amstel Light, but still....

Charlotte got apple juice in a plastic bottle shaped like a green alligator, called Reggie Juice. She held the bottle up, inclined the head, and said "Alligators say 'rawr.'" 

The giraffes enchanted onlookers.

The zoo is definitely cashing in on the public's fascination with Reggie, who was found swimming in Lake Machado in Harbor City. It took about a year and half to get him captured. Now there is a book about him, a website, and the zoo gift shop overflows with alligator merchandise.

The new elephant enclosure is wonderful. I can't show you a photo because they were moving too fast for me, but the changes at the zoo are considerable. We spent a long time watching the giraffes.

By the end of the day, Charlotte wasn't the only cranky one. My knee was killing me, and I would have given my MG for a ride to the car, Luckily, there wasn't anyone to take me up on that offer. 

Watching my kids chase after Charlotte while I rested my knee on a bench made me ever more impressed with those grandparents who must raise their grandkids. I don't think I would want to do that full-time. 

Getting a lift from Pop Pop. And this is why mommy's camera lens is always dirty.

Breakfast in bed? You must be a mom!

Me and my bridemaids 2010. No, I have no idea how I came to have such
beautiful children, either. Recessive genes, I guess.

I made myself cranberry-orange muffins today for Mother’s Day. They came from a box, and were pretty tasty. My kitchen is now way less of a mess than on past Mother’s Days, when my children decided to “cook” for me.

The American tradition of burned toast, raw in the middle pancakes, and over-cooked eggs is charming. Seeing those shiny little faces and hearing their cries of “Happy Mother’s Day, mommy!” just warms your heart, doesn’t it?

A minute later and mine were fighting over who should get credit for what.  “No, I made the toast!” “Mommy, she’s lying! She didn’t do hardly anything.” “No, you’re lying!”

My daughters and me at my Antelope Valley College graduation, 1997.
I think this was the very last time my younger daughter (in my cap and gown) was the same height as me.

And then you got up after the feast and saw how they laid waste to what was once your kitchen.

I jest, but I wouldn’t have traded breakfast in bed for anything. Well, maybe an expensive hotel’s room service….

My daughter with her Golden Ticket into the Mom's Club.

I realized the other day in the Hallmark store how my Mother’s Day card shopping has decreased. When my kids were little, they had two sets of grandparents, and I still had living grandparents, and I bought cards for the kids to send, also. So — mother cards,  grandmother cards, great-grandmother cards — it was about 12, if I remember correctly.

This year I only had to buy two.

I was issued the very first rewards card at the Hallmark store in the mall. Greeting cards have always been an expensive proposition in my house. From time to time I get those reward checks that only remind me how much I spend at the card store.

Can't you just imagine him
bringing Mom breakfast in bed?

My husband says he doesn’t remember what they did for his mother on Mother’s Day. She died when he was in his early twenties, so it’s not surprising. I like to think of him making her breakfast in bed, but he was the youngest, so he probably just got in the way.

Or maybe he brought her the paper, went and sat with her and chatted until the bigger kids got done in the kitchen. That sounds like him, because being companionable and cheerful are things he’s really good at.

I wish I could have met her to say “Thanks.”

But, the torch has passed, and today my daughter is the one being feted. I don’t know about breakfast in bed, but she got mimosas in bed yesterday. She posted a Facebook photo of herself later, drinking the champagne straight from the bottle, so I guess it went well.

If you were Charlotte's mother, you'd drink too...

My younger daughter posted that if that’s what Mother’s Days are like, she can’t wait. Sign her up.

My mother has been getting nothing but breakfast in bed for weeks, but the food is horrible, so I broke her out of the rehab hospital for an early Mother’s Day lunch yesterday.

Against all of our advice, my mother had her knee replaced, eight weeks before my daughter’s wedding. On the East coast, in Rhode Island.

We tried to convince her that it could wait, that she should tough it out until after we got back from the wedding, but she wasn’t having it. She met with a surgeon who said he’d have her up on her feet days after the surgery.

My mom and great-grandchild Charlotte.

I hate to call anyone a lying bastard, but here we are, five weeks later, and she’s still in the hospital. “Up on your feet” is not exactly the same as “walking.” I guess the recession is even hitting doctors, and with so many people losing their insurance, well, you just have to make the most of those Medicare patients.

“I just bounced back last time,” my mother told me. Uh-huh. The last time you had a knee replaced? You mean 20 years ago? That last time? When you weren’t in your 70s?

So, with 18 days until the wedding, we have to get her established at home and figure out how she’s getting to hair, nail, and doctor appointments, as well as find her a dress.

It used to be that I only had to worry about my daughters not taking my advice.

Happy Mother's Day to all!

Forget the dress; what about those cars?

"

My favorite aspect of the Royal Wedding: the 1969 Aston Martin DB6 Volante as getaway car.

I am not a gearhead. My husband calls me "the gearhead of the family," but every definition I have seen of that term includes "the ability to fix things mechanical," and right there, I fail the test.

I can change oil (although I don't), change sparkplugs, sparkplug wires, air filters and tires, but that's about it. I always wanted to take an automotive shop class, but I realized that life is too short for me to take classes in everything I am interested in.

Now, diagnosing noises, I'm pretty good at. I can identity loose valves, dry rocker arms, loose mufflers, aging fan belts, bad timing, and wheel bearings in need of repacking. That's more than most girls, but it won't get me far when I'm broken down on the side of the road.

My best friends in terms of auto repair are a wad of cash and AAA with unlimited towing. At least I have one of the two; I'll let you guess which.

A front view of the post-wedding trip around the Mall.

But the passion for cars and things mechanical part of the gearhead description fits me to a T. So I guess I'm a gearhead wannabe. I wish I knew how to fix cars, although I'm not very fond of getting dirty.

But you know you have gearhead tendencies when you don't get terribly excited about Prince William's wedding to Kate Middleton until you find out they drove away in a 1969 Aston Martin DB6 Volante.

Yep, that Aston Martin, one similar to James Bond's.

It belongs to the father of the groom (Prince Charles, in case you haven't been paying attention), and it has been reengineered to use bio-fuel made from waste from the English winemaking process. Didn't know England made wine? Join the club. I'll have to ask my future son-in-law the oenologist what he thinks of British wine.

Since he's heavily into French Bordeaux, I can only guess his answer. I am fond of British beer, that's all I care about.

My response to the Royal Wedding was like women who don't know a thing about football, but don't want to be left out of Super Bowl festivities, so they pick a team based on the team's colors, uniforms (or "outfits," depending on how really lame the woman is), or mascots.

The Royal Wedding was an English patriot's dream: English dress designers (Sarah Burton), composers (Sir Charles Hubert Parry), hymns ("Jerusalem," with lyrics by William Blake, among others) locations (Westminster Abbey), and of course cars.

What anti-Church-of-England poet Blake would have thought about his poem being turned into a patriotic hymn is anyone's guess.

Those who don't have gold horse-drawn carriages in their garage like QE II does, arrived in limos or Range Rovers.

Kate Middleton arrived at Westminster Abbey in the Queen's 1977 Rolls Royce Phantom VI, a Silver Jubilee gift from the British automobile industry. The claret and black colored vehicle has recently been restored after rioting students splashed paint on it while Prince Charles and that woman were inside.

Queen Elizabeth's Rolls Royce Phantom VI.

When the queen uses it, the Rolls Royce hood ornament is replaced by one depicting St. George, the patron saint of England, slaying the dragon. The Queen Mum had a hood ornament of Britannia holding a sceptre.

 I am thrilled that Kate's dress had long sleeves, and commentators were saying it was trend-setting. They made it sound like wedding dress designers were racing to their drawing boards to sketch fashionable dresses that older and more modest brides could love. If so, I can only say hallelujah, and it's about time.

Dowdy mothers and grandmothers of the
 bride. The photo doesn't do the Queen's
yellow dress justice.

Sadly, it comes too late for me. You can read all about my search for a non-sleelevess dress here. 
I'm engaged in the same fruitless search now for a dress with sleeves for my daughter's wedding. Do designers have any idea how many women should not be showing their arms in public? Under any circumstances?

I have a choice: I can wear a "mother-of-the-bride" suit in some disgusting pastel like the Queen (seriously, was that the brightest screaming yellow you've ever seen?), or I can frighten the congregation by displaying my ugly upper arms.

Looking for dresses with sleeves now is like looking for clogs and platforms in the 1980s. Don't think I didn't try; at 5'1," I don't want to wear ballerina flats. I feel like Linda Hunt in them.

So, I am looking forward to being able to buy a cocktail dress with sleeves. I'm not counting on it, but it would be a welcome change.

My husband was thrilled about the Aston Martin getaway, and it prompted him to write "All the best people leave their weddings in British sports cars" on Facebook, since we left our reception in my MG.

Of course my car is hundreds of thousands of pounds cheaper than Will and Kate's ride, but never mind. I just can't imagine how she got that humongous train jammed into that little car. There was no was I could get my dress into my MG, I left in jeans,