Remember, I wasn’t the photographer for the wedding and made a conscious decision to put my camera away so I could truly be in the moment. That being said, this was probably a dream to photograph because everything was really beautiful and the lighting was perfect for the entire day. So, here’s just a few of the pictures I have…if you want more, you’ll have to wait for Natalie Baumgardner to finish up.
Putting the "Big" in Big Fun: Part I
I am the sole creator of the nickname BIG FUN, aka the Kelly Borchers/Tim Norris wedding that just took place this weekend. September 20, 2008 will go down as BIG FUN: The Night to Remember.
Nick and I left Cleveland Wednesday night after work and didn’t arrive until after midnight. Although tired from the long drive, we still couldn’t help but make comments. “Why is the road closed?”
“Looks like they’re doing road construction.”
Mhm, that doesn’t sound like a good start for a wedding weekend with lots of out of towners.
As the car bumped along and we passed my favorite street – marveling, once again, at Borchers Road – we turned to find most of the Russian roads ripped up along one side and enormous bulldozers and machinery scattered rather obviously around town.
First thought: Ouch. That doesn’t make a pretty wedding picture. I bet Ron and Kay are pissed. Don’t the construction people know it’s Big Fun weekend?
Wednesday Night
Hugs all around as we enter the house and Russia’s long lost one-time seminarian son has returned. It’s always nice to see Nick light up when we enter Raider-ville. No matter how tired he is in the car, once he walks through the garage that connects to the kitchen, he’s completely reenergized to be near his family.
So, the first night, Kelly, the lovely bride to be, Nick, Ron, Kay and I just talk about the impending nuptuals and all the craziness that goes on the few days prior to the wedding. The next day we would be decorating St. Remy Hall, home of Big Fun dinner and dancing (commonly known as a reception). We hit the hay and I wondered what exactly the Borchers house would look like under such a big event. The questions were endless:
Would Kelly survive all the questions? (It’s a researched fact that brides answer approximately 1,000,000 -yes one million – questions in the timeframe of the engagement.)
Is there enough Crown Royal?
Will the bulldozers get out of the way?
Should I refrigerate the Red Bull now or Friday night?
Will it really be 80 degrees on Saturday?
Thursday
The next morning, I went for a long run around town. My new goal is to run a road race before I turn 30 (ahem, 2.27.09) and the lovely slightly manure-ed air of the countryside provided a nice backdrop to my jog. When I returned, I found Kay and Kelly – already having conquered the florist appointment – ready to head up to the hall. I quickly changed and followed suit, running two minutes behind.
I walked two feet into the hall, hoping I wasn’t too late and found about 20 excited family members and friends generously volunteering to help decorate the tables. Nick spotted me and whispered into my ear, “Totally predictable, Kelly and Aunt Jan are already crying. Watch out…”
A quick laugh was needed as we all went to work with ribbon, linens, dishware, caramel popcorn (par-tay favors!) and votive candles. The highlight was definitely flicking up the wick of over a couple hundred votive candles with a tack. Ahhh, the manual labor of wedding prep. As we folded the napkins, i laughed and caught up with friends and family. It NEVER ceases to amaze me how generous Nick’s family and friends are with their time and resources. All these folks here to set up chairs, tables, cover them, plan routes, hang clothes, wipe something until it shines – for free – is truly remarkable. Nick often says, “Yep, that’s Russia.”
As the hours pass and more questions surface, I begin having memories (traumatic ones) of my own wedding planning and remember the anxiety of wondering whether the food will satisfy everyone, if the plates look right, if the flowers are the right color. Weddings are unbelievably stressful, but in Borchers-style, they handled it unbelievably smoothly. Ron has lists, Kay has tears, Kelly is direct, Nick is sweating, Jay is still at work, Keith is leaving voicemail messages that he’s on his way, and I am smiling with candle wax debris on my face.
The hall is done by 3pm-ish. Not bad.
Take It As Fuel
I am, as the lovely Spanish language would say, EN FUEGO.
I’m learning to turn rage, stress, anger, pissed off states, and frustration into fuel.
I conquered my 3 mile run. Not since 2004, when I let it die on the streets of Heath and Boylston have I run a full 3 miles. Running isn’t about anything but finding myself on the road, hearing my feet nearly splinter, feeling my body about to give, and then my mind takes over and says, “Go.”
And everything fades.
There’s nothing; just me, the road, and my lungs breathing in sweet autumn air.
Life is good. My body is recovering and my soul is slowly lifting itself back into light.
Thanks for all your encouragement – both on and offline.
The Cordonnier Tears
Getting to know Nick’s family has been a blessing from the start. They’ve always welcomed me and made me feel so loved at every gathering, party, and celebration. After getting to know the two sides – Borchers and Cordonniers – I can now clearly see the differences in each and see how they influence Nick to be the man he has grown to be.
I thought that since they are his side of the family, the influence would stop with Nick. I am beginning to think I am wrong.
The Cordonniers, Nick’s maternal side, shed some serious tears at emotional times. The first time Nick cried in front of me was back in 1998 when we were just good friends and hanging out. This was before I fell in love with him and thought he was a normal guy. We went to go see The Sixth Sense at the movie theater and while I was definitely emotional at the end, I couldn’t believe Nick’s reaction.
After you find out that Bruce Willis is really a ghost and departs from the love of his life, I got a bit choked up but it was contained. I sighed and grabbed my purse to get ready to head out. I looked to my right and saw Nick staring at the credits rolling, completely still. “Uh, are you alright?”
“I’m just really shocked by that movie.”
I agreed, “I know, it was intense.”
It took me a while to see through the dim lighting, but there he was – crying in a Norwood theater over a M. Night Shyamalan movie. I didn’t say anything, but the shock of this guy crying next to me was more shocking than the Bruce Willis/ghost revelation.
We were quiet until I brought it up in the car. Remember, this was before we were dating, I couldn’t really insult him by asking what in the world was wrong with him crying manly tears while I was completely dry eyed.
“Were you crying?” Nice subtle question.
“Yeah, it just runs in my family. My mom’s side of the family cries at everything. It doesn’t even have to be a big event. One time, Grandpa even cried during a basketball game in the Russia gym.”
“Why?” I was incredulous.
“Because, it was an emotional moment!”
“Oh, I see.”
But, that’s the thing – I didn’t see. Not until now anyway.
A few months ago, I told Kelly, Nick’s sister, that I would be happy to do a slideshow for the wedding – aka BIG FUN – because I’ve been asked to do so many that it’s not really difficult for me to create one now that I have the software and the right formula to put it together. Over the past few weeks, since I got back from the Philippines, I was pushing Kelly to move forward with it because it’s a nice small momento to watch in the years ahead as Nick and I watch our slideshow the morning of our wedding anniversary. She conceded and sent me several envelopes full of pictures. I asked for photos of Tim and his family and friends and soon began sorting through hundreds of photos that folks had sent me.
Putting a slideshow together is really about detail – detail of getting the pictures in a sensible order, balance of each person, the right music, putting the transitions to tempo, beginning and end fades – so in the end a lovely story is told.
Kelly is the younger sister I always wanted so imagine my surprise when I find myself – not once, not twice, not thrice – but in MULTIPLE crying episodes as I have put the slideshow together. As the final touches are layered on this week, Nick has walked in as I hastily dry my tears and am rolling my eyes at myself. He smiles, “The Cordonniers are starting to rub off of ya, huh?”
Appreciating the Amish Life for 36 Hours
The remnants of Hurricane Ike swept through Ohio and left us without power for two days. The streets are a mess, and according to the rumors in Shaker Heights, herds of electrical workers were down south helping the more torn up areas and so less resources were available in NE Ohio.
No power for 36 hours. While you could hear a collective Cleveland moan when televisions went out at 8:15pm on Sunday night because you couldn’t watch the Browns/Steelers war, I was more concerned about all my produce and poultry in the fridge. (Aren’t our concerns mighty?)
Living by flashlight is certainly not the way of the Amish, but it did encourage a simplistic kind of living for a little while and it was fun to just sit in the dark and talk without the distraction of the computer, music, television, or even the hum of the kitchen appliances in the background. It gave way to a gentle quiet that we actually liked.
Monday morning we had all kinds of work done on the house – chimney inspection, shower head fixed, toilet worked on (poor guy) and then our car revved up for impending travels to Russia, Cincinnati, New Jersey, and New York – all in the next 6 weekends. Throw in Nick’s 5 day trip to El Salvador with St. Dominic and you have a very busy couple who are determined to live life as a one car family. An oil change, air filter, serpentine belt (that just sounds cool to say), and four new tires got the Corolla ready for Big Fun (aka Kelly and Tim’s wedding) and More Big Fun (the rest of the weddings in October) in faraway places.
I write this post from the inside of a car shop as I wait for the Corolla to be fixed. All I can say is, it is quite the happy family here in Shaker Heights, Ohio. Center Heights Service may be the most friendly car shop I’ve ever been. That’s not really hard to say coming from Boston where most mechanics stare at your chest if you’re a woman and coerce you into dropping several hundos for fixes and twixes you definitely do not need. But the folks here are wonderful. Bill and Tom are actually brainstorming places for me to send my resume and introduced me to Ann, another customer who works at a agency looking for psychotherapists. You don’t come across that kind of service very often. They smile and are more than friendly. Most importantly, they’re honest, don’t treat you like an idiot, and even offer me a lift home so I don’t have to wait around for the car.
Yes, this is a body shop.
Viva La Shaker!
Rage Against the Bridal Industry
Sometimes is it a miracle that I have not researched how to plant a pipe bomb in an empty bridal shop.
There are few things I loathe in this life, but one of them is the hell that is mainstream weddings.
Now, I’m not talking marriage or civic unions, or love ceremonies. I am talking about the bullshit bridal party, decorations, and dresses, manicures, colors, flowers, cake, bridesmaid coordinated colors that drive me insane.
It’s not something I blog about often because it’s so trivial, but with this latest debacle, I may take this issue on full force because of what it does to womyn’s self esteem and body image.
I’m in a wedding this Saturday and while it is not my favorite thing to do to get trussed up in heels and curl my hair, the bride is a loved one and I’m honored to be her friend. I ordered my dress and, low and behold, after size 14 or something, you have a $50 charge for extra cloth. I ask, oh? do you charge an arbitrary $20 charge when you have a person who needs a size 10 because they need more material than a size 2. “No, there’s no charge for a size 10.”
Oh, I see. So, because the bust is too small, never mind that I’ll be swimming in the rest of it, I have to shell out more money because someone decided that womyn over an arbitrary number require “more resources?”
And it’s not my whole body, it’s just a part of my body – my breasts. My lovely brown round globes of beauty, pleasure, life, abundance, and gift. My breasts. Apparently, they’re too large for this dress and I have to pay extra because my body isn’t uniformly distributed the way this all white bridal shop measures “normal” figures.
I wait the proverbial three months for the damn dress to arrive. All the while, I am sweating, worrying, wondering what is wrong with ME. Why, for the (not exaggerating) 9th time, I am forced to pay more for my breasts to be in another wedding. I can’t count how many arguments I’ve had with brides to convince them to let their bridesmaid choose a simple black dress they feel confident in and they can reuse. I can’t count how many conversations I’ve engaged with bridal shop consultants, telling them it’s a ruthless discrimination against heavier womyn to charge them more their dresses.
A wedding. Is it worth it to have everyone wear the same color when inside many of them are made to feel wrong for their bodies?
The dress arrives.
Surprise, surprise, it doesn’t fit! I have to wrap the dress around me like a towel. It won’t even hold up anywhere on my body.
While I am hanging onto the dress for dear life because it is about to slip to the floor with customers around, the alterations woman had the audacity to proclaim, “Your body is so big! What happened?” I stared at myself in the mirror, wanting to be better than the situation and not let it affect me.
But I’m human. I’m so very human and can’t be dissected any more. After months of struggling with body comments in the Philippines (Americans are GIANTS in many parts of the world), my wall of reason and retort collapsed.
I cried over the steering wheel in my car.
When I went back for the dress the alterations women informed me, “This is a big job, we have to really size down this dress. It’ll probably be another $100.”
I cried inside. My unemployed ass is feeling it.
There you have it. I, training for my first road race, running to be a healthier womyn; lost 25lbs and am dropping weight not for weight but for health, to kick diabetes in the ass and tenderly care for my heart and rallying for a healthy pregnancy someday – am charged more for my larger boobs and then pay more to have it taken it all the while am told am TOO BIG.
The bridal industry makes billions for making everyday womyn feel less and too much and charges them to make them fit a “dress” or have the “dress” fit you. But it’s much more than a dress. It’s a costly uniformity to match other womyn who feel less then who they are because of a damn wring of cloth. The vultures in this industry don’t care what it costs you or what it does to your insides. They care that you pay and will do all things possible to push you against a wall with an arbitrary chart nailed to said wall so they can measure you, coerce you, tsk tsk at your body.
It’s more than bullshit. It’s dead wrong.
Fuck the bridal industry.
UPDATE
9/16/2008
I picked the dreaded but gorgeous dress up today and tried it on for my final fitting. It [now] fits perfectly and I love how I look on the outside. Inside, I feel like shit and my wallet is empty. How else can I say this: IT’S NOT WORTH IT.
The owner of the shop gave it to me and while I was gathering the nerve to say something of how a rude tailor has driven away my business, more customers came in the door. I stood there, paralyzed, wanting to say something but unsure of how to say it.
My sweaty grip on the plastic covered the dress was fading I tried to focus on my words and say what I so desperately wanted to communicate: YOU DON’T MAKE COMMENTS ABOUT PEOPLE’S BODIES WHEN YOU DON’T KNOW THEIR MEDICAL HISTORY. If you know nothing about what someone has been through, what scars mean, how size, how little, how disappeared, how big, how crooked, how asymetrical things are – YOU SAY NOTHING or ask if you are genuinely curious about someone’s story. Ask out of kindness, never assumption.
My body is and has a been a battleground of health both physical and mental. It’s been a lovely developing playground and heaven for me. As I age, I’ve learned how to honor it, keep it, and worship it with healthy living and sleep.
Bodies are sacred – how hard of a concept is that to grasp?
I ended up grabbing the business card and flashed her a look that said, “Oh don’t worry, you’ll be hearing from me.”
Command…Or a Warning…Or a Suggestion
Never speak of USC again.
"Just Don’t Wait Until Winter"
One of the things that Nick and I have noticed about life in surburbia, Cleveland surburbia to be precise, is how often winter is referenced. We went for a long walk last night after dinner to breathe in the Autumn-like air, and I got to thinking of all the things I’ve noticed about our new life and the people in it. When you don’t have a job, your mind tends to wander into topics like that at night.
It’s a funny observation that so many marketing strategies in Cleveland include a foreboding, “Don’t wait until winter..” Winter has been brought up at least once a day since I moved here. Whether it’s house insulation, window replacements, or firewood, everything comes with a reminder to GIT ‘ER DONE before the snow comes. You don’t want a faulty windshield wiper during a snowstorm now do you? You can’t go without snow tires this season can you? Winter-proof your house now and replace your carpet floors!
Granted, safety is always best and it’s always good to be prepared, but for how often people ask if our winter boots are ready for the lake effect, I have to ask: Do we live in the western frontier? Do we not have Triple A, cell phones, and emergency lanes in the highway? What is UP with all the winter fear?
AND
It’s not like Nick and I just moved here from the Little Miss Sunshine state – we lived in BOSTON. A city where I bore three brutal winters and countless Nor’easters – snow that stopped trains, cold that ripped to the bone marrow of one’s existence, ice that didn’t melt until April – and still survived.
So, what is UP with Clevelanders asking us, “Are you ready for a Cleveland winter? It’s something else…”
One eyebrow lifts, unimpressed. There are bigger things to be concerned with in this city than the winter months. First, let’s deal with the Tribe or the Brownies. Now THERE’S something to worry about.
Since the Networks Aren’t
Remembering.
If She’s Wrong, I Don’t Want to Be Right
So Blackamazon has a thunderous piece entitled, “Wrong Woman,” and I think you need to get your fannies over there and appreciate her and her thunder.
I love thinking about that though – what makes a “wrong” womyn? I am thinking back to all the ways womyn are deemed “wrong.”
Womyn who…
are raped
are raped more than once
are mentally ill
take prescriptive medication for depression, anxiety, OCD, or any other mental wellness challenges
speak up and against their physicians
have hair under their arms, on their legs, on their upper lip
don’t shave said hair
live and/or work in a “third world” country are “less right” than those in “first world” nations
are dark-skinned
prefer to have curves
do not hold formal degrees
stop when they have had enough
limit their consumption
choose
march when other dawdle
spell incorrectly
stick with unpopular beliefs
identify queer
move in wheelchairs
love sex
use their sexuality
are empowered by their sexuality
resist mainstream
filter news through the experiences of their lives
those who survived violence
those tried to leave, but can’t
those who stayed and died
love their abuser
quit their jobs
are on welfare
wash their hair in public fountains
read slowly if at all
have no health insurance or dental
masturbate
who are addicts
pursue their long held dreams
practice creativity and art
are loud
and angry
and continue the fight where their mothers left off
Who else is wrong?