Bieber and faceplants

The company that owns The Palm Beach Post is consolidating the copy desks. That means that after less than two months of interning here, the desk moved from the newsroom to a new segregated space (I'm not joking: I am the only girl down here, and I am the only person that sits on the east side of the currently occupied banks of desks). I came back to work after the wedding to find my old desk bravely standing amid several demolished ones. A few people huddled at their surviving work spaces, cheap paneling and straggling wires trailing in the rubble. I gathered my few things, sobbing softly, and traipsed downstairs.

It's not all bad. Down here I have huge windows behind me (i.e. light without distraction), nine huge TVs in sight (surprisingly not a distraction), and a view of the intermittently passing trains (a mild distraction). The downside is that we are ramping up to editing the sports sections for four papers, but we are on the very first bit of that ramp, and for a few more days I have little to do.

When I find myself in this aimless situation I try to improve my mind by reading about sports. Unfortunately, that often brings me to Deadspin, a wonderful sinkhole of vulgar but entertaining stories (be warned, if you click any of the ensuing links) that vaguely relate to sports. Wednesday's catch was a feature about singing the national anthem at a minor league ball game. I saw the writer is also a GQ correspondent, and I clicked through to the magazine's site. A feature on teen pop star Justin Bieber stood out (why? I dunno). It was four pages long. (And, as several of the Post interns discussed, any mid-story clicking requires a higher level of reader dedication.) I accidentally clicked to the end, painstakingly clicked back to make sure I didn't miss a word, and proceeded to soak up details of a mediocre interview with the baby king of pop.

After I finished reading the article, my first thought was that I would have written it with either more snark or more philosophical reflection on the perils of fame.

Then I thought, WHAT IS SPORTS EDITING COMING TO? Bieber-critiquing? Really, Rebecca? I knew I was really in trouble when I went home making Bieber puns in my head (there are problems with that on many levels).

(Incidentally, with my acute aptitude for drawing parallels, I realized that Justin and I both have the attention span of a chihuahua on caffeine (much like my dopplegänger). If we were friends we would probably need a safety guard just to help us cross the street without chasing butterflies and getting hit by cars.)

My thoughts were punctuated by some heels-induced slapstick (ladies, take note: vanity is not always worth it). I took one step onto a tile floor in the new office space and felt my foot slide backward while the rest of my body obediently followed Newton's first law of motion. I landed completely flat, trampoline-artist style, with no casualties except for the innocent recycling bin I took down with me. If this had happened around my family or friends, I would be guaranteed an ab-workout-level laugh. Instead I politely answered polite inquiries as to any injuries and have politely laughed along to a few good jokes about it since.

I was told to make the most of my internship. Good thing I have a couple weeks left.

Marriage Pie

The weekend of Natalie and Thomas' wedding started early for me, so early that I was (a) very excited and (b) unprepared for any glitches. It was gushy and lovely and worth every minute. But it started with a trip to West Virginia instead of DC, so I knew right away that my summer theme — BE FLEXIBLE — was still in play. But displaced plans make for much better stories. 

Weather delays and cancellations on the uncharacteristically wimpy Eastern Seaboard meant that on Wednesday night I flew from Florida to Charleston, WV, arriving well after midnight. Much to the chagrin of some family members, the bride and groom drove five hours from their homes in Virginia (one way) to pick me up. This was not at all to my chagrin, however, because I got to spend stress-free time with two of my best friends, and it gave me an easy way to start my toast (like I told everyone I met while traveling, "This groom would do anything for his bride!"). 

On the drive to Charlottesville, we stopped at a McDonald's in the haunting hours of the morning, where Thomas was bright and upbeat as always (this is not sarcastic) despite me and Natalie dallying at the drive-through. The guy at the window told Thomas he was the best (most cheerful) customer they'd had all night, and unable to contain myself, I leaned forward and blurted out, "They're getting married!"

Well, this guy's night was already boosted, and news of pending matrimony made it even better. He leaned out the drive-through window to get a better look at the two of them and said, "Really?! Do you want some marriage pie?" 

And that, my friends, is how to get free pie AND cookies at McDonald's. (I did feel weird eating them, as I am not a part of the marriage, but I'm not one to turn down empty carbs.)

The pie proved useless, however, when the gas light flicked on 20 miles from the nearest gas station. We coasted down as many hills as we could, made an illegal u-turn, and slid into a deserted pit stop just in time. 

We fell asleep at Thomas' house around 5 a.m. I woke up at 10 a.m. and staggered upstairs, blearily greeted friends I hadn't seen in months, and tried not to fall over as I shook off the weirdest lack-of-sleep hangover I've ever felt. Thomas flipped on a vinyl (the soundtrack to Disney's Robin Hood) to set the mood as we munched our Eggos. Then more bridesmaids arrived and the ladies were off to a day full of packing up Nat's stuff, checking in to the hotel, getting decorations and programs and gifts ready, going to a bachelorette dinner, crashing a bachelor party, drinking really, really bad wine and sleeeeepingg. 

It was Toad's birthday too! Ribbit.

"Come on Becsy!"

We have the key to the church! It's official!

Directions: not our forte.

Chaps

Two more days :)

Friday we drove up to Ash Lawn to decorate for the reception. After a few hours of being mildly helpful, I volunteered to drive to the nearest Walmart and pick up a staple gun. Anna, the youngest bridesmaid and a sister of the groom, quickly volunteered to join me. Mind you, I'm an average driver, I didn't know the local speed limits, we were on the side of a hill (mountain?) in the middle of Virginia, and we were behind schedule. Fortunately Anna is used to her sister's driving, and except for the time I braked while she was sipping lemonade, we got along just fine. 
 

Playing with sheep at Ash Lawn

Name-carding (sorry for verbizing, Charlyne)

Fake-bouqueting

Real-bouqueting

Side story: Everyone made it to the rehearsal in time, where I realized I didn't have to worry how I looked during the wedding because my place in the line up was right in front of the precocious flower girl and dapper ring bearer (who refused to dance together at the reception, despite many attempts at bribery).  

Diana, Anna and Lauren at the rehearsal

After the rehearsal dinner a few of the boys stopped by the hotel and we got a sneak preview of the first dance. Thomas' twin and another groomsman sang and played Jon Foreman's In My Arms — perhaps the most beautiful first dance song I've ever heard. 

Then the girls settled down by playing the box game: pick up an empty cereal box with your mouth without touching the floor. Once everybody does that, cut an inch off the box and try again. It's a bit like doing the limbo, and it brings out a strategic-athletic side you probably didn't even know you had.

Then the day itself came. Aside from some last-minute seamstressing (there are saints among us), preparation went beautifully. At one point we had a four-person train of girls doing or getting their hair and make-up done (all those years of girls' nights paid off with useful skills). 

Rapunzel hair

Sisters!

The wedding itself went smoothly — I only tripped once walking down the aisle (success!), and I think an usher was the only person to notice. Natalie managed not to cry (we thought it would be a waterworks wedding for all involved), and both the rings were present and accounted for (which was not true two days earlier, according to every ringbearer's worst fear).

When we got to Ash Lawn to take pictures, I desperately wanted to play with the calves in the field. But Stephanie insisted the mothers would trample me and, to my shame as a Vermonter, I didn't have the data to prove her wrong (any input from any farmers reading this?). So I stayed on the people side of the fence, but of course when a big black Bessie came to violently rip branches off a tree by the fence, I fed her some leaves (Stephanie: "SHE'S GOING TO BITE YOU!" Me: "COWS ARE HERBIVORES!").  

Flashback to sophomore year...missing Ashers!

The whole bovine business was merry and fine until the wedding party, lined up by the fence, was disrupted by a shrill scream from Stephanie's end of the line. Dear Bessie was snuffling her way over to us, determined to both be in the photos and ask me for more leaves. She ended up just licking my elbow. Who knew cows drooled so much? Thankfully one of the debonair groomsmen offered his handkerchief (chivalry is alive!) and we moved on to dinner. 

From there it was a pretty typical wedding/dance party. Hope you're having fun in the Rockies, Nat and Thomas! Like I said in the toast, the first time Thomas told me he had coffee with Natalie, I didn't know the freshman girl rule of assuming a marriage was pending...but it's hard to go wrong with two blond-haired, blue-eyed, guitar-picking, history-majoring, classics-reading, hammock-using, Frisbee-playing, Jesus-loving people. I should've known marriage pie was in the works all along.

I have got to stop tweeting before bed.

Bookending sleep with social media has its downsides. Or upsides, depending on your perspective. Late last night Carmelo Anthony tweeted a photo of five of the world's best basketball players, kicking back at a Johnny Rockets. Apparently I fell asleep with that image percolating in my labyrinthine gray matter.

The court is smaller than normal — which is typical in Europe, I'm informed — and I trip out of bounds at least once. I canNOT make a layup. The wood floor is the color of Grade B maple syrup.

It must be a scrimmage since there's no other team. I'm the only girl, and I'm sorely underqualified. But for whatever reason, the powers that be decided to put me on Team USA. Most of the guys are supportive, even though they're not thrilled a 5'8'' female will be subbing in for LeBron in London (OK, let's be real: I know I'll be a benchwarmer). The only one who's being a jerk is Djokovic. I still can't figure out why he's on the team. Don't you play tennis? Because in this situation, clearly he's the one who's out of place.

Waking up is always a bit of a reality shock.