Not blech. Yum.

Prayers* for Jenna's feisty transcendence of her upbringing.

when Henry - a disciple of the Evil One, Karl Rove - runs for some office after he steals his first billion in the private sector.   Why don't these two enlist in the National Guard?

So the pic of Jenna pops up on Yahoo this weekend and my youngest says, "She's got the kind of eyes you don't trust." Looking a little closer, I realized her eyes are exactly like her father's. Heh.

wedding in the White House--and she chooses 94 degree Crawford Texas?  Crap--you could have a BBQ there when you get back from the honeymoon.  

...moment thinking about either of the Bush twins.

At least not since news came back that they were kicked out of rio de jinero for exessive partying and debauchery.

How can they be America's sweethearts when they're almost never in the American media?

...No one here gives a crap about Jenna (and not-Jenna).  The only coverage I saw about the wedding was on American websites.

The original Paris Hilton

that she has her wedding outdoors with fourteen attendants and she has an Oscar de la Renta dress - and that is called "casual". My wedding have six people - two couples, and one couple brought their two little kids. No family, no flowers, no music, no reception. We went out for Chinese food afterward. I do miss not having one of those cool cooking network cakes, though. Maybe we will renew our vows in a few years and get that.

Of course, I wish the couple well, as I do all couples, except for those polygamists marrying minors.

It was a health-care-card marriage, planned and conducted in about 36 hours so my kids and I could get on the insurance plan at Mr. R's new job.

On Day One, we sent the kids to their dad, called his best friend and another friend who's an ordained Pagan priestess, made a dinner reservation, and buzzed over to the county seat to pick up a license.

Later the next afternoon, I put on Mr. R's favorite red satin undies, the red Navajo dress Mr. R had bought me in Sedona on the first weekend we ever went away together (it was the first thing he'd ever bought me), and the red cowboy boots my dad had given me. I wore my grandmother's squash blossom necklace and earrings (something old and blue), and carried a bouquet of narcissus and field iris I hastily cut from the front yard and tied with a blue bow. The ring was a platinum eternity band studded with tiny diamonds all around -- now about 100 years old -- inherited from his grandmother.

We drove into San Francisco, where we met our two friends at the statue of Diana in Sutro Park, just above the Cliff House. It wasn't vows so much as a simple reading of the contract we'd written together at the start of our relationship several years earlier. Our only witness, our dour Finnish friend, cried anyway. The sun set over the Pacific in a spectacular and garish sunset light show as the ten-minute ceremony ended. We loaded into two cars and headed off to Stars (now gone) for a truly fine Jeremiah Tower dinner.

Cost: $35 for the license. $100 for our friend's fee. The rest went to dinner.

We told no one except for Mr. R's mom (who died two months later). Two years later -- once we were sure that we could survive being actually married to each other -- we finally fessed up to family and friends and the kids, and I took his name.

We don't remember what day this happened unless we actually get out the license and look at it. I'm not even sure which year it was. It was sometime near the end of December in either 1997 or 1998, which means we're either just past or just coming up to our tenth anniversary. Evidently, there are other days in our common memory that matter much, much more.