Me and my BFF Prince Charles by Jenny Gardiner

Hi!
Wanted to share with you a post I put up after William and Kate married---seemed good timing after the lovely royal wedding we all got to enjoy yesterday from our sofas! Wasn't it a beautiful, beautiful day? So happy for them both. Anyhow, here's a story about my encounter with Prince Charles (back when he didn't look so darned old!):

Watching the royal wedding brought back memories from long ago, my one and only brush with royalty…

It was 1990, I was pregnant with my first child. I was working as a photographer in Washington, DC and my husband and I had gone to Florida for a business trip he had to take. A few months earlier, I'd contacted the British Embassy after having read about an upcoming garden party; I figured any self-respecting garden party would need a photographer so I pitched my services.

The charming press person at the time politely told me they had a photographer but would take my name for future events, should they arise. I figured that was the last I would hear from them.

Fast forward a few months later, to a dingy hotel room in Bradenton, Florida. My husband had to attend a carnival trade show because a product his company produced was being knocked off and used as carny prizes. He'd hoped to persuade those attending the show to buy the legitimate product, rather than ripping his company off. 

Now, if you've ever gone to a carnival, you can probably conjure up images of your average carny type: Seedy-looking men, missing and rotting teeth, grizzled faces. There's usually an all-around feel of felons-freshly-sprung-from-prison about the place, coupled with the aroma of years-old trans-fat sizzling away in vats awaiting a plunge from a 1000-calorie corn dog or maybe a fried twinkle, perhaps a grease-sopped funnel cake if you're lucky. 

Well, the difference between a carnival and a carnival trade show (at least 20-some years ago) is simply that the grease isn't as old. Same creepy people, same vile food, same crappy products. So we were coming off a relaxing day amidst the seedier element of society, and were relaxing at the hotel when I decided to check our voice mail.

Back then we'd only recently gotten an answering machine. I know this sounds crazy, but they were newfangled devices then. Technologically-stunted as I've always been, I'd barely figured out how to check our messages on the thing before we left for our trip. And while gone, one morning before embarking on our carnival trade show expedition, I called home to see if we had any messages. Which was when I heard the voice mail from a Gareth So-and-So from the British Embassy, asking if I was interested in an upcoming event. He needed an answer immediately.

Of course I called back pronto. Remember, there were no cell phones back then. Wait, there were. When I worked on Capitol Hill in the 80's I'd gone to a hair salon near the White House and remember seeing an Important Looking Man lugging a small suitcase in one hand, holding a phone receiver attached to the suitcase by a long coiled cord, with the other. This was back when we had rooms devoted to "mainframes" to operate computers in offices. How far we've come in so short a time…) But making long-distance calls from anywhere other than home was a cumbersome process back then: using a calling card, you had to dial about 70 numbers without screwing up the number sequence and then get connected to some remote operator or bell tones, enter in another 20 digits and maybe then you'd be connected to your number. Amazingly I dialed through successfully, and got hold of Gareth before he'd found another photographer. 

"Hallo," he said to me in a gorgeous clipped British accent. I don't care what one looks like, when you speak with that accent it erases all flaws instantly. I swooned over the phone. In a professional manner, of course. 

"I have a job you might be interested in," Gareth told me. I figured maybe another garden party, one of those things where women wear silly hats (Princes Beatrice, anyone?)

"His Royal Highness will be coming to Washington and there are several events for which we need a photographer."

I tried hard to maintain my composure and not choke. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. Needed me. Prince Charles, then the celebrated man of the hour, considered studly despite his jug ears (and yes, they are quite juggy). They needed me, humble and pregnant me, to shoot Prince Charles (with a camera of course). 

I tried to remain cool, as if often I was invited to be the official photographer of the most famous royal (next to his then-wife Princess Diana). 

I told Gareth I needed to check my schedule, and pretended to leaf through my sad-sack calendar, the dinky 4" x 4" ones you used to get for free at the Hallmark store (yep, electronic calendars were years away). And of course I instantly jumped at the chance, no doubt appearing pathetically excited and simpering about the prospect of this brush with British royalty.

I was, as I said, pregnant. At that time speculation abounded that Diana and Charles were going for a girl, and rumors were running amok that she was indeed pregnant. I pondered drumming up some small talk with Chuck about his pregnant wife (a presumptuous leap on my part), what with us having so much in common, I knew we were bound to be BFFs. Fortunately I opted out of that tack. Because it wasn't long after that that we all learned that Charles had been clandestinely telling his extramarital fling Camilla he yearned to be her tampon or maxi pad or something equally abhorrent. Clearly he wouldn't have been keen dishing on Di with me when he was fantasizing about being inside Camilla's knickers (literally). 

My husband never once wanted to come along on my photo shoots (particularly the dull ones, like the American Institute of CPAs; can't blame him, though those CPAs were a lovely group). Even my Liz Taylor shoot he shunned. But he jumped at the chance to be my assistant for the royal visit.

Prior  to undertaking the job, we got a mini-lesson on dealing with the Prince--i.e. avoid dealing with the Prince. No handshaking, speak to him only when spoken to, that sort of thing. 

I was told the Prince always had a group photo taken with his equerry staff (the cadre of helpers who travel with him everywhere to be sure someone puts the toothpaste on his toothbrush, I guess). So we assembled the group amidst the splendor of the British Embassy, an elegant building filled with stunning artwork. We had the men lined up in two rows, some seated, some standing. 

"I need all of the men seated to place your hands in your laps," I instructed them. 

"Your own laps," my able-bodied spouse interjected, to the horror of the embassy staff. 

For a minute, I waited for someone to run up and tell us we were fired from the job. But then Charles placed his hand over his mouth and…laughed. It was a very royal sounding laugh, a ha-ha-ha rather than an all-out guffaw. But enough so that I knew the job hadn't slipped through our fingers, and for my husband to this day to be able to stake his claim on having gotten Charles to chuckle.

Shame Charles and Di never did end up being our BFFs, no double-dating, naming each other our kids' godparents. But we'll always have Charles' chuckle. 

Great news! Red Hot Romeo is free! A hot Italian, a gorgeous supermodel, and fabulous wines…what’s not to love?!

You can check out the first book in the Royal Romeo series for free here:

Kindle: bit.ly/RedHotRomeo
iBooks: http://bit.ly/RHRom
Nook: http://bit.ly/RHRNook
Kobo: http://bit.ly/KoboRHR
Google Play: http://bit.ly/RHRgoogle

Check out my Falling for Mr. Wrong series! Falling for Mr. Wrong,  Falling for Mr. Maybe, Falling for Mr. No Way in Hell  and Falling for Mr. Sometimes and Falling for Mr. Right are now available for pre-order.

Lastly, don't forget, book one of the It's Reigning Men series, Something in the Heir, is free here!

I hope you'll have a chance to check out my Royal Romeos series, which is a spin-off of my wildly popular It's Reigning Men series--please do check them out!

Happy reading!

    

  

  

         

T (shirt) for Two (thousand) by Jenny Gardiner

            Since being terrified after spending time in a relative's hoarder home earlier in the summer, I've been relishing the purge mode we're in at our house, getting rid of the excessive volume of crapola that we simply don't need, and untangling the ties that bind from having so much junk cluttering up our lives.

            But in the process I have been struck by the abundance — make that wretched excess — of t-shirts in which we are collectively in possession. I don't doubt that between the five of us we own close to a thousand t-shirts, enough to clothe a small third-world nation, if given the chance. The thing is, I am sure we are not alone with this unnecessary clothing glut: I suspect the globe is in danger of being overrun with a dearth of unneeded stretch knits. I'm waiting for a worldwide cave-in straight out of that hoarder house I visited.

            What makes tees so hard to unload? Imbued in most t-shirts is complicated sentimentality, since often they are the inexpensive/free memento we collect along the way as we celebrate important events in life. Starting early on in childhood, from pre-school to sports teams, championships, special school events, concerts, weddings, family reunions, and countless other life happenings in which we are invested with our time and passion, t-shirts are a de facto part of them and ultimately what remains, aside from our memories. So who can throw them out? It's like pushing your kid out the door and locking it behind him. (Proof: I still have a t-shirt I bought at a Bruce Springsteen concert in 1977. Of course it hasn't fit for two decades).

            A while back quilters got the right idea: salvage the main part of the design, pitch the moth-eaten remainders, and stitch up a quilt memorializing all those sentimental events. Though quilting with stretch fabric is no fun, it's a great idea. Except when you have hundreds of sentimental T's with which you simply cannot part. We'd be mighty hot around here with the hundreds of t-shirt quilts we'd have to make to maximize use of our vast stockpile. And that's of the "valuable" ones, not even the ones now in the discard pile.

            Instead, we agonize about what to get rid of, these shirts we do not need. Worst are the ones you get for free that are plastered with meaningless sponsorships, like the freebies you get from the bank for signing up for a credit card on your first day of college: as if anyone will ever even wear the t-shirt that says "Garden State Bank & Trust welcomes you to Jersey U".  Well, you know what I mean.

            Years ago while traveling in Africa we happened upon a destitute local villager wearing a New York Jets t-shirt, another with one promo'ing the Minnesota Vikings. Clearly one man's trash is another's treasure. At least that's what I'm counting on as we lug bagfuls of the stuff to donation sites, hoping these washed-up threads find new and happy homes.

            T-shirts do have an awkward downside: I'm always terribly curious to read people's shirts, but you can't do it without staring at someone's chest, a huge space violation. If you insist on gaping, you clearly run the risk of being considered a t-shirt stalker, which is slightly creepy. But there are compelling messages on t-shirts. One of my favorites reads: "I take aspirin for the headache caused by the Zyrtec I take for the hayfever I got from Relenza for the uneasy stomach from the Ritalin I take for the short attention span caused by the Scopederm Ts I take for the motion sickness I got from the Lomotil I take for the diarrhea caused by the Zenikal I take for the uncontrollable weight gain from the Paxil I take for the anxiety from Zocor I take for my high cholesterol because exercise, a good diet, and regular chiropractic care are just too much trouble." See, there are compelling life lessons in those t-shirt messages.

            My problem is I also get this way with tattoos as well: I really want to see precisely what someone has such powerful convictions about that they're willing to ink it into their flesh for life. But it's awfully rude to stare, darn it. Don't even get me started on ogling folks with bad plastic surgery or Botox. Oy.

            The other morning we were at breakfast and one person at our table having trouble choosing what to order turned completely around and stared at the meals just served to the neighboring table, trying to discern what looked most tempting. Unfortunately, once the food's been placed in front of the diner, it's impolite to gawk at it, even for legitimate reasons. But how can you not, with that delicious food just calling out to you? All these times when staring is called for, yet practically verboten at the same time: it seems unfair.

            Last week we were on a motorboat on a lake. Now staring is a given while boating: every boater has some degree of boat envy and you can't help but gape at what the other guy is tooling around in. If not that, you're wondering why the guy wore that suit, in light of how small it is/how it's falling off his behind/how his overflowing belly obscures it. Or why any granny over the age of 70 would choose to wear a bikini, anyhow. So as you motor about the water, you stare at the passing boats. Everyone does it. And then you wave. It's a "Hey, we're not staring at you, we're just passing by, neighbor" wave. Even though everyone knows it's really more a "we want to know how you can afford that boat and dress that badly" kind of wave.

            Which leads me back to being thrilled just to be purging at our house. Because I sure as hell don't want to be the crazed hoarder everyone is staring at when my stockpile of junk collapses around me and the earth mover is required to save me. Now that would be worth staring at; even I would have no choice but to fix my gaze.

Jenny Gardiner spends most of her time staring at her computer, which thankfully is not insulted by this rude habit. You can find her at www.jennygardiner.net

Please check out my books that have been published!


Sleeping with Ward Cleaver

Slim to None

Anywhere But Here

Where the Heart Is

Winging It: A Memoir of Caring for a Vengeful Parrot Who's Determined to Kill Me

Accidentally on Purpose (written as Erin Delany)

Compromising Positions (written as Erin Delany)

I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in this Relationship (I'm a contributor)

And these shorts:
Idol Worship: A Lost Week with the Weirdos and Wannabes at American Idol Auditions

The Gall of It All: And None of the Three F's Rhymes with Duck

Naked Man on Main Street (a collection of essays)

find me on Facebook: fan page
 find me on twitter here
 find me on my website

On His Knee, and Then The Ring

My first marriage was one created out of love and desire but also need and practicality, too. By the time we ended up in South Lake Tahoe standing in front of the drunken (he'd been at another wedding or two before ours) justice or Reverend or minister, my finally husband and I had a ten-month-old baby.

We hadn't the romance leading up to the wedding only the fact that we needed to have one. Both my husband and I felt trapped in something that we'd certainly created and were both unsure of what to do next or how to do it. I was excited and worried and nervous--he was depressed and unclear and concerned. As you might imagine, hilarity did not ensue. Not one aspect of the summer months of 1985 bring much good in terms of memory except my son.

Yet for more than twenty years from that August day in 1985, we made a go of it, and I never stopped believing in marriage even when ours ended, the divorce official in December 2007. Despite a great deal of acrimony at the end, I always knew that when marriage worked--when two people pulled together for one or more reasons--the bond was a good thing.

Plus, and, I never lost my belief in the mystery of it, the way two people are brought together quickly or over years--the way suddenly, someone knows that it is right, time, perfect.

And yet, it's not necessary when we are older, really. Unlike my husband and I in 1985, there is no biological imperative. There's usually some financial incentive or, at least, a great insurance plan on one end or the other. There's the desire to pull things together tightly, to show each other and the world what the relationship means. But careers and families are likely already made when two middle-aged (or older) people get married.

But let me tell you that on Christmas Eve night when I pulled a small ring box from my stocking, I was amazed and overjoyed and happy. Kneeling (yes, folks, on his knee), Michael asked me to marry him. In the box, a ring. On his knee, the man. In my heart the answer: Yes.

I've never been engaged like this before, an engagement based on only one thing, the true desire to bring our lives together. Four years of relationship and all the word means brought us to that place in the living room in front of our children and my mother.

"Yes," I said. "Yes."

CRE8N PL8S by Jenny Gardiner

Sometimes there is a Grand Canyon-esque gulf between how one spouse approaches something and how the other one does. Over the years there have been certain marital undertakings that I learned the hard way should have been handled by one, not both of us. There was the Great Wallpapering Debacle early in our marriage, an experience that about destroyed our union in the first year of operation. But we managed to traverse that trying experience, if barely. Despite my husband’s cynically dubbing me “Mrs. Goodenough” because I didn’t exactly care about the accuracy of my plumb line. After all, the house wasn’t plumb; how could my strip of wallpaper be? As far as I was concerned, it was good enough!

Then there was the whole child-rearing venture. Talk about a situation highly-charged with potential for ongoing disagreement. Sheesh!

We recently hit upon yet another source of conjugal conflict: selecting a vanity license plate. This task was already fraught with warning signs. After all, the old mini-van I drove for years carried a vanity plate that he couldn’t stand (IMSOOL8). While I have a propensity to screech into my destination about 10 minutes late, my husband veers toward the punctuality of an Army sergeant. That my car ratified my glaring timing inadequacies didn’t thrill him, as if it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
For laughs I suggested he get a coordinating plate on his car so that when parked side-by-side in the garage, mine would read IMSOOL8 and his would read IM NOT. He didn’t find it so amusing. But he tolerated my tell-all plate because it was on the car I was stuck driving.

As a mom, I long ago resigned myself to being mistress of the mundane mini-van. It’s the most practical vehicle for hauling kids, particularly kids who love to trash the interior of cars. I hadn’t anticipated an escape from mini-van-dom for another decade. But out of the blue recently, we happened into a really cool used convertible just as our decrepit spare van keeled over, it’s second transmission beyond resuscitation.

So finally. Finally! After 20 years, I get to drive a less-than-lame car. One that’s free of the stench of wet dogs and the detritus from kid abuse. This car’s got pizzazz. Up until now, the closest thing to pizzazz associated with my vehicles were pizzas: slices of them dropped on the filthy fur-coated carpet or left to petrify in the back seat, forgotten by absent-minded kids who dined and dashed there. For this stylish car we needed a plate to fit its personality. But because we share the car, we had to agree on a plate. To me it was a no-brainer---it had to be something that would herald the onset of mini-van liberation. IMFREEE came to mind, but seemed a little much. VANLESS? Eh, not so bad, but lacked oomph.

I love reading license plates---it keeps me from complete highway boredom. I could read clever license plates all day long (though thank goodness I’ve never had to do that, as it would mean I was incarcerated in the big lock-up and I was the official license plate inspector).

License plate design provides a chance to exercise your creativity. Alas my husband tends to take the ho-hum snoozer approach with plates (i.e. just put on the one that comes with the car), which I suppose is okay, as long as all parties are in agreement on it.

So for starters, I had a terrific plate idea that would have betrayed my political leanings. My husband nixed it for fear of the car being keyed by ape-ish oafs who object to freedom of speech. Fair enough. This just meant I had to come up with something better.

I next pitched PROFLG8 to him. He laughed at me, insisting no one even knows what it means. Okay, a survey of everyone we knew proved him right (in case you were wondering, it means extravagant). But still, it was at least different. Next came LIDLESS. Perfect for a convertible. Nixed. NFA28D. Nope. I don’t know about him, but I sure am infatuated with that car. MAKNTYM, HD OVRHL, FRIVOLS, OHAPYDY, DNT BH8N, B-DRAGLD, NO ENNUI, 42ITOUS, JUSNTYM, ATI-2DNL, FYNALEE, SUBLIME, HLF ASLP (I wake early). All rejected. TOPLESS. Vetoed for obvious reasons.

My naming prospects were diminishing. I was frustrated. So instead I started coming up with clever plates for other people. ADJUDIC8. Perfect for a judge. LEGISL8. Many a do-nothing politico on Capitol Hill could use that. How about the multi-use IV LEAG? Could work for a nurse or Princeton grad. VNDIC8D. Ideal for that special someone just released from prison after serving time for a crime he didn’t commit. I made a very long list, including one that I now can’t even interpret (NTNELYN). Oh, yeah--that was supposed to be Nittany Lion (mascot of my much-loved alma mater, Penn State). Never mind. And then there's the ever-so-clever anesthesiologist plate: I IN2B8U. I mean come on, that's a good one, you'll have to agree. My old babysitter's mom was an oral hygienist and she had this one on her car: TTH PCKR.

That I devote even the least bit of time to such endeavors perhaps says less about my creative aptitude and more about my latent obsessive tendencies. What can I say? I’m a wordsmith at heart. Creative license-plating is my New York Times crossword puzzle. Maybe it’s my inner mathematician (the one I thought died doing long division in fourth grade) screaming out at me, trying to make clever words through seven-digit letter/number combinations. If so, she’d probably be of more use if she’d correctly balance my checkbook occasionally.

I’m not going to tell you the plate we chose. Suffice it to say each time I look at it I stifle a yawn. I’ve also realized that if my plate were a car, it would be a mini-van. Worse still: now that it’s on the car, we realize that the letter combination can also be misread to be something entirely inappropriate. So if you do see me driving by, spare me the catcalls. Trust me, I really did try to provide my fellow motorists something more amusing to interpret while driving. Perhaps I achieved this inadvertently. Who knows? Not to worry. My license plate ideas are definitely INCHO8. Look it up.