Buzz Blog

What my hand looks like now, a year later. That darkish spot is where my mole/tattoo used to be.

Better safe than sorry, I guess
By Jammie Salagubang – Buzz Editor

As of this date, I have exactly one month until I get married. And I’m going to have “crazy hand” at the wedding.

Let me explain: Back when I was a naive and clumsy 15-year-old, I accidentally stabbed the back of my hand with a leaky blue pen. I decided to let it heal over without cleaning out the ink so it could become my “tattoo.” However, I later repented of this decision and thought I could maybe “squeeze” out the ink, but this resulted in much pain and an even bigger dot under my skin.

I decided to leave well enough alone, and mostly forgot about it over the years. It did draw attention sometimes, but that just gave me an opportunity to tell the story of my “tattoo.”

However, it apparently grew large and weird-enough looking that small children would come over, grab my hand and press the spot with their chubby fingers. I realized something might be amiss.

The biggest clue: My gynecologist saw it and said, “Get that looked at. NOW.”

I dutifully made the appointment and went this week. I sat in my paper gown, rather calm, until I heard the dermatologist say, “We’re going to remove this one.”

I started feeling a bit nervous, but surely she didn’t mean that would happen today? Wasn’t this just a skin check?

But latex gloves were being snapped on, gauze pads and (ack) needles brought out. And then horror of horrors, she said, “We’re going to punch this out.”

“Wait, what? What are you thinking of? What punching? What? What does that even mean? Like punch through my hand –?punch?”

At least, that’s what I wanted to say. But what came out was “eep.”

I turned my head away, but of course, looked back at the worst possible moment, in time to see a bloody, flesh crater in my hand. It looked like they had taken a melon-baller to it. I started concentrating on my breathing.

I didn’t look at my hand again until it was stitched up, but while there was no longer a hole, my hand looked like something Frankenstein might be proud to own.

I am now on the hunt for very pretty Band-Aids.

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

Photo by seven14 photography
What the bouquet ended up looking like.

Something borrowed, something blue
By JAMMIE SALAGUBANG – Buzz Editor

In an effort to cut down costs for my wedding, I decided to do a lot of DIY (Do It Yourself) projects. Why not? I thought. I like working with my hands, I wander Michaels’ aisles for fun and I own a glue gun (two, in fact).

However, I’ve discovered DIY also justly stands for ‘Daming Inis Yata (Tagalog for “a lot of irritation, after all.”)

I want a brooch bouquet for my bridal bouquet: They’re pretty, they last forever and most importantly, they’re sparkly (I have a raccoon’s fascination for shiny objects). They are also prohibitively expensive if done by professionals.

I looked up a tutorial on how to make them, and while the project did seem like it would take up quite a bit of time, it didn’t seem that hard. And my mother already had quite a collection of gold brooches.

Aha, I thought with glee, my something borrowed!

I gathered my mom’s brooches and some I had already collected and did a mock-up of my bouquet. I showed it to my man, who then pronounced:

“It looks like something from a Taiwanese junk shop.”

I was a bit put-out, but not defeated. The answer lay, I thought, in procuring more brooches. No problem, I thought, I live in the heart of thrift and antique stores. Finding gold brooches will be a snap!

Or so I thought.

My weekends were spent haunting thrift stores, waiting and hoping for that big shipment filled with sparkling and untold treasures that I just knew would come in someday, if only people would do their spring cleaning already.

Alas, I never did find the mother lode, and had to painstakingly gather them in bits and pieces (the process is still ongoing after two months.)

Like all truly irritating episodes, this one does not seem to have an end. Besides finding the pieces, I have to clean, wire, and wrap them with floral tape. Moreover, color, size, depth, fit and proportion all have to be considered when putting together the bouquet, which itself is an unwieldy process. And it weighs a ton.

Sigh. Turns out I’m the something blue.

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman

My mom and dad on their wedding day. Notice the mock turtleneck on my mother’s wedding dress.

Something old, something new
By JAMMIE SALAGUBANG – Buzz Editor

Sewing is an underappreciated art. I like clothes, but I rarely think about the stitches and cutting that goes into it, I’m too busy thinking about color and fit.

But the things it can do are amazing.

For my wedding I am wearing my mother’s wedding gown. My mother had quite the fashion sense. I wear many of her clothes now, and it’s a running joke among my friends that when they compliment me on some item that I reply, “Thanks. It’s my mom’s.”

So when the idea came up that I should wear my mother’s wedding dress, I jumped on it. And it fit me, incredibly. The only problem was that my mother was married in the ’70s — and the dress looks it. A-line, long-sleeved with a mock turtleneck neckline, it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for my wedding day.

Enter the seamstress.

Or rather, enter the hours of trying to find one. It seems sewing is also a dying art. I found plenty of places that could do alterations, but this dress required major reworking. I was redoing the silhouette and making it strapless. Plus, I wanted to incorporate my mother’s veil into the skirt. (It doesn’t count if the groom reads a description of the dress, right?)

Also, the dress is 40 years old. I was perhaps a little overprotective of it — as in obsessively hovering over it and hyperventilating if anyone touched it with unwashed hands.

I Googled seamstresses and the name of Janice Babb came up at Corwin’s Bridal Salon. However, there were no pictures of her work. With apprehension I made an appointment to meet her.

On the appointed day I turned up at Corwin’s. Janice was nowhere in sight, but a man before me came in to pick up a jacket she had worked on. “Perfect,” he said. So far, so good.

And it got even better. Janice Babb turned out to have the most soothing voice, perfect for calming the orneriest and prickliest bridezilla. I gingerly and tenderly took out the garment. She just as gingerly and tenderly looked at it. The savage beast in me subsided.

Not only was she able to do everything I wanted, she included things I would’ve wanted if I had known about them, like a built-in petticoat and an elastic waist thingy. She was even able to make flowers out of the leftover remnants of the dress (not that there were many because she was very respectful of the dress and only cut what she had to) that the wedding party can wear, so we’ll all get to wear something from the dress.

When you look at before pictures of the dress and what it looks like now, it’s hard to believe they’re the same thing. Sometimes I just sit in front of the dress and stare in wonder.

Janice Babb, you’re awesome.

What the dress looks like now, from the front…

…and from the back. The train is basically the same as it was for my mom, except mine hangs from mid-back, and hers hung from her shoulders, like a royal mantle or something 🙂

Jammie Karlman is the entertainment editor for the Chico Enterprise-Record. Contact her at buzz@chicoer.com. Follow her on Twitter @JammieKarlman