"Or, We Can do the Chicken, which is not Chic, but Cheap"

While Dwayne Johnson (aka, THE ROCK, seen at left, in all of its pixellated glory) and I have been gallivanting around the wonders that are the preliminary stages of wedding planning, it occurs to me that my readership of the blog (oh, this old thing?) has grown. How did I come to this conclusion? Well.

The Boy had an appointment in a neighborhood in Columbia with which I am familiar from my high school days (chillin’ out max and relaxin’ all cool). I accompanied him, since his doubleheader softball game immediately followed. To maximize the effectiveness of my time spent waiting in the truck (don't be confused, as I’ve mentioned before, The Boy is the proud owner of that marvel of Swedish engineering, the Saab 9-3. We had to borrow an uncle’s truck to transport his unwanted dining room set to The Boy’s living room. You know, one man’s trash…) I called Tara. But I had terrible reception. So, braving the muggy air that harvested surprisingly hostile bugs (I’ve been employing the Benadryl Anti-Itch Stick all day, and I don‘t even care who’s looking), I walked around the neighborhood trying to hear my friend.

There is only one family on my radar screen of influence living in that neighborhood. Wouldn’t you know, on the phone, swatting at bugs that were invisible to anyone but me, in the middle of the street, I ran into the mom of that family (hi, Joyce). Naturally, she looked puzzled and asked about my presence in front of her home. Because she hasn’t seen me in years. I explained to her that my fiancé was running an appointment with one of her neighbors. She appeared unfazed. This unfazedness surprised me, because she has always been one for news. The surprise must have taken up residence on my face, because she fessed up, “Yeah, I’m one of the people stalking your blog.” Wow. Apparently, it’s not singing that is my fake claim to fame, as I had initially thought, it’s blogging.

So, this wedding planning thing, really. Martin Short with a fake accent, if you’re out there and you can hear me, please come over, stat. This is just ridiculous. So many variables. So much money. So much “planning ahead” and “thinking of all possible circumstances” and “avoiding conflicts.” I’m trying to have a small wedding, I am. But if all of Mom’s guest list “suggestions” are incorporated, that’s not going to be in the cards. This is what I’d like: Can’t I just nail down the location and the date and the food provider and let someone else do the rest, with periodic opinions and absolutely no payment from me? Please?

Frankly, I don’t even have time to handle all of this. The Boy is headed home for his all-important Fantasy Football Draft this weekend (no, not the one that is causing him to reschedule our anniversary; that one is tomorrow). I am heading in the absolute opposite direction and driving to Texas with my dad tomorrow. Yeah, that’s what I said, Tay-haas. In a Corolla and a day and a half. We are delivering little brother’s car. So I’m psyched to see him, and it will be nice to have some Father-Daughter time (now that the big, scary questions with ambiguous answers are out of the way—thanks to Dwayne Johnson). But maaaan, is that a long trip. So, I’ve got that.

Next week we have meetings with caterers and events coordinators and then, of course, my birthday, which, naturally, is trumped by my pre-marital status. Because, really, who expects The Boy to carry on about a year together and my birthday when he’s faced with a lifetime with me?

In unrelated relational news, Little Sister just called, dubbing herself "Consuelo" and telling me that some phrase I've never encountered means "see you tomorrow" in Spanish. I said, "Wouldn't that be 'hasta manana'?" She countered, "Really, C, don't you know there's more than one way to say good-bye?"