Using Your Words

On the phone with The Boy, I just said, "Foof."

"Foof is right," he replied. And so, it has come down to this. I have lost my vocabulary.

The rental coordinator, Ira, called today to tell me he "took the liberty" of scoping out Federal Hill this morning. He mentioned newly planted grass and orange caution tape at our wedding site. He assumed I knew about it. I didn't. We're taking a trip over sometime (we're running out of it) to assess the damage and plan the control. How would tulle look draped over caution tape? (In a related story, our wedding coordinator, Marlene, sent us an email a couple of weeks ago mentioning condoms and needles she saw while walking in the park. We appreciated her...specificity.) I don't worry about the pictures; our photographer has already made it abundantly clear that he has no qualms using PhotoShop. I just wish there were an internal PhotoShop we could impose upon our guests.

We sat at the O's/Red Sox game last night for The Boy's birthday (we celebrated it, albeit modestly, against all odds) and I thought I might have gotten in my first girl fight. The stakes would have been higher if I hadn't had the perspective of wedding pictures in mind. The girl behind me talked a couple of octaves too high, and not by nature. Before the National Anthem, when the announcer said that the Boys' Choir would sing their rendition of the song, she said, "Rendition? Like that's even a word."

She called Trot Nixon "Trotty Trot," loudly and often. She cheered for every out, and even for a few bad plays and strikes against her own team. At one point, with a Sox runner on first, she said, confused, "Wait, why is there a guy in a white jersey there? That means he's an Oriole. I thought the Red Sox were up." One of the males around her informed her he was the first baseman. Later, she and her friend suggested staying at least until "halftime," and when I saw them in the bathroom, they regarded the paper towel holder, looked up into it and stormed off in frustration. Apparently, they were not accustomed to manual machines.

We survived until the 8th inning, when we couldn't take it anymore. We stopped for a beer at the Wharf Rat where many, "Can you believe we're getting married THIS WEEKEND," statements were made. At The Home we split a bottle of Asti while finalizing our rehearsal dinner list. Far from romantic, better than nothing.