Get Me to the Church on Time

Hear ye, hear ye! This be my last post as an unmarried.

And actually there is no church. We're getting hitched in my niece's back yard. She and her husband have a big honking farm in rural Indiana (where I'm from). Big rolling hills, pond, giant silos, all the accoutrements. Including several happy, lazy hound dogs running about, all of them related, throwing themselves down in the grass like paratroopers and traipsing around on the cool cement of the back porch. Michele, my niece, tells me these guys will be housed down the road at her in-laws, so as not to disturb the wedding.

I do not know how this happened. Not the getting married part. The getting married outside part. I detest the out-of-doors. I go outside to get my mail, and I come back in. That may change here in Phoenix on the days when it isn't astoundingly hot. I may go outside more and stop being a she-mole. But in the unforgiving summer humidity of the Midwest? No. I stay inside. So how did this plan come about? Something about keeping it small and casual.

Our families are emailing, asking what to wear. Worried that we don't really mean it when we say we just don't give a rat's ass. Be comfortable. Sure, we're dressing up. I've got a long purple dress and he has a dark gray Italian suit that makes me want to rip it off him. That jacket will be off him 15 seconds after the vows are finished. But not because of any unladylike behavior on my part. This is 90 degree Indiana muggy we're talking about. The wedding isn't until 6:30 p.m. and we have tents coming for shade, and in case of rain. But it'll still be life-force-emptying sticky at that time of day.

We're down to the wire now. Hurrying to throw together the last minute crap. It seems like all we've been doing for the last 3 months is throwing together enough details to wage a complicated war against an imaginary planet. There was the semester to finish, the packing, the hiring a realtor, the saying goodbye to so many people that I already miss, the job interviews, the packing, the loading, the sweating, the other interviews, the phone calls, the car check-ups, the dentist, the last minute pap smear while I was still on my insurance. NOTHING is as festive as a last minute pap smear. Think of it as a drive-by shooting for the cervix, but with just one big cold slow bullet. Stirrups. Stirrups. Just the word makes me smile.

Oh, and I think I sold my house today, so there's that paperwork and faxing to do. I took a huge beating on it, just to get rid of it. So as not to allow it to join the ranks of the 7 other houses in my neighborhood that have been sitting like prom wallflowers waiting to be noticed.

Totally different subject: Twizzlers. I'm chewing my 25th-ish one of the day. Keeps me from gnashing my teeth during the final 400 details. Excellent for blood sugar.

Let me tell you what it's come to. Scott needed to buy pool chemicals today. He went out to get them. The place had just closed. He came back home to get me so we could go to PetSmart to get Hankie a new toy and some cat food. I am outraged, by the way, at how difficult it is to find a good cat toy in this godforsaken city. I don't want a feathery one that he can chew up and half-swallow and choke on, looking as though he has committed suicide by ramming an entire bald eagle into his mouth. And I don't want the wussy little bells-and-yarn things that would embarrass any cat like they were being forced to wear a dickey. We found a good one at PetSmart, got that and about 30 cans of food, and the cashier had to ring everything up three times. She would ring it all up, put it in the bags, we'd put the bags in our cart, and she'd say "Oh my God. That totally didn't work." and we'd take the bags out and dump them and she'd start again. All the while we are starving, our tempers are twitching like Sylvia Plath at a Dr. Seuss Festival.

Upon final escape, Scott was craving a root beer float so we hit the superb ice cream place, Mary Coyle's, where he ordered the float and I got a scoop of the lusciously disgusting black licorice ice cream that makes my tongue turn as black as the grim reaper's cape. It is very appealing. Ask him. Scott. Not the grim reaper.

We came home, lost track of what we were supposed to do next, got in the pool, paddled around, talked about the next dozen things on our list. And then one of us said "Oh yeah! We'll be married when all this is done!" It keeps us going. That and the tittering knowledge that our wedding cake will be an elaborate "Kitty Litter Cake" complete with melted tootsie rolls to simulate poopage. We got class. Ask anybody.

Tuesday will be our first time to fly together. For almost 2 years it's been one of us going to see the other. This is an adventure in itself. And the oddity will continue when we see our two families together, our worlds colliding layer after layer. There are details I can't help picturing. My parents walking me down the aisle of grass, my dad barely able to walk at all, but still he and my mom are madly in love and coming up on their 66th anniversary.

Scott will be waiting, sweaty and smiling, I'm guessing. Words will come out of our mouths that will seal the deal. I will be more crazy about him than ever.

Then we will eat fake cat feces.

Wish us luck. See you in a week.