It is approximately 140 days until the wedding and some hidden time bomb of a countdown timer in my brain must have just kicked on.
I can imagine it like a big red alarm clock – the old fashioned kind with two bells on top – nestled snugly in the soft folds of my gray matter tick tock, tick tocking away.
Last night I dreamed that I woke up like any other day and the house was full of people. Big noisy men who needed to shave in chef’s hats and just all kinds of people. What, I wondered was going on?
"Mom!" the bride cried, "Where are the bouquets?"
"What do you mean? We haven’t ordered the flowers yet."
"But Mom, the wedding is today!"
It was one of those dreams like you have before an exam when you realize you haven’t studied at all or have arrived naked as a, you know, naked person. Horrible. I spent the rest of the night running around trying to improvise wedding bouquets out of Saran Wrap and trying to find something in my closet that wasn’t sweat pants and dodging the increasingly angry chefs. What a night!
I supposed I dreamed that little dream because Eldest Daughter (aka Blushing Bride With Very Definite Ideas) and I had spent a couple of hours on the computer researching wedding favors.
First things first, I’d like to get something straight. For my own information. We’re throwing a big party with a cast of gorgeously costumed characters, lots of wonderful food, music – and I would like to pause for a moment here and share some distressing news. Bride informs me that there will be no "Chicken Polka." WHAT!?!?!? No "Chicken Polka"? I told her that marriages in Oklahoma were not legal without at least three or four bouts of happy Chicken Polka-ing, but she did not believe me. She is firm in her decision. NO POLKAS!
I was shocked at this newest bit of insanity. I guess I will just have to talk to Little Brother (aka DJ Wants A Driver’s License). Maybe slip him a ten to make it a night to remember. Because I have been looking at MOB gowns specifically with an eye to designs roomy enough to polka enthusiastically in while maintaining both my modesty and comfort. Like all MOBs.
But back to the favors. We’re throwing a wonderful party – must we also give a gift? I voted for three Jordan almonds in some tulle. She voted for organic artisan honey harvested by monks and shipped in by llamas from North Dakota and packaged in cunning little boxes carved from diamonds and rubies and emeralds, oh my! I may be exaggerating a teensy bit.
At first I was getting into the spirit of the whole thing. What about something from that quaint little grist mill we visited in Arkansas? Oh look! They have cute little flowered bags of stone ground organic pancake mix! Ka-Ching! And what about a little bottle of blackberry syrup with the mix? Ka-Ching, ka-ching. And a cute little graniteware bowl all wrapped up in tulle? Chingchingchingching.
My Wedding-Budget-O-Meter finally kicked in. Wait. No way. What about three Jordan almonds in some tulle? Or a peanut M&M in a fresh Kleenex?
Well, Bride said thoughtfully, what about a little jar of some kind of spice. Maybe something exotic. From Tibet. Each individual package flown in by carrier pigeon. Carrier pigeons wearing little gold and sapphire collars. How does that sound?
Or maybe wee little bottles of champagne made from grapes raised by little orphans. In France. Little French orphans who gave the love they would have given to their poor lost Mamas and Papas to the vines. And who crushed each grape individually between their little thumbs and forefingers. Washing carefully between each grape. How about that?
How about a plain M&M in a Band-Aid? Or, she said, maybe a set of solid gold coasters engraved with our names and wedding date? Or a pearl encrusted cheese knife? Or a Barbie and Ken dressed in exact replicas of our wedding clothes? Or one perfect rose. Each. For everybody. Or a little lamp with a genie in it that will grant three wishes for each guest.
Or a Rice Krispie in an old gum wrapper. We will solve this problem and come to a happy compromise. I am confident of that. And we will do it with calm demeanors and a smile on our respective lips. We have resolved, Bride and I, to get through this whole thing with nary a harsh word. And we’ve been remarkably successful so far.
But there are still 140 days, and more to the point, 139 nights to live through. I have a suspicion that at least some of those nights will be long ones.