I cannot go to school today
Said little Peggy Ann McKay

How’s that Shel Silverstein poem go again? I know if I asked Biscuit, he’d be able to recite it for me. But he’s not here and I’ve had the same couple lines (the only two I know) running through my head since I got up this morning.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.

Only, I’ve been saying, “I have a stye in my right eye.” ‘Cause I actually thought that’s how the poem went and because, well, I do. I do have a stye. And I seriously considered that as a reason to stay home today.

That should tell you about the state of … things.

I gotta say, for such a small thing, a stye is a terrible, wicked thing. Like fire ants. Or paper cuts. Or toddlers. Okay, just kidding about the toddlers. Except the ones on airplanes — they are definitely small, terrible things.

Anyway.

A while back, remember how I taunted everyone with a ‘big change’ that clearly never happened? Well, it will. I promise. And hopefully on Monday. In the meantime, I will be running back and forth to the ladies’ room to make certain my stye has not taken over my entire eye and turned me into a taller, girlish Quasimodo (Quasimoda? Does the masculine/feminine adjective things apply?).

Sanctuary!

I had my suspicions that Saturday’s wedding would fill me with matrimonial envy. I’d be overcome by every little awww moment (I do’s, first dance, best man’s speech) and walk away from the whole event just itching to get hitched. But I left the reception convinced not that I needed to get myself a husband, but that I must have a chocolate fountain.

And if I have to get married to have one at my reception, I will.

The wedding was flawless. The ceremony was brief (no kneeling!), every detail was exquisite but not overdone and even the standard wedding cheese was made bearable by a touch of humor. Like when it came time to cut the cake, Adam Sandler’s Grow Old with You played in the ballroom.

Classic.

I had thought I’d seen everything when we made our way into the reception hall before dinner and found ourselves in front of a Mojito fountain. Brilliant. An attendant filled your glass and then added some mint leaves and sent you on your way. I had two. But that was the closest I came to taking advantage of the open bar, and aside from champagne toasts to the bride and groom, the only thing I had to drink. I was playing designated driver. As it turned out, the hotel was not exactly next door to the reception.

As impressed as I was with the mojito fountain, when toward the end of the night, J appeared with a plate full of chocolate covered strawberries and told me they’d come from a chocolate fountain, I was overcome. A chocolate fountain? Who was doing the catering — Willy Wonka? This I had to see for myself. Lo and behold, there it was in the anteroom, a four foot, three-tiered fountain of chocolate. And even though I was stuffed to the gills, I got in there with a couple speared strawberries. It was insanely good.

I managed to dribble some of that fine chocolate down my cleavage. Saving it for later, I guess.

When everyone was walking away with their centerpieces (I had no idea this was okay, not to mention tradition), I made one last pass of the anteroom to see if maybe that centerpiece was included in the deal. It wasn’t. Too bad no one got to take that home – not even the newly weds. But what a kick-ass thing to have at a wedding….and what a way to assure wedded bliss.

Because, I mean, what says Lifetime of Happiness like a tower of flowing chocolate? Exactly.

Tomorrow after work, I’m getting on a Boston-bound train. Hopefully, I’ll have clothes to pack in my bags, but we’ll get to that in a bit.

When J called yesterday to firm up plans for the weekend, I was still pretty foggy on the details. All I knew is our good friends were gettin’ hitched and I was looking forward to putting on my dancing shoes. Which is not a lot of information. So when we’d gotten the pleasantries out of the way (a good five minutes of Zoolander and Life Aquatic quotes), I went over my questions.

Attire?
Formal.

Shit! What is this, Father of the Bride? As visions of white tents and twinkle lights danced in my head, I flipped through my desk calendar. Three days. I had three days to either lose the eighteen pounds required to fit into something I already owned or high-tail it around town and buy a new one. For no dollars and fifty cents. Because that’s exactly how much money I could afford to spend. I scratched a note on my Post-it to-do list. Black formal dress.

When and where?
4:00 in one of those W towns. Like, Wooster. Or Woburn. The hotel is right next door.

4:00 is good. I’ll get to sleep in, spend time fussing and by 6:00 or so, I’ll be well on my way to getting silly on the dance floor with all my old pals. And if the hotel is right next door…

“Wait, what?”
“The hotel is next to the reception.”
“Why are we staying in a hotel? It’s only 30 minutes away.”
“Yeah, and it’s open bar. Who’s gonna be able to drive back?”

Not to suddenly morph into my mother, but… oh dear. I’m mostly not worried about sharing a hotel room with my ex-superdrama; I’ll just have to be on my best behavior. You know, angel on both shoulders kind of a thing. Besides, right now, I have more pressing concerns like…

The United Nations.

Apparently, the UN being in session affects my local wash-n-fold / dry cleaner and they may or may not have my clothes back in time for me to go tomorrow. I dropped off a load last night. This morning I was told that due to traffic, etc etc, they might not have my clothes back from their factory until late tomorrow. Hmmm. That. Is. Not good. Among the items I left were any and all jeans that currently fit and the new dress, which needed to be steamed. My fingers and toes are crossed that they are returned in time. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to get real creative with my wedding attire.

Incidentally, the new dress cost slightly more than no dollars and fifty cents. But that’s what credit is all about, right? Emergencies. And if this isn’t an emergency…

Don’t worry, I’m rolling my eyes at myself for you.

It was Christmas in September and we were making tarts.

I don’t have a kitchen counter to speak of, or a table to eat on, so when we have big cooking projects, we make do. Pecans were crushed in a plastic bag with a rolling pin by a cross-legged Biscuit on my living room floor. Bowls of melted caramel, chocolate cream and sundry ingredients dotted every available surface. And extra ingredients eventually found a home on one corner of my living room desk.

When I left for work Monday morning, everything was still there. A nearly-full bag of caramel cubes – hastily twisted shut and sat on its top end – was among the items neatly waiting a home in the cupboard. But when I came home in the evening, that was no longer the case.

It happened once with mini marshmallows.

I came home one night last winter to fluffy white wonderland and my lunatic kitten racing around the apartment, batting wildly at what had been almost an entire bag of tiny, hot chocolate sized marshmallows. I found marshmallows in my bed, in my shoes, under the couch and in the bathtub.

Same sort of situation with the caramel cubes. In Sir Hal’s food dish, behind the commode, and just now, a very Princess and the Pea moment when I settled in with my laptop and… what’s this behind my pillow? Oh yes. Caramel.

I swear, His Excellency must get on the internet while I’m at work and Google “ways to wreak havoc in small spaces.” He’s just so damn good at it. And so good at waiting until I’m nowhere near him with the squirt bottle to implement his evil plots.

I gotta say, I think I prefer the caramels. Much easier to clean up.

On my birthday, my father was in the hospital. I still waited up for him to call and even slept with my phone next to my pillow thinking maybe, what with the time difference and all…

I didn’t know if patients in the cracker box get to use the phone when they want to, but he never called.

A month later, I flew out West to visit. He didn’t show up to Sunday dinner and instead, hermited himself at some fishing hole or another. He didn’t call then either, but cellular reception in the canyons is always tricky.

If I call and he doesn’t answer, I hold the phone away until it beeps, avoiding what I know his voicemail will say. “Hi, this is Mike. I don’t feel like answering the phone right now.” Sad, tired. When I hear it, it scares me.

His emails are harder to swallow than his voicemail. They’re always about how much he loves my mother still. Unbearably. Phone conversations, though, are easier to manipulate.

How’s the new place?
Any sign of the baby hawks?
No, I’m still not seeing anyone special.

“Nothin’ more important than love,” he says, nearly every time.

“I’m doin’ okay without it.”

“Me, too. Me too, kiddo.”

And he pretends to believe me. And I pretend to believe him, too. ‘Cause I’m my father’s daughter.