One Good, Hectic Weekend (the prologue)

If anybody had presented this weekend's timetable to me beforehand, I would have recoiled in horror. As it is, things accreted gradually, and instead I recoiled in horror when, Sunday evening, I finally looked at my accumulated Friends' List postings. Aieeee. Now, naturally, I am colluding in making other people who had busy weekends feel the same, rather than actually catching up on anything in particular.

Two local friends of Eric's had invited him to their wedding, and left a space on the invitation for bringing a guest, so he asked me if I'd like to go with him. I was unambiguously thrilled to be asked.

A noon wedding on a Saturday in early May in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. That sounded very nice, really. And while I think I am mostly free, or at least aware, of the gender-role nonsense I was raised with, I still have a strong fondness for, hmm, I'm not sure it is quite fair to call them Stupid Monogamous Couple Tricks (the adjective refers to "Tricks," so put those ruffled feathers down), but to more or less traditional demonstrations of affection and commitment, despite the highly untraditional nature of my relationships.

In much the same way, though not so romantically, I was thrilled when my mother asked me if I'd spend a night in her place to keep the cat company while she was out of town, and said, "You can bring anybody you like." She meant, "It doesn't have to be David, and yes, you can sleep in the same bed." This was just as well, since David had not just a busy weekend but a very busy week, and has a decided preference for remaining at home and sleeping in his own bed when that is possible, especially during otherwise busy times.

During a telephone conversation on Thursday evening, Eric suggested that I might want to spend the night at his place on Friday, since the location of the wedding is much closer to his place than to mine, and he knows I am a very reluctant early riser. I agreed to this. In addition to its obviously attractive aspects, it would mean that I could not waste time on Saturday morning putting on and then discarding various garments in a desperate last-minute search for something that would miraculously make me look like somebody else or allow me to pass as mundane. I could do that, the latter that is, when I was young and thin, but the effort required to do it now is far greater than I am willing to expend and indeed squicks me heartily when I consider of it. This does not prevent the last-minute search for the miraculous garments, however.

I was scheduled for a (free, to those without health insurance) mammogram on Friday. Or I thought I was, but I couldn't find my appointment slip. (Subsequent investigation revealed that I had failed to remove it from my pissed-on knapsack before putting the knapsack in the wash; even had I found it, it was not legible as to time or date.) I called the clinic and found the appointment was half an hour earlier than I remembered its being.

I was a bit fussed at having to go downtown and do medical stuff, but became quite cheerful and even manic on the realization that nobody was going to take my blood pressure. I could have lots of coffee, I could walk from Nicollet rather than grabbing an 8th Street bus, I could get overheated or annoyed or dehydrated if I damn well pleased. I didn't please, really, but I could.

I was early and they took me early. It went all right. Those side views hurt like anything, but I must say the technology is vastly improved over the first time I had a mammogram in the early 1990's. Then the technician had to come out from behind her little leaden screen and manually release one from one's ignominious and painful condition. Now the upper plate just automatically moves away as soon as the picture is taken. Also, the technician had a little trick for making the small sticky rounds with lead buttons on be less painful to take off. She pressed them briefly against the fabric of the hospital gown, which either removes excess adhesive or lints it up, or both.

I walked over to Target afterwards -- it was a splendid spring day -- and having gotten some sensible necessary stuff, found myself wandering around looking for the perfect cheap dress or skirt or trousers or, well, something. I found a couple of nice linen things that might have done and that were dauntingly, to anybody with a social conscience, cheap. But I just could not face the fitting rooms. Then I went to buy a pair of socks, but I couldn't even do that. Nor could I buy a hat. Not a shopping day, obviously.

I came home and took my cat out on his leash, which he appreciated very much indeed. His project for the year is to turn himself into a gray cat, which he does by rolling his muted-orange self assiduously in any patch of dust that offers. The weather up to that point having been quite dry (the rain and wind were saving themselves for the May Day Parade, evidently), he found no shortage of dust for his purposes.

I had attempted to say hello to David several times, but he was never in. I knew he was off to do wedding photography, or more accurately reception photography, in the early evening, so I sent him email about where I'd be. I had some nice conversation with Raphael, glared briefly at my book, packed my knapsack, moved some dirty dishes around, watched the latest "Buffy" with Raphael. Ehhhnnnnng. If I were presented with a plot summary I'd probably say it was fine, but I don't like the way they are doing most things at the moment. No, don't do that scene that way; no, don't gloss over this and emphasize that; what in the world is wrong with your notion of pacing, if you even have one? Grump. Some very nice character bits here and there.

I got the 9:45 bus to Eric's, my knapsack bulging with wedding clothes and one of Elise's necklaces. (Eric had been very soothing about my dress, saying that if I dressed with the same color sense he'd seen and wore one of Elise's necklaces, I would be fine. I took "Questionable Information from Rabbits," which is possibly the most versatile one of hers that I have.)

Thus endeth the prologue.

Pamela

Friday night, Saturday in part

I had an unexpectedly nice time with Eric. I'd expected the low-key, let's-act-as-if-we-lived-together kind of time, since he had a lot of reading to do and we had to get up early. But it was more interactive than that. He did get lots of reading done, and showed me some wonderful old books that meant a lot to him.

I woke up at eight in the morning, revelled comfortably in the thought that I could sleep for two more hours, and then, as all to often happens these days, I started worrying. The worry in this instance began because I was thirsty. That was no great matter; I just got myself a drink of water. But then I realized that I had not checked the water supply of the cats who presently live in the back staircase and in the basement. The air was very dry earlier this week, with humidity of 22% or so. That bowl gets dirty fast anyway because there is so much traffic on the staircase. I often, even when attentive, find it empty or with a quarter-inch of furry water in it.

David was doing photography; Lydy was getting ready for a large new fish tank, with fish, that somebody who, I suspect, found the whole thing too overwhelming was giving her for free. I thought I would call and leave a message when it was not so early, and almost went back to sleep. Only I was still thirsty. I got so restless that Eric asked me if I was okay, and being apprised of the situation, suggested that I call later. This would probably have worked just fine, but I thought of going to the wedding and fretting about whether the cats had any water.

Eric kindly pointed out various time constraints on a plan to go home, and asked if he could do anything. I said he could give me food and coffee when I came back. I leapt up, dressed, grabbed my knapsack with the wedding clothes in it, and went out and got on a bus. It was a glorious morning, well supplied with the songs of finches, robins, bluejays, cardinals, and mourning doves, punctuated by the yelling of crows and the monotonous single chirp of the house sparrow.

I came in the back door so I could check the progress of plants. Red and yellow and red-and-yellow tulips looked nice, and the part of the back yard I had ruthlessly mowed too short was greening up already. I charged in the back door and looked at the water bowl. Empty. I rinsed and filled it, dumped some food in the food bowl for good measure, though it was half full already. Naomi, who was in her box on the shelf below the window, leapt down and began lapping the water in a very obliging fashion.

I ran upstairs and took a very fast shower, and then, in a marvellous show of self-discipline, put on exactly the clothes and necklace I had chosen; filled the cat bowls on the second floor just for the hell of it, and ran out again. I had left at about 9:45, an insanely early hour for me. I got back to Eric's at 10:45, my wet hair compressed under a straw hat I had grabbed from the hall closet at the last moment, because the spring sun was already very strong and the wedding was outdoors.

He fed me and gave me coffee and kindly told me that I looked fabulous. I didn't argue. We made much of the cat and got outselves out the door in time to make a very leisurely progress to Loring Park. We saw a house finch sitting in one of the little trees on 19th Street, silhoutted against the sky, and Eric pointed out that its tail was forked. This will be useful in trying to tell non-singing house finches from house sparrows, in the future.

We made an equally leisurely progress through Loring Park, admiring all the lovely weed species: Canada geese, pigeons, crows, house sparrows, people on park benches. There were red-winged blackbirds making their cell-phone noises in the cattails, which were just starting to green up. There were a lot of grackles around too, demonstrating their good opinion of themselves. We went through the memorial garden, remembering how when the little birch trees were more leafed out, last summer, we had seen a mysterious water bird perched in one. Not much was in bloom, but a great deal was getting ready, all in fresh green.

We were thinking of moving along to the Sculpture Garden when a dark-colored long-necked bird flashed across the narrow water connecting the large lake to the small one, and alighted in a willow tree. We went across the bridge and considered the bird for some time. Eric finally suggested that it might be a rail. It had considerately tipped its head and long bill straight up, which, as he pointed out, would have camoflauged it very nicely had it been in the reeds and cattails instead of in the willow. He told me that the phrase "as thin as a rail" came from this habit of this bird, and it is certainly a better origin than a fence rail, which is what I always connected the phrase to.

We turned reluctantly from the park and went across the blue-and-yellow bridge that spans Lyndale/Hennepin/Whatever. I had earlier referred to the streets we had to cross as "that mess," which I think works fine. The bridge is pleasant and interesting, but I wish they had put in risers for the steps. The traffic below rushes by at an appalling rate and the geometry of all the still and moving straight lines made my inner ear unhappy. It was better up on top, though the noise of the traffic was pretty bad. I'd probably prefer the entire affair at four in the morning.

We noticed belatedly the lines of John Ashberry's poetry that are spelled out along the horizontal beams of the bridge, and read them.

I had not been to the Sculpture Garden for a very long time. It's divided into outdoor rooms by handsome hedges of arbor vitae. We found the wedding party readily enough. I ascertained that we were not on the very end of the bell curve for not being fancily dressed, and Eric observed that he did have the loudest shirt. I pointed out that many of the dresses were louder. That taken care of, we stood uneasily in the sun, looking at the crowd.

The relatives and the bride and groom were having photographs taken. Aside from a few people who were presumably parents, most of the crowd was in its thirties somewhere, and fairly dapper. The photographer was dressed in a way that made me feel more comfortable, and there was one nice plump woman in black, with a vest sparely embroidered in bright colors, two of which, the teal and purple, matched the patches in her hair. Another woman in the same conversational group, was very thin, but had completely improbable orange hair and a dress to match. They were less intimidating than the more conventional sorts, but I found them intimidating enough anyway.

The groom came over and said hello; Eric introduced us. The groom pointed out that Eric was not the only man there with a full beard, and asked if he had spoken to anybody he didn't know yet. (This is a running joke of theirs, I believe.) This caused Eric to spot some people he had met at this couple's previous wedding -- the previous wedding was the legal one, this was the one for the families and the partying -- and we went over to them.

Pamela