It’s a cloudy Graduation Day at the university. Today, New Brunswick is my idea of overdressed hell on earth with teary Moms and Dads, which is why I’m at home across the river. Earlier, I was making yogurt, talking to Siobhan and placating Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul. When I hung up the phone, I dropped it – plunk! – into the sink. After fishing it out and toweling it off, I dialed Miss Sasha. I got voicemail.
Tata: Hello, darling! It’s Mom! I dropped my phone into the sink and had to test it out so I called you. Aren’t you lucky?
She called back.
Miss Sasha: Your phone works!
Tata: I hear that.
Miss Sasha: Grandma’s mailing me wedding cake.
Tata: Yeah…I’m not so sure about this mailing-the-wedding-cake-thing. You’re really going to eat that?
Miss Sasha: Yes..?
Tata: For your anniversary, I’ll mail you Pepto Bismal.
Miss Sasha: Mr. Sasha has gotten thinner and needs new clothes so I’m buying him nice ones.
Tata: What? You can buy men’s clothes?
Miss Sasha: Sure. Most women can.
Tata: Ah! Proof I might actually be a wildebeast.
Miss Sasha: I told him, “No more dressing like a fat kid.”
Tata: Okay, less Pepto for him. And feed him some cheese.
If you missed the riotous months-long saga of Miss and Mr. Sasha’s wedding, here’s a link to the ancestral plastic fruit, a bridal shower where I tried climbing out a second story window, a purple Ming the Merciless blouse and an Italian family dancing the hora. Meet my archenemy, the Mother of the Groom!
And if you read along as events unfolded, Saturday’s the wedding anniversary, and tomorrow it will be a year since the rehearsal. Feel free to relive the miracle that was our survival – in formalwear!