Astro-Girl and I are presently in the midst of the "what else can go wrong" marriage sweepstakes.
Our minister, who I've known for 15 years, met us on our college campus, a campus currently in the center of 20 acres or so of demolition: every building around us is being demolished, and God knows how many chemicals and poisons are being released into the air. Come to find, no one is taking it worse than the Reverend, who spent the balance of our last meeting excusing himself to blow his nose and/or hold his head in his hands.
"Oh, man," he said, then wiped his eyes. He bent over, face in hands. "Oh, maaaaaan." Sat up. "Okay, your vows. Oh, wait." Another tissue, another bugle blast that Prewitt in From Here to Eternity would have envied. "Okay, your vows."
It was then off to the florist, who had put off Astro-Girl four times before agreeing to meet near her store--and then arrived in some asphalt/warehouse sun-stricken hellhole that reminded me of the lot DeNiro used to photograph Pacino and the other cops in Heat. The DeNiro in Heat would have come in handy, actually, for breaking and entering, as the florist had locked herself out of her shop--something about her husband having one set of keys and she another, and how he was across town at a meeting, and she was here. I guessed some was truth, some fib--and some she probably didn't know. None of it was made easier by 1) the contract, flapping in the breeze, she kept urging Astro-Girl to sign, 2) the check she kept urging Astro-Girl to write, or 3) the florist's three children, who incessantly banged their fists against the inside windows of the florist's Four-Runner, demanding Chick Fil-A or somesuch.
The florist was nothing compared to the phone call Astro-Girl received from the Beauty Salon. Here was the story: the hair stylist Astro-Girl had used for years, the stylist whom she had lined up six weeks in advance to do herself, plus the matron of honor, plus the bridesmaids, all on the wedding day, had apparently endured an emotional fist-swinging break-up with his boyfriend, then had suffered a nervous breakdown and returned to Mexico. His mother and sister had cleaned out his apartment. He was gone.
So, while we wait for resolution . . . .
The Yankees and Astros allow 22 runs between them tonight.
Good night now.