Everything Pink and Wedding-y

Shooting Star and I have not gotten together in far too long. This is evident in the fact that our e-mails become less conversational, and more novel-esque because typing is a poor substitute for verbal conversation when the two conversees also happen to be two brides-to-be who desperately need to discuss the very important matters of scalloped flatware over brushed nickel.

Fortunately, we were able to get together last night, and naturally headed for more Barbie pink frosting (with bits of real strawberries!) cake and chardonnay. You must go. Seriously. If you come to Colorado, skip the mountains. You can see them from pretty much anywhere. Just head here for cake.

So anyway, we get in the car, and with the mandatory, “So hi, how are you?” bits out of the way, we launch into the pressing issue of burgundy versus cranberry colored calla lilies. And to veil, or not to veil? And invites at 11 or 12 weeks?

We are driving along, our voices getting giddier and giddier with thoughts of registries dancing through our heads, when suddenly Shooting Star goes, “Erm. I do believe we were supposed to turn a while back.”

Me: Huh. Yeah. Actually, I have no idea where we're going, since you drove last time. I figured I'd just ask you, but I totally forgot when we began discussing the pros and cons of a stereotypical florist.

SS: So. Ah, maybe we should turn at the next road?

Me: O.K.

SS: Or, wait, go a little further, it looks more main.

Me: Good point.

SS: Or maybe the next one is Hampden?

Me: Derrrr

SS: Go one more, yes, see, this is Hampden!!

Me: Despite the street sign that says, “HAMPDEN” I really don't think this is Hampden, Hampden. I think it is too small. Perhaps the next street will be the real Hampden.

SS: But.... oh. We're really driving past the one labeled, “Hampden” in search of another Hampden?

Me: Sure. They do this all the time.

Next street: So not Hampden. Or big.

Me: Maybe it's further up?

SS: Maybe we should just turn, anyway.

Me: O.K., Turning onto Jefferson.

Jefferson: Nice enough. Not as big as the real Hampden is, though.

Jefferson: Getting nicer. Magically becomes Hampden, somehow.

Despite making decisions leading us anywhere BUT where we were going, somehow the universe was in a good mood, and put me on the right street, anyway. That does not just happen every day.

I knew we were in for a good evening.

That thought was confirmed when, as we sat down, SS gave me a little birthday gift which included gourmet sprinkles, cupcake mix, pink frosting, and MY OWN PERSONAL CUPCAKE CARRIER.

yes.

I shall never carry a briefcase, again. (Come to think of it, I never did.) But this shall be my one and only tote from now on, for it is fabulous.

We ordered a small shrimp salad to share between the two of us, and, after eating a few pieces of lettuce, we felt sufficiently nutritious, sent the rest back, and ordered our own enormous slabs of ooey gooey pink cake.

While getting high off of strawberry-flavored sugar, we seriously discussed hotel reservations and ceremony ceremony music, we got philosophical about bridesmaids, and we got downright angry at the people who don't bother to R.S.V.P. (despite the facts that 1. both of us confessed to having been that person in the past and 2. neither of us actually has yet to RECEIVE an R.S.V.P.) But whatever. It was preemptive indignation.

It was a good night. But now I am all the more resolved to get a job stat, because, as SS sagely reminded me, there is pretty, overpriced lingerie to be bought very soon. Heh heh.