Father: “So you’ll come down, you’ll do your dress fitting…”

Daughter: “But Dad, listen. I’m going to need you to - ”

Father: “Will you SHUT UP AND LET ME TALK? So you’ll swing by the house, drop the dogs off, go into the city - ”

Daughter: “Yeah but I’m going to need you to pick up the dogs, take them to the - ”

Father: “It’s FINE. I’ll pick up the dogs, go to the Bay, Mama will meet us out -”

Daughter: “Mama? Did you say ‘Mama’?”

Father: “I did. I’m losing it.”

This morning I had the great pleasure of taking darling Mina to the veterinarian to get her yearly checkup and shots. After shaking in my arms for five minutes, she got her game back and started strutting around the office, growling at the other dogs and exuding her particularly adorable brand of sass.

As she settled onto my lap, and I settled into my book, I noticed a couple with a young dog, talking to him in that human-dog-lover to dog way, that, ok, I’ll admit, I do sometimes, too (”Who’s a good girl? Who’s that cute dog? THAT’S MINA! Who loves Mina? Who’s so good?”) but I don’t really endorse. I mean, in public, for instance, that’s annoying. It’s ok when you’re physically shoving the dog’s head up your armpit in order to avoid hysteria while the vet tech’s drawing blood and all, but otherwise, shut up.

The couple approached our side of the waiting room with their dog in order to get his weight on the big scale. I then watched in awe as for ten minutes, at least, they attempted coaxing the animal on the thing using only vocal persuasion. “Rex, get on the scale. Mommy’s on the scale! Look, Mommy’s on the scale! Get on the scale with Mommy! Get on. Look! Treats on the scale, Rex! Mommy’s got treats on the scale! Get those treats! Who’s a good boy, Rex? Who? Mommy’s up here, come up here with Mommy!”

I finally learned that the dog weighed 31.8 pounds, confirming even more securely the fact that he could have easily been picked up and placed gently on the damn thing. Later in the examination room, while Mina clawed her way through my first layer of skin as we waited for a fecal-collecting rod to be shoved up her ass, I thought about taking the dogs up to the bay, and how great that is for them. We let them out of the car and they immediately run to the water. They get wet and dirty. They run off to go on various adventures, but we know they will come back, and what’s more, we know the neighbors don’t care because their dogs come over to our house, too. Our dogs come back because they’re dogs, and they’re loyal. We feed them and they love us, and they’re not worried at all about being thrown on a scale because they forget that the minute they’re back out in the fresh air. All they’ve got to worry about is the biting flies, and who’s going to score the most food when my dad sneakily drops it on the floor in the kitchen while exclaiming, “WHAT? I dropped some cheese and crackers on the floor accidentally, so what?”

Mom: “Cookies. We need to talk about Italian cookies.”

Daughter: “We’re going to have those for dessert, right?”

Mom: “Yeah, but the guest list is getting big. I mean, 300 people or more. We might have to have everyone bring some Italian cookies.”

Daughter: “I know, that’s a lot of people.”

Mom: “300 people! If everyone has three, that’s like 900 cookies. That’s something like 80 dozen cookies, Cara…”

Just about an hour ago J left with Mina. He’s headed up to DC tonight, then onto Connecticut tomorrow for a stag party organized by his dad - I can’t wait to hear stories. But what’s hitting me now is the major loss of presence in this house. Sure, Cecilia’s all curled up on the couch with me, and I’ll probably let her sleep in the bed later on (which is normally completely forbidden) and I’ve got “The Apprentice” on and am having a glass of Yellow Tail wine (so if I don’t drink it all, which I won’t, I won’t feel bad about it, damn good bargain, Yellow Tail…) but I miss them.

Ok. I know. I’m lucky to have a tall, cute boy and tiny, uber-intelligent dog live in the house at all. And I shouldn’t complain. But it’s a whole different place with them gone. No J to get distracted, needing me to get him back on task. No Mina to bring me a toy when I say “go get a toy.” And worst of all, no two warm bodies in the bed - at least not the regular ones (despite the fact that I kick the little princess out over and over, she’s sneaky, and gets right back in). It’s ok though, because I have two replacements lined up. We three are going to get nice and comfy, maybe read a little “Confederacy of Dunces” and enjoy our time together, until Sunday, when the family is reunited and disorganization (and happiness) ensues.

C.M.R. Pick a song.

J.A.M. What about “Adelvise”?

C.M.R. I love that song. It makes me cry.

J.A.M. (sings) Small and white, clean and bright…I have always thought that song is about an egg.

C.M.R. What? It’s about a flower.

J.A.M. Small and white? An egg. (mimics holding small, fragile egg in his hands, sings to it)

Jade visits the suite
Originally uploaded by caramaria.

Thanks to Sarah for the pictures…

In order to preserve the, perhaps, most important saying on earth (”What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas) I won’t go telling all the tales to you, oh readers, who no doubt view me as very angelic and very pure, but I shall tell you a few things.

If a man is going to shave his body hair, he should give it a touch up before he, oh, say, asks someone to rub his chest. With ice.

The Venetian hotel does indeed look just like Venice, complete with Gondolas, fat Americans, and tourists taking pictures of absolute crap like pastries through the counter glass. “Here’s us gambling! Here’s a picture with an Elvis impersonator. Here’s a raspberry pastry that I didn’t buy but I’ll be damned if I wasn’t gonna keep it in my memory somehow!”

When you are in a hip club, one that your friends paid tons of money to get you into, and you have a table with nice liquor, and you’ve even been escorted down a special elevator by the VIP contacts and there’s candlelight and a kickass waterfall outside, a couple excellent things to do are 1) place “worst pickup line” and “best biceps” stickers on strange men and also ask them if you can have their underwear, please, “I need it…” and 2) have one of the party attempt standing on the table covered in expensive glassware to send it all crashing to the floor, then apologize for like four hours to some European dude who doesn’t work there, but hey, we were drunk, we didn’t know.

Sitting in a spa (after a morning at the pool where everyone is drinking margaritas and bloody marys and is just so, so happy) in nice white robes after getting rubbed down in papaya scrub, lounging in the whirlpool with cucumbers over your eyes, and detoxing (before retoxing) in the steam room, coupled with memories of a night riding around in a limo drinking champagne with ten of your best friends is the greatest way to spend an afternoon ever.

Yesterday I awoke to dim light creeping through the drawn curtains of our suite in the Mirage next to my sleeping friend Abby, rolled over, felt something odd crinkling down in the nether regions, and pulled a crumpled dollar bill out of my underwear.

GUESS WHO’S READY TO GET MARRIED???

Yesterday I was showering before work when I heard a rapping on the very unfortunately-placed window that looks out from the bathroom to the backyard. I pressed my nose against the glass mid-shampoo, and there was J, pointing across the grass, yelling, “Who did that? Who put those birds there?”

See, a month or two ago I arrived home from a night out to find my enterprising fiance on the floor with a saw and wood chips all around. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “making a fruit feeder!” - like, how could I not have known what he was doing? Who doesn’t build fruit feeders from scraps of wood on any given weekday evening in order to attract the rarely seen Baltimore Oriole to his or her yard?

Every day, J would look outside at the feeder, hung carefully from a tree limb in the back, and exclaim, sadly, “No birds are coming.” He religiously placed half-cut oranges and grape jelly in the proper places, and we waited for the Orioles.

But yesterday morning, BEHOLD! J looked at the feeder, almost forgotten now, and said, “Holy shit!” (he told me the story after my shower). THREE birds were perched there. J grabbed his binoculars and ran to get a closer look. But wait. They weren’t moving. Could they be dead, he wondered? The orange was black and covered with fruit flies, maybe they died…and then J took a closer look. The birds, fake, were wired to the feeder, and attached too was a note from the greatest prankster ever, as he shall now be known.

This prank, you see, turned my morning from one of stress and worry about how to get it all done…what to pack…the unfinished items on all the to-do lists…to one of great gaiety. I drove to work under perfect blue skies with the sunroof open, drinking my coffee, playing loud music, thinking, “fake birds. Oh, man, fake birds!” The rug may go un-vacuumed but that’s not what matters! And today we go to Vegas where my friends have planned this weekend for me, for us, I have no details about the agenda and am oh so ready for the great unknown…