2001-06-11 - 1:24 p.m.
Patricia and I met on the first or second day of Kindergarten. I�ve forgotten the actual meeting, but Tricia and I were inseparable from very early on. She was the tallest in the class. I was (of course) the shortest, but we still thought we looked alike because we had the same haircuts and identical coats. She moved at the end of the third grade, but somehow we�ve managed to keep track of each other for over twenty years. And this weekend I stood as Matron of Honor at her wedding.
Before heading up to Winchester on Friday, I had left several messages with my realtor, letting her know my schedule and that Solo would be at the kennel, so calling ahead to show the house wouldn�t be necessary. She finally called back just as I was out the door to ask about hosting an "open house" on Sunday afternoon and, since the brunt of preparing the house would be on Mike Saturday morning, I relayed the message to him (more voice mail hell) but told Anne that it probably wouldn�t be a good idea since I�d be anxious to get back into my house when I returned.
I feel privileged to have few unwed female friends, especially after the longest rehearsal in history on Friday night. Because of the popularity of June weddings, the church and Tricia�s father (a Methodist minister) were heavily booked for the weekend. The rehearsal could not begin until 8pm. But 8:00 came and traffic on I-81 was holding up a few members of the wedding party, one of who arrived with a flat tire. Like moths to a bug zapper, all of the men surround the car and proceed to change the tire� It�s now well past 8:30 and nothing is happening except the small children (mine included) are getting tired and cranky. By 9:30 we�ve managed to drag the men back into the church and run through where we stand and how we process, which took much longer than necessary because the "wedding director" (read: family friend who wanted a role in the wedding but this wasn�t it) couldn�t keep things in order and found her time better spent complaining. At this point, Zachary�s had it and I make my excuses to take him back to the hotel. The next day I was told they were there until 10:30, but I didn�t seem to have missed anything important.
Saturday was no better organized. I arrived at the church in time to help put the flower arrangements in their proper place (after moving the ones from the previous wedding out of the sanctuary), unpackage candles for the candelabras, and get cornered as a sympathetic ear for a whining photographer. In the basement, groomsmen were running around shouting about being one tux short, the bride was sick because she hadn�t eaten all day and the youngest bridesmaid was filling the hallways with hairspray fumes. Then, I had a shouting match with the "wedding director" (when she finally arrived) over how much makeup Patricia ought to wear (why some women think special occasions require painting your face like Tammy Faye Bakker, I�ll never know).
But, in spite of the pandemonium, the wedding was beautiful, Patricia was beautiful, and only one toddler charged after the bride�s attendants shouting "Mommy!" and it wasn�t mine.
Sunday morning, Mike and I are packing up to check out of the hotel and drive back home when he mentions the "open house." Had he called back the realtor? Yes, at 11am on Saturday. Well, I figure by that time she would already have something on her Sunday schedule, but I call in to our voicemail just to check. No messages. We drive home and Zack catches up on lost sleep in his carseat. Traffic�s light and we�re on Hull Street Rd. by 2:00, and that�s where I notice the little Long & Foster "Open House!" sign. I don�t have to drive home to know which house is being advertised, but I do anyway. It�s ours. I spin round the cul de sac and head back out, dialing up neighboring friends to see where we can go for an hour or so until the realtor clears out. No one is home. And Zack, who only understands that we were yards away from our house, wherein reside his crib, his toys, and, most importantly, clean diapers, begins to fuss. Lacking any other harbor, we go to Target, which is no fun at all when you�re on a moving budget and have forbidden frivolous spending. So that doesn�t last long. About 2:40, Mike and I decide to go home and to hell with the realtor. And, as you may have already guessed, the minute she folds up the signs in the yard and puts them in her trunk, around the corner comes the stereotypical realtor SUV with a couple of house-buying passengers inside. Unfortunately, they don�t seem interested in buying our house.
And so begins week 4 on the market, marked by my vacuum cleaner�s death squeal and billowing smoke....
