You know your wedding is getting close when you have to designate a corner for the white-wrapped boxes that are suddenly arriving in droves.
It's a curious thing, wedding presents. Kip and I both feel incredibly blessed to be showered with gifts purely because we've fallen in love and are pledging to be with one another until death. The problem, however, is that I now know--thanks to a few ill-placed packing slips--that the 4-canister set and the super spiffy blender we registered for are now sitting in my bedroom.
No, not beckoning, taunting. "I know you have popcorn kernels sitting in an old ricotta cheese cup," it says with more sinisterness than any inanimate object should have, "and I've seen that Prego jar that's holding your brown sugar, too. Don't you just want to open me? Wouldn't it just be easier and more effective for your dry goods?"
My mother's voice answers back from the same room, "You can't open the gifts before the wedding! You don't open birthday gifts before your birthday, do you?"
The fruit I have sitting on my kitchen counter chimes in, "Juice me! Juice me! You know you've been wanting to try that 'juice' setting on the blender ever since you saw it!"
It is getting (understandably) difficult to sleep, what with all that commotion.
The other problem is that no less than three sets of gifts or salutations have arrived addressed to "Cindy and Skip" or "Cynthia and Phillip". Kip is starting to get jealous of these mystery men.
So here I sit, a headache between my eyes from all the conflicting voices, juiceless, my brown sugar drying in its Prego jar, and with a disgruntled fiance on my hands. Somewhere from that blessed corner in the bedroom, I hear my grandmother's voice, "You know, there are starving children in Africa who don't even have a Prego jar, or brown sugar to put in it and they probably don't even know what juice is, so you should count your blessings..."