Wedding planning is overtaking my apartment.
It’s creeping its way into every nook and cranny and over top of every clean surface. What was once a guest room is now no longer recognizable as such. There are hand-painted signs laid out to dry. Miscellaneous bottles of paint, stickers, yarn, spools of ribbon, leaving a trail of pretty color winding behind them. There’s the collection of various glass bottles that I don’t even know if I need or not, but I can’t bear to part with. There’s craft glue and floral tape and pins as far as the eye can see. It’s madness, I tell you.
I’m not sure what I would do if I actually had any visitors. How to explain the doilies spread across the living room floor? Or the board game with its guts spilled out next to the doilies? Or the fact that you have to squeeze your cup of coffee in amidst various crating accouterments onto the coffee table. Coffee table it is no longer. It is now the permanent keeper of crocheted bits and bobs and strands of this and that and about five skeins of yarn in different colors. How to explain there’s no bed in which to sleep in the guest room? I’m sorry, dear guest, that bed is currently occupied with pieces of wood, boxes of favors and wedding-day shoes. I’m sure you’ll understand.
And please, please, pay no attention to the large piece of cardboard on which it looks like a craft project died a messy, dirty death, spilling its purple blood everywhere.