These have been an interesting past few days. After the autopilot mode that found me the perfect dress and an eBay auction win that sent the perfect pair of shoes into the snail post on their merry way to me, I find I will indeed attend a wedding I’ve been putting off accepting the invitation to. The story is more detailed than that, of course, but this is not the place to tap it.

I did spend nearly a few hours on the phone this morning with the bride-to-be. The topic of the conversation we enjoyed that is relevant to this here place is what I’ll be having to eat during the wedding dinner. As I’m also waiting word from the perfect date and whether or not he will indeed make it to be mine perfect date for the festivities, I’ve been granted an additional seven day grace period before I have to submit my answer. Fingers, lil’ doggies, and lil’ doggies paws are all crossed.

On the menu for the wedding are your three usual suspects: chicken, salmon, and steak. The chicken is likely of the cagey from dank, dark, and miserable conditions sort; the salmon is likely of the farmed sort, as in farmed and raised on a diet of corn; the beef is likely not resembling anything organic, raised without hormones nor antibiotics, and sadly likely was finished for those dreadful 150 days in some feedlot on corn silage.

The bride-to-be was prepared when she asked me my choice. I could hear an inhale before she mentioned it. Our phone call was all in good spirits and had already been chatting about two hours. There wasn’t a hint of irony in her speaking ‘organic’ or ‘no hormones’ or ‘no antibiotics’. Poor thing didn’t even know if it’s farmed or wild that is the question regarding salmon. I give her credit, but especially, I believe with kiddies in her near-ing future, she must be rethinking a certain statement, dare I tap it here—ñaka ñaka ñaka—’I love monoagriculture!’ But I digress, and again, I will not be tapping into the backstory of any of it here.

Now this question is surely asked. The answer is no, there is no vegetarian option on the wedding menu. And I am fine with that (as is the likely all 96 or so other omnivorous wedding guests). My prandium, dare I say, diet, heavily dips into the vegetarian larder (ovo-lacto-yeast veg). When I cena—break bread at banquet—with family, friends, colleagues, and a-sordid sinners, I cena as the Romans did and enjoy foods of the flesh, along with all the trimmings.

So, in the next few days I’ll know if I have the perfect date to escort me to the wedding. And with that I’ll have his preference for dinner. I’ll defer making my choice until then and pick from whatever he does not. Then, I’ll pick heavily from his plate anything that seems the least evil. Though I don’t think he’ll appreciate that very much; it certainly will not very well make for my being the perfect date. But the dress, the shoes, the glow—putting on the dog—will very well make up for it. Bat bat, bat bat.

Bride-to-be commented I won’t be eating anything anyway and we can fill up on the catered breakfast while we get out the dogs.

All my cheer, best wishes, and heart to the near-future bride and her dashing and handsome future hubby—salut..