One Day More (Blogisode Thirteen)

Cozy up in front of the fire and let's roll.

Cozy up in front of the fire and let's roll.

Okay, let’s get right to it.  Everybody grab and eggnog, light your Yule log and let’s go.  Rob Meffe is a handsome devil, but I wasn’t expecting him to take up two blogisodes so I have to make tracks if I am going to finish up this story tonight.

And let’s be honest.  I might not, but I really need to try because I need tomorrow to pack and wrap and see FOLLIES on Broadway before we leave town. We were supposed to see FOLLIES tonight, but I screwed up and thought the curtain was at 8pm and it was really at 7pm.  I’m an idiot.  Oh, and I just remembered, tomorrow I have to get a crown at 3.  Not like a Queen’s crown (which might be nice) but a stupid crown on my stupid tooth because it has a stupid hole in it.  So there you go.  I have to try to finish this (but I might not.  I probably won’t).

And I still don’t have any wrapping paper, which doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but I thought I’d report in.

Haul out the holly and let’s get to it.

A few clarifications because Rob is too nice.

1)  Okay, look, I TOTALLY laughed at Rob when he ate that red hot garnish that looked like a pickle.  He said I sat and

Me lauging at Rob.

Me lauging at Rob.

“quietly chewed my macaroni and cheese” which is untrue because I was eating chicken (I hate mac and cheese) and I laughed and laughed along with the waiter and the busboy.  You would have too, it was hilarious.

2)  Uh, we were not “happily bankrupt” in the Monopoly game, we were totally mad that we lost because we are competitive people at heart and especially if you team us up.  And we had our asses handed to us on a plate, so we were ashamed.  And then Rob said he was tired, and I was like———uh—————we just totally lost at Monopoly, we have to walk that off, buddy, Asian flu or no Asian flu.

And then we climbed a tower, which was pitch black, and I whined the whole time that I was going to fall to my death or get bit by a rabid monkey, and Rob was all sweet talking me, and I was crabby and asking him why he didn’t let me mortgage Park Place so we could buy the fourth rail road which would have certainly led us to a life time of riches and fancy hotels.

I was either engaged to Rob or this guy.

I was either engaged to Rob or this guy.

And he still proposed.  Which is a frigging miracle considering the mood I’d been in 5 seconds earlier.  Well, in truth, I can only surmise that it was Rob that proposed because in reality it was SO DARK that it very well may have been that busboy,  who very well may have wanted an American girl who orders chicken at an exotic resort and laughs like a donkey when her boyfriend almost dies of heat-in-the-mouth.  I mean……..I think it was Rob.  I’m pretty sure.  I have no proof.

My version is way more romantic than his.  I hope you had a tissue for that.

But really,  I was super happy and and super surprised.  He got me.  I didn’t see it coming, and I think that was equally important to him along with me saying yes (which I did, but you know that).  The funny thing was I couldn’t figure out which ring he’d put on my hand because it was pitch black, and I’d pointed at so many in the last year, so that was a nice surprise later when I saw it.  It was, in fact, one of the 23, 634 I’d pointed at.  I loved it.

Okay.  After the miraculous proposal (and I say miraculous because I had resigned myself to “we’re just going to live together forever” like Susan Sarandon and that tall guy whose name I forget, but that’s okay because they broke up anyway) I did what any self respecting newly engaged woman would do.

I beat it down that ladder as fast as I could, dragging Rob with me, and ran to our little cottage/hotel room to call my parents, because an engagement ring from Rob Meffe was proof positive that I wasn’t going to marry a gay man.  My parents were going to be so relieved.  It is a bonus and merely a side bar that my parents also adore Rob.  The problem, of course, is the usual one, I had no cell phone (although everyone in Singapore had them in 1994), and no Internet existed….so back to ye trusty olde calling card.  $57,000 per minute to call Cincinnati.  My good news had to be told quickly or we were going to really be as bankrupt as we were hours before in Monopoly.  After numerous tries (imagine technology as sound as a tin can and a string stretching halfway around the world), my father answered the

Chuck Wheatley.  He answers the phone.

Chuck Wheatley. He answers the phone, even in the middle of the night (like 9am).

phone.  My father always answers the phone.  The weird thing was, he was wide awake and it was 9am in Cincinnati (remember from the earthquake call in LA, he is usually sound asleep and I spend the first 5 minutes of any phone call before noon waking him up and explaining he has a daughter, and I am that daughter, and no I am not Susan, that is the other daughter, and I am out of town, and I am in Singapore….you get the idea).  I could tell immediately that something was off, but I had good news and wanted to tell it, so I pushed ahead.

“Dad!  Get Mom on the phone!”

Within seconds my mother was on the phone, and they both started talking at once.  “Oh, thank god, we’ve been trying to reach you….”  I could tell there was something going on, but in all honesty (and no disrespect meant to my parents) there is usually something going on.  My parents live a full life and they often have breaking news about something (as do I), but this time MY news was going to trump THEIR news, because I was engaged.  To Rob.  And happy.  Too happy to wait for them.

I cut them off.  “We’re engaged!!!”

Immediately they were excited and sounded a little more normal and asked me for all the details.  After a few minutes, (we were talking fast because of the ridiculous charges), they asked to talk to Rob.

I passed the phone to Rob and he was smiling like crazy, and it was cute, and lots of “welcome to the family” and all that and then suddenly Rob’s face fell.  He got very serious and just listened.  He motioned for me to get a pen and paper, and then had to signal again, because I was busy looking at the giant ring on my finger where there had never been a ring before, but I got him the paper and pen.

My Meema.  Not the news you want to hear.

My Meema. Not the news you want to hear.

Somewhere in there, I noticed that he looked weird.  And nervous.  And that made me weird and nervous.  He wrote down a phone number and hung up.  He handed me the number.

“You need to call Meema right away.  She’s in the hospital and is very sick, but they said she could still talk to you.  They’ve been trying to reach us since this morning.”

No, no, no. no.  My grandmother.  My friend.  My travel guru.  No, no, no, no. Impossible.

I called.

(For the final blogisode in this series, go here)

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About Sharon Wheatley

I'm a mother, an actress and a writer. I'm glad you're here.
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2 Responses to One Day More (Blogisode Thirteen)

  1. Mary Jo says:

    Sharon….bitter sweet…..

  2. Mimi says:

    ok I am still cracking up that Dirtball answers the phone in the middle of the night a.k.a 9 am. Gutting!

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