Last Saturday, Sarge and I got up early to see our wedding venue decked out for a wedding. The sun was out and I could picture next year, our people in that room. ‘And we’ll announce you from here,’ said the events planner person. And I cried. We headed toward breakfast and I wondered again why I order pancakes anywhere that isn’t my Dad’s house. Sarge finished them off for me, and I made him shoot some cherry blossoms on…
I spent much of my first year at University pulling all-nighters with my friends. We would raid the vending machine down the hall, try to stuff each other into the washing-machines and make plans to go bungee-jumping. I also had them draw me a hideously clichéd tattoo. Of course. Some more time was spent figuring out how I might get inked without actually climbing the walls. The Plan involved getting drunk and stoned. What was the plan? Anyway, my point…
And so, my birthday dinner was also what we liked to call the In-laws Summit 2012. (Trust me, I have done braver things. Like eat cheese in the presence of my future husband.) In the spirit of togetherness, Sarge suggested we bring Hemingway to dinner so my mother could tune in via Skype. We did not. But it made me laugh thinking about it. And Sarge got major points with Mom when I mentioned it to her. She also thinks…
And so, I may be sitting here listening to music, getting ready to break open the Baileys and watch an episode of The Sopranos before we get the train to Glasgow tomorrow. There was one last traipse around the mall today. I came home with a headache and a realisation, as I do every year. It’s not about the stuff. I can’t wait to get where I’m going tomorrow, I need to give my Dad a hug, and laugh for…
