Pot, Kettle

This massive loaf of a woman was clutching a map and seeking directions as I rounded Stoney Street this morning on my way to Monmouth Coffee for a desperately needed pre-work latte.

She was in jeans that required more than her fair share of fabric (like, the amount you might need to equip a sailing vessel) and a twee little floral shirt that strained to contain her flour-sack bazongas.

She was prevailing upon one of the area's many pin-stripers to direct her towards the bus stop (which was visible from where she was standing).

As I walked past, she bleated, "Americans don't really walk anywhere, do they? They're so lazy!"

The pin-striper looked bemused, and stuttered, "I think it's just because it's so big, everything's too far away to walk."

I shot her a look of pure loathing as she waddled, thighs mercilessly creating tremendous friction, towards the bus stop three yards away.

Hmpf. Go to New York, you pudding, and maybe you'll drop the 80 or so pounds that have you firmly in Morbid Obesityville. Then we'll see who's lazy.

Limpy Walks Again

After 3+ months on his crutches, Steve is finally gimping around the house like a wobbly deerling, and it's a wonderful sight to see. He won't exactly be competing in the London Marathon and Recreational Pole Vault Society anytime soon, but at least now he can make use of the overwhelmingly expensive bike he put the down payment on a week before he broke the leg.

As I type, he just offered to bring me my glass of wine. Strike that - he crowed "I can bring you your wine, honey!" with the glee of a child who just discovered farting, but it's the first time in a long time he can carry anything (garbage, groceries, my alcohol) and I daresay he's as delighted as I am that his hands are free to do other things rather than lug his body from point to point around on metal sticks.

We just got back from 10 days in the States, and while Steve was still officially Captain Limpy, we did have an amazing time. One of my two oldest childhood friends, Stacey, got married in California Spectacular style. This was the main event of a week spent in the company of my other oldest childhood friend, Allison.

The wedding was beautiful, in the back yard of family friends:


Stacey and I once trashed her parents' wet lawn running through the sprinklers in our finest 12 year-old couture, so seeing her in her wedding dress, looking absolutely gorgeous, totally made me all teary.


Fabulous.

Allie, Stacey and I have known each other for 25 years, which is pretty awesome when one considers we're all 30. These are the girls with whom I sang 'Never Smile at a Crocodile' at age 5 with while wearing blue pinstriped pinafores and bloomers, making crocodile jaw motions with our arms for the Montair Elementary Talent Show. The girls whose houses and families were as familiar as my own. The girls who've known me through every important life experience I've ever had, from the death of my father to junior high misery to high school's abject awkwardness to college flailing to post collegiate flailing, through a long series of dubious romantic partners to finally (hopefully) finding my feet and getting my shit together.

The thing I find most gratifying is that I think we've all landed rather gracefully. Stacey married a wonderful, caring, gentle man:



Allie, too, is in a long-term, caring committed relationship and is thriving professionally:


And, as for me, as David Sedaris said, "You meet a guy, relinquish a little bit of control, and the next thing you know, you're eating a different part of the pig."



Mmmmmmm . . . bacon.