I first met Alli in seventh grade, which was easily the most cringeworthy year of my life. In college, I happened to answer an ad her housemate placed. We ended up becoming roommates, then best buddies, then workmates. She comes from a family of artists, and is the only lawyer I know who is deeply into decoupage.
You know those people who you can ask anything? Like you say, “I need a twelve single men, an armadillo, and a Danish-modern credenza in this room within the next three hours,” and they can make it happen? Alli’s one of those.
Me: What’s their room number?
Bryan: I. Just. Told. You.
Me: Hey. You better watch it.
Bryan: You better check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Me: Foiled again by your rhetorical rapier.
Why is it that things hum along quietly for years, and then suddenly a dozen of your closest friends get married at once? Does everyone go out drinking and decide it’s high time they acquired flatware with matching service pieces?
The last two months have been a blur of inflatable penises (Penni? Penne?), polite small talk with cousins from Memphis, and champagne hangovers. Between all the celebrating and our regular-old lives, we haven’t had much time for things like “preparing balanced meals” and “maintaining our household in a manner the Health Department would find acceptable.”
In June, we flew to L.A. for a wedding, traveled to Amsterdam for business, and I flew to Las Vegas for a bachelorette. We returned home to an elopement a few hours up the coast, and just helped host a wedding shower last weekend. By the end of July we’ll have attended another wedding, had four different sets of house guests, and flown to Colorado for Bryan’s twenty-year high school reunion. Bryan recently pointed out that the only thing we’ve given up since Hank was born is sleep. Sleep and basic hygiene.
This may be unsustainable. I have trouble remembering whether I’ve eaten in the last few hours, and I’ve begun to drool when there’s a lull in conversation. After July, the next time I lose sleep over love, I’d better be getting laid.
Note from SxSW, 2005:
Say you go to bed drunk. What are the odds you’ll be woken by real, live jackhammers?
Notes I took on a napkin two years ago in a New York City park:
Waiting for Andrew
-Woman polishes her shoes with a tissue
-Rottweiler drinking from his owner’s water bottle
-Large man listens to his iPod; his pant cuffs pull up to reveal his ankles with each step.
-People, strangers, sit closer here.
Hank photos from April through June.
When we travel internationally, my favorite part of coming home is customs. I look at the U.S. citizens’ line, and I’m always amazed at how similar it looks to the non-citizens’ line. Americans have roots all over the world, but we’ve found a home together here.
Like every big nation, we have problems, but we also have some vast cultural differences to bridge. Here’s to our shared freedoms, our gorgeous country, and our communal struggle to figure things out.
Happy Independence Day, fellow Americans. I like you guys.
Dear Woman Who Just Left This Bathroom Stall,
What the holy hell happened in here? My brain is racing through the possibilities. Did you splay starfish-style against the walls of the stall and misfire from above? Did you decide to practice a little yoga while you had some down time?
Only moments ago, we made eye contact as you passed; I noted your cute shoes. And now here I stand, preparing to wipe one-half-gallon of your urine off my toilet seat.
How was this spatter pattern physically possible? Did you stand over the seat under the misimpression that you have a penis? Clearly you do not have a penis. Territorial drunk men with prostate issues have better aim than you.
If you continue to do this, leave filthy messes for complete strangers despite being in your late thirties, eventually someone will point it out. I hope they will point it out by slamming open the stall, grabbing you by the scruff of your neck, and pushing your nose up to the toilet seat, while shouting, “No! NO! Baaaad stranger! Baaaaaad!”
In the meantime, I’ll be here with half a roll of toilet paper wrapped around my hand, mopping up a grown woman’s pee-pee.
In early June, our friends Pete and Parita were married in Beverly Hills. It was my first Hindu ceremony, so I went nuts on the photos. If you’re interested, the rest will be on Flickr shortly.