Wednesday, August 25, 2010

You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello

I know, I know. It's been a while. I've missed you. I've missed writing. I've missed my regular life and regular projects. I miss sewing on Sundays and working on my book and reinventing my home.

But I've been feverishly pulling together this wedding. In a few minutes the Best Redheaded Chica on the planet, Libby, will pick me up and take me to the airport. Where I will fly off to Oregon meet my groom, who arrives via Toyota Tundra tomorrow.

What amazes me is the great cheer, goodwill and hard work people have undertaken to support us in this merging of the tribes. Cousins, nieces, parents and friends and family on both sides have been so thoughtful and good. It makes me feel like I've been on the schlumpy side all this time with everyone else's weddings. I can't say I have particularly great karma on this:

  • Sorry, Kimmy, for being such a crappy unresponsive bridesmaid in '89 or whenever it was. But I still think it was funny that we hiked those skirts way up.
  • Sorry, Kathlyn, for being disappointed that you eloped. I know you wanted it your way, and I could have been a little more gracious around that. I still haven't gotten you a present, and that will change. Can you still be registered somewhere three years later?
  • Sorry, Dan and Maya, and Eric and Kathy, for not being able figure out the time/money equation to get back to Seattle for your wedding.
  • Most of all, I am sorry to Ian and So Young that I let our family issues cloud the pure joy that I truly felt when you told me that you wanted me to come to Korea for your wedding. I still don't know if that is possible with the adoption, but do know that I will do anything to support you in your marriage. And I think I also owe you a present.
Everything's done that can be done at this stage for our amazing party. We'll have lots of helping hands for the last-minute stuff.

Next time you hear from me, I'll be married to the most kind, generous, sweetest and talented man I know.

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Sunday, August 1, 2010

The 40licious Bride: Part VI

This post is about another 40licious bride, my friend Lisa. Now, Lisa is much, much older than I am -- we met when I was 4, and she was 5. She moved into the apartment downstairs and from that day forward, we did everything together. Being a grade ahead, she'd come home and teach me what she'd learned -- shoe-tying, time-telling, cursive (and later on, some unmentionable skills).

Over the course of our lives, we've gone through all goods and bads together. Huge mistakes and giant triumphs. She's been in school longer than anyone I know ... I think it's been the last 18 years or so. Together we've woven a story of cross-country moves, crazy loves, deep sadnesses, health scares, teenage personal safety madness, children who would not see life, adored families, and a full bank of shared memories (sometimes we need to borrow from each other).

By the time you are 40licious, most of your friends have been married already; many of them are divorced and working on #2, or happily riding the single wave. I was there for Lisa's first as we walked through blueberry fields together to meet her groom; we were also on vacation together in Florida on the day that would be the last straw of her marriage to a sweet but broken man.

A few years after, she met Sam, a much younger (really, by about 10 years) man who is an artist, a musician, a writer. His childlike enthusiasm and zeal for life is matched only by Lisa's -- together they are sweet and fun and funny and test boundaries of all things conventional.

And so it was my great pleasure to head out to Santa Fe last weekend to watch them marry in a circle, in the park, with a dozen of their closest friends surrounding them. The officiant was dressed in a toga. We all sang the theme to Sponge Bob Square Pants as they walked up to meet us. She dipped him in a kiss. And they were pronounced "wifeband."

When you are 40licious, you can have whatever the hell kind of wedding you want. And your friends will be there to cry for your happiness, and cheer you on until the bouncer turns off the lights in the pool-hall where you have your reception.

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