The One With Sarge’s Name In It

And so, I’m sitting here listening to the wedding mix.

I’ve stopped watching wedding shows and started eating again.  Mostly Tic-Tacs.  For nostalgic reasons.  And because I know I should eat, but I’m not actually hungry.

I’m still writing emails.  And my mother arrives on Monday.

And then Sarge and I get married on the 15th.  Think of us.

While I’m away, I shall leave you in the capable words of Elsa from Feminist Sonar, Susan from Adventures in Low Vision, and Madame Weebles.  There may even be a visit from the penguins at Becoming Cliche.

Thanks to those people for the guest-posts and to Sarge for still wanting to marry me.

Now.  I’ll come back with longer stories, and a less pithy About page.  And possibly an FAQ.

Included on that will be:

Q.  Is Sarge’s name actually Sarge?

A.  No.  It’s Neil.  (1,2, 3…Hello, Neil.)

If you knew that already, that means we like you, we really like you.  And now we like you all.

That was us at the last wedding we attended.  I bought a new dress for the next one.

Now playing:  This song.  Which happens to be the first one I sent to Neil, from my computer to his.

A Love Letter To Pepto-Bismol

Dearest Pepto,

Thank you. You’re lovely.

We first met when I barfed at the very top of a moving Ferris wheel. I lost a friend and corn-dog that night. But you were there, in all your pink splendour. I don’t like pink as a colour, but I can certainly drink it.

Fast-forward to yesterday. All those emails. Hopefully we’ve seen the last of them. Not counting the actual replies to said emails. Which would be really useful. I can read emails, I’d just like a break from writing them. Perhaps for the rest of my life.

The emails. And then the dentist. The hygienist asked me about my dress and the honeymoon. All these questions while poking around in my mouth. Gag. Actual gag.

After my teeth seemed to be blasted right out of my head, it was date night.

The last calm, unmarried date night before craziness descends next week. Sarge and I toasted each other. With burgers.

On the way to the movies, Sarge bought some sandals for the honeymoon. Now. I have the opposite of a foot fetish. Gag. Actual gag.

With the sandals safely in the box, we went see The Big Wedding. Bit too close to the bone just now, methinks.

Around the time Robin Williams hit the water, my stomach spoke up, and I tasted the burger. Again.

And at about ten last night, I saw it. Again. Date night had turned into some quality time with Freddy, who you might remember from this post. Sarge understood. And gave us some alone time. I emerged from the bathroom at midnight, and watched exactly eight minutes and 23 seconds of Arrested Development before I had to go in again.

This time, I stayed there til 3am. It was the safest place.

Now. My friends have said that I’m the most relaxed bride-to-be they’ve ever seen. But I’m thinking the nerves had to show up sometime. Like last night. Or early this morning. At 8, 10 and from midnight to three.

We’ve established that I’m not nervous about actually being married.

And so.

Maybe it was the dentist, or the movie. Or the fact that my mother arrives next week. Or maybe it’s because someone called me Mrs Sarge’s Surname last week. And that’s not my name.

Maybe it was just a bad burger.

I traded in my morning coffee for a few swigs of your pink loveliness, Pepto. It’s been a while since we last met this way.

You’ve still got it, and thanks to you, I still have my insides.

Help a girl out for the next ten days, and then I’ll be your best friend.

Love,

Lorna xox

Just look at them, vying for my affection.

How To Be Alone

I used to be really good at being alone. When I was single, I was perfectly happy to stay in by myself with only ice-cream, popcorn and my collection of Sandra Bullock movies for company. True story.

I would dance and sing around my living-room. One particular Saturday night, I did all of that while drinking Baileys from a pint glass. That was special. OK, maybe that night I wasn’t all that happy to be alone.

My point is this. I like my own company. I can read and write, and listen to Garth Brooks at full blast. And the remote control, after I figure out how to use it, is mine, all mine.

Bliss.

I had great plans for Sarge’s stag do. They involved Netflix and me. And then I was going to finish writing my novel. This was not a fake mission.

Dad invited me to Skye, friends invited me to the pub. I had options.

But I also had PMS, and it’s best not to inflict that level of genius on other people.

And so. Alone time. Because really, when is that going to happen again? I was looking forward to reconnecting with my dancingsingingBaileysswigging self. These were moments to be savoured and remembered fondly when I am married with penguins/children who, if they are anything like their parents, will constantly demand books, hot beverages, and impromptu renditions of Soft Kitty. In a round.

Before all that happens, Sarge got ready for Saturday’s camping trip, and I got ready for some quality time with the couch.

Sarge and his backpack left the building. I hoped I’d see his eyebrows again. Because they are wonderful. And they say so much about a person.

My shopping list for the weekend went like this: Ben & Jerry’s (yes, again. Don’t judge.) Doritos. Cheese. Macroni and cheese. Cheese. My PA laughed. I did not.

Anyway. She might have dropped off my supplies and then backed away slowly.

I was alone. I looked in the fridge. I straightened out the magnets on the fridge. I opened the bag of Doritos. I looked inside. I shrugged. Yes, really. I left all the Doritos in the bag.

I tried whistling. I failed.

I missed my cat.  And Sarge.

I called my Dad. And left what I hope sounded like a non-depressed message. But not too upbeat, either. Because that would be trying too hard.

I texted my soon-to-be sister-in-law. And my soon-to-be mother-in-law. Because they really needed to know I was eating ‘all the cheese.’ So did Facebook. My Wall asked me what I was us up to. Or something.

I stared at a half-full computer screen. I was still doing OK at this point. So it was half-full, not half empty.

I turned on my wedding song playlist. Not exactly single person anthems. But I didn’t even listen to them when I was single, so I wasn’t missing much.

Now. Most of my playlist would make even the Gahds of Sap blush. Saying that, when Bruce sang I’m On Fire, I truly hoped Sarge was not.

I muted the music. Looked at some old photos. Realised again that my stress levels around the guest-list stem from the fact that my Grandparents won’t be there. Except in my dreams.

I gave thanks for everyone who will be there, in person and in spirit, stopped worrying about any of the lists. And practised my hyphenated signature. Yes, really.

I finished reading a book I started when I was 11. I watched all the TV that Sarge doesn’t know I watch. I had the Doritos. But I left the Ben & Jerry’s. Times have changed.

When I went to bed at 1.30 am, there may have been a stuffed toy penguin left for me on Sarge’s pillow. I woke up the next morning and I may have been holding it. I turned over in bed, wondering what happened to my life. But I was happy with it.

Some friends came over to help me across the cobbled streets that lead to our book-group, everyone hoping I wouldn’t break any teeth three weeks before my wedding.

We got to the book-group, where I thought every third word was ‘penguin’. True story.

A few hours later, Sarge, his backpack and his eyebrows came home. With Chinese food. And some ticks.

I was reading a book, minding my own business. Which was lucky. Just a few minutes earlier and he would have caught me singing a Carly Simon song, slightly off-key and into my hair-brush.

See, even Bridget Jones liked penguins. They ARE everywhere!

Thinking Outside The Blog

Confession time. When I started this blog, I was angry. Angry about uneven pavements that may or may not have dog-shit on them. Angry about inaccessible buildings and accessible toilets being used as storage cupboards.  Because, if you keep a damn fridge in there, it becomes  inaccessible. Angry about being called a ‘wheelchair’ on the bus, and always having to say: There’s a person in it, too.

I wanted to write about all of that, and my boyfriend and my cat.

I wanted to write about the frustrations and the fun times and connect with people who could relate on any level. I also apparently wanted to post photos of coffee.

I wanted to write stuff and always know where it was. I also have pages in filing cabinets, and purple notebooks and green notebooks and teal notebooks. I have five different novels on three different computers. I have lines on receipts and envelopes. The blog is less dusty. But maybe no less coffee-stained.

I blogged when I got engaged, and when I gave my cat to my friend. I blogged when my Dad got cancer.

I still wanted to connect with people, and now we have more levels to choose from (!)

I’m not the pissed off person who started this blog. Sure, I’d like uneven pavements evened out, I don’t want to have to drag out a mop and bucket to pee. Although, that might be useful if there’s no accessible toilet at all.

I’m still referred to as a ‘wheelchair’ on the bus, but the person using  it has places to go. Sometimes, to work. Lately, to wedding dress fittings. Could be worse.

Which brings me to something new I’ve been thinking about for the blog. Guest posts. There will be a blogging hiatus happening while I get married and honeymooned. This I promised myself. And Sarge.

When I get back, and possibly while I’m away, I’ll be looking for guest posts from:

Disabled people who see the funny side of living with a disability.

Parents raising their disabled children to be adults who see the funny side of living with a disability.

Disabled parents (allow me to project a little.)

PS. Blogging hiatus will be from June 8^th to July 1. I’ll come back married with more stories, including travel journals of Bruges and Barcelona. And a wedding post. Or two. Of course.

PPS. While I love real stories, I’m not into sharing inspiration porn.

3. Email creativeconnection(at)gmail.com if you’re interested in writing a post for Gin & Lemonade.

Thanks,

Lorna

Post idea from: my brain and The Daily Post.

Wedding-Planning Is An Endurance Test

Just when you think you’ve gotten through your to-do list, there’s another list. And damn if there isn’t more to do on it.

People say that marriage is a marathon and not a sprint. I believe that. I’ve also started to think of wedding-panning as a test of endurance. To get you ready for the marathon. Last week, I failed that test.

But I got a lot of reading done. In bed. While drinking coffee and pretending I was 12. The 12 year-old me was home sick from school with a cold, but without a wedding to plan.

She didn’t care about cake-toppers or declines. Because really, those declines are like ripping band-aids off, and who wants to do that?

Unless you’re 32. And planning a wedding. And it’s courtesy for other people to tell you they can’t make it. You get to the point where you don’t want to look at the postcards that come through the door. Your heart leaps with a yes, and the same heart is ripped out with a no.

And then you eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

These are just some of the questions I asked Sarge last week: Did we tell the cake people I hate marzipan? Did we thank them for the gift? Wanna elope? Do we have any beer?

That’s where we are. But at least I’m sharing my Ben & Jerry’s. My Maid of Honour got some on Tuesday when she came over and asked if there was anything left to do.

‘Get married,’ I said.

And so, to use another metaphor, as we enter the final stretch I’m visualising the look on Sarge’s face when I get down the aisle. Because at that moment there won’t be any guests, or cake. There will be butterflies. And some penguins. That’s what matters. That’s what I’m looking forward to, the official stuff. The real stuff.

That, and the honeymoon. Because, y’know, ‘book honeymoon’ has been checked off the to-do list.

That’s a big one. Any couple that still wants to get married after planning a wedding deserves a honeymoon.

Bruges and Barcelona, here we come!

Dues cerveses, si us plau…

Does it look like there are 53 flowers in this box? I’m afraid to count them. I hope I can cross flowers off the list now, too.

My Inner-Child Needs A Paper Bag

Picture it: Levittown, 1980-every-summer. A young girl is watching the sun sink lower in the sky and waiting for someone to take her to the carnival down the block. Her grandparents and her father have probably drawn straws. Who gets to hold her hair back this time? Because she’s gonna barf. But she’s too excited to eat. So it’s the dry heaves. And full on gagging, how attractive. And she’s barking. That’s a nervous cough. But she could be doing a duet with the dog. Because she loves him like a brother.

Point is, she’s so excited, she’s gagging. How attractive. She leaves the house clutching a paper bag, breathing into it on the way. Except she’s not co-ordinated enough for counting and breathing, it makes her dizzy. She gags. Again.

That little girl was me.

Fast forward to a few nights ago. I’m sitting at the computer, kinda obsessively checking my email.  Impatiently waiting for a response from our videographer. Yes, we have one of those.   Because I’m American.  Apparently.  Who knew?   You can tell because the one thing I’ve insisted on is a wedding video.  Everyone has said ‘that’s because you’re American.’  It’s just that I want to remember everyone’s faces.  Especially my husband’s.  I want to share the looks and the thoughts and the moments with people I love who won’t be there.  That list is getting too long.

But anyway.  There will be a video.

There’s a menu now, too.  My mother and I even, shall we say, had words over the food.  Which turned into a cultural debate. Which reminded me again that I was a third-culture kid, who is now an adult planning a multi-culture wedding.  If you want to see if we pull it off, there will be a video.  Of course.

And there will be flowers.  Because I wrote some more emails. The first one went like this: My husband-to-be is severely allergic to all the flowers that have ever grown, and I only like a few of them anyway.  I would really like The Dude to enjoy our wedding, and not sneeze/wheeze through it.  Tearing up is fine, even encouraged.  But we must avoid the very loud Sneezes of Doom.’

And so, most of our flowers are paper.  I can’t link to them because that could be filed under Cart Before Horse.  But they are awesome.

The list so far is video, menu, flowers.   And freaking table linens.  I haven’t thought of table linens since my Nana had an actual linen closet.  Because that’s how she rolled.

Anyway, there’s linens.

And a cake. On Saturday, Sarge and I went looking at paint samples to bring the cake people and say, match these. Yes, really.  This was not a fake mission.   And it looked like this:

Purple Polka, anyone?

And after the beer:

This happened.

Video, menu, flowers cake…and linens.

There’s even been some movement on the shoes.

There’s favours, too.  But we don’t want to give them away until the wedding. Because that’s how it goes.

And  I’ve spent a lot of time putting together a playlist.  And crying.  And that’s before Sarge vetoes half the songs.  Except maybe this one.

I’m also camped out and waiting for the postman every morning.  Doing my best Olivia Twist with ‘Please Sir, can I have some more (RSVPs).  You can keep the Nos.  Because there will be no depression in this house.’  Or something.

I’ve even had my second dress-fitting, followed swiftly by my Bridal Crew Weekend.  Where I spent a lot of time telling my future sister-in-law, ‘I love your brother A LOT.’  I s’pose that’s a good start.  And I wasn’t even drunk.  OK, maybe that one time.

And that looked like this:

My head is no longer too big for hats.

As I write this, there are 38 days, 20 hours and 16 minutes til Sarge and I get married.  And I’m not sleeping well.  I’m in bed thinking about the video, the flowers, the cake, the favours.  Last week Sarge asked me why I couldn’t sleep.
‘My inner-child needs a paper bag to breathe into.’  I’m nervous.  And excited. And a little bit more of both.

But the list of things making me hyperventilate at three in the morning have nothing to do with being married.  I have the best future-husband on all the planets.  The vows and the rings and the life thing, bring that on.  I’m good with that.

As for the wedding, I must remember to breathe, and enjoy it.  And if  I cough/bark/gag, it just means I’m really happy.

10 Things You Can Do In The Dark

Let’s say there’s a power-cut.  In the middle of the day.  This day is particularly overcast and spooky, with little or no natural light.  You know, like April.  You are either home from work or you don’t have a job outside of that home.  The point is, apparently, you don’t have any juice inside it, either.

Here’s what you might do:

1.  Consider, for a moment, that you’ve finally done it.  With the computer on, the music on and for some reason all the damn lights on, you have blown all the fuses.  In the world. Ever.  This power outage is your fault.  You were listening to Sun Volt, and now there are no volts.  Neeener, neener.  Screw you, you big hippie.

2.  Wonder if the apocalypse/the extra weird part of The Passage has come true.

3.  Compose yourself.  Text your boyfriend/girlfriend/anyone who does not jump to stupid conclusions.  They might be at work.  Just sayin’.

‘Are you out, too?’

‘Yep.’

Oh, good.  Kinda.  At least the whole building, the whole street, the whole town will not blame you.  This also means the bill is paid and the apocalypse has not arrived.  Good deals.

4.  Now that you know it isn’t your fault, you are bored.  You amuse yourself by getting dressed.  In the dark.  Before NO JUICE you may have been hanging out in your robe.  Because you can.

5.  You may quote that line from Al Pacino.  All over the house.  And you may laugh.  Because it makes sense.  And you are stupid.

6.  You may read.  In the dark.  Because you can.  The Kindle isn’t so bad, after all.

7.  You may feel vindicated. 7b. But still a little dirty.

8.  You might worry that the food in your fridge is sweating.  Your freezer is defrosting.

9.  You eat.  Some grapes.  A sandwich without the bread.  You contemplate the dubious yogurt.  You don’t think so.

10.  You remember that old episode of Rosanne where their power goes out.  No, not that one.  The tornado one.  You think of helmets.  And ghost stories.  You might write a ghost story when the power comes back on.

Which it does. Eventually.

This whole list may have played out in the space of twenty minutes.  In my house.  Which now has power.  Of course.

How many film and TV references can I make in one post. Or two. (Image via: http://nzfilmfreak.wordpress.com)

Thinking Outside The Shoes

And so, I’ve kinda spent all day looking for wedding shoes.

It’s no secret that my original ‘bridal vision’ involved Doc Martens. I got one of those visions after I figured out what exactly a bridal vision was, and I’m still not really sure. Anyway, wedding Docs. Problem is, I don’t really like white. Or flowers.

But I saw myself in wedding boots for a few reasons. I need the support, and I can’t wear something that I step out of while dancing. Because it may fly across the room and hit someone in the head. And that would be dangerous. For them.

On my wedding day of all days, I’d like to avoid slippery shoes. I also don’t like heels, and the feeling is mutual.

Another reason I was thinking boots is because I don’t like white. Or flowers. Or ivory and flowers. Or peep toes. And I always thought kitten heels sounded like cruelty to feet. Or animals.

I’ve always had a weird relationship with shoes. When I was a kid, I would go around clicking my tongue, pretending my sturdy, practical rubber soles made the same sound as ‘grown-up shoes.’ The tongue thing was not a nervous tic, just a six year-old’s wish.

Saying that, I had other wishes back then.  When I listed my wishes, Clicky shoes, as I called them, came between ‘Siblings’ and ‘a midnight blue Mazda’. That’s how my mind worked. Still does.

Most shoes I coveted back then weren’t designed for someone who wore braces up to her hips and then her knees. I got that.

It wasn’t all bad. At all. My red sneakers were cool. And my Rainbow Brite sneakers were bitchin’.

But I can’t help but think there’s a tiny part of me that doesn’t like girlyshoeswithsixinchheels because they are inaccessible to me. That tiny part of me may be six-years old.

There’s a bigger part of me that just loves boots. Feels powerful in boots. Rocks the boots.

She wants to wear Docs to her wedding. Plan was to buy plain ones and have butterflies painted on them. That’s turning out to be a giant pain in the ass. With too many weeks involved. Or something.

I can get bespoke ones. My friends have offered to paint them. My mother has offered to paint them. But my thoughts are in words. Not vines and swirls and butterflies, as much as I love them. I can’t design stuff. I can’t tell anyone what I want. I don’t know what I want until I see it.

I’m seeing lovely non-white Docs with satin laces. They aren’t purple. They might pass for purple, though. Are they, forgive me, special enough to get married in? Maybe not.

I went shopping with my bridal crew for their shoes. I might have looked for myself. I didn’t see anything I wanted. Or anything that would stay on my feet where someone else puts them.

‘I need straps! Rubber soles!’ I said in one shop and then another. And then another. ‘Straps are too thin,’ I might have said in one place. ‘Those straps are too strappy.’

‘Mary Janes, court shoes,’ I listed. ‘Think outside the shoe.’ Nothing.

Today’s search was ‘purple Mary Janes’. Lots of ‘sold out’ and ‘No results found’, too. There was even a White Screen of Doom. I was on the phone with my Mom and then my Dad, volleying product numbers and styles back and forth until I said, ‘You know, it’s a good thing I’d get married in bare feet if I had to.’

‘You won’t,’ said Dad. ‘What you need is a pair of ruby slippers.’

That’ll be tomorrow’s search, then. Maybe Dorothy’s shoes will be Lorna’s shoes, too.

I’d strap that. (Image via shoewawa.com)

I Hate Myself And I Want To Read

I was breaking out in hives. Shaking. Clawing at my skin.

‘What the hell is this?’ I said to Sarge. ‘Red splotches. On my neck. Should I do this? I think I’m gonna be sick. Hold my hand.’ And then I grabbed his hand. Maybe broke his fingers. A little.

No, I was not peeing on a stick. I was not choosing table linens for the wedding dinner (which is actually the wedding breakfast, but never mind). None of those things.

I bought a Kindle. It comes with an existential crisis.

‘Do you think I should finish all the books I have before I buy one?’

‘Then you’ll never do it.’

‘Is that my answer? Do I even need one?’

‘Do you want one?’

‘Yes. ButIfeeldirty.’

Now. I have been openly hostile to e-readers. They are not books. They don’t smell like paper and ink. Real readers read books. So there.

A girl can change her mind. I’ve caught up with the times for a few reasons:

1.  Sarge likes to sleep. I do not. He can’t sleep with the light on, I can’t read without it. And when I read in bed, I sometimes drop the book on Sarge’s face. By accident, of course. Mostly. The last time it happened, he got a paper-cut. On his eye. I laughed. And then I felt bad.

He might have started to wear an eye-mask in bed. To block out my reading light and to shield his face from low-flying books. The mask is a kind of compromise. He used to fall asleep with a pillow over his face. Freaked me out a little.

‘Can you breathe? Are you breathing​?’

‘Oh, aye.’

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Not right now.’

b.  The last time we went away, we really did take a book suitcase. On the last day, Sarge looked like this:

He wants to travel lighter. I do, too. Especially on the honeymoon.

iii.  My personal Amazon boy-cot didn’t last very long. Obviously. I worked for them for about 5 minutes/exactly a month. Or at least I worked for people who employed people to work there. And then I quit. It was all very Norma Rae. Not really. After I left, I wanted to see how long I could last without using them.

I will say that the end of my drought wasn’t my fault. I like it when my book-group books can be locally-sourced. Or something. If not locally, then at least from GreenMetropolis. I found our most recent book-group selection there, and then my order was cancelled by the seller. And it wasn’t available at the library. And so, I ordered it on Amazon. Without looking at the Kindles.

But, I was (trying to) read in bed last week, and I might have given Sarge another paper-cut. Soon after, I broke out in those hives.

‘The built-in light will save your eyesight,’ said Sarge.

‘And yours,’ I said.

The things we do for love.

Are you an e-reader convert? Do you still read real books? Am I evil? (Feel free to not answer that last question!)

My Island Diaries: Armadale, Skye

Are We There Yet?

I can’t say much about my third hair and make-up trial. Because y’know, my future husband reads this blog. But I will say: Jackpot! He’s a lucky man.

After I slapped myself in the face with make-up remover, I let him back in the living-room. We were waiting to go to Skye for the week. Off to Dad and Anne’s new house. With a separate suitcase just for books.

Dad called and said, ‘I’ll be there at 1.30.’ And then 4.30. And then 7.30.

At about 8 o’clock we loaded the books and the chair into a rented truck, and set off after a round of Luggage Jenga.

‘Are we there yet?’ I chirped from the back.

‘You still have glitter on your face,’ said Sarge.

‘Do not.’

‘Do, too.’

Take It To The Bridge

We missed all the ferries. So we drove up and over to the bridge. In the snow, with the radio tuned to this show.

Anne called a weather and traffic hotline, and someone actually gave us the right information.

I fell asleep and woke up when Dad swerved to avoid hitting a deer.

Welcome home, I thought.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

At about two in the morning I unfolded myself from the back of the truck, did a sliding jump to the ground, and looked up to the stars. ‘Hello, lovely old people,’ I said. I may have winked. Except I’m not co-ordinated enough, so I blinked.

Within minutes of stepping into the house, Sarge was reaching over my head to hit the light in the spare room.

Darkness and silence, until, ‘I didn’t even start with glitter on my face.’

‘OK, it was just your eyes, then,’ said Sarge.

‘Good save,’ I said.

Coffee and Hope

The next morning brought new furniture for Dad and Anne’s new place. I sat in the kitchen with coffee and a book because I always bring my own chair. I transferred onto the new couch before my coffee got cold.

‘How’s the book?’

‘Anne Frank is in the attic. But I’m not giving anything away.’

That night we went to a pub for dinner. And talked about the wedding while I broke my No Drinking ‘Til June rule. Several times.

The accessible toilet was so big, I could have slept in it. Even bigger than the one I slept in that one time in France.

Chips With Everything

Dad, Sarge and I were in a diner-type-thing, talking about the wedding.

An older couple (of tourists) was sitting at the next table trying to figure out why everything on the menu came with chips. Strangely, they reminded me of myself about 20 years ago. Because my first kinda-sorta meal here was egg and chips. Part of me is still waiting for a bag of Wise chips with that. I’ve been here a long time.

The Art of ‘Fuck It!’

An hour after eating, we went swimming. I can walk in water. Not on it, but in it. And so, I paced the pool while Dad and then Sarge did laps. I used to swim really well and then I stopped, and these days I’m never far from the edge. This time, I blamed it on the kids’ party in the next lane. The water was really warm, and I didn’t want to think about why.

I scraped my feet on the way back into the chair. But I had to get off the floor.

Later, in Dad’s bathroom, I’m sitting in the shower, hoping I’ve air-dried enough not to slip on the floor while I transfer to my chair, parked at an actually jaunty angle, waiting for my less jaunty, more nervous ass on the seat. I don’t know the angles of this bathroom, how many steps and swings and pivots it takes to get from A to B and back. But the thing is I’ve thought about too much. I’ve thought about falling. And I can’t move. So. I wait. For half an hour.

‘Fuck it,’ I said. And I kind of launch myself from one seat to another. I got in, so I got out.

Target Practice

The next day, with the help of these guys, I got to launch arrows into a target. No, the target wasn’t Sarge.

They might have moved the target closer. And then I shot over it.

I needed that. After a few moments of ‘my body doesn’t move like that’, I needed a day of, ‘Oh yes, it does.’

As I launched the arrows farther and father away, I pep-talked to myself. ‘Let’s bust some shit,’ I said. And I did.

My argument is invalid.

Things Work Out

The night before we left, I didn’t want to go. Or, I wanted to know when we’d be back. The silence and the stars have always done good things to me.

I’d gone quiet when suddenly, a new friend said, ‘Things have a way of working out, Lorna.’ How many people were with me at that moment? All the stars.

I looked at Sarge. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Things work out.’