Numbers 51-52

A dear friend just sent me this list of The 50 Most Romantic Things That Ever Happened. Because, y’know, stuff like that makes me melt, these days.

Anyway, Sarge walked in as I was scrolling through.

‘I’m going to leave the room while you look at these,’ I said.

When I returned, Sarge said, ‘I’d build you a ramp for those 6,000 stairs. And then I’d push you up the ramp. Just so people would know we’re together, you understand.’

P.S. The Daily post asked: When was the last time you shed tears of joy?  My answer: half an hour ago, after the above exchange.

Which was only two hours after crying over seeing what will be engraved on our wedding bands:

Weekly Photo Challenge: Forward (Planning)

For Christmas, Dad bought me a copy of The Ultimate Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook.  Because that’s the kinda guy he is.  I think it was a joint present.

‘You can skip the bits on dating and breaking up.  I have, however, highlighted the section on BABIES!’ he said.

Since then, the book has sat on our actual coffee table, used as a handy reference guide/random writing prompter.

On Friday, I found the book open to this not-so-random page (73):

How To Avoid A Nervous Breakdown Before The Wedding (Click to enlarge)

A gentle reminder from Sarge, after he spoke to the ring engravers and I met with the florist.

I like the last suggestion on the list: elope.

(Post inspired by life, love, good mental health and this week’s Weekly Photo Challenge.)

 

 

 

 

Penguin On Board

Regular readers will know that Sarge likes to play Go. He plays it online and is also a member of a local club. Though I believe the first rule of Go club is you don’t talk about Go club.

Anyway.

We’ve traipsed around game shops looking for what Sarge calls ‘a real Go board’ and even the right wood so he can make his own. A few weeks ago, we sat down to watch The Go Master, a biopic of Go Seigen. Before I watched this beautiful film, I thought of Go as something like Chinese checkers. I was wrong. And now I want to learn to play.

Sarge has tried to talk me through moves. When I look at a board, I still don’t know what I’m looking at. Except maybe black and white stones that make me want to eat Junior Mints.

Last night Sarge came home with a board that he’d ordered.  I was writing, and he was on the couch.  I thought he was happily playing out moves, and I went over to see if he was winning.

This is what I found:

A penguin! That’s definitely a penguin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Penguin is not actual game play.

We may even play a real game.  When the penguin waddles off the board.

How Many Pillows Can You Fit In A Washing Machine?

This was going to be yesterday’s post, but all the fresh air from the weekend left me too tired to crank up the computer last night.

Anyway.

September’s book group selection was Pontypool Changes Everything. Since the Afterword basically states the movie is better, and people really shouldn’t have read the book, few of us did.

When we got together on Friday night to watch Pontypool, the warm-up act was this, from Even Stevens:

Don’t ask me why. I’m still not sure.

And this was our interpretation of it:

Good friends, good times, good cakes, good night.

On Saturday, Sarge and I went shopping. It looked a little something like this:

20 people have liked this on Facebook so far. Second only to the announcement of our engagement. I’m also getting a lot of compliments on my shoes. Before you ask, they are from here. I may also send this photo to This Is What Disability Looks Like.

When we got home, Sarge wondered aloud: how many pillows can you fit in a washing machine?

Two, apparently. We checked:

On Sunday, we went to a friend’s birthday party. Where I discovered another way to eat more vegetables. Pakora everything.

After that, on the way to my (almost) in-laws’ house for dinner, I looked up and found this:

Beautiful.

How was your weekend?

Tea And Technology

This was taken at Loopy Lorna’s  Tea House.  No, not my house.  I’m more a coffee person.  Sarge and I were taking a break from wedding cake shopping.  Sarge was timing the brew using the stop-watch on his mobile phone.

I was highly amused.

Do you drink tea or coffee?  How do you take it?

Do you use technology in interesting ways?

Free Advice

I found this bag on my travels today.  Sarge spotted it during a drive-by.  I stopped short, and it became a drive-buy.  The bag now has a place amongst the butterflies.

Bag from Pippin.  Advice from my Grandma.

What’s the best piece of advice you’ve received?

On The Road: The Nerdy Backpackers

Em’s puppy. And our stuff. In a car I did not get sick in.

‘We look like a couple of nerdy backpackers.’

‘That’s because we are.’

On Monday, Sarge and I went to Newcastle (ish) to visit a friend of mine from University (the first one). She was the friend from this post and featured in the beginning of this one. Through no fault of our own we’d seen each other all of twice in five years. Before Monday, Em hadn’t met Sarge, and we are going on three.

Because I don’t have a job, and Sarge had a week off from his, we boarded a South-bound train after packing George and the robot and bumping into some coffee on the way.

Now. Another little known fact about me is that I can actually make myself sick with excitement. Really. Being happy/nervous/excited about anything makes me throw up. Or dry-heave. When I was a kid and the carnival moved in next door, I had to breathe into a paper bag before we left the house. One fateful night, I got to the top of the ferris wheel and threw up. I was up there with a friend who was a boy who decided then we should see other people. The whole experience left me with a phobia of vomiting.

These days, Sarge knows to either hold my hair back or get out of the way. And I do my part by skipping breakfast on what I call ‘high excitement’ days. And so, I didn’t have breakfast or lunch on the train.

When we got to the station, I got a text: I’ve had to stop the car and throw up. Be there soon. Xxx

Snap, I thought.

‘See’, I said to Sarge. ‘It isnae just me.’

So we went to the station pub. Sat for awhile, getting updates from Em. ‘I’m in the bathroom, waiting on Mum to drive us back now.’

‘This reunion is like ripping a Band-Aid off.’ I said, deciding to have a beer.

Her Mum found us first, recognising me by my hair.  It’s still big.

After staring at each other for a while we got in the car. I was in the back. Now. Maybe because of my aforementioned phobia, I’ve only been carsick once. On my thirteenth birthday. On the way to the zoo. Very exciting. We never made it to the zoo. Still, it was one of the best days of my life.

The point is, sitting back there on Monday, I didn’t think I’d get sick. Until I did.

We got to Em’s house. And her stairs were too narrow for me to walk up, so I went up on my butt. Another throwback from childhood.

As I actually dragged ass over the threshold, I said, ‘We’re staying awhile.’

We had curry and chocolate and Em told Sarge the unabridged versions of some rather legendary stories.

The next day, Em had stuff to do, so Sarge and I went exploring. We ended up in a book shop, of course. Sifting through the second-hand ones, Sarge found me a Hemingway. ‘For you,’ he said.

We left the shop after they checked and double-checked Sarge’s Scottish money. ‘This IS a different country.’ I said.

We went to Em’s Mum’s house for a roast dinner. ‘We’ll have to move the trampoline so Lorna can get through the garden.’ That’s not a sentence you hear every day.

That night Sarge was schooled in how to julienne carrots. I didn’t help because the last time I touched a carrot I julienned my fingers. Em’s Grandma and Aunt arrived and it was lovely and weird to sit in on someone else’s family.

I dragged ass back up the stairs and fell asleep before more embarrassing stories could be told.

The next day I made a great discovery. Nutella and banana pancakes. Any extra calories were burned on the way down the stars.

Em took us around more quaint little shops. Everything I saw made me want to trade in our Ikea furniture for more grown up pieces.

We found a pub where I had a sneaky slice of cheesecake and then went home to make a dent in the bottle of rum we brought as a housewarming gift.

The next day, before tackling the stairs for the last time, Em and I might have made Sarge watch Practical Magic.

‘You’re Aidan Quinn,’ I said to Sarge.

‘Who?’

‘Him.’

‘Cool.’

Before we headed to the station we took a picture of The Oma on Hadrian’s Wall.

It was raining when we got home to Edinburgh. Not very exciting. I didn’t even throw up.

Here are some more shots from the trip!

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The Oma Does Edinburgh

You may remember that we have a house guest. We’ve taken him out with us almost everywhere since his arrival.

Here is photographic evidence of The Oma’s adventures so far:

In my bag, ready for the pub.

Hugging some cider at Sofi’s:

Offering me a rose. Possibly drunk here:

Zombie coffee is good for hangovers:

More coffee at Artisan Roast.  He appreciated the signage:

Perusing Festival posters:

And enroute to a bookshop. His hosts didn’t buy any books. He wanted some postcards. No such luck.

In the middle of a celtic-knotted compass in The Meadows:

Posing in front of The Usher Hall.  Probably wondering if they need any robot guitarists.

Trying to blend in with the furniture at Frisky, after enjoying some of their frozen yogurt:

Maybe it was a sugar-high, but he was very happy to get to Edinburgh Castle:

And even happier to to see the Scottish flag: 

Here he is having a moment outside The Scottish Parliament:

And then Sarge took The Oma and George up Arthur’s Seat.

The boys go hillwalking:

And to prove they made it down from there…

We took The Oma to the movies.  To see Ted.  We thought it was appropriate somehow.

Some notes on the photos:

They are a joint effort.

Sarge climbed hills to get some of them.  He loves me that much.

The Oma reminds you to drink responsibly.

For more on The Oma’s adventures, please visit:  The Oma Today Project.

Stay tuned for:  The Oma Does Glasgow and The Oma Does Newcastle.

George’s New Friend

George Bailey-Penguin has a visitor.  The Oma has arrived!

This is the first card with his name on it, too. He’s growing up.

 

They seem to like each other.

Dude, whose idea was this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For more info on the Oma, visit The Oma Today Project and Hippie Cahier.  Yes, that does rhyme.

Stay tuned for:

The Oma Does Glasgow

and

The Oma Does Edinburgh

Orchids And Violets

Wednesday was the start of Edinburgh’s Festival(s) season.  Naturally, Sarge and I left town.  We loaded my lap up with the box of wedding invitations, balanced my Dad’s birthday present on top of the box and went down-hill to the train station.  Narrowly missing the heels of some tourists along the way.  Nipping a tourist is 50 points.  (Click here for more on what I think of tourist season, and a little more on how I came to be here.)

We boarded the train with our very local picnic and arrived at Dad’s house with a box, some books and Sarge’s nameless laptop.

Anne brought some KFC home for dinner, because it’s on the list of stuff Dad can eat these days.  We talked about the wedding and started my addiction to this year’s Olympics.    Athletics was the gateway.

After Dad and Anne went to bed, Sarge read and I scribbled, figuring out a major plot point for something I’m working on.  As I wrote, I actually said, ‘Aha!’

‘Are you alright?’ Sarge peered at me over his book.

‘YES!’

I stopped mid-sentence.  And started the comedy portion of our evening just by going to bed.  I’ve said before that getting onto and off of an air-mattress is, for me, like something out of an I Love Lucy episode.  That’s still true.  I checked.

The next morning, after removing my knee from Sarge’s spleen, we gave Dad his present.  A book and a card that said: Happy Birthday, You Magnificent Old Fart!  Because he is.  All of those things.

Dad sent us on a mission to find fancy pens to write the invitations, and we went to the art store by way of the pub.  Sitting there coaxing the sun out, we decided we were on holiday.  And so, I took a photo of my beer.  Because that’s what people do on holiday.  Or is that just me?

After the pub, I was in the midst of texting my best friend to see if she was working.  And she appeared.  Seriously.  I hadn’t sent the text.

‘How’d we do that?’

‘We just do.’

She introduced us to the two adorable little girls she looks after.  And then they showed us the pictures they’d been drawing.

‘Better than anything I could do,’ I said.  I asked the girls the only thing I can think of when presented with children these days.  ‘Do you like penguins?’

The girls were so cute my womb might have skipped all the way down the street. We followed it into the art store.

We stopped in front of the pen racks.  ‘Want, want.’  And I wasn’t talking about art supplies.

We did find two pens in different shades of purple.  Sarge tested them out by writing PENGUINS.  Of course.  We bought 4 pens, and then went to find Dad the book he actually wanted for his birthday.

We’d all planned to go to a folk club that night.  Dad was too tired to go, but sent us along with Anne and her Mum.

Now.  To me, the sign of good music is stuff that makes me cry.  None of the stuff we saw on Thursday did it for me.  We did, however, overhear a very loud ‘conversation’ about 50 Shades of Grey.  In the mixed company we were in, I may  have wanted to cry from embarrassment.  That’s the stuff memories are made of.

The next day, Dad wanted to get started on the invitations.  Sarge made a spreadsheet from the list.  Because he’s organised like that.  I was looking up addresses on my email and Facebook messages.  Dad wrote and wrote.  He may have cried.

‘What’s happening?’  Sarge asked, looking up from his spreadsheet.

‘Dad’s just having a moment.’ I said.

‘Think of all the places these’ll go.  All for you guys.  You did a wonderful job.  I want to be a fly on the wall when people open these.’

And then he listed some people who are gone, those who won’t be sending back an RSVP.  And then I cried.

‘Next!’ I said.

And we ended up with this:

The top one is a sample of Dad’s celebrated (by me) handwriting!

There will be more where those came from, when I send Dad another list of addresses.  Like Sarge, Dad is more organised than I am.