My Dad Needs A Blog

I’ve been trying to get my Dad to start a blog for awhile now.  Or at least guest-post on here.

Dad needs to blog for lots of reasons.  The main one being, dude is too verbose for Facebook.  Today, he posted this:

32 years ago today – 31.03.81 @ 12:50 local time in Dallas, Texas – life changed forever. It was the happiest day of my life. After two weeks of very early and difficult labour, my wife and I finally made into the delivery room for a C-Section. It’s a girl, the doctors said. For a fleeting moment I was slightly disappointed; I thought I had wanted a boy. A few moments later, a nurse said, “Well, Dad, you’re going to be doing a lot of this so you better get used to it,” as she handed me a tiny 3lb 12oz wrinkled bundle of pure love, joy, beauty and peace named Lorna Karen Duff. She looked like a wee organ grinder’s monkey because she had a tiny Dixie Cup taped askew on her head to keep her from pulling out her IV and she fit quite snugly into my left hand. We were bonded together instantly and I really, truly believed that even then, in those very first moments, we understood one another completely. 32 years later I still do.

That little Read More… line that showed up on his post made me cry.  Because that’s me.  And that’s my Dad.

He needs a blog, right?  How many of you would read it?

My Dad, sometime before I showed up.  We have the same happy face.
My Dad, sometime before I showed up. We have the same happy face.

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:


One Sentence Book Reviews

Or, book reviews that are one sentence.  Or one line, depending on your definition of ‘sentence’.  Work with me.

Chicken With Plums – I fell asleep in the middle, and woke up by the end.

Death at La Fenice – The start of my new favourite series.

The Fault in Our Stars – I might have developed a slightly age-inappropriate crush on Augustus Waters.

MWF Seeking BFF: My Yearlong Search For A New Best Friend – An exercise in First-World problems.

On Writing – I highlight library books.

Dotter of Her Father’s Eyes – This one made me want to like Paris again.

Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail – Like Eat, Pray, Love with balls.

Beautiful Creatures – Yes, really.

Rapture – Better aloud.

The Killing – I hated the end, but I had to get there.

Hope: A Tragedy – This one should be a Coen Brothers film.

What was the last book you read?  Can you sum it up in a sentence?

Cover of "On Writing:  A Memoir of the Cr...
Cover of On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Gone Fishin’

Later today, I’m heading to Skye in a flatbed truck.  Yes, really.  I’ll come back with several blog posts that started out in my journal.  And I’ve also packed my travel notebooks, so stay tuned for lots more words.

For now, my previous island escapades can be found here and here.

And with that, I promised Sarge I’d shut down the computer.  In exchange for a fully-booked honeymoon by the end of the week.  Sweet deal.

Back on Monday the 25th.

Have a most excellent week, people!


The Great Hyphenation

Yesterday marked 99 days until Sarge and I get married. Not long after I realised we are down to double-digits, I shared the countdown on Facebook, and then I read  this article about changing your last name after marriage. Or not. I saw it on a friend’s wall (as you do) and posted it on mine, with this preamble:

‘I share this as someone who would never drop my last name. Because it’s mine. And I love it. And if I did, it would never get to anyone else. That’s a big deal to me. My whole heart. So I’m not dropping, only adding. And it means the world that (Sarge) is hyphenating like I am. So our children can be like both of us, inside and out.’

When we first talked about getting married, my only issue was wanting to carry on my name. And I thought, if that’s my only issue, I’ve found the right person.

We talked about our options, and then we went over them again. Might have reached an impasse when I didn’t want something completely new and penguin-related.

‘If you’re adding my name, I’ll add your name. We are equals.’

And that’s when ‘if’ became ‘when’.

I have nothing against women who change their name. Or women who don’t at all. What we are called doesn’t matter, unless and until it means something to us.

Changing, or adding to your name is a choice. And just because I want to keep my name doesn’t mean I won’t want to share my husband’s. I’m greedy like that. Or something.

I figure if we’re going to share a life together, we can share a name. Or two.

Little things mean a lot.
Little things mean a lot.

Dear Sarge, I’m Sorry I Lied.

Dearest You,

A year ago today, I put on a dress, prayed to the angels and  asked you to marry me. Thank you for telling me to get up off the floor and giving me an empty box. It’s the best empty box I ever got. And this coming from a girl who collects empty boxes.

Thank you for sitting with me on the stairs. And sometimes dragging me backwards down them. Yes, I trust you. With my heart. With my coffee. With my life.

Thank you for letting me blast country music. Sometimes. Thank you for seeing me in songs and my grandmother’s face. And in your future.

Thanks for singing back to me.

Thank you for holding my hand. And gently pulling me out of darkened rooms. Thank you for staying with me in the morning. And for letting me fall asleep sideways. Most of the time.

Thank you for giving me butterflies. And pancakes. And cheesecake. And vanilla tea. And visions of what our children will look like. And for letting me name them. Maybe.

Thank you for loving me more than penguins. I know what that means. And it means the world to me. Because I love you more than you love penguins.

Thank you for playing cards with Dad and sitting in the back of my Mom’s car. And sleeping in my cousin’s basement.

Thank you for helping me surprise Aunt Nancy, and for not thinking I was crazy. At least not for doing that.

Thank you for helping me leave a pebble with Aunt Karen. She told me it was you.  Always you.

Thank you for letting me write. Sometimes about us. Sometimes in public. Thank you for letting me nickname you something no one else calls you. OK, a few things no one else calls you.

Thank you for emailing me in 2009. And for doing it again when I wrote you back. There are 250 of those emails. I know because I read backwards yesterday. Because I can.

I’m sorry I told you my friends were the non-crazy kind. I might have lied about that, you’ll realise now. Because they are. But they say that being with you is the smartest, truest thing I’ve done.

And that is the truth.

Love (online and offline),

Me xox

This is also true.
This is also true.