Sunday, August 24, 2014

Three things ...

My old friend Nora Gabora was vacationing in Minnesota and I was trying to figure out how to get to Brainerd to see her during the week or to Minneapolis to see her on Saturday. I'm not sure what constitutes a trek to a New Yorker. Would I sound like a pussy if, at crunch time, I couldn't cajole my freakishly strong tot into her carseat for a 5 hour round trip? Would N. Gabora be like "Sometimes I travel 5 hours just to buy olives!"

Turns out it didn't matter. Her brother-in-law was going to swing into Duluth to visit friends and she could hitch a ride.

"I'll bring a bottle of white wine," she messaged.

Jack. Freaking. Pot.

So she came to my house and my child was charming and went to bed with little fuss and then we got to talk about babies and the people of Lourdes High School and books and books and books and books.

For the next three days, my sentences were like:

"Oh, so Nora told me ..."
"Nora said that ..."
"Then Nora goes ..."

I started to get pretty self-conscious about the NoraNoraNora-ness of it all. 

"Is it weird that I'm talking about Nora so much?" I asked Chuck. 
"No," he said. "But I do think that maybe you need to talk to people more often."


It went undocumented on social media, but it still happened: Chuck and I had our Eight Year Meetiversary. Eight years ago last week we met at Subway while on dinner break. Sometimes I like to revisit the scene in my head and whisper into the ear of that hungover woman in mismatched clothing who was picking at her BMT: "Get used to that face sitting across from you. Someday everyone in your family will be wearing it."


We went to the Minnesota State Fair on opening day. The first thing that happened: I used a Porta Potty that literally had ground feces in the corner beneath the urinal. 

We ate our faces off and made up, gastrointestinally, for many years of not attending the Minnesota State Fair. 

"The last time I was here, it was to see the Gear Daddies play," I told Chuck who found this a little too funny. 

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