He clearly proved me wrong. Not only that but he did a great job of it. I'm not so sure I would have. Besides, no one who was ever in that kitchen wanted to pull any of my offspring out of the oven. Is that a metaphor of some sort? Not sure if it is just mixed or mixed up. My tale of woe when it comes to such things is a sad saga best suited for another day. Or never.
Anyway, my nephews are my heroes. They both have done things much like I think I might have, had I any sense for the first half of my life. At least everyone pretends that my influence on them was significant and positive. Probably true.
They were too young to know of my most desperate moments, but I avoided family during those years anyway. They were well schooled by their parents, and smart enough to realize that they possess the genes which could easily render them hopeless alcoholics or hop heads should they get too careless. Then again, I suppose by some twist of fate one could be a hopeful hop head/alcoholic. Not that it would do any good.
That is just another way of saying that I am determined to be there to celebrate young L's betrothal. Young; he was cautious and didn't get hitched until he was almost 33. Same age I was when I got divorced. Boy oh boy. Then later I find out, "Oh no, I never intended to have kids". I know I wasn't that drunk. Maybe you could have said so one of those times I was fantasizing out loud about the value of having 5 or 7 or 9 babies. I thought an odd number would be good at that time.
Now I think one or two children provide about all the abuse anyone needs in one life.
So, it will either be a slow trek up the coast, or a zigzag over to Yellowstone for a few day fling, then back to OR. I'm leaning toward the coastal route. I'm not sure the flingee is really making enough of a good faith effort. There may be reasons, but it still leaves me to be the one jumping through hoops. That is the only thing about this age--good looking women who are reasonable candidates for whatever are far and few between. Throw in my intrinsic difficulties and eccentricities, and we have odds approaching those of winning the lottery.
Hey Obama, screw spreading the wealth, let's spread the love, dammit. I see plenty of trophies with wealthy guys who can't possibly be any fun. I should have been a pool boy. In SoCal I think that is a very satisfying occupation. Tennis instructor is right there, too, but a little more complicated.
(although my hat's off to George Hamilton. He's always been a funny guy, and made shameless vanity work well for himself)