But I won’t because that’s now one of my New Year's declarations: no linking. Or rather, minimal linking. I need to return to my roots. “Just the words, ma’am, just the words." Other lofty goals for 2015 include blogging more (posts have dwindled from 140 to 105 to 91, and on down to 23 in recent years), returning communications in at timely manner (it's getting worse), and of course, figuring shit out (always high on the list). Also, it may be time to start thinking of embracing the “middle aged” label. Nah, not yet.
They say that your cells are replaced every seven years or so, in which case I’m near the beginning of my fifth cell cycle. Whether this is apocryphal or not, I’m just gonna go ahead and believe it. I mean, 1994 was Pulp Fiction and I was officially a teenager. 2001 was 9/11 and my dad passing away. 2008 was a/the major breakup. Seismic life changes you know?
And so, counting seven years back from now, it the beginning of my nomadic period. I had just started the Bermuda Triangle living arrangement of going between San Diego, San Franciso, and New York. I grew new friends, met the person I would probably call my best friend now, and basically came to learn that everything is transient, especially me. Outside of a full year in New York in 2013, it’s been running running running.
And now we’re here, two thousand fifteen. Et tu, Brute?
I watched The One I Love a few weeks ago. With Peggy from Mad Men and one half of the Duplass brothers. It's pretty great. Simple and brilliant. I don't know who to credit, the writer who conceived the script, the director who put it all together, or Elisabeth Moss and Mark Duplass. All of them I guess. You should watch The One I Love because it's a trip. And I wish I had seen it last year to include it in my "best of" list.
Speaking of bests, from this article naming "the best books of the 21st century (so far)," I've read eight. And since I'm obviously one hundred percent gonna finish fiftyfifty.me this year, I'm just going to start by going down this list. First up is Elena Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend because I've been dying to read it.
And oh yeah, the wedding! Over the holiday break, I flew home and married George and AMR. Now we are officially and forever family. I stood up in front with three pages of stuff to mumble out -- tucked into a Calvin & Hobbes anthology -- and then before I knew it, my job was over. AMR and George spent more time going over what alcohol to order to insure a great party than the actual ceremony itself, but that's why they're great. They knew what kind of wedding they, and we, wanted and they delivered.
It was ten minutes of walking in and ceremony-ing, followed by five hours of drinking and dancing. A few quick toasts, lots of snackables on-hand, a wonderful live cover band, and then boom, over. I think I signed the marriage certificate in-between sets. And I might have signed it a little bit outside of the box, so the certificate might have to be re-done. But still, my most important task of 2014, accomplished! Congrats to them both and to my oh so happy mother, whom I've never seen beam so radiantly.
I should have asked her for the keys to the kingdom right there.
