You wear your HARVARD sweatshirt and people tell you, "Roll Tide!"
And, since I'm an Auburn girl, it took me a while to "get it."
The first time this happened, I was in Winn Dixie with my mother on a Sunday morning. We were getting our buggy (not a cart), and this woman comes up to me and says, "Roll Tide!"
"War Eagle!" I said. That's my standard response to the 'Bammers who like to tell me "Roll Tide."
"But your shirt ..."
"It's a Harvard shirt."
"Well, it's the right colors."
Another time, I was at a Phil Lesh/Allman Brothers Band concert and it was cold and rainy and I put on all I had to cover up with, my trusty Harvard sweatshirt. During intermission, it happened again, only I didn't get a chance to say, "War Eagle!" Plus, I figured any idiot who brings state politics to the hippie concert isn't worth my time.
Only in Alabama, y'all.
On a brighter note (for me), I did get a big, "War Eagle!" while getting onto an elevator on my cruise ship in 2004 (just before that beautiful season).
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Confession (a.k.a. How's this for transparency?)
Way back when, when I started college, I remember going out with the girls one night and one girl was being relentlessly teased about going to college for her MRS degree. When I found out what that meant, I couldn't help but think to myself, "That doesn't sound so bad."
Fast-forward a few years and everybody and their mother is getting married and having babies, if they haven't already. I had also turned 21 and realized how much fun it is toparty like a rock star six nights a week, resting on Sunday, oh who am I kidding, seven nights a week go out a couple of times a week and not have a boyfriend to tie me down. I had a job I loved for the first time in my life, I was making good grades, and I was on the path to a well-respected graduate degree.
Well, something happened at the end of my next to last semester of undergrad: I met this guy who thought he was my boyfriend. And he treated me like his girlfriend. I liked him. He was a good, strong, Auburn fan and he made me laugh. And I really liked being treated like a girlfriend. So, I decided I would start calling him my boyfriend.
Six months later, I graduated from college and I was attempting to become a bona-fide adult. And I was IN LOVE with this man. I wasn't the only one who thought they could see what was about to not happen. Surely, we would be announcing our engagement any second now. Wrong. Apparently, all the seriousness of this relationship was getting to him and he asked to cool it down, and eventually broke up with me just after the one year point.
I gave up the single life for this?
All of a sudden, the thought of marriage made me angry. I would watch "General Hospital" and think, "Why can't they leave poor Patrick alone? Isn't it enough that he and Robin are together? Why does he have to be forced into something more? Friends of Robin, SHUT YOUR MOUTHS! YOU'LL SCREW IT UP!"
PTSD? Maybe. Just a little. (No offense to those who actually suffer from PTSD.)
Not to worry, though, my boyfriend and I got back together soon after the grandest romantic gesture I have ever experienced (note to future husband: you must top this, and you have some big shoes to fill to do so): after a few hours of drinking beer together at our beloved TC's on a Friday night, my boyfriend professed his love for me, so that everyone within a 10 foot radius could hear.
For six months I had been waiting to hear those words, and it was better than I ever imagined.
Well, two years later, I finally decided it was over. Over. Over. Over. Unless, he had suddenly changed his mind about getting married and becoming a parent (again, for him). No, he hadn't, so we both knew that storm cloud that had been hovering over our near-perfect relationship all these years was exploding.
I decided to move to Auburn for reasons unrelated (although, it would be an added benefit to be 100 miles away from him in case of a moment of weakness).
But, y'all, I have a confession: As excited as I am about being single again, I really want a husband. I have visions of purple garden weddings, Pottery Barn linens, Lenox China, sweet little babies with good, strong, Southern names, and a membership with the Lee County Junior League dancing in my head.
I have the wedding fever, and the only prescription is a ring on my finger.
It's just the way I see it, y'all.
So, if any of you out there know a good, strong, Southern man who is also a good, strong, Auburn fan (or just plain doesn't care or who can be mature with me about it and not be a tacky un-Auburn fan), is into adopting kids, will appreciate a wife who cooks and manages the house, while volunteering for the Junior League, and selling the occasional property to supplement the household income and support her Pottery Barn habit, who doesn't drink too much, but isn't a teetotaler, who isn't so conservative his socially liberal wife needs to walk on eggshells when it comes to her socially liberal ways of thinking (bonus points if he's very socially liberal, as well), who just wants to have a good time and who lives in Auburn (or is willing to), send him my way.
Fast-forward a few years and everybody and their mother is getting married and having babies, if they haven't already. I had also turned 21 and realized how much fun it is to
Well, something happened at the end of my next to last semester of undergrad: I met this guy who thought he was my boyfriend. And he treated me like his girlfriend. I liked him. He was a good, strong, Auburn fan and he made me laugh. And I really liked being treated like a girlfriend. So, I decided I would start calling him my boyfriend.
Six months later, I graduated from college and I was attempting to become a bona-fide adult. And I was IN LOVE with this man. I wasn't the only one who thought they could see what was about to not happen. Surely, we would be announcing our engagement any second now. Wrong. Apparently, all the seriousness of this relationship was getting to him and he asked to cool it down, and eventually broke up with me just after the one year point.
I gave up the single life for this?
All of a sudden, the thought of marriage made me angry. I would watch "General Hospital" and think, "Why can't they leave poor Patrick alone? Isn't it enough that he and Robin are together? Why does he have to be forced into something more? Friends of Robin, SHUT YOUR MOUTHS! YOU'LL SCREW IT UP!"
PTSD? Maybe. Just a little. (No offense to those who actually suffer from PTSD.)
Not to worry, though, my boyfriend and I got back together soon after the grandest romantic gesture I have ever experienced (note to future husband: you must top this, and you have some big shoes to fill to do so): after a few hours of drinking beer together at our beloved TC's on a Friday night, my boyfriend professed his love for me, so that everyone within a 10 foot radius could hear.
For six months I had been waiting to hear those words, and it was better than I ever imagined.
Well, two years later, I finally decided it was over. Over. Over. Over. Unless, he had suddenly changed his mind about getting married and becoming a parent (again, for him). No, he hadn't, so we both knew that storm cloud that had been hovering over our near-perfect relationship all these years was exploding.
I decided to move to Auburn for reasons unrelated (although, it would be an added benefit to be 100 miles away from him in case of a moment of weakness).
But, y'all, I have a confession: As excited as I am about being single again, I really want a husband. I have visions of purple garden weddings, Pottery Barn linens, Lenox China, sweet little babies with good, strong, Southern names, and a membership with the Lee County Junior League dancing in my head.
I have the wedding fever, and the only prescription is a ring on my finger.
It's just the way I see it, y'all.
So, if any of you out there know a good, strong, Southern man who is also a good, strong, Auburn fan (or just plain doesn't care or who can be mature with me about it and not be a tacky un-Auburn fan), is into adopting kids, will appreciate a wife who cooks and manages the house, while volunteering for the Junior League, and selling the occasional property to supplement the household income and support her Pottery Barn habit, who doesn't drink too much, but isn't a teetotaler, who isn't so conservative his socially liberal wife needs to walk on eggshells when it comes to her socially liberal ways of thinking (bonus points if he's very socially liberal, as well), who just wants to have a good time and who lives in Auburn (or is willing to), send him my way.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Ain't life grand
Y'all, I know I shouldn't live so much in the past, but I just can't help it.
2005 was a wild year for me. If I ever forget it, you will know one of two things: 1) I have lost my marbles and must be committed or 2) I have lost my marbles and you need to commit me. And, y'all, to this day, I am amazed I survived.
Okay, quick year in review:
The award to the most favorite moment of 2005 (no offense, Boyfriend) goes to (drum roll, please):
2005 was a wild year for me. If I ever forget it, you will know one of two things: 1) I have lost my marbles and must be committed or 2) I have lost my marbles and you need to commit me. And, y'all, to this day, I am amazed I survived.
Okay, quick year in review:
- January: rang in the new year at Banana Joe's (long story, but let's just say it wasn't my first choice), watched Auburn win the Sugar Bowl (War Eagle!), started UAB
- February: figured out UAB was not a nice place (unlike Auburn, War Eagle!)
- March: Spring Break '05 at the Embassy. Embassy Suites, y'all. ('nother post)
- April: Happy Birthday to me! Started allergy shots about a week later.
- May-August: eh!
- September: Went out for Rush at UAB ('cause UAB is so not Auburn or Alabama. Riiiiight.), got dropped from Rush, was on the verge of a breakdown and I gave up on UAB
- October: visit from my old neighbor, Halloween
- November: danced with Pat Beck to "Ain't Life Grand", met my future boyfriend, saw Auburn beat Bama for the fourth year in a row ("Fear the Thumb" and, of course, War Eagle!)
- December: Got a boyfriend, Christmas, whatever
The award to the most favorite moment of 2005 (no offense, Boyfriend) goes to (drum roll, please):
Pat Beck
for dancing with me to
"Ain't Life Grand"
So, I was "wallering" in misery at the bar one night. Okay, now that I think of it, maybe this happened in October. But we'll just say November. I missed Auburn. I hated UAB. And the bar was D-E-A-D dead. It was just me, the bartender, and Pat Beck. Pat and I had been drinking beer and throwing darts, and while we were waiting on our Rocky's delivery, I was playing "Ain't Life Grand" on the jukebox.
When I combine nostalgia, misery, and drinking, I have my moments, let me tell you, y'all. I think Pat sensed a meltdown coming because when I started talking about how much I love that song and how much I missed my old neighbor, and how much I hated UAB, Pat, being the good, strong, Auburn fan (War Eagle!) and bar friend that he is, stood up, grabbed my hand, and began twirling me around. And around. And around. And around. And I'm getting queasy just remembering it. I had to force myself to stop because I thought I was going to pass out.
Pat Beck and I shared many a night together at the bar, our bar friendship based on being good, strong, Auburn fans, a love for the High Life, a love for TC's, and a love for playing darts, and many memories pop up in my mind when I think about it, but that night is one I will treasure forever.
Pat Beck and I shared many a night together at the bar, our bar friendship based on being good, strong, Auburn fans, a love for the High Life, a love for TC's, and a love for playing darts, and many memories pop up in my mind when I think about it, but that night is one I will treasure forever.
While I can never get those few momenrs back, the grin on my flushed, glistening face after gliding across the floor in the light of the dart boards was enough to last a lifetime.
Pat Beck, wherever you are, and this is why I actually put your name in here, that was one of the greatest moments of my life, and you are solely responsible for that joy.
Friday, September 18, 2009
The science of poetry
When I lived in Auburn (during college), I lived in a complex that attracted some really colorful people.
There was the guy who got dropped off one night because he was too drunk to drive. He went into his apartment and came back out nekkid. He walked down the stairs then scaled the handrail to get back up. Did I mention he was nekkid? (Unfortunately, I missed the show because I was sleeping. It was Sunday night, y'all, and I was probably sleeping off the weekend.)
Then there was the creepy guy who lived across from me who dyed and styled his hair to keep up with Scott Peterson’s ever-changing-at-the-time hair and blasted “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails on repeat every afternoon for a week until the resident manager told him to turn it down because, well, there's only so much "Closer" a girl can take.
And let’s not forget the guy who called me while I was in the check out line at Wal-Mart and asked me where he could BORROW a PACK of CIGARETTES. Riiiight. He also asked if he could buy one of my Rolling Rock’s from me when I only had a six pack. Say it with me y’all: Riiiiight. Oh, my soul!
Then there was the guy who lived a few doors down from me and did crystal meth. You knew he was tweaking when he would knock on your door and ask if you saw anyone hanging out at his apartment the night before.
“No. I don’t remember seeing anyone.”
“Ah! It’s my friends from Greenville playing some practical joke on me. See, what they did was they went to the bait shop and got a bunch of crickets and put ‘em in a pillowcase, then they sealed the windows and around the door, only leaving a little crack, then they let the crickets out and the crickets got stuck in between my walls”
I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that I didn’t believe him because, first, I didn’t hear the crickets, and, second, there was no such thing as between walls at those apartments, which is why I would have known if there were people outside his apartment in the night. Everyone knew when someone was visiting because it sounded like they were outside your apartment.
There were many other colorful characters, some that deserve their own entire blog, but I have to get to the point of this story.
We were a friendly group of people, especially the guy who did crystal meth and his friends from Greenville. If it was the weekend, his friends from Greenville would be at the complex. I enjoyed sitting outside my apartment, drinking beer, and watching the drunk girls stumble in their stilettos as they crossed the parking lot to go to the club, so I got to be rather friendly with the Greenville crew as they passed by me on their back and forth trips to their big ol’ trucks, where they kept their pony kegs stashed.
Y’all, let us pause and marvel at the invention of the pony keg. Because of the pony keg, we are able to be a travelling keg party. What if our room mate sucks and we want to party? It’s pony keg time, baby! Rock and roll!
One Saturday night, after an awesome football game, I was sitting outside with a friend of mine and the Greenville crew was overflowing my neighbor’s apartment. One of the guys got tired of walking to his truck every five minutes to get another beer, so he eventually just stopped at the mid-way point – my apartment – and started talking to me.
“Yeah. My deddy gave me my own cow and it’s so cool when I come home. She sees my truck coming down the drive and she knows it’s me and she starts running to greet me. I get out of the car and run to her and she just nuzzles her nose in my chest. I got to raise her, you know.”
“So, you live on a farm?” My friend asked.
“Yeah. It’ll be mine some day, if I graduate. My daddy says I have to have my degree before he’ll let me have the farm.”
“What do you major in to be a farmer?”
“Well, I’m majoring in poetry science.”
“What does that have to do with farming?”
“Well, see I don’t really want the whole farm. I really like the chickens.”
He and my friend kept talking and talking about cows and chickens and farming and “poetry” science, and finally he ran out of beer and left.
“I didn't know you could major in poetry," my friend started, "but I still don't understand what that has to do with raising chickens."
Brings new meaning to the term "chick lit", doesn't it, y'all?
(For those of y’all who haven’t figured it out yet, the guy from Greenville was majoring in poultry science.)
There was the guy who got dropped off one night because he was too drunk to drive. He went into his apartment and came back out nekkid. He walked down the stairs then scaled the handrail to get back up. Did I mention he was nekkid? (Unfortunately, I missed the show because I was sleeping. It was Sunday night, y'all, and I was probably sleeping off the weekend.)
Then there was the creepy guy who lived across from me who dyed and styled his hair to keep up with Scott Peterson’s ever-changing-at-the-time hair and blasted “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails on repeat every afternoon for a week until the resident manager told him to turn it down because, well, there's only so much "Closer" a girl can take.
And let’s not forget the guy who called me while I was in the check out line at Wal-Mart and asked me where he could BORROW a PACK of CIGARETTES. Riiiight. He also asked if he could buy one of my Rolling Rock’s from me when I only had a six pack. Say it with me y’all: Riiiiight. Oh, my soul!
Then there was the guy who lived a few doors down from me and did crystal meth. You knew he was tweaking when he would knock on your door and ask if you saw anyone hanging out at his apartment the night before.
“No. I don’t remember seeing anyone.”
“Ah! It’s my friends from Greenville playing some practical joke on me. See, what they did was they went to the bait shop and got a bunch of crickets and put ‘em in a pillowcase, then they sealed the windows and around the door, only leaving a little crack, then they let the crickets out and the crickets got stuck in between my walls”
I didn’t have the heart to tell the guy that I didn’t believe him because, first, I didn’t hear the crickets, and, second, there was no such thing as between walls at those apartments, which is why I would have known if there were people outside his apartment in the night. Everyone knew when someone was visiting because it sounded like they were outside your apartment.
There were many other colorful characters, some that deserve their own entire blog, but I have to get to the point of this story.
We were a friendly group of people, especially the guy who did crystal meth and his friends from Greenville. If it was the weekend, his friends from Greenville would be at the complex. I enjoyed sitting outside my apartment, drinking beer, and watching the drunk girls stumble in their stilettos as they crossed the parking lot to go to the club, so I got to be rather friendly with the Greenville crew as they passed by me on their back and forth trips to their big ol’ trucks, where they kept their pony kegs stashed.
Y’all, let us pause and marvel at the invention of the pony keg. Because of the pony keg, we are able to be a travelling keg party. What if our room mate sucks and we want to party? It’s pony keg time, baby! Rock and roll!
One Saturday night, after an awesome football game, I was sitting outside with a friend of mine and the Greenville crew was overflowing my neighbor’s apartment. One of the guys got tired of walking to his truck every five minutes to get another beer, so he eventually just stopped at the mid-way point – my apartment – and started talking to me.
“Yeah. My deddy gave me my own cow and it’s so cool when I come home. She sees my truck coming down the drive and she knows it’s me and she starts running to greet me. I get out of the car and run to her and she just nuzzles her nose in my chest. I got to raise her, you know.”
“So, you live on a farm?” My friend asked.
“Yeah. It’ll be mine some day, if I graduate. My daddy says I have to have my degree before he’ll let me have the farm.”
“What do you major in to be a farmer?”
“Well, I’m majoring in poetry science.”
“What does that have to do with farming?”
“Well, see I don’t really want the whole farm. I really like the chickens.”
He and my friend kept talking and talking about cows and chickens and farming and “poetry” science, and finally he ran out of beer and left.
“I didn't know you could major in poetry," my friend started, "but I still don't understand what that has to do with raising chickens."
Brings new meaning to the term "chick lit", doesn't it, y'all?
(For those of y’all who haven’t figured it out yet, the guy from Greenville was majoring in poultry science.)
Saturday, September 12, 2009
You know you're a seasoned Auburn student when ...
You are told something is in room 1234, and you automatically think, "First floor, second quadrant, room 34."
Remember at Camp War Eagle being taught how to navigate Haley Center? If you forgot (or were never properly taught), let me give you a refresher.
The first number tells you what floor the room is on.
The second number tells you what quadrant the room is located. And how do you know where the quadrants are?
Y'all, this is so ingrained to me that I got the first part of the post right without thinking, but when I started in on the steps, I realized I had steps 1 and 2 mixed up.
Remember at Camp War Eagle being taught how to navigate Haley Center? If you forgot (or were never properly taught), let me give you a refresher.
The first number tells you what floor the room is on.
The second number tells you what quadrant the room is located. And how do you know where the quadrants are?
- 1: Faces Jordan-Hare Stadium (because Football is most important)
- 2: Faces the library (because class is second)
- 3: Faces Foy (because a) it has three letters or b) it is where your friends are and friends are third most important)
- 4: I don't remember the saying for this quadrant, but since I went to Auburn, I am smart enough to know how the process of elimination works :)
- If the number is 0, then the room is located in the center of the building.
Y'all, this is so ingrained to me that I got the first part of the post right without thinking, but when I started in on the steps, I realized I had steps 1 and 2 mixed up.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Friends don't let friends drink pink wine
Y'all, I don't get it when you order zinfandel and you get served a glass of pink wine. If I wanted pink wine I would have ordered white zinfandel. And since zinfandel is red, and white zin is pink, I don't think I should have to clarify I want red zinfandel. Specifying red would be superfluous.
Once, I went to the country club with Mom and Gamma. I noticed my favorite wine on the menu (and I think it was a drink special!), so I order the zinfandel. The waiter comes back with this glass full of pink. I was confused when he served it to me. I just didn't know how to handle it.
"Um, excuse me, but this wine looks a little ... pink?"
"You ordered zinfandel."
"Yes. Zinfandel. As in the red kind. The Ravenswood."
I don't think the waiter got it. And I am too nice of a person to go off on my waiters at the country club. He gave me a glass of red wine that was okay tasting, so it had either been opened for a while or wasn't actually Ravenswood, but he acted a little strange about the whole situation.
Then there was a time when the Boyfriend and I went out to dinner and we ordered Ravenswood Zinfandel and the waiter comes back with pink wine.
Really?!?
I had to send it back, and thankfully I had the Boyfriend backing me up on this one. I hate wasting things and it bugs the crap out of me when I don't get what I ordered.
"Friends don't let friends drink pink wine," I teased our waiter. It always helps to have a good rapport with your waiter before they bring you pink wine.
While I am venting on wine faux pas, let's talk about the bar I used to work at: red wine was constantly kept in the coolers.
It was a constant battle of me and the happy hour bartender versus the night crew.
Got that people? Red wine DOES NOT go in the cooler. It is served at room temperature.
And while we're at it: Ruby Tuesday in small-town Alabama, red wine DOES NOT go in the cooler, either.
So, let me end this on a positive note and share one of my favorite tips for opening a bottle of wine.
Once, I went to the country club with Mom and Gamma. I noticed my favorite wine on the menu (and I think it was a drink special!), so I order the zinfandel. The waiter comes back with this glass full of pink. I was confused when he served it to me. I just didn't know how to handle it.
"Um, excuse me, but this wine looks a little ... pink?"
"Yes. Zinfandel. As in the red kind. The Ravenswood."
I don't think the waiter got it. And I am too nice of a person to go off on my waiters at the country club. He gave me a glass of red wine that was okay tasting, so it had either been opened for a while or wasn't actually Ravenswood, but he acted a little strange about the whole situation.
Then there was a time when the Boyfriend and I went out to dinner and we ordered Ravenswood Zinfandel and the waiter comes back with pink wine.
Really?!?
I had to send it back, and thankfully I had the Boyfriend backing me up on this one. I hate wasting things and it bugs the crap out of me when I don't get what I ordered.
"Friends don't let friends drink pink wine," I teased our waiter. It always helps to have a good rapport with your waiter before they bring you pink wine.
While I am venting on wine faux pas, let's talk about the bar I used to work at: red wine was constantly kept in the coolers.
It was a constant battle of me and the happy hour bartender versus the night crew.
Got that people? Red wine DOES NOT go in the cooler. It is served at room temperature.
And while we're at it: Ruby Tuesday in small-town Alabama, red wine DOES NOT go in the cooler, either.
So, let me end this on a positive note and share one of my favorite tips for opening a bottle of wine.
- First, do not waste your money on one of those foil cutters.
- All you need is a basic, winged corkscrew from the grocery store.
- Pull the wings up so that the screw part comes out.
- Holding the wings up, use the tip of the screw to scratch into the foil so that you are able to pull off the foil.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
My beloved Ava
Dear Ava,
When you came into my life that late April Saturday in 2008, the day of the Alison Krauss and Robert Plant concert, I was so excited. I immediately began daydreaming about the hypothetical trips to the beach, to Auburn, and the countless days we would enjoy together bouncing around Birmingham, soaking up the sun.
My beloved Accord, Black Velveteen, had been taken away from me too soon by some crazy teenager without a driver's license and insurance. I was really counting on her being my rock for getting me around town for another few years.
I drove my uncle's Pathfinder around for a few weeks, pondering what I would get to replace Black Velveteen, and those Audis really caught my eye. I test drove an Acura because I promised myself when I got Black Velveteen my next car would be an Acura. But I just couldn't bring myself to spend THAT MUCH on a car with all that computer stuff I didn't even knew existed, much less, would ever need.
When I saw you, I knew you were THE ONE.
But when the dealership started keeping us apart for days, and eventually weeks, at a time, I began to get concerned.
I want you to know it's not your fault. The people who created you left too much to go wrong.
I will miss our too few trips to Auburn. I was really looking forward to breathing that fresh Auburn air this fall with you.
I will miss "going topless" with you whenever the weather permitted.
But I will not miss having you break down hours away from your doctor and having you towed away from me, leaving me stranded and having to rely on taxis to get me around. Or having you randomly break down and have to go to the doctor during the most perfect convertible weather of the season.
I want you to know, if I could trust you would stay well, I might consider keeping you a while longer, but seeing as how you have depreciated so much in the past year, I think our time was borrowed, at best.
Farewell, dear Ava. It's been good for the most part, but not enough.
Loves Your Mommy,
Girl Sunday
When you came into my life that late April Saturday in 2008, the day of the Alison Krauss and Robert Plant concert, I was so excited. I immediately began daydreaming about the hypothetical trips to the beach, to Auburn, and the countless days we would enjoy together bouncing around Birmingham, soaking up the sun.
My beloved Accord, Black Velveteen, had been taken away from me too soon by some crazy teenager without a driver's license and insurance. I was really counting on her being my rock for getting me around town for another few years.
I drove my uncle's Pathfinder around for a few weeks, pondering what I would get to replace Black Velveteen, and those Audis really caught my eye. I test drove an Acura because I promised myself when I got Black Velveteen my next car would be an Acura. But I just couldn't bring myself to spend THAT MUCH on a car with all that computer stuff I didn't even knew existed, much less, would ever need.
When I saw you, I knew you were THE ONE.
But when the dealership started keeping us apart for days, and eventually weeks, at a time, I began to get concerned.
I want you to know it's not your fault. The people who created you left too much to go wrong.
I will miss our too few trips to Auburn. I was really looking forward to breathing that fresh Auburn air this fall with you.
I will miss "going topless" with you whenever the weather permitted.
But I will not miss having you break down hours away from your doctor and having you towed away from me, leaving me stranded and having to rely on taxis to get me around. Or having you randomly break down and have to go to the doctor during the most perfect convertible weather of the season.
I want you to know, if I could trust you would stay well, I might consider keeping you a while longer, but seeing as how you have depreciated so much in the past year, I think our time was borrowed, at best.
Farewell, dear Ava. It's been good for the most part, but not enough.
Loves Your Mommy,
Girl Sunday
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)