HAPPY ENDING? HAPPY BEGINNING.
Happy ending? Happy beginning.
I adore a good love story and if I can do nothing for my own, I’m happy to contribute to Bean’s with her upcoming nuptials. Creating a memory for the making is one of my most favorite projects of all! To move people to feel something, to be swept up is a powerful thing. And a wedding is like preparing a holiday feast dialed to eleven.
Many celebrations can be all but made with the right music and lighting, but if you let me mess with your tastebuds as well, I can nearly guarantee a brief foray into happiness and satisfaction, at least while on the premises, and still under the spell. Leave, and you’re on your own.
So, I’m in the midst of it, all wrapped up in this, that, and the other. Love, whimsy and wit. The things that make for “le sighs.” At the heart of it, though, it’s a party, not the end-all, be-all. That’d be the marriage. Focus, people.
Tina and Shane aren’t doing too shabby for going from “we’re being ironic” and heading to a Vegas wedding chapel to escape all the nonsense(!), to a full-blown wedding upon the news of the dad’s surgery throwing a wrench in the plans one day shy of booking it all.
Tell me stories, and make it pretty.
Desk drawer here, that little license plate to the right displays the name “Debbie”- had it since I was six years old. Hate that name. I don’t hate much. Months back, some sorry sap must’ve wandered out to their vehicle in the dark of night only to find themselves holding the remnant of a broken key. For the next day, while wandering out to my own vehicle in the light of day, I found that very remnant wedged tightly and fairly permanently in the lock of my driver’s side door. Dag nabbit. Called a mobile locksmith to come out only after attempting to remove the little thing multiple times and in multiple ways. Enter Zeko. A big bear of a young man arrived shortly. Even standing on the curb, I was still looking rather high up. Took my hand, and introduced himself. Could’ve cut his off and worn it like a mitt, it was so large. Meaty hands, blegh. Lovely Jewish accent, though.
“Devorah,” he said, “Are you Jewish?”
“No,” I reply.
“Well, what’s your middle name?”
“Miriam.”
“But you’re not Jewish? Then why do you have a Hebrew name?” Seeming slightly exasperated, he continued, “Do you know what your name means?”
I told him that I sure do, and asked if he’s referring to its definition or to the biblical story of Deborah. He cut me off with, “No, no, you don’t know, I will tell you.” Well then. He proceeded to relate the story of the judge Deborah from the Old Testament and a brief lesson on the Hebrew alphabet resulting in, “So, you see, you are Devorah, not Deborah, it is Devorah. Deborah does not exist.” Whaa? Existential ponderance, commence! At least he didn’t bring “Debbie” into it.
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