Veins of Gold

My dad is a sentimental fool, and how I love him for it. When he cries his voice cracks and he purses his lips in an effort to gain his composure. The pursing reveals dimples in his Paul McCartney face and his hazel eyes get glossy. He can't help it when he speaks from his heart. I love that about him because I inherited the same gene.

Last month was the first No-Person-Missing-From-Our-Clan Durkovich reunion in seven years. We all met at our cabin in Wyoming and one morning after breakfast my dad gathered his four daughters and one daughter-in-law around his knee and began to weep. He and my mom had recently come from New Mexico where they went through my maternal grandparents' belongings now that they have both passed away. I'm sure it is impossible to deal with the death of parents without thinking of your own children. Dad told us that he had been thinking about his girls and our special qualities and that he had made a list of five qualities each of us had.

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Pucker Up

This past April I had three consecutive bad Sundays.

BAD SUNDAY #1: the day after I got home from Paris. Half of my face swelled up Chip & Dale style and required Instacare. I know it's vain but I get worried when my face is distorted. Let my ankle swell, let me catch a rash no one can see, just don't mess with my face.

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Beacon

I am still in my church dress and the bottom of my feet are black from walking on the street. It's midnight. Church was over with at noon. After a long walk home in my 3" red high heels (hate the pain/ love how they look) I removed said shoes and spent the next 10 hours twirling and whirling wherever the wind (or rain) blew me.

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Pure Liquid Evil

Because I think a few funny stories that are absolutely true should be recorded for my future posterity:

Several years ago my FFIL (Favorite Father-in-Law) was riding the juice wave big time. He felt that juicing could fix most of the world's problems. He told me repeatedly that if I drank his concoctions my skin would be clear and that I would feel great. Despite my ownership of a Juiceman I would not give in to his recommendations.

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Pie Station

My first twilight in Paris. It was 33 degrees, I was seriously regretting my decision to not pack a coat, and my coral jeans were concealing spaghetti legs that had just sat for 10 hours on a plane and walked for 2 hours along the Seine. Transfixed by the architectural repetition of that deserted metro station I waited and waited and waited for my train to come in.

I am still waiting.

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