Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Finn gave Kola his grandfather’s Claddagh ring, which is eighteen carat gold, and Kola got Finn a platinum one that I got to see at their engagement party at their condo.
I think the engagement party was for Finn’s family. For Sam and I, they told us they intended to get married one day, and I think we both said great or awesome or excellent or something to that effect. It didn’t need to be anything more. But for Finn’s parents, there needed to be a more finite statement. Thus the party.
“What?” Sam asked when I told him on that Friday night after he got home from work that he had to change. “Why?”
Instead of snapping or barking, I took a breath and looked at my cat, who honestly appeared to be squinting. I think even my geriatric feline knew where we were supposed to be going. I wouldn’t put it past him. Chilly is very smart.
But a word on the not yelling. I have learned in over twenty-plus years of being married to Sam Kage that taking a beat accomplishes two things. First, it allows me to not lose my mind and start foaming at the mouth since he clearly wasn’t listening when we went over plans previously. Second, it gives him a moment to think. This is not to say that Sam is clued in to what’s happening, and on occasion, like the aforementioned Friday night, he’s still in work mode, which means he has zero patience. At work, everyone has to speak in quick, precise, bullet point sentences so he knows what’s happening. Eli Kohn is especially good at this, and when I’ve had the occasion to listen to him address my husband, it’s very impressive. Also, in Sam’s defense, I have a terrible habit of providing zero context when I say things sometimes and expect him to catch up. I blame the people, other than him, who inhabit my life.
My daughter is just like me. She will say whatever flits into her brain and expect you to parse through what she’s said over the past few months and get to where she is. Normally, after she says something, unless it’s a question pertaining to food, her schedule or mine, I rifle through my mental rolodex to arrive where she is. I can usually catch up, but even I sometimes cannot follow the train as far off the rails as it ran. I will say however, with only a few bits of clarification, I am right there with her. It really is a terrible habit of hers and one that I absolutely passed down.
My brother always answers the phone or speaks to me, when I see him, as though our last conversation didn’t end. I don’t have to worry about exchanging pleasantries, I simply listen to whatever he has to say. Conversely, when I call up and say, “Why is it called French is what I want to know?” he never loses his mind and asks what the hell I’m talking about. He simply answers about the French drain and says that they were named after Henry Flagg French, who wrote a book called Farm Drainage. I don’t care that we needed one in the basement, or what precisely it was, I was really only interested in why it sounded fancy.
My son will listen to whatever my rambling monologue is and will then ask me a few simple questions to get him up to speed on where I am in regard to whatever it is. It’s fast, and his logical mind sorts quickly, and then he answers.
My partners at work, Dylan and Fallon, can follow my mind backward and forward with absolute ease. I have entire conversations with Fallon that sound like this:
“Did you send the whatsit to the guy with the white-and-red office?”
“The update of the blue thingy.”
“Yes.”
“With the squiggle?”
“No squiggle, only swoosh.”
“Sure did.”
With Dylan it’s more like she’ll walk into my office and say:
“It came out too liquidy.”
And I have to think, what did she cook, and more importantly, what recipe of mine had she just made? “Did you drain the hamburger first?”
“Oh no, that’s what it was. I thought maybe it was the peppers.”
And then she’ll leave, only to pop back in and say, “I don’t like the layout for the French thing. They want it frilly but not Women in the Garden.”
Which is a famous painting by Monet, but unless you’re an art person like I am, like she is, then the reference would slip by.
My sister-in-law, Aja, is perhaps the person who is the worst offender of not making me provide context, because she will let me talk on and on until I say something that makes everything clear. We could have been talking for over an hour, and suddenly she’ll say, “Oh, from the time you went to New Orleans,” and nod to herself. It’s extraordinary, and she always says that she was enjoying the conversation even though she wasn’t precisely certain of the topic. I love her so much for this. She also is never horrified, surprised, or judgmental. She is the absolute person I would call in the middle of the night if I had to hide a body. She wouldn’t ask questions. She would just show up with a shovel and lime, garbage bags and seed bombs. She makes these wildflower balls that have hundreds of wildflower seeds in them that grow quickly. I can’t even recall all the times she’s told me that people are far less apt to go digging around if there are flowers there growing. It’s a good point.