So this morning Jen and I are cleaning up both the Pink room (now minus all hint of pink) and the Anxious room (now with a coat of Martha Stewart’s Kitchen Ceiling Blue, which is really more green than blue in our world, thank you), and from outside we heard a strange noise. We looked out at the Presbyterian church across the street and saw a fellow in a kilt playing the bagpipes for the people arriving for 10AM mass. We sat outside on the front steps with our coffee and listened to him run through some slower tunes, through a few Highland jigs, and then walk inside for the service. After the service was over we ran across the street to see if we could talk to him about a wedding. Turns out he’s done it before and he’s for hire; he’s a little quiet but he has a great repertoire. We’ve got his number, and we have a dream for our service: walking back to the house from the church behind a Scot (well, he’s actually Polish) playing the pipes.
Grumble Grumble. I’m sick. I have this cold where it feels like there’s a circus weightlifter standing on my chest, someone is pouring molasses down the back of my throat, the quick-dry cement in my skull is expanding as it sets, and my nose is running like a leaky hose spigot. I hate being sick.