Friends, a wedding and plagiarism
We’ve had a great 24 hours!
Last night, we crashed Troy’s friend Kevin’s cousin Andrew’s wedding rehearsal dinner. (Did you get all that?)
It was a blast and we got to see loads of people we know, including my friend Mike (or Michael, as his voicemail says. I’ve known him for 30 years. I can call him whatever I want.)
Mike is Andrew’s cousin on the other side. Andrew has loads of cousins. So do Kevin and Mike.
Mike and I went to kindergarten together. And grades 1-8. And 10-12. And went to college in the same town. Pretty much our entire lives except 9th grade and I hated that year. I blame his absence.
We’d lost touch for a few years, sort of. I kept getting updates through long chains of people. I even got his email address from his mom a year ago and promptly lost it. I thought of him several times this summer and wanted to get in touch. He always has those jobs where he can have long phone conversations while actually doing his work. While I was horizontal on the couch being pitiful this summer, I kept wishing I had someone to talk to and he came to mind several times. So, it was extremely good to bump into him. He’s living on the beach. That makes him sound like a bum. In some ways he is, but he does have a fabulous job and a fabulous roof over his head. I will be visiting soon, whether he invites me or not.
This morning, Troy, Colleen and I hung out downtown “helping” Kevin, Libby and their two kids kill some time before the wedding. Colleen and Sarah swam their butts off in the hotel pool. Right this minute, Colleen is crashed on the couch, while Sarah, on the other hand, is probably giving everyone a run for their money at the wedding reception.
After our morning with the Livingstons, the Maynards headed to Irish Fest, which is quite possibly my favorite festival ever. Everyone talks funny, dances funny and plays funny music. It’s so awesome!
While my other family members conked out after we got home, I’ve been reading a book. I started this book a day or two ago and thought I wouldn’t finish it. It’s about a 27-year-old woman who is diagnosed with breast cancer. I’m not going to tell you the title yet, but I still haven’t made up my mind about it. I thought it might be an interesting read, but I was exhausted in the first few pages. “Did that. Did that. Living that. Going to do that. Yep, did that, too.” It sucked. I actually tossed it across the room and said out loud, “I don’t think I’m going to finish that book.”
I decided to give it another try this evening and I’ve gotten a few more chapters into it. However, now I feel like a fraud. This woman sounds just like me. She lives in New York. She phenomenally beautiful. She’s married to a doctor. She works for a major news network.
Ok, that’s nothing like me!
She did have a scene about what she wanted to do as she waited for her mastectomy. It was eerily reminiscent of my post from yesterday.
“The red letters EXIT are glowing, and showing me a safe passage back to the life I left. But I think how crazy it would look running down Fifth Avenue in a surgical smock with my ass hanging out with a hairnet. I see strange people in New York all the time, but this would be especially creepy because I have bright red lipstick on. And where would I run to? I would be a fugitive from cancer. I might pull it off, but the IV pole would have to come, too.”
I can’t accuse HER of plagiarizing ME because her book was published in 2004, before I ever knew that I would consider running out of a hospital with my ass hanging out of a gown – and believe it to be a highly preferable solution to the alternative option.
Aside from the possible lawsuits I may now face over my utterly unoriginal thoughts, I’m also now coming to the realization that this idea of fleeing the hospital on the day of a mastectomy is not unique. I’m not alone in this plan. In fact, the hospital may be onto the possibility. They may have measures in place to stop me. I have to rethink this. Maybe acquire the hospital architectural drawings. Perhaps the gang from Scooby Doo is available to work with me. One of those Invisibility Cloaks that Harry Potter has would come in handy, too.
At least now I know of a little house on the beach where I can hide out until I can dye my hair to change my appearance.
Oh, wait. I DON’T HAVE HAIR.
Blast. Foiled at every turn.