Anniversaries
This past Friday was the one year anniversary of my living in London. The Thursday a week before that was the sixth anniversary of my livejournal. I still cannot believe how quickly time is flying. Nor how far I've come.
Six years ago I was a high school senior, fretting about Prom and AP tests and college applications. Six years later I've put myself through college (lo, and have plenty of years left to repay it), gotten a full-time job, prayed when my grandma was diagnosed with a brain tumor, graduated, moved out of my childhood home, watched my parents divorce, seen my grandma estrange herself from the majority of the family, been to my cousin's wedding, seen my cousin's kids born and partly grow up, cried at my grandpa's funeral, took a road trip to NYC, loved and said goodbye to The Sidekick and The New Yorker, comforted my dad when his brother and his mother died within months of each other, had (somewhat ineffective) surgeries, lost myself, had a crazy idea to spend a year in London before moving to LA to start my TV career, and then actually moved to London. It's been a wild ride, and that's only a fraction of the story.
This weekend was supposed to be spent outlining my new, non-baby-murder-suspect Psych outline. Yesterday, I slept til noon and then had a fruitless journey to central London to look for a spring-type jacket. Queensbury station is closed for refurbishments this weekend, and I had to take the 79 bus to Kingsbury and then hop on the tube. Except there were six or seven 79 buses going north before one finally arrived (About forty five, fifty minutes later) going south. When I got downtown it was raining and the two stores I checked had nothing, so I reluctantly went home empty-handed.
Now it's raining and I've finished my banana and granary bread French toast (still working on my coffee). I've got a nice long day ahead of me. I plan on cleaning, doing some laundry, and writing.
Oh, I have to tell this story because it's just too bizarre not to.
On Friday after work I stopped at Tiki to sit and brainstorm/write. One of my script ideas has to do with the Santa Barbara Symphony, and as I was sitting and writing about it when this happened.
Okay, this is super weird. I'm sitting at Tiki writing this and this guy and his uncle are next to me. The guy recognizes the dude at the table across from me. Guy is cellist and Dude is a pianist and conductor. Guy is from Brazil and in town - has a concert. Then the girl by the door speaks up = she's Russian and taking vocal/music classes. Guy invites them both to concert, trades email addys with Dude and phone numbers with Girl. How bizarre. Maybe it's a sign!
When I was telling that to Megan, she thought I was telling her the story I wrote. I love that life is sometimes like a story, and I love that the story doesn't usually make sense until much later, when the chapter's well over.
Six years ago I was a high school senior, fretting about Prom and AP tests and college applications. Six years later I've put myself through college (lo, and have plenty of years left to repay it), gotten a full-time job, prayed when my grandma was diagnosed with a brain tumor, graduated, moved out of my childhood home, watched my parents divorce, seen my grandma estrange herself from the majority of the family, been to my cousin's wedding, seen my cousin's kids born and partly grow up, cried at my grandpa's funeral, took a road trip to NYC, loved and said goodbye to The Sidekick and The New Yorker, comforted my dad when his brother and his mother died within months of each other, had (somewhat ineffective) surgeries, lost myself, had a crazy idea to spend a year in London before moving to LA to start my TV career, and then actually moved to London. It's been a wild ride, and that's only a fraction of the story.
This weekend was supposed to be spent outlining my new, non-baby-murder-suspect Psych outline. Yesterday, I slept til noon and then had a fruitless journey to central London to look for a spring-type jacket. Queensbury station is closed for refurbishments this weekend, and I had to take the 79 bus to Kingsbury and then hop on the tube. Except there were six or seven 79 buses going north before one finally arrived (About forty five, fifty minutes later) going south. When I got downtown it was raining and the two stores I checked had nothing, so I reluctantly went home empty-handed.
Now it's raining and I've finished my banana and granary bread French toast (still working on my coffee). I've got a nice long day ahead of me. I plan on cleaning, doing some laundry, and writing.
Oh, I have to tell this story because it's just too bizarre not to.
On Friday after work I stopped at Tiki to sit and brainstorm/write. One of my script ideas has to do with the Santa Barbara Symphony, and as I was sitting and writing about it when this happened.
Okay, this is super weird. I'm sitting at Tiki writing this and this guy and his uncle are next to me. The guy recognizes the dude at the table across from me. Guy is cellist and Dude is a pianist and conductor. Guy is from Brazil and in town - has a concert. Then the girl by the door speaks up = she's Russian and taking vocal/music classes. Guy invites them both to concert, trades email addys with Dude and phone numbers with Girl. How bizarre. Maybe it's a sign!
When I was telling that to Megan, she thought I was telling her the story I wrote. I love that life is sometimes like a story, and I love that the story doesn't usually make sense until much later, when the chapter's well over.