Feels like it's raining all over the world...
So… I was going to launch straight into a long heartfelt essay on where I’ve been this while: how, over the Labour Day weekend, the problem Shoesis announced her decision to marry in six weeks.
After a whirlwind three-week courtship. To a widower with three half-grown kids. Three years after having rejected him once, on the grounds of refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer after one date, and other general weirdness. None of which we have any reason to believe has evaporated in three years.
The essay also would’ve include an account of the generally wretched month since, in which in response to our pleas (mine), tears (Shoemom’s) and arguments (other Shoesis’), she has morphed from defiantly intending to‘live her own life’ to tearful agreement that she couldn’t possibly plan a wedding without us to… well, abruptly changing her mind, going ahead and planning a wedding without us. For next weekend.
On the advice of our paternal relatives, who are an entire side digression in and of themselves. Not, again, with our input. Much as it hurts - and is hard to explain, to those who don’t know Shoesis, or more properly have never been drawn into the emotional black hole that is Shoesis -- we cannot look ourselves in the face and attend this wedding.
Try telling *that* to Bridezilla. In our extended absence, the planning has expanded to take in a dream dress, sit-down catered dinner for fifty and much general foot-stomping about how ‘this is my day and I’m gonna be selfish!” She ‘just wants to get on with her life’, she says, and Fiance has informed her that ‘he’d find it very hard to ask her [to marry him] again,’ so this is her last best shot. Could we please just suck it up and get with the program already?
Yes, it’s all fully as bizarre as it sounds. And frankly even as I thought about the synopsis I realised how futile, as well. Honestly, you do not want any more details. Especially not about how in the middle of all this Grandshoe was misdiagnosed with elder-onset leukemia.
Trust me on this one.
After a whirlwind three-week courtship. To a widower with three half-grown kids. Three years after having rejected him once, on the grounds of refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer after one date, and other general weirdness. None of which we have any reason to believe has evaporated in three years.
The essay also would’ve include an account of the generally wretched month since, in which in response to our pleas (mine), tears (Shoemom’s) and arguments (other Shoesis’), she has morphed from defiantly intending to‘live her own life’ to tearful agreement that she couldn’t possibly plan a wedding without us to… well, abruptly changing her mind, going ahead and planning a wedding without us. For next weekend.
On the advice of our paternal relatives, who are an entire side digression in and of themselves. Not, again, with our input. Much as it hurts - and is hard to explain, to those who don’t know Shoesis, or more properly have never been drawn into the emotional black hole that is Shoesis -- we cannot look ourselves in the face and attend this wedding.
Try telling *that* to Bridezilla. In our extended absence, the planning has expanded to take in a dream dress, sit-down catered dinner for fifty and much general foot-stomping about how ‘this is my day and I’m gonna be selfish!” She ‘just wants to get on with her life’, she says, and Fiance has informed her that ‘he’d find it very hard to ask her [to marry him] again,’ so this is her last best shot. Could we please just suck it up and get with the program already?
Yes, it’s all fully as bizarre as it sounds. And frankly even as I thought about the synopsis I realised how futile, as well. Honestly, you do not want any more details. Especially not about how in the middle of all this Grandshoe was misdiagnosed with elder-onset leukemia.
Trust me on this one.