Here is the story of how the Bong and I came to be married:
We actually met at a wedding. That never happens. Only, it did. Two weeks later, the Bong was transferred to Portland. 5 months later, I packed up a U-Haul and we did the Oregon Trail. Then the Bong lost his job. R.I.P. Vidoop. Along with losing his job, he also lost his work visa making him an illegal immigrant. Solution: Marriage, of course.
As someone who has lived in the most obscure random places in the world*, the longing for a home intensifies each year. That and the fact that I HATE moving. But then, I have yet to meet someone who gets psyched about putting all of their crap into boxes, carrying it up the inevitable 3 floors and then leaving said crap in boxes until the next move. I digress. Home. Where you can just be. You can let the ugly out and it doesn’t frighten anyone. In the past, I have mistakenly thought that home would be destination, a finally resting place. A place where all my junk could have its own special and permanent place. Oh, but I’ve learned that it is so much more than that. Recently, I happened to fall into marriage most unexpectedly.
