I ordered the ginger catfish and a 24-ounce Slurpee-sized martini. Her mom ordered one too. Thank gawd for martinis and moms, is all I can say.
The recent rains have greened the lawns and plumped the soccer fields. By all accounts, it’s going to be an especially great fall.
My father-of-the-bride toast sounded like a Mike Ditka halftime speech. My role? To lead and inspire. To win the division. “To laughter,” I said raising my glass. “And to love.”
My summer vacation: Visited a bunch of lighthouses. Ate Jamaican food. Gave away a daughter...Just the usual.
Wow, this wedding. The flower girl is only 2, and already Pixar has taught her how to deal with princess brides. Tenderly, if you can. Like they are made of vellum and fog.
Read a full report of the Chicago wedding in our print reports (Outlook, Glendale News-Press, Park La Brea News, etc.), or in Saturday's post right here.
Smartacus has been whitening his teeth, as per the bride’s orders, and Catty Cakes is practicing being the flower girl, walking around the house tossing scrap-paper blossoms high into the air.
Been working on a toast for my daughter’s wedding this weekend. And I thought: “Why not a poem? Something straight from the heart of a dad who’s lived a little."
Honestly, you can’t chase an honest moment. Somehow, they just ambush you. And sometimes, as per this singing dog, we’re at the mercy of our quivering moods.
The suburbs are full of guys like us -- undersized men with tweed skin and receding hairlines, gazing up at the sky, crying: “Why me, God? Why me?”