This morning I went to King’s Road and continued reading Why We Broke Up, from where I left off last night. At one point, Min describes two girls at a part like this:
“Two girls had a stuffed greyhound, a hulking gray toy like a spoiling uncle would give…”
Somewhere in my mom’s garage I am certain there is still a shelf on the near life size stuffed Lassie dog sits, which I think you sent me for my first day of first grade, or maybe for a birthday, or maybe just because, because you have always been my spoiling uncle.
When, in fourth or fifth grade, I found out that you would no longer be working at Cartoon Network a wave of panic washed over me. If you weren’t working there how would I get all that sweet Powerpuff Girl swag? It was almost too much for my nine-year-old self to handle.
Little did I know, the spoiling hadn’t yet even begun. It would be another 13 or so years before it really kicked in. First, you spoiled me (and my dear sweet Emily sister) by staying with us the week that Dad died. You drove me to the hospital at ungodly hours of the morning (for me at least, you just love that time of day) and then to Target for some still-in-shock-and-not-sure-how-to-handle-this nail polish purchases.
THEN, it continued. In August of 2010 you moved to Blackburn because of me and let me live with you and gave me a bed and a roof and salmon dinners and coffee and advice and lots of laughs. Then almost exactly a year ago, you let me come back and live in your living room and take over the house and sleep on your couch. You made a life in Los Angeles possible and encouraged me to write.
Obviously this could go on for thousands of more words, but I’ve said it all to you in person (or at least I hope I have; I’ve certainly thought it all). The book, Why We Broke Up, is only the most recent way you’ve spoiled me. I can’t wait for you to read the version I write, which I am almost certain was the reason you gave me the book in the first place. Both to encourage me to write and to encourage me to get all of that particular story down on paper, instead of babbling about it to you. Your patience on that front is a million different kinds of impressive.
P.S. I am still in the process of training my iPhone to stop switching “Jerry” to “Kerry.” It’s a slow learner, but I refuse to give up.