More Posts About Weddings

Wedding = running diary. Sorry no Denali this time.

I was hoping to avoid some kind of issue like my last wedding flight. Flying into Rochester for Pritchard’s wedding, Delta forgets to put my bag on the plane during an Atlanta layover. Luckily it arrived before I needed the suit.

Think I learn my lesson? No. This time, I fly Delta, through Atlanta and instantly fear the worst. I’m headed to BMI airport. The ticket person grabs the bag sticker, reads BMI and says “Who’s going to Baltimore-Washington?”

So did the bag make it? Don’t know. The flight was canceled and now I’m sitting in Atlanta.

Lucky for me, I know Julie. Who lives two blocks from the MARTA train station. And was home. And had no plans for the night. And is my new bestest friend/hero.

She’s making me earn my keep by decorating her apartment. This would be kind of emasculating, except I’ve already accepted that I’ll be wearing her clothes later, since my bag is still at the Atlanta airport, probably sitting on the tarmac.

So, after channeling my inner Isaac Mizrahi and offering some decorating tips, it was time for hard labor. Here’s me nailing Julie’s mirror hangers in the hallway:

The Hammer says "Do it Herself" on it. It's still manly.

The Hammer says "Do it Herself" on it. It's still manly.

They'd been sitting around for months

They'd been sitting around for months

The finished product

The finished product

The Dance of Joy

The Dance of Joy

Ok, time to see some of the… whatever city. What’s Atlanta? Oh The Peach City. Yeah.

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