In which I become a puddle and then begin farting money

I am back and mostly recovered from Wedding Weekend. It was four days of exhausting, emotional goodness and my sister's all hitched and moved to California For Real and Actual Life, Not Just For a Visit. The wedding was gorgeous, the bride beautiful, and the weather was perfect. I maaaay have indulged in too many vodka cranberries at the reception and flung myself pretty terrifically around the dance floor. Hopefully there's no photographic documentation of my drunken idiocy but that remains to be seen. I know there was a photographer lurking about.

What sticks out to me most about the weekend, though, is that my baby sister moved 2,000 miles away at the end of it. Sunday we kissed her goodbye and sent her to California on a plane with That Boy. And if ONE MORE PERSON tells me how great! it! is! that I have a free place to crash in California now ("Isn't that awesome?!") I might have to punch them in the head. You've all been warned.


My sister and I have always been close, close friends. We make each other nuts, are very different in most ways, but none of that matters because she's Meredith and I'm Austin and that's just The Way It Is. We laugh at the same jokes and not even our parents can tell us apart on the phone; we quote TV shows and sing the entire Rent soundtrack together. We used to have sleepovers in one another's room to watch movies from our childhood.

So how have I kept from throwing myself onto her sheetless bed in despair and clutching at the clutter of boxes and wedding gifts that await the movers in her empty-walled-but-still-smells-like-her bedroom?

Why, I've gone shopping.

Yes, near my mother's house rests an ever-expanding and glorious outlet mall, where one can purchase last season's clothes at major discounts. And there I soothed my weary soul. So far I am one pair of pants and one tank top from Old Navy, one pair of capris and one pair of super cute shorts from Ann Taylor, and one Burt's Bees shampoo/conditioner set happier. Zack, however, not so much. He may be sending her some hate mail when he looks at our credit card bill because I have not, as this post title implies, begun farting money.


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