I fancied myself a dashing young waiter in the late nineties. I was chasing a girl around the south at the time. Our parent’s were friends but we regarded each other as the children of parent’s friends do. We knew each other, but our interactions were limited to parties we were forced to attend. You don’t make friends there. You mingle and try not to let on that you’d like to be spending time with your real friends instead of the assembly.

I connected to her through DeVinci’s in the most indirect way.

I was in The Garage Café with a few friends and one of our former co-workers had just returned from a semester in Glasgow. We were talking about Scotland when my parent’s friend’s daughter walked in. Because of that loose relationship I knew my parent’s friends daughter had just returned from a nine month stint in Edinburgh.

I asked her to join us.

Next thing I know it was three in the morning and the daughter and I were the only ones left in the bar. There were a few years of stupidly tentative courtship involved but we’ve been married for nineteen years.

I have to bring this back to Bea Arthur.