I had so much fun at that BBQ last night. I know, right?

The hosts’ house was right on the river and it was gorgeous. (These are the kind of grown-up people who live in a finished house. You know, with furniture, and nice wallpaper and fixtures and things. I want to be just like them when I grow up.) The porch was a huge wrap-around, and featured lots of new chairs, an ash bucket for cigarette butts, and a big basin full of ice and carbonated adult beverages. It was also wholly populated by strong, tanned, construction-working men. Our host was standing in the yard BBQ-ing steaks.

I immediately let myself into the kitchen and found the women (and a huge amount of food), and we quickly introduced ourselves and I got directions to the bathroom. When I got back I discovered they – the women – were all beautiful, intelligent, funny, and friendly. And they’d totally overcooked. There was enough food there for 50 people, with a mere dozen to eat it! (No harm done, though – the family’s travelling today so they’ll take it with them for road snacks.) Every surface in the kitchen was covered in food – pies, green bean casserole, ham balls, veggie plates, fruit plates, baked beans, chicken & noodles in crock pots, scalloped peaches, pesto and crackers, salads, and cheeses.

There was a 6-month old baby girl on the dining table, belonging to the middle daughter and her husband. So cute, that baby fat! Ooh, those chubby little thighs! (I love me some baby skin, especially sleeping baby skin, but who doesn’t.) This one, when awake, had massive, melting brown eyes.

I have a new best friend. He’s the Voorhies’ youngest son, he’s twelve, and he’s precocious as hell. He interviewed me in great detail about sex, drugs, sexuality among tweens and pre-teens, the definition of “metrosexual,” the contents of my iPod, and my opinon of 50 Cent. The kid is totally awesome, but it is somewhat shocking that you can be twelve and know about the existence of meth, coke, heroin, acid, pot, hash, and PCP. He said, “You’ve tried a lot of drugs!” and I said, “I was in college for a long time.” He got his ear pierced when he was six. When he asked me how old I was, he said, “Wow! You act like you’re my age!” Naturally, we exchanged cell numbers. Nothing I like more than a fabulously precocious child.

I took a walk down to the river with one of the wives. She had stunning silver hair contrasted with fresh young skin; I always thought that look was so cool. She was an Iowan born and bred. I really liked her, but I suck at names.

When dark came on, I got monopolized by my new best friend and his sex-and-drug interview, so I don’t know much about what happened with everyone else. I think we pretty much all sat on the porch and drank and laughed, and then it was ten o’clock and we all split because all those construction dudes have to get up at five in the morning.

When we got home, I ravished my poor exhausted husband. He passed out so fast I actually laughed out loud. (In his defense, he was really tired.) Then I got up and, like a dork, stayed up until two in the morning surfing the Internet and chatting with Logan.

You’d think I’d have it out of my system by now, the Internet, but I don’t. It’s one siren that just won’t stop singing, the bitch.

Brett and Jimbo were already at the Mexican-restaurant-I-don’t-like when Joe and I arrived unexpectedly and made them share their table with us.

Joe told us about his fun-fun trip to Minneapolis, where his band opened for Dinosaur Jr. in a club that had them all out of there by ten.

Yes, you heard me right. The Reaction schlepped their asses all the way to another state to play a gig that started at 5:45 PM. The other opener and the headliner were done by ten.

I raised an eyebrow at Joe over chips and salsa and said, “Dude, that totally qualifies as a Hell Gig. No one’s even out at five forty five!”

But I guess it all worked out in the end, though, because that guy from Sebadoh gave Joe a hug after The Reaction’s set, and what could be better than getting hugged by a musician you dig?

Seriously.

After lunch, in the parking lot of La Hacienda, I said, “Wanna hear my favorite Brit pop song of the week?” and queued up Hard To Beat. As Joe was getting out of the jeep in the 1-Stop parking lot, he said, “You know this song totally sucks.”

“Oh yeah, I know!” I said cheerfully.

“Oh well. You’ll get over it,” he said.

Snob. He knows he loves cheesy pop as much as the rest of us.

I had a hair appointment yesterday at one o’clock. I went to Meredith Hirsch Salon, and told her I wanted a trim and highlights. She told me as she ran a comb through my hair, “Nooo-oo-o, you want some lowlights.”

I think she was deeply amused with my hair. I’d bought those home chunky highligting kits, and did big chunky chunks of highlights. Twice, in the past six months or so. I think Meredith’s sensibilities were slightly offended by my 1-1/2″ roots and allover bad box jobs. She’s a professional you know.

So I got to look like an alien, which was fun in its own way. She covered my head with little packets of tin foil; half of them had highlight in them and the other half had brown lowlight dye. When that was done, I got a wash and a cut, and she was amused again by my hair cut: “It falls off like two inches to the left!”

“Yeah,” I said, “I tend to cut my hair with kitchen shears every once in awhile. I’m not really organized on the hair front.”

But when she was done, though! OMFG, I’m beautiful! My hair is basically brown again, with delicate blonde highlights. (Nothing at all chunky about this coloring, no ma’am.) And of course she styled it and made it look absolutely wonderful. I was so totally gorgeous!

So naturally I ended up in the pond (with Tahmi and Cat) within two hours. Nature abhors nice hair and conspires against it.

(This is my hair this morning, all messy and unbrushed – bedhead from hell. But you can tell she totally fixed my box job!)

P.S. Meredith and I were gossiping so much that I didn’t leave her salon until 4:11. Yes, people, I was in there talking my tongue off with her for three. entire. hours. She’s so goddamned funny, that girl is. Oh, and she gave me a cigarette case she bought for me like eight years ago and it’s so excellent I feel like I should go out and buy a dress to go with it; it’s on a long chain and can be worn as a purse.
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Aimee just put her man on a plane to Boston, and called me up ’cause she’s cool. We’re gonna meet for a cocktail at five! How cool is that?! A cocktail! With a girlfriend! It’s like I have friends or something!

Last night I stopped at The Dew Drop for a cocktail on my way home from work. Sometimes you need a bit of a buffer between the Internet and cooking dinner, if you know what I mean. (The cocktails at The Dew Drop are so fucking hefty that I wondered if I was over the legal limit while driving home, and I only drank one. In a short glass.)

My favorite cocktail – for the past few years – is the Scarlet O’Hara: Southern Comfort and cranberry juice. It’s delish.

Once my drink was the Snakebite: Yukon Jack on the rocks, with a dash of Rose’s Lime Juice. (No, I don’t know what the hell my problem was.) I started drinking them, then all the bartenders got to know that that was my drink, and would have one made in the time it took me to enter the door and cross to a barstool. When someone has your drink ready before you even sit down it seems rude to refuse it, so I ended up drinking Snakebites for quite awhile longer than I’d intended to, just because it was so cool to be known in that way.

I will probably never drink another Snakebite ever again. *shudder*

I wish I knew what the hell I’d been served at The Backroads last weekend, the fruity thing in the martini glass. It was quite refreshing, and I’d order myself one of those after work tonight if only I knew what it was.

Once I saw an episode of Match Game ’76 (yes, I realize I’m dating myself with that admission) in which one of the contestants identified herself as a being “a cocktologist.” I was old enough to know that that was fucking hilarious, even though she insisted it meant she was a bartender and I was probably younger than ten.

I really like to say the word “cocktail.” Cocktail!