In which I cut the sleeves off an old bride’s maid’s dress – eggplant, floorlength, strappy, six-paneled, and synthetic – and wear it to a party.

Elisabeth and Nathan were married at a quarter to four on Sunday, but we didn’t go to the wedding. I was napping, and Brett was probably sitting on the couch watching TV.

As I was getting dressed to go to the reception though, Brett, who’d said he didn’t want to go, changed his mind and hopped in the shower. When he was clean and dressed, and I had done my hair and make up, we hopped in his truck and left for town. I had a moment of thinking, “This isn’t a good idea, us going together. He’ll want to leave early. Damn.” But on we went.

We were half an hour late, but the reception was just getting into full swing. The dance floor was filled with a gaggle of screaming, dancing, flailing children, some in their wedding finery and the rest dressed as superheroes. One toddler climbed the dais and was heading hand-out straight for the cake but a dad, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, swooped her up before the cake could have a handful of frosting removed from it. “Now that’s good parenting,” I said to the person standing next to me.

I wandered around seeing the wonderful out-of-town people, and gave lots of hugs and kisses to old friends. Eventually I found the bar and got a glass of cabernet, then I sat with Kevin & Aimee for the toasts. Bijan came to sit with us.

Bijan gave the funniest toast I’ve ever heard about eating mystery-meat-on-a-stick in Chinatown and spending the night in the couple’s guest room emitting horrible flatulence. I think Aimee thought it was crass, which it certainly was, but I laughed my ass off. It was a nice counterpoint to the sweet, lovey-dovey toasts that had gone before. I like a lovey-dovey toast as much as anyone, but a wedding celebration should encompass both the estoteric and the profane, just as a marriage does.

I don’t know about yours, but my marriage certainly seems to involve a great deal of farting.

I was found by my beloved Eliana and hung out with her for awhile, missing the cake cutting and the throwing of the bouquet. I kept drinking cabernet. Eventually Eliana and I parted and I wandered around accosting people, having no idea how drunk I’d gotten. Every time I went to get my glass refilled, I asked Eli if anyone had told him in the last twenty minutes that he was adorable. I told Tammy that her kids were gorgeous and that she was a saint. I noticed myself repeating things for emphasis – a horrible habit I have, but one I can’t seem to break – and I started kissing people on the lips.

Eventually my path crossed Brett’s again and of course he wanted to leave. I went to see if I could crash with Hattie & Joe, and they said I could, so I went back and told Brett that. Inexplicably, it pissed him off so I left with him. At eleven. All those cool people in town and a big dress-up party to see them at, but he wanted to go home at eleven!

I hate him.

On the other hand, when we were driving home I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes, and realized I was totally shitfaced and probably would have gotten (even more) obnoxious if I’d stayed there. So it worked out for the best, even though I was hurt and pissed we had to leave when I was having so much fun. And I’d just discovered the hors d’ouvres, and hadn’t had as much time to munch on them as I’d wanted. Goat cheese and pesto – yum!
——–

In which I work my ass off for, well, for fun. Apparently.

Last night I went to Elisabeth’s bachelorette party, which did not involve male strippers and booze.

It was a scavenger hunt.

It started at the Farmer’s Market at six PM sharp, wended its way through Oby Nelson park, the graveyard, Chatauqua Park, and all of the open businesses on the town square, and it ended at Chloe’s house at about ten-thirty for pizza and beer.

We had to ask the Farmer’s Market vendors embarassing questions to get clues to give to Farmer Doug to get additional clues. We had to kiss Adam Perkins on the lips, throw watermelon at each other…

…pour water out of cups attached to our heads into cups attached to our teammate’s head, break water balloons with a Bic pen while blindfolded…

…collect flora in the dark, take headstone tracings in the dark, collect things like BBQ sauce and pickled ginger from various vendors on the square, buy produce and light bulbs and matches, go to the fire station, record various sounds, take various pictures, and in general accost strangers for weird things.

It was actually kinda stressful. It felt more like working than relaxing, what with the hurrying and the talking to strangers and the running around feeling stupid, but it was my first scavenger hunt so I may not have had exactly the right attitude.

I can’t express my admiration for the amount of work Chloe did setting it up, though. She’d gotten all of the Farmer’s Market vendors in on the game, she’d gotten four or five people to go to the various locations and run our little tasks (she’d even collected Pabst Blue Ribbon racing jackets for them to wear, so we could find them at each place), she’d made up the lists and made copies and devised a point system. She’d set it up so that each team ended up with bags of produce from the market, which she and her boyfriend then used to make pizzas and salad. She’d gone, in a nutshell, totally overboard designing this scavenger hunt and it rocked.

If you like that sort of thing.

I really didn’t enjoy knocking on a stranger’s door at 10:21 pm to ask them to come out on the porch for the “photo of the team with an unfamiliar family on their porch” picture, worth 100 points. I didn’t mind kissing Adam (50 points), nor did kissing the blue room bother me (100 points), but interacting with strangers at their door weirds me out. (It was too much like canvassing for OSPIRG, which I only did for a month one summer but I truly hated it.) It was just our luck we got some International MIU students who didn’t really seem to know what a scavenger hunt was, but they were nice enough to pose for a picture with us.

I did like visiting the fire house, though. Who doesn’t adore firemen! My favorite part of that was watching Ali jump six inches when the guy started the siren up. She’s so cute.

Oh, yeah – I was on a team with Ali and Rachel Black. Those chicks rock. And Elisabeth apparently loved the scavenger hunt, and that was the whole point. Best wishes, e!

In which I prepare to hang out in a room full of women.

I’m going to Chloe’s to celebrate Elisabeth’s bridal shower. Yay! I do not have a camera with me to record this event, not even my cell phone (I don’t know where it is; I hope it’s at home on the laundry table).

Good thing Chloe’s a photographer.

I just saw Penny and Enzo in the parking lot. Enzo’s getting big.

In other news, I got a brand-new computer at work! It rawks. I’m so happy.

In which a superior woman serves me superior pizza.

I went to Christina’s for lunch today. She made awesome pizzas and salad. Her kids are aweome. Prasada was in a mood because she was starving and I was late, and she totally cracked me up about five times.

Christina and I talked about going to visit the nuns in Atchison with Tahmi the last weekend in September. I’m really stoked about the trip.

After a too-leisurely meal, I started making noises about having to go back to work. Christina said, “No, no, no! That clock’s slow!”

I told her I was leaving right then, even as she handed me a paper cup full of strawberry/raspberry smoothie she’d just whipped up in her Vitamix, “because otherwise I’ll get trapped here in your vortex of fun and I’ll never be able to leave! Now stop being more fun that work right now!”

They even followed me out to the car, trying to trap me in their vortex of fun. Those Wadsworths, they’re dangerous.

I waited ’til well past two, and woke Brett up again. He didn’t want to do anything. I said, “Would you like to do something fun, or are you too tired?” He grumbled, “I’m pretty happy where I am.”

So I went to Ottumwa by myself.

I went to Taco Bell, Target, and The Brothers Grimm.

Allow me to explain my behavior:

• My mom used to sneak me to Taco Bell when I was little. My dad hated the place, but she and I loved their enchiritoes, and we’d go there as a secret treat. Due to this, I’ve always loved Taco Bell in spite of itself.
• I’ve been dressing in a certain quasi-hippie/urban style since I was 17. Suddenly, it’s in. I am loathe to announce that I wanted 80% of the clothes on the racks at Target today. This makes me feel both vindicated and a little queasy. I was too freaked out to buy anything.
• I loved the movie. Loved it. But then, I’m a Gilliam fan and Brazil is one of my all-time favorite movies ever. Jonathan Pryce was in it, and I adore him.

I sat next to Rosie at the movie, because she was there and invited me to.

After the movie, I drove to Fairfield and spent three hours at the bar with Hattie and Corby. This is a phone pic I snapped of me and AmmZon:

Aren’t we so cute?

Corby and I discussed drunkard’s remorse; the PC-ification of language and how much it sucks; the implications of nano; fairly recent developments in A.I.; and a bunch of other important stuff. Corby said “Orwellian” several times. Let it be known that Corby rawks.

I got home at a quarter after ten, and Brett was asleep on the couch in front of the television.

Last night after work, I went out for a cocktail with my boyfriend Joe. We went to The Red Rock. We sat at the bar. I drank my usual. We chatted. I rubbed Joe’s head because he shaved it recently and it’s at that fuzzy stage that I like to pet.

Bo joined us. Joe called Corby. Corby arrived. We moved to a table. (The dumb asses at the Dead Cock removed the booths, so now it’s even boomier and more aurally uncomfortable in there than it ever was before.)

We chatted, drank, and smoked. We were all amusing as hell, as usual.

Dwight was drunk and disorderly, and spent a goodly amount of time banging his hands as hard and as loud as he could on the bar, more or less in time to the horrid rock that was blaring out of the Bose speakers hanging from the walls.

When I went to the ladies’ restroom, this was Sharpied on the door:

I know it’s foolish of me to hope that graffiti will be spelled correctly, but damn. What kind of mongoloid can buy a Sharpie, get herself to the bar, and operate a bathroom door, but can’t spell sticky?

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.
——–

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!