Man, I have sorely remiss about updating recently. Summer Slacker Girl is in full force right now, and you know how I get when that happens. I am, at this very moment, not wearing socks. And I don’t even care.
My bra and panties still match though, so there is some hope yet.
I spent the entirety of Friday swimming in Ward and June’s pool. I purchased a new Land’s End tankini, one that is attached to the bottom so that there would be no unflattering fly-up of the tankini, exposing my delicate fish belly white bosom, but unfortunately, I am a tall girl and apparently the average Land’s End consumer is 4’11’. The cups for the bra fall four inches too low. Fortunately, with the construction of the mock tankini, it is possible to make the torso longer and all will be well. Or it will be when it is finished, as it has been at the seamstress for a very long time and I’ve been swimming in one of my two old suits from last year, which I hate for various reasons (one has these shorts attached to the bottom that make swimming a pain and the other suit is a radical activist that feels my breasts are being kept down by the man and should be set free. At inappropriate moments.), but I remembered that I had another suit which had never been worn but now fit perfectly, so I was so very happy and flaunting my new cuteness. (Holy run-on sentence Batman!) I managed to avoid getting burned with the exception of a touch of red on my nose. (If really you need a visual, just go to MoPie’s page and check out the drunk pictures, where I look like Tip O’Neil. And you can also see a picture of my cock Squishy. And my horror of said cock. Which apparently triggers some kind of superpower wherein my eyes go all shiny and glowsome. And yes, my pictures of SF are coming, but I’m still without a pc, so unable to download and size them at the moment.) And then apparently I went into a coma, because I don’t remember what I did on Friday night. I think Scotty Boom Boom came over. Yes, that’s it. And we watched the downtown fireworks from our front yard. Note to self: threaten neighbors with glowy eyes until they cut down the trees in their backyard.
I forgot to tell y’all. I finally scored some Dave Matthews tickets.
Esteban wasn’t interested in going with me, which makes me sad. And I didn’t know for certain if I was going to be able to get the tickets until late on Thursday night, so everything was very last minute, but my Aunt Drusilla called to see if I wanted to go with her and buy tickets at the concert, and I said ‘Well, actually, I have in my hand this very minute two tickets for seats in the 10th row’. They were marginally higher than face value, but I was very satisfied with my quarry. Because it’s Dave. Anything for Dave.
We tooled down in Aunt Drusilla’s SUV, which, right there, was a mistake. I should have driven in the Monte. Her Chevy WhateverItWas rides like a lumber wagon and Aunt Drusilla drives in this horrible weird stilting way’ accelerate decelerate accelerate decelerate brake accelerate. I couldn’t fathom because why wouldn’t you use cruise control? It’s a straight highway. The entire way down. It was insane and also making me needlessly motion sick. Also, Aunt Drusilla doesn’t like to drive in the big city and she considers Milwaukee to be a big city. She was afraid. Afraid of poor people. Afraid of cars. Afraid of poor people driving cars. I offered to drive when we got closer to Milwaukee. She didn’t believe me when I told her that I knew where I was, mostly because I promptly took the wrong freeway to get to the venue. And apparently, nowhere in Drusilla’s forty plus years has she ever attempted to read a map, so instead I was driving her enormous SUV at 80 mph and trying to teach her how to read a map.
But with my help, we navigated through some back roads and ended up in the place we needed to be with plenty of time to spare. And then it didn’t matter, because we were sitting within spitting distance of the stage and it didn’t matter that the sun was aimed at us through a magnifying glass and our eyebrows were starting to curl from the heat. And it didn’t matter that there were squatters trying to sneak into our row. And it didn’t matter that Drusilla kept arguing with me that Dave would want to marry HER because she isn’t married, even though she’s ten years older than he is and needed me to explain what the song ‘Ants Marching’ was really about and even though any fool could see that he’d much prefer marrying ME. It just didn’t matter. Because we were there, swimming in violin and soprano sax, watching lightning bugs dance to crazy riffs above our heads, and Dave was making that face he makes, Hugo-Weaving-eyebrow-raised, when he is completely absorbed in playing music and his feet are moving as though independent of his body with those crazy scuffed suede old man shoes he wears. It just didn’t matter. Because that music, that moment, it just made me happy. I was happy. I was smiling, not to smile at anyone, but rather just to smile, which almost never happens. Dave was a shaman and we his congregation and the only peyote was a song that we all knew the words. I was awash with perspiration and there was a fog of pot smoke encroaching upon the reserved seating from the party zone up the hill and everyone was dancing and sweating and singing and had hoarse voices and some guy at the end of the row grabbed me and hugged me because we were all just happy. Happy.
Anyway. Loved that.
Finally got home around 2:30 am. Markus was sleeping in our living room, as he flew home for a visit at some point on Saturday afternoon. When I woke up, though, he was gone, so I still haven’t actually seen him yet, although he’s informed me that his visit will not be complete unless I take him to the Bad Bar.
I zoned out for most of Sunday watching How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days (which I just shouldn’t have bothered with. I just don’t see the Matthew McConaughey thing. Just don’t see it. I mean, he’s cute and his accent is appealing and he looks really good in clothes. That’s the best way I can describe it. He makes clothing look good. But he’s too much of a pretty boy. He’s got better hair than me. That bugs me. Also I think he’d either hog the bathroom or always smell like sweat.) and then went to see 28 Days Later’ (Something bothers me about movies that insist upon having their own punctuation) with Mo, where we shared a tub of popcorn because we were both independently too lazy to make ourselves dinner. And then we drove home, both expecting rage-infected people to attack our car at any moment. And then I sacked out, dreaming of dancing through empty London streets to frantic violins and crazy brilliant song poetry to keep me company.
