On Friday evening, only moments after posting the last entry and declaring to all the world that I needed vodka, stat, I found myself calling my collection of Bar Boys and organizing a rendezvous at the Bad Bar. Only for a quick drink, I kept telling myself, reassuring my inner child of an alcoholic that this was NOT self-medicating with alcohol and I was NOT one lost weekend away from turning into Anna Nicole Smith, and that normal wholly functioning adults could meet up with their friends who are boys for some jovial pre-holiday clinking of glasses on a Friday night. I even started to change into Bar clothes and then stopped myself, because I was NOT going out. This was really just a pre-cursor to what would be a very busy night of watching Netflix and also working on my short story for class.
As though to cement this intent, I brought my Kate Spade purse and my black leather coat INTO THE BAR with me, as I fully expected to be gone before the smoke got too thick and the beer started being flung around as though by chimpanzees. Except that the Bad Bar is a very bad place and even though I had declared that I didn’t want to spend more than $20 (and I didn’t), nine rounds of experimental shots on the house later, it was 1 am and the Bald Bartender was begging us to come back next week for the Vibrator Races and Hot Jason was telling me how he had missed me because it had been far too long. And I still only spent $10 all night, including buying a round of drinks.
Man. It’s such a Bad Bar!
And we get to go again this weekend to celebrate reader Jennifer’s 21st birthday! Heh.
Luckily, the shot marathon happened fairly early in the evening and I switched to Diet Coke immediately after, so I was pretty sober by the time I got home and avoided the horrible room spinniness that is the traditional finish to an evening at the Bar. I managed to rouse myself from bed at the tragic slacker hour of 10 am the next morning, took a shower and then raced off to fetch the dry cleaning and run other miscellaneous errands. I then got home, did my nails an alluring hot pink to match my outfit for Joel and Cheri’s baby’s baptism and then the impending godfather and I ran out the door to catch a quick lunch. A little too quick, as we still had a ton of time before we had to be at Maison du Joel, so I dragged Esteban around a furniture store, as I am severely unhappy with our sofa, which is faded and enormous and fits in exactly two places in our living room. Also, as we inherited it from Ward and June, it’s about twenty years old and looks as though perhaps Mike Seaver should be sitting there taunting Carol about her boyfriend, Brad Pitt. Big mistake, as Esteban in a suit looks like he exited the womb with a trust fund in his tiny grip, and I cut a rather striking figure myself in head-to-toe black with a fuschia long suit coat and antique rhinestone pin and high heels. The furniture weasels were swarming over us, practically drooling on our vestments (heee’ that was a word from that annoying story in class last week, instead of, you know, a pedestrian term such as ‘clothing’) and wouldn’t leave us alone. Which is fine, because I am apparently too picky for my own good and will likely have grandchildren bouncing off the same fugly blue sectional.
We went to the baptism and Esteban did his godfatherly duties, which apparently involved standing at the alter and not bursting into agnostic flames. Afterwards, we adjourned for cookies and pie, and I rescued Cheri, who was looking fabulous despite having dismissed both a baby and a gall bladder from her body in the last three weeks (can you imagine major surgery only a week after having a baby? Just more proof that giving birth is very complicated and ucky) by taking over the feeding responsibilities so she could entertain her guests. Baby AJ reacted predictably and immediately became a cooing bundle of sweetness that sacked out within seconds of placing her against my bosom, which is gaining legendary status amongst my friends with infants. My boobs are baby Prozac. Lori then suggested that it would be a viable business service’ Rent a Bosom’ your baby asleep in twenty minutes or the next trip is free. However, I’d prefer a career in which I never have to utter the term ‘poopy diaper’ thank you very much. Although, from a strictly capitalistic standpoint, new parents are pretty desperate to get to sleep and I could probably charge a pretty penny per house call, especially given the way that Cheri almost burst into tears of gratitude when she watched me gently place her sleeping daughter into the crib without so much as a tiny fuss. It takes a village, apparently, as well as a perky pair of DD cups.
After the baby canoodling, we went home where we scrounged for random dinner (Esteban had cheesy rice and I discovered that Amy’s Organic actually is capable of making a frozen dinner that I do not care for) and watched Shrek 2. Esteban then went to bed and I intended to go to bed, but ended up working on my short story for three and a half hours. Sadly, not even writing new material, but rather revising and revising and revising with an editor’s eye rather than that of the writer, who was an idiot and should have known that all of that painfully created back story was going to be snipped anyway and is currently sobbing in a corner, moaning about the fact that ‘snaking the deal’ no longer appears anywhere in the story, despite the fact that it was the inspiration. Gah. And then Esteban came out to find out what had taken me so long to wash my face and we both went to bed. And apparently I am not going to be racing at the last minute to finalize my draft for workshop. Wow. Maybe I’m finally growing up.
On Sunday, we slept in, then braved game day traffic to run to the stadium district to fulfill Esteban’s cinnamon bun jones (while I had lobbied hard against said cinnamon buns, because I would have been quite happy with my peanut butter and cherry/blackberry jam toast with juice), and then back home where we read the newspaper and watched football.
Later, I raked the front yard, as our one little red maple has finally decided that yes, it is really autumn, and dropped its substantial leaves. While I was raking on the Clampet side of the house, the whole while thinking in my head ‘Do not come out of the house to chat! Do not come out of the&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- Man Clampet came out of the house to ask if I wanted him to move his trailer. Of course, this would have been the prime time to say, ‘Yes, and do not move it back, hillbilly.’ But I can’t because I’m too much of a wimp and have essentially resigned myself to a winter with a giant trailer parked on the side of our house. Also, Esteban was right and he WAS very nice. And I didn’t know if I could deal with the heartbreak of watching him put the damned thing back. So I chirped back that no, it was fine, and I could just work around it, thinking to myself that the grass under the trailer is going to be dead anyway, so why bother raking the leaves under it? Then later, Lady Clampet came out to get in her car, which was parked in front of our house, despite the fact that she had plenty of space in front of her own house. I smiled at her and said ‘Hi’ and she gave me a tight lipped smile back, probably grumpy that I was raking toward her car/my curb, but look at that! I made friendly contact with not one but two neighbors in one day! Hah! Take that Esteban! I am NOT unfriendly! Also, I chatted with crazy hippy neighbor lady who insisted that I use the leaf blower that she got on Mother’s Day. I did try it, but it sort of blew (hee!), however I then felt as though I HAD to use it because she had hauled it and about four million feet of extension cord so that I could blow (snort!) the backyard (which has no trees because the Rosebush probably ate them). So three! Three neighbors in an hour’s time. Certainly that absolves me of neighborly contact throughout the majority of 2005. Mo helped by mowing the lawn one last time while I theorized that the whole three pigs fairy tale would have been completely changed had the big bad wolf had a leaf blower.
To thank her for helping with the yard work, I took her and Abby out for family style broasted chicken, which seems to be a Wisconsin tradition for Sundays. I get the hankering for it about once every six months and then afterwards, remember why I don’t eat chicken very often. I then went home, put on yoga pants, and reclined on the couch, groaning periodically, while I watched Raising Helen and wondered if John Corbett would still be my pretend boyfriend after I had gorged myself on fried chicken. But if I’m willing to endure Kate Hudson movies that make me sad because Felicity Huffman should never die ever, then he can adore me blindly through the good times and also the fried chicken yoga pant times.
Mmmm’ chicken pants.
PS. If you’re interested in attending the Weetacon, please vote on a weekend in the comments of the linked entry, or I will be making an executive decision based upon the comments left thus far. Also, voice your opinion now or forever hold your peace about the new hotel situation.
