It has been a crazy weekend.
My sisters and their daughters were in town, so it was an all girl show, all weekend. I had a houseful.
Saw WICKED. Again. Third time. And seriously, there should be a rule that if you come late, you have to stand in the back of the theater and wait for intermission instead of stumbling around laughing in the near darkness trying †o figure out where the hell your seat is. I wish that the all the actors would just stop dead still on the stage and stare at the people who come in late and not resume until they find their stupid seats.
Oh, and to the love birds who sat in front of my and my sister, Celia....GET A ROOM. She was one of those needy ass women who kept dipping her head on to the guy's shoulder when I was trying to see the stage.
I do regret that I drank way too much. Every night.
I do not regret learning how to dance the chicken dance.
I've decided that while I love my sisters and their daughters, I do not especially like big family reunions where no one asks me about my wife or daughter. I feel like the orphan at the table. But, you know what? I decided that I didn't give a fuck.
Which reminds me that Jessie told me that I say the word fuck too much. I do. I know this. Shit, I'm sorry. Is that better?
I got yahtzee 4 times in a row. Is that luck or what?
My knee and ankles are swollen, so it is early to bed tonight.
I flirted with our waiter. This is sort of pathetic since I am 53 and he looked like he could be my son. He did tell me that he liked my hair ("You kind of look like Meg Ryan in "Proof of Life"...), and for that...I am grateful. I will take what I can get. Even though I have never seen that movie and I honestly look NOTHING like Meg Ryan. It did give my drunken sisters fodder all night. ("Can we get some free drinks if we let you take your photo with Meg Ryan?")
I also learned that Jessie and I cannot play charades and be on opposite teams because we are both wildly competitive and sore losers. But, hey...I beat her ass fair and square. Didn't I, missy?
It is probably a bad idea to attempt to show your sisters what your Japanese lilies look like at midnight when you are all in your nightgowns and wandering through your yard with flash lights.
Drunk blogging can actually be done successfully. I did this and I was mostly coherent.
Why is it when a child bumps her head on the diving board and it bleeds that instead of looking at my sister, Patrice, who is a retired NURSE, everyone looks at me to bandage it up instead before we go to the ER even though they all KNOW that I hate the sight of blood and that I should probably COUNSEL the child on the way to the hospital instead of trying to look at a gaping slash on a child's head and trying to figure out if we should get stitches. (We should. We did.)
I want to be Elphaba in WICKED. I want Fiyero to sing to me. I also want to be Galinda and sing about being popular too.
Saying goodbye to my sisters and hugging and kissing them in my driveway is probably a bad idea because we all start crying and I HATE knowing that now my neighbors have seen me bawling.
This house is really, really quiet and the dog is looking at me like: For the last three days, I have been petted and loved up and fed bacon under the table and now you are pretty much ignoring me, so I am going to go find one of your shoes and chew on it like a puppy for revenge. RUB MY BELLY. NOW.
Holding the six month old grandchild of my sister is so wonderful. All the baby smell, all that drooling nuzzling is just so....sweet. I miss Liv. I miss Liv. I miss Liv even though she no longer drools or nuzzles.
Jessie and I know all the lyrics from Don't Fear the Reaper. And we sang them. We also sang the school song from our old high school in Iowa and after 36 years, I still remember every WORD.
Jessie and I are capable of singing Don't Fear the Reaper loudly alone in my car on the way home from shopping.
This house is so quiet. This house is so quiet. This house is so quiet.
My knee hurts. My ankles look like they have doughnuts around them.
I should probably get to bed.
Tomorrow it is back to work.
As long as we don't talk about politics...or religion...
We are good.
This house is so quiet.....
I think I'll go listen to some Blue Oyster Cult.