True Story: I’m THE Leader of Men

Tuesday we drove down to the Outer Banks, Corolla to be exact, for a wedding. R, who is Andrew’s best friend, met and fell in love with H in Washington DC while she was here from Sweden for school.  Eventually, H had to move back to Sweden and things looked a little rough for a while, but eventually, R figured out he couldn’t live without her, even if it meant moving across an ocean to be with her so secretly flew across that pond and all the way to Sweden to pop the question all sneaky like and – not surprisingly – she said yes.

R moved to Sweden in December and they’ve been planning a wedding from far far away ever since. They rented a house in Corolla, one with a big enough back yard to accommodate a reception for 40, and planned to get married on the beach.

Since my husband was one of the two groomsman and since I’d rather drink in the early afternoon than spend time stuck being super girly, I took on the role of what the groom called “The Leader of the Men.” Personally, I wanted to be called “The Man Motivator,” but for some reason I couldn’t get anyone to call me that.

Basically, I yelled a lot.  I spent the morning helping the guys anchor the flowery pool candle holder thingies. It was no easy feat, but we figured it out and in the end, it looked great.

I also put together the aisle on the beach, which look absolutely amazing.  I’m not just saying that because I did it.  It really did look amazing and the bride told me, about 4 different times, that she loved it and that it looked exactly the way she wanted it to.

Mostly though, my job as Leader of the Men, required yelling.  I yelled when the guys weren’t getting ready quickly enough.  Getting three guys to get in the shower in a timely manner is harder than you think it is.  I yelled when they were getting distracted by shiny things and children and guests.  I yelled at the groom when he was being harassed by guests that wanted to ask him questions ten minutes before the ceremony.  And it was worth it.  I got the guys down to the beach in time to relax for a minute and in time for the guests to start arriving. It was perfect.

After the beautiful beach wedding, we walked back to the house for the reception.  By this point, my hair was an absolute disaster.  (Note to self: don’t wear your long hair down on the beach. It will look like shit after five minutes. ) Dinner was delicious. People were happy. The toasts made the bride (and everyone else) cry like little babies.

I call this one “Mmmmmmm….wine!”

I looked absolutely smashing in a fun strapless little red number that made me feel like my boobies were gonna pop out at any moment. Luckily they didn’t.

That’s me with the best man – my husband is eyeing the situation from behind me over there.  He probably thought my boobies were going to pop out too.

Later that night some Drunkie McDrunkerson decided we should all get in the hot tub.  So we did.  Because why not?  At that point all the old folks had gone to bed and it was just a small crowd of 10-15 crazies left. At one point, I got thrown in the pool.  As did everyone else. Because apparently, that’s what you do at receptions when there’s a pool.  I didn’t drown though, which actually surprised me.

We stayed up until 5 in the morning.  I honestly did not know I could stay up that late.  Seriously, who knew?

The next day we looked in the hot tub.  It was nasty.  NAST-AY! We’re not quite sure what happened in there after we went to bed and honestly, we’re pretty satisfied not knowing.

Also, this kid spent way too much time with the beers.  I’m pretty sure he licked every single bottle just to make sure it was still cold.

The really important questions in life

There are many reasons I choose to marry Andrew.  He frequently fails at communication that is not ridiculous, but the ridiculous conversations we have are one of the best parts of our marriage. Proof: on the way home from work today we had a heated discussion about whether or not you, when possessed by some deceased person, would exhibit a similar speech pattern and/or accent as that deceased person. 

For example, say someone with a heavy Irish accent dies and then takes over your body, i.e. possesses you.  Would you then speak with an Irish accent?  I mean of course it would be your voice, not some old Irish dude’s voice, but would you speak like the dead Irish guy only with your voice?  Would you have your voice and his accent?  

I rule in favor of yes, you would inherit your possessors speech pattern, accent ,  and dialect, although it would still be your voice.  The husband, opting always to disagreewith me on such important matters as speech patterns of the possessed, says that no, you would sound the same as you always did.  But I think that’s illogical because on Medium when Allison got possessed by the murdered Hispanic woman she had a slight Hispanic accent and you know that everything on TV is real. 

And then, the other question is, would you also inherit (I’m sure there’s a better word for what happens when you get possessed by someone, but I can’t think of it right now) their body language/movements/mannerisms? 

What do you think?

It’s time for a celebration

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! & HAPPY BIRTHDAY HUSBAND OF MINE!

I’m jealous that my super fabulous Husband gets to have a birthday on the coolest, most rad day of the year. Also, I am a little upset that I just used the word “rad.”

Seeing as it’s both a very special birthday and Halloween, the porch crew will undoubtedly be out in full force tonight participating in all sorts of shenanigans and debauchery because really, that’s what we do. Andrew and I are, of course, dressing up. Him as Lt. Dangle from Reno 911, and me as Deputy Clementine Johnson. It will be trash-tastic and we will have copious amounts of fun because it’s us and the porch crew and when we’re all together in Richmond, which he haven’t been for what feels like forever, we always, ALWAYS, laugh so hard our faces hurt the next day. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll actually remember to take pictures tonight of the fun and the funny and post a few of them because really, pictures of me in a blonde wig should be shared with the world, as should pictures of my husband in shorty shorts.

Adventures in HuskyMutt Insanity

This past weekend our down the hall neighbors moved down the hall and have become our next door neighbors. They have one of the most adorable little puppies ever named something ridiculously cute like Molly or Holy-Freakin-Cute-Baby-Dog. I can’t remember, and really, in doesn’t matter. Our hallways share a common wall and, as I might have mentioned before, the walls in our apartment building are stupidly thin because the management company sucks/is cheap/sucks a lot.

As it turns out, our neighbors throw toys down the hall for their dog, just like we throw toys down the hall for Sadie.  And honestly, what the hell else are you supposed to do with a super long hallway?  Anyway, the point is that Sadie loves this game of indoor fetch and, thanks to those crazy thin walls, she’s learned she can chase the toys our neighbors throw down their hall for their cute little puppy as well. Even though she can’t see the toys or the cute-as-hell puppy, she knows they’re there and thus, she goes insane. 

Proof:

Are you laughing? Because you should be. Because that’s hilarious. I see her do that everyday in real life and I still laugh out loud when I see this video.

She leaps, she flys, she whines and is insane. She’s Sadie the Flying HuskyMutt and I love her.

(On a related note, we learned that Sadie will attack water when it’s being splashed. I was in the tub last night and Sadie was curious about the water so I started splashing and she went insane (again) and attempted to eat every drop of water that went flying. I CANNOT WAIT to get her into our future backyard with a water hose.)

Celebrating the Shenanigans

In 2000 I had two very dear friends die within just six months of each other. David and Joe. Let me tell you what – that sucked. A lot. Eight years later it’s still hard for me to talk about one of their deaths without mentioning the other. The grief just merged into one solid block of wretched hurting and it’s still hard to separate it all.

Eight years ago on this very day, Joe was removed from the machines that kept him alive after he was hit by a car on October 7th. He died shortly thereafter. He was 15. He was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. He was insanely intelligent and ridiculously unwilling to apply himself. He was THE ABSOLUTE funniest person I’ve ever known in my ENTIRE life.

You said, “Young man, don’t rely on a sword,
Cause your words will outlive even time.”
I’ve counted my blessings. The rest are for you.
Please listen close for a while

I’m pretty sure he failed Spanish twice, even though he could almost speak it fluently, just because he liked messing with the teacher. And oh – that poor teacher. She quit the year after my class. I don’t blame her. In fact, I feel a little guilty about how mean we were. Once, in the middle of class, Joe opened up his water bottle and dumped the entire thing over my head. In retaliation, I dumped my water bottle over his head. In the middle of class, during a lesson and everything. When the teacher separated us and put each of the four shenanigan-starters in separate corners of the classroom, we’d wait until she turned her back to write something on the board and then move seats, just to mess with her. It wasn’t very nice, but when I was 15, it was hilarious.

He tattooed a J on his right bicep in the middle of class. Just because.

I made the mistake once of fearing an end.
Is this life that we live just the world’s accident?
Not a chance, so I move on with a smile.
Are you surprised where you are?

Joe, Erik (Joe’s other best friend and my boyfriend at the time), and I once ran away from home for a day. We had good reason. Toward the end of the day, we ended up crashing this stupid party thing for these high schoolers from Massachusetts or something at a recreation center. Then we almost beat up an angry little preppy kid because he was, you know, preppy. We were, obviously, not huge supporters of the preppies back in the day.

When I turned 16, Joe and Erik met me in the woods by my house since I was grounded. We all ended up wandering around the nearby grocery store just because we didn’t have anything better to do. Joe fake-limped his way into getting one of those motorized cart things and drove around the store throwing in boxes of tampons and diapers. Then he made me put it all away.

I grew up slow on the heels of the rest.
Left my heart back at home, carried you in my chest.
And I don’t feel like crying today.
Why can’t we talk for awhile?

One night, after David died, Joe called me and knew I was deep into a sea of hurt. He told me to stop, and I asked why. He said, “Because I love you.” And I stopped. Because he did.

Eight years later it’s still the thought of Joey telling me he loves me that makes me feel like everything will be okay. It’s ever so cheesy, but to say that kid saved my life is no small exaggeration.

And breathe, breathe, deep for me James.
Don’t you feel that you’re free now from pain?
I’ve heard about heaven for years.
Can’t be sure where you are, wander on blessed James.
I’m fine with you here.

When David died, Joe told us, straight-faced and teary-eyed, that if he ever died too young, he’d want us to party. So we did. Because Joe would’ve been so pissed if we’d just sat around crying.

—

I have songs for people, relationships and events in my life. I’ve tied close to a hundred songs to David and his death but Joe has never had a song. I’ve never found anything that fits him. He didn’t fit the mold.

But now, eight years later, I’ve found it. It made me cry while smiling on my way to work today.  Which is so fitting because I miss that kid like crazy, still, but every time I think of him, I can’t help but smile like an idiot.

You said, “Son, just listen to me.”
But I’m doing fine, James.
So you can sit back and just breathe.
And it’s time now to let yourself go.
Hold us close, spin the dream,
The curtain will fall but behind it I see that you’re here.
— “James” by O.A.R.

(Psst – Joey – I love you!)