So it’s January 9 and I’ve only posted once since Dec. 26. BOO! I sort of unplugged over the holidays and it was really fantastic, and it’s been very hard to come back and start getting in the routine again. But the new year is all about fresh starts, right? So here I go, all baking soda and lemon and Windex and Febreze on the blog. Let’s get it on.
When I’m really into a book, it’s difficult to tear myself away to do anything else. I’m trapped in such a book now:
This is a total win for me, as it feeds into my Anglophilia and my bibliophilia and my Royalphilia. I apparently have a lot of philia, which sounds like I need a strong antibiotic. And perhaps I do.
I was reading this book as we drove to and from Nashville, which is interesting because I could read in the car until I was about 12 (all Little House and Nancy Drew books), and then I started getting carsick when I’d read. It pretty much stayed that way until about a month ago, when we drove to relative’s houses for Christmas and I could read Elizabeth The Queen in the car and not get sick, and then again on the Nashville trip! Yahoo! Particularly when said book is over 700 pages long.
I did NOT, however, read during the 40 hours I was IN Nashville. I did drink a little bit. And eat. And bruised Current Husband, who dressed for a Civil War re-enactment. And learned that my degrees are worthless.
LET ME EXPLAIN.
We were in town for a friend’s
birthday Winter Solstice party. When we left Iowa, Current Husband said, “Hey, this is a long drive, do you think it’s okay if I wear my comfy pants?” Not thinking, I said, “Sure, why not?” It wasn’t an issue until we checked into our nice hotel, and CH shuffled up to the front desk to check us in wearing THIS:
Seriously, people. I approved this message.
Oldest Daughter and I were mortified. He looked like he was going to the front desk to ask for a fifth of whiskey, or going to ask “Do y’all know where the Civil War Re-enactment is? I’m the flag carrier.” Unfortunately, CH is like Honey Badger. CH don’t care. CH don’t give a shit. I immediately needed a drink.
We checked in and went to the
Birthday Girl Winter Solstice room, where we were promptly offered wine and love and the time to go out. We took a shuttle to a great bar in downtown Nashville, where there was a band, which is lucky, because you can’t find live music ANYWHERE in Nashville. (kidding!) Here is the picture I took of the band, called The Smoking Section:
Annie Liebowitz can kiss my ass, am I right?
Unlike my photography, they were pretty amazing, and played a lot of soul-infused disco-ish numbers, and they had a full brass section. I’m pretty sure each band member walked away with about $20 that night after their bar tab, because there were about 15 people in the band. I will tell you that I danced to the point where I was jumping and wetting my pants a little, but I was all Honey Badger myself. We decided to leave the bar, but I had just purchased a new bottle of beer. Well I wasn’t going to waste that! My grandparents didn’t survive the Depression so I could waste a new beer! So I stuck it in the pocket of my coat, which was draped over my arm. And promptly forgot about it. And then got on the shuttle to the next bar and went “Why do my pants feel so wet?” Well Jules, that’s what happens when you lay an open bottle of beer horizontally on your lap. So I got to spend the rest of the night walking around looking like I full-blown wet my pants. AWESOME. Because then it disguised the times when I would actually wet my pants a little.
Here’s a lesson for you kids out there: Age, incontinence, and beer don’t go together in abundance.
Here is a random pic of me with Winter Solsticers – two from the Quad Cities, two from Atlanta – this photo only captures 50% of their gawgusness:
Marti, Nancy, Julie, Julie. I’d like to point out that I met Julie about two hours
before this picture, but we are already in our touchy phase.
Please note I am wearing one of my new long “ass camouflage” sweaters.
In our last bar, the bartenders were wearing terrible misogynistic shirts that said something akin to “We’re the guys who find the girls and then we DRILL ‘EM!” with a pic of a tits and ass girl on the front. One of the women in our group of 12 or so, who had just purchased a $50+ round for everyone, saw his shirt while she was signing her credit card slip and said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” The bartender was all “What?” and she said “Your shirt! What the hell is THAT?!” and this guy, who is a huge roided-out bodybuilder type, got very submissive and said, “I know, I’m so sorry, my girlfriend hates them too, the manager makes us wear them…” and our Solsticer said something along the lines of “I don’t give a shit what your excuses are, you should never wear that”. This guy looked equal parts scared and remorseful. I stood there in my beer-soaked jeans and said, “DAMN STRAIGHT!!! You TELL him! Them’s RAPE shirts!” while her husband begged me not to egg her on. I’m sorry, Sir, but I was not asked to this party to keep things under control. “Go GIT him!” I yelled. “Ask him if he’s opposed to FRACKING along with the DRILLING!”
Shortly afterward, we left to walk back to the hotel. What is the best sounding thing in the world when it’s 1 a.m. and you’ve had a few beers? Cart food. My buddy set us both up with cart hot dogs with kraut and ketchup and mustard. Because how else would you eat them?
Best. Hotdog. Ever.
(Doesn’t this look like Internet Porn? )
I was going to write more, but I keep looking at the pic of Steve inserting the hot dog in his mouth, and I feel like that’s the way to end this post. A little eye candy – because seriously, don’t his eyes look Wonka-like? – with a pork and beef parts product. Sheathed in condiments. You’re welcome, Wifers.
Tune in next time for the continuation of the story, called HUNG OVER, or How My Children Belittled My Education.