|the DEVIL assumes many pleasing guises|
In case anyone happened to notice my absence from the land of blogs, I was away for a wedding slash mini vacay this weekend. Recall the BACHELORETTE party I went to last week for the lovely T--well this weekend was the wedding. And, since it was an hour and forty five minute drive away, this was a fabulous excuse to DUMP THE CHILDREN, get a hotel room and PAR-TAY DOWN. BOO YAH.
I'm not much of a par-tay down kind of girl anymore. I mean, I want to be, but clearly I'm not very good at it. I was getting some ribbing from friends at our reception table, because apparently the story of me
So, The Man and I made sure to drop the kids off good and early at the grandparents' so's we could enjoy the HOTEL POOL. Hellz yeah. When going to a wedding, or any evening event now, I have to do a certain amount of pre-event prep work. This primarily involves NOT EATING ANYTHING THAT WILL BLOAT ME LIKE A HUMAN BALLOON. I was going to squeeze my ass into my black dress pants for that wedding even if it killed me. I didn't care how much muffin-toppage I might be risking, I was not wearing a skirt.
Because, I H8 wearing skirts.
I think other girls look great in skirts, and I certainly admire a lovely skirt or dress, but my sack of potatoes body is 10,000 times sexier in a clever pair of pants than a skirt. Skirts do horrible secret things to bodies: they hug the bum to create the GIANT BOOTY effect. They hug the hips to create the MAMMOTH SADDLE BAGS effect. If the length falls just to my knee or below, it makes my calves look like big, fat bowling pins. If they come above the knee, I feel like I should be peddling my potatoes on the street. And worst of all, there's that issue of NYLONS.
I freaking hate nylons, tights, and hosiery of any kind. Itchy, clingy, bindy, top-of-the-thigh-pinchy, attire created by Satan.
So, I avoided sugar, milk, and any kind of fun food indulgences for two days, and my pants weren't tight. Yay me. This was particularly difficult, because The Man, evil tempter that he is, bought DORITOS to bring to the hotel. Put a bag of doritos, a bowl of mini eggs and a super garlicky dip in a room and I'd be finished. They may be my biggest weaknesses.
But, I didn't eat them. I got the DORITOS SHAKES, but I didn't eat them.
So, after the pool and the mother-trucking-hot-tub YO (hot tubs ROCK), I tried to bend my super fluffy, straw-like hair into an attractive shape, put on some bling, and my PANTS, chugged a couple of cocktails and off we headed to the wedding.
The wedding was intimate and elegant. The centrepieces were FANTASTIC: several roses in a tall, glass vase, in various juicy-juice colours. The bride looked stunning, with her glossy strawberry blond hair swept up, in a magestic loose curls style, and her lovely gown. I was getting a mild buzz, the appetizers were yummo, I was at a table with all friends, no duds, so all was well.
Lots of appetizers. Ooo...yummy appetizers! Let's just have drinks and appetizers all night! More than enough drinks. FREAKED OUT when I saw the little birdie salt and pepper shakers gifty ont the table. FREAKED OUT. BEST BONBONIERE EVER. Then some rich food. More drinks. Loads of laughs. Fun to dress up and be with friends! Red wine. CHEESECAKE, B*TCHES. Marvelled at some of the sky-high heels some girls managed to wear...silly girls. Couple more drinks. Lots of sitting. Lovely speeches. Got teary-eyed when the bride spoke. Ew. I don't feel good. I'm not drinking anymore. No wait, I feel fine! Hooray! I'll have one more drink!
In the meantime, finally came that most anticipated time of the evening: DANCY DANCE TIME! And here's where I have to apologise to T. if she's reading this, because the DJ LET ME DOWN. Herewith I provide:
karen's rant about wedding DJ's
I have been to more weddings with a sucko stinko DJ, than a good one. People, I love to dance. I LURV IT. I love to get my drink on. I love nothing better than to get my drink on and dance. Ppfft--zero inhibitions--what's not to like about that?!? I want to shake my groove thang (whatever that is) for as long as the music is good. Then I want to dance to "Can't help falling in love" by Elvis with The Man. Then I want to dance some more with the girls. I do NOT want to ever, ever hear the following:
* Jive Bunny.
Seriously? SERIOUSLY? Ah hell naw.
* Old Time Rock & Roll
I've ranted about this before. It fills me with an incomparable rage.
* Shook Me All Night Long
It's not a highschool dance. If anybody wanted to "shake" me all night long, I'd punch him in the neck.
* The Macarena
Yeah, I used to do that dance. IN THE 90'S.
* The Chicken Dance
Luckily I haven't heard this one in years.
Okay, so, that being said, this DJ last night did not play any of these major offenders. Well, that's a big point in his favor. He even played really good music during the reception, while we were eating and drinking and eating and drinking. Good, good, and good. And then, it all fell apart at dance time. I lurv the Everly Brothers. I have a greatest hits cd. I don't want to dance to them. Ditto for Connie Francies, and SUPER DUPER DITTO for Paul Anka! MON DIEU--PAUL ANKA!!!
Vivacious L., who was at my table, went up to make some requests for songs chicks actually like to hoochy to: Akon, Taio Cruz, that dance-tacular new J-lo song. Current, current, current. However, Cotton Eye Joe informed her that he didn't have most of the songs she requested, and the one he did have, he wouldn't be able to get to for a LONG TIME. Okay buddy, do you notice that there's nobody on the dance floor? He's like the jerk at a party who monopolizes the music, takes no requests, and insists on playing sh*t like "Free Bird" all night.
If I were a DJ, I would RULE THE PLANET. I'd play a) what the bride and groom wanted, b) CURRENT MUSIC c) music to suit some of the older crowd, and d) slow songs that don't make you want to hurl.
Here endeth this rant.
SO, it was 10:30, and everyone was leaving (see? I'm NOT a total loser--everyone else was tired too, so NYAH!), and The Man and I headed back to our hotel room. I pried off my sexay shoes, noted with horror that my feet had expanded to roughly five times their original girth, and made The Man poke them. Then I put on a pair of my favourite super-sized gitch with the hole in them, my jammies shirt, and hopped on the bed with that bag of Doritos that had been singing its siren song to me all day.
I've never been so happy.
Then I went to sleep.
Question: how can you tell that you're getting OLDER?
OH, LET ME FIELD THIS ONE! PICK ME! PICK ME!
Answer: when you have indigestion SO BAD, it actually tricks you into thinking you're having a heart attack.
After a few hours of fitful dreams in which I was basically still at the wedding chit-chatting with the girls, and loads of tossing and turning, I woke up at 3 AM with LEGENDARY INDIGESTION. Have you ever felt like a giant bottle of fizzy pop? Well, that's how I felt. Had that happened in the afternoon, I'd have concluded that I had wicked heart burn. However, at 3 AM, I felt like I was on the road to heart attack country. Then I had a mild panic attack. Then I had to be my own voice of reason:
Voice of reason: calm down, karen, old kid, old sock--you're not having a heart attack. You're having an ANXIETY ATTACK. You never used to have those, but you get them now, so just take deep breaths and chill out.
So, here is the prescription for massive middle of the night indegestion:
* 2 TUMS
* 1 entire bottle of water sipped slowly
* approximately 50 farts (yeah, I said I wouldn't talk about personal gas again, but it's integral to the story)* 20 burps
and voila! All better. Of course, this is all very lonely as The Man is sawing logs next to me as I'm pondering my own MORTALITY, and making a few hypocritical psuedo prayers and promises that I'll NEVER DO THIS AGAIN, but that's how I roll.
Yup. That's how I roll.
Click my little linky thingy--it's practically painless!