And Then I Woke Up With a Huge Bruise on My Ass

I wore heels too high to a wedding this weekend, on a huge lawn that dipped and rose with tufts of grass & groundhogs. The groom made his entrance on a beach cruiser to the funk of "Another One Bites the Dust" and we stood, cheered. In the hollow of my throat I felt something bubbling, happy, giddy really. I cried.

Later I drank 2 glasses of wine quickly, something hibiscus with a straw, Zoey at her grandma's for the night. I sat next to two women at dinner, strangers, and within 15 minutes we were talking about our periods. (Though I know it was in some sort of perfectly rational context, I can't really remember why.) Later still I swapped my heels for Havaianas and played pool, drank 2 ciders, danced, had a margarita, peed a lot, ordered a Red Bull & vodka, stumbled, laughed. At some point I said something stupid to a man named George and I distinctly remember him pretending to part my hair, saying that he was looking to see if I had blonde roots. For the rest of the night I would whisper in his ear when I saw him: the speed of light is 186,000 miles per second, intelligence is not a unitary entity with specific, identifiable properties... does the inertia of a body depend upon its energy-content? On that last one I am pretty sure I spit in his ear by mistake.

A dramatic representation of my weekend.

We left our car there and walked, no--Bryan had to carry me to the hotel. At some point there was a wide expanse of a parking lot and I jumped onto his back for a piggy back ride, only I forgot what to do with my hands so when he grabbed my legs I fell backwards, down, fast flat on the cement hard thwack--and I laughed. We snuck into the hot tub closed for the night, slipped off the bubble-wrap and stripped down to soak. Our friend had no place to stay, so we grabbed a plastic lounger from the pool and brought it to our room for him to sleep on. On the way he hit up the vending machines. I passed out to the sounds of somebody scarfing Cheetos, the smell of wet towels and chlorine.

Sometimes I wonder if I would be a better writer if I were a better drinker. In my twenties I used to wake up on the weekends with notes scribbled on cocktail napkins--not phone numbers but snatches of conversation, ideas. Can I borrow a pen? I asked bartenders all over the city, only more often than not I'd say est-ce que je peux emprunter un stylo? because when I am really drunk I speak french and am as annoying as fuck.

Sadly or fortunately, I do not much like to drink. Am not a drinker. Don't like the way it makes me feel before, during, but mostly after. These days I carry a ballpoint in my purse to record deductions in my check register. But this weekend it was Parents Gone Wild, and while I did not show my boobies to any cameras I probably would have had I thought about it.

This video has absolutely nothing to do with this post except that it makes me laugh as if I've just fallen into some bushes on the side of a road in Santa Cruz. Again.

It's Monday, people. Cheers to sobering thoughts and french spoken badly.

xo,
S