Dancing and waving red vines in the air like glow sticks, because funk is playing and waving red vines when funk is playing is practically a requirement. I’m sure that’s written somewhere.

The groom warning me about which single men to avoid.

Reaching up and plucking half the bouquet from the air, while Heather B snags the other half. We thought it was fate, the bouquet separating in mid-flight just for us, but then realized Leah had cleverly tied smaller bunches of daisies together. Something I totally intend to steal, should the symbolism of a caught bouquet translate into reality before I forget this handy trick. Someone should probably propose in the next day or so, or it’s not going to happen. My memory is patchy at best.

Which is why I like to write these things down.

My part of the bouquet. Still fate. It’s you and me, daisies.

TACO TRUCK. Multiple visits to said TACO TRUCK. Realizing I can’t say TACO TRUCK in anything but capital letters. Possibly with a little hop. Being the first in line for both TACO TRUCK and cake. Because I have no sense of decorum when it comes to delicious food.

Kids running in circles, tutus and pigtails flying behind them.

Being handed a small daisy by the bride and groom’s flirtatious young son. Realizing I don’t have the stamina for a child since Wombat’s energy wore me out in under three minutes and I was fairly certain he was going to take a header off the porch on my watch while the bride and groom had their picture taken – happy, beautiful, glowing, at least until their son suffered a head wound. (He didn’t suffer a head wound, to be clear. BUT IT WAS CLOSE.)

Watching Holly seriously consider stealing someone’s baby. Watching the parents look like they half hope she would.

Wishing I’d thought to pull out my phone and record the officiant’s speech. Failing that, I wish I’d tweeted some of it before the party clouded my memory of exact word choice. I do remember the rousing round of applause, complete with catcalls and foot stomping.

Dancing with the bride. Dancing with the bride’s mother. Realizing that both Kristin and I dance like muppets – mouths wide open, bouncing like Wombat after his fourth red vine, moving so fast the camera just catches a blur.

All this to say, when I toasted Holly at her Non-Bachelorette Bachelorette party, I made such a hash of my tribute that if you added some nice chicken and a bit of thyme you’d have a balanced breakfast. Luckily, nobody minded. Because they are the type of friends who will let me cry on their shoulder, sleep on their couch, and kindly overlook the fact that NOT EVERYONE CAN BE ELOQUENT WITHOUT INDEX CARDS.

(Can anyone be eloquent without index cards? If so, who are you? Will you teach me your crafty brand of magic? Do you also fly with wings that fold under your organic cotton t-shirt and solve esoteric algorithms in your spare time?)

May, Holly, and me. And some very delicious beverages. Served to us by a bartender with ESP. Really! Holly never actually ordered, but he appeared with exactly the drink she wanted. A man who knows what a woman wants without her having to ask for it? WHY DIDN’T I PROPOSE ON THE SPOT?

It was a lovely, celebratory night with some of my very favorite people, delicious fancy hamburgers, pink sequins, a bottle of champagne, and my rude reaching dessert arm. It was just about perfect. Except I still think that celebrating such an amazing woman requires a troupe of tap-dancing armadillos. AT THE VERY LEAST. (I was over-ruled. Even with the promise that the armadillos would keep their trousers on.)

~~
More pictures are here. They’re worth it. Especially the WE’RE NOT HOOKERS shot. Subtitle: DO HOOKERS WEAR GAP CARDIGANS? I DIDN’T THINK SO!

What Are You Talking About This Time, Woman?

Ha! I have become shifty. You must now go here to find out. Go, minions! Go!

My card? Is that what the kids are doing these days? Maybe he meant my business card, but I’m not convinced people give business cards to guys who hit on them on the bus. I didn’t have a card, and told him so with a rather flat “No” accompanied by a blank expression that didn’t say much for my IQ. He probably thought I was blowing him off, but I was honestly taken aback. (And, yes, I was blowing him off, but not because I was hording my cards for all the eligible men on the next train.)

Talking to a single friend, I learned that yes, this IS what the kids are doing these days. She described her card – a masterful homage to Oscar Wildean prose – and I warmed to the idea. And decided that if I ever succumbed to this Regency Era Calling Card Craze, my card would have my email address on one side and the other side would say, in the smallest type available, “Small font, big personality.”

Yesterday I really wanted those cards, and not even for prospective dates - for all the randomly awesome people I keep meeting. At a birthday party last night I met a woman who organizes Monday night beer runs (running for beer, brilliant!) – luckily, she had a card proclaiming her the East Bay Beer Goddess. This morning I was walking through Bernal Heights park when I rounded a corner to find a man sitting morosely on a log. He waved me down and asked:

“Do you believe there’s someone for everyone?”

I pulled my ear phones off and considered. I’m not entirely sure what I said, something like, “Yes, though it may not be the person you expect.” He told me about splitting up with someone the night before, how all his friends were getting married, and he was single and turning 30 in a week. Every third sentence was punctuated by a sip from a bottle of gin he’d hidden in a rolled up newspaper.

Listening to him, I thought, “This right here is my male counterpart. Except Venezuelan, drunk, and flaming gay.”

He got off his log and stood on the path with me to share his life story, occasionally covering his mouth and saying, “I’m talking so much shit right now,” before lighting a cigarette and launching right back in. A few minutes later he’d ask, “You’re having fun though, right? You stop me if I’m boring you.” I assured him he’d know when I was no longer amused, and off he went again.

As we stood there blocking the path, he got more and more animated. When I finally said I needed to go – my stomach rumbled so loudly it startled a passing golden retriever – he gave me a hug, and I told him I hoped he’d feel better soon.

“Oh, I already do! I stopped thinking about what was wrong and was just thinking about what entertaining thing I could say next.”

I did nothing but stand there and listen to him for 45 minutes, but I think it was exactly what he needed in that moment. For all the times someone has said what I needed to hear at the time I needed to hear it, or been there for me, it’s nice to be able to do that for someone else. Plus, he was funny. And had some rather original hand gestures.

I totally would have given him my card.

(Conclusion To Be Drawn: The best way to get a girl’s card? Be gay.)

So when your friends make plans without giving proper consideration to your current geographical limitations, there can be some argument.

“I don’t care what neighborhood you refuse to visit this month, that’s where we’re going and you’re coming with us.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

[Insert balance of lengthy standoff.]

[Insert final ringing "Hell to the no."]

[Insert stern silence.]

[Insert grudging acceptance of lot.]

“Maybe. But I’m not taking the bus. I’m taking a cab.”

“I don’t care if you throw a saddle on a pterodactyl and fly. You’re coming with us.”

I took one look at the sea of inebriated 20-somethings swaying to the music and the rhythm of the Bud Light sloshing in their plastic glasses and thought, “I am way too old for this shit.” Convinced I was going to regret my decision to venture forth after a long day of legislative pop quizzes, I started plowing my way through the crowd. The line into the bar – not to buy a drink at the bar, but just to get through the DOOR of the bar – wrapped around the building. I sighed and waited in the shuffling crowd.

In some twist of fate – or maybe a St. Patrick’s Day miracle – Laura walked through the very door I was staring at, handed me a beer, and suddenly I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather be doing with my evening.

Laura is one of my very best friends from college and, until last night, I hadn’t seen her since the summer of 2001. We’re almost a decade older and she’s had a baby girl, but we picked up again like barely a week had passed.

We walked out into the crowd, where the last of the sun was shining between the tops of the brick buildings, and started dancing. “Is this how the kids are doing it these days?” I yelled, raising my arms and performing some gyration, impressive only in that I managed not to spill my beer with the force of my twitching. Judging by the looks from the two girls behind us, that is most certainly NOT how the kids are doing it these days. Or any days ever in the history of human locomotion.

Laura threw up her arms and pulled the same move, twisting like a baboon in a bar fight.

College in New York was one hell of an experience – and not because it was comfortable. Manhattan, with its panhandlers and incomprehensible subway lines, was daunting for a just-turned 18-year-old who’d never lived anywhere but the suburbs. Together we plowed our way through museums and slices of pizza and last minute papers. Laura helped make college feel like home, and I like to think I did the same for her.

At school, Laura introduced me to Prairie Home Companion and fried zucchini. About three hours ago, her younger sister introduced me to jello shots. The kind that stain your teeth green. Thirty years old and I only now understand the ceremony of a jello shot. I didn’t take one, but watched the proceedings like there was going to be an exam. Because YOU NEVER KNOW. St. Peter may have been a party boy – and I’d hate to be left standing on the other side of the pearly gates just because I didn’t know what to do with vodka and gelatin.

Laura lifted her cup to the sky and yelled “To babies!” I raised mine with everyone else and then yanked it down so fast the beer sloshed out. “I’m going to jinx myself if I toast to something like that before toasting to, I don’t know, finding a man.” After all the talk of birth control and unwed mothers and epidurals (Laura and her friends are midwives and nurses), the implications of such jinxing was vaguely terrifying. “THAT WOULD BE VERY BAD,” I added as they rolled their eyes at me.

But according to Laura, I’m covered. Waiting at the bus stop last night, she informed me she has some super-master-juju that lands good husbands for her friends. If you’d seen what the woman can do with zucchini and a frying pan, you’d believe too. She instructed me to go home and make a list of what I wanted in said man and she’d wave her magic juju wand for me. A few minutes later she said, “When you’re a mother, you’ll have a blend of Zen-like common sense and slightly insane twitchiness.” She lifted her shoulder to her cheek like a strung-out junkie with a tic in demonstration.

“Well, that’s pretty much how I live my life,” I replied. “So, yeah. It follows.”

We understand each other. Few things are better than that – especially when you realize you still understand each other, ten years later.

Graceful as our large hooved alter-egos on skis. 

Kristin, Scott, and I went skiing last Friday and had the entire side of the mountain all to ourselves. I love skiing. Love it. Whipping down a hill with the wind in my ski cap and hot chocolate with Bailey’s waiting at the bottom is one of my favorite things. Even with the mystery bruises that blossom after every trip. Kristin and I spent our time tipping over and trying to figure out how to stand back up again while Scott spent his time waiting patiently at the lift.

Picture by one of the dynamic Kristin/Scott duo. Sadly, my camera just doesn’t work this way. Yes, that’s right. I’m blaming it on my camera.  

Something about the snowy outdoors makes me giddy. Giddy yet relaxed. Sort of like drinking a large cup of coffee and chasing it with bourbon. Only less with the toxicity and more with the healthful fresh air. After our invigorating snowcercise, we’d sit in the hot tub with the snow lightly falling and Beulah rooting through the drifts for an errant stuffed lobster. After giving up on the slopes on Friday afternoon, I sat in the hot tub with Kristin and Scott, saying, “Well, this sure would be romantic for you two kids…IF I WASN’T HERE.” Then I chuckle, put my feet up, and begin a longwinded story about my tax returns.

Spending Valentine’s Day weekend in a cozy Tahoe cabin with a pair of couples who are too damn cute to reside comfortably on planet Earth can be a recipe for Fifth Wheeldom, but I have never once felt like an extra cog, wheel, or random appendage with my friends, and bless them for that. In fact, Valentine’s Day dinner was a symphony to romantic discontent, with a menu of braised short-ribs, bitter chocolate, and smashed strawberries. Nothing was skewered, but only because we couldn’t smash the artichokes onto anything appropriately pointy.

Snow, bourbon, lovely people, and a fluffy dog = best Valentine’s Day yet.

(If you want to see Robot in the Ski Lodge, Clumsy Attempts at Karate Kid Impersonation, Snow Faceplants, and Cute Trundling Brown Dog, video footage is here.)

I climbed into the shower yesterday and found it already occupied with someone who was reaching for my carefully hoarded Bliss shampoo. My arms flailed in slow motion, my feet scrabbled slowly on the floor of the tub and my lips flapped in the slow breeze as I shrieked “Noooo…” and careened into him, wrenching the tiny, precious bottle out of his unappreciative hand.

Seriously, people. Can you imagine? If I hadn’t been there, HE MIGHT HAVE USED IT. Half the reason I went to BlogHer was to stuff my carry-on with soapy sap and body butter with that pleasant hint of lemon sage.

(I also went to display my killer dance moves, but then I met Emily, Chirky and Kerflop and was utterly humbled. I was all prepared to strut out and dazzle with impunity until I caught sight of the running man in all its DJ Jazzy Jeff glory and was reduced to yelling, “No, wait. What are you doing? TEACH ME, OH GRACEFUL ONES.” The secret is cranberry juice.)

Not to say that no one in this house is worthy of the Bliss products but me (I’m sure the dog would look especially fetching after being doused in lemony conditioning rinse), but they really should be reserved for those who worship the product, not those who are perfectly content using bar soup as a shampoo. And Sarcastic Journalist wanted to pet my hair, which means I need to use the Bliss FOREVER. Flatter mine vanity and I am thine. (Did Elizabethan playwrights just make up grammar as they went, or is that my own special problem?)

Metalia and Whoorl have some of the shiniest hair I’ve ever seen on a real human being (aside from Holly, who is her own special brand of glow), which means they either used the Bliss bottles or they made a pact with Satan for a lifetime supply of freshly shed unicorn tears. It must be the Bliss, because both Metalia and Whoorl are too damn nice to make baby unicorns cry. Unlike me. “It will give me shiny hair, you say? CRY, BABY UNICORNS! CRY!”

I’m sitting here stroking my own legs at the computer. This would be worrisome, except my shins are so soft right now it would be a crime not to appreciate them. As they usually resemble the bastard love child of a snake and a dehydrated crocodile, I’m about ready to email Leah in a panic and offer a half eaten loaf of chocolate chip banana bread for her cunningly gleaned eight tubes of Bliss body butter. Because my tube is almost gone.

Now there’s some REAL crying going on. Fitting retribution for the sobbing baby unicorns, I suppose.

Fine, it’s only my dad who polishes his shotgun in a log cabin, not some long distinguished lineage, and it’s not so much a shotgun as it is a pipe. Knowing my mother reads this blog really kills the flow of my stories.

Anyway, I usually do fairly well in social situations so long as I give myself pep talks of the Jack Handey variety before walking through the door and take time out of the festivities to quiver in a corner. When home, I collapse on my handy fainting couch and call feebly for my smelling salts. Knowing the work that goes into a three hour party, a three day extravaganza of over-stimulation was daunting. But brave pioneer that I am, I refused to be daunted. There were people to meet, cocktails to drink, Bliss products to steal, boobs to grab, and seminars to ignore. So I painted my toenails, packed my fanciest flip flops, and boarded a plane to Chicago.

May I just say, you all were WELL WORTH abandoning my smelling salts.

By Saturday evening, I was feeling smug about my mastery of the social whirl that was BlogHer. I cackled like a crazed muppet! I tossed back cubes of cheese with abandon! I scared bloggers with my interpretive dance moves! I … began crying for no apparent reason. Yes, after days of drinking and not sleeping and perhaps a wee bit of meeting awesome people overload, I crumbled like the gun-toting, squirrel-shooting, cabin-dwelling hermit that I could have been, were it not for my parents’ decision to move to suburbia.

Do gun-toting, squirrel-shooting hermits cry? No? Damn it.

If I’m not known as The Girl Who Started Bawling In the Middle of the Cocktail Party, it’s through no fault of my own. But here is where the true merit of bloggers everywhere emerges, and the cockles of my cold, blackened heart warm. Thanks to the lovely Chris who sat with me while I sniffled into the hem of my skirt, to Schnozz for hiding under the stairs with me and plying me with stories that may have included a childhood pet and the eating thereof (maybe), to my worm companions for understanding when I abandoned dinner plans, and to HeatherB for coming to check up on me.

Dear people I met in Chicago,

Please move to San Francisco. Immediately. Yes, all of you.

Love, Moose

(Here are my flickr photos, which only contain the first night and that only because someone grabbed my camera and put it to the use for which it was intended – instead of using it as an expensive paper weight, which is what I do. Here are photos I stole from everyone else.)

(Schnozz, Chirky and Kerflop, you are my worm inspiration. Many thanks to Heather for her mad photography skills and her discreet cropping, which kept my underwear off the internet.)