10:50 a.m. -- toonses has beaten down the bedroom door. the tenacity, the manic grin: in another life, he was in "the shining." i wake just in time to smoosh his 30 pounds of fur into the hardwood floor as he skulks past. i fling him back out of the bedroom like he is a dust rag.
he squeals. [with delight?]
1 p.m. -- i still need a dress to wear to bubbles' wedding. preferably something without a hood, despite my instincts. a wedding i've lost the invite to. a wedding i didn't rsvp to because i thought i wouldn't be able to make it. a wedding i've verbally committed to attending the a) jesus portion of; b) the "ice ice baby" dance off of.
1:20-2:30 p.m. -- i'm trying on dresses, shooting photos with my cell, sending the multimedia to fannie for approval. every time the phone clicks, i wonder if my fitting room neighbors think i'm a pervert. i hate dresses. i decide to leave the mall and try benetton at fitgers. i even consider hitting a talbots at a strip mall, which is next to a chicos. i read somewhere that if you chant "talbots" "chicos" and "strip mall" it is powerful enough to induce menopause. i may have read this on my own web site.
2:50 p.m. -- benetton is a bust. lots of stuff i want, in theory. nothing i can wear, in practice. note to self: research having the left side of my body amputated for aesthetic purposes.
3 p.m. -- back at the mall. fine. i'll go with the lime green sweater dress with a mock turtle neck and capped sleeves. i'll pair it with argyle tights and knee high black boots. fine. i'll be bubbles' "quirky" friend. people can ask me about my cat and speculate about my manson family fascination and wonder if my hair is it's natural color. fine.
3:15 p.m. -- f. scottie returns my phone call about my missing invitation. the wedding is at 4 p.m., he says. and gives me the locale. "um," i say. "if i'm not there, can you call me and let me know when dinner is over and the dance starts?" [as a non RSVPer, i'm not invited to dinner. as someone who was invited, i feel it is socially acceptible to attend the free aspects.] regardless, i still haven't showered and as a person who hasn't done anything fancier than use a four-syllable word in the past 10 years, i don't even have a plan F in terms of wardrobe.
3:20 p.m. -- i accidentally find a dress i like. fannie approves of the photo, even. when the old woman ringing me up turns her arthritic claw toward fastening a tricky button before putting my purchase in a bag, i spit: YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT I'M IN A HURRY! like they are hot lava. i can't stop the tourettes.
3:30 p.m. -- i hand a dude a black t-strap shoe from nine west. request an 8. he goes into the store room, comes out, hands them to me, begins some song and dance about needing a stocking to try them on, madam? i say, "i'm not trying them on! i'll take them!" he starts to ask me if i want a younkers credit card, and i shoot him a look that says: "dude, i don't even have time to take my sock off. why would i want to sign a bunch of stuff?" he gives me a knowing look.
3:35 p.m. -- i grab dark nylons from a display and throw them at one of three women working behind a counter. one is the salesperson. one is the manager. one is a trainee. manager looks at salesperson like "oh! perfect for [trainee] to learn on!" i see this exchange.
salesperson says to trainee: "okay. well first type in--" i cut her off using a forcefulness unheard of until this day. "ACTUALLY!" i say. point at the salesperson. "can you just ring it up? i don't have time for you to train someone in." [i realize this sounds excrutiatingly bitchy. but i'm seriously in a hurry. any other day, i'd love this and totally help out. want me to be difficult? want me to pretend to shoplift? i'll do it. not today. not with 25 minutes to go and dirty hair.]
3:45 p.m. -- i decide i just will not shower. i will wear a dress, but will look like i just crawled in from soccer practice. deal? deal.
4 p.m. -- not entirely sure where this church is, i'm just cruising east on superior street and see a sign celebrating the happy couple. i turn left, find drock filing in. stand next to him and act clean.
4:30 p.m. -- weddings are funny. a week ago bubbles and i were part of a party perched on the top level of a bunk bed. talkin' crazy and hopped up on the likes of kalua. now? now she's turning into mr. and mrs. bubbles. officially.
i'm not sure that emotionally i could ever be a person who walks down an aisle. it seems tricky and rife with weird face trembles in front of a live studio audience. and, frankly, i'm a little shy. if a wedding happens in my life, it will be an fantastic explosion where suddenly i just am. and then there will be a fantastic explosion of people dancing to the song "just like heaven." on repeat. for six hours.
4:45 p.m. -- here comes that socially awkward hug part. sure i've hugged bubbles tons of times. but never below a .18. here goes nothing. ...
5 p.m. -- run errands. slip into sweatpants. repeatedly lose games of word twist on facebook. some IMing with jodi -- who, in my head, i like to call "jodachrome." as in paul simon's "mama don't take my jodachrome, mama don't take my jodachrome away." [she's probably never heard that one.] whatever. you probably go all weird al, too, turning paul simon lyrics into songs about bloggers you've never met.
this scene goes on for awhile. f scottie has kept me apprised of the dinner starting late and the cake that was served at 9:30 p.m.ish. it's all a really good excuse to stay in sweatpants.
9:45 p.m. -- i finally shower. resume dress wearage. yawn.
10:45 p.m. -- ta da! i'm at the aquarium for the dance!
11:10 p.m. -- ta da! i've left to pick up chuck!
11:30 p.m. -- my friend t can't understand why everyone knows the words to "sweet caroline." "what is this song?" she asks me. "you don't know 'sweet caroline?'" "no," she says. "i'm from north dakota. i like poison." HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW SWEET CAROLINE!? "i don't like neil diamond," she says.
she kills me.
12:14 p.m. -- liquor at the aquarium is cached. it's time to leave, stat. "we're going to quinlan's," i tell our friends. "how long are you going to be there?" we're asked. "um ...? 'til they make us go home?" i say.
12:30 p.m. -- quinlan's is a mess. we snag a corner table and spend the night talking to the thespian. other people stop by, move on. as we're waiting for our cab, i pretend a collection of twitters i've written are new material and spout off lines willy nilly to a bunch of people who probably call the internet "the AOL." this is my preferred audience.
2:20 a.m. -- i tell a guy with a wingy flat top that i saw him in "grease." chuck tells him that he saw him in "raising arizona." this dude has a pimped out ford focus with a custom stereo system, a stick shift in the shape of a bullet and a bar in the console.
weird night. then i had a photo shoot, using some techniques i've learned from "america's next top model." [i forgot to take photos at the weddingish events]