I'm sitting on the couch watching "Keeping Up with the Kardashians." It's the season where Kim is pregs, so I keep catching myself looking at the tube with a cocked head, an empathetic pout and a little eye burn. I'm watching it on Hulu Plus, but the connection is spotty so every minute or so the screen freezes and I have to look at an unmoving and facially contorted Brody Jenner until this Ingalls-Wilder technology horse powers itself back to moving picture status. Somehow it's harder to take seriously his claims that Bruce abandoned him as a kid, though I do not doubt it. I can't imagine managing a family while wearing 1970's-style track shorts, either.
I went to Fannie's bachelorette party this past weekend at a house I think was on Season 3 of "Read World: Stillwater." So many bedrooms. A tub that could double as a garage. A deck, a patio, a sun porch. A big kitchen. In a parallel universe I'd have sprawled on every surface and blasted through three books. And in that universe the new Murakami would have already been released here in the U.S. and there would be a special machine massaging my calf muscles. Instead there were anatomically specific cupcakes to eat and a roster of ex-boyfriends to tell tales about.
On Saturday I woke to a significant amount of pain, very little of it flushable -- though I tried and tried. It took three glasses of water, coffee, Advil, half an egg and cheese biscuit, an allergy pill and a Smirnoff Ice (Screwdriver flavored, though Tang would be a more accurate descriptor) to finally feel like a human being.
"Well, you haven't been hung over in two years," Chuck texted.
"I know," I said, then did some math to put a number on my damage. "I had ... 4 beers in seven hours."
Dumb. That's nothing. It reminds me of the time I had some drinks and then did some break dancing and this confused girl said "Wait. You did the worm on beer?" like it was an impossibility to feel the effects of alcohol that doesn't come in a flaming fish bowl. True story.
(On Sunday morning Fannie showed me a photograph of a young me wearing a Superman apron and I sprained my brain trying to remember how old I was and the circumstances of that photograph. "I took it Friday night," she said. Oh. Again: Four beers in seven hours).
Gah. This episode of "Keeping Up with the Kardashians" is killing me. Scott Disick, man.
I sent repeated texts home to my people to find out how and what the PBG was doing. I demanded photos. After one, I sat back sick with my heart racing. They'd just returned from a long walk, Ma Pista said. The girl looked splotchy and red, like she had been spun on a spit at high noon.
"Does she have a sunburn?" I asked.
"No," Ma Pista said, assuring me she'd been slathered in the highest SPF known to babies.
"She seems red," I said.
"Must be the reflection from the curtains," she said.
THE REFLECTION FROM THE CURTAINS, I hrmphed. PHOTOS DON'T LIE.
"You'll know when you get home and she's peeling," one of the party girls joked.
Anyway, she wasn't burned. It was the reflection from the curtains. Or something.
But they did this to her, and maybe it's worse?
We took a pontoon out on the Croix. We ate an awesome dinner on an awesome patio. We went to a dance club-y kind of place that was all decks, tank tops and bachelorette parties. It seemed pretty "Jersey Shore"-ish, a total contradiction to the town's dayside vibe.
Freebie, Visitor's Bureau. Stillwater: Quaint little town by day, SIN CITY BY NIGHT.
We closed out the night at a saloon where a two-man folk act busted so hard through a Dylan cover that the harmonica spit was grated into a fine mist.
I think the best part of all of this was the bed, a king-sized number that collapsed around a beaten body.
Today I was a real crank. I tend to bore of a bad mood, but this one lingered. Even now, I'm annoyed that my bladder isn't a touch stretchier. That this Hulu situation means watching TV like an animal. That Lamar isn't getting much screen time this season. Maybe I'm not cut out for partying away the weekend, then returning to a full-time daily obligation and a kid whose opinion of quesadillas could change mid-bite.
So that's that, Diary. Time for me to hit the sheets with my bueno new book from the DPL. (More later).