Monday, September 29, 2014

The Great Amnesia Incident of 2014 ...

When you are a regular blogger, the bloggable moments really jump out at you. Every day. You're like: "Holy Crap. Is that an old man using his fingers as a scoop to eat Top the Tator in the corner of Subway? I can't wait to tell tens of people about this." But when you don't blog regularly for a spell, large chunks of fodder fail to form a cohesive narrative. It's just not there, you know? You could go to your 20 year high school class reunion and have just half-formed sentences about the two day Eagle fest.

Blerg. Rusty writer.

So we had our class reunion. On Friday, we drank beer out of yellow Solo cups in the parking lot before the homecoming football game. On life's cool scale, this probably exists somewhere between: Age 25, wearing a high school letter jacket and watching the big game from behind a fence so you don't have to pay admission and Age 25, attending high school prom with a senior. (I've done neither of these, but I bet people do).

I had to imagine that at least one high school student was like: Hey, I didn't know you could drink beer in the parking lot before the game ...

Chuck's response to that: "You can do whatever you want if you don't give a shit." He said that as we walked back to the Space Shuttle to steal the bug spray out of our baby's diaper bag, so, punk rock, yo.

Then we went to an old friend's new digs on land on the outskirts of town. We toured a haunted silo and ate S'mores and I took Chuck in a Best-of-Three ping pong series. We got home at 1:30 a.m. like some kind of wild maniacs.

So composed beforehand. Who could've predicted a shit show?
As for Saturday night, we had drinks and apps at a downtown restaurant and then I caught amnesia. An entire 60-person street brawl was just ramping up as we were whisked away by cab (I'm told). I think it shows great maturity that I don't have an iPhone full of photographs of the various players involved in the skirmish and, more importantly, that the white woman arrested at the scene was not me.

This night wasn't all bad, apparently. Chuck said he looked at me at one point and my face was so slack that I looked 10 years younger. Boozy muscle relaxers. Now I'll never drink again forever I guess.

From what I remember, it was good fun and I had a lot of chuckles with my old friend Griff and I did not take the bait to a) leave the party in search of a long lost ex-boyfriend -- which I would categorize as something akin to visiting a zoo, and b) I did not dance, see also: zoo.

Wheels still on at this point. 
Slept a lot yesterday, but not enough. Traded in the promise of grilled meat in favor of Papa Murphy's. After the bodily healing began, the social shame took over.

In other news, Pa Pista pushed a spicy snack pack in our direction and now I'm gaga for Jalapeno Cheddar Cheetos.

The bigger news, though, is that The Girl has officially become A Walker. She could walk before and she would do it briefly here and there, reluctantly, like a musical phenom who hates that she has this pesky talent and is constantly asked to perform "I Dreamed a Dream" during her parents' dinner parties. So we'd play the walking game from me to Chuck to the corner of the couch. A few rounds of that and she'd be like "Oh, look, there's my stuffed Elmo" and she'd crawl away.

But here. Here she has really mastered the art. She can walk anywhere, she can stand up unassisted and she can fake out two grown adults who thought she was doing laps around the couch. She'd actually made a break for it. She was found on the third step, where she'd made off with one of her rainbow shoes.


Also, she loves Made Rites and taught herself how to use a spoon so she could get the Pumpkin Pie Blizzard into her face faster.

The end.

Loose meat.

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