Someone Was Going to Have to Set a Bad Example

I was telling Lorelai today that I have seasonal depression disorder, except that mine comes in the summer. The heat conflicts with my firey nature, and I feel oppressed and immovable and kind of disconnected.

So, the cooler weather is most welcome, and I feel more like myself than I have in months.

I think that has to do largely with Glynnie and Hot Sauce Flo Dad's wedding last weekend, where the sun shone, the breeze tickled the grass and people got down with they bad selves.

The lovely wedding also brought a reunion of nearly all my D.C. Sisters, a group of wild, wonderful women whose hearts and minds are always connected, thanks to the Internet.



I'm back there somewheres, trying to hide my shaking hands, next to the statuesque Brinki Dink. Glynnie asked if I could handle the music for the ceremony. I got some welcome help from her sister, D, and despite a loss of mike power, we pulled it off, though the preacher felt it necessary to tell me to "put a napkin or something" between my knees while I played. I guess that's fair. People came to see Glynnie and Flo Dad, not my hoo-diddly.


Thanks for the loverly foto, Al Bal Kung Pao.

Those of you who know me in real life understand the true challenge playing live in front of people who weren't drunk presented to my nervous system, but it's propelled me to begin guitar lessons again. Fear ain't no way to live.

Fear ain't no way to dance, either. Ooh boy, was there dancing. And something about kangaroos and eventually the crowd charging their arms forward and tossing their heads back to sing along, "Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit. He took a midnight train going anyyyyyyyyyyyyyywhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeere!" You know how it goes.






And there was firewater. And a fox. A Silver Fox, that is.



And then there were fireworks. And finally, like any good wedding, there was a fire dancer.



And then more firewater.



Note the ever classy Jim Beam from the bottle/A-Treat rootbeer chaser combo. The fuzziness of the photo reflects the mood of the celebration at that juncture. At some point in time, it seems like all of us were stumbling around half-dressed in the field for one reason or another.

Still, there was only one confirmed hook up (High-five, girl!). Not me, my pretties. You can't high-five yourself, anyway. I rocked it out in the tent with my girls, Megan Jane and Kara Beara, though I will admit to putting slipper socks on Kara. Pretty hot.

Speaking of feet, as the wedding was outside in a field, shoes went by the way side pretty quickly, giving me what Megan Jane called "corpse feet." Most people would just say they were disgustingly dirty. Like, um, this picture was taken the day after the wedding. After two showers.



But before the showering had commenced, though, we all woke up with the beautiful October sun in our faces in a green, Pennsylvania field, with the trains for company. Some of us, however, promptly went back to sleep, even despite the trains.

In fact, with Hannah Banana riding shotgun with me on the way back to Maryland, the conversation for the entire four-hour car ride consisted of this, after I stopped at a convenience store:

Hannah Banana: Can you get me some Cheddar Fries?

Me: Sure.

That was it. We were pretty beat.

There are way more pictures and way more memories, but due to a technical malfunction at home (we do not have the Internet, we have the Internut) and a trying to recall everything through a haze of Jim Beam, both will have to come out to play at a later date.

But, you know what you need to do right now? Go hug your Momma. It would have been my Mom's birthday today, and, kids, I'll be honest with an H, I am not I'm not above soliciting Interwebby hugs because I am not lurving today all that much.

But I lurve you. And I lurve that Glynnie and Hot Sauce Flo Dad are a Mr. and Mrs. And I lurve fall. And lettuce. And buying new music from iTunes. And spicy mustard. And a weekend full of friends. And feeling hopeful again, finally.

In the Comments section, tell me what you lurve.