About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
That dog and I hit Bourbon Street hard (he got most of the beads)
It’s 8:13 p.m. Chuck and Junior are both in bed. Amen, I have the house to myself. Ordinarily I’d pour myself a decanter of wine and don my mullet wig and sit on my front stoop and flip off the neighbors, but I already drank too much this weekend, and one of the cats has been sleeping on the mullet wig in a corner, so here I am.
Chuck got home at 6 a.m. yesterday. He was completely obliterated from filming all week, but we had a wedding to go to and I’d been informed the day before by the fiancée via Facebook that Chuck was in the wedding.
Fucking Facebook. I abhor it, but clearly Chuck would be underdressed without it.
So we went to the wedding. And you know what? We sat next to Captain Karl.
Who the hell is Captain Karl? Why, he’s an old friend. A friend whom Chuck has not spoken to in years because of blah, blah, blah and etc., etc., etc. (I’ve been informed I’ve been airing too much of my husband’s laundry lately, so I’m going to have to be a little more obtuse from now on.)
The abridged version:
Ten years ago, Chuck and I moved to New Orleans after freezing our asses off in Maine. We lived with Captain Karl while Chuck worked for him. (Can’t imagine what went wrong there, can you?)
Why I was homesick:
Captain Karl and Chuck would go on tuna fishing excursions and leave me to watch Karl’s chocolate lab. The dog bit his feet when he missed Karl so I’d have to put socks on him and he’d slip on the hardwood floors. Sometimes he slid into the walls. Sometimes cockroaches the size of grapefruit were scaling those walls, and I’d have to console the dog, the roach and myself. Even better? Chuck and Karl came home stinking of fish.
Why I wasn’t homesick:
The sun. Drive-thru margarita stands.
The last chapter:
After a year or so in the Big Easy, Chuck and I moved back to Connecticut. Chuck and Captain Karl went their separate and sometimes petulant ways. Then last night at the wedding we all sat at the same table. There was wine. Scotch. Someone might have been humming "Total Eclipse of the Heart" (I said might). Blah, blah, blah. Etc., etc., etc.
The last page:
Even though the Shakira look alike wouldn't get up and sing because she was fighting with her boyfriend (or making out, we really couldn't determine), I had a great time at the wedding. And I fricken cannot wait to hop on Facebook and say so.