Incredibly True Stories
Emma put her drawers on backwards this morning and did not remark upon it until much later in the afternoon, and only because we felt slightly baggy on the front end, if you follow our meaning. We were in the stall slightly aghast, principally because we are neither hung over nor love sick, just sick of not having any love.
Last Friday concluded several weeks of fete(ing) our Jesus year, the venue was Cafe Claude. We managed to allay our panic of being center stage by getting quite righteously drunk as to not hold ourself accountable for anything we may have said, or blundered and as a get out of jail free card for any drunk dialing we may have committed and apparently did... To our everlasting chagrin.
It's not that we don't like parties, we do, there were quite a few good friends who we don't see often enough and we had wished to be present, but we got stage fright you see, and bolstered our spirits with fortified spirits and had to spend Saturday prone in our bed, careful as to not let our poor aching head list one direction or the other.
We realize that we are being terribly, terribly glib, but the truth is that parties terrify us and we love the people who we love and want to give to them, absorb them, and then again we are easily side tracked by the prospect of getting laid, and have been known to tack in that direction heedless, oblivious. (just following the sailing metaphor, soon we will digress to talk sailor's knots and nautical knots and keels even and otherwise, what ho!) We found ourself on a sidewalk, suddenly quite alone with a sack full of fabulous loot and this is when we made our error. We made a call to Z who was is in a cab with S and asked him to "tuck" us in, I leave you to unravel the euphemism.
Z called to taunt us as we were holding a compress to our throbbing brainicle and trying to ingest our beloved Fauchon tea without hurling, we had no idea what he was saying as we had no recollection of placing said booty call, but after we had verified our shame on our cell phone, we sat down on the couch to absorb the shitstorm.
Principally (and we know that we should be recounting the pleasure of the company of our friends, and the jokes and the tales that were had, and just how extremely fortunate, that is before we were too blind drunk to know any better, we are in the blessed company of the fine people that we know) we were pissed because we violated our girl code, thou shalt not mess with thy girlfriend's boyfriend/bedmate/whatever and we did, and we are ashamed, and we had to eat a little crow, and it didn't taste so swell.
In other news, wherein we get older and life gets odder.
R. sang happy birthday into our cell phone and invited us to lunch on Friday. (And here we are sorely tempted to ease into the first person, but we are laminating the chinks in our armor and waging resistance) This, is of course, what we wanted, it just is about nine months too late. Curiosity prevents us from declining, and dare we say, we ought to, as it is the truth, we miss him, half wonder, half wonder... Half wonder if he wanted us back would we go...
Truth, half truth, probably, possibly, yes.
Then again, there is always that grand finale set-up cliff hanger at the Lemming Juncture, like, he now has a girlfriend he'd like to marry with our blessing, and we metaphorically take the Lemming triple sow cow (wait, that's ice skating) off of Lemming Juncture and sail into the sunset on the Good Ship Romantic Oblivion, or The Good Ship Invest in Batteries Girlfriend, Cuz You're Gonna Need Them.
Yeah, fucking tell us about it, good thing we requisition the office supplies and nobody notices when we pilfer a few double A batteries every other month or so....
Second oddity, which falls under How We Cannot Escape The Frogs, did we mention that R is French...
Several months ago our former employer made a rather unwelcome declaration of love, he is, of course French. He is also the former employer and current partner of our beloved French Toast (who is currently under the spell of a well known opportunist with a great rack and we are not bitter or anything, but that is beside the point)As of yesterday we have been shainghaied into accepting a guest appearance behind the bar, we so carefully tended many years back.
We are going back to our roots. We stopped tending bar shortly after (before?) our 29th birthday, to go back now is both comforting and derailing... There are so many ties, many layered, many tiered, many teared, bad blood, bad history, good memories, suffice it to say, that the last time we professionally poured a drink we were married and both our erstwhile husband and our poor self were embroiled in complex snares and affairs that only the most competent therapist could parse. Thank heavens she did.
Emma put her drawers on backwards this morning and did not remark upon it until much later in the afternoon, and only because we felt slightly baggy on the front end, if you follow our meaning. We were in the stall slightly aghast, principally because we are neither hung over nor love sick, just sick of not having any love.
Last Friday concluded several weeks of fete(ing) our Jesus year, the venue was Cafe Claude. We managed to allay our panic of being center stage by getting quite righteously drunk as to not hold ourself accountable for anything we may have said, or blundered and as a get out of jail free card for any drunk dialing we may have committed and apparently did... To our everlasting chagrin.
It's not that we don't like parties, we do, there were quite a few good friends who we don't see often enough and we had wished to be present, but we got stage fright you see, and bolstered our spirits with fortified spirits and had to spend Saturday prone in our bed, careful as to not let our poor aching head list one direction or the other.
We realize that we are being terribly, terribly glib, but the truth is that parties terrify us and we love the people who we love and want to give to them, absorb them, and then again we are easily side tracked by the prospect of getting laid, and have been known to tack in that direction heedless, oblivious. (just following the sailing metaphor, soon we will digress to talk sailor's knots and nautical knots and keels even and otherwise, what ho!) We found ourself on a sidewalk, suddenly quite alone with a sack full of fabulous loot and this is when we made our error. We made a call to Z who was is in a cab with S and asked him to "tuck" us in, I leave you to unravel the euphemism.
Z called to taunt us as we were holding a compress to our throbbing brainicle and trying to ingest our beloved Fauchon tea without hurling, we had no idea what he was saying as we had no recollection of placing said booty call, but after we had verified our shame on our cell phone, we sat down on the couch to absorb the shitstorm.
Principally (and we know that we should be recounting the pleasure of the company of our friends, and the jokes and the tales that were had, and just how extremely fortunate, that is before we were too blind drunk to know any better, we are in the blessed company of the fine people that we know) we were pissed because we violated our girl code, thou shalt not mess with thy girlfriend's boyfriend/bedmate/whatever and we did, and we are ashamed, and we had to eat a little crow, and it didn't taste so swell.
In other news, wherein we get older and life gets odder.
R. sang happy birthday into our cell phone and invited us to lunch on Friday. (And here we are sorely tempted to ease into the first person, but we are laminating the chinks in our armor and waging resistance) This, is of course, what we wanted, it just is about nine months too late. Curiosity prevents us from declining, and dare we say, we ought to, as it is the truth, we miss him, half wonder, half wonder... Half wonder if he wanted us back would we go...
Truth, half truth, probably, possibly, yes.
Then again, there is always that grand finale set-up cliff hanger at the Lemming Juncture, like, he now has a girlfriend he'd like to marry with our blessing, and we metaphorically take the Lemming triple sow cow (wait, that's ice skating) off of Lemming Juncture and sail into the sunset on the Good Ship Romantic Oblivion, or The Good Ship Invest in Batteries Girlfriend, Cuz You're Gonna Need Them.
Yeah, fucking tell us about it, good thing we requisition the office supplies and nobody notices when we pilfer a few double A batteries every other month or so....
Second oddity, which falls under How We Cannot Escape The Frogs, did we mention that R is French...
Several months ago our former employer made a rather unwelcome declaration of love, he is, of course French. He is also the former employer and current partner of our beloved French Toast (who is currently under the spell of a well known opportunist with a great rack and we are not bitter or anything, but that is beside the point)As of yesterday we have been shainghaied into accepting a guest appearance behind the bar, we so carefully tended many years back.
We are going back to our roots. We stopped tending bar shortly after (before?) our 29th birthday, to go back now is both comforting and derailing... There are so many ties, many layered, many tiered, many teared, bad blood, bad history, good memories, suffice it to say, that the last time we professionally poured a drink we were married and both our erstwhile husband and our poor self were embroiled in complex snares and affairs that only the most competent therapist could parse. Thank heavens she did.
posted by emma at
11:46 PM
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