May
21

Notes from the weekend.

Everyone should have a best friend who is an emcee and will thus WRITE AND RECORD a rap song about you and your fiancé as a wedding gift.

It is even better if that same best friend is a former salsa teacher, because it means everyone can spend the last two hours of the bachelorette party dancing to Omara Portuondo and practicing dramatic turns.

Four bottles of champagne are actually not too many for five people to finish.

Sushi is the perfect food, but after a few glasses of champagne, you might as well give up on chopsticks.

If you listen to songs you haven’t heard in a few weeks, you may notice that the lyrics are different than you remembered. For instance, in Back to Black, Amy Winehouse does not, in fact, opine that “Life is like a pie.” Rather, it is like a pipe. The fact that I was on a diet when I misheard this lyric may or may not be a coincidence.

If your fiance tells you that he is going to watch The Deerhunter again, in honor of the wedding, and you ask him if that isn’t the depressing movie about Vietnam vets, and he explains that yes, it is, but the first forty-five minutes are about a wedding— “Well, and steel factories,” he adds—just smile and tell him that sounds like a lovely idea.

Meteorologists are shifty, horrible persons who cannot be trusted. One day they will assure you that the afternoon of your nuptials will be all sunshine and cool breezes, and the next they are predicting The End Times.

More than two years of infertility has the unexpected result of rendering one entirely unembarrassed by a stranger pulling one’s labia taut in order to better remove the hairs growing upon it. And by “entirely unembarrassed” I mean I did not stop talking and joking the entire time, even when asked to lay on my stomach and hold my ass-halves apart under a bright light.

Brazilian waxes truly are painful. So painful that I sweated profusely and involuntarily during the procedure. However, while the pain does not last, what does is a delirious sense of accomplishment (and a Lady Area soft as the inside of a kitten’s ear). After the appointment, I was so flushed with pride at my formidable pain tolerance that I went straight home and plucked the few stray hairs the waxer had missed. And then I put a cigarette out in my thigh and bit the head off a live rat.

I have reached the point where I am unable to hold any data in my head or make decisions of any kind. I went shopping on Saturday intending to purchase three items: brown eyeliner, concealer, and a pair of jeans. I was completely unable to decide upon either the eyeliner or concealer, despite sampling umpteen formulations of each on the back of my hands. I found a lovely pair of jeans in my new (smaller!) size, but was unable to make the commitment to actually purchasing them, for reasons passing understanding. I ended up buying a skirt and a tube of lip-gloss, and when I paid by check, inadvertently left the amount blank.
“I think you need some coffee,” said the salesgirl.
“No,” I said, “It’s just that I’m getting married in a week.”

{Five days}

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |