Free-ballin’

Five minutes before it was time to leave for the bridal shower, I discovered that I either could not find or did not have a single pair of clean underwear. There just weren’t any that I could locate. And so I had no choice but to go commando. In a dress. (I gave up on the skirt and wore a dress instead because whatever) Which was the strangest sensation I’d experienced in quite a while. I used to not wear underwear with skirts back in the day when the chances of me getting laid were much much greater, so it’s not like I’m not familiar with the whole wind-through-my-labia feeling. (guys, before you get all intrigued, it does nothing except dry a woman out; no turn-on available) But when it’s not something you’re all that keen on and you’re in your 30’s and you’re on the way to a fucking bridal shower…lacking that protective barrier between your ladybits and the outside world is just disturbing.

I did okay for the most part, except my Britney Moment when I hopped out of the car at Long’s Drugs and gave the middle-aged redneck parked a few spots down from me a good eyeful. I maintain a reasonable netherbeard, so all he really got was a “was that underwear or did I just see what I think I saw?” moment out of it. Even if it was bald, it would look fifty times better than Britney’s. As Sharon Osbourne commented on Graham Norton, “It looks a bit sore…” Poor girl.

Vodka and showers

There was no gin available at the shower. All I wanted was a gin and tonic, but there was no gin. At all. But there WAS vodka. God help me. (Vodka is my one no-no alcohol) There was also wine. So people were drinking either wine or vodka gimlets. I started off with a really tasty sauvignon blanc, and then my aunt Denise came ’round with a tray of gimlets. I politely declined and clung to my white wine like a safety blanket. A short while later I realized that everyone had gimlets. Even my mom. GAH.

Not wanting to look like a complete arse, I stole a sip of my mom’s drink. I couldn’t taste the vodka. You wouldn’t even know there was vodka in it. In fact, it tasted very much like a fucking gin and tonic. Bastards!

From there, things get a little hazy. I drank four gimlets in a row, plus a glass of wine between each gimlet, and then there was the champagne. And more wine. And dancing. And cigars. And several cups of coffee. And more wine. And at some point I admitted to everyone present that I wasn’t wearing underwear. (I really hope they were all as far gone as I was)

I molested someone’s iPhone. I remember that. But it was for a good cause! They had a song I really liked. And I ate my weight in cucumbers and teriyaki chicken skewers. There was a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting somewhere in there. I removed some frosting crust from inside one of my nostrils this morning, which leads me to believe my consumption of the cupcake was less than graceful.

It’s no surprise that I slept in very very late this morning…almost to 11am. Which sucked ass because I could have used the extra hours a 7am wakeup time would have given me to complete all the schoolwork I have today. But at least I don’t feel like total ass today. Yet.

A photo for you

Was tooling through my Fort Bragg photos yesterday and I came across this one. Further proof that I really ought to be living on the coast. Because this is how they all dress. I FIT IN SOMEWHERE, YAY!

Behold my stripey legs of much awesomeness

I bought these and about six other pairs very similar to them at one of my fave stores on the planet, Pippi’s Longstockings. I’ve bought many a pair of socks from there over the years they’ve been opening, though almost all of those had toes in them. Growing up, my mom wore socks like this all the time, and so I always thought it was normal. I got made fun of a lot in junior high for having unusual socks. I eventually stopped wearing anything but either slouch or crew socks because I preferred to fit in. Over the last couple of years I realized I just don’t give a shit anymore. And so I’ve been rocking the weird socks whenever I get a chance…it’s easier to do in the winter, to be honest. Around here it’s so hot in the summer, if I wear socks it’s a fluke. Unfortunately when I do, it’s not with a pair of shorts or pedal-pushers, so you don’t get to even see what socks I’m wearing. Oh well. I know and that’s what matters I suppose.