Tonight was much more relaxed than I had expected. All the guys hung out in a stately living room full of antiquey furniture and drank. Noah played in the basement with the other kids, and the women were out back, except for Lisa and her sisters, who had a girls’ night out but failed to get hammered. Lisa used to be the queen of drunken wrestling, but she was seemingly untouched by the healing hand of alcohol. For shame, Lisa. For shame.
Stan and I were like “whiskey is brownish,” and everyone else in the room was all “Glenfordshireloch” this and “Highland Park” that. We were lost, but I carefully laid down a layer of beer, followed by bourbon and then more beer, followed by sips of bourbon to make my mind a little fuzzy and my voice uncharacteristically loud.
Cake Woman is eternally turning up her phone when our schedules permit us to actually speak.
“Hold on, Fucker, I can’t fucking hear you fucking talk. Always with the fucking mumbling!” Yes, she talks like that, only she swears a lot.
Apparently the solution to her complaint is bourbon. I don’t know if it tastes like oil and pencil shavings or walnuts and fishbait, just that it makes me loud.
It was the sort of bachelor party where the fiance showed up at the end. I hugged everybody, I think, and then I was on the ground outside wrestling with some guy who was walking by. He seems nice, I gave him my number. Call me! ^_^