Last night my mom came over to watch the boy while my husband and I got ready to go to a wedding reception with the baby. After last weekend's date night turned into three hours of "horrible" for my parents, AKA the loyal babysitters, I don't have any plans to leave the baby with them again in the near future. So I got dressed in a new outfit (thanks mom for the birthday money) and while I'm putting on makeup, which I have finally figured out how to use so I don't look like I don't know how to use it, my husband tells me he doesn't know how to get to the reception. We've been to Pat's Party Barn twice before but being that it is in the country, we somehow forget the exact location each time. Something like this was said: "I don't know where we're going. Maybe it's in my past emails... can you look in the phone book?" I said, "Now? I'm getting ready to leave!" (mind you, the baby is sleeping so it's the only and perfect time to do something for MYSELF) He says we can't go anywhere if we don't know the address. I think Ha! I'm going somewhere tonight, we have a sitter! So without anymore adieu, I'll tell you that the address was in the book and that with a few missed turns, we made it in time to be 20 minutes late. The first clue that the evening wasn't going to resemble what I had been envisioning it to be was the smell of chicken shit. I ask the husband if the dog kennel is the cause of the odor since it is just ten feet from where we parked. He claims only chicken shit smells like that so I have to take his word for it. We arrive and are greeted warmly by some very bored looking guests; "Maybe the happy couple couldn't find the place either" I muse to myself. I excuse myself while my husband holds the baby as a social shield and look for the gift table. There is none. Hmm, certainly there are gifts? I place our modest gift card on a small table. After 45 minutes of being bathed in the smoke of meat cooking in giant vats and listening to a talented, lone wedding singer spew out country songs, the bride and groom thankfully arrive. We were told the party would be casual so I wasn't surprised to see the groom and best men wearing tuxedo t-shirts. The bride was adorable in a summer dress with flip flops and wedding hair. They brought their dog. After much tinkering to get the two kegs up and running the hostess, Pat herself, grabbed the microphone. I thought "Oh good, some formality", but she simply told us the meat was ready for pickin'. Her father, a pleasant vintage with a cane, said a prayer. I usually nod my head slightly but don't close my eyes at public prayers. I notice others do the same, but not many. Us few rebels look nervously around to see if anyone else has the same mixture of respect and aversion. After prayer, husband tells me he's starving and will try the meat. Yay, now I am the only vegetarian at the reception. They have typical southern fare: barbecue (oink), beans (with oink added), cole slaw and potato salad (hate it) and yeast rolls (okay, I like yeast rolls). We sit down to eat. Husband and I have a wee tiff about how he's eating meat, something I'm not used to seeing since he became a vegetarian when we were dating and just recently, eight years later, decides to occasionally partake again. I pick at my starch and comment about how at least I'll eat wedding cake and that'll be nice. Husband says "I saw pictures of the cake." What? "The whole feeding each other cake and present giving thing happened before they came here." Oh. "That's why they were late." I see. Someone let the air out of my balloon. I was at an after party. Not invited to the wedding, or the "real" reception, but the after party, chicken shit and all. I looked around and reminded myself this wasn't about me. The family and the couple were having a good time. The neighbors who drove up onto the grass in a golf cart were having a really good time. Just the same, I instantly felt validated for wanting to leave. My desire to leave was thwarted by my husband finding a game of ladderball to play so I busied myself with saving the baby from numerous possible fatalities: the deaf dog eating someone's dinner in the grass, the splintered steps leading to the top of the barn, the rusted trampoline...the game of ladderball. But the evening wasn't all bad. Just before I could tell the husband it was time to go, I was given a disposable wedding camera; Aha! A task. I enjoyed myself as I took pictures of happy, not quite so bored now guests (thanks to the two kegs of beer). The jovial groom took a picture of us before we left and he said he'd send us a copy. As we left, we scanned the grounds for the chicken coop; its location will remain a mystery.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
I thought there would be cake
I tried not to make this about me. It simply wasn't my day and I shouldn't have been disappointed but I had strong feelings about it just the same. So this is your warning: ponderings soaked in selfish hues ahead.
Last night my mom came over to watch the boy while my husband and I got ready to go to a wedding reception with the baby. After last weekend's date night turned into three hours of "horrible" for my parents, AKA the loyal babysitters, I don't have any plans to leave the baby with them again in the near future. So I got dressed in a new outfit (thanks mom for the birthday money) and while I'm putting on makeup, which I have finally figured out how to use so I don't look like I don't know how to use it, my husband tells me he doesn't know how to get to the reception. We've been to Pat's Party Barn twice before but being that it is in the country, we somehow forget the exact location each time. Something like this was said: "I don't know where we're going. Maybe it's in my past emails... can you look in the phone book?" I said, "Now? I'm getting ready to leave!" (mind you, the baby is sleeping so it's the only and perfect time to do something for MYSELF) He says we can't go anywhere if we don't know the address. I think Ha! I'm going somewhere tonight, we have a sitter! So without anymore adieu, I'll tell you that the address was in the book and that with a few missed turns, we made it in time to be 20 minutes late. The first clue that the evening wasn't going to resemble what I had been envisioning it to be was the smell of chicken shit. I ask the husband if the dog kennel is the cause of the odor since it is just ten feet from where we parked. He claims only chicken shit smells like that so I have to take his word for it. We arrive and are greeted warmly by some very bored looking guests; "Maybe the happy couple couldn't find the place either" I muse to myself. I excuse myself while my husband holds the baby as a social shield and look for the gift table. There is none. Hmm, certainly there are gifts? I place our modest gift card on a small table. After 45 minutes of being bathed in the smoke of meat cooking in giant vats and listening to a talented, lone wedding singer spew out country songs, the bride and groom thankfully arrive. We were told the party would be casual so I wasn't surprised to see the groom and best men wearing tuxedo t-shirts. The bride was adorable in a summer dress with flip flops and wedding hair. They brought their dog. After much tinkering to get the two kegs up and running the hostess, Pat herself, grabbed the microphone. I thought "Oh good, some formality", but she simply told us the meat was ready for pickin'. Her father, a pleasant vintage with a cane, said a prayer. I usually nod my head slightly but don't close my eyes at public prayers. I notice others do the same, but not many. Us few rebels look nervously around to see if anyone else has the same mixture of respect and aversion. After prayer, husband tells me he's starving and will try the meat. Yay, now I am the only vegetarian at the reception. They have typical southern fare: barbecue (oink), beans (with oink added), cole slaw and potato salad (hate it) and yeast rolls (okay, I like yeast rolls). We sit down to eat. Husband and I have a wee tiff about how he's eating meat, something I'm not used to seeing since he became a vegetarian when we were dating and just recently, eight years later, decides to occasionally partake again. I pick at my starch and comment about how at least I'll eat wedding cake and that'll be nice. Husband says "I saw pictures of the cake." What? "The whole feeding each other cake and present giving thing happened before they came here." Oh. "That's why they were late." I see. Someone let the air out of my balloon. I was at an after party. Not invited to the wedding, or the "real" reception, but the after party, chicken shit and all. I looked around and reminded myself this wasn't about me. The family and the couple were having a good time. The neighbors who drove up onto the grass in a golf cart were having a really good time. Just the same, I instantly felt validated for wanting to leave. My desire to leave was thwarted by my husband finding a game of ladderball to play so I busied myself with saving the baby from numerous possible fatalities: the deaf dog eating someone's dinner in the grass, the splintered steps leading to the top of the barn, the rusted trampoline...the game of ladderball. But the evening wasn't all bad. Just before I could tell the husband it was time to go, I was given a disposable wedding camera; Aha! A task. I enjoyed myself as I took pictures of happy, not quite so bored now guests (thanks to the two kegs of beer). The jovial groom took a picture of us before we left and he said he'd send us a copy. As we left, we scanned the grounds for the chicken coop; its location will remain a mystery.
Last night my mom came over to watch the boy while my husband and I got ready to go to a wedding reception with the baby. After last weekend's date night turned into three hours of "horrible" for my parents, AKA the loyal babysitters, I don't have any plans to leave the baby with them again in the near future. So I got dressed in a new outfit (thanks mom for the birthday money) and while I'm putting on makeup, which I have finally figured out how to use so I don't look like I don't know how to use it, my husband tells me he doesn't know how to get to the reception. We've been to Pat's Party Barn twice before but being that it is in the country, we somehow forget the exact location each time. Something like this was said: "I don't know where we're going. Maybe it's in my past emails... can you look in the phone book?" I said, "Now? I'm getting ready to leave!" (mind you, the baby is sleeping so it's the only and perfect time to do something for MYSELF) He says we can't go anywhere if we don't know the address. I think Ha! I'm going somewhere tonight, we have a sitter! So without anymore adieu, I'll tell you that the address was in the book and that with a few missed turns, we made it in time to be 20 minutes late. The first clue that the evening wasn't going to resemble what I had been envisioning it to be was the smell of chicken shit. I ask the husband if the dog kennel is the cause of the odor since it is just ten feet from where we parked. He claims only chicken shit smells like that so I have to take his word for it. We arrive and are greeted warmly by some very bored looking guests; "Maybe the happy couple couldn't find the place either" I muse to myself. I excuse myself while my husband holds the baby as a social shield and look for the gift table. There is none. Hmm, certainly there are gifts? I place our modest gift card on a small table. After 45 minutes of being bathed in the smoke of meat cooking in giant vats and listening to a talented, lone wedding singer spew out country songs, the bride and groom thankfully arrive. We were told the party would be casual so I wasn't surprised to see the groom and best men wearing tuxedo t-shirts. The bride was adorable in a summer dress with flip flops and wedding hair. They brought their dog. After much tinkering to get the two kegs up and running the hostess, Pat herself, grabbed the microphone. I thought "Oh good, some formality", but she simply told us the meat was ready for pickin'. Her father, a pleasant vintage with a cane, said a prayer. I usually nod my head slightly but don't close my eyes at public prayers. I notice others do the same, but not many. Us few rebels look nervously around to see if anyone else has the same mixture of respect and aversion. After prayer, husband tells me he's starving and will try the meat. Yay, now I am the only vegetarian at the reception. They have typical southern fare: barbecue (oink), beans (with oink added), cole slaw and potato salad (hate it) and yeast rolls (okay, I like yeast rolls). We sit down to eat. Husband and I have a wee tiff about how he's eating meat, something I'm not used to seeing since he became a vegetarian when we were dating and just recently, eight years later, decides to occasionally partake again. I pick at my starch and comment about how at least I'll eat wedding cake and that'll be nice. Husband says "I saw pictures of the cake." What? "The whole feeding each other cake and present giving thing happened before they came here." Oh. "That's why they were late." I see. Someone let the air out of my balloon. I was at an after party. Not invited to the wedding, or the "real" reception, but the after party, chicken shit and all. I looked around and reminded myself this wasn't about me. The family and the couple were having a good time. The neighbors who drove up onto the grass in a golf cart were having a really good time. Just the same, I instantly felt validated for wanting to leave. My desire to leave was thwarted by my husband finding a game of ladderball to play so I busied myself with saving the baby from numerous possible fatalities: the deaf dog eating someone's dinner in the grass, the splintered steps leading to the top of the barn, the rusted trampoline...the game of ladderball. But the evening wasn't all bad. Just before I could tell the husband it was time to go, I was given a disposable wedding camera; Aha! A task. I enjoyed myself as I took pictures of happy, not quite so bored now guests (thanks to the two kegs of beer). The jovial groom took a picture of us before we left and he said he'd send us a copy. As we left, we scanned the grounds for the chicken coop; its location will remain a mystery.
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Your blog keeps getting better and better! Your older articles are not as good as newer ones you have a lot more creativity and originality now keep it up!
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