So that was a lot of fun.
Then it was off to yet another party, this time with a crowd slightly more my usual style--in fact, I discovered that two of the people there had actually bought Taxman prints, and since they were in my car, I got to hand deliver them!--with Kevin and his cousin Amy. (Amy is awesome, and I need to drag her to more parties.) Since it was my turn to be the designated driver, and one of the taxman buyers (a delightful woman named Betsy, and a birdwatcher to boot!) apparently used to be a bartender, Kevin got to hit a stage of inebriated I haven't actually seen since....well, that's another story. (This is funny as hell. Kevin gets chatty when he's drunk, and since he's already as gregarious as a black-headed gull with an extra sardine ANYWAY...)
Another high point was "Hey! You came into my restaurant last week!"
"Yeah! I recognize the boots! And the ink!"
(I tell you, it's better than business cards.)
So had a delightful evening where several long-time friends of Kevin's (who were also very sloshed) draped themselves over my shoulders and insisted on dishing all the dirt they thought I needed to know about their buddy. (None of which was particularly alarming, although I was highly entertained...I don't know if his cousin will recover, mind you, although she seemed to take it with aplomb.)
"I like you!" said the charming (and very drunk) Ann. "You're sane. And pretty!"
"Thank you!" (Well, really, what else do you say?)
"The two don't usually go together!" She considered for a moment. "On the other hand, you're dating Kevin..." and gave me a wary look, as if at any moment I might, say, flash my membership card for the First Church of Serial Cattle Mutilation. (This seemed to be a common response...) An hour later or so, I had apparently proved myself not immediately dangerously insane, and she was expounding on her theory about the five ways to a man's heart,*** and a good time was had by all.
By the time we headed off into the night, Kevin had made the acquaintance of the Goldschlager, which is highly dangerous stuff. (and the fact that he's sitting upright on my couch as I write this and not notably hungover is pretty impressive.) Amy and I poured him into the car. He spent most of the ride home attempting to make a rambling point about tattoos, and once I actually got him home, began telling me in charming and inebriated detail just how much he loved me.
Being more used to men who get home and throw up, I gotta say, I'll take one who expounds at great length on how wonderful you are over mopping up the bathroom any day of the week.
A most excellent Memorial Day. I am pleased.
And now I really want an omelet.
*Organized religion and I get along like oil and fire, as y'all know, but they're all VERY nice, and one must make a certain amount of allowance for any church where the pastor is responsible for bringing the tequila. Besides, I'm so noxiously in love at this point that he could belong to the First Church of Serial Cattle Mutilation, and I'd be down with it.
The question of how I wound up dating a Lutheran--with kids, no less--and arguably how he wound up dating ME--is a long story for another day, and if you get either of us tanked, we will probably tell it to you.
**I mean they'd be VERY NICE about it, but I have this vision of a Godfather-like scene where I wake up and there's a dead casserole in bed with me, crumbled potato-chip bits staring up at me accusingly...
***I score three out of five, apparently, and I've got no money and can't cook. Heh heh heh.