Dia de los Muertos

Indeed.

Annual masquerade ball.  Fundraiser, attended by about a thousand people.  As of this morning, i am acutely aware of my own mortality, as i woke up feeling like death.

Sort of out of words at the moment.  And ibuprofen.

The roller derby training was a bit too little, too late to keep me on the roller skates for very long.  But i danced.  Ouch.

and the confetti cannons launch at midnight…

and the crazy old broad dances with the pretty nearly nekkid boys at 12:01…

 dia de los muertos indeed….

Diagnosis

Leaving a weekly staph staff meeting, i stood up with a slight flinch, as my vertebrae grudgingly gave in to verticality.  Shuffling out the conference room door, a colleague asked “What is it now?  Bicycles? Horses? Mountain climbing?”

“Well, a bit of this and a bit of that… Rode the motorcycle 60 miles Saturday, and then did a trek on the back of the tandem Sunday.  Still sore from roller skating last week, too.  But i’ve got to get my body loosened up for horseback riding lessons tonight…”

A much younger colleague laughed and said “Oh, you cute, crazy old folks!  Sitting around at the rest home, playing euchre and watching TV!”

Listening to the snap, crackle and pop of my knees as i started up the stairs, i continued “And then next weekend?  Off to Miami for some diving with my sister, and….”

i stopped cold.  Turned and looked at the two of them.

“Oh, shit!  i know what’s wrong!  i’m a tampon commercial!”

A bit reminiscent of the old joke:

Two little boys go into the grocery store. One is eight years old and the other  one is five years old. The eight year old grabs a box of tampons from the shelf and carries it to the register for checkout.

The cashier asks, “Oh, these must be for your mom, huh?”

The eight-year-old replies “Nope, not for my mom.”

Without thinking, the cashier responded “Well, they must be for your sister then?”

The eight year old quickly responded, “Nope, not for my sister either.”

The cashier had now become curious “Oh. Not for your mom and not for your sister? Who are they for?”

The eight year old says, “They’re for my five-year old little brother.”

The cashier is surprised “Your five-year old little brother?”

The eight year old explains: “Well yeah, they say on TV if you wear one of these, you can swim or ride a bike and my little brother can’t do either of them!”

Friday Night Throw Down – Scores and Highlights

A successful party – celebrants suitably honored, attendees suitably hammered.  House?  Mostly unscathed.  Dog?  Mostly recovered.  Laundry?  Not even close to being done.  Leftovers?  Delivered to feed the cast and crew at a rehearsal today… 

– Perhaps a total of 80-100 people dropped by between 5:30 PM and 3:00 AM.  Fortunately, they came in waves, with the early arrivals including familes – with ridiculously cute children – a few pregnant women*, and folks with early bedtimes.  Late arrivals?  Last person to show up arrived at midnight.  Fortunately, one early arrival managed to park in my crabby neighbors yard before he got out his “no parking” signs.  Twit.  i hope someone puked in his yard.  Again.

– As a result of this event, i’m even more comfortable with my decision to remain very, very single.  i didn’t have to ask permission from, nor consult with, anyone before deciding to do this.  My house, i can do what i want!  i used to have parties on a much smaller scale when i was first married, but my ex-husband was uncomfortable with it, so i stopped.  The kids loved it when they were little – nothing more fun than watching grown ups get silly!  Now?  They still love it… and can play along!

– Naturally, we took advantage of the opportunity to taunt one of the celebrants when he went down for the count.  Didn’t really pass out from alcohol consumption**, just tired.  In addition to the standard “write on his face with markers” trick, we photographed him with a stuffed sea monkey i happened to have on hand, reminding all party goers to keep an open mind – “It’s not beastiality, it’s interspecies erotica”.  Oh, and we put a temporary tattoo on him.  A “tramp stamp” above his ass crack.  Suspect he won’t realize he has it til he’s showering at the gym next week.  Hopefully, we used the “Exit Only” tattoo…

– The Boy made it home, and was awestruck to find not one, but three kegs awaiting him.  One still half full of Guiness.  His eyes shone the way they used to on Christmas morning!  The look on his face was precious as he toyed with the idea of moving the keg to his bedside.  Auto-beerotica?

– Mr. Pickles loves parties.  An endless stream of people on hand providing attention.  Sticky children, covered with tasty food bits to lick.  Wayward jello shots to eat from the ground.  If you look closely in the lower left corner of the crowd shot, you’ll see that there is a large brown animal cruising the food table…  He hasn’t moved much today.  We were both on the move for over 8 hours – me moving food, drink and trash, him playing with new friends!  It’ll wear a pup out!  On the bright side? No one threw up on him this time***.

It was a good time.  One of my young friends thanked me – saying that my willingness to do this, to bring people together for celebrations, helps make the workplace more tolerable.  And i truly enjoy it – when i’m not beating myself over the head, saying “i’m too fucking old to be doing this!” 

Perhaps the entire situation is best summarized by a conversation with The Girl tonight.  i was sympathizing with her regarding the state of her parents.  Her Dad is living with a “crazy selfish bitch” and her Mom is hosting frat parties and doing keg stands in the back yard.  Her response:  “Shit, it’s even worse than that.  You guys are both probably getting more than either of us… That’s just sad…”

____

* Also known as “designated drivers”.  One spouse has been pregnant at the last two parties, and begged me to have another one after this baby is born so she can eat the jello!

**  i’m not so sure… although he was up at 8:00 am this morning, cleaning my house!

*** Perhaps only because Mr. Pickles was outside when the young man who’d experienced far too much intimacy with a bottle of vodka decided to paint my living room floor.  A shade called “Grey Goose”.