Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Baby did a bad, bad thing

I can’t recall a weekend in recent history like the one just passed. I did things I haven’t done in years, nay decades. Thought I’d emerge come Monday feeling shame, regret. The need for a priest and a confessional.

None of that the case.

The manfriend played a gig Saturday night, a tribute to much admired local musician. His band played first to a house more packed than expected. A wonderful thing happens when you enter into a regular relationship; you integrate into the others group. Hugs and welcomes all around, chatting up new friends, no more sitting alone at the bar like the girl with the band. And despite (or perhaps somewhat due to) a motorcycle mashup earlier that afternoon, he was in high spirits. They did a tight set and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He looked good, played lively. And was all the way alive.

Found it tough to shake the worry-is-wasteful image of deep, powdery white scratches on fiberglass, leather jacket skid marks and (in my imagination) head cracking like an egg on the pavement. He looked good and mostly well.

We both enjoyed some medicine before the first set, a surprisingly good dirty martini. I’d have two more by nights end, one past my usual (and six green olives the only food of the day after a handful of raw almonds and a coconut water). And so it came to be that night that manfriend met Drunk Jodie. He liked Drunk Jodie. I like her too because she’s extra affectionate (she went diving under the covers later that night and pitched a happy tent) and hungry. She proclaimed, “Pizza!!” so we stopped for a pepperoni and black olive pie and ate three pieces each, washed down with dark beer.

I don’t eat pizza as a rule and and never have I indulged in three big slices. All in row. Thought I’d wake the next day with an unhappy belly and worse-for-the-wear head.

But I felt amazing. Up and atta 'em and big and bright. Dare I say, reborn. We lingered and lolled in bed then went for Lamar’s Donuts. Hadn't been near a donut in decade plus, closer to two I reckon. I had most of an air variety (glazed) and bite of both his buttermilk bar and the blueberry glazed cake he got for us to share. We watched cartoons, drank lattes and passed the Sunday paper. Later I brought him tea and honey as he recouped from second day aches, curled around a heating pad and his big dog.

It was a good, good thing.

1 comment:

The Housewife said...

Oh yes, drunk Housewife is fun too. No mental filter, i.e. "I wanna suck your cock" after he picked me up from my hen party, with his brothers in the backseat.

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