Last night J and I found ourselves at a good ol' Wisconsin party in a field. My hair went from sleek-n-smooth to licked-a-live-wire in sixty seconds, but other than that, we enjoyed ourselves. Because the party was called The Big Deal (how often do you go to parties with NAMES?), and it was a benefit for Big Brothers / Big Sisters. As such, there was a considerable amount of beer present. And kickball! Beer, live music, and a giant kickball tournament.
Also, have I mentioned the men in kilts? Yes, there were some of those, too.
At one point in the evening one of the party organizers hopped on stage to announce the winners of a raffle. Upon hearing the names, a disgruntled drunk in the crowded beer tent shouted, "I never win nothing!"
I couldn't help myself. In the relative quiet between his statement and the announcer's next, I pushed my sheets of Brillo Pad hair from my face and shouted, "Double negative!" I quickly slapped my hand over my word hole to keep other grammar police phrases from slipping out.
J frowned. "Honey, you're talking about drunk people in tents."
"I know! My kind of people!"
Later, when the crowd had thinned, a spontaneous wrestling match broke out in the beer tent between Some Dude and a well-known but somewhat womanizing local musician. The blond girl standing nearby watching was clearly his latest victim I MEAN GIRLFRIEND, and she was also sick. Sneezing nearly non-stop. (As one who is still suffering from an excess of mucous, I am well-versed in these symptoms and felt particularly empathetic toward her.) So, patiently she stood there, sneezing and trying to smile at her idiot boyfriend's antics. Have I mentioned he's, like, seventy? Okay, he's not that old, but he's more than slightly balding and has no business wrestling in a beer tent at a Big Brothers / Big Sisters fundraiser.
Later, I watched them leave. He didn't hug her or put an arm around her once! No gesture of concern, not even a head tilt in her direction to indicate that he may have asked, "Hey, how ya feeling?" He just walked next to her, arms swinging awkwardly like a self-absorbed boob of a monkey.
This seemed like a complete injustice to me, and I ranted about it for awhile to my patient husband while he drove home, gnawing on a piece of BBQ a friend had given him in the parking field. When we got home I ate pickles right from the jar and then went to bed, glad to be alive and relieved that I no longer dated self-absorbed monkey boys.