The weekend wedding was lovely. "Uncle Rodger" wrote Karen two songs. The first, he sang as she walked down "the aisle." (The "aisle" is in quotes, because we were outside in a state park, so it was merely a divide in the chairs.) The chorus went, "It's all in the heart, my friend. It's the heart that tells the stories. It's all in the heart." He made everyone in the audience sing it, and I sorta kinda teared up a bit because it was sorta kinda perfect. Of all my aunts, I most identify with Karen. Now that she's married for the first time in her golden years, I feel there is hope for me. She is the most accomplished woman I've ever met, with a wide variety of interests and talents. Rodger is similarly intelligent and accomplished, with a very pleasant singing voice. He was an anti-apartheid protest singer and formerly on the South African government's blacklist. Now he produces operas and documentaries. NPR interviewed him about South African operas.
I saw my dad dance for the first time. It was hilarious.
I'd never heard "Killing Me Softly" before. On the way home from the wedding, I was riding in Sam's car, a very spectacular Mercedes, and Daniel was driving. We went through all of his Bob Marley before scrolling along to this particular ditty. Sam was singing with loud sincerity. Pam, next to me, admitted that it could be no more embarrassing if she and I were to start singing. However, as I'd never heard it before, I didn't know the words. Luckily, there's about 10 in the whole song, so I picked up quickly and sang with the best of them.
Goat is super delicious. Probably super fatty.
My uncle Joe was quite snookered Friday evening, when it was suggested that everyone go out for a pub crawl. My uncles, Joe especially, were upset because Rodger was not required to wear his eye-patch, thus, they could not force him to endure a "pirate themed bachelor party." The pub crawl was to be the substitution, sans pirate strippers. Because we had a massive family dinner outside in the courtyard, Joe had three of the four forks his room had contributed. They were in his pocket. Quite inebriated, he shouted, "I have three forks! That means we can stab three people at three different bars. Or I can give one to each of you, then
NOBODY will fuck with us!" Some minutes later, when transportation was arranged, he calmly stated, "Wait, let me grab some shoes that lace up, just in case I have to kick some fuckers in the head." All of this transpired while my most Catholic grandmom was present.
Temperpedic beds suck dirty, hairy balls.
My aunt Jeanne has a few phobias, one of them being a fear a flying. Being thus, she elected to drive the six hours to Durham. However, she wanted to take a scenic route that avoided every single major highway and efficient road. She left my grandmom's around the same time we left for the airport. Twelve hours later (approximately 1 am), she arrives at the condominiums, exhausted, with an awful headache. The next morning, she was in the worst condition for a wedding. Sick. Throwing up. Sensitive to light, sound, and movement. Migraines. Even though she made a good show, she couldn't make it to the wedding on time. In fact, I did not see her at all until Sunday morning at ~10. She's going to be staying with my uncle Joe and aunt Jane to see their "new" devil house in South Carolina. It's cursed. More on that later.
For breakfast, I had a sesame bagel, most of a mango, almonds, and orange juice. I could stand to have that happen a little more often.
Joe and Jane's house is in a little backwoods Southern community. The grass is super grass that needs to be cut at least twice a week, lest it start eating the roaming dogs, raccoons, or foxes that frequent their backyard. It has required an immense amount of work. One of those things beingn to put new doors on the all the cabinets. So, being industrious, Joe and Jane cleaned off the heavy doors, maybe 5-10 lbs each, primed them, dried them, and left them outside to begin the last coat of white. However, the wind started blowing. Joe and Jane were standing on their deck and worried that the wind was going to blow all sorts of dirt and nastiness from their lawn onto the doors. No. That is not what happened. A mini-twister formed, picking up four or five of the doors, swirling them around in the air a bit, before smashing them against the rock driveway, smashing up the corners and removing promiscuous bits and pieces. Amazed and stupefied at what they had just witnessed not ten feet away, they brushed them off and applied the final layer of paint.
Durham is almost urban, as it is a former tobacco/textiles town. Jack and I hopped up on an abandoned train track and enjoyed the late evening air. It was interesting.
My female cousins are uber girls. When my aunt inquired how long it would take for us to get ready, I said, "Twenty minutes, but that's not including my shower." Each of the other girls replied, "An hour and a half, but that's if I have a whole bathroom to myself, so maybe two and a half." The oldest is intelligent and reasonable. The youngest is not. She has a dog, Lola, who is about the size of my ho' bag and about as intelligent, though more often underfoot and in the way. Also, in the words of my dad, "Peanut-head, peanut bladder." It pees.
During the pub crawl, my uncle Joe was
this close to riding a mechanical bull when my cousin Daniel got carded. He's ~60 days from turning 21.
North Caroline is "the Tobacco State." Being so, with Jack jonesing, he requested that I attempt to buy him cigarettes from "Sleepy Eyes," the mildly racist, mildly stoned attendant of the gas station around the corner. The first day we encountered him, I was just casing the place, getting a feel for whether or not he'd sell to me. During that time, two Mexicans walked in. I was in my Soffees. The pink ones with green whales and skulls on them. They were hiked up pretty high. Two Mexicans walked in, and I was pretty suspicious they were checking me out. Then it was confirmed they were checking me out, as I made eye contact with one and he winked. As we were leaving, I caught "muneca" and was flattered. The second night, post-wedding, I was dressed up with my dressy shirt pulled down as low as possible, and Sleepy Eyes sold me the Newports. Jack bought me gum for my efforts.
Bad Penny Beer was the keg, a microbrew from a local place. My uncles didn't drink 'til they got back to the condos.
The dancing was great. My aunt is a swing dancer, and Rodger just makes it up as he goes. It was very nice, though the playlist was not the usual dancey selection. Both "Down Under" and "Oxford Comma" were played, and both were danced to as best as could, given the circumstances.
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