the boy, demonstrating that every rose has its sporran

March 18, 1999.

When I was home last week, I made use of the scanner on some of Dirk's Fireball pics, but the resultant files were so big that most of them are still in Brampton. Once I go back & rescue them, I'll be jury-rigging them into a photo album, don't you worry. This is a detail from the only one that managed to get through, and shows the Boy in his brother-in-law's nuptial kilt acting vampish. Such poses appeal to his vanity (which I like to tease him about, but as soon as I get the others up, you'll see how vain I can be when a camera is turned on me).

I am tired, kids. You may have noticed the gap between entries. I was doing so well until Tuesday afternoon, when I collected the Boy from Tea. I've noticed that we have an absolute genius for wasting time together - or maybe that's all couples. Anyway, between designing logos (the Boy), reading Skinny Legs and All (me), and watching Strictly Ballroom whilst eating takeout pizza & fried chicken (both of us - see, I was too lazy to even cook)...the night sorta fizzled into eternity without a corresponding journal entry. Which I prolly for the best, all things considered.

Yesterday, however...yesterday is worthy of recording. Oh, let me tell you a tale of the Boy's father's remarriage...

As you may recall, some of us were rather suspicious of the announcement, coming so closely on the heels of a similar announcement by the Boy's mother. Suspicions only mounted when the date was moved from the 9th of September to St. Paddy's Day. And you know what? I have a petty, mean little mind. Whatever the motivations were, one thing was obvious: they looked really happy to be tying the knot. It's nice acknowledging limits to my fearsome intellect when that means that my cynicism is refuted.

The afternoon didn't start auspiciously. I went to my 10 a.m. class, promising the Boy that I'd be back at the Grotto in an hour and a half. After class I made a fatal mistake: I took pity on Wilson. She's deep in the throes of essay panic, and her text is (drumroll) Booke Three of the Faerie Queene. Visions of my future career danced in my head as I tried to talk her around the roadblock. Perhaps it was the intoxicating feeling of being able to help that made me lose track of time.

I showed up at home at 12:20. The Boy was not happy. Not at all. By the time we got to the chapel in City Hall (after fighting noon traffic and getting off on the wrong 3rd floor - don't ask), there was a definite atmosphere of potential quarrel. Of course I felt rotten. Of course I kept reflecting on the easy mood of Pixie Stix's wedding, when he was so eager to hold my hand during the ceremony. To be fair to him, I had almost devolved the day into a Lucy episode. But I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for myself.

The ceremony was beautiful - instead of Corinthians, the minister quoted George Eliot. Amoret the Lit major liked that very much. And the subsequent late lunch/nuptial feast in an adjacent Chinese restaurant was very much leavened by the seating - I sat next to Pixie Stix and Q, who are both vegetarians. Through nine or so courses, they could eat about 2 dishes. Pixie Stix's palate is complicated by an extreme seafood allergy, and most of the dishes involved shrimp and/or crab...so she couldn't even be an honourary carnivore for the day. I must applaud them for not swilling vast quantities of wine by default. The mood didn't need lightening anyway - the generation gap is nitrous oxide enough, and all us kids giggled through the speeches.

"Nothing adds to a wedding like a good flatulence joke."

- pixie's summary comment to the middle speech

I'm glad to be getting on so well with Gremlina and Q. Not only because of family relations, but also because the Boy will be living with them come May...and when I move back home in August, there'll be a lot of Amoret at their apartment on the weekend.

A lesser couple would go insane at the prospect, but I'm sure they're made of sterner stuff.

The typical Wednesday night gathering at the Victory was still on, and we were determined to make the scene (nothing like a seeing a parent remarry to encourage drinking with one's peers). For St. Patrick's Day, the place was remarkably uncrowded - until we showed up, that is. The highlight of the evening was phoning Agamemnon out West at midnight (as had been pre-arranged), so that he could drink with us. The first time we called, he was out on serious church business, so we yowled Irish songs to his answering machine. Then he called us back, and we really got in a singing mood.

Imagine if you will, 4 or 5 young men and 1 girl standing around a pay phone in a bar lobby singing "Jerusalem." Then imagine our surprise when Seth burst in off the street, grabbed the phone, and started singing "Hava Nagilla." We all clapped along joyously until the big finish, when all of our boisterousness fell away, and there was just Seth belting out the high note, cutting through the smoke and noise to rise above us puny mortals. It was golden.

After people stopped grabbing the phone away, I finally got to talk to him. According to Paris, it seems he's doing okay down there, although the small town location means that he can't get a goodly amount of...media. Thus the main part of my phone conversation was devoted to gathering information on what type of...media...I should send in a care package. Taking care of a preacher long distance is some fun stuff, I'll tell you whut.

And now I am here. Although I slept through my 18th century literature class, I made my step class (how stupid is that). I'm beginning to see some results...the trampy black dress I wore to the wedding had never fit me as well as it did yesterday (I'm just kidding about the tramp factor. I know how to look respectable for whole hours at a time, y'all.)

"I bet you clean up nice." "I do...but I won't."

- that 70's show