So I didn't exactly blog the VERY next day...

You people are too picky. Part of my reason for waiting was ultimately so that I could take pictures of the new fattitude of my new kitten, but though I have found my camera, there is no wire to connect it to my computer. I'll figure all of that out later and give a brief update re: Meg's life.

Sooooooo I auditioned for a choir today that is affiliated with Southern Methodist University (rockin' the Greek houses, as well as fake tans). This will only be interesting to the people who were in Collegium with me, but when I originally called to set up an audition and the guy asked where I had sung in college, I told him simply Harvard and he totally asked me about Jim. I have no idea whether our former conductor was really famous or if he was just super eccentric, but at least this guy knows who he is. Needless to say, I went in today, paid $6 for parking, sang a few scales, the guy asked me if I could sight read, and now I'm in the choir. Nicely casual but not a good sign.

Anyway, so the wedding. Overall it was a fairly average Catholic wedding. Nice church, most people with covered shoulders and a few skanky ones, all of the Jews and Protestants waiting uncomfortably during the Communion, etc etc. The reception started out around 3:30 or 4 pm, and I made a beeline for the alcohol, anticipating my meeting with said mystery man. I'm not going to lie, I looked pretty cute. Not slutty cute, wedding cute, with some uncomfortably gorgeous shoes. By the by, the word for this afternoon would, indeed, be "uncomfortable".

Moving on, my friends and I attacked the buffet (mmmmm grilled peppers *gargling noises*) and then waited for the fun to begin. The fun never did precisely begin, which I primarily blame on the DJ and my own accursed luck. At some point, Marilyn (mother of the bride) catches me and whisks me over to meet her friend, Darrin. Or Darren. Darin. Daran. Regardless, we'll call him "E. Lee" because my friend Gary said that he looked like he belonged in a Civil War reenactment. So the first thing I notice is that he's not precisely my height. Well he IS my height, just not my gorgeous heels height. My tolerance for this sort of things is usually decent, though I, like any other girl, like to be carried over doorsteps and shielded from the wind, so we're not really onto a good start. The awkwardness is pretty tangible, but again, I'm a trooper so I stick it out.

Our conversation primarily involves him trying to get me something to drink. I don't mind giving him something to do, but honestly, I really wasn't thirsty, I had already had two glasses of wine, and at this point it's 4:45, which is neither happy hour nor even a convenient time for alcoholics to drink, in my personal opinion. Eventually I let him convince me to go to the bar with him, mostly because his crappy little friends do nothing but stare at me. Uncomfortable. I get gingerale because at this point I'm beginning to suspect that he's trying to get me drunk. I am not going to get drunk with a 35 year old man who wants to get married. There's just something off about that situation. However, this was a prime opportunity to hot foot it back to my table o' friends who, like hyenas in the wild, have already sensed which one of us is the sickly antelope that needs to be eaten. My friend Amy was so appalled at my obvious discomfort that she made several efforts merely to take me away from him, including a feigned broken bra strap that I "just [had] to help with".

There's not much to tell about the rest of the early evening, except to say that I spent most of the time trying to subtlely wriggle out his grasp and inviting everyone but him somewhere later that evening. He also put his hands everywhere from my upper thigh to my hips. It was like we were dating, except that we had just met and he creeped me out. And we aren't and never will date. And he kept talking about people's hairstyles and looking aghast every time I said something more offensive than "Oh pickles, I dropped my grilled pepper". And he made me dance when NO ONE was dancing but the BRIDE AND GROOM. NO ONE. I made him sit down after about 20 seconds, though he paid one of the ushers to let us continue dancing. Of course he asked for my number and I gave it to him because I'm a pushover, though I qualified it with a "I don't want to go on a date really". So here's for me being a wuss but an honest wuss. Although I am given hope because my friend Bonnie said that she saw him hitting on someone else in a similar drunken stupor later on. God I need a boyfriend in Dallas. One that my mother's aquaintances would recognize as such and stop telling desperate men that I'm available and super excited to get pregnant or something. *shudder*

As a parting thought, I just tipped my smoothie back too far and, seeing its opportunity, it ran swiftly up my noise so far that there is not only pureed bits of mangos and blackberries in my brain, but there is also an imprint of my nose in the smoothie.