A Hot Dog of a Post (by which I mean full of bits and scraps and offal)

First, if I may start on kind of a downer note, I'm hoping that those of you who do such things will send prayers, good vibes, karma, what have you to a couple of friends of mine going through some awful shit right now. I don't feel right sharing their stories, but I'll trust that any positive energy put forth in the universe will find them. I think it has to do with magnets or something.

*Claps hands briskly*

OK, then! What randomness have I jotted down lately? Oh, well, for one thing, today at work I was in the supply room and a co-worker was talking on her cell phone. Apparently the other person was having a hard time hearing her, so she shouted, "ONE!" I think it is a mark of my own maturity that I refrained from making jazz hands and adding, "Singular sensation!" Although I did sing it under my breath all the way back to my desk.

***

Saturday night I went to a bachelorette party, my very first. Is that odd? I don't know how I've reached the ripe old age of 34 without attending one of these, but there you are. Anyway, this party was held at a karaoke place--but not just any old bar, no sirree. This is a place where you rent private karaoke rooms. Have you all heard of this? Am I just old/unhip? Anyway, picture if you will a small room, only slightly larger than your average handicapped bathroom stall, crammed to the gills with ladies of varying degrees of shrillness. Then add a large TV, two microphones, and a whole lotta adult beverages. You put Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" in there and shit is ON. Also, for future reference, the eight-minute cut of "We Are The World" is amusing at first, but after five minutes, you don't care who does a great Cyndi Lauper imitation, you just want to move on. You'll thank me later.

***

If I can ever figure out how to master the technology, I'll break my anonymity vows to post a video of Tankbaby dancing at one of the weddings. Truth be told, about 30% of the cuteness can be credited to the suit. A friend gave it to us: black velour overalls, white button-down, red plaid necktie (just the knot and hangy-downy part attached to an elastic band), black velour jacket with lapels. We added tiny red Chuck Taylors and Tankbaby added the total lack of rhythm. He looooves music, and couldn't be kept off the dance floor. His coordination is such that he can only move in quadrants: he could nod his head or wave his arms or drop his booty or move his feet, but none of them all at the same time. However, rapid succession was achieved, all with an expectant look on his face as he approached non-dancers with his wild drunken lurching as if to say, "Do you not HEAR this?" Sometimes he supplemented his argument by signing, "Music!" frantically, which, being as how it was his own mutation of ASL in a crowd of non-even-not-mutated-ASL-using folks, didn't sway people the way he clearly expected. My poor mother-in-law laughed until she wept, and I think only a little of that was due to the open bar.

***

Oh, and speaking of the weddings, I promised stories. It's growing late, so only one for tonight. No, just one, and then I have to go to bed. And no, you won't be getting me a drink of water later. OK, fine, one drink, but then no more, or I'll have to go potty in the middle of the night.

Where was I?

Right, wedding #2 was outside. In addition to a dance floor under a pavilion and a large dining area, they'd set up a little outdoor living room space with white leather couches and end tables. And on these tables there were various large odd-shaped receptacles filled with candy. I wholly endorse this practice. Anyway, Tank missed his nap due to timing, and while we were waiting for dinner he began to literally fall over in his high chair. I took him out and went down to the living room area, positioning myself near the GIANT BRANDY SNIFTER OF JELLY BEANS so that I could nurse him a bit and let him sleep. MOTH came down later with a plate of food, carefully cut up into easily-stabbable pieces so that I could eat one-handed. As we sat there, listening to a truly awful drunken maid of honor speech (oh, yes, that story is coming), we noticed a woman milling about near where we sat. She had a nasal cannula (that's a thing, right? The teeny tube hooked up to your face when you're on oxygen?) and her oxygen tank casually dragged along behind her. She approached the couch and table across from us and from the large vase on the table, withdrew a handful of...sparklers. Unlit, of course, but still...seemed an unwise choice given the whole flammable element thing. I mean, what do you do with sparklers unless you light them? But I'm pretty sure she's not supposed to be having any open flames near the oxygen. I think I learned that from Grey's Anatomy. Anyway, MOTH and I snickered a little curiously, stifling ourselves when she then ambled over to where we were sitting. She looked down at Tankbaby and murmured, "Beautiful baby" (clearly nothing wrong with her vision), then proceeded to open her small evening clutch and shovel in seven or eight scoopfuls of jelly beans. All casual-like, as if this was completely normal behavior. She then nodded at us and moved off to the nearby cocktail tables, where she proceeded to empty the small dishes of Swedish fish into her purse.

I don't know what she had planned for when she got home that night, but either her pulmonologist or her dentist is going to be very displeased.