In the past few months my AWP plans have suffered more ups and downs than the Republican Party. A month ago, I was certain I couldn't go, as I was pretty much told that by my employer. Friend One had something approaching a meltdown when I broke the news to her.
"Just call in sick!" she said.
I squelched the urge to tell her I was no longer 18 and employed at Round Table Pizza and instead mentioned how that might not be a good idea. She sighed, dramatically, which she is wont to do, and then said, "But Friend Two won't come if you don't come."
"Pshaw!" I said. "Of course he'll come."
Two hours later, Friend Two's email read: There is no way I'm going unless you're going.
Besides knowing I could not be the weak link in the Holy MFA Trinity of Friend One, Friend Two and me (myself? I? They are all interchangable, right Omega?), I was looking forward to hanging out with Lynn, Kevin (Kevin!), Stoic but Socially Inept Writer, Squeaky Clean Poet, flirting with random poetry editors and telling them, drunkenly, "You're going to publish Friend One, right?" while ordering another Bombay Sapphire and tonic, and meeting The Nefarious but Adorable Poet, formerly known as Huckleberry, perhaps the worst name ever used on my blog. Ever.
So, I did what any girl in my situation would do--that is, what any single girl with three kids, a secretarial job, an MFA, and an old score on the LSAT in the 99th percentile burning a whole in her pocket like so much loose change would do. I got out my union contract and read that mofo from front to back. And I discovered the Holy Grail of government employment: the loop hole.
And, now, weeks later, I am officially allowed to attend said event.
Friend One owes me at least one drink, I think. At least one. In fact, you all owe me something. Except Friend Two who has spent the past few weeks gnashing his teeth trying to talk Singing Love into going as well.
On ThanksEarly, Friend Two and Tragically Hip Single Mom were in my front room with me, hanging out. THSM was teaching me how to knit, and the Things and THSM's daughter, Feral Child, were running in and out of the house, playing. Then Thing One pointed at Friend Two. "You," she said, "should date her." And instead of pointing at me (THANK GOD) she pointed at THSM. There was a moment of embarrassed silence.
"Thing One," I said, "Friend Two has a girlfriend, remember?"
"Yeah," said THSM. "And I have a boyfriend, Dark Horse. Remember?"
"Well, you can just dump him," Thing One said. "And you two can get married."
So, from now on, I think I should call THSM "Mrs. Friend Two."
I have to take a Power Point class in the morning. For three hours. Just kill me now.
After meeting and hanging out, Friend Two proclaimed that Tragically Hip Single Mom's blog name should be "Fatally Hip Single Mom."
I didn't tell him that she had already zinged him but good, saying, "he looks like he's super-high maintenance."
He is FHSM. He is.
FC and Thing One were in the backseat of the car tonight on the way home* when they started talking about a substitute that neither of them likes. One of them, I could not tell which one, said, about the substitute, "She has really bad handwriting because she's so pretty."
Best non sequitur ever.
Fort Awesome came over tonight to drop off cash for Thing One and Two's fundraiser at the First Name School and she brought her new boyfriend, Way Too Bashful to be a Republican**. At one point, Thing Three was trying to talk to someone through one of the Superman walkie-talkies in the house. Way Too Bashful to be a Republican pointed out that, while she was talking into one, the other was sitting in front of her, turned off, so she couldn't talk to anyone.
"What?" she said loudly.
"The other one is right there," he said.
At which point, Thing Three made a guttural sound, much like a wildebeest***, grabbed both walkie-talkies in her fists, and put the antennae--plural--in her mouth.
Because she is feral.
I am becoming addicted to knitting and Buffy. Tonight I watched an episode of Buffy while working some alpaca wool from Chile into something resembling a scarf. It's like I'm 60. A really hip 60, but still. 60.
I just realized I am going to be alone for 8 days. In December. During the week of my birthday. No kids. But also, all friends will be out of town. At the holidays.
Kari? Where are you Kari?
Fort Awesome tonight at my house said, "Family dinners were always uncomfortable at my house. No one talked." Then she visibly brightened. "Unless the dogs were there!"
*Often, I pick up FC for Terribly Hip Single Mom and bring her home with us, where she hangs out for 20-30 minutes until her mom gets out of class. THSM thinks it's a big pain in the ass for me to do that, but it's really no big deal. Seriously, THSM. Look, I've posted it publically, even.
**I was going to say "Way Too Nice to be a Republican," but then I thought that bashful was actually more unusual. He's sweet and kind and articulate. And voted for Bush both times. GAH!
***Yes, it is spelled that way. I looked it up.