Thursday, November 3, 2011
Last weekend, B and I dashed away for a quick adult weekend in Richmond. We had not been back to the city since we moved to the coastal area, so since we were limited on time (and babysitters), we decided that we would just take the hour and a half jaunt instead of traveling further, mostly to return to our old haunts, eat at our old favorite restaurants (including the best Thai food EVAH at Mom Siam's) and just relax a bit and enjoy the company of one another. (Yes, we are THAT FUCKING FUN.) The weather forecast was a mess, calling for cloudy skies and a wintry mix, which made it sound all the more appealing-- time to snuggle up in a nice hotel, read, and drink lots of good red wine.
Which we did. The hotel was lovely, and on the 15th floor we had an amazing view of the city and the old Train Station and such. We ate our favorite Thai, but also found an AMAZING little upscale, authentic Italian restaurant in Shockoe Bottom for a romantic and delicious dinner. I was able to wander aimlessly through Crate & Barrel for over an hour (one of my favorite stores, and one that we do not have in Hampton Roads) with NO KIDS and no stress. We held hands and drank wine and slept late. It was lovely.
But now we're going to get to the part of the blog that really matters: THE CRAZY SHIT. We all knew that was coming, right? Right.
I'm putting it in list form because I have to go get my teeth cleaned in a little while and don't feel like diverting my energy from stressing over seeing a new dentist at a new office and putting what I have to say into melodious prose. Sorry, bitches.
THE CRAZY SHIT THAT HAPPENED IN RICHMOND AND ALSO SOME CRAZY SHIT THAT HAS HAPPENED SINCE THEN, ALTHOUGH NOT IN RICHMOND, RATHER HAMPTON ROADS, BUT JUST BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE EXORCISING THE CRAZY SHIT FROM MY MENTAL WRITING CACHE ALL AT ONCE AND BECAUSE THIS IS MY GODDAMN BLOG I WILL WRITE ABOUT IT BECAUSE, AS I JUST SAID, THIS IS MY GODDAMN BLOG.
1. Weird Fetish Shit~ So, B and I, while driving around on Broad looking for something interesting to do, decided to stop in at Priscilla's. (For all you holy and naive folk, Priscilla's is a sex shop.) We like to go in and make fun of the adult movie titles, as well as start our Christmas shopping for all the prudes in the family, as fucking with people is pretty much our main source of entertainment. Anyway, there we go into Priscilla's. Of course, being the week before Halloween, there are whore mannequins galore, wearing all forms of glittered, nipple-cut-out, crotchless mesh and whatnot, along with signs emphasizing that customers SHOULD NOT TOUCH! (You can't help but wonder how many times the employees have had to call the police on creepy mannequin-fetish perverts who come in and start humping the faux females. Well, at least I wonder that. Maybe nobody else does.) So we're meandering through the store, marveling at the merchandise when all of a sudden we see something that is STRAIGHT UP SO FUCKING AWESOME IT'S ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO BELIEVE. Seriously. SERIOUSLY. What is it? What, what, what? An old lady, probably 70's, on a motorized scooter, perusing the hardcore porn with her Hispanic midget probably 40-ish-year-old boyfriend.
I swear I am not joking. I swear.
NO FUCKING KIDDING. YOU READ THAT RIGHT. I'll repeat it anyway for you.
A 75 YEAR OLD WOMAN ON A LITTLE JAZZY SCOUTING PORN WITH HER MIDGET MEXICAN.
2. On Saturday morning, after breakfast, B and I decided to walk the seven or eight blocks to one of my favorite places in Richmond-- The Edgar Allan Poe Museum. I love Poe. He was dark and creepy and crazy as all hell, which, if you take away the "dark" part, is pretty much JUST LIKE ME. I've been through the museum a million times, but I just wanted to hit the lobby, which doubles as the gift shop, and see if they had a Poe Wineglass, because I already have a Poe coffee mug, t-shirt, bobble head, and action figure, so what else could possibly make my life complete but a Poe Wineglass? NOTHING, BITCHES. Because, again, it was Halloween weekend and because Richmond is a city packed full of creepy nerds (like myself) the Poe Museum was hopping. The lobby/gift shop is in a teeny tiny brick house that was built in the 1700's, and is roughly the size of my walk-in closet, so with me and B and the eight or nine other people in there, I felt like I was in a musty, highly macabre sardine can. After we had been there for a few minutes, I was smashed against the wall, checking out the Poe finger puppets and wondering how I might incorporate them into my daily life when I heard a woman behind me talking to a cooing baby. I turned around to check out said baby and try to scare it with a bloody, corpse-like Poe puppet, and to high five the woman on starting her kid on Poe early, only to get an eyeful of nipple--two of them to be exact. This twenty-something, velvet-shirted, vintage hat-wearing hippie chick had her (likely hand crocheted by somebody else in her Love Commune) sweater hiked up around her neck, no bra in sight, and both rather large and swingy, leaky, milk-swollen boobs on display for Poe, God, and all the world to see. It was traumatic for me, to say the least. Now, I am not opposed to women breast feeding in public or anywhere else. I think it would actually be extremely convenient to be able to have kid-food on tap, and I'm all about some convenience. Hell, I'd probably be all over that shit if it worked for grown people too as B is ALWAYS hungry. I am also not opposed to seeing boobs, because I think boobs are great and if somebody has pretty boobs, hell, yes, I want to see them. I might even want to touch them. But THESE boobs? FUCK NO. And CLOSE ENOUGH SO THAT I COULD HAVE HAD A SNACK FROM THEM MYSELF? Once again, fuck no. And before any of you earth mommas out there give me any shit, I'd like to remind you yet again that THIS IS MY FUCKING BLOG. DEAL WITH IT, BITCHES. I DO NOT WANT TO BE EXPOSED TO YOUR LARGE SAGGY BREASTS FIVE INCHES FROM MY FACE WHEN I AM IN THE GODDAMN POE MUSEUM. So there.
3. My husband knows everybody. He just does. He's friendly and social and has probably had a beer at some point with your cousin's sister's neighbor's former co-worker's mailman, because, well, that's just B. (Please note how unlike me this is, as I still do not know all the names of my next door neighbors after nearly four years in our current home.) So it shouldn't have surprised me one bit when we were sitting at a nice, romantic, late dinner at La Grotta's on Saturday evening when a waiter brought our wine and when he walked away B said, "Hey. I know him." OF COURSE YOU DO. *sigh* AND OF COURSE YOU WILL REMEMBER HIS NAME, ALTHOUGH YOU MET HIM IN A GODDAMN BAR IN OHIO SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO AFTER YOU WERE ALREADY SIX BEERS IN AND FOUND OUT THAT YOU HAD SCREWED THE SAME LESBIAN AFTER TAKING ECSTASY AT A 311 CONCERT. Okay, so not really. But B DID know him. And he DID remember his name (Zack). Apparently about TWO years ago, B had stopped at a sushi restaurant in Suffolk for takeout and had randomly started talking to one of the guys there who was now waiting tables in a random restaurant in a random city that had nothing to do with where they had met or why we were there. BECAUSE THAT'S THE MAN I MARRIED AND HOW HE FUCKING ROLLS.
4. The hotel that we stayed in in Richmond was beautiful. It was old-Richmond charm with all the modern conveniences (because we all know if the sheets aren't at least 800 thread count, Haley is NOT HAPPY). The one downside was that, in nineteen floors of pampered bliss, we got the CRAZY ASS NEIGHBORS. BOTH NIGHTS. We were staying in the next-to-last room in the hallway, with a room on either side of us. One room was quiet both nights. The other was not. On Friday night, we spent the evening listening to some sort of Asian themed 1940's (ukulele and flute, perhaps?) music. All one could imagine while hearing this music was a Geisha girl, teetering around on tiny little bound feet, serving hot tea to her Johns before she sexed them up, Singapore style. (Yes, I do realize I'm mixing a lot of countries here. Suck it.) While this made for some interesting mental imagery, it also got kind of annoying after a bit. Luckily, large doses of sleeping pills can drown out anything.
OR SO I THOUGHT.
Until Saturday night, when the same room boasted occupants that were hands-down two of the most annoying people I have ever met (even worse than you, Mom). A man and a woman, and their stupid-ass baby, who made more fucking noise than any three human beings should be allowed to make. The woman made moronic baby talk and baby-attention-getting shrieks every ninety seconds or so, and the man was a FUCKING IDIOT (I'm basing this on the very clear conversations I heard between them) who sang "Big Girls Don't Cry" ALL THE WAY THROUGH every goddamn time the baby made a peep. And that baby? She busted through my Trazodone haze at 5am and is lucky I didn't go down the hall, kick the door down, and duct-tape her 10-month-old-mouth shut. (I know how old she was because I saw them the next morning as they were leaving the room, gave them the evil eye, and said, "How old is that baby?") Anyway, after a solid chunk of time listening to all this bullshit, I decided to retaliate in the best way I knew how (being a parent and all). I moaned. I screamed. I thrashed about and made sure the neighbors could hear every second of ecstasy. Because every seasoned parent knows they won't have sex again for approximately the next four years, except for the one 3-minute hookup they'll have to create another noisy mini-monster, and it sure as hell won't involve any ecstasy.
5. At this point, I haven't even gotten to the "Back Home Shit." Guess that will have to wait for another blog. And I can do that because THIS IS MY GODDAMN BLOG.