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Way too tired.
Feb. 26th, 2006 11:27 pmSweet baby jebus, what a weekend.
First of all, highest of praise to Team Wench. This was my first time attending the Privateer Feast in Maryland, and I was amazingly impressed. The food was a bit perplexing, but it was clear the event was social and charitable, not gastronomic. And it was good. I loved the idea of everyone bringing their own feast gear and candles and tablecloths. The prizes in the raffles were fabulous, and I was heartbroken at not winning anything.
(Apropos of nothing, why is my TV screen filled with women in bridal dresses, carrying fake, light-up calla lilies, wandering a stadium aimlessly whilst Andrea Bocelli sings?)
(Ah. “They represent hope, and the light that will shine on when the flame is extinguished.”)
The first humorous moment occurred when, as Erin and I were coming in with our baskets and gear, shaking the chill off our noses and setting up our space. I knew he was there, and I set my things down and turned, amused.
“Hi, honey,” I breezed.
He was giving me that look. That wry, well-look-at-you grin. The one that makes my heart do weird things higher in my ribs than it should.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he responded.
“Ah, yes. If you’d answered your voicemail, you would have.”
“You called me?”
Sigh.
(Who are you, and what have you done with Ricky Martin? And whoever you are, does Cher know your backing singers stole her wardrobe—or lack thereof?)
All in all, I saw some wonderful people I haven’t seen in ages. I got grape-dived by the master, saw wonderful people I haven’t seen in ages, saw some fabulous entertainment. Emotionally, it was difficult in spots, and there were some moments I thought to myself that if I don’t change some things, “it’s always going to be like this.” I came to no conclusions.
Afterwards, Erin and I went back to our hotel to change, and headed down to CinD’s to hang out, eat fresh-baked cookies, and relax. It turned into a three-hour parlour game of mushing together titles of movies into Films That Should Never Be Filmed, like All The President’s Men And A Baby, A Room With A View To A Kill, and Blade Running Man of La Mancha.
As we left, I told him to make sure to call before everyone left for breakfast, and we’d come down and join them—O’Cin and Broadfoot and CinD et al. But this morning, when we showered and dressed and still no one had called, I picked up the phone to CinD’s house to hear they’d just returned from breakfast, and oh, he’d already left for home. I was, for quite a while, crushed. But Erin and I wound up going to lunch with Amy and Katie (two VA rennies staying two doors down), where we were met by bink and Beth and Anita, who brought my scissors back to me. I got a call from him during lunch, and when I told him how angry and pained I’d been, he blanked, then apologised profusely, explaining he’d completely misunderstood in his half-awake stupor the night before. I was mollified, but still happy I’d left him a voicemail containing the words, “unbelievably hurt.” In the grande scheme, I’ll live. And we had a very good lunch with good people. Finally, much later than we’d anticipated, we got back on the road home.
My phone’d rung during lunch; Bonnie, that Southern Goddess, called, but not wanting to be rude yet again to my tablemates, I let it go to voicemail. Checking the message later, I almost began beating myself with my phone: she’d had Simon there with her. I called her, then called again, and she put the phone into his hands. At LAST! He swears he’ll call me tomorrow, and we’ll discuss what can be done with my boots. It’ll be expensive, but I WILL be getting them back. And he, too, apologised profusely. Huzzah!
I’ve had an idea for an event Local #9 can do, and I’ll be asking for advice from Team Wench. Yes, it’ll be cat-herding, but I think we can do something quite special.
And now to bed.
First of all, highest of praise to Team Wench. This was my first time attending the Privateer Feast in Maryland, and I was amazingly impressed. The food was a bit perplexing, but it was clear the event was social and charitable, not gastronomic. And it was good. I loved the idea of everyone bringing their own feast gear and candles and tablecloths. The prizes in the raffles were fabulous, and I was heartbroken at not winning anything.
(Apropos of nothing, why is my TV screen filled with women in bridal dresses, carrying fake, light-up calla lilies, wandering a stadium aimlessly whilst Andrea Bocelli sings?)
(Ah. “They represent hope, and the light that will shine on when the flame is extinguished.”)
The first humorous moment occurred when, as Erin and I were coming in with our baskets and gear, shaking the chill off our noses and setting up our space. I knew he was there, and I set my things down and turned, amused.
“Hi, honey,” I breezed.
He was giving me that look. That wry, well-look-at-you grin. The one that makes my heart do weird things higher in my ribs than it should.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he responded.
“Ah, yes. If you’d answered your voicemail, you would have.”
“You called me?”
Sigh.
(Who are you, and what have you done with Ricky Martin? And whoever you are, does Cher know your backing singers stole her wardrobe—or lack thereof?)
All in all, I saw some wonderful people I haven’t seen in ages. I got grape-dived by the master, saw wonderful people I haven’t seen in ages, saw some fabulous entertainment. Emotionally, it was difficult in spots, and there were some moments I thought to myself that if I don’t change some things, “it’s always going to be like this.” I came to no conclusions.
Afterwards, Erin and I went back to our hotel to change, and headed down to CinD’s to hang out, eat fresh-baked cookies, and relax. It turned into a three-hour parlour game of mushing together titles of movies into Films That Should Never Be Filmed, like All The President’s Men And A Baby, A Room With A View To A Kill, and Blade Running Man of La Mancha.
As we left, I told him to make sure to call before everyone left for breakfast, and we’d come down and join them—O’Cin and Broadfoot and CinD et al. But this morning, when we showered and dressed and still no one had called, I picked up the phone to CinD’s house to hear they’d just returned from breakfast, and oh, he’d already left for home. I was, for quite a while, crushed. But Erin and I wound up going to lunch with Amy and Katie (two VA rennies staying two doors down), where we were met by bink and Beth and Anita, who brought my scissors back to me. I got a call from him during lunch, and when I told him how angry and pained I’d been, he blanked, then apologised profusely, explaining he’d completely misunderstood in his half-awake stupor the night before. I was mollified, but still happy I’d left him a voicemail containing the words, “unbelievably hurt.” In the grande scheme, I’ll live. And we had a very good lunch with good people. Finally, much later than we’d anticipated, we got back on the road home.
My phone’d rung during lunch; Bonnie, that Southern Goddess, called, but not wanting to be rude yet again to my tablemates, I let it go to voicemail. Checking the message later, I almost began beating myself with my phone: she’d had Simon there with her. I called her, then called again, and she put the phone into his hands. At LAST! He swears he’ll call me tomorrow, and we’ll discuss what can be done with my boots. It’ll be expensive, but I WILL be getting them back. And he, too, apologised profusely. Huzzah!
I’ve had an idea for an event Local #9 can do, and I’ll be asking for advice from Team Wench. Yes, it’ll be cat-herding, but I think we can do something quite special.
And now to bed.