a calling I found around this time). She decked me out in this polyester 40 year old vintage fluorescent-mint, monstrous get-up with long, hazy butterfly sleeves. It was a nightmare on a hanger. But I itched it on and looked like a goddess when I wasn't scratching myself. I was made of regal magic and lovely dreams. From now on, Xtine will dress me every day. Every fucking day.
I gave a sermon about The Little Prince and The Pink Panther and did an impromptu interpretive dance to a poem by A. A. Milne because the reader said, and I quote, "This is a poem by A. A. Milne, and while I'm reading Rossi will do an interpretive dance."
"Shit. I mean, shit. Sorry. Go ahead." And then I vogued with my flowing sleeves and the awkward grace of a dancing bear on a tricycle, and only gave the thumbs up once. But never in my sermon did I directly bring up how many men Xtine has slept with, which was hard to do because Paul stopped by before the wedding for a beer on my porch and left me with this: "just don't say anything about that time that she fucked those two gay dudes on my couch." Which is my couch now, by the way, and I silently blessed myself for washing the cushions.
She and Kevin had popcorn vendors roaming around while we sipped a meet-cute of champagne infused with cotton candy (invented by Adam Moby-Statham during a happy accident) and sang karoake. We went to a bar afterward where Adam and I teamed up against another co-ed team of attractive pool sharks (I was his wingman, because my dress had wingsleeves) who took their eight ball very seriously. My sleeves kept on getting in the damn way. Fucking pool.
I dislike playing pool at bars with people who insist that we follow professional rules. Recreational softball is nothing like the major leagues and touch football isn't nearly as convoluted as the NFL, but tall hipster males take their sharking very seriously. At one point I yelled, "Who the fuck are you, Minnesota Fats? This isn't a goddamn Paul Newman movie." And then he tried to get me to play again, which in retrospect was a good sign but me and Adam were through with trying to woo these people and besides all I could think about was how rugged and lumberjacky Kevin's little brother had grown in the past two years after fighting wildfires in California and I really wanted to touch his arm and talk to him about spaceships and conspiracy theories as a continuation of our last conversation in 2009 after we played Risk on his birthday. Which I won, by the way.
But alas, I have gained - ho-lee FUCK - 22 pounds in the last two years. That was the last time I stood on a scale. I've decided to blame my stolen bike and my friends who left me (I am looking at YOU, MoLinder and Gyna) for this weight gain, because even though I know the bulk of it is bite-size Butterfingers in groups of seven and 2am pizzas (which I blame on CrazyLiz), I refuse to accept responsibility. Something will have to be done, and I will have to find more obscure things to blame until I am either (a) satisfied or (b) amazing-looking.
Despite how awesomely I glowed in my dress, how I felt like glamorous Batman on a winning streak in Vegas, I was not mentally capable of starting that conversation and was afraid I would make some joke about how much both of us had grown in two years and come off sounding desperate, which technically I was. Alas.
Weeks and weeks ago, after hearing about the dress, the Smith Sister Savannah said to me, "Ross, for my wedding? I would never, ever, ever make you wear something like that," which was her kind way of saying "don't you fucking dare pull that neon circus-garb out again for my wedding."
Coincidentally, Savannah's wedding was the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, so after I woke up the next morning I had to get my ass in gear to officiate another wedding, which will, of course, be discussed in a later post, because I have run out of wine and it is time for bed.
EDIT: Aaaaaaand there's the dress. I don't have any pictures of me in it where you can really see it in all it's glory.