Party Down
Okay, so the bikini didn't happen (although I was wearing it under my clothes and there were a handful of other employees in swimwear on the premises), but the weather ended up being a factor after all--it was about 100 degrees and humid as a rainforest...complete with rain and thunder and lightning and Polynesian dancers with excessive eye makeup. Maybe it's just the pregnant mama bear in me, but I wasn't about to get in the pool during a electrical storm and risk frying my baby from the inside out like a hotdog in a microwave, and so it was that I stayed clothed and Simon's coworkers did not get to see the full effects of bbq ribs on my belly (hint: I puffed out like a threatened blowfish). Maybe next year, when I'm six months postpartum. NOT.
Back at home, it was about 150 degrees in the shade and humid as a snow globe, complete with pretty twinkly specks floating in the air around me (um, I think I should go lie down), and so I spent most of the afternoon there in a tanktop and swimsuit bottoms and a state of woe and misery because I'M SOOOOO HOT, WAAAAAAH. That night we went to a birthday party in city, and I was really looking forward to the novelty of being outside at night in San Francisco without a jacket, but then of course the fog rolled in and it was 55 degrees and all of the guests were huddled on the patio shivering and regretting their flip-flops and general lack of insulation, myself included. Thank goodness the potluck theme was SPICY! and that there were more ribs for me to gnaw.
The highlight of the night was that the birthday boy had ten inches of his hair ceremonially cut off in front of his guests--an event that was long coming and greatly momentous. When he and Simon met as freshman roommates in college, D already had long hair, and Simon said then that when he (D) finally decided to cut it, he (Simon) wanted to be the one to do it. Flash forward to fifteen years later, and it was Simon who stood behind him, gave a speech with shears in hand, and made the cut. It's fun to have friends like that--friends with history--and even though it has nothing at all to do with me, I nevertheless feel proud that it was my boyfriend chosen to do the honors.
(I get that way a lot--proud about things Simon does that have nothing to do with me save validate that I picked a good one. If not for a minor logistics problem, he would be officiating a gay marriage for one of my coworkers and her future wife next month, and oh, how my heart swelled to see how happy and excited he was to be a part of that history--both social and personal--in that particular way. (Note to any gays out there who want to get hitched: Simon will officiate! He makes outstanding speeches and he will even wear a kilt if you want him to (and also maybe if you don't).))
The rest of the weekend was spent complaining about the heat and/or cleaning the filthy filthy filthy house. (I wouldn't call it nesting so much as taking care of shit that has needed taking care of since we moved into the house, almost a full year ago.) We even bought a fancy new vacuum and everything, and rather than try to explain just how fancy it is and how much it will change the future of our floors, I'll instead reveal that the occasion warranted the opening of a bottle of pink champagne with dinner, of which even I had a tiny sip. Simon carried the rest of the bottle around with him all night, taking a swig now and then like a seasoned wino, and even though his straight-from-the-bottle technique is not the sort of thing that makes me proud of him, per se, I still find it somewhat endearing. I can only hope he says the same of me and the way I guzzle huge glasses of milk and then follow up with a Mylanta chaser.
I'm now picturing Simon as Freddie Mercury's housewife character in the video for I Want To Break Free. Help.
Uncanny! Its been a year since we moved into our house and this past weekend was also spent doing all those jobs we have been putting off for a year, like cleaning windows, emptying gutters and dusting blinds and ceiling fans. I can't believe its been a year!
Um. TINY MUCH??? You are the most petite pregnant woman EVER.
That photo of you two is classic :)
Yeah, I was a couple months pregnant last Labor Day, when it was ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN FRACKIN' DEGREES in my SoCal town. Gawd! I feel your pain. During this most recent heat wave, my infant son decided he couldn't possibly sleep through the night anymore, but he returned to his senses last night.
Weather's a bitch everywhere, it seems. I can't get dressed in the morning without fearing that whatever I wear will be wildly inappropriate to the climate by mid-afternoon.