I am a peripheral Dogface. See, Gardog’s group of friends from college is called the Dogface Gang. So, over the years, as I developed friendships with them all, I became an “honorary” dogface.
This weekend saw the first marriage of a Dogface offspring (the younger crowd has started calling themselves the Puppy Face. Cute.).
Anyhoo, the wedding was beautiful. I laughed. I cried. I danced with an amazon bridesmaid, who tried to lead. I should have let her. Anything would have been better than those two left feet of hers trying to follow. This was followed by the seductive breathing and whispered, “so, are you straight or gay?”
Hello, bark? Wrong tree.
“OHHHHHH, I’m waaaaaaaay gay.” Trust me, any man would have said the same thing. She looked like the type that would eat you up. She was a pretty girl, don’t get me wrong. But she had some balls, let me tell you.
The party was still going strong at 1:30 in the a.m. Knowing I had a flight to catch, I said my goodnights and cabbed it back to the Ritz Clarion (as I affectionately nicknamed my motel). Hey, a girl’s gotta find the glamour anywhere she can.
By two I was fast asleep, white wine and tequila churning in my belly, all moisture slowly draining from my brain. Morning would not be pretty.
At 6 a.m. I was awakened by one of the most fucking annoying sounds in the world—a small child shrieking. I don’t know why, but that sends my nerves to 11. Pisses me off royally and makes me want to do bad things.
Apparently, some hillbillies (based on the accent) had taken the room next to me, and one right across the hall. They began moving back and forth between the two rooms, with a cacophony of slamming doors, screaming children and Appalachian admonishments.
There must be a heaven, ‘cause motherfucker, this was hell. I kept thinking that they would head out—to breakfast, their purpose, a slow, painful death . . . I don’t know, anything!
But they didn’t. Apparently rooms 133 and 134 at the Ritz Clarion was as close to Disneyland as these pov-heads were ever gonna get.
As I reached for the phone to complain, something in my head reminded me that someone had said something about Kentucky the night before. Was the groom’s family from Kentucky? SHIT! What if these people were part of the wedding and I went all ballistic on them, only to run into them an hour later at the lunch?
As the cycle of doze/shriek/slam/y’all continued, I wiled away the time reevaluating my position on handgun possession.
And then, all was quiet. The banjo people had packed up the posse and checked out, leaving me with my chardonnay/cazadores head, and only four hours sleep. I felt like I was in college again.
At lunch, I inquired about any wedding folk from Kentucky. I was told that there were none. Figures.