This One Goes to Eleven

I have one thing to say about work today:
You do not have to yell.
And you sure as shit do not have to yell with your mouth full.

So, the weekend.
We made yet another trek to the motherland for an all-day benefit that A. and his cousin put on every year. A benefit for which and in which he works his ass off, along with others that also work their asses off and still others that sit around their pop-up campers and shoot fireworks into the weeds.

Bird and I stayed with my parents on Friday night, to get her settled and so that I could get a decent night’s sleep before the festivities. Mama Snee is old and delicate these days, and needs her rest.

Remember when I was saying all of those fabulous things about Indiana? Here’s a snapshot of what I’m talking about: I woke up Saturday morning to Bird in her crib next to the guest bed, chattering away about some thing or another, and I picked her up and stuffed her into the bed next to me, where she promptly fell right back asleep, nose to nose with her mama. And we snuggled up and felt the breeze coming in the open windows, in between the clean sheets in the bluish pre-morning light. And we listened (I know, get this) to the rain. Not sirens or dogs barking or the alarm clock or my neighbor’s insanely loud bass. It smelled good and it felt good. Indiana is made of magic, I tell you. Or maybe it’s just that my mom actually washes the sheets regularly.

So Saturday afternoon I said goodbye to my sweetiebeans and drove an hour and a half north to meet up with A. at his cousin’s farm for the third annual Gene Wilder Open, featuring great bands playing great music (okay, I’m getting lazy, no more links) in a barn in the middle of nowhere, where hipsters gather to rock out and sleep in beat up pop-up campers and tents and raise money for the daughter of a friend who passed away.

And apparently, I arrived at the farm via time machine, and showed up ready to party somewhere between 1994 and 1998. I hugged old friends despite my raging B.O. and chatted and accepted beer after beer, was photographed smoking cigarette after cigarette, and soon found myself stumbling across a field in search of a cozy place to close my eyes for a second, then sitting in the very wet grass next to my car and smooshing my cheek right on the drivers’ side door because it felt so nice and cold. Fortunately, I managed to recover in time to make it back to the barn and use the word “fuck” about fifty times in conversation with my mother-in-law and then fell asleep in my car. Note to self: eat dinner before you drink dinner, capisce?

On another note, the bands were fantastic, the company was swell, everybody mostly kept their shit together, I didn’t lose my keys, the cause was a good one, and it was nice to see A. freed from behind his drum kit, singing and tambourining with Hideki. It would have been nice to have a date for the party, (or maybe someone who would have said “have a water this time,”) but I also like to watch him work the sound board and play music and be happy as a little clam. It also makes me feel like I’m contributing, watching him work so hard.

And then Bird– oh, Bird! We met up with my parents at a restaurant near the interstate to do the Great Car Seat Trade-Off Stunt Show and Variety Hour, and I swear to you she was bigger and had more hair than she did when I left her the day before. She spent most of the lunch stomping around the restaurant, jabbering and pointing her spatula at people. Add that to my list of best-loved kid toys: cell phone, cardboard paper tube, tupperware, spatula.

And by the way, no more bitching about the Ford Explorer. You should have seen how much shit that thing can hold.

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