i bet that you'd look good on the dancefloor
Mixed in with the toys, the puzzle pieces, the new copy of The Opinionated Knitter, and an elusive skein of pink merino/angora; a half-dozen yellow rose petals are scattered. They are the remnants of two blossoms from Little Spider & Spike for my birthday, blooms that came with a bottle (it seems that my days of wine and roses aren’t over yet). And there’s a new yarn in the harem, a Fleece Artist hat kit from Yvette that’s going to make a kickawesome earflap pilot cap someday soon.
But enough about stuff. Stuff is fun, but stuff doesn’t fill up the heart. The important question remains unanswered: Rocketbride, did you dance your twenties away in high style? Did you get your lipstick straight in a restaurant bathroom? Did your friends show up? Did you get loaded and throw up in an alley? Yes, no, yes and no (although I had to exercise maturity not to reach this point). My Birthday Princess, Dancing Queen Ball was well-attended, with only one significant no-show. Sister Silver met us for dinner at Kalendar, and Ian showed up for dessert; the Boy having found him forlornly sitting by a locked bike on the street as he (the Boy) was on his way to dinner. If anything was going to push my night up right away, it was the serendipity of finding Ian after losing track of him for so long. (His entrance was classic: he eyed my black zipper dress, my spiked leather collar and my black & white striped thigh-highs, saying, “so, you just came from your job?”) He entertained us with tales of married life and working on documentaries for a major religious television station as he ate his share of the caramel dip. And he even brought a Neil Gaiman tour shirt, as he promised months ago. Between the rush of seeing Ian and the satisfaction of hearing Sister Silver congratulate us on our excellent progeny, dinner was a smashing success.
After stuffing myself with scrolls, we went over to Dirk’s house to collect him and hang out a little before the boomy dark room that is the Dance Cave shut out any possibility of a three-way conversation. We also ran into Ivy, the Gothest Baby Of All Time (Gboat) and the prettiest thing I saw all night. Boy, do I want another baby. And after making sure that Dirk had the requisite 8 oz. of Montreal Smoked Meat the Canadian Food Guide recommends, and after running into Little Spider and Spike who were denied entrance when they tried to bring a bottle of wine into the DC, we were able to make our triumphant appearance. We were the second bunch there, the first person being Drea, who arrived at the time I posted. Oops. Good thing she had her crocheting to work on while we were late.
LS bought me a drink, Shannon bought me a drink, Yvette bought me a drink…and then I had to stop. Seriously. I dance like a lunatic at the DC, and it’s way too aerobic for a bunch of alkyhol sloshing around in there with no place to go. Like, I don’t drink while I’m on the circuit trainer, so I had to ACT MY AGE and pass on the last drink to LS, who was drinking her way onto the dance floor. (Me? I don’t have that pesky problem with self-consciousness.)
Anyway, between Stacy, Dirk, Drea, Yvette & my beloved Boy, we warmed up the floor until the booze could work its magic on LS. If my ass wasn’t so, let’s say asstastic, I would have danced it right off. I remember a point between songs when Stacy & I were catching our breath (without, you know, thinking to leave the floor), and I noticed that we were both shiny. “Ladies glisten,” I shouted, “we sweat.” “Yay!” she grinned and flung her hands into the air.
LS joined us for some excellent gothy stuff, and miraculously managed to find the ankh that I had clipped onto my dress, then lost somewhere. I was kicking myself when I noticed it was gone; it’s lived on a length of wire ever since I used it as a circlet at C*8 and I only just put it back on its cheap chain a few months ago. I even had a premonition that I would lose it, and was pretty resigned to this fate until LS’s eagle eyes spotted in on the dark dancefloor. She rocks. It’s like she gave me an ankh, except that she gave me one that’s much more precious than a new one could ever be.
me, hung over, 2002.
just in case you’ve forgotten the circlet
And at the end of the evening, we danced past all constraints of time and space (certainly past the certain knowledge that 7 a.m. was coming our way with the inevitability of a freight train). And then we danced some more. And then I totally lost my shit to that excellent Arctic Monkeys song that I have the geeky idea actually belongs to the mythical band Driveshaft in a better universe than this one. I mean, I emptied the tanks – I’ve wanted to dance to that song forever, and when I got my chance I did not let it go quietly. Yee haw.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*