FYI--A Marriage License won't get you into a bar

For starters, it must be said that Saturday was bittersweet for me.  Sweet because my dear bestie R got married to a wonderful man.  The wedding was a celebration of God's goodness and many answered prayers.  Moreover, it was an excuse to get dolled up, paint my toenails, and wear my fabulous open toed black satin wedges and shake my money maker.  But bitter, because the aforementioned wonderful man is moving my dear R to Fredericksburg.

Yes, Fredericksburg is only about an hour away.  But still.  Lunch dates with her are going to get tricky.

That being said, we had a blast at the wedding and reception.  The highlight of the reception for me was the open bar the Father-Daughter dance.  R and her dad had choreographed a dance that included music changes, the moonwalk, and every other dance style you can imagine.  What was sweet to me was not the silly dance, but the excitement with which they both danced it.  I envisioned R's dad at the computer putting the music together and then the two of them in their family room practicing.  And then I thought about Sloan and Gracie in 25 years or so and of course, I teared up.
But then, after tearing up, I got my groove on.

Sloan gets a little embarrassed when we go out dancing.  Mainly because a) our closest friends all go to church with us and b) I like to spank things and shake things whilst dancing.  Bonus points for Saturday as R used to work at our church so there were a lot of pastors and the like in attendance as well.  But we had practiced our shagging skills and were impressive, even manging to double pretzel on several occasions and basically showing up everyone.  (Which, of course, is always my goal.  I asked Sloan earlier in the day about which earrings to wear.  He responded, "You do know this isn't your wedding, right?  That everyone's not going to be looking at you?)

Once we sent the bride and groom off for their Caribbean honeymoon (which is hilarious because their dueling gingered paleness is only dwarfed by the Cullen family), a group of us decided we wanted to go to Carytown and go dancing.

Sloan wasn't too eager to go as he was thinking of the babysitter for whom we were already getting a second mortgage.  (She arrived at 3pm.  It was now 10.)  But, he was a trooper and I was loudly adamant having had three one too many glasses of chardonnay.  Sooo...we all hopped in our car and our DD, my pregnant friend A and her husband D, drove off for the techno stylings of the DJ at NY Deli.

Except there was only one problem.  Having thought I was just going to a wedding, I didn't have my ID.  I didn't think it would be a problem; I clearly look over 21, right?!

The bouncer at NY Deli, conceding that he was certain I was over 21, still did not let me in the bar.  I begged.  I pleaded.  I lied and said I wouldn't even drink if I went inside.  But no go.  We toyed with the idea of going home, but the boys wanted to go inside, so A and I were troopers and decided to walk around Carytown.  (Which is super fun for a pregnant woman in heels.  What a good friend!)   The bouncer told me if I had any government ID with my birth date or a photo ID, he would let me in.  So I went back to the car to search.

Randomly, I found my marriage license.  (Don't you keep yours in your glove compartment?)

He told me that would suffice for my age if I just had a credit card with my photo on it.

"I brought my husband with me, why would I need any money?"  I said. 

The bouncer neither budged or was amused.  He explained that if the ALE came into the bar and asked for my ID, simply my marriage license wouldn't cut it and then he would lose his job.  I tried reasoning with him that the likelihood of the ALE officers targeting a 30 something suburban housewife was nil.  He also said that my facebook page on my phone nor a Baby's First photo book did not count as official photo IDs.  I offered to play him the tape of my wedding ceremony.  (Also found in my glove compartment.  And yes, I did make us listen to it on the way home.)

So Ann and I walked around Carytown.  We ran into W, a friend of our church's with some mental problems.  He used to live with his parents near the church and he could always been seen smoking in our parking lot between cups of coffee in the church gallery.  When his parents passed away, he moved into a halfway home in Carytown.  So it actually was a treat to see him and talk with him.  A, being the church secretary and all, was close to W and asked him for name ideas for her baby.  He entreated her to name the child something "Pizazzy."

Once we were finished speaking with W, we then found a bench.  (Meanwhile, a group of men playing trashcans and the like as drums set up right next to us.  So. Freaking. Loud.)  I slowly went from laughing about the situation to feeling sorry for myself and then onto anger.  As in, How-dare-my-husband-leave-me- out-here-and-go-in-there-and-have-fun-without-me kind of anger.  I sent him angry texts.  I'd link up a screen shot of our texting conversation because it's freaking hilarious, but it is riddled with curse words.  I did, however, at one point, angrily text him to "Pick up a hottie."  He texted

A kept saying darling things like "You both need to be gracious to one another" and "now why are you being insecure, that has nothing to do with your ID" and "Oh, I don't think you need to cuss so much about this."

And so, if you saw me heavy lidded with my head in my hands on Sunday morning wishing my eyelids weren't so loud when I blinked--that's why.

All that said, I highly recommend when you're about to get into a stupid argument with your spouse that is really about nothing at all you're just hot and upset and mildly intoxicated (those are the BEST fights!), it helps to listen to your wedding ceremony on cassette tape.  Of course, sometimes I think it was rather foolish of me to write our vows and to include "to repent and to forgive".  Augh.  Who knew we'd spend so much time doing that?