That was quite a day. It’s still going, but with any luck there won’t be any more excitement.
My alarm went off at 7.50am. A stupid time for consciousness on a Saturday. On any day, really. Even 8am is a foolish time, but since we were packing a lot into the day I needed to get in early, make sure I had the right clothes and the right strings and every little thing in its place and every little place in its thing.
And what was OUT of place? The spider in the shower. Staring at me from the ceiling, one of the jumping kind – licking its mandibles in anticipation of landing on my head and laying eggs in my skull. Oh how much joy the beast radiated, finally having found a home for its thousand-child brood.
I was kind to it, knowing that it wasn’t personal. Knowing that really all it was saying “gosh! You’ve got a JOLLY good head!”, and so I gently snagged it in a paper towel and let it loose elsewhere. But then I discovered this was merely a preamble to my morning’s travailles… enter my nemesis.
Lobster crickets. How I despise thee. To the last, I will grapple with thee… from Hell’s heart, I stab at thee! For hate’s sake, I spit my last breath at thee! Or at least, I’ll try to catch you in a cup. Oh foul spider cricket. Eventually I had to resort to shooting water at it and opening the drain and washing it away… or this is what I’d hoped… it didn’t go. It gripped the edges of the drain and continued to battle me, cursing me nonchalantly. Finally, I got it in the drain and put the cover back on, only to realize that now I just had an angry lobster cricket waving it’s arms, legs and whip-like feelers at me from under the drain cover.
Gig and then a wedding? Best get a SNACK!!! 
I must admit. It beat me and I gave up. I went upstairs and took a shower figuring I could return LATER with explosives and a 12-guage, but at that point, too many minutes had been wasted on this already too-crowded day. I shaved too quickly and scraped hair from my face, leaving my face burning for the rest of the day and… well, there was the sensation of SHAME that flavoured the otherwise delicious hot water. Streaming over me, every trickle seemed to say “you lost out to a cricket you frakkin pansy”.
I came downstairs, short on time, to confront the fact that one of my housemates has a stalker who had actually slept outside the house last night and was banging on the door at 8.43am. Really? She doesn’t want to see you. Really? I don’t care. Nope… she’s not here NO you’re not coming in NO I don’t know where she is NO you may not walk her dog and now I’m running late and don’t have time for you. Go away. (door slam and lock)
Sheesh. Heather arrives at the house and we head out to Taste of Bethesda, where no-one knows where we’re supposed to park or set up, where we’re briefly mixed up in the OTHER event on the NEXT street called Back to Bethesda… oh the madness. Finally, we’re setting up, throwing a setlist together, sound-checking the cello, and insisting that yes the car can stay there and NO it won’t be in the way – LOOK we’re RIGHT here and can move it if you need us to but really we’re not moving it now (and we watched like a trio of hawks, making sure that no-one ELSE moved it). The set goes off pretty well with a couple of CD sales and a decent amount of attention despite the fact that there are other, bigger stages every block for about a square mile with bigger sound systems, drum kits and apparently a full horn section. I’d even say it was a great show – except that our grand finale was Heather being stung on the roof of her mouth by a yellowjacket hiding in her soda can.
I’m so glad we WERE playing a large festival that day. Heather’s never been stung before (and for that matter, neither have I) and it was a huge relief to have EMTs immediately available to us. They clustered around her, full of concern and questions with Heather clenched in pain, unable to form syllables. One woman spent time kneeling, poking at the interior of Heather’s mouth for quite some time before retracting triumphantly, a stinger the size of a small spear held up for all to see: a vicious, barbed thing that left a venomous taste in Heather’s mouth for the rest of the day.
The first stop for gas on the road is always a time of … of something.
Never to be defeated, Heather said “On with the day!!! (“Aw wid uh ay!”) and we hightailed it to Columbia, MD for the wedding of our friends Katie and Richard. But first we must stop at a truck stop to change into our finery, where much to their chagrin Heather and Kristen noted that there was no hook in their restroom stall.
WhatEVER. As I balanced on one foot, trying not to soak other men’s urine into the bottom of my handcrafted woolen sock while I change pants, the automatic toilet flushed time and time again. The half-stalls of the I-95 Maryland truck stop make it seem like I’m a Life-sized puppet show, swaying back and forth, struggling to keep all of my parts and clothes on one small patch of plastic bag – I must’ve been a good show – except of course we try not to stare at one another in the Man Room.
As I fought for balance on the soiled tile floor, the ladies next door were being handed their clothing by perfumed bluebirds who chirped merrily as they went about their work. The inexhaustible supply of toilet paper, lavender-scented and soft to the tush was dispensed from never-squeaking, shining and chromed devices and the auto-flush asked politely if it could wash away their waste before releasing a flower-tinged mist and apologizing for all the fuss. It’s just not fair. The Man Room autoflush actually SAYS “FUCK YOU!” before spitting at you. Bastard device.
SOMEONE must’ve been having a really nice bathroom experience because when I exited a man approached my well-suited-self and asked if I’d refilled the paper towel dispensers – because… you know… truck stops have such nicely-dressed bathroom attendants!
Soon I was joined by my LADIES. With my beautiful cohorts flanking me, we walked back down to the car, turning heads and sparkling. My snakeskin boots completing my ensemble with a decided clicking of heels, we were soon stuffed back into the station wagon and back on our way to the wedding.
And a good wedding it was. The ceremony was tiny but Lovely and Katie added a couple of “very”s into the wedding vows that I thought were particularly heartwarming. Beyond the Love and affection one spouse shows for the other, there’s an additional level of ADMIRATION and pride that I think both Richard and Katie have for one another that I think is particularly beautiful. Being proud to be with someone and shining that pride around you is a Lovely glow and it was greatly in evidence during the wedding.
Unfortunately, during the best man’s speech there were some pyrotechnics with the bartender trying to quietly open bottles of champagne at the same time and accidentally firing a cork into the ventilation shaft above him, knocking a grate loose and causing general destruction. The most dramatic speech I’ve had the opportunity to observe at a wedding. I highly recommend YOU hire someone to make something explode at YOUR wedding!
Eventually we managed to make our way home. Too much packed into the day, too much fatigue. We collapse into the couch and watch some movies and go to bed. It’s a good way to finish our time out in Maryland.
(snooze)
