Monday, February 26, 2007
I slept horribly last night, tossed and turned, awakened covered in cold cold sweat. I sit here typing when I should be scheduling a cab to O'Hare, or finishing packing (the damn lid won't shut!)
God knows what evil toxins are creeping out my wet pores right now: coffee, cigarette smoke, second-hand Crack smoke leftover from Friday night? All I know, is it smells like rotting onions sauteed in hobo urine. Lord, help whomever sits next to me on the plane.
I am both excited and terrified about this trip to Edinburgh. I've never been overseas before, really. I've been to Hawaii with my entire mom's side of the family once as a 16 year old, and on a cruise through the East Caribbean with my parents and aunt and uncle, but nothing like this before on my own. Fourteen hour flight...will I get the Air Rage instigated by the inevitable Nicotine Fit and Crying Baby (though I may be the crying baby if I don't get the FULL CAN of soda, bitch!)?
But it will all be worth it to see Fresh get married.
I'm gonna miss Lilly so much. We've only been apart for 8 days (?) at a stretch; however, I'll take comfort that she'll be in good hands with Carrie. Lilly: you play nice!
Okay, let's go sit on that suitcase now.
Probably a bong-load of photos for your viewing pleasure (indifference?) come March!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Advice for Fresh
Originally uploaded by Mac(3).
Sorry for the long delay in posts, pics, and what-not, but I've had a lot on my mind. For, you see, I am preparing for a trip to the fair hills and dales of Edinburgh, Scotland.
"But, Mac, that's a long way to go just for a drink," you may say.
Now, true, I am excited to sample a tipple or two of beers born and bred in European soil and vats, but I am going to attend more important of matters and events.
The marriage of Fresh to his lovely lass, The Doctor. That's right; a honest-to-goodness card-carrying PHD Doctor (must I always be the dumbest person in the room? Couldn't marry someone that pops up in this search, huh?).
A few weeks ago, Fresh returned to native land for a weekend of drinking, giggles, and kilted fun, a Stag Party Weekend in his honor. I've waited too long to expound on the weekend of fun in any detail, so I'll let the pictures do the talking for themselves. I had a great time, and enjoyed meeting some of his family and friends (and look forward to seeing them again in Scotland).
I've got my passport (with required shitty photo), my luggage (blue, battered, and heavy), my flight (long and, well, fucking long!), and lodging (right in the heart of Princes Street! The Court Street of Edinburgh! (or something like that)), and my Lilly-sitter all lined up and in order for the most part.
But I haven't a thing to wear! (Combination of bad fashion taste and the dread of actually doing laundry. Ever). Cripes, I'll be the stinky, Fashion Don't Representative of America for two weeks. I shall be pummeled with pint glasses and thrown off the Waverly Bridge or hung from the gallows below the Edinburgh Castle!
Or praised for my "cool, vintage early-90's apparel."
Ah well, pass a bit of the Jameson, and smooth my furrowed brow (and add another church to The List, brother).
Okay, haven't a clue what this post is about.
Later, and more often, I hope.