The Eve of the Eve is over. Nana’s first birthday in heaven has passed. I just sat down and watched Love Actually start to finish. The Pogues are playing throughout the house, cookies are being baked in the oven, my Ugly Christmas Sweater (with matching turtleneck) is laid out for tomorrow’s festivities. It’s officially Christmas.
Pictured from left to right: Kelly L., Joe B., Kelly C.
I’m sorry, but if this guy isn’t Joe Biden then I don’t know who is.
So I’m at my friend Katie’s bridal luncheon the day before her fantabulous wedding in Houston last weekend, and the woman sitting next to me (we’ll call her Trish, because that is her name) says that her husband looks exactly like Joe Biden. I smile and laugh because hey, he could look like anyone and this woman is sweet and also throwing the luncheon so I don’t want to make any enemies. But in the back of my head I know my dad tells people I look like Angie Harmon, so I also know that people’s visions of their loved ones is skewed.
The face of Second Day Hangover
We all know that there are very few things in life worse than a hangover. Ok, so that’s not true. I guess there are more than a few worse things, like death, war, the economy, etc. But when you’re hungover you don’t think about these things. Because hungover people are so self-absorbed.
Anyway, lately, after experiencing several days of the expected and warranted full-fledged hangover, I’ve come to find that the day after that does not bring with it the much prayed for relief, but rather a feeling that is less bad, yet oddly similar. And I would like to refer to this feeling as “Second Day Hangover.” It’s a real thing.
Hipsters Patrick and Brian. It's Patrick's birthday, and to celebrate Brian wore the American flag. Obvi.
Last weekend was magical. I headed to Brooklyn by way of the Lower East Side to celebrate the impending nuptials of one Miss Katie Poff. We ate barbecue, we went shopping, we laid out by the pool, we even watched some episodes of Laguna Beach on DVD.
After watching the sun set over the East River and behind the skyline of Manhattan we did some shots of Goldschlager and headed out to the bars. It was at this exact moment that I was almost rundown by a violent hipster bike-rider who was angry that I had so brazenly taken my stroll into the bike lanes of the unreasonably wide Williamsburg roadways. “Bikers’ rights!” he yelled as he whizzed past me, ringing a bell situated on top of his handlebars. “I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to exist anywhere!” I screamed, adjusting the bachelorette masquerade mask on top of my head and refusing to move. My indignation then led me to actually run into a swerving hipster who just so happened to get caught up in the fracas. “That was dick of me, I’m sorry,” I told her. She just shook her head. Let the hipster hating begin.
As has become apparent I’m sure over the past few months, I was/am obsessed with the royal wedding, in particular the rising star of one Pippa Middleton. So much so that, moments after the world’s most famous sibling entered Westminster Abbey, I was proclaiming that I would be the Pippa Middleton of not one, not two, but all of the weddings I have to attend in the next year or so. Meaning, I was going to upstage everyone, be the best dressed, etc. Oh, wishful thinking.
My first attempt came at the Memorial Day nuptials of my cousin RJ. To say I crashed and burned would be an understatement. But instead of being upset or going on the defensive, I’m owning it, and because of that, I’m going to give all of you the definitive guide on what not to do at a wedding, family function, or really anytime you’re in public. This is How Not to be the Pippa Middleton of a Wedding. You’ll thank me later.