I'd like to say that I put the 'sin' in Wisconsin, but everybody knows it was a grand and wonderful group effort.
I don't know what I thought I was doing, but I hadn't been in Green Bay more than a few hours before I started to shake my arse, poor-man's-Beyonce'-style, in front of a fireplace and a lot of people. That's comfort right there, people. When you feel at home enough to shake it on a dude ranch, in front of strangers, you know you're firmly embraced by the best kind of hospitality.
Poppets, I can't even begin to explain what an incredible weekend I just had. I know I didn't really talk about going away on this particular piece of real estate, but it was something I was really looking forward to, if only because I needed to get the hell out of the city for a few days. It should be noted right away, however, that Weetabix and her friends and family should perhaps think about teaching classes called Great Weekend 101, because I've never been made to feel so welcome in my life. Starting from The Jason, who was Captain of the Welcome to Wisconsin team, to Weet's wonderful in-laws who, without blinking an eye, provided a wonderful spread for a bunch of strange out-of-towners, all the way to Weet's Esteban, who was sweet and charming and perfectly willing to shuttle us hither and fro. Everybody was just lovely.
My God. And maybe a lot of other deities, too, because I have a feeling I'm going to be coming off this trip for lots of time to come. I mean, there was a sleigh ride! With horses! And everything was snow-dappled and gorgeous, and we were all pickled, and then there was romance and a diamond and tears of joy and a Yes! And then there was brilliant hospitality, involving things like booyah and fluff and wonderful strangers who would prove to be full of friendly conversation and laughter and bratwurst. (Speaking of: bratwurst, where have you been all my life? And sauerkraut? You're my new boyfriend! Oh my palate of joy!)
And then there was the best, most committed session of karaoke I've ever seen, except it wasn't so much karaoke as it was a giant showcase of national talent involving back-up singers and flygirls and a crowd of Solid Gold Dancers. I'm very proud to say that our Gin 'n' Juice beat out the local Ice Ice Baby with a score of Deafening on the imaginary Applause-o-meter. And then the next American Idol started to belt it out like some kind of dance hall crooner, all sultry and smoky, making everyone in the place fall in love with her a little bit.
The next day, I rose easily (staggered gracelessly, sore and hungover) from my bed, and Chauffi dropped by my room to approve my couture choices for the evening, and hurry my arse down to breakfast, which was full of all the requisite French toast and sausages and squinted-against-sunlight eyes and morning-after gossip.
I'm embarrassed to say, poppets, that your Mare needed a quick 45-minute nap after breakfast, but it was the best decision I could have made, because I was able to survive on that nap until four the next morning.
Oh, what a wonderful day that followed that wee nap. There was a very long haul for the best hamburgers in the entire universe, where I experienced, amongst other things, the joy of fried cheese. People, fried cheese! And there was a silly arcade game that I couldn't win, but it decided to spit free balls out at me anyway, because obviously it knows that above all else, I like to make people laugh. And laugh they did. And then I bought a purse! Because every girl needs 45 purses! But it is, oh, so wonderful, with its little crystals and reticule closure and its beaded strap. One of the sweeter moments of the weekend was my return back to the hotel, where I called Chauffi, and said, "Wanna see what I bought?" and he said, "Yeah! Come over!" and I hurried down the hall so that I could model my purse and he could model his new leather jacket and then we could trade more stories and plan our takeover of Green Bay.
And then... and then... there was the Bad Bar. Oh, the Bad Bar. The Bad Bar, with the Sexy Hot bartenders who kept comping my drinks. The Bad Bar, where, within the first five minutes, some guy in a shirt covered in boobs snuck a peek down my top and asked my to sign my name next to the appropriate set of breastases. The Bad Bar, with it's raised window sill that doubles as a dance floor and ensures that every single patron of the bar sees every hippy-hippy-shake that I make, and is therefore the answer to every fantasy and cry for help I've ever had. The Bad Bar, where Scotty Boom Boom stuffed a dollar bill in my cleavage, and Eric let me - in the guise of getting my purse from behind him - touch his ass all night long.
I have been to many good bars, my friends. I have been to many good bars in several different countries, but I have to say that, hands down, this is the best bar in the universe. We are all a Groovy Disco Baby when we enter the Bad Bar, but we are superstars when we leave. You will make friends in the bathroom. You will let people decorate you with glow bracelets. You will garner compliments that are above and beyond what you were hoping for when you stood in front of the hotel mirror and straightened your hair. You will wrap your arms around everyone and sway and sing "All Out of Love" until you are breathless, and you will shake your head with wonder, because a few years ago, you decided to try your hand at writing on the internet, and now you are surrounded, yet again, by some of the coolest people on the planet.
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