Homeless; Wedding

I just came to three significant realizations.

1. I don't really have a home anymore.

This apartment is just the place where I keep my stuff, food, and get access to high-speed internet. Seriously, it's just like a big closet at this point. The "decorations" I've put up include a whiteboard with story ideas, and a calendar. And I think that's excessive.

My parents' home is just that, their home. Not mine, not anymore. Hasn't been since I moved out to go to college.

I miss Baltimore, and MD at large, but that's more because it's familiar. It's a home state, but not really home either.

There's no one place that I can go to and feel like, "Hey, this is where I belong." The closest thing is the Lady Surfer, and that's probably why I'm so reluctant to trade her in. Well, that and not having the money to do so.

2. I won't have a home for a long time.

Let's say I were crazy enough to finally purchase a home. I'd do so with the foreknowledge that it would only be flipped land & real estate prices matured to the point where I would realize a significant profit on the sale. Then, that second house would probably be similarly flipped, only to purchase a third, a fourth, an Xth house that keeps getting flipped. Then, nursing home, or Buddhist monastery.

3. I'm ok with being homeless.

What makes a home? For me, it's just the memories, and the security. And it's not that I don't have memories, like a newly constructed robot, or that I feel unsafe. On the contrary, my time in B-more taught me to distrust everyone and everything, which actually makes me feel safe in a roundabout way (since no one can be trusted, I must be ever vigilant. That keeps me from becoming soft and being betrayed).

As for the memories, I carry those in my head, and in my wallet. Well, not really in the wallet anymore, but a lot of memories in the head. Though they rattle around in my head, I tend not to really have any memories of home recently (because I've not had a home recently, see 1). It's an egg chasing chicken issue, but if I don't have a home, I can't miss it. Therefore, it is OK.

***

Notable moments from M.C.'s and W.C.'s wedding:

M.C.'s brother, H.C. was so drunk he kept a beer in his back pocket, until he jumped a couple of times and the beer spilled out. Later, he gave a cringe-worthy speech. Oh, so toasted.

I got a chance to dance with M.C. Broke out some of my favorite 70s moves, including the finger point, the shoe slap, and the 360 spin. Ah, I was on.

Gave my soon-to-be obsolete business cards to everyone I talked to. M.C. actually slipped mine into her cleavage, because she had no pockets (and really, don't you think it's about five hours too late for that?).

During the ceremony itself (a Catholic mass), I attempted to sing the responses in my most sonorous, deepest bass voice. Why C.S. found this funny, I will never know.

None of us had eaten for a long while, so when we finally got our food, myself, C.S., and M.N. all set into the food like wildebeests (and I gotta say, M.N.'s all right. Any woman that can set into food when she's hungry like a wildebeest gets a thumbs up in my book.). Of course, someone tried to ask me questions to make conversation, and I answered as tersely as possible, in order to cram more food into the gullet. I mentioned this to C.S. later, and he concurred that was his goal while eating also.

The best man made several references to World of Warcraft in his speech. I may well have been the only person in the room besides W.C. to know that BWL is an abbreviation for BlackWing Lair, and Nefarian is the name of the end boss which the best man alluded to several times.

There was an attempt to consume alcohol on my part. The red wine was so sour, I poured in a sugar packet. This somehow made it even more sour. (Disclaimer: It was probably really good wine. I just can't get past that personal "death taste" I get whenever I consume alcohol.)

In the taped messages to the married couple, I was buzzing a bit, so I think I started off by saying "Hey guys, I was actually headed to the bathroom to take a piss, but I saw this and had to say something."

I walked about a mile in a suit from the metro to the church on one of the hottest days of the year. Smelled like a goat in heat.

M.C.'s mother stands around five feet tall, maybe less. One of the groomsmen was almost exactly her height. He danced with her several times in the night, and this also included some grinding up against her, crotch to crotch. Wow.

Same groomsmen also caught the garter, and when he placed it on the bouquet catcher's leg, he pushed his hands up so far, I thought he was going to punch her in the crotch. He also made a big show of wiggling it back and forth under her dress, so you could see the outline of his hands undulating beneath.

There was a particularly fashionable man, standing perhaps six feet four inches tall, weighing in the neighborhood of two hundred and seventy pounds, with blonde highlights, a boiled lobster-red tan, and the whitest three piece suit you ever saw. Shiniest, whitest shoes, too. Think used car salesman heaven, if used car salesmen actually go to heaven. I walked up to him and asked him where he got his suit, saying "It looks really awesome." Ah, functional lies. He told me that Men's Wearhouse crafted this wonder, and that he wanted to stand out. I was thinking about buying a new suit, and am now convinced that it will not be from Men's Wearhouse. This jacket is actually the closest I can find. Now imagine that with the same white pants, and a cream-colored vest, and a normal button down white shirt. (Note: I am not responsible if you go blind.)

In a similar vein, C.S. was convinced one of the guests was a "tranny." However, her hands were normal, and there was no Adam's apple. He was just not a fan of her face, and also felt her boyfriend was "pretty effeminate." This I cannot argue with.

During the cocktail hours, from 1700 to 1900, they cut off the open bar around 1745. Given that there was also a mariachi band, we were all going a little batty. Boy, was the mariachi band pissed when they couldn't get free drinks.

Our (wedding favor? wedding gift? party favor?) was "savon extra-doux soap," "soin hydratant," and "creme de douche." Yes, I really just wanted to type "douche."

The toilet was so powerful, when I flushed it, I felt it in my feet.

The server took away my plate while I was still eating. Worse, that was the second time that week that happened, and both times, I was too shocked to say anything.

I've gone and lost (temporarily) the sheet I was taking notes on all night, due to the great passport/social security card search of '07, so we'll end this here.

***

Do the (legitimately) homeless get married? I just looked at the title I typed. There might be a short story in there, homeless drunk preacher bringing together two homeless, in front of their friends and family, fires in fifty-five-gallon drums lighting the ceremony, tossing bits of paper, a battered bible the celebrant's only sign of legitimacy... Someone give me a heads up on this to do some work on this. This might have legs.