Ravings of a Textual Deviant

That was what the organizer of the bachelorette party wrote in the email. Fortunately, my brother and a handful of my good friends were kind enough to show up anyway (one of whom claims she can’t even talk about her first bachelorette party in public). Mine, fortunately, is completely suitable for public conversation, although there is just enough innuendo to keep it from a G rating.

Alas, with weather moving in, the organizer was struck down by a full on migraine-with-nausea. (”[Sharktank]” is in charge, he told me, sounding the very picture of misery on the phone.) Another person couldn’t make it at the last minute either, having previously committed to run sound for a band at one of the few local pubs I know of that has a regular schedule of live music.

Well, when you put that particular person in charge, you end up where the Celtic music is…and we did, which mean our sound-tech pal had quite the surpise when we showed up halfway through Kennedy’s Kitchen’s first set, just as the first raindrops were coming down and the lighting started doing a very fine imitation of fireworks, after a delicious dinner at what may well be the only good Chinese restaurant on the north side.

Well, before I’d even made a dent in my Bell’s Oberon, the bachelorette party had turned into the Roving Bachelorette Irish Chorus and Dance Troupe; singing along with the band when we knew the words, and enjoying the piper’s total awesomeness when we didn’t. (Were I not about to be very happily married, a young gentlemen with such talented tongue and fingers could prove quite the temptation.) I’m a passable singer, in that I can carry a tune if the bucket is big enough, but at least one of my pals is practically semipro. Near the end of the second set though, I couldn’t help but join in on “Wild Mountain Thyme,” and afterwards, the bass player was kind enough to tell us that he got a feeling that he more usually associated with a bottle of wine and someone to whom he was very close.

Squee!!! We didn’t even notice the storm that, as we later discovered, floded all three entrances to the neighborhood. But that’s another story…

To answer everyone’s questions…

1. No, I am not nervous. Excited, yes, but not nervous.

2. My checklist isn’t done yet, but it will be before the wedding. (The project plan is at 98% complete.)

3. Yes, I am ready. Put me in, coach!

C’est tout amusement et jeux jusqu’à ce que quelqu’un perde un architecte. (It’s all fun and games until someone loses an architect.)

Or so my new character, Marie-Veronique Gabrielle Thaïs, the Marquise de Bois du Grenouille Chantant, wrote to her contact in the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, Special Services Section.

Our Sunday gaming group recently finished up “The Red Hand of Doom,” and our GM of the past 2 years or so is taking a break. In the mean time, we’re playing a Seven Seas campaign, in which my character and another player’s are a seventeenth century French-analogue Mr. and Mrs. Smith. (Both of them appear to be charming, ornamental, and so lacking in intellect that the two of them together could not fill a demitasse spoon with gray matter.) For reasons I can’t begin to explain, I cannot help but channel a bit of Edina Monsoon into the Marquise.

So far, it’s been more Get Smart than Scarlet Pimpernel.

The game is set in an Italy-analogue, where the Marquis and Marquise have been sent on a minor diplomatic posting. They have rented a modest palazzo in a tasteful-but-fashionable quarter, and moved in a large amount of heirloom furniture, matching, monogrammed luggage, a small army of servants, and a very small, yappy dog. The Marquise’s cousin is the main diplomatic representative in the area, and it was he who invited them to their first official function.

In honor of the occasion, the Marquis permitted his wife to wear more lace than he himself had donned.

One of the prominent Italian-analogue aristocratic families was having a soirée to celebrate the opening of a new temple that they had sponsored. Said edifice was built by one of the most talented and fashionable architects of the day. Coincidentally enough, a very similar party was being given by a very similar host for very similar reasons, right across the piazza.

Quel rivalité!

Naturally, the only diplomatic course was to circulate through both parties, so as to avoid a show of favoritism. Unfortunately, the evening only got more gauche as it progressed. The hostess of one of the parties, who had recently been sculpted by the very same architect who had designed her family’s temple, was mortally insulted by her thoroughly unrefined intended…an individual who had previously mistaken the Marquise for his own fiancée. Having had the dubious pleasure of his acquaintance, the Marquise was quite willing to feign ignorance as to the hostess’s true whereabouts, despite the fact that she had been conversing with the young lady mere moments before.

The Marquis, oddly enough, was also mistaken for another individual, and was able to avoid both a duel and the unfortunate effects of the accuser’s overindulgence. Trés interessant, eh? One wonders if it could possibly be a coincidence.

As the hour grew later, unabashed displays conspicuous consumption (although, one must say, delightful and lavish ones ) and curious confusion descended into undisguised brutality when a band of hired ruffians crashed one of the parties, seized the architect, and stuffed him into a nondescript waiting carriage. During the upheaval, the Marquis valiantly defended—well, himself, mostly,—with a degree of skilled swordplay that one would not normally expect from a gentleman of his reputation. This did not escape the Marquise’s notice, either, though she has chosen not to comment for now. Furthermore, she was fortunate enough to have her contributions to the melée pass unobserved. (A gentlemen may indeed be lucky in a swordfight on occasion, but how often is a petite, ineffectual lady so favored by fortune as to fling a large, heavy, ornamental urn with deadly accuracy?)

And so, we have an unsolved kidnapping, blood on the floor, fuel on the fire of an already-bitter rivalry, the displeasure of at least one ecclesiastical Eminence, and the unfortunate loss of the Marquis’s fine linen shirt, which I am sad to report did not survive the brawl.

Last weekend, one of our friends brought over some catnip that she assured us was particularly potent. Minx and Magnus each got a small sample, and I put it back in the gift bag and, I admit, forgot about it. (I do have one or two other things on my mind right now.)

The boys, however, did not forget about it. Normally, they’re not jumpers, but just because they choose not to doesn’t mean that they can’t.

Fiancé and I came home after a long evening of errand running and were greeted at the door by Magnus…who had small green flakes of something clinging to his fur. All of the green plants in the house are fake, so my first thought was to check the kitchen herb-and-spice rack. I’ve never caught him on the kitchen counter, but I’m not convinced that the leap is beyond him. Nothing was out of place, however.

Minx then came up to me, purring like a newly-repaired Italian sportscar. He also had small green flakes of something in his fur. I went into the living room and saw a four-foot diameter scatter of small green flakes, and a gift bag tipped on its side on the floor.

Sure enough, both cats’ pupils were blown open such that there was just a tiny ring of iris. They were so mellow that they didn’t even run from the vacuum cleaner. Fortunately, most of the ‘nip got into the carpet, rather than the cats, so there was no post-indulgence puking.

Minx did snore even more loudly than usual last night, though…and that’s saying something.

In 25 words or less…Tiamat’s plan foiled, at least in our area. Plans foiled, hoards looted, icky minions dead. Earned gratitude of Lord of Brindal, for what that’s worth.

Reports are still coming in; apparently, four other areas on the continent suffered similar circumstances (Tiamat may be superntural and super-evil, but she’s predictable.) There’s still a town where the hobgoblin followers of the Happy Butterfly god are enforcing law and order (I’m tempted to give into my occasional Novelist’s Syndrome and let that situation devlop just to see what happens). And the Ghost Lord still wants dealing with; I did promise Cedric. Good-aligned clerics are so particular about the disposition of the undead. We’re going to have to recruit an overwhelming force of them to take out His Extreme Deadness.

But first, we have to clear a hobgoblin infestation out of our newly-notarized ruin castle. And meet our forest-giant neighbors. And deal with stuff back in our current home city of Tirandel. And track down Darya’s missing twin sister, Marika. Mom—you know, the elven mafia matriarch?—is no doubt vocal on that subject.

And before any of that, I need a manicure. Ichor is simply disastrous for the cuticles.

Ever since we combined households, Fiancé and I have been paring down our stuff. We’ve just got too much of it. Granted, it’s mostly my stuff that there’s too much of; the packrat gene is strong—dominant, even— in my family. Still, I am fighting it. For example, we can actually park our two cars in our two-car garage. This makes me something of a mutant in the family. (My brother and his fiancée park all of their bikes in their one-car garage, but not the car. On the other hand, they’ve got a container garden on half of the driveway.)

Anyway, I thought about gift-wrapping a bunch of it and trying to convince wedding guests to take a mystery item home with them. Not so much the happening thing, though. And not just because gift-wrapping furniture is more trouble than it’s worth.

Instead, I joined the Fishers freecycle.org group. Oddly enough, Indianapolis doesn’t have one, but being on the northeast side, I figured Fishers was close enough. And they did let me in, so the moderators apparently agreed. I got rid of the first item on Saturday, a poufy, off-white loveseat with some cat scratch damage, which is exactly how I described it. (I was also willing to throw in the matching thow, although the eventual taker didn’t want it and I now have it listed separately.)

So far, I love it. Someone came to my door, we loaded it up in her van, and she took it away. Just that easy. And now, I have room for the much nicer, cat-scratch-free furniture that’s coming from my grandmother in a few weeks. (Muchas, muchas gracias to my aunt and uncle, who are bringing it out for me!)

I’m feeling a lot less pack-rodent-like, all the sudden. I was even inspired to clean out the trunks that we’ve had miscellaneous stuff stashed in to make room for games and puzzles that were previously in cardboard boxes. Those same boxes now hold empty jewel cases from our CD collection…that can go into a storage space and make the living room just a little less cluttered. And I feel a paperback purge coming on as well.

Maybe I’m heterozygous for the packrat gene.

Yesterday, when I got the email with the internal calendar for MPOW, I was amazed that of all the employees, I have the only May birthday. And it’s not that small a company, either. This situation prompted the following from a coworker…

ONE birthday in May!?!?!? All of [MPOW] and we have ONE birthday in May!!!!!!?????
 
If that’s the case, as far as internal [MPOW] correspondence goes, I hereby rename the month of May to Liorah in honor of Ms. Rapkin’s sole birthday.  So now we have Liorah Day vs. May Day.  Cinco de Liorah vs. Cinco de Mayo. etc., etc. etc.
 
Let it be written.  Let it be done.

As I am sure my mother will confirm, sharing is not my best thing.