You walked in to the party....

So, the wedding was  lovely. My sister was beautiful, her groom smitten (they always start out that way), food divine, flowers abundant... you know the drill. Oh, and pink champagne. Yum. They also had this stuff called fregola, wild strawberry liquor, that they served with prosecco. Must say, a little liquid courage never hurt.

But before I let you know how it went with Daddy-O and stbe, let me tell you about the day leading up...

The morning of the wedding I had been out biking. I am training for a road race in Tucson and I was trying to do 50 miles. I'm moderately paranoid that me and my bike are gonna get our asses kicked in the desert. Finding the time to go on 3 to 4 hour training rides when the sun only rises at 7am, you have three kids, are desperately trying to get divorced, are desperately trying to get your family off your back and would like to sneak in a little blue sky times isn's always so easy. But anyways, Saturday morning I was out there, cruising along, freezing my butt off and singing to Snow Patrol, Blue October and Carly Simon (You're so Vain, Nobody does it Better). At mile 40 I decided it was time for water. Only issue was my bike cleat had no intention of letting go of the pedal. I resisted the urge to panic, and forced myself out by throwing all my weight on the pedal. Me and the bike tipped over, but I was safe, albeit a little flustered. Ok, so water and time to bang out the last 10 miles. Except that my cleat would click back into the pedal and after a quarter mile or so of trying to ride without being clipped  in, I felt the one thing all cyclists dread... a blown chain. And i was about three miles from my car. I considered walking to the car. Clearly not in the cleats since that would be worse than walking in ski boots. I thought about walking in socks, but then I feared ramifications for my stilettos later on that night. There was no one I could call for help (stbe? duh! mom and dad? double duh! blue? he was a working kinda far away...) What could I do? I waited, and waited and waited... and then a minivan came up the road. And I thumbed it back to my car. Ugh. Only me. Next time I'm gonna train for a massage marathon in the safety of my own bedroom.

So I finally got back home and it was all ok. The kiddies were all worried about me. Stbe was worried about  his wana be rock star outfit. My daughter and I went to get my hair and 'do done. I must say, a little pressed powder and eyeliner do a girl wonders and after an hour or so and a $100 I was looking damn fine. My dress was fabulous. Really truly fabulous. LBD by Michael Kors. Fitted in all the right places, cinched waist, low back and with four inch leopard platforms, it was just the thing to make a certain rather unwelcome wedding guest choke on his champagne. Freaking fregola.

He was there naturally. Another example of his lack of balls and backbone. Woops, i digress. He ignored me (or at least pretended to, because let's face it, in that dress and those shoes.... honey he'd have to be having brain surgery to not have noticed). He chatted with Daddy-O. I heard a couple of hoots from their direction. When it was time for the ceremony he hid behind a pillar on the porch. When it was over, he and Dad parted with fanfare. Then he left. To go to a concert. I told you he's a wanna be rock star.

The night was fine and I aligned myself with my sweetheart of a niece, the most fabulous gay hairdresser, and at times my sisters. I danced (I Will Survive... a propos, given the almost six divorces between me and my four sisters), drank champagne and tried to avoid any kind of confrontation with my brothers or Daddy-O.

That is until Daddy-O came and asked me to dance. At mom's bidding naturally. So we strolled off to the dance floor and the singer asked what I wanted to hear. Dad told the singer to make it good since we both actually hated each other and were just dancing for proprietary sake. "Oh, then, in that case there's only one song," I said, "You're so Vain, Carly Simon."

Just perfect.