Charlotte has not yet lambed and I have been sitting here staring at the computer screen at a loss for suitable subjects for the past 15 minutes. Therefore, I have decided to revisit a bit of the hilarity that ensued on the night of my 44th birthday party.
You see, Karen and I like to dance; we like to dance a lot. And as the night poured on, our dancing got sillier and more reckless and we had a downright difficult time (wonder of wonders) getting anyone to accompany us on the dance floor. In fact, most of the time we danced together just the two of us. By the looks we were getting, I don’t think folks in these Wild West parts take a cotton to that sort of behavior.
Well, we finally roped what must have been a similarly inebriated man to join us on the dance floor. The three of us were dancing and giggling, getting sillier by the moment. Although I do not recall the song which spurred my actions, I started doing the swim and the whatever-you-call-it-when-you-hold-your-nose-and-bend-your-knees-until-you-are-almost-but-not-quite-to-the-floor dance. I actually completed my part of the retro action when Karen, who when she consumes the correct amount of wine believes she is a “hot” dancer, attempted to copy my moves, fell on her ass, then rolled backwards and remained prostrate on the dance floor for what-seemed-like a good ten seconds. To say she was embarrassed is an understatement. In her paranoid mind, everyone at Greasewood Flat saw her fall; everyone thought she was a complete drunken fool. Truly she just lost her balance, fell on her bum and elbows (we had to listen about her hurt elbows all night), and got back up again with a little help from our hysterically laughing dancing partner. Barely a soul witnessed it.
The woman couldn’t let it go. All night, in addition to griping about her sore elbows, she tried to convince us that everyone in the place had seen her fall and how it is a good thing she doesn’t live here because she could never ever show her face there again.
Finally, after listening to our entreaties to the contrary, she decided to re-enact the event to prove to us, I suppose, that what she had been trying to tell us all night was true.
Here lies Karen, obviously mid-Chapeau show, in all her glory demonstrating that what she had been trying to convince us of was true. Obviously, we had all been sorely mistaken if she was willing to go to this totally-not-equally-embarrassing length to prove her point.
Karen, I will never question your veracity again. Next time you visit, that is if you ever forgive me for posting this photo and want to make the journey, we’ll get drunk and disorderly somewhere else. Don’t fall this time though. There are only so many watering holes out here in the boonies.
Oh, come on now. You didn't think to give us new photos of the littlest cookie??? I know, from my VAST experience of one (count it, ONE) lambing season, that little Shetland lambies get cuter by the day. And some of us out here are living vicariously through the photos of others' lambs still. So (imagine eager, impatient throng chanting here) -- Mad-e-LINE, Mad-e-LINE, Mad-e-Line, Mad-e-LINE!
Now, back to that messy fleece in the garage that I've been avoiding, with my face still rosy from your gushing on my blog....
Posted by: Michelle | April 02, 2007 at 11:12 AM
Good grief, Lauren --- what DID you do to poor Karen. She may never dare show her face in Deadwood again! The bars may be few and far between, but news travels! My-oh-my --- Karen, you are welcome to visit SoCal. We have lots of places where you can fall down and they'll totally ignore you!
Posted by: Karalyn | April 02, 2007 at 11:44 AM
Lauren, you must be REALLY bored! Here I am at work, feeling like crap with a cold, and getting made fun of!
PS - I AM a hot dancer! Just ask Steve...
Posted by: Karen | April 02, 2007 at 12:39 PM