It turns out that just verbally offering Aislyn Skittles juice was not nearly as effective as making her favorite color in a clear water bottle and showing it to her. I also made Desmond his favorite color juice and told her his had Miralax in it, and I made my favorite flavor and put my Miralax in that. And we all had Skittles juice.
So that’ll work for a while.
So the downstairs is organized-ish for the party. It’s just the grandparents; Crazy Uncle Erik is coming home today from Connecticut after having visited friends, but he’ll be coming up another weekend, and hopefully Crazy Uncle Paul will join us, too.
Derek is going to Cypress Hill and Slipknot tomorrow night. While I might have enjoyed the Cypress Hill portion of the show (not sure) I’ve never been a Slipknot fan; too heavy for me.
It will probably be a giant clam bake in there. One time a UNH friend of mine, about as straight-laced as they come and a bit naive, worked the floor of a Bob Dylan concert at the Whittemore Center (we were events staff at the Whitt). They had to send her home because, she told Derek, she must’ve been allergic to pot, as all the secondhand smoke made her feel strange, woozy and dizzy.
I worked that show, too, on the mezzanine, so I did not get a contact high as she unwittingly did, because most of the illicit activity, I guess, was down below.
I was not (am not, nor will I ever be) a fan, so I was bored out of my fricken mind that night. And Dylan was mad at us because we kept him waiting because all of our police were involved in drug raids in B Lot C on account of the concert so the show couldn’t start on time. So as revenge, Dylan performed for, like, ever. My feet were killing me by the end; I think I was wearing my Docs. Yes, I had Doc Martens. I’m an X-er through and through. I wore them until they were ruined in an apartment flood.
But that’s another story.