"They don't get out much"

Saturday marked a new low for Jerod and me -- enrollment in the doesn't-get-out-much club for broke married people with children.

We were guests at a wedding. A beautiful wedding on a boat in Seattle with free food and -- insert the Imperial Margarine music here -- an open bar. This was a big letter day for the Bacharach-Trenchard duo, because we never go out anymore -- two kids, no money, no energy -- blah, blah, blah.

Case and point: Our last date was more than a year ago -- dinner out. I was on the rag.

Our social life features delivery pizza, on-demand movies and comfy dinners with friends and family. We have no complaints, but it's nice to go out now and then. 

I'd marked the wedding on our calendar in red marker with hearts and stars and smiley faces.

It could have been our wedding for all the fuss we made. But -- as I said -- we hadn't done a proper date in ages. It was nice having something special to look forward to. We dug our fancy clothes out of moth balls and clamored for the mirror.

I was wearing silk and 5-inch hooker heals. Jerod was wearing a black sport coat and Steve Madden shoes:

"Are these shoes OK?"

"Does this shirt match?"

"Can you see my bra?"

"I don't have an undershirt."

"I look like a bag lady."

"Shut up, you look fine."

Then we were mingling on a boat with other well-dressed adults. Waiters passed out hors d'oeuvres on silver platters. There were origami cranes and boxes of chocolates and an endless supply of free champagne and beer. We couldn't help ourselves, like the tacky in-laws you see in bad romantic comedies. Those awful people who raid buffet tables and stuff pastries down their pants.

Jerod drank a pitcher to himself. I had a bottle or two of champagne, and the rest is sort of fuzzy. I remember hugging people and kissing cheeks. I was in a lot better shape than Jerod, who was prancing and leaping about like a prima ballerina.

These aren't moves you associate with Jerod. The only way he shakes his rump in public is inebriated -- 14-pints-in-three-hours worth of micro brew stupid drunk. In that case he's Mikhail F-ing Baryshnikov, and the whole world loves him.

I thought it was all a joke. My friends told me he was cutting loose outside. But sure-as-shit -- as I made my way across the dock tripping several times on my skirt and 5-inch heals -- I caught a glimpse of him doing his I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shirt dance in the middle of Pier 56.

He was also seen chasing pedestrians up and down down Alaska Way shouting after them to stop and introduce themselves. He concealed himself in storefront alcoves and scared window shoppers nearly to death jumping out at them from the shadows -- "Hi there, friends. How are you doing this evening?"

All I could do was chase after him screaming at people, "He's not dangerous. He's just drunk, and he hasn't been out for a really long time -- I'm sorry."

He even asked my friend's mom if he could crash her Cadillac into a Jersey Barrier.

Here's what gets me: In light of all of his drunken stunts -- all of his running after concerned mothers and Elderhostel tours -- people thought I was too drunk: "Get her home," they all said, while Jerod was harassing drivers under the Alaska Way Viaduct.

Oh well, I can mark wedding crashing off my bucket list now.

You Have To Be Absolutely Lucid

"Bad readers have asked me if I was drugged when I wrote some of my works. But that illustrates that they don’t know anything about literature or drugs. To be a good writer you have to be absolutely lucid at every moment of writing, and in good health."

GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ