At least I have my priorities straight. The wedding was absolutely gorgeous, and took place in Stef and David’s back yard. I sat with the dykes and a way fun teen named Jacob (we had each other in fits within minutes); the twenty-something hipsters had made me want to cry when they asked me if I salsa, so I got up and went where I immediately felt much more comfortable. Long about 9:30 I sang “The Housewife’s Lament” and David said afterwards, “Normally when amateurs start singing I cringe, but that was great.” I smirked and said, “I get that a lot.” I will never be famous, childer, but I will always have a reputation.
The videography was fun, and I tried to sleaze one more video out of Tamara, whose patience with me should be legendary at this point. However, the notion of recording “The Weekend’s Over” where I recorded it proved too much for me…. I only wished I’d done it inside, but I doubt the security guard would have been happy about that. That’s one that will never make it onto Youtube, snicker. That’s going to go onto a memory stick and stay there.
The NCIS blowout continues apace. Mark Harmon moves so gracefully – I mean, he’s the yummiest middle aged man on television, although Olmos comes close – and I’m finally not hating Michael Weatherly. Any guy who was disowned by his rich father for going into acting can’t be all bad. Sasha Alexander’s laugh could be used as a marital aid. All right, all right, I’m a fan, but I won’t be insane on the subject until I do filk or write slash, m’kay?
I await a call from Mike, and then, the beach. But only until 5 pm because at that point Jeff’s going to come get me and take me to Tom and Peggy’s for supper! Must remember to take mandolin.
Crap, crap, crap. I have to do laundry today! Unhappy sigh.
And the stairs at Wreck, twice. Getting to the beach is always easier than leaving.