One of those groups is, of course, heterosexual men. Although there were a few straight men in attendance, they were typically the husbands or boyfriends of the Queens themselves and were lauded as "Spud Studs" throughout the entire weekend and probably groped inappropriately at every turn. So maybe there's a good reason a man would want to come to this shin dig, but on the more general concept of gathering together in large groups to act ridiculous and dress up crazy -- unless you count sporting events -- men tend to opt out.
The other group most assuredly not participating in any of this kind of ridiculousness? Yankees.
They don't do this shit in Connecticut, y'all. They don't put on big fuzzy boas and crazy sunglasses and get drunk in the middle of the day to parade around in a fake ass stuffed with polyfill, dance on a stripper pole before lunch or outbid hundreds of other women to put fake tattoos on a half-nekkid man, all for the chirren, and then get up on Sunday morning and note, quite dutifully, that we have the Lord to think for every bit of it. All of our drunk, fake-booty-shaking camaraderie, every last ounce of it.
No, they just would not stand for that in the north. And that is reason number 75 trillion why I got the eff right on out of that place.
Anywho. Back to our weekend. Not two hours after we arrived on Friday, I'd already gotten my picture taken with HRH Jill Connor Browne. She walked out of the SPQ store as we were walking by, and mom said, "Hey!" like they were old buds. But then? Jill said, "Hey!" just like they were old buds. For a minute, I halfway thought maybe they were old buds and my mama had been holding out on me all these years.
And then, without a word, JCB walked her six-foot-one-million amazon self over, put her arm around me and mom took a picture. So seamless, she practically glided. And it all happened so fast, I didn't have any opportunity to say anything awkward, ridiculous or otherwise completely and horrifically embarrassing! WIN.
With a meeting with HRH already behind us so soon into the trip, we had to make sure we didn't peak early -- so we set to gettin' drunk and hit the dance floor. I danced so much, in fact, that I was sweating like a hooker in the first row of a Baptist Church and required a freshening up before the SPQ ball that night.
Also, we met this guy, whose swings around the stripper pole were really only the beginning of his endless macking on the ladies throughout the weekend.
The SPQ Ball that night was an extravaganza of crazy. Some women were dressed like they were going to an actual ball, or as the case may be, a 1970s prom. We gawked, danced to the Bouffants and watched a few people get their heads shaved. (For the chirren.)
Afterward, we wandered the halls of the Hilton and admired door decorations, and then called it a night so we could get plenty of beauty rest for the parade.
Other than us Queens, the parade was pretty much every drunk fraternity or sorority girl in the greater Jackson area getting more drunk from inside a float/old school bus/trolley car/pick-up truck/Radio Flyer wagon. Because the Queens march last, we had quite a while to wait in the line-up. So naturally, we set to gettin' ourselves drunk.
It seems, not surprisingly, that everyone watching the parade had also had the same idea -- by the time we marched through, people had hopped over the barriers and were crowded in the street, literally reaching out for you like the little creepy dead souls in Ursula's cavern in the Little Mermaid. In the grand tradition of parades and throwing things at people, all these little urchins wanted was beads. Even the kids who had SO many beads around their necks already that they seemed destined for a long-term spinal cord injury were hollering out for MORE BEADS.
And then one little girl smack in the middle of the damn road says to me, "I just love your boa so much I want it so bad can I have it?" Ex-squeeze me? No, you cannot have my boa. Or my hat. Or my sunglasses. What's next? You want my pants, too? Now, I have been known to take those off when drunk but this is just not the time or the place for any of that, madam, so get your ass back on the other side of the barriers and lay off the booze. YOU'RE 12.
In the last leg of the parade route, mom had what will go down in history as one of the most inspired ideas of all time when she spotted a diner and suggested we stop in to pee and get a beer. We bought two beers -- thus qualifying as paying customers -- and took a quick pee, no line, no waiting! It was a St. Paddy's miracle. We hopped back in the parade with our beers, and no sooner had we done so than we heard, "Yeah! Bud Light! Atta girl, that's right!"
I'm sorry, sir.
Are you cheering me?
For drinking Bud Light? Really?
Oh, but it gets better. Because mom was drinking Miller Lite. And not to be left out, someone later in the route was equally as overcome by her beverage choice (a toothless old lady, no less) and hollered out something or other about Miller and how mom was a bad ass for drinking it.
The beer adventures did not end there. At the end of the route, we stepped out and popped a squat on the curb so we could watch the Queens themselves go by on their float. Next thing we know, we're being chatted up by these two guys who offer us a drink. Mom says, "You got any beer?"
Now, in our defense, we had been drinking. And we did live to tell about this, so all's well that ends well, right? Because we definitely took black cups from this guy that we had NOT watched him pour and proceeded to drink every last drop. Because apparently we live dangerously, and fear no roofie.
With all this drinking, by the time we got on the bus -- now, let me back up here. We overheard some chatter while we were waiting on the shuttles and thus managed to get on the bus with JCB and the Queens. Just three rows away from them, in fact. Major victory, for sure -- but by this time we were pretty drunk and mom had just come from the Shell station with another beer for us to split. Needless to say, we got right punchy. First, this happened.
Some time during the mustache photography, I realized mom was missing an earring, and before all was said and done and she realized she was sitting on it, she said something about her goddamn earring which got everybody more riled up than a cat in a hen house, which y'all is just goddamn REDIC considering that every last one of these women purports to have read a book that uses even worse language on a regular and religious basis and even mentions SEX ACTS. Heavens!
When we returned to the hotel, we remedied said drunkenness with food and a booze snooze. In the next installment, you'll get the conclusion of our weekend: the pearls and PJs party, my karaoke domination and inevitable world fame, the bathrobe brunch and more crying than you can shake a stick at. And also more bacon than you can shake a pig at.
cheers,
elizabeth
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