There are far bigger problems than being a spinster or having a hangover or both, but that’s the reality I face this morning. Really, really excited about proofreading when the light is burning straight through my eyes to my brain. The following is a mess, possibly due to alcohol poisoning.

The wedding was lovely. A bit unconventional (ceremony outside, no procession, reception at a gastropub where the ceremonial beer on offer was 7.8%, but the food didn’t come out at all until most people in the cinema party were two drinks in at least), but it totally worked, in that there wasn’t the stuff I find difficult like receiving lines, nor four hours of speeches, and plates of rubbery chicken and lukewarm vegetables from a central kitchen. The bride and groom were happy to forgo dancing (they hadn’t planned on having any at the party, but a couple of kids decided to do it anyway), and had a room to themselves to get away from ‘making the rounds’, eat their dinner, and talk about their honeymoon for a little while.

When I was a little kid, I didn’t dream about my wedding much. I wonder if that’s more common than we’re led to believe; I don’t remember talking about it with friends, even. There was a board game we had (I cannot remember of the name of it, though, which is driving me bananas) where you drew cards to find out different aspects of your life (home, career, etc.) and one of the cars was a ’57 Chevy, so there was a brief time when I wanted one for my wedding, in lieu of a limo, but that’s about as far as I got with plotting nuptials. Typical me, not following through on things, even hypothetical ceremonies 20+ years in the future, from an early age.

But why worry about weddings before one has found a suitable spouse anyway. Also, I don’t feel like I’d need a wedding ceremony anyway; my family is so tiny that city hall would do. Or, y’know, I’d just do the long-term shackup.

Speaking of which, atypically, I tried to talk to strangers of the male persuasion a few times last night. I did not choose wisely. Maybe they were fine human beings, but I did not get that impression based on attitudes to Red Bull ingestion, vegetarianism, partying all night on a Sunday, and the phrase ‘fuck the police’. I was terribly amused by the deer-in-the-headlights looks I got when one guy heard that I was the bride’s boss, though. Maybe he thought I was a cougar. Nope. I just need to learn/remember how to talk people and, as this was the Last Great Social Occasion I have planned for the summer, this was the time. But no. I had to fight so hard not to be contrary for the sake of being contrarywanting to prove the person to be incorrect. Not ideal. Not my crowd, obviously, either.

Jackie has suggested that I might have to move to find my crowd/a suitable partner, ’cause Ottawa ain’t cutting it. She might be right.

But yeah, it wasn’t my best effort anyway and these experiments did not last long. I spent most of the afternoon getting afternoon drunk* with people from work, nearly all of whom left earlyish, like I did. (Seven hours of social stuff, even with alcohol is kinda beyond my limit these days). We had fun. Got some good gossip. Had a good veggie burger. Stumbled home (the reception was seven blocks from here, hurrah!). Drank more than a litre of water, felt sorry for myself, fell asleep, and woke up with a raging headache. Sometimes hoppy beer is just the fucking devil.

I feel better today, thanks to the spinster support network** on Facebook last night. Now my biggest worry is whether or not I really fucking broke my car yesterday driving three burly men (and one non-burly woman) to Rockcliffe Park. It is making some even more expensive-sounding noises now and I don’t have the money to fix it.

For now, though, this far-too-healthy smoothie and coffee had better kick in soon. Publication deadline is looming and I need to get my head on straight.

*It’s been a long time since I could say ‘It’s only 4pm? Uh-oh. How many is this? Four? Five? Oh, shit.’