It’s better than a mass e-mail

Well kind of. There were no dueling dance crews – one white, one black – but at times I did feel like I was in a movie this weekend.

My best friends from home and I went to Memphis for the weekend. One of our long-time girlfriends was getting married on a riverboat on the Mississippi River, which is probably one of the greatest ideas ever. Despite the excruciating heat and the initial feeling of seasickness as the giant Memphis Queen III left the dock, the entire party – from the vows on the bow of the boat to the R&B goodness of the band – was a blast. Sure, parts of it were a logistical mess, such as us being told about two hours before the event that they had not planned for a cake cutter or plates (which they of course had but we managed to borrow a foot-long knife from the Marriott for the evening), not being able to actually hear the vows being exchanged without a mic and the bride’s sister walking up to the top deck late after not being alerted that the ceremony was in fact starting. Hey it happens, but all in all, it was a stellar crowd enjoying every minute of the night.

But I digress. The boat docked about 10-ish, at which point my girlfriends and I promptly, and drunkly, chucked every last flower we had labored all day cutting, wiring and arranging in vases. We downed the last drop of our gin and tonics, loaded the car with the vases and left over cake and headed for the dance club, Plush, on Beale Street.

We walk in – all still dressed to the nines – and the two men were frisked for weapons and related contraband. I’m not sure if that made me feel good or kind of scared. Either way, we got in and ordered a few drinks and then unabashedly hit the dance floor. I quickly realized we were the only white (and multi-racial) folks in the crowd, and having had a not-so-welcoming experience in an all-black club in Birmingham, I was a little skeptical. (Picture three ladies walking on to the dance floor at Platinum, promptly clearing the place out. I’m saying people slap walked off the dance floor, with ladies throwing us eat-shit-and-die looks. Some of the men, however, loved the White Girls and bought us Long Island ice teas in massive mason jars.)

But we certainly weren’t too worried about the reaction, as we danced pretty much all night. You know it’s good if you get there when it’s not too full and leave after the floor clears out. Well, there were a few guys there that seemed to be part of a dance crew of sorts and every once in a while they would break into these routines. It was unlike anything I have ever seen, except of course on You Got Served (act like you have never seen that movie) without the acrobatics. But these guys were so good, and crowds would gather around them.

At one point, the song Set It Off came on – a personal favorite – and I was all excited and went to dance again. Then I realized everyone was doing the same dance. Pretty much everyone in the club was moving the same way, something like the electric slide but without all the dumb hopping and cha-cha-cha. It was a sea of people, moving, and smiling and having a damn good time. Only, the white girl didn’t the memo and was left standing on the sidelines wide-eyed.

Other highlights of the night include: drinking Remy Martin after some of the groom’s friends bought a bottle from the bar; being filmed for some show on BET – the camera crew was taping people dancing and had a friend of mine and I say some shit like “You’re watching what you’re watching” or “What’s on is what’s you’re watching” or something. There were also these two girls dancing in another area behind the bar, and they were so good we went right up to them and started dancing with them. I have literally never seen an ass do that before. I complemented her, and she said “as long as you’re on beat, girl.” Easier said than done, friend. So my girl bought them some tequila sunrises and we quickly departed when the women next to them rudely said “excuse me,” making it apparent we were not welcome near them. That’s fine. Oh and there were the gentlemen that wanted to “holla at us.” One told my girl he wanted to “scratch her scalp,” whatever that’s supposed to mean.

The night ended back at the Comfort in where A and I found ourselves trying, with the help of the guy behind the hotel front desk, to pry into a bottle of Cabernet. He jammed a three-inch screw into the cork and struggled it out with a pair of pliers. After about 45 minutes, he was proud at the success of his project, and we were too drunk and tired to drink the wine.

So my dad is in this funny portrait in the School of Public Health. I think it was for an anniversary for the school and they got all the past deans and him, the current dean, together to sit for this absurd and stodgy painting, which I know just makes him gag.

(This is academia, remember, where people call him Dean So-and-so and when I come around they say, Oh you must me Dean So-and-so’s daughter. My dad just humbly wants to be treated like a human and called by his first name.)

So since one of my girlfriends works a few floors up, she recently took me to the conference room where this masterpiece hangs. Of course Pops would never show this off. After giggling hysterically and being generally incredulous that this is my dad, we thought it fitting to take a picture of me alongside the serious-looking academics. (Truth be told, I am unspeakably proud of him.)

This, friends, is my best dean face.

I am coming back.

Just rented a place – right across the street from my old studio. Because I am crazed and all amess due to my last-minute plans to come to DC and then my inability to decide where I want to be next, I gave up my apartment in Chicago. But luckily, I got a place nearby and can move in a couple weeks.

Even if it’s for a couple months, I am so excited about returning to Chicago.

One less thing to wake me up at night.

A story today in the NYT prompted this post. More on my thoughts on the story later.

It happens. As a straight woman in her mid-20s I have certainly had what some call a girl crush on other women I meet. And although I sounds like a sexual thing, or a romantic love thing, it’s just the excitement of meeting a new woman who is cool, funny, smart, and sometimes kind of hot.

The first time I heard the term, I was standing in the bathroom line in a bar in my hometown a couple years ago. I had met this girl who was the girlfriend of a high school friend. I remember she seemed very nice and was wearing really cute, black, pointy shoes. We chatted a little, drunkenly complemented each other on our clothes and shoes, and she said she had girl crush on me. It was super flattering and not creepy at all. I took it to mean she thought I was cute and funny and a good potential friend (although I can’t say I have seen her since).

Since then I have recognized a few times when I will meet a woman, get to know her a little, and become – to use a word in the NYT article – smitten. Not in an obsessive way, or as I said before, a sexual way. It’s just that there is a connection, and I really enjoy spending time with her. And as I have gotten older, those connections are a little more frequent – though most women then turn catty or competitive or a little nuts, but that’s a post for another day – and stronger.

I think the article is a little misleading. The writer ledes with a scene in a bar with one woman attracted to a dark-haired dancing beauty. Right there, it makes the crush thing sound sexual. And it’s not about being physically attracted – in fact, it’s more like the crush develops after a certain amount of dishing or witty banter. And I can’t say I have ever had such a crush that I got nervous or stammered or sweated in her presence. That makes the whole phenomenon seem silly and childish when indeed it’s quite fulfilling and exciting.

In the toot-my-own-horn category, I just found out that a story I pitched and wrote for my papers ran on two papers’ front pages. One of them was the lead news story right under the masthead. Hard to appreciate without seeing it on the page, but it’s pretty awesome.

Makes me think the headache and logistical mess of moving to DC for the summer was worth it.