ft. lauderdale pt.3 : pig on a spit, diet dr. pepper and rocky dennis

When I entered my meat locker/room I was slightly taken aback when I looked in the full length mirror.  Remember how yesterday I’d been on the beach for 3 hours, and today had been there since 10am?  (It was now 3).  Also remember that I got cocoa butter lubed like a hooker on the beach?  Yeah, apparently that stuff is not spf, nor does it wash off too well.  I got kind of brave and wore a 2 piece this year, I typically tan pretty well, but my lower back and tummy have been hanging out at Fangtasia.  I had been breaking them in slowly.  Now, they were what I would call “pig on a spit.”

As I’m wincing in pain from the shower pressure that is strong enough to strip paint, I start laughing to myself, out loud of course, over the actual application that would be used for a color named “pig on a spit”.  Jen and I had been cracking ourselves up earlier naming colors.  That is an actual profession you know, coming up with new names for colors, ie clothing, cosmetics, etc.  It’s my secret dream job.  If she and I got into this market, we would completely dominate it.  We would be on the cover of TIME, we would win numerous accolades and awards due to the fact that we are color-naming visionaries.

After drying off and slathering on half a tube of lotion, I went down to the little internet café and started typing.  I wrote a funny little rap.  And by rap I mean poem, since I am white.  I printed it out and returned to my room for a little pre-party siesta.

Once rested, dressed and ready I headed to the lobby to get myself a taxi.  You bet, another Haitian.  We rode along in his cab that was completely devoid of any shocks.  I may as well have been riding in a covered wagon across the prairie.  20 minutes later and a sore ass, I arrived at the party.

she really doesn’t age. I apparently think something up higher is more interesting.

I pulled up front and was immediately greeted by Jen’s Dad, Mitten.  That’s right, you heard me, Mitten.  Mitten Swartzwelder.  Apparently his father or grandfather had been a boxer, who had been given the nickname Mitten, and thoughtfully it was handed down.  What a lucky guy.  But it grows on you, Mitten is one of the nicest men on the planet.  He stands about 5’8, and was sporting cargo shorts, white socks with brown hiking boots/shoes and a Hawaiian shirt.  You know, party attire.

Upon entering the soiree, I was greeted by a host of people I had not seen in years.  Jen’s brother Jason had completely morphed into his father, as they had become twins over the years.  Kathy was slaving away in the kitchen as usual, she was a great director (control freak).  I can appreciate this.  For instance, she might let you feel helpful by getting the balloons, but god forbid don’t even think about actually putting them anywhere.  She’s the perfect combination of piss and vinegar, covered in powdered sugar and topped with a cherry.  I adore her.

I am enamored with The Swartzwelders, always have been.  I want them to adopt me.  There’s Kathy and Mitten, happily married forever, and their 3 genuine, honest, hilarious children, Jason, Jen and Jami.  How cute, and those “J’s”.  They are all incredibly close to one another and I find them as fascinating as a conjoined twin separation on the Discovery Channel.

So, here I am at this party and I am almost 8 months sober.  Jen and her husband Todd have been some of my biggest cheerleaders on this journey.  Her family knows and it’s not anything I’m trying to hide.  This is not a huge drinking crowd, beer and wine served kind of thing.  But there are people who obviously don’t know who most likely think I’m pregnant slugging down diet dr. peppers.  You see, people know me as the drinker, the ridiculous party girl who you laugh with, then at.  So when they see my hand without a vodka soda in it they become puzzled.  I then use my standard “I didn’t have a drinking problem I had a stopping problem” line, burp loudly or perhaps lift a leg and fart if I have it in me, and move on to the next topic.

Kathy and Jami have gathered some of Jen’s finer photo’s and strategically placed them around the room.  They were obsessed with Glamour Shots, as you will see here in exhibit A:

Jen and Jami. AKA the aqua net twins.

What a fluffy Angel.

Once everyone was sufficiently socially lubricated, Jami began rounding up the participants of the roast.  I was told by Mrs. Junior Bossypants that I would be “going last because mine was going to be the funniest!”  No pressure Jami!  Thanks!  Jami is a funny and very sassy little thing, who was also going to be the Roastmaster.  At this point the result of my Diet Dr. Pepper/chocolate covered pecan/nicotine over-indulgence was akin to that of an 8ball.  I was wired for sound.

Poor Jen, they placed her in a big rocking chair in the middle of the floor like it was a baby shower while each roaster paraded around her with a microphone.  She was so nervous, which caused her to go over her usual 3 beer limit.

When it was my turn, Jami handed me a tongue depressor with 2 more tongue depressors in an X attached to the top, with the big silver letters that said “censored”.  I think they were worried about what was going to come out of my talk hole.  (ha ha ha laughs all around) I rambled about our ridiculous escapades over the years for a while, then launched into my “rap”:

Before I get started, for reference her husband Todd is a painter and sculptor, he makes very large bronze sculptures he calls angels.  He also holds a dig for Earth Day every year where he draws out something the size of a football field in the sand, and then a ton of people come and camp for the weekend and dig the lines into trenches that will show up from the helicopter where they photograph the final artwork…ahhmazing!  Click here, he’s awesome.

And here we go:

22 years ago, she was only 18,

We were brand new to college,

just hitting the scene.

Our legs were so skinny,

Our boobies so perky,

We shared a sense of humor

That was unfiltered and quirky.

It wasn’t technically clown school,

though it may as well have been,

For all the joking I did

with my lunatic twin.

Jennifer Ann Swartzwelder,

or Swartzy for short,

“it means from the black forest”

she would retort.

We’ve always had a habit

of talking in voices,

Just take your pick,

there are so many choices;

We’re Irish, we’re Jewish,

we’re from the deep south,

Shoot gurl puhleze,

don’t you act like you know what’s gonna come out my mouth.

She loved the electronic dart game,

she’d pump in quarters and nickles,

She’d eat piles of nacho’s

and drink buttery nipples.

And then she met Todd,

she was instantly smitten,

And took him to meet Jason and Jami

Kathy and Mitten.

They had a beautiful wedding,

then came Clay and Maya

Nothing really rhymes with that

so I’ll insert papaya.

Todd loves making angels

and digging in sand above all,

His uncle in Baltimore

has scary clowns on his wall.

For my wedding he painted us

a house that was on fire,

Then 2 years later that event

was to actually transpire.

Please don’t make me anymore paintings,

it really wasn’t funny,

Unless you portray me as a size 6

rolling in piles of money.

We used to share a pair of jeans

that were 24 slim,

Now we talk about our muffin tops eating pop tarts

rather than hitting the gym

Through our young single life

that was peppered with pranks,

Through both of our weddings

that were sponsored by Spanx

Through each of our pregnancies,

totaling four,

She had a c-section,

my vagina, it tore.

Through all of the years

and through life’s ups and downs,

She has always been there for me,

to reverse all my frowns.

Swartzy you’re almost 40,

You’re coming down to the wire,

I love you, you complete me,

like Jerry McGuire.

After that, it was all dancing and silly chaos.  We really enjoy props, as you will see from the gigantic underpants and the Rocky Dennis head on yet another tongue depressor.  It’s a long story, but I’ll just leave it at billowy.

This is me sober. Can you imagine adding Vodka = Hot Mess. Jen has had about 5 beers and is most likely in a blackout.

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