Oh, it was cold up there. Good thing I had a little Bailey’s in the hot chocolate or I might have crumpled. 36 degrees in misty rain and gusting wind for four hours – people die of hypothermina in situations milder than that.

But the Cubs didn’t! We stayed till the very end and danced to “Go Cubs Go!” and waved the big “W” flag as the Colorado Rockies fled the field with frozen heads hung in shame.

It was so different to go to a game at good old Wrigley Field again – it was my first trip there in about twenty years. I’m so used to Busch Stadium with its millions of lights and colorful ads and Jumbotron. Even before the flashy new stadium was built in 2006, we had the lights and screens and music. There’s a Build-a-Bear (a Fredbird, really) inside Busch Stadium, along with an arcade and a million other things to divert you from the game you ostensibly came to see. In weather like we had on Monday, you probably wouldn’t have seen over 40,000 people sitting outside at a game in St. Louis. They’d be in the stadium bars and restaurants and watching the TVs and Jumbotron to see what was happening on the field. It’s not that we in St. Louis are necessarily big wusses, but it’s what’s available to us and so we take advantage of those things.

At Wrigley we had no choice. Go big or go home. We went big – literally, bundled up in layers of warmth and waterproofing, giving us an excellent cover for the bootlegged booze. We watched the game as it played out on the field, not a screen, and the scoreboard behind us was the old kind where you can see the person inside pull down the numbers and replace them. There were no instant replays. No trivia for the crowd. It was kind of heartwarming.

But you know, foot-warming might have been better. I couldn’t feel my toes for about three hours after we left, but it was such a wonderful day. A wonderful weekend, really. E and I did the roadtrip with some friends, and we all stayed at a Very Nice Hotel off Michigan Avenue for free, since it’s part of the family of hotels for which he works. Dinner the first night was at Morton’s with E’s dad, and I may or may not have had one too many vodka and Diet Cokes. E kept pinching me under the table to keep me from talking, lest I say something completely retarded in front of his AA dad. Oops.

And as usual, I forgot my expensive camera at home.

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Two Updates:

1. The girl who had dinner with George Clooney did NOT get fired. He got permission from the boss to take her to dinner – how’s THAT for slick? At the Very Nice Restaurant, the customer is always right.

2. While we were up there, we talked to Archie about the Vegas deal. Everything is still kind of up in the air.

Saturday morning’s wake-up call consisted of me trying to make cinnamon rolls, complaining that the oven wasn’t heating up, E checking the pilot light, and a giant ball of flaming gas whooshing out of the oven at him.

I had just turned my back to walk out of the kitchen. I saw a flash of light and heard a loud noise, and E ran past me into the bathroom and jumped into the shower. I didn’t even know what happened and was rooted to the floor like a dummy until he yelled “I’m on fire!” in between expletives. I couldn’t even see him in the dark bathroom, but there were no flames. Nothing in the kitchen was alight, thank god, and the stove was still in one piece.

This is the gross part. I will not include photos.

My poor boyfriend was a mess. His whole right arm was bright red and all of the hair had been singed off his arm, hand and chest. Blisters were forming on his knuckles. The burn went up onto his chest where he had another massive blister, already open. And his face… he had a blister forming over one eye and bright red streaks across both cheeks and up his forehead. He was going into shock when he got out of the cold shower – I had opened all the windows and doors to air out his apartment, and all the cool air was making him shiver. His hands were clammy and his heart rate was weak but going crazy, but he wouldn’t even lay down and let me get a good look at him until I yelled a few expletives of my own.

Like a boy, he refused to go to the hospital. Thank god his moron brother just happened to call, and he came over to watch E while I went to Walgreens and bought every burn dressing and ointment and topical pain relief concoction they had on the shelves. E’s brother was rinsing washcloths with cool water and laying them across his whole upper body by the time I got back. E was still complaining of being hot and wouldn’t even let me lay a cloth on his nose because it held his breath on his face and it was too hot to bear. He was still shivering and we wrapped every part of him that wasn’t burned in all the blankets we could find.

“I don’t wanna go to the hospital,” he chattered and I smoothed some lidocaine lotion on his arm.

“You HAVE to go,” I countered. “Baby, you have first- and second-degree burns and symptoms of stage 2 shock. If your pulse doesn’t steady in five minutes, or if that swelling above your eye begins to look any worse, we are going if I have to drag you by your toes.”

I put a cooling moisture pad on the open blister on his chest and he sighed. “That’s better.” Then, “How awful do I look?”

“Pretty shitty,” his brother volunteered.

“Do something useful and go re-wet these washcloths,” I snapped as I flung a few at him, then turned back to E. “Your arm really doesn’t look too awful and you still have your eyebrows.”

“I was pulling out clumps of hair in the shower,” he said, reaching up to feel his hairline. “How much did I lose?”

I felt around his scalp gently and found some singed ends where the clumps might have come from, but no patches that were burned clean. “I think the hair is safe.”

His breathing slowed to a normal rate and I checked his pulse periodically. Getting better. The moisture pads and lidocaine helped the pain, and the red area around his eye actually calmed pretty quickly. I was comforted by the fact that there’s a hospital only a few hundred yards from his house, just in case. So we stayed home and called him in sick for work. He was pretty unhappy about that since he was scheduled to wait on George Clooney again that night. But something tells me (and must also have told the managers of the Very Nice Restaurant where he works) that the blisters might not have done much for the tip.

He’s feeling much better now – still in pain, but out and about and still his usual crazy self. More blisters are forming on his face (it looks kind of awful but I will never tell him that) and his arm and shoulder are peeling like a bad sunburn. But it could have been so much worse. The whole kitchen still smelled of gas after we’d had all the windows open for several hours, and what if that had all ignited? I had been standing only a few feet from him when it happened – it could have been both of us. That burn above his eye could have been an inch lower. And if he hadn’t just rolled out of bed, he might have been wearing a shirt – which might have ignited, might have melted to his skin, might have spread the flames down his other arm and onto his back.

I’m not much for praying, but I spent a good deal of the day talking skyward to who or whatever is up there, pouring out thanks that the man I love is safe and mostly sound.

I hope you had a better weekend than we did.

I swear I took my camera to the St. Patrick’s Day festivities on Tuesday so I could have some fun “look-what-I-did” pictures like all the cool bloggers.

But I didn’t take any pictures because I forgot since I was sloshed by 11:30 am, like all the COOLEST bloggers!

My boyfriend lives in Dogtown, the Irish barrio of St. Louis, home to everything shamrocked and the Ancient Order of the Hibernians. It’s not a fancy neighborhood – lots of older homes, duplexes and four-family flats and smallish single-family houses. 364 days a year, it’s just a nice little neighborhood with a few good places to eat and an ecletic, left-leaning population of hipsters in stovepipe jeans, dazed stoners, young families, and some old people who have lived there since the neighborhood sprung up for the 1904 World’s Fair, or possibly before.

A lot of people partied for St. Pat’s over the weekend. But the AOH parade in Dogtown is always ON St. Patrick’s Day, whatever day of the week it is.  And the turnout, no matter what day it is, always tops the city’s “official” parade from the weekend before. The parade isn’t full of slick and glossy floats like the one downtown. Most of the AOH parade is just Irish people walking under their clan crests. There are bagpipers and Irish dancers and marching bands, but the best parts are the people who are just walking on the street, drinking beer, being Irish, and throwing shiny green beads and candy to screaming hooligans like me. It’s an hour and a half of FANTASTIC.

It snowed in 2007. Last year it was cold and muddy and sloggy. The 2008 turnout was pretty crummy (about 30,000 compared to this year’s 50,000) and we shivered in galoshes and sweatshirts.

But this year…

It was SEVENTY-NINE degrees! My sundress saw some sun for the first time in 2009 and I am proudly sporting a shamrock-shaped suntan sunburn line from the glitter tattoo I wore on my shoulder. All we did the whole day was drink, sit on the steps, and walk back inside for more drinks. E lives about half a block off the parade route, so the party was on our porch.

Someone else took that picture over there and put it on Flickr. I took the time to look it up for you. I wish, wish, WISH I had a picture of the pin my friend Kati got. You know the red and blue graphic of Obama, the one that was everywhere in the campaign? It was done in green and orange, the Prez had sideburns and a beard, and it said “O’Bama” on it. Lurve.

Everyone is happy on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s such a nice, non-divisive holiday that brings people together to eat and drink without the negative connotations of the debauchery of Mardi Gras. There’s no forced family love like Christmas, no lonely-hearts crap like Valentine’s Day, no political or religious agendas spewed. But everyone decorates their houses. You can dress up and wear beads and not get flashed. Parents pull their children out of school* and dye their hair green. DOGS get dyed green.

It was a wonderful day and I wish I could tell you more. I would if I remembered any more of what happened before I zonked out at 2:30 pm. Maybe the best days are like that.

But I CAN assure you that I did not eat any cabbage.

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* Unless said children go to St. James the Greater Catholic School in Dogtown, which cancels classes anyway and Jesus loves them for it.

I posted this excess baggage on Craigslist St. Louis just now. It only took me 5 years and E threatening to torch it for me to realize that it was time to let go. For a slight fee. It’s a long post for Craigslist, but it pisses me off when people don’t explain the crap they’re trying to sell and make buyers waste time hassling them with dumb questions. So, in the interest of not being hassled…

Jessica McClintock Wedding Dress Size 4, No Bad Karma or Sequins

That’s right, this is not another bad-karma divorce dress like many you see listed on resale sites or in shops.* I just didn’t get married after all, and that was a very good decision on my part. So really, you’ll have good-decision karma… and if you buy the dress I’ll tell you the whole story.

Or not. You probably don’t want to hear it. I’ll tell you about the dress instead.

This is a Jessica McClintock wedding gown in white matte satin, with skinny straps and a lovely low back. It has swirly embroidery in platinum thread across the breastbone and down the train, accented with small rhinestones. The sides meet at the lower back with three buttons and open to a chapel train. There are no sequins. I hate sequins and you should too.

The dress is a size 4. I was about 110-115 lbs when I bought it. The sides have been taken in a little bit, and bra cups (A-B) have been sewn into the front. The bustle has not been added, but the embroidery on the train will look lovely with either a traditional or French bustle. Because the chapel train is short-ish, the dress is not heavy and you will be grateful for that when you don’t have to hustle three bridesmaids into the handicapped stall with you to hold up your dress when that fifth glass of champagne has you wiggling.

The hem is unaltered and the hemline is a tiny bit dusty from all the times I tried it on (it’s a bit long on me and I was 5’3” then), but that will go away if you have it hemmed or if you have it professionally cleaned. A dry clean is recommended, although you should do that anyway AFTER you get all your alterations done. Just a tip from me to you.

The skirt is a full A-line with a little crinoline attached, and could perhaps be worn without a separate crinoline. However, a slim crinoline fills it out nicely and I do recommend that.

This dress cost me $399. My asking price is $150.

As much as I’d love to save this dress until I really do get married (and I WOULD wear it, just to keep the good-decision karma going), I’ve gained 20 lbs since I bought it and that might be Baby Jesus’ way of hinting that this is no longer the dress for me.

Actually, I blame the nachos.

I also have a matching halo veil with clear rhinestones and platinum wire that complements the embroidery perfectly.**

The veil is sheer, so it shows off the low back of the gown beautifully.*** You can buy the veil for an additional $30. It was something ridiculous like $80 when I bought it.

My weight gain is your gain if you buy this beautiful dress and veil for the economy-stimulating price of only $180. Cash only, please. Email me at the Craigslist address for a quick response, and we can arrange for you to come try it on.****

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* It’s not an ugly piece of shiny, sequined, puffy lace-sleeved scariness like most of those dresses either.
** Seriously? I have great taste.
***And you will WORK IT.
****Sometime when I’m not eating.

“Good morning, Breakfast!”

“You could just call him by his name, E.”

“You never told me his name.”

“Lars.”

“Lard?”

“Lars. He’s a Norwegian pig.”

“Lard, lard lard!” And he made the pig dance again.

Sigh.