Mark and I had decided that we'd seen stuff in DC and weren't going to have the time to see all the other stuff we might want to see. And that it was more important to be helpful to Michelle than to see touristy stuff. So we unpacked some book boxes for her, and then we asked what we could do with the rental car that she couldn't do on foot. The Ikea gods were after her soul, so we, in thrall to them, drove her and Scott down to Ikea. We returned with two Nots (lamps), a bookcase (Billy), a chair, a dragon-headed spaghetti ladle, cloudberries, orange thins, D'aim (I swear they did not spell it that way in Norway), and various and sundry other good things. And several more views of the Pentagon. We were a bit late for the barbecue at Ed and Jen's, but they were not done barbecuing, or even really started.
Ed has a big, nice grill. Mark was jealous. He also has a long-handled big ol' knife, not shown. I was jealous.
We hung around in the Spandes' backyard while it was light out and went inside after it got dark. Played an interminable game of Kill Dr. Lucky. Ate nummy pie. Splendid time had by all.
Erica and Dan.
Tennille and Vanya, sitting on the power box.
Beth and her boyfriend Josh. We had not met Josh before.
Ben. He and Marte-girl were playing that game wherein only things with doubled letters get to go to the beach, only you're not supposed to say that it's doubled letters. People are supposed to guess.
Amber and Em. They're never called that, always Emmanamber. But if I had written it that way, it'd be labeled in the wrong order.
Yourchuck, no longer looking cool. I said, "Yore, look cool." Then I held up the camera. Then I said, "Yore, stop looking cool, you look drunk. Just look happy." So he did. I thought that was accommodating of him. He said that must mean that he looks really cool when he's drunk.
I'm sure that's it.
Me and Mark. It's not a very good picture of my Very Orange Pareo, of which I am inordinately fond, but it'll do. I can tell I've been around the old crowd a lot lately, because I don't usually think of myself as Ris, and yet that's how I automatically entitled this picture. My godfathers no longer call me Ris. My grandma told my aunt Doris I didn't like it (because I hated being called Rissy, especially when I was a young teenager), and Aunt Dor told my godfathers, and now they don't call me Ris any more. Only I never minded it from them. And I don't mind it from these people, either.
This is Marty (with beer). I always thought Marty looked like a medieval woodcut of Satan, or maybe not Satan, maybe just Mephistopheles or someone like that. In a good way. I never mean that in a bad way, but people sometimes think I do. No, no. It is a rare and wonderful thing to look like a medieval Satan.
I told Michelle she looked rakish, and -- wonder of wonders -- she asked me to take this picture. So I did.
I always thought Ben was funny myself. Not quite as funny as Aaron seems to be finding him. But funny.
Amber and Vanya.
So we went home at a slightly more decent hour and then it was the wedding day....