I Love a Parade

So it is that time of year again.  The time when we all feel nice and cozy, get nostalgic for our pasts and wax poetic about our future in the new year.  There are also parades. I LOVE a good parade.  Nothing makes me happier than to smile and point at the people I used to be.  Yes readers, I was an avid “in the parade girl” until one horrible day….which I will devote an entire post in the immediate future.

This year, PIC and I went to the parade.  And, in true PIC style, a lot happened.  Some of it I am even able to share in pictures.

The first thing that happened was that we noticed we were on the wrong side of the street.  There was a happily buzzed brood across from us singing out of tune holiday songs, swaying to their own music and snapping photos.  Drinks? Check. Singing? Check check. Photos? CHECK! PIC and I were certainly on the wrong side of the street, but were shot a “behave ladies, it is only 11am” look.  So, we complied.

*I love snapping random photos.  So much so that Svetlana does this on her own accord.  Here is a picture of my PICs hair.  I didn’t take it, Svetlana did. But girl I see why! So pretty!

PICs locks

Doesn't she have beautiful hair???

The second thing that happened was PIC and I got all Stacey London/Clinton Kelly up in there.  The fashion adorned by these lovely parade watchers?  Something short of hideous.  No. Who am I kidding… it was hideous. I have photos, but I can’t post them because I fear for the poor people’s street cred.  Here is an idea of what we saw:

*A lady in a cat sweatshirt.  Nay. Not just any cat sweatshirt. This was a classy cat.  In rhinestones.  And glitter.  And…wait for it… puffy freakin’ paint y’all!  Kid. You. Not.  It was fantastic.

*A lady in what I assume are remnants of Grinch.  Green, dreaded up, furry matted boots. Oh hell honey…..

*A lady who ate a leopard.  Really. Because how can you make leopard print pants fit that tight unless you are 1) half leopard or 2) just ate a leopard.

*A child dressed like a little stripper. Yes.  The poor thing had on a skirt  that, even in my early 20s, I would have died before I wore out.  Leave a little something to the imagination for the boys right? But, yeah. Tiny short skirt, heels, and a tight top.  The crowing glory as it were? Her hair was all big and teased out.  I poked PIC and said “Look! Stripper in training!” She gave the “oh my that’s sad” look, and then we shot a dirty glare at her mother for letting her dress that way.

But arguably the best part of the parade was the dead bird. We shall call it Feathers. Because, well, that was all that was left. After PIC and I stop people watching, I zero in like a hawk on something slightly swaying in the middle of the parade route.  Feathers.  Rather, one wing of Feathers – wing up, saluting as one should in a parade….one last wave for the road.

Me: PIC! LOOK! Sweet baby moses is that a dead bird?

PIC: Yes. Yes it is.

Me: For the love of God, can’t they clean that up before the parade marches through?

PIC: Check it out! Look! Posse of girls heading straight for the dead bird!

Me: It’s waving to them like “Hey girlfriends! Wait for me!”

PIC: They are going to crush it.

The bird.

And this was what we actually heard (after girls successfully avoided the bird much to PIC and I’s dismay.)

Dead bird! Close call!

Me: They avoided it!

PIC: But the firetrucks won’t.

She was right.  But, we did see a girl drag her flag through Feathers and heave him on to the crowd a little, a kid on skates fall because he saw Feathers, a dog attempt to eat Feathers… and a brave police officer high step the hell out of Feathers.  But, for literally three quarters of the parade, Feathers maintained the wing wave.  Perhaps it was the wind as PIC said.  But I like to think it was the gentle spirit of Feathers giving one last goodbye to his beloved town parade.

Sad Days.

After the parade was over and Feathers was a memory, we headed home to make… what else…. dinner and wine slushies….followed by crazy karaoke and laughing until I cried.

Cheers!

Cheers to the holidays y’all!

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4 Comments

  1. Pingback: Blame the Meds « Stuff I Can't Put On Facebook's Blog

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