Oy, now that this diary is 200 plus entries, I’m getting lazy. No updates this weekend, but that means one hella entry today! Not necessarily a good entry, just a long one.
This weekend was extremely weird. Again, I don’t remember what we did on Friday night. Again, I think we watched television.
Saturday was Esteban’s birthday. We started out the day quite strangely. First of all, we slept in. Then, I got up and hustled to the Farmer’s Market for apples. A few nights ago, I made fresh applesauce with our dinner, using only three apples because Esteban usually never eats side dishes. However, once he tried the applesauce, he hovered it up. It was very tasty if I do say so myself.
I purchased a bunch of apples (Gala and Honey Crisp’ neither are really good cooking apples, but I’m willing to try it’ that’s me’ Apple Rebel, baby!!!), a loaf of bread, maple syrup, honey, and a cookie, which I promptly ate. Then I went back home where Esteban had managed to pull his tired self out of bed. He showered and declared that he wanted a non-breakfast breakfast. Off we went to Sports Bar #114. I have half-heartedly been following a ‘healthy’ diet, so I ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and then spent the entire meal drooling over Esteban’s juicy mushroom & Swiss burger. But we got to watch lots of college ball, so that’s always good.
Esteban’s ass still hurts. Poor boy. He’s in a fair amount of pain all the time. He has been essentially doing all of his work with a TV table and a laptop because his tender tuckus can only bear to be placed upon our sofa. I feel so bad for him. That’s how he is, though. He has fallen down those deathtrap stairs several times, yet last week he went down them again, carrying something heavy. His last four Saturdays have been filled by helping his friends and he spent most of his birthday building a PC for another friend while sitting on the sofa, nursing his bruised bottom. And what a cute bottom it is.
So sue me. I love my husband’s butt.
Which is all good, because he loves my tail feathers too.
Our friend Scott had invited us to a housewarming party at his new abode. Naturally, such occasions require a housewarming present. My optimal present is usually a lovely frou-frou candle, but it raised a question of propriety. Scott is unattached. There would be no female who would look appraisingly at my gift of ‘Walk in the Orchard’ Bridgewater candle and declare it an expensive and appropriate gift. I was a tad afraid that Scott, being a man, would look at the candle and think that it was a $2.99 variety that smells like the poop of a dog that has eaten copious amounts of lilacs or some other flower of which candle manufacturers cannot quite replicate the smell.
I figured I’d chance it anyway. I think he liked it, but I’m not entirely certain. To play it safe, Esteban also picked up some weird beer for Scott. They found it exciting that the beer still had yeast in it. You’d have thought it was individual granules of testosterone floating around in there, the way they were going on about it. Good lord. Primitive man rallied in awe around the eclipse of the moon’ modern man beats his chest when he drinks beer with lumpy stuff in it.
Scott’s got a lovely pad, though. Very tasteful and lovely. I’d love to set up Scott with one of my single girl friends. He reminds me of Lloyd Dobbler from Say Anything. Smart, funny, and a little shy. I think, however, now that he’s got a phat pad, he’ll be beating the chicks off him. Tastefully decorated homes are pure pheromones for young women. I have one friend that I think would be perfect for him’ people have told me that she resembles Jennifer Love Hewitt. I think Scott would feel too weird about the whole deal though’ being set up and all of that. He’s so Lloyd Dobbler. But I don’t think he kickboxes.
I think that single men with tastefully decorated homes are to women what dark beer with stuff floating in it is to men.
How’s THAT for an equation!!!!
Whapppppaaa!!! (that’s the sound Chandler makes when he makes the ‘whipped’ sound)
Still haven’t figured out where to go this weekend in Door County. All I want is a room sum whar, far away frum da cold night aihre, with a hot tub for two and a fireplace and a king size bed with a view of Lake Michigan’. Oh wouldn’t it be luverly!!!!
Ahem.
I’ve found a room with a king size bed, a hottub and a view of the highway. Instead of a fireplace, there is a desk. Maybe we could party like rockstars and set the desk aflame. Nah. We’re too old for that. I must be satisfied with being an Apple Rebel, babay!
I have no diary in me today. All that linking on Friday’ it wore me out, man. I’m flat today.
Dear Left Bra Strap,
Please stop slipping off my shoulder, would ya? Christ.
Weetabix
Dear Carson Daly,
You are an incredible tool. And that way that you dress, with the wrinkled t-shirts and weird-ass frat boy jeans? That doesn’t make you look post-modern and grunge, it just looks like you’re a sloppy tool. So get an iron, tool boy, and stop slouching.
Sheesh.
Weetabix
Dear Tom Arnold,
Stop being the poster child for the camp that thinks that all plump women are pathetic.
Weetabix
Dear PoorYorick,
I knew you well. Ok, not so well, but that was a little Shakespeare joke there. Ok, maybe it wasn’t so funny. Anyway, Welcome To Diaryland!!!!.
Big love to ya,
Weetabix
P.S. Gang, maybe y’all would like to stop by his diary and christen it with lots and lots of Guestbook entries and make the guy feel at home? You would? You guys rock.
