So the weekend.
How many of my Monday entries start like that? I think a powerful lot of them do. Even though today isn’t really a Monday, it’s Tuesday, but in reality, it’s Stealth Monday, so it still counts.
I was supposed to work late on Friday night, which was ridiculous, to work until 7 pm Central on a holiday weekend, supporting a bunch of New York Wall Street analysts who are in no way going to be working until 8 pm EST on Labor Day weekend. So my new boss came over and said “Why don’t you just take your laptop home and call in and check your voicemails.” So I did. And there were none. And thus, I did not spend my Friday night sitting alone in a dark cube farm, listening to my printer go into whatever-little-power-savey-thing-it-does and the cleaning crew rifle through the desk drawers of my coworkers. Instead, I went home and saw Esteban before he left for his bi-weekly Dorkathalon (no, not the Sunday Dorkathalon. That happens weekly. This is a second auxiliary Dorkathalon. No, it doesn’t make sense, so try not to think about it too much.) And I started to clean up the computer room (which is really Esteban’s at home office. Because he and I officially traded offices three years ago, but he has yet to fully vacate his former office, I have been granted about two square feet of space in his office on his second desk, which I must share with a four hundred pound monitor and an enormous fax machine slash copier slash printer-that-only-works-with-Windows98) as Esteban’s clutter has now begun to encroach upon my two square feet of space that I call my own, thus I attacked the area with a garbage bag, hauling away four empty Amazon boxes and a variety of mailers, worthless computer swag, and dead scratched CDs. And even though there are miles to go before I sleep, I started to get snuffly and also found all three of my Baldur’s Gate installation CDs (one of the programs lost to the great motherboard crash of May/June ’03). I reinstalled everything, found my saved game stuff from my old hard drive, and by 1 am, was reminded why I had stopped playing the game pre-motherboard meltdown.
I shouldn’t mock Esteban for his Dorkathalon, especially since I essentially ended up spending my entire evening playing the computerized version of Dungeons & Dragons. Thus is my rock star life, people. You’re jealous. I can see it from here.
I had planned initially to get up early and go to the Farmer’s Market, but slept lovely open window sleep and woke with Tilly’s enormous white feet kicking me in the stomach because all sunlight are belong to Tilly.
Damn. Just make an uber geek joke. Baldur’s Gate must be a gateway drug or something. It’s only time before I’m dusting my Star Wars figuring collection.
By the time Esteban and I showered, it was almost noon. I lobbied for banana pancakes and we went to the IHOP, but as is the case with any newish restaurant in our sleepy little burg, it was inordinately crowded and during the ten minute wait for a table, the stupidity of the staff incensed me so much that I decided that I would need to scream at them should we remain in their presence for much longer, so I declared to Esteban that we would go elsewhere. And then it struck me that my crankiness and also the tender and yet urgent feeling of my abdomen could only mean one thing…. it was two minutes to happy hour at the Estrogen Martini bar. Esteban shrugged, as he loathes IHOP. Instead we went to Sports Bar #113, where they do not serve pancakes of any sort (but damn well should), but we could watch the Badger game and eat nachos and discuss my plans for various graduate programs.
We went home and Esteban proceeded to clean the kitchen. No. Really. I know, I was as shocked as anyone, particularly since his anemia has been a convenient excuse for doing as little as possible (“You forgot to put the milk away when you made cereal and now it’s all warm and ucky.” “I know, but I’m tiiiiiiiiiiiiired.”). At one point, I walked into the kitchen and stretching out before me was a sparkling clean countertop and Esteban was bent at work scrubbing madly at the stove top. I know this sounds ridiculous and like wacky woman logic, but God help me it was the sexiest damn site I’ve seen in weeks. Seriously. Madonna and Britney kissing? Bah. Madonna and Britney cleaning the schmeng off my stove? Phew, is it getting warm in here?
We then spent the rest of the day doing the things that other couples who have normal lives must do. We went to the warehouse club. One thing of note: in the parking lot, I noticed a shiny 2003 red Camaro convertible with the vanity plates “Casper V” on it. There was only one boy that I was aware had a crush on me in school and that was one Casper V. In sixth grade, he used to engage me in foot fights across the aisle. In seventh grade, he used to watch me longingly across first period social studies, and had his friend Jason invite me to go swimming with them in Casper’s in-ground pool (I, of course, declined the invitation, because there was no WAY I was going to let boys see me in a bathing suit. I wouldn’t even wear shorts during the summer and secretly wished I were Amish. In ninth grade, he was apparently devastated to learn of my enormous crush on the judge’s son. But I was simply not interested in poor Casper. He was much shorter than me and I, like most young teens, was shallow as a wading pool.). He transferred to a different high school when his parents moved (actually, the same high school that is two blocks away from my house). Fern and I often wax upon how completely gorgeous he probably turned out, for he had enormous dark eyes and reminded me a bit of a young Enrique Iglesias.
I pointed it out to Esteban. “Look at that car… see the Casper V on it? I think I went to school with him because how many Casper V’s could their be in Green Bay?”
He took a look at the car and then snarked “Overcompensating much?”.
We bought pluots and had a light-hearted discussion whereby Esteban listed the merits of purchasing The Two Towers DVD, despite the fact that we will be purchasing The Mondo Extra No We’re Really Serious This Time version in two months and despite the fact that we have in our possession an illegal screener copy of the very same theatrical version. And of course, all the while, I remained perked for the illusive Casper V, only to be denied a glimpse. Ah well. I looked like haggis any way, wearing my tan cargo shorts that should not be worn in public and a v-neck t-shirt that is so baggy that it threatens to slide off one shoulder, and zero makeup (although I did surreptiously apply some lip gloss and juege the hair when Esteban wasn’t looking, although it’s not as though I would take one look at the petite overcompensating poor man’s Enrique Iglesias with a squeaky voice… or at least he had one in junior high and thus still has one in my head… and eschew my hirsute hulking geek husband forever. Not so. But rather it is fate that you never bump into an old acquaintance when you look smashing. No, you always must encounter former classmates and the like two minutes after a constellation of acne appears on your nose and your shirt has a gravy stain upon it.). We also went to Barnes & Noble, but as I have a hearty stack of books from various bookstore plunderings in San Francisco, I purchased nothing but an iced tea and two Godiva chocolates. Esteban, on the other hand, came away with a stack of books and could not help but chortle with excitement. The man goes through books like Kleenex. I suspect that he only reads every seventh word.
We then went home and watched said redundant DVD of The Two Towers (which, have I mentioned, is EXACTLY like our other purloined DVDs? But $19.99 is a small price to pay to keep the spouse happy, so be it.) and I made dinner of ginger chicken and garlic rice noodles for Esteban, who was very happy that his magical cooking wife has returned from her summer hiatus, and to which I hinted that many lovely tasty things will come to pass should I have a clean kitchen to make them in. Because, yes, I am a spiteful harpie when at the mercy of the Red Baron.
And yet, the universe smiles upon me, as I then received a bit of voicemail that was more performance art than anything. I strongly suspect the culprit was Patsy Cline.
On Sunday morning, I lobbied heartily for banana pancakes and was rewarded thusly, however the mega cramping had begun full force and I was unable to eat but a few forkfuls without tempting the gut-wrenching thunderstorm of muscle spasms from my uterus. I had afternoon plans for Girl Golf with Carissa and Pennilicious but called and regretfully begged off, knowing that every swing of a club would be nothing but agony. I then took Mo and Abby out for High Maintenance Pizza and was entertained by Abby as she sang along with utter conviction to Justin Timberlake on the ride home. She’s going to be a rock star when she grows up. She has declared this and I am completely convinced that it will be so.
Monday was a lost day. I was woken early by the tempestuous nature of my uterus. I tried to be productive and set up the new cat food bin (a step-on chrome garbage bin that matches our retro kitchen) but after carrying it in from the garage and taking it out of the box to find the lifty mechanism was broken, and then putting it back in the box and back out to the garage, my whole initiative was blown and I could only sit and play UncleBob’s addictive little Drug Lord game (Dude! My record is 2.7 million. Beat that shiznit, yo!) until Esteban stumbled out of bed three hours later. We took the broken bin back to the store, but by then Esteban was completely wore out, so we went back home where he could veg on the sofa and watch American Chopper on the Discovery Channel (which, by the way, has now beaten CSI as his favorite show in all the world, and has the added benefit of making him want a motorcycle “really really bad oh so bad”).
I decided that he needed some protein for dinner and I needed a new OPI nail polish (because, seriously, I have a problem, y’all. You have no idea.), so I went to the mall and picked up Abbey Rose, and then also stopped at the new Lane Bryant, where I finished my thwarted shopping extravaganza, scoring a button down weathered seventies-looking shirt, dirty-washed boot cut jeans, another pair of boot cut jeans, tan cropped pants, six pairs of panties in a variety of colors and a silver necklace, all for one thin Benjamin, so it was worth even the look of shock on Esteban’s face when I trounced in with a shopping bag stuffed to the top with cute clothes, rather than just a tiny little bag bearing a single nail polish.
A certain sense of self-righteousness plagues me when I’m hormonal. I saw a woman of a certain size in Lane Bryant, perhaps a mother shopping for school clothes with her plus-sized teen. Her breasts, easily double lettered, if not triple, were unbound, swinging free, inspecting the ground like basset hounds sniffing after a tasty morsel. When I gazed past her while looking for the perfect pair of jeans, my eyes did an involuntary Gangsta Chica roll and I had to prevent myself from proclaiming to anyone who would listen “Oh no she DI’INT!”. I mean, there we were, in Lane Bryant, purveyors of many fine personal support garments for the well-endowed woman, including but not limited to the Dayam!Bra which provides exceptional cleave, and there she was, swinging to and aft. In PUBLIC. I mean, you could practically hear the stretch marks as they happened. I simply wanted to redirect her, like a lemming, to the lingerie section, take her by the hand and say “Here, honey, let me help you.” But no. No, I could only have mental anguish for all of the fat lady stereotypes she was reinforcing, with her jogging pants and dirty athletic shoes and disrespect for the fun pillows that God gave her. At least she allows her daughter practice sane fashion choices. I threw my shoulders back and tried to lead by example, like the masthead of a ship, a proud Valkyrie of the Underwires. Sometimes it is so very trying, though. I wish there were a non-profit group out there to fix this obvious social problem.
After a quick stop at the grocery store, I made dinner (provolone sirloin burgers, hash browns, cantaloupe and watermelon… quick and easy summer dindin) and then we spent another rare leisurely evening, bemoaning the lack of Monday Night Football and traipsing around the house being lazy. Then we retired to the bedroom, where the open window by my head let in cool pre-autumn breezes and the light of a single star. Or maybe a planet. Perhaps it was Mars. I don’t know. It didn’t seem particularly angry.
Esteban just sent me an email containing only this link.
I want to make a comment about whistle-blowers, but it just seems in poor taste.
