The weekend’ ah, it stretches out behind me like a flag. Like a windsock. (Remember when those were all the rage with the hippy set? We had a rainbow one, before anyone in Green Bay realized that rainbows were associated with Gay Pride. My mom’s hippy boyfriend used a ten foot length of pipe and would stick it into the ground until one hot summer afternoon it was struck by lightening and illustrated quite nicely the phrase ‘heart jumped into my throat’ because I had been upstairs reading and watched the box fan sitting on the floor actually jump six inches. The lesson here: windsocks with rainbows on them are very dangerous.) It was lovely and nice and was everything a good weekend should be.
On Friday night, Mo called us and asked if she could tag along with us on whatever our plans entailed, as long as they didn’t involve any naked fun time or anything like that. They didn’t, so all was well, as much as Esteban had hoped otherwise. Our first thoughts were to stay home and watch Netflix and I would make my delicious French dip sandwiches. Then Esteban lobbied to go out to eat instead and maybe see a movie. Fine. We still haven’t seen Kill Bill, so we agreed upon that or the non-pirate sailing movie. I suggested our favorite Mongolian place in Appleton, which would mean that we could perhaps see the movie on the Ultrascreen theatre there. Ah, but clever cutting edge movies have the shelflife of a cut orchid in northern Wisconsin, therefore, Kill Bill is no longer in mainstream theatres. So the sailing movie it was. I was not terribly upset about spending the evening staring at Russell Crowe wearing tight pants, but apparently, Esteban was. When we decided to leave, he told us to go on without him and he just wanted to stay home and watch geek television instead. Fine. Mo and I drove to Appleton and I introduced her to the delights of Mongolian cuisine. However, by the time we were finished, we decided that we weren’t overly excited about sitting in a movie theatre, even with the lure of Russell Crowe and his historical tight pants, and would be just as happy to go back to our house and play entertainment roulette with my unopened Netflix envelopes. We drove home, laughing hysterically about poo, until at one point I had tears coming out of my eyes and the road was getting blurry. Weird thing about sharing DNA with someone’ the same things are ridiculously funny.
Ok, I’ll admit it. Reese Witherspoon almost had me convinced that she was misunderstood, that she was more than just a mediocre, less Joker-faced Meg Ryan. But then I wasted two hours of my life on Legally Blonde 2: Electric Boogaloo. And it wasn’t bad in a ‘It’s a bad movie, we are fully aware it’s a bad movie, so let’s just have fun’ kind of way, like “Bring It On” or even the first “Legally Blonde”. It was just lame. And poor Esteban, who was just trying to sit there and edit his article or perhaps hack into Wizards of the Coast and instead spent his evening furiously covering his ears during the particularly inane portions. He might have a skull fracture.
On Saturday, Esteban decided that he wanted to sleep late, so I hopped out of bed and was out the door by a ridiculously early 7:15 am. I then ran several errands, including a stop at Starbucks, dropped off many clothes and sheets at Goodwill, dropped off and picked up the dry cleaning, put gas in the car, and made it back home by the time Esteban crawled into the shower. I then watched a movie while putting the knee on ice. We cleaned the house little (or I cleaned and Esteban cheered me on from the sofa?), then I pulled another full garbage bag of clothing out of my closet, afterwhich I decided that my early start on the morning had just made me its bitch, thus I crawled into my lovely white down nest of a bed and was quickly absorbed into a rare drooling coma that happens so rarely. Esteban woke me up by trying to crawl into his side of the bed, his bare legs cold as raw chicken, breathing nostril breath onto my lips. We then discussed our plan of action for the evening. I declared that I wanted to eat buckets of peanuts and throw the shells on the floor, so we tried to go to the new Texas restaurant. However, it was 5:00 on a Saturday and everyone in this area is conditioned to eat on a farm schedule, thus the place was completely packed. Instead, we ended up seated in the new atrium at Lambeau, chomping on meat products and watching the light mist fall through spotlights on the parking lot. All in all, a nice Saturday.
Sunday was a day lost to leisure. I went grocery shopping again because I had neither business size envelopes nor pineapple. I came home with $100 of groceries and no business envelopes. Sometimes I get entranced by the pretty colors on the shelves, the cereal aisles with giant cartoon faces and everything with exclamation points or sage old faces on boxes filled with twigs and perhaps actual pebbles meant to simulate a colonic without the annoying HMO copays. I start humming along with The Pretenders, because once I did see a picture of you and you hijacked my world at night. Perhaps one of the loveliest metaphors in rock and roll, right there. Also, my feeble little mind starts to wonder, between loaves of Sara Lee bread (when did Sara Lee start making bread? And most importantly, will it make my toast taste like cheesecake?) and frightening meat displays, I start quizzing myself about the cast of My Two Dads and wondering if Greg Evigan sits alone at night in a dark room, cursing Paul Reiser all to hell. And then in the water aisle, from no where, Staci Keanan’s name jumps into my brain and I do a little dance, even though I know that when I am 73, I won’t know who the president is, but I will be able to tell you all about My Two Dads. And did they ever bother to take a damn paternity test on that show, to figure out which of them was in fact, her dad? I’m sorry, but most guys I know wouldn’t share. In fact, some guys I know would find themselves peeing on things, marking their territory in the apartment. And wouldn’t THAT make a good episode? And that’s how you spend $100 and not buy bloody envelopes. Right there.
They are building a Krispy Kreme in Green Bay this spring. I don’t know why it has taken this long. Quite honestly, all the executives had to do was look at the fact that Wisconsin is one of the fattest states in the country. I mean, we deep-fry cheese for god sakes. I can just hear the thought process’ ‘Hmmm’ we make a product which combines instant gratification with fat and sugar. Where can we make LOTS of money? I know’ another store in California, home of entire forests of bean sprouts and ridiculously thin people! They probably are hungry for a doughnut by now!’
I am strangely ambivalent about the prospect of the new Krispy Kreme literally 600 yards from my office. I just lost 5 pounds and am back to the point where I left off on Operation Hottie. I have too much chagrin to even think about a witty ironic retort. Or an ironic tort even. Apparently, however, I am channeling Snagglepuss. Exit stage left.
