So my weekend was lovely, aside from being wracked with abdominal pain for most of the time. Lovely minus that. If say, I had been born a boy. Except then, I wouldn’t have thought it was lovely, since I didn’t score any box or bust my nut or however the hell it is that boys rate their weekends.
On Friday evening, I pretty much did nothing but sit on our big ugly beige LayZboy recliner with a heating pad on my tummy and my very favorite koi fish tin cup filled with 100% grape/cranberry juice and blowing through my Netflix stash. On Saturday, we slept in late and then decided that since I was going to do laundry anyway, we should flip our king sized mattress. And flip it we did, in what had to have been the most comical and difficult mattress flip yet in the history of this particular mattress. Esteban seemed confused by the proportions and I could not bend at the waist. It was a farce, except painful and frustrating and resulting in some misplaced grumpiness, and then, when it was all over, I couldn’t even go lay down in bed because it was just a damned mattress. Also, Esteban somehow managed to miscellaneously bleed (random nose bleed? Over zealous mosquito? It’s a mystery) through the sheets onto the down-filled mattress topper, and I have ZERO idea how to get that off and thus, in the event that Esteban is murdered and the police are trying to find his killer, they will find his blood on our mattress topper and then I will be arrested and sent off to prison where I will be quickly claimed as Big Daddy Heather’s bitch.
I’ve clearly been watching too many police dramas.
I did some (fucking) laundry, ran out to the good butcher for some meat that doesn’t leave me squicked, and then got the mail in which Chrysler sent Esteban a letter asking him if he wanted to trade in his 300M for a 2004 model, which sent me into a fury because it is MY car, not Esteban’s car, and it is MY name on the damned title, but because I am married to Esteban, he somehow becomes the MASTER AND COMMANDER? What the bloody fuck is that all about? I realize that this is a sore subject with me and I also realize that I have actually not purchased a car because the salesman repeatedly only addressed Esteban even after being explicitly told by both of us that I was the car buyer and not Esteban. But I thought that we had an understanding with our Chrysler dealer and they got it and understood that it is the new millennium and that women can and do actually own property and make decisions regarding said property on their very own.
Damn. It’s enough to make me want to buy a Saturn.
Ok, it’s the hormones talking. I’m off my soapbox now. Let’s move on and say nothing more about that little outburst, shall we?
Later that evening, I received a call from Joel. Esteban was working at his house out in BFE and they were wondering if I’d like to go out for dinner with them in Appleton at our favorite BBQ place in a couple of hours. Never one to turn down some good ‘cue, I immediately agreed. Then, I started thinking about shopping and how I had to return some stuff in Appleton anyway, so I called them back and told them that I would meet them there. Then I loaded up the car with my various returns and hit the highway. In record time, I managed to exchange a pair of shoes for a new pair of Hottie Jeans (my old two pairs have finally given up the ghost and have become completely unwearable in public) and then to Lane Bryant to return five Dayam!Bras which had underwire blowouts long before their prime (exchanging them for duplicate new Dayam!Bras) as well exchange two t-shirts that turned out to be far too short for comfort for a new white hoodie. The entire venture netted me a profit of $14.98, so it was definitely worth the trouble and therefore with zero guilt I bought another tub of coconut Body Butter at the Body Shop. Thus, the entire shopping trip cost under $5. Got to love that!
I met Joel, Cheri and Esteban at the restaurant and we had a lovely dinner. Joel invited me back to watch movies in their obscenely huge home theatre room with the speakers that go boom boom boom, but by then all of the shopping endorphins had subsided and I had gone back to being Groany McCrampsalot, so I went back home, shuffled into my ancient UWSP sweatshirt and lumberjack socks, then blew through the Tivo backlog while nested in the fresh white sheets of our bed with the heating pad gently assuaging my tumultuous gut. Esteban came home later and we watched them rig Iron Chef so that Bobby Flay could win. Again.
Gah. Fucking Bobby Flay.
On Sunday, I was starting to get over the pains and trials of being a female and was able to rouse myself enough to head to Tarzhay (isn’t a weekend if I’m sucking at the teat of the damned Tarzhay!) for more laundry detergent (and another $80 of various things).
Esteban came along and then later we stopped for lunch at Krolls, which is a Green Bay institution, with the butter soaked burgers and the ridiculously delicious Belgian style chili. We dined in the bar, because we enjoy the way that you can leave 2004 at the door. Seriously, there is still an old jukebox that plays 45s and one of the choices is Frank Sinatra’s ‘Strangers In The Night’. LOVE that! However, the whole nostalgia was ruined by the fact that someone had turned on the big screen TV to Nascar and in fact, several Earnhardt faithful were gathered around, supplicating themselves in front of the glowing alter.
I just rolled my eyes at them, but the best part was just watching how much they truly enjoyed watching the cars driving around a circle (CARS! Driving in a circle! Men. Driving cars. In. A. Circle.) but how completely entertaining they found the commercials featuring the drivers of said cars. In fact, the lady would often repeat the punch lines of the commercials and then laugh, as though they were spontaneously coming forth from her own brain. It was like retarded ventriloquism.
Because it was the only thing I could think to do that wouldn’t end in my ass getting kicked, I slyly turned off the flash on my adorable little digital camera and took a picture of them. I don’t know why. It’s not like you can see the words coming out of their mouths in little thought balloons. I suppose I did it to remind myself of the stupidity in the world, that no matter how dumb you think something is, someone out there thinks that it’s fucking brilliant.
After snapping the picture, Esteban said, ‘When you find yourself roasting on spit in hell, I want you to think back on this moment and learn from it.’
He said it in a low voice. I think he was afraid that the woman would think it came from the commercial and repeat it and then laugh and laugh and laugh at her own comedic genius.
Later, we went home and I proceeded to wander around in a weird stupid daze (probably because God smote me for making fun of the Easily Entertained) in which I couldn’t think straight or stay focused on any one task. I did more (fucking) laundry, played Internet backgammon (in some alternate Backgammon based universe, I am a Goddess and lesser gammons bow before me), and, in the only fit of Martha Stewartness all weekend, made key lime bars. Which were very tasty indeed.
Later, Esteban came home and asked me what I did, to which I replied ‘Not a whole lot.’
‘I should think not, since I had your car keys the entire time.’ Yes, when we left for Tarzhay, I had started my car with my keys and he ended up with them in his pocket somehow. I was very glad that I didn’t know that I was essentially housebound, since that would have made me discontent and I would have had this crazy need to escape at all costs. But, since I didn’t know that I was trapped, I was happily being a slacker for most of the day and never really thought about leaving. Funny how that works.
There was some more that came after this part, but if I told you that now, what would you have to look forward to, hmmm? Until then, a completely gratuitous picture of my adorable niece Abby, giving her dramatic portrayal of a five-year-old who is very very serious indeed. She’s destined for an Oscar. The critics love her. And she will love them, provided that they bribe her with candy and also stuff from the Hello Kitty store.
PS. Vote for Public Domain! A Million Times!
