It was kind of a weirdly productive weekend. I spent Friday evening watching Dawn of the Dead, still laughing to myself about the punch line to all zombie jokes (which is, of course, ‘Brraaaaaaaains!’ HEEE!) and then spent the rest of the night triple and quintuple checking the locks on all the doors and cursing the fact that there were so many windows in our house and also the fact that the makers of the zombie movie chose to set it in Wisconsin, perhaps the fictitious version of my wonderful Mayfair Mall (and seriously, they should be castigated for eternity for wasting the chance to show Max Headroom as a zombie). Just the same, I still managed to get to sleep early and dream of Russell Crowe, so if that’s a side effect of being unnerved by zombie movies, serve me up a few more helpings of brraaaaaains, bitte.
On Saturday, I woke up early, picked up Mark and went to the very last farmer’s market of the season. (Insert sad face here) Because of the timing, it was pretty sparse, with only about a third of the normal vendors. I did manage to score two more bags of the caramel popcorn (OF THE GODS!) and make an unsuccessful attempt to shake down the proprietor for the caramel corn recipe (sorry Jake). In a completely unexpected turn of events, there were Kerry/Edwards pollsters there, complete with lawn signs! I managed to score two and as of this writing, they are staked prominently in my corner lot. Then I made Mark go to the good meat place so I could stock up on some ground chuck and a couple of perfectly marbled tenderloin fillets. We then met Esteban and Mark’s adopted ward Andy out for breakfast and they scoffed at me when I declared that the plane flying strangely low over the city looked like Air Force One. As it turned out, it was totally Air Force One. Take that, disbelievers.
That is so a word. Shush.
We went back home and I attempted to create some semblance of order in our house. I have to admit, this concentrated effort is starting to make a difference. It’s not nearly as impossible as it once was. I did several loads of laundry, put some more stuff back in the kitchen, finished the Vonnegut for class, and then made the tenderloins and cheddar garlic mashed potatoes. After counseling a friend on a last minute Halloween costume (I still say he should have gone with the Culkin), we ate dinner, I made one of our Mexican blue glasses explode in a million pieces and give some character to our hardwood floor, and we watched Van Helsing. Which was stupid, even though Hugh Jackman’s pectorals should be nominated for Best Supporting Actor because they made me spontaneously ovulate. And given the fact that I just finished my princess time, that is some incredible emoting.
On Sunday, I woke up ridiculously early. Early, early, early. Why so early? Because the forefuckingfathers decided to fuck with the fucking clocks again, that’s why. I know that they’re hoping that you’re all happy because hey, you just got an extra hour, but I don’t buy it. Not only am I going to lose that hour again in spring, but on Sunday, we were walking around Target at 9 am (which is just sick and wrong) along with a lot of other confused GenXers looking for answers, perhaps from Michael Graves or the Swell line. I don’t think Ben Franklin took all of this in account back then. I know. I know. I’ve bitched about this before. I’m just saying. Fuckers.
In other news, the Packers beat the Redskins, which supposedly portents that Kerry will win the election. Or maybe the popular vote. I don’t know. These are trying times and if we can’t find the answers in our mass merchandisers, we look to sporting events to oracle election outcomes. I also spent my first Halloween handing out candy (previous years have involved supervising my brother’s trick or treating efforts) so I became one of those people and dressed up as Princess Fiona from Shrek. Sans the green makeup because I am not that enamored of the tradition. My dress was a little more cleavtastic than I remember, but ah well, it gave the fathers something to contemplate while I was bending over to drop Sour Patch Kids into their children’s treat bags. In further Halloween spirit, I watched some Buffy DVDs and also made a huge batch of chili. One of my fondest childhood memories involved going over to my Great Grandmother’s house to show her our costumes and she would feed us her strange Belgian soup chili. Mine is a little more hardcore, with the chipotle and black beans, but it will be make some easy hearty meals for the hectic week to come. And that, as Saint Martha would say, is a good thing.
I know it’s very wrong and it’s a very serious subject, but whenever I read the translation of Osama bin Laden’s latest video mention “a child discussing her goat and its ramming”, I smirk. For this, I am undoubtedly going to hell, but how can you not smirk, with the goat and the ramming? Huh? Huh?
When longtime readers of ‘Dumber than a box of Rocks’ read about my going to Dr. Perky for my current incarnation of Death Throat and how I received just antibiotics and eschewed the normal Prednisone chaser, they undoubtedly thought ‘Tsk tsk’ don’t mess with the ‘sone! You need the ‘sone!’
Because of course I needed the ‘sone.
Death Throat cum Death Lung (hereafter referred to as DTcDL) isn’t going to break its grasp with six paltry Zithromax pills. DTcDL looks at the cute little Zpack and laughs a hearty throaty James Earl Jones laugh, followed by a pneumatic coughing that lasts five minutes.
Anyway, I called Dr. Perky’s nurse and updated her on the status of DTcDL, and requested the ‘sone with the antibiotics again if possible. ‘Oh,’ I threw in at the last minute, ‘if she can do some cough syrup, that would be great.’ Because, you know, a girl’s got to try. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got a stash of Canadian codeine tablets’the cough syrup kind sends my bronchitis cowering in the corner and gives me golden happy sleep in which I do not move for 12 hours.
The nurse called me back and I completely expected that she would tell me that I needed to come in, pay my copay, and see the doctor for five minutes before they’d hand me a prescription. Except that she was just calling to tell me that my three prescriptions have been called in to my pharmacy. What is this? Three, pray tell? Why, the Zpack, the ‘sone, and some Robotussin with delicious effervescent codeine action, silly girl!
Angels. There are truly angels walking among us.
But this means that I will be bitching about Prednisone for the next week, provided that I am conscious.
Note to self: stock up on Hostess Fruit Pies and ice cream sandwiches, because that’s the only thing I’m going to want to eat for the next week.
PS. If you’re up for a Bad Bar Con, please voice your opinion here.
