I had grand plans this weekend to do a million catch up projects, slog through eight tons of (fucking) laundry, and finish every outstanding freelance project and also do my billing so that I get paid and also do the prep work for upcoming projects and also refold my 2×3 foot shelf area of my closet, where a million t-shirts live in a wrinkled clump and also make slow-roasted baby back ribs. I am nothing if not overzealous about my planning and To Do lists. Except that my body exclaimed “Insane abdominal cramping! Whuppah!” and instead I retreated into a protective cloud of down comforter and Advil Liqui-Gels. Esteban, realizing what was happening, immediately went to the store to get steak (I get crazy anemic during princess time and have intense cravings for beef) and potatoes for dinner. When he returned, he threw a pack of Marshmallow Pinwheels onto the bed and announced that if those didn’t make me feel better, he also bought Oreos and some chocolate chip cookie dough as well. And then he tromped into the kitchen to scrub the baking potatoes.
And for all of those people who wonder how he manages to convince me to put up with his shit, I give you People’s Exhibit A: The Unexpected Cookies. Whenever I am really not feeling well, one of my true comfort foods is Marshmallow Pinwheel cookies (also known as Fudge Fluffs by another manufacturer). They are too sweet and too waxy when
I am feeling fine, but when I am not feeling well, they are sweet pillows upon which to rest my weary brow. Oh, sweetened plasticy chocolatey coating and slightly salty mounds of goodness. And there I spent most of Saturday, lounging and moaning, with a brief respite to the living room to eat a peanut butter sandwich followed by a tenderloin sandwich (see, the protein thing?) while watching “A Very Long Engagement” (during which I moaned with a French accent). And while it is unfair that I should be stricken once a month with what is usually a curious and strange course of physical events, it is also unfair is the fact that I look exactly the opposite of Audrey Tautou. I’m not sure which is worse. Probably the latter.
Weetapidol blogging finished this week, to critical acclaim by dozens and, strangely enough, national press coverage. At first it was sort of strange, this idea that I’d been mentioned in a front page story of a major newspaper, but then even stranger is that well, I haven’t been mentioned in a front page story of a national newspaper, but rather my crazy online pseudonym has. And they think I live in San Francisco.
Just the same, I still want to invite Joe the culture guy from the SFGate over for mojitos. I think he’d be a good addition to our weekly wine night.
As you can tell from the finale posting, Foofy was in town this week. We made mojitos and had a photo shoot on my front lawn while I was grilling Basil and Garlic-stuffed chicken breasts and then we were joined by my sister and Abby and then Hasselhoff was crying in the audience and mofo Prince was there and man, you just can’t have a better combination of forces than that. I know that I say this often, but it is probably a good thing that we all don’t permanently live in the same city, because we would destroy either the city or ourselves in the hilarity.
And that was last week, in which I didn’t get to post this because my god, my project is kicking my ass. And also, I pulled the weird muscle in my neck again, so was out of commission for a day. And also it’s our seven year wedding anniversary today and Esteban wrapped my present in a combination of blue Easter grass and Scotch tape because he could not find wrapping paper. Which is probably better than what I got him, which is nothing because it hasn’t arrived yet. I suck! (Wait, I guess I did give him something good.)
In other news, is it wrong that I’m happy that The OC killed off Marisa? Because I feel sort of guilty about the relief I felt as soon as she really was dead due to a confusingly minor head injury. I should probably reserve my guilt for less stupid things. And yet, I still can’t get past the hippies winning Amazing Race. I will attribute this to leftover Meh from the Family Edition and hope that the next season gets better. And that Project Runway begins soon.
Esteban and I made a run to Chicago yesterday for the soul purpose of walking around IKEA. It was 104 degrees at one point, and the Chrysler’s air conditioning froze up, so we were sweating inside our black car as the sun beat down upon us. We spent a whole eleven dollars at Ikea, mostly because at that point, we were so tired and hot from the ride down that Esteban no longer cared enough to seek out the file cabinet that matches his desk. And we got such a late start (due to glorious sleeping in) that by the time we got to town, it was 3 pm, so we had a very abbreviated timeline. I did, however, get to introduce Esteban to Trader Joe’s, which was fun. He predicts that we will have a Trader Joe’s within reasonable driving distance (read: Appleton, which has half the population but twice the shopping opportunities) by the year 2012. I think he’s being optimistic. I mean, we are still a community of 200,000 sharing one wee little Starbucks. Hello?
I want to move.
In more ‘other news’, grades are in for the semester and I invite you to bask in the beauty of my new ‘Still A 4.0 GPA and Only One Year Until I Get My Masters’ shoes.
Yes, I have nothing to wear them with and nowhere to go once I do, but damn, you have to admit that these are some fine-assed shoes, yes? Maybe once I get my degree, I can be a high-classed call girl. Smart Fat Girls Who Quote Margaret Atwood appeal to a very specialized client base, but one that is untapped. Note to self: run idea past Esteban. Maybe need some charts to support business case.
