It’s possible that I had the good fortune of a really cool week.
Last Sunday was a designated Funday. Sunday Funday Part I: brunch with my girls. My former co-worker girls, that is – who I hadn’t seen in three months. We usually do lunch once a month, but we were negligent in our schedulings since April when I left my old job.
We caught up on all the gossip from the place I fled like my panties were on fire (after sitting there burning in them for 4.5 years) while drinking mimosas and bloody marys like they were going out of style. (Are they going out of style? I’m bad at keeping up with those things.) We found out all about Alicia’s trip to North Carolina to vacation with her whole family and Amanda’s ridiculously amazing cruise to Alaska.
I decided I want to go, but not on a 15-day trip with Disney Cruise Lines like a quadruply long version of my trip two years ago, because 10 full days at sea on a ship full of children is liable to involve somebody going overboard because whoa.
After about two and a half hours of stuffing our faces and swilling alcohol deemed acceptable before 2pm, we parted ways. About 15 minutes later I hung a hairpin turn, misjudged the curb and parted ways with my front passenger tire.
Since I was so near to my former place of professional toil, I called them up and asked them for the number for the guys who handled the work vehicles. An hour later, said guys found me. But since it was such a nice day (once you adjusted to the literally eleventy-two degree temperature and suffocating humidity), I was perfectly content to sit in my crippled car amusing myself with my internet-connected phone until they arrived.
The only reason I hadn’t changed my own tire to the spare from the trunk was that I was physically incapable of doing so. My back was still angry after its latest rebellion and I was wearing a dress. And everyone knows you can’t change a tire whilst wearing a dress. But when the towing company guys arrived, I felt guilty about my decision.
The guy who wound up doing all the work while his early-20s protege stood there picking his nose was probably in his mid-50s and had spent a good portion of those years in hard living situations. He was big-bellied, sweating like Pat Robertson’s pregnant teenaged daughter and short one belt for his pants. There was a lot of grunting and blowing of sweat from his upper lip while directing NosePicker to get this wrench and that jack and the other thing from the truck.
With the spare on, I limped the 50+ miles home on back roads to avoid highway speed. This means I got to take the scenic route through the west side of town. By “scenic route” I mean “route that makes you want to never come to this city ever again and is that a gun by the way?”
It took an hour and 20 minutes. I left brunch at 2:30 and got home at 6.
So I downed a glass of water, mixed a clear cocktail in my 24oz reusable water bottle and took myself on down to the free concert playing nearby. There were dogs and people in ironic summer clothing and sundresses and the temperature cooled off and it turned out to be a really lovely night.
Monday night: last-minute dinner out at the yuppie neighborhood hangout (not to be confused with the hole-in-the-wall neighborhood hangout) with a couple of neighbors. An embarrassment of cheeses – I really must find their vendor – and good wine, and some accidentally amazing peoplewatching. What would you do if you saw a guy walking down the street with six bags of cotton candy? And then he went and loaded himself up with like 20 more bags of it from the trunk of a Nissan Maxima? You would take a picture and post it on Facebook, that’s what you’d do.
Tuesday night: While I was preparing my calorie-conscious salmon filet for baking (the sociability of my neighborhood directly correlates to the recent expansion of my waist and ass), I got an electronic invitation from Blaine and Erica across the street. “Hey, Jay and Eliza are over. There’s pizza. Come.”
Salmon went in the fridge. Where it proceeded to stink up the joint until I threw it out three days later. Three days later, I say, because Wednesday Ali texted: “Dinner my place!” We’d been trying to get together for two weeks. “Bring Moose Tracks ice cream for Gavin.” So I went to dinner at Ali’s and 11-year-old Gavin got his ice cream.
Thursday: I was going to stay in, but then Eliza messaged me that she and Jay were sans kids and up half a bottle of wine they weren’t going to drink, and they would love to see me. Well… how do you argue with that? So we shared stories about singing, drank wine and homemade limoncello (highly flammable), and maybe broke up an attempted rape. Hard to say. Either that or the girl who was screaming while three guys carried her and two others helped really was their cousin, as the boys claimed. And then I forgot to tell time and wound up walking home at 1:30am. Sober, but late.
Friday I stayed in. Shockingly.
And then there was today. Today, Alicia and I spent six hours on a free winery tour. Yes, I said free. A bit of a road trip led us to three wineries, 21 wines, some really cool people and the absolute lack of either of us losing our shit or yelling anything inappropriate. Unlike last time she went to wineries. Which was last weekend. And which ended in her yelling the same infamous quote from a local politician repeatedly.
I came home with three bottles because I’m running low in general and I’m totally out of white and it turns out my sociable neighbors prefer white in the summer months, like I do.
Tomorrow: singing at Mass, lunch with Mama-Friend (the woman I would choose to be my mother would that be possible), a trip to Target and then possibly a street festival with food on sticks.
Because nobody doesn’t like food on sticks. Including my expanding waist and ass.