1 (one) discussion about McCarthy’s the Road, and how you a) so would have offed yourself and the boy long before you saw the chained up people sans limbs in the basement and 2) would have stayed in the bunker and eaten peaches and Spam and Tang until they pried all aforementioned from your cold, dead hands.
1 jar low fat chunky peanut butter, consumed with considerable fervor given your tendency to avoid grocery shopping as you do cyborgs coupled with suspected wheat allergy. Add sour cream, hot salsa, and baked corn chips should your stomach not implode initially from pounds of legumes.
1 poorly planned brunch downtown, a painfully circuitous route brought to you by Rolling Thunder and poor DC police planning that had you and all out of town plates not going the 26 required blocks, but crossing the bridge into the Commonwealth and then MaGuyvering it from Spout Run to 13th and Penn for fantastic conversation. Is Marion Barry still our mayor? Hmm.
A generous helping of one tipsy best friend knocking on a neighbor’s door, Corona Light and Weight Watchers Sponge Cakes in hand, having him only to turn her away. At 3:30 am. While pantless.
1 revelation by tipsy best friend that she has seen our collective future while picking up foster cats. Retrieved supplies from 40-something cat foster mother with PTA mom/senator’s wife haircut. Attractive. Single. Two spare bedrooms converted into cat playgrounds, complete with three-story scratch towers and multiple coffee table books devoted to felines rather than fellatio. (See also: best if chilled with equal quantities disdain and denial.)
Numerous visits to chess.com, doing absolutely nothing to assuage fear that I shall erect multi-story cat structures in house by age 45. Comforted by chuckle at current use of “erect.”
One outing of your hardcover copy of He’s Just Not That Into You, prominently displayed in your living room.
A splash of rain, but not enough to necessitate an umbrella. High humidity, enough to necessitate both an armory of anti-frizz paraphernalia and CVS teen acne creams.
A moment of stepping in cat vomit while tipsy. And marking said cat vomit with a Windex bottle and paper towels until faculties returned the next morning.
Handfuls of kisses. Lovely kisses. To taste.
Serving suggestion: margaritas with extra sass and salt.
14 Comments
Oh! Kissing!
Please note that my enthusiasm is ignoring the vomit mention.
So I don’t need to read The Road now?
Mmm…that sounds like an absolutely glorious weekend.
Fantastic. Especially the kissing. And I would really love a detailed account of that as well as the pantsless neighbor proposition.
Wow! I thought my weekend was exciting…thanks for the amusing imagery your post created: ) By the way, I’m 53 and have never erected a cat tower…so there’s hope….well…maybe.
I don’t respond much but I always love your posts.
Oh! The D.C. humidity bullshit! How I DO NOT miss it. I swear, on days like that I could keep change in my pores.
A few points for clarification…
a) Canned fruit, Spam, and orange Tang served in a bunker describes my MemDay weekend to a tee. Were you spying?
2) Marion Barry (aka M-Bizzy) isn’t the mayor anymore. He’s grown more powerful than you can imagine.
iii) Any friend of yours (or, indeed, you) are welcome at the door pantsless, cake-carrying, and beer-laden Any Time. Stand by for directions.
Finally, anyone kissing you this weekend should consider himself one of the luckiest men in the D o’ C.
Unless you meant the cats in which case… Proceed with tower erection. (Not to be confused with towering… oh nevermind.)
We need pictures of the cat playground! I cannot imagine.
If she wasn’t wearing pants, I don’t understand why your neighbor turned her away.
And I always thought Snackwells were the diet food of choice whilst binge drinking.
So I don’t need to read The Road now?
You must still be kissing….
Margaritas. mmmm. Let me think about that for a moment.
Where have you gone? We miss you!
Way better than my weekend which involved a wedding where the AC wasn’t high enough, the bar wasn’t accessible enough and the cake was served at a station that was always 40 people deep. Yes, this girl went to a fucking wedding and got no goddam cake. I would have taken cat vomit over that, love.