I was at work until 9pm on Friday. The only reason I am sharing this is because at 8pm, I decided to return a call to this guy who had left me 2 unsolicited, though work-related messages that week, but who I was pretty sure I wasn't interested in talking to.
I knew I was going to be at work for a while longer, and I was too lazy to look up the area code where he was located to figure out if it was an even remotely appropriate time to call, so I just dialed.
He picked up the phone, and I kid you not, said:
"I've been waiting for your call."
Let me repeat: this is how he started the call. This is a person to whom I have never spoken in my life. Flustered, I fumbled around, apologizing for the delay and asking if this was a good time for him to talk.
"Anything for you," he said.
I was suddenly certain that I had phoned a serial killer and that any moment he was going to tell me that he was actually in my office, under the desk.
I told him that he should check out our website to learn more about our business and services.
"You're going to make me read?" he asked, doing his best Norman Bates impression. I realized that this guy was probably 3 drinks deep and had been debating what 900 number to dial when I called him.
The call continued along these lines, even though I'm pretty sure he knew he was freaking me out. This is someone who wants to work with me and my company and he was treating this phone call as if it was his audition to play Child Predator #2 in a TV movie.
I hung up as quickly as I could and vowed not to place business calls past 5pm on a Friday. I should have known better.
A group of friends threw a baby shower for Cameron on Sunday. It was so much fun, mostly because it was a potluck kind of thing and every single person brought bread. Ok, 2 people didn't bring bread, but everyone else brought so much bread that it seemed like everyone did.
I love bread. Why does it get such a bad rap? It never did anything to you, other than offering delectable sustenance. Stop creating diets that center around avoiding it. There are so many different things you can do with it, and if you just eat it moderately and not by the entire loaf, I think you'll find you can be a very fit and healthy person.* Don't look to me for your example, though.
Today I had wheat bread, french bread, crackers, tortillas, sticky buns, cupcakes, and cheesebread.
I call it the "Go ahead, pretend you're not getting married on Friday" diet. It also involves lavish amounts of champagne.
We are one week away from our actual wedding day, so what does Rob decide to do? Let's make this a quiz:
a) buy me flowers every day for a week b) write a list of all the things he hopes to change about himself once we get married c) cook dinner one night so that I can get my bachelorette party thank you notes finished d) fly to Amsterdam for 5 nights
That's an easy one. He flew to Amsterdam. He'll be back on Tuesday and, to be fair, it is for work and he is pretty irritated about having to go. At least that's what he said when he was in the cab on the way to the airport complaining about being forced to spend 5 days in Europe while I take care of the last minute wedding details...wait a minute, I've been hoodwinked! His "meetings" are on Friday and Monday, which leaves all weekend to bike around with the locals, stopping at cafes for midday herbal refreshment and maybe topping off his evenings with a stroll through the red light district.
The good thing is, there's likely nothing he can do to get arrested while he's there, so he'll probably make it to the wedding.
How much stimulation can the human mind take? I understand that there are doctors and researchers in the world who believe that multi-tasking is a myth. That it doesn't really happen. I'd like to invite them over right now. They can feed the cats.
Rob and I are planning our Italy trip--I am reading Rick Steves' Venice 2009 and sharing tidbits such as what to do if a pigeon poops in your hair while you're in Venice (advice that I assume can be transferred to any other location where you might find yourself the target of such aerial attacks.) The trick is not to smear it into your hair. Let it dry and then it will flake off cleanly.
"Great advice," says Rob. "How long does it take to dry?"
I am also intermittently checking email to determine whether we have any more RSVPs for our wedding reception.
And we are watching the Bears/Colts game and I am asking all the normal questions that I as when we watch football, like, "What just happened there?" "Was that a fumble? "Is Peyton Manning married?" "How old is he?" "Does he have kids?" Rob answers some of these questions and rolls his eyes at others. Then when he gets really excited about a play in which a really big guy slams into another really big guy, he time travels back to 1952.
"That Bob Sanders...he carries a wallop!" I look over at him to see if he is suddenly wearing a little hat and smoking a Winston. He is not.
At random moments in the game we switch over to the US Open to watch the match between Serena Williams and Jelena Jankovic and we talk about how some people think Jankovic is attractive (we like her body but her face sort of reminds me of Scottie Pippen, not that there's anything wrong with that.) Rob asks if she is wearing glitter in her hair.
However. In 13 minutes we will begin watching Entourage, at which point, if everyone knows what is good for them, all sound and thought will cease and we will spend 30 minutes really, really not doing anything else.
And the researchers can rest easy knowing that sometimes they are correct. But I bet they'll be too busy to appreciate it.
Rob is at the US Open tonight, which marks the second time in one week that he has partaken* of the tennis and not invited me.
But I'm not upset, and I will tell you why, people.
Because I have discovered that my happy place is right here, on the couch. Alone. Watching terribly terrible romantic comedies and drinking wine. I have already forgotten all the stressful things that happened today--must be the magical romantic comedy potion.
Even the Republican National Convention, which I DVR'd and plan on watching next, won't be able to ruin this. Famous last words? Maybe, but I'll be too drunk to notice.
Despite my buzz, I can still recall some genius asking the cats a mere moment ago: "Who needs the US Open when you have drunkenness?"**
I got home 20 minutes into the show, so to be fair, it's not like I watched the whole thing. But amazingly, the new version of 90210 was on for 2 hours tonight. It features the likes of Shannen Doherty, Lori Loughlin, and Jennie Garth, as well as a teenager who looks almost exactly like Elizabeth Berkley--and just as fatigued. Also, Nat from The Peach Pit, who may have been waiting in the restaurant since the original show ended.
I admit it, I was curious to check out the new version. And do you know who was not happy about that? Rob.
"Is this still on?" he asked at least 9 times as he paced around the apartment. He even rolled his eyes at the commercials that aired (probably because the last time either one of us saw a commercial was in 2005.)
"We'll never watch it again," I promised, cursing the fact that we only have one tv. I do believe he will take this one example of teen-drama depravity and turn it into hours and hours (and hours and hours) of guilt-free college football. He martyrs well.
And really, I think we probably will never watch it again. It was not great. But its very existence reminded me of the moment 18 years ago (18 years? I just choked on my multivitamin with flaxseed) when I first heard about the original Beverly Hills 90210, and how there were these two guys named Brandon and Dylan, and no one could figure out who was cuter. And even though if I watched reruns now, I would probably think they both looked like cartoon Vegas lounge hacks, I still loved that damn show.
So I had to give this one a chance, just a tiny chance. I would write a serious critique of it, but...come on.
John rented a house on the Jersey Shore for the month of August, and Rob and I went out this weekend to spend Labor Day with him. We celebrated the "end" of summer in the normal ways: cooking, drinking, eating, lying on the beach, and with absolutely excessive sessions of Guitar Hero on the Wii.
On Saturday night, I learned how to play. By Sunday night, John had to kick me out of his room (where the TV was) so that he could sleep, because we all agreed that I was simply not going to master that painfully bad Slayer song. And no one wanted to hear it again. I actually think this might have been some kind of Wii joke, because that mess was not a real song. I grudgingly took my glass of wine into another, Guitar Hero-less room. With my real friends (yes, alone.)
Nina and Chat joined us on Sunday; they are pregnant with twins and recently found out that they're having a boy and a girl. Nina's response to this news was the following:
"Oh yeah, it's going to be great. Unless they're, you know, too close. Like Angelina Jolie and her brother."
Fascinating. As often happens, when I looked over at Chat, he was just shaking his head and saying words under his breath. I think I heard "insane" and "hormone."
The five of us have spent a fair amount of time together, so there's not a lot of censoring going on. At one point--late in the afternoon by which time normal people have given at least fleeting thought to their appearances--John walked into the kitchen, looked at me and said, "Have you completely given up or will you be showering today?" It was not really a glamorous kind of weekend and that is, in large part, what was so great about it.