This weekend I…
…slept until I woke up, without the use of alarm clocks or a jostle from early bird extraordinaire, aka Nordic Boy.
…celebrated an anniversary with Nordic Boy. It was a secondary anniversary (you know, like the day you first kiss your honey, or the day you get engaged, or the day you move in together), so we didn’t have a big hootenanny about it or anything. Just a teensy hootenanny. More like a hooten, without the nanny.
…saw the Informant and realized that they could pretty much just put a picture of Matt Damon looking like that on the screen and I would laugh at it. I am easily amused, tis true.
…went almost wild with jealousy that PQK got to meet Bunk Moreland. WILD with jealousy, I tell you. WILD. First she gets an internship with Stephen Colbert and now this. If she writes me next week and tells me she has met Dolly Parton or Tina Fey or Eddie Izzard or some shit like that, I will bust a nut, I swear it right now.
…met a new friend, A. And when I say new, I mean brand spanking new. She was born 5 weeks ago to my gorgeous friends H and J. I hereby declare her a sweet little pumpkin of the highest order.
…started my annual freak out about the fact that I don’t own any non-summer clothes.
…stayed up until 2am watching Dirty Dancing on tv. I hadn’t seen it in its entirety for a long ass time. I have discovered that for all my love of cheese, there is a scene in Dirty Dancing that exceeds my cheese-tolerance level. I knew it was coming and I literally had to leave the room because I could not bear to watch it with Nordic Boy because I was just too embarrassed for the both of us to be witnessing it together. Maybe it was the lateness of the hour and my cheese immune system was down, but the cringey-ness was TOO MUCH. It’s the moment at the very end, during the final dance, when Swayze lip synchs the “Time of Your Life” song to Baby Francis. I just couldn’t do it. I had to walk away.
…re-appreciated the “pickle on everybody’s plate” line from Dirty Dancing. This made up for the lip synch trauma.
…was in my house minding my own business one morning when the contractors who are working on our deck showed up and knocked on our door (Nordic Boy was out and had assured me that I wouldn’t have to interact with the contractors). I had to answer the door wearing what Nordic Boy calls my “pajama tuxedo” because it is a flannel number that renders me in full-body garishness (light blue with neon green and blue polka dots all the heck over it from head to toe). What we failed to realize is that contractors sometimes need to pee and will therefore knock on one’s door to ask to use the bathroom. I am all mortified that a non-Nordic-Boy human has seen me in my pajama tuxedo. The horror.