I'm going to try and do more regular weekend updates, because I never write in my actual journal anymore, and I can never remember what the hell I got up to once Monday rolls around. So, yeah. This grand effort should last for about the next two weeks.
On Friday, after two full days of hearings at work, during which I ask a lawyer if it's possible to have a stroke at 29, I agree to make a lightning-fast run into Macy's with my one male coworker, who has been asking me for help picking out products because his mom really likes "Horizons." It takes me awhile to understand that he means Origins. I'm checking out Estee Lauder's Pure White Linen and he sprays it on me instead of the tester strip. Luckily it's a scent that Gwyneth markets which means it's light and airy and practically nonexistent in its boringness.
When we finally get to Origins, it turns out that I know way more than the woman behind the counter. This is a dubious honor, though... what exactly am I aspiring to here? I make some suggestions, become temporarily obsessed with their Modern Friction dermabrasion, and then make tracks to Mardi's, where wine and friends and fondu is happening. I end up agreeing to have a New Year's Eve party, like I really needed convincing. "I'm always the hostess! Even when I was little, the girls brought their dollies to MY tea party. I served the best air." (Guess who.)
Later on at the Cherry Tree, they have blueberry back on tap which as far as I'm concerned puts them back in business. I get a shake-five-hug from our old favorite, John (say what you will, but he's now hooked up with two of my friends... how many others can claim the same?). I overhear and am slightly bewildered by a group of corporate types (all men) toasting K-Fed. Unless they're his legal team, what's the deal there? Mardi is chatting with Some Guy and during a lull in the conversation she asks Party Jen and I what she should talk to him about. I suggest asking him if he's a naughty boy, and then nearly choke on my beer when she immediately turns back to him and does. I'm always happy to alter a G-rated vibe; you're all very welcome. I'm unspeakably tired but perk up long enough to sing Don't Stop Believin' to Jen, because that song is like caffeine. I turn off my phone because it's turning into Text Message Creek, head home, find that I now have a blog theme (thanks Keith), and finally fall into bed around 1:30, a few hours later than I would have liked.
On Saturday, Melissa and Joe bring Olivia over to my parents' house, where my dad surprises one and all by serenading her with Let's Get Physical (get it? Olivia Newton-John?) and makes the open-ended suggestion, that I know will become a catchphrase in our friend arsenal (frarsenal), "Hi Olivia! Let's talk about stuff!"
By the way, my honorary niece is almost four months old and rocks the casbah. She is brilliant, beautiful, and will probably be running a small country by this time next year.
They also finally meet Dorie, and her eight-year-old daughter, who is also my parents' goddaughter (got all that? This is probably why I usually don't do extremely specific entries) and for whom my mom has purchased what can only be described as starter hooker boots. But I got her lip gloss and a pink purse so I suppose we're both in cahoots to lure her down that path.
After Melissa and Joe head home, the rest of us go to dinner at the airfield cafe in Stow, where they have homemade peppermint ice cream and a goldfish pond but no heat, apparently. I get back home, delighted at the prospect of sleep. Crazy Neighbor is having a party and there are guests in what he calls our courtyard and what I call our front lawn. I smile and wave and try to escape into my apartment, but he sees me and insists on introducing me around as his "social butterfly neighbor, coming in at eight o'clock on a Saturday night!" Thanks, buddy. I do a quick round with him, during which I'm looked up and down no less than ten times, as all his guests are dressed to the nines and I'm somewhere around the fours. I'm just a neighbor who wants to be polite and then go home, watch a little bit of Junebug on DVR, talk to Kate, and go to sleep.
Sunday morning (oh, this morning), after sleeping for nearly 12 hours, I meet Mark for coffee (hot chocolate for me) and during a story he tells me that something "is crazy, but it's true," which inspires us to sing Arthur's Theme for a couple minutes. Or, rather, each of us say one line and then defy the other to recall the next. It's best if you can play this game in a really functional way, i.e. "Hey, I think your coat is caught between the moon and that other chair."
Which just reminded me of a really funny blog entry about that song that I once read. If you deconstruct 80s soft rock, you are guaranteed to earn one enthusiastic link from me.