On Friday I went home and watched the news because a kid from my high school killed another kid in the boys' room that morning. There's just no way to put that nicely, is there? So all day I learned from various news sources that my hometown is "a quiet suburb west of Boston where you would never expect to see this kind of violence." I originally wrote more about this, but then I decided that I just didn't want to get into it. I'm a little shaken up by it and I can't fathom how everything changed in an instant for both of those families. Needless to say the quiet suburb is still reeling.
Anyway. I don't have any suitable transition lines, so... that night I met up with Mardi and some of her lovely coworkers for margaritas at, well, Margaritas, fittingly enough. We're very literal around these parts. Mardi was talking about my blog and one of them pulled it up on his Blackberry and started quoting me, of COURSE from the horrific "I'm single and that's okay" entry, which is now safely tucked away as a draft. Public mocking seems like reason enough to keep from getting too serious in the Tent, right? Don't cry out loud, Red.
On Saturday I went to look at some random properties with my parents, who are considering "downsizing" to a condo that has more square footage and hip amenities than their current home. One of these places had a gorgeous pool room, full bar and adjoining media room with giant screen. I fantasized about the parties I'd throw there, but of course the kicker is that it'd be my parents' place so of course I was plotting ragers that would never happen. Oh, the humanity.
After that I met Steve for lunch, during which I tried to appeal to his manly football instincts to help me appreciate the sport. He's an absolute maniac, addicted to the NFL network, and has tried on many occasions to get me into it, his line of reasoning always being that I love baseball so loving football can't be far behind. I would actually like very much to enjoy football as much as I do baseball, but I just can't get psyched for it. I periodically threaten to come over and watch a game with him sometime, but this is the sort of response I get from him: "No, because I know what that would be like. 'Who's that guy in the striped hat?' 'What guy?' 'That guy.' 'In the STANDS?' 'Yeah. Do I know him? Is he on Grey's Anatomy?'" Of course, he does my voice high and squeaky while his voice is totally normal and exasperated with my incessant girliness.
A few years ago during the snow bowl, it seemed like the game was over and he went downstairs to get his laundry. I was still sitting on the couch and there was some weird ruling based on the angle of Tom Brady's wrist, or something. I yelled, "Something's happening!" He came running back upstairs. "What? What?" It went to commercial and he whipped around to face me, expectant and frantic. I was so football-ignorant, it must have been like trying to communicate with Lassie.
Me: I... I don't know! The game's not over!
Him: What happened? What did they say?
Me: Something about his arm.
Him: Whose arm? Brady's arm?
Me: Yes! It was a snap. Or it wasn't. I don't know! Everything's different now! I'm sorry! It will be back on soon! [And then I probably buried my face in my hands.]
Saturday night I was supposed to go out for Work Friend's birthday, but she and her friends were going to a strip club and I wasn't really into it. I prefer men who grind up against me for free. So I bailed on that and instead went to Crowley's with Mardi and Carly. We somehow got talking about Carly's affinity for drawing dirty pictures and then made her show us on cocktail napkins. I wrote "Later?" on one of the dirtier ones and then said something about how if Mardi gave it to someone (as straightfaced and over-the-top tacky as possible, like with a raised eyebrow and a wink) that I'd buy all her drinks for the year. Then we entered serious discussions wherein a preliminary contract was drawn up detailing the terms, at which point I started to waffle since a whole year of booze could get pricey. Negotitations were fierce but ultimately incomplete. We were getting ready to leave and Mardi had the finished napkin pictures folded in front of her. Then, before any of us knew what was happening, the bartender, Trevor, reached over, scooped up the napkins, and threw them away. Mardi, Carly and I simultaneously gasped and leaned forward like three idiots in slow motion. Trevor had no idea what he'd done but immediately fished them out of the trash. "What is it, you guys? The napkins? You want the napkins back?" He opened the dirtiest of them and said, "Heh. Later."
After that we went to the Tree, where I had grilled cheese and Diet Coke. Then I was in bed by midnight and slept for eleven hours. I'm such a party girl, I can't even tell you.