tobermory's Diaryland Diary

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The Lost Weekend

OK. Time to fill yíall in on the weekend doings.

Friday was excellent. Megan, Clark, Steve and I all headed down to the Gaperís Block Party at the Belmont Ann Satherís. Before the party we took a gamble on a quick meal on Belmont Ė we had a choice of three fairly scary looking ethnic restaurants: Thai, Indian, and Mediterranean. The Thai placed looked OK, but was vetoed, the Indian place still had a buffet going on Friday at 8:15 Ė pass on the scary crusty reheated food, so we settled on the falafil extravaganza which turned out to be pretty good. Then we trundled up the stairs to the GB party and as we had the foresight to BOOB (thatís Bring Our Own Bottles) we each only had to pay $7 to get in. The party was a blast. There was a dj playing non-intrusive ambient music, Andrew, Mr. GB, kindly introduced himself, and the readers were super excellent Ė especially Wendy Poundy, SourBob, and, of course, Mimi Smartypants. Itís a little disconcerting seeing a journaler that youíve been reading for awhile in the flesh. I mean you often know quite a bit about them, you might know what they look like, but you donít really know them. I mean, who knows? They certainly only give you some of the information about themselves, the information they do give you might be slightly enhanced, so you kinda know them, but you donít know them. Anyway, I had to control the urge to run up to them and start babbling at them stuff about their lives that I have found funny or touching or whatever. I donít want to look like a cyber-stalker or anything. I did have Mimi sign my book though Ė I just couldnít resist.

Walter and Erin called me when I was on the train on the way home. Is it still a drunk dial if youíre the drunk one and all you do is answer the phone? Or did I call them? I had a few too many Coronitas and canít exactly remember. I talked for awhile, but I felt worried that my overly exuberant loud phone conversation was bothering my fellow Brown Line passengers so I cut myself off.

About an hour after we got home, say 12:30-ish, I heard some loud knocking which I assumed was our drunk-but-benign neighbor who sometimes likes to come over late at night if he knows weíre up to converse on the front porch. This actually might have been an opportune time for him to do that because although I was already in my jammies I was a bit drunkie myself and we might have been on more of an even plane conversationally speaking. But alas it was not. Steve looked outside and noticed that someone was breaking into the 3-Flat next door so he called 911. Turned out it wasnít such a big deal Ė it was some sort of love-triangle, domestic thing but we still got to hang around outside talking to Chicagoís Finest for a little longer than Iíd like to. Iím not too into strangers seeing me in a threadbare grey t-shirt and oversized, Polo outlet green checked seersucker pajama pants that look a lot like clown pants (and to think I wondered at the time why they were only $5).

Saturday was the early wake up call for the flea market which went better than I thought it would. I was pretty tired after the GB party/neighborhood commotion so I bombed out on the archery tourney. I thought Iíd go home and crash on the couch, but I had so little motivation that I just sat around at the flea market until about 1pm. I cannot even begin to describe the crap that we sold. At 7:30 that morning as I helped to arrange the tables all I could think was, ďwho is going to buy this shit?Ē But buy they did. Even the boxes of cocoa and lemonade mix sold (they were unopened and only .10 apiece, but still, ick). Just about all of the voluminous piles of crapola sold Ė to the tune of $3500.00. Go us.

Saturday night Steve and I met my parents at Harry and Eleanorís for potato pancakes and too much good wine. I admit to being more than a bit drunkie, but I could not refuse the offering of old, expensive sauterne. I believe that I may have prayed, just a little, to the porcelain god when I got home. Then I blissfully passed out and did not even hear the cat yak sometime later leaving Steve to do the clean up.

Sunday was all about crankyness. I quite possibly had one of my infrequent hangovers. Megan and Clark and Steve and I agreed to mutually bail out on our planned bike ride so Steve and I did some housework which was no fun but very, very necessary and then we went to a garden center and bought mulch and tomato plants and then to the grocery store where we bought things to grill for dinner. Back at home we argued about yardwork for awhile and then I stomped off to the kitchen to bake a bundt and Steve released negative energy by breaking up a nasty old sidewalk on our backyard so we can fit in more tomato plants in the growing area. We were both feeling less crabby by the time I cracked a couple of beers and we ate our turkey burgers and life was once again good.

By the way: as of today, Iíve been married for two years. Happy Anniversary to me and Steve! They claim that the first year is the hardest, but at least in my case thatís bullshit. Itís the second year that I thought would kill me. Happily we made it and the whole house saga (thatís a story for another time) is almost wrapped up.

One last tidbit to leave you with: They moved my movie extra gig up to tomorrow. I have to go to a mall. Maybe Iíll get to shop. I may not be able to hit a target 20 yards away with all the technical gee-gaws stripped off my bow, but I do know how to shop.

3:26 p.m. - 2004-04-20

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