My weekend was a (fairly standard for me) mixture of emotions, ranging from: excitement to disappointment, joy to heartfelt empathy, and shame to relief.
To start, we had some friends up on Friday night and we prettied ourselves up for a night on the town. I buffed my entire body with the homemade pumpkin sugar scrub that Sarah thoughtfully made for me at Christmas until I my pasty white/borderline mint green skin glowed like it was radioactive. Then I thoughtfully called her and begged her to do my hair. I was putting in some effort, yo. We traveled to the swanky basement jazz bar that we recently discovered in Old Town. Immediately upon arrival, the guys dropped my girlfriends and I near the entrance and we were cat-called not once, but twice within the 100 yards that we walked to the unmarked door. (I'm pretty sure the dudes were checking out the 20 some year old HOT ladies that I was with, but for now, let me live in my fantasy bubble.)
The music, the people and the conversation was lively. The lights were low, as to mask any of our physical flaws and the our smiles sparkled in the flickering candlelight. The bartender there makes hands down the best martinis that I have ever tasted, so the drinks were enjoyed by all in a mostly responsible fashion. All of the stars were perfectly aligned. Then, after my second (bottomless) martini, I was introduced to a man*.
He strongly resembled a famous person in both face and hair, but mostly the hair....this person, to be precise:
Seriously.... the hair. Why?
But, since I felt that calling my new friend Mr. Lovett was too obvious and obvious just isn't my style (yeah right), I chose the classic 80's route and went with smoothly referring to him as this:
....because I'm a asshat and I drank my filter away somewhere during the second martini.
Did I mention that I had just met this man?
Somehow, after I so suavely publicly mocked his hairstyle, the conversation progressed to the next natural stage, which was me giving him a fist bump. He seemed to be a willing participant. But that is not all, no... when we disengaged out fists, I made mine into a bird (like a seagull, perhaps?) and made it fly away while making some sort of loud bird squawking noises.
Naturally, everyone, including myself, laughed, but I immediately felt that familiar feeling of shame wash over me. I weakly apologized to him. I'm still not sure if I was saying "I'm sorry for my unladylike behavior", or "I'm sorry about your hair". I think I expected Flock O' Gulls to leave, but he hovered over us instead. Then, because he apparently likes to hang around women that act like dicks, Flock of Seagulls guy joined us for dancing and I could no longer look him in the eyes; the eyes that were so near the ridiculous grey curly long in the front, short in the back hair. Seriously dude, What? The? Fuck?
Then some other stuff happened that was totally exciting but I'm not telling because my parents don't need to, nor do they want to know that much about me. Then, I was severely disappointed when, after returning home and going to bed at 2am, that my precious Things decided that the wake up call for Saturday was 6am sharp. Did I mention that I didn't sleep well, either? Gah.
Later that same day, I got some rare Mommy/Son time with Thing 1. We went to a birthday party. At the Mall. In the indoor play area. If that environment doesn't send a parent running simultaneously for the Xanax and antibacterial cleansing gel, I don't know what does. Did I mention that I had only 4 hours of very broken sleep and perhaps the weensiest little hangover? Then I got some more Mommy/Son time yesterday with Thing 1 when I drove him down to the Denver Zoo to meet up with my childhood bestie, her husband and their son. It was great. Cold, but great. We did intercept a potentially sticky situation (pardon my choice of words) when looking at the bighorn sheep. The ram found a ewe beguiling and was 'getting into position' when I had to use the point and yell technique..... "Hey guys! Look at the COUGAR!" It was a real cougar, not some woman that resembled me on Friday night.
And finally, after a weekend of Brock working (BOTH DAYS), the RELIEF came. I was cleaning up the kitchen as he was tucking the Things into bed and a small measuring cup fell down the drain.
The drain the contains the garbage disposal.
And I took a deep breath and stuck my hand all the way into the flesh eating, bone crunching trap, and I retrieved the cup AND TO MY RELIEF the disposal did not suddenly turn itself on and devour my hand.
How was your weekend?
*Any similarities to actual people are purely intentional.