Roll On
I spent the better part of Sunday laid up with a hefty dose of Advil while my girly bits threatened — no, no, promised – to make a rapid escape from … well, from wherever they could get out. I’m guessing there was some sort of wild cocktail party with other girly bits — a uterus convention, if you will, complete with wine and martinis that they just had to make an appearance at, and I wasn’t allowed to come along. And perhaps even more frustratingly, Adam warned me late last week that, based on my behavior, that this period was “going to be a doozy. Prepare yourself!” The man is a menstrual Nostradamus. If only we could somehow turn this talent into profits.
Anyway, um, anyone know what happens if you exceed more than six Advil in 24 hours, which the packaging oh-so-gravely warns you not to do? Because I just realized I’ve downed my eighth. Whoops.
Our weekend was, as you can imagine, astonishingly uneventful in the best possible way. I wonder when, if ever, weekends will become exciting again? Certainly the time for pinot noir-soaked late nights have long passed, but there is no doubt that the 22-year-old me would have laughed uproariously at a life whose most exciting moment was staying up for the first fifteen minutes of SNL and feeling like it was some sort of late-night accomplishment. Granted, the nights that the 22-year-old me had weren’t that much more exciting, they were just more drunken, and usually ended with a deep conversation around a sausage cart. And ah, I mean an actual sausage cart, not a metaphorical one, although there was more than likely plenty of that too, but, um, without the cart.
However, nearly 32-year-old me was thrilled — we tried new restaurants, watched some great baseball (sorry, Suebob) and I did get my whole belly clams and they were perfect: little nuggets of sweetness fried in batter so buttery and light, they were almost delicate, despite emerging from an industrial Fry Daddy only moments before. It breaks my heart if you’ve only had clam strips, for they are rubbery impostors designed for consumption by only the wimpiest of seafood lovers. And yes, yes, I’ve know I’m eating clam poop, poop chute and all, I know.
Also, I must say, I’m shocked at the amount of sherbert people there are out there. SHOCKED. Sherbet can be just as much fun to pronounce. Say it with me: Sherbet. Sherbet. Sherbet. Pretend you’re a frog: Ribbit. Sherbet. Ribbit. Sherbet. Delicious! Sherbet!
Sherbet. Sherbet. Sherbet.
Unrelated, but must be said, despite the fact that only Boston fans will fully appreciate this statement: Eric Gagne disgusts me, and the only person who reviles me more is Roger Clemens, who picked the wrong team, because he’s a selfish, egotistical, moneygrubbing monster who is getting exactly what he deserves.
Quick! Who is a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot? Name that movie!
What did you do this weekend? I really do want to know, for it had to be more exciting than ours, in which case, I definitely want to hear about it, if only to live vicariously. And if it wasn’t, and didn’t even involve a requisite trip to Home Depot, then I ABSOLUTELY need to hear about it, because boy howdy, will it make me feel better about the Sally Homemaker existence I’m rocking over here. (The highlight of my evening will be slicing avocados for a salad. Pity me.)
And with that, I’m off to write about Keiko Mecheri for a freelance project. If you haven’t sniffed her Patchoulissme, then you haven’t smelled patchouli, and probably think it’s only for dirty hippies. And how very wrong you would be!
Happy Monday!
*Josh Ritter
37 comments October 7th, 2007