The Weekend

The Weekend
Today’s one of those easy Mondays everyone should have once in a while. The kind when you barely accomplish a blessed thing. Today, I rolled into my office somewhere around 10:30 after bullshitting with friends in my living room all morning – including Robyn who was more than happy to blow off the morning with me (and Nancy and Anne) and gave me a lift to work. Since we already wasted the first hour or so of the work week, Robyn and I also felt the need (who, us compulsive? obsessive? Pah!) to drive over to Costco during an extended lunch hour after I had learned earlier that they were selling fireworks. Yes, FIREWORKS. Run, don’t walk, and buy some now! Of course, we had to buy the really big f*cking $250 value for only $65 box. We showed modest restraint in not buying the way-too-fucking-big-to-get-out-the-door-without-causing-a-scene box. Worried that they might go off in the trunk on such a hot day, we drove back to my house to store the contraband until a later date. By 3:00, I was back and ready to start working.

It’s been that kind of weekend, and I just felt the need to carry it over one more day …

It all started on Friday night when I dragged Deb to WalMart instead of folding laundry. (I’m culturally sophisticated like that.) Ordinarily, the people in places like WalMart scare the bejesus out of me: Butterfaces (everything’s nice about her … but her face), summer teeth (some are there, some aren’t), Those With No Chins, you catch my drift. But I was on a mission. I went to get one thing – ammunition for my shooting excursion the next day (I know ... I know … and I think other people are scary).

Of course, one can never go to a place like WalMart and just get one thing. So, as I was strolling down the aisle with Ma, (uh, Deb), after loading up in the garden center, shiny, bright objects caught my eye. Be still my beating heart! Lo and behold, I was stunned to see a fireworks display of colossal proportions. Stunned not by their beauty and grandeur, but by its presence in the state of CT. Fireworks are illegal! And I had to have them!
Wheeeee! Thinking that they’d suddenly realize their error and start removing them from the shelves, I quickly threw a medium sized box in my cart, and convinced Deb that The Disaster would not blow off her fingers on the quick trip back to the register.

As I was leaving, I suddenly became paranoid that the FBI was notified by my “red flag” purchases: bullets, fireworks, and fertilizer. I threw in a few tennis balls for the dog and a paintbrush to lose the scent. I suppose two lesbians driving a red pick up truck aren’t as alarming as other folks … Nevertheless, I was looking over my shoulder. Who knows what destruction and havoc I could be accused of plotting with Scott’s Step 3 lawn fertilizer and a Piccolo Pete whistler.

The remainder of Friday night was spent in my backyard “testing” all the new fireworks, as Deb stood by, ready with the garden hose and kitchen fire extinguisher. Night one of pissing off the neighbors concluded with no harm done.

Saturday was a great day on the range as I tested the limits of my new found shooting ability, while Saturday night wasn’t so great as I tested the limits of my liver. The wife’s goal for the evening was to get me “toasted” so she could take me home and … [fill in the blanks here] and, well, let’s just say she succeeded in the first part – only. We ventured to the local gay dive bar with a few friends, and 2 beers, 3 margaritas, 2 shots of tequila and 1 Marlboro Menthol for the nonsmoking asshole later, I was teetering out the door, incoherent and not feeling very amorous. Sunday morning was spent not racing in Stamford’s Mayors Cup, basking in the warm glow of the sun and a night of passion, but on the couch nursing my first hangover in about 5 years. My only thought the entire morning: You Are A Dickhead. The night was not a total bust as I did manage to help my new-best-friend-of-the-moment Dorothy score the stripper’s phone number and email. Yes the only straight woman in a predominately gay men’s bar managed to pick up the disappointingly straight male stripper – I think she charmed him by telling him that he had to lose his sneakers – not sexy and not cool when you’re 98% naked – and that he couldn’t dance worth a shit.

Sunday, Anne finally made it to Connecticut. (The odds were 7-5 that she wouldn’t get out of the state of NJ before Sunday afternoon… she actually thought she was going to be here by Saturday. She’s funny that Anne.) She also had prepared the absolute worst excuse EVER for not being able to make it up on Saturday. It was so bad, it had to be mentioned in this space: She had to buy new underwear for her new New York apartment. Apparently, the New Jersey collection was not up to the rigorous standards of the chic city, and Anne was forced to abandon her Hanes Her Way for the more upscale Jockey for Her. Offering the need-to-know-only info that she’s usually commando, and only owned a handful of lacey ladies, who was I to argue and question her? We went down to the marina for scallops and steamers for dinner, and ended another fun evening by pissing off the neighbors with premature July 4th celebrating.

Right now, I’m heading to the Yankees/Diamondbacks game – got GREAT seats right behind home plate... If you’re watching on TV, I’ll be the cute one in the FDNY sweatshirt, waving sparklers.

Posted by LA at June 10, 2002 05:27 PM