Slightly devastated that I got so sick this weekend and had to miss three (three!) birthday parties and a visit from Noemi we spontaneously planned two days ago so that we could explore the brewery and antique car museum I randomly discovered in my city last week.
I didn’t get to do any of those things.
1). Caught up on Teen Mom 2, after learning that the new season has been airing for months. Why did nobody tell me this?!
2). Went through the Facebook photos of my friend’s 17-year-old sister where she is at a party wearing a Spandax skirt, reindeer antlers, and a top made out of dental floss. (I believe the party was Christmas-themed, though I’m a bit thrown off by her friend who is wearing a sequined, aquamarine bikini). When I came to a picture of her flipping off the camera with her breasts exposed, I tried to think of a way to delicately frame a comment suggesting that this could potentially be damaging to the future job prospects she will one day care about. But I couldn’t think of a way to phrase this without sounding like someone’s prudish aunt, so instead I settled for, “Classy.”
3). Went through the McDonald’s drive-thru three times in a 30-hour span. (Luckily was served by three different people).
4). Did an extensive online search for a house to rent for the next four years while Doug finishes his PhD. Found one, researched the architect who designed the house in the 1930’s, followed my future one-mile work commute via Google street view, and decided that if we don’t get this house I will probably never be happy again. I have since been fantasizing about all the house parties we could throw there, where all our single friends will meet and fall in love and get married and life itself will turn into one never-ending house party until one sad day years from now when we must move out and move on and I will stand crying in the doorway of that little house. I will look around one last time, as Doug honks from the moving truck that holds all of our boxed-up belongings, while I mentally compose the award-winning essay I will one day write about all the lessons our little house taught me about life and love.
5). Watched my cats have sex four times in front of me. I sent text updates about the situation to Doug, who was—of course—at a birthday party. I will never understand why they only have sex when I am home alone.
6). Suggested to Doug, as I laid phlegmy and crusty and weak on the couch, that I am a “glob monster” and that maybe I should just sleep on the futon tonight because I couldn’t bear the thought of making him share a bed with someone as gross as me. I mostly said these things to evoke enough pity for him to go to McDonald’s and get me a fruit smoothie so I wouldn’t have to go there a fourth time, but instead he jumped out of his chair way too quickly and declared, “I will get the futon ready! Where do we keep sheets?”
There’s always next weekend, I guess.
P.S. My blog is snowing.