Friday night was a planned low-key night with my bff, Jill. Ok, that's not her real name, but that commercial is stuck in my head, mmkay? So, Jill and I went to the sports bar down the street to watch the Sox/Indians game. The guy I am dating (we haven't had the "talk" yet, so I can't label him my boyfriend just yet), who shall now be referred to as Boo (not because he's my "boo," but because he does a fantastic Pablo Francisco as Droopy Dog impression...booboobeeboo...ok, nevermind), stopped by the bar with his buddy. His buddy left to go home to his wife, so I drove Boo home. It was pretty obvious I was going to be staying the night, so I parked on the side of the street and followed him inside.
* * *
That morning, I wake up with the worst cramps of my life. Cursing my uterus, but relieved the bed did not resemble a murder scene, I throw on clothes and run out to my car for supplies. Close call, right? Yeah, but my car is not where I left it. Panicking, I run through the scenarios in my head. Stolen? Unlikely, since I had my keys and the doors were locked. Towed? Most likely, since the environmentalist Grass Nazis of the gated community patrol the area and remove anything touching a blade of grass. Cursing the Grass Nazis, I run inside to tell Boo the great news.
Forty-five minutes and $200 later, I've got my car. Cursing the towing company and their pocket raping, I start driving back to Boo's. My phone rings. It's Boo. His garage door opener is in his buddy's car, and the key to the locked front door is sitting inconveniently on the kitchen counter. But the best news of all? His tee time is in forty minutes, his buddy isn't answering his phone, so he has to drive twenty minutes to his house for the garage door opener. Cursing his buddy for being in a sleep coma, I haul ass to Boo's hoping the back slider was left open. No luck. The dog stares at me from inside. Cursing evolution, I find myself wishing dogs had opposable thumbs. I sit in my car and call my mother to relay the day's unfortunate events. As I dial, I glance at the clock, it's only 9:30am. Obviously, I curse.
Boo's Highlander comes screaming down the road and on to the lawn in front of the house. Yeah, fuck you Grass Nazis! His tee time is in ten minutes. We get inside, and he becomes a whirlwind of flesh, zipping around the house snatching up clothes, clubs, shoes, balls, and gloves. Within five minutes, his arms are full and he zips past me, planting something resembling a kiss on my lips before darting out the door. Exhausted and crampy, I fall on to the couch. My phone rings. It's Boo. I brace myself for more bad news. He tells me he ran out of gas. I freak out for a minute, but he starts laughing and I relax. Luckily, the car started sputtering right before he got on the interstate and he was able to roll into the nearest gas station. For once today, I have nothing to curse, and I am relieved.
* * *
The rest of the day went smoothly, despite the fact that I tried (and failed) to surprise Boo with dinner. I made lasagna and I had no idea he hates ricotta. Seriously, who hates lasagna? Bless his heart, he ate it anyway. And I will spare you the details of what happened when we tried to get freaky early Sunday morning. Let's just say I have dubbed it "Sunday, Bloody Sunday," the carpet may or may not need to be spot cleaned, and we learned that the shower is the most appropriate place for those particular activities at that particular time of the month.
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2 comments:
You JUST learned that?!
It's why god invented showers.
Well, I didn't JUST learn it, but in the past, I've never had to do any type of major clean-up afterward and it threw me for a loop. I was NOT expecting it to be THAT bad. I guess a woman never can be sure when it comes to that sort of thing.
Thank god for Resolve...and showers!
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