of the weekend. It’s Monday evening and I’m just now getting the house back in order from Saturday night.
Friday night was the BAC holiday party. We went. My husband was his normal charming self. I played my misanthropic self, which doesn’t really deviate from the norm either. The band was satisfactory – nothing amazing. The food sufficed, though also not as amazing. Honestly, the husband’s holiday party when he was working downtown was MUCH better, but never mind that. Those days are long gone. So party: loud. A ton of my fellow dorky employees milling around and making fools of themselves on the dance floor.
There were bright spots, but they are the same bright spots that happen every day at work: CS, JW, MP
I was encouraged to dance, but even against a backdrop of convulsive white folk trying to work out the funk, I still refused. I don’t know what to do with my arms. My feet occasionally find the rhythm, but never consistently enough to count. I hate it. I hate parties like that. I don’t know what to say to people, they are so inorganic and unnatural. Seriously? I could see myself becoming agoraphobic as I get progressively ‘more so’ as I age.
Anyway. Saturday, I barely get out of my pj’s. I keep up the good work on my project to preserve my dad’s negatives. I made theoretical plans to see HAF Saturday night. Those morphed into very frustrating hours waiting for the Cheesecake Factory to keep their tables turning over. We finally gave up in frustration and ducked over to PFChangs. The food was fine – they serve brown rice, which makes me very happy. The original plan didn’t really involve coming back to my disaster of a house, but HAF’s boyfriend is of the opinion that life is too short to go to bed early, so we brought our merry asses back to my house.
And I started pouring. We started with hot apple cider and rum. When the bottle of rum was gone, the vodka came out.
For a variety of reasons, the husband isn’t always around for these events. ‘Tis partially because of a very long story and ’tis partially because we have our own lives. He gets one night a week where he is a free man, well, free enough to go hang out with his friends and leave me behind. Those are usually the nights I see HAF, or anyone at all for that matter. My world really is pretty isolated these days.
Saturday was a different story. He met us at the Cheescake Factory, walked to PFChangs with us and it was cool. He checked out a little early to go give something to a friend of his, then was back home for the drunken discussion on whether we’d rather live in Centreville or Anacostia. Centreville being a pretty conservative, homogenous locale filled with Dan Ryan special disposable houses (pretty and huge, but designed to fall apart after about 15 years). Anacostia having a wretched reputation in the DC area for being violent, poverty-stricken and basically scary. HAF and I would rather live in Anacostia and be part of the solution than live in Centreville and be part of the problem. The husband and the boyfriend disagreed. Lively, smart conversation, drunkenness… What else would you ask for from a Saturday night? It was nice.
The hangover the next morning was not quite as fun. Oy. I woke up drunk. We pulled together a Salvadorian breakfast: Tortillas, fried eggs, pureed black beans, avocado and crema. Done right, there would have been fried plantains, but they weren’t ripe enough to fry.
From there, I worked on some beaded necklaces for one of HAF’s coworkers. Then my mom showed up, I spent some quality time with my mother and shooed her out of the house when it came time to go to my father’s house. The dishes from breakfast never left the table.
I had this theory about waking up early this morning to take care of the mess, but that didn’t happen. Not to worry: the disaster waited for me. And now I’m thinking about trying a Wasabi fish thing again (the last one was a disaster). With brown rice. For the husband who discovered he has high cholesterol (at 27) and is sure that he must immediately reform his lifestyle and eliminate all of his favorite things.
I think that dismantling the futon will have to wait for another night.