It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Well, mostly the worst.
You know how you go to work all week with only the promise of a glorious weekend to keep you going? The weekend shines like a beacon of motivation, chanting quietly 'you can do it, fuck your boss, you can do it, Monday's over, just keep swimming', and you do keep going, somehow, because eventually the work week is over and with the dawning of the tgif cocktail hour, everything is magic, all is forgotten, and the blissful weekend has descended upon you like a fairy godmother come to whisk you away.
Yessssss.
But then by Saturday morning reality drop-kicks you in the teeth; the fridge is empty, the Hydro people are harassing you, you're pretty sure the dog has fleas and that you just won't make it past noon if you don't replenish your liquor supply stat. And so you reluctantly leave the comfort of your bed (mmm, those perfectly warmed sheets, the pillow you've so expertly burrowed into, the embrace of your lover's arms) and you begrudgingly hit the showers where you get shampoo in your eye and shave the same leg twice, the other not at all. Fuck Saturday. Fuck groceries and bills and the in-laws and the obligations and ballet practice and lawnmowers. All you really have is a few golden hours on Friday night to sustain you. It's not enough.
Can you tell I had a pissy weekend?
It started nicely enough. It had us tricked into thinking it would be quite a delightful weekend, in fact.
I am fortune's fool.
Drinking is my only salvation. Thank god for the boat load of daiquiris I had. When we went for a walk at 2am it was warm enough to walk with my tits out, and we had visions of barbecues and patio furniture dancing in our heads. Good times ahead, we thought, as we walked the darkened streets. We kissed by the water on Montreal Road, and a passing ambulance honked at us, and the EMTs waved. We went to see the empty lots where new houses will be built. I skipped down the middle of the road, my motion setting off sensor detectors on every third house. My head felt full of warm apple sauce as I weaved back towards our house, and as always, the fresh air made me yawn. I thought that for once I would get a good night's sleep, and that the next day I would awaken refreshed and ready for adventure.
And that's almost what happened.
The next day, we decided a trip up to Ottawa was in order. It's not quite Byward Market time yet, but I have always loved that place, I love walking around, seeing Zipper guy, listening to street musicians, checking out the vendors and the farmer's market, watching someone make sidewalk art in chalk, rotting the teeth out of my head in Sugar Mountain, invariably meeting up with friends and sharing brownie sundaes at the Hard Rock Cafe or cocktails at Mother Tucker's. Glenda was up for a trip to SilverCity with us, it was a great day for a drive, and there seemed to be not one hitch in the plan.
Which basically, is when you know you're fucked.
It all comes to a screeching halt when I retrieve an armful of fluffy warm towels from the dryer. I plop them down onto the bed, leave Jason is charge of folding, and double back to clean out the lint trap. I always marvel at the ingenuity of lint, and I was caught up in a reverie when I heard Jason cursing furiously from the bedroom.
"Jesus Jason, what the hell is wrong? You shouldn't fucking swear so much with a lady in the room. It's rude, for fuck's sake."
"You miss, are no lady. Now get me a damn ice pack!"
Jason had managed to turn his ankle while folding laundry. Don't ask. Literally. He gets all sweaty and red in the face every time I bring it up, and believe me, I bring it up a lot.
"What kind of nancy boy twists his ankle folding laundry?"
He really likes it when I call him that. It rings especially true because his mother's name is Nancy. He keeps trying to ring my neck, but he forgets that his sore ankle has him hobbling around like Frankenstein with a pulled groin, and I have plenty of time to run away.
So we had to push back our date in Ottawa a day, and we sat around at home, getting on each other's nerves. He was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper rather noisily, rustling each page as he turned it and whistling through his nose. And then he committed the cardinal sin: he read me the daily poll.
He knows I hate the daily poll. He knows I think the questions are ridiculous right-wing crap, the sample size is incorrigibly small, the method of collection incredibly biased, and the respondents uneducated and ignorant. We go through this every time, but he always reads it out to me. So I yanked that filthy newspaper out of his hands, rolled it up, and beat him with it (and on his bum leg he was unable to get away). You would be surprised how quickly the tube of newspaper turned into a pulpy shredded mess, but I did get in some good bruising around the temples, so it wasn't all for naught.
And frankly, that was the highlight of our weekend.
The next day, his ankle was an angry Barney colour, and swelled to the size of a melon. A big melon. So, Ottawa, and all things fun, were quickly scratched off the list. I was in an even grumpier mood than usual because I felt another sty coming on (I have a stupid condition where I get stys in my eyes all the time...how dumb is that? they're not super painful, they're mostly just annoying and unsightly, so I refuse to take meds for it....and damn, they make me cranky). Of course, Jason has a 'fail-proof' cure for stys every single time they present themselves:
"Think happy thoughts, Jamie."
"Oh, shut your fucking face, uncle-fucker."
Did I mention I haven't been sleeping well lately? It's not true, but I think I should throw it in anyway just to defray my crankpot antics a bit.
Anyway, angry Barney ankle or not, by the second day I was showing no mercy, and I was back to ordering Jason around as usual. I sent him to the kitchen to get me a drink. We have a great system at our house to indicate my thirst. Either I'll yell "THIRSTY!!!", or I'll bang my empty glass on the table until it gets refilled, or I'll grunt. Personally, I prefer the grunt method. Then he has to guess what exactly I want: hungry? thirsty? blanket? pen and paper? foot rub? I enjoy putting him through the ringer, as you can probably tell. I think it's pretty much the only benefit to having a husband, so I get my money's worth.
Jason looks into the fridge. "What do you want? Diet Pepsi? Water? Orange juice? Daiquiri?"
"Garrumph."
"Or how about a glass of crab juice then?" He thinks he's so clever.
"How about a nice tall glass of fuck-you juice?" That's right, bitch.
And that's pretty much how we spent our weekend.
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