I think the moral of the story is: don't trust Jamie and Jason to plan anything, ever. If you've already learned this moral, you can just skip this one. If not, let me convince you of the patheticness that is us. We have this stagnant disability that prohibits us from taking decisive action. Instead, we viscerate:
Jamie: What do you want to do today?
Jason: I don't know,what do you want to do today?
But believe it or not, this is actually preferable to what happens when we do make decisions, because we (and by we, I mean me, since I'm the only one who makes decisions around here) are very impetuous and prone to spontaneous, not-thought-out plans.
In our fair apartment, where we lay our scene, picture a couch that's seen one too many moves, fraying around the corners but still comfy, adorned by myself and my bleary-eyed husband.
The sunshine is just starting to peek through the window. It's 6am. We are inexplicably watching breakfast television. Exciting news is broadcast every few minutes: coming up next, Bob The Builder! They announce he is "next" 5 or 6 times before he finally appears, but it's been worth the wait. Someone in a great big foamy costume topped by a ridiculously large plastic head is now dancing in our living room, proffering his level and measuring tape as though they are instruments of dance. The head keeps bobbing up and down, and it's impossible not to giggle.
Children are in the audience, excited after hours of anticipation, and then at the last minute too agonizingly shy to approach. Not to worry, the announcer tells us, Bob will be at the mall today and tomorrow. Come on down!
And so, with minimal prompting, we do.
We get in the car, fill it with gas, and drive 100km to see a sweaty man dancing inside a costume. It's even funnier in person. The other shoppers at the St. Laurent mall seem to agree. All kinds of people are standing around, their eyes filled with laughter. Many of us did not come with kids.
While it Ottawa, there are many things we want to do. Jason wants to punch the lights out of the perky breakfast TV cohost who obnoxiously sniffed her wine twice while "taste-testing" it. It's 6 in the morning, and she's sticking her beak-like nose right in there, casing out the $8 bottle of wine. Everyone knows the only true way to rate a wine is to chug a box or two, but no, this lady needs to put on airs as if we'll suddenly believe we're watching quality television and not the station that simply fills air time by showing us the headlines of the local newspapers, and so Jason is feeling violent.
I exercise restraint for the both of us by simply heading for my favourite shoe store and spending too much money on a pair of shoes so uncomfortable I can't possibly ever wear them.
Friday held the promise of a beautiful day, the kind of day where you can wear flip flops and claim it's because of the heat, not out of avoidance for the toe-pinching money-pit new shoes purchased the day before.
I head out for a walk but politely inform Jason that he should finish setting up my computer for me. MSN is being a bitch (per usual), so he will need to download the newest of endless versions, each never improving over the last, but ever so slightly more ornately obnoxious with useless features.
"I just need to configure this," he tells me.
"You just need to go confuck yourself," I respond. I don't know why. I think I'm just stressed out with the need to plan another day. I flirt with the thought of sending him into work on his day off, just to be rid of him.
"Hey, look at this. It costs $1 per emoticon now!" I hope that in the future Jason will pretend he doesn't know what the word emoticon means.
"Just disengable that feature, will you?" I hate the smileyface epidemic.
And then we stare at each other.
Did I just say 'disengable'?
Of course I meant disable. I hadn't been drinking yet, but I somehow added 2 extra syllables into a pretty standard word. Jeezofuckme.
So perhaps out of a need to explain it all away, we let the sunshine lead us toward the most obvious response - a patio where liquor made itself readily available. We did tequila shots at 1pm on a weekday afternoon. We probably should have written off the day right there and then, but no, we valiantly continued on, somehow ending up at home on our own patio, where liquor was even more readily available, and I distinctly remember putting back daiquiris that tasted way too sweet. The hours between 3pm and 7am the next day are lost to the wind.
Saturday we were put out of our misery: an old friend called and made the decision for us. Sadly or happily, that meant drinks again, because she's a wino. I mean, I would never say that about her. Her boyfriend said it. So I think it's okay if I just repeat it: Anna is a wino. But eventually even winos go home, which means it's Sunday evening now, and we're back to where we started.
Hey Jason, what do you want to do today?