First of all, I want to give some shout outs to some super people.
To Spliff: You are the best. I love that when we spontaneously wake up in the middle of the night, we can turn the word “yarn” into hours of delirious fun. I also love that I can understand you when you say things like, “Go morn-morn, Purnge.” Thank you for making the move virtually painless and for being the best friend a girl could ask for…
To the artist formerly known as The Idiot: I have to say, “Waiter, there’s a baby in my pie.” (Insert either “your mom” or “dillhole” here.) Thank you for ROCKING my face off and helping me move into my new crib. If you ever get hit by “dead guy driving”, I will pick up heavy things for you.
Friday night, because I hadn’t really had the energy or the tolerance for pain, Spliff and The Idiot came over to “help me pack” which ended up turning into a game of “Dirty Minds” on the living room floor. But Saturday, we were up and out early enough that we were able to get most of my junk to the new place before it was dark and I had time to treat everyone to pizza and pitchers of Stella. (Yippee! Pitchers of Stella!)
Sunday, even though Spliff and I had totally planned to clean the old apartment and be all productive and stuff, we ended up at E-Street for a very long happy hour which ended with a beer run (yes, happy hour ENDED with a beer run. What? Leave us alone.) and a very creepy salesman who referred to each of us as “baby”. Ick. We then watched a variety of music videos that varied from John Legend to Skid Row, but overall, my favorite part really was trying to duplicate the “Thriller” dance in my kitchen. Because well, the reality is, the “Thriller” dance is effing hard. And we are not good at it.
Yesterday, we got the old apartment cleaned up and then emptied some boxes and organized a little in the new one. Spliff took a shower and turned into a gypsy, then I took a shower and turned into the ninth grade version of myself. We headed to a little bar that will likely become the next Regal Beagle for me.
It was funny how quickly I felt comfortable there. It was even funnier when a guy I had been telling Spliff about walked in with a guy who looked like the owner of the beach tiger.
“Hey, there’s the guy I was telling you about, right in front of the guy that looks like Arbie.”
It was funnier still when I crossed the bar to get us some drinks and realized the reason that this guy looked so much like him, was because my former neighbor/owner of beach tiger has become my current neighbor. Again.
The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.
Things I learned this weekend:
Evidently, I have a porno mag double. Who knew?
The mental image I get from “baby pie” is enough to make me laugh so hard, the muscles in my stomach hurt. And I know I am not alone.
The mating call of lesbian wombats closely resembles the musical stylings of Michael Bolton.
My new apartment ROCKS…but has very thin walls.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go and practice the “Thriller” dance so that I can dazzle all of you with my moves.