Monday. You know, you would think that with the number of Mondays that happen in a year (and that have happened in my life) I would just learn to accept them. But I can’t do it. I hate you, Monday.
The weekend, being highly uneventful left lots of time for movie watching and hibernation, which, for me, was the best that could have come of a whole two days off. Of course, before the movie watching and hibernation, there was the usual Friday night outing with people whom I don’t…really…know what to think about. Pookie and I end up with them once a week without fail. Not on purpose usually. And while some of them are fantastic people, the others…well…leave me with a sour taste and the urge to bitch slap.
Surprisingly this week, the one who is usually numero uno on the “People to Bitch Slap” list was pretty friendly. It is a good thing too. Because I was beginning to think that she had no other facial expressions and that she was like one of the kids in “One Crazy Summer” who got their faces stuck in horrible expressions for all eternity. Turns out, the scowl is not permanent and contrary to my former belief, she is a very witty and attractive girl when she wants to be.
(Aside: They are nice people, for the most part. Just a little cliquey and a few of them make me feel like I have two heads. Bygones.)
When we left the other group, we ended up down the street playing Billy Joel on a jukebox with a boy named Stalin. (Okay, that wasn’t his real name, but that is what I named him…don’t ask me why, it was the first thing that popped into my head and, come to think of it, I am not sure I even got his real name. His friend said Stalin was fitting anyway. Lovely.) Stalin was not fond of Madonna (he said) yet seemed to be able to sing “Cherish” with the kind of reckless abandon that only a true fan would be able to muster. I dunno, Stalin.
To Stalin: I think your use of the word “gayfer”, however amusing it may have been (note: amusing because your accent very much resembled that of a shotgun toting, toothless, getterdone sort of guy…just the kind of guy I try to AVOID), seemed to be a bit of a cover up. I won’t tell your camouflage wearing, truck driving buddies that you like Madonna. But if you are serious about your disguise, you should get new pants.
Anyway, it was interesting. And I am sure that Pookie would agree…If she could remember anything for more than 2.5 seconds.
Pookie: “You wanna hear how bad my memory is?”
Me: “Yeah. Cause I don’t know this already?”
Pookie: After about a long story about taking the munchkin to the doctor, “Wait, I have no idea why I am telling you this.”
Me: “Remember when you just asked me if I wanted to hear how bad your memory is?”
Pookie: "Oh yeah! You're gonna write about this, aren't you...damn."