Busy Biznazz

It's Thursday? What the WHAT?

Sorry you guys, I have been on a bender lately. And by a bender I mean that I have been on a sort of spree. Not a drunken spree, nor a shopping spree. Those are the only two kinds of benders and sprees people talk about, isn't it? Or a killing spree, which, yikes. Well, there is also the Spree, by which I mean a little scooter dealie that you could buzz around on in the 80s. Wow, you guys, I just looked up Spree scooter on Wikipedia and the picture they have on that page is the EXACT Spree that my friend April had in 8th grade. The black one with the purple writing. We used to squeeze the two of us on that thing and ride around singing Janet Jackson songs. We were positive that we were the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas, and the kitty's titties all in one.

Anyway, the bender/spree I have been on is just a ridiculous chain of small life events of the completely normal variety (yard work! seeing friends! grocery shopping! working!) but somehow all piled up one after the other with no breathing room in the middle of any of it. In fact the other day I was at work and I was going from meeting to meeting, and all of a sudden I found myself running, because I had scheduled myself back to back with no room for even walking from one thing to the next. I was RUNNING, y'all. As I did this, I thought to myself: self? Is something on fire right now? Is anyone dying? I am all for Getting Things Done but really? Running? There needs to be fire, flood, or blood to justify running during my work day.

Thusly I have discovered a boundary I never thought I needed. No running at work. I am not a firefighter for god's sake. Next thing you know I will want to slide down a pole every time I answer a reference question.

Here are some parts of the normal life spree.

Nordic Boy and I have been looking for a chair for our guest room for months and months. Because we are tightwads who also want quality and prettiness (it would be so much easier if we were tightwads who were fine with crap), we tend to look, and look, and look for things for a long time. Need I remind you I am the lady who went for several years without a winter coat because I was looking so hard? So when plunking down good money for a chair, we scoured the city, y'all. I am confident in saying that we have laid eyeballs on every possible chair within a 20 mile radius of us. Big stores, little stores, vintage, thrift. When we do find the thing that we like, we often look for a while longer, just to be sure. Need I also remind you that it took us a few years of the datey/non-datey for us to commit to each other? What? It is too the same thing. How will I know? as Whitney Houston says. In my case I will know when I have kissed other chairs first, that's how. The other side of this coin is that after all the looking, BAM, all of a sudden it seems that there could never be any other chair other than the one that we looked at and fancied a month or so ago. You wake up, and suddenly... you're in love, as Billy Ocean says. That day happened to both of us on Friday. That means that we walked into the furniture store after work, acting like a couple of high rollers who were buying a chair on a whim. We walked in and were all "we'll take that chair. No, we don't need to look. We don't have any questions. And throw in the ottoman while you're at it too. Ring it up." How baller is that? Ok, so maybe ballers don't spend their dolla bills on chairs from Crate and Barrel, but if they did.

We went to a cocktail party where I continued my quest to find my favorite drink. I have never had a favorite drink, or even one that I really like a super lot, and I sort of want one, for some reason. I made a valiant effort (oh! the sacrifice!) but I still haven't found what I'm looking for, as the non-Sonny Bono said. On the upside, my friends and I decided that hotdogs were entirely too phallic and that we needed a meat product that celebrated ladyparts. We came up with a hotdog in the shape of a doughnut. One could put tasty morsels in the hole of it (grilled peppers? herbed potatoes?). Sounds delicious right? We called it a meat-ring. Ok, so the name maybe leaves something to be desired, but the cocktails were flowing at this point. I assure you we were very proud of ourselves. It is only now as I write this that I truly see how misguided our invention was.

I also should mention that Nordic Boy spent the whole day on Saturday carrying bricks that he had busted out of our laundry room out to the front yard (yes! more yard debris! we continue to be great neighbors), which was pounds and pounds of heavy bricks, and so by the time we went to the party, he was BEAT. He promptly got to the party, had a drink or two, butt-planted on a couch and took a nice snooze right in front of everyone. I used to wake his ass up when he pulls shit like this, but I have stopped doing that. He works so effing hard, all the time. It's your party and he'll snooze if he needs to.

So now, just in case you are keeping score, there was ripped out ductwork, ripped out brick, and also some remnants from tree pruning on our deck all weekend. So beautiful. Landscraping!

Nordic Boy and I had the funniest argument this week. It went just like this.

(Driving by a donut shop).
Me: I've always wanted to try a donut from there.
Him: You have. We went there years ago.
Me: No, you must have gone without me.
Him: Nope, we both went.
Me: No we didn't.
Him: Yes we did.
Me: No we didn't.
Him: Yes we did.
Me: I'm SICKA YOU making up stuff like this!
Him: I'm SICKA YOU not remembering your own life!

This made us laugh until we about died. I don't know why it was so funny. Ever since, we have proclaimed all sorts of things, just so that we could recreate the awesomeness of the words "SICKA YOU." I highly recommend it. Try it. It's funny.

Later gators.