The kids spent the weekend with their dad, so Anne and I got to hang out together the entire weekend. It was hawesome.
During the day on Friday, I played poker and Anne headed to downtown with our friend Stephanie (who introduced us, and was part of the best man triad in my wedding, with Dave and Darin) to enjoy the insane bargains and donut-throwing crack whores that can only be found in the garment district.
Around four in the afternoon, they called and said they were finished, and wanted me to join them for dinner and drinks in Old Town. I successfully lobbied for a change of venue to Dave and Buster's, and we rolled in just after five. Over the next five hours or so, I had . . . a few . . . Newcastles and Guinnessessessssses, and had an absolute blast playing Dayton Racing (the trick is to completely spin around when you miss a turn, and take out a computer car if you can. You may not win the race, but you look so cool doing it! And don't drink and drive, unless it's in a video game. Duh.) and the coin-shooting game with them. (Yeah, check me out: I have 17000 tickets on my D&B card, baby. One of these days, daddy is going to get a Yacht.)
Remarkably, when Saturday morning rolled around, my body gave me just enough of a headache to remind me that I'm 33, not 23, but apparently the fifteen gallons of water I drank between pints did something to ease what could have been a repeat of an incident that is just called The Hangover of '97.
Anyway, we met some friends for lunch on Saturday afternoon, and stayed in on Saturday night, watching Cops (guilty pleasure) and A River Runs Through It on DVD. You know, I am a huge fan of Robert Redford's work, as an actor and as a director, and I'm an equally big fan of Brad Pitt's work, yet somehow I'd managed to never see this movie.
Wow. Quite an incredible bit of filmmaking there, and one of the very few movies I've watched at home that I regretted not seeing on a big screen.
Yesterday, we both woke up at 8 (WTF?) and spent the entire morning pulling weeds in the front yard, and cleaning up leaves from our neighbor's oak tree that her idiot gardener blows into our planters. Can I just say how fucking sick to death I am of cleaning up other people's messes? She pays the damn gardener to clean up her yard (she's 900 years old) and this jerk takes her money, and makes the clean-up my responsibility. Guess who's getting a cockpunch next time he turns on the leaf blower on her driveway?
After we completely filled our yard cans -- all six of them -- with leaves and weeds and junk, we took the dogs for a nice long walk, then did our weekly grocery shopping. This week is going to be filled with insanely good meals, because we spent a lot of time with the Whole Foods Cookbook and Sunset Magazine, planning out some --
Okay. It's just occurred to me that this is an incredibly boring, dry, and uninteresting factual recounting of the last three days. I mean, I'm writing the goddamn thing, and I'm already bored with it. I chalk it up to a bad night of sleep, incredibly sore muscles from working in the yard all morning and the fact that my heart just isn't in this right now. This is the downside of committing to ten minutes a day: sometimes, it just sucks.
I guess the important thing to take out of this, and the reason I even felt like writing about my weekend in the first place, is that even after ten years together, I look forward to, and totally love spending a weekend hanging out with my wife.
