Thursday, March 17, 2005

Life is like the Thrillhammer...

This retrospective on my miniature Spring Break ("Woooooo!") would and will be more exciting when I have the corresponding pictures to post, but until that point my winsome words alone will have to be enough to excuse my three day absence from greater electronic dialogue.

After what was possibly the most trying trip in human history between two points, Brad arrived at my house after midnight on Friday slightly worse for the wear but physically (if not mentally) intact. Bravely facing an inexplicably frozen bank account, the consequent shortage of funds, a Western Union wire transfer I may or may not have addressed to one "Cootie Boozemar", bald tires, and a suspicious burning rubber smell eminating from his engine, Brad crossed the five-hundred miles between Cleveland and my town with the tenacity of a pilgrim trekking to the Holy Land (read: yours truly).

After a restorative night's sleep on my floor, Brad was ready to brave suburban drivers and airport traffic to collect Andrea. We arrived at La Guardia a little early and passed the time eating pretzels and convincing an eavesdropping old biddy that Brad was Ashlee Simpson's drummer. He has formerly posed as a Britney Spears back-up dancer and, once, we both may have let a Detroit shop owner think we were with Justin Timberlake's tour.

Before we had determined what my role was in Ashlee's entourage (keyboard player? stylist? ventriloquist?) we spotted Andrea and hoofed it down to baggage claim. She had spent a few hours encapsulated on a plane with numerous children and enough people discussing the genius of beef-flavored pet water to drive a sane person mad. Have you ever had to coerce your pet to drink? No.

Shockingly, this is not the conclusion everyone reaches regarding flavored pet water.

After some unpacking, we hopped on the train down to the city to meet up with my friend Raha. Theoretically, we had a date with a karoke machine, but destiny confounded our plans again and again. We left that night with nary a note escaping our all-too-sober lips, but I don't mind. There's an unbelievable rendition of Journey's Don't Stop Believing living in my soul, and if you're there when it escapes, my friends, hold onto your brewskies.

Sunday was spent spending. Kai shuttled us to the good mall, home of the good H&M--so good, in fact, that we lost Kai mid-shopping trip and had to call her from within the store to locate her. Choice articles were aquired by all, including nearly matching pants by Brad and Andrea. A sign for "Peanut Butter Smidgens" set off my sensitive-to-words gag reflex, though the brief spell was nothing a plate of nachos couldn't remedy.

On Monday, my very first day of oh-so-paid vacation, Brad and Andrea and I headed down to the city again to drop in on a museum or two. One might think that three such intelligent and artistically savvy people might've visited the Whitney, or the Guggenheim, or perhaps even the new MoMA, again, even though it's an absolute madhaus.

Us being us, we went to the Museum of Sex.

On the whole, the museum wasn't quite as titillating (pun emphatically intended) as one might expect. Though the "Pin-up photography through the ages" exhibit was pretty cool (who knew Victorians like the beaver shot so very much?) and the cartoon porno from the twenties was undeniably great, I think the whole place would've been more exciting if genitalia still made me giggle. Or even cringe. I would imagine that a devout Catholic looking for a naughty (yet educationally sanctioned!)pre-bachelorette party locale could have a totally bitchin' time there, but for a couple of kids who spent a night bartending a fifteen-hundred person party (required dress: cover your nipples) in their underwear, it was a little less than shocking.

"The Thrillhammer" was, however, somewhat intimidating.

Tuesday was the no holds barred Iron Chef throwdown between Brad and Andrea, the two best cooks with whom I am personally acquainted. After a quick stop at a thrift store to pick up cooking outfits (style points were judiciously awarded for wardrobe, general demeanor, dance moves, and ability to totally "bring it"), we raided the local Stop and Shop for supplies. The battle ingredient was lemon.

Iron Chef Yorktown: You Got Served produced delicous pasta, mouth-watering spicy lemon chicken, scrumptious lemon and garlic potatoes, savory rosemary and lemon broccoli, and a (since I ran out of synonyms for "delicious" and kind of hate the word "tasty," let's just assume that there's another adjective I don't find repulsive) giant fruit tart garnished with a tiny pineapple we lovingly dubbed the "tineapple." It also produced more dirty dishes than I've ever seen in one place, but washing them was a small cross to bear in exchange for the incredible dinner.

Yesterday was a slow day. Originally intending to run some necessary errands and get manicures, Andrea and I put on our "manicure outfits" and, along with Brad, ventured into Yorktown. I looked like a colorblind Mrs. Cleaver and she looked like the entire year of 1988, but with the bright red lipstick we both found occasion to wear (and consistently reapply in public on matching plastic heart-shaped mirrors) we'd like to think it was fabulous. A few tuna melts, an oil-change, a new orange purse, a reduced price ACDC t-shirt, and a new pair of jeans later, we still hadn't gotten manicures but felt that the manicure outfits hadn't gone to waste.

And today, lousy day that it is, I returned to work. I'm listening to the Walkmen's Bows Plus Arrows album again, and intently staring at my gray cube wall slightly cross-eyed in hopes that a clever upholsterer has secretly hidden one of those Magic Eye pictures in the speckly pattern.

Nope.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home

Site Meter Blogarama - The Blog Directory