INTERNET, they're taking away my weekends.
But you already knew that because truthfully it's old news. The edict came howling down the halls nearly a month ago, which brings us to the present: The last weekend in February and my last three-day weekend under the Old Regime. By late thursday afternoon last week, the only question burning a hole in my brain was "Say, self, what would we do with our last - soon-to-be late, great, oft-lamented - three-day weekend?"
For whatever reason (though I'm certain it has to do with that filthy whore The Economy who seems to be the brazenly wanton kiss on everyone's lips these days. [Wow, I even impress myself sometimes]), my 9 - 5 has opted to forego blissful employee happiness in favor of us returning to a more conventional parenthetical existence (namely that the sentence linking our parenthetical block of weekdays has become somewhat of a two-word statement. And that statement is: Two Days. Only two. Just two. What. Ever).
My utter disdain for the poisonous substance they like to call "down time" prevented me from allowing even one minute to pass from Friday morning till Sunday night without the meta-knowledge that the task at hand was being accomplished in some way. The task at hand, of course, was to voraciously suck the very marrow out of my last three day weekend as a disgruntled member of The System. This, of course, makes me sound like deranged weekend vampire who moonlights by writing about her goings on with the florid prose of a romance novelist. I'd digress but you were just utterly punned by a reference to a certain band coupled with an allusion to Twilight, therefore I can only say: The dude abides.
Also, I just drank so much Diet Coke it's seeping out my ears.
So on Friday, Ashley and I set out to dominate the weekend (pwn teh wknd, if you're savvy) by conquering the magical land of Disney. We giggled our way through the western half of California Adventure before busting a move up to Westwood (why, W-wood, did you strike a deal with the Devil, i.e. The 405, i.e. your unsatisfyingly cozy proximity to said Beelzebub?) to partake in a slumber party with the one and only Charlie Spahn. What amounted to a bout of utterly brilliant planning, we decided to blast through our body weights in two buck Chuck and round after round of hookah.
Saturday. Boom. We set out to the Alhambra/Monterey Park area in search of some good Dim Sum. I used to go to Dim Sum all the time when I worked at The Pink Wonderland, and it had been far, far too long since I'd yammered on with pushy Chinese women about whether I wanted my pork buns steamed or baked.* We let our feast settle in our bellies while we drove the serpentine roads between UCLA and Pacific Palisades, sweeping the Pacific with our outstretched fingertips and listening to early-90's rap (courtesy of Monsieur Spahn, natch). The only decent followup to this kind of excursion is a slurpee and a nap, both of which were in abundant supply.
Back in Long Beach, we met up with Tyler and Jess to finish what we'd set out to do months ago (and still nearly twenty years late): Finish the final four episodes of Twin Peaks. Sarah or Jeremy Rice, if you're reading this, WHAT DO WE THINK ABOUT THIS? Also, WTF? And furthermore, OHMYWORD NOTHEYDIDN'T.
Those are my thoughts. You can take them to the bank (unless, of course, you're Audrey Horn, in which case, I'd say maybe stay home next time, babe).
On Sunday after church, the crew picnicked on the lawn and spent the afternoon on a bike ride to the beach. Then we BBQ'd and, utterly exhausted and satisfied, I collapsed into bed knowing full well that I'd spent every last second of my last three-day weekend in total contentment. To which I say: Booyah.
*Answer: Both. ALWAYS both.