Upon returning from my (magnificent yet windy) Birfday Weekend I was immediately felled by a common cold.
The lesson here, I feel confident, is that I should take longer and fancier holidays—if I’m going to be ill every time I recover from travel, I should at least be recovering from two weeks in Venice or some shit. Somebody do the ridiculous math to back me up—I gotta go pop more Sudafed. BRB.
I would also like to thank the people of Chicago for their generosity in sending their shitty, cold, drizzly weather home with me. Really, guys, you shouldn’t have. When we left St. Louis was enjoying a string of 70-80 degree days (that’s some entirely different number* in degrees Celsius) so naturally I packed my sweaters away. That’ll teach me to be organized!
ME: (sees puddle the exact size of an olympic swimming pool) Let’s not participate in that. It looks like it swallows cars.
HIM: (carefully maneuvering around shallowest edges of puddle) It certainly could.
ME: I’m not saying it’s definitely the entrance to the upside down—
ME: —but it’s definitely the entrance to the upside down.
One possible motive behind this generous “gift” was my choice of wardrobe in chicago—which, in my defense, was actually based on the fact that I like the shirt because it’s comfy and makes my boobs look great.** Truly, my motives—as almost always—were just that selfish. I am, as I’ve probably mentioned somewhere, a fan (in the most general sense) of hockey because it combines two of my favorite things: violence and hot cocoa. If you’re not sipping cocoa while you’re watching the game then you’re doing it wrong; sorry to tell you how to live your life (not really) but cocoa and ice go together like nachos and heartburn. (By the way, you are also encouraged to partake of the shitty nachos. Go nuts—I am not a registered dietitian nor am I your food baby monitor; I am a card-carrying member of the Eyes On Your Own Plate club and the food at our meetings is a m a z i n g.) But—and this bit is important—I feel it would be unfair to the glorious blood ballet that is hockey favor one particular team. Besides, as we all know I’m already busy supporting the 49ers like, 1000% of the time and couldn’t possibly add a whole ‘nother team to my heart. People who do that are less dedicated fans than I am, and that’s a fact.
Where was I?
Oh yeah, the shirt.
It’s cute, right? And a totally reasonable choice on a chilly day.
HIM: So your Blues won; they’re in the—
ME: They’re not my blues.
HIM: (stares at my shirt—or my tits, possibly both)
ME: I’m just a hockey fan and they happen to be in the city I currently—
HIM: (googles) The Chicago Blackhawks are out.
ME: Oh? (glances down—tits are still there, always a good sign) Ohhhhhh… That explains some dirty looks today.
HIM: You seriously didn’t know you were wearing a rival team’s shirt?
ME: No, I mean… I did, but I didn’t realize I was rubbing salt in an open wound. Like, “hey, check it out—we’ve still got games coming up!”
HIM: I mean, they probably knew the Blackhawks su—
ME: No, they really don’t.
ME: … Oh well. I’m not changing. I like this shirt.
HIM: (now definitely staring at tits) It’s a good shirt.
And so between the rainy weather, the travel fatigue, and the animals who missed us sooooo much—even though we have photographic evidence that they adored their petsitters and had them wrapped around their little paws—Husband and I have been spending extra time snuggled up on the couch, draped in our furry overlords.
HIM: Is it bedtime?
ME: Well, it would be. But…
HIM: (looks) You’ve been pinned.
ME: By a lion.
ALEXANDER HAMILTON: (snores)
HIM: (sighs) Well you can’t move him.
ME: No, he’s too big. And fluffy!
HIM: Okay… how much longer?
ME: One more episode?
HIM: (resigned) Fine. One more.
ME: (pets mighty mini lion)
* If you’re used to Celsius you’re probably also good at math and can figure it out yourself. Or google it; I’m not your damned search engine.
** Women, back me up here: there’s not much that can be wrong with a shirt if it has magic booby powers.