Last weekend Harry and I went to a nice dinner at a local restaurant known for their great food and rather titillating name. "Blackhawk Grill" (say it fast a few times in your head :) ) is one of my favorite places to eat since they can cook a steak without feeling the need to char it black and they have sauces that are beyond reproach. So imagine the surprise that colored my chubby cheeks when I'm tossed a bowl of browning lettuce and slimy peppers.
I say nothing to the absent-minded waitress but just pick around the worst bits of my overpriced garden fare. When our main courses arrive I search for a steak knife but can only zero in on the tiny butter knife that has bits of bread still stuck to it. Those of you out there who enjoy eating a good steak know that cutting one with a butter knife is akin to having a surgeon go at a gallbladder with plastic cutlery from Wendy's.
9Ignoring that dining faux pas I attempt to maul my meat into an edible piece.
"I'll get you a knife," Harry said as he looked at me with THAT look. You know the one. The look that says "Holy crap - she's going to make a scene, she's going to say something and we'll never be able to come here, or the surrounding towns, ever again."
"No, I'm fine. Really. I'm fi- what the hell???" I started to answer him but was distracted by the fact that my butter knife was getting stuck on something.
My plate. Was cracked. All. The. Way. THROUGH.
Sighing, I heaved the perfectly-cooked filet to my crumby butter dish and flagged down our waitress who was heading toward the bar. Again.
"Can I get a new plate, please?" I asked nicely so as to calm Harry's red face. "Mine is cracked all the way through and I'm worried I may get eat a chunk of plate!"
Ten minutes later the bitch brought me a bowl, a freakin' BOWL for my $40 chunk of cold meat.
And then overcharged us for Harry's mashed potatoes.
As if my night couldn't get any worse - Harry went and slept with someone else.
When I pleaded him to leave with me, he said, "No, no. I'm enjoying this too much. No."
So I took a picture as proof and blackmail:
Yeah, she's cuter than me. I know this.
My crankypants attitude was still front and center when I found out that Harry's 10 year reunion is this coming weekend and his friends will be coming to stay with us at our (filthy, unwashed, unmopped, un-everythinged) house. I have been picking up like a madwoman and was finally ready for my mom's friend to come help me with the heavy housework. Unfortunately, she ended up in the hospital so I resorted to calling in Summer to come help me late last night.
"Whatdoyouwantmetodofirst?"She asked, still hyper and talking without pauses at 10:30pm.
"Maybe you could vacuum while I work on the counters?"
"I'lldothecounters! Magicsponge? YouDOhaveaMr.CleanMagicSponge,right?"
I'll give it to my sissy - she doesn't stop at "good enough." She cleaned out my cabinets, Magic Sponged every surface in sight and then followed me up to the guest bath where she scrubbed the tub and sink while I worked off a water stain in the toilet bowl that first appeared when Moses parted the sea.
And then I did something that I knew was a bad idea.
I had her help me take out the trash.
I waddled behind her down the drive, pleading with her to pick up the bags and not to drag them on the concrete.
"They'll break! Sis! No! Summer! You can't drag them!" All the while she cackled and kept right on dragging one Hefty after another down my driveway. The bags were filled to the brim with old eggs, meat, ice cream and other gooey perishables that were sure to make an exciting exit in the near future. She stopped two feet out in the road, plopped the bags down and then streaked back to the garage stopping only to complain loudly, in my lovely subdivision, about her female problems. Repeatedly. And with a little dance.
I rushed behind her as fast as my chubby little legs could go and picked the trash out of the middle of the street and watched while it poured out on to the street that was so clean you could practically eat off of it.
"ACK! SUMMER! DAMMIT! LOOK!"
To laugh even louder while she banged down the driveway with two trash cans in tow. I left only to come back and find her chucking various spilled garbage straight into the bagless can.
"Summer, no!" I yelled, feeling a bit like the exasperated mom following around a two year old with a mind (-less?) of their own. "Summer! There's no bag - you have to have a bag!"
"Naw!" I could hear the thunk of sour cream as it oozed down the inside of my pretty and pristine garbage cans that, after five years of use, had ceased to smell.
I shoved her out of the way with my elbow and began rearranging the bags and cans so that the trashmen would have an easy pick up.
"Yeah, you're weird. They'll pick it up no matter what," she said slowly as if, at 11:30pm at night she may finally be winding down.
"Well, I'm so glad that you came to help me!" I said in a high-pitched sincere-like voice!
"Me too!" she said as she filled a bag with all her "found" loot (magazines, books, coupons, food, soda, shiny baubles) and rushed to her car like a pale and sparkly streak.
So, as I sit down to launder the guest towels I think over my last few days and know that I could never be domesticated.
It takes too much work.
I see now the appeal of living beyond one's means.
For my 25+5 birthday - I want a subscription to Merry Maids.
Or the men's Gymnastics team. :) I bet they understand the importance of proper trash can placement. Yeah... THAT'S why I would like to have them. YEAH. That's it!
Happy almost Friday, folks!