Friday I WAH'd (Work(ed) at Home). It's a beautiful thing sometimes, my job. Unless, that is, I'm trying to figure out how to wire a mini-network in my one-bedrom apartment so I can get my work email at home. And so I can set up my laptop in bed so I can work from there, naked, while cackling maniacally* because sometimes, friends, life does rock.
With all the technological excitement and then a rush to slop through the driving downpour to Nick's Comedy Stop (the Spammers of the Boston nightclub scene--I win "30 free passes" from them every week, ferchrissakes) because K had free tickets and hey, free is free. Once there I saw the same guy, a really ugly dude with a 'fro like a treasure troll, do the same routine I saw him do last time (months ago), except this time, he'd replaced the part where he picked my FH out of the audience because he was sitting with three girls and called him a faggot with calling David Ortiz' wife ugly.
Turns out that was the game I should have watched.
Then there was some sleeping in to do and some dicking-around-the-house to do before heading off to a barbecue in Brookline, where I proceeded to pass into a haze of intoxication so intense that when my cell phone showed me the Sox score, I laughed, then texted Kristen: "Good thing I'm trashed. It takes away the pain."
I don't know what happened, and I don't want to know right now.
Then, today. We had so little food in our apartment even the rats* were going, "Could you get off your ass, please?!?!"
We had to buy so much at the grocery store it took us two hours to go, collect it, get rung up by a woman with a sniffling, snorking, snot-running cold (good to see her working at Market Basket!), have a fight in the parking lot about the money we spent on said groceries, make up in the car on the way back, haul the shit upstairs, completely reorganize the freezer and cabinets, and put it all away.
During that time, the Sox apparently got their asses handed to them by the Orioles.
My mother called from Minnesota (don't ask), and after she and I discussed all the cornfields they'd seen, my father asked in the background how the Sox had done.
Once again aided by my trusty cell phone, I said, "they fucking lost."
The beauty of it is that my mother repeated my message to my father, word for word.
"YAAAAARRGGGHHHH!!" my dad said back.
"Yeah, I said that, too," I responded through my mother.
So it's a good thing, in retrospect, that I paid no attention to the Red Sox this weekend. From the looks of things, they didn't deserve my attention.
Although, to be fair, remember last year at roughly this time?
P.S. Confession time: since Surviving Grady let the cat out of the bag, yes, I have found a way into John Valentin's brain, Being John Malkovitch style, and yes, that was me on WEEI. Sorry.
*Please note: I have never done this. This is a literary device known as hyperbole.
**Please note: I do not, to my knowledge, actually have rats. Seriously. You can still come for coffee.