Last week I asked Robbe if he was going to ask me on a date on Saturday. This ultra-romantic gesture on my behalf was so overwhelming to him that we both ended up blacking out on the spot from sheer endorphin overload. I took this as a sign that my efforts in romance could be dulled down a bit and that I don't always have to "Go big or go home" every time I try to plan me and Robbe time. Lesson learned. So, Saturday, we decided to try a local's favorite: Annabel Lee's Tavern (yes, Edgar Allen Poe, yes). We sat at the bar, cheersed our beers, and shamelessly filled our bellies with delicious baked brie, tuna, chicken salad, blue cheese cole slaw and greasy duck fat fries. I think I heard my wedding dress weeping from 25 miles away. Or maybe that was me.
Anyway, the meal was delicious; we gave it a very firm wink and a smile and yes, we look forward to returning, especially for future happy hours and anytime we feel a good "caw-caw" or "nevermore" in our bones.
We started to walk home. It had started to rain. As we came down the street just one block over from our house, we spotted one of our friends about 30 yards away, running in and out of her house to her car.
"Hey, I think that's Sarah," Robbe said.
"Oh, let's go say hi!" I said. "You know what would be funny is if we pretend like we're holding her up." I smashed my hands together in a gun formation and paused to try a few "Stick 'em up!" scenarios.
We walked up to the house. A guy was standing at the open trunk of her car, rearranging boxes. The door to the house was open and Sarah was leaning over a set of boxes with her back to us. Robbe leapt up the stairs into the house and yelled, "Hey!" I, of course, got into position with my "gun" pointed directly at her and a huge smile on my face. I waited for her to acknowledge us before I took my "Stick 'em up!" cue. As she turned around to look at us, I simultaneously surveyed the house and realized for that very split second that nothing looked familiar to me from the last time I was there.
"What?! What?! What's going on?! Oh shit, what?!" The girl yelled as she made eye contact with both of us.
"Ssssstick---" I trailed and lowered my "gun."
"Oh my gosh," Robbe put his hand up. "I'm sorry."
It wasn't Sarah. Obviously. It was a brown-haired girl, yes, like Sarah's, but was not Sarah; nor was this her house.
"I'm so sorry," Robbe said. "We thought you were someone else. We saw you from far away and you looked just like our friend and, ok, sorry." He backed out of the house with me already out the door. I added: "Her house is the next block down." Like that made the situation any better.
The guy who was at the car hadn't moved an inch. He just looked at us nonplussed as we started down the block and said, "It happens all the time."
Last week I asked Robbe if he was going to ask me on a date on Saturday. This ultra-romantic gesture on my behalf was so overwhelming to him that we both ended up blacking out on the spot from sheer endorphin overload. I took this as a sign that my efforts in romance could be dulled down a bit and that I don't always have to "Go big or go home" every time I try to plan me and Robbe time. Lesson learned. So, Saturday, we decided to try a local's favorite: Annabel Lee's Tavern (yes, Edgar Allen Poe, yes). We sat at the bar, cheersed our beers, and shamelessly filled our bellies with delicious baked brie, tuna, chicken salad, blue cheese cole slaw and greasy duck fat fries. I think I heard my wedding dress weeping from 25 miles away. Or maybe that was me.
Yo, yo... yayayay yo. I like to greet my parents this way sometimes. Nine times out of ten it always results in a disgruntled reaction from them and I have no idea why. Is it because I do it at three in the morning? Who knows. Also, I'm 30. So, a few things have happened since I last posted, which was soooo one month ago ("cool" joke = 1). I've moved out of my house of four years. What I'll miss the most is, well, absolutely nothing judging from the last few months. Because when you find out one of your roommates is a flesh-eating robot, the only thing you can do is get the H out of there and move in with your parents. Yes, you know it's bad when moving back in with your parents at 30 is the sensible option. But seriously. The truth is, I have moved in with my parents: Lt. Dan and Jessica Rabbit. On my first day here, I got a migraine. Then I accidentally broke one of my mom's highly cherished mementos (which I fixed successfully...I think). I've also made it a habit to stumble through the door at 4 a.m. (7:30 p.m.) three sheets to the wind (parched for a glass of seltzer water), feel my way to my room and then completely pass out on my bed (peel back the covers and spoon with Carebear). This is temporary, mind you. And thank goodness because I don't know if I can handle wild night after wild night (fact: I went to bed before my parents last night).
Received this sweet bridal shower invitation in the mail today and thought "suckerrrrr!!!!" after reading it. But seriously, I'm honored to be surrounded and supported by such a sweet group of older ladies (aka Mom's friends) who will probably end up praying over me thus making all my shower pictures a complete disaster because I'll be weeping the entire time which will result in a thorough mess of smeared makeup and someone will tell me "Oh, it doesn't look bad!"* when in reality I'll be so unrecognizable that people arriving late will introduce themselves to me and ask me: "So, how do you know Kimi? Are you her biological brother?"
