The Good Weekend
Eight weeks of staring at four walls and science textbooks was beginning to take a toll on a person whose wings have been clipped. After a series of unfortunate events (this is labeled Exhibit A, B, C, and D: "Flaky JurkFases"), I succumbed to a nervous breakdown. In certain cultures, this could be referred to as a temper tantrum. There were tears.. and some pretty animated fist-pumping, aimed heavenward..... "WHHYYYYY?"
I'm kidding.
Or am I?
The point is, when Friday rolled around I was nearly drunk with excitement by the prospect of a 7 year old's birthday party. I basked in glorious freedom all the way over the pass to Eugene. I didn't even get cranky at being reduced to endure Buck's Port-o-Potty (which usually would have instigated much controversy). And when we arrived, the detestable valley rain failed to dampen my spirits. Much.
Matthew came by and took us out to 6th St to eat. I was so happy I could hardly bear it!
This situation may have been partially responsible..
We then ventured across the street to a pub, myself protesting, since this always proves to be futile.
But, for the rest of the evening, Matthew was very diplomatic when confronted by the usual doormen requesting identification. It went something like this:
Doorman: "I need your ID."
Me: (lamely pretending to rifle through my belongings)
Matthew: "Oh. Your establishment is no longer cool. We will seek entertainment elsewhere."
One doorman didn't think this was funny. He followed us out to the porch, where we were poised to erect umbrellas, in the attempt to avoid aforementioned detestable nonstop rain. The conversation went a little something like this:
Doorman: "You have to do that on the sidewalk."
Me and Steph exchanged confused looks. "We can't erect our umbrellas?"
Doorman: "Not technically."
Stephanie jabbed a manicured finger toward her coiffure, and hissed with sincerity, "Do you see this hair?" She proceeded to erect her umbrella in the general direction of the doorman's face on accident.
The following morning, my high spirits were tested by the ultimate provocation - Valley River Mall and a little something I like to call "Steph @ Sephora". This process is grueling, as every substance known to mankind must be meticulously tested and then removed. Rinse, cycle, repeat. I remember Jeremiah, who, traumatized by "Steph @ Sephora", stated he would never go back. Never. Go. Back. However, my soaring mood was not compromised. I even joined in the madness. Rather joyously.
I actually just tried the polish. Annnnd didn't like any of it.
While Steph shopped Victoria's Secret, I played with the solubility of polar compounds in the cleverly separated Juiced Berry double-mist bath spray.
Ion-dipole defeats dispersion forces, kicks pink out. Pink sucks.
I did find this! But then I heard Dad mutter something about a cold dead fist or dead body or somethin...
I did venture to Macy's, donning a beige crocheted monstrosity that subsequently got stuck (which reduced me to a pile on the floor of the dressing room, hog-tied-in-appearance, twitching occasionally, and howling with laughter as Stephanie performed some Chuck Norris trick to get it off me). Beige bastard. Exhausted, we surmised it was food time.
The enthalpy of sugar changing phases. (Thats my candied walnuts)
Apple-strawberry-walnut salad w/ cider vinaigrette.
Gabe watching his Netflix on my laptop wearing what appears to be a colander helmet, which had contained his bag of popcorn prior to consumption.
Matthew at the wave pool, studying, spontaneously breaks into song.
This is just a random photo. I want that baby chickie!
In any case. The restless duo tired themselves out. Everyone appreciated my strangely agreeable attitude. I couldn't help but reflect on happiness as dependent on perspective.
It was a good weekend.
I'm kidding.
Or am I?
The point is, when Friday rolled around I was nearly drunk with excitement by the prospect of a 7 year old's birthday party. I basked in glorious freedom all the way over the pass to Eugene. I didn't even get cranky at being reduced to endure Buck's Port-o-Potty (which usually would have instigated much controversy). And when we arrived, the detestable valley rain failed to dampen my spirits. Much.
Matthew came by and took us out to 6th St to eat. I was so happy I could hardly bear it!
This situation may have been partially responsible..
We then ventured across the street to a pub, myself protesting, since this always proves to be futile.
But, for the rest of the evening, Matthew was very diplomatic when confronted by the usual doormen requesting identification. It went something like this:
Doorman: "I need your ID."
Me: (lamely pretending to rifle through my belongings)
Matthew: "Oh. Your establishment is no longer cool. We will seek entertainment elsewhere."
One doorman didn't think this was funny. He followed us out to the porch, where we were poised to erect umbrellas, in the attempt to avoid aforementioned detestable nonstop rain. The conversation went a little something like this:
Doorman: "You have to do that on the sidewalk."
Me and Steph exchanged confused looks. "We can't erect our umbrellas?"
Doorman: "Not technically."
Stephanie jabbed a manicured finger toward her coiffure, and hissed with sincerity, "Do you see this hair?" She proceeded to erect her umbrella in the general direction of the doorman's face on accident.
The following morning, my high spirits were tested by the ultimate provocation - Valley River Mall and a little something I like to call "Steph @ Sephora". This process is grueling, as every substance known to mankind must be meticulously tested and then removed. Rinse, cycle, repeat. I remember Jeremiah, who, traumatized by "Steph @ Sephora", stated he would never go back. Never. Go. Back. However, my soaring mood was not compromised. I even joined in the madness. Rather joyously.
I actually just tried the polish. Annnnd didn't like any of it.
While Steph shopped Victoria's Secret, I played with the solubility of polar compounds in the cleverly separated Juiced Berry double-mist bath spray.
Ion-dipole defeats dispersion forces, kicks pink out. Pink sucks.
I did find this! But then I heard Dad mutter something about a cold dead fist or dead body or somethin...
I did venture to Macy's, donning a beige crocheted monstrosity that subsequently got stuck (which reduced me to a pile on the floor of the dressing room, hog-tied-in-appearance, twitching occasionally, and howling with laughter as Stephanie performed some Chuck Norris trick to get it off me). Beige bastard. Exhausted, we surmised it was food time.
The enthalpy of sugar changing phases. (Thats my candied walnuts)
Apple-strawberry-walnut salad w/ cider vinaigrette.
Gabe watching his Netflix on my laptop wearing what appears to be a colander helmet, which had contained his bag of popcorn prior to consumption.
Matthew at the wave pool, studying, spontaneously breaks into song.
This is just a random photo. I want that baby chickie!
In any case. The restless duo tired themselves out. Everyone appreciated my strangely agreeable attitude. I couldn't help but reflect on happiness as dependent on perspective.
It was a good weekend.