I have about four posts lined up to write this week, including a follow-up post to this conversation with DD Girl. It’s kind of awesome.
But while you are waiting, I wanted to share a few highlights from the quirky weekend.
I really needed a weekend after the Vegas trip, a full week, including planning and hosting a party on Thursday night on top of a catch-up week at work.
Luckily it was Roomie’s birthday and celebrations were held at at our old (er, my old) pool Friday night.
There was grilling, drinking, swimming, cannon balling and pants in the pool.
That’s right. I said pants in the pool. You must say this to the tune of “Pants on the Ground.” (Warning: excessive repeating of this at a pool party could result in severe agitation of fellow attendees.)
Anypants, Roomie’s boyfriend came to a pool party in 90 degree weather wearing pants. (He claims they were appropriate because they were cool pants, but the grief must still be given.) After dinner, a few beers and a mandatory 20 minute waiting period (safety first) we all got in the pool.
Ok, so we didn’t wait 20 minutes after we ate. Sorry moms. We still wear our seatbelts though.
But not Mr. Pants. He stood on the sidelines like it was the adult swim.
Finally, we egged him on to get in, pants and all. (Insisting that the pants stayed on.)
Then I entertained annoyed everyone with my “Pants in the Pool” rendition. It was maybe funny the first three times.
The next day, Roomie and I decided to spend more time at the pool still in proper swimming attire, of course. This time the sun was still shining, and per my usual, I was armed with my bag o’ sunscreen and floppy hat.
Now, I’m not sure how this happened, but I still managed to get some burnage. Mr. Quirky was very confused about this because I didn’t get even the tiniest burn in Vegas. And isn’t the sun more powerful the farther south you go?
I am chalking it up to the fact that I did not have a big fruity drink in hand to protect me from the evil sun.
Drinking+ bag o’ sunscreen= no sunburn. Not drinking + bag o’ sunscreen = sunburn. Like that math? (Warning: I did very poorly in math as a student, so I probably wouldn’t rely on this formula.)
While I was soaking up sun, Mr. Quirky was soaking up barbecue sauce.
He judged one of Kansas City’s big barbecue contests this weekend.
That meant he got to eat meat for about four hours.
When he got home, he said he had lots of little piggy’s, chickens and moo cows in his belly. And his belly was done for.
So what did I do? I whisked him off to dinner with my family.
Because that’s what sensitive wives do after their husbands have just spent the past afternoon stuffing their faces with lots o’ meat. “Let’s go to dinner, honey! ” (This is typically the kind of wife who who washes her husband’s i-phone.)
And no, poor Mr. Quirky did not get his new i-phone yet. He is hoping they get more this week. And if they don’t, I may have to build one for him.
Luckily, he has a phone for work that can be used in an emergency.
After dinner, Mr. Quirky and I went to see Toy Story III. It was adorable.
And it made me miss my childhood toys.
How could I ever have been so cruel as to grow too old to play with them?
Good thing I had Sunday to lie around doing nothing, so there was plenty of time to get over my toy abuse guilt.