The Toll

So what came out of this past weekend?

There was a mini-meltdown. I'm calling it mini to feel better about myself, and will never admit to the hour long howling the Hubs claims was going on.

Pshaw. Neighbors' dogs.

The meltdown had to do with wardrobe, and lasted until five minutes after I and the Hubby were supposed to be in the car to make it to the restaurant on time to meet our blind date. My crisis then resulted in a tiny, little organizational spasm for the Hubs, who would have liked to have been at the restaurant at least 15 minutes before the agreed time (to "scope out the location"), and me doing so many panicky and badly planned top changes (yes, it is entirely possible, if not even likely, to get badly caught in a simple Marimekko-shirt when one least expects it), while trying to dye my eyebrows at the same time, that my ear swelled (again) to double its size, and throbbed nicely throughout dinner.

(I know I promised no more ear stories, but... I lied.)

Martinis help though. With all aches and sorrows. And quickly make you forget about the alien in the shape of an ear everyone's clearly looking at and thinking "Isn't that Stewie from Family Guy attached to that woman's head?"

There was an awesome dinner with cool new friends, and since there were quite a few Finnish and otherwise Scandinavian genes at play around the table, it disappeared fast, and thus room for more martinis and strawberry daiquiris was made.

To fuel the Saturday night.

Una Corona, anyone?

And, yes our dinner-dates spotted us immediately. Apparently my hair is a dead giveaway. To think I've been contemplating making it blue, because I'm not feeling the mundanity of it. 

Turns out I wasn't lying when I said we can't be missed.

There was avoidance of golf (by me) by claiming horrible, wasting illness, that might or might not be H1N1, but could surely be cured with some McDonalds, lots of coffee, or barring that, plenty of thin-crust vegetarian pizza.

Cough, cough.

But most of all, thanks to the drunken antics long-in-advance-planned, virtual encounter of two of my dear blogbuds Optimistic Pessimist and Fidgeting Gidget (who I now christen Opting Gist in the vein of the greats, such as Brangelina and Tomcat. Girls, may yours outlive both unions!), I was reminded of my sporadically resurfacing, and extremely one-sided love affair with Brad Paisley.

"Oh Brad when you look at me from that YouTube screen and sing about your stepdad or being on a video-chat to Japan, you complete me," she says while she gets ready to belt out the chorus in Whiskey Lullaby in her shower to drown out the neighbors' howling dogs, and that girl next door who keeps doing the worst possible version of Britney Spears' '...Baby One More Time' in her echoing bathroom (it sounds like she does some vigorous shadow-boxing as a choreography).

I feel Online struggling to the surface. Even now.

At least when Billy Idol's Sweet Sixteen isn't.