Ok, so yesterday was not one of my best days.
I was supposed to get home at 9PM, but so much shit weather had me arriving at home at 1AM. I had been awake since 6AM, East time (after going to bed at 4:30AM), so I was ready to bite anyone's head off.
I will say, the Boston layover was nice... the city is gorgeous, not to mention the men there. I loved the accent... which I blame Matt Damon and Ben Affleck for that.
The thing that WAS NOT nice was getting stranded on the fucking plane. The ugly storm with the tornados was passing by as we were on the tarmac, second in line to take off.
I sat there praying like a Passionist Nun.
But now I'm home. And Rafa's here.
We've had some memorable conversations in these last few hours of being awake.
(In the kitchen, I'm grabbing some blueberries from the fridge while Rafa's eating his little omelette. I'm reminded of the guy whose place we stayed at, aka my PrincetonSoulmate)
Me: So you're SURE Darren isn't gay?
Rafa: NO! He's NOT. That health-conscious Australian actually gets a ton of girls.
Me: I can see why... he's... not my soulmate, but we have a freakish amount of things in common. We're like the same person.
Rafa: How do you know?
Me: I was living in his house for three and a half days, I KNOW that kid like the back of my hand now... because he practically has the same fucking hand!
Rafa: HE'S NOT A KID, DAMN IT! THE MAN'S 32! HE'S FUCKING OLD AS FUCK! Everyone in Princeton Grad is! I was the fucking baby there.
And here Rafa was considered the grandpa while at Notre Dame...
(I walk into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water)
Rafa: Where the hell are you going?!
(I look at myself in the family room mirror. My hair is in its usual braid I do at night so I don't wake up with knots in my hair--and so I won't rip it out as I toss and turn like an animal. I'm wearing a grey wifebeater and black running shorts--my pajamas. No shoes. No makeup)
Me: Nowhere... ?... This is just how I look in the mornings.
A lovely, unintentional Rafa-styled compliment right there.
Ahhh, to be home! I can finally fix all that is wrong with me:
I have the weirdest tan going on (being a Vegas girl, I find it odd that I left Vegas pale and acquired my tan in the East Coast. It's supposed to be cold and cloudy over there), my clavicles are hurting (stupid fucking heavy-ass bag), and my stomach wants me dead (I ate so much garbage... well, no, not garbage... it was delicious food NY is known for, though I refused to eat any hotdogs because I can't stand the thought of them. I did have a sourdough bagel... which sure as hell didn't win me any points on the "health scale." AND I ate ice-cream as if I had just been told my life was ending today. Portion control went to hell, I probably drank a total of a gallon of water for the week, and cheese? I ate some every single fucking day! AND I LOVED IT!). I also have this unsightly, incredibly itchy, mysterious rash on my arms. I suspect the kitty I'd hang out with in New York to be responsible for it... because that's the only rational answer, since I slept on the floor and that cat would be all over me.
I must be allergic to cats... which makes me sad... because they were supposed to be my companions as I aged into the crazy old lady of the neighborhood. Now what the fuck will I hoard? Chinchillas? Are they hypoallergenic? Let's hope so... because they're the next cuddly bastards I can imagine living with once I get old and fragile in my solitude.
Now to unpack and go back to regular life.
(I came home and saw my stupidass iPod sitting next to the charger. Pissed me off, since I spent all of the vacation music-less. That shit is torture when you have to ride the NY subway... I had to sit there and look catatonic the entire time)
I was supposed to get home at 9PM, but so much shit weather had me arriving at home at 1AM. I had been awake since 6AM, East time (after going to bed at 4:30AM), so I was ready to bite anyone's head off.
I will say, the Boston layover was nice... the city is gorgeous, not to mention the men there. I loved the accent... which I blame Matt Damon and Ben Affleck for that.
The thing that WAS NOT nice was getting stranded on the fucking plane. The ugly storm with the tornados was passing by as we were on the tarmac, second in line to take off.
I sat there praying like a Passionist Nun.
But now I'm home. And Rafa's here.
We've had some memorable conversations in these last few hours of being awake.
(In the kitchen, I'm grabbing some blueberries from the fridge while Rafa's eating his little omelette. I'm reminded of the guy whose place we stayed at, aka my PrincetonSoulmate)
Me: So you're SURE Darren isn't gay?
Rafa: NO! He's NOT. That health-conscious Australian actually gets a ton of girls.
Me: I can see why... he's... not my soulmate, but we have a freakish amount of things in common. We're like the same person.
Rafa: How do you know?
Me: I was living in his house for three and a half days, I KNOW that kid like the back of my hand now... because he practically has the same fucking hand!
Rafa: HE'S NOT A KID, DAMN IT! THE MAN'S 32! HE'S FUCKING OLD AS FUCK! Everyone in Princeton Grad is! I was the fucking baby there.
And here Rafa was considered the grandpa while at Notre Dame...
(I walk into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water)
Rafa: Where the hell are you going?!
(I look at myself in the family room mirror. My hair is in its usual braid I do at night so I don't wake up with knots in my hair--and so I won't rip it out as I toss and turn like an animal. I'm wearing a grey wifebeater and black running shorts--my pajamas. No shoes. No makeup)
Me: Nowhere... ?... This is just how I look in the mornings.
A lovely, unintentional Rafa-styled compliment right there.
Ahhh, to be home! I can finally fix all that is wrong with me:
I have the weirdest tan going on (being a Vegas girl, I find it odd that I left Vegas pale and acquired my tan in the East Coast. It's supposed to be cold and cloudy over there), my clavicles are hurting (stupid fucking heavy-ass bag), and my stomach wants me dead (I ate so much garbage... well, no, not garbage... it was delicious food NY is known for, though I refused to eat any hotdogs because I can't stand the thought of them. I did have a sourdough bagel... which sure as hell didn't win me any points on the "health scale." AND I ate ice-cream as if I had just been told my life was ending today. Portion control went to hell, I probably drank a total of a gallon of water for the week, and cheese? I ate some every single fucking day! AND I LOVED IT!). I also have this unsightly, incredibly itchy, mysterious rash on my arms. I suspect the kitty I'd hang out with in New York to be responsible for it... because that's the only rational answer, since I slept on the floor and that cat would be all over me.
I must be allergic to cats... which makes me sad... because they were supposed to be my companions as I aged into the crazy old lady of the neighborhood. Now what the fuck will I hoard? Chinchillas? Are they hypoallergenic? Let's hope so... because they're the next cuddly bastards I can imagine living with once I get old and fragile in my solitude.
Now to unpack and go back to regular life.
(I came home and saw my stupidass iPod sitting next to the charger. Pissed me off, since I spent all of the vacation music-less. That shit is torture when you have to ride the NY subway... I had to sit there and look catatonic the entire time)
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