Ma and Pa are off buying Alex Denver, so I’ve decided to take a little vacation at my weekend house, also known as my parent’s place in Mill Valley. I sent an e-mail to the crew, alerting them that while I would not be clad in sequins and lipgloss out at the city bars this weekend, I could be found in pajama pants and flip flops at my folks, eating and drinking in the sun or by the fire, and any and all were welcome to join me.
Last night, Andy and Big Chris came over and we made a huge dinner. Joined by Whitney, we sat around the dining room table and did impressions of Oprah. As Chris and Whitney each have their respective lives, they eventually left us and Andy and I ended up snuggled up under a blanket watching movies on TNT. Apparently, we’re getting old because after a huge meal and several bottles of wine, we passed out beneath said blanket and were woken up at 11:30 (I know, I know, we’re really, really old) by New Chris calling to see what was up.
Uh, nothing is up. We’re passed out fully clothed.
Andy and I awoke this morning to coffee and blueberry waffles on the deck, sunning ourselves as we gazed at the view, marveled at my father’s green thumb and sipped freshly squeezed orange juice. Andy has since gone home to get ready for his date, because he also has a life, and I’m busy preparing dinner on the deck for Mr. and Mrs. Green, coming over to experience fancy salads and the new outdoor heater.
Not only that, I made Judy’s famous Carmelitas. (Don’t worry, Alex. I’ve made an extra batch to send you.)
Growing up, I couldn’t wait to get out of this cursed house. Now living in the ghetto, scraping by on cheap booze and low end cheese, I’ve come to appreciate this palace on the mountain, occasionally parentless yet always packed with fixing’s and a basement full of vino. The sun’s always shining, the appliances always work, and I never have to lock my car…