Just A Typical Sunday
I had a nice, lazy Saturday and was ready to hang out a bit, and get some errands done. My sister came over, and I think the original plan was to get pedicures and go food shopping (again). But she was feeling a little more ambitious and wanted to do something “bigger.” Even bigger and more exciting than shopping at Stew Leonard’s (again).
I had the genius idea to go to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. For no other reason than I have a friend who works right near there, and it seemed like one of those things that I should do for the first time since I was a kid. And so off we set.
We get there. We pay the admission. We walk about 20 feet. It’s hot. Really, really hot. We walk a bit more. We sniff around the Fragrance Garden. We admire the Shakespeare Garden. We sit down on a bench. It’s hot. I hate the heat. I’m schvitzing. We decide to wait for some friends to join us (the aforementioned friend who works near the garden, and my friend Sean who is dating the girl who works near the garden) by cooling off in the gift shop. We mosey around the gift shop. We go back outside, play with snapdragons. It’s hot. Did I mention how much I do not like the hot?
Friends come. We all agree that it’s too freaking hot to be outside. Plan fail. Also, there was some kind of tornado watch? We pile in Marisa’s car and have Cherry Lime Rickeys and various pancake or cheese fry treats at Tom’s Diner.I curse in front of children and Sean kicks me under the table. He then treats us to lunch. I somehow manage to spit on Sarah as I say goodbye.
Marisa and I drop off Sarah, and then Sean and then – what else? Meet mom for grocery shopping and Target. We grocery shop. I invite my family back to my house for dinner. Mom doesn’t want me to turn on the oven (again, it’s really hot) and we order Italian food for pick-up. Right before we get back in the car, my cousin calls and says she is driving through the area. Awesome! We invite her to come over and hang with us. I go with mom to pick up the food, Marisa goes to my house to do a speed-cleaning with Frank. Solid plan.
We go pick up the food. But alas – they do not have our order. Of course. Turns out, 311 gave mom the wrong number, and we ordered from a place a good 20-30 minute drive away. We call them to explain our error, and they say they will deliver to us anyway, as long as we “take care” of the delivery guy. Awesome!
So, we get to my place and hang out. Various conversations were discussed, including the merits of Trader Joe’s chocolate milk versus Stew Leonard’s chocolate milk. While we were all hanging out, discussing my father’s upcoming visit (NB: These are my maternal cousins, but the guy is one of my dad’s best friends and dad has been known to stay with them when he comes up to NY to visit), I get a phone call from an unknown number. I answer, and the guy keeps asking for my mother, which is strange, since I’m 28 and don’t live with my mother. I figure out it’s my dad’s best friend from upstate, who is looking to speak to my mother and got our phones mixed up, because he has a friend who may want to rent a room from my mother. These are the kinds of things that happens when your parents meet when they are 15. Family and friend lines become very, very blurry.
So, mom speaks to Dad’s best friend, and then my phone rings again. It’s not the pizza guy as hoped. By now, it’s been 40 minutes and the natives are restless. It’s Flo, my grandma. I let it go to voicemail. Apparently, she bought a new vacuum (a Dyson, natch) and wants to know if I want her old vacuum. Also, she has to let her cleaning lady go, because she thinks she may be an anti-Semite.
I serve ice cream.
My cousin sends out my younger cousin to the car with an escort, since I apparently live in a dangerous neighborhood? (hint: the biggest danger in my neighborhood is getting in the crossfire of the old ladies throwing breadcrumbs for squirrels, or trying to get a parking spot before sundown on a Friday)
We call the pizza guy again.
She comes back with a refrigerator bag full of yogurt that she tries to pawn off on me. I end up with all the blueberries, and a cup or two of strawberries.
Frank becomes exhausted from the Great Yogurt Debate and retires to the bedroom.
The pizza comes. Everyone leaves. I call back Flo. Did I know her cleaning lady was an anti-Semite?
Just a normal Sunday.
Yes, yes. I know I have been missing. Nothing’s wrong, it was just — you know how stuff either feels way too personal to blog about, or is a lot of drama, but none of it’s really yours, and since people involved in the drama read your blog, it’s just not okay to share? I had a little of Column A and a little of Column B. But, I’m hoping to be back a lot more now.