cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild, women. they'll drive you crazy, they'll drive you insane

Despite numerous protestations to the contrary, I did end up consuming green colored beer on Friday night. I was certain the Sandbar would not participate in such a charade and yet, alas, pitcher #2 was a sickly, unnatural greenish color. You'll be happy to hear that the taste of the Fosters was not affected. You'll also be happy to hear I kicked some Berghoef ass at pinball. Repeatedly. Obviously karma was not on his side that night as when we returned to the compound an ill-fated kick at a suspicious item sticking out of the ice resulting in a spectacular fall and an injury to which the extent is still not known. He's faced with the moral dilemma 48 million Americans are: do I go to the hospital where they will charge me obscene amounts of money for everything from an x-ray to an ace bandage to ibuprofen only to tell me that I need to take ibuprofen and wrap it in an ace bandage and it'll hurt like a bitch for a few weeks OR do I just ride it out and hope for the best? The last I heard he was going with option 2, but he may change his mind at some point. Not being able to write/type/do-whatever-else-young-men-do-
with-their-dominate-hands will eventually take it's toll. Though it sounds like a slacker's paradise, only being capable of operating a remote is bound to become monotonous as is being trapped at the parents' house.

Due to said injury, my weekend ended up being vastly different than usual. Saturday afternoon I went out with Michael for Thai food, Target, grocery shopping, and table-picking-uping. Yes, yes, I am now the proud owner of an actual table. I still only have 1 chair but I no longer have to eat with my food balanced on my lap. It's almost like I'm becoming a grown-up. Saturday night I turned down all invitations for social interaction and instead spent the evening with my cat, my leftovers, and hours of season 4 of the West Wing. Because I had such a tame evening I was up with the sun (okay, it was more like 8:30am) and watched my Sunday morning news shows. I also made what appears to be killer eggplant parmesan for the weekly viewing of The Sopranos. I'm currently at work, watching the clock, grateful I am but Miss Information ("You can get a library card right over there at circulation." "Reference services would be happy to place an item on hold for you." "The audio-visual department is upstairs." "No, I'm sorry, the cafe isn't open today." "The photocopy machine is directly behind you in the room marked 'public photocopier' and copies are 15 cents." "Slow down please....please slow down...GUYS! STOP RUNNING IN THE LIBRARY!") and not waiting on the hoards of people who are impatiently standing in line. I'm looking forward to my jaunt homeward. It's stunningly gorgeous outside, if but a tad cold. I've got me some big ol'sunglasses, an old mix tape with some Beck, The Streets, Wilco, and Uncle Tupelo, and I'm properly dressed in wool tights and a wool sweater. I think I'm going to walk down 14th street so I can see my favorite handwritten sign: "Thank God for John Murtha. He's standing up to all the liars who went to war for oil and greed." Plus awaiting me at home is an ice cold vodka martini, some small nosh to keep me going until the previously mentioned eggplant parmesan is devoured, and The Sopranos. Life could be worse.