Hawt

Well, all I've got today is whining about the weather and vomit. I wish I had some deep and meaningful revelation this weekend that I could share with you, but instead I sat on the couch in the midst of a tequila-fueled hangover with my skirt hiked up, my tank top rolled up, arms spread wide apart to allow as much humid "air" onto my flesh as possible, watching "America's Next Top Model" reruns to keep the brain activity slow. I did housekeeping in waves. I had to wash the bedsheets because I foolishly drank to excess, ate a bunch of lo mein and barfed. I don't think I hit the sheets, and I thankfully missed the ex-WHW who was innocently (and relatively soberly) talking with me. I did, however, hit the floor and my rolly suitcase en route to the wastebasket. There is nothing better than putting your suitcase in the shower and hosing the lo mein and Red #40 off the canvas, especially after it had the afternoon the marinate in a steamy room. Except, you know, not barfing in the first place. But I needed to wash under my bed, and this provided me the perfect reason to do so.
I love my wastebasket. My friend bought it for me before I went away to college and it is with me still. At my Mom's house she has these wicker baskets in the bathrooms, so any loose deposits into the bin will end up on the floor. The wastebasket I have is a solid purple plastic number, so even if I've neglected to put a grocery bag in to line it, the bucket doubles as a puke holder. I thank the design wizards at Bed, Bath and Beyond for designing wastebaskets for the college freshman in mind. "Better make that thing so it holds liquid. Some college girl in Boston may drink too much and not have the presence of mind to get out of bed and run for the bathroom once she gets the spins."
But it was a good day before the puke. I drove Kristen's car down to RI to help my Mom clean my grandfather's bathroom to her liking so she'd be able to use it without gagging when her bathroom gets remodeled in a couple weeks. After sweating all over the clean bathroom, the Boston contingent met me at my Mom's and we drove down to Narragansett to enjoy the beach. I finally got a good amount of sun even though it was slightly overcast. I wish there were some way I could work from Rhode Island during the summer. When I lived there, I'd work at the daycare until 5, which left me a good three hours to enjoy the beach after work. Now I have to plan far in advance to get to Rhode Island, make sure the fleet of cars in my Mom's driveway is operational and get myself back to Boston in time to babysit or drink in Kristen's living room.
It was the ideal summer day on Saturday-- a minimum amount of work; a new CD in the stereo; friends chatting as you drive along, telling them stories about the stretch of road where you puked when you were three and on your way to the clam shack and got motion sick in the backseat of your Mom's new station wagon; taking a shower and washing the sand off your slightly red skin; driving with the windows open after the sun set; meeting new people (hi, watergirl!); not being entirely a grown-up.