Lost Weekend

Whoops, I skipped yesterday. That's what giddy will do to ya. As well as the first really nice, warm, sunny day of spring. I gardened. I watched a little golf (oh, Tiger . . . what happened?). I examined our bounty of wildflowers as I scooped poop.

I also pondered a few things:

Like when you and your honey go out on a Friday night to party it up at a local rockin' sushi joint and, basking in the warm glow of alcohol-induced gemutlichkeit, anticipate a lovely evening of light chit chat between yourselves and maybe a stranger or two sitting next to you and instead find yourself entangled in what seems on the surface to be an actual conversation but which instead becomes a kind of time warp perpetuated by said stranger who just may be, in fact, slightly C-R-A-Z-Y. But you've just imbibed half a bottle of saki and are, hence, game:

S.B.: My nephew pitches for LSU baseball and my family and I were over in Arkansas recently to watch his game.

Mr. Crazy: He pitches in the minor leagues?

S.B.: No, he plays college ball, for LSU.

Mr. Crazy: So, a farm team?

And still you plug away. Because, after all, he is looking at you and nodding his head in a certain manner that indicates he's not thinking about the pile of laundry waiting for him at home, but, rather, is actually listening to what you are saying. And maybe this time he will reply with something even remotely related to the topic.

Us: We're thinking of training for a mini-triathlon this August.

Mr. Crazy: I'm not wearing any underwear. It keeps the aliens at bay.

Uh, apparently not.

I also learned a few things yesterday:

1. S.B. makes the best grilled hamburgers, hands down, of any human being on earth and now all I want to do is eat a bizillion grilled hamburgers at every meal. Damn the cholesterol and transfats. Which I can do, because I'm training for a mini-triathlon. Any day now . . .

2. The very best wine on the face of the earth, hands down, to go with said hamburgers is Ponderosa Valley Vineyards Jemez Red. The definitive red table wine if I ever tasted one.

3. HBO's Saturday night premier movie was The Omen. You know, the one with Liev Schreiber looking pained as usual and Julia Stiles looking way, way, way older than necessary (I'm sorry, I don't care if you're playing a member of the U.S. diplomatic corps or a mother of the bride or are freakin' 80 bizillion years old, you should never be styled to wear a fake Chanel purple silk shantung day suit with a matching pillbox hat. And shoes dyed to match. I mean, it should be in your contract). And we won't even talk about the utter waste of Mia Farrow, who at 60-whatever-years-old, still betrays such a remarkable luminosity it was a near tragedy the way she was used here. Anyway. We figured, okay, it would be good for a laugh. Well, it was pretty stinky, but there was at least one redeeming feature. I for one was heartened to see that the Hounds of Hell are, indeed, Rottweilers, and not pit bulls. Whew.

4. Finally: NASCAR is not a sport, people. It's an activity. Please, remember that.

Okay, I'm going to go hike a mountain. And celebrate yet another gorgeous spring day.

Happy Mother's Day to all y'all . . .