Wednesday morning, Ari, Jessie, Harley, and I headed to Roanoke (Indiana, not Virginia) to their family homestead. It turns out that the goats their mom got last year have grown up. I discovered that I don't trust goats, especially when they are out of their pen. The horns, the demon eyes, the reckless lifestyle. Nothing about those little bastards says, "I will never headbutt you."Wednesday night, Ari, Jester, Liz, Lizzie, and I hit the Roanoke bars. Yes, all three of them. First it was the Village Inn, second it was the Paragraph, and third it was the Lock. Beers were cheap, and dirty looks were cheaper. The most random event of the night occurred as Jessie and I were leaving the Lock to go home for the evening. A huge pick-up pulled into the lot and rolled down the window, imploring us to do the same. Jessie obliged. This young man was not looking for a piece of ass, but rather directions. Where? I-65. I-69? No, I-65. I-69? No, I-65. Are you sure you don't mean I-69? No, I-65. For those of you unfamiliar with Indiana's geography and roads, Roanoke is in the northeast part of the state, very close to I-69. I-65 runs down the west side of the state until it gets to Indy, then cuts down the middle of the state. Where was this young man heading? Indy? Zionsville? Seymour? No no. Orlando. Yep, the one in Florida. So at 2am, this guy pulls into a bar parking lot in Roanoke, Indiana looking for directions to Florida. Seems reasonable. The remnants of his corpse are being consumed as I write by a couple of nearby goats.
Thursday was Thanksgiving Dinner #1, a feast with turkey, goose, duck, lobster, scallops, and deer, not unlike the first Thanksgiving between the pilgrims and the Wampanoag. You see, they had no ovens, so they could make no pies.
Friday, we made our way back to Chicago, dropped Ari off, and then headed to the LG to my mom's house for Thanksgiving Dinner #2. And Food Coma #2. Friday night, the LG crew met up at local watering hole Palmer Place, featuring the largest beer selection in the Chicagoland area. I saw a Dane. He was with a woman he called his wife.
Saturday, Jester and I hit the Oak Brook Mall for some Christmas shopping. While there, we saw some crazyass ho wearing a pink sweater, covered by a pink jacket, along with some thigh-high pink suede boots. She came across as very kickable.
Saturday evening, we had Thanksgiving Dinner #3 at my dad's house. It was less traditional, featuring pork tenderloin and rolls and such.Yesterday was inconsequential.
Today, however, began The Fortnight of Andrew. Costanza had the Summer of George. I only have 2 weeks. Thus, the Fortnight of Andrew.
And oh what a Fortnight it's shaping up to be. My morning began with a fresh bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch, followed by an oatmeal bath and a pedicure. Then I took Harley to the vet because her vagina was bleeding and she was lactating. This normally wouldn't be a big deal, except the good people at the rescue from whence we purchased her 2 1/2 years ago assured us that she didn't have a uterus or ovaries. Apparently there may be some ovarian tissue left over, which means Harley (unbenknownst to her) gets to have some exploratory surgery tomorrow. Weeeeee!
After that, I took the bitch home, hunted for some rabbits in Lincoln Park, then headed out to the burbs to get some Paul's with McClure. After a half beef-and-cheese on garlic and a slice of pepperoni, I headed back to my mom's house to pick up the cell phone charger I so carelessly left there a few days ago. It was still there. I openly wept. There were no squirrels in my mom's attic.
From there, I returned home via motorcar. Harley, vagina bleeding and tits spewing milk, was sound asleep on what used to be a gray couch.
Currently, I am watching Big Top Pee Wee while challenging myself to a Rolo eating contest.
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