Dear Mawthrfucking Diary, *and yes, this is the Amish edit, apparently.
It could have been a stranger weekend, really. I keep telling my husband that, but he just laughs. But, really, it could have been stranger. For instance, my brother could have told me he was pregnant...and not been kidding. See? Now THAT would have been strange.
Or I might have awoken on Saturday morning to a blizzard. That would have been really weird. So all in all, what happened this weekend wasn't completely out of the realm of reality. Just partially, perhaps.
Friday was truly a good day--not a bit of strangeness to be found. I got off work early, thanks to my company and its summer hours policy. I had a delicious margarita, went by a new blues/rock-a-billy club that will be opening soon, and walked around downtown. Gorgeous day, easy to be peaceful. Good.
Me and hubs went to an art opening, met up with some friends for sushi, went back to the opening for free beer, and came home early. No hangover! Good.
Saturday morning, we woke up early (well, early for me not him, that freak), decided to go to the housesite that is finally (FINALLY!!) being built, after which we would go to one of the best swimming holes in the South, and then on to another art opening for a friend, and then a party for three newly engaged couples. Good.
Well, on our way to our new house, we saw this great stuff by the side of the road: Two sets of old movie-type chairs. You know, four chairs connected by heavy metal framing, fold down seats, the whole she-bang. "Free!!!!" we screamed simultaneously, and whipped the car around. Unfortunately, we were in our little gas-efficient vehicle, which I love, but it had no room to fit one set of these lovely chairs, which I didn't love. As we stood by the back of our car, debating our course of action, a gentleman approached us and said he had two more sets of these things if we wanted them.
Score! In a matter of minutes we had doubled our booty. Sixteen cool old chairs! With so much awesome-potential! We asked him if, pretty please, we could hide these things in the bushes on the side of the road, take off the free sign, and later claim them when we had our truck. No problem, he says. Yay we say. So off we zoom to our housesite, see the progress (squeeee), and with the pooch in tow, head toward the swimming hole, aptly named Skinny Dip Falls.
It was a beautiful drive down the Blue Ridge Parkway. There were no tourists on the road--highly unusual for this time of year--so we sped along and were at the spot in record time. It rained off and on the whole drive, and it was fabulous. Living in a temperate rain forest really has its perks. Yes, there was one moment of blinding--and I'm mean literally blinding--downpour in which I coached my sweet hubs to just stay calm, don't brake suddenly, and follow the lines on the road. (Now listen, that shit is scary when there is no guard rail between your little car and a long, long plummet down a mountain that would surely end in serious brusing if not death.) We made it through, phew! and got to the swimming hole. There was a chill in the air, a sprinkle in the breeze, and a spring in our step as we made our way down the trail to the falls.
It was freakin' cold. I mean, gasp for breath fucking cold. And I loved every minute. I jumped in fully clothed as soon as we crossed the rocks, and my dog followed suit (she is so awesome). We swam for as long as we could stand it, hiked down the trail a bit more where the dog rolled in scat and proceeded to completely gross me and hubs out--that shit STINKS, people--and we came back to the falls to wash her off. And then I gave her a bath when we got home. And then another bath. (Cute aside: My doggie-love LOVES the hairdryer. She would lay there for hours as long as I was blowing her fur with a nice warm stream of air. But she hates the vacuum. Go figure--everyone likes to get blown.)
Hubs and I took a shower, and got ready for the friend's art opening. His photographs were amazing--beautiful images full of character, flawlessly exposed, and gorgeous subjects. Great show. I met a friend there, Tom, and his friend, Shane. I say his friend, because I Do Not Like This Woman. There are very few people that, after only two meetings, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I would not tell them if their hair was on fire. This woman is one of them. She is fucking unbelievable. She is whiny, demanding, negative, and just has a sucky attitude in general, and what was about to transpire would not help my attitude towards her whatsoever.
Here is where things get really strange.
Tom, the hubs, the bitch, and I were sitting outside of the gallery space so Tom and Bitch could smoke a cig. As we sat there in the wonderfully pleasant evening, a streetpunk came walking by. He was clearly fucked up on something, probably meth, and was out of it. He asked us collectively if we had a cell phone he could use, and Tom, hubs and I all rightly ignored him. Clueless bitch, however, hands over her cell phone. Now, this kid didn't look like he could remember his own name, much less a 10-digit phone number. And yet, he stood there for almost 25 minutes having the strangest one-sided conversation I have ever heard. I could make very little sense of it, as there was a lot of cursing and huffing, but one thing was clear: No one was on the other side of that conversation. The entire thing was an act for our benefit, a desperate attempt for some type of attention. Red flag.
Finally, after what seemed like forever (especially considering Clueless Bitch's constant complaining that she was hungry) Tom asked the guy politely if she could have her phone back, as we had to go. Tweaker freak slams the phone shut (without saying goodbye to anyone--another indication that he was crazy and having a conversation with no one), throws it at Tom, and screams, "FUCK YOU, YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE!!" and proceeds to verbally abuse the four of us. Now, I just sat there kind of laughing, because I have experienced this kind of shit before, and saying anything just eggs these idiots on. At one point, he even got on his knees in the street and bowed down to us, saying things like You Perfect People, and You Beautiful People.
Um, ok. Crazy fuck.
We gather ourselves, say goodbye to the fabulous artist, and start walking down the block so Clueless Bitch could get some food (she had not stopped complaining through Tweaker Freak's entire tirade), and attempt to leave this freak-fest behind, but of course, he followed us. He harrassed us for three fucking blocks. At one point he screamed at me two inches from my face (I moved away out of fear of catching something nasty) and that was all it took. Something snapped in my sweet-hearted hubby, and my hubs smacked the crackhead with his umbrella. The crackhead tried to come at him, and my hubs smacked him a few more times over the head. He ran back, cowering and screaming, and came at him AGAIN. At this point, I was not going to watch this freak go after my husband, so I employed my square-toe boots and kicked the shit out of that bitch. Luckily, a restaurant owner that I am friends with (and consequently owns one of the most fabulous Southern French 'rants in the South) came out with the cops on the phone, gave them a description of this douchebag, and the freak ran away. But not before my sweet hubs destroyed our umbrella. He had blood on his hands, and it was the tweaker's blood, so he went into the lovely French 'rant to wash up. (Big shout out to Michel, the best Frenchman in the South!)
So what was Clueless Bitch doing this whole time, as my hubs defended me and I defended him? BITCHING ABOUT HOW HUNGRY SHE WAS.
That kind of shit doesn't always happen, but when it does, it is kind of strange, isn't it?