we had such a great plan: i get off work at 5:30. aaron and i would run to costco and the grocery store and be back by 7. i'd work out with jen and be back by 8. we'd make chicken a la king for my roommates and have it ready by 9. home by 10, asleep by 12. oh, it was perfect.
in theory, of course.
come 5:30, i'm off to pick aaron up. come 6:30, we're still searching for the ever-elusive costco in west seattle. one call to 411 let's us know that costco is off of 4th, not 1st. whoops! this is only our third trip out, how were we supposed to know? we're behind schedule.
we finally make it out by 7:30 and head to fucking magnolia's QFC. we're out of there by 8. i drop aaron off and run home to change to work out. i thought i made it to the gym by 8:30, but apparently it was more like 9. jen and i are done kicking our asses by 10 and aaron calls to say perhaps we should hold off on chicken a la king-ness. i'm far too disappointed.
i head home to shower and change and end up watching extreme makeover with the boys across the hall. wouldn't it be more interesting to have a show called extreme therapy, where we observe the gradual increase or decrease of sanity? i think so. anyway, it's 11 and i left my cell phone in my apartment and aaron has called five times and is very upset because he made me a special meal which is slowly but surely going bad and he just wanted to spend time with me on his last day off. whoops. now i'm pissy thinking about the times he took my car out and left me home to worry. fucker.
so i get to his house around 11:30 and he's managed to salvage the roasted red pepper penne he made (it was deeeeee-lish) and we watch xxx and laugh at hollywood. i kept making fun of the product placement:
"hey, the czech militia uses a vaio. maybe i should too!"
"hey, vin diesel drinks pepsi products. go get me a flat of mountain dew!"
the evening worked out and i slept ever so well, without any weird messages from my subconscious. hooray.
and katie stole a pretty girls make graves poster for me! woot!
and good news: i'm disintigrating! 123 pounds, eat that bitch.