I woke up on Sunday morning feeling surprisingly good considering the epic adventures of the day before. Fortunately, my body is pretty kind to me when it comes to hangovers. Jackie had purchased bacon and eggs for the purpose of making us a delicious breakfast, since I never have such perishable items in my refrigerator since I function largely like a bachelor. It during this time that I learned that Jackie is one of those people insists on cooking EVERYTHING in the oven. I say “those people” as if there are other people like this, which there are probably not. Bacon? Cooked in the oven. It gets crispier, she says. I can confirm it does not, and T-Rex Mom and I know crispy bacon. She then cooked TOAST in the oven. Toast. As in a piece of bread. I guess when you think about it, it isn’t that weird considering that the long name for the other thing you toast stuff in is a toaster oven, but it just seemed strange. I mean, I had both a toaster and a convection oven on the counter right there. Oh, Jackie.
In an effort to make my home look less like a prison and more like a functioning adult lives there, I have been trying to spruce things up by decorating. I had a bunch of pictures from my epic journeys that I had been meaning to print, as well as some of the gems from St Patrick’s Day, so I sent some prints to CVS and Jackie and I hit up TJ Maxx, also known as a great place to buy cheap picture frames. Ok, I admit, I may have had some ulterior motivation. Maybe AJ found an old picture frame with pictures of his high school girlfriend when unpacking in the house he just moved into. Maybe I wanted to replace her. Maybe not. I don’t know.
I know it might shock you to know this, but there’s actually not all that much to do in Columbia and we had pretty much maxed out the city’s excitement potential on Saturday, so obviously the logical step was to head to Florence on Sunday afternoon. Some of AJ’s friends were having a cookout, and I needed an opportunity to get more sunburned eat more food per usual, so we headed over. Sunday afternoon activities in Florence include but are not limited to cornhole, lawn bowling, and, obviously, knife throwing. It seemed necessary that Jackie experience this, as I like to give my visitors a taste of what my life is really like on a normal basis.
So Jackie and I started playing cornhole. Except we didn’t really play it right, because we forgot that you’re supposed to start on the same side. And we didn’t know how to score the game, so we guessed, and by some act of God, we actually guessed right. For the record, you get one point for every bean bag that lands on the board and three points for each bean bag that goes through the hole. In what quickly became the longest game of cornhole ever, Jackie and I decided to play to 10 instead of 21 because our arms were getting really, really tired and we couldn’t seem to break the threshold of two points.
I decided to try my hand at knife throwing, and yes, I can actually see the looks of horror on all of your collective faces. It was pretty much as bad as you’d expect. Dar, a man who wears some type of knife holster contraption as actual apparel, had the nerve to make fun of me as if my attempt was so terrible – and then he missed the tree completely on his first throw. Boom. Justice.
Monday dawned bright and early, and Jackie and I had plans to head to Charleston to go to the beach and grab lunch before her flight left in the afternoon. On the way there, I engaged in a rather asinine exchange of conversation with someone who shall not be named but can probably be guessed, and this led me to want to drink even more than usual. Thus, the first order of business was getting frozen margs on Sullivan’s Island as soon as the restaurant opened at 11 am.
We laid on the beach for about an hour and a half, during which time I received the most awkwardly patterned sunburn in the world. The sad part is, I really made an effort. I brought sunscreen. I applied it in advance of getting to the beach. Apparently the spray sunscreen isn’t as easy as they make it out to be, because I ended up with a least one awkward burnt splotch on literally every single part of my body. Oh, the joys of being pale. I took a disco nap on the beach because I’m always tired and I can sleep anywhere. Thank God Jackie can’t and she woke me up, or I would have burnt to a bacon-esque crisp (the pan kind, not the lame oven kind).
Afterwards, Jackie and I went to visit Phyllis, aka my secret bff the owner of one of the best restaurants ever, Patat Spot. It’s a little Dutch falafel place that serves amazing fries, and I always insist on taking my friends there so they can experience it. Phyllis and I talked about the goings-on in Charleston County transportation, then Jackie and I headed out to window shop on King Street, which is where all the good shopping is in Charleston. We decided to get some frozen yogurt as we were heading back and were choosing between two stores. One is the type where you put your own toppings on, and at the other, they put them on for you. We entered the one where they put the toppings on for you, figuring our gluttony would be more easily kept in check if someone else was monitoring the amount of oreo crumbs and cookie dough balls. However, as soon as we walked in, the woman in front of us says “Ok, I need 9 mediums…”
What? WTF? Who is eating this much frozen yogurt? Where are the other eight people? Who is carrying the nine frozen yogurts, with toppings, through the streets of Charleston to their destination in the 80 degree weather? Just so many questions. Sadly, no answers, because as soon as we heard that, we looked at each other and got out of there before a frozen yogurt tsunami drowned us.
And with that, I dropped Jackie off at the airport, another crazy weekend coming to a close. I remember when I used to sleep sometimes. Ahh, the good old days.