Today was Marvin Gardens' last day at work. It was supposed to be Sunday, May 27, which was the date of our first date, so it seemed like good luck. I do not mean that we are having our first date this coming Sunday. Our first date was May 27, 1986, when I had a perm and Marvin had curly hair that inexplicably turned not curly through the years.
Anyway, they had to do an exit interview with him on his last day, and since his last day was a Sunday of a holiday weekend, no one felt like coming in to interview him, so they said okay, today can be your last day. Good enough. He gets paid through Sunday. In fact, he gets paid for all sorts of unused vacation time and such, so expect a big leap in our savings soon.
It occurred to me today that for the first time in seven years, I will actually see Marvin Gardens every single weekend. As it was before, we only saw each other every other weekend, which if you are keeping track there at home, meant that we only saw each other four full days a month. Which is ridiculous. It also occurred to me that he will no longer work on Christmas Day, unless he becomes one of Santa's reindeer or something. On Dasher, on Marvin!
So after dinner, Marvin and I went in the backyard and burned all of his work shirts. Here is a picture of our actual grill burning MG's actual work shirts:
We toasted marshmallows over said fire, and then I worried that we might catch some disease, cooking over burning unnatural fibers and such. But I ate my marshmallow anyway.
While we were back there, Marvin took a picture of the nest in our metal pail on the back porch. Apparently the birds are having an only child, just like me. I think I have named our bundle of joy Omlette. What do you think? Also, I have told Marvin Gardens he cannot photograph the pail any longer and he has to leave it alone so Omlette does not grow up all neurotic and nervous, getting jostled about.
In other news, this weekend I am seeing an old friend of mine from college. We hung out together so much that back then that people called her my wife. Remember in college, or when you were 22 in general, and you had all the time in the world to hang with your friends? You could call at 2:30 p.m. on Tuesday and say, "Let's get ice cream then walk down and look at the ducks." "Okay!" Or at 11:45 p.m. on a Friday. "I just had the most boring date. Let's go to the Peanut Barrel, drink vodka/cranberry/lemonades and throw peanuts at each other's cleavages." "Okay!"
This was because you had basically no obligations to really be anywhere, except like maybe at 4:30 you had to show up at your bartending shift, and even then your friends could just come along!
"Nan," who by the way loves to be called "Nan," (and really, most of my fake names for my friends in here are just versions of their names that they hate, right Sandy and Blanche?) has grown up and has a cool job and lives on the other side of the country, and I think the last time I saw her was in 1992. So, she is coming and has promised me a pedicure. I know I just HAD a free pedicure thanks to my mother this last Friday, but I have already done something stupid with my shoewear and have lost my new-pedicure luster, so I am looking forward to living large and letting yet ANOTHER person buy me a pedicure. Am I the most shameless foot hussy ever?