The sun'll come out manana

I hit the bottle a bit too hard Friday night, and ended up on the brighter side of crap Saturday. Still, I had enough alcohol energy in me to do two loads of laundry and run several errands including going to the bank, buying some new work shirts, some under-eye cream, and some self-tanner.

Speaking of which, the gals at the Pure Beauty in downtown San Francisco rank right up there with some of the stupidest salespeople in America. The one chick, this pretty little girl with widely-spaced eyes, was daydreaming, gazing out the window when I walked in, and didn't greet me or offer to assist me. Fine, no worries. I usually hate it when salespeople assault you right off the bat anyways. But then I go and ask her where the self-tanner is and she says to me, "Self-taaaneeeeeer?" in elongated, sorority girl syllables, as if she's never heard the word in her life. Nitwit. Much like the girl I ordered an omelet from that morning, who said, "A veggie omelet??" as if she'd just returned from the marijuana moon. Like seriously, the chick was baked.

But I rallied my defenses, and made it through the day, and finally BART-ed over to Berkeley to see Gideon. He, his roommates, couple Jonah and Gina, Gina's parents, and myself went to see "Julie and Julia". TOO adorable. I had a smile plastered on myself the whole time, even though we were in, like, the sixth row.

Then I spent the night with Gideon and had the most wonderful night's sleep on his thousand thread count bed. And awoke the next morning feeling like someone had pummeled the shit out of me. No, it wasn't due to a night of rough sex, but my muscles finally recovering from the gym three days later. I guess because I hadn't had a good night's sleep Thursday or Friday night, my body took the opportunity Saturday night to recover. So, like an old man, I creaked out of bed, kissed my man goodbye, and hobbled on back home to catnap my Sunday away.

Bliss.