I'm Married to Gisele Bündchen

This weekend was weirdly exhausting considering we didn't do a whole heck of a lot. Steve and I had planned to go out on Friday night, but when all was said and done, we opted to stay in and make ourselves burgers. Lights out happened fairly early.

As such, I was able to jump out of bed Saturday morning and go for a 5-mile run/walk with Sita and a few of her friends. It took a while, as my work-out partner and I were aptly suited to each other and talked faster than our stride ever took us. After we got back to Sita’s house, our group walked to the nearby farmer’s market in Arlington.

I bought some tomatoes and cucumbers and went home to make lunch out of it with some fresh basil stolen from a plant I’m holding hostage. I added chicken, mozzarella cheese, a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of garlic salt. Heaven.

Then Saturday afternoon, I went down to the pool to do some reading for the research I’m behind on. I had this schedule in place that would have had me finish all my research so that I could begin adding the beekeeper plot to my book this week. However, last week’s work “schedule” – if you can call it that. More like last week’s work explosion – made my research hit the back burner behind sleep and hygiene. So I decided to catch up Saturday by soaking in the pool with some books. I'm one of those people who will get books wet and write in them. I know, it's terrible. I think I'm still rebelling from the nuns who taught me that books should be handled with velvet gloves.

After a while, I came up to the apartment to get some sunscreen as a burn may have been blooming. Steve was holed up inside doing work and grumbling enthusiastically about the suckitude of it all. I stayed inside to cheer him up. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, we were drinking amaretto on the rocks and wondering what to eat for dinner.

Options started out free and open; we could go here, there or anywhere. We narrowed down our target to pizza. But then where to go? The Italian Store for take-out where the pizzas are huge and the guilt is huger, or the Lost Dog Café where we like to sit over a beer for Steve and a wine for me and chat about life.

As the night wore on, inertia took over and we opted to order delivery from Pizza Hut. Sigh. The choice was depressing and soul crushing, and we were in bed in a pizza fog by the 9 o’clock hour. Steve implored me to prevent us from such a contemptible choice again. I promise.

Sunday was a big day of stuff that adds up to nothing remarkable in the end. I wanted to swim some laps, soak in the hot tub and then read some books poolside, but the clouds were too discouraging, so I abandoned that plan.

Instead I cleaned up the apartment. It looks nice now, which makes me feel like I could potentially have people drop in on me without my having to invent some bizarre excuse like, "You just caught me coming off a year-long creme de menthe bender. Please dust the balls of newspapers, stray cats and Dorito crumbs off the couch and make yourself at home."

I also bribed myself into personal grooming by taking a nice, hot bath. Which means I don't have to tell Steve that I would have shaved my legs, but bandits broke in and stole my razor. That never works. Neither does saying that razor weevils ate my razor. I kid. We haven't even been married a year yet. I still shave regularly. But sometimes a bath convinces me to do it with feeling.

After my bath, but before I went to the grocery store, Steve came home from his golf game all grumpified and depending on who's telling the story, he may or may not have been rude to me. All I know is I asked to see his new haircut and he sneered at me like I was picking a bar fight. That means I went to the grocery store grumpy. When I came back from the store, we were both less grumpy, but he was still nurturing his grumpitude. So I asked why his panties were in a bunch. He said, "My panties are not in a bunch."

I said, "We're going to have to start calling you Gisele Bündchen on account of your bunched knickers." He laughed. He tried not to, but he laughed once more. Then he resumed being grumpy.

I asked him, "Do you need medication for your brains?" He laughed again. Success! For the moment.

By 8 o'clock Sunday, the kitchen was cleaned up and the coffee pot was laden with Colombian beans and the timer set. The only thing left for a Sunday night was reading books under the covers.