Just call me QB for short
No, no, not quarterback. (Although I did play intramural flag football in college. Quite well, I'd like to add. But that's not the QB I'm talking about.)
Nope, QB stands for Queen Bitch, a title I wore with pride, dignity and passion this week/weekend. My friend's 30th birthday was this weekend, and I planned a surprise party for her Friday night. I was absolutely determined that it a) be fun, and b) a surprise. This was me:
"Seriously, if you let it slip, I will kill you. KILL YOU. You think I'm kidding? I'm not kidding. Or--how about this. I won't kill you. I'll torture you instead. I'll tie you in a chair and force you to listen to a rotation of Ashlee Simpson, Britney Spears, Hillary Duff and classic boy band hits. And then when you beg for mercy, I'll make you watch a marathon of that MTV show 'My Super Sweet 16.' And that's just the beginning. Seriously. Just try me."
"You're going to be WHAT? LATE? Are you TRYING to ruin the surprise? I mean, fine, you do what you gotta do, but it really sucks that you're OK with RUINING the SURPRISE since, you know, you only turn 30 ONCE. I mean, that's great. Really."
And so on. Seriously, I was totally obnoxious. But I was absolutely determined. I don't know if the party was fun--I THINK it was, although I was too busy running around making demands to know for sure--but it definitely was a surprise. So, big sigh. Mission (at least partially) accomplished. Even if people now have little voodoo dolls adorned with my face.
With the party behind me, the biggest thing on the agenda for Saturday was to pack for the big move I'm still somewhat in denial about. The alarm went off at, I don't know, 9:30 or something. SMACK. Snooze. Alarm goes off again. SMACK. Snooze. And again. And again. I knew if I got out of bed, I would have no choice but to start filling boxes, and I COULD NOT DO IT.
Finally, my bladder made the decision for me. I got up, peed and buried my face in the couch. Then when I couldn't breathe anymore, I rolled on my back and finished reading this book. And THEN, at oh, 1 or something, I started packing.
Packing makes me verrrrry, verrry cranky. Especially when it makes the palatial, normally immaculate (ha) Swishy residence look like a dumpster:
(This is where there's supposed to be a picture, but the freaking thing WON'T WORK. You'll have to just pretend.)
So, anyway, I was an entirely different kind of QB later tonight. I was an "I've spent all day--well, a couple hours anyway--packing, and I hate packing, and I don't even know if I want to move right now, and how nice for you that you actually got to enjoy the first nice day in weeks while I waded through boxes, and I'm going to be irrationally pissed off at everyone all night because crankiness loves company" kind of QB. I was verrrry sulky.
I'm so charming, am I not?
I snapped out of it eventually and got into a VERY interesting discussion with some friends, one that I'm sure I'll reiterate here at some point, but NOT now, as it is getting very late and I don't want to play QB again tomorrow because I didn't get any sleep.
So I'm going to bed now. Maybe. Or to pack another box. Maybe. Or to wrap up in my blanket and watch videos on VH1. More likely.