In America there are two different kinds of holidays: ones for which you go to church and ones that you get crazy drunk and barbecue. Memorial Day resides in the latter group, and it's effects are intensified by the presence of the hallowed three-day weekend.
Memorial Day is just a fucking awesome holiday, and not many people would disagree with me. Also, in the US, it is the symbolic start of summer and is usually preceeded by the last day of school in many public districts. What's not to love?
Also, Dave was let off early on Friday, so we met up at a local store so that I could check out bathing suits and some cute dresses to help buoy my mood. Let's just be frank: Trying on bathing suits when you're as out of shape as I am will do anything but buoy your mood. It will make you feel like this whole world is a dressing-room shaped nightmare and that every piece of lycra on the planet is plotting against you in a concerted psychological directive to make you feel fat.
So, I picked up a way-cute maxi dress and went home to lick my wounds.
On Saturday we decided to get some stuff around the house done, like washing dishes and yard work. We also chose to go to World Market and splurge the last of our discretionary cash on some Adirondack chairs and then at Home Depot on some Tiki torches and plants. Lest you be confused, these are all happiness inducing purchases by making our yard a bit more like a sanctuary, and therefore, are totally worth it.
We assembled the adirondacks, set up the Tikis, grabbed a few vodka coolers and sat back to relax with the chickens. Nothing wrong with that.
Sunday's a bit of a blur now, but I do remember that we had dinner with Dave's parents that evening, and that we also spent some quality beer o'clock time with my good buddy Jack.
Monday, though, was the title bout, the main attraction and the reason for the three-day weekend.
We were prepared to do a significant amount of day-drinking, but not nearly the amount that we actually did. Well, Dave wasn't prepared, and he was throwing back hard ciders like no one in the world was going to make them anymore and he had to get his fill of them RIGHT NOW.
So, by the time we had all eaten our fill of ribs, chicken bacon skewers, grilled asparagus and beer (or white wine spritzers in my case. That crazy-pants session staring at my cellulite in the corner mirror at the department store did a number on my self-esteem) Dave was pretty much a drunkface.
Good thing we had lots of QT with our fabulous neighbors before then:
Bart and his sweet little morsel of a son, Hank.
"Well, hello, yourself, lady with the camera!"
You are just tremendously cute, Hank. Thanks for being a good baby.
Notice the "rally cap" on Dave's pate and the sad look on his face. This is not a good sign.
"WHOOOEEE! DEM ARE SOME RIBS A'SMOKIN!"
The Bart action figure, beer grip comes standard.
This is George. When not trying to pull down your pants, he likes to splay himself out in the shade or on the kitchen floor.
This is George's partner in crime, Betty.
Bart is on the fence. Literally.
But he's in a precarious position because Dave egged him into some impromptu tree maintenance. The first thing out of my mouth after seeing Bart hop onto the fence: "BART! THE BOY NEEDS A FATHER!!!"
And here, Dave is shocked that everyone survived that episode (Well, except for the dag-nabbed limb).