I just opened up a Dove Promise that I’d squirreled away in my desk drawer months ago. The inside of the wrapper says, “Go easy on yourself.” Which pretty much sums up the past weekend, unless you consider eating, reading, and getting it on particularly strenuous. Thanks for the good thoughts, though, Dove.

I feel kinda shamefaced about the weekend, actually, coming (heh heh) as it did on the tails of a few particularly salacious, sex-sational weekends. Not that we squandered several sunny days rutting like monkeys, mind you — it was downpour-city all weekend. And I honestly did try to check movie listings Sunday and get us organized to get out of the house. But when mah baby needs his lovin’, who am I to deny him?

We had a bit of excitement last night: it was about 10:15 p.m., and we were talking in the living room. We kept hearing a fwabbiddy-fwabiddy-fwap sound outside, which to my ears sounded like some skate rat practicing his moves. This continued for a couple of minutes, accompanied by the screech of car brakes now and again. The cat seemed nervous about the noise, so I got up to check it out. A red car (from whence the hollow-slapping/flat-tire sound emanated) was backing up fast and slamming on its brakes, then pulling forward. I watched as a guy in a suit lurched out of the car — he was barely able to stand up straight, let alone walk in a straight line. He wobbled and stumbled toward the railing in front of the condos across the street from my apartment building, grabbed it in both fists, leaned over, and started shaking it. I thought he might hurl, but no dice.

I was all nervously narrating this for D. and wondering what the hell should do, if anything. Senor Intoxicato then staggered back toward his car, dug through his pocket to get his keys, and promptly flung them (it looked like an accident) into the middle of the street. He dived to the pavement for them, then made his way back to the car, leaning against it for balance as he once again went through his pockets (uh, buddy, the keys are in your hand, remember?) and spilled change all over the blacktop. Whoopsie. Remembering that he’d already located his keys, he stabbed at the car window with them a few times before connecting with the lock. That’s when I panicked and told D. that the sot was going to try driving again. D. put on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and raced downstairs to see if he could get the guy’s car make and license plate number.

He ended up having to chase the car (which had run a red light, but stopped at the next one) to get the tag number, but he returned victorious. I called 9-1-1 with the info in the hopes that a cop might intercept him in Harvard Square. One of those scary, adrenaliney things where we’ll never know if he was pulled over or not. (This morning, I watched a young guy who was crossing the street in the same location as the drunk’s car scoop up some of the fallen change — he had a triumphant look on his face, like, “I can’t believe my week is starting out so great!”

The only reason I can possibly justify having come (heh heh) into work today is that I was able to print out a ton of apartment listings. It’s the start of a daunting, depressing process. I hope D. and I find a place that’s roomy, charming, full of storage possibilities, laundry-equipped, close to the T, inclusive of heat and hot water, no-fee, and cat-friendly. A deck or porch or small yard would be nice, too — some shady place where we could sip cocktails in the evening hours or throw some eggplant on the grill.

Stop the cutesiness! Ban Comic Sans MS!