The Sheets are too Big and I almost got us Shot!

So I promised y'all tales of drunken debauchery from my friend Rod's birthday party on Saturday. To bad that's not what you're going to get because as usual, things did not work out as planned.

I wake up Saturday morning, feeling pretty much like shit since this damn cold will not go away for some reason. I lay in bed for a while and watch the episode of Gilmore Girls that has been languishing on the DVR for two weeks (Jess is coming back?? WTF??) and then decided that no matter how bad I felt, I needed to go to Macy's because they were having a huge sale and I needed new sheets. Should I have stayed in bed and attempted to get rid of my cold? Probably, but the allure of $160.00 sheets on sale for $49.00 was to good to pass up, and besides I needed moisturizer and a trip to the Benefit counter always makes me feel better.

Nick calls ahead to Macy's to make sure they have the sheets I want, in the size I need and the color that I want, because he's a very, very smart boy and knows that if I get to Macy's and they don't have it I will have some sort of scary meltdown because I'm sick and that's just what tends to happen when things don't go according to plan and I'm sick. The nice lady at Macy's assures him that they have exactly what I want and will even hold them for me so nobody else can have them.

We get to Macy's, the nice lady gives Nick the sheets and we buy them along with some of the softest damn towels in the history of towels. They're softer than clouds, they're softer than angel butts! All clothing, bedding and towels should be made out of this material. I go to the Benefit counter and buy moisturizer, which does indeed make me feel slightly better.

Then Nick hauls me into Sharper Image and proceeds to run around there like a two year old, pointing at every other thing and telling me how much we need this and how much easier it will make our lives. I drag him out of the Sharper Image and wonder how many times per day the salespeople in that store see a woman dragging a man out of that place.

We leave the Galleria and, if you don't live in Houston, there's something you need to understand about the Galleria area in order for the next part of the story to make any sense....it's always under construction. Seriously. Always. You never know what lane is going to be closed on any given day. So, we're on Westheimer and the far right lane ends. There are signs all over the freaking place telling you that the lane ends and that you're going to need to merge. Everyone understands this except the asshat in the white Chevy pickup truck who barrels down the about to close lane and cuts in front of us, coming inches from Nick's front bumper.

Nick is a much calmer person than I am and doesn't make a big deal about it. I, however, feel like crap and must vent my displeasure with said asshat. I reach over and honk the horn and when the driver turns around, I give him the universal hand signal for "you freaking moron, can you not read all the bright orange signs that tell you that the right lane is about to end".

Rather than going directly home and flogging himself for his abysmal driving, this freaking moron proceeds to come to a complete stop in the middle of Westheimer and just sits there, while rolling down his window and flipping me off. The asshole flat out REFUSED to MOVE! What else could I do? I roll down my window, stick my head out of the car and (in the nicest possible way) tell him to "Move your goddamn piece of shit truck, you stupid son of a bitch".

This apparently angered the asshat, who has what looks like 15 gold teeth and (along with his ghetto queen girlfriend) gets out of the car, screaming that they are going to kick my ass. Oops. This is not good, but in my altered/loaded up on Benadryl state, I'm about to get out of the car when Nick locks the door and tells me to call the police before the ghetto king and queen shoot us.

I wave at them, call them assholes, smile and hold my cellphone up where they can see it and dial 911. They get into the ghettomobile and leave. I explain to the nice 911 lady that we were very close to being assaulted by the asshat and his girlfriend and give her their licesnse plate number.

Nick pulls into the CVS parking lot and yells at me for pissing off ghetto folk, as we both could have been shot. I am not happy with this because he's supposed to admire my bravery, not yell at me for almost getting us killed.

We run a couple of more errands, go to IKEA and mentally spend about four million dollars, then we go and get Greek food which makes me happy, but I'm starting to feel worse by the minute, so rather than going to Rod's birthday party, I go home and go to sleep while Nick goes to the party.

Still feeling like complete shit, I wake up early on Sunday to go with my friend Jennifer to her future mother-in-law's house to address her wedding invitations, where more hilarity ensues, and there's a strange encounter with a miniture horse. This will all be explained in tomorrows entry, since this is already getting longer than I thought it would, and the nice people who give me a paycheck every Friday probably expect me to actually do something work-related today.

While I'm in wedding invitation hell, Nick calls. The freaking sheets are for a KING size bed, which does me no freaking good since we have a Queen sized bed. I suggest buying a new bed rather than going back to the Galleria, but Nick's not going for this idea because he is irrational.

So now sometime this week I have to haul my butt back to the Galleria and exchange my sheets which really pisses me off because this means I have to sleep on the old sheets for another week. I would do it today, but I still feel like crap on toast and am going to see Depeche Mode tonight.