About a month ago I started bugging Jack: "Let's go to the Grammys." All he had to do was make a phone call. Jack's stepmom's sister's husband, Pierre, has produced the Grammys since the war of 1812, but this was his last year doing it. He had always offered to get us tickets, so I thought we should take him up on it, this being our last chance to do so. Plus, who doesn't love award ceremonies? No one! America loves award ceremonies or there wouldn't be so goddamned many of them.
Me; "Let's go to the Grammys!"
Jack: "Why the fuck would we want to do that?"
Jack sort of never got around to dropping a dime, and then last night his stepmom called to say hello and she's watching the Grammys in her condo in Connecticut and I'm like,"Huh? They're tonight? I told Jack we should have gone!" That was kind of mean of me, ratting him out like that, because she went on for five minutes about how Pierre would have LOVED! to give us tickets if we'd only ASKED!, implying rather strongly that Jack was inexplicably retarded for letting this one last opportunity slide. And then she went on, "But the ceremony isn't all that; plus, you have to be in your seat two hours in advance. What you really want to do is go to the parties."
Me (covering phone and hissing at Jack): "Parties. Grammy parties. We could have gone to Grammy parties."
Later Jack kindly reminded me that Friday night I was barfing, Saturday I slept all day, and now, Sunday, I ended up watching all of twenty minutes of the Grammys on TV before wandering off to floss my teeth. I had no interest in watching Gwen and Eve totter around on the balls of their feet dressed like pirates.
So, whatever. I didn't go to the Grammys. I didn't watch the Grammys. I went to bed and listened to my tummy rumble with uncontrollable gas instead.