But let’s recap, shall we?
Friday night Sister had a birthday dinner for one of her good friends so after I got in to town, I bought out Publix for weekend provisions, entertained Roxie the pup and watched delightfully trashy On Demand TV until she got home. (Why she won’t watch Toddlers and Tiaras with me, I’ll never know. Nothing but telematic greatness, right there.) We spent the remainder of the evening in our matching nightshirts (Just call us Wee Willie Winkie. We’re that cool.), watching Project Runway and reveling in the awesomeness that is us.
Sister has been itching to redecorate and used that for one more selling point to get me to come up for the weekend (like I need a fourth of a reason to go to Atlanta), so naturally a trip to the illustriously daunting Ikea was gonna be necessary. Ikea is the true paradox: You arrive in a state of glorious anticipation, practically salivating over the promise of cheap Swedish home furnishings. Your feelings of joy begin to waver as your feet grow numb and your Sherpa-inspired shoulder bag remains limp and empty. Once the dollies are brought out and you’re waiting in line to pay for your 1,000 piece, jig-saw puzzle of a dresser, you know you’ve entered the 9th circle of hell: Children screaming, attempting to escape from their leashes; a herd of middle age men bounding through the check-out, anxious to get to the cinnamon roll line; every other patron moving at a glacial pace, resulting in nothing but a clusterfuck. You leave exhausted. And delirious. And with a back ache due to improper lifting.
Despite the fact that our trip was only successful for me, we did decide exactly how to transform Sister’s living room from darkish and earthy to light and Shabby Chic…Just nothing that would help us do it. Eff. Anyway, all disappointment was washed away after our late lunch at Antico, THE best pizza in Atlanta. Write it down. Paying $2.50 for a 6 oz bottle of Diet Coke was totally worth it. And a completely sufficient beverage because you’re too busy eating to think about drinking. This is serious wanna-rub-your-face-in-it kinda food. And we loved the set up: Six long tables set up in the kitchen so you’re watching them make your pizza. And if you’re anything like me, you’ve got an eye on that pitcher of sauce and wondering just how you can get a hold of it and smuggle it out in your purse. In three words: Nom, nom, nom.
After a brief food coma, Sister and I geared up for the main attraction of the weekend: The Atlanta Symphony presents Disney in Concert. Such. A. Winner.
They performed Disney faves, had clips playing in the background and some off-Broadway-singers-aka-Carnival-cruise-performers-that-are-way-too-perky-but-still-pretty-awesome singing along. Although, they didn’t really need the singers; Sister and I were doing a pretty damn good job all on our own. The only downfall was our close proximity to the margarita-drenched, CK1-spritzed, Real Housewives of Fulton County. Woof. Thankfully they disappeared after intermission (which they referred to as “half time.” True story.), and we were left to sing and cry along to “A Part of Your World,” just as it was meant to be.
Late Saturday night was deemed: Orphan Night. We saw the preview for Orphan when we saw the Hangover together and have never laughed harder. When it started coming on HBO both of us DVR’d it knowing that we would only and could only watch it together. Um. It’s not funny. At all. I mean, when the bad seed pushed that little nine-year-old bitch off the slide…I laughed. What? She totally deserved it. But when she took a hammer to a nun’s head…well. There’s just no humor in that. We turned it off. Some things should just be left as trailers.
Sunday we decided to try out the Twisted Taco’s new brunch, and let me tell you… If you like a nice Auburn décor, and your eggs Benedict on a soggy English muffin, with hollandaise sauce that tastes like yellow…This is your place. And really, who wants that moment of breaking into a perfectly poached egg, yolk dripping, when you can have them hardboiled instead? No more nasty clean up. What. The. Eff. Stick to your weird tacos; leave breakfast to someone who can poach an egg, you asses. Oh, and knock it off with the all-caps in your social media. No wonder you only have 24 Twitter followers. Losers.
And there we have it. Crazy Awesome Sister Weekend Twenty-Ten. Bring on Part Deux!
Coming Soon: “Adventures with Express 101” or “New Found Love of Half-Moon Shaped Foods"