You and Me and the BFZ

On Friday Mike, Sarah and later Peter came over for Cavs, and Scattergories, which is apparently the activity of choice for anyone who comes to our apartment (well, whenever Mike's involved, at least). My favorite moment was when both Mike and Sarah listed "Dudes" as "Things in a Park," and when Mike decided that "Things at the Beach" should include truckers, but not tan people.

On Saturday I walked about five miles, which was actually easier than I expected and I was barely sore at all. I managed to run into both of my parents on this walk (well, I guess I actually walked to my mom, but it was weird that I ran into my dad, nonetheless). A little later Tim and I hopped on the Rapid and went to the Indians game. The seats were wonderful, the weather was beautiful and the Indians sucked. Hard. I did almost run into Mustard from the hot dog race and came very close to getting to meet Bob Feller (damn the publicity bitch who closed the line a full half-hour before she was supposed to), so it wasn't a complete bust. Despite the pain of watching the Tribe, I was very happy to be watching a game in person again (thanks for the Christmas gift Tim - really).

Sunday was probably my favorite day of all, despite the first appearance of the BFZ*. One of the couples from Tim's church had their 40th anniversary lunch right after the service and invited all the members to join them. From there we went to my parents (with our two lazy cats in tow...seriously, they slept under the couch almost the entire time). After we ate dinner, we walked around Edgewater Park and then went down to the Metroparks where we were literally ten feet from a deer (which I naturally named Ollie). I ended the night sitting on Kristen's front porch, drinking a margarita. I like front porches and margaritas and since I'm lacking the former, it was very nice to have someone who was willing to provide both.

*The BFZ stands for "Big Fucking Zit" and it currently resides directly underneath my left eye, though I am fearful that it will spread to my entire face and then everyone will call me the BFZ, and Roald Dahl will certainly not write a book about it.