A typical lazy weekend:

A few weekends ago (heh, been a while since my last update indeed), the days seemed like a montage of movies. Allan and I watched two movies in their entirety, one in the Greenville Carmike (HAWTNESS) and the other in my apartment on my laptop. The rest were just movies that we caught most of/some of/ a glimpse of on TV.

Complete Movies:
1408, School of Rock

Parts of Movies:
Someone Like You, Saving Silverman, Showgirls, Roadhouse, National Treasure, Mission Impossible, Dodgeball, Unbreakable

1408 was indeed creepy, but it still wasn't a terribly frightening film. I think it would have been better if it had avoided the "it was all a dream" teaser, but since I don't want to ruin the movie for anyone else I will just say it turned out to be ok. School of Rock was viewed specifically for Allan who managed to tolerate it quite nicely.

The first two partial movies are films that neither of us recognized but still had catchy ensemble casts. Since we really had nothing better to run in the background as we ate breakfast/got ready in the afternoon, we were sucked into both Someone Like You and Saving Silverman, though we never finished either of them. You can't deny the intense attraction both of us felt to watching a dickish drunken Hugh Jackman or a crazed R. Lee Emery jump out of a mail truck that he was driving with a loaded machine gun only to be hit by the car behind his vehicle...respectively. Showgirls was so terrible that it was good, especially if you like to giggle at digitally added bikinis and Trey from Sex and the City with a terrible, terrible hairdo. Heh heh, Schooner. Roadhouse was also so-bad-it's-good, National Treasure and Mission Impossible filled my John Voight quota for the month, Dodgeball is classic, and Unbreakable took too freakin' long. Perhaps it's just because I find Bruce Willis so dull and boring. His quota is more than filled.

Plans change so quickly:

The weekend before last, Allan was supposed to come visit me in Cary bright and early so we could go to Liz's garage sale. He overslept. Once I was able to awaken him by phone and get him on the road, I decided to fill up the time waiting for him with a little cleaning. It was then that I discovered Gatsby had decided the last small pile of college items awaiting organization would make a mighty fine substitute for a litter box. I guess he was just too lazy to actually use the appropriate receptacle. Either that, or he just really wanted to urinate on my Prada dust bag. the bag, a lamp, some random things like magnets and a place setting went down to be scrubbed, along with the entire rug they were sitting upon. Allan waited outside of the house for almost ten minutes as my mother and I worked to clean since neither of us could hear the doorbell over the vacuum and the door was locked. *sigh* We never made it to the garage sale.

I am an old fart:

This past weekend I went to Greenville in order to a) confirm that the cell phoneless Allan was indeed alive, b) see two of my old roommates and some other friends in town, and c) move the last bit of junk out of my room and into my car to putter back to Cary. Allan is alive, I ended up spending a night at Dr. Unk's and 519 with Jenna, Megan, Ashleigh, Katie, and Lauren, and my room is empty except for my sheets, curtains, and TV.

Despite that success, I am old. We are all old. One of the new guys who has already moved into the apartment threw himself a 21st birthday party this weekend. The girls wanted to come see the apartment in it's new masculine glory, which was just fine with me. What they found was a "I'M 21 BITCHES" sign on the wall where our art used to hang and a keg packed with ice in their bathtub. Needless to say, the amount of underage (read: high school) people there cut our visit pretty short. It's amazing the difference one year makes to your desire to drink everclear and orange soda from a cooler next to a beer pong table in your old (carpeted) living room.