written inaction

For a hung over group, we clean up well (in the literal sense).  What I had thought would be the lost cause of cleaning actually turned out to be an exercise in teamwork than any corporate trainer would be proud of.

As a brief treat we decide that to take some pictures on the stairs, which turns into a photoshoot for an unwritten 80s sitcom.  After a raucous debate about who should go where, the women take pictures of the men, and we decide where we going to be going for the rest of the day.  Sape makes the suggestion that we head to a waterfall 30 minutes in the opposite direction.  This is immediately shot down.  Everyone is hung over, tired, and ready to get home.  “How about Boundary Bay Brewery,” says someone.  Illustrating the character of this group, we all agree on this destination.

The drive to Boundary Bay is a short one.  Somewhere in Belingham, it’s a small brewery with an overabundance of character and really tasty food.  While we’re not the only group enjoying the restaurant today, we’re certainly the loudest.  Taking up nearly three tables, we’re most likely tolerated because drop money with reckless abandon.  Entrees, appetizers, and—surprise—more beer make up our orders, which increase as Sape, Tuppence, and Juice show up 30 minutes late.  “We got lost,” Sape says.  “It’s one fucking road!” replies Den.

The food was amazing.  Nachos and such are standard fare, but my entrée—sweet potato enchiladas—was simply amazing.  The fearless departure from the norm is what makes me want to sample more cuisine out here.  I could care less about pretentiousness when there’s so many interesting things to try. 

The drive home is a little harder.  With full bellies and 5 hours of sleep, we have trouble staying focused on the long road back to 138.  Scooter, wake up, I scream at one point.  “I am awake,” he says, wincing.  Yeah I know, I say, I was just bored.

I’m one of the first ones home and take advantage of the free shower.  The smell of burger-saturated campfire is one that will stay with me for some time, but I’m happy to at least be able to cover some of it up with the smell of a good washing.  Next is laundry followed by making dinner, and sorting through the hundreds of pictures I’d taken.  Halfway through I lose ambition and fall into the couch next to Aria to watch the Oscars, soon after which I go to bed.  It’s a sad paradox; the best weekends are the ones that I’m too tired to write about.