I’m in a weird cooking mood, undoubtedly stirred up by the cooler temperatures. Last week, I bought two teensy eggplants at the farmer’s market, for no reason other than the fact that they looked really cute. They were just so’ wee! And also, I sort of love the way eggplants look. They are a very showy vegetable, quite honestly. They look intentional, whereas so many other vegetables just look like an accident. For example, rutabegas are the certainly wallflowers of the plant kingdom, but their best friends are carrots and beans and jicama. And potatos look more like dirt and rocks than something that could possibly transition into a nice cheesy fluffy kartoffle souffle. But eggplants are showgirls, kicking their purple fishnet stockings high above the footlights.
Of course, I didn’t quite know what to do with the eggplants. I would have been fine with just setting them in the kitchen for the sole purpose of making me happy until they started to go funky. To add to my delight, Esteban walked by them and said ‘Oh, aubergines!’ When I first met him, he thought Mexican food was the stuff you got at Taco Bell and now he’s so continental that he’s referring to eggplants as aubergines. It’s the Weetabix Spousal Culturfication Project, with a turnaround time of a mere fifteen years.
So I made actual official Eggplant Parmesan with them. Just a small portion for me, as Esteban is not fond of the plant which is egg. Or rather refuses to try it. Sometimes it would be so much easier if he could be fooled by loading up a fork and making airplane sounds as it gets closer to his mouth. Ah well, his loss, as it was fucking delicious and I’m still sort of reveling in the wonder that is my cooking oeuvre. And then I wonder why my ass is ginormous. Gah.
This weekend, I got the biggest butternut squash I have ever seen for a DOLLAR. It’s got to be ten pounds or more. I had to heft it around the farmer’s market like a sullen toddler, switching it from the crook of my arm to my hip, to over my shoulder. Again, I haven’t any clue what I’m going to do with it, but hey, it was a DOLLAR. I’m thinking I might try squash soup or something. Or maybe hollow out a small yet adorable canoe and then set my cat in it and take pictures and then howl with laughter as she looks at me with complete disdain. But we shall see.
Esteban is pissed at the office of our local Democratic party. On Saturday, while I was at the Farmer’s Market, he stopped at our Senator’s office, figuring he could show his support for Russ with some yard signs on our corner and hoped that maybe being a Democratic Senator, they would also have some Kerry/Edwards signs as well. No dice. So he drove to the Kerry/Edwards office, figuring that he could pick the signs there and also pick up some extras to bring back to the Feingold office. It appears that the Kerry/Edwards office is not only completely without yard signs but they aren’t expecting to get any in until mid-October ‘er,’sometime.’ They are disturbingly unconcerned about this matter. So each time we drove past the Democratic office over the weekend, Esteban could not help but shout ‘Stupid idiot fuckers’ or some variation therein. He is very well spoken, non? Later, I pointed out that given that we were driving one of the Chryslers, they probably assumed we were Republicans and weren’t compelled to be introspective about why we as Kerry supporters might find our area campaign officials to be idiot fuckers. And the whole thing is sort of a reminder that the Republicans wouldn’t have allowed to happen. They’d charge a daycare and have kindergarteners finger-painting for freedom or something and it would be a fabulous photo opportunity, whereas the Dems are all casual and surfing the internet, looking for cheap fares to Taos. The Republicans run a campaign like a military maneuver and the Democrats run it like a damned bake sale and it’s absolutely maddening to watch it happen.
Being a liberal with a type A personality is difficult at times.
I spent most of Saturday trying to finish projects, as fall is fast upon us and I know that I’m never going to get everything done and will be forced to spend yet another winter with a peeling mudroom door and an eyesore of a potting shed. The wishlist for Saturday involved finishing the white trim around the new red door, perhaps scraping and priming the mudroom door, and also tackling the evil rosebush again. I spent a very long time taping off the trim around the oval window and then ran to the Hundred Dollar store where I managed to escape only having spent $50, and returned with a new paint brush, paint and primer, as well as saw horses for the scraping of the door project. I then set about priming the door and painting it, doing loads of (fucking) laundry in between coats.
We then discovered that we had exactly .3 rolls of toilet paper left, so Esteban and I ran some errands and then went to Target. Esteban pulled up and said ‘Ok, I’m going to drop you off’ just run in and get the toilet paper.’
‘Um, I have to get a baby gift for our friends too.’
‘Ok, check’ toilet paper and baby gift. I’ll wait right here.’
‘And also wrapping paper.’
‘Right’ wrapping paper. I’ll be waiting for you. Hurry.’
‘Um’ I can’t.’
‘You can’t what?’
‘I can’t hurry. Not in Target. I can’t. Target mesmerizes me somehow and I-I-I just sort of wander, zombie-like, throwing things into my cart that I think I need. I just can’t help myself. I can’t hurry. I can’t. Not in Target. I can’t. I wish I could, but they know me too well, those Target bastards. It’s physically impossible for me to get out of there quickly. It’s just too’too’ tantalizing.’
And that’s when he nodded and patted my knee and then started doing his impression of Milton from Office Space, as that is apparently what I sounded like. This of course made me laugh because the line about the squirrels getting married kills me every time. And then I went into Target and had the self-fullfilling prophecy and walked out with the baby gift, the wrapping paper, the toilet paper, new sheets (on clearance!), nine tea towels (also on clearance and all retro and cute and embroidered with dancing tomatoes which will go nicely with my embroidered dancing utensil tea towels) and also Sims 2.
**Warning: If you have not yet purchased Sims 2 and want to get anything accomplished in the next six months, stay far far away from Sims 2! It will suck you in! You will have grown old and real flies will be buzzing around your kitchen and your hygiene meter will be all red and no one will want to make the woohoo with you.**
When we returned, I decided that I’d put just one more coat of white paint on the door. And that’s when I splooched a giant stream of white glurt across the red paint. I busted into the kitchen for a wet towel to rub it off, but it had immediately baked onto the door, which had been exposed to hot sun all day. Thus, while I had been vacillating about painting another coat of red on the door? Well, yeah, decision made. Also, when I pulled up the tape later, the white had bleed under the tape and marred the red around the window too. So yeah. Next time, I’m sending the damn thing to a Maaco and having them paint it for $15 like my father-in-law did with his.
Then we made chipolte burritos, parked on the sofa and watched Matrix Resurrection (which was so not good) until it was dark and I played Sims 2 some more and then went to bed, where we slept until very very late and I woke up feeling crampy and grumpy and fragile and hello would you like some estrogen with your eggs this morning? Gah.
I spent the majority of Sunday in a miserable pained funk, enjoying the mystique of womanhood by mainlining Advil Liqui-Gels and trying to help one of my Sims realize his dream of having 3 lovers at the same time as well as making exhibitionist Sim love. And also did more (fucking) laundry, which is still not done. And there’s a white streak on my front door. So yeah. Happy Monday.