I had a strange man in my bed last night.
(Not a single person who knows him would argue that Esteban is strange.)
And oh, what horrible people we are.
We woke this morning, fully intending to go to some Esteban clan familial function, with his grandmother and his strange extended family, including his uncle and his aunt and his uncle’s mistress Tequila. They wanted to celebrate Mother’s Day at the local ‘neighborhood pub’ TGIFridays-esque ripoff.
Esteban’s plan for the day was simple. Last week, the lawn company we had hired last year to kill our creeping Charlie and various weeds CAME BACK, unprovoked, and sprayed again. We were a bit appalled. I think that was rather cheeky of them, actually, as I had not asked and never signed any kind of contract. Oh, yes, I know I was just going to do call them again anyway, but still. They sprayed some kind of mutant genetic-altering earth unfriendly stuff on the grass and it has thickened and grown at an alarming rate. And what little weeds were making a preliminary go of it have vanished. I think I heard the crab grass actually screaming in agony one night. Really.
So Esteban was planning to cut the lawn. Or possibly fight the lawn. Because last year, he fought the lawn and the lawn won.
Badump bump.
Thank you, thank you’I’ll be here all week. Tip your waitstaff.
But first, he was lobbying hard and heavy to remain in bed until it was time to go to this lunch function. But no. I would not get behind a plan of laziness. Not because I was Motivation Girl or anything, because honestly, there is just nothing better than lying in our bed with the sunlight streaming in from the window behind us, the birds chirping, the sheets all nice and soft and white, and slacking away hours and hours. I was driven by a higher power.
I heard there was chopped cherry jam to be had.
Oh yes. I’ve been hoarding the last remaining two tablespoons of my chopped cherry jam. I refuse to eat it on subpar bread. I refuse to eat it if we don’t have milk in the house. I refuse to eat it if the moon is in the seventh house. Because this is such excellent jam, I want everything to be perfect. I do not want a single thing to interfere with the jam experience.
Yes. I know that I have a problem. But lest ye who has had this jam and remains unchanged cast the first stone.
I had been told that there was chopped cherry jam to be had at a local organic meat shop. The source was not certain if it was Bea’s Chopped Cherry Jam but they were ‘pretty sure’. It was worth a shot. Besides, I liked that meat place but they have annoying hours and are insanely popular. I tend to go during the week if I have a vacation day. Thus, I informed Esteban that I needed to go to get some meat at the meat market. I didn’t tell him about the jam. A smart junkie doesn’t flaunt her addiction, you know?
Because the meat place is fairly near the restaurant, we drove out that way first, bringing a cooler so that the meat that we’d get would be able to sit in the car while we ate. Almost the second I walked out of the house, I was stricken with a horrible headache, one of those that feels like someone is driving an ice pick into your temple. Esteban stopped at a gas station and got me a Diet Coke and some Advil. I took it and we flipped the radio station to some classical music because when I’ve got a headache, I cannot deal with the pitch of most modern music. Something about electric guitars and drums makes me homicidal when I’ve got a headache. Jazz doesn’t work either’ can’t deal with the brass. Thus, classical stuff is just about all I can tolerate. The Etoys song works well, though.
The headache did not recede. Esteban theorized that it was a sinus headache because the weather was dark and brooding, like David Boreanaz in a black trench coat.
We went to the meat place and were met with a throng of people. We picked a number and then I dictated my various meat selections. Esteban found the ‘free sample’ table and then made me try one of their southern smoked hickory ribs. Oh goodness, it was delicious. ‘Oh my’ did you try one of these?’ I asked. ‘Yeah, that’s my third one.’ He replied, which is so strange because Esteban is not a rib kind of guy. ‘We must buy these.’ I said and he went off to find them.
I scouted out the jam situation and was very depressed. They did have chopped cherry jam, but it was some Amish crap and not Bea’s. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I bought some because it’s better than nothing, but how good can it be, all eschewing electricity and things like zippers? What if they were too busy making quilts to properly tend to my jam? Or having their babies in the fields? I secretly think that they have randy Amish sex parties late at night. Otherwise, why would they still have members? I’ll bet that a ‘barn raising’ is actually a code word for ‘Hot Sex Orgy at Malacai’s’. They make the women wear dresses so they’re always ready. And those bonnets? Gotta be oral sex related. Possibly a spill guard. And I’m thinking there’s some pervy reason why the men wear those beards without mustaches but I haven’t figured it out yet. I’ll bet it has something to do with shrimp. The Amish love their shrimp. I’m not sure what, yet, but it’s got to be something pervy.
I can say that, because I know that there are no Amish people reading this. And if there are’. Listen Jebediah, you’ve got other problems if you’re surfing the internet than to refute my claims of hot Amish lovin’, so get your scythe and go on with ye.
Anyway.
It turned out that the southern hickory ribs were like $14.99 a pound. And that’s with bones in them! My jaw dropped, but by then we were already checking out. I may have to make a necklace or something out of those bones. We had a $75 meat bill. My former vegetarian psyche is in shock.
My headache was still pounding and Esteban was beating himself up for not getting some Cold & Sinus medicine while he was at the gas station. He gets all motherly sometimes. It’s very adorable, actually. Thus, he stopped at another gas station and got some Advil Sinus.
Honestly, at that point, we were both sincerely dreading the familial get together. We felt dread deep in our gullets, churning there like Amish butter (Sex lube? Hmmm.) As we were driving to the restaurant, my eyes closed and hand to my temples, Esteban turned to me and said ‘Do you really want to go to this? Wouldn’t you just rather go home?’ And I said, ‘Of course I’d rather go home. But that’s not an option.’ He replied, ‘Sure it is. It’s an option. We don’t always have to be responsible. We’re always on time. We’re always the people who wait for everyone else. We always dress accordingly. We can be inconsiderate this once. Fuck it.’
And that sounded like pretty good logic to me.
Thus, we went home with much relief. But we’re really bad people. I feel a little guilt over this. He’s right. We’re ALWAYS the people who show up. We always say yes. We are always available to help out people when they need it. Esteban is CONSTANTLY spending his weekends helping other people. And just this week, I was grilling lunch for 35 in a freaking thunderstorm.
Esteban’s grandmother called a bit later. Esteban lied and said that we overslept, which I’m certain will be sincerely frowned upon by Gen. She has an unreasoning prejudice against anyone who sleeps too much or eats too much or does anything too much. Everything should suck and righteous people do not enjoy themselves. Or something. Except her son, who schtups his wife and his live in girlfriend. I’d probably feel more guilt about it except that I knew that lunch would have been so gosh-darned awful. But I’m still a bad person.
We came home and my headache subsided. Medication or removal of pending stressful situation’ you make the call. I decided that I needed some good European sourdough bread and Esteban countered that he needed gas for the lawn mower, so we hopped into the truck this time and went to the good brick oven bakery and scored some fabulous sourdough and some little roll things that tasted a bit like croissants, as we had not eaten a morsel and it was after 1 pm.
Awhile back, Esteban and I scoped out the imported auto market and he asked if I would consider staying with a domestic vehicle. I agreed to consider it and recently, while sitting at an Italian restaurant, eating cr’me brulee with Belle, I saw a Lincoln LS that made my heart go pitter pat (of course, maybe it was my arteries struggling with the lovely custard, but I digress). Only mildly less expensive than the imports I have my designs set upon. Thus, I asked if he wanted to take a look at one, since we were only blocks from a Lincoln dealer.
Esteban has an unreasoning prejudice against Ford passenger cars, but he was willing to take a look. After choking on the sticker price, he was suddenly interested in checking out a Mitsubishi Diamante. I thought originally that the Diamante was the same car as the LS, but it’s not. Regardless, a new car is not in the cards for at least another 12 months, when I will think about selling the Monte. However, it’s starting to tick me off. The other day, I was trying to plug in my car phone into my cigarette lighter and it pushed right through INSIDE the dash, where it now sits this very moment, about to ignite my car into a molten pile of white trash goo. And need I mention that I do not smoke and have only used my lighter twice? And need I even mention that I JUST BOUGHT the car charger for my cell phone last month? So, if things like that keep happening, I’m not going to be a happy girl and suddenly purchasing a car which is 50% of my mortgage will start sounding like a better idea.
Then it started to rain, so we just went home. The neighbors came over and asked Esteban to put together their pc (see what I mean?) and I vacuumed the living room so that I didn’t feel like a complete and utter slug.
And then we slacked and basically did nothing but watch Trading Spaces. And Esteban declared that we were old losers because we’ve spent the last several weekends watching Trading Spaces.
See, I’m not really a rock star. I just play one on Diaryland.
