According to Esteban, I have progressed into a complete and utter Buffy geek.
It’s not enough that I literally make plans to ensconce myself on the couch when there’s a new Buffy episode and refuse to even answer the phone while it’s on.
It’s not enough that I was having panic attacks the Tuesday night we were driving home from Atlanta and actually entertained thoughts of renting a hotel room for the night so I’d get to watch it.
It’s not enough that I stood in line for something like three hours for an opportunity to talk to James Marsters for five minutes and actually (swoon) *TOUCH* him.
No. Apparently, I crossed the line when, last night, at the reappearance of a long gone character, I squealed and then made double “rock and roll/sign of the devil” hand signs.
Esteban then made the double “rock and roll” hand signs at me all night. And laughed until tears were flowing down his face.
I should have realized that this was happening. A few weeks ago, I was browsing a used CD store, in the D section. There, I found Depeche Mode’s double CD set 101 and I got a little giddy because I used to have the cassette version of 101 and killed it during my freshman year in college. Then I spotted another double CD set and spoke a phrase I never would have thought would come from my mouth:
“Ooooh…. Neil Diamond!”
Then I felt something trickle down my leg. It was the last remaining bit of coolness fleeing my body.
I can’t help it. “Sweet Caroline” just makes me feel like singing.
When I realized what I had done, I ran crying from the store, hoping that no one had overheard me. Then I shoved a Rob Zombie CD into my player and then drove by some old ladies leaving a church and yelled “Fuck!” really loudly out my window. Then I went home, put on my pleather pants and sneered into the mirror.
Yeah. I’m so cool it hurts.
That’s it. Now there’s nothing preventing me from putting my Spike action figure on my monitor at work. Nothing, I tell you.
I’ve been attempting to rely less upon going out to eat and more upon living out of our pantry. Our pantry has the stock of a small grocery store. At last count, I had 24 cans of Campbell’s soup. I mean, I could take a bath in Chicken & Stars. Not that I would, mind you, because you’ve got to think that those little stars would be like beach sand and get everywhere, including crevices that you didn’t even know that you had. Because with my luck, I’d be at the gynecologist and she’d say “Ooh, what’s this?” and find a damn noodle star someplace. And then I’d become an anecdote at her little gynecologist cocktail parties or something.
Which is probably not what they call them. For some reason, that phrase “gynecologist cocktail party” gives me pause. Really, it’s just the first couple of syllables that throw me all afluster. Mostly because I am occasionally eight years old.
Anyway, due to this, I’ve been making some fairly creative and mostly wonderful meals (aside from the jambalaya, which Esteban stuck his nose up at, but was actually very tasty). Best thing so far, chicken breasts, marinated in margarita mix, jalapenos, and fresh cilantro. Dang, that tasted so good! We ate them with rice pilaf, but I think they would make killer fajitas if you added some grilled veggies and plopped them on a flour tortilla.
I’m starting to exhaust my general oeuvre of recipes, though. I never actually use recipes. I’m a freestyle chef. My dishes are all blank verse poems, with no intended rhyme scheme. I kind of view recipes as being told what to do and then I have authority issues. I start to screw with it, just to be creative. And it’s my way of sticking it to the Man. But I’ve been branching out with recipes this week, and one of my favorite people gave me a recipe for a sauce which requires red wine and tarragon.
I don’t have tarragon. I’m not even certain that I could pick tarragon out of a line up. And I don’t like wine unless it’s the cheap sweet kind of wine that we used to drink in college, like blackberry wine or Lambrusco. My pantry is full of chicken and stars, goldfish crackers, various hot sauces, jam, and Hob Nobs.
Our beverage of choice at Chez Weetabix is Kool-Aid. I mean, what kind of wine does one serve with Pop Tarts? Or goldfish crackers. Are they considered fish? Or cheese? Or bread? Is it a culinary free for all? Do you just take a couple of wines and mix them all together? I haven’t a clue.
I had an entire mini-panic attack the week before our trip to Atlanta. I wanted to bring Deb some wine from Wisconsin, but I have no clue about what constitutes good wine, so I instead brought her some of the stuff that Esteban and I like, which is made (brewed? vinted? again… clueless) in a little town nearby. We like it. But then, we’ve been known to add sugar to cheap wine to make it taste better, so my palette is not to be trusted. And then I visited the Rancho and she served real wine. Adult wine. Wine that probably cost more than $10 a bottle.
I should probably grow up at some point. But I just don’t wanna. I know. I’ll start small, like taking the “Weetabix’s Room… Stay Out!” sign off my bedroom door. And I’m also going to stop writing my weekly love letter to Donnie Osmond. But you’ll take my Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch from me when you pry the box from my cold dead hands!
