Esteban has decided that he wishes that people had a stupidity bell inside their brains, the kind that would go off when they are about to do something stupid. His theory is not only would that eradicate drunk driving, the Home Shopping Network and Ricky Martin, it would also have forced him to put on sunscreen on the Fourth of July. He has second-degree burns with blisters on his shoulders. You can set a watch by his need for aloe vera. It’s insane. Meanwhile, I’ve been doing an admirable job of not being smugly self-righteous. He did actually tell me that I was smart the other day. Of course, he was wincing in pain and I had in my hand his lidocaine burn gel, so maybe it was the blisters talking.
Friday was a complete bust. Esteban was too cranky to do anything and we ended up sitting at home, watching DVDs. He’s been essentially miserable and thus has been doing his best to make me miserable as well. That’s his job as whiny sick guy and one he takes on with relish. And mustard.
On Saturday, I declared that I was not going to waste another day moping around the house, recoiling every time something brushes against his back. I tanked him up on Advil Liquid-Caps and we went to Door County, with the promise of fresh cheese curds and cherries. Traditionally, the week of the Fourth is sweet cherry season, but we had a late spring and they are not ready yet. I did manage to locate one stand who imported them from elsewhere, so I purchased a pint of burgundies and a pint of the yellowy/red ones. I’m not sure what they’re called, but they’re like fruit porn they’re so good. I expect a Wakka Chicka Wakka Chicka soundtrack when I bite into them. I was whispering ‘Oh you want it, baby, you know you want it!’ to them before I would sink into their taut little plump flesh. They’re big, too, like little miniature peaches or something. I basically rode around eating cherries, spitting the seeds onto the side of the road. It’s as close to paradise as it gets for me in the summer, eating plump luscious sweet cherries and driving around with the Offspring blaring while assuaging my cranky husband. Maybe not the last part.
I forced us to drive further up the peninsula to stop at the British store, where I ended up with some raspberry curd, a couple of Cadbury lovelies, including my beloved Fuse bar, some toffee, some Walker’s shortbread, and a giddy sense of accomplishment. Oh, and you’re just kidding yourself if you think I didn’t buy some Hob Nobs while I was there. I had to replace the ones I gave Angeline-Is as a going away present. And a few more. Hey. I know that a 96 calories per Nobbly Goodness Cookie is counterproductive to Operation Hottie, but I’m stocking up. Seriously. Winter’s coming. Soon. This is Wisconsin and the roads will be closed and I won’t be able to get my Nobs, so just back off and no one gets hurt.
Ahem. Anywho’
While I was at one of the various tourist stands, I had an epiphany. Esteban is a consummate wino. In the worst way. He loves cheap sweet wine and he doesn’t have hangovers from it. What is more, wine gives him Golden Happy Sleep, similar to my affinity for codeine. It is for this reason that I can keep no codeine in the house and Esteban cannot keep wine in the house. We have wine, mind you, but it is mine. I have to claim it even though usually it is purchased with Esteban’s credit card, much like a European explorer discovering land which was already inhabited by indigenous people. Once I declare that it is mine, he knows that he cannot swig it down like Ben Affleck at a whiskey tasting festival. I have to admit, the man has admirable self-control, because if he brought codeine into the house, it would be pilfered. I’m not proud of that. It’s just a fact.
So I encouraged him to purchase some cherry wine, a local vintage. He looked at me and grabbed a bottle immediately. That was when I realized that he, like any true addict, had been staring at the racks of wine the entire time, mentally plotting their plunder down his gullet. He was happy. Then we had to stop at the local Target and I had to run in and get some more Aloe Vera stuff for him. While I was in there, I purchased him some espresso dark chocolate to further soothe his cantankerous outlook. It worked smashingly. Or maybe it was the fact that he had a tummy full of warm cheese curds and the prospect of an entire bottle of cheapass wine filling the evening ahead of us.
We stopped at the parents’ house and let their dogs out (Ward & June went on a day trip somewhere) and I swam a bunch of laps around the pool. Esteban cowered in the safety of the living room, which has an SPF of 10345. He had learned his lesson, apparently. He kept the door to the backyard open in case I drowned, although I would have had to scream like a Mariah Carey at VH1 Divas for him to have heard me. The things we do for a guilt free conscience.
Then we went home and I popped in The Shipping News which had Kevin Spacey in it, as well as Cate Blanchett and Judy Dench. I remarked at one point that it was weird because both Cate and Dame Judy had been nominated for an Oscar for playing the same Queen Elizabeth, but Esteban had ensconced himself quite heartily in the bottle of cherry wine. I mean that literally. He was drinking straight from the bottle. I never even got a sip. I don’t think he remembers the end of the movie. Neither do I, but I wasn’t drinking. I think the book must have been better or something. He did remark at one point that Julienne Moore is ‘incredibly beautiful’ and then I told him that he can look at her naked body in Boogie Nights if he wanted, to which he responded with a thumbs up. Yep. When his discourse is reduced to gesticulation, Houston, we have achieved full body numbing.
Then he decided to go surfing. I was reading an email that Chauffi had sent me and made some comment about how he always makes me giggle. So Esteban decided to go and check out his diary. Oh my gosh. Do you remember that feeling in junior high when you found out that your dad was going to chaperone the big formal dance? And you knew that he was going to wear his powder blue tuxedo; the one with the matching blue ruffles because, hey, it still fit? Yeah. Immediately, I had fear in my heart. I mean, Esteban was pretty lubed at that point, having downed an entire bottle of rather alcoholic wine and having had nothing for dinner but some cheese curds and chocolate. I turned to look at his computer and found him entering something on Chauffi’s guestbook, my worst fear confirmed. Already I was embarassed.
‘No! No! Behave! Don’t make a fool of yourself!’ I said and then swatted him on the back for emphasis, without thinking.
‘OOOooooooooooh!!!!! Oooooooh!!!!’ He laughed. ‘Nooooooo! You’re a harpy! You’re an evil woman!’ He said, affecting some drunken Esteban accent. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s 4-years-old. I withdrew my hand in horror that I had touched his sunburn and then burst into laughter at his insane cherry wine babbling. He then mocked some things that he was going to write, which cracked me up more.
And then I passed out. Yep. It happened again. Luckily, I was sitting in my computer chair and it was only for a moment. And when I came too, I was still laughing and Esteban was still giving me the maniacal ranting, which made me laugh all the more.
Here is where an honest to goodness journalist would tell you about how close they came to filling their boxer shorts with urine.
But I am not that journalist. I will not tell you about how I can be driven to actually pee my pants by hysterical laughter. I refuse to do it. It would give me utter and complete shame if I had to tell you that I had to actually run through the house, still laughing, in a strange, hunched over run, squeezing my chubby thighs together to prevent myself from peeing all over our already pee-stained living room. (Oh, from the 19-year-old cat, not from me, cripes). And I’m not going to explain that I then had to go and put on a fresh pair of boxer shorts because I was actually afraid that I possibly hadn’t made it fast enough.
Oh, now that would be embarrassing, let me tell you.
When the laughter had ceased and I had made my wardrobe change, I came back into the computer room to reply to Chauffi and explain Esteban’s ridiculous drunken email. He then turned and saw that I was typing out the email to Chauffi and in his drunken paranoia, quickly made another guestbook entry.
So that was Esteban’s first foray into Diaryland. And it was marked with pain and alcohol. Very Movie Of The Week. Hopefully, he won’t try it again.
I may be forced to pull out his nose hairs. And honestly, that is just yuck.
