Esteban : So, I was on Fark the other day and I saw this thing about this girl who had been having sex with her boyfriend and then she went to work after that. And she had her dildo in her purse. So she’s in her office and the dildo falls out and rolls across the floor, but she’s by herself, so she walks over to pick it up and is about to stuff it back into her purse and just then her boss walks in with a new employee. They all looked at her hand holding the big purple dildo and were silent. Finally the boss says, ‘You know, we’ll just come back later, I can see that you’re busy.’
Weetabix : When you started telling that story, I thought it was going to be sperm related somehow. Like, maybe she worked in a lab and used a cheek scraping or something and saw these scary squiggly cells.
Esteban : Don’t you think a big purple dildo is funny enough?
Weetabix : It’s not realistic. No woman would just shove a used purple dildo into her purse. Why wouldn’t she just leave it at her boyfriend’s house? Why go trotting around town toting dick?
Esteban : Maybe her boyfriend wasn’t her boyfriend yet. Maybe they weren’t to that point and it was just casual.
Weetabix : If it’s just casual and he needs a dildo to spot him, then time to find another sex buddy. Also, how big is her purse? Is she a mom and has some gigantic mom purse? What’s up with that?
Esteban : Why wouldn’t she put it in her purse?
Weetabix : It might touch her lipstick, I don’t know. It’s just not purse fodder. And then to bring it into work with her? That’s just screaming for someone to walk up to her and say ‘Hey, have you got a tampon?’
Esteban : Where else would you go with it?
Weetabix : I don’t know. The glove box of her car. With the maps. Yes. With maps, you get dildo.
Esteban : (police officer voice) Ma’am, can I see your license and registration please?
Weetabix : Hmm’ maybe all dildos should come with cyanide capsules that you can swallow should it be necessary to transport it. That’s dangerous business, right there.
I might be in love.
It’s a Volvo S80. It has everything I want. Everything. Dark leather interior, sunroof/moonroof thingy (apparently, the difference is that one of them tilts up and the other slides back, disappearing, although I don’t know which is which. This car does both through some inexplicable feat of Swedish wizardry.), CD player, controls on the steering wheel, everything. It even has heated seats to keep my bum toasty warm.
What is more, Esteban’s head officially fits inside this car. In fact, it fits and has several inches of clearance, therefore he could theoretically wear a baseball hat, a feat before only attempted inside his truck, which was designed for men who don’t have time to take off their stiff trucker hats before carting various objects around.
The weird thing about it is that I grew up riding in Volvos. We always had two Volvos, a station wagon and usually a sedan, but for a time, we had two station wagons. And even though twenty years have passed, it rides exactly like a Volvo. I can’t explain it, but it’s something in how the car is balanced. Weird. But in a way, it feels like home. Only sporty and cute and with a kick ass sound system.
I’m going to test drive it again, test the CD player and look in the trunk. And then I’m going to dicker. Yes. Dicker. Which always disturbs me, because I’m afraid of hurting anyone’s feelings. And yes, I am such a girl. I have a female car salesperson, whom I adore already, and I am armed with printouts from the Blue Book, so I’m hoping that she’ll understand. I’m feeling very empowered, actually, because I found the car, I investigated alternatives and pricing, and test-drove it, all without the emotional crutch that is Esteban. Now if I close the deal on this thing, I will have done everything, from financing to signing the papers, with zero assistance.
It’s so grown up. I can hardly believe it myself. Next thing you know, I might be killing spiders without fainting. God forbid, I might find the wherewithal to fight any intruding bats too. It’s a brave new world. Although, honestly, I’m really hoping this brave new world will not include bats.
Just now received an email from Esteban:
—–Original Message—–
From: Esteban
Sent: Friday, September 19, 2003 10:26 AM
To: Weetabix
Subject: Oh, and
Arrgh! International Talk Like a Pirate Day!
Avast, ye scurvy wife!
E
Note to self: remember Pirate incident next time he says I’m weird.
I think Fall is officially begun here. Last night, we went swimming at Club ‘Rents with Ward, June, and Esteban’s second cousins, who have sprung from tiny babies to full-fledged intelligent human beings right before my eyes. The oldest boy was just born when I started going out with Esteban and he’s almost fourteen now and almost as tall as me. His feet are bigger than mine, and I have feet the size of canoes. We had fun last night, spiking the gigantic Kick Your Ass balls, in this exaggerated game of splashy volleyball, while his sister, who is the age of girls who do not want to get their hair wet, cowered by the side of the pool. The air was cold but the water was, as always, a balmy 90 degrees. We were driven inside when the sun dropped below the level of the fence, leaving us with long shadows and chattering teeth. Last night, I painted my nails and chose a French Manicure, something which to me is inherently a summer thing, and knew that it would be the last time for months and months.
This morning, it was a nippy 47 degrees when I walked outside and even now, several hours later, my little temperature indicator on my desk top says that it’s 54. Instead of my normal iced mocha or iced tea (rabble scrabble shaken tea), I sang ‘Venti Mint Non fat No Whip Mocha’ at the ordering box, falling back into my cold weather standard. Unsurly Girl is now the manager of Sbux, so I don’t often see her in the morning. I miss her. She remembers my name and makes my drink perfectly. There’s a new barista. She looks like Pippi Longstocking, and knows how to earn my favor by handing me my steaming cup of dark lightening juice as soon as I approached the window and then also offering me a comp slice of lemon pound cake. So yeah, this morning was not sanctioned by Operation Hottie, but I love me some lemon pound cake so I don’t even care. And my hot mocha was like slipping into a warm bath.
I’m in love with the weather right now. It’s this perfect blend of cool and sunny that makes long-sleeved shirts perfectly acceptable and yet there is a cause for sunglasses and grilled sweet corn on the cob eaten with salt and butter and forty-two napkins. I want to make a quilt. By hand. I want to rake leaves and throw a ball to an Irish Setter while wearing something from the LL Bean catalog. Or even just look at a picture in the LL Bean catalog of someone playing ball with an Irish Setter. I want to make apple pastries with cinnamon and nutmeg while the Packer game plays in the other room. I want to spend rainy afternoons listening to Mozart’s Requiem and thinking about Christmas shopping. I want to go for a bike ride over wet pavement and watch tiny birds startle up out of bushes and rise as one big cloud of pepper into the air.
But there are things to do, things to do, things to do before then. Must pick out a new floor for the kitchen. Must go pick up the four-inch base trim for the living room/kitchen/hall/mud room and prime and paint it glossy white. Must finish cleaning out Computer Room #2 (the room I was sitting in the day I began this here diary) so that we can rip out the paneling and ceiling tiles and replace the windows and put in dry wall and replace the windows and put in a floor of some nature and turn it into Weetabix’s Office, the way it was intended something like three years ago. Must make Journalcon swag. Must stop making lists and start doing.
Have a lovely weekend. Enjoy the last ten minutes of summer while you still can.
