Thank you to everyone who sent Esteban a birthday greeting. I don’t think he has ever really understood the scope of this diary thing and now he’s a bit stunned by the response. He keeps laughing about how many there are and is in this great mood. So thank you!
I was very productive over the weekend. Penny, Carissa and I had lunch at the Olive Garden on Friday (wherein I had to enact a stealth shift of my breasts inside my bra, which initiated a titillated laugh from a baby at an adjoining table, who I suspect might have been a breastfeed baby and expected an impromptu snack). Carissa and I were attempting to eat lightly with just soup and salad but ended up devouring more of Penny’s Chicken Alfredo Pizza than Penny did herself, when we realized that we had nothing going on that evening, so after some discussion about a trip to the Bad Bar (too tired for that) and miniature golf (they are all closed for the season, much to the relief of Carissa and myself), we decided to meet up at Penny’s for snacks, manicures, and Gone With The Wind. We drank Malibu and Diet Pepsi in Scarlett and Rhett mugs and discussed logistics for our excellent Halloween costumes for the upcoming company event (and no, I’m not telling yet). (Spoiler ahead’ jump down to the next paragraph if you don’t want to know) As much as I love Gone With The Wind, I always forget that it lasts about as long as the actual Civil War and also, that the last half hour is about as uplifting as the burning of Atlanta. I also forgot that Carissa loathes movies that don’t end well, so when Scarlett loses her baby, Bonnie Blue dies, Melanie dies, along with her own unborn baby, and then Scarlett gets dumped by Rhett in about twenty minutes time and then the movie’s final credits roll, Carissa exclaimed ‘Well, this movie TOTALLY SUCKS!’. And at midnight, who could really blame her. I tried to explain why the Margaret Mitchell had to kill Melanie and Bonnie Blue and the baby to show that there was no real need for Scarlett to love Rhett anymore and that her only motivation for begging was that she must have truly truly loved him, and really, the real villain of the whole thing was Ashley (oh Aaasshlay!) because why didn’t he ever tell her that he didn’t love her? Why did he string her along? And also, he’s a pansy-assed bitch of a man, in my humble opinion, who didn’t even deserve Melanie in the first place. So there.
But all in all, it was a lovely evening and I gave Penny a French Manicure and she earned a place forever in my heart because she remembers how I love only one kind of chip and that is a Dorito of the Cool Ranch clan. Which is one of those things that always impress me, when people remember little things like that. For instance, Joel always remembers that I’m allergic to milk fat and June always remembers that I don’t like nuts in things so she leaves the nuts out of her incredible brownies, even though she herself adores walnuts and pecans. Sometimes you don’t have to specifically use the words ‘I really like you a lot and I’m glad you are my friend’, it’s just enough to have a bottle of Dasani water sweating happily in the car when you pick them up from the airport.
I endeavored throughout the rest of my productive weekend, going to the salon so that Stacy could once again make my hair match my eyebrows (seriously, the thing with my eyebrows being two shades darker than the rest of my natural hair? Not funny, God, not funny at all.), dropped off the dry cleaning, got the car washed, and then went to Target where I blew an incredible $200 on what exactly I do not know. I know that there were vitamins in there and also some Tigi hair products and some mascara. I think also some boxes of cereal and a bottle of bleach. The only thing that wasn’t completely boring was that I finally broke down and purchased the latest Coldplay CD and put a penny in Chris Martin’s ‘Buy A Ring For Gwynnie’ jar. But other than that, I have no idea how I spent $200 at Target. I hate that they market specifically to my demographic and I am obviously completely taken with their spell and turn into random Gen X Female Shopper with Reasonable Percentage of Disposable Income. I even ignored the siren call of their DVD and wrapping paper sections and yet still, there it was, $200 fitting neatly into two bags and a random bottle of bleach. It’s a mystery, it really is. I think this brain washing is how they got Isaac Mizrahi on board too. Because it’s the only thing that seems rational.
After that, Esteban and I drove to Appleton where we met Ward & June and also Nan and Bill (their best friends) to celebrate Esteban’s impending 33rd birthday at the excellent Mongolian barbeque. We drove home and continued more of our obsession with Six Feet Under, although mine seems to be more with Peter Krause and how incredibly beautiful he is. Then we sacked out and snuggled in between my latest bedding coup, a set of 750 threat-count white sheets and pillow cases with a single navy stripe embroidered along the edge. The best part of the morning was when we woke up and I was lying there with my head on his chest and he said ‘I would like to go out for breakfast this morning’ where would you like to go?’ And I said ‘Someplace with pancakes.’ And Esteban replied ‘Well, duh.’ As though it would never have even occurred to him that there could have been another answer. Then later, as we were fighting Packer game traffic to get across town, it occurred to me that we never did decide where we were going to go for breakfast, so I asked where he was going, to which he replied ‘IHOP, because obviously I love you a great deal.’ Which was never really in question.
Yup, the Quest for Pancakes. Best part of the entire weekend.
After that, I dropped him off at his Dorkathalon and attempted to go shopping, but found nothing to my liking other than a new candle at the White Barn Candle Company that smells like firewood, but doesn’t have a pretty cover for when you’re not burning it. I got distracted for several minutes in Williams & Sonoma and then had a delightful moment of serendipity when my cellphone rang and I became one of those people smiling and having a lovely time sitting on a mall bench outside the Pottery Barn, where the reception was the clearest. I wanted to endeavor back through the mall, but I felt as though the morning had peaked and thus ended up exiting through one of the anchor stores (not before stopping at the Lanc’me counter to impulse buy yet another lipstick) and eschewing further searches for the perfect black skirt to go with the Rockin’ Boots for this weekend. Ah well. Austin will not know the Fat Girl In Boots and will likely never realize how close they came to greatness.
I went home and scurried around the house, completing a million and one projects, and realizing that the ant has morphed into a grasshopper and Summer Slacker Girl is no more. Bye Summer Slacker Girl. I’ll miss you and your Birkenstocks and random summer outfits based upon a warehouse supply of 42 cheap t-shirts and various jeans. I’ll miss the twenty minutes from alarm to shower to out the door. I’ll miss the dinners of Special K and Smart Start cereals. I’ll miss Clinique’s Happy and the golden touch of the pool making a definitive line between That Which Is Covered By Swimsuit and That Which Is Not.
It’s probably time she left anyway. It’s been a strange week here in Wisconsin. Gardens have weeks ago been stripped of their last tomatoes and less sturdy vegetables and are now getting turned over, tops into the soil and being put to sleep with the brush piled up on the curb, ready to be taken to the town’s compost heap.
This afternoon, I was driving up the hill with the spectacular views of the city and the bay. It’s only three blocks from my house but it might as well be a million miles away. I take some raw comfort in knowing that my property taxes are based upon that view just the same. There were two fawns grazing on some late garden fare about four blocks away. Deer love roses, especially when they leaf out to grab up the diminishing light. The weather is warm and crazy and sunny right now, but that weak sort of afternoon tea light that starts around noon and lasts less time than you think it should. It’s freaking out the geese. I was driving into work and watching above, two enormous clouds of Canada geese veeing across the sky, one going south, one going north. You should have heard the honking, lots of geese road rage shouting ‘wrong way, jackass!’ Mass confusion for the water fowls never bodes well. Even with all of this pseudo-summer, autumn is still creeping in on cat’s paws. I never know quite when it happens. In late August and September, roadside ditches are swallowed whole by explosions of purple loosestrife, goldenrod, milkweeds bursting into homecoming pompoms and miscellaneous weeds taller than your tallest uncle. But then, something happens, maybe the first killing frost, who knows, but there is some sort of signal and everything shrinks back. There is less stuff and more space between the buildings; expressways clear for arctic winds to howl through. In the fields, there are yellow Lego blocks of cut straw and fewer cows and the houses seem smaller. The landscape is beautiful in this sort of breathtaking painful way. There is no such thing as red, only brilliant deep blood crisp heartbeats. This is flannel weather. Each night is one of bonfires and woolen socks and honks of anonymous geese in the dark above clouds the colors of bruises and a moon sitting fat and low and orange waiting to be plucked from the sky. It’s as though nature itself is retreating, leaving us all to fend for ourselves. In answer, there is almost a palpable shift toward the convivial. Everyone’s making busy to sit and do nothing for six months. People are happier. You can almost hear the friendliness bubbling up in a stew pot of split pea soup. Perhaps they are responding to a whisper on the wind, nudging us to be kind along with the creaks and squeaks of ancient cider presses.
A few days ago, I spent my lunch driving across town in response to Esteban’s offhanded comment that he was in need of a hug (something that I didn’t realize was that extraordinary, but several people have assured me that it was one of those schmoopy couple things that we normally don’t discuss with anyone) and to bring him some chocolate milk, I took the river drive rather than the annoying busy main fairway, simply to enjoy the centuries old hickories and maples that canopy across from the graveyard and also to nod to Mr. Minahan, who went down on the Titanic and had his skull unceremoniously stolen by teenagers when I myself was a teenager and for which I always feel somewhat apologetic and therefore always pay homage with a smile. Like most people in Green Bay, this is a favored route because it’s more or less free of stop lights and also allows for some uninterrupted speeding, as there are few places for cops to hide in the hills. Along this way, there is a tiny little bar, formerly owned by an ancient Lombardi-era Packer player who now has a hole in his throat. There were two men sitting on barstools right near the street with an impromptu table, a cooler full of longnecks. At first glance, I thought they were perhaps just enjoying the afternoon sun, but then I noticed they had a sign, which read ‘Cop Ahead’. I slowed to read the sign and then smiled at them and they both lifted their Millers to me in a salute. I waved and fell a little bit more in love with Green Bay all over again. Sometimes, it’s a wonder how you could not.
