ginger. No really. Raw salmon. Really? No, it’s pickled ginger. Big long enormously packed weekend. I don’t even know where to begin. Probably with Friday. Here we go. Strap in.
On Friday, Penny played Pimp Daddy and took Carrisa, Shell, and me out for fondue. We sat in a gangster booth in the corner and giggled and talked far too loudly about blow jobs and penthouse letters and how far you should go on the first date (or service call, as the case may be). We were having a delightful time during the cheese and salad course (reviving our “pickled ginger” joke, and glory be with the addition of vodka and fruity drinks, it’s still quite funny) and then onto the main course. We choose two cooking styles… the coq au vin style and also bourguignon, which was essentially making a tempura at your table. This was fine, however, when they put the pot of BOILING OIL down literally six inches from my precious and lovely bosom, I was a little worried. I mean, the Fondue place has a modus operandi for disaster. Sharp forks on long sticks, many drinks with high alcohol content, platters of raw foods teaming with bacteria, elongated dining time when drunk patrons are left to their own devices, and now pots of boiling liquids on burners THREE INCHES FROM YOUR FACE. It could only end in tragedy! But I calmed down, because sometimes I panic without reason. It’s the camp counselor in me. When I get really nervous I try to lead everyone in a song where you spell the name of a dog.
Although, the next time you see me, make sure to ask me to teach you the Beaver song. It’s great at parties.
But then Penny put a battered mushroom cap into the oil and all of the sudden, it was madness. Oil was bubbling, things were burning, it started to spatter, then pain, white hot searing pain on our hands. The hostess came over, snapped off the burner and then suddenly busboys were appearing to cart away the toxic substance to the kitchen, where the staff can’t sue for injuries. Then they told us that our bill would be 25% off. You know, because of the burning and stuff.
They replaced the scorching pot with one that was merely tepid. I’ve had V05 Hot Oil Treatments which were warmer than this stuff. Then our waiter confided that the bourguignon method of fondue sucks but he couldn’t warn us about it before we ordered it because he would have gotten fired. Once the oil started heating up to the appropriate temperature, we were happy, although at that point, we may have been drinking too much to care. Then we had what can only be described as two orgasmic dessert fondues which make me tingle even thinking about them. Afterward, we had been tentatively planning to catch a drink at a pub or something, but when we finally emerged from the restaurant, it was eleven pm! Considering that our reservations were for 7:30, it was rather amazing. Thus, we scrapped our plans for frivolity and made the trek back to Green Bay.
On Saturday morning, I woke up early and ran out to track down a disgusting regional food called “bray” for Esteban. It’s one of his nostalgic comfort foods that his grandfather used to make, and he’s been mentioning how much he’d like to have some again. I knew of only one store in the entire area that carried it, but it was on the complete opposite side of the county. Thus, I embarked out, but when I got to said store, they were out of bray. So I was out of luck. Disheartened, I bought him a bag of pickle potato chips and some chocolates for a little Valentine present. I then stopped at Mo and Abby’s to give them their Valentine’s presents. Then, I went home and proceeded to clean the house. Weetabix Action Figure with new Productivity Chip is still in high gear, apparently. I refined the kitchen, did more fucking laundry (honestly, if I lose my job, I’m just going to walk around the house nekkid), and made dinner of chili and quesadillas. The chili was quite possibly the hottest thing ever concocted in the entire state of Wisconsin. Seriously. Unreal. Afterward, we each had our own little pints of ice cream (Esteban had double chocolate truffle somethingsomething and mine was vanilla with caramel swirls) to do with what we wanted (I still have most of my pint. Esteban on the other hand…er, yeah). Then we sat around panting, watching movies and were lazy. Which was a lovely Valentines Day. Oh, and Esteban gave me a lovely card and a ridiculously expensive box of Godiva chocolates.
On Sunday, we woke up early and embarked out to find some pancakes. Esteban commented upon the sorry state of our local breakfast options when our favorite place to go is a truck stop. We attempted to go to the nice hotel downtown, which used to have a lovely Sunday brunch complete with a devastatingly wonderful dessert table, but were thwarted, as they no longer serve brunch. We then drove out to another place, but no dice. Finally, we ended up at a pancake restaurant in a converted Hardees. We were optimistic, as the rest of the patrons seemed to be leather coat wearing yupsters, but were dismayed when the waitress stopped by and asked us what we wanted to drink and when I replied “Mountain Dew”, she scurried off before Esteban could respond with his drink order. Then we just laughed and laughed, because it was just so bad. And then our breakfasts were, for the most part, inedible, so we just didn’t understand how the place could be so tacky and not very good and yet be filled with yupsters and DINKs? It is a mystery.
I don’t even remember what I did for the rest of Sunday afternoon, other than finish mopping the kitchen floor (specifically the nasty grungy areas under the cupboards that defy most cleaning efforts). There is a rather stubborn sliver of dehydrated strawberry (the kind from Special K Red Berries) that seems to have permantly bonded to our ancient linoleum floor. I have done everything to that strawberry. I sprayed a mound of foaming Mop N Go on it and let it sit until I walked through there and soaked up the Mop N Go with the heel of my sock. I scrubbed at it for no less than ten minutes. It’s worse than dried bran flakes on a bowl left in the sink. I am truly perplexed. I have one thing left in my arsenal, however and it is the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. I bought four of them and proceeded to kick the ass of every grimy surface in our house. I’m a bit worried that it must be bad for the paint or whatnot, but at the same time, I do not care. The Magic Eraser is my boyfriend. Thus, I’m filled with anticipation to see what the Magic Eraser will do with the Formidable Strawberry. It will be like the Bungle in the Jungle, only in this case, the Ass Kickin’ in da Kitchen. The War of da Floor. Don King doesn’t get enough credit. The man is a genius.
We spent Monday sleeping in, because our companies are in the 5% of private businesses which recognize President’s Day as a holiday. Groovy, although inexplicably we both have to work on Christmas Eve. Thus, our companies feel that Abraham Lincoln is as important as Baby Jesus. I would take umbrage with that except for the fact that they really don’t care what I think and they’d probably outsource my complaint to India anyway.
We managed to rouse ourselves from bed and get dressed by ten (ah such luxuries on a Monday… got to love that) and then off to deal with passport issues. I had to get a new passport because mine still had my maiden name on it, but Esteban had to get a new one because he lost his. Thus, we both needed pictures and we both needed documents from the county document office. Luckily enough for us that we have handled all of our important life affairs (getting married, getting born) in one county, so it was one stop shopping. However, we were then thwarted by the fact that the only place to do passporty stuff is the teeny tiny downtown post office and that, my friends, was closed. Damned dead presidents. It was all very yin and yang.
We then grabbed lunch at the Ass Splinter bar because Esteban was craving “a good burger”. I sat down near the windows so that the landing planes (the Ass Splinter bar is across the street from a runway) could amaze and delight me. We then endeavored through their surly waitstaff and miscellaneous black chunks floating in my Mountain Dew (wow… twice in one weekend… must be a record). Then we went home and Esteban began his “clean the computer room” project and I left to go chat with my advisor from college.
She hugged me when I came in and I was so happy to see her! I had missed her terribly. We chatted about lit gossip. I told her about learning that I was vaguely related to Joy Harjo and she wondered if I might also be sort of related to Simon Ortiz, which might just make me sort of Native American Literature’s royalty by default. We chatted about her recent bit part in a Rick Schroder film and talked about the act of writing and promotion itself. She was a bit disappointed to see from my application packet that I was concentrated mostly on prose (she is a poet herself and usually I had her as a professor in poetry writing classes) and I didn’t really have the heart to tell her that I’ve never really considered myself a poet and that the form just doesn’t come naturally. I’d rather leave that to the masters. She told me that I needed to decide to write a book. “Name it and then claim it”. We talked about the inability for young writers to get their acts together (that would be me, right there) and the extraordinary things they accomplish once they do. She also wants to be my engagement agent when I do write a book. The interesting project that she wants to include me in is that she’s setting up a nonprofit which would fund emerging documentary filmmakers and when that gets firmed up, she would like to talk with me about being either on the board of directors or the advisory committee. Also, she would like to spend more time writing, so she is looking to train other people, more specifically anglo folks, to do diversity training through her consulting firm. So, lots of interesting prospects. And she told me to make it happen. Whatever I wanted…make it happen. And I nodded because I’m beginning to see that now. Slowly, but surely, my act is getting together. The world, she is an exciting place.
At the very moment I was sitting in her big office with big windows looking onto the frozen campus, John Kerry and Ted Kennedy were across the way in the gymnasium, giving a political rally. I was a bit surprised, as the campus didn’t really seem overly busy or filled with cars, but then I was on the academic side and they were across the arboretum. Sixteen minutes after they finished, there were quotes from Ted Kennedy up on Yahoo, reminding the attendees that he is in fact closely related to two great men and implying that you should ask not what John Kerry will do for you, but rather what you should do for John Kerry.
I don’t often talk about politics on this site, mostly because it bores the hell out of me. I have a hard time believing that one person can make a difference and don’t have a lot of confidence in the electoral system, particularly after last presidential debacle. And while there probably isn’t a doubt in any reader’s mind that I’m a big hippy liberal, I think anyone would agree that the state of the country has been sliding slowly into a big jumbled mess in the last four years. While economists might point out that the economy was bound to downturn after the series of highs during Clinton’s administration, it does seem as though Dubya got into office and everything went into the shitter. And also, the man strikes me as having only (at best) average intelligence. Stupidity worries me more than anything. Half of your constituents should not be smarter than you are.
I’m probably voting for Howard Dean today, even though I know that it’s a lost cause. He seems like the best candidate for the Dems and I usually vote with my gut feelings. Also, I didn’t think the primal scream thing was that big of a deal. Hell, I didn’t really think that Cigargate was that big of a deal either. Quirky leaders are fine with me. It’s the repressed guys that I worry about. However, as Esteban pointed out, if Kerry (let’s not kid ourselves… he’s going to get the nomination) picks General Clark as his running mate (and if Clark accepts), we have a chance to get Dubya out of the White House. Hopefully all of the conservatives who don’t like how the war is being handled (or suspect that our kids are dying for a grudge match because Saddam called his old man a wiener) will feel more confident knowing that there is a military man at Kerry’s right hand. This is my highest hope, because when I think of another four years of this inane crap, I actually despair. However, I do think someone should inform Kerry that it’s a lost cause to campaign in Texas or Florida, because those particular voting machines are on the guest list for the Bush family barbecues.
I feel the winds of change are coming. I really do. Here’s to the hope that Kerry doesn’t limp wrist his campaign.
And I hope that the winds of change involve blowing Guns and Rose’s “Welcome To the Jungle” out of my brain, because I’ve had it stuck in my head for thirty-six hours and that’s enough to make anyone a Republican.
