The weekend, ah what a lovely weekend.
Esteban had his Dorkathalon on Friday night. This was a surprise to me. Somewhere, somehow, I think they switched weeks, as it seemed to me that the Dorkatalon coincided with my pay day and last Friday was distinctly not my pay day. I complained that this totally messed with my social life, as his Dorkathalon Fridays also coincided with Carissa’s ex-husband’s kid weekend, and therefore, we usually planned Bad Bar nights on those Fridays. But apparently it had something to do with the calendar and the month of April having five Fridays and it will all sync up again in either October or November (ie. So bloody far away that it hardly matters) so now I just have to live with it. And whine. Which is good because I excel at whining. And my pout can take out entire armies of men wondering what they did wrong.
Anyway, since I had planned to consult with Esteban on our plans for Friday night, I didn’t plan anything myself and then when I found out that I was on my own, I sort of wandered around the house without a clue until 8 pm, then went for a drive, half-expecting to go to the mall or something, but then by the time I got in the area of the mall, it was 8:30 and it was going to close, so instead I drove around a bit more, listening to mix CDs, singing along to the Pixies at the top of my lungs, and then ended up back at the house with a complete sense of having wasted time. And, if you know me at all, you’ll know that I am not a time-waster. I may procrastinate, lawd’s sakes alive yes, but I usually am accomplishing something else in the process. I hate the feeling of blowing an entire night doing absolutely nothing. Which I did. Which sucked.
I then retired to my bed around 11 and blew through the backlog on Ricky Fitts (how much do I love Coral on new Real World Challenge? Seriously, I probably understand Coral better than any other reality television person out there. Most women on television either offend me or leave me cold for falling into stereotypes and giving females a bad name (Trishelle, I’m looking your way) but Coral’ Coral needs to stay gold, Ponyboy.) After I turned out the light, the concept of sleep was impossible. My brain was in overdrive. I couldn’t even distract it with my cadre of mind-movies (the current one starring Russell Crowe as a rapscallion pirate inexplicably dressed like Alexander the Great) and finally I gave up and played Internet Backgammon on the pc against a Russian until Esteban came home at 1. Then we stayed up talking about the future, my current existential crisis, the meaning of life and how much I want a Kate Spade purse (still). Because apparently, I’m three parts Martha Stewart, two parts Marilyn Monroe and one part Mama Cass with a little Camus dabbed behind each ear.
Finally, I was able to fall asleep around 4:30 am, and woke around 10ish. We laid in bed talking about nothing much. Esteban asked me what I had planned for the day, which was pretty much nothing. I had some vague goals, but nothing really concrete. Esteban planned to catch up on work since he was going to be on a business trip to DC for most of the upcoming week.
Then he cocked an eyebrow at me and said ‘Want to take a road trip in the truck to Ikea in Chicago and buy my desk?’
I balked. It was already quarter to 11 and Chicago was four hours away. I suggested that we go on Sunday, but that was Easter and everything would be closed. I suggested the following weekend when we could get up early and do it right. Esteban pouted ‘Sure, the one time I am spontaneous! You want to be all Planny McPlansalot.’
Now I know what it’s like to argue with me. Fucking annoying.
I waffled and then whined a bit and then suggested that we could take the M and certainly the desk would fit in the trunk. Esteban countered that there was no way it would fit in the trunk and what if we got down there and it didn’t? Then the whole thing would be for nothing. I asked about ordering it online, but he had already looked into it and they couldn’t ship it because it was just too big. I predicted the whole thing would be tiring because we both needed to shower and also the interior of the truck hadn’t been cleaned since the last time Joel borrowed it (and it was so filthy that he got squicked and took it to be washed) and I didn’t want to bounce around in the truck and be all itchy from dust for eight hours or more. Esteban offered to get it cleaned while I took a shower. I said ‘Let me think about it.’ But then once I was in the shower decided that it did sound like fun and I could also return one of the pairs of shoes that I bought at the Maul of America Nordstrom. So by the time I had finished getting dressed and drying my hair, Esteban returned from getting the truck washed and fueled and we were walking out the door.
We had a delightful drive down to Chicago, fueled by a 125-song MP3 disk full of sing-along songs and discussions about how David Crosby was really a freaky choice to be a father of Melissa Etheridge’s children and if we were a lesbian couple, my choice for the perfect rock daddy would be Sting or Robert Smith (from The Cure) and Esteban’s choice would be either some guy from the band Yes (Ian Anderson?) or Colin Hay (who I thought wouldn’t be so much because he’s not really done anything since Men At Work and also he’s got that weird eye thing going on). Honestly, though, I fail to see how anyone could not pick Sting to be their baby daddy. I mean, can you even conceive of a stupid or ugly Baby Sting? No. Not possible.
Three and a half hours, a politically ridiculous Ford Focus (that I pointedly ridiculed and photographed for posterity, forcing Esteban to comment that without my propensity toward the snobby, that would be me in ten years), and two bathroom breaks later, we found ourselves in Schaumburg, Illinois, contemplating the maze of access roads and then staring at an unbelievably busy Ikea. It reminded me of an anthill, swarmed by people and cars carrying objects twice and six times their size. In a low voice, Esteban said ‘So, since this place is open until 10, do you want to go to the mall first?’ ‘Absolutely’ I replied, dreading the inevitable crusade into the great blue box filled with overzealous DIYers.
First we went to the various after-market retailers (Nordstrom Rack, Marshall’s, etc), where the general retail mishap and messiness curtailed my consumer instincts. Esteban did claim a dry measuring cup, the first in his Alton Brown shrine. He longs for a salt cellar.
Then we went to Nordstrom Proper so that I could return my too-tight black penny loafers. I then experienced love at fourth sight when I spotted a completely perfect Kate Spade bag (the Sam, if you’re curious) in both hot pink and also my perennial favorite black. It was $140. I had just received credit for $100 for the shoes, so really, it would be a $40 bag. I picked it up. I put it back down. I picked it up again and carried it as far as the Kiehl’s counter. Then I walked it back to the other bags. I wandered to the coffee bar and got a banana smoothie. Then I walked back through the store, the lovely little purse winking at me over the jewelry counter. I paused by men’s shoes and called Esteban, who was waiting for me in the truck, having an inborn resistance to the allure of Nordstrom.
‘I want to buy a bag. It’s a Kate Spade.’
‘So buy it.’
‘It’s $140.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sheesh.’
‘But I just brought back those shoes and they were $100.’
‘It’s leather?’
‘No, nylon.’
‘It’s a $140 nylon bag? Made of nylon? For $140?’
‘Ok, I needed that. Thank you.’
So I didn’t buy the bag. Had it a pink polka dot interior or a better closure on the top, I would have bought it, but it was imperfect and therefore not worth $140. But I rest soundly in knowing that I will find a Kate Spade bag that will be perfect and at that time, I may choose to buy it, even if I am very poor and even if I already have four hundred little black bags, but no matter, for it will be perfect and we will be destined for each other. I may not be a hopeless romantic for love, but I am definitely one when it comes to shopping and to accept anything less would cheapen the thrill of the game.
I actually don’t like all Kate Spade bags. I don’t like them just because of the name. We saw some at the Rack but they were fugly and gross gallumping kind of bags that girls with no pride might use to schlep their condoms and yeast infection medicine. Or so I presume. But some of them are exactly right, exactly what I would have designed would that I were a snooty purse designer. But I am not. I am not visual. I simply know what I like. I sort of do wish I had as cool of a name as Kate Spade, though. Or rather kate spade. The decision to have her name in lower case was brilliant. Brilliant! I would do the same, except that my name is not so compact and so prettily serifed. Only a kate spade could get away with that motif. A Hildagaard Mortensen would have to choose something else entirely. And probably only sell her bags at Mal*Wart for $9.97.
Esteban then suggested that since we were in one of the four cities with a Fogo de Chao that we take the opportunity and have dinner there. I’ve wanted to try the Brazillian fare since Esteban dined there on a business trip to Atlanta. I called and made a reservation but the earliest we could get a table for two was 10 pm. We both shrugged, took the reservation, and figured that since we had only been awake for five hours, it wasn’t that unreasonable to eat dinner in five hours and then drive home for another four.
We then endeavored into the big blue box of Ikea and found Esteban’s desk. I wandered around looking to pick up something, but in the end, I just bought a bunch of similar different-sized black frames for some of the black and white photos I snapped in England. Then, we loaded up the truck, after helping a confused couple from Grand Rapids jump start their Dodge Intrepid (they also drove four hours just to go to Ikea’ hullo, richest guy in the world, are you listening?) because apparently they asked fourteen different people to help them and we were the first who agreed to do it.
Then we endeavored back toward the city to find the restaurant. The hostess at the restaurant gave us only the weak ‘Take the Ohio street exit off 94’ but didn’t offer which direction off 290 we needed nor the exit number. When we got to 94, I suggested that we turn towards Indiana, because that way if we went the wrong direction, at least we wouldn’t end up backtracking when we went back home (which makes perfect sense to me and I suppose, if analyzed by a computer, would be the key to unlocking my messed up logical processes). We did and of course, it was completely the wrong direction on the Dan Ryan. We had to turn around, so we exited when we spotted an off-ramp with a matching on-ramp in the other direction. Except that the on-ramp was closed. And there was a detour.
Through what might have been hell itself.
Seriously, it was awesome. Because I am so sheltered (and, as Esteban would likely mention, completely unconcerned with my own safety), I am delighted by nasty neighborhoods. Seriously. And this neighborhood looked like a third world country. It was like we were driving through a movie set. There was a specific lack of graffiti. I suspect it was because the residents couldn’t afford paint. There was even a burning trash can. When we both watched wide-eyed as what had to have been a drug deal went down on the sidewalk next to us, Esteban murmured ‘Great’ just great’ while I squealed with delight. It was great! It was prime entertainment.
And yes, I am the whitest girl on the planet. But seriously, I’ve now seen a hooker/john pickup and a crack deal in progress. My Urban Decay bingo card is well on its way!
However, eventually we wove our way through downtown Chicago’s gauntlet of one way streets and legion of taxis (and one fun moment when we were driving under the L and I looked over at Esteban and said in my best Elwood ‘We’re on a mission from Gahd.’ To which he replied ‘four fried chickens’ and a coke.’ Because sometimes you don’t need words, you just need to dork out about really old movies. ) to finally end at the little restaurant with the tableau of spinning roasted meat in the window. We valet parked, then plunked down in the bar, where soon I was quickly placated with some deliciously strong caipirinha.Ok, two. It was a long wait. Soon I was giggling and didn’t care one bit that I was seated in a very expensive restaurant, wearing baggy jeans, a t-shirt and white canvas sneakers.
And then dinner. Oh my yes, dinner. It was, in a word, divine. As Esteban commented, someone must have kidnapped and then murdered my inner vegetarian, because I was giddy each time that a flamboyant gaucho came by bearing his sword of meat. I mean, how could one deny him? He has a sword! A sword of MEAT. In fact, there are thirteen different gauchos, all with different meats and implements of death! You eat meat, or you perhaps die. Thus, I renamed the restaurant Meat Or Death, and then laughed at my little Eddie Izzard reference in between bites of filet mignon and grilled lamb chops. Or whatever the hell it was. It was heavenly. Highly recommended. Although most people probably wouldn’t have the impertinence to pull off sitting in a posh dining room wearing hoodie sweatshirt and discretely ripped jeans.
After the Meat Or Death, we sat at the table, breathing through our mouths, wishing that we had either a second stomach or, in Esteban’s case, the ability to perform ‘a quarter puke’. We waited outside for the valet and this time I couldn’t look at the spinning Wheel of Meat in the front window, lest I swear off all meat products from now until forever. Finally, the truck barreled up Michigan Avenue and we were on our way, debating which of the next Six Deadly Sins we were going to commit next, since dinner at Fogo De Chao certainly hit Gluttony out of the damn park.
We drove home in a haze. I sacked out in a meat coma with my head resting against Esteban’s knee because I am a cruel wife to make her husband drive four hours alone in the middle of the night. Finally, we were home and we collapsed into bed where we did not (or perhaps could not) move for nine hours. The next day, we both had meat hangovers and didn’t eat anything substantial for most of the day.
Maybe the reason that we’re both overweight is that instead of partying like rock stars, we party like Sumo wrestlers.
So that was the weekend. And now it’s Monday. If I wasn’t hungry last week, I am so beyond not hungry now. I may not eat until I stop feeling like my veins are coursing with gravy. I have only had water or Sbux since Saturday night. I may have some vegetarian pizza for dinner tonight, but right now, it may be premature. In fact, planning to eat anytime in the month of April might be a tad premature.
As is buttoning my pants.
You know how I have unreasonable hatred sometimes?
I have a new hatred motive: when people say ‘tortilla’ like ‘tor-till-ah’ instead of ‘tor-tee-ah’. I spend the next five minutes suppressing the urge to smack them. It’s not as bad as when people say ‘ain’t’ but it’s close.
