While Esteban was in Las Vegas at his Big Computers and Networks and Geekfu Madness Plus Show Girls convention, things were pretty quiet here. I had plans for almost every night, so I hardly had a moment to sit alone and be freaked out by alien clowns in my backyard (which turned out to be the Rosebush, growing already at a freakish pace) or spiders in my shower (dude. DUDE! Ok, it was taken care of by a slightly soggy poof of toilet paper and a quick flush down the toilet but still, very unnerving when you’re naked and wet and a spider scurries out from nowhere and takes your Aveda shampoo hostage) or the fact that when I am alone, I live on fruit, Dasani and Special K cereal. Lest you think I’m wasting away while Esteban is gone, it should be noted here that I’ve selectively not mentioned the Crunch ‘n’ Munch (Now with more apostrophes!). It is really another food that I should just cross off my list. I do not control the Crunch ‘n’ Munch, the Crunch ‘n’ Munch controls me. I tried to persevere, picking the smaller box instead of the family sized box, but that just meant that instead of falling into a sugar coma (mmm’ buttery toffee goodness) and blacking out, I had to witness the desolation of fingers scrambling through the heartbreaking caramel popcorn crumbs at the bottom of the box and then tipping the box to learn that indeed there was no more Crunch to be had. It had all been Munched. The woe! So yes, it has been included on the big list of foods that own me, along with Krispy Kreme still-warm doughnuts, Sbux Strawberries and Cr’me frappuchinos, Edy’s Dreamery Apple Pie ice cream, Nestle Flips white chocolate-covered pretzels, freshly baked bread, and KFC Original Recipe chicken coating.
Hi. I’m a stereotypical fat girl.
The lucky correlative of this is that there are other foods that own me as well, such as freshly picked strawberries, brain freeze cold spring water, and perfectly steamed vibrant green asparagus, which offset the function of mouth as lard-to-ass delivery unit. And thus balance is yet again restored to the force. Sorry, Esteban and I watched the second Star Wars over the weekend, because it was so awful the first time that we blocked out a lot of plot elements. Or, apparently, thought we did, for there were no plot elements other than long meaningful glances and Samuel L. Jackson still managing to appear like one bad muthaJedi, despite his long flowing robes of Zen and tranquility. And the questions I have, the questions about Anakin’s robotic hand and how that all translates to his and Padme’s sex life, these questions they go unanswered. And probably for the best. Unless that’s in the next installment too, along with all of the purported darkness. ‘What’s the matter? Annie, are you ok, are you ok Annie?’ ‘You don’t love me. I’m a machine to you.’ ‘That’s not true.’ ‘Oh? Then why did I wake up and find you using the hand by yourself?’ And then three minutes of meaningful glances and then Obi Wan pops his head in (ding) and says ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
Le sigh. I have no brain for cohesive narrative today. All of my logic has been used editing technology articles.
So, without waiting for the segue, Esteban and I went for a short drive in the country on Saturday, for no reason other than to enjoy the lovely warm weather and the golden glow of the setting sun. Through some random lefts and rights, we ended up somewhere by the Brown County/Kewanee County line and then I mentioned that I was pretty sure that Castle Dracula was out here somewhere. You see, back when we used to live in our apartment (at least ten years ago now) we used to spend a lot of time driving around the country, listening to tapes (how archaic) and talking. And one of the things we’d talk about is how much we liked or didn’t like the houses we were passing. And somewhere out in BFE, I absolutely fell in love with an ancient Belgian farmhouse nestled between two ancient barns the color of nothing, one with a idiosyncratic square silo half-crumbled away. I loved the set up and I loved the house itself, a sprawling three story that jutted out of a hill, so what I guess is the basement becomes its own first floor. Esteban decided that it was spooky, but despite its age and daunting size, I immediately envisioned pastoral scenes of feeding ducks and riding horses and rooms upon rooms of empty space and creaky floorboards and stacks of Amish quilts which I would begin inexplicably collecting. Esteban worries about such a country move because he’s certain there is no DSL available and he knows that I will immediately begin to Doctor Doolittle our little hobby farm with emus and llamas and ponies and sheep. Oh the sheep. How I want a lamb and a duck and a dog named Harvey and a duck named Phyllis and another duck named Lucy and a cat named Waldorf.
So we discussed whether or not we could find Castle Dracula again and I said that I thought it was on a road that went toward the Lake and that it would be on the driver’s side of the car. And Esteban disagreed, stating it would be on the passenger side, facing south. I told him he was on drugs and he asked if I wanted to bet, which, by the way, you should never do, not with Esteban, because he only bets when he is absolutely certain that he is right, but I am stupid and I took the bet because it was for marital favors and hell, I can think of lots of sweaty marital favors that I could demand like some kind of Cleopatra and maybe I’d make Esteban wear a thong? No’ ass hair does not benefit from parting.
Not that it mattered, because I was wrong wrong wrong and it was, of course, exactly how Esteban expected it to be, south and on the passenger side of the car. I now think that is suspect because we were coming away from the Lake and it was on the passenger side, which meant that if we were going toward the Lake, it would have been on the driver’s side, and therefore I was right too and maybe he knew where it was all along and it was mofo entrapment. Ah well. Bet’s been paid and I’m willing to be wrong again.
Although wearing a thong would have given him some much needed humility.
But oh the country. Now I want to live in Castle Dracula more than ever. It’s not for sale, of course, and it’s so bloody far out of town that it practically gives one a nosebleed thinking about it. But it’s nice to think about, anyway. Even though I’ve sworn off buying another ‘fix it up’ kind of old house, and this one is at least twice as old as our house, if not more. And the Wisconsin country folks aren’t exactly known for throwing money at problems. I wouldn’t be surprised to find an entire colony of raccoons inhabiting the top floor. Even still, the residents of Castle Dracula are going to find a tasteful brown Crane envelope in their mailbox next week, with a nice crisp pink notecard inside, asking them to contact one Ms. Bix if they should ever decide to sell.
Because you never know. And damn it, I want a duck.
