This is for Gwen:
From my in-laws, I got refills of the make up I adore, some travel organizer thingy for my products (I destroy these, usually when something explodes, and need a new one every year), a very soft throw so that I can snuggle under it while sitting on the chaise, a jumungous Barnes & Nobel gift card, a box of fancy truffles and I am probably forgetting something. Mark gave me several books, The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, some great Thomas O’Brien stationery, two photo albums and some white chocolate caramel corn that Esteban has already inhaled. My sister gave me Demeter’s Honey perfume and some more DVDs off my Amazon wish list. My mother gave me a very strange photography book and also a Barnes & Noble gift card. I know that I’m forgetting something crucial, but that is the bulk of it.
Esteban gave me a second battery for my big camera (nothing makes me more insane than the battery suddenly giving out at a crucial moment), a diamond and sapphire necklace, Gosford Park on DVD, and several books, including The Contortionist’s Handbook by Craig Clevenger, where he noted that he was disappointed to find out that it was a novel and not, say, a How To guide. I gave Esteban Serenity, Eddie and the Cruisers, and Pulp Fiction’s Collector’s Edition on DVD, a remastered Johnny Cash CD collection, a Johnny Cash action figure, a Dorkathalon book that he had purchased himself the week prior (buying things that were on HIS OWN WISHLIST because he is stupid), and a very old and impressive bottle of Glenlivet. I might have felt bad about blowing our $100 spending limit on the scotch, but since he blew the limit as well, even before he looked at the necklace, I don’t.
In 2004, I made a contribution to the Democratic National Committee and since then, they’ve been dogging me left and right. Every day, I get an e-mail from John Kerry, from Howard Dean, from another guy that I don’t remember. I’ve stopped reading them. They are just so cheery, so ‘Don’t Stop Believing’. If I’m to read between the lines, are all of the nation’s liberals thisclose to slicing their wrists? If they are anything like me, they have done a Pontius Pilate on the whole matter. Thinking about the state of affairs just makes me too angry. It doesn’t stop me from getting a little smug when I’m driving and I see a car make an asshole or stupid move and then notice their Bush/Cheney bumper sticker, as though that confirms everything. I reserve all commentary now for political profiling, because the alternative is to assume that it’s only a matter of time before we’re living in an Atwoodian dystopia and you just know that I’m going to end up in a freaking scarlet burqa. If they don’t round up all the hippies and their children beforehand, that is. If I suddenly disappear, you’ll know it’s because Utne Reader had their subscriber’s list impounded.
Esteban has been out of town all week, and to celebrate, Tilly decided that she has pneumonia. I spent my holiday going to the pet store to buy a new pet carrier, because our ancient plastic one is so permeated with the scent of animal fear that she gets distraught just looking at it. I wanted one of those cute bags with the mesh inserts that are all the rage these days, because it seemed like it would be easier to handle than the big boxy cage, and since it would be fabric, it wouldn’t be so cold for her. I ended up with a quilted pink and black thing that was ridiculously expensive for something that isn’t actually leather, but it drew raves from the receptionists at the vet, so I guess it was worth it. Tilly was fooled by it once, but now it’s probably tainted with the memory of yippy Jack Russell terriers. Tilly’s x-rays looked good (and wow, she’s 13? When did my little girl grow up?) but they gave her an anti-inflammatory and also some antibiotics. Tilly has the tenacity of both her owners combined, so I get the joy of giving her not one but two droppers full of what must be really foul stuff all to myself. I can usually trick her into taking the first one, but by the second dropper, she’s ready to plunge off the side of the counter backwards, as she has had enough of that particular brand of bullshit. But since she has only had one scary asthma-like attack since she started the medication, I think it must be working. The downside is that she is always warily eyeing me, won’t come when I call her and disappears whenever I am in the kitchen (where the medicine is). I have now blown my one Trojan Horse of canned cat food, so now it’s just a battle of wills. Or whether or not she decides to smother me in my sleep.
I have the January hatred a few days early. Also, the beginnings of a cold. I’m hoping it’s just allergies from the furious amounts of hair that Tilly loses while I’m trying to shove an eye dropper down her throat rather than Death Throat, which usually rears its ugly head around this time of year. However, my spirits were bolstered by spending most of last night on the phone, chatting with Mare. It was a delightful way to spend an evening. We probably could have gone on for five more hours, had it not been past both our definition of an appropriate hour. As Mare commented, thank goodness for this thing called the internet, and also planes and telephones because it allows friends to forget for a moment that we are all so scattered around the globe.
Also, not only did she make the coolest holiday card I received this season, she made me tilt my head and say ‘Awww’. Sarah, you are awarded honorary title of The Sweetest.
A few years ago, when I was working on a freelance assignment about women in fantasy football, Esteban, a dallier in the game, declared that I should participate in the game myself so I could draw upon that for the article. I agreed, not really connecting that I had to write the piece long before I would have to draft. I ended up doing my first draft from the very magazine in which my piece appeared, but no matter, the glorious Congested Hedgehogs made their debut. I’m always sort of half interested every year, really only still in there because Esteban enjoys the husband/wife togetherness thing and I sort of like proving that women aren’t dumbasses when it comes to football. I have had a decent standing each year, and I think my team has made the playoffs every year, or most of them, anyway (fucking me in the draft, but whatever). This year, Esteban predicted that, based on my protected players, my team would do well. True to prediction, the Hedgehogs went to the Superbowl, despite early injuries to my studs Priest Holmes and Javon Walker, as well as Tony Gonzalez’s distinct lack of initiative.
The Hedgehogs’ Championship opponent? Esteban’s team.
When I was writing that article, I would have loved to have had an anecdote like this. If only. Ah well. I was feeling pretty good. The previous week, the Hedgehogs had a 40 point game, and Esteban’s team was truly awful. Maybe I’d be the first female in the league to get the Championship. Either way, Phil (Esteban’s opponent in the previous round) was shut out of the Bowl, despite crowing about his potential victory on Monday morning, before Todd Heap scored two touchdowns and allowed Esteban to beat Phil by one point. The fact that our household had a winner no matter how it went down was just gravy.
On Christmas Eve, Esteban was bragging to his uncles about how I was about to kick his ass. I was cautiously optimistic, but said nothing. And then Corey Dillion and Todd Heap felt like they had something to prove, handing Esteban the glory and me, the agony of a sucky draft position with nothing to show for it.
However, this also means that I get to spend the next several months calling Esteban a wife beater, so it’s not all bad.
