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Warning: this entry contains 25% more incidences of the word “fuck”

Sunday, March 17, 2002

This weekend was one of those long languorous weekends that seem to never end.

Of course they do end, though. That part sucks.

Friday night, Esteban did Esteban things. I ensconced myself on the sofa and watched AI, which I admired for ‘filmanship’, if nothing more. My college film professor’s voice kicked into overdrive as I admired many of the shots, but if I was noticing the way that they framed the robot within the overhead light to show his alienation from his ‘parents’, how freaking subtle was it? There was one shot that was just beautiful, though, even though it was completely ‘look at how Kubrick I am even though I’m Spielberg and have you SEEN Saving Private Ryan? Because that was a pretty good movie AND it had Tom Hanks in it sans Meg Ryan’ it was still pretty good though, doncha think? Hey! I’m making serious films here!&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- there was a scene where the Jude Law character was watching David falling and his reflection appeared like a tear following down Jude’s face. Incredible. Even though I sort of expected them to open the robot up and then have William Hurt say, ‘It’s full of stars’ while strains of Strauss played on a tinny recording. But maybe that’s just me.

Saturday, we woke up rather early, as Mo called to see if I wanted to go shopping at some huge ‘blowout’ sale that a local department store has every other month. It was only until 11:00 a.m., thus she called at 8:30 a.m. I say, if a department store is going to be prejudiced against those of us who stay up too late and need the weekend to catch up on our sleep, fuck ’em. By the time I got up and called Mo back (I didn’t make it to the phone in time’ she’s so impatient), she was gone without me. Ah well. I took a shower and then jumped back into bed to warm my cold and wet body up against my furry warm husband. Yeah. I suck.

We went out to get some pancakes and then stopped by Ward and June’s place. Esteban’s truck had died in their driveway while he was there letting the doggies out to go winky, so he had to fix it. I popped in and learned that Ward and June were actually staying in Chattanooga the night before the big crash. We had been worried about that. They were all chatty and I had to drag myself away from them to do my many Saturday things.

I hate that our lives have become so full that our weekends are now filled with catching up. And we never get caught up. I use the term ‘we’ because I’m not so foolish to think that this only pertains to myself and Esteban, but rather it’s a symptom of how our society has changed. Sure, we have microwaves and scalding water which comes out of faucets and little tabs to dump into our toilet tanks to keep them clean, but at what cost. Our standards are higher. Our clothes are all spotless and perfect. Not that I’d have it any other way, mind you. Caroline Ingalls had a pitiful existence, in my opinion. And she didn’t have a Prescriptives counter to make her feel all blemish-free and even-toned. She certainly didn’t have drive-thru Starbucks either.

I miss Starbucks Guy. sigh

I ran around town, dropping a bunch of shirts to be laundered, running to the local mass merchandiser to pick up a plethora of oddities that keep our world sparkling and fresh, such as Listerine, hair gel, and Oatmeal Raisin Iced Power Bars. Then I tried to go to the car wash to remove the dead Georgia bugs from the front of my car, but the line was beyond my patience level. Then I tried to go to the Express Lube place, but it seemed moot without having a clean car so I went home instead. I had barely gotten home when Esteban popped in, with a fixed truck, and declared that he was taking the truck to get washed and lubed. I sighed and warned him about the line. He shrugged and went anyway, returning nary twenty-five minutes later. I gave him a puppy dog look, complete with pouting lip, and asked if he would mind doing my car as well. He did and there was much rejoicing.

When he returned, we received a call from Joel asking if we wanted to meet them in Appleton to go to our favorite Mongolian joint. Score. I had been hungry for something but I couldn’t quite place it and apparently, it was lamb satay. And I needed more Body Butter and the nearest Body Shop is in Appleton. We jumped up and scurried into the sparkling Monte (which STILL has bugs on the grill’ I think I have to take it back into the hand job place’. Curses those men with their love of automation). There was a thirty minute wait, so we hung out in the bar. Joel brought me a Rum & Diet Coke which had so much rum in it that it was actually somewhat clear. He told us about how he wanted to get a 90-mile an hour snowmobile and I asked him why he didn’t just go the easy route by standing up, unzipping, and whipping it out so that everyone could see how big it was. And then we laughed and laughed. I got a little laughing high from it, which I now recognize is a precursor to a laughing faint. Good times.

Dinner was marvy. We made plans to go back to Joel and Cheri’s phat pad and watch an illegal copy of Lord of the Rings. Joel had to go to some computer place where the copy was stored and burn disks or something, so I drove Cheri back and Joel and Esteban went and bonded with the computer dorks that live at the ISP. Finally, they returned and we nestled into their state of the art home theatre room with the system that costs more than my fucking car off the assembly line and ate freshly baked cookies. The copy was a reviewer copy and was pretty sweet, with exquisite colors. No Pseudonym Scott stopped by, a little tipsy because Phil had a gig on Saturday and Scott had been hanging out at the bar’ which was a microbrew, I believe’ dangerous combination. He proceeded to giggle and laugh and generally crack me up. I love me some Scotty G’. especially drunk off his ass. Oh, and the fact that I think Orlando Bloom is one damned sexy elf thing became public knowledge. It was a dorky way to spend a Saturday night, but I had fun.

Today, I have done nothing. Nothing. Nothing. If it were not for the fact that I was sick of Power Bars, I wouldn’t have left the house, but I got hungry for rotisserie chicken after reading a rather sumptuous article in Real Simple about how great it is. The first grocery store I went to, in the snooty suburb, didn’t apparently have it, so I instead went to the larger upscale grocery right by my house, where I knew that they had rotisserie chicken. They were out. I could have gone to another store, but I decided that for something that was supposed to be a convenience food, it was a really big pain in the ass and a simple peanut butter sandwich would be fine. I watched Jeepers Creepers, which had to be taken in small doses because it was just too freaky. If I hadn’t started it as early in the day as I did, I would have had to put it in the freezer tonight in order to fall asleep. But then it got stupid, so I was able to finish it. Holy crap, though’ the beginning’ gahhhh!!!!

I think I’m getting too old for the scary movies. Things hurt too much. I have too much sympathy for the characters. I was getting all upset about this one guy who got killed. They showed his hands as he was being murdered; him dropping a gun and a flashlight, and all I could think was ‘Oh, and such a handsome man’ he probably has a family.’ That’s just not right. I think the night that we watched Schindler’s List followed by Reservoir Dogs ruined me for slash and dash movies forever. It was the end of an era.

On a plus note: I got more Nut Body Butter! And some kind of exfoliating sugar stuff. And chamomile makeup remover. Woohoo! Goodbye dry yucky skin, hello satiny silky curves!

As God as my witness, I will eradicate my itty bitty thigh pimple things if it’s the last thing I do.

Sometimes, I am astounded by how fucking shallow I am.

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Welcome to my psychosis

Friday, March 15, 2002

I think I have a brain fog.

Like in Joe Versus The Volcano. Only I have no really attractive luggage and Meg Ryan doesn’t show up in various forms of bad hair.

This morning, I woke up with a start, having just had two variations of my Reoccurring Nightmare. I’ve had that damned thing for at least fifteen years. It sucks.

At least it’s varied somewhat. It used to be the same thing: I was in a house. Usually not the house I was living in at the time. Sometimes it was my grandmother’s house, sometimes my great grandmother’s house, sometimes it was one of the houses we lived in when I was growing up. A few times, it’s been either my old apartment or my house, but not real often. So I’m in this house and someone, for some reason, is trying to get in to kill me. Or rape me. Or audit me. Or give me a bad Mary Kay makeover. It doesn’t matter. They’re outside and I’m inside and they’re trying to GET inside to get me. Sometimes it’s the mob. Sometimes, it’s one of my mother’s exboyfriends. Once it was the 28-year-old I dated when I was 16. And once it was Bozo the Clown. I think that one was the scariest one. He was accompanied by Grimace from McDonald’s.

shudder

Don’t laugh at my trauma, ‘k? It’s not funny.

And often, there are elongated stressful sequences where I’m trying to shut the door, trying to latch it and they’re coming or shoving their arms through the doors at me. That classic scene from Night of the Living Dead right back again. And I’m shoving the door closed or running around trying to shut all of the windows and lock them.

So, two versions of the same dream. First one had to do with some kind of apocaplyptic thing… there were these giant bugs, like in Stephen King’s short story “The Mist” and they were trying to get us. So we were trying to barracade ourselves into this area, but I think I got locked outside the door and I was trying to convince the people inside to let me in. Then they did, but the bugs tried to come in with and we were trying to get the doors closed.

Then I was at a cabin near a lake. And there was swimming. And possibly Jude Law was there, wearing the 50’s swimming trunks he did in The Talented Mr. Ripley. And I was sitting up on the land, watching them swim and suddenly I saw this patch of brown fur surface in the water, like floating brown shag carpeting. Just as I was saying “What’s that in the water?”, up pops an Alaskan Kodiak Grizzly Bear… only sixteen feet tall and six feet wide. And with the taste for a little Weetabix, shaken not stirred. So then I was running into the cabin, trying to… say it with me… shut the door while it was reaching its arm inside to get me. And Jude Law was absolutely no good whatsoever in a crisis. But I suppose that really shouldn’t surprise anyone. You don’t keep men like Jude Law around for their acumen and strength. That’s what Brendan Fraser and Russell Crowe are for.

So… the brain fog is what I’m thinking.

I woke up this morning before the alarm, scared awake by the roaring bear trying to get me, and didn’t want to go back to sleep. But then, maybe it was Saturday? Then Errr Errr Errr Errr of our incredibly annoying alarm clock.

I cannot think of one sound I hate more on this entire earth than the sound of our alarm clock. Esteban never even hears the thing anymore because I pop up out of bed so fast to turn the damned thing off. That and he sleeps like the recently deceased.

I went outside to find that I had lost the pin out of my windshield wiper, leaving me with a bare nub on one side. And it was misting. I tried to rig the blade without the pin, but it didn’t work. I wiped the windshield down with paper towel and started to drive to work, but it was like trying to drive through a stained glass church window within blocks. I stopped at a gas station and squeegeed the window, then popped on the highway, which dried the schmeng rather than having it ripple and distort everything.

Then I had to call Esteban and beg him to fix my windshield wipers.

Because I’m a girl.

Yeah. I know. I disgust myself too.

But he did. With expensive manly blades. And for that I will owe him some wifely task, like possibly precision folding his underwear or maybe just oral gratification.

Oral Sex: when you care enough to…

…nah… I’m not going there.

And you know what pisses me off? I want everything to be clean. I want my world to be lightly scented… possibly like Estee Lauder Pleasures, but I’d settle for that green Downy fabric softener. Instead, my cat is peeing on my living room rug and my bedroom has this ass cloud hanging around since last night.

Not to mention the fact that I dragged Esteban to look at the local car dealer tonight. He took one look at the Saab stickers and laughed heartily, then pointed me in the direction of the Oldsmobiles and Impalas. Barf. Well, at least I have a year for him to marinate on the idea.

Also, I petted the kitties tonight for several hours and then rubbed my eyes. For several hours. Man. Once you get going, even though you know it just makes your eyes itch worse, you just can’t stop rubbing them. Now they’re all swollen and red. Maybe someone rubbed my ass a lot… because that’s rather puffy as well.

And I missed Buffy on Tuesday and can’t find a rip anywhere. If anyone knows where I can get my hands on a download of that, please let me know. I’ll be forever grateful.

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Karmic debts really stink

Friday, March 15, 2002

 

Two bits of disturbing news yesterday.

First, if I had decided to stay in Atlanta to see Tuesday night’s opening performance of Rent, I would have likely been traveling northbound on Highway I-75 on Wednesday morning. We were on that very stretch of highway roughly 24 hours previous to that terrible crash. And that section of road was very near where we got stuck in the traffic jam behind the girls kissing on the way down.

Secondly, a local boy was arrested for possessing cyanide powder. Once upon a time, Esteban used to run a computer bulletin board system, which was a precursor to the international cyber community that we now know and love. This kid was one of the users of that bulletin board system… a sort of boil on its backside, for that matter. In fact, he had been banned by most of the sysops in the community, but he was regularly faking identities to get back online and hack into the system. He’s always been involved in “chaos” crimes, most recently for trying to hack into some cellular towers or some such. What is more, I work with his mother.

General bizarreness. I’m so accustomed to not really being newsworthy. We are very detached from the country at large, so it’s a bit strange to see points of personal reference and experience on the news. Other than cheese, bratwurst, and the Packers, that is. And maybe this general sense of isolation is not a good thing. But maybe it is. I don’t know. I think I need to live elsewhere. Green Bay is doing strange things to my thought process.

 

I bit the bullet and took another quilting class.

I refuse to let the quilting kick my ass. It’s like the time that I went to Milwaukee with Kim V. just to see the Blair Witch Project, which hadn’t yet made it up to our sleepy little independent movie hating town. Between Kim’s driving down in her Saturn with manual transmission and my general sense of summer malaise, I felt urpy and then was driven to nausea by either the jerky camera movements or possibly the movie in general. It’s never really been determined. But whatever the reason, I threw up in the bathroom of the Downer, threw up my Diet Coke and popcorn with real butter (not yellow oil stuff that they claim is butter). Worse even still, threw up in front of Kim V, which is a shameful horrible thing and I’ve not yet felt as though I’ve entirely made that up to her. She, of course, thought it was not a big deal and shrugged off my apologies, more concerned for my well being, which is one of the reasons I love so very dearly and consider her one of my very good friends. To death do us part. Because once you’ve cheerily talked to someone while they were praying to the porcelain gods, you’re bonded for life.

When it finally came to the area theatres, I went again. Because I didn’t want to let it kick my ass. And Kim V. went with me… proving herself worthy of sainthood.

I think I’ve written about this before. It sounds familiar. Oh well.

But that’s why I did the quilting again. Even though my table runner from last time is still sitting, unfinished in a bag in the garage. I couldn’t let it win, though. I had to get back on that horse, wield that circle of death rotary cutter, and dive back into that domestic art once more.

The Quilting Nazi was teaching it again. My quilting chica Mary and I were nervous. However, this time, the Quilt Nazi was showing her daughter how to teach the class. Her daughter who was young and hip and cool. She carried my boat anchor sewing machine up the stairs for me. I loved her very much, if not only for that reason. But then we bonded over talking about the Smurfs and I revealed my secret wish that I was Smurfette, not only because I wanted to be the only female amidst hundreds of males, but also because I just wanted to live in a little village where everyone had a job, had a place and knew what their role was. And if they got confused, they just had to look at their Smurf Identification card and read their names. “I’m Jokey… I must tell Jokes.” “I’m Harmony… I must make music.” It was actually a big Communistic, actually… probably all Marxist propaganda, directly related to the general sense of angst that plagues the children of the 80’s today. We don’t know our place. We expected to have defined roles in our little communities and a little blue man who derived great joy from making dozens upon dozens of smurfberry cream pies.

The Quilt Nazi was there as well. I picked out navy blue and white on white tonal fabric for my Irish chain quilt. I immediately fell behind Mary and the other lady because I’m just a problem student when it comes to sewing and my bobbin ran out (again!). I made a comment that I get my money out of my quilting tuition because I get to do everything twice. But honestly, I was trying super hard to make every row exceedingly straight and perfect, which I more or less did. After sewing my eight 3×3 blocks, I realized that I had just perfectly replicated the vinyl floor tile I had admired at Home Depot. Don’t get me wrong. It’s pretty floor tile. Quilt Girl only had to rip out one of my seams for me to resew. Otherwise, everything was straight and even and lovely. Quilt Nazi even looked at my squares and said “You can’t get more perfect than that, now can you?” And I smiled. There is a certain pleasure to be gained from being exceedingly anal retentive. I can see how Martha Stewart must get off on it.

Then came squaring off. That scared me last time. I didn’t get it. It was all math and three dimensional and confusing. I was an English major if not only for the simple reason that I think that part of my brain doesn’t work. It just makes me want to whine and say “I can’t doooooooo itttttttttttt!” Quilt Nazi showed me again. And then said “You do the next block.” which was the scariest phrase I heard yesterday. But I did it. And then suddenly a light bulb went off and Monte Hall revealed that there was a brand new Saab waiting for me behind curtain number 2. And I was squaring like a quilting fool. I zipped through the remaining squares and was declared a model student. Then I announced that squaring off is now my bitch. The Quilt Nazi didn’t get it, but Quilt Girl was snickering.

I feel totally vindicated. I’m actually excited about going next week. Yeah. My 16-year-old self would be oh-so-proud to know how damned hip I turned out to be. Maybe tonight I’ll make some muffins and watch Murder She Wrote, thus cementing myself deeply into the world of So Lame It Hurts.

But my eight squares kicks ass. That’s all I’m saying. They look nautical and clean. I planned on giving the quilt as a gift for a newborn, but the thought of his sticky jam hands clutching that pristine white fabric gives me dry heaves.

Note to self: stop at Target for baby gift.

 

Lying in bed last night

Weetabix: Oh my god… what did you eat today?

Esteban: Um….. garlic linguini…. coffee…

Weetabix: …dog turds…. nuclear waste…

Esteban: Why?

Weetabix: Your breath is foul… it is beyond foul. It is indescribable.

Esteban: You know… my farts have been very very bad today too. I farted on the couch earlier and Tilly actually got up and walked away.

Weetabix: That’s impressive. That cat stinks. That’s like grossing out a skunk.

Esteban: I know. I tried calling out to her, but she just gave me this disgusted look.

Weetabix: I mean… she licks her butt. What does that say about you?

Esteban: I almost wanted to get off the couch too and leave. I almost joined her.

Weetabix: Don’t do that in here.

Esteban: They had a certain… richness. An ass pulchritude.

Weetabix: I think it’s coming out your mouth.

Esteban: I mean… maybe I should be concerned. Maybe there’s something wrong.

Weetabix: Maybe something crawled up inside you and died.

Esteban: That’s kind of what it’s like. Like freshly turned humus of the earth… it’s got a full-bodied richness that lingers.

Weetabix: It’s not a wine, Esteban, it’s gas…. get over yourself.

Esteban: Uh-oh (muffled sound of fart)

Weetabix: Nononononononono!!! Oh god.

Esteban: Oh oh oh… that’s not good.

Weetabix: (covering mouth with comforter) Oh god.

Esteban: No baby, I wouldn’t go under the blankets if I were you.

Weetabix: You…. you….. you’re evil.

Esteban: But do you see what I’m talking about? There’s a quality there… it’s not your average ass blow.

Weetabix: Oh Christ.

Esteban: You’re not appreciating this are you?

Weetabix: I’m trying not to die.

Esteban: You’re not very supportive of my excitement. This is a pinnacle for me.

Weetabix: I’m a bad wife… oh god.

Esteban: See… it just lingers… it’s really impressive.

Weetabix: You are not to do this again.

Esteban: I can fart in my own bed. You never let me have any fun.

Weetabix: Burgermeister.

Esteban: But you’ve got to admit… that’s some powerful farting.

Weetabix: I need to go to sleep. Don’t fart again.

Esteban: You’ll be asleep… you won’t know. Give me a hug.

Weetabix: No!

Esteban: Come on…!

Weetabix: No… back away slowly!

Esteban: Why not?

Weetabix: You have foul odors coming from every hole.

Esteban: You’re mean.

Weetabix: I’m trying to survive here. Why can I still smell it?

Esteban: Uh…. uh…. uhoh… I think I feel another one.

Weetabix: Go into the dining room! Go outside!

Esteban: You’re stifling my creative expression. Meanie.

Weetabix: (still breathing through comforter) Good night.

Esteban: Don’t you want me to blow you a kiss?

Weetabix: I think you are my karmic debt.

Esteban: I can buy that.

The promised photos from Atlanta can be found in their respective entries.

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Karmic debts really stink

Friday, March 15, 2002

Two bits of disturbing news yesterday.

First, if I had decided to stay in Atlanta to see Tuesday night’s opening performance of Rent, I would have likely been traveling northbound on Highway I-75 on Wednesday morning. We were on that very stretch of highway roughly 24 hours previous to that terrible crash. And that section of road was very near where we got stuck in the traffic jam behind the girls kissing on the way down.

Secondly, a local boy was arrested for possessing cyanide powder. Once upon a time, Esteban used to run a computer bulletin board system, which was a precursor to the international cyber community that we now know and love. This kid was one of the users of that bulletin board system… a sort of boil on its backside, for that matter. In fact, he had been banned by most of the sysops in the community, but he was regularly faking identities to get back online and hack into the system. He’s always been involved in “chaos” crimes, most recently for trying to hack into some cellular towers or some such. What is more, I work with his mother.

General bizarreness. I’m so accustomed to not really being newsworthy. We are very detached from the country at large, so it’s a bit strange to see points of personal reference and experience on the news. Other than cheese, bratwurst, and the Packers, that is. And maybe this general sense of isolation is not a good thing. But maybe it is. I don’t know. I think I need to live elsewhere. Green Bay is doing strange things to my thought process.

I bit the bullet and took another quilting class.

I refuse to let the quilting kick my ass. It’s like the time that I went to Milwaukee with Kim V. just to see the Blair Witch Project, which hadn’t yet made it up to our sleepy little independent movie hating town. Between Kim’s driving down in her Saturn with manual transmission and my general sense of summer malaise, I felt urpy and then was driven to nausea by either the jerky camera movements or possibly the movie in general. It’s never really been determined. But whatever the reason, I threw up in the bathroom of the Downer, threw up my Diet Coke and popcorn with real butter (not yellow oil stuff that they claim is butter). Worse even still, threw up in front of Kim V, which is a shameful horrible thing and I’ve not yet felt as though I’ve entirely made that up to her. She, of course, thought it was not a big deal and shrugged off my apologies, more concerned for my well being, which is one of the reasons I love so very dearly and consider her one of my very good friends. To death do us part. Because once you’ve cheerily talked to someone while they were praying to the porcelain gods, you’re bonded for life.

When it finally came to the area theatres, I went again. Because I didn’t want to let it kick my ass. And Kim V. went with me… proving herself worthy of sainthood.

I think I’ve written about this before. It sounds familiar. Oh well.

But that’s why I did the quilting again. Even though my table runner from last time is still sitting, unfinished in a bag in the garage. I couldn’t let it win, though. I had to get back on that horse, wield that circle of death rotary cutter, and dive back into that domestic art once more.

The Quilting Nazi was teaching it again. My quilting chica Mary and I were nervous. However, this time, the Quilt Nazi was showing her daughter how to teach the class. Her daughter who was young and hip and cool. She carried my boat anchor sewing machine up the stairs for me. I loved her very much, if not only for that reason. But then we bonded over talking about the Smurfs and I revealed my secret wish that I was Smurfette, not only because I wanted to be the only female amidst hundreds of males, but also because I just wanted to live in a little village where everyone had a job, had a place and knew what their role was. And if they got confused, they just had to look at their Smurf Identification card and read their names. “I’m Jokey… I must tell Jokes.” “I’m Harmony… I must make music.” It was actually a big Communistic, actually… probably all Marxist propaganda, directly related to the general sense of angst that plagues the children of the 80’s today. We don’t know our place. We expected to have defined roles in our little communities and a little blue man who derived great joy from making dozens upon dozens of smurfberry cream pies.

The Quilt Nazi was there as well. I picked out navy blue and white on white tonal fabric for my Irish chain quilt. I immediately fell behind Mary and the other lady because I’m just a problem student when it comes to sewing and my bobbin ran out (again!). I made a comment that I get my money out of my quilting tuition because I get to do everything twice. But honestly, I was trying super hard to make every row exceedingly straight and perfect, which I more or less did. After sewing my eight 3×3 blocks, I realized that I had just perfectly replicated the vinyl floor tile I had admired at Home Depot. Don’t get me wrong. It’s pretty floor tile. Quilt Girl only had to rip out one of my seams for me to resew. Otherwise, everything was straight and even and lovely. Quilt Nazi even looked at my squares and said “You can’t get more perfect than that, now can you?” And I smiled. There is a certain pleasure to be gained from being exceedingly anal retentive. I can see how Martha Stewart must get off on it.

Then came squaring off. That scared me last time. I didn’t get it. It was all math and three dimensional and confusing. I was an English major if not only for the simple reason that I think that part of my brain doesn’t work. It just makes me want to whine and say “I can’t doooooooo itttttttttttt!” Quilt Nazi showed me again. And then said “You do the next block.” which was the scariest phrase I heard yesterday. But I did it. And then suddenly a light bulb went off and Monte Hall revealed that there was a brand new Saab waiting for me behind curtain number 2. And I was squaring like a quilting fool. I zipped through the remaining squares and was declared a model student. Then I announced that squaring off is now my bitch. The Quilt Nazi didn’t get it, but Quilt Girl was snickering.

I feel totally vindicated. I’m actually excited about going next week. Yeah. My 16-year-old self would be oh-so-proud to know how damned hip I turned out to be. Maybe tonight I’ll make some muffins and watch Murder She Wrote, thus cementing myself deeply into the world of So Lame It Hurts.

But my eight squares kicks ass. That’s all I’m saying. They look nautical and clean. I planned on giving the quilt as a gift for a newborn, but the thought of his sticky jam hands clutching that pristine white fabric gives me dry heaves.

Note to self: stop at Target for baby gift.

Lying in bed last night

Weetabix: Oh my god… what did you eat today?

Esteban: Um….. garlic linguini…. coffee…

Weetabix: …dog turds…. nuclear waste…

Esteban: Why?

Weetabix: Your breath is foul… it is beyond foul. It is indescribable.

Esteban: You know… my farts have been very very bad today too. I farted on the couch earlier and Tilly actually got up and walked away.

Weetabix: That’s impressive. That cat stinks. That’s like grossing out a skunk.

Esteban: I know. I tried calling out to her, but she just gave me this disgusted look.

Weetabix: I mean… she licks her butt. What does that say about you?

Esteban: I almost wanted to get off the couch too and leave. I almost joined her.

Weetabix: Don’t do that in here.

Esteban: They had a certain… richness. An ass pulchritude.

Weetabix: I think it’s coming out your mouth.

Esteban: I mean… maybe I should be concerned. Maybe there’s something wrong.

Weetabix: Maybe something crawled up inside you and died.

Esteban: That’s kind of what it’s like. Like freshly turned humus of the earth… it’s got a full-bodied richness that lingers.

Weetabix: It’s not a wine, Esteban, it’s gas…. get over yourself.

Esteban: Uh-oh (muffled sound of fart)

Weetabix: Nononononononono!!! Oh god.

Esteban: Oh oh oh… that’s not good.

Weetabix: (covering mouth with comforter) Oh god.

Esteban: No baby, I wouldn’t go under the blankets if I were you.

Weetabix: You…. you….. you’re evil.

Esteban: But do you see what I’m talking about? There’s a quality there… it’s not your average ass blow.

Weetabix: Oh Christ.

Esteban: You’re not appreciating this are you?

Weetabix: I’m trying not to die.

Esteban: You’re not very supportive of my excitement. This is a pinnacle for me.

Weetabix: I’m a bad wife… oh god.

Esteban: See… it just lingers… it’s really impressive.

Weetabix: You are not to do this again.

Esteban: I can fart in my own bed. You never let me have any fun.

Weetabix: Burgermeister.

Esteban: But you’ve got to admit… that’s some powerful farting.

Weetabix: I need to go to sleep. Don’t fart again.

Esteban: You’ll be asleep… you won’t know. Give me a hug.

Weetabix: No!

Esteban: Come on…!

Weetabix: No… back away slowly!

Esteban: Why not?

Weetabix: You have foul odors coming from every hole.

Esteban: You’re mean.

Weetabix: I’m trying to survive here. Why can I still smell it?

Esteban: Uh…. uh…. uhoh… I think I feel another one.

Weetabix: Go into the dining room! Go outside!

Esteban: You’re stifling my creative expression. Meanie.

Weetabix: (still breathing through comforter) Good night.

Esteban: Don’t you want me to blow you a kiss?

Weetabix: I think you are my karmic debt.

Esteban: I can buy that.

The promised photos from Atlanta can be found in their respective entries.

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Cover your ears Christy13, this is going to hurt, baby

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

It had to happen.

It’s not easy for a relationship to be so perfect for eternity. Some might think damn well impossible. But it’s finally happened.

The magic is over.

I can’t go on with this charade any more.

I am no longer in love with my Monte.

We’ve had a good run’ two and a half years. And honestly, I felt about Ms. Monte the way that I felt the first time I owned a car, the Monza, when I turned 18. Actually, they are very similar’ both had low seats that hugged my curves, both had decent stereos and speakers that thumped, both were vaguely shaped like anal probes.

But now, driving amongst all the sleek European models in Atlanta, realizing that my car is also a Nascar car, driven by some tobacco-chewing nimrod, plastered with Tide symbols or something’. Now’ it’s just complete disillusionment. I realized that when sitting in the parking lot of Nordstrom that there was not ONE single Monte Carlo or its bastard cousin the Lumina sitting in the lot. Just mine. I glanced over at Walmart. There, nestled amidst the errant carts and the screaming kool-aid lipped children were scores upon scores of GM’s sporty line.

And as God as my witness, there was a white Monte Carlo, complete with trunk spoiler, with a gigantic #3 in the back windshield.

I only wish I were making that up!

You go through that new phase, that honeymoon-like period where every little quirk and flaw is cute and adorable and just makes you more in love. Awww’ isn’t it precious the way that the doors swing out four feet when you open the car door and it bangs into the car next to you unless you’re parked in an open field! Then there’s the ‘living with’ phase. Sure, there are some flaws, some problems, but hey, look at the sleek styling, the way it goes from zero to 65 in seven seconds. Then you start to see dings in the paint. There is a rust spot, a factory defect, on the rear window casement. It drives me berserck. I haven’t gotten it fixed because I’m arguing with Chevy that they should fix it under the warranty. They’re saying that it’s normal rust. I’m saying that if my bottom panels, which have salt and road wear, haven’t got a spot of rust, then it is reasonable to expect that this little spot above the little backseat window, a spot reasonably protected, shouldn’t have bubbling paint and obviously it’s a problem with the metal. Anyway, it’s like Chevy is the rude family who won’t leave you alone and borrows money from you.

I went out to run some errands this afternoon but it felt like I was just pretending. The magic is gone. I can’t go on like this. It’s not fair to the Monte and it’s not fair to me.

I informed Esteban that I needed a new car. He laughed at me. He’s been telling me that he hates the car almost since I bought it. Of course, he wants me to get a Pontiac Grand Prix. I’m not going to be lulled into a false sense of coolness again. I feel like I’ve been walking around with toilet paper stuck to my shoe and no one told me. I won’t be tempted with another Nascar car. I want something European. Preferably black or silver, the color of my ass pearls. I’m all about matching.

I’m thinking about a Volvo. I grew up with Volvos. My drunken mama owned several in her time as a hippy whole earth person. But that was before anyone had ever heard of Volvos up here in Green Bay. They had no idea what to make of the strangely shaped sedans and station wagons that dropped us off at school each day. I jokingly referred to our white Volvo station wagon (with black tinted windows) as ‘The WASP Hearse’. But then I usually had to explain what WASP meant, since my friends would scratch their heads and usually say that it wasn’t yellow. I really do love Volvos, but I also want a sporty quality too, and the Volvo just says, ‘I wear comfortable but expensive shoes and have a Masters degree’. I want something that says ‘I’m smart and fun and like to drive fast while blasting the Sex Pistols and drinking too much caffeine on my way to read at a poetry slam but I also like Martha Stewart, buy my makeup in department stores, and have been known to vote for Republican political candidates on occasion.’

But then I’ve also been tempted by the Saab. They are cute. However, I did just this weekend have a conversation with Esteban in which I determined that I would probably give a stranger oral gratification for a brand new Jaguar. This brought up an entire moral debate about whether or not oral sex is actually sex (because believe it or not, we never discussed it with the Clinton thing) and whether or not it made me a whore, albeit a really really expensive whore. I admitted that it would have to be the DECKED OUT Jag, not the stripped model but I’d still do it, as long as I was horribly not attracted to the person, and I’d have to see the car sitting there, ready to be signed over to me. And it would have to be tax-free. And have a sweet stereo system. With a CD player. And I’d only do it once. Esteban stated that he wouldn’t no matter what. I don’t believe him.

So I’m not ruling out a Jag. But most likely, it will be Swedish. Or a Benz. I’ve always felt that if I wrote the killer novel that Oprah decided to use as her book club and Spielberg decided to make as a movie, I’d own a white Jag for my summer car and a black Mercedes for my winter car. But I’m not, and I haven’t, and Oprah’s not sending me an email about this here diary, so I think that’s pretty far out of the question. Besides, that little fantasy also entails a home in a gated community and a househusband who caters to my every whim.

But now, to live with my car for another year. But realize this’ I’ve called my lawyer and the papers are being drawn up.

sigh

This is just post-vacation letdown, I’m certain.

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Atlanta: The conclusion

Wednesday, March 13, 2002

So we both woke up yesterday at 3:30, after sleeping on the world’s most unyielding bed. We were both stiff and groggy. I made myself a breakfast of my leftovers of Chicken Parmagiana and then Esteban ate what I couldn’t (Maggiano’s’ where one meal feeds four people). In retrospect, it was far too early in the morning to be eating’ let alone spicy Italian food.

I was seriously hoping that we could be home in time to watch Buffy at 7 pm.

I was seriously delusional.

We made excellent time out of Atlanta, binging on the excellent radio stations on last time. I declared that I wouldn’t mind living in Atlanta and Esteban countered that if it were July, I would have a different opinion and also that I make my decisions upon how livable the city is by how much I like the radio stations. Not so, I countered, it also has to have good stores for me to shop in. But that’s pretty much it in a nutshell.

We made one stop just outside of Gawgia at a convenience store. Esteban pulled the car up to the area in front of the door (it was 5:00 a.m’. still dark, no customers) and the convenience store cashier came over the loudspeaker and said ‘You cain’t park by ta doors&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- move yer car!’ really meanly. Esteban moved the car while I used the bathroom but when I returned; he moved the car back in front of the store, daring the cashier to make the announcement again. Something about little sleep on a hard ass bed brings out the social change rebel in him. Finally, I pointed out that every second we sat there taunting this hick cashier was one more second we’d have to sit in the car and he grudgingly drove off.

We stopped at a Stuckey’s so I could get some Tums from the trunk (note to self: eat really bland foods at 3:30 a.m.). I also picked up some Goo Goo Clusters to bring to the folks back home. They must have thought that we were nuts, stopping into a Stuckey’s and buying two cases of candy bars, but whatever.

I snoozed a bit, thankfully through the barrage of Rock City and Ruby Falls signs that proliferate through that area. Then we switched drivers after the mountains of Tennessee (which scare the beejeezus out of me.) Then I drove and Esteban snored for several hours. We both agreed that the car seat combined with my down pillow was more comfortable than the bed and we should have just saved the $600 and slept in the parking lot. I got stuck in a traffic jam in Nashville at 7:00 a.m. I called my office at 8:00 a.m. and told them that I would be taking a day of vacation on Wednesday. My boss sounded a little disappointed, stating that my team really was excited for me to come back. She lobbied for a half-day, but I already knew that I’d need a day to recover and feel normal again. Then I popped in some CDs which Esteban had declared off limits. The nice thing about being the driver is that you have veto power over CD choice, thus with me driving, it was all about Abba and Nerf Herder.

I drove until I was starving for something solid, like eggs, and we needed gas again anyway. I pulled us over to a Cracker Barrel somewhere in lower Kentucky. Esteban was all sorts of grumpy about this’ being that I had simply made the decision and also that we weren’t just going to go to a drive through, but I was adamant. I wanted to stop moving for awhile.

I ordered some basic breakfast thing that came with grits. I was a little nervous about the grits but I’m adventurous. Esteban got a bacon cheeseburger.

Grits’ what can I say about grits’. Well, they reminded me that I’ve got a bucket of drywall mud in the garage I have to dispose of. I tried putting two packets of sugar into the grits but it just tasted like sweet paste. Maybe you have to be Southern. The biscuits were good though.

Oh, and score one for the Southern Experience checklist: when I was paying our bill, the cashier said, ‘Ya’ll come back now.’ That tickled the crap out of me. If she had added a ‘ya’hear?’ to the end, I may have just peed my pants with giddiness. Luckily Esteban wasn’t in earshot of this, because he would have said something like ‘Only if I have a gun pointed to my head’. He wasn’t in the best of spirits at that point.

Esteban drove at that point but didn’t want me to nap because he felt that if I slept, he would be more likely to nod off. So I tried to stay up. I did pretty well, but then I declared in Indiana that I was going to take a nap. He didn’t need my navigating skills at that point because we just had to go north on 65 for 500 miles or something, so I snoozed lightly while he sang along to a CD.

We hit Chicago at evening rush hour and decided to try a different route than what Map Quest had given us, opting for the 294 bypass which claimed that it would take us to Wisconsin. It probably took us the long way around, because it seemed like we were in Chicago for a lonnnng time, but at least we never came to a stand still on the highway, as we had the way down during morning rush hour.

And then we were back in Wisconsin. I made the sad realization that I would not be seeing Buffy. Esteban was mad at my bladder as he said he could set his watch by it. Every hour I had to pee. He cut off my fluids. Burgermeister.

We stopped north of Mequon again (this time driven to stop because Esteban needed to stretch’ NOT because of my bladder, although I did take that opportunity once more). We hopped back in the car and Esteban set the cruise to 79 and we were off. He estimated that we’d be home in an hourish.

Then I saw a car whip around in one of those turnoffs. It had the predatory nature of a shark. I said ‘That’s a cop.’ Esteban looked and said ‘Well, then we’re busted because I’m 14 miles over.’

It was a cop. We were busted.

I should bring up now that Esteban has a magical ability to get out of every cop encounter he has. Seriously. It pisses me off, actually. We’ve probably been pulled over the same amount of times, but every time, he walks away with a smile while I walk away with a ticket or more. Once he pulled out of a bar parking lot at 1 a.m. in the morning and stopped at a lighted intersection while a cop sat waiting on the other side. He stopped and then went, without waiting for the light to change. Did the cop check his blood alcohol? No (not that he would have found anything as he hadn’t been drinking). Did he give him a ticket? No. He just laughed at him. Whereas, if I even look cross-eyed at a cop, they pull me over. One time, I passed a cop on a highway. She was doing 50, the posted was 55 so I passed her doing 54. She pulled me over. And I got a ticket. I’m not even sure why. I think it was for wearing white after labor day. Another time, a cop pulled me over to yell at me for not cleaning the snow off my car after a snow storm. I am Weetabix: Cop Bait. There is just something about me that pisses cops off. But Esteban’ he’s their best friend.

We pulled over and the cop pops out. I swear to god, he was the cheeriest state trooper I’ve ever met. He said that he had clocked us at 79 and did we have a reason for speeding? Esteban said ‘I’m sorry, officer. We’ve been in the car since 3:30 this morning. We’re coming home from Atlanta.’ He asked to see Esteban’s drivers license. I invited the officer to check out the dead bugs on our front grill as proof. He laughed. We laughed. It was like a little cocktail party.

While the officer was back checking his license, Esteban was shrugging ‘Hey, I’ve been doing 80 the entire trip’ and I haven’t gotten a ticket in 13 years, so I guess I’m due.’ I assured him that it wasn’t a big deal but with his luck, he would probably get off with a warning. Esteban shook his head and said, ‘No way’ I was way over the limit. It’s going to be $249 and 6 points. I’m certain of it.’

Then he comes back, hands Esteban his license and says ‘This is a warning’ let’s keep it under 70, ok?’

‘Ok Officer, thank you Sir.’ Esteban said, tipping his hat to Officer Smiley.

‘See?’ I said when he left. Esteban was grinning so broadly I think the corners of his mouth were touching his ears. Naturally, if I had been driving, you wouldn’t be reading this entry because I’d be in jail, for possibly ending a sentence with a preposition. That man has this way with the police’ I just don’t get it. He’s untouchable.

Esteban set the cruise to 65 and we headed back northward. I popped in Pink Floyd’s ‘The Division Bell’, which I had forgotten that I liked, and promptly feel into a deep sleep, with my hand on Esteban’s knee, his hand covering mine. I woke up when we were exiting the highway a mile from our house.

The cats were very happy to see us. I had suspected that Tilly would have reverted to being a feral cat, but she was very clingy and needy. I think she’s finally gotten past her wild hellbeast stage. Well, maybe she’s just a wild hellbeast with abandonment issues. I wrote last night’s entry while I was getting used to not moving and Esteban checked his email.

Then we collapsed into our bed, with the luxuries such as a comfortable mattress, a bottom sheet that covers the entire mattress, and a blanket that covers both your feet and your shoulders. And we slept the sleep of the dead. It was lovely.

Next trip: we’re flying.

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More Atlanta… pretty boring actually

Tuesday, March 12, 2002

So Atlanta.

Some more.

Sunday, Esteban and I went out in search of “fun things to do”. My list included “go eat Southern famous food”, “see Stone Mountain” and “Do something Civil War-ish”. I also wanted to see the Centennial Park downtown where the bomb did or didn’t go off.

First thing was to go downtown in search of Varsity, which a reliable source told me had very good chili dogs. Esteban is a very big fan of chili dogs in general. I, on the other hand, have to consciously think about other things while eating them and I can somewhat enjoy them, but if I start to dwell upon the entire concept of “hotdog”, I get squeamish. (A bit of trivia: I don’t have issues with corn dogs… apparently, the corn meal forms a protective barrier to grossness…. I never claimed to make sense, people, you should know that by now!). We found it without much trouble, although my method of navigation, which has worked fairly well for me for the last 30 years, is to find something I’m looking for, (in this case, a big V along the side of the highway), then get off the highway and head in that general direction. You can generally find what you’re looking for pretty easily that way. It’s organic. It’s pure. I imagine that indian scouts used a method very similiar to that when tracking moose or chili dogs. Esteban, on the other hand, would like me to spout out MapQuest-like directions. “Proceed to Peachtree, which is .8 miles and take a left onto Memorial for approximately 75 feet until you see a bum named Regis…then turn left into the third empty spot in the parking lot.” I’ve been able to acclimate to his need for anal-retentive directions fairly well in places like Milwaukee or around Wisconsin, but Atlanta is a different story. I have never been to Atlanta. He, on the other hand, has been to Atlanta at least once, and I think more than that. But I’m still Directions Girl anyway. So he was getting grumpy, but we found Varsity and pulled into a carhop style joint. We were all excited because we got to stay in the car and eat but I couldn’t see the menu sign, so I ordered out of my Fodor’s, which said that the chili dogs, onion rings and frozen orange things were the way to go. Ok by me. Esteban ordered a chili dog and a Coke. He doesn’t like Diet Coke, he likes Diet Pepsi, but they didn’t have Diet Pepsi, so he got a Coke, which he doesn’t like either. Please, if someone understands this, explain it to me.

The guy brings us our food. Apparently, in the south, chili dogs come with mustard. I don’t like mustard. Esteban looks at me and says “Well, it said it right on the sign.” You know, the one I couldn’t see. My orange freezie thing was so completely frozen that I felt my hair getting shorter as I tried sucking any frosty orange goodness through the straw. It was not happening. So I just ate my onion rings, which, in case you’re wondering, were the best onion rings I’ve remembered having in my entire adult junk food eating history. And two days later when the orange frosty thing thawed enough to become straw worthy, it was delicious.

We tried to go to Olympic park to eat our food, but parking around it was $10 because of something going on with basketball down there or something. I don’t know. If it ain’t football, I ain’t watchin’.

Or Martha Stewart. I like Martha Stewart too. I’m transfixed by her.

Then I guided him to the Hard Rock, where I had to get my black hat with white writing (I have a collection of Hard Rock black hats with white writing… it takes up much of my spare time, in fact). We parked in a No Parking Zone, but I pshawed the sign, figuring that on Sunday, that wouldn’t apply and there were tons of other cars there ignorning the signs too. Esteban had a beer and I had a Blind Russian (note: only a month since churling and am able to drink the same drink… woohoo!). We hung out there for a bit then went back out to our car. The first thing we saw was flapping yellow tickets on all the cars, but when we got to our car… no ticket. Esteban’s theory is that they took one look at our out of state plates and didn’t ticket the car, since they’re not going to extradite for an unpaid parking ticket. It was awesome. It was like we had diplomatic immunity. We were ambassadors from the Great White North… and were not subject to the silly Southern parking regulations. We got back into the car and I made myself giggle by suggesting new places to park (like the lawn of the capital building).

We drove around downtown without MapQuest like directions until Esteban decided that he had enough of wandering and we were going to Stone Mountain. For this, I had directions, as it was in the guidebook. We drove out there but decided that we didn’t want to spend a lot of time inside the park itself, so we drove around the perimeter of the mountain and said “Yep, thar’s a lot of granite.”

Then we saw a really cool old cemetary, so we walked around in there. I took some pictures with my Canon (aka non-digital camera… sorry) and it was very lovely. The sun was warm and it was almost 2 o’clock. We were thinking of going to the Cyclorama but with the sun so lusciously warming my skin, I decided that what I really wanted was to go swimming back at the pool, which was fine with Esteban, since he’d only been humoring me anyway and just wanted to sit and read his book on J. P. Morgan. Yeah, he knows how to party.

By that time, however, we were both hungry again. This time, I decided that we needed to get some Krystal, which is another fast food joint we don’t have in Wisconsin. Esteban sounded nervous, but he went along with it. Esteban got some kind of value meal (with a Coke again… and he didn’t drink the first one because it tastes like malted battery acid… I just don’t get it) and I got two Cheese Krystals, which are like White Castle hamburgers and are tiny.

They were good, but then we started to get gurgly tummies. Later that night, he had what can only be described as eye-wateringly bad farts. I’m talking the kind of smells that make dogs howl. It was a whole new level of potency for him.

We went back to the hotel and I got changed into my swimming suit and trodded out to the empty pool. The sun was creeping below the tree line and the wind was picking up but the water was very warm, so I swam about thirty laps until I was freezing. Then I ran back up to our hotel room and took a shower.

The last time he was in Atlanta for business, he was brought to a Ruth’s Chris steakhouse and he said that it was very good. At that point, I suggested that we make late dinner reservations since we’d essentially only had junky tras food all day… all trip, unless you count the wedding and my lovely evening enjoying Deb’s incredible soup. So I called and made an 8:30 reservation and we proceeded to get all dressed up. It was like we were grown ups… it was a very weird experience for me. My hair was a little strange, having been wet and not really styled, just blowed dry and pinned with fancy thingies, but Esteban looked very nice. Esteban and I ended up having the shrimp bisque. I had the filet with an enormous baked potato, he had the New York Strip, and we split an order of sauteed mushrooms. For dessert, we had something called Chocolate Sin Cake (which almost gave me a mouth orgasm… my eyes were half-lidded the entire time I ate it. It was shameless, actually).

After that, we went back to the hotel and chilled out.

Have I mentioned how horrible our bed was? I needed three pillows to sleep on the thing every night. One for my head and two for under my back. It was like sleeping on lumber. Not lumbar… lumber. Every morning, we both woke up stiff and tired.

Monday morning, Esteban needed to spend the day working in the hotel room (no rest for the wicked), so I put on my Business Chica clothes and went out in search of our Atlanta office in order to do some networking with the people I talk to on the phone all the time. I felt like a serious corporate geek, spending some of my vacation at an office, but I had fun, so I didn’t care. Also, they offered me a job if I wanted to move to Atlanta (gee… I now know where I’d be working and living… this is all coming together should I decide to forego the slippery roads and mosquitos the size of Stealth bombers).

I also went in search of a Sephora, which I’d heard was the shiznit. It was cool, but not all that. I ended up in Nordstrom where I did the Prescriptive thing and got my perfect shade of foundation. That made me feel like a princess and is something I’ve always wanted. I also drooled over some insanely innappropriate shoes and purses. Never in my life have I wanted more than to be independently wealthy, to just tool around and shop to my hearts content. But it is not to be. Unless you’d all like to send me $9.99 each month. That would give me like… seventy dollars or something. Never mind.

I also had a moment of what might be considered “biological clock”. I saw an April Cornell store and wanted to buy an outfit very badly. That was scary, though. It was a scary thing, that yearning from seemingly nowhere. Then it passed. Like gas. Maybe it was the Krystal burgers.

I checked out some antique stores, but wasn’t really impressed. I saw quite a few things I’d recognized from Speigal or TJMaxx floating around, posing as antiques. That was disheartening. I did see a really lovely table but there would have been no way to transport it home (not cost effective, anyway) and it didn’t really match our cheap ass house.

Then I toodled back to the hotel where I made Esteban put on pants and take me out to dinner (neither of us had eaten a thing all day). We went to Maggiano’s, which is a place I’ve wanted to try for the last four years, but the closest one to us is in Chicago. Even though Esteban didn’t pick it out himself, he really enjoyed it (normally, he only likes places he picks out himself). I had chicken parmagiana and Esteban had chicken pesto linquine with pine nuts. We split an order of stuffed mushrooms and tirimisu for dessert.

Another night going home stuffed and yucky feeling. Oh well, it was worth it.

We packed up everything in the room, set the alarm for 3:00 a.m. and tried to get some sleep before driving the 1000 miles back home, which I’ll tell you about tomorrow, having just driven the 1000 miles, I’m fairly tired and want to go to bed.

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More tales from Atlanta

Sunday, March 10, 2002

Pictures of rabbits humping.

This page just got hit off of Google for the phrase “pictures of rabbits humping”.

There are some wrong, wrong folks out there.

I apologize to any of you who might have a lepus fetish. I don’t want any angry People for Bunny Luvin’ members filling my in box with hate mail.

Actually, yes I do. Down with rabbits humping!!!

Anyway….

Atlanta.

Again.

We woke up Saturday morning and were starving. The wedding wasn’t until very late, so Esteban and I jumped into the Monte to score some vittles. We drove past many southern sights, including two men dressed as clowns, trying to attract people to visit model apartments. Now, I may be thinking from a Northern paradigm here, but if I’m in the market for a new apartment, would two men dressed as clowns be a selling point? I mean… what exactly is it saying? Look at how much fun we have in this apartment building full of clowns! And think of all the parking you’ll have, since all of their cars are very very small. Across the street, a man dressed as Elvis trying to entice people to come rent apartments there. If driven to make a decision, I’d probably go with the Kahng.

Esteban and I drove straight until we were faint with hunger and finally agreed upon what turned out to be a Southern Applebees-type place called Folks. I needed to be kitschy, so I ordered fried chicken, fried green tomatoes, mashed potatoes with white gravy and a biscuit. Esteban got chicken fried chicken (which is what he gets almost everywhere) and a boring baked potato.

I’ve decided that fried green tomatos are much better to read about in works of fiction. They don’t translate well to the actual dinner plate.

Then we hopped back into the Monte. Despite the fact that I had taken the Monte for a hand job (whoa…. get your mind out of the gutter there… I’m talking hand car washes, people… sheesh) before we left for Atlanta, it looked schmengy from the 1000 mile drive (mostly from the snow we hit north of Chicago). We traversed through what was possibly the oldest working automated car wash in the lower United States, which had the water pressure similiar to several midgets urinating on the car. Only up high and with water, not pee-pee.

Then we went back to the hotel. Esteban suddenly reveals that he had not tried on his shirt which we purchased last week. The one that he had picked out with the sales lady while I was shopping in the Cool Curvy Chick store. The one that I took one look at and said “Are you SURE that’s your size? I don’t think that’s your size.” to which he replied “I dunno… she measured me.”

That one.

Uhuh. You know what’s coming.

It didn’t fit. So I’m like, “No problem.” I knew that there was a Casual Male in town, which is where we had purchased the shirt. I hopped onto our $10 a day hotel cable modem access and found that there was not only a Casual Male in Atlanta… supposedly there was one up the very street our hotel was on! Holy crap! This would be no problem. I grabbed the shirt and my purse and headed out. It was 1:00. We were leaving for the church at 4:45. I had plenty of time. I only had to go a couple of blocks.

I trucked up to where I thought it was. It wasn’t. I called Esteban on his cell phone. He repeated the address to me. It wasn’t there. He gave me the phone number. I called it. It referred me to a different phone number. I got a bad feeling.

I called the second phone number. A very nice lady who sounded exactly like Miss Cleo explained that the Roswell Casual Male had closed five months ago but I should drive to the one she was at, which was the closest one. She told me to get back onto the beltway and go to exit 41. Ok. No problem. I hoped onto the beltway. It turned out that I was at exit 24 or something. Ok. Not a big. It’s a little far, but Atlanta is a big town and if that’s the closest one, so be it.

And then it started to rain.

Not any rain. Georgia rain. Sideways rain. I wasn’t driving anymore, I was hyrdroplaning, as were the rest of the cars on the road. My wipers weren’t keeping up to the rain. The road was flooding. Animals were starting to line up along the side, looking for a guy with an ark. It was not good.

After about 40 minutes, I finally got to exit 41. I’m starting to sweat now, because I still hadn’t gotten ready myself. But it would be cool. I got off and couldn’t find the store. I called the store again. I asked which way to turn on exit 41. He said “right” so I turned right. Still no store. I called back again and said “Look, I just passed a jail and a Waffle King… how much further are you past the Waffle King?” and he said “Exactly where are you ma’am?”

I wanted to scream “I’m where you people told me to fucking go, moron!!!” But I didn’t. I said “Exit 41. You told me to go to exit 41 on hwy 285!”

And then he made this sound. It made a large rock form in the pit of my stomach. I can’t really describe what it sounded like but it would be interpreted in any language as “Boy Lady you are completely fucked.”

Not Exit 41. I should have exited on Highway 41. They felt that they had given me proper instructions and I should have known this, because she had told me “look for Cobb Galleria” which is like telling me something in Latin or something. I didn’t even know that was what she had said. I thought she said Cotton Diahrrea. I just wanted to scream “I AM NOT FROM ATLANTA!!!!” The guy hands the phone back to Miss Cleo and she keeps repeating “Cotton Diarrhea” to me over and over. Finally, I say “Look… tell me which exit to get off!” After much conversation, it was determined that they were at exit 21.

Fine.

Back onto the highway. Back to the Amazonian rain. I called Esteban on my cell phone and explained that I had just driving like 50 miles out of my way because morons at his store couldn’t speak English. He soothed me and promised to iron my clothes for me. Then I got stuck in a traffic jam within site of exit 20 (note: Cotton Diarrhea is not at exit 21, as reported by Miss Cleo and her idiotic manservant. But by that time, I had ceased to believe a word that came from their mouths.) At one point, I was inching along a bridge and got to enjoy a rather scenic view of the Chattahootchie River. There were people fishing and two large whooping crane type birds. I even had time to snap a picture.

Finally, I found the store. I walked in and put his shirt up on the counter and said “I need to exchange this.”

Miss Cleo was this incredibly beautiful black woman with hair blown 8 inches around her face, like a halo. She was striking, but she was not happy with me, apparently because I do not automatically know that when she said “

Exit 41″ she meant “Exit on Highway 41 at the Cobb Galleria”. Despite the fact that I had said in the initial conversation “I am a complete retard and I need you to tell me in very simple language with few syllables how to get to your store.”

If only everyone gave directions like Badsnake, this entire thing could have been avoided.

“Do you have a receipt?”

“I don’t have a receipt, but I have tags.”

“We don’t have any grey shirts.”

“I’ll take a white shirt then.”

“Then it won’t be an even exchange. I do not even think we carry this shirt.”

“You do carry that shirt. Call the store in Appleton Wisconsin right now and give them the numbers… they’ll tell you. Or try scanning the tag in your register.”

“I’ve never seen a shirt like this before.”

“I’m not making this up. I mean, you just sent me 50 miles out of my way… do you really think I’d invent a phantom shirt to get a free shirt from you?”

“No, I’m just saying that I’ve never seen such a shirt before in all my time of working here at Gob Gal Luria”

“Fine. I’ll just buy a new shirt. I don’t care.”

Then there was a moment of silence. Now, I may have made some assumptions at this point, but I was, in fact, livid. I just waited for them to bring me the correct shirt. This was probably not correct. Her man servant, who looked like Scott Stapp, the lead singer from Creed, stood there counting the zits on his face. She sucked on her incredibly white teeth. And I flared my nostrils.

Finally, she nods to the back of the store and tells me to go look for a white shirt because they don’t have grey shirts like the one I wanted to exchange. I stormed back to the store and Creed Boy followed me because he was very smart. He found the correct shirt and arm length and then we walked back to the front of the store.

When I returned, she had tried the tag in the computer and found that they did, in fact, sell that shirt through their stores. The grey shirt, which we had purchased last week for $48 was now on sale for $36, she could only give me a store credit for $8. The difference could be received from any store in the chain, provided that I find the receipt.

Then she looks at me and says, “You know, I just have to tell you. The way you carry yourself, the way you hold your body when you walk… it’s just… when I saw you come in, I thought you’d be drudging around, slumping, but you carry yourself really well for a person of your size. I don’t see small people carry themselves with such fluid motion the way you do. You’re like a queen.”

Ok. It was kind of a backhanded compliment, and she was probably just sucking up to me because I was so pissed, but I’m taking it anyway.

I got back in the car and jumped onto the beltway again. It was 4:00. We were going to join the party bus to go to the wedding at 4:45. And I still looked like dog slobber, albeit queenly dog slobber.

I got back to the hotel and threw on my clothes, quickly did my hair (luckily, with the humidity and scary driving, my hair had a kind of Meg Ryan thing going on, which was dressed up with a few strategically placed rhinestone hairpins around my face). Esteban was already dressed, just waiting for his new shirt (grrrr). We managed to get on the party bus with only seconds to spare.

The party bus was an experience in and of itself. Ward and June were there, along with Esteban’s Aunt Neat and Uncle Stoic, as well as miscellaneous relatives from the other side of the groom’s family, whom we didn’t know.

The wedding was lovely. The only thing that was disturbing was the fact that there was a guy sitting behind me in the church who was heaving breathing, so the whole service sounded like a dirty phone call. “Marriage… huh huh huh…. is a sacred union between two… ahhhh huh ahhh huh…. friends, first and foremost… huh huh huh….joined…. heee hhheee hhuhh aahh… forever through eternity… huhh… ahhh.”

The reception was lovely. Aunt Neat was a little put out that this was a normal wedding and not like a Wisconsin Wedding with its broasted family style chicken, the drinking and open bar until midnight. But they adapted. Later, Ward got a bit loopy and kept pulling me out on the dance floor. I teased Uncle Stoic that he never danced with me at my wedding and then he made a point of asking me to dance during a slow one. At one point, the DJ sent the wedding party out to pull up guests from the crowd and Esteban’s cousin, the groom, pulled Esteban and myself up to dance to “Lady Marmalade”. Somehow Uncle Stoic ended up out there with us as well. I think it scared him, seeing me shake my groove thang with wild abandon, but he kept up to the rap-style music pretty well for a sixty-year-old man. Between him and Ward, I rarely had need for a dance partner, which was a good thing because the one time I sought out my husband to dance to “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” (one of my FAVORITE songs), he was getting seconds at the buffet and couldn’t be bothered. Thus, he didn’t get the pleasure of being on my dance card for the night, which was fine, since I had two silver foxes vying for my attention anyway.

See… he’s not always a perfect husband.

We stayed until the end and then huddled back onto the bus. I was calling everyone “Big’Un”, after my lessons on Southern culture at the Rancho the previous night. June confiscated Ward’s beer, stating that he had had enough to drink but I scored it back for him. Then she confiscated it again and gave me a withering glance. I told Ward that was the last time I’d do espionage for him if he wasn’t going to be discreet. And that I was like Olly North for him. That made more sense, though, when you’ve been drinking a lot of champagne.

I came back up to the hotel room to write my Rancho entry while Esteban partied with the revelers elsewhere in the complex. Then we went to bed.

And that was Saturday. And now I’m tired and going to bed. Hope your week is grand.

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Tin roof…. rusted…. well, not really.

Saturday, March 9, 2002

So Atlanta.

DejaVue.

Where was I?

Oh yes’. Rancho Lesbiano.

Ahem.

So it was time to get ready and I realized that it was something like 70 degrees out and the outfit I had planned (because it’s all about the clothes with me, you know) wasn’t going to cut it. It was kind of a downer, since it was the lime green turtleneck and I did have the lime green bra and panties to go with, so I was all afluster about wardrobe from the ground up. So instead, I freestyled and threw together a panic ensemble. I think it worked ok. Not great. It rated an ‘Eh’ from Esteban, but it would ensure that I wouldn’t melt. I did anyway, but considerably less. I think people from Wisconsin are like in that old Frosty the Snowman cartoon where he brings Karen into the greenhouse to keep warm and he melts. Yeah. That’s me. Big bulbous ball of white.

Esteban was hanging with the parents. They were going to dinner and the consensus was that they were going to Applebees. What? Applebees? We are 1000 miles from home and they pick someplace that we have not one, but two locations in Green Bay??? Esteban balked and I sided with him and suggested that they try one of the local places, but his Aunt was freaking out and was getting a rash from all the stress of being in a new place. She needed stability and apparently Applebees was soothing for her. Esteban was grumpy and tried to get out of the forced fam thing to come to the Rancho with me, but June was persistent and he acquiesced. His loss.

I hoped in my car and cranked up the tunes. The sun was setting on the city and as I buzzed through downtown on my way to the Rancho, I was giddy with excitement. I cranked up the tunes and was driving 85 miles an hour, in the flow of traffic, just exuberant in general. Then a moment of Atlanta Zen (tm Chauffi) I was driving down the Atlanta highway and suddenly the B-52’s song comes on. ‘Hey you see a painted sign at the side of the road that says fifteen miles to the love shack’. Love shack yeah yeah’. I’m heading down the Atlanta highway’. Looking for the love getaway’ headed for the love getaway’.’ And I was just’. Wow. I am driving to the Love Getaway’ the Lesbiano Love Shack. And there really was glitter on the highway. It was a surreal moment.

So from that point forward, I knew with certainty that the night was going kick some serious ass. It was destiny, baby. It was fucking fate.

Following BadSnake’s excellent instructions, I found the Rancho without a problem. I was sure I was in the right place by the presence of the green sofa which has been dumped in favor of their new lovely classic sofa. That made me giggle very much’ that I knew the whole story behind their junked sofa. By that time, darkness had settled and with a little jitters, I got out of the car. The Rancho is in a very lovely little area of town’ it reminds me very much of my neighborhood, actually. Little bungalows nestled on a quiet street. I walked up the path and found a note on the door directing me around back, where I found the residents of the Rancho gathered near a little pond, drinking wine and eating grapes and generally having a mellow time with their neighbor Lucy. Badsnake introduced me to everyone, giving Lucy’s real name and then, asiding, ‘That’s Lucy’ to me, to clue me in. Immediately, loud mouth Weetabix says ‘Oh, yeah’. Ricky and Lucy!’ To which Lucy was like ‘What????’ She then went over to tell Ricky about his pseude and he came back, laughing the classic Ricky Ricardo laugh. I felt like a loser though that I had outted her pseudonyms. Like, my grandmother would kick my ass from here until Tuesday if she knew I called her Mafia Grandma. Luckily, Ricky and Lucy were so incredibly cool that they thought it was great.

Deb immediately jumped up to get me a glass of wine and we all chilled in the backyard for a bit. Mechaieh talked about what she did in Amsterdam. We basically all got acquainted, just hanging out in the dark, being mellow. Deb was alternating between cooking and socializing. It was very lovely. Oh, and Mechaieh brought them some porn back from Amsterdam. What did Weetabix bring? Cheese and fudge. How lame is that? Seriously. She brings porn’ I bring cheese. I’ve got to rate somewhere around Betty White in coolness factor.

Then it was time to eat. First Badsnake needed to commemorate the event with a picture, complete with creative tripod placement. She commented on her page that everyone looked good but her’ in my opinion, she looked great’ I, however, have this whole Vulcan weird eyebrow thing going on. And I have my kicky eyeglasses on, but it’s not a good thing. I look exactly like a chubby version of my paternal grandmother, who was often compared to Minnie Pearl. Note to self: either relax forehead when taking pictures or stop letting hairdresser use a weed whacker on my eyebrows. Oh, and by that time, my hair had deflated and was wilting.

Dinner was incredible. Deb is the most incredible cook. Dinner tasted like what you’d expect the food on Molto Mario to taste like. And I love their house. I sat between Badsnake and Sara and we had incredible dinner discussions. Ricky is hilarious and a charming southern gentleman. Lucy is just as witty and clever. We talked about the most diverse topics’ anything from the war in Afghanistan to being so drunk that you need to cover one eye to see straight to biting the heads off partridges. The Hello Kitty vibrator was passed around the table and it is seriously too precious for words. It looks like it should dispense candy or possibly lipgloss. Then we had this weird bonding moment, kind of like in Jaws where Brody and Quinn are comparing scars’ only we were sharing machoisms. Sara has had to move a 300 pound corpse. Ricky puts grubs in his mouth when he’s ice fishing. I have had my hand stuck in a cow’s vagina, up to my shoulder, to twist a calf. There were others but I don’t recall them’ it was all too funny, however. And at one point, a ‘y’all’ slipped out of my mouth. They were turning me southern. I think it was in the wine or something, but it was met with raucous approval and raised glasses. Badsnake also mentioned that she once tried holding a phone book up under her breast. I postulated that I thought I would be able to hold up the entire New York Metropolitan White Pages under mine. She agreed that she wouldn’t want to get into a competition with me’ and what a strange competition it would be. I’m not certain that it would be a good thing to win, actually.

What can I say about the inhabitants of the Rancho? Well, Badsnake is so very cool I cannot even tell you. She is exactly as she is in her diary, and her life really is so good that you almost can’t believe it. And she’s utterly hilarious. Deb is sweet, wonderful, and lovely. You can tell how much she cares for everyone around her. She’s a truly elegant individual and yet completely comfortable and easy going. Sara reminds me a lot of myself, only she’s way more cool. She almost sent wine up into my sinus’ when I was talking about deep fried cheese curds and she said, completely serious ‘Please stop saying ‘deep fried cheese’, I can feel my arteries hardening right now.’ And Jake was completely fun to hang out with. I think I have a girl crush on Jake. She brought me out to the old green couch and Ricky took a picture of us with our hands covering our eyes.

Because of the drunk thing. Maybe you had to kind of be there, but it was hilarious. Seriously. Also, I look like I am from the Planet of 50 Foot Women in this picture. She’s tiny. And I’m descendant from many generations of hearty stock. And I look like a dork in this picture. I hate to put it up, but I promised. So there.

Then everyone finished their incredible soup. I took a picture of Deb and Mechaieh talking, with Badsnake in the background doing dishes, sweatshirt off and tattooed bicep showing.

And that’s when Jake flashed me.

Full frontal boobies’ .two feet from my face.

And did I have my camera ready? I did not. Please do not tell my Girl Scout leader this. She always warned me that I was never prepared enough. That’s why I didn’t get any badges.

And have I mentioned what a complete fucking hottie Jake is? I think she’s high on my Sting factor. (read Badsnake’s entry if you’re not sure what that is)

So dishes were done and we all resettled in different seating to talk some more, digesting to make room for Pear Pudding. I’m not sure if I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. It was fabulous. And then we had dessert, which was incredible. If you haven’t checked out Deb’s Comfort Food diary, I highly recommend it. Her Pear Pudding recipe can be found here and it is divine. Go make some. Now. You’ll thank me for it later.

Then Ricky found out about Jake flashing me and wanted to see some Jake action, so she flashed the entire entourage. Again’ two feet from me. I think I owe her a flash at this point.

Ricky brought me some pecans from his backyard because he’s one of the coolest people ever. And he was a bit tipled too. And I invited the lot of them to come up to Green Bay where I will show them how to tailgate at Lambeau come nippy fall football weather’ all the brats and saur kraut they can eat. I have a four bedroom house and a pull-out queen size sofa’ I think we can manage.

Then we all retired to the living room of Deb and Badsnake’s tastefully decorated home. I felt completely at ease and comfortable, despite the fact that this was the first time I had ever met any of these people. It was like we had all been great friends for years. That’s the magic of the Rancho Lesbiano, people. You just have to let it in.

Then came the part of the evening where I turned to Badsnake and said, ‘So, uh, can you show me where you have all the hot sex?’ Being the gracious Southern hostess that she is, she refrained from sneering at me and saying ‘Perv!’ but instead brought me up to the attic where they have all the hot sex. I got to see the big old cross and the famous futon where Remy ties up Claire. I held the big scary motorcycle boot. I started looking at all these mundane objects and asking about the sexual uses of them. ‘What’s that silicone spray for?’ ‘That’s for the exercise equipment to make the weights run smoothly.’ ‘What are the baseballs for?’ ‘Playing baseball.’ And then Badsnake cracked her whip, so I stopped asking so many questions. She’s quite adept at that. She got some good cracks going that made my spine tingle. Actually tingle. She’s kinda scary with it.

I can honestly say that I’ve never invited to a dinner party that ended with a whip cracking. Well, one, but I wasn’t actually invited to that one.

And then I asked to see the dicks, so she opened the dick box and showed me all of their dicks. And they were impressive. And then she unsheathed Denzel. And even put his glasses on for full effect. She’s so damned cool.

Then everyone was getting yawny, so I took that as a cue to leave, even though I could have stayed for hours and hours. Actually, they did invite me to stay the night but

I tried to explain that I’m from the North and don’t know how do deal with so much Southern hospitality at once. I hugged everyone. Ricky gave me a kiss and called me Sugar.

Best. Dinner Party.

Ever.

Jake and Sara walked me back out to the car and made sure that I knew how to get back to my hotel. Then I watched them wander into their portion of the Rancho. And I hopped in my car, popped in my Abba CD and headed back out onto the highway.

If we ever move to Atlanta, I know exactly where we will live. There are six houses on their block, two are the Rancho and one is Ricky and Lucy, which means that we’ve got exactly three houses in the Atlanta area to pick from. And I think that Stella lives in one, so the pool has gotten smaller. Anyway, great time. Great food. Great people.

Just goes to prove that Diarylanders rock.

When I got back to the hotel, Esteban was still grumpy over his night of fun with his family.

He asked, ‘So.. how was Badsnake?’

‘She was cool. Everyone was cool. And I saw boobies.’

‘Really? No. You didn’t. You’re just saying that.’

‘Yes. I really did. Twice.’

‘Twice?’

‘Twice.’

‘Daaaaaamn. Applebees sucks so much more now. Did you get a picture?’

‘No! And I was trying too! I just wasn’t fast enough.’

‘You know some really cool lesbians, you know that?’

‘Yeah. I do.’

‘I swear as God as my witness’.I am never going to Applebees again. Damn! Breasts! Bare breasts!’

‘Bare Jake breasts. They were very nice, too.’

‘Damn. Hey’ where are you going?’

‘I gotta try something with the phone book.’

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Nearly attacked by Chess Vigilantes!!

Saturday, March 9, 2002

So Atlanta.

&AAk-

We got to Atlanta around 10:00 pm Thursday night and proceeded to follow our Map Quest instructions to our hotel. We were a little nervous, because the exit we got off seemed to be really residential and stuff, but we figured ‘No big’ MapQuest got us 989 miles without a problem, it should be able to handle directions to the hotel’.

Wrong.

We drove through an exceedingly posh area of residentials and churchs. There was not a hotel to be had. We finally tracked down the specific address of our hotel and it was a large area of trees and shrubs and what I have learned is kudzu. Finally, we called the hotel to talk to some clueless individual who told us to look for a church. ‘Dude, there are a whole lot of churches’ we’re in a church zone.’ Which I didn’t even make up’ we had passed a sign saying ‘Church Zone’. In Wisconsin, the only zones we have are areas where whitetail deer may jump out unexpectedly and cause you to kill yourself and everyone in the car with a horrible car crash. Here they have Church Zones. Because I was so addled from our intense drive, I started picturing singing parishioners coming out of the building, wandering out into the road.

It turns out that we were on the WRONG Mount Vernon Highway. Because there are several Mount Vernon Highways here. You’d think they’d put a little #2 or something on the sign, but no. And don’t even get me started on all the Peachtree and Peach Pit streets. It’s a crazy Peach conspiracy.

So we finally get to the hotel, which is very lovely and like a little apartment, not a hotel room. And we’re on the third floor, so after 18 hours of sitting in the car, we lug all of our luggage and the cooler up to the third floor. And then passed out.

The next morning, we were awaked by a knock on the door. Esteban, because he’s the man and does things like this’ it’s in his marriage clause, got up in his underwear and opened the door. It was Ward and June’ all fresh and happy and disgustingly cheerful. Because they stretched their drive down over something like 4 days, due to the fact that their tender constitutions cannot handle long amounts of car driving’ and the fact that Ward has entered into that stage of his life in which he drives like an old man.

Thus began the ‘Kids’ portion of our journey. We are now ‘The Kids’ and must do things to assuage the parents into not being afraid of scary Atlanta or whatnot. Esteban had work to do for his job (even though he’s on vacation, he ended up working from his laptop all day), so I informed the parents that I would be going to see the World of Coke and if they wanted to come with, that would be cool. They did, because they have no agenda or ambition. Their big accomplishment was getting here. Their attitude now was to rest on their laurels and gear back up for Going Home.

June made me sit in the front seat of their Minivan because she wanted me to navigate and she also didn’t want to be able to see as much Atlanta. It was basically her attempt at wearing blinders. Didn’t help, she became a serious backseat panicker. And I was supposed to do the navigating because I had all this experience in Atlanta and all, having been in the city for 11 hours at that point.

Whatever.

I navigated the Old Man Van downtown, with June panicking anytime we saw a large building. You’d think they were portents of doom or something. And because Ward drives 45 miles an hour, it took a really long time to get there. But we did and we did the Coke thing. My only real reason for going was to drink unlimited quantities of Coke, but they just give you these little shot glass thingies and your belly gets all fizzy and yucky feeling after awhile. Then we tried all the various flavors of Coke from around the world. Oh my god, you guys warned me about the nasty one, but you never told me where it was from or what the name was. Bitter Apertif. I’m telling you all right now in case you go. It is a mixture of grapefruit and quinine and it is possibly in the top ten worst things I’ve ever had in my mouth. It’s nestled between hot mustard sauce at this Chinese restaurant in Minneapolis and the time that I was chewing gum and riding my bike and a bee flew into my mouth. June, because she’s an evil little minx sometimes, liked to position herself near that one so she could see the faces of the people trying it. It was like so awful, you almost wanted to try it again because you couldn’t believe it was that awful. It almost took your breath away.

Then we wandered over to Underground Atlanta, which was a little anticlimactic. We then attempted to drive to the Hard Rock Caf’, because they decided it was too far to walk, but then couldn’t find a place to park to save our lives. I got all giddy seeing a bunch of people in the park playing chess, because we have no chess parks in Green Bay, probably not even in Wisconsin and I think it’s cool to see people playing chess in the park. I wanted to stop and take a picture but they were too freaked, like we might have been approached by a chess playing person who would take our queen with their rook or something.

They decided that we shouldn’t go to eat at the Hard Rock because it was too stressful to find a parking spot. They fled downtown despite my reassurance that we were fine. That was my mantra with them. ‘No, we’re fine. We’re going to be fine. Seriously’. It’s fine.’ We headed back on the highway and back to our hotel. This time, Ward picked up the pace a little because he was afraid the chessplayers would follow us, yelling ‘Knight to Pawn 5’. We got back to the hotel and I headed out to purchase us some provisions, as neither of us had a thing to eat at that point.

I went to the Whole Foods Store, which is now my favorite grocery store on the planet. I should have had a clue about the pricing though when I pulled in. I parked the Monte between two Mercedes and directly in front of me was a Saab. There was also a conga line of four Volvo station wagons all in a row. I think mine was the only domestic car in the lot. Didn’t matter. Whole Foods Store is now my girlfriend. They have a freaking olive bar. I don’t like olives, mind you, but how cool is that to have an olive bar? I picked up some hummus, fresh guacamole, fresh salsa, a sushi platter, some blue corn chips, organic bananas, some meringue cookies, and some sourdough rolls to nosh on. Because Esteban planned to do some Wisconsin style hotel drinking with his fam that night, I picked him up some Harp’s beer from their fine selection of snooty beers (Note to Belle: they have Shiner Bock there too). Then I perused their hot sauce aisle, because I love to see all the different things that we don’t have, and found that they had some Wing Time sauce, which is Esteban’s all time favorite sauce and is very hard to find. I usually end up ordering it for him on the internet and it’s kind of expensive to pay for all that shipping. I took all three of their bottles. Total cost of groceries: $56.78. Holy shit.

Then I ran through Chicka-Fil-A because that’s totally new to me. I picked up a chicken sandwich for Esteban and myself, but then I remembered that he specifically requested a burger. Ok, over to Checkers, where I got him a burger and a chili dog sans onions (one of his favorite nitrate ridden treats). Then I had to haul all that shyte up three flights of stairs. I left the non-perishables in the car (the beer and the Wing Time) and then we proceeded to eat like wolves, devouring all the fast food and snacking on the chips and cookies. Hey, we hadn’t eaten anything all day and just road snacks the day before.

I then typed out my travelogue and checked email via Esteban’s laptop. Then it was time to get ready to my much-anticipated portion of this journey.

Dinner at Rancho Lesbiano.

Which I’ll have to tell you about later because it’s time for us to skoodle. Have a great weekend.

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