That's My Bix!

Before Joel’s annual Christmas party, Pie came over for a few rounds of Karaoke Revolution and to counsel me on my wardrobe choices. While I was wrangling my marinated mushroom appetizer, Esteban and Pie ran out to the Man Maul and also the grocery store in search of cooking sherry (for my mushrooms) and puff pastry for the kilo of Brie Esteban had purchased at the warehouse club. I had argued that it would be lovely to serve on its own, or perhaps with a garnish of lingonberries, but Esteban pishposhed that as ‘frou frou’ and chastised me for enjoying brie with fruit. And besides, no one would dare argue the manly merits of PUFF PASTRY. I should be happy that he watches so much Food Network. When I first met the man, he though Taco Bell was ethnic dining. We were pretty sure that we three wise brie-lovers would be the only people to touch it at the party, but we didn’t care, because it was the principle of the thing. Which is exactly why I always dress nicer than normal, because even though I know there will be women wearing kitty sweatshirts, I feel as though I am responsible for raising the bar.

However, other shoppers of our local snooty grocery store also apparently watch Food Network, as there was only an empty spot on the shelf where the puff pastry was supposed to live, so the Brie would be large and in charge in its naked glory. Or, you know, would have been if Esteban hadn’t forgotten it in the refrigerator when we left.

Esteban was dressed in all black, and Pie was wearing a smoking hot red dress with high black boots, so I decided to be the binding thematic agent and wear black pants, my black marabou trimmed camisole and red cashmere sweater. Pie and I had a bit of accidental synchronicity when we, after dressing, realized that we both were wearing white gold three stone necklaces, Pie’s in diamond and mine in whatever they use in the cheap necklaces they sell at Lane Bryant. But my earrings were real, so that brings up my cred somewhat.
The party was a delight. Scotty Boom Boom was officially Pie’s date, although primarily busied himself with deep frying an entire turkey. Pie and I allowed Mark to cater to our every whims, or rather, the whims that were sated with brandy old-fashioneds and peanut butter balls stolen directly from his plate. I explained to Pie how I have become a complete and utter asshole about fashion at this party and usually award the Best Dressed to someone, disqualifying myself and anyone under my immediate bias who, really, are already assumed to be above the rest. I whispered to her that I also had a secret Worst Dressed award that I keep to myself. Although really, often there are four and five way ties for this award. Last year’s Best Dressed awardee was commended this year for taking fashion chances in her long black velvety coat and frilly white blouse. Although, thanks to many of the alcohols, I blurted out that she was dressed a little like Prince in his Purple Rain phase and then started with ‘Dearly Beloved’ we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.’ I told you that I was sort of an asshole. I just can’t help myself sometimes. Later, however, she took someone to task for their half-hearted attempt at dressing themselves and someone piped up ‘You shouldn’t talk. You’re dressed like Prince!’ I replied, ‘Don’t steal my joke. And you shouldn’t talk, Mister Black Pants, Black Tennis Shoes with White Socks. Tell me, is Billie Jean. Not your Lover?’ And then Pie piped in ‘Or is she just a girl who says that you are the one?’ Thank you, everyone, we’ll be here until Tuesday. Be sure to tip your waiters.

One would think that would teach folks, but then Billie Jean’s wife used the opportunity to make fun of her husband, all the while wearing a dressy quilted top thing, black pants, and BLINDING WHITE PAYLESS ATHLETIC SHOES. I’m still not sure how that worked.

Fashion crimes aside, it was a very nice evening. I got to talk with my favorite couple, whom I never get to see enough (hi Steve) and also Phil and his wife CC, whom I also don’t see enough but always enjoy. Esteban had sort of a miserable evening, missing everything in order to talk a friend down from a virtual ledge, but managed to peek out and grab some food after most of the festivities died down. It was a pretty good way to spend a Saturday night, and the three of us ended up with pretty good White Elephant gifts. Through a side deal with another player, I ended up with the Season Three DVDs of Angel, and Esteban got some Guinness, while Mo got a bottle of Bailey’s and some reproduction deer antlers. What better souvenir of Wisconsin than fake deer antlers?

However, imagine our surprise when, on Monday morning, I bolted out of bed and raced for the bathroom. I decided that it was my body’s way of telling me to not have a dinner comprising solely of black cherries eaten while standing next to the garbage can, so I didn’t think anything of it. Then Esteban likewise bolted out of bed and ran for the bathroom. I made my way into work, feeling mildly ill but forsaking anything other than water and some 7UP, while Esteban sat at home and was wracked with gut cramps and other unmentionable things. A quick e-mail check where I learned that similar things were happening at Camp Pie. I offered to pick up some sick food for her on my lunch, which she readily accepted. Just as I was getting ready to leave, Esteban called and asked me to pick up something for him. I explained that I couldn’t be everywhere at once and wasn’t exactly moving in a sprightly manner myself. He admitted that he was just being picky and didn’t want to eat anything in the pantry, and then decided that he couldn’t eat anything anyway. I ran to the store, picked up some supplies for Pie and some for Esteban, then stopped by Pie’s loft where things were clearly Not Good. I felt sort of guilty for being only mildly gross but tolerable rather than having the horrible puke demon that had apparently possessed everyone around me. As I checked in with the sickies via e-mail, I learned that not only were we all suddenly taken with degrees of the same thing, but it had also affected four other people at the party. Aha. I looked up the symptoms and it was textbook salmonella poisoning, although our amateur CSI has been unable to determine a common thread. The only thing we can figure out is that we all ate the turkey and the peanut butter balls, but since the turkey was probed and the lowest temperature was 185, we don’t think it could have been that. We also suspect that it might have been just a stomach virus that was floating around, since the party was crawling with parents of young children as well as two daycare workers. It doesn’t really matter, but well played, mysterious illness, well played.

I’ve mentioned in the past that I, from time to time, experience vasovagal syncope, usually while laughing. More specifically, usually while laughing at something involving poop, farts or someone pooping instead of farting (the pinnacle of funny). Esteban doesn’t understand this and really, my only explanation is that I was a very serious and austere eight-year-old who fretted about taxes and divorce and alcoholism and also the threat of nuclear war instead of doing things like laughing at stupid things like Hershey squirts so now, at the tender age of 34, I finally have the wherewithal to understand that poop jokes are really very funny. Well, anyway, that excuse sounds really good, so let’s go with that.

Before leaving work for the day, I checked in with Esteban to see if he needed anything else. He grumbled weakly and then said, ‘I think maybe some Adult Diapers would be good.’

I knew he was joking, but started laughing uncontrollably at the idea of going to the store to buy my husband Depends. I knew that I couldn’t stop laughing. Esteban started to moan about how it was going to be when we got older and how he would have to be in a nursing home and his wife would just laugh and laugh at his colorectal problems and then suddenly, the world was getting dim and then grey and then my chin hit my desk.

I came to slowly, in the process of saying something that made no sense. I sat there for a minute, feeling the coolness of the air on my flushed face and then the sound turned back on. I knew what had happened, but realized that I hadn’t ended the call and didn’t know how long I had been out. I said ‘Are you still there?’ I heard Esteban say ‘Yes’ somewhere off in the distance. When my chin hit the desk, the microphone from my headset had pushed the earpiece out. I popped it back in and then had the gradual realization that the last thing I had heard before passing out was the sound of someone farting.

I was pretty sure that the someone in question was me.

So to recap: I farted, probably audibly in a very quiet office, surrounded by coworkers.

‘I think I just fainted.’ I said to Esteban.

‘You did not.’

‘Just now. What did I say?’

‘Nothing. You weren’t making any sense.’

‘I have to go.’ I hung up the phone and looked around. Every cubicle I could see was empty for the night, but someone was definitely working on the other side of the wall. In fact, the sound of several someones working very quietly. The sound of someone trying not to make a sound, to quote John Irving.

I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face and then skulked back to my desk, where I refused to look at anyone until the end of the day, which luckily for me happened after twenty minutes. Then I fled.

A previous incarnation of Weetabix might have then made up an excuse and quit, feeling that finding another job was preferable, but instead, I’ve chosen to pretend that it did not happen. Denial is a wonderful tool.

I told Esteban about the horrifying afternoon when I got home. ‘Karma! That is totally karma!’ he crowed, and then asked if I remembered to bring him some Immodium.

I suppose he’s right. But when I told my sister about it today while walking in from the parking lot, I swear I almost lost control laughing again. And so it comes full circle.

So Chicago.

Despite the fact that I was not actually getting onto a plane, I still had some serious travel anxiety. I didn’t buy nearly enough clothes and apparently my main comfort in travel is that I have new everything. In fact, I was going with quite a few old standards, but given that I had picked a very comfortable packing theme (don’t judge) of black and grey with red accents, the overall look was not outside of my comfort zone. And in order to quell my anxiety, I reverted to my obsessive-compulsive disorder of matching my clothes to my undergarments. (I asked you not to judge.)

Then, the only day that I had to pack was the Sunday prior to departure, but since my spastic neck muscle decided to seize tight on Friday and most of Saturday, I spent Sunday trying to catch up on freelance work and the (fucking) laundry, a clear essential as I didn’t want to pack wrinkled clothes that smelled vaguely of stale perfume and hamper.

In a rare bit of karma, my employer’s corporate headquarters are in Chicago, so my boss mentioned that I didn’t have to miss the company-wide meeting on Friday morning if I attended it there, and then wouldn’t have to use a vacation day, since the meeting only went until noon and then they always gave us the afternoon off. It worked out with the air travel schedules, so I then took off on Thursday morning, since I had more vacation time to blow. A wise thing, since I had absolutely no time to pack until Thursday morning anyway.

Monday night I worked on freelance and Tuesday night was Meh Race (which involved lots of wine and then karaoke until midnight because Pie and I are clearly insane). I had class on Wednesday night, and was distressed to learn that oh, I had a story due the next class. Which would normally be fine, but since four days were going to be swallowed entirely with Chicago craziness, and the remaining days would be given to my job, sleeping and freelance work, I had no idea what I was going to do, so I shrugged and said ‘I’ll try to come up with something.’ Knowing full well that the something? I had nothing. But that, taking a page from Ms O’Hara, was something I’d think about tomorrow. Or, you know, the next week.

I spent Thursday morning packing and a bit of hyperventilating, double checking lists and my spreadsheet (ok, go ahead and judge, I’m crazy) and packed the car and swept off all the snow and then took a shower and had breakfast and got the car washed and then waited for Pie to finish teaching a class. Except WOE! The big dumping of fluffy white snow had caused a slip and a fall and she had pulled exactly the same muscle I had pulled a few days earlier.

My heart broke for her, because I knew that she would probably be in pain for a few days, but threw some extra muscle relaxants, Advil, and an ice pack in the car and then went off to pick her up so she wouldn’t have to drive through the sloppy roads. Poor Pie.

My co-dependent care taking habit went into overdrive, but hopefully she was more or less comfortable on the drive down. I enjoyed the trip, and we listened to the original Rent album and generally got ourselves all psyched up for Wicked (WICKED!) that evening.

We made excellent time south through Wisconsin, only stopping once at Caribou in Mequon so that I could introduce Pie to the Ho Ho Mocha, and then once again, we were off, to meet with atrocious traffic once we hit the Chicago area. Fucking Chicago traffic. As much as I love big cities, I really am accustomed to never having any traffic. Even our home game traffic is not as bad as some of the rush hour crap I’ve experienced in Chicago. Unreal. Pie snoozed a bit, thanks to reclining heated seats and a Cyclobenzaprine, while I sweated, worrying that we would be late for Wicked. Because we all know that being late makes me physically ill.

However, as it was, we were fine, speeding into the city at ten to five, in plenty of time to get to the hotel, check in, change, and then catch a cab to the theatre. However, I did not anticipate the hurdle that was our desk clerk, Eugenia.

I know that I sometimes bandy about the word ‘fate’ but I somehow feel as though Eugenia were inescapable. I went directly to the ‘honors’ check in desk and was waiting patiently but the bell boy directed me to the non-honors desk, where Eugenia did not have a guest. As we were walking over there, Eugenia drifted away because she was completely clueless. Eventually, she returned to us, checked us into a room on the 20th floor, gave us a key, then realized, no, we needed silver keys, then realized, no, she couldn’t give us that room, because it was ‘pre-assigned’. She apologized, then picked another room, then spent five minutes randomly hitting keys and mumbling. I asked her if it would take very long, since we had tickets for the theatre. She then apologized, handed us the wrong keys again, took them back, made the right silver keys, then apologized again.

We finally were able to leave the inept Eugenia and were quickly unpacking and getting dressed for the thee-ah-tah. And then a slow realization hit me. Where exactly was my wallet? I figured that I must have had it when checking in, because I had needed my credit card and yup, there was my credit card loose in my purse, but no big black leather wallet to be found. Together, we tore the room apart but no wallet. I had only two fives and a wad of loose singles meant for tipping cab drivers and valets, so I was, in a word, screwed.

Mo assured me that she would cover the cab rides until we were able to deal with the lost wallet the next morning, but just in case, we stopped down at the front desk to see if it had been turned in. We didn’t expect a lot of help from Eugenia, to say the least, but we never expected her to say, ‘No, no wallet, but the room you are in is preassigned, so you’re going to need to change rooms again.’ What? We argued with her a little, but she was clearly brain damaged, until finally I said ‘You know, I’m a little upset right now, but we’ll discuss this again in the morning.’ Eugenia apologized again and I actually bit my tongue to prevent myself from saying ‘You know, apologies stop meaning anything when you keep fucking things up.’

I then took out my frustration on the security lady, who was nothing but matronly and reassuring, and I still feel guilty about it over a week later. During the whole security thing, Pie, who apparently knows exactly how to wrangle my anxiety and apparently read the look of anguish on my face, replied, ‘I know this might be an inappropriate thing to say right now, but man, your shoes are fabulous.’ I love Mo. Thank you for the perspective.

I was feeling sick, but decided that I would not let it ruin our weekend. I would just put it out of my mind and not worry about the cash or my ATM card or my other credit cards. Nope. Will figure something out. It’s fine. While waiting outside of the Oriental Theatre for Wicked (WICKED!), we snapped a picture of our cuteness. I look somewhat like I’m trying not to throw up.

While shivering under the marquee, I called Chauffi and relayed the entire crisis to him and he reassured me that I wasn’t exactly stranded and destitute, but instead would be surrounded all weekend by people who love me and that, if anything, he was more than willing to play sugar daddy all weekend if the wallet didn’t turn up. One of my weaknesses, according to many people close to me, is that I am stridently self-sufficient and unwilling to accept help from anyone. I’m not sure what the psychology is but for a moment, I was awash in gratitude that I could look to my friends if I needed it, and the reminder was exactly what I needed at that moment. I think it allowed me to push everything to the back of my mind and enjoy the experience of Wicked with Mo.

Mo had set us up with incredible VIP seats as well as some kind of VIP luxury package that included private coat check, open bar and snacks as well as private bathrooms. We ensconced ourselves in a corner and nibbled strawberries and sipped champagne while being in awe of how we were totally rock stars and how perfectly we were dressed. For the record, Mo and I were both wearing black dresses and black shoes, but she wore a red sweater over hers, while I wore a black one. She had a black purse while I carried a red one and she had a black coat with red gloves while I had a red coat with black gloves. And we both looked, in a word, hot. We were a bit remorseful that we had no one to bear witness of our serendipitous fashion coup. But we soon drank away our sorrows with complimentary cocktails on our empty stomachs (strawberries and cheese nibbles do NOT make a good base for Belvedere vodka and cranberry, fyi) and were giggling. By the time they announced that curtain would go up in three minutes, we were, in the words of Pie, ‘a little bit drunk’. I was kind of teetery myself, but figured that my missing wallet was all the justification I needed to be tipsy by intermission. However, once the curtains went up and a good witch floated down in her bubble, I didn’t really have to concentrate on pushing away the stress monster because I could only sit there and be enthralled by it all.

It was phenomenal! Ana Gasteyer was Elphaba and the whole time, I just sat there hating her a little bit for being a funny, an actress and having a fabulous voice. The girl who played Glinda was absolutely incredible and totally stood up to the comedic presence of Gasteyer’s Elphaba. The entire thing reminds me of why I love musicals with all my heart because for a moment, you can only just sit back with your eyes wide and your mouth open, soaking in the carnival that plays before you.

My guideline for how much I enjoy theatre is always the intermission. If I’m not anxiously waiting for intermission so that I can get up and stretch or get a drink of water, it’s a good musical. If I am sort of dreading intermission because that means that it’s the halfway point, then it’s a great musical. I have only experienced that twice before and last Thursday, it happened again with Wicked.

But the inevitable intermission did come, and as with such things, I had relaxed and gotten my mind off the wallet situation so well that I suddenly had an epiphany. Had I really had my wallet at check in? I had filled up the gas tank at the Illinois border by taking just my credit card out to pay at the pump and then stuck it back into the pocket of my jeans. I didn’t actually remember seeing it on the counter. In fact, the last time I specifically remembered having it was at Caribou Coffee, when both my wallet and purse were in the back seat. Maybe it was there.

I relayed my thoughts to Pie as we were walking back to the VIP area and she confirmed that she had been thinking the same thing but didn’t want to remind me and cause me to have wounded puppy face again. I was fairly relieved because my epiphanies usually come with a feeling of truth, which allowed me to be a little freer with one of my precious fives during the collection for Broadway Cares at the end of the performance.

And then the delightful evening was over. Chicago was living up to its nickname and the weather was unbelievably cold. Luckily, Pie found us a cab despite several eager folks solely by virtue of her hotness (short skirt, high boots, drop dead sexy Pie, you do the math) and we were zipped back up Michigan Avenue to our hotel, with the inviting heated overhang and the constant barrage of holiday music. Pie asked if we should ask the valet to bring the car around again to check for the wallet, but I had pretty much resigned to the fact that it was either in the car or it wasn’t, and I’d rather go to bed on the hope that it was there than to try to fall asleep if it wasn’t there. Which is what we did. Besides, I had to save up my strength to rip Eugenia’s head off in the morning if she was going to make us switch rooms in the morning.

This is getting long, so more to come!

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A few weeks ago, while Pie and I were at World Market stocking up on bottles of wine to ensure that the Meh Race is actually entertaining, I spied a fluffy cream-colored shag rug. I am rather persnickety about things that go in my house; witness the two-year search for a microwave cart and the yearlong quest for a replacement sofa. The first year with the hardwood floor, we used a hand-me-down country blue rug from Ward and June, which didn’t really go with the feel of the room at all, as my sister pointed out every time she walked into the house. I got sick of hating the rug, so one spring, I rolled it up and stashed it in the basement, where it will sit until I undoubtedly need to use it until I find the perfect rug for my office (suspected discovery date: June, 2008).

And quite frankly, the cream-colored wool shag rug was exactly what I had wanted, nay ENVISIONED for the living room. It didn’t detract from the charcoal sofas with the red pillows. It blended with the black and white pictures on the wall and big black mirror. It was a touch smaller than was ideal, but given that it was so inexpensive, it was a much better deal than my other option, which was to buy a piece of shag at a carpet store and have them bind the edges. The particular carpet I had picked out would have been at least three times the price of the World Market one, before the custom edge work. Even if I needed two of them, it was still an incredible deal. And not five feet away was the perfect desk, for which I’ve been on a quest at least eight months. Score.

I bought the rug on the spot, and then the next morning, Esteban and I borrowed a truck (I don’t know if I mentioned this or not, but Esteban’s truck blew up and he has decided to wait until spring to replace it) and fetched the desk. Despite the great deals, it was an expensive weekend.

I didn’t have a non-slip rug pad big enough, so I didn’t put out the rug right away. I had a bunch of things planned on Friday (none of which involved braving crazy unkempt women seeking door buster savings at 5 am) but everything was dashed when I severely pulled the evil muscle at the base of my neck while performing the rather acrobatic feat of GETTING INTO THE CAR TO GET COFFEE at 10 am. I know. I should obviously have done some stretching head movements before even attempting to mount the Chrysler. So instead of getting coffee, I whimpered and tried not to vomit and then did a stiff, pained shuffle back into the house, slammed a CycloBenzaprine (a prescription for which the evil reoccurring neck muscle has made mandatory) and some Advil, then fell asleep against an ice pack. Many hours later, I woke up. Breathing was no longer painful and I could move my arms, but couldn’t really move my head, nor walk around upright. Pie and I had planned to see Rent and then play Texas Hold ‘Em at Scotty Boom Boom’s house, but all of those things involved my weak little seized neck muscles supporting my teetering bowling ball of a head. Instead, I sat in the chaise and watched television while Pie helped Esteban finish the wiring in my office. I made it out to dinner with them, but then gave up and decided not to go through the agony of bravely attempting poker, which involved looking down and using my arms, both of which needed to be paid for in electric pain spires resonating from the middle of my back. Instead, Esteban brought me home and before he left for Scotty’s, he retrieved my comfy pants from the dryer (the laundry was another To Do list casualty) and fetched various increments of a night spent on ice in the chaise watching Lost In Translation in a codeine haze. Which was, actually, very enjoyable, despite the circumstances.

The next morning, my neck was markedly better, in that I could walk around without feeling like my head wanted to do its best imitation of a Pez dispenser. I moved a little more slowly but was able to make my spa appointment for my monthly facial and then picked up Pie to see Rent. Which was very sad and wonderful and also funny, but only because of the appearance of a fake movie called The Snapping. And I was happy to recognize Shaun Earl in a bit part. He played Angel in the performances I saw a few years ago, so go him, because he’s fantastic. Watching the original Angel however, I am really glad to have gotten to see the original Broadway cast. I wish that if they couldn’t use the original Mimi, they had used at least another Broadway Mimi rather than Rosario Dawson, whose performance (not to mention, voice) left me a bit clammy. And also, Adam Pascal? I was wavering on the Hot Or Not train, having cut my teeth on one Mister Jeremy Kushnier (also known as Broadway’s original Ren from Footloose), who oozed bad boy sex appeal without hardly trying. But despite a song montage that I swear could have been a Bon Jovi video in 1990, Adam Pascal had me at “wallet chain”. It is apparently one of my bad boy triggers. Please make note of that, boys, in the How To Make Weetabix Go All Weak And Giggly cheat sheet.

And while I normally try to suppress my secret shameful stereotypical fat girl joy of angst-filled solos and big emotional finales, we’re going to Chicago this weekend and will be attending a performance of Wicked, so I may once again lapse. I swear, if I had a better voice, I would be living a different life, the beard for some very lucky gay man while opening in Omaha’s production of Chicago. I’d be type cast as Big Momma, of course, but only because the patriarchy can’t handle a chunky Velma. Actually, I don’t have the gams to be Velma, but it’s more realistic than a mezzo-soprano thirtysomething pulling off Christine Daae. Can you tell that I have still not gotten over my bitterness that I was not cast as Miss Hanigan in the local production of Annie because I wasn’t the director’s daughter? Or the Cowardly Lion because I was a girl? Stupid patriarch. Herein ends the musical theatre dork part of this entry.

One of the other things that I did manage to complete was make a run to Home Depot. However, I forgot my list, so the entire time, I was walking around trying to remember three things (rug non-slip pad, closet lights, and Super Glue), only to (rug pad, lights, and Super Glue) find that they (rug pad, closet lights, glue) did not have (rugpadclosetlights SuperGlue) the closet lights that I wanted. The same ones I saw advertised as being available at Home Depot. I did get the rug pad and the Super Glue, and, because I was in a foul mood, NOTHING ELSE. Although I did stop to play with the paint computer a little bit, because I am not made of stone, people.

I went home and moved the chaise and put up the rug, which was entirely too small, but still looks all fluffy and white and nice. I think I need to buy a second one, though. Or a larger one. I’m not entirely pleased, personally, but do like it. However, my spidey sense was tingling and I knew that Esteban would complain and grunt and stomp his feet about the new presence in the living room, because he is obsessive compulsive and dislikes changing the status quo, even with the status quo sucks. He won’t even let me move the living room clock, claiming he likes it where it is, despite the fact that when I moved it there from where it had been in the first place, he moaned about how much he hated the new location for almost a year. I sent Esteban a prophylactic IM while he was at his Dorkathalon, informing him that I put out the new rug and I did not want to hear him complain about it, but if it prevented his ability to use his laptop caddy, we could swing it around and have it run the wide way rather than the long way. He promised me that he wouldn’t complain, even though I have this weird compulsion to CHANGE EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD. Therein lies the fundamental difference of our collective dogmas.

I worked until well past my bedtime and then went to bed. Esteban came home from Dorkathalon late and then apparently had insomnia, as when I woke him up at 4 am and asked him to stop twitching the arm that was resting around my waist, he mumbled that I was always waking him up all the time with my ruthless demands (I am not making that up, the man used the term “ruthless demands”) and the asking to back off when really I should be the one to do the backing off because he had just fallen asleep twelve-ty five minutes ago, okay? OKAY?

Whatever, crazy.

I let him sleep this morning, since he was going to be working for home waiting for my new credit card (Hi, credit card number stealing bastards in Encinitas, CA? Burned!). I received a vaguely coherent phone call this morning, in which he claimed no knowledge of protesting my ruthless demands and also informed me that he was ridiculously tired and might have fallen asleep while in the shower.

And then he said “And also? I think we have a big problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Um, someone seems to have killed a pimp and dumped his body in our living room.”

True to his word: it wasn’t a complaint. The man is lucky that he’s so charming.

I know that you’ve probably got a lot of demands on your spending money this time of year, but unfortunately, there is a bit of a financial crisis over at Journalcon HQ. If you have ever wanted to attend a Journalcon but couldn’t or if you enjoy reading about the fall out (or watching the inevitable post-Con drama unfold), consider spotting the event a few bucks to ensure that it continues. There’s more information here, but you’ll also notice that there are some opportunities to either win or outright receive a special edition Weetamix CD as well as a professional print of your choice of one of my photos.

I think you guys know that I wouldn’t be involved in something that was sketchy, and I can assure you that this was pretty much the committee’s worst nightmare for the last six months. Right now, there’s a hotel chain twiddling its mustache and tying Minarae to the railroad tracks. So if you can throw a few bucks into the hat for Journalcon, you can ensure that your good deed has been done for the month. If everyone who reads this page contributes five bucks, we can wrap up the gig early and not worry about them putting Minarae in the stockades.

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One of my favorite parts of driving down to Milwaukee for school is that by about Mequon, the 1.5 Liter bottle of Dasani I’ve been slurping for the last 90 miles is starting to, oh how shall we say, become rather anxious. And while the drive back home in these dark pre-solstice days is pretty tedious, I can’t have coffee to keep myself awake or I won’t get to sleep until roughly 10 am the next morning. Despite my rather tenacious addiction to my morning cup of Bux, I am very sensitive to caffeine (which is one of the reasons that the Venti cup of rocket fuel does the job that it does and is OH SO ENJOYABLE) and usually don’t even drink Diet Coke after lunch. However, by the time I get to Mequon, it’s usually about quarter to two, which means that while I won’t get to sleep until about two hours after my bedtime, I ensure that I will still be very alert when it comes time to drive up that grey ribbon of highway up the shore of Lake Michigan. And there’s both a Bux AND a delicious Caribou Coffee at the Mequon exit, as well as a snooty gourmet grocery store where I usually stop for snacks to share with the class (last week, it was water crackers and a very soft goat cheese). I usually stop at Caribou, a habit developed last year, before I realized there was also a Bux across the street (and also because I have a blind spot about spotting chain coffee shops and don’t expect them to be within fifty yards of each other in a suburb twenty miles north of Milwaukee, especially when the city of Green Bay can only seem to scrounge together enough coffee drinking denizens to support one measly Starbucks that is not even remotely near my office). I’m somewhat delighted by Caribou, though, because the baristas are super flirty, they usually have big doughnuts with chocolate frosting in the snack case and their coffee (brace yourselves, fellow Buxians, this is going to hurt) is better than Starbucks. And also, during one magical time of the year, they make the best hot non-alcoholic drink I’ve ever had.

A Ho Ho Mocha.

One frothy swirl of heaven that tastes like snowflakes and chocolate and mistletoe kisses and little blue boxes from Tiffany’s, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with pink candy cane pieces. The mint tickles your nose and the chocolate makes you warm to the tip of your toes and then at the end of the cup, there is a slurry of chocolate and mint candy that falls into your mouth and you smile because they all lived happily ever after. The fucking Ho Ho Mocha.

I sort of hate ordering it, though. “I’ll have a Ho Ho Mocha please” is not a phrase that inspires a sense of dignity. Also, in my head, I tend to think of it as “Ho Homo Cah” and that just makes me laugh, because I’m 12.

I was ordering it last year until almost the end of March, when they ran out of the candy cane pieces. However, by spring, my interest in coffee starts to wan, so I didn’t really notice that I could no longer purchase my twenty ounces of happiness in a cup. But, as soon as the mercury started to dive below 40, I was ready. Ho Ho Mocha! But no. No Ho Ho Mocha. No Ho, no other Ho, just a Mo and a Cah. Fie on the generic Mocha! Mo Crap, that’s what that is! Not that it was, per say, but once you’ve gone Ho Ho, you have nothing but woe. Er, woe woe. Shit. This is why I’m not a poet.

So on November 1, when Starbucks brought back the Gingerbread Latte, I figured, certainly Caribou will follow suit and have their holiday assortment brewing. But on November 2, when I went in and ordered my Ho Ho Mocha, I was told by the flirty flirtypants baristas that the holiday drinks were coming the following week, specifically November 8th. Brilliant! November 9th was a Wednesday and I could sashay into Caribou (although really, it’s usually more of a scurry. Just you try to drink that much Dasani and hold it for 90 miles. It’s not as easy as one might think) and order my Ho HoMo Cah on the very next week! Oh yes! It would be mine! Yes! Instead, I grudgingly ordered something with Andes mints on it. But it was not the same. I grumbled about next week and how the world started their Christmas shit two months earlier, why does Caribou have to be all full of integrity and moral purpose and stuff. Stupid Caribou. As I walked out the door, I shuffled my feet while a trombone in the background played “Wah wah waaaah”.

Then the 9th came. Oh joyous day! I bounced into Caribou and said “One Ho! Ho! Mo! Cah! Please!” and smiled because oh it would be mine! I could spend my next twenty minutes sipping liquid succor as I sped along the highway. Yes! Yummy!

But no. They didn’t have the cups. Gangs of gypsies put a curse on their baby caribou and they had to feed it crushed candy canes to make it better. Next week, cute flirty Can Do Barista said, and then offered to make me something that would be JUST LIKE the Ho Ho Mocha, except that would be like saying you could take a piece of paper and a box of 24 crayons and make something that would be JUST LIKE the Mona Lisa. Because it’s not, Can Do Barista. It’s not at all. Maybe if I just randomly swapped your mother with another woman who looked sort of like her, that would be ok because she was JUST LIKE your mommy. Or maybe if I just put on a wife beater and sneered at people, it would be JUST LIKE I was Angelina Jolie and then I could chew on Brad Pitt’s lips (ugh, not without a dental dam, thank you very much). So yeah, do that, because I’m sure that I won’t even be able to tell the difference between no candy canes and actual pieces of concentrated Christmas.

I had forgotten the Ho Ho Mocha Hissy Fit when I walked into the store last week. However, Can Do did not. The door had not even closed behind me when he looked up and said “Well, GUESS WHAT WE HAVE TODAY!” And I said “Ho Ho Mocha!?” with unrestrained glee. And then I thought, huh, I haven’t been in this store in an entire week. How did the barista not only remember me, but remember the drink I wanted but didn’t get?

Then I remembered with shame that the previous week, while I did not actually voice the above, I think I did a little shake of my head, scrunched my lips together, and then (and I am not proud of this next bit) unconsciously raised one foot and then stomped my Doc Marten onto the floor.

Really, do not think less of me, as you must remember that I was actually raised by wolves.

However, he said that I was not the only Ho Ho Mocha lover and that others were exhibiting similar Veruca Salt behavior regarding this particular drink. Just the same, I think someone’s got to work on quelling her princessy behavior, at least in public.

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Exchange during last week’s non-Race Race Night:

Mo : (holding up the cork from a bottle of Muscato D’Asti) Look at this cork. One end is all fat.
Weetabix: It’s not fat. It has a healthy body image.
Mo : It’s pear-shaped.
Weetabix: I wonder if it has problems… buying pants.
Mo : Dum de dum de dum… um, do you have any pants for me?
Weetabix: It’s Pants Cork!
Mo : Hi, I’m Pants Cork!
Weetabix: Aaaaah!! (laughs so hard, cannot breathe)
Mo : Aaaah!! (laughs so hard, falls off chaise)
Esteban: (shakes head and says nothing)

Don’t get it? Drink three bottles of wine in one evening. It’s the funniest thing I’ve witnessed all week. Wait, no, that would be Pie singing Crazy In Love while playing Karaoke Revolution. I would video that shit and put it online, but then she could retaliate and the world does not need to hear my rendition of Endless Love after singing for three hours, especially with the impossible sliding held note. Either that or I might mysteriously disappear and who would be left to raise our little pants cork?

It is definitely pre-winter (Note to Mopie: ‘pre-winter’ means ‘that time in autumn that is more winter than summer, but is still also not totally winter’ and not ‘certainly the most frigid cold weather we could possibly endure’).

Our town schedule Trick or Treat hours last night from 4 until 7, which is just stupid, because man, I work until 5:30. By the time that I get home and feed the child and help her get dressed, it is 6 pm, which leaves exactly 59 minutes of Trick or Treating in the dark.

Three days with a child and already this has turned into a Mommy Blog. But you should have seen the crazy coordination required to just get the child home. You see, she goes home with a friend to the friend’s babysitter for about two hours after school, then gets picked up by the friend’s mom and brought back to their house for another forty-five minutes until I pick her up. Except that when Esteban tried to pick her up there, in hopes of getting her fed and costumed, she wasn’t there. No one was there. And then I had the whole pit of my stomach turn into charcoal and a furtive fist raised to the sky while the soundtrack of ‘Not Without My Niece Slash GodChild’ played melodramatically in the background. However, Esteban found her at the babysitter’s house, and learned that we’ll never really be sure if she’s going to be there or with the friend’s mom because everyone is confused on the schedule and my god, how the hell does anyone have children with this madness? My Type A personality cannot handle all of this confusion. I want to quit my job and be a stay-at-home mom and I only have her for a week! She didn’t even come from my magic place, so how the hell does anyone with spawn actually have a career? It boggles my mind.

I ended up rushing out of work, cellphone in hand and learned that Esteban had located the child and was on the way to pick her up. I told him that I would pick up dinner (McDonald’s, because it was the fastest. No wonder the nation is in a nutritional epidemic. Look at how easily I slip off her organic foods diet. Do not judge. I have no practice at this parenting thing.) and he grimly replied OK and we almost did that hands clasped and Break! thing that you see in movies involving Steve McQueen driving motorcycles out of Russia. And then I snapped at the McDonald’s employee because she wasn’t exactly fast with the Chicken McNugget Happy Meal and my god lady, can’t you see that we’re burning Trick or Treat minutes here? Can’t you see that?

I arrived home about five minutes after Esteban and Abby. The front door was blocked by kids in costumes. ‘Where’s the candy?’ Esteban hissed over their heads, surriptiously dropping something into their bags to lackluster ‘Thank you’s. ‘In the kitchen.’ I replied, juggling my purse, a Diet Coke and three bags of marginal fast food. ‘What are you giving out?’ Esteban shrugged. ‘Zingers and Ho Ho’s.’ You have to admire the man’s ingenuity. Good thing Mo and I had gotten the munchies last week after Meh Race.

Abby dutifully ate her dinner in her witch costume and then we realized that we didn’t have an actual Trick or Treat bag for her. Or if it was sent along, we didn’t know where it was. I was horrified because as a child, one of my absolute tenets was that a non-sanctioned candy bag was completely tacky. I wouldn’t have been caught dead with a pillow case, much preferring a plastic pumpkin or a 25 cent printed vinyl bag with smiling ghouls on it. While we were exceptionally poor while I was growing up, there was no reason to have such visible proof close at hand. (See the where the label-consciousness started?) So when Esteban handed Abby a paper grocery bag, for a second, a little part of me died inside. But the kid carried it around daintily, like it was a Balenciaga bag or something, and for a minute, I wanted to be like Abby when I grew up.

We walked up and down our street. About half the houses had their porch lights on, but Abby still filled up her bag. I’m not friendly with our neighbors, but it felt very much like a community, walking up to their doors and wishing them a Happy Halloween. It was unseasonably warm last night. I remember wearing my snowmobile suit under my costume one year, and wet snow falling into my treat bucket, crinkling the candy wrappers, but I was walking around wearing a cardigan over a t-shirt and moccasins without socks.

I had a million things to do in front of the computer, but for a moment, I was able to relax and live in the now, watching Abby prance from door to door with her treat bag, watch the smiles of my neighbors, the sweet little old ladies with the snow white hair, the hipsters with the tattoos and Fluevog shoes, each and every one returned my ‘Happy Halloween!’ with warmth. I admired the decorations, the orange luminaries, the Pottery Barn garden lights, and the glimpses of lives that one can spot from the front walk. Was mine the only house that didn’t originally have a hardwood floor? Apparently so. We don’t have sidewalks on our street, so we stamped over fallen leaves, pressed in silhouette against wet black pavement. We’d kick them with our feet and be rewarded with a bloom of musty aromatics. One group of neighbors was eating crackers out by a bonfire and wasn’t letting the teenagers with no costume have any candy, but called Abby ‘sweetheart’. We walked with a flashlight in hand because I was worried about Abby’s dark costume being spotted by approaching cars, but really, I didn’t have to worry. The teenagers that live behind Wood Chopping Guy had a strobe light set up and were blasting Rob Zombie, pretending to be the undead and dancing in this creepy boneless goth way that even I had to admit was a little unnerving. Abby didn’t want to pass them and called them ‘freaky zombie dancers’ which made me laugh, the way she said it, as though she couldn’t believe anyone would put so much time and effort into scary the shit out of little kids. I appreciated the unexpected ‘Living Dead Girl’ though. The canopy of trees and the porch lights illuminating Cape Cods and white Craftsmans transformed my street into the quintessential American neighborhood from any time in any place. For a moment, I was really happy to be a part of this slice of Green Bay. For a moment, maybe the first time in my life, I felt the permanence.

We ended up with 142 pieces of candy in the hour that we walked the neighborhood. During that same hour, Esteban gave out all seven bags of our candy. I searched through the few old maids for any of my favorites, but they were all gone.

‘Oh, bummer, all the good ones are gone.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘The peanut butter cups.’

‘There are a few in the kitchen that I saved for you.’

Love that man. Love him. Also, you’ve never seen adorable until you watch him bending down to tuck the child in at night. I swear, it totally makes me want to go out and get us a baby! Well, not really. Maybe a seven-year-old. Or maybe just a dog.

After Abby went to bed, I worked on my story until my eyes were going crossed, and then went to bed. I have no idea how to end the story, so it’s probably going to have a stereotypical Weetabix non-ending because I’m not going to have any time to finish it before class on Wednesday. Tonight, I’m going to the symphony with Pie. Normally, I would eschew such time management indulgences, but tonight’s performance includes favorite piece of classical music: Mozart’s Requiem In D Minor. I’m talking a classical music orgasm. I tear up thinking about how beautiful that piece of music is, about how it may have killed me with loveliness had Mozart lived long enough to finish it, wondering which themes he had hinted at in the first movements that would be repeated later, embellished, made whole rather than marred by his student’s clumsy hand.

Stupid syphilis.

Regardless, I am so stoked that I’m totally going to have to restrain myself from doing the Rock and Roll Devil Sign during the Confutatis. Maybe we need a new classical music hand signal. Furious air violin is really hard to do in the orchestra row seating.

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