A few years ago, my friend Lori sent me a link to what is my absolute favorite blog. Lori has a great sense of humor and told me that the woman that writes this particular blog is hilarious. Lori also gave her the best endorsement of all saying "She's the only person on the internet that I would have an interest in meeting in real life." Considering that Lori refused to accompany her mom and sister for dinner with Tom and Roseanne (yes, that Roseanne) that's pretty big.
Erin is the author and you can visit her blog here. Here are a few of her entries:
What about weevils, can weevils live on people?
So yeah, hey, what's happening? Things are great over here, Randy and I are great, marriage is great. Well, for me, marriage is great for me, I can't speak for Randy. I'm married to a handsome, responsible, functioning member of society-- Randy's married to a woman who didn't wash the up-do out of her hair until six days after the wedding, and only then on account of the fruit flies. Last week Randy's wife hurriedly bit a bunch of Dots in half and stuck them all over his windshield while he pumped gas. Yesterday Randy's wife called him at his office because she filed her taxes all by herself like a big girl (for the fifteenth year in a row) and thought it deserved some validation.
"I almost said fuck it," I told him over the phone, showboating, swatting at my head, "but then I figured I'd be in big trouble next year, what with the 'filing jointly' and whatnot."
"Yeah, good job," Randy said, either distracted or horrified, they sound the same over the phone. They actually sound the same in person, too, I think he must practice that. Either way, he managed to impart exactly the same amount of validation that he might convey had I called to announce I hadn't yet lit a match and held it to the living room drywall that morning. Which is to say, little.
So to sum up: I'm married to a smart, well-adjusted person who gets up every morning to go participate in society and who isn't perpetually herding a small farm of something around on his scalp, and Randy's married to... not that.
"Nah, I really only need them to read..."
I walk barefoot into the laundry room to get my gym clothes, and I kick a piece of lint out of my way... only it turns out to be a live scorpion.
Who was, needless to say, taken aback by my casual bravery.
I managed to bring some sort of crippling intestinal problem home from Mexico last Friday, forcing me to miss a friend's first art gallery show, a formal fundraiser at which I had been promised a mani/pedi and gourmet mac & cheese, and Melati's infamous Tequila Stakes Croquet tournament.
The last time I became markedly ill in Mexico was around eight years ago. A good friend of mine, Jodi, was close to seven months pregnant and desperately wanted to submerge her boiling July fetus in the ocean. Neither one of us ever having actually been pregnant before, and also coincidentally being pretty dumb, we saw no problem with a woman in the third trimester of her first pregnancy driving four hours into a third world country for the weekend.
Sunday morning we had brunch at a beach front restaurant called the Costa Brava where we decided to see exactly how hard we could slap God across the face; chorizo, eggs, ham, chiles rellenos, coffee with cream. Peppers. Salsa. Pork cheeks. Runny cheese. Bring it.
Two hours later I was fighting hard through cold sweats and an intestinal mayday to drive us toward the US border, only slowing down to ninety once I knew for sure we were hypothetically within Medevac range. Jodi was too ill to speak; her husband took her to the emergency room that night where she was treated for extreme dehydration and mind numbing stupidity. Ultimately she was fine. And the baby was fine, a gorgeous boy. A gorgeous boy whose immune system today no doubt rivals that of a Sherman tank.
Several years went by and then the Costa Brava restaurant exploded. I don't mean it suddenly became more popular-- I mean there was a "gas meets lighter" situation late one night and the Costa Brava blew up. My lack of compassion would have made a terminator proud. The rubble is still there, huge chunks of charred concrete and exposed rusted rebar. Every time Randy and I drive by, I can't help it, I have to point.
"That's where Jodi and I ate that time. God, were we sick," I shake my head, "Tacos de cabeza... warm lettuce..." and I stop, unable to go on. Randy pats my knee. It's okay, baby, he seems to be saying, It's okay. You're just an idiot.
I haven't talked to Jodi in a few years, she moved to the other side of town and we fell out of touch. I think about her every time my stomach involuntarily churns in front of the Costa Brava concrete mountain, though. I wonder if she takes her family to Mexico. I wonder if she tells her son, now a veritable child, about the time he made the trek in her belly.
"That's the Texaco station," she might say, passing quickly through Ajo, "where I almost accidentally shat you out in the parking lot."
"That's the restaurant," she might say, pointing as I do at the wreckage, "where Mommy ate something squishy called 'tripe' and chased it with a quart of milk. That's the place," she might whisper, still pointing, "your Mommy had to set on fire."