It all started with the fucking Chardonnay on Thursday night.
We had the white wine and we didn't have any red wine so we thought we'd try the white wine with the trout S had caught earlier. Actually I guess it started with catching the fish. He said the fishing trip was strange; some big annoying home-grown horsey woman who looked like she could wrestle a bear showed up and fished for an hour. She was one of those people with no internal dialogue, she talked constantly just under her breath, "tie the hook, clip the weight, get the... worm... and... there, now caaast, let out line... let it sink, close the bail...."
I wasn't there but I could see in my mind's eye the look of outrage and tongue-biting and exasperation on S's face. And when she left she took one of his fish he had set up on the bank. He had caught four nice trout and when he packed up to go there were only three.
So the fucking Chardonnay was sweet and smooth and chilly and good, and we drank the whole bottle like we usually do with red wine, and then after dinner I danced and S fiddled and we giggled like kids and for some reason decided to stay up until past midnight. When I awoke on Friday morning to the alarm, I thought my head had split wide open and my belly was flipping like a fish on the riverbank.
It's the fucking Chardonnay, said S, and told me about his Greek six-foot-six-inch Ancient History professor who one Monday in class told, in his heavy accent, about the artsy fartsy party he had attended, where they served him some Chardonnay. He did not want some fucking Chardonnay. He wanted some Chianti, some Red Peasant Wine. Of course S and all the other students were shocked and tickled by the professor calling it fucking Chardonnay, and I do believe they all learned a valuable lesson: if you have a party, and you want some fucking Chardonnay to serve to the guests, make sure you also provide some Chianti.
I called my work and left a message for my boss that I had woken up with a terrible headache, and I would be in an hour late. She called back in ten minutes and told me to stay home, have a nice weekend, my shift was covered. Well, okay. Twist my arm.
I slept until ten, when S patted my bottom and said, "Tebone will be here soon. We're taking the Victrola over to his studio to record some old music."
He made coffee and I showered, already feeling better but still shaky, disbelieving one bottle of fucking Chardonnay could screw my system so hard. No more fucking Chardonnay for me. Ever.
I emerged from the shower, drank coffee, ate breakfast and then when I was cleaning the plates, S came running into the kitchen whispering, "The PO-lice are here."
A knock at the glass door. I peeked and it wasn't the police, it's a pair of Mormon missionaries, and although my best friend and I once hid for ten minutes in the bathroom to avoid them when I was a child, her all the time saying, "They're trying to GETCHA,"
I recalled the few times I had successfully excused myself and gotten them off my porch.
So I half-opened the glass door, and the smooth talking one rattled on about what a beautiful day it was and do I know about Christ and all the wonderful things He did and that there is a further message for Christians for maybe ten minutes and I said, "You know, I stayed home sick from work today, and I am not up for talking. Thank you."
"Oh, but just one more second, Ma'am, I wish to tell you about our mission, and about the rewards of a life..."
At this point S comes barrelling out of the kitchen, saying, "The lady asked you politely to leave; 'just one more second'? I don't think so. You need to take your false prophet and your faulty doctrine and go. Now. Get off my porch!"
The two stood their ground, one saying, "Ours isn't faulty doctrine, sir!"
"GET GONE!" I had never seen S this way.
"You don't know about it..."
"I know my beliefs and I know you need to shoo, get going, get a move on," and he slammed the door.
But he didn't stop, oh no, the rant was just beginning. "Oh great they teach salesmanship, they're worse than vaccum salesman, 'Here, buy our God!' Sorry Mr Moroni-- how come it's 'mormon' when the angel was 'Moroni'? That sounds to me like they should be 'morons' -- but the God I believe in doesn't need salesman. They're not honest, they don't believe Christ is the Son of God, and their 'prophet' was 'martyred,' right? Because he was a philandering horse-theif who obviously slept with one too many daughters in the town so they hanged him! A man who stole horses and had six wives or whatever, gee whiz, what a great thing to found a religion on. It's not the doctrine of Christ and I didn't bid them Godspeed. Standing there preying on housewives and widows. It always feels like they're trying to getcha, just trying to getcha. My Dad brings them into his house and keeps them there until they start looking at their watches because he says that keeps them from talking to other people, and then he sends them on their way with some cleverly phrased thing about false prophets he hopes make them think, but it doesn't. They're slippery as snakes and you can't get a straight answer out of them. I'd rather talk to a Hari Krishna, I mean shit, at least they make an attempt to answer your questions, and try to talk honestly about their beliefs instead of just trying to convert you because then they get a little notch in their belt. That pisses me off."
And then Tebone drove up and saved me from my raised eyebrows.
We recounted the event and Tebone was amazed and amused. He and S chose records to take back to his place. We also took half an hour and watched Rikki Tikki Tavi, which he hadn't seen before. During the movie, D showed up to get his bike from our garage, and after the movie Tebone & S moved the Victrola into the bed of the pickup, which always strikes me as a strange visual, the beautiful spindly-legged wooden box in the bed of the rough dirty old brown pickup.
Everybody left, which was fine because I like my solitude and haven't had it in a while. I sewed, read, made mint tea, and cooked salmon chowder with carrots, potatoes, shallots and garlic, spinach, baked squash, chipotle peppers, and an avocado. It was delicious and very, very rich. Good with red red wine, not fucking Chardonnay.
I would have missed a very interesting day if I had gone to work.
We had the white wine and we didn't have any red wine so we thought we'd try the white wine with the trout S had caught earlier. Actually I guess it started with catching the fish. He said the fishing trip was strange; some big annoying home-grown horsey woman who looked like she could wrestle a bear showed up and fished for an hour. She was one of those people with no internal dialogue, she talked constantly just under her breath, "tie the hook, clip the weight, get the... worm... and... there, now caaast, let out line... let it sink, close the bail...."
I wasn't there but I could see in my mind's eye the look of outrage and tongue-biting and exasperation on S's face. And when she left she took one of his fish he had set up on the bank. He had caught four nice trout and when he packed up to go there were only three.
So the fucking Chardonnay was sweet and smooth and chilly and good, and we drank the whole bottle like we usually do with red wine, and then after dinner I danced and S fiddled and we giggled like kids and for some reason decided to stay up until past midnight. When I awoke on Friday morning to the alarm, I thought my head had split wide open and my belly was flipping like a fish on the riverbank.
It's the fucking Chardonnay, said S, and told me about his Greek six-foot-six-inch Ancient History professor who one Monday in class told, in his heavy accent, about the artsy fartsy party he had attended, where they served him some Chardonnay. He did not want some fucking Chardonnay. He wanted some Chianti, some Red Peasant Wine. Of course S and all the other students were shocked and tickled by the professor calling it fucking Chardonnay, and I do believe they all learned a valuable lesson: if you have a party, and you want some fucking Chardonnay to serve to the guests, make sure you also provide some Chianti.
I called my work and left a message for my boss that I had woken up with a terrible headache, and I would be in an hour late. She called back in ten minutes and told me to stay home, have a nice weekend, my shift was covered. Well, okay. Twist my arm.
I slept until ten, when S patted my bottom and said, "Tebone will be here soon. We're taking the Victrola over to his studio to record some old music."
He made coffee and I showered, already feeling better but still shaky, disbelieving one bottle of fucking Chardonnay could screw my system so hard. No more fucking Chardonnay for me. Ever.
I emerged from the shower, drank coffee, ate breakfast and then when I was cleaning the plates, S came running into the kitchen whispering, "The PO-lice are here."
A knock at the glass door. I peeked and it wasn't the police, it's a pair of Mormon missionaries, and although my best friend and I once hid for ten minutes in the bathroom to avoid them when I was a child, her all the time saying, "They're trying to GETCHA,"
I recalled the few times I had successfully excused myself and gotten them off my porch.
So I half-opened the glass door, and the smooth talking one rattled on about what a beautiful day it was and do I know about Christ and all the wonderful things He did and that there is a further message for Christians for maybe ten minutes and I said, "You know, I stayed home sick from work today, and I am not up for talking. Thank you."
"Oh, but just one more second, Ma'am, I wish to tell you about our mission, and about the rewards of a life..."
At this point S comes barrelling out of the kitchen, saying, "The lady asked you politely to leave; 'just one more second'? I don't think so. You need to take your false prophet and your faulty doctrine and go. Now. Get off my porch!"
The two stood their ground, one saying, "Ours isn't faulty doctrine, sir!"
"GET GONE!" I had never seen S this way.
"You don't know about it..."
"I know my beliefs and I know you need to shoo, get going, get a move on," and he slammed the door.
But he didn't stop, oh no, the rant was just beginning. "Oh great they teach salesmanship, they're worse than vaccum salesman, 'Here, buy our God!' Sorry Mr Moroni-- how come it's 'mormon' when the angel was 'Moroni'? That sounds to me like they should be 'morons' -- but the God I believe in doesn't need salesman. They're not honest, they don't believe Christ is the Son of God, and their 'prophet' was 'martyred,' right? Because he was a philandering horse-theif who obviously slept with one too many daughters in the town so they hanged him! A man who stole horses and had six wives or whatever, gee whiz, what a great thing to found a religion on. It's not the doctrine of Christ and I didn't bid them Godspeed. Standing there preying on housewives and widows. It always feels like they're trying to getcha, just trying to getcha. My Dad brings them into his house and keeps them there until they start looking at their watches because he says that keeps them from talking to other people, and then he sends them on their way with some cleverly phrased thing about false prophets he hopes make them think, but it doesn't. They're slippery as snakes and you can't get a straight answer out of them. I'd rather talk to a Hari Krishna, I mean shit, at least they make an attempt to answer your questions, and try to talk honestly about their beliefs instead of just trying to convert you because then they get a little notch in their belt. That pisses me off."
And then Tebone drove up and saved me from my raised eyebrows.
We recounted the event and Tebone was amazed and amused. He and S chose records to take back to his place. We also took half an hour and watched Rikki Tikki Tavi, which he hadn't seen before. During the movie, D showed up to get his bike from our garage, and after the movie Tebone & S moved the Victrola into the bed of the pickup, which always strikes me as a strange visual, the beautiful spindly-legged wooden box in the bed of the rough dirty old brown pickup.
Everybody left, which was fine because I like my solitude and haven't had it in a while. I sewed, read, made mint tea, and cooked salmon chowder with carrots, potatoes, shallots and garlic, spinach, baked squash, chipotle peppers, and an avocado. It was delicious and very, very rich. Good with red red wine, not fucking Chardonnay.
I would have missed a very interesting day if I had gone to work.
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