Somehow this post sat in my bin for a few weeks. It’s a little weird to see it now.
Thursday I slept until two and spent the day cursing my mother for being in Mexico and my father for being the sort of douchebag who doesn’t send me an email telling me when I can have turkey. Not that I want to spend my Thanksgiving with my father, but you know, it would be nice for him to remember to try. I shouldn’t have to explain that I was sad and lonely by the end of the day. Cake Woman implied that she might need someone to divest her of her free time, so Thursday night I packed up the sadness machine and found my way to Anoka. We watched Goonies because she had never seen it. She fell asleep, I fell back to age ten. Friday we shopped. Saturday we took Noah to the zoo and walked hand in hand in hand to see the penguins and monkeys.
When Sunday broke itself upon my sleepiness, I needed to do something that did not feel like a “boyfriend activity with a not-girlfriend,” so Lisa, Stan, Noah, and I went to Jay’s Cafe in Saint Paul so that I could worship at the Church of Delicious Breakfasts with my quasi-family. Lisa wouldn’t let it go that the woman from the art auction works at the cafe, but I was just going for the food. I had the pork hash. The Keathlys rolled me out the door and into the car. Later, the oompah loompas put me into the squeezer to get all the pork juice out of me.
Cake Woman called to ask if I wanted to play air hockey.
“Are you gonna be hungry?” Cake Woman asked on the phone while I waited.
“I could eat,” I replied, despite being still a little full from my afternoon breakfast. I figured that I could put away a few White Castles or roller dogs pretty much on demand, especially on the weekend.
I was pretty happy to have my black wool coat again (after leaving it at Paul’s house because it was on his bed when he went to bed and I didn’t really want to go after it since he and his girlfriend had both become remarkably tired during that party a long time ago). I alternate between brown and black shoes each day so that I can avoid hideous shoe funk (as opposed to regular music funk, which I seek out in all its stinky stanky booty shaking forms). Sunday was a black shoe day, which meant my new all-black Vans. It was a Morissey kind of day (I wear black on the outside ’cause black is how I feel on the inside) so I went whole hog with black socks, black belt, black Trogdor (the burninator) shirt, and black hoodie. Somehow, despite being the fourth day of the weekend, my laundry had backed up into two 18 gallon tubs, so really, only my socks and underwear hadn’t been worn since their last washing. With the coat and a black watch cap I had completed my transformation into a dock worker or other general thug. My third day jeans completed the effect, and I was dangerously close to the wrong kind of funk again. No matter, Cake Woman doesn’t come close enough to smell me and who gives a crap at Gameworks? I’d be all sweaty while working joysticks anyway.
“So, if you need me to pay for stuff, I will have to put it on my credit card,” I volunteered. My bank account was a bit on the depleted side.
“Are you sure? We’re going some place expensive,” she replied.
“What? Wait, no, uh, I mean that I can’t get cash — I can’t pay for parking, but I can pay my way with plasticky goodness.” Actually, my bank account was beyond depleted. Never mind that, it’s not germaine to the story, such as it is.
“Oh,” she said, rolling the sudden and overwhelming difficulty around in her head. “I wish that you would have told me sooner.” Cake Woman’s credit union has one ATM somewhere in Golden Valley or Iowa or something. I don’t know.
“So, uh, where are we going?” I said. In my most hopeful of hearts I threw a penny in the reflecting pool next to the abomination known as the alumni center on the University Campus. Please say Masa, please say Masa, please say Masa rolled through my head. There was only a slim chance that she remembered that I love Mexican food beyond all reasoning and that she had noticed that a new almost upscale Mexican restaurant had opened downtown. At least I knew that it wouldn’t be White Castle, since I would be around people at work and school the next day, and nobody needs those particular aftereffects. The light changed at the entrance to 35W and she gunned it, quickly leaving Johnson Street behind. The other cars seemed to be frozen in place, their mouths agape.
“It’s a surprise!” she shouted at me, obviously exasperated at my demands upon her patience. I remembered quickly my role as murder prevention agent from her Christmas shopping trip only two days before and noticed that there was no one in the car to prevent her from murdering me. I gripped the door handle with white knuckle tension as Cake Woman expressed her frustration through rapid, aggressive driving. To the best of my recollection no one was permanently injured. Cake Woman’s Cutlass slashed its way around the 94 exit. If we were going to some downtown joint we were going the long way.
“Seriously, where are we going?”
Terre Rouge Syrah of some sort or another
Grilled Pork Tenderloin with Salsa di Erbe
Spinach with Toasted Pine Nuts, Golden Raisins, Garlic and Extra-Virgin Olive Oil
This was one of the best meals I have ever eaten. Cake Woman’s chicken was only so-so, but eating my tenderloin was like putting creamy meat in my mouth and having it slide down my throat — wait. Um. Let me come up with something that doesn’t sound like my second job as a sex worker. Admittedly, the spinach was a bit bland, but the mashed pertaters made up for it by being the perfect airy consistency. Fuck you, I’m fucking Irish. I’ve had better tiramisu, but I grew up eating meat and potatoes, and those were flawless. It probably helped that Cake Woman and I split a bottle of Terre Rouge Syrah. Mind you, I know nothing about wine, but I had no problem drinking my half. Then again, I love booze, so you can forget anything that I have to say.
We went to Gameworks for air hockey, but the air hockey was broken. I schooled Cake Woman at Soul Caliber, but I was already too drunk to DDR.
A ridiculously large Summit Extra Pale Ale
We went to Brit’s on a quest for Smithwick’s, but we were unsuccessful. We did, however, see that “POOP” was still written on the ceiling in blue pool cue chalk. I don’t know how or when that could have happened. Cake Woman doesn’t believe in wasting booze, but she can’t always finish her drinks. When that happens, it is up to me to save the day.
We were definitely on our way home, and I convinced her not to drive to Anoka, but somehow that translated into stopping at Nye’s. We sat in the side bar, where some guy and lady were doing duets. Cake Woman sang along to at least one, I might have, but in any case, when we left I was barely able to walk.
Some mysterious beer
Some mysterious whiskey
At my house, Cake Woman threw up in my garbage can and slept in my bed. I didn’t sleep well that night at all, even when I tried to go sleep downstairs to remove temptations. Lying crossways in the easy chair might be an all right way to nap, but I was three halves drunk and had a woman stuck in my head so there was no way that I was going to just magically drift off.