10 January, 2010

What a day!

9 December 2006
175

R. Linda:

Today, the wife talked me into dragging meself to a craft fair in the town centre. So off I went, not wanting to go but acting enthusiastic because I knew she liked those sorts of places. I was determined to put a smile on me face (so it be frozen, but a smile it be all the same), and act (in the theatrical sense) like I was looking forward to this particular (and painful) outing.

We arrived in the tiny village centre to find that it was decorated for Christmas (an English Christmas, no less), you know, with the panto people putting on a show at the craftsmen guild and a Punch and Judy set up for the wee kiddies in the foyer of the library. It was almost like being in London for the season. Right.

We gave our donation at the church community centre next to the guild and library, where the fair was happening. Inside we went to what looked like Santa's workshop. Very Christmasy and colourful, with lights and carols playing in the background, good cheer all around, eggnog (without the alcohol), cookies, and craft gifts galore.

Instantly, the wife was off to the nearest homemade jewellery booth and I went off to the men's room to hide out until the first "must have, must buy" kicked in. I know it takes at least fifteen minutes of shopalotta to wear off before it is safe for me and the chequebook to reappear.

This I did. And there she was, chatting it up with the various artisans, having a wonderful time as I hung back, hands deep in me pockets, cradling me chequebook in one and the billfold in the other. Silently nodding at the people passing by, and making like I was having a wonderful time. Like I said, I will be an actor when necessary.

After perusing various sketch artist's work, framed watercolours, more home-made jewellery, hand-knit hats and scarfs, strange wine bottles with Christmas lights inside (don't ask, I have no clue), an assortment of spices enveloped rather attractively for dips, sauces, and splash and dash for meats, we came to the home-made fudge and other confections. There we sampled the pistachio fudge (not bad, but the green colour was off-putting), the chocolate was delicious, the peanut butter (smooth and lovely), and then the bark candy. Yes, the bark white chocolate with flicks of pistachio, chocolate chip,  peppermint lines, or the rather attractive vanilla lavender. Hum, the last was at the end of the table. Actually; it was on the next table next to the vanilla raspberry bark. Uh . . . yes, it was.

My wife, meanwhile, was eating her way down the table. I had moved onto the next table and was ruining a display and not paying much mind to Tonya's whereabouts. There in front of me was a homemade (what else would it be? Manufactured? No, no.) long-legged brown frog wearing a golden crown with an 'F' initial around his neck. Naturally, yours truly had to touch him, and then I couldn't get the damn thing back on his shelf. I was told his name was Francis, Frank for short, and he needed a home. Yes, indeed, I said he would make some child a happy play pet, but I had just turned 30 (okay, I lied) and wasn't on the market. So there I was struggling with 'Francis' to get him back on his shelf. The craft person telling me all the while, that Francis didn't want to be put back because obviously 'Francis' wanted to go home with yours truly. For a mere $35.00, he could be my best pal. No way Jose says I, me co-workers would have a field day and poor Francis -- just think of the humiliation to be laughed at (more like I'd be laughed at, but it seemed to appeal to her sense of parenthood over Francis). She took him away from me and put him back in his proper place with a glare at me for even suggesting anyone would laugh at her Francis.

If this mini-drama hadn't involved me, I might have been paying better attention to what Tonya was doing. I heard her off to my left as I was struggling and yaking with Francis's mother say, "Ooh vanilla lavender bark, I love lavender . . . "

I turned just in time to see her pop a large piece of vanilla lavender SOAP in her mouth. The expression on her face was precious. I got as far as saying, "No, that's soap Ton . . ." but too late! Oh, it gets worse. She looked at me strangely and said, "That has quite a bite." THEN she grabs her throat, her hand flies over her mouth, and she says to me (because she never did hear me), "Gabriel, it is soap! I have soap in my mouth. Oh my God."

She covertly spit it into her hand as we walked away from the people milling about the booths, and she looked at her hand and said, "Gabe, I swallowed most of it."

I was sorry, but it was extremely hard to keep a straight face. All my acting chops went out the window I am sorry to say, I could see the taste was making her turn green, the thought of it making her sicker still.

"Here, let us get you some water," said I, thinking she could wash the taste away. In a panic, she went to the water fountain, took a gulp, and then looked down. She gasped at me. There in the fountain were soap bubbles—pretty rainbow soap bubbles and lots of them, but worse, my wife looked like she was foaming at the mouth.

She knew instantly what was up, so she took her coat off and wiped her mouth with it. What could she do? She went to speak, and a giant bubble formed in her open mouth. Hurriedly, I poked a finger in it to burst it. She clamped a hand over her mouth and started for the door in amok sweat.

I have to tell you the ride home was awful. There she was, foaming soap bubbles at the mouth, cursing me for telling her to drink water and how ill the taste was making her, how much worse the taste was after the water and how she could taste the stuff all the way down her oesophagus. How the water I "forced" her to drink made more bubbles!

I stopped at Burger King got her a bacon cheeseburger with fries and lots of ketchup, and a strawberry shake to eliminate the taste and maybe absorb the soap in her stomach. We had to eat in the car because she was burping up soap bubbles. She was like a bubble machine she was.

Finally, it all started to settle down, and I meekly asked her if she still wanted to stop for the Christmas tree. She told me to pick it out; she trusted my judgement, but she would wait in the car because she was still not feeling well, and the taste, oh yes, the taste, was still there. She sipped the shake slowly, hoping it would absorb the taste, but it wasn't doing its job. I got the tree, and on the way home, I took a shortcut through a condo community. There were six huge speed bumps. Every time I approached one, I'd slam down as we went over; it was like she had become a washing machine, the bumps acting like agitators, making bubbles come up. It was godawful, and I had everything to keep from laughing.

We are at home now, and she's still burping up bubbles and telling me her poo will smell like flowers for the next month like I needed to know that. Every time she sees me, she tells me to go suck a soap bar and join her in her misery. I will admit I did lock meself in the bedroom and had a good laugh, but she heard me, thus the suck on a soap bar cut.

I plan on putting up the tree to take her mind and mine off the bubbles, but somehow, I don't think that will happen. I try to keep my laughter inside, but it bubbles up (excuse the pun), and she sees my shoulders shaking with mirth. She gets angry at me, very angry, but each time she starts to shout, she hiccups soap bubbles! Oh, what to do?

One thing I find odd: this happened to the usually alert Tonya. Stuff like this happens to ME all the time and why is it, when it happens to moi, it's funny? But if it happens to Tonya, don't I dare laugh, or I will be cut to pieces with that sharp, soapy tongue of hers. I just don't get the double standard, do you?

Gabe
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