So there I was enjoying the day

08 December 2012
609

R. Linda:

24 November! What a brilliant day it was to meander alone without purpose or destination in Boston at lunchtime. Just to breathe the air and absorb the sunshine exploring Beacon Hill, utterly oblivious to the Bostonians around me. It was divine, I tell ya! But that wasn't me plan; I had none. I only hoped to be ignored . . . somehow. Yes, I had taken meself to Beacon Hill to get away from people at work.

I hadn't had lunch, so I returned to where I had spied a bistro that had put out tables and chairs on the sidewalk since the weather was akin to Indian Summer in New England. I sat meself down like a tourist and ordered a forbidden glass of wine. I had felt a celebratory drink was in order since I had FINALLY caught up on all the work that was on my desk left over from the Romney/Obama campaigns. Catch-up be a process that overwhelms yours truly, but I be results-driven when I need to be. Since the inclination over the past two days was there to achieve, or maybe because it had a bit to do with the dirty looks Cruella (me boss) would throw in my direction, or lack thereof (sometimes she'd ignore me as if I was a non-entity she was not happy with), I had striven to get it all done. I knew those looks were an attempt at being miffed by her sarcastic self, and I did my best to ignore all that. But the bottom line is I got it all done, done, done!

As I sat there with my glass of vino, the sunshine warming me smug features, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of satisfaction only to feel a shadow come over me bit of sunlight, to which I lazily opened me eyes, thinking it was me waiter to take me order. I jumped almost out of me skin and overturned me wine as I looked up into the face of WEASIL! I was like WHAT? How is it he finds me? No one knew I had taken myself far from the office and well . . . there was the rapscallion grinning down at me as I tried vainly to mop up me spilt vino.

Were it you and I, ensconced in lazy luxury at the bistro table, well, I might have reacted differently. Actually, I'd skip the wine sipping and we'd go straight to a gourmet chocolate store, but I digress in fantasy! Without being asked the young whippersnapper sat himself down opposite myself and set his wine glass and bottle (yes, he must have been there and I had not noticed, of course, how I couldn't notice him, I dunno, he was dressed in striped red and white socks like an elf, dark blue baggy shorts, and a red tee shirt that said, "I'M A KEEPER!" Yeah, right. He isn't), and he closed his eyes like I had, to enjoy the sun on his wicked face.

He muttered, "I'd wuz on a trolly stroll around da city, an' when I saw da bistro I taught to meself I needs me a glass of da grapie, sos I got off da trolly and strolled in, gotz me vino an who comes in ta me space? YOU! Dey wuz tellin' me inside how dey make wine an I tole dem to send a casie ta me room at da hotel an' dat I dint care how dey made da wino, I'd rather have me friend, which be you sittin' outty here enjoyin' da fresh . . . (da sorter fresh) air, fer a goodly time a drinkin' instead a wastin' timie on da makin'. And here I am!"

"Oh lucky me," I muttered. I was confused about what was a trolly stroll and more importantly, we weren't at a winery, we were at a bistro, so this talk of making wine was way beyond me.

"I will wait, I tole em', fer when me friend Gabby comes out ta da west coastie and den he and me will do wine country."

Yeah, right. I'd rather pull my toenails off than do a tour of the "wine country" with Weasil. I know he'd have me smashed at the first stop, and then he'd drag me through the rest of the tour and all the time circumstances would get worse and worse . . . BUT I digress AGAIN. What really happened was I started to get depressed!

Just as I was accepting that I was not alone anymore and that I would not be enjoying my wine and a little lunch, but be subject to non-stop nonsensical speed speech (courtesy of the Weasil), another shadow appeared and pulled a metal chair from one of the other tables (raking it over the sidewalk like chalk on a blackboard). It was his wife Amanda! Now I was in hell and I knew it. So much for rewarding me for getting all my work done and taking a leisurely lunch. Oh no, that was blown to smithereens.

After pleasantries of a sort, she gazed at the young scamp who is her husband in such a dreamy fashion that I was instantly on alert. WHAT WAS THIS?

"Okay, Mr. W, can we review the procedure one more time?" she said to Weasil, winking at me as the waiter asked her what she'd like to drink.

I was like, NO, no, we must not talk about any kind of procedures because the kind she was referring to was (as far as I knew) not what I needed to be privy to. This made yours truly a nervous wreck as you might imagine.

"Yup, Mrs. W, but only aftah we kiss passionately fer, oh, a half hour or more. I move me hand over like dissy here ta close it over yer little tiny soft handie . . ." Weasil was saying in an oily voice as I ordered a fresh glass, me lips turned down in disgust and me brain bounced inside me skull screaming for me to never mind the wine order, get up and RUN!

I was getting grossed out. I was also amazed that it seemed, from me depressed and offended perspective, that Weasil and Amanda were even in touch. The last time I saw them together was that ill-fated Valentine's Day (see 16 February 2012  Valentine's Dinner Continued - A Lesson In British Etiquette - Part 2), when we shared a table, which was another thing, usually he was always visiting ME with his sidekick that loud and wild Scot Rabbie Kincaid! I thought the wife was tucked away at Wuthering Heights in the Highlands ala Heathcliff or something, but NO, here she was! SO WHAT WAS THIS TALK?

"Uh, excuse me, Mr. W. I am learning disabled and cannot extrapolate your explanations on . . . on . . ." she said, looking rattled.

I said nothing, wondering at the word "extrapolate". Was she THAT educated? Nah. I looked at her with a frown because I was THAT confused. Though I thought I could finish her sentence for her, but I didn't dare call attention to meself. I felt like I was the one who had walked in on a scene in a play that I had missed the first act.

"Are ya tellin' me dat dis must be a completely interactive educational experience?" Weasil said feigning surprise.

"Why yes, Mr. W I am. Would you mind terribly? And could you please pour me some of that woodsy Cabernet our waiter left on the table? It seems Gabe has drank my glass unwittingly, not paying attention to where his own glass is." She smiled a big toothy smile at me as I realised that's exactly what happened. I had downed her wine AND mine. Such was my inner turmoil. "We are, after all here to taste wine."

"We are?" I blurted, feeling my confusion becoming tinged with frustration. "Sorry," I said signalling the waiter for another bottle. I tell ya, I didn't know why I was ordering a bottle of wine. The other one, Weasil's bottle, still had another glass or two left, but I did.

"Holdie on, let me have da waiter man fetch da appropriate stemware," Weasil said snapping his fingers for service. I tell ya!

"No," Amanda said, pulling his arm down. "It's not necessary. Mr. W, I'd rather you pour it all yourself without the benefit of proper glassware."

Oi!

"Whoa! Can we hit the pause button on . . . this . . . THIS?!" I said rather violently. "I don't know how you both came to be here or why you are both seemingly . . . together, BUT I came to enjoy a glass of wine with a light lunch and not be subject to . . . whatever it is you two are subjecting me to . . . which I have no clue what you are both on about . . . but the subject of wine is thrown in there and . . . REALLY?"

"End of digression, return to real life," Amanda sighed.

"We arrr sorry we angered ya Gabby, but I still wish you'd . . . " Weasil began as the waiter came to take our orders.

I don't know what he wished I'd do because that was lost in the many questions he had about the menu and dish preparation. Gees! I had forgotten what a pleasure he is to eat out with. NOT.

While I was giving them my order, the two miscreants were talking between themselves, not about wine but places to live. Once again, as the waiter left us, I sat there oblivious to what they were going on about now.

"Waaaattt? Why North Dublin?" Weasil asked her, his expression horrified.

"Why not, you supercilious Scottish Brit rascal you? Remember, my husband mine, I am from peasant stock compared to yours; I'm quite comfortable around the culchies that call North Dublin home."

"You are not!" I said, completely forgetting meself.

Before Weasil could diss either her or my statement, our salads had arrived and conversation mercifully STOPPED. But my brain was still taking that last statement to an analysis level. She was NOT a culchie, NOR is she Irish, so what was THIS NOW?

Me lunch was wonderful because I closed me eyes to blot the two of them out and shredded a paper napkin that I stuffed in me ears to blot out their crazy conversation (yeah, the bits were sticking out of me ears, but to not hear them was wonderful). I lunched on Oysters A La Metissimo, and I must say the little trattoria was now me fav, I was on me way to a wonderful dessert when I had to take the napkin pieces out of me ears to listen to the choices from our waiter.

". . . where they have Saturday afternoon dinner, the place be all Italian; the entertainment family-provided by an authentic Italianno family. All FAMILY!" Amanda was saying with a big, pleased smile filled with glee at Weasil. "One of the ladies put down her tray, wiped her hands on her apron like a Russian workhorse, and proceeded to knock everyone dead with a heartfelt rendition of O Sole Mio. It was incredible, made me cry . . . for home our Scottish home." She sniffed.

I was totally confused, Italians? Russian workhorse? O Sole Mio? Scottish home? WHAT?

She turned to me and said, "I know you don't want to hear that, so moving along. The woman's mum could also bleat out a tune, although I dare say that the Rocky Road To Dublin belongs not only to the High Kings but to the Dubliners. Her rendition was a mite hurried, but she kind of managed (I think)."

I sighed. What were we on about? An Italian singing the Rocky Road To Dublin? No way. But I had no clue and I didn't really care, though the subject was somewhat vaguely familiar.

"Chris, it was a glorious day! I sat in Donegal Square, watching the black-turtlenecked Bobby Sands wannabes who don't quite accept the end of the Troubles. I listened to the preacher on the street shouting his hate and wrath through a megaphone. But I had the sun on my face, like here right now, the wind in my hair and you on my mind. Was 'trendy' as you'd say, only you were probably here having a good time with Gabe and Rabby. I sat there for two hours fantasising away until the rocks and bottles started flying and the police arrived."

Weasil had his chin cupped in his hand looking dreamily at her and he sighed as if his heart was full of yearning. "But I ain't been ta Belfastie in years," he sighed.

Belfast? How'd we get to Belfast? Last she said was talking north Dublin. I took a healthy sip of wine, me brow furled in consternation. Me brain trying to sift through the emotions and conversation trying to reckon if they were serious or putting on a show just for me. And that is not without merit in me thinking because I have been subject to the Weasil's escapades starring the Weasil as himself with a grand list of backup players like his wife, or Rabbie Kincaid, The Dragon, or anyone he can recruit.

"When I wuz dare sum years ago, I made me a pilgrimage to da murals and walked the length an' breath of them from the Shankill to da Falls. Quite an experience it wuz. Did ya knoz . . . well course ya duz. Bad memories aside, dey iz wall tapestries wit twists and turnies, designed to mimic the procession of da Troubles. As ya amble through da maze of murals on da walls, ya notice yer evolves true ta da speeritual stages of abhorrence, contemplation, an enlightenment!"

WOW, that was a mouthful for the Weasil I thought, somehow fascinated suddenly.

"It iz based on ancient Celtic pictographies frum places like da Burren, da messages are dat although life has its bad and goodly times, dey are notty witout purpose." He finished blinking like his words were emotionally moving.

And his wife was blinking back tears at the profoundness of his words. I was thinking I could barf.

"I understand this all now, where before my repugnance was so intense I couldn't see the obvious. Long live the Queen!" Amanda said as if a full-fledged brainstorm had got the best of her.

I couldn't contain meself, so I blurted out, "Lest you think me a freak, let me explain. I came here on a whim. I didn't know either of you would be here."

"Wots dat gotz da do wit anythin'?" Weasil asked, annoyed I broke the spell.

"I dunno, I . . . " I was lost, totally, absolutely in a labyrinth of me own making. All I could do was sigh.

"They tell you when in Belfast to walk slowly you don't garner unwanted attention," Amanda was saying to a riveted Weasil, who was leaning over the table looking dreamily into her eyes again. "I don't do much slow, well probably only one thing," and she giggled like a troll.

I sobered up quickly, thinking of THAT one thing and could feel meself blushing at the thought. Oh my.

"That aside, I will be shooting off tomorrow, not sure where the wind will take me, and the thought of gathering the physical wherewithal to do this makes me giggle. But I tell you, you get on this kick and it starts to make sense. You even make sense now. Before I couldn't see it, I couldn't find it, I didn't like it, but now I see clearly what and who you are, and if only to look into your baby blues one more time, up in the highest of the Highlands . . ."

WHAT?

"But listen up. There is this other nagging voice that says I need to get this out. So please accept my olive branch that Colorado is out for me, " she said sincerely.

"I unner stand yer wants da desolation ovah, I know yer torn to da heart and soul, I know what peeps will say, but ya care notta jot an I duz accept yer moving backie ta Scottie land."

COLORADO? How'd we get to Colorado? I sat there thinking what am I to make of all this? How can I come to terms with this? Where do I put this into words? More like why do I even care to file any of this but in a bin?

I sat there, me jaw tight to keep it shut. All the while I be thinking Scotland isn't exactly fun city, there are vast parts of it that are as desolate as . . . COLORADO! Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

"So let me put these anomalies into utterly insane words you can understand," I said to them both. "Your lack of entitlement frightens the bejesus out of me, and THAT does not bode well for future happiness . . . mine! I wish you," I gestured with me glass at Weasil, "would give me a modicum of regard here, I came to enjoy a little lunch, a glass of wine and suddenly I be set upon, yes that's right, THIS is ME table and you both pulled up chairs . . . or in your case," I pointed me glass at Amanda, "scraped up your chair."

"Nah, yer too smart to speak such rubbish." Weasil interrupted as if in conjecture. "Beside yer luvs to hear our personal stoffins."

"Stoffins?" I repeated, confused, and then it hit me. "Oh stuff, gees!" I countered. "Here," I held up a finger to his verbal beginnings of a protest, "I get to talk; come on! I DO NOT LIKE YOUR PERSONAL STUFFINS! Read me lips if you must, but that is TRUE. I get a bad case of angst, and a panic attack always follows one of your visits, and I find I am temporarily insane for about a week before I recover. And then, JUST as I have returned to ME, YOU show up AGAIN, and like a vicious cycle, it starts all over again. I would like to think I be mentally stable MOST of the time, but for some reason, and you can call me crazy, but every time you show up I become unhinged."

"You dun flappin' yer lippies?" Weasil grinned. I knew he was enjoying my mini tirade and that he felt satisfaction at making me seem the mental case.

"Yeah, I guess I am," I muttered as dessert was laid out before us.

"In da speerit of yer American Fat Food holly day -- Thanksgivin', I be givn' tanks fer yer arse bein' one of me bestist buds." He had put his arm around my shoulder, which was awkward as all get out because he was leaning over the table to do it.

"Wait a minute before you start TRYING to butter me up with some cockamamie dissertation on friendship; I want to stop you. No, no," I said, pushing him away as he puckered up to give me a kiss of all things! "Do not kiss me!" I held a finger up in warning as he grinned at me with the most devious expression on his wicked blond face I'd seen yet. I sat there speechless, knowing my words would fall on deaf ears, and he did not care one way or the other about my feelings. I shook me head and took a sip of me coffee.

"Gabe, the elves will be at your house on 29 November to lay holiday cheer around your yard. When you awaken the next day, you will be full of Christmas cheer." Amanda said as I looked at her like she was the nutter she was. But as I held me cup in midair, thinking what to say, me brain was screaming denial inside me skull that they were planning on decorating my yard for the holidays while I slept! Oh no, this was not the night before Christmas or anything near akin to it. It would be pink flamingos dressed in high black boots and elf hats.

"No. Just listen to me," I said as they both started to protest. "YOU both have gone from google eyes to sighing about moving to North Dublin, then not meeting up in Belfast . . . let me make sure I have this right: to taking a self-tour of the Falls/Shankill area and getting some enlightenment out of typical British feelings that tend to diss the Irish either side, doesn't matter, to . . . taking a trip with ME to wine country in California, WHICH by the bye, be not going to happen. Then, a non-move to Colorado by Amanda here, AND finally to night decorating me abode property to cheer me up AS IF I was unhappy, to begin with. Well, THAT last would MAKE me unhappy if you do THAT."

They looked at me, and I looked at them, the silence deafening between us.

"Right?" I smiled, nodding.

They shrugged. Do you know that when someone shrugs, they don't really mean it? I had enough. I spooned my chocolate mousse into a napkin and gulped down my coffee as both of them silently watched; I threw enough bills to cover my meal and the wine on the table with a tip. A curt nod of me head, I took me messy, oozing dessert and went on me way. I was done, done with both of them. I knew later I overreacted, but I must tell you the Weasil and wife bring me sleepless, angst-filled nights and nervous days. They might show up suddenly and turn me life upside under as is usually the case. I concluded that as I hoofed it up the street, I couldn't take them anymore. But when I got to my workplace, I was feeling GUILTY, I treated them so shabbily.

I sat down at my desk, my head in my hands, wondering if I was too harsh, too overreactive. I didn't think so, but then . . . They are sort of brain impaired, and me Mam told me never to treat lesser-brained individuals badly and well . . . Had I?

Me nose was starting to run. Yes, a cold was coming on. I thought to meself God be punishing me for being unkind. I whispered, "Well, I be confused, so Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, send me a sign I was wrong, and I will embrace the Weasils and say sorry."

That old Catholic upbringing was raising its head it was. I would not usually whisper anything like that, so out of sorts was I. Though, I did. I sat there looking around, no one near me, nothing going on, no sign. Just as I thought that, my nose was starting to drip, so I put me hand in me jacket pocket to get a napkin I had mindlessly placed there, and when I did, I got me sign, oh yes. I did. I got a handful of chocolate mousse wrapped in the napkin I had stuck in my pocket, but it got worse. As I lifted the napkin out, I put it to my proboscis and found I was sporting a face full of mushy mousse. Just as I tried to wipe it off with the same napkin (which only smeared it more), Maureen walked up to ask me something and stopped dead at my cubicle door, her eyes like saucers taking in what, for all intents and purposes, looked like me wearing a face full of shite!

DAMN THAT WEASIL! Yes, I will be blaming it on his arse I will be.

I tried to explain to Maureen it was chocolate mousse and what I had stupidly done in an attempt to wipe me nose. She took a pace back like she didn't believe me, so I put a finger in it and stuck it in me piehole. She dropped the files and said loudly, "GROSS!" turning on her heel, she left me as I tore out my shirttail, trying to wipe it off while using the cubicle glass as a mirror. In the reflection, I noticed me co-workers had all turned around from Maureen's shouting that one word and they were all looking at me with repugnant stares.

Talk about a bad situation getting worse, THIS WAS IT! I stood up and announced it was chocolate mousse. I wiped me hands on me shirt top, and I attempted to tell me pathetic story. I licked some more off me fingers, and the more I said or licked, the worse the situation became. I wished I was an ostrich who had their head in the sand so they couldn't see around them. It was THAT bloody awful!

Finally, Cruella came to my rescue (of all people), handed me a box of Kleenex and told her minions to get back to their work. She accompanied me to the washroom, and took her box of Kleenex. Seeing me off left to clean up. But when I walked into the washroom, which has a mirror from one end to the other, the reflection was a man who looked like he had fallen in a mud puddle or, worse, a manure pit. Me face was smeared with chocolate, me shirt was a mess from where I used it to wipe me face and there were hand prints where I wiped me large hands on the upper portion of me shirt. I stood there staring at meself, feeling totally the fool but happy the Weasil wasn't there to see me chocolate mess self.

But I was premature in that thought. Because suddenly, the door opened and there he was! And as soon as he saw me, his eyes lit up with malicious glee. A smile the size of the Hancock building broke over his wicked blond face. His shoulders started to shake as the laughter filtered up and broke loose, echoing around the men's room. I tell ya, I can't get any kind of respect.

He had come to say HE and SHE were sorry; it had been the typical Weasilese joke, and they didn't mean it, but THIS, me wearing me dessert, was just too much joviality for Weasil to contain and keep to himself. He ran off to tell Amanda while I tore off the shirt, threw it in the sink, and drowned it in water as I went to another one and washed me face and hands of what (as far as I could tell from me meagre tasting) was perfectly good chocolate mousse. I even thought to turn the water off and suck what was left off me shirt! I know I have a chocolate problem big time, but I didn't do it. I scrubbed it, and then I tried to dry it under the air hand dryer, which took an hour.

Indeed, I don't know what is wrong with me at times. I blame it on the Weasil totally unhinging yours truly. Oh, and a footnote, Amanda talked the young whippersnapper out of the dressed-up flamingos being left on me lawn. At least for now, she did. I have no clue where the Weasils are located, and that makes me nervous. I have since the 29 November been the butt of jokes at me workplace, and Maureen is sure that Patrick had lost it with me and somehow had overpowered me enough to stick me face in a toilet. I dunno.

And just when I thought it couldn't go any further downhill, I got the message: "My olwans are coming for Christmas." Yee-ah.

Gabe
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