This morning, in wave of romantic feeling, P. put his arms around me, kissed my head, and said, “I just don’t want you not to love me.” To which I replied, “Well, I can promise you that, if you’ll just do one thing for me. Jump in front of a train.” And then he called me a dirty pirate whore. Clearly, we watch too much TV.
I plan to start the new year off right, in a burst of cleaning, as I have been reduced to stirring my vanilla soy milk into my coffee with a measuring spoon due to my current lack of clean dishes. A tablespoon, in case you were wondering. I would have used the teaspoon but I used it yesterday. Shut up.
My other plan had been to go to the gym, but I’m too tired from–seriously–eating dinner last night. I believe P. is still planning to go today, which I don’t get because he should be more exhausted than me, as he ate a Wagyu steak as big as his head.
The best part was that before the course was served, he told me that he hoped it would be a small cut of beef.
The plate came out. Meat as big as his head. Awesome.
We really did pay an insane price for dinner, as tends to be the case with a meal centering around Wagyu beef, and by “we”, I really mean “me”, since it was technically one of P.’s Christmas presents. See how I cleverly managed to make it a gift for myself while not looking at all selfish? Yesterday, P. kept trying to sneak me additional presents, because, as he explained, Christmas giving is about who wins. And if there’s one constant in life, it’s that he’s always intent on beating me.
First, we went to Fry’s, and I decided that my new iPod was really lonely and needed some accessories to keep it company (namely a car charger and radio transmitter). But in line, P. snatched them away from me and threatened to call security if I “stole his stuff”. And then he blocked me from the register and paid. I kept trying to sneak money into his pocket and he just kept smacking at me and saying “Merry Christmas!” Bastard.
(100% true anecodote about my iPod: this morning, I was listening to it in the car for the very first time, only I really don’t understand how this thing works yet and I know it’s supposed to be the most intuitive thing ever so possibly I’m much stupider than I suspected, so I was listening to “Land of Love” by Grant Langston one minute, turned off the car to get the mail, and when I turned the car back on, suddenly the iPod was playing “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters”, the Mandy Moore version (the inspiration for the title of this journal.) I swear this really happened.)
Then, we went to Lenscrafters so P. could use his health care benefit before it expired. He hasn’t been to the eye doctor in eight years and has been wearing the same hard contacts since.
“When was your last eye appointment?”
“Um, about eight years ago?”
“Eight years? Eight? OK. And when did you get these contacts?”
“Um, about eight years ago?”
We were the talk about the place. People kept popping in to the room: “You know technology has improved in the last ten years!” Ultimately though, the doctor proclaimed his hard contacts like braces for eyes, and that his eyesight had maybe even gotten better, even though P. kept saying the M’s were W’s on the eye chart. After P. had to take his contacts out, the doctor kept telling me to guide him around, because surely he couldn’t see ANYTHING with his terrible eyesight. P. was all “hey, it’s not that bad!” I was thinking, hey, I don’t have to be all self-conscious about my pudgy thighs when we have sex after all (at least at night when his contacts are out)! He’s just feeling his way around!
We picked out what had to have been the most expensive glasses in the store, these totally sexy green Prada ones. But since he’s had his previous glasses for at least ten years, and they are falling completely apart, we figured it was a good investment. Also, P. works for a different really huge software company than I do, and his health insurance benefits are much better.
And the LensCrafters employees were either in a really good mood, entirely too amused by us, or just deal with a lot of people who work for P.’s same company and thus know how to work the system as efficiently as possible. They said he was eligible for all these discounts even after the part insurance pays and we should really get a second pair, because we would get 45% of those, plus an additional 25% that they really didn’t explain, but the second pair would practically be free! P. didn’t need a second pair, but I have recently misplaced my sunglasses, and the girl instantly whipped around with a pair for me, never mind this was all going on his insurance. And even though P. ended up only having to pay about $30 for my sunglasses, he absolutely refused to let me pay him back. “Merry Christmas!” Fucker. He ended up getting something like $350 off. And damn does he look hot in those glasses.
So, now that he had sufficiently plied me with extra gifts, he felt OK about going to dinner. Only we decided to dress up, and I was fairly sure I had nothing to wear that would actually fit me. P. knew better than to set me loose alone in my closet. I would stand there for hours, looking at the clothes, but not actually trying any on. And we would never make it to dinner, and I would spend New Year’s Eve in my closet, hungry, crying about my thighs. He came with me.
I did indeed stand in my closet and lament the lack of fitting clothes. I tried on a skirt I had bought in New York, and couldn’t figure out how to put it on. I spent about ten minutes trying to fasten it before I finally gave up. There was wrapping, and straps, and loops, and I apparently am not only too dumb to figure out an iPod, but also a skirt. And then I really panicked because I was sort of counting on that skirt. I had nothing else!
“What about your corset?” And faintly, I began to visualize the skirt I had worn with that corset. And then it dawned on me that I had stored all my dressy clothes in plastic hanging bags in another closet. “You have an entire other closet full of clothes? And you’re whining that you have nothing to wear?”
P. really likes that corset, especially since when I wear it, his job is to watch my breasts and make sure nothing inappropriately peeks out. At one point during dinner, he was talking entirely to my chest. I waited. “You mean women can tell when I guy is doing that? We didn’t think you all could tell!”
We had the prix fixe menu with the six paired wines. Six. Six wines. Let the good times roll. I had heard really great things about the menu, although most of it was nothing I would generally eat. But life’s an adventure, right?
I told P. that I was already tackling one of my resolutions (be courageous) by eating things I never imagined I would. He said, “are resolutions like fortune cookies? You add “in bed” at the end?” I reminded him that he said he wasn’t making resolutions and that one might require his participation. “I have two hours before midnight. I can still change my mind and make a resolution.”
Which is how we ended up half-toasted, eating Wagyu beef. First course was Dungeness Crab with Fingerling Potato, Ruby Grapefruit Gelatina, Creme Fraiche and Sterling Imperial Caviar. Things in this course I generally do not eat: crab, grapefruit, caviar. Cream and potatoes? Bring ’em on. Amazingly enough, I liked all of the things I generally do not eat, although we couldn’t help but think of that one episode of The Amazing Race.
“They probably had really cheap caviar. Catfish eggs or something.”
“My dad caught a pregnant salmon once and tried to eat the eggs. He was sick for days. My dad isn’t very bright.”
This is the intellectual conversation we have when we go out to swanky restaurants.
Second course was Wagyu “Kobe Style” Carne Cruda all’Albese with Truffled Lardo Crostini. When this arrived, we first mistook it for tomato salad. Right. It was served in the Japanese sashimi style, aka tartare. Raw, people. It was raw. I never would have ever expected to try raw beef. I never would have ever expected to like raw beef. I only had trouble when I was actively thinking, “my God. I’m eating raw beef.” Even P. was a little hestitant.
“What is this ?”
“It’s the beef.”
“Is it… cooked?”
Next course was pasta. No raw meat here! Also next was our third glass of wine of the night. To my credit, I was not dancing on the table, going wooo! That would come later. Kidding. Well, not entirely, but I did wait until we got home.
It was at this point that P. hoped his entre would be smallish (ha ha!). I ordered veal; he ordered the Wagyu rib-eye. His covered his plate; mine was surrounded by brussel sprouts. Brussel sprouts are the one vegetable other than corn that I swore I would not eat again ever no matter what, I am an adult, you can’t make me, I won’t do it, neener.
I ate every last one.
P. kept feeding me little bites of his steak, which fortunately, did not come tartare, but rather seared in “Black Truffle Salt and Trampetti Organic Extra Virgin Olive Oil”. We decided to go to Whidbey Island, where the cows come from, and steal one.
Next came our cheese course. P. said he didn’t like the cheese much. It was pretty stinky and he’s not so much a fan of stinky cheese. And yet, somehow, he ate every last bit. Although, I wouldn’t rule out wine as the culprit for that one.
For dessert, I had a huge bowl of chocolate and cream; P. had “winter citrus”. Those were, in fact, the two desserts we had to choose from. The waiter looked highly supportive of our choice: “Excellent choice combination!” We weren’t sure if he was being sarcastic or if he was also sneaking sips of wine.
We left just as midnight approached, and fireworks were going off all around us. His hand was warm in mine. I could almost hear his thoughts of adoration and affection: “I really love that corset.”
Bring on the new year.