Monday, July 7, 2008

salsa, salmonella, and sighs.

Busy. Busy. Busy. So busy, blog that I had to ignore you completely. And, I can’t guilt my family and other assorted time wasters with, “Abbey needs to blog.” If I was writing a novel or a memoir or anything that sounded less silly than, “blog.” I might have had a chance to sneak away from the vast amount of activities and events that constitute a three day weekend.
Once again I gave in to the societal pull to make sure a barbecue was had on the fourth of July. My husband is effete(possibly even homosexual) so the free range chicken and organic rosemary sausages came out tasting nothing like the barbecues of my youth. Sure, I could marry a real man, but real men seldom command salaries that can support our life style. The kids are away at specialty camps so I won't even bother pretending to show interest in them this summer.
Celebrating America’s birth is not chic in my circle, especially since quite a few of our circle was snubbed while traveling through Europe in the last few years. Just 8 long years ago, my circle and I would be treated very well all over the world. We were even treated well in France because we are all slim and none of us wear poorly constructed t-shirts or use our camera to excess when in Rome… Not a one of us wore a fanny pack in public once we understood that set us apart over there.
We all know our wines and our wine regions and the latest herbs and spices, and before GWB went and did all sorts of things to offend our European sisters and brothers it was a blast to travel out of the country. Now, even with our advanced palates and proper politics, these Europeans still give us guff. When I used to summer in Britain, 9 years ago, the brits would pull my chain and call me “yank,” every once in a while. But, since GWB, they say it constantly and they said it in a way that can’t be mistaken for all in good fun. I was in Paris just last year and despite my un-American ways I felt mocked whenever I turned my back. Literally. I even considered creating my own message t that would subtly get across the fact that I wasn’t a filthy American. But, then I thought of how not everyone speaks English and they would just think I’m wearing a t-shirt and there was just no way to win.

My circle can pretend all they want but the devaluation of the dollar and the price of gas has had no effect on our Worldwide travel plans. We all will cast our ballots for Mr. Barack Obama come Election day and pray that Travel can return to what it was before all this rah rah let’s fight the terrorists nonsense.

Enough of that depressing situation. Obama will change all that and finish what the Dixie chicks started. I think they were such flops at that because let’s face it… country singers are not cool and Natalie Maines is too plump to be taken seriously.

I’ll move on to our barbecue and try not to get bogged down in things that depress me(or you!)
Surely, I don’t write only for myself and so unlike a diary my words can find themselves on the loose and they can put someone in a funk… if I am not careful.
The barbecue: Boring really. Hubby looked ridiculous trying to play the man . How manly can one be when wearing a 490 dollar Italian loafer . He is an upscale man and always appears to have been dressed by a woman or by a homosexual male. It looks as if he has no free will in the choosing of his wardrobe and there is just no way to look manly with that impression being cast. He wears pastel colored sweaters wrapped around his pencil neck, for pete’s sake. He wears shiny beige shorts with the 490 dollar Italian loafer. No socks, natch. He always looks like he got back from the facialist and he is comfortable walking around with a Nordstrom or Bonwits bag. Repulsive. The whole barbecue was also ruined by the tomato scare. I know I know … they are not sure it was tomatoes after all. They now suspect that it could be jalapeno’s or even cilantro or scallions. Normally, no biggie, but this year I was married to the idea of serving up the salsa I’d had when visiting in Mexico, last spring. I first tasted it in a darling Inn , overlooking a bluff in the quaint mining town of Isla Portuga. Wonderful. Wonderful salsa. A perfect combination of the traditional and the obscure. I was appalled at first—Peaches! Peaches in a salsa. What in heavens?
But, my wonderful indigenous hostess, Senora Roberta Escaves, smiled sweetly and said, “senorita, Abbey, give it time and you too will come to see how good this salsa can be.” I am not an UGLY AMERICAN(see above) and so I giggled nervously and apologized to her from my rude behavior . She appeared to forgive me without delay. Indigenous people are the best, aren’t they? So much better than us colonizing pieces of shit. Pardon my language. I’m very passionate about this.

And now because of some salmonella scare I couldn’t introduce this new experience to my circle and I’m bummed. LOL. If only one ingredient was suspect I could have tried to work my way around it, but with most of the ingrediants under a cloud of suspicion, I just threw in the towel. Some of my friends, the ones who think 9-11 was an inside job, think it’s another conspiracy, and it’s done to further victimize the illegals. Either they are mentally ill or just stupid, but I don’t think denying the American public salsa for a few weeks is worth the risk of that lone whistleblower. Maybe, I’m naïve.

So much more to share with you, blog. So much more than I feel if I don’t type it in by midafternoon I’ll be poisoned by too many words left unshared and too many emotions that need verbal execution for me to survive. I feel that that last sentence was some pun but I’m too scared to figure out what kind of pun it was.
Today, is the day that I will find a motif, theme, liet motif, cohesive angle, whateva to this blog. It is too overwhelming to just let these digressions build up and it isn’t fair to you, dear blog viewer. I don’t know what else to call you? Suggestions are always welcome. I am a reasonable person.

Okay, Okay. I’m going. I think I’ll talk about the bigger boned spinster sister when I return.
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