Welcome back to my vacation. That special time of year when money flies out your ass 24/7. Unfortunately, we are no exception to the rule.
The good news is that we have a FABULOUS room (expect pictures soon) in downtown San Antonio with a WONDERFUL bed that is fluffy and gigantic and comfortable. It is located on the 18th floor of the Palazio Del Rio right on the River Walk.
Satan sent some shirts and slacks out to be laundered at the hotel this morning. Located in one pair of slacks was $300 cash he had forgotten about. It’s a long story, but let’s just stay that, miraculously, we got the money back just now. The people at the Palacio are good peoples. Don’t hesitate to book a room if you’re down this way.
So yesterday, we were settling up the bill at a River Walk restaurant when a helpful waitress offered to serve me up margarita #2 with a (wink, wink) handy to-go cup on the side. Never being one to pass up an opportunity, I quickly agreed to the plan and was soon weaving up and down the river walk contentedly sipping away on my top shelf margarita. I was just getting that cross-eyed, cooled-off feeling when it happened.
Friends, a bird flew over and shat directly into my six dollar margarita.
I was shocked. It was shocking. And, in my state of semi-drunkenness, it took a moment to register, review (in slow motion) and to add up what had happened: The bird flying over. The nearly simultaneous KER-PLUNK in my Styrofoam cup.
At which point, I stopped, looked up, and said in a loud voice to the first people I met, “DAMN, that bird just sh*t in my margarita.” And then again more loudly and with more conviction, “Seriously! That bird just sh*t in my margarita!”
Unfortunately, I made those statements to a freshly married bride and groom in full regalia clearly on their way from ceremony to reception.
I’m happy to say they had a sense of humor, because they burst into hysterics and kept walking, followed by a long procession of their bridesmaids and groomsman, as I continued to stand there, dumbfounded, arm still extended, staring at my now contaminated cup.
And I might still be standing there, except for Satan, who by now probably from a couple of miles up, finally noticed I was no longer weaving around at his side, came back to check on me and found me there frozen.
“What the hell?”
I responded with, (say it with me),
“A bird just sh*t in my margarita!”
To which he replied,
“What are you, drunk? A bird didn’t SH*T in your margarita.”
To which I said, “Yes, OF COURSE I’m drunk, but a bird just sh*t in my margarita, I tell you!”
To which he replied,
“So, what EXACTLY am I supposed to do?”
To which I answered,
“Um, maybe strain it out?”
At which point he wrestled the glass away from me and tossed it in the nearest trash can. This, for some reason, shocked me more, in my drunken state, than the original crapping. I was all,
“I’m JUST SURE you threw away my margarita!”
And he’s all,
“I’m supposed to pick bird sh*t out of your margaritas now? What are you, NUTS?”
Which leads me to vacation problem Number 2: Satan in general.
For Satan, vacation isn’t about getting that “peacefully easy feelin’”. No.
Vacation is work. WORK, I TELL YOU! No sleeping in! No LOLLYGAGGING! Vee are here to see zee sights, und vee shall see zem. All of zem! NOW!
It goes a little something like this:
March! Observe to the left! Observe to the right! March! March! March! Buy souvenir! March! Observe to the left! What, you are TIRED after four hours of walking and shopping in the blazing hot sun? Weenie! And, etc.
How can I stand it?
Well, because, on occasion, it goes like this:
March! Observe to the left! Observe to the right! March! March! March! Buy jewelry! March! Observe to the left! And, etc.
Which brings us to issue #3. Have I mentioned it is hot down here? If not, let me reiterate: it is HOT. Positively equatorial. I can get color just walking across the street. Also, through my clothes. I can’t even imagine deep summer in these parts. I am, right now, wearing a SUN DRESS. And it is only APRIL. And I’M wearing a SUN DRESS. Me. In APRIL. Those who know me well know I do not wear sundresses. EVER. So, yes, I am very, very hot.
Which is why Satan insisted on buying me a sundress earlier (March! March! Sundress! March!) and how I came to meet Edna the Bra Nazi at Dillard’s shortly thereafter. Because when you don’t wear sundresses? You don’t have the proper (strapless) upper body under garments on hand, generally speaking.
So, the plan was a simple duck into Dillard’s lingerie dept. for the proper bra and then on with the vacation. I spotted Edna right off and, thinking to save time, told her what I needed.
“What size?” she asked.
I told her.
“No.” she said.
“No?” I queried, confused.
“No.” said Edna. “You not that size.”
“But, I ….” I began.
And from out of nowhere, Edna produced a tape measure, wrapped it around my chest, commanded me to lift my arms, and pronounced me a size I would not have thought myself capable of achieving. Ever in this lifetime. I was thunderstruck. Not only was I bigger around. But the cup size. DEAR GOD, the CUP SIZE.
As Satan giggled over by the camisoles, Edna yanked the appropriate (LARGE SIZED) brassiere off the rack, dragged me into the dressing room, told me to undress, harnessed me into the thing rodeo-style, and pronounced it a “perfect fit”.
“The tape measure don’t lie.” She said, tapping my cleavage. “Get dressed, I ring this up for you.”
When I met her and a still snickering Satan at the cash register, I observed sadly as to how, in case of rain, I could wear one cup of the bra as a cap.
“And hey! I could wear the other!” Satan remarked helpfully.
“Don’t worry, honey”, Edna said to me kindly. “Haven’t you heard? Everything’s bigger in Texas.”
Indeed, Edna. Indeed.