That’s Not Chinese and I had plans to drink wine. This is usually a rather simple plan – pick up wine, drink it – but That’s Not Chinese had other agenda items and called to advise me of them. “We’ve got a lot to talk about tonight. I’m thinking we should make a list,” she advised. “Like an agenda of sorts?” I asked. “Exactly,” she replied.
“OK, what would you like to discuss?” I inquired with my pen and notebook out, ready to set an agenda. “Mumford & Sons,” she replied. “Alright. What else?” I asked. “That’s it,” she responded. “Glad you suggested we make a list,” I told her. “Listen, it is really important and I don’t want to forget it between now and then,” she said. “Fair enough, there are eight hours between now and then, a lot could happen,” I replied.
I got home from work, transferred the sangria from the glass pitcher to the secondhand store Tupperware pitcher, considered changing my pants – didn’t, pumped up my bike tires, put the pitcher in my basket, and started pedaling to her house. As I made my way, I noticed a little of the sangria made it’s way out of the pitcher; the amount was minimal, so I kept on pedaling. Then, it happened. I made a fast left, caught a little air, landed, and the little bit of Sangria that made it’s way out of the pitcher splashed up and all over my white pants. Damn.
By the time I arrived at That’s Not Chinese’s place I was a hot mess, literally. Not one to let little things get in the way of my day, I went to the sink, splashed cold water all over my pants, grabbed us some glasses, and poured some sangria. As we sat out on the patio, eating, drinking, discussing our one agenda item, and dodging bird shit, “Who puts their patio table under a wire?,” I contemplated my day. “I’ve got a couple of regrets today,” I told her and continued, “Opening the club soda after watching it roll around my car, not changing my pants, sitting under this wire, and touching your cat.” “I feel like I should drive you home,” she said while making a facial expression that screamed, “Looking at your eye is creeping me out.” “No need, I’m fine. Any chance you’ve got an eye patch?” I asked her while covering my infected eye with a paper towel.
It’s funny how we do things we know we shouldn’t. For me, it’s because I’m hopelessly optimistic that they’ll work out or have different outcomes than they did previously. So, when That’s Not Chinese’s cat snuggled up next to me, I petted him and, a few minutes later, rubbed my eye. Now, I’m home, with several agenda items. First: Apply second coat of rhoid cream in an attempt to reduce swelling. Second: Soak white pants in club soda. On the bright side, I won’t have to use too much club soda because, when I was making the sangria, half of the bottle of club soda sprayed all over my white pants. Like Monty Python, I plan to “face the curtain with a bow, forget about your sin – give the audience a grin. Enjoy it – it’s your last chance anyhow.” And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just make more sangria, wearing different pants, of course.