Paul gave me “The Look” yesterday. To tell you the truth, I was somewhat surprised. I didn’t expect to see it quite so soon. We haven’t even been married a full calendar year yet.
You know “The Look,” I’m talking about. Surely you’ve been on the receiving end of it. If you haven’t, then you must be “The Looker,” and not “The Lookee.” This is my second marriage,* and I’ve been the “The Lookee” in both of my love stories, which clearly makes me the Common Denominator. Apparently, I’m the one who screws up endlessly, disappointing the poor schmucks who love me.
In service to all of you Givers-of-The-Look, who never get to see it from our end, let me describe it for you: It’s kind of like how your facial features would involuntarily contort themselves if you purchased a Powerball ticket and you were matching the numbers on your ticket to the winning numbers displayed on the television screen and every single number was matching up. It’s like you are SO CLOSE to winning! Until you get to the very last number and it’s a no-go. Your poor face can’t help but be the conduit that expresses the crappy hand life has dealt you.
And that, in a nutshell is, “The Look.”
Our saga begins way back when Paul and I were planning our wedding and he asked me what I was envisioning in the way of a honeymoon. To which I enthusiastically responded,
“Well, staying in one of those little thatched huts out over the ocean in Fiji has been on my bucket list forever!”
So, Paul, being your typical Boomer male, promptly purchased a camper van and began plotting a romantic, highly circuitous route home from our Florida wedding venue through exciting locales such as Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama and Arkansas. Oh, the joyful hours he spent googling state parks dotted throughout The Confederacy. We meandered home, stopping at every park along the way (who knew there were so many) affording Paul the opportunity to demonstrate his manly prowess with fire. This made perfect sense.
To Paul.
The pure genius of his plan is that we still own the camper. What would we have after a trip to FIJI? Nothing but a sunburn and memories. Memories of ourselves basking in the literal lap of luxury.
Earlier this week, after diligently checking the weather forecast (something Boomer men do on the daily) he asked if I’d like to take the camper somewhere this weekend. I agreed, but with the caveat that we had to go somewhere cool. We settled on Santa Fe, New Mexico.
Oddly enough, it is necessary to pass through Amarillo,Texas to get to Santa Fe, New Mexico from Oklahoma. One could fit all of my knowledge of Amarillo in a thimble. There are the lyrics to the infamous song, of course, and then there’s the infamous steakhouse, where they are simply rabid to give you a 72 ounce sirloin for free if you can make an ass of yourself by choking it down in less than an hour.
Paul loves this place with an Oklahoma-passion, so we were compelled to dine there, but took a pass on the Carnivore Challenge. The best part of the experience is the singing cowboy who comes by your table taking requests. In keeping with the atmosphere, I considered requesting, “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones, but took one look at the guy and thought better of it. I asked for Dolly, with a side of Johnny Cash. The music made me tear up, but that’s just who I am these days. After we paid, on the way out the door I pivoted back and grabbed 3 pats of butter off of our table and stashed them in my purse. Paul did a 360 degree, horrified, head-swivel. Again, the fun of a late-in-life marriage is…we’re still getting to know one another.
“Why on Earth would you steal BUTTER?”
“I didn’t STEAL it! It’s there for the customers, besides you’ll thank me later!”
This is where I need you to understand that camping (unlikeFIJI) is kind of “worky!” A lot of tedious tiny details go into pulling off the perfect trip. For obvious reasons, we typically let Paul handle most of them. But, when we decided to go to Santa Fe at the last minute, he did put me in charge of procuring the groceries for the weekend and I mostly sort’ve agreed.
On the morning of our departure, Paul needed to go to his office for a couple of hours. Realizing I didn’t have much “me time” left and would need to make the very most of it, I decided to do the two things I knew I wouldn’t be able to do for a few days: go on a run and take a long leisurely soak in the tub. I figured we would stop for gas along the way and I could grab all necessary grocery items at the Quik Trip.
As we walked out the door, I did have the foresight to reach into the refrigerator and grab a few items to toss into the camper:
1 carton of eggs
1/2 bag of tortilla chips
1 pkg chicken sausage ( perfect for grilling outdoors)
1 pkg grated cheddar
3 Coke Zeros
1 can of Hormel Chili
2 beers (always thinking of my Sweetie)
1 bottle of wine (because…camping)
2 blocks of Hickory Farms cheese (left over from Christmas)
Honestly, I was tickled that we had these things on hand. I was fully aware that Paul had his heart set on that iconic Amarillo Bison burger, so that was one meal accounted for. And, if we ate in Santa Fe one of the days and I grabbed a package of buns at the gas station for the grilled chicken sausage, we would be better than fine.
My plan went to Hell in a handbag on the very first night. Everything seemed to be going swell. We had the most remote and breathtaking spot at 7500’ among the mountains and Ponderosa Pines, surrounded by twinkling stars on the horizon and all above us, giving the effect of being entirely isolated inside a shimmering snow globe. Paul had, not ONE, but TWO fires crackling and was setting up the hammock for me, as I speared the sausage on the grilling skewers. It was the picture of outdoor domestic bliss, if that’s even a thing.
Until, we both simultaneously noticed the sausage was smelling a tad, “off.” But, Paul, being such a kind and optimistic sort offered up,
“Chicken always smells a little rank, we’ll just cook them really good!”
To which I responded,
“I don’t know…I think I might just heat myself up some chili!”
The sheer disappointment on his face – he had built his woman these two dueling fires upon which to char flesh for our meal and I was about to go in the camper and nuke a can of Hormel?
“Let me just go check the date on the package!,” he jumped up and ran inside the camper to dig through the trash.
Very shortly after, he walked back outside wearing THE LOOK.
“What was the date?” I queried, all sweetness and innocence.
“February 2024!”
Momentarily dazed, I asked which month we were currently living in. Oh yeah, September! And then I started ticking off the months with one hand. And then, my other hand was required. Damn! The sausage was actually the age of our marriage. Really young for a marriage, but really old for meat.
And, man, that look on his face…it simply needed no translation. And I’ve seen that look before. It said, “I asked you to do one damn thing! Just one damn thing!”
But in the end, everything turned out fine. I hate to brag, but I made the most scrumptious dish out of that half bag of chips, the can of chili and all that cheese. If there’s anything a lifetime of screwing up will do for you, is teach a gal resourcefulness. I bounce back like nobody’s business.
The following day in Santa Fe, we had such a late lunch that we agreed to skip dinner, but we did stop on the way back to our campsite when we noticed a local farmer selling fresh corn out of the back of his pickup.
Later that evening, we inevitably got hungry again. You know how it goes when you eat a big lunch and swear off dinner. That promise never keeps. We were pretty grateful we had stopped for the corn. Paul grilled it to a carmelized perfection, but it still needed a little something. That’s when I had a eureka moment and jumped up and ran inside the camper to retrieve the 3 pats of Amarillo Butter out of my purse. Because I understood the assignment all along. The procurement of groceries.
And, Y’ALL…the look of love on that man’s face…
It was as if he’d won the lottery.
A Ginger Snapped 