Out of the Funk

Get ready.  Even the dogs will not be immune.  People have gone nuts over Halloween this year, or so I've read.  I will be passing out candy at my mother's house if you want to stop by.  Her street is always one of the best Halloween streets around and kids come from far and wee.  Early on it's the smallest children, then as the night grows older, so do the kids.  And then it is time to close up shop because it just isn't as fun any longer.  

Tennessee is telling me that we have to go out on Tuesday night.  The bars are all having parties, he says.  So it seems.  I am not one for such events, however.  I'll prefer to sit at home with a scotch watching "The Blob" or some other funny Halloween movie.  "The Mummy," or "The Creature from the Black Lagoon."  Old '50s films, not remakes.  I know some people want to watch True Horror, but I am not one.  Freddy Kruger holds no interest for me.  

I was in about as bad a funk on Sunday as I had been on Saturday.  I got a text.  Could I help Tennessee move some shit.  Sure, I said without enthusiasm.  And so it went.  We picked up furniture from one place and moved it to the Pod at his house for shipping to the homes he is building in the mountains.  It was lunchtime when we finished, but I had to get groceries and make small red beans and pork for dinner with my mom.  T went with me and bought makings for his own dinner.  Then we decided to get lunch.  

"This stuff will be alright in the car?" he asked.  

"As long as we don't linger."

We stopped at a good Mexican place, the sort that sells Clase Azul tequila.  The food is really good, too, and the staff is all from. . . well. . . they all speak Spanish as their first language.  Right out of the gate we ordered Margaritas.  "Skinny" I learned to call them.  No foo-foo in them.  Lime juice and tequila.  They had no Cointreau, so she gave me a shot of Grand Marnier if I wanted to add it.  We ordered food and began to tell our bullshit tales of travel and adventure.  

"I wish my Spanish was better," I said.  "The bartender speaks so quickly I can't keep up."  

I turned to her.  "¿Que país?"  I asked her.  

"Columbia."

And off we went.  First her, then the other bartender who was from Venezuela.  We ordered second drinks.  

"Did you see that?  She put in three shots of tequila and then another on top."

"Fuck. . . I still have to cook and go to my mother's."

"Man, if you didn't, I could sit here all day and keep drinking." 

Back at the house, I began prepping the food for cooking as Tennessee watched on with a glass of tequila in hand.  Small red beans.  Chopped carrots, potatoes, and yellow onions.  Salt, pepper, and red pepper.  Then 3/4s of a bottle of wine topped off with water.  I set the InstaPot for 95 minutes of pressure cooking and we went to the deck.  I needed to shower and get ready myself, but Tennessee stayed until it was time to go.  

"There's no way we're not going out Tuesday night," he said.  

I bobbed my head in all directions.  

Dinner turned out as tasty as it could be.  I am always worried as I measure nothing, just try to intuit as I sprinkle on the spices.  I got really lucky this time.  

Later, I made it to an early bed.  

I think the day shook me out of my funk.  I'm feeling pretty well this morning, back in the world, so to speak.  The sun is shining and the sky is blue.  A walk, the gym, and, perhaps, a sun bath poolside.  

I'm a Man of Leisure.  Have I told you?  My only job is to enjoy myself as slowly and completely as I want.  

It is more difficult than it sounds.