Four Bucks Can’t Buy You Sleep

I have always know that the older generation tends to get up early and get things done.  We had dinner with my eighty-four-year-old great Auntie B this last Saturday afternoon, and she told us that she’d gotten up at 4:30 that morning, and that she had the hamburger patties pressed and stored in plastic wrap by 5:15, and her chocolate cake was out of the oven, cooled and frosted before the clock chimed 6:30.

I always swore that I would never succumb to such early morning shenanigans, because baking a cake at 11:00 in the morning works every bit as good as baking one at 5:30 AM does, but apparently the aging body gives sleeping up for Lent…

…and then never picks it back up again.

Because MY WORD!  The insomnia and I have become close friends in the last couple of years, and by the grace of cracking a Zyrtec tablet in half every night, I’m managing to get a few hours of shut-eye in once in a while.  I’m becoming a high maintenance sleeper, as Goldilocks simply requires two many variables to enter the sphere of perfection before she can rest well.

Body pillow?  Yes.  A pillow to hug?  Mmm-hmm.  The too-hard-pillow-that-is-only-used-for-bed-decoration thrown on the floor?  You know it.  Windows either open or closed, fan either on or off, all depending on barometric pressure, outdoor temperature, cricket decibels, and wind speed. Pellet gun loaded and ready for the owls, who insist on sitting in the trees just outside our bedroom window?  Absolutely.

And last night?  Well, all of the variables miraculously worked in my favor, and I gave in to the Zyrtec haze.  And it was a good haze, people.  I saw the haze, and the haze was good.  And I was enjoying some REM when…

…Hubs sat bolt upright in bed at 1:45 this morning, threw both of his arms over his head in a victorious touchdown stance, and shouted out loud enough for the North Pole to hear, “FOUR BUCKS!!!”

And then, because he was perhaps worried that my adrenaline WASN’T on full-surge and that my heart WASN’T beating at a rate near the explosion level, and because ONLY Cat 2 had shrieked in terror and ran for cover, leaving Cat 1 in full-on attack mode at the foot of the bed, Hubs decided to stir things up even more by pumping his fists in the air, like the Colorado Avalanche had just taken the Stanley Cup home, and he hollered again, “FOUR BUCKS!  FOUR BUCKS!  FOUR BUUUUUCCCCKSSS!!”

I slapped him a couple of times to bring him back to reality and said, “What in the name of all that is holy are you talking about?”

And then Hubs sort of focused his eyes in the dark, blinked rapidly, and went back to sleep.

And I did not…

…until sometime after 4:15 this morning.  I really should have gotten out of bed and whipped up a creme brulee or scrubbed down the kitchen or dug a moat with a shovel by hand, because when the alarm blasted at 6:15 this morning, I was ready to throw four bucks’ worth of quarters into a shotgun and use it as buck shot at Hubs.

By 7:30 this morning, when I had caffeine in my veins and hairspray on my hair, I asked Hubs if he had won the four dollar lottery or whether he got a really sweet deal on a Cadillac, and he had NO! IDEA! what I was talking about.  He does, in fact, deny that the entire episode happened.

In other news, y’all can start calling Hubs and me by our new Mexican names, Paco and Rosalita, BECAUSE, PEOPLE!  Hubs and I made the green chili on Sunday night, and I don’t think that it could possibly be any better if it had been made in Mexico itself.  We gobbled it up and passed bowls of the stuff out to neighbors and family, until it was gone, and EVERYONE declared it Mexican Perfection.

While the boy and I had a date last night together at the movie Dolphin Tale (It was so good, y’all!  Just so good!), Paco stayed home and made a second batch of the green chili, and he TWEAKED THE RECIPE A BIT.

And by tweaked it a bit, I mean he hauled the bottle of Dragon’s Breath off the sorcerer’s shelves, and he added it to the simmering pot.  I tried a little of Batch 2, and my lips melted off, and my entire face went numb.  I also lost vision in one eye, and my mouth oozed saliva for six entire hours in an effort to cool my tongue down.

Green Chili, The Tweaked Batch 2 Version is also used in some cultures as a colon cleanse and paint thinner.  Twenty-four hours later, I’ve finally regained some feeling back in my chin, and my gut has quit gurgling like a cauldron, which tends to happen when you eat the Batch 2 grenade and pull the pin out.

And the creme brulee?  Well, the boy can add COOKING to his list of accomplishments, because SWEET WONDERFUL MERCY!  It was very possibly the BEST DESSERT EVER, even though I complained throughout the cooking part of the creme brulee that I’d rather throw a sharpened fork through my eyeball than tackle it again.  We refrigerated it overnight, and then last night the boy used a tiny kitchen torch to scorch the sugar on top, and the pretzel M&Ms have some competition now.

Because…

…hello, Creme Brulee!  My name is Mama, and it is SO NICE TO MEET YOU!

And, people, listen.  I think we should have a fundraiser over here, since Hubs and I have spent the boy’s college tuition at Starbucks and Jimmy John’s.  We’d like to offer y’all a bowl of Melt Your Face Off and Make You Howl With the Pain Green Chili and a complimentary dish of the best creme brulee this side of Mars.

All for FOUR BUCKS!  FOUR BUCKS!  FOUR BUUUUCCCKKKSSSS!

Happy Tuesday night.

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