Remember the other day I mentioned
that since becoming a homeowner I’ve been doing things I’ve never done before—keeping the place clean, crazy shit like that? Well, I now have proof that the real Junio was abducted by aliens and replaced by a facsimile (you know, like Rita Mae Brown was years ago—I mean how else could the author of such right-on classics as Rubyfruit Jungle
and In Her Day
turn into a pillar of the Charlottesville establishment who writes mysteries in which cats and dogs talk?): I just spent five hours making plum jelly. (I can’t remember what we call jelly in England—it’s jam without any visible or chewable fruit chunks.)
I didn’t do it because a) I’ve become a survivalist who wants to live off the land; b) I think it’ll be better than the stuff available in the store
; c) I want to give it for gifts; d) any other sensible reason. It was just that the plum tree in our garden was bursting with fruit—R and I picked about 30 pounds of the little buggers this morning—and even though I didn’t personally plough the fields and scatter, I felt bad just letting them rot in the cupboard—so … there are eight jars of plum jelly cooling in the kitchen.
Exhibit 2 is my behavior Friday night. I had a bachelor party to go to—my first evah—and since it was a vanpool event, there was lots of booze involved. So, I made no plans for Saturday (except for nursing a nasty hangover); I stocked up on pain relievers; hell, I even pinned a note to my jacket telling people where to call if they found me passed out by the side of the road … and what happened? I ended the night as sober as a judge, despite the massive quantities of alcohol I imbibed as we went from bar to bar to strip club to hip-hop club. I could’ve driven home at the end of the night—if I knew how to drive, that is. (I had even gone to the effort of mixing my drinks to really get a good drunk on.) Tell you what though—limos rock. Not only was it my first [co-ed] stag outing (I’m thinking it could also be the last), it was also my first limo ride (not counting lame-o hotel/airport “limos”). They’re comfortable, they’re fun, they have ice chests and CD players—it’s like the most comfortable booth in a nice bar with free drinks (well, your own liquor, at any rate) and a constantly changing view. I could definitely get used to that.