Me: Whoa, Stevie Wonder, why are you wearing sunglasses indoors at night?

Dad: They’re the only glasses I could find that fit my prescription.

Me: Don’t you think that’s bad for your eyes?

Dad: No worse than not being able to see the TV at all.

As if this conversation wasn’t strange enough, Dad was simultaneously yelling at his $600 Macaw to “shut up!” while the bird, in an adroit demonstration of his market value, squawked back “shut up, shut up, shut up” with an occasional ”bye-bye” and “hello” thrown in for good measure.

My dad wears sunglasses to watch tv while talking to his pet bird and drinking a glass of fancy port.  It’s like my very own B-version of The Royal Tenenbaums or, what I prefer to call, ”My Childhood.”

This suddenly seems way more important than that pair of red skinny jeans I wanted from Old Navy :).

Now if I could just figure out what to wear.  T-shirt with a picture of a hamburger on it? Perhaps not.

Me: Eeeeew! Your belly button has crust in it.  You need to clean that thing out.

“What that?” he replied, while digging around in his belly. ”Oh, that’s just a piece of a Dorito I was eating earlier. Look,” he said as he held up what was clearly part-Dorito for my inspection.

Me: What were you saving it for later or something? You know this conversation is going on the blog, right?

I love postcards.  I love David Shrigley.  His work is the closet thing to a visual representation of my sense of humor I’m ever going to get. My favorite thing to do with his postcards is to send them to Brother J.  Instead of getting cute postcards of kiwis or penguins, he gets these in the mail from New Zealand, or wherever I am at the moment.  He probably has around 15 or 20 of them by now.  It’s my little way of letting him know I miss him.

Southerner: What are you talking about?

Me: So, you were dreaming?

Southerner: No idea what you’re talking about.

Me: And you get mad at me for interrupting your sleep in the middle of the night.  At least all I’m doing is telling you about a nightmare; not trying to stick my finger up your butt.

Mom: Que? What are you talking about? Are you crazy?

Me: Well, I could use the money and I was really good at it.  Almost like I was born to strip. Like a ballerina, but only a stripper.  Do you see where I’m going here?

Mom: Que vulgar! You can’t! What will the Southerner think?

Me: He’s behind my decision 100%. He can’t wait to come see me dance.

Mom: What!!! Come home.  You’ve been gone too long.  You need your mother.

Me: April Fools, mujer! I got you.

Mom: It’s not April 1st yet!

Me: It is in my time zone.

Mom: So you don’t want to be a stripper?  Promise me.  No money in it for you anyway.  You’re tetas aren’t big enough.

For our mains, the Southerner and I shared a mixture of beef and chicken enchiladas and tacos.  The tacos were definitely better than the enchiladas but that isn’t really saying much.  Both tasted like they came out of a frozen Amy’s dinner package.  Good for frozen food, but sorely disappointing at a restaurant. 

The crema and salsa were bland and I’m pretty sure if I dipped a piece of cardboard in a jar of store-bought salsa, I could easily recreate our meal.  

One major plus at Pan de Muerto: the service.  Our server kept the drinks flowing throughout dinner and was attentive without being pushy.  I would definitely return for drinks another night.

After dinner, our new friends took us to a couple of local Wellington bars that we would have never found otherwise.  I tried absinthe for the first time at one, and drank alcohol out of a kettle and tea cups at another. 

Wow! Kiwis can drink! And so, as it turns out, can Canadians.  After several shots of tequila, we finally ended the night by making a pit stop at Santa Fe Dream Girls to spend the rest of our fake money.  I was sitting next to our Canadian friend, Special K, giving him a running commentary of what I thought of the girls– like I normally might with the Southerner.  You know, this one’s kind of chubby, that ones obviously had a baby, etc.  When Special K turned to me and politely begged me to  “please stop ruining this” for him.   

I have not laughed that hard in a long time.  It reminded me of watching porn with guy friends in high school or college and inevitably “ruining it” for them as well: Oh my god look at her nails.  They’re so long.  Do you think she does them herself? Are they distracting you as badly as they’re distracting me? No? Really? Not even imagining her accidentally puncturing that vein on his penis? I bet she could, you know.

L.A. is not for us.  Neither is the JW Marriott in downtown L.A. whose only redeeming quality is that it’s right next to a Rosa Mexicano where I stuffed my face Friday night.  We actually hated the Marriott so much we switched hotels yesterday to a location closer to the airport that isn’t teeming with fake tits and women who can’t blink or move their foreheads properly.  I’ve never felt more Southern than this weekend– longing for genuine hospitality and drinks that don’t cost $20.00 a glass.

So tonight we’re off to Wellington for six months.  The Southerner found another locums job there and I’ll continue to work from home.  Can’t wait to keep you guys posted on our time there.