02 January 2009

2008: The Lost Stories (ii)

Christmas Day 2008:

I had to work Christmas Day, so Jesse volunteered to cook. Yes, there were plenty of left overs, but it's not like there was anything else to do. Jesse's decided to make Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo, with homemade Alfredo Sauce. I prefer not to be around when he cooks (you would not believe the things he says are my fault) so I was glad to be at work. Also there was a breakfast buffet there and I don't need more than one excuse to eat.

I came home to find Jesse stirring intently. He said the whole thing was actually pretty easy, and he wasn't sweating or swearing, so I believed him. The sauce was delicious. He also used fresh pasta, which made a noticeable difference. While I ate, he made a blueberry dessert that may have been more to keep me away from his cookie bars than for my own treat. Either way, the dessert was delicious and I was stuffed.

Jesse and I then went up on the roof. This is Christmas in San Francisco. It's not like any place I've ever lived. It's colder than Vegas, hotter than Fargo, not as crisp as East Stroudsburg, and not as sloshy as Brooklyn. This is where we live, and part of how we spent our first San Franciscan Christmas.

After we ate (and Jesse refused to let me nap so he could get his own shut eye) we went to the movies. Jesse had been really excited to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. He was clearly not the only one. There was a horribly long line outside theater #5. There were a lot of grumbles and complaints, despite it being Christmas, and despite the fact that everyone there knew movie theaters were among the only places open Christmas night. Jesse was particularly impatient. He was pacing, huffing, walking in and out of line, and even standing on his tippie toes to see if the line was moving. I tried to tell him to calm down and that just got him more agitated. So I asked him: did Santa shoot you in the face?
I was referring to the story of the guy who dressed up like Santa and went to Christmas party to kill people. He rang the doorbell and an eight year old girl answered, as was part of this family's tradition. He shot her in the face. She didn't die, but she's 8. Now she's likely in an emotional tailspin. The story bothers me deeply. I promised to would never forget it and to think about it whenever I think I have a problem.
So Jesse was pouting over waiting in line. But he had not been shot in the face. He didn't see the point I was trying to make, and continued to sulk. I stayed quiet. Of course we eventually saw the movie and all was well.

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