Mexican Mixup

I was across the street at our neighbor Gisella’s house, helping her save some photos that a friend had sent her. I set up a new folder inside her Pictures folder, selected and saved all the pictures that had been embedded in the text area of the email, renamed and sized them and then used one of her favorites as a desktop background. With my mission accomplished, I grabbed my phone, intending to make my escape so I could get back to work. I got up from the desk and started making my way down the hall towards the front door. Unfortunately, good byes with Gisella are never short and sweet. The woman doesn’t know how to say “See you later,” and actually let you go. Any expression of farewell is simple a precursor for her to launch into another topic.

Twenty minutes later I’d made it to the living room after being pulled back to her computer so that I could change the background picture five more times while she took me down memory lane with pictures of Wes, her late husband who had passed away last summer, then pictures of Bob, her new gentleman friend and their trip to Laughlin. After leaving the office, she redirected me into the guest bedroom and we had to rummage in the closet so she could show me a couple of new outfits she’d purchased for another upcoming trip with Bob. Fortunately for me, there was no sleepwear involved (see Too Much Information).

Once in the living room we had to have a lengthy discussion (during which she talked and I nodded) about replacing the furniture, whether she should sell the old stuff or donate it and if she should replace the old flooring with new tile or laminate and whether or not new end tables and a coffee table was warranted and if that would mean new window coverings, paint, and… well, you get the gist. I continued to nod as I inched closer and closer to the door. With what I hoped would sound like a final, “Sounds great, Gisella, but I’ve got to get back to work. Bye,” I slipped out onto the front porch and started towards to driveway only to be brought up short when she followed me outside. “Wait, wait,” she called out. “I have to tell you what happened at the Moose last night.”

I inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly and turned towards her. “Okay,” I sighed resignedly, “what happened?”

“Well, I told you Bob joined, didn’t I?” she started. “Anyway, he asked me what I wanted to drink and I told him a Mexican beer with lime.”

“That sounds pretty good right about now,” I commented drily as I check the time on my phone and took a couple of tentative steps backwards down the drive.

“So I waited and waited and when he finally came back, he handed me a White Zinfandel,” she said with a giggle. “He said he tried to get me a Mexican beer but they must have been all out because the only thing they had was Corona!”

I had to chuckle at that one. “I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t ask for German beer. You might have ended up a brat and sauerkraut instead.”

“I think maybe a shot of Jägermeister would have been better instead!”,” she replied with a firm nod of her German head.

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