Viva el payback!

Today is Mexican Independence Day! Viva Mexico! Although the parade and the official holiday is today, all the fun took place last night.

This is one of my very favorite holidays here in Cozumel. First of all, all the streets around the town hall are blocked off, and open to pedestrians and you get to be naughty and walk in the middle of the street.

Secondly, the park in front of the town hall is literally overflowing with food vendors selling the most amazing fat laden, carbohydrate ridden, artery-blocking food (churros, fried bananas, elote on a stick, pozole, chilis enogadas).

Thirdly, as our local paper called it, it’s “the island’s largest cantina” (again, what’s better than walking down the middle of the street with a beverage in your hand?)

Most importantly, there are fireworks. Really good fireworks. I’m not talking about, watching from a safe distance, seat belt wearing fireworks. What we have here in Cozumel are explosions going on right over your head, with hot sparks raining down on parts of the crowd. One year, the best year ever, my shirt actually got singed.

So, yesterday afternoon, I’m “working” and FB messengering with friends discussing what fun we shall all have later, when the husband, way way, too casually mentions that he’s going to be taking his scooter to the mechanic. That right there set my spider-sense tingling, because if there’s one thing the Fab-man does not excel at; it’s preventative maintenance. Plus, after 10 years together, I know that sometimes, my husband starts training early for the really special events.

My suspicions were confirmed early in the evening when he called me to tell me that he’d be home in about an hour, and that we’d go downtown together. At least that’s what I was able to make out of the conversation with the loud cantina music in the background.

I finished some projects, watered the garden, and had just opened a bottle of wine, when I received the following text message from the Fabster:

“Senores! Viva Mexico! Viva el Cura Hidalgo! Viva Dona Josefina Ortiz, Viva Morleos! Viva Las Pumas!” which translates as: Gentleman! Hurrah for Mexico! Hurrah for manyFamous patriots! Hurrah for my favorite football team!

Again, a smarter woman would have accepted the various invites to parties or downtown locations but not I. As I’m walking out the door with my keys in hand, up walks the Fabster, with my least favorite friend of his.

I don’t care who you are, or where you live, everyone who is married or in a committed relationship, has one friend of their significant other’s that they purely cannot stand. You might hide it, or fake it, but deep down inside, we all know this is gospel truth. Enter Fab-man and the Napoleonic Anti-Christ.

Now, fireworks are slated for 11. The Fabster, who now is looking remarkably like “Frank the tank” in the movie Old School, convinces me to stay, have a drink, chat with the Napoleonic Anti-Christ, and we’ll all head downtown together. By the time, I finally bin the 2 stooges into the car, I have just enough time to sit on the hood, and watch the top 1/3 of the fireworks through the trees, standing in the middle of my street.

We were like salmon swimming upstream, as we maneuvered our way into the park, since most people had eaten, watched the fireworks and were now headed home. Luckily, the husband is a tall man, as am I and there’s a large Mayan population here, so it’s generally easy to follow him as he darts through a crowd. As for the Napoleonic Anti-Christ, who cares?

Instead of perusing the various food vendors and making some choice selection, we flop ourselves down at the first available table, which happens to be serving tamales and black beans and pork, not my first choices. Dinner conversation consisted of me and Napoleonic Anti-Christ discussing who hates the other more. I won.

It sounds kind of strange, but neither one of us has ever made any sort of attempt to hide our mutual loathing for each other. Sometimes, it’s actually fun to say things like “You know just how much I hate you, right? Well…” I haven’t really figured out if the Fabster thinks this is jovial fun, or one day we’ll just bury our picks and axes and make nice, but he genuinely likes to put us together and hope for the best, which, generally speaking is bloodshed, usually at his expense.

End of the story, no fireworks, no good food, major letdown, however, still entertainly humorous, in a sick Tom Leherer sort of way.

Oh, and just as the epilogue, Fabian has promised to find me chilis enogadas before arriving home, and , although he doesn’t know it yet, he’s helping Lisa move her refrigerator down 2 flights of stairs later this afternoon. Sucker! Viva Revenge!