January 23, 2012

But if Mariachi Jesus came to your church would they actually let him in

So Rob has a unique (...er, aggressive...) sightseeing philosophy when it comes to vacations. I'm not quite sure how this escaped my attention during the four years that we dated, but I suddenly found myself on a honeymoon that contained not a single unscheduled, unplanned minute. And the good thing (for him) is that I found it really funny. 

Hahahaha! This Capilano Suspension Bridge was completely worth getting out of bed at 6:00am for the second morning in a row on our honeymoon! Hahaha!! So funny that I packed my swimsuit and never had a moment to sit by the pool! Hahahahahah! Ha! Ha! Ha... Ha.

Actually it was pretty awesome. As was me permanently collapsing all Rob's arm veins in terror.

So this weekend when we went to San Antonio, I wasn't really surprised when Rob was all, "Well, we could eat dinner, but there IS a cathedral really close to here that has a bilingual Mariachi choir mass in a half an hour."

Yes. A bilingual Mariachi choir mass.

And the other good thing (for him) is that I have totally learned to roll with the vacation punches over the years. The whole thing sounded, well, weird, but completely fascinating and funny, so of course I said yes.

Things I did not consider:

1) My fun kids beat Rob (and the sun) in an "I'm awake!! Is it 6 yet? Can we watch TV yet? Let's go on a hike!!" contest the past two mornings in the hotel. (All to which I answered "NO!! It's NOT 6 yet. You CAN'T watch TV. Hikes are for kids who sleep PAST 5.")

2) Silas, my 2-3 hour daily napper, was going on day four of no nap.

3) We had already in the last 33 hours completed the following items on Rob's vacation sightseeing list: part of a walking tour of old German houses on the river; walking tours of Mission San Jose, Mission San Juan, Mission Espada, and Mission Conception; a playground; a tour of the Alamo; a walk and riverboat tour of the River Walk; a 4D movie at the Tower of the Americas and the accompanying elevator ride to the top; another playground; a tour of the Japanese Tea Garden; a lengthy visit to the San Antonio Zoo; another playground; a walk to and around El Mercado; and a traditional Mexican folk dancing show.

In sum, my kids may have been slightly tired.

But, for some reason, this bilingual Mariachi mass sounded so terrific that I forgot how to be a parent and consider the 1930193 things that could go wrong in advance. I just wanted me some Mariachi. In a cathedral.

And let's just say 1930193 things may have gone wrong. However, for all the poking and tongue-sticking-outing and wiggling and kicking and arm waving and shoving (and me glaring and threat mouthing and forcible body repositioning and arm yanking and finger-on-mouth putting), the kids made almost no sound. It was so weirdly quiet except for the rustling of little bodies jerking around...and the bullets shooting out of my eyeballs.

Except also for Silas' burp. And the time his plastic toy fly clattered onto the seat in front of us. And the time Jannika started crying because I wouldn't let her audibly kiss my hand more than 6 times.

And then, 30 minutes in, when I caught Rob's eye, when we both exchanged a look of open-mouthed horror, and when I mouthed the words "WHERE'S THE MARIACHI BAND?" I started giggling. And couldn't stop. For. the. love. My silent shoulder shaking got so violent that I started devising escape strategies to execute if suddenly I lost control. The poor door greeter man positioned behind us must have been appalled. Those Calvinist Protestants and their uncouth ways...

And through it all? No mariachi.

By the time we escaped with our nightmare children, we had to drive into the far reaches of the city to find a restaurant that didn't have astronomical lines. In the process, Silas fell asleep (surprise, surprise), and managed to sleep through us extracting him from the car...through me baptizing his head with chip crumbs while he slept against my chest...through me dropping a large chunk of barbacoa meat from my taco into his ear.

That barbacoa was the clincher. I finally lost it (laughing...not crying - hard to guess, I know). As I giggled and fished meat out of Silas' ear, I thanked my lucky stars I had a husband who pushed me to explore and expand my limited crossword-puzzle-with-hot-tea prone comfort zones.

And then (of course) I looked up the info online, hoping to prove he got it wrong so I could (somewhat) teasingly rub his nose in it.
Dang it.
You can't win 'em all.

Speaking of comfort zones, the tasty nugget of information I found while making sure I spelled barbacoa correctly here? Rob's vague description to me of "Mexican-style barbequed meat" left out the fact that it's often "Mexican-style barbequed meat from the parts of a cow head, such as the cheeks." I can't tell if Rob omitted this information on purpose as he ordered a lengua taco for himself that night...and then remarked (after he had eaten every last bite), "The problem with tongue is that I burp it up for hours afterwards. Doesn't taste as great then."

That night I slept with my head hanging off the side of the hotel bed...as far away as humanly possible from Lengua Man's threatened taco burps.

The weird thing is when I sat down to read my Bible this morning, guess what verse was displayed on the already open page? Matthew 7:3. "Why do you look at the speck of chopped cow tongue in your husband's taco and pay no attention to the hunk of barbequed cow cheek in your own?" (Mariachi Choir Mass Translation)

When God speaks, I listen. Time to floss my teeth.

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