Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

Rather than rehashing the entire gloriously extended weekend, I will summarize by saying that Thanksgiving was a lovely success. Calphalon roasting pans fucking rule, I love having a coffeemaker at home again, my gravy seems to have met with approval, I seem to have gained a new insight to the art of quick chopping, fantastic friends abounded, much (much) wine was consumed, and even though I lost at Trivial Pursuit again, it was a much closer race than last time. I need a pastry chef in my circle of friends at all times (at one point, I was heard to utter the phrase, "I am so full, it hurts to bend over -- but I'm still going to ask you to hand me my pie."), and I also need Shiv's recipe for sweet potatoes.

All of the above illustrate just why Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year -- and for me to like a day better than my birthday is really saying something.

There are several things about today I enjoy.

1) Apparently, U.S. money is FINALLY going to incorporate a little bit of color. From what I understand, each denomination will tint the background a different color. I think this rocks. Expect to see newly-decked-out bills by fall of 2003.

2) The Supreme Court is going to hear a case regarding the constitutionality of sodomy laws -- or, more specifically, on sodomy laws that apply solely to gay/lesbian folk but let straight couples give blow jobs till the cows come home (so to speak). Equal Protection Clauses and all that, y'see. Unbelievably, fourteen states still have sodomy laws on the books, and hopefully the Court can at least agree that it is not terribly fair to single out the queers when it comes to the illegality of oral sex. And maybe, just maybe, I will not have to worry about being breaking the law and being arrested, fined, or sent to jail just for gettin' down with a boyfriend in Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, or Texas. And perhaps someday the more equal-opportunity sodomy laws in a few other states that carry a penalty of anything from $500 to LIFE IN PRISON (thank you for that one, Idaho) will also be a thing of the past.

3) A string of emergency vehicles just zoomed past my office, sirens blaring. Normally this would not be cause to be amused -- but there was a cab zooming along at top speed in their wake, just like Bruce Willis in Die Hard 3. Now THAT'S cool. Following a train of logic that I do not quite understand, this sight made me want to watch Air Force One tonight.

4) I just found out that I, little humble I, will be attending an advance screening of Star Trek: Nemesis on Tuesday, Dec. 10. I will get to roll around in a happy sea of geekishness, and wallow in the kickassitude that is Captain Picard. Color me as happy as a bright yellow $20 bill.

The past 24 hours have yielded a whole passel of things to discuss. What any of them are, I would be very hard-pressed to tell you. Apparently my brain has seen fit to take every single instance where I said "Oh! Must write about [insert topic here]!" and erase it.

That being said, I would like to express my appreciation of several things.

"Wire In The Blood," a creepycreepy drama on BBC America, with much more graphic violence and creepiness than could ever be shown on regular American T.V. Last night's episode was about a transgendered serial killer who targeted S/M-centric guys. Medieval torture devices abounded, and bits of it I had to wimp out and squint through a gap in my fingers.

Graham Norton. He's a funny fucker. Also British. Why are there so many very funny British people?

Oh, fine. BBC America in general. I need to watch that more often.

Bread pudding. The bread pudding in my fridge was the one and only thing that got me out of bed on Saturday before 1 pm. Damn it, isn't bread pudding British too?!?

Non-British thing: My down comforter. Apparently my cat also likes it. I have taken to creating a Cat Cave made out of comforter, inside which she can sleep all day. She seems to enjoy peering out of it.

I also appreciate people who have personas. I have found myself wishing I had one. You know what I mean -- like...a signature look. I know several people who have them (Cyber-Victorian Androgyne Supervixen, anyone?). I might, I suppose -- I just have no idea what it might be. If you have any guesses or suggestions as to a fun, kicky name for my particular style, please let me know. (I am terrified that all my friends are going to email me something about "queer fratboy." Heavens forfend.)

My office building now comes complete with holiday decorations.

I call them "holiday" decorations and not "Christmas" decorations because they are making a remarkable attempt to be inclusive. Really. See, in one corner, there is a large Christmas tree with lights and fake wrapped-up presents underneath. (I have always wanted to open those up anyway -- a. because I love unwrapping things, and b. because someone just might have wrapped up something good by mistake.) There are strands of garland-wrapped fake-pine draping the Directory signs. There are large red velvet bows. But -- in another corner, well. This other corner is where the decorations get really special. There is a chipped, transparent plastic menorah with orange light bulbs to represent the candles, sitting on a broken, lopsided TV cart. I mean, precious, right?

Well, hell. At least they managed to do one thing right: my floor now has its very own access to the elevators. No longer will I have to walk up a spiral staircase to get to the floor above's elevators! Ha-hah! Rumour has it, the 26th floor (i.e., mine) used to be a sweatshop, and the owners did not want their workers to have free access to, say, the outside. They boarded up the elevators and made them file past a checkpoint (the spiral stairs) whenever they wanted to go anywhere. In the years since, the elevators were modernized, the 26th floor doors were not -- and when the sweatshop was displaced, the new tenants had to make do with the stairs too.

However, a mere two years since moving in here, my company has finally fixed those old-fashioned doors. I push a button just down the hall, and voila! A magical trip to the ground.

Now, if only they could manage to make the door go Bing! like it does elsewhere -- I have already missed my ride twice as the new doors opened and closed again before I noticed.

There, Finn. Happy now?!?

One thing I enjoy about the cold is that I am totally rockin' out the scarf vibe. I have never been a scarf person, and have, well, NEVER really worn one. Despite this, I have somehow collected four of them -- a blue-grey wool one that a friend of my mom's gave me when I was 10; a grey cashmere one and a tan cashmere one, both of which were bought because I thought they would accessorize well when I wore my trenchcoat with a suit (I was right), and my newest, a very cute red-and-gold-striped totally Gryffindor-style scarf. (And yes, I said Gryffindor, you heartless serpent.) Yesterday was the Gryffindor scarf with a light grey shirt, and today is the tan scarf with a light blue sweater. I am digging all these options. I am also amazed yet horrified that I am spending so long talking about my clothes. Anyway, I really adore the look and sound of the word "scarves." So, for some reason this seems to be my year for adopting the scarf as the latest part of my look. And as long as I am discussing my as-yet-unnamed look, I will mention that I fucking LOVE my hair today. It is spiky, yet tufty. You all want to touch it.

In unrelated news, I will also mention that Shiv's show last night was clearly her very best ever, and the bartender hit on her during the show by yelling out that he wanted to be her ex-boyfriend so that she would write a song about him, necessitating Shiv's comment that before he could be an ex, he would have to be a not-ex, which then allowed him to chuckle lasciviously. After I finished leering at Leo, the really hot one of the two boys who played after my girl, (and the boy with whom she was flirting as I left), I went out and had a gay ol' time, drinking until all hours with a couple of the other gay boys in our circle of friends. Despite this, I am feeling brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed today than I have in quite some time. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to go admire my coif.

I put half-and-half in my coffee this morning. I do not know why -- it makes it taste weird, and the coffee gets cold faster. I knew both of these facts, and I went ahead and put half-and-half in anyway.

You know that saying, "When it rains, it pours?" Yeah. That.

I am so all about sleeping in tomorrow. I think that no human language can express just how much I love my bed.

Office politics either make me laugh, or roll my eyes. Sometimes both.

I have no idea where I am going with any of this. I think my brain is fractured and all the thoughts that are leaking out are kind of broken too.

I almost said "kind of shattery too" up there, but I cannot deal with the word "shatter." I think every time: "Shatter? Like, one who shats?" Eurgh. Even grodier was my invented word, shattery -- like an old-school-Roman vomitorium. But way worse.

I have a feeling that I will be adding random entries like this for much of the day.

Here is what I have to conribute to your entertainment and reading pleasure at the moment. I just got an email with this for a subject line:

SLIDE YOUR MEAT BETWEEN MY WET BOOBS

It leads me to wonder if they were trying, if whoever sent that email actually hired a crack team of researchers, to come up with the the line that would be likeliest to a) make me queasy, and b) make me think of pastrami in the least-sexy way imaginable. Sliding meat. Eurgh.

My first entries in the "What's My Signature Look?" contest:

1) Metrosexual. I think I am very okay with this, as it puts me in a group with David Beckham. Being lumped in with him anywhere is fine by me.

2) The dark side of Abercrombie and Fitch. I think this is another way of saying "queer fratboy." I like the "dark" connotations, though.

3) Glam-Rock Mountain Man. The juxtaposition of those two concepts makes me unutterably happy -- but maybe "without a big furry beard" should be involved somehow. Also: do I really wear that much plaid? I had no idea.

Anyone else? C'mon. You know you want to.

Despite my VERY recently stated aversion to the word (ugh, I hardly want to say it again) "shatter," SOMEONE had to go and use it in their very first paragraph. It is as if she was specifically trying to antagonize me. What? Are you tryin' to start something? 'Cause it looks to me like you are.

Also. I am leaving the office. I still have no internet at home. This episode of my life is therefore called "I Have No Internet At Home: Watch Me Cry." I hope there are fun things to read when I get (sigh) back to the office on Monday.

Ahh, Monday. Another opportunity to wear scarves.

My current dilemma is this: my mom is coming to New York for Christmas. The last time she was here, I had only been living here for a few months and as such, was completely, utterly unaware of just about all of the good places to go. We ended up having a few really, really boring meals and seeing a few shows -- that was about it. This time 'round, I am determined that I will show my mom the cool "insider" places to go.

I have a few spots rounded up. I have sent her an itinerary. Plays, dinners, events, activities. Things are looking good. I even have a night scheduled during which I cook dinner for her, so that will be nice. (Even though she insists that we drink white zinfandel, and I insist just as strongly that while she is in New York, we do not mention the word "Beringer.") My one stumbling block -- after we see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular at 4:00 on Christmas Day, where, o where? do we go for dinner?

If anyone has any Spectacular Christmas suggestions, by all means, let me know.

Tomorrow, by the way, is my Employee Performance Review. Every time I think of it, my stomach gets all tangled up and anxious. I am supposed to receive a copy of said Review this afternoon, so we can "discuss" it tomorrow. Part of me is sure that it will say all kinds of wonderful things about me, suitable for framing. Another bit of me is convinced that it is going to be a litany of how horrible I am and how the company cannot afford to keep me on even a moment longer. I just wish the damned thing would be emailed to me already, so I could know one way or the other.

And also. If there have been FIVE mentionings of a particular scatological-sounding word in these pages, it is ALL. YOUR. FAULT. ANYWAY.

Well, mostly your fault.

And even more Also than that? The Maid In Manhattan contest continues apace. Viewers have until December 18 to vote for their favorite couple out of the four finalists. Apparently the winners receive a romantic weekend in New York's St. Regis Hotel.

For M's sake, I sure hope the room comes with two beds.

You know when there is someone who really means well? When they are all earnest and excited and keep using big words that they do not really understand? And all you really want to do is just smile kindly at them, pat them on the head, and wish they would stop talking?

Check it.

Reading it in depth is a Herculean task, especially if one includes the comments and rebuttals at the end. Basic summary: "Gay Apes Made Everything, And Without Them We Would Be Living In Poorly-Decorated Caves."

A sample: "Like the bees and ants making soldiers, female pre-humans made gay care-bears."
Care Bears!! This finally explains Cheer Bear, and possibly the existence of leather bars. Plus, it has the added bonus of imagining Cheer Bear done up in assless chaps. (Wait. Maybe that is not really a bonus.)

Referring to brain-usage: "Again the Olympic gold goes to the gays, the silver medal goes to the females and bronze to the males. Where to put the lesbians? The jury is out."
Ow, lesbians. He continues: "The lesbian imprint on history also seem to be small compared to the gay contribution. According to science lesbians have male ears, the first physical difference found."
That is the best this study comes up with. Gays made all the culture in the world, but lesbians? They have boy-ears.

"There are born 106 men to 100 women, which indicates that the surplus consists of the 3rd sex so that a balance of 100 to 100 can be achived by comparing the number of heterosexual men to the total number of women. The gay men could then account for the difference as a separate gay group which have a special behavior more and less like women, allthough they are men. Genetic science could soon present anti-gay-baby pills to concerned mothers and the superior sex (the gays) will hardly survive this unnatural selection: humanity will be stripped of culture, hetero drones and Neanderthals will hark back to the caves, the pining for the treetops will prove too much and we will go ape again!."
Anything I could say here would be woefully inadequate. I will simply say that I am tremendously pleased to be doing my part to keep you (yes, YOU) from stripping off your power suit and climbing up the nearest pine.

And finally, because I have to stop somewhere or I will quote the whole goddamn thing: "One somehow gets the drift, when one learns that the eradication of gays 600 A.C. that started the Dark Middle Age, and it was gays like Leonardo, Michelangelo, Erasmus, Bacon & Shakespeare that put on the light again. Voltaire gave us Enlightenment, and Goethe Romanticism. Tesla gave us the electrical light and Eastman gave us film. Händel, Beethoven and Brahms & Tjaikovsky took care of the music. The founding fathers of USA, Washington & Lincoln were probably gay; the "New England Flowering" was as gay as the "Beat-generation" which gave us the youth revolt. We learned about sex from gay researchers Kinsey and Hirschfeld. It is simply impossible to reconstruct human culture without the gay contribution. Before 600 A.C. (from what we can discern J.C.´s sexuality, if any, was gay rather than heterosexual, monotheism was seemingly invented by gay Achenaton, while the Greeks gave us philosophy) a somewhat truthfull gay proportion appears and that amounts to the birth of culture itself. The Dark Ages are not over until a real gay Renaissance occurs."
I am too busy laughing to form much of a response. Except! I really have to point out that he actually refers to "J.C." For a second, confirming my own gayness and thus inevitable great contribution to human culture, I thought J.C. referred to the member of N'Sync.

I am Entry-riffic today.

This one is going to be short. Especially in comparison to the last one.

There is only one reason for me making this entry.

And that is: to gloat.

"Gloat, Ful?" I hear you ask. "Whyever for?"

It's mine, you bitches. ALL MINE.

I have craved Exit 57 for Y-E-A-R-S. I fear for my own breathless-with-laughter-health while watching the "Your-mom-and-I-are-both-drowning-and-you-can-only-save-one-of-us-so-which-do-you-choose" sketch. And perhaps even more so regarding the "My Wife Left Me For A Guy Named Jesus" song. I cannot wait I cannot wait, and I want my new purchase NOW. Holy crap, Exit 57!!!

p.s. I apologize for calling you all bitches.

Eurgh, my hair is a disaster today.

It has gotten so long, it is collapsing under its own weight. Normally, for "normal" people, this would not be a problem, but I have sort of developed the habit of using hair-shellac to glue my hair into upward-pointing spiky bits. When even this massively heavy-hold hair goo cannot keep my hair from flopping downward into an awful fringe -- well, that is just far longer than my hair should be.

I am thinking of getting a haircut at lunch today. Sounds like a good solution, right? Unfortunately, I completely neglected to bring hair product with me to work today. (GASP!) I know. Very shortsighted of me. And of course, after months of carrying some around with me everywhere I go, the one day I really need some, it is at home. I have plenty of silver glitter, but that will not exactly help my hair stand up, now will it?

Also, I would be more okay with having unpleasant hair today, were I not going to an "event" tonight. Not much of an event, and I am damned sure that many people will have worse hair than mine -- but I still want to look my best for the Advance Screening of Star Trek: Nemesis. (I know!! I know!! How mind-blowingly exciting is this??? Yeeeehah for friends with "connections," right??) What if Patrick Stewart was there and he saw my really awful hair? What if Michael Dorn sneered at me? What if Gates McFadden pointed and laughed?!?

Of course, none of them will actually be in attendance. It is a matter of boldest optimism to even joke. But still. What if?

That does it. Haircut. For me. Right. Fucking. Now.

They like me! They really like me!

Hahahahahaha! I did not get laid off! I did not even get fired! I just had an Employee Review and I am still employed! I have a "clear, decisive, and orderly writing style!" My "contributions and suggestions have been extremely valuable!" I "always come through with quality results!" I have a "deep understanding of HTML" and I put a "great effort into solving problems!!!" They want to give me more responsibilities! They think I'm the bee's knees! On an overall scale of 1-5, where 1 = Outstanding and 2 = Exceeded Expectations, I am a 1.75!Haahahahahahahaa!!

I am going to float float float away on a cloud of ThankGodIDidn'tGetFired now. I love it when I worry for no reason and then I find out I was worrying for no reason. It always feels so much better than if I had not worried at all.

Oh, and by the way: My haircut makes me want to crawl under the table and weep. Today is more of a rollercoaster than I have been on in quite some time.

"Oh no! Bad hair!"

"Yay, getting a haircut!"

"Oh no! Employee review!"

"Yay! Employee review!"

"Oh no! The stylist used clippers on the sides and back of my head but didn't fade the clipped part up so I have this huge horrible awful dividey line that runs the circumference of my head!!"

"Yay! Star Trek movie!"

Yar. I clearly need to go drink a "Balance" Vitamin Water.

Several bits of interesting news that is likely only of interest to me:

1) Star Trek: Nemesis. Although SOME people think that being a Star Trek Geek is an unforgivable sin -- I positively wallowed in the rockingness that was this movie. It was packed with just the kind of inside jokes you have with the people who have been your best friends for 15 years. It was chock full of loud shooty noises and phaserfire (I like that word SO much better than the more prosaic "gunfire") and people in fights and ships flying around and a CAR CHASE for heaven's sake. O, it warms the cockles of my big geeky heart. I am so going to see it again, too.

2) My hair has been repaired. After spending an entire evening coping with the bad skater-hair I was left with yesterday afternoon, I went home and let ArtStudent repair it. She was not so great at blending the sides and the top into a proper fade, so we decided to throw caution to the wind: it is totally mohawk time. Well, more of a half-mo and half-faux. But all hot. I mean it. Even I want me. It is THAT hot.

3) I joined the Flirt Test Club. I have this to say: is anyone, and I mean ANYONE AT ALL, surprised in the least?

What Kind of FLIRT are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

You may recall my feelings on the Zagat guides.

This review, courtesy of The Onion, however, is a sort of review I feel could be very useful indeed.

Zagat Editor A 'Nice Guy' But 'Kind Of Boring'

NEW YORK—Chris Dantley, editor of the Zagat restaurant guide for New York, received mixed reviews Monday from women who have dated him. "'Well-heeled' 'outgoing' man offers pleasant-enough company but 'loves to talk about self' and 'blows half his jokes,'" reviewers said of the 35-year-old Dantley, located on East 81st Street near Third Avenue. "'Free smiles' and 'snappy dress' don't go far enough to offset 'strained compliments' and 'inappropriate come-hither looks.'" Dantley's midsection was also panned as "overly doughy."

Well, that tears it.

If I ever had even the slightest shred of respect for this assface who ended up being the mayor of New York, that scrap has officially been trodden upon, smashed into the mud, dug back up, used as a handkerchief for one of the dirt-encrusted men who sleep on the subway, made into a bird's nest, eaten, digested, and excreted by a large, feral cat, and flushed down the sewers.

Correct me if I am wrong, but might there be more important problems to deal with at the moment than banning smoking in bars? Why, exactly, is this mayoral fuck concentrating on issues like this? Why has he spent so much effort on getting this smoking ban through, but when it comes to an imminent transit strike, the best he has to say is "Ride your bike to work!" (For those of you unaware, as I would have been before I first visited New York, a transit strike means that nobody can get anywhere. Getting to work would involve an hour walk, a theoretical ferry ride, and another hour walk.)

Could it be said that there is nothing I would enjoy LESS than going to a bar, squeezing my way through the crowd, ordering a drink, finding a seat, and then finding that I had to get back up, squeeze back through the crowd, give up my seat, lose my drink, and go outside into the fucking snow in the middle of fucking winter to have a god damned cigarette?

If I wanted my dad to tell me what to do, I would have stayed five years old. New York is going to L.A. in a handbasket.

I wish several things right now:

1) I wish that I could be seeing Equilibrium again. I have a feeling I will need to watch some of those Gun-Kata battles many many times before I am satisfied. It has nothing to do with watching Christian Bale wake up, shirtless and drenched with sweat. Honestly, the gunfights do something to my face that is more intense than ROCKING it.

2) I just wish I knew what such a maaaaagical verb might be.

3) I wish I had more juice.

4) I wish I had something incredibly loud and full of curse words and synthesizers to listen to right now. Like Rammstein. I keep saying that now and then, but for some reason, I keep not buying any Rammstein.

5) I wish people would write me e-mails because I am in the middle of a protracted bout of ennui. Tell me funny stories.

6) I wish I could take advantage of British Air's offer of airfare and three nights in a hotel for under $300. Christ in a sidecar, that deal is sweet.

7) I wish I were wearing a different shirt.

So is it bad that I was so annoyed at my shirt, I went out and bought a new one?

I bought a long-sleeved, knit, medium-grey GapBody shirt, size medium. To replace my long-sleeved, knit, medium-grey GapBody shirt, size medium.

Why yes, "Fulminous" does start with the same letter as "Freak." Why do you ask?

I would also hereby like to express my outrage at people who kiss other people in elevators when they clearly don't have permission and probably think they were REALLY smooth doing it. Motherfucker, don't mess with my Shiv, or I'll totally cut you.

Currently: in the middle of mental preparations for the Company Christmas Gala this evening. Recent activity: Visiting Macy's to spend too much money on an extravagant outfit. Picture: thigh-length black velvet coat with silk banded collar; iridescent red diamond-patterned vest; diagonal-patterned white tuxedo shirt; black (and I know some of you hate the word) slacks. Me: hot.

Interesting anecdote: salesperson sees my mo/faux-hawk-ish hair as I peruse the Claiborne Luxe options. Continues to stare (hard core stare) at me as I shop. Sends someone to knock on my door as I try clothes on, ostensibly to check on my comfort but in actuality a thinly-veiled attempt to let me know I could not pull a Winona. Glares at me as I look for different size in coat. When he realizes I am, in actuality, going to purchase the entire armload of clothing, he at least has the good grace to remain surly and does not sully our relationship with false servility. My subvocalization as I leave: What a dick.

I shall summarize: Company party. My sea-green-ballgown-clad date and I were every bit the smash I expected we would be. Clearly the best-dressed little fashionistas in the place.

We both shared a little moment of staring at my CEO's very nice ass, which was great fun. Then later, she stripped for him and he took pictures. I am so not even joking.

I threw some meat on the floor. She threw some crust into the bookshelves. Both events were, ostensibly, accidental.

As for the Great Gift Swap, I ended up with the Golf Gift Set: A kickin' mousepad with a golf course scene, and a gigantic mouse that looks like a chopped-in-half golf ball. "This has to be from the I.T. guy. Nobody else would have bought that," I observe. Yes, I was right. Happily, he wrapped the present in the plastic bag Radio Shack gave him to carry it around in, and, doubly happily, left the receipt inside too. I now have a full world of Radio-Shack-related options open to me.

Later, meeting up with Shiv and Finn, et al, I sauntered around in my finery and played the independently wealthy badass, at one point marching up to the bar and imperiously announcing that I would like that bottle of Veuve Clicquot and five glasses, chilled, and yes, charge it on this, thank you. I have been riding off the high I got from that amount of decadence for days.

I have never. Ever. Wished for a time machine more than I do right now, at this very moment. Soho. December 12. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Check it.

I am having a very difficult time trying to decide whether I should:

a) jump up and down, crowing about how the members of the Fellowship themselves would be using a Mac to look up maps to Mordor (had Mapquest been around back then, of course),

or

b) cry piteously because I was not at the store to witness this event and make all four of them fall hopelessly in love with me.

Can I jump up and down and cry and crow all at the same time? Be careful; my broken heart might bleed all over you if you get too close.

Several recent occurrences:

Yesterday, work was the equivalent of having my brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped 'round a large gold brick, except without the fun. As one co-worker (and ostensible supervisor) and I sat at a conference table for nine hours straight, hashing out "user interface" improvements, ordering our lunch in, being surrounded by reams of paper, rolling up our sleeves, and getting smudges of ink on our faces, we were compared by other workers to those nice folks at NASA as they figured out how they were going to get Tom Hanks and Apollo 13 to land safely.

My sister decided a while ago that she rather liked the age gap between her and me -- five years (and five days, to be precise). Since my niece just turned four, apparently my sister's course was clear -- and I was just informed that I have another niece/nephew on the way. His due date (why am I already thinking of this tiny nubbin of cells as a "he?" That is a little odd and will be discussed with my sister soon) is, of course, five years (and five days, to be precise) after my niece was born.

Also, I will be taking a road trip. Someone else at work needs a car transported from Burlington, VT to Vail, CO. As I was the first person to reply (in a frantic flurry of quick-write-back-before-any-of-these-jackals-I-work-with-steal-my-trip typing) to the initial inquisitory e-mail, I have the honor of being the transporter, which also provides a marvelous opportunity to see my sister. While it is not exactly the exotic trip overseas that I am in desperate, burning need of, an extended three-day road trip just might do the trick. Except for the bit that goes through Nebraska, which as far as I am concerned, need not even be on the map, much less in my way.

I will not even waste time discussing to what insane degree I was blown away by The Two Towers. It would be a cavalcade of compliments, a surge of superlatives, which could be succinctly summed up by saying "Holy jesus fuck, for the last three hours I have had to consciously remind myself to breathe." Plus, I want to have Orlando Bloom's babies. He puts the "ass" in "Legolas," and he can put anything he wants to in me.

I will mention that I am very pleased to be drinking coffee today. I did not allow myself to ingest any liquids yesterday, which had the wonderful, intended effect of not requiring me to get up to pee during the movie. It sure made me thirsty, though.

Also, I am now apparently an official employee of my company. I have received a Deadbolt Key. I can get into this office any time, day or night, all by myself. This makes me happy. Not that I ever would come into the office when no one else is here -- but the fact that I have the option, should I choose to exercise it, is nice.

I am going to go get some more coffee. Mmm. Liquid.

You know what I love? I love that a thin little slice of chicken is bright pink, but then as soon as you cook it, it turns tan. Just because you make it hot. It's just like Hypercolor, and I fucking LOVED Hypercolor. Except when the chicken gets cold again, it stays tan. So it is more like a one-way Hypercolor, which now that I think about it, really would not be that much fun.

Scene: Christmas Morning. A little boy is unwrapping a nice big present.

Little Boy: (gasp!!) A Hypercolor shirt! These are so cool, and I will have lots of new friends who want to touch me!

Mom: I thought you might like it!

Little Boy: But wait. It is not changing colors. My Hypercolor is not very Hyper.

Mom: Now that you mention it, I think the shirt was blue when I bought it.

Little Boy: (crying) I hate my new lame one-way Hypercolor shirt! I told you it was too hot in here!

But then again, if chicken changed back to pink when it was no longer hot, everyone would think they were eating raw chicken. Or there would be raw chicken that everyone thought was just cold, cooked chicken. I bet that cases of salmonella would skyrocket.

No, mom. I do NOT need to go to the bathroom before we leave.

I have not shot myself in the face just yet. But it has gotten very close. Very.

p.s. Happy Christmas! I want a drink.

That plane is leaving on time if I have to shovel a path on the runway myself.

My mother did, in fact, get safely off the ground on Thursday, and then safely back onto the ground again in Denver. I did not have to shovel any runways, but I did call her a car to take her to the airport at noon. For a 4:00 flight. Just call me Mr. Cautious. Or Mr. Desperate -- the car drove away, I walked inside, busted out the ashtrays, let the rat loose from her cage, turned on the Playstation, and started having my vacation.

So Thursday night. I am starting to think about the possibilities of going out dancing. In fact, I had gone so far as to start laying out various clothing options on the bed, when I realized I had a phone message from Bear, asking me to call him back as soon as humanly possible. Concerned, curious, trepidatious, I call the boy.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at home. What's up?"

"Are you by yourself?"

"Yes, I'm by myself. What's going on?"

"Well, I have something to tell you that isn't going to make you happy."

"Oh, jesus. What did you do?"

"Well, I noticed something interesting last night. I, um. I have crabs."

Crabs.

Let me repeat.

CRABS.

Tiny little bugs that live in/on/around a place where NO bugs should EVER EVER EVER be. E-V-E-R. And this coming from me, the boy who can see a big roach in his kitchen and just sort of feebly wave at it and say "oh, shoo."

Let me also clarify that this newsflash came to me from a fellow who has not had the opportunity to pick up said crabs from another person for something going on a full year.

As it is incredibly, mindnumbingly unlikely that he would have failed to notice his newfound friends for that period of time, he must have found them by sleeping on a surface that had recently been slept on by someone already host to the little buggers.

He lives in my apartment. And has slept on all three beds PLUS the couch.

I am sure you can see where this is leading.

I talk to him for quite some time, whilst he is busy shaving his entire body. (Perhaps there is a reason why my nickname for him is "Bear?" Ow.) As soon as I get off the phone, I strip down and immediately discover that it is rather difficult to get one's face close enough to one's crotch to perform an adequate inspection. (I have heard it can be done with a lot of practice and some intense yoga training, though.) So there is me, standing in the middle of my room with my pants off, trying to a) point my crotch towards the ceiling, b) keep it in the light, and c) bend over double to look for crawling things. Several painful contortions and judicious applications of a small mirror later, I come to the happy conclusion that I am free and clear. My heart rests easy.

However, this has put a bit of a damper on my desire to go dancing. So I sigh and get into bed, and am immediately set upon by the feeling of being crawled all over by a horde of tiny bugs. I ignore it, it gets worse, I itch, I am being trampled, I am infested, I am covered in bugs bugs BUGS oh my god I am coated in tiny bugs Holy Fucking Christ Crabs Bugs Everywhere I am going to die from being slathered in BUGS AIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!

So I fall prey to my brain's stupid hallucination, give up, and walk to the pharmacy at four o'clock in the fucking morning. Looking for "lice" shampoo that I do not even NEED but for the whinings of my overactive imagination. I really, REALLY do not want to ask the man behind the counter. But of course, behind the counter is where they keep ALL of the embarrassing things, probably because they are sadistic motherfuckers. There is an entire row of possible products, so I wave vaguely at them and tell the man that I need one of those things. He starts to hand me a home pregnancy test (ha!), I point higher and say, "The next shelf up. Just...whichever one." He asks if I would like him to make a suggestion, and when I look blankly at him, he tells me that Rid is apparently the de-lousing solution of discriminating customers, all while I am doing my damnedest to avoid making any sort of eye contact whatsoever. I also thought about making some comment about how my daughter must have picked up those darn head lice from school and isn't it just awful? Instead, I just gave him my grubby money and slunk out the door.

Thank god, by the way, that I was the only person home that night. Because of the ungodly fumes, the shower door and bathroom door were both open, and the there was only the cat to watch as I scrubbed this gel into my various and sundry hairy bits (leaving my eyebrows alone, because as "Furtive Fauna," my handy reference book on parasites, informs me, "It's highly unlikely to find crabs in facial hair. If you have pubic lice in your beard or eyebrows, well -- you probably earned them,") and then used a "Patented Lice Removing Comb (included)!" which ripped out all of the aforementioned hair in its quest to get the nonexistent crabs off of me. But at least THIS time, when I tried to go to sleep, I did so without a phantom plague.

Now, Bear (or former-Bear, depending on how you look at it) is convinced he got them at our house. I think they came from the place he has been housesitting for the past week, especially as the rest of the housemates are clean.

But here is the punchline. This is the bit of the story that makes my heart skip a beat and engenders thoughts of ritual suicide: The very night before my mom's arrival, Bear slept in the bed she used during her stay. And if, by some horrific chance, he got these things BEFORE his stint as a housesitter, and I end up getting a call FROM MY MOTHER telling me that she CAUGHT CRABS from MY HOUSE, I see no possible way that I can avoid shriveling up and dying of extreme, total, complete, utter horror.

Note To Self: New Year's Resolution Number One -- Don't give crabs to your mom.