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

In a move reminiscent of high school activities, Saturday night saw Me and Company playing Lasertag.

Yes. Lasertag.

Laser-freakin'-tag.

With lasers.

I have this to say: The Green Team fucking RULES. While one did not get to do as much diving-and-rolling-over-obstacles as one might have liked, nor was running really allowed, yours truly is accomplished enough at the art of walking very quickly and doging around things to be able to PRETEND. Sporting the rather unattractive and mis-typed codename "Falminous," I zorched my way through the battlefield, leaving many a casualty in my wake. ArtStudent turned out to be the champ of our little group, with a score of well over 9000 points. I think that the next closest was me, with something like a third of that. When we marched out of the arena, flushed with victory over the Red Team, one of the referees said, "C'mon, Greens! Make some noise!!" We suddenly turned into a war movie, shaking guns over our heads and going, "WOOOOOOOOOOOOO YAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!" which was just tremendous and accomplished my oft-pursued goal of feeling butch. We are definitely going again.

It's remarkable, really, just how psyched up one can get over lasers, and vests with laser sensors, and guns that shoot lasers, and lasers. (I really like the lasers.)

I have spent my entire day listening to t.A.T.u on continuous repeat. This CD is my entire world. It gives me a day-long eargasm. I am not even fucking kidding you. And just because he mentioned it first, do not even THINK that Taydo introduced the girls to me instead of the other way 'round. And I suppose I have done a little bit of work every once in a while, too.

Note to self: If you have just gotten a paycheck and are therefore feeling flush, plus you have just had a whole lot of really, really good naked time with someone and are therefore in a great mood, plus you have just packed up all of your clothes for the laundry and are therefore wearing your best dress clothes (i.e., black velvet jacket and tuxedo shirt, with jeans for that nouveau riche look) -- do not, and I repeat NOT, go into Manhattan or anywhere else that has shopping. You will end up buying a lot of things using money that might be better saved for stuff like food.

Have I mentioned that I went shopping? Because I did. And I bought 5 shirts, 4 of which are stripey (white-tan-cream, blue-blue-blue, green-tan-brown-white, tan-brown-white-blue-blue), and one of which is black and crepey. Plus a stripey (blue-blue-blue-blue-blue) tie. I am clearly in the midst of a stripey kick, in the clutches of which I am helpless. I also discovered that when wearing velvet and/or tuxedo pieces while shopping leads to remarkably attentive salespeople, and a concomitant feeling of power, which I have also learned leads directly to spending more money.

At least I have a new shirt for every day this week, and any week in which one can say that has to be a good one.

I had no idea that the stars were keeping tabs on events in my personal daytimer.

LEO:
Have you ever felt a tension between your drive to be yourself and your longing to be in love? I'm guessing you did last September, when Jupiter and Neptune were opposite each other in the sky. But when the same planetary scenario recurs in the coming days, I suspect you'll be shown a way to resolve that tension. And in early June, when Jupiter and Neptune take on the same configuration a third and last time, I predict you'll have a breakthrough in which you dramatically harmonize your drive to express your unique beauty and your urge to blend your life with another's.

In utterly related news, M2 and I kind of decided to...well, we have different titles now. "This guy I'm dating" is now a little outdated, as we seem to have given each other a bit of a promotion. Completely and totally unexpectedly, it was...well, it was my idea.

And now no more on the topic, else it will get jinxed. I know how you work, Fate; you are a tricksy one.

I just received an e-mail from my favorite person, the Office HR Lady. "The Halloween pumpkin head has been refilled with lots of candy," it explained.

Naturally, I had to investigate. While I rooted around in the pumpkin-head-bucket to find another teeny Snicker's cube, HR Lady also informed me that it's my supervisor's birthday today. (He is the supervisor that I like, by the way, so hooray and Happy Birthday to him.) Now, on birthdays, it has become habitual for the office to carry in a cake and sing Happy birthday at 4:00 in the afternoon. The birthday-person in question is supposed to act surprised. It all works out for everyone. However, the HR Lady is shaking things up a little today.

"I'm going to bring in a 'cake' (insert quotey finger motions here) at five, but the 'cake' (insert quotey motions again) won't be a cake (insert mime-like eating action, like one is holding an invisible fork), it'll be a cake (insert mime-like drinking action, like one is holding an invisible shotglass)."

There are so many reasons why I love her. Now I can add one more to the list. And pour myself some Jack at the same time.

The aftermath of last night's office-based birthday party has apparently left half a bottle of Jack and half a bottle of Captain Morgan's sitting on my desk. Exactly why they were left so close to me is still a mystery, but I expect either some very kind benefactor who has bestowed the bottles upon me, or some very cruel temptress who wants to tease me all day.

Of course, there is always the possibility that they were just accidentally left there without any forethought or malice whatsoever, but honestly, what is the chance of that?

So I think that I need a new descriptive sobriquet for M2. "M2" just is not cutting it these days, especially since it has been pointed out that it sounds as if I am referring to an English highway. Any ideas?

That being said, I will mention that my English highway is coming into the city to meet me for lunch today. I am trying to refrain from seeing this in movie-terms -- you know, the cute couple meeting for lunch all bundled up in scarves, beautiful puffy falling snow, and the roar of Manhattan in the background. It seems like something out of a late-eighties New York romantic comedy, where the people in the couple make very witty ascerbic comments all the time.

Also, I forgot to turn off the ringer on my cell phone, and I am listening to the t.A.T.u. girls at full-tilt-boogie volume, so my office was just treated to several rounds of the Popeye-just-ate-his-spinach-and-is-kicking-the-crap-out-of-people song.

I think I am genetically programmed to be terribly, terribly rich.

Dinner last night:

and

Plus salad and rare tuna steak and wine and port and espresso and desserts.

Honestly, I am never happier than when I am spending large amounts of money. Of course, it is almost always money that I do not have, or money that I have but should be saved for buying food next week, rather than being blown on a one-night extravaganza. Granted, the bill last night was taken care of by M2, but the principle remains the same.

(p.s. I need a better name for M2. Suggestions?)

Anyhow. As I was saying. Champagne and caviar. Last night was my first time with the caviar. Given my history with and taste for seafood, I was apprehensive -- but I was determined that something as snobbish as caviar would be not only liked by me, but LOVED.

The first toast point, with creme fraiche, shaved egg yolk, shaved egg white, and caviar, was okay. I decided it was something I could grow to love.

The second toast point, with creme fraiche, red onions, capers, and caviar, was better. Much better, in fact.

And the third and final toast point, with creme fraiche, red onions, capers, all the caviar left in the jar, and a dusting of shaved egg yolk, was so good I almost cried. Just a little.

Lest the skeptical among you think that I exaggerate when I say the caviar almost made me cry, I tell you that food almost makes me cry on a regular basis. Just sit me down in front of the saltimbocca at Lupa, and watch me.

And lest the cynical among you think that I only liked caviar because it was expensive and I thought I had to, I tell you that you would be completely correct -- as long as we were only talking about Toast Point Number One. Numbers Two, and particularly Three, were pure egg-popping delights. And at this point I really need another radically expensive taste -- it will only make my mom refer to me as "Niles" (think David Hyde Pierce on "Frasier") all the more.

p.s. I apologize for the deadly dull entry. I will aim for a purer form of amusement tomorrow.

The days of the faux-hawk are over.

Enter Mohawk.

Last night I finally decided I was brave enough to buzz off the last vestiges of faux, and am now wearing a full-on mo. StyleGirl said she did not like it as much now, but ArtStudent told me that it looked "awesome!!!!" and that now I am hardcore punk.

Of course, then she looked at me and said that the punk effect was lessened a bit by the Abercrombie t-shirt and kicky flare-cut jeans I was wearing, but then decided that actually makes it a lot cooler. Plus she decided the buzzed hair on the sides and most of the top apparently makes me look vaguely militaristic.

So, to recap, for anyone who cares, I am now a queer military punk fratboy. Yarrr!

Well, that was embarrassing.

My cell phone was sitting on my desk, as I was expecting a call from M2. So there I was, coding HTML. Headphones on. t.A.T.u. turned up. All the way up.

Then the guy in front of me is suddenly pounding on my desk to get my attention and pointing at my phone. Seems I had neglected to turn on the "vibrate" feature, opting instead for the "play annoying ring tone very loudly" option.

My phone was ringing its clarion call to action very very loudly, and everyone in my office was looking at me and laughing. Because the song that was pouring out of my phone. The song.

Popeye. The Popeye song. I have no idea why the Popeye song is one of the default tunes available to my cell phone, but apparently it is. When I chose it, I had a) never planned on turning the phone off vibrate, which apparently turned out to be inaccurate, and b) decided that the ring tones of classical tunes were too much of an abomination to actually use.

And this phone is ringing. Two inches away from my left hand. Popeye. Full blast. And I don't even notice because my headphones were turned up too loud. And everyone was staring and laughing. And now they are calling me Popeye.

I have been trying to decide what to write about for this particular entry, as it is a) number 300, b) just past my one-year d-land anniversary, and c) Valentine's Day. I think I will limit myself to a simple, "You've come a long way, baby," and leave it at that.

And now on to the funny story!

There is a new-ish guy in the office -- one of those, "Woo, work is fun, let's chat with everybody" people.

I do not want him to chat with me. Nevertheless, he does so several times a week. It usually ends up feeling uncomfortable, because he remains standing near my desk long after the conversation is over. I just kind of chuckle, maybe shake my head in an amused fashion, at the last thing he said. Several times. Until he finally walks away.

His latest observation:

"So, it's funny, huh? That we only have like three women in the office. 'Cause that means there aren't going to be a whole bunch of Valentine's Day flowers getting delivered. But once? A few years ago? When I worked at Sally Jesse Raphael in their computer department? Well, they had a whole bunch of women. Women producers, women assistants. And on Valentine's Day, a whole bunch of flowers came. For, like, all these females, right? And then this one bouquet came in that was, that was HUGE and expensive and like a hundred dollars. And all the women gasped and wondered who it was going to. And then the gay guy got it! And all the women were so mad because they wouldn't have minded losing to another female, but losing to the gay guy was embarrassing. Ha ha, isn't that the best Valentine's Day story ever?"

Of course, the thought that was running through my head at this point was, "THE gay guy? Does he seriously think there was only ONE gay guy working at Sally Jesse? I mean, honestly."

Tinges of blue are beginning to show between the clouds hanging over the city. I doubt this signifies approaching warmth, or even sunshine, but I will remain hopeful.

The Valentine's Dinner was a smashing success. Mixed green salad (radicchio, romaine, endive) with homemade raspberry vinaigrette dressing and topped with a few raspberries, mozzarella/ciabatta/pancetta/rosemary skewers with an olive dressing, roasted red potatoes with asiago cheese, filet mignon, and caramel-cognac fondue and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot for dessert. The sauce for the filet was, sadly, destroyed when the chef suffered a lamentable kissing-induced lapse in concentration during the final "stirring" phase, but happily, the filet seemed to hold up all on its own.

(Side Note: Sea and I just came up with a brilliant new marketing scheme: "I'd do anything for a bottle of Veuve!" I had originally thought it would be Mountain-Dew-esque, you know, diving into bubbling mud pits, that kind of thing. He decided, and rightly so, that it should be a little snobbier: picture someone dressed in a tuxedo shirt and a knee-length black velvet jacket (in other words, me) being forced to watch a two-hour long piece of mime performance art. Or a Barry Manilow concert, perhaps. Afterwards, say at a reception, the jacket-clad fellow (me) gleefully pours himself a glass of champagne and announces, "I'd do anything for a bottle of Veuve!")

The rest of the weekend was spent being snowed in with the boy, except for a brief mountaineering excursion to pick up Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, which ArtStudent and I are rapidly devouring.

Now, in keeping with my distaste for doing anything less than whole-hog, on the schedule for tonight is dinner with the boy. In Queens. With his family.

Meeting his family. Gulp. This is not something that I have done before, either meeting someone else's or introducing my own. Color me petrified.

Although, I just found out that the meeting will be postponed -- apparently his mother asked him to put it off, as she has not had time to make homemade sauce. It seems she was impressed by reports of my V-Day dinner and is almost as nervous about meeting me as I am to meet her. Which is both very cute and very reassuring at the same time.

Also, I am wearing a new shirt today. HTML geeks among you might appreciate the fact that it is pretty much #66FF33 colored. I was just informed by a co-worker that it is very "flashy."

And finally, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I have a Joyous Connection of Domestic Internet Love again! Checking my mail at home has never felt so sweet.

I will be taking a long lunch today.

Well. Not for lunch, exactly. I will be taking a long mid-day break, in order to attend a meeting.

Where? Oh, that. At the French Culinary Institute. You remember that. The school that will help transform me from a cooking dilettante into a gastronomic wonder.

See, yesterday I got a call from the fellow I interviewed with last year. He said that he had noticed my recent request for information on the school and was hoping I was still interested. I explained that the sole barrier to attendance is the nigh-astronomical $26,000 entry fee, and I was requesting a new set of information so that I might reapply for loans now that I have almost nine months of continuous gainful employment under my belt.

He set up an appointment so that we might discuss options. Or, as I like to think of it, so that we might effect the working of a miracle.

I am tremendously anxious about it -- this morning, I woke up from a dream in which someone from FCI called me to say that the meeting had to be postponed until next Tuesday. I think that might have been my first dream in which a day planner significantly figured.

Also, there is a creepy cosmic undertone to all this. Take a gander here, discovered while skimming through my archives (as is my narcissistic wont) earlier this morning. My first mention of the French Culinary. February 20, 2002. I like to pretend that I am not one to put much stock in fortuitous coincidences -- but really, I really really am.

Update:

It is happening.

Basically, I need to polish off my undergrad student loan, of which only $2600 remains. I just made the necessary phone calls to arrange applying my tax refund directly to it.

I am sure that whatever is left over after that, I will manage to find a way to get it paid post-fucking-haste.

Once that is done, the Financial Aid director sees no further impediment to convincing someone to give me the twenty five thousand, seven hundred and fifty Santa Clauses I need to attend.

Holy fucking SWEET. If I am not careful, I am liable to explode at any moment.

I will begin by stating that I am the King of Div Tags. Divs bow down before my awesome coding majesty, and then the little bitches display borders exactly where I tell them to.

Glad to have that out of the way.

Now then. Last night I satisfied my stalker tendencies for the month. I met up with a friend of mine who had managed to find me all of my initial jobs in the city and thus enabled me to continue to live here. She is utterly fantastic. We caught up on about three months of absurdly dramatic gossip, which she always has in spades.

Then I realized: Hey. Boyfriend is working tonight. I should go surprise him.

So up I go to the Upper East Side. I do not want to interrupt him at work, so I casually wander around outside. Grab a slice of pizza. Read a book. Wander around some more. For TWO HOURS. I kept trying to peer in the dimmed windows from across the street, just to reassure myself that I was loitering for good reason, but never saw the boy's face for sure until I'd already been standing there for an hour and a half.

You know in romantic comedies where the main character walks out of a building and there is the romantic interest, casually leaning against a tree holding, I dunno, a daisy or something? Waiting for them? Right. They never show the part where the romantic interest stood in the cold for two hours waiting for the main character to finish folding napkins.

But at last, he emerged and I got to be a very pleasant surprise, and drink beer, and kiss in a taxi.

Also, while I waited I was cruised by no less than three boys, who probably thought that I was a hustler.

I saw Danny Pintauro again. The boy and I (I still need a better name for him) went dancing at a random '80s brit pop club last Saturday to meet up with one of his former roommates, and there he was, leaning against the wall near the bathroom.

The first time I saw him was at another dance club, about two years ago, I suppose. He was my very first celebrity-sighting in the city, so it was very exciting. All of my friends were busily spotting Uma Thurman, and Steve Buscemi, and Susan Sarandon, but really, at nine months and counting without a single sighting, I was glad to take what I could get.

In the two years since that first Pintauro-sighting, I have seen Mario Batali, Bill Nye the Science Guy, and once, Woody Allen. Now I have seen Danny Pintauro again. My boy smacked himself on the forehead later on, when he realized how gigantically funny it would have been if he and I had gone up and sandwiched Danny Pintauro while we danced -- you know, made him the Danny-filling in our dancing Boy-and-Fulminous bread. I agreed that it would have, in fact, been a tremendous idea, but allowed that given my track record, it is incresingly likely that I will be seeing Mr. Pintauro again soon.

Also, today I am wearing my brand new sassypants. My glass-coated pants*. They are cut somewhat slimmer than I am used to -- not to say that they do not fit, but, well...certain...bits and pieces? They are a slightly more accentuated than one might normally observe with my usual pants. In fact, one might be tempted to say something along the lines of, "Spring is bustin' out all over," or something. But I would heartily advise one not to.

I am doing my best to de-emphasize the situation. I mean, come on, I am at work for heaven's sake. I have even taken to carrying around a notepad that can conveniently be placed for coverage, walking purposefully through the office as if I were on my way to a meeting that is liable to start at any moment, so as not to give anyone too long a look. It will be worth it when I get to go to another fabulous Shivshow after work, though.

It sure makes for an interesting day, though, when one is constantly, perpetually aware of the situation and placement of one's genitals.

* photo courtesy of Taydo. Top. Bottom. Underneath. It's Taydo!

A few everyday things to note:

First: They opened the godforsaken spaceship on Smallville last night. I know that nobody but me even cares, but I decided I wanted to see that moment, oh, about a year ago. And they finally got to it now. Also, Christopher Reeve was a guest last night and he almost made me cry, because there was a shot of him talking to the "new" Clark Kent, and Christopher Reeve is looking all wheelchair-bound, and in the background, there is this lone trumpet: bummmm ba-da bum bummmm, ba baa baaa... It was probably the single coolest moment of the entire series.

Also. It is official. Buffy is almost done. ArtStudent will be pleased, but my regular crew who gathers on Tuesday nights will have to (gasp) find something else to do with our time. Does anyone know of a decent, cleverly-written, and fun-to-watch sci-fi show that we can all enjoy? If not, will someone please make one and broadcast it on network TV, to appease us?

And still more pop culture news: Both J.K. Rowling and Sir Ian "Lothario" McKellen will be guest-starring on The Simpsons soon. Stay tuned for more exciting details.

And on an unrelated note, eBay is evil. It is an evil, evil temptation. I mean, I need an 18th century gorgeously emroidered French waistcoat and vest, right? Right? Anyone?

Also, noted on a page intended to sell a rabbit-fur coat was this quote that sends me into hysterical laughter: "I don't usually like to wear cute little rabbits but these were some really soft rabbits."