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

Some mornings, I am Bugs Bunny, wafting wobbly-bodied and weightless, along the visible trails of scent coming from, in his case probably carrots, and in my case probably a pot of freshly-brewed coffee, scented just as the elevator doors open on my floor.

This is one of those mornings. Please hold while I allow this precious, delectable, aromatic liquid to pry open my flagging eyelids.

It is remarkably frustrating to leave one's cell phone at home. Particularly when it is one's mother's birthday, and one might have liked to call and sing the Happy Birthday song whilst in the anonymous privacy of a random Manhattan street...rather than while sitting in the middle of a blindingly quiet yet remarkably full office.

So, yes. Mom's birthday! She's 60 today, although she looks much younger. I remind her of this constantly, which seems to please her for some reason. In celebration, I will be trekking back to Colorado this weekend to cook and lounge and eat and shop and chat...accompanied by my lovely Patchesboy, who will be meeting and be being met by my family for the first time, which is a little nerve-wracking, to say the least. He is nervous, I am nervous, my mom is nervous, my sister is nervous. My sister actually called me in a panic yesterday because she had no idea what to make for dinner on Saturday that Mike would like. I felt almost cruel when I had to tell her that her idea of pork chops in cream-of-mushroom soup gravy would not work because mushrooms will kill him. Damn allergies. I think she opted for steaks, which is what she had planned before she started to panic anyway.

Everything will be fun and exciting and wonderful, I am sure, and it looks like I will be making breakfast on Saturday and dinner on Sunday and with any luck we can avoid the ridiculous blow-up we had LAST time I went home where we got into a gigantic fight because my mom and sister did not want to eat anything too "fancy" or "New York-y," like I was going to serve them foie gras with, I don't know, lobster foam and coffee beans or something, when really I was probably going to make some kind of pasta with a tomato sauce. So I am trying to plan the menu before-hand, to ensure that I have a full range of "normal" food options. Plain ol' Eggs Benedict should be okay, right?

With a few scoops of caviar on top, of course.

Activity completed last night on the train: The final word in the final puzzle in my book of fifty New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzles. What is an eight-letter word for "Shout of enthusiasm" that ends in _ELLYEAH?

Amount of time to complete: I got the book as a present from my mom in early January. I have worked on it for approximately an hour a day (subway rides to and from work) just about every weekday since then.

Writing utensil used to complete puzzle: The pencil that has gotten me through about 40 of the 50 available puzzles (I originally started with a pen, naive and foolish child that I was) gave up the ghost and snapped its tip off with about six words to go at the beginning of my ride home yesterday. However, in one of those stories that I will probably trot out now and then until the day I die as proof that New Yorkers are not cold heartless beasts, a man standing next to me on the crowded train dug through his bag to offer me a pen, since he saw my pencil break. I filled in the last letter as we pulled in to my stop, I tossed him back his pen and thanked him profusely.

Feeling of accomplishment: Insanely high. Granted, I looked up the solutions in the back for a FEW words, usually ones where I had a single letter to fill in somewhere and I had no idea what either of the intersecting words meant. But it was minimal enough that I still feel great about the whole thing! And I think I might keep the book of puzzles just to prove that I did it!

Timing of completion: Excellent. My mom is all for me doing crossword puzzles; as she continually reminds me, they keep one's mind sharp. She provided the original book of crosswords...and as luck would have it, I am going to see her this weekend. And she said that she just might have a replacement for me!

What am I gonna do now?: I'm goin' to Disneyworld!!! Raaaaaaa!

"There's an actor and a musician on the eighth floor. They're drinking wine. Call the police."
--overheard last night at a gala premiere benefiting the Westchester Arts Council, in reference to me and Shiv.

"You'd just be an overly-dramatic couple. Seeing as how you're a 19th century farce and he's living in a Russian novel."
--B's comment during the wholly theoretical and wholly absurd conversation regarding the idea of my ever dating Seastreet. For the record, I think she was spot on. Besides, he'd prefer a girl.

"So that means if we dated it'd be like a Noel Coward play as revised by Fyodor Dostoevsky, which is a delightfully sick idea. 'Darling, could you bring me a martini?' 'Too busy pondering the meaninglessness of it all...'"
--Seastreet's reponse.

"Swim suit, check. Pants, check. Undies, check. Socks, check. Flip-flops, check. Bathroom stuff, check. Too many shirts, check. Book to read, check (the new David Sedaris, by the way, and I will let you know how it is). Garlic press, check. Citrus reamer, check. Tongs, check."
--Me, reading off my mental packing list. I simultaneously love and am horrified by the fact that I am packing my own garlic press.

Home! Hooray!! My family loves my boyfriend to bits!

We have returned from the wilds of Colorado, and you will find a lovely summary of the weekend's events here. Not included in that version are the facts that a) I did not have a single argument with either my sister or my mother, a feat well-nigh unprecedented in the annals of modern history and probably due to the fact that they were fighting with each other instead, although neither I nor my boy were supposed to know about that, b) nobody said anything embarrassing except for a home-movie version of me, running around and singing and making a general overly-precocious and attention-starved nuisance of myself, c) my family thinks that Mike is a clone of me, due to the fact that we kept using the same turns of phrase, and d) grilled pineapple is so good I want it for every meal.

My nephew continues to grow and grow, as does my five-year-old niece, who is also missing one of her front teeth. The other one is very wiggly, as she liked to show everybody, so she is going to have a double-gap-toothed smile any minute now. What I want to know is this: where on earth are grown-up teeth supposed to FIT on that child? They both remain the cutest and best-behaved kids in the entire universe. Hands down.

Selected conversation Number One:
Niece: Hey! What are you doing down here?
Me: I'm getting my shoes! See?
Niece: Oh. Do you and Michael both sleep in that bed???
Me: Umm. Umm. Hey! Why don't you draw me a picture!
Niece: Okay! I'll draw ballerinas.

Selected conversation Number Two:
(ring ring)
Mom: Hello?
Me: Hi, mom! We just got off the plane!
Mom: Good!! Are you in Denver, then?
Me: Oh, no. Unfortunately, we got on the wrong plane and we're in Tokyo. Long flight, that was.
Mom: Oh, ha ha ha. You're in Tokyo, huh? Well, look on the bright side. At least you really like Chinese food.
Me: Yeah, I do like Chinese food. Which makes it too bad that we're in TOKYO.

Selected conversation Number Three:
Niece (who I remind you is five years old): It's rainin' men! Hallelujah it's rainin' men. Hey hey!
Me: Mppphhhurrmpphhaaahammmph!
Niece: God bless Mother Nature, she's a single woman too!
Me: MFFAAAAHAHAHA!
Niece: What's so funny?
Me: Nothing, I just like your song. What does it mean, anyway?
Niece: It means it's RAINING.
Me: It's just raining? What is it raining?
Niece: It's just raining RAIN. That's the only thing that RAINS is RAIN.
Me: So what does the 'It's rainin' men' part mean?"
Niece: I don't know! I didn't ask.

Selected conversation Number Four:
Me: Try it.
Mom: No, I don't think I want any. Thank you, though.
Me: It's bruschetta, mom. Tomatoes, onion, garlic, and olive oil. On bread. Why on earth wouldn't you want any?
Mom: I, um...I...don't like...onions?
Me: You do too. Eat some.
Mom: No.
Me: Yes. Here. Eat this piece.
Mom: But it isn't even COOKED.
Me: Neither is salad, and you like that.
Mom: FINE I'll try it.
(munchmunch)
Mom: Umm...could I have...another?

I just pulled my feet up and crossed my legs, so I am sitting indian-style in my desk chair. I broke the right arm, and the back is all floppy and it tends to creak ominously. It is going to collapse any minute, I am certain.

However, as I wobbled precariously atop it, cross-legged, it made me notice something: on my right knee, just on the inside, sitting on top of my tan corduroy, is half of a flower. Three tiny purple petals and a pink middle dot part, made out of glittery nail polish and taking a leave of absence from where it usually lives on my niece's fingernail. I know that she was flaking the flowers off and trying to convince everyone they were just falling away, but that does not explain how it attached itself to my pants, and then survived being tossed on the floor, packed, flown across the country, unpacked, thrown on the floor, put on, worn on the subway, and then shuffled around my office. This, ladies and gentlemen, is one resilient flower. And it makes me think of my niece in the middle of an otherwise duller-than-the-dullest-dishwater kind of day, and her little giggle -- and there is no better pick-me-up than that.

On my visit home, I discovered that my mother has been converted to a new faith. She is now a very vocal evangelist for a product you may have seen commercials for: Crest Whitestrips. She even went so far as to spend $40 to buy me a box of the Crest Whitestrips Premium, that work in 7 days instead of 14. This in and of itself is pretty remarkable -- not that she bought something for me, but that I accepted it. A good part of our obligatory trip to the mall was me saying, "No, you don't need to buy me shorts. Really. It's okay." I just feel weird when she buys me stuff. In the case of gleamingly white teeth, though, I decided I could make an exception. I mean, it is almost a...medical procedure, right? Dentistry, and all that? I suppose I can let my mom help with something related to my HEALTH, right?

So, Mike got a set of Whitestrips as well, and we faithfully apply them each morning, and each night before we go to bed. The only drawbacks so far seem to be the facts that a) they have made my teeth remarkably temperature-sensitive, which I have been assured will fade as soon as my seven days are up and I am no longer continually assaulting my teeth and gums with concentrated peroxide for an hour a day, and b) regular speech and/or swallowing of spit is very difficult with them in, making one sound very much like one is wearing a pretty heavy-duty set of headgear, in efforts to not dislodge or wrinkle the little sheets of plastic. Meanwhile, halfway through the treatment, they have already made a pretty stunning difference in my toothy grin -- most notably, erasing the dark line demarcating the boundary between my real front tooth and the fake stuff filling in the big chip at the bottom of the tooth. This line has developed over time as a result of, I imagine, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee on a fairly regular basis, but the magic of Crest Whitestrips makes it look like I stick strictly to clear liquids like 7-Up and clear airs like, well, air.

This morning, however, I woke up late, so I did not have time to apply my a.m. set of Crest Whitestrips before I left the house. I took them with me to work, so that I could put them on here. I mean, it is not like I have to actually converse with anybody in my office, so it seems a perfect time for bleaching my mouth. The only problem is that I woke up late because I am sleepy, and my office has the coffee. So I keep slurping down cups of it, in an effort to wake myself up a little bit -- slowly starting the long process to re-dingify my teeth. I am caught between my coffee and my Whitestrips, as I cannot use one while I am using the other -- and I am rarely found at work without a cup in my hand. The Whitestrips think they have an advantage in this battle, due primarily to the confluence of a) that whole temperature-sensitivity issue mentioned earlier, and b) the hot temperature of coffee. Coffee, however, has the innate quality of waking-me-up-ness, which pretty much trumps the minor discomfort of all of the nerves in my teeth shrieking at me in horrible, pained unison.

Nevertheless, in order to properly complete the regimen, I am really going to have to find half an hour during which I can remain reasonably coffee-free. Also I cannot entertain myself during this half hour by speaking to anybody, as my stilted speech and possible drool will make them think I am even stranger than they already had, which around this office translates to "pretty freakin' strange indeed." Wish me luck on this strange and difficult journey -- a brighter, whiter smile awaits!

I know a Little Owl who is totally in trouble.

I should preface this story by saying that I wangled an invite from our friend Wang to Gmail yesterday! So I have been noodling around it for a day or so, and while it still needs a few tweaks in the address-book and conversation-threading areas, I'm very favorably impressed. You know, it gets to the point, Kate was saying to me, where you think, "Oh, it's just email. What in the world can they do to improve email?" and then someone comes along and DOES improve email (see the conversation-threading thing mentioned above) and you go WOW, why have we not been doing this all along??

And then that Owl I was talking about above decides that today, right when I was about to talk about Gmail and how very fond of it I already am, TODAY is apparently the right time to yell to the world about how dismissive she is of Gmail and the people who like their accounts because they only like it for its hipster exclusivity. For the record? I do like Gmail because of its storage space and its nifty features. And I would like them to open it up right now so that everybody I know can have an account.

Which maybe she would too if she ever used it, but as she admitted to me, angrily, this morning, it will not run on her ancient work computer. Oh-ho-ho, I think I see the faintest traces of bitterness shining through after all!

p.s. Oooh do you think maybe I am starting, like, a blog-fight? Haha!

I keep thinking of things to mention here and then I persist in neglecting to mention them. I took my boy out on Tuesday night, planning being made while under the impression that he did not have work the next morning. He did, as did I of course, but we decided to go out anyway. Karaoke, yo. Plus I was hit on twice! HA! One time, there was a boy who stood near me at the bar, and then he asked me for a straw. And then I gave him a straw!! Seriously, that gave me the giggles for a good ten minutes. And then there was a boy who was Irish or Scottish or something, who had been giving the serious eye to both my boy and I, who gave me a hug and told me I was a beautiful man when he was on his way out the door. Then we ate hot dogs and I seem to recall flinging bits of sauerkraut into the middle of the street.

The next day we woke up bright and early at 11:30 in the morning, which was a good three hours after we should have gotten up. Both of us were late to work, and I realized that I had lost my cell phone. So I stumbled to work hours and hours late, and then I left again to go get lunch, and then I left work to buy a new cell phone. Mike had already gone back to the bars of the night before, and nobody had my phone, and for some reason I had turned the damned thing off. So I was shopping at the AT&T store for a replacement, and I realized that I had just put my phone in the inside pocket of my bag specifically so it would not fall out at a bar. It really is lovely when you completely outwit yourself. I even put the phone in the inside pocket well before drinking began, so I have even less of an excuse than usual.

Then today I discovered that WinAmp streams radio stations. This has realy and truly made my week. http://64.236.34.196:80/stream/1024. Bounce with me. Everyone. Bounce.

Currently the sky is louring, and I have a dinner date for some ShabuShabu. Also last night I had a dream that I beat some guy's head against the oven door in order to protect a handful of...these...(sigh)...these four pink puffy satin headbands I was protecting. But I was not protecting them because they were pink satin headbands -- they were just the keys to power in this alternate cyber-universe the guy was trying to rule. I felt very tough in that I beat someone up, but I still recall being very hesitant about it. Picture, if you can, me gingerly beating someone's head in an oven door, and you might have the right idea.

Any of the above might have made a very funny story under the right circumstances. I have not the patience at the moment, as I am skimming along under the influence of a lot of happy hardcore. Bounce!

I like bars that charge a $10 cover and then have an open bar, top shelf, all night long. They rule.

Also another thing that rules: The Stepford Wives. Go see it right fucking now. I am not even kidding.

The final component in my triptych of things that rule: Shabu-Shabu. Go there. 10th St between 1st and 2nd Ave, south side of the street. Meat, vegetables, boiling water, simplest food you can imagine, but one ends up with this broth that is the best-tasting liquid that has ever crossed my lips.

Also, I forgot a word. It is a word that means when you see someone, and they are doing something intensely embarrassing, and then you feel embarrassed for them. Like the way you felt when you watched that kid doing his Star Wars lightsaber routine with a broomstick. Or possibly the way you might feel while you watch this. The word is not schadenfreude, or empathy, or something like that. I know there is a special word for it. Unless, of course, I dreamt it, which I feel is unlikely. Please, for the love of all that is good and right in the world, please tell me what this word is.

Speaking of dreams, I had another dream regarding an oven last night. Except this time I was not beating a villain's head against one. I was scrubbing an oven with a soapy sponge, and then turning the flames on high to burn the excess foam away. Any theories on my current subconscious fixation with ovens? Because I have no idea.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the new color of my living room. Saturday was Paint Like Crazy day! Once we decided on a general color, I spent half an hour at the hardware store poring over paint chips, until finally I found the perfect shade, and decided to get it in a satin finish. Reaffirming my desire to get a job naming colors, the hardware store guy walked up to me with two gallon cans and asked, "Are these your satin 'Ruby Slippers'?" Satin. Ruby. Slippers. I kid you not.

And just so you know, it is taking every ounce of my willpower to not paint two golden lions, rampant, on our fireplace.

Also, Mike beat me to the punch -- we went to Broadway Bares last night. Choruspersons-a-plenty, all stripped or stripping down to their undies, and in some cases to their nothing-at-alls-although-still-covered-by-some-strategic-prop. On top of being a gigantic heap of fun, and fantastic eye candy, shoving money down the underwear of half a dozen Broadway dancers / acrobats / gogo boys is a great way to spend a Sunday night when otherwise I would have been home watching a special on King Arthur (fret not, I taped it to watch later!). We also saw Culture Vulture Jai (Mike peed next to him and then tucked money into his underwear -- the money-tucking, though, happened somewhat later in the evening, when we were supposed to be tipping the performers, not just "Shake it off there, big guy," and shoving a fiver down the man's pants) and then outside we saw Carson! I was half-temped to say hello, but really, what would I have said beyond that? "Umm...you're...funny. And I like....your shoes." Now, if my man TED had walked by, I might not have been able to stop myself from babbling "Ohmygod you're so great and I want to be just like you heeheeheehee" all over him.

So I was planning to discuss the fabulous time had last night with my lovely boyfriend, and Taydo and his boyfriend. But then I got to work and found out that we are going out of business and everybody is being let go. So, you know. Stories about a night of drinking do not sound as funny as they did earlier.

At the moment I am waiting for a one-on-one meeting with my CEO, where I find out if I am gone as of today, as of June 30, or as of July 31. Also I may find out that we are not being paid unused vacation time, or final paychecks, and possibly will not be able to get COBRA coverage. So that is fun! P.S. I fucking hate waiting.

At least it is much more pleasant to be unemployed in the summer than in the winter.

So the official deal is that I'm paid until June 30 (next Wednesday for those of you at home). Then I will get my final paycheck. None of my paid vacation days, no severance package. We probably will not get COBRA insurance, and they will very likely never make their 3% match to our 401(k)s for 2003.

But at least everyone else is getting the same nasty deal. And rumor has it that sometimes the unemployment people might pay for job training...which just might mean an accelerated trip to cooking school. You never know.

We also just had the "today you have to write up everything you know about our software" meeting. Good thing I already wrote the entire User Manual for this stuff ages ago. I am way ahead of the curve.

I know that when things totally suck, that is when you are supposed to do your creative stuff. They say that a lot, especially on shows like Six Feet Under, where Claire is always supposed to use her depression to fuel her photography, or something like that.

Whatever, yo.

When I am grumpy and annoyed and things keep screwing me over, I do not feel like writing about it. In general, because that kind of crap is boring to read, and in particular because a year from now, when I go read that stuff again, I will cringe at how whiny and maudlin I sounded. So. None of that.

I will say, however, that the gay pride parade and subsequent boozing-it-up and going-dancing activities rocked my face right the fuck off. And also? The gay fireworks? Were so the best fireworks I have seen in a very, very long time. Wheeeee! Gay fireworks for meeeeee!