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

So, first things first: I'm probably not going back to Paris for the end of this week, and honestly?

What a fucking relief.

Yeah yeah, Oh poor Chris being sent to Paris, bla bla. All's I can say is that I'm so many kinds of done living out of a suitcase. I miss my apartment and my kitty and my friends and my city, (hey! Rhyming!) and I really fucking want to be home. Even if home is like a hundred and ten degrees. So as it stands now, I'm due home just before midnight on Friday. Fuck the fucking fuck yes. As Zack says, "What a life, to turn your nose up at Paris," but you know. There's no place like, &etc.

In other news, the rain has kicked back up here over the last week. Apparently they opened the sluices of a nearby dam, which flooded a few rivers and covered up a bridge or two. Now, I don't mean to be critical, right? I don't want to be that traveler who spends his time going, "Oh, but that's not how to do things properly, not like we do back home." But honestly? If you live in an area that you know is going to receive a certain amount of rain every year -- indeed, it has an entire season known as the rainy season, which to me implies a pretty hefty amount of the wet stuff -- if you know this, right? Wouldn't you think that you'd spend a certain amount of time and energy creating roads that are not water-soluble? I swear to god, the only thing left are mud-filled holes, and piles of loose gravel. By the time I get to the office, I feel like a bad martini - overly shaken on the rocks, and none too dry.

And yes, before you ask, I did spend all morning thinking that one up.

I just got into the office for my last day here. I know I've been crawling out of my skin to get home, but I couldn't help feeling a little nostalgic on the drive. "Goodbye, big neon Venky's Chicken In Minutes sign! Goodbye, statue of a head on top of a pile of rocks! Goodbye, herd of cows in the intersection! Goodbye, little boy trying to sell me a newspaper every morning! Goodbye, big fat river! Goodbye, Hork OK Please trucks! Goodbye, Eggs Are Mother Nature's Gift to Mothers billboard! Goodbye, ladies riding motorcycles sidesaddle!"

And then I heard an ad on the radio for an apartment complex -- for more information, call nine eight triple two oh three eight six double oh, or something like that, but it made me start thinking about phone numbers. And I realized that it's pretty easy to remember the ten digits in New York, because really the 646, 718, 917, 212 area codes? They all pretty much count as just one digit in my head. And then I had the thought that tomorrow? I get to dial a 917 number? And I suddenly got SO EXCITED, like five-year-old-on-Christmas-Eve-and-tomorrow-I-get-to-open-my-new-Superman-pajamas excited, that I made my big EEEEEE!! face and started laughing in the car. For an area code. The driver thinks I'm weird.

I think it's time to get on that plane now. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! I love going home!!!

There are some weeks where I don't write anything because nothing interesting is going on.

And then there are some weeks where I don't write anything because there's so fucking much going on that I scarcely have time to turn around, much less organize events into an entertaining and informative narrative.

Last week? A prime example of the latter.

Let's summarize: Last Friday morning, I woke up in India and went to sleep in Brooklyn. On Saturday, I went to a wedding, and then went to Midnight Madness, an all-night scavenger hunt/puzzle solving/running all the fuck over Manhattan extravaganza. Last year it ran for about 12 hours, finishing around 10 am Sunday. This year, it ran for 18. Eighteen hours of running jumping searching solving and most definitely no-sleeping, at the end of which...I went to work. Ran home, packed my suitcase, and went back to the airport to go back the fuck to Paris.

It should come as no surprise that I fell asleep before the plane doors closed, and didn't wake up until the stewardess was shaking me because I was the last passenger on board an empty plane in Paris. If you can manage it, I highly recommmend this method of travel. It felt like we just teleported there, and as I had no interest in watching yet another in-flight movie, it worked out just right.

Paris was just as marvelous as Paris should be. I even had a pizza whereon one of the ingredients was cream. Yep. Tomato sauce, cheese, bacon lardons, goat cheese...and then a bunch of cream, just poured right on top. It was seriously one of those "ah-ha!" moments, where you wonder why you've never thought of something so blindingly obvious before.

The meeting was fabulous, plus I got to walk around Paris in a nice sharp suit. I headed back to New York shortly afterwards, and while I didn't fall asleep quite as nicely as the flight in, I was still exhausted enough that I fell asleep while eating.

To clarify: I fell asleep mid-chew.

I woke up with my book on the floor, and my mouth full of half-chewed raisins. It was absolutely fucking disgusting, particularly in that it took me a couple seconds to realize just what the fuck was in my mouth. Guuuhhhhh.

Now, if anyone has made it through the travelogue, here's the big news.

I CAN SEE.

I got back in town just in time for my LASIK SURGERY, which was yesterday afternoon. Krissa came to the doctor's to take care of me afterwards, and to continually remind me to stop opening my eyes to look at things. Things that are, mind you, VERY FAR AWAY INDEED that I can SEE NOW. I've slept pretty mmuch the whole time between then and now, so I'm hoping that I have finally caught up on all the missed sleep and jet lag and general weirdness. There's nothing like doctor-prescribed sleep to remove any guilt at napping at 4 in the afternoon. (laugh)

Next up: I head back to the airport tomorrow. This time, it's for fun -- I'm going to my niece's eighth birthday party back in Colorado! Also? I CAN SEE.

I've never been the sort of person to have a simple, uncluttered life. Sure, I might ooh and aah at the sleek lines and sensible Scandinavian design in an IKEA catalog, but when it comes right down to it, I know that I'll never be able to maintain it. I could get a roomful of long, low tables made of white pine and accompanying low black leather chairs, add a beige rug or two, and accent it with a kicky orange or lime-green lamp, and then stand back and think to myself, "Wow, this looks so lovely and grown up!" I can guarantee that about five minutes later, everything would be covered in books and papers and coffee cups and ashtrays and mail and wineglasses and pens and chargers and bottlecaps and paperclips and probably some more books and things for my computer and probably also piles of clothes and a still-packed suitcase.

You can actually find my book about the clap on Amazon.com.

If anyone were to decide to musically score my life, Michael Buble singing "Feeling Good" would be, without a doubt, the title track. For the past several months, I've been utterly unable to function unless I listen to that song at least 3 times a day. Plus the video is fucking hot, especially the half-a-second shot where he pulls on his tie at two minutes fifteen. Whoof. Someone fetch me a martini, I'm feeling a litle light-headed.

Blue Apron Foods has the best fucking olives in the world. I've quite literally been having dreams about them.

I talk to myself in public. A lot. Full conversations where I call myself by name. Like, if I want to remind myself of something? I'll actually say "Okay, Chris, don't FORGET this THING you have to do." And then I'll usually realize there are people nearby, and I'll tell myself to stop talking to me. Unfortunately, I tend to say that out loud, too. "God, Chris, you look like a crazyperson. Stop talking to yourself."

My awesome company just changed insurance providers so that we could get domestic partner coverage.

I think I'm on a shoe-buying kick. No pun intended.

When you're stupidly independent to the degree that you enjoy cutting your own hair (and possibly also straightening it, bleaching it, buzzing it, and/or dying it hot pink) getting your hair cut in a salon can feel like the very height of decadence. Not only does someone else shampoo my head -- being cleaned by other people is weird!!! -- but I get to chat with someone, wherein the sole topic of conversation is my hair. Not "hair in general," or even "my hair and their hair." Just my hair. What do I want my hair to look like? Am I happy with my hair? What kind of products do I use in my hair? God, it's just fantastic. I mean, I've been part of a lot of self-centered conversations before (hello July 23), but getting your hair done really lets you talk about yourself, without even feeling guilty that you're totally boring the crap out of your friends.