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Two Facebook status updates that I need to place in a safe haven before they're lost to "Older Posts", the Facebook equivalent of an old age home.
1. I have been procrastinating on doing my laundry for so long that the clothes I intend to do are now OUT OF STYLE. Oh, LOLOLOLaundry! I need a maid. Or a sedative. Or a sedated maid. Or Madeline Kahn. Or Connie Francis. Or St. Francis of Assisi. Or an assistant. Or maybe I'm just an ass who's resistant (to doing laundry). Whatever.
2. Happy Channnuuukkhahakakakilowatthiawathachocolatemama, Jews!
Yes, I'm on Facebook. Who knew?!
Time used to be when I'd be intrigued by a guy who, after approaching, backed away, who, after forging forward, retreated. But now when the ebb exceeds the flow, when the warm is not just tempered by the cool but the needle staggers more towards cold, and I'm left scratching my head more often than I'm left smiling, I'm choosing to respond in kind; I back away, retreat, ebb, and chill. It's not just my hackles that are raised, it's my defenses, my need to protect myself. Deflect. I have no time for coyness or coolness. I'm bored with games.
In her version of green bean casserole, my mom includes fresh beans instead of frozen, portabella mushrooms, caramelized onions, and only a touch of cream of mushroom soup. I'd forego all other elements of the Thanksgiving feast in order to elevate this dish from side show to solo act.
She always tells me the beans have retained significant crunchiness. I won't tell her that the only crunch I want is from the gross but fantastic canned onion things that, thankfully, she still uses to top the casserole. How do you tell your mom you prefer "white trash" to this treasure?
Try as I might, I cannot tell you and your girlfriend apart. She appears, in what few rather blurry photos I've seen, as your doppelganger, the only features distinguishing her as a female the tilt of the eyelashes and an attempt, to little avail, to look flirty in a way not characteristic of a straight man. Other than that, she looks like you in halfhearted drag, right down to hairstyle, cheekbones, and the placement of her eyes. And you, in turn, look like her, Photoshopped by a seventh grader with enough artistic skill to remove every trace of your balls.
Although people get on my nerves, I don't "hate" them. Indeed, I volunteer to help them, not only through organizations but informally, such as giving up my seat on the bus and, yes, helping little old ladies across the street (literally) and inviting people to go ahead of me in line if they have fewer items than I do. It's not about being an "Up With People!" pollyanna; it's about being a decent human being. In my world, there are only two kind of people: Assholes and non-assholes. And the way you behave toward other people determines which you are.
In case I don't recognize him from his profile photos, he'll be wearing a boldly-striped shirt, he says, atypical of other lawyers. I enter the restaurant, scan the bar area, don't see a bold shirt among the crowd, and figure he may be running a little late. No problem, I'll just stand over -- and -- oh! There he is, approaching me with a lopsided grin. I had mistaken him for a barstool.
"This is the bold shirt?" I say, laughing. He assures me that yes, the darker gray stripe against the gray ground makes it so.
What a maverick!
Every time I'm in Duane Reade buying bandages (which is often now that I fucked up a toenail what with all the running) (sexxxy, I know), I think how easy it'd be to transfer a few strips from one box to the one I'm buying and marvel that someone hasn't realized this and started making the boxes tamper-proof like everything else on the shelves. Of course, if I did it, I'd get caught like in 1978, when I snuck a travel-size toothbrush into my pocket and was led to a little room where I was oddly hoping I'd be strip-searched.
He's quick to note, in the written portion of his Match profile, that most of his photos were taken by his soon-to-be-ex-wife, who's still a very good friend. The photos are standard -- several of him in a suit, taken at work on the phone or in front of a wall full of law books, pose-smiling for the camera. I'd prefer action shots of him in the courtroom, but hey, I'm not the estranged wife friend. I can't help but wonder if she secretly sabotaged him by including an extreme close-up of his face, featuring a particularly gray front tooth.
The cute boy at the gym takes off his baseball cap and runs his hand through his hair before replacing the cap, this time backwards, and resuming his workout. This is for my benefit, of course, because he read my mind 20 minutes ago and finally decided that yes, it's time for him to reveal that not only is he not wearing the cap because he's as bald as Larry David but oh yes, he has all his Matt Damon hair, still vibrant and youthful enough to sport a boyish cowlick. Oh, my hat's off to you, fella! Good show!
On OKCupid, when you add someone as a "favorite", you have the option of letting the person know or not letting him know. If the latter, it's like a lame "wink" in that it doesn't take any real action. If the latter, it serves instead as a bookmark. I don't think there's a feature that lets a person know when he's been removed from someone's list. Although that'd be rather cruel and sad, I can think of several people deserving such treatment, for whom it would be more of a slap in the face than an actual note saying "good-bye".
Part of the beauty of not living with another person (I won't say "alone"; my cat reads these entries!) is that you can do whatever you want however you want. Sometimes I act as if I won't deign to do anything Erica Kane wouldn't do, and, in my loveliest lounge-wear with my hair carefully arranged, eat something luscious off a gorgeous plate and sip Vitamin Water from a goblet. Other times I'm hovering in Roseann territory, in threadbare yoga pants. hair in my face, dipping fingers into a plastic container of hummus, balancing chips on a paper towel. Schizo, much?
A lone pea rolls into the garbage disposal, and I lament its sorry fate. Certainly even I'm not crazy enough to stick my hand down there and rescue it from amid the muck and blades, risk my life and limb for the sake of a pea. Right?
Well, right. I guess. Although I do consider it for an inordinate amount of time.
So what do I do? Let it suffer and perish alone? Or sacrifice another to join it, in noble solidarity as befits "two peas in a pod"? Do I dare double the inevitable screams echoing into the sink?
It is 1986 and I've spent a fair amount of time unclothed in the company of my boyfriend who looks like Emilio Estevez. We're at his West Philadelphia apartment, having just engaged in quite a bit of unclothed activity. In a lull in pillow talk (does anyone even say "pillow talk" anymore, Doris Day?), I mention my sex change.
"Really?" he says.
"Would I lie about something like that?"
"Well, you do have this scar," he said, touching something on my hip.
"Yes, I do." I nod, solemnly.
"They did a good job," he says.
"Yes, they did."
It's July and I'm "down the shore" visiting my friend G. We're in a hideous bar filled to the brim with overly-tanned blondes in expensive but still shitty clothing, and I'm not so secretly wishing I could set it all on fire like Carrie. The dolts who are eyeing us, the male equivalent of the bimbos, don't realize yet that G's Barbie-doll-esque looks are very deceiving. They do realize, though, that my biceps are bigger than theirs. Thus, they are torn between the intense desire to strut like peacocks and to cower like they have pea-sized cocks. Boy oh boys!
Once the toast of toilet tissue town, Charmin has been reduced from the exalted equivalent of a pinup girl, lush, squeezable, and sought after by millions, to asinine association with bears in the woods doing what has been rhetorically questioned for decades. Does it know that its image -- Mr. Whipple's blissful bespectacled likeness, deep in eye-closed throes of squishy euphoria, fondling the package to the point where it nearly sang out in Janet Weiss toucha-toucha-toucha-toucha-me bare-breasted bliss -- has been stripped of all prior prurience in favor of cartoonish big brown bear-ass-wipe shenanigans? Does Charmin mind the bum wrap?
So, yeah, there we were, G and I, at that crappy Jersey shore bar in July, and I was sassing shmucks left and right, giving them an earful, much to their surprised delight, while G gave them an eyeful. These dolts have never met anyone like me, they say. I'm a sober mini Debra Morgan in a sea of drunken Housewives from Dipshit County. At the end of the night, some rich but handsome loser who's been trying desperately to win poor G over, murmurs in my ear, "You're too smart. And she's too sexy." Way to wow Rhoda, Potsie.
Oh, you silly, adorable boys, popping online and sending me instant messages like little gum drops, no doubt in the dark and skinny and shirtless and unshaven and in Brooklyn in an apartment shared with at least one other of your kind, who probably, not aware of what you're doing, is also doing it with me. Or trying to "do it" with me. And I, of course, am Samantha Jones mixed with Marcia Brady and me me me, too. Wow, they love my biceps, and hey, look at me in that black dress, u so pretty, hey wazzup. Enough, already.
I suppose I have no right to judge the person who would run an endless slow-motion loop of Kelly Ripa crossing her glorious gams as she's pertly perched on a high chair during what I'm sure was an insipid interview on her and Regis' morning show. If this is his shrine to her lower extremities, then amen, so be it, who am I to question it. I mean, I'm the one doing a Google search for "Kelly Ripa legs" anyway, just so I can ogle the fine musculature of her calves, her taut hamstrings, and her stunning high heels! Hallelujah!
Nina will gladly send me money to fly "across the pond" to join her and several of her friends on a marvelous spree in England towns, wherever the wind and our whim takes us and their wigs. They're all transgendered, so part of the trip would include visits to salons and boutiques. I'd love nothing more than to lunch with these ladies and to go hither and yon, here and there, back and forth, in as close an approximation to a movie montage, with them all trying on hats and shoes and me clapping my hands happily like a seal.
Am I the only person on Facebook who doesn't give a fuck, flying or otherwise, or a fig or a frig or a frog what the hell any of these homely hyped-up housewives of whatever county are doing? The only exposure I've had to any of the shows is what I see when I happen to glance up at the long row of televisions at the gym. Even without tuning in to the audio, I know I want everyone on screen to perish, either in a fiery crash or at the hands of a plastic surgeon. Get a job, bitches.
I went to spy on the eclipse again, but couldn’t find it. A friend suggested it had moved; I should spin around to see it! I spun, to no avail, a gigantic Cooper Bold question mark hovering above-head. I walked to the corner, looked up and down the block -- maybe the moon was drunk in a gutter? -- alas, zilch. As I approached home, there it was, slightly more south than before. I checked to make sure I had my keys. Because if I'm going to misplace the moon, I couldn't be sure the same wouldn't happen with them.
I've seen this guy around before, but this is the first time I'm face to face with him, seeing the lips that have kissed the friend who's just introduced us, the eyes that have looked into hers, the nose that has buried itself in every part of her body, the hands that have pulled her hair, and it's all I can do to not get a little nauseous envisioning all of this coming together into one package, one unit, one scenario in which he's getting from her what he doesn't deserve, which was no doubt the best he'll ever get.
I volunteer. A lot. In an organized fashion, but also in the most informal ways, such as giving up my seat on the bus or subway and, yes, helping little old ladies across the street (literally) and holding doors and letting people go ahead of me in line if they have fewer items than I do. And so on. It's not about being an "Up With People!!!!" pollyanna; it's about being a decent human being. In my world, there are only two kind of people: Assholes and non-assholes. And the way you behave toward other people determines which you are.
Christmas Eve, and my best gayboyfriend and I are in our favorite Ethiopian restaurant, giddy with the idea of imminent injera. We'll be sharing an enormous vegetarian combo plate, and I already know that even though he probably weighs at least 80% more than I do, I'll be eating at least 20% more than he does. Somehow that rounds up to a maximum of 100% fun fun fun.
It's times like this, when I'm one on one with him, acting absolutely ridiculous with no censorship, no worry, no fear of appearing too "out there", that I'm the happiest. Merry, indeed!
I can't remember having a better Christmas dinner than tonight's: Eric, my #1 gayboyfriend, and our friend Natarajan, trekking down to Chinatown for a Traditional Jewish Christmas, even though only one-third of our party is even remotely Jewish (and even then, most remote controls won't tune into that frequency!), finding the vegetarian Chinese place Eric recommended, and had some of the most delicious food I've had in a long time. I, of course, ate more than the boys and wound up taking home what little leftovers there were. I am proud to say they actually lasted overnight. Oh, homo-y night!
We're on our way to his place, probably too soon given that this is just our second "date", but we've been talking, writing, chatting, and texting so much that it feels like more, so I figure hey, why the hell not. I've already eaten, but he's hungry and asks if I mind stopping somewhere for a bite; of course I don't. To my dismay, though, he pulls into the Houlihan's parking lot. I realize this is the suburbs, but still, isn't there a better option? "Hey, I don't have to impress you," he says. Jokingly. I think. Too soon? Yeeeeup!
It's snowed enough for kids and dogs and tiny grandmothers to get lost in drifts for days, cars are wondering if they'll ever spin their wheels away from curbs, there's enough of the white stuff on every block to build snowmen to double the city's population, and a friend says he saw someone using skis on Riverside Drive. So why do I see evidence of stiletto heels, indications of dumb-belle vanity and/or stupidity? Oh, what a winter wonderland it would be if only I could be warmed with schadenfreude upon watching one of these mincing nincompoops fall on her ass!
"I'm not like other guys you've met," he says.
I wonder if he can hear my eyes rolling over the phone. I want to trust him, but I trust my intuition more. This may be a red flag, but for now I'll leave it pink. I'll keep an eye on it. Pink eye? Red eye? Better than a black eye, natch. (Not that anyone ever gave me one of those!)
So, not even a week after declaring his difference, I find out he was telling the truth. He is NOT like other guys I've met. He's worse. Thanks, fucker! Bye!
You tell me your place is "chill", and I try to pretend that you're saying it ironically. I hope, for my sake, you are, but I don't dare ask. So, I'm expecting bohemia, a groovy vibe, something along the lines of the Moroccan restaurant of our first date or my apartment.
So. What about an apartment with no real furniture except a bed and a castoff dresser, no discernible color, your kids' toothbrushes loitering in the bathroom, the mess of ephemera on every available surface, is "chill"?
The only redeeming feature is your son's turtle. Even she wants to escape.
I cross my fingers so tightly that the meat inside the casing threatens to burst in an explosion of digit-sausage. Or the bones may yield, bend, and then shatter, breaking from the skin like the surfacing of shark fins. I hold my breath until I turn every shade of blue from powder to robin's egg to midnight.
The air in my lungs is cleaner, cooler, fresher. I feel the blood, vein-rushing, without making an effort to feel it. My heart has finally figured out what it was meant to do other than sit inside my chest and keep me alive.
If he can find Breakfast at Tiffany's and several episodes of The Brady Bunch, he can come over for New Year's Eve. We will have ice cream (something toffee-y) and chocolate (something dark) and act like idiots (something easy). He's on it, he says, and signs off email to embark on his scavenger hunt. He resurfaces a bit later, triumphant after going to six stores. I admire his ambition, his tenacity, his determination! I trust he knows the invitation isn't really contingent on his success. All he needs to do is show up in that pea coat with that smile.
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