Why yes, as a matter of fact I have...

I got another message from Cassie the other day.  Hi Cassie!  It was a really nice message.  All the messages she sends me are really nice.

I don't really know Cassie.  I've never met her.  Cassie might not even be her real name.  I know her only through the internet, through this weird little blog-world that fascinates and terrifies me all at once.  We are aware of each other because we both like to take pictures of shadows.  You can see hers here.  She also has a thing for Norwegian singers, apparently, which means she's a dirty, lusty lady just like me so no wonder we get along so well.  I would love to steal her URL fifty years from now, although I think she's using it unfairly.  It's way too early for that.  Old lady?  Really?  I don't think so, Cassie...

Anyway, she asked if I had burnt out on blogging since my thirty day marathon last month, and my only reply was well, yes I have, as a matter of fact, I've burnt out on life COMPLETELY over the past month and a half and I'm wondering if it isn't time to go find a job pitting olives or labeling cheese somewhere, somewhere where I'LL NEVER HAVE TO SPEAK TO ANOTHER HUMAN BEING AGAIN, something, you know, away from the general public, just so I don't spend the rest of my days locked up for mass murder or something crazy (yet completely logical) like that.

Yet I'm stuck behind a bar, where my very livelihood depends on pretending to be nice to people.  Kill me now.  I beg you.

The other night, over fancy beer and trail mix, I expressed to D.G. my desire to go "Down the Line" with a baseball bat and he slowly backed away with a pleasant, yet terrified look on his face.

"Another beer, wanderlust?  Or three?"

Absolutely.

Anyway.

Yes, I'm still here, but you really don't want to hear from me right now.  Really.  Trust me.  It's best for everyone.  There's no telling what might come out of my mouth right now.  Next thing you know I'll be strung up by my earlobes in some whacked-out republic no one's ever heard of for insulting their version of Allah and I'll end up holding all of YOU responsible for it, because I'm rational like that.

Give me a minute to stop hating everyone and everything and I'll be back with random, senseless photos and postings any day now, thank you very much.  (most likely when motherfucking Chri$tma$ is over)  Also, if I'm feeling nice in the upcoming day or two, (that means don't piss me off, people) I'll tell you about my dinner at Dovetail.  Now THAT gives you a reason to wake up tomorrow, doesn't it?  Mmm, Dovetail...

Very funny, Jonny

Yeah.  This guy is HILARIOUS.

Thanks, man.  That might be the first (genuine) smile I've had on my face since I saw Kirsten and David last week.

Busted

I guess some people are paying more attention than I thought.  I got a text from Janson this morning:

"Surprise!  I just landed at JFK to surprise you!  Call me."

Hmm.

A few seconds later:

"LOL just kidding, I know u are here u crazy bitch!"

Ha ha.  Very funny.

So now he knows I'm here, God knows who else he's told.  Everyone's going to hate me.  Oh well.  So much for sneaking in and out of town under cover of night.

Janson's supposed to come to Mandina's for turtle soup with us tonight.  Seafood and turtle soup.  Lots of turtle soup.  I really don't care about the seafood.  I can take it or leave it.  The turtle soup I can't live without.  I'm wondering if I should say fuck it, damn the torpedoes, call every-fucking-body, tell them I'm here and they should come to Mandina's tonight.  Thirteen hours and counting, people, get it while you can.

Thirteen hours and counting!  Holy shit, what the fuck am I doing lazing around on the motherfucking internet!  Excuse me.  Sorry people.  Gotta go...

Oh, you're damn right it counts...

There has been question from someone out there about whether or not my previous post counts in regards to my current challenge.  You're motherfucking right it counts!  First of all, the rules specifically state that I must post something, even something about nothing, every day for a month.  Posting only a picture does not count, OK, fine.  A story and explanation will accompany all photos until December 5th, when I win, I mean when the four weeks is up.  But nowhere did anyone say anything about the length or word count of posts.  So yes, hell yes, even though my previous post was about nothing and pretty short at that, it still counts.  This one does too.

Let's face it, folks, in this day and age, the day of twitter and facebook, tumblr and microwave meals,  brevity is where is at.  There's too much going on, too much information to absorb.  Who has time to sit still?  Who has time to listen to me drivel on for more than a paragraph or two?

Besides, much can be said with few words.  Don't we all remember the famous story where Hemingway (although that it was actually him is still undetermined) makes a bet that he could write a dramatic (or maybe not dramatic, maybe just short) short story using only six words, a short story that had a beginning, a middle, and an end?  And everyone takes the bet and what he comes up with is this:

For sale, baby shoes, never worn.

And of course he wins the bet and everyone thinks he's brilliant.  He really was brilliant, regardless of whether that story can accurately be attributed to him or not.

Are you still listening to me?  Paying attention?  No.  I've lost you.  I don't blame you.  I'm going on about nothing.  See, it goes back to what I was saying before.  Any more than a paragraph or two and people are going to tune out.  Brevity.  Good stuff.

Kid unfriendly

I am dismayed to find myself living in a city that now likes to bill itself as "kid-friendly."

Kid-friendly?  Since when is NYC kid-friendly?  Oh yeah, since they turned Times Square into Disney-fucking-land.  I liked Times Square SO much better when it was all hookers and hustlers and drug addicts.  You know, my people...

There were a lot of things I hated about San Francisco, San Franciscans themselves were at the top of the list. (NO, not ALL of them. Stop yelling at me)  But one of the things I truly loved about the beautiful City by the Bay was how decidedly UN-kid-friendly it was.  There are more dogs than children in San Francisco, a statistic that always brought me untold joy.  It's not an urban legend, you can read the article right here.  Of course, the main reason there are more pooches than pre-pubescents is because San Francisco is so motherfucking expensive that anyone who makes less than half a mil' a year can't AFFORD to have children, but that is neither here nor there.  The important thing is, I didn't have to dodge baby strollers and whiny little brats screaming for soda at the grocery store every fucking day.

Here, they're everywhere.  There's a playground down the street, it might be attached to a school, I'm not really sure, but every day around 11am there's a cacophony of laughter and screaming and I swear one day I'm going to firebomb the place.  My apartment faces the back of the building, so there's no street noise, it's usually quiet and peaceful.  Except for that one hour or so a day when I think my head is going to explode.

I don't hate all children, I'm not a monster.  Nor do I blame them for their misbehavior, their screaming bloody murder on the subway, their howling in line at the bank, (the fucking bank!) their temper tantrums in the aisles of Duane Reade.   I blame THEIR PARENTS for allowing that shit to go on.

Parents!  Control your motherfucking children!  Have some respect for the people around you, especially people who had the goddamned sense to use birth control!  When your Satan's spawn starts screaming uncontrollably, TAKE IT THE FUCK OUTSIDE!!  I don't care that you don't want to lose your place in line and have somewhere to go and if you take your kid outside it's going to hold up your whole day, guess what, shit like that happens when you have a kid.  That's what you signed up for when you decided to breed.  I have a friend who once ate her entire meal in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant because her infant son was screaming like a banshee and wouldn't shut the fuck up and she had the DECENCY to not want to subject innocent diners to that bullshit.  Take a cue, people.  When an entire roomful of people are staring at you and your offspring with daggers in their eyes because they can't hear themselves think, GO THE FUCK OUTSIDE.  Or to the bathroom.  Somewhere.  Anywhere.  Just fucking GO.

This has been a public service announcement from someone who is ready to smack the fuck out of you.  Oh yeah, one last thing.  Congrats to Hans and Moni!  They will be wonderful parents.  Close to perfect, of this I am sure...

A reasonable request...

I saw this in the bathroom at my favorite pizza place in my work neighborhood.  I'm working on finding a favorite pizza place in every neighborhood I frequent in the five boroughs.  Four, really, because who the hell ever goes to Staten Island?  (apologies to my friends and co-workers who live on Staten Island)  My very favorite pizza place of all is literally around the corner from where I live, lucky fucking me.

So anyway, Palermo Pizza is a few blocks away from where I work, and I'm guessing they were having problems with people urinating on their bathroom floor, because otherwise, you know, why put up the sign?  It's not something I want to think too hard about, because it's not going to stop me from going in there.  At all.

Palermo Pizza.  West Broadway and Murray.  Really good fucking pizza.  Use the bathroom at the Whole Foods around the corner.

Victory?

I'm really not sure how to feel here.

On the one hand, I'm thrilled that it looks like the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" military crap is finally going to go away.  I know that it would be a huge step forward in the struggle for gay rights, and it would be absolutely wonderful for all the gays and lesbians currently enlisted or aspiring to enlist, but there's something I've always wondered.

My beloved gays and lesbians, why are you so eager to join an organization that clearly doesn't want you as a member?  Why so gung-ho to defend a country that only 17 lousy years ago, under public pressure,  finally started to warm up to the idea of even allowing you to join its military?  Even still, it was under some bullshit, homophobic clause of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," or in other words, "We're Going To Stick Our Heads In The Sand And Pretend Gays Don't Exist And Force You To Lie About Who You Are On a Daily And Consistent Basis Otherwise Your Ass Is Fired."  Basically, having your fundamental human (and don't forget Constitutional) rights trampled to death like that poor fucker on Black Friday a couple of years ago.

I say fuck 'em.  You deserve better.  And how well do we really think this is going to work here, people?  Women STILL put up with truckloads of bullshit (and violence) in the military from these dumb fucks, a quick Google search just brought up hundreds of recent articles and websites.  Does anyone really think it's going to be any better or safer for a gay man?  Or a lesbian?  Yeah, I can't wait for some fucking drunk, dumb-ass jarhead to get pissed off when some hot dyke refuses to fuck him.  That's going to turn out really well, don't you think?

Yet, at the same time, I desperately, passionately want for all of my fellow human to be given complete and one hundred percent full and equal rights in the eyes of the law, and in the eyes of our hearts if at all possible.  I feel this way, and I don't even fucking LIKE most of my fellow human beings.  But as you know I love my gays and lesbians, very much, and I want what's best for them.  I'm just not sure if the military is it.  Although I'm not sure if the military is what's best for ANYONE, but we can get into that some other time.

Yes, I know this is about a fight for human rights, and it's about more than just joining the military.  It's about acceptance and equality and fighting for gay rights, the only group left that it's still "OK" to discriminate against.  And it's not exactly like there's a tidal wave of gays and lesbians breaking down the door to enlist.

But I kind of wish my gay boys would just stick to being design and theater majors, that way I can keep wearing nice clothes and enjoying Broadway shows.  Is that wrong of me?  Or am I just being selfish here?

Neurotic? Just a little...

It's ten-thirty at night and I just got back from the gym and I had it in my mind to go upstairs, eat a sandwich and go back out for a drink (or three), but apparently the doorman thinks I'm in for the night because when I came in he said, "OK, goodnight wanderlust!  See you tomorrow!"  And I said, "OK, goodnight Cesar!  See you tomorrow!"  So now I'm trapped in the apartment until after midnight when he leaves because I want him to think I'm a nice, respectable girl who gets home from the gym and goes to bed, not the kind of sleazy, alcoholic girl who goes out to bars at eleven o'clock at night on a Thursday.  You know, the kind of girl that I actually am.

I'm starting to think maybe I'm not cut out for having a doorman.  I might be just a wee bit too neurotic for that shit.  This isn't the first time something like this has happened.  More than once I have waited until after five o'clock (when the night shift guy comes on) to leave the house because I had some crazy idea in my mind that the day shift guy had seen me coming and going too many times.  Especially when I was running around job interviewing, I would leave the house all dressed up, come back a couple of hours later, leave again, come back.  I was like jeez, this guy probably thinks I'm a fucking hooker.  

So because I'm crazy and I think too fucking much, I'm trapped inside for a little while tonight.  With nothing to do but think.  And look at the ugly carpet.  Which can't be good.  Because that's why I'm stuck inside in the first place.  The thinking part.  Not the ugly carpet.  The ugly carpet was what made me want to LEAVE tonight in the first place.  

I know.  I need to get out more.  But it's hard.  You know, with all the doormen and all the thinking...

The Dude abides

New York, NY
215 Thompson, between Bleecker and 3rd.

My friend told me about this store and how bad ass it was.  So I went, and yeah.  It was pretty bad ass.  The Dude who owns it even wears a bathrobe all day.  Seriously.  You should go check it out.

  

Nothing good can come from this...

It's a movie now.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I remember when the book came out.  Every woman you saw had a copy of that book glued to her hand for a while there.  They all tried to get me to read it.  "It's so inspiring," they would say.  "It's so brave, and honest.  You absolutely have to read it.  It's, it's... it's life-changing!!"

Needless to say, I was skeptical.

I went to a bookstore, flipped through a few pages, and was unimpressed.  Seemed like a bunch a self-indulgent, new-age nonsense.  I put the book back on the shelf and forgot about it.

Last year when I went to Peru, I befriended a lovely mother and daughter from Washington, DC while traveling in the Amazon jungle.  We became quite close, and when we parted ways in Cusco the night before I was heading to Machu Picchu, the mother pressed a book into my hand.  "Here," she said, "Take this.  I'm finished with it and I would like you to have it."  It was a copy of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I smiled, put it in my bag, and forgot about it.

A couple of days later, I broke my knee, you probably know the story, and I was in the hospital and in serious pain with nothing to do.  All the books and magazines were in Spanish, and I'm much too lazy to learn Spanish, regardless of how much I enjoy traveling in Spanish-speaking countries.  Same with the flat-screen TV I had in the room, all Spanish.  I don't watch TV anyway.  So I decided to pull out my copy of Eat, Pray, Love and see what Miss Elizabeth Gilbert had to say.

I read the entire book during my two-night stay, and in retrospect it was probably the perfect book to read under such circumstances because halfway through the first chapter I completely forgot about how much pain I was in because I wanted to smack the fuck out of Elizabeth Gilbert.

For those who have been under a rock and are unfamiliar with the book, let me sum it up:

It's a book about this stupid, whiny, petulant bitch crying and moaning about being thrown into an emotional tailspin and crippling depression all because she had to make the hugely selfish decision to leave her husband for no good reason other than he wanted to have kids and she didn't, preferring to pursue her own career and her own happiness, living a life of pure self-indulgence.  So she leaves her husband, who has been a perfect husband and hasn't fucked her over at all, and the emotional ramifications of this selfish decision were so great that Miss Gilbert, after fucking some hot, young actor for a while, is forced to take a year off to spend four months in Italy eating, four months in India praying, and four months in Indonesia "loving," whatever the fuck that means, because Miss Gilbert makes a huge declaration in the beginning of this adventure that SHE'S NOT GOING TO HAVE SEX AT ALL FOR THE WHOLE ENTIRE YEAR, so of course, she has sex with some guy she meets in Indonesia.  She also shrewdly convinces some publishing company to fund this little sabbatical for her, so she can write a book for them about it later.

Incidentally, Miss Gilbert also makes a huge declaration at the end of the book that SHE'S NEVER GETTING MARRIED AGAIN EVER.  She now has another book out about how, surprise surprise, she's married.  Hmm.  I'm sensing a pattern here.  Next will be her huge declaration that SHE'S NEVER, NEVER HAVING KIDS, EVER.

It was one of the worst books I'd read in a long time.  I considered writing my own version, entitled Eat, Drink, Fuck, but it looks like someone beat me to it.  Fucker.

So now they've made it into a movie, and women across the country will be leaving their husbands for no good reason and trying to go find themselves in foreign countries.  And people will again say how brave she was to make that painful decision, and how amazing and strong she is for getting past that debilitating depression and I will want to smack the fuck out of them.

I would love to see what would happen to Miss Gilbert if life tossed some real problems her way.  Because there are far worse things that could happen to a person besides leaving your husband for a young, hot actor who's awesome in bed.  Trust me on this one.

The hotel around the corner

It's a really nice hotel.  Beautiful rooms with really cool photographs on the wall.  Comfortable bed with a big, luxurious comforter.  Gorgeous bathroom with a ledge cut into the shower wall for kinky sexual adventures.  It's unfortunate that I know all this, really.  How do I know all this?  Funny story...

It was a family wedding, way out on Long fucking Island.  As you might know, I hate weddings.  I really do.  I've got my reasons, I could probably write a book.  I really hate spending a shit-ton of money buying plane tickets and new dresses to attend a wedding and watching the marriage end in divorce, sometimes less than three years later.  But as much as anything, I don't think such a personal, spiritual moment in a couple's life needs to be on display.  If I ever make the biggest mistake of my life (oops, I mean, if I ever get married) I certainly wouldn't want a hundred some-odd people, friends, family or otherwise, around watching me share such an intimate, life-changing moment with my partner.  I would find it distracting.  I'd be more willing to show you the video we make on our wedding night.

Yes, weddings.  They're awful in every way, except the free booze.  I find myself forced to endure at least two or three weddings a year.  This one was especially fun, because it involved spending all day with people who swim in my immediate gene pool.  As you might know, I don't get the family thing so well either.  I understand that there are people out there who share my last name and DNA, but I'm not really sure how the concept applies to me.  I find it's best if I restrict these gatherings to every ten years or so.

Right on cue, it's been eleven years since I've seen most of these people.  Sweetheart kept poking me in the ribs and saying, "Who's that?" and I kept saying, "I don't know.  I think we might be related.  I know I'm related to those other guys over there, and that their names are Tony, Rick and Jim, but I don't know who's who.  Go find out."

I've found that Maker's Mark works well in such situations, and the whiskey was flowing and we had a great time.  The party continued at the groom's house, and we got back to Manhattan a little later than expected, drunk, tired and happy.

Skanky sluts that we are, Sweetheart and I had a little fun on the deserted train ride home and we were looking forward to clean towels and a toothbrush.  Also, we both had to pee.  After what seemed like forever, we got to my building.

And the key wouldn't work.

What?  Are you fucking kidding me?

No.  The fucking lock was broken.

Complicating matters, I had left my phone in my father's car when he dropped us off at the train station.  Not that I had the super's cell phone number anyway.  And Sweetheart's battery was almost dead.  Not that we really had anyone to call, or even anyone's number, anyway.

So we weren't getting in that fucking building.

Now we were wandering the streets of New York at fuck knows what hour on a Saturday night looking for a hotel room, drunk, tired, and not so happy anymore.

Four hotels and two hundred dollars later we finally found a room.  A beautiful room.  We started cracking up because obviously, this was the funniest thing that had happened to either one of us in a long time.  Sweetheart filled the bathtub with hot water and threw me in it and went out in search of food and Aleve for my aching back and knee.

After he left, I realized, HEY!  I'm finally getting to take that bath I've been wanting to take!  My last post regarding the subject was grievously incorrect, my bathtub faucet at home is still fucked.

I enjoyed my bath thoroughly, and when Sweetheart got back I forced myself to get out of the tub and we ate and laughed and talked shit and were drunk, tired and happy again.  In a hotel room.  Three and a half blocks from my apartment.  Fucking ridiculous.  But fucking hilarious.

          

The hotel is called On the Avenue.  Their website is here.  I highly recommend them for the next time you're locked out of your own motherfucking building in the middle of the night in New York City.

Sticker shock

My mother had so much crap it was unbelievable.  I kept what was usable or worth selling, but the rest of it... Man, that shit had to go.  My friend Jenelle helped me unload most of it.  The rest I carried to the Goodwill up the street, one box here, another there.  Most of it was garbage, some of it was decent but ugly as sin, and some of it was stuff I figured I might be able to sell, but it would be a pain in the ass and take a long time and a lot of effort for only a little cash.  I needed space in the apartment more than I needed cash in my wallet, so off to the Goodwill it went.

I walked by today and saw some familiar china in the window.  Lenox, nothing special.  Horrible lamb and flower pattern.  Eleven plates, eight coffee cups, one pair of salt and pepper shakers.  I remember them well.  I remember being extremely grateful to have them out of my kitchen cabinets.  Imagine my surprise when I saw the price tag...

              



Hah.  Good luck, Goodwill.  Better your shelf space than mine.

Back atcha...

The time my neighbor got into a fight with the pool guy... naked

The following story is entirely true.  I am neither talented nor creative enough to come up with something that good.  Trust me.

This story goes back to when I was living at the Compound in New Orleans.  We had a nice pool back there, secluded enough that the more bohemian members of the Compound (myself included) were able to frolic in the nude on quiet days.

It was a quiet day, and my neighbor and I were enjoying some adult beverages and a bright, sunny, clothing-free day out by the pool.  My neighbor (who I shall refer to as Crazy Dude, or C.D. from here on out) had the entire day off, so he had a bit of a jump on me regarding the adult beverages.  I was running errands in the morning, so my party was just getting started.

Now, we'd been having some problems with neighborhood kids jumping the fence and "stealing" our pool, making a mess and leaving trash everywhere.  Most of us were pretty good about chasing them away.  C.D. was especially good about it.  So when three kids we didn't recognize came down the back driveway and started to get in the pool, C.D. was right on top of it.

"Hey!  HEY!!  GET OUT OF HERE!  You don't live here!  You don't belong here!  Unless you live here, you can't come in this pool.  You need to get out of here RIGHT NOW!!  Did you hear me?  Get out of here!  NOW!!"

At this point, the pool guy shows up behind them, all attitude.

"HEY!  Who do you think you are?  You can't talk to my kids like that!"

Damn.  Wasn't expecting that.  So I jumped out of the pool and wrapped a towel around myself.  I considered going inside, but curiosity compelled me to stay.  You know, to see what was going to happen next.  It was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Now, C.D. was kind of a hotheaded dude, and had a bit of a temper.  With as much attitude as the pool guy was dishing out, I was genuinely surprised to see C.D. fall straight into apology mode.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry, bro.  I didn't realize those were your kids, man.  We've been having the kids in the neighborhood jump the fence lately... I'm sorry, man, really..."

C.D. was still in the pool (naked) at this point, and the pool guy was pacing up and down the edge, posturing and fuming over the fact that C.D. disrespected his kids.

C.D. said, "Hey man, look.  I'm really sorry, OK?"  He extended his arm towards the pool guy, in an effort to make peace and shake hands.

The pool guy said, "FUCK THAT" and smacked C.D.'s hand away.

Oh, pool guy.  Bad idea.

Remember that temper I told you about?  Yeah...

C.D. was up, out of the pool and in the guy's face before I had time to blink, or at least go get some popcorn for the show.  "You got a problem?  YOU GOT A FUCKING PROBLEM?"

As it turned out, the pool guy did indeed have a problem and was quite eager to settle it.  Whether his kids were watching or not, and whether C.D. had clothing on... or not.

Ladies and gentlemen.  You truly have not lived until you have witnessed a grown man get his ass kicked by a drunken, scrappy-ass, naked-ass hippie.  In front of his kids.  Truly.  I should have sold tickets.  I could've been a millionaire.

Ahh, the Compound.  Never a dull moment...

Randomness

New Orleans, Louisiana

One of the things I love the most about my neighborhood is that sometimes you'll just be sitting in your car at a stop sign minding your own business and some random shit like this walks by...

              

The best part is that it doesn't even faze you.  You just snap a few pictures and think, "Hmm.  He's probably headed to Jackson Square.  Maybe Frenchmen."

Anarchy number three

More fun with signs in the kitchen at work.  This is the latest addition to the gallery:

          

Here we go again

It's happening again.  I hear it everywhere I go.  An entire country has developed a fetish for a sport that in reality, they know or care nothing about.  It's like the fucking Olympics all over again.

Really people?  Soccer?  You're trying to make me believe you give a flying fuck about soccer?  Before June 11th, you couldn't name a single player on the American team, could you?  No, you couldn't.  Don't lie to me.

The last time most of these people watched a soccer game was during the last World Cup four fucking years ago.  Now everyone's running around, gravely concerned about whether or not the U.S. will advance to the next round.  Again, I'm really not sure how winning a soccer game makes one country superior to another, but I guess that's the world we're living in now.  Nice to know we've got our priorities in order.

Although I have to admit, I can appreciate Kimi's reasons for watching.  As she likes to say, basically, the World Cup is a collection of the most beautiful men on the planet running around all sweaty and delicious on TV for four weeks.  I can get behind that.  Today at work, when Chile and Spain were about to play, she grabbed me and positioned me in front of the TV as the camera slowly panned across the players close-up as they stood for the national anthem.

Ah.  Yes.  I think I'm starting to see what the fuss is all about...

facebook sucks...

...because if it weren't for facebook, I wouldn't have had to have this conversation today:

(both of us sitting in the kitchen on our laptops)

Me: "Hey, you changed your relationship status to 'in a relationship and it's complicated'.  How are we complicated?  As a matter of fact, weren't we saying JUST YESTERDAY how glad we were that our relationship is so uncomplicated and drama-free?  What the fuck?"

Him: "Well, it IS complicated.  Your status says 'single'.  If your status says 'single' and mine says 'in a relationship', you don't think that's complicated?"

Me: "What?  What the fuck are you talking about?  Are you serious?  Besides, I AM single, technically.  We're not married."

Him: "Not the point.  Don't you want people to know that someone's hittin' it every night?"

Me: "I'm sure you could have found a better way to phrase that, Sweetheart.  Anyway, the people who need to know that information know already.  Does EVERYONE on facebook have to know EVERY tiny little detail of my personal life at every moment?"

Him: "Fine, I'll change it.  What should I put?  That we're in an open relationship?"

Me: "No!"

Him: "Why not?  We ARE in an open relationship!  We're totally open with each other!  We talk about everything!"

Me: "Oh, fuck you.  That's not what that means and you know it."

Him: "So you're saying that people might get the wrong idea?"

Me: "Exactly."

Him: "And you keeping your relationship status as 'single' won't give people the wrong idea about what's actually going on with your relationship status?"

Me: (long pause)  "Oh, fuck you..."

He won, in the end.  I changed my damned status to 'in a damned relationship'.  Seriously though?  Is this how it works now?  Is this how relationships are defined?  According to facebook status?

"Hey, what's happening with that girl you were seeing?"

"I think that's done.  Last week her status said we were complicated, but now it says she's single."

I give up.  I'm waving a white flag.  I hereby relinquish the remaining shreds of my privacy.  Anything you want to know, I'll tell you.  What color are my panties right now?  Black.  When was the last time I took a shit?  About two hours ago.  Who do I secretly wish I could fuck?  My boss.

Seriously.  Whatever you want to know.  Just check my status...

Corporate art

The hotel was hosting some yearly conference for some big company.  Anne and I had the dubious honor of providing them breakfast, lunch, snacks and beverage service as they sat through their God-awful, boring-ass, ridiculous meetings for the past two days.  We got to watch as they tried to keep their eyes open, most likely wishing they could put them out with ice-picks.  We got to run back into the kitchen, eat leftover cantaloupe, and discuss how grateful we were that we didn't have to sit through such meetings.

Some people looked like they were diligently taking notes.  But when everyone got up and left and we cleared their shit away, this is mostly what we found...

                

          

                    

                    

        

Familiar faces

It's what I love the most about being home.

We were in the kitchen at work the other day, polishing glasses and such, when Clayton came bursting in.

"Guys.  Table 35, guy in the white tux.  Memorize his face.  We need to take extra good care of him anytime he's in here.  Big-time money, lots of influence in the city.  His last name is Maselli..."

My head popped up like a piece of toast.  "Maselli?  Is his first name Frank?"

Clayton: "Yeah."

A huge grin spread across my face.  "No shit?  Frank's here?  Oh, baby!  I've gotta go say hi!"

So I went marching out to table 35.  Clayton followed behind with a semi-worried look on his face.

By the way, if you haven't figured it out yet, Clayton is one of our dining room managers.  He's a damn good one and a pleasure to work for, so it was fun watching his nervous look disappear when Frank lifted me up off the floor in a big bear hug and started covering my face with kisses.

Frank was my landlord for five years.  He always said I was his favorite.  I think it was true.

It was great to catch up with him, he was delighted to know that I'm back in town.  It was also adorable watching Clayton trip over his tongue trying to be cool about the whole thing.  Actually, to be honest, he was pretty smooth.

Frank: "This one right here?  She's all right, you know.  She's a good girl."

Clayton: "Absolutely, sir.  That's why I hired her."

Frank: "You're lucky to have her you know!  I hope you're treating her right."

Clayton: "Absolutely, sir!  We are VERY lucky to have her, and we treat her the very best we possibly can."

Frank: "You'd better..."

I love my familiar faces.  I love it that they love me too.  It's going to be really hard to leave here next month...