My Dinner with Teri

Let's say you make friends with someone online.

She's part of a circle of friends you met on a well-known literary agent's blog. Now let's say that friend emails you that she's going to be in your town and would love to get together. The day finally arrives. What is the first thing you do when you see this friend?

Well, if you're me, you scream. With lots of volume.

She knocked on the window while I primped trying to yank my hair into some semblance of order.

I screamed because I'm a bit jumpy, I guess.

After I screamed, we hugged and then headed out to dinner where we talked for hours. We could have kept talking, too, but it was getting late and we'd taken up the booth of the super nice waitress at Applebees for far too long.  We discussed topics ranging from family to politics to mutual friends and, of course, writing. Funnily enough, writing is the thing we talked least about. Even though this was our first meeting in person, I felt like I'd known Teri for a long time. Trite, but true. Midwesterners of the same age, we could have gone to high school together.

Teri, in case you don't know, is an avid reader. No, scratch that. Is there a stronger word for avid because that's what Teri is. She is, without a doubt, the pace setter for what this crowd of writers/readers have their noses buried in. Recently she read and raved about Wild - From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, a memoir by Cheryl Strayed (aka Sugar).

You have to read this book, she said.

And then she saw to it that I would.

Thank you for the gift of your time, your friendship and the book, Teri. I hope I'll see you again very soon.

When is the last time you had an evening you wished could last longer?

What Ryan Adams said

It's funny how in the span of a couple of days one can go from this:

Central Park, Across the Reservoir

Central Park West

Strawberry Fields in the morning.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Sackler Room

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Sackler Room

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Sackler Room

Metropolitan Museum of Art

She was so close she could see each of Van Gogh's brushstrokes. Quiet squeals of joy.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Picasso.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Monet's Rouen Series

Near the end of the trip. You can tell, right?

And bam! We're back. Sophie is back to school today and I'm back to this.

Except she looks much better than I do while I'm doing chores.

From magical adventure to loading the dishwasher, scooping the litterboxes and wondering how much fiber can be counted in all that cat hair you inadvertently consume. This is life, isn't it? If it weren't for the dreary days of the mundane, I suppose we wouldn't appreciate the little sidetrips into fun and whimsy.

And still, I titled this one I know how she feels......

Thank you for the well wishes. We had a great time. It's something we wouldn't have done if we'd thought it through properly because there were definitely a couple of times where I fretted about the details, but there was no turning back. We tossed a few clothes and toiletries in a bag and left our comfort zone. We were rewarded for it by learning that we can manage a trip like this on very little money and have lots of fun together on our own. And that's the lesson I'm sure Sophie and I will take from this. Oh, and that the Cuban food at Sophie's rocks. Right, GMB? (Thanks for lunch!)

What's the most spontaneous trip you've ever taken?

Illustrated

Recently, Sophia received two packages in the mail. With great anticipation and just a little bit of twelve year old girl squealing, she opened the packages and found the Gift of Art.

One of my favorite things about blogging is that I've become part of a community of artists, writers, thinkers, creators. I would have never imagined, when I first pressed publish all those years ago, how important blogging and the connections I made through it would become to not just me, but to my family. You guys have provided support - both material and emotional - and for that I'm grateful.

And now Sophie has the gift of a mentor. See, the package included the pens, the moleskine and An Illustrated Life, an amazing book about illustrating and illustrators, and more - it included an offer to mentor our artist in residence. A friend in art. I love that.

Thank you, Steve Emery, for passing on the imagination, the color, the dreams, the medium., the love of art...

Sophie Golden

Thursday Confessional

Good Thursday to you. I'm on a tight schedule so let's get started.

With the addition of the new (TEMPORARY) kitty, I thought it best to get Fiona to the vet for her shots and to be spayed. Before I was confident that Kitty Noir would be temporary, I had a little freak out that he and Fiona could produce even more cats. Yes, I realize I've been lagging here. Confession number one. I wasn't a responsible pet owner. Please don't tell Betty White.

Now, let me tell you, if you want to see a parade of crazy cat people and other assorted weirdos, line up at the Catsnip Project van at 7:30 a.m.

The phrase holy cats takes on an even more significant meaning. I got pummeled verbally and in writing because the cat carrier was missing a clip. One clip. I felt contrite, but was not contrite enough apparently. The intake woman wrote it on my information sheet and it was written again in bold green letters on the envelope holding Fiona's records. Finally, before she would hand the sedated cat over to me, I got a stern warning about being more responsible. How would I feel if my cat got loose and ran into the field next door to become coyote food or got into the street and hit by a moving vehicle?

It was like I was ten all over again.

These people take cat stuff seriously. And you thought me -  with my five cats - was crazy....

Confession number two. Kitty Noir has found a home and I'm not feeling sad about it. Lyra has decided to adopt him. We're sorting out the details and MathMan and I will drive KN/Inky/Anakin/Darth to Illinois to his new home. I can't wait to meet Lyra who has become an important force in getting me to sit down and write/edit every day (sometimes against my will) and I hope MathMan and I will have a chance to visit Chicago, too. I am so homesick for that place I can barely stand it.

Thank you, Lyra, for wanting this kitten. He's going to love being part of your family.

Confession number three. I don't get Google+. It's not like I've put a lot of effort into understanding it, but right now it feels like another train whooshing by while I fuck around with my lipstick on the platform.

Confession number four. I fear I'm developing a slight drinking problem. Worse - I intend to do something about it when I'm certain which may be never because I like the slightly loopy, happy, devil may care sense it lends to the end of each day.

Not that I'm placing blame but someone in my list of Facebook friends invited me to a girls' night party at her house last week and I got turned on to the tasty and tart Airmail Punch. Then another guest showed up with a makeshift Pimms. You can't find the real thing in C-Vegas. Okay, have you tried this stuff? And if so, how did you go this long without telling me about it. I thought we were friends.

Mind you, we weren't exactly drinking Pimms, but rather a recipe including non-carbonated lemonade, raspberry vodka and chopped, fresh strawberries and cucumbers with sprigs of mint. It is, in a single, shouted word - fantastic! And bonus! I counted those strawberries and cukes as fruit and veggie number four and five on my food tracking thing. Of course, I had the good sense to leave off the vodka and the champagne and rum in the Airmail Punch. I know that Sparkpeople Tracker with its mean streak. If I typed in that I drank three punches and two Pimms, it would come back to me with a message reading "Time for a visit to the Betty Ford Clinic, Miss Piggy. And stop trying to pass off alcohol-soaked vegetables and berries as something virtuous. You may as well have had some cake, you liar."

Which I did. Oink oink.

Your turn. Confess your sins, secrets and embarrassing habits. Instead of dishing out the absolution, I'll be serving the Absolut.

Tomato Collaboration

It started with this post by Steven Emery. (It's short. I'll wait right here for you to come back. Also, be sure to go back and visit Steve's gallery after you're done here. Seriously.)

On which I commented: "Hilarious! She's quite the tomato."

To which Steven replied: "Yeah - I would love to overhear a conversation between these two.  I imagine Mid-Atlantic accents (Jersey, Philly, the City).  Actually, Chicago would work, too.  He would be Vincent - but everyone calls him Vinnie.  I think she's Delores."

So I wrote: "Are you sure she's not a Darlene?"

And Steve answered: "Oh - I could definitely see that, too.  She also might be a Gloria..."

So I said: "Yes! Gloria. Gloria and Vince from the Northwest side of Chicago."

And then Steve provided the final word. The obituary, if you will. "The lifespans of vegetables off the vine is tragically short and scarcely were these love apples named but their time on earth was done.  My mother and I made sure Vince and Gloria had a proper end, laid to rest between slices of whole wheat with mayo, salt and pepper.  They were a credit to their neighborhood."

Reason #6,789 I love the internet. The people.

I am the id to your superego

I've been taking photos of flowers.

Pardon my hyperbole, but I have the best dang friends. Rulebreakers, the lot of you. And thank you for that. Thank you for the emails and Facebook comments when I wouldn't let you comment on that last post. Today I'm still as dull as ever, but feeling better even if the house is shrouded against the predicted heat. Man, I hate having the house closed up and worse - hate shutting blinds and putting up curtains (or makeshift curtains) - but with predicted highs near 90 degrees, it's either that or be a whining puddle of perspiration by 2p.m. because that thermostat is set at 80 and it's staying there even if I have to break every bone in Sophie's fingers. (She's the thermostat fiddler around here.)

Such is my cross. There are people without enough food to eat, Lisa, you goon.

But back to my friends. They offer understanding, care, their stories of similar feelings. There really is something to that old adage Misery loves company. It really is nice to know you're not alone while you're in full wallow mode. Unless, of course, thinking you're alone is part of the fun.

I also received a gentle ass-kicking from a friend who's been in and out of my life for longer than I care to mention. If you've read the Ethan stories under the Little Love Stories tab, you already know him. His real name is Craig and, aside from MathMan, he's probably my best friend. While this might seem odd and dangerously dangerous due to my proclivities toward bad behavior, it's turned out surprising well. Plus and bonus, he lives an ocean away so safe gets even safer. Add to that the fact that I've sworn off cybersex because typing all those mmmmms and oh yeah, babies, right there gets so bloody boring. If I'm going to type out a blow job, I may as well - - - oh nevermind.

Anyway, Craig read yesterday's post and got in touch with me via Skype. Shortly into the conversation, he made an important point: If MathMan had gone quiet, couldn't I offer him some understanding? Wasn't there a better way to handle things?

"Let's see, he's working three jobs, money is tight, his wife can't find a job, he can't finance his daughter's trip to England or even pay the rest of her tuition and, you said it yourself, it's that time of year with the end of school stuff. That shit is hard on a man."

Who asked him anyway?

Of course he's right. He then went on to note that we're doomed as a species because of our horrible communications skills. "Someone wants to talk when the other person doesn't want to listen. Women want to vent while men want to jump in and fix things. We're a mess."

When the man is right, he's right.

Thinking about what Craig had said, I did the simple thing. I asked MathMan how things were going. And he told me. I swear this relationship stuff can be so easy if we're not stupid about it.

Which brings me to Mother's Day. I'm just going to say this - I motherfucking hate that day. And MathMan summed up why. "I can never get it right," he growled at me after I fussed that it was just another day around here. No gift, two hand written cards, which were lovely, but I opened them in between running the restaurant and doing another load of laundry. I couldn't go on Facebook because of all the dumbass Mother's Day posts. I pretty much stayed off the blogs, too, because I was busy being angry and giving my family the silent treatment.

We went to a matinee showing of Water for Elephants and on the way there, I read a book because I didn't want to be myself - I'm a terrible backseat driver to MathMan. With added snark for giggles. I thought I did really well, but when I related this bit of family trivia to Craig as an example of how I'm trying to do things differently, Chloe, who was in the room at the time, reported that I couldn't help myself.  As MathMan barreled down on the stopped traffic ahead of us, I repeated the word "brakes" without ever looking up from my book. Fuck.

But I really hate that day. Who am I kidding? I a total curmuddgeon. I'm not fond of any holiday and partly because of the highflying expectations for magic and, oh god, I am my father's daughter.

The highlight of Mother's Day may have been dinner on the deck with Sophie and Chloe. Sophie is having trouble finding reading material that suits her and holds her attention. At twelve going on fifty-three, she's a tough nut. Chloe rummaged through the box of books she'd lugged home from school and came up with Jane Eyre, Chronicle of a Death Foretold and Eve Ensler's I Am An Emotional Creature. Really.

Sophie opened Jane Eyre, cocked an eyebrow and closed the book. Chloe clucked her tongue in disgust. "You have to get through the first part. And just ignore the marginalia."

"What's marginalia?"

"The stuff I've written in the margins."

As an aside to Chloe, I said, "I want to make a joke about the marginalia I added to Stephen Elliot's book."

"Mother, you're forgetting that you're the mom, not the friend," she replied with a hint of a smile.

"Is Stephen Elliot the guy who's into S&M?" Sophie laid the book on the table. Jane Eyre couldn't hold a precious candle to Stephen.

Chloe turned and gave me a look.

"Point taken," I said.

Chloe read to us from Jane Eyre. I really like being read to. Sophie declared the book beyond her grasp and asked if we had any Agatha Christie. What a kidder she is. I also gave her A.A. Milne's The Red House Mystery so here's hoping. Too bad I don't have any adult Judy Blume or Sidney Sheldon she can find and read on the sly like I did at her age. I wonder if my old copy of Flowers in the Attic is in one of those boxes in the garage?

We're watching too much political television around here again. Could that be it? Anyway, Chloe noticed yesterday that Howard Dean appears to have lost weight. MathMan mentioned that Newt Gingrich has gained weight or, porked up, as he put it so eloquently. I keep track of Howard Fineman's haircuts. Frankly, I liked it when his hair curled at his collar. It was middle-aged Jewish guy sexy and I'm into that obviously.

A text exchange with another friend also reminded me of how social media has changed the way peer pressure continues into adulthood. Before Facebook, twitter, and blogging, I suppose, lots of us went to work or did our thing around the house, and at the end of the day, did whatever we did, but most of us weren't interacting with a handful or more of people unless one was lucky enough to be a regular at a bar or gym or a joiner of clubs. Okay, well, I wasn't. I went home, did the housework, lavished my kids with fifteen minutes of attention, watched television, read or dicked around in the garden. Aside from not wanting to assault the world with my face without make up or the stray pube at the public swimming facility, I didn't much care what other people thought about me. Sure I followed the social norms to get by at work, but I didn't much follow the crowd. Hell, I didn't even know which crowds there were. I was in the phase of life where you just don't care. You don't even care that you don't care, you're so busy. Peer pressure was mostly a curse of the teen years.

Now peer pressure is served up in the form of Facebook, Twitter, and the other social media that create the brackets around our lives. Were you a shit heel who didn't offer all your fb friends a happy mother's day? I was. The hell with that peer pressure that can render things pretty meaningless after a while. I called my mother and left her a voicemail. Want to know where I got my attitude about holidays? You don't have to look far. Growing up, we just didn't make a big deal out of things in our household, if you know what I mean.

And while I'm at it - um, listen, it's Facebook - noting the fb is redundant. See, there I go. It's like repeating the word brakes except someone should be saying that to me and my mouth.

And what about this #FF bullshit on Twitter? We sure can take something fun and easy and load it with all kinds of obligations in no time flat, can't we? I mean, I get it. It's a way of giving, but criminy, can't anything just be fun without being weighed down with all this Have to stuff? I quote Steve Martin in the movie Parenthood "My whole life is have to" which was more true when I had a paying job, but you should see the frowny face texts I get if someone's favorite pair of socks aren't clean so I stick by that quote.

Why can't we just leave well enough alone? 140 characters, light, fun, maybe profound, if you're into that, a link to something you found interesting, but do we have to create structure and rules? Yes, yes, we do. It's how we know what to do next and with which hand to do it. And how not to wear white shoes while doing it, too. Unless it's between May and September. Wheat and chaff and all that. I'm chaff, nice to meet you.

I think my inner anarchist needs some Funions and red pop to make her quiet down.

I never should have turned on the television this morning. The things you see. Our elected dumbasses (possibly my new favorite word) running around repeating their new favorite catchphrase "An adult moment." I'm sure someone or three hundred and sixty-seven someones have already made this joke on Facebook and Twitter, but An Adult Moment for me would probably include the typed out blow job (referenced above). And I sure as hell don't want to pay taxes on that. Unless I'm making over $250k and then go right ahead and tax dollars 250,001 and above because I'm reasonable even if foulmouthed and vulgar.

Your turn. Unleash your inner (fill in the blank) because I think I've said more than enough.

Paying Attention Because There Is A Story Here

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” — Thornton Wilder

If you've been visiting here any length of time, you know that our family is adjusting to a new financial paradigm. I just used the word paradigm. Someone please slap me. I wanted to stay away from the prevalent phrase "New Normal" because after reading through some blog archives, it's clear that there is nothing new about this. It's been our normal for a while now except that it's gotten worse.

It's a case of Once You're In It, It's Hard to Get Out of It. Like the mafia or a gym contract.

With the loss of my job last December, we received that apocryphal blow most of the American Middle Class fears. It was that one last thing that would flick us off the edge and tumbling into the precipice of the financial unknown.

I want to tell you all the things we've learned along the way. I want to show you how we've changed and grown. I want to reassure those of you living paycheck to paycheck and in terror of that one disaster that could send you and your family into the financial soup that you will survive. You will be different, but you will get through it. But my first wish for you is that you never find yourself here in the first place.

But there will time for that later.

Some days I'm reluctant to share with you the daily ups and downs of this financial recalibration because it seems like so much whining. I have to preface things with phrases like We brought this on ourselves or We should have done this differently.... I'm forever balancing the reality with my distaste for victimhood. I mine these events for humor because there are so many of us living through this - whether we want to talk about it or not (much less put it in writing) and if I can contribute anything to the conversation, I want it to maybe make people feel a little better instead of worse.

This period of our lives has taught me many things, but one of the most wonderful gifts I've received is the experience of gratitude. When you're the giver, the caregiver, the donor, the contributor, you do so for a lot of reasons. Those reasons are as varied as the people involved. I've not always been good at receiving thanks. I dismiss it, wave it off, minimize my contribution. It was nothing. Don't mention it. I didn't see through the other person's eyes that whatever I'd done - whether big or small - mattered.

When you are the recipient of care and kindness and generosity, your role is simple. Say thank you.

Yesterday, I received an email that left me speechless. A group of people had provided a gift to our family that will help us bridge the wasteland that is January. The writer of the email did what I do when I'm the contributor. She minimized the significance of the gift. When I regained my composure and my ability to mangle the English language, I wrote to tell her how much the gift mattered and how the timing could not have been better. And to please pass our family's gratitude on to the others who'd contributed, as well.

And in case any of them are here, I want to say those important words.

Thank you. 

Right through the very heart of it

Add caption

I recently blogged about my friend Suzy who starred in the Seinfeld episode that featured the Black and White Cookie and the Chocolate Babka.  Suzy played the role of Barbara Benedict, the woman who got the last chocolate babka, leaving Jerry and Elaine to settle for the cinnamon babka, a lesser babka.

A day or so later, I got an email from a friend who is pure New York.  No really.  He's born and raised there.  He knows the city like no one I've ever known.  He's has that perfect city accent.  He's also gorgeous, funny as hell, is one of those genuinely nice people, talented, smart as all get out and generally wonderful.

But enough about DCap.  I have food to write about.  So that email.  He asked for our address which I provided.  I didn't think much more about it because we got distracted with an email exchange that I can't tell you about because it may show up later in wikileaks.  I'd hate to ruin the surprise.

So yesterday, the doorbell rang and I went to out to find a box on the porch.  The UPS guys are working in pairs now. I want to assume that's because of the holidays, but maybe it's because word has gotten around about me.  Anyway, when I opened the door, all I saw was a young man running after the UPS truck.  The guy behind the wheel, who may have been the guy I locked in the basement that one time, was already making a break for it.

Confused, I hefted the box and went inside.  On the side of the box was printed Zabars, a place I recognize although I've never been there.  A small sticker announced that the box contained New York Goodies.  Chloe told me later that she could actually see the light bulb go off over my head.

DCap.

I went to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of scissors and the squirt bottle of water.  I opened the outer box and lifted out this box.

Which had this postcard attached to it.

And was filled with all this.

Chloe came closer to see. "Black and white cookies!"
 I reached for the squirt bottle.  She was too rapt over the carborrific treats to notice.
"Chocolate Babka!" she sighed right and lunged forward.
I had to shoot her.
You can never be too careful with baked goods around that girl.

Zero Trans Fats!

In case you're wondering what a Chocolate Babka is, BEHOLD.

We had MathMan do the honors.

For the record, Chocolate Babka is divine. The cinnamon rugelach is to die for.  The black and white cookies are fabulous and no one broke a streak after eating them.  I'm hoarding the tea for a special occasion and the Ghirardelli chocolate has been stashed for future biological needs.  The I'm going to have the I heart NYC cookie for breakfast when I'm finished writing this post.

Update:  I ended up sharing the cookie with Sophie who's home on a Georgia snow day which is different from the rest of the world's snow days.  We had hot chocolate.  And maybe I ate another rugelach while, in a nice bit of symmetry, we watched Larry David go into the Yohah Shimmel Knish Bakery in Whatever Works.

And if DCap gives me the okay, I'll show you why that's so perfect for this morning.

Thank you, DCap, for the Zabar's treats.  Thank you for sending some of your wonderful city to a rural corner of Georgia.

P.S.  If you guys don't see me around, it's because I'm on the elliptical trying to keep from turning into a babka.

Minnesota, Hats off to thee

Once upon a time, I worked in Minnesota. I lived in Illinois, but about once a month, I flew to Minneapolis to meet with the AARP volunteers in the tiny field office at the Mall of America.

And thus began my deep and long-held affection for Minnesotans.

We used to stay at the Sheraton over by the Mall where they had an indoor pool.  In an act of daring that I have not displayed since, unless you count those crazy business trips with the property managers, I actually donned a swimsuit and frolicked in the pool with the people for whom I worked.  At first I declined their entreaties to join them.  But have you ever tried to wiggle out of something with a bunch of Lutheran, Nordic and Germanic-based women over the age of 65?  They didn't care about my vanity.  They were in a pool in the middle of winter in Minnesota, six inches of snow on the ground, happily warm from a little wine with dinner.  Who cared about cellulite?

"Look at us," the ring leader cried, tucking a gray curl into her swimcap.  "Now please go change and have some fun!"

Fast forward to 2007 or so when I started hanging out online and what do you know?  I tend to have an affinity for Minnesota bloggers. And they are just as warm and wonderful as those people who first introduced me to the special thing about the Land of A Thousand Lakes.  The people.

Mommy Lisa, Mnmom, and Whiskeymarie got together and baked cookies last weekend.  I'd mentioned to one of them in comments that I wished I could join them.

Well, they brought the party to me.  They sent our family a box stuffed with the most delicious cookies and a set of cheery kitchen towels and recipes.  It was a great surprise to get that box on Friday.

Thank you, my friends.  The only thing sweeter than these cookies is you.

xoxox,

Lisa

Getting Figgy With It

He has singlehandedly resurrected the phrase like hubba hubba.
He's been my blog buddy since the very first days of PoliTits.
He and his significant other Sparky share my adoration of British TV.
He's working on a graphic novel titled Hip Deep, Mountain High.  Go see!
And he makes Fig Bomb preserves that are so good you wanna eat the whole jar, diet be damned.

Thank you, Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein, for the wonderful package of treats!

Stupid Sting and his lute.

Say Cheese

The Backstory
Before I met MathMan, I was in love with a tall, handsome and driven guy. We met, quickly fell in love, and lived together briefly until he left to go to another school. Eventually, our immaturity and the physical distance rubbed the luster away from the relationship and we were left with something not so nice. He chose to pursue his dreams and I was no longer a part of them.

He was far more driven than I was. He believed in himself and his talents while I was still just treading water, unsure about my future and quite convinced that there was nothing special about me. He'd know for much of his life what he wanted to be and he did, eventually become that. No, that's not right. He always was that. His gift is part of who he is.

I'd forgotten until recently, that he'd also encouraged me to pursue my dreams. I didn't believe that I had any talent so the notion that I could actually follow a career into writing seemed like so much fluff. It was pie, sky, not something this girl could do.

When he left to go to art school, he gave me a journal covered in red fabric. It's one of my life's treasures like the kid's newborn hospital bracelets and the shattered remains of the glass MathMan stomped to the joyous cries of Mazel Tov at the end of our wedding. On the first page, he wrote me a message that ended with this postscript: Remember - all good writers keep journals, too! Even as he moved on to follow his destiny, he was nudging me toward mine.

It only took me twenty-four years to figure out what he was telling me. Write - you want to be a writer - so write.

So that's my friend. I still love him. It's not the desperate, clutching, crazy love of a twenty year old, but it's the love you have for old friends who shared special times with you. He was key in my discovery of that world outside my little Midwestern existence. Over time, we lost touch. Life got busy and his first ex-wife didn't like me and who knows what else makes friendships fade into the background. Last year, we reconnected and have developed a zany kinship that provides us with the chance to enjoy each others company without all the sexual tension and angst of youth.

And Now....
As life would have it, things did not turn out so well for him in his marriages and he is now is a state of flux. While he waits out his particular situation, he's discovered that he had some unfulfilled needs. I'm not sure why - having been burned twice or because I'm off the market - he doesn't seem to desire a long term relationship, but he'd like some help polishing his apple. When he first shared with me the length of his sexual drought, I refrained from teasing him too much and instead dove head first into a discussion about procuring some professional help for his needs.

What began as a joke eventually became a reality. I think he was afraid to tell me at first. He wrote me to tell me that his drought was over and I responded with the appropriate level of hells yeah!!!! Was it good? because I'm pretty much a guy when it comes to things like this. I stopped short of asking for details. We do have some barriers, no matter how weak they are.

After he got over the fact that I wasn't going to mock him for having used the services of a professional, he suggested that I help him seek out his next carnal encounter. Because neither of us know when to stop the joke, this led to me looking at escort sites last night as my children slept and MathMan watched the beginning of Orson Welle's The Third Man. Can I just tell you that is quite the experience to go shopping for a date? Sure, sure, I know some of you are wondering how I could take part in the selling of the flesh, but let's not debate that here. I could tell you that not one of those presumably educated women appeared to be under any duress to do what they do for a living.

Before I went to work on my search for just the right woman to make my friend's weekend a little less, um, lonely, I did have a phone conversation with him to learn how things went with his first date. No, I didn't ask for or receive details about sex acts performed, but I did inquire about the process. What I learned was rather sweet with just the hint of piquant commercialism. The outcome was, after all, a given. As my friend noted "None of what I did really mattered, I was going to get laid anyway."

True enough, but at least both adults involved went to the trouble of behaving as if this were a date instead of a financial transaction. First he described how he directed his "date" to his location, where he lives alone. The rest of the conversation went like this:

Him: I even vacuumed the apartment and changed the sheets.
Me: Well, that's saying something!
Him: I know, right? It's more than I do for myself.
Me: Okay, then what?
Him: Well, I went out and bought three different kinds of champagne.
Me: Very nice!
Him: Thanks.
Me: Anything else?
Him: Yes. I put out a cheese plate.
Me: A cheese plate?
Him: Yes, I offered her a variety of cheeses.

A variety of cheeses? Dear lord, he prepped for his "date" just like my mother prepares to host a Home Ec Club meeting.

I finally stopped laughing long enough to take notes. You never know when you're going to need story material, you know?

He Feels Pretty

Oh so pretty! He feels pretty and witty and....well you get the idea. And if pretty is as pretty does, Steve of Steve Denies Any Wrongdoing is as beautiful through and through.

Just look what he went and did now. I mean, can a guy get any nicer? Or funnier? And how lucky am I to be showered with this kind of love and support? I could lick the cream off his kitten toes, he's so wonderful.

Just watch. And try not to focus too much on the thought of me licking the cream off his kitten toes. I mean, MathMan banned me from that kind of extracurricular activity. Again. Sheesh! (The prude.)

Thank you, Steve, for the order, the links, the support for my new business and for understanding why my tongue isn't.........well, you get the idea.

Now the rest of you go tell Steve how fabulous his skin looks!