Three Little Words

 "The French like nothing better than to take to the streets. Doesn't much matter what for; one thing you learn quickly in France, there's always something to be against: the new government, the old government, the European Union, fewer teachers, fewer holidays, regulations about how much bacteria you can put in your cheese or how much wax you can put in your chocolate. You name it, someone thinks it's a terrible idea. Nobody is offering a viable solution. That, presumably, is next week's job. Today, it is just the joyful frenzy of a collective 'non!' "

--Lunch in Paris, Elizabeth Bard

Generally speaking, Luddites get on my nerves. I only know a few -- which stands to reason -- how would you even meet one, in an era where all Invitations to Socialize arrive via facebook or twitter, and then the pictures are posted there (where we all confer about whether or not we had a good time)? I like this system.

But in the last couple months, it's all been rearranged. And I have been out on multiple occasions with multiple guys, on multiple occasions, who don't have computers in their homes. On purpose. If you can imagine. They didn't get stolen or anything.

And last night I realized how lazily reliant I'd become on Social Media when one of them said, after an arduous evening of helping Chef DaveO and Jenn move a bookcase, seemingly appropos of nothing, "I'm Pro Same Sex Marriage, by the way."

I thought for a second, Well, maybe that's his way of telling me he's gay? God knows I've been wrong about that at least once before, that I know of. On the one hand, I was thinking I should probably say something supportive and affirmative in solidarity. On the other, I was thinking: If he was on facebook, I would've already known all this. Even if his orientation didn't specify "interested in Men," I would still be able to see if he was a fan of Bette Midler. I wasn't especially overwrought at this possibility. As far as I'm concerned, I can always use another homosexual in my life (and God knows, in my house, where I am very short on Design Gays). But my gay husband laid down the law the other night, after we were chatting up a lovely couple at the McSwankertons', "NO. You have enough Gays. You can NOT have ANY more." (We hardly have any Art Gays, I protested, but he still wouldn't let me bring them home.)

This whole getting-acquainted-in-person-like-an-Animal thing was clearly NOT working out. It's so ambiguous/ambivalent. In response to all my girlfriends' relentless quizzing, Nope, there's been no physical contact that would indicate clear heterosexual interest. This is something that bothers them endlessly, and me, not at all. He tracked me down and called me up the day after he met me -- and that was without the aid of facebook, or twitter, or blip, or LinkedIn, or anything else. Good enough for me. Because I would never have done that. Whatever the perceptions of my degree of forwardness... might be (vis a vis lucky halftime rituals, for example), I don't typically chase boys, and I am not a kiss-on-the-first (or fourth) date kinda girl. There's no intense moralism behind any of it -- it's just a combination of being insanely lazy and wildly commitment-phobic, crossed with my Rainman-aversion to most any human contact. Most of my Ex-es have been in my life a decade or longer, and they would be the first to tell you that there was nothing about me that came easy on that front (initially), and that they have earned their privileges.

So, he continued his thought, after a long uncomfortable silence. "You know...you said you couldn't believe I was a Republican?"

That's true. It turns out, his comment was just another bullet point in this ongoing case he'd been making. Because he'd already explained that he was pro-choice, while clarifying his position on several other stereotypes he suspected I would find politically objectionable. What I was thinking was: Yeah, that's another thing Facebook would've told me right up front. It turns out, he's mostly just a fiscal conservative -- like me and nearly everybody else I know -- so big deal. I can't really think of an occasion where I've ever allowed politics to stand in the way of getting laid, but I didn't say that out loud. I suppose I seem like someone who has greater courage of conviction than I actually do. I wouldn't go out with anyone who watched Fox News, but beyond that, I have a keen respect for letting everybody vote their own conscience. As long as he's ok with same sex marriage...and the Food Gays running their fingers through his hair (since they've already expressed a keen interest in it, several times)...everybody should be able to agree to disagree at the polls, so to speak.

Last night, after walking back from bookshelf duty, we settled into the TV room, where I could open up the Pank, log onto Twitter, and make a cryptic joke to ChefDaveO -- while he flipped over to Rachel Maddow for the latest Arizona updates (see, he is a really bad Republican -- we both agreed we'd be perfectly ok boycotting the Grand Canyon this summer). I was giving him a hard time about how all the good updates on this issue were available on Facebook, complete with video links etc., when he picked up the remote and said, "hey, at least I know how to do this," and changed the channel.

He seemed so proud, I didn't have the heart to tell him he'd just canceled my "Top Chef" Tivo-in-progress. (No spoilers please.)

As I pulled up a few sites to show him that were particularly legally on point in Arizona, he then said the three magic words a girl like me can only dream of hearing, "What's a blog?"

Til Death Do Us Part

One of the solemn vows I have as straight-wife is that I step up to fill all hostess or date social duties for my gay husband when my gay husband-in-law is ill, or otherwise committed.

Now, of course there is a codicil that says anybody recovering from A Move is exempt from any and all social obligations for at least one entire week (possibly six months if the movers, say, happen to rip out any utility lines). Nonetheless, my gay husband somehow sneaked past the plumbers and painters on the first floor today (I haven't figured out a way to get them to announce guests yet/Murphy Brown style) and made it upstairs where he fell to his knees and begged me to come along for an evening with the Swanky McSwankertons.

Gesturing to the rooms full of unpacked boxes, I explained, "but I have no pants."  Modeling my Homebuilders Association t-shirt with the holes, I reminded him, "I don't have any shirts either." And footwear was limited at that moment to either pink garden crocs or birkenstocks.

I sorta pulled it together -- I don't think anyone could tell, for example, I'd washed my hair with soap  -- and my college buddy Phoef, luckily, had dropped some emergency party shoes at the foot of the stairs during the move.

We ended up having a lovely time -- great food, great company, and an impromptu concert on the grand piano from my husband (who knew?) -- but I caught hell when I got home.

There were a few designated straights who'd also requested my company this weekend, for various occasions of food, fun, etc. -- and I had turned them down flat. Politely, but without a second thought.  They took it a little personally that I did, in fact, spend a night on the town. Just not with them.

I had to explain -- as far as I know -- that's how marriage works.

Timing. Timing. Timing.

Right now, I'm a woman with no home -- wandering between the purgatory of not entirely moved in/not entirely moved out. The facelift isn't finished at the new place, but the old place is slowly migrating over. I split my time between the two.

Unfortunately, life moves on without my permission. People expect to drop by. They must be fed. The fact that you have no shelter to offer them is irrelevant. (All my parents have visited copiously in recent weeks.)

Socializing does not stop.

Boys keep asking me out, and the temptation is to say No, give me a week and I'll be all settled ..... then I notice how extravagantly tall some of them are and I reconsider. I already got burned in January by not gettin' while the gettin' was good and Bobby Donuts disappeared , only to turn up a week later Drinking-for-Charity with the girl who had enough sense to say Yes when he asked her out. (I am still mad about that.)

On the other hand, where do they pick me up? Where do I live? There is no operating kitchen. "May I offer you some raw meat and an Ale 8?"

As my gay husband points out, our lives are based on the ILLUSION of spontaneity and unpreparedness (while neither one of us is capable of either).

What on earth do I put in the fridge of a largely empty house that doesn't seem contrived? I've asked this several times lately.

There were a LOT of recommendations.

Chef Tom's response was "chic, or homey?" My answer was "Marxist." His instant return text was: "pellegrino, white wine, a good block of cheese, Mexican coke, baquette strewn haphazardly on the counter, thrown there as if bored with it."

Yes. I  have been able to plausibly pretend that's how the new and empty kitchen looks --- just as soon as I threw away the moldy pitcher of Sangria leftover from Easter (triple bagged and hidden at the bottom of the Herbie) -- which comprised the entire contents of the fridge before it was staged, aside from the Ale 8 (for the interns) and raw meat (that's mine).

Beverages? It was agreed that Beer's more butch, but I don't drink it so I don't know what to buy. I think I have interns who buy PBR, but I'm pretty sure they're being Ironic... I don't know what the proletariat drinks, and I am the proletariat. (I know it's not Crystal Lite. Not if you ask my mother.) There's copious amounts of bourbon, but it just doesn't seem quite ... casual enough. Most everybody who drinks bourbon drinks it like they mean it.

Chef Tom added, "Maybe a cured meat of some kind...as if an unplanned picnic on the Left Bank could occur."

I typically don't even let a prospective gentleman caller see where I live for months, much less mid-move, but sometimes it's unavoidable, and it's one of those insane game-changers where the chaos and accidental intimacy somehow vaults you past first date straight to the fourth month of living together. Underwear on the floor. Three stages of drying laundry stretched across two bathrooms. It's savage really.

It's been so overwhelming, I've barely had a spare second to even write any of this up -- for every date I've actually mentioned, there've been half dozen that have had to go unremarked (in fairness, I usually stop after first dates, before the material gets very entertaining)-- which, everybody has agreed, is a good thing.

As one of my girlfriends observed, at some length, "Don't blogiterate these guys prematurely!" When I point out that they're not avid readers and that I purposely keep it vague, she accused me of poking the word "Lucky" in the eye Three Stooges style, adding, "they will FIND your blog. Their GRANDMOTHERS will find your blog. And unless you start writing in Farsi about endangered marine mammals, you need to remember: it's the Internet, NOT an encrypted C.I.A. file."

In my experience, it's all a negotiation -- better begun early than late. My willingness to negotiate increases in direct proportion to the hotness of the prospect, along with the depth of my affection and/or attraction. If I'm not getting material, I must be getting something  better in return. Like, snow shoveling in the winter.... lawn mowing in the summer... Herbies hauled to the Curb.... that kinda thing. I am more shockingly easy than one might imagine.

The Sweet and SaltyTaste of Victory

"I sizzle. I scorch. But now I pass the torch. The ballots are in. And one girl had to win. She's perky. She's fun. And now she's Number One."

--"Bring it On" (cheerleader roll call)

I was a little worried when I had to send the Ex over to the Hot Sorority Visigoths to borrow a cup of vodka. I was trying to find the HD version of The Big Game when I hear him yell up, "where's the vodka?" followed by "are we out of vodka?" followed by "what happened to the vodka?"

He knew perfectly well I hadn't suddenly developed a drinking problem. What had happened was, I was running around cleaning frantically because the Rescue Society was coming over for a Home Visit to evaluate me for prospective adoption (no one really wants to be told their home isn't fit for a dog). When I jerked the fridge door open in a rush, the stupid loose door plate came off and everything on that shelf came flying out. The only things that broke, however, were a jar of olives and a completely full bottle of vodka. I cleaned it up as best I could, but I still think that dog drank a floor martini. (I explained it all to the niceVolunteer Coordinators, and I got approved, notwithstanding the chaotic mid-move housekeeping.) I just hadn't thought to replace it.

Knowing I had told him this story at least once, I yelled down, "I told you that Test Dog drank that vodka; Go. Next. Door." (I also knew the Hot Sorority Visigoths would be happy to loan us a cup of vodka.)

The next thing I hear is "can we just have margaritas? We have all the stuff!" Fine. I hit Pause. (The man's 41 years old and still doesn't know how to make a margarita, so the question wasn't "can we have them?" it was "will you come make them?") I slammed down one of the folders I was working on -- at which point, nothing Paused, and I realized the batteries had just gone dead in the Remote. 

"Remember that year you got me all the 40-packs of Duracells in my Christmas stocking?" I asked, as we walked back up the stairs. ("Nope" was the obvious answer there.) "Well, we just used up the last one, so I couldn't pause the game. The Remote's dead."

"No big deal," was Mr. Gadget's confident answer. "We'll just rob something else."

No. I'd already looked, the remotes in the other rooms took Triple As; we needed Double As.

So we were stuck sitting there for a moment, watching the game Live, like Animals... "Oh! I knooooow....." he said, yanking open the nightstand, struck by a flash of genius, suddenly remembering what the 40-pak of Duracells had accompanied in the Christmas stocking.  "Don't bother." I said, without even taking my eyes off The Game. "It's broken."

"What?!" he said, shaking its still, lifeless form in apparent doubt, and mindlessly jabbing its inert buttons. "What did you do? This thing cost, like $140 bucks. It was on Sex and the City! It's supposed to be indestructible. " (They lied.)

"I didn't do anything," I shrugged. "The threads are just stripped." (I hadn't needed it this Christmas, that's for sure, I explained. Unnecessarily, he pointed out.)

A challenge. And he suddenly goes from corporate warrior/Bonfire of the Vanities mogul to Mr. FixIt, stripping off his tie, crudely fashioning improvisational tools from the change-dish on the dresser and working over the jammed battery casing like it was his fulltime job. 

By the time he'd rescued a couple Double-As, it was HalfTime, and by then, we needed them for the Mute.

With such a slow build in the second half, I took a moment to post, "if  we win, homage must be paid. #LuckyHalftimeRitual. #OneHundredPercentSuccessRate." (I wanted credit where credit was due.)

Victory.... Tastes a little like watermelon.

The Assessment Lottery

"I would've been happy to text him while I was eating Thai with my friends, so he could go eat ribs with his kids. I even offered to eat Mexican with him provided we could take off our clothes before we came in the house, burn them, and then hop in the shower together. I don't like the smell of onions in my hair and I thought this was a fair compromise... To be honest, I never cared what we did together anyway. The whole point of this thing as far as I'm concerned is to meet somebody you can stand, and then stay HOME with them.

--Reality Truck, the column, 2007

Despite all my Rainman-tendencies and my meticulous count of toothpicks, one of the things that doesn't make me nervous is First Dates. It's like Public Speaking and Job Interviews in that I think it ranks high on other people's lists, but barely registers on mine. Don't get me wrong, I embarrass as easily as the next person. I try to dress appropriately and not get spinach in my teeth, but I don't make any herculean efforts beyond that. Sure I guess I want to be liked, but I think it's more important to spend my time deciding whether I like them. I am busy. I have limited time and resources to devote. They better show me somethin' special. (No. Not that.)

Lately, I've been at Home Depot every morning when the doors open so I have time to let the Plumber in at the new house and get him started, where I usually keep him company, working like a slave, schlepping and spackling. This past weekend, I didn't even remember til I got a voicemail reminding me which restaurant I was supposed to be at that A. I had (probably unwisely) scheduled a first date on  top of a day spent as a pack mule, or B. that I had scheduled a date at all  (I must've said Yes when he called post-Ambien). I just wanted to stay home and eat hot dogs and watch HBO. But no, this is my third job right now-- the new house is my second job-- and I'm not one to call in sick.  The impending dog is my fourth job.)

I have a lot of first dates these days -- more than average -- because the instant I got dumped, I put out a press release letting all my friends know that they will each be assessed ONE boyfriend for me this year. I think what I said was, "Have him washed and brought to my tent!"

They have twelve months. They can pace themselves. (It's worked for me before, and it's also how I've found houses and jobs in the past.) I prefer boyfriends to dating. Guys ask me out everyday. Big deal. I have no shortage of men to go places with. This isn't a typical commitment-starved hysterical female stereotype. I'm deliriously happy alone, but if I'm gonna cede time and space to someone else, what I want is someone I can stay home with -- but he can't want to marry me; live with me; or have children with me -- he just has to stay home with me. Sometimes. Not like a hostage, just once in a while, after we get done drinking-for-charity. (Plus I do like the prospect in a committed relationship of really being able to let myself go someday ...Just kidding, I am happy to maintain the landscape. It's the least I can do. Along with all the cooking, cleaning, and twice-a-day Ring-Toss. Yeah. They've really got a rough gig here.)

One of my married girlfriends was in the process of being filled in on the Lottery at lunch the other day when I walked in, and she looked up without batting an eye and asked, "so how tall does he need to be?" And then she took a few notes. By the time I got home, I had a facebook dossier of "new friend suggestions," along with introductions. (Sometimes it gets confusing: a lawyer asked me to lunch via Facebook, and I initially couldn't tell if he wanted to sue me, or ask for my business for his Firm -- but it turned out, one of my lawyer-girlfriends had just "referred" him to me for a little... amicus briefing.)

Size is a tricky question now, because while I have always liked 'em strapping, the upstairs at the new place has so many eaves and odd-angles that two Ex-es (my usual types) nearly decapitated themselves on the ceiling fans when they dropped by to survey it and help paint. So I either have to go back to a delicate petite flower type, or I guess I can just stick with the big boys and hold em down on the new sofa in the new "home theatre" (one of 'em already brought over a little wine fridge housewarming gift, so I assume everybody already agrees that room will be the destination of choice.)

So far, all the prospectives have been practical genetic mutations of height (and would make a heckuva basketball team), so I can only assume that my friends are taking the wish list seriously. All are divorced or never-married (in each case, I have contrived a way to get into their house for at least the 38 second "Mission Impossible" investigation where I can discern there is No Woman living there in any capacity). I'm not there to judge their housekeeping or their taste in art, I just want to make sure they live where they say they do. Alone. As a commitment-phobe who doesn't want to give anyone false encouragement, I would usually save that kinda thing for a 7th or 8th date, but the risk to that is: anyone who's evasive might turn out to be deceptive, so I'm just keepin it real. (And verified. Not that it really matters because Linda invariably runs a background check on everybody I've ever gone out with more than twice -- it's amazing what she's able to discern via public records, PVA, and clerk filings.)

Anyway, I've gotten some cool souvenirs out of all my skulduggery -- a plant cutting (which was my excuse for insisting we drop by for it), a couple heirloom bulbs, a really nice signed black and white photo print, and in one case, half of a leftover homemade lasagne (score). I don't require lovely parting gifts of course, but hey, this is a trend I might begin to encourage. It's like Danny DeVito says at the end of War of the Roses, "So what do we take from this.... other than that Dog People shouldn't marry Cat People?" -- better to get that all on the table up front.

Every time I go into one of these houses I am thinking A. Please don't kill me, and B. thank God I always stuff a lot of cash in my purse before every date. (Because if I see a cat? 231-TAXI. Tampons in the medicine cabinet? That's ok: I wore running shoes!)

By anyone's standards, I have gotten lucky in this process (not that kinda lucky; just so you know, I don't even believe in kissing till at least the third date, so I think I've been unwittingly creating a lot of disappointment in that perhaps these prospects had been led to believe my style was a little more "aggressive." It is....with people I've known, roughly, forever. Naked Time is NOT a casual process for me, much less Ring Toss. It may be spirited, but, it is not casual. Serial monogamy is my preference and it takes me a long time to reach the romantic, sentimental, well-considered decision that I can not better-deal this guy... that he is the best I'm gonna do).

To a man, every one of them has even been Catholic, for chrissake, which is really just "icing," not a requirement. And to a man, they have all also been better looking than I am. And I don't say that as a self-deprecating fishing expedition ("hey everybody, tell me how great I look!"). No, no. I'm fine. And for 40-something, I might even be a little above average (especially once you factor in the ...Tight Ship... I run, having never had children). But most of these guys are 30-somethings, and that's just an edge. I don't want anybody thinking I'm their mother. And laughing.

One of these children sat down at dinner and the first thing out of his mouth was, "by the way, your hair is beautiful." (It turns out, the guy who introduced us on Facebook had told him I might not leave the house for six months because of an unfortunate haircut.) Well, I thought he was being sarcastic, so I snapped back, "Thanks. But it usually looks a LOT. Better." Then I told him (somewhat defiantly) I couldn't read the menu because I hadn't picked up my new bifocals yet ('yeah, you wanna make something of it buddy?'), and he just laughed and held it out for me at varying adjustments across the table until I could make out what I wanted. Sure, it's fine if these whippersnappers want to date someone of my advancing years, but I make sure they know right up front what they might be getting themselves into. ("You asked for it, Sonny!" is what I'm thinking. They better know right now I might be sending them downstairs someday to "fetch my walker!") I think one of the sweetest date offers ever was him volunteering to take me to pick up my new glasses, since we were driving right past. Any guy who'll willingly spend a date night at LensCrafters with you either has massive game, or is at heart, a pretty sweet person.

Now, I will acknowledge that this whole process has been complicated by the fact that my Prostatitis has chosen this very season to act up again  (the docs say Kidney Stones, but I swear, my symptoms fit prostatitis much more accurately on WebMD). And while we all know that's not appropriate date, or dinner conversation, and would make anyone's list of TooMuchInformation, it's a bit of a dilemma. Because I end up excusing myself to go to the bathroom at least six times over an average meal, and if I don't explain it, at some point, they're going to conclude I have a coke habit, or that I'm in there shooting up. It's so embarrassing, but sooner or later, they're all gonna call me CUTI (chronic-urinary-tract-infection). As terms of endearments go, it could be worse.

Although the need for frequent bathroom breaks IS an excellent -- if shameless -- excuse for impromptu detours by their house while we're out. Any straight man who keeps a spotless bathroom even if he isn't expecting guests is above-average civilized. (Or, he just might not be straight. Either way, it's good to know.)

Talking Dirty with the Class of 87

"Sex is not a time to chat. In fact, it's one of the few instances in my overly articulated, exceedingly verbal life where it is perfectly appropriate -- if not preferable -- to shut up. And now suddenly I have to worry about being stumped for conversation? -- no thank you."

--Miranda, Sex & the City

I don't know why it always surprises people that I am not much one for talking dirty. It's just one of those things -- like say, spandex, or smoking weed -- for which I never really cultivated a taste. I don't judge. I'm happy to observe, or listen. In fact, I experimented with both, a little, in college, and that's how I found out they gave me panic attacks.

I'm admittedly an avid sexter (it's an especially viable port in a storm when travel -- or even traffic -- is proving to be an intrusive interruption to Real Life, which should be at least 50 percent Naked Time, more if you can manage it and still hold down a job).  But in person, sometimes I just want a little peace and quiet. While I never mean to be terse,  I'm sure I have Ex-es who expected to turn around and see house counsel, taking notes and whispering advice, from the corner. I tend to give Yes and No answers. I don't embellish. I'd rather over-deliver than over-promise.

Plus, I really don't hear that well (too many years as a music critic) and I have killed many a mood asking for clarification when clearly none was needed ("you want to do what? Where?... Ohhhhh! OK. Sure." Carry on.)

Because I did go to such an achingly conservative white-bread college, it still surprises me when my BidDay RingToss Classmate is so shockingly ... forthright. (The Donut Columns are all his, for example.) The one thing that always pops into my head is "you talked to Professor Hazelrigg with that mouth?"  (Although I didn't really know him in school, we had a scathing word for guys like him: Athlete.) Linda still laughs when I compare his six-pack abs to an ocean view, but I'm not kidding: after a few weeks, you really do not notice it.

People (and by people, I mean reps from our shared alumni association who occasionally stumble into us drinking-for-charity) always want to know why we haven't eloped.

I suspect that is not out of any regard for our mutual well-being or faith in our compatibility (which is admittedly, painfully minimal -- although thank heavens, we are both dog people). It is more because there is nothing, and I mean, nothing they enjoy more than pairing up alumni couples in the alumni magazine in reciprocal boldface. Non-Alums are forever consigned to regular type, no bold; they might even turn up in all-lower-case letters like e.e. cummings. Sigh. I do love the boldface. I'm a font girl.

A Gift Horse

Straight men can be so impossible... Endearing, but impossible.

I just hung up the phone with one who was trying to surprise me with a present, and I should say right off the bat that A. I love presents, and B. that his gift-giving instincts and execution are (now) without parallel. I should also say, he didn't come that way out of a box for heaven's sake. I trained him. Painstakingly. (He's the one who tried to give me the ill-fated I'm-Sorry-MacBook for ruining a vacation a long time ago.) It took years for him to be allowed to give me high-end, overpriced electronics -- and that was only after he'd finally demonstrated that he knew the difference between "extravagant" and "thoughtful."

He's at the electronics store again today, trying to decide between pink, and pink, which meant a lot of futile text-exchanges like this one "which tone of pink?" (Only a straight man would think "pink" comes in "tones.") You know. Pank. Not pink, Pank. "Oh. OOOkkkkkk. Thanks."  (Points for mastering SMS sarcasm.) I finally had to text over visual aids, and hope that the resolution on his iPhone is reasonably accurate. [The shoephone is the correct shade of pank (also known as "blush" or "bashful") and the phone booth is the wrong shade of pink. It's admittedly confusing, because I have a scarf that's the wrong pink that I wear all the time, just because it was a gift I loved. I was wearing it on New Year's Day at the DiscoKroger when I ran into a different Ex, and when I said I was surprised he'd spotted me from halfmile across the parking lot, he said, "are you kidding? I was blinded by the beacon of that scarf screamin' New Boyfriend."]

Our first Christmas together was spent in tears. And honestly, it was hard to see a big man cry like that.

By Valentines a month later, he had shaped up. The presents were silly-but-thoughtful. He knew the right flower, and the right color, and the right florist -- there is one in town you use if you're trying to be impressive, and another you use if you genuinely are impressive. He knew that it was better if they came to the office and not my house (although he brought along more for dinner). He knew -- as all foodies do -- that you do NOT eat out on Valentines Day or other major holidays (when you get the worst food and the worst service ever). So he took my list and did all the shopping at (what was then) Wild Oats -- which is definitely my least favorite part of the cooking process -- and then we had Naked Chef time (my most favorite part of the cooking process, but really: wear an apron if you're searing anything; there are definitely some places more than others where you don't want to risk a burn). This year especially, I would've died before I left the house Valentine Weekend mid-heartbreak, so he got me carryout from virtually every place we'd ever eaten, and picked up every menu item he'd ever remembered me liking. (Relax. There aren't that many. I prefer cooking to eating out.) And then he stood on-line patiently waiting for them which could not have been easy on Valentine Weekend. Of course, I wasn't even taking broth at the time, and of course, we all know it's not possible to eat a legitimate caprese salad out-of-season in February, but any man who works that hard to get you over another man is, at heart, a good guy.

The ex he was trying to get me over had already fallen on the pank-and-pank sword for the Christmas stocking, but wisely hedged his bets by just going with multiple "tones." I honestly thought everything was so adorable I even put the little moleskin notebook pics on facebook; everybody now knows about the aforementioned ill-fated scarf.

Unfortunately, he does too, which I consider the height of rudeness on my part, because I got all likkered up on Ambien one night as we were on the way out the door to work late (relax: he was driving, not me) and I took the opportunity to educate him on the many nuances of pink he had yet to learn.("THIS" is the right pink. "THAT" is the wrong pink.)  I still think it was a shockingly ungracious, ungrateful thing to say on my part -- because I am genuinely happy when anybody takes the time to pick out any kind of present for me -- but he seemed nonplussed, and if there's one thing I prize in a man above all else it's equanimity.

The DonutMule RingToss Classmate who was here a lot in the immediate aftermath of Storm2010 (they've apparently all gotten together and taken shifts) said he actually prefers getting a lot of direction, because it leaves him less room for error. He's a disciplined guy (a guy who runs marathons) in a very precise field and I could see that, but I honestly didn't remember ever giving him any.  Unfortunately, here again, is someone who's spent a lot of time with me post-Ambien. And what he said, in response to that was "does the phrase: 'you're petting a butterfly! not sawing logs!' ring a bell?"

...And at first....it didn't.

StayCation

A couple dozen times a day I see a status update on Twitter or Facebook that someone is counting the days, minutes, or hours til Vacation.

It makes me sad.

I haven't counted the days til Vacation since I was in Grad School.

I'm sure they would be just as sad for me, since I probably haven't been on an actual Vacation in about 10 years. I have no plans to retire -- ever -- beyond the general goal that it would be nice to spend more time teaching.

And that's fine by me.
The first thing to factor out is the fact that I hate to travel. I almost never do it. The last really long trip I took was to Montreal.(Longer than you'd think, cause I drove.) Montreal itself is pretty -- fairly European (so I'm told) and an unbelievable climate in July.But overall, I was not impressed by Canada. Except it did give me the best headline of my writing career: Les Nips du Fromage.

Generally speaking (factoring out my disdain for Planes, Trains, & Automobiles), there are two main things that keep me from being among the Vacation crew.

First, I try not to spend ANY of my life on anticipation (I wish I was that successful at avoiding its evil cousin, Dread, but I'm not). I know people who live their entire lives around an annual August pilgrimage to wherever. The remaining 50 weeks of the year, they're just putting in time.

I might spend breakfast looking forward to dinner, but beyond that, I really try not to get too far ahead of myself.

Second, I like what I do for a living. I could wax on about creative fulfillment and so on -- and I don't mean to trivialize that (it's critical) -- but the daily quality-of-life things are what make me happy.

-For example, I don't have a job where I have to wear a bra. As an adolescent, growing up, I always hoped for that in a career path. And clearly, it pays to dream big.

-I also don't have to wear pantyhose -- probably no one does anymore -- but I HAVE worked places where that was required.

-I do have a job where dogs are welcome.

-I have a parking space. (I definitely know not to take THAT for granted.)

-I work in a designated ass-kissing-free Zone. I don't kiss any ass. Nobody kisses mine.

-Profanity is permissible and even encouraged.

-It's inside work. With Air Conditioning.
About 15 years ago, I was interviewing a band and we were winding down, when, at 4 o'clock, they looked at their watches and started packing up their stuff, just like they were punching a clock.I asked if I was keeping them from something, and they looked at me like they were explaining something to a slow child, and said, "It's 4 o'clock... Andy Griffith's on."

I knew then I could only fantasize about a job where I could someday say "it's time for Andy Griffith" and have that be a perfectly plausible, acceptable reason for walking out of a room.
And now I have one.

Like any office, of course, there's always too much work and never enough time -- but I try to never lose sight of the fact that life is just exponentially harder if you have to get through it in restrictive undergarments.And by the sheer grace of God, long hours, a $50,000 education (which used to be s lot of money) and decades of hard work,at the moment, I don't have to.

But for now, you'll have to excuse me. Bonanza's on.