Bed Bath and Beyond the Circle

My parents take great joy in the post-holiday sales and who I am I to say 'em Nay... but shopping (like collecting Santas) skips a generation in my family. I do, however, love spending time with my Mom and if that has to happen in a Mall sometimes, well that's just the way it is.

The woman is a machine though.
By the seventh or eighth store, I'm getting lightheaded and just want to lie down -- but there will be none of THAT on her watch. By the time we got to Bed, Bath & Beyond, I think I was tugging on the hem of her coat and actively whining that I wanted to go hooooooooome. She finally had to distract me with something shiny (I never thought to accessorize my linens with leather, but I will now.) I am not sure I am someone who could pull off leather bedding --- but preliminary online polls suggest I should give it a try. (That is my new dream bed, pictured above.)

And while I don't enjoy shopping (at all), I do admire Art, and my mother can turn any trip to the Mall into one. I honestly think she could walk into Neiman-Marcus with nothing but a few baubles and pox-infected blankets and walk out with their entire inventory in trade. She is both tenacious and slick. And no one ever sees her coming. My only job when I accompany her on these expeditions is: hydrate; wear layers; and periodically go to the car to exchange her O2 tanks. (It is seriously a little embarrassing to be repeatedly lapped at the Gap by someone who is rolling an oxygen trolley -- and if you get in her way, she will roll it right over your toes.) I usually think of Bed, Bath &Beyond as adorable but overpriced (it goes without saying we do not pay retail in this family), but wait'll you see the little demitasse set she scored for me. I'm not even sure they sell demitasse sets there, but she honed in on this one in about three seconds ("wasn't somebody just asking you if you had one of these at Brunch?" -- well, yeah, Chef Tom mentioned it... I don't know if he thought we needed it, per se, or was just asking...) Within two minutes, she had a price check and had recounted enough imagined flaws that I'm pretty sure they paid us just to take it off their hands.

By the time we had moved onto clothing, I was sitting in the store windows pressing my face up to the glass (possibly rocking myself... and maybe whimpering, but probably not audibly) waiting for her to bring me dresses. Yeah. OK. I'm not proud of this. I just sat on the floor and pulled them over my head far enough to see if they would basically fit.

She forced me into the dressing room for the last one -- a thoroughly adorable cocktail number that was about 180 percent off -- and then made me come out and show it to her. She was obviously immediately sorry, starting with, "well, if you're looking for a dress that says Nude 2010, this is it" (and that clearly wasn't intended as a compliment). I just clutched it closer. Then she pounded the nail into the coffin: "you know if you gain one OUNCE between now and Friday, that dress will not fit."

So I bought it anyway. And then I ate pie for dinner. Right in front of her. Hey, she needs a reason to live, and I am glad to give it to her.

News Feeds

"After the reading, I answered questions about [my family], thinking all the while how odd it was that these strangers seemed to know so much about my brother and sisters. In order to sleep at night, I have to remove myself from the equation, pretending that the people I love expressly choose to expose themselves. Amy breaks up with a boyfriend and sends out a press release. Paul regularly discusses his bowel movements on daytime talk shows. I'm not the conduit, but just a poor typist stuck in the middle. It's a delusion much harder to maintain when a family member is actually in the audience."

--David Sedaris, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

In the blogosphere, everything is all about traffic. It's something I work with everyday at my day-job, but not something I've given much thought to here. The blog is purposely not monetized. It's barely even a year old. I don't yet know what it's going to be when it grows up. It does have its own facebook page where I just post links to new updates -- that was because a half dozen or so devoted readers expressly asked for an easy way to keep up with it. Not everybody uses GoogleReader, and if you don't blog, you probably don't have a dashboard where everything scrolls. I rarely even post the links on my own twitter -- because I think Twitter's all about conversation more than broadcasting.

That said, every writer loves Readers, and I am no exception. I just kind of assume, in my head, that I know each and every one of them --- that they're all more or less a variation on my college roommate's kindly father --- who knows and loves me and probably enjoys goodnaturedly rolling his eyes a time or two during each post, thinking to himself, "oh that girlllll" while probably worrying just a tiny bit that, even 27 years after he first met me, I might be a bad influence on his daughter. (Probably, that's true.) I still feel bad about causing him that mild stroke with the "Batteries Not Included" column. I'd say, if I have "A Reader," it is him. In my mind, he and Aunt Ronni and SandraL are just enjoying a chuckle or two here.

I am in a very, very oddly public job for a person who's, by nature, excruciatingly private. Most people don't believe it, any more than they believe I am, by nature, painfully shy. Why would I write intensely personal things where other people can read them if those things were true? Especially personal things that sometimes don't belong entirely to me -- they obviously overlap with the private things of other people in my life. I don't know. I don't make the rules. David Sedaris writes about his sister Lisa in that same chapter, "She's afraid to tell me anything important, knowing I'll only turn around and write about it. In my mind, I'm like a friendly junkman, building things from the little pieces of scrap I find here and there, but my family's started to see things differently." I honestly don't know how David and Amy Sedaris ever got a thing into print with two parents alive (though their mother has died, God rest her soul. As the world's most devoted Sedarista, I should make clear I'd never presume to include myself in any air they breathe, unless it was maybe to do their laundry or something.) Counting the re-marriages, I have four parents, and the only thing that's saved me so far is that they are all Luddites who've heretofore refused internet access (which is about to change).

I can tell you it is a distinctly odd experience to have my blog post links show up on a local news feed. Every single one of them. Part of that is because this blog is most definitely not, by any stretch of the imagination, News. Part of it is because it means the links are going out to people I don't even know. If you can imagine. I wonder what those poor readers think they're going to get when they see a headline like "Smuggles" sandwiched directly between "Cats hang on to dismantle Georgia" and "Bill aims to simplify pension plans."

One of these things is not like the other one. One of these things just does not belong.

Smuggles (at the movies)

It's not that I'm too cheap to buy Movie Concessions (although I am) or too morally outraged ($73 bucks for a Coke and a candy bar? sounds reasonable) or too economically challenged (that CitiBank kiosk they've set up is never gonna sign off on a medium popcorn) -- it really is the Food (and drink) Snob in me. If they served McDonald's Coke (the highest Nirvana of fountain Coke), for example, I'd just go ahead and splurge on that line of credit -- but their concessions are just stale, flat, Swill.

That's why I'm an inveterate Smuggler. And I always evaluate prospective movie companions by those standards. Are they smugglers too? Can they be enlisted as a possible Twizzler mule? (How big is their purse; do they have a lot of pockets?) Or are they offended by the practice? (One of my best friend's wives HATES going to the movies with me and her husband -- he and I need a Sherpa to haul in our loot, while she coughs conspicuously to try to mask the sound of us opening our 40 gallon drums of M &Ms. Heck, we were at a Vin Diesel movie at Hoodhill the first time that happened -- not an arthouse indie downtown-- our contraband concessions were certainly the least of the security breaches at that place).

So I spent the afternoon yesterday foraging for BabyCokes (in the glass bottles). And I was just damn lucky the show didn't start til 9:30 cause I barely made it. DiscoKroger, of course, had been done in by the SnoPocalypse -- with barely a crust of bread and baloney hull (as my dad would say) left on the shelves. By the time I trudged home through their sludge to pick up the car, my legs were spindly little ace-sicles and I was in no mood for the drive to Krolex -- which had been similarly looted, and displayed the exact same reckless disregard for parking lot maintenance. I parked between 24 Volvos, I am sure they could spare a few grains of road salt.

That's how I ended up at the SnootyFalooty store. They also had failed to shovel or salt (making me angry on arrival), but I knew they would have Mexican Cokes (cane sugar/none of the demon elixir: high fructose corn syrup).

What I'd forgotten, is they also have the Wall of Candy -- every smuggler's dream.  I grabbed Watermelon Sour Patch kids and chocolate covered cashews for me (of course), and then started picking out treats for my date. Which gave me momentary pause -- a little nano-existential crisis. I didn't know what kind of JellyBelly he would want (or if he could even stand them). Was he a gummi-worm kinda guy? I didn't know. About the only thing I did remember -- albeit, a little late -- is that he can't have nuts (which meant a lot of stuff went back to the bins -- and they don't like THAT at the Snooty Falooty store). I finally settled on chocolate-covered espresso beans (he drinks coffee; I've seen him do it; hell, I've even made it for him -- this initially prompted a surprised reaction from the BFF, forcing me to clarify "I mean, it was at my house and all. Not his office. I'm not his goddamn secretary or anything." Turns out, she was just surprised I know how to make coffee since I don't drink it, and also, perhaps, I am a little defensive.) Then I got these giant chocolate-peanut butter malted milk balls, because I've also seen him order peanut butter pie, and it seems like the flavor profile would be comparable. I also smuggled in the rest of Rachel's cheese straws because, like me, he does know the two major food groups to be alternated are salty-sweet.

We saw It's Complicated. Which I wanted to see Christmas Night but ended up seeing something else instead. Although I'm not typically first in line for a chick-flick, I know several things about Nancy Myers movies: they will feature women even older than I am (if you can imagine), who will be very very well-lit. The sets will be designed right out of Dwell Magazine. (HG actually did do a spread on her sets after Something's Gotta Give, which my Mom, God love her, saved for me.) And there will always, always be spectacular food. Sure, the dialogue will usually be unduly stage-y and everything will always drag on a half hour too long, but hey, you could do a lot worse in a movie. At least it's not Nora Ephron. The movie was a little wistful, a little farcical (not a compliment, btw), a little funny, and mostly likeable. The one thing it wasn't is "complicated" (most things aren't; it's just something people say). 

We came home and I had to make the croque monsieur from the movie -- I googled Ina Garten's recipe on the way home to make sure I remembered it right (it was either that or lavender ice cream or chocolate croissants and those are a little outta my league). Too many more Nancy Myers movies and I will be up to Meryl Streep's fightin' weight in no time flat. (And then, I'll obviously marry my architect, Steve Martin.)

Good. Bad. Ugly.

I was talking today about somebody I don't like -- and I realized I am pretty damn lucky to have such a short list of those. This is a pretty passive dislike -- it isn't somebody I have to run across on a regular basis. In my 30s, it would've been a longer list in the first place. But in my 40s, it's a pretty rare occasion that forces me to socially interact with people I find truly distasteful.

Mostly, they avoid me. (I did not say they were Idiots. I said they were distasteful.) There's a guy I know from the 90s for example who hangs out at my neighborhood pub. In the 90s, he fired me. Which is fine. It all worked out for the best, and I don't typically spare him a second's thought unless he's right in front of my face -- where, inevitably, someone will go to the unfortunate trouble of introducing us. "Oh, have you two met....?" And I always respond brightly with, "we sure have. He fired me!" Now, the reason I say that is NOT to force an awkward confrontation and make people uncomfortable -- it's because 1. I refuse to be embarrassed by the fact that I was fired. I did everything I was hired to do and then some. I routinely worked 80 hour weeks for a pittance; and the job actually cost me money (a reimbursement request at a non-profit? HA! Did I mention this was the NINETIES?) While there are probably endless nuances to anybody's story of how they got fired, this one's pretty simple. I was good at Management, and bad at Politics. Worse, I behaved with a pretty stupid, naive, reckless disregard of those politics for somebody who actually needs to work for a living -- in direct contrast to the Board members who hired me to do that job. I doubt that shocks anybody. Second, I know if I don't disclose this right up front, the second I walk away, this is a guy who would stage-whisper, "Know her? I fired her," and this would be followed by an arched eyebrow or nudge that would imply something nasty or sordid.

One of the things I learned at that job (embarrassingly late in life) was how to kinda divide folks up according to good people, bad people, kind people, nice people, etc.

I've never had much use for "nice" (which a lot of these people were, and probably isn't at the top of my list of virtues), but I really, really value "good" and "kind." They taught me a lot about the difference. A lot of people are nice when there's something in it for them. But I don't judge people by how they treat their "peers" -- I judge em by how they treat the Help when they think nobody's looking.

I used to get so irritated all through high school  when my parents would insist repeatedly, "you are known by the company you keep missy," usually to register disapproval of a particular friend I had chosen. To my credit, I remained fiercely loyal to my choices -- and to their credit, they were probably right that I made a few bad calls. I would say today if you judged me purely on the basis of the people who love me, you'd probably conclude I must be a pretty good person (or an extremely effective Con...and you already know how much I suck at social politics, so that seems unlikely).

So the person who came up in today's conversation (better known as "Seabiscuit" by my gay husband, an extraordinarily GOOD guy) is kind of a holdover relic from that era of UnKind, Not-Good People -- just not somebody I would typically cross paths with. If I did, and I was forced to offer a comment of some sort (as my friend Ian recently insisted on -- insisted I tell you), what I would probably say, and possibly did say to Ian, is "it sure would be a shame to be that tall and not at all pretty."

What?... Is that not nice?

Terms of Endearment

My friend Bianca asked yesterday if she's the only one who is acknowledged with "hey Girl," by the "ol boys at the car shop." Part of her finds it endearing/down-home and the other part, she couldn't put her finger on. But her "context radar" (a great term I plan to shamelessly appropriate) said it's ok.

I would concur, adding that I think a world where we all rely on terms of endearment to address each other would make the world a better place.

For example, I know whenever I see my gal Kimmy's number on the blackberry, it will be a delight to pick up the phone and be greeted with "hello Lambchop." She and I both use that interchangeably with "Sweet Potato," which originated as the appellation by which we all once knew (BlackCatBone/Taildragger's) Johnny McGee, because that is what one of my girlfriends who had a crush on him called him: he was  "lil Sweet Potato." Now we all use it (he's happily married with kids and probably gets more endearment and affection now that he even needs).

Terms of endearment that involve Food are typically better than ones that do not. See also: Honey, Sugar (or "Shug," if that's just too formal), and Sweetie. Folks I know and love especially well may someday work their way up to "Doll." (That's what I call my Hair Gay. He typically calls me Babe, another of my favorites.)

I address most of the people I went to college with as "Baby,"  pronounced BeBe (or BeyBey), because I adapted it from my Louisiana relatives, going back to the days when we used to spend family vacations in New Orleans. I do not, however, call anyone Cher (except for, of course, Cher herself, and she doesn't come up as often as you might think in a social circle so heavily gay-populated). About half of my graduating class still calls me by a b-nickname that originated at college and goes back to a 70s tv show, but it only ever followed me to my first job. It stayed with me through my first fiance, and then kinda disappeared when we broke up, which is ok. My friend Phoef still uses it, but her husband's been Off At War, so we hardly ever see them.

If someone worked on my car or served me omelets and didn't call me Honey or Baby or Sweetie, I would worry what I'd done to offend them. The nurses at my doctor's and dentist's only see me once a year or so, and stick with the more formal, "Girrrrrrrl." If they're really new, they call me MizAce (that's also used by my BFF, though she is allowed to shorten it to Acey-Ace). Nieces and nephews may call me Aunt Ace or the more formal Bitter Aunt Ace. They most certainly may NOT address me by my first name (any more than they are allowed to look me in the eye).

One of the dirty secrets I've been accused of that goes with my affection for Pet Names is the fact that I am TERRIBLE with real-life names and it's just a cover for my social gracelessness (which is legendary). I used to always greet strangers with "nice to meet you," until I got so frequently busted with "I have met you FOUR HUNDRED times!" (Fine, then, I guess it is NOT nice to meet you after ALL.) My gay husband knows to begin every conversation where ever we go with "Hi, I'm Nick, and you are....?" so I can slide in and get the name (which he will then repeat to me over and over till I get some kinda Rainman grasp on it).

If he's not with me, I just uniformly fake it with, "heyyyyyyy, YOUuuuuuuu" -- and then I noticed that's usually how my sometime-cooking-companion greets me about half of the time. I know perfectly well he knows my name (I hate it anyway; it's a hooker's name).... but I also think it's entirely possible he sticks with personal pronouns to safely avoid calling me somebody else's name. Works for me. Whatever it takes. (To keep him alive, that is.)

LeftOvers

It's hard to imagine sharing a social life with folks who don't share my love of leftovers. I fear they will starve to death, because they are a beloved staple of menus at my house.

I felt like I was better-dealing my own fridge last night (filled with tempting treats) when the Junior Gays invited me over for last-minute dinner. I had offered to cook for them, but it turned out OJ was already marinating chicken when I asked, so how could I turn that down? (He's so close to graduating to Food Gay -- though he would normally be YEARS away from declaring his major -- still, I do feel like I must keep a careful eye on him during this critical phase.) He shows such particular promise in keeping a uniquely homosexual eye on our post-holiday waistlines: the chicken had one teaspoon of oil (!), yet it was quite savory.

I think they just didn't want to eat leftovers at my house --- though I swear I was going to make them into something new and delicious. I had already turned the lucky black forbidden rice into a soup with ginger, garlic, lime, scallions, and OJ's fantastic orange-soy pork tenderloin. Then I planned to take some of the rest of our brunch creations and make fritters, etc. Clearly, they wanted no part of it. And I have an admittedly hopelessly straight approach to our girlish figures -- there's no doubt butter and sour cream would've played a starring role. As the two of them remarked of me and my occasional cooking companion last night, "My GOD you two are the DAIRY Couple." (I suspect we have been called worse things.)

In the summer, I am admittedly a little more Euro -- everything just comes straight from the garden to the plate for that night's dinner -- though I still always spend the weekends processing out the bases I know I'll need that week (roasting garlic, etc.) I don't like Winter, and I don't appreciate the paucity of culinary resources -- but I don't mind throwing on a Sunday pot roast or pot of chili and sustaining everybody through the week on it.

My FEAR is that I am becoming my grandmother (the most beloved person in my life next to my Uncle Don), God rest her soul.

Squandering leftovers would've been an affront to her right, God-fearing, Calvinist sensibilities. Any invitation to a restaurant meal was invariably met with exactly this protestation, "but we have a big skillet of meat back at the house."

To this day, if I hesitate too long over a dinner invitation, my family will openly mock me asking, "what? do you have a skillet of something we need to eat?"

Well, yeah. I probably do.

Michael Stipe's Birthday

Michael Stipe apparently turned 50 yesterday (though I thought he was 60 if he was a day).

In honor of his birthday, I tweeted the only Michael Stipe quote I know, "every generation thinks they invented oral sex."

I put that on a LOT of 80s party flyers, which I couldn't find (but I will keep looking), but I did find this party pic from around the same era. That's my "Lick Bush in 88" t-shirt.

My BFF asked this morning "what kind of Ambien were you hopped up on?" I hadn't noticed, but apparently I had a theme going yesterday.

I started with Michael Stipe.
Then I ran across an old tweet from our Mascot Thom, which said, "Watching Scent of a Woman. Might be so over baseball already."
Then I re-tweeted Kevin Depew who said, "See! A new Brit study says the G-Spot only exists in your mind, like those hotel receipts and the weird woman who keeps calling here."
Then I asked if anybody else needed some quality alone time after reading Chef Tom's blog , which is just some seriously fantastic food porn.

No WONDER the BFF was wondering about me -- but really, I posted Michael Stipe's quote at 5 o'clock -- loooooong, loooong before the Ambien hour. But I was using the BlackBerry, where I really don't notice themes developing.