Sunday, November 30, 2008

the entourage...

I'm exactly halfway done with rehab!
Which meant that today, I was allowed to leave the unit and roam wine country like some yokle tourist in a Branson, MO t-shirt, wondering where the hell all the Chablis is.
My folks came up first, dutifully attending a class on "Families of Alcoholics." When I was a little girl and had to color pictures of what my life was like at 15, 20, 25, and 30, the "Beth at 30" picture did not include a drawing of my parents watching a passive-aggressive behavior video in a conference room with a bunch of other nervous looking families while I attended an AA meeting in a barn led by a man with a ponytail.
Had it, I might have been moved to special ed, but the heads up lo those years ago would have been greatly appreciated today.
After our respective meetings, mom and dad took me to lunch at Market, which was lovely, especially when the waitress when into great detail describing their special pomegranate martini. I'll admit, I was eyeing that gorgeous, fancy-ass bar; exactly the kind of bar who's $12 Gibsons got me into this mess in the first place. I wonder if there'll ever be a time where I can still be the mysterious woman writing in her journal at a bar, only drinking cranberry juice out of a martini glass? I fucking hope so, because seriously, that look suits me.
Anyway, we shopped around town (where I picked out some awesome shoes they didn't have in my size) until my folks dropped me off back at rehab and my friends picked me up. Alex and Mel had been the only other ones to see "the unit" so I gave them, Tara, Hastings and the Brians a tour, delighting in showing off my gorgeous, generous, fabulous friends. As Redneck pointed out to them, "I thought people from the city had better things to do."
I chickened out in showing them the 3rd Floor, which is the mental ward and quite frankly, a treat I'm saving myself if it ever gets really, really bad down here. Nothing cheers me up like a nut in a straight-jacket.
We invited my friend "Johnny" to join us. Johnny stays in the room next door to me, and if we feel like talking after lights out, we just knock on the wall and meet on our respective balconies. He's awesome and was just as happy as I was to blow this popsicle stand and wander the streets like regular people.
Johnny's interesting for many reasons, including the facts that he's from Texas and serves in the military, returning from Iraq a few months ago. However, what I enjoy most about him, and reveled in telling my friends as we all ate charcuterie together HERE, is that he cried at our Saturday night viewing of "Radio." While Johnny maintains that it takes three tears to constitute an official cry, and he merely shed one, I find this fact gloriously hilarious and quite frankly, these days I'm desperate for a giggle. I'll take that shit anywhere I can get it.
Radio, people. Radio.
We went to Dean and DeLuca, my favorite place on earth and I stocked up on bare necessities like wasabi covered peanuts while Johnny got 2 different kinds of hot sauce. "Yo Beth, they have wine here."
"Yeah, I know. And it's all fucking amazing wine."
"Shit, we could go anywhere right now."
"Yeah, like to a bar."
"Ugh, this sucks."
He's right. It sucks. It really goddamn sucks. It sucks so bad, my friends are trying to throw me into cross-addiction. Devine made me his awesome cookies, Hastings brought me a huge box from Citizen Cake, Alex even brought me Toblerone. You people can't fool me with these glorious treats! I'm tradin' this contraband for some mouthwash and vanilla extract.
My friends are amazing. They just let me wander, feeling a little bit normal again for 3 hours. Poor Hastings even sat on some ladylike couch and read Vogue while I shopped for handbags. I was so desperate to buy something, ANYthing, I actually considered purchasing a martini-drinking Santa holiday display. I guess I got to feel too normal because as our caravan headed back to rehab, I started to get scared.
"Let's make a break for it! Come on! It'll be like Thelma and Lousise."
Alas, no. It was more like that scene in Dead Man Walking where Matthew has to say goodbye to his family and Sister Helen.
Slowly, all 8 of us walked back in and kinda sat in my room staring at each other. I was shocked at how on the verge of tears I was, and it was definitely going to be more than three. Shit, shit, shit. I kept wanting to scream, "Don't let 'em take my boots!" I don't know why. I guess I'm just really into Dead Man Walking. Anyway, they all lined up to hug me goodbye, again, much like Dead Man Walking. After they left, I stood out on my balcony and dramatically waved farewell, wishing I had some hankie to twirl as I watched their tail lights head to civilization. But then there was a knock on my wall and was jolted back to my temporary reality.
"Hey, Beth. Can I get my hot sauce?"

Friday, November 28, 2008

i now draw the line at gravy...

I'll be honest. My Thanksgiving sucked sweet sober ass.
But then again, rehab isn't supposed to be all martinis and cornucopias.
My posse of "peers" all had better things to do with their "families" so I was left here all by my lonesome. After we ate and were done by noon (Did you know cranberry 'sauce' came in jelly packets? Me neither.), I called the folks to check in, pretending not to be completely devastated that they got to go party with wine and Manhattans and cranberry sauce made from, like, cranberries.
After "dinner" my remaining friends seemed to disappear off to be depressed by themselves, so I retreated to my room, which I'll admit, is the best room here. Conveniently, I've mastered the art of feeling sorry for myself. I think I hit my self pity stride in 1990 when I dramatically wept alone, watching the rain and listening to Miles Davis because I was denied a new pair of LA Gears. I have no idea where I got that Miles Davis cassette, but it seemed like something people listened to in movies when staring at the rain and being depressed on purpose. Anyway, as luck would have it, my balcony and thus room, has a stunning view of St. Helena's rolling vineyards, so I curled up on my bed and stared out the window, wishing I had some Miles Davis and utensils made from metal.
I forgot to mention an important part of my Thanksgiving tale of self-imposed sorrow.
I dressed up.
And much like the 5th grade CYO basketball awards ceremony, I was the only one that did so. My fellow holiday-orphaned peers felt no need to change from their pajama pants as I sat on a folding chair in pearls and cashmere, sipping (I shit you not) root beer from a styrofoam cup.
Back to me, laying on my bed, my sweater now covered in the food that didn't make it from the paper plate balanced on my lap to my overly made-up face, I lost it. I cried and I sobbed and I wallowed and I gazed at the lone photo of my family up on my poor little cork board and considered dramatically throwing myself from my fabulous balcony, a la Stockard Channing in The First Wives Club.
I was, as our counselors would say, isolating. And I probably needed a smack in the face and a reality check, which is what finally occurred to me. At least I think it did. I can't be sure. My clarity could have just been delayed withdrawl from latent vodka and Crystal Lite, still worming it's way out of my system.
None the less, I got up, went to the desolate, empty kitchen, got myself a packet of cranberry sauce, some white bread, leftover turkey and stuffing and made myself the best goddamn sandwich on Earth, which I enjoyed with (I shit you not) root beer. I sat on my balcony, slapped myself in the face and instructed myself to get the fuck over myself.
Who knows if it worked. But I'm pretty sure that after 29 years of very blessed holidays, a very blessed family and present circumstances excluded, a very blessed life, I was long overdue some goddamn cranberry sauce from a packet...

Thursday, November 27, 2008

gobble, gobble, gobble...

Ah, Thanksgiving in rehab.
We got to sleep in this morning, which is a big, ghetto treat from our usual forced march at 6:45am every morning. The plus side, however, to not downing a case of Belvedere an hour and hiking through vineyards instead is that I need a Jethro belt to hold my jeans up. Booze has calories, you guys. FYI.
I'm saving my weekly freedom pass for Sunday, so I'll be spending Thanksgiving "on the unit" eating boxed mashed potatoes and playing with patients kids so they can go have sex in their rooms. While my pals here are out having regular food with regular people, I think I'll spend the afternoon in the gym. I'm kinda fancying myself Bette Midler in Ruthless People, and as I said to my counselor, I will emerge from these ashes more fabulous than a phoenix.
She considered putting me back on librium for a moment, but my being the sole "peer" from the big city, people seem to tolerate my bizarre practices of accessories, hair dryers and internet use, chalking it up with the commonly used phrase, "She's from San Francisco."
Ahhhhhh.
I figure I can suffer one Thanksgiving in the hab if it means not ending up fishing through dumpsters for Bud Lite backwash eventually, so get drunk for me, enjoy your organic, healthy food made for a group less than 50 and remember the wise words of my favorite peer, a 72 year old rancher I'll call T.R.
As we all went around "community group" offering up what we were thankful for last night, T.R., in his belt buckle and trucker hat deadpanned, "I'm grateful I ain't no turkey."

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

progress?

Today, I had to tell my group my story.
One's story is basically what ended you up in rehab, and everyone's at least got to share their story with their small group. My group, the blue group, includes a lot of testosterone. Needless to say, I was terrified. Starting with the day I was born until the day I walked in this door, my life hasn't been nearly as challenging or painful as some of the stories I've heard here. And these guys, who I'm growing to love like family, sat for 30 minutes and listened to my pathetic, dorky, tale of woe, basically the script of Hairspray, had Tracy Turnblad turned to the bottle instead of Link Larkin.
But what I love about this joint, or "the clink" as my brother affectionately calls it, is that we're all in this mess together, using some kind of substance to numb or hide or kill our (and this word is incredibly popular here) feelings.
So I finished my story, with the anti-climactic, "And that's how I ended up in rehab" and these men, one of whom wears hunting gear every day and calls me "Left Wing", applauded and hugged me.
And then they asked me what a blog was...

Sunday, November 23, 2008

from the drunk's mouth...

I've been trying for weeks whether or not to tell you fine folks what's up with me. I've gone back and forth, consulting the inner circle and writing and re-writing some brilliant way of explaining my regrettable lapse in blogging. The opinions of said inner circle are mixed, but after a long talk with my brother this afternoon, I'm spilling the beans. And I'm doing it on my personal blog because you bitches are far more loyal readers than I'd ever deserve, so you get the moderately interesting scoop first. Plus, I'd rather you hear it from me than from, say, some shithead commenter. Needless to say, I'm saving the good shit for a book.
Fuck it. Here goes:

It ain't no picnic, I assure you, but after seven days, I feel pretty goddamn amazing. Turns out, 648 Gibsons a night can make one feel like shit. So I'm nipping my little habit you've read so much about in the bud and, as my dear Andy put it, drying out in the 28 day spin cycle. I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away. I mean, I tell you folks when someone gets my order wrong at Peets. I assure you, I've got a lot of drunken versions of this post. But being below the legal limit's got me all honest and shit. So if we could spare me the crap in the comments, at least for now, I'd be forever grateful. Or I'll just rip on you in group.
Today was the first day I could have visitors, at least since my folks dropped me off a week ago, my arms folded across my chest and mascara running down my face as I clutched my pillow and suffered through my last hangover. I feel like a totally different person, and yes, I realize that this is my karma for calling him Mayor McRehab.
Again, the good, dicey, hilarious, totally-worth-the-wait tales are on their way someday. But for now, I really, really miss you...

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

i love the godfather...

My dad's been friends with Bill since their days at St. Vincent de Paul Grammar School in the Marina, and as I've grown up, especially as an adult, Bill and his wife Cathy have been a really big part of my life.
Bill signs all of his e-mails to me, "Love, The Godfather." He quizzes me about any guy I speak to, requesting 3 years of financial statements and a letter of intention from each of them. He sends me articles like "Forbes Billionaire Bachelors" and highlights the ones he thinks might be appropriate. Bill is friends with every janitor and coatcheck person at every fancy hotel and country club he patronizes, preferring to chat with them than some cocky old blowhard. And his art collection, which is literally world class, is mingled in with his extensive collection of sports memorbillia, both of which have equally emotional value to him. He has been supportive of every endeavor I've ever embarked upon, from fashion in college to Beach Blanket to fundraising to my bizarre get-rich-quick schemes.
And Bill, every morning around 5 am, reads my blog. He's a huge advocate of my writing and is constantly blowing, as Kate would say, sunshine up my ass. He'd forward all of my SFGate posts to his friends he hangs out with at Starbucks every day and he's always say, "Watch out, Oprah!"
He's been sick for awhile, but if you were at my birthday party at the Jay 'N Bee this January, you probably met him, after he made a 2 hour journey "way past (his) bedtime" just to hang with my "hot chick friends."
Bill is literally one of the most fun, generous, hilarious, kind, non-judgemental, honest and wonderful peole I have ever met in my life.
He passed away this morning
And I will miss him very, very much...

PS: I know I said I was on blogging hiatus, but Bill would have totally wanted a blog...

screw serenity and get me my club card...

Here's your little reminder that my Culture Blog won't be back till mid-December, as I'm out of town, in the middle of nowhere, roaming the vineyards of St. Helena and harnessing my chi. But last night, I made my first trip to an actual store since Saturday.
Walking into Safeway was like the first time I walked into Harrods.
Oh my God, I thought. I need absolutely nothing yet need everything! It was like Supermarket Sweep, I was running down the aisles throwing anything and everything into my little basket. Because out in the middle of nowhere, on sabbatical and meditating amidst verdant fields, you never know when you're going to need some lighter fluid, men's body wash, Redbook, terriaki sauce and magic markers...

Sunday, November 16, 2008

i'm totally kurt...

I'm off (my rocker) this morning, and I promise to post as much as possible. I'll be back to my normal shenanigans as soon as I get back. Don't leave me! I swear, I'll return with some dicey ass stories. And if I don't, I'll make them up...

Friday, November 14, 2008

hot, steamy buns and warm creamy butter...

I was late to meet Eve last night, racing from work to the Jay 'N Bee and stuck in a parking lot of traffic on Van Ness. I refuse to purchase some type of legal phone/driving device. There isn't an acceptable option and I'm willing to risk the consequences because frankly, my commute is the only time I really have to talk on the phone. Either I'm out, or I'm watching American Justice. Neither can be disturbed, so commute it is. 
I called Kate.
I've known few people since 1979 who are still living. My mom (she was first), my dad (second) and Kate. Kate is the offspring of my mom's college roommate and my dad's BFF since kindergarten. Kate's folks, Dori and Greg fixed mom and dad up on a blind date. Dori and Greg and Mom and Dad were each others' "best" men and maid of "honor." D&G are essentially my aunt and uncle and since Kate's a whole 14 months younger than me, we've been stuck together since 1979.  
Which means Kate knows ... everything. 
And I know everything about Kate. 
Kate often smells food before she eats it. Kate hates cold swimming pools. Kate used to be afraid of (falling) snow. Kate likes 'spooning in general,' Kate used to wear this weird plastic gender symbol necklace that I never understood, Kate was very sick when she was little and had eye surgery, resulting in her needing incredibly strong contact lenses. And when she takes them out she needs ... well, very distinctive eye glasses. 
I've shared a boudoir with this woman more frequently than necessary, and I've seen her in said glasses, which now, due to what I can only imagine to be award-winning technology, look pretty normal. But put 'em on and they'll make you high. 
Kate only wears her glasses during her nightly run from the bathroom to the bed. She's been like this her whole life. I'm used to it. And I'm used to the 83 minutes she needs every morning to get ready. On family vacations, Kate and I tend to go off by ourselves, speak our own language, lock our siblings out, chainsmoke, laugh, cry, etc., so that we can (to the tune of 'Where's your head at') have "Beth and Kate time (Beth and Kate time!)" 
'Beth and Kate time' is obviously sacred and I can reveal little, but to say I've often seen Kate's spectacle spectacle dash from the john to her, non-window side of the bed before she rapidly turns out the lights. And it's my favorite, weirdo, vulnerable thing about her. 
I'm far more of a freak than Kate will ever be, and she's well aware. Golly, my peccadillos number in the thousands. And of my weirdness', her favorites are when I say, "You're terrible, Muriel" and my invented lyrics to The West Wing Theme, by W.G. "Snuffy" Walden, which she asked me to detail here. So in the interest of fairness, because my glasses are for normal people, here you go. 
This is what I sing twice a day, alone or with company, when The West Wing Opening Theme appears on Bravo:

I looooove...The West Wing. 
It's the greatest show on Earth. (on this Earth)
John and Donna Moss, well fingers crossed. 
I hope they hook up, and then wed. 
Sam, yeah not so much. (Ugh)
You're not. as. good. as. Toby and Leo and CJ and everyone else and...
Wing...of the West (you're. the. best.)

So for Kate, oldest and dearest and weirdest friend, yet another thing we share in common...

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

prop 8 is fucking gay, dude...

Today's Culture Blog is up!
This'll be your last CB for awhile, so enjoy it. Starting Sunday, I'm getting out of Dodge for awhile and won't be able to blog (or e-mail) with my normal fervant obsession, but Melissa, Zoe and Devine will be posting my missives as much as possible.
The CB will be back in mid-December. Don't leave me!!!
I love (most of) you...

Monday, November 10, 2008

fresh fish, fresh fish...

I'm not wild about the celebrity activist.
(I wrote that sentence, then thought about it. Um, yeah. I am wild about the celebrity activist. Nevermind.)
Paul Newman (who I'd still sleep with, like right now), Martin Sheen, Hanoi Jane, Brenda Walsh, Charelton Heston and of course, Tim Robbins.


Tim's name wasn't on the voting list and considering the fact that the man uses his Oscar speech to pontificate on global issues, he musta been pretty pissed. I had no problem voting but I'd be pissed if I couldn't use my Oscar speech to make a few specific bitches and assholes highly regretful, so I understand where Tim's coming from.
After jumping through some bureaucratic, right-wing hoops obviously put in place to keep this pinko from his Constitutional right, Tim finally got to vote and probably calmed down with some green tea and The New Republic.
But it reminded me of something I forgot to tell you people.
My brother Alex had the greatest Halloween costume ever. In a sea of slutty Palin's and the occasional inappropriate black-face, Alex went to a Halloween party as Andy Dufresne.
He called me ahead of time for some last minute advice and clarification. I feel the best part of his costume was a "length of rope" tied to his ankle on one end and at the other, a plastic bag filled with all of Andy's possessions.
"Well, you've got to have a hand carved chess set in a cigar box."
"Beth, be practical."
"Okay, get a Bible and cut out a space for a rock hammer."
"I thought about that, but it seems like a lot of effort."
I maintained he could pass candy out of defaced Holy Scripture, but Alex just shoved a suit and some of the Warden's shady business papers in there and called it a costume. I really wanted him to walk around shaking dirt out of his pant legs, because anyone with a Shawshank Redemption costume that specific would be my immediate best friend.
"Oh, give people harmonicas!"
"What?"
"Andy gave Red one after his parole was denied. Then you could run out into the rain and rip off your shirt and laugh at God! And carve 'Alex was here' on the wall!"
"Beth, you have some problems."
Not with voting...

Sunday, November 09, 2008

i'm both confused by it, yet understand the towel...

Have you ever had the feeling that you're secretly the weirdest person on Earth? I have the feeling every day, although I do my best to hide my oddness. Until I'm alone or on the interweb, in which case all bets are off.
And when someone suddenly reveals a little weird piece of themselves, I feel so much better. Because either there's no way I'm as weird as that freak, which is rare. Or more frequently, I discover they're just as weird as me. Thus interviewing oneself in one's reflection of the microwave or buying Not Without My Daughter on eBay or perhaps, lip syncing Jennifer Holiday over and over again isn't that bizarre.
Which is how I found my new soulmate.
The only bizarre thing is that my version is way fucking better...

Saturday, November 08, 2008

t.v. room, here i come...

My folks left this morning to celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary in New York, but not before throwing a lovely dinner party last night. I'll be out of town for Thanksgiving, so last night my parents, brother, Mel, Tara, Hastings and the Brians came to Mill Valley for Bethsgiving.
The event's purpose was taken very seriously, with a 14lb. roast turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, Alex's bacon brussel sprouts (or the vegan version for Mel) and wine by the fire with heated political discussion and inappropriate humor.
The Brians even brought pumpkin pie and Opera cake from Tartine!
It was one of my more lovely evenings ever.
The fellas eventually left and Alex, Mel, Tara and I retired to the TV room, deciding upon Notes On a Scandal with our coffee and after dinner drinks. Tara, the only guest who'd not only never been to my parents' house but also, never met my parents, asked for a tour upon arrival.
"Oh my god, the TV room." She sighed as she entered with trepidacious awe, eyeing the stacks of board games piled atop a bookshelf. "You have Family Feud!"
I admitted that the TV room has no insulation and is a little ghetto, but when it rains, it sounds awesome.
"I love it! We'll be here later."
She was enthusiastic until she had to sleep in the TV room, sharing a funky fold-out couch with Mel. But more on that later.
My parents already wish Mel, Hastings and the Brians were their own. Hey, I'd trade me and Lex for 4 charming lawyers as well, but them's the breaks.
I promised Ma and Pa, "You'll love Tara. She's so you're style. Seriously."
Dad's easy. Talk politics or food and he's happy.
Joanne's a more discerning friend.
On Tara's tour of the house, she innocently asked, "What's up with the New York baseball?"
Which is when I brought Tar Baby to the living room, told her to ask my mother that very question and left the two of them alone for 4 hours. There's Yankee fans and then there's everyone else. Or so I understand.
Anyway, the folks left for New York today at 5am, prompting Tara and Mel to wake up and request ice packs for their backs while they drank coffee out of mugs from church events. Seeing Melissa Griffin demurely sip from a "City of God, Oct. 26-29, 2006" commuter mug is, obviously, hilarious. Apparently, and I know this now having done the dishes from last night, church events give coffee cups to their flock.
Frequently. I just got up and counted 6.
I would think wine glasses might be more appropriate, what with the blood of Christ and all, but whatever.
The girls headed back to civilization around 11 so Alex and I hung out and went to a late lunch at the Balboa Cafe (the new one in Mill Valley, not the tainted one in the Marina.) We then came back so Alex could steal leftovers, do laundry, watch football and split.
Leaving me in this slightly big, slightly scary house for the whole weekend.
With turkey, stuffing, cake, wine, kindling and now, thank you Jesus, rain.
I'm cranking up the Ray LaMontagne, considering making stock with this huge turkey carcas, eyeing half a $3,762 pumpkin pie and watching Tootsie. It's pouring, I have candles and jammies and "spa socks" I bought at RiteAid.
Shit, I might make a fire and read War and Peace just to drive this heaven home.
When I was 15, I plotted my escape from this abusive prison. Turns out, I've doubled in age and I fucking love it here...

Thursday, November 06, 2008

again, most likely, another gift from bill and/or ted...

I've been working really late these days, gearing up for one of my biggest job responsibilities of the year: a fundraising gala. Conveniently, as many of you know, my folks still reside in my childhood home a mere 3 minutes from my office. Last night, finally locking up this joint at 10:30, I drove up the mountain, stole some leftover pasta (an incredible pesto strozzapretti!) and dug through my brother's old dresser until I found an acceptable sleep shirt and ancient boxers.
Alex's room is much like a museum, one sad step away from a velvet rope across the doorway where visitors might merely peek inside and catch a glimpse of where Alex spent his entire, historic childhood.
My room's an office.
Alex was as weird a kid as the rest of us, and his room, again, untouched since 2001, is a reflection of that. The nights before his football games, he'd close his door and create what can only be described as a floor shrine. His jersey was delicately laid on the rug, then above it his helmet. Around that was a bizarre collection of mementos, the 14 year old version of lucky troll dolls. I don't know if he prayed to the shrine, lit the naked lady candle my uncles gave him or did nothing, feeling that the effort in the construction of the shrine was enough to secure a win.
I always had a double bed, my parents perhaps sensing my penchant for whoredom, but Alex had some specially ordered tall people twin bed. He was 6'5" when he was like, 11. His arms were somehow able to knock things over in other rooms, he was that awkward. But I guess I'd be really awkward too, if my only home companion was a chubby, over-informed, teenage girl with purple hair and a strong desire to be angry at society.
And lo these years later, I occasionally end up crashing in the middle of his Smithsonian-esque boudoir. It's always a delight for me when my huge feet don't dangle over the edge of the bed, a big bonus of crashing on Alex's (again, specially ordered) mattress. I snuggled in, wrapping fancy covers around me and scoured his looming bookshelf, filled with the library collection of a cross between Ashton Kutcher and Rick Reilly.
Oh, Alex, what frat boy-esque literature or 'family-friend-gift' high-brow shit do you have for me tonight?
I find approximately 748 moments a day to remember how much I love my brother. But yesterday, moment 749 was when I pulled the book that would lull me to sleep in his discarded bed, in his discarded clothes and without his permission, from his discarded bookshelf.
You guessed it.
Toilets of the World...

yes we did...

Highly tardy but up! Enjoy a Thursday Culture Blog...

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

shouldn't it be sun-up...

I just received a text from Andy:
"All white people must report to the cotton fields at 7am for orientation."
Awesome...

barackstar...

I can think of no better way than to celebrate this awesome Obamoccasion with some type of effort-less YouTube. Bear with me, I'm writing tomorrow's Culture Blog, which I realize is a day late but I have a good excuse. Anyway, I scoured YouTube for some kind of celebratory clip of people jumping around or the kids from the Ron Clark Academy, but then I remembered my favorite YouTube clip of all time. This has nothing to do with politics or the president, but it does make my cold, black heart glow with evil, gleeful joy. More later...

Monday, November 03, 2008

i blame it on the rain...

I have to admit, I'm loving this monsoon. I'm a sucker for a rainy day, a fire and an old leather couch, preferably at an English hunting manor with servants, tea sandwiches and some mysterious Scotsman with whom I have bickering sexual tension.
That was not the fabulous rain I experienced on Saturday however. Mel, Tara and I spent the morning and subsequent day lounging around the Brians' perfect home, nibbling on fresh baked scones and begging Brian to make us pasta from scratch while we watched the West Wing marathon. When he finally kicked us out, subtly offering to call us a cab at 5pm, we decided to walk the 6 or 7 blocks downhill to the Castro and grab a drink at the Midnight Sun.
"You guys!" Brian screamed. "It's raining!"
Oh! Someone's a meteorologist! Thanks, Al Roker. I think we can handle a little rain.
We must have been one hell of a sight by the time we made it to Castro and 18th. My blazer was both stuck to me like a wetsuit yet had mysteriously grown 5 sizes. Tara and I wrapped our scarves around our heads, much resembling Muslim refugees and speaking of Muslims, Mel was the only one bright enough to bring an umbrella, though she made her relatively dry trek in flip flops.
I'm amazed those queens let us in.
As we sipped our drinks and attempted to dry off while watching Cathy Dennis videos, I got a call from Big Chris. Hmmm, drenched with no make-up, dry clothes or discernible hairstyle? Why, yes we'll come meet you!
Much like the time in college I learned that snow is pretty from the inside but shitty on the outside, I rallied my troops, grabbed a newspaper to use as a hat and ran outside, cursing this goddamn rain I claim to love so much...

Sunday, November 02, 2008

my roommate's been approved...

I love having a boss with kids because it meant we got to lave early on Halloween. I called Melissa from my car (illegally) and chatted until I lost the signal. Ugh. 
"Shit, every time I drive past City Hall, my call gets dropped. It's like Gavin is fucking with me."
"You're at City Hall?"
"Yeah."
"I'm at Market Bar. Can you pick me up? I'll come over and hang out until dinner."
Yay! Although it occurred to me, my roommate might be home. Hmmmm. Mel meeting John. 
"I can't wait to meet your roommate!"
"Really?"
I hesitated because my girl is a little, how shall we say, territorial. She spends a lot of time at my house and quite frankly, it's as much hers as it is mine. Some dude she's yet to approve living here might not fly with the ease one might hope. 
We arrived home to find the alarm on, which meant John wasn't home. Phew. Mel powdered her nose and I flipped on the news, throwing a bag of fun size M&M's on the couch. "If any trick-or-treaters show up, give them this."
"What!?!"
"If the doorbell rings, answer the door. I'm taking a shower."
As I slipped in my room, John suddenly arrived home. I leapt in front of him. 
"Hey! My friend is here."
"Awesome! Melissa?" (He's heard a lot about her.)
"Yeah! Hold on. (I dragged him in front of the television) Mist, this is John. John, meet Melissa."
She looked down and extended a genteel, manicured, Southern hand. "Nice to meet you."
Oh dear. As my brother Alex would say, and he'd say it with great respect, Melissa is a tough nut to crack. She won't like you just because I like you. She'll wait for you to be somehow extraordinary before giving you the time of day. John retreated to his room and Mel took a nap. I showered, dressed for dinner and eventually slid next to her on the couch. 
"We should call a cab soon."
"Oh, okay." She rubbed her eyes and grabbed my glass of wine. 
"What do you think of John?" I asked nervously. 
"He's nice, I guess. I met him for two seconds and..."
John and his Halloween costume suddenly ran into the room. 
He had to work, (bartending at Calzones where you need to tip so I can pay cable!) and got to dress up for Halloween. He donned a baby blue leisure suit, turtleneck, ridiculous hair and a fake mustache. 
John went as an enthusiastic Ron Burgundy. 
"Ladies!"
He swooped into the room, fully and insanely clad with a glass of Chablis. God bless him, John was planning to toil in this get-up, making mojitos for tourists. 
Mel burst into hysterics.
"Okay, now I love him..."