Spotswood Family Thanksgiving preparations in full effect. How do I know this? Five of us were ready to fight to the DEATH last night over the following:
1. Are appetizers and hors d'oeuvres the same thing?
2. What will be included in the antipasto platter ("Listen, I just want to make sure you're including the things you don't like, like marinated artichoke hearts.")
3. Whether or not use of the outdoor grill will be permitted. (That's a hearty no.)
4. One table or two tables? Or two tables combined into one table?
5. Will Big Chris consider the Silver Palate's chocolate-covered poached pear dessert?
6. Who the fuck is responsible for the goddamn cracked crab. (I'm paraphrasing.)
7. "You know, Melissa's a vegetarian."
Once we hashed out the above, I was sitting in my parents' living room with my brother and my Uncle Ted, and presented them with the following:
I was driving to work down Van Ness the other morning, stopping at a red light. Standing on the corner, presumably waiting for the bus was a very nice looking man about my age. He'd clearly put together his ensemble with some effort, he'd styled his hair, he'd matched colors. He had a cute messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his buttons all lined up. For a straight guy, he'd done the work. And like any living person, I tossed him a look and thought, "Oh. He's kinda cute."
Which is when I noticed that his zipper was down.
I'm talking down.
It wasn't like it kinda looked closed, the fabric maintaining it's place even though his fly was down. This guy's zipper was wide open, screaming at all of San Francisco, "Hey! Look down here!"
And I felt for him. I once walked the entire length of St. Ignatius College Preparatory with the back of my skirt tucked into my tights. As humans, we have a responsibility to say to one another, "Um, excuse me. You've got this big thing of spinach in your teeth. You might wanna...no, over one. The other side. Yeah...yep. You got it."
So there I was, in my car with it's manual windows rolled up and a conundrum. Do I tell this guy? Do I scream across Van Ness Avenue at a perfect stranger something related to his private parts? Because while fairly benign, let's face it. This is penis-related. Or at least toilet-related.
Oh god. Even now, I'm squirming at my desk.
Last night, my brother piped up. "You roll down your window and let him know, Beth. Come ON."
"What was I supposed to say?"
"Hey guy! Your hangar door is open!"
Ah yes. Of course. The old 'hangar door' line. How silly of me...