Razor Clams of the IT Gods

Having profound internet crapout issues today. Again.

This may be a sign, a message from Kali that I'm late with the monthly sacrifice of young, virgin razor clams. You know, to praise her glory and thank her for allowing us to breathe. And shit.

I'm always late with the damned monthly offerings and the late fees are just killer.

The prob might also be that our connection is suffering from yet another dose of the clap. We've a promiscuous little network.

It's one or the other. Best to text my IT Wizard now -- he'll know the right spell to cast to make everything all better.

Remember the Actress Sheree North?

I don't imagine many people do and that's a wicked shame.

She was a lovely, lithe dancer and actress in films of the 1950s and 60s and, after that, television.

The Amazing Bob and I were watching an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show yesterday. It was the one where North is the new girlfriend of the irascible, grumpy Lou Grant (Ed Asner). He's just mad for her, to the point that he dons a bright yellow and black horizontal striped turtle neck with an emerald green velvet suit jacket. He thinks he's fabulously hip and now. Sheree affectionately allows, to Mary, that it's like dating a bumble bee.

Sheree's character, Charlene, is a lounge singer/piano player. She's warm, funny and has had an adventurous life -- sung with big bands, lived in Korea during the war and married a few times. All this is very exciting to Lou until Ted and Murray start needling him about dating a woman with so much *wink, wink* experience.

The focus was on how many men she'd potentially slept with versus all the cool shit she'd done and seen.

Story line summary at IMDb: 

Lou's prospective new girlfriend is a lounge singer with a shady past.

For god's sake! Would ANYone describe a man who'd been married a few times as 'having a shady past?' No. For a man to be described as such he would have had to be involved in something illegal -- gunrunning, drugs or, say, banking.

While watching the show with TAB, I got a big stab of the sad. I was propelled back in time to high school when the mothers of my male friends and boyfriends drew lines in the sand. You can date/be friends with that skank or you can have me as your mother but NOT both. Seriously. And these were all supposedly devout christian women. Obviously no one told them to research what it means to be a real, honest to jeebus, Christian.

Imagine this -- I was 16 and 17. Too damn young to have any kind of a shady past yet I'm verboten? Did I have a big glowing neon sign on my forehead that blinked Future Virginity Thief ? Somehow I missed that when I gazed in the mirror, in search of fresh zits.

Then there was the imbecile I dated just after moving to Boston. I'd graduated college, finished three seasons with a traveling carnival and was looking forward to just settling down and starting my new life. By settling down I do NOT mean finding a husband. Nope, nein. I wanted to find a job, paint, see some great bands, go to some fun parties and have a regular but def not serious date -- you know, do the things other 23 year olds do. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and all.

 

Imbecile Bert was an MIT student. One who'd either listened closely to his christianist mother's warnings about predatory girls who were out after rich MIT boys or he was just flat out brimming with his own magnified self worth. Probably both.

After a few months he became scarce. I hunted him down to ask 'what up.'  He went through this molto earnest, somber bullshit about how he couldn't see me anymore because I wouldn't make a good...wait for it...this one's amazing... corporate wife. What the everlasting fuck? He seriously said this...TO ME of all people! Sure, since I was a wee bairn, I wanted to grow up to be a respectable corporate wife, a polite arm piece, a bearer of corporate offspring. Oh, if it's not too much of an inconvenience, I'd like a little time to do a bit of decoupage and crewelwork. //snark-o-rama!//

He brought up our income inequalities (mind you, he wasn't working yet but yes, when he did get a job, as an MIT grad, he'd make more in his first year than I'd make in the next ten) and suggested that I was after his earning potential. He seemed to have missed that I wasn't focused on big bucks -- that was probably lost in the glare of his megawatt ego.

I was completely blown away. I'd thought this guy would be a convenient, if dull, steady date for gallery openings and concerts. I figured he'd be a regular shag. He thought I was after a diamond ring. We were both so very hugely mistaken.

Is this still the attitude out there? That we can't have the big exciting, adventurous lives and, if we do, we're considered soiled? The more interesting we are, the less value we have?

I do NOT want my grands to grow up with this kind of snot twaddle!

Nom Du Jour

I want to change my name. Yes, yes, yezzzzzz, I’ve been saying this for eons. I even picked out new appellations in my very first blog post. Hell, The Amazing Bob and I pondered this when we did the nearly unthinkable and made our ongoing giddily, happy union all legal-like.

Why am I all in a fever about this again? I was reading an essay in the latest New Yorker, The Ripper, written by David Peace. GREAT name and fab piece (heh, see what I did there?) of writing. There’s a pay wall so you can’t read the whole thing at the link -- go buy some ink on paper. K?

So, here’s what I’m thinking -- my name should be Ruby Peace. ‘Ruby’ for my grandmother to whom I was often compared. And 'Peace' because, well jeez Louise, Peace -- who the hell doesn’t want Peace?

And think of the self promotion, job interviewing possibilities! I could send off resumes with an audio clip of John and Yoko singing Give Peace a Chance.

Totally brill, n'est-ce pas?!

If I’m getting into a fight, you know, I could growl to my opponent ‘Oi, you want a piece of Peace?’ Yeah, I think that’ll be a fight stopper solely because we'll all be too busy convulsing with laughter over my spectacular doofusosity.

Hey, whatever works.

Here’s another thing about Ruby Peace -- sounds like a 1930s gun moll, don’t it? There’s Kathryn Thorne, "Machine Gun" Kelly’s wife. , Billie Frechette, John Dillinger’s babe.  Bonnie Parker of Bonnie and Clyde fame. OK maybe it only sounds like a great name for a gun moll.

Or maybe a ‘60s era, peace activist sobriquet? Maybe it just sounds like a name out of a Vonnegut novel -- like Billy Pilgrim, Zinka or Isadore Raspberry-19 Cohen.

I’m fine with this. Being a character in a Vonnegut novel would be a dandy explanation for my life to date.

Victor, Hugo, Steve and Elaine

Yesterday Jen, Oni and I voyaged up to Beverly, MA where our good friends Steve and Elaine live. The Amazing Bob stayed home to mind our herd of felines and keep a close watch on the game. What game? Red Sox versus the Orioles of course. We won 7-3 BTW.

Steve and I have known each other since Junior High when we’d distribute my older sister’s underground newspaper, printed in that stinky, blurry, purple mimeograph ink, together. Steve and I were 14 year old total RADICALS, man!

High school arrived -- the Watergate Hearings began on May 17, 1973, that crook Nixon gave his 'I'm not a crook’ speech in November of ’73  (our sophomore year). Then, just before junior year began, Nixon resigned. Older sister was off to college -- no more Armadillo Free Press.

Steve and I fell out of touch. Billions of years passed -- truly, we went from Proterozoic to Cenozoic in the intervening years. And then I received a pamphlet from our high school’s class of ’76 reunion committee. Everyone who could be found was listed, along with our respective locations, contact info and all that.

I love reading about all these folks who I knew or knew of so many decades ago. Not only do I get to read snippets of interesting lives (Janet owns a successful travel company! Tina's a Speech Pathologist! Jean's a Respiratory Therapist!) , I get to engage in a wee bit of almost, sort of, mostly, guilt-free schadenfruede (who's been married and divorced three times before hitting 50, who's gained so much weight that they're unrecognizable and all that sad shit).

And there was Steve, living just a few towns north of me and working at Mass General Hospital -- my home away from home. I emailed him, not imagining for one red hot minute that he’d remember me but he did!

Back to 2013 though...

Yesterday’s visit was fab. We walked around Beverly’s art filled, charming downtown, debated best guitarists EVAH (Steve Vai versus Jeff Beck?) over some tremendous French red wine whose name utterly escapes me, had THE tastiest meal {baked brie, salmon, veggies, homemade Amaretto ice cream (!!)} and watched their capering, tumbling new kittens, Victor and Hugo.

Dinner and a show -- what’s not to love?

The blurry legless ride home

To cap off the tremendous meal, Steve brought out this wild bourbon -- Jefferson’s Reserve or Buffalo Trace? I’m unsure now since, after the wonderful wines, incredible meal and a shot or two of the lovely digestif, I was pretty much legless.

Jen and Oni poured me into the backseat of the car and home we cruised.

Steve and Elaine are awesome plus -- I’m just crazy about the two of them. We don’t get to see them enough.

When did all our lives/schedules become so complicated and jam packed?

Caturday in Valhalla

poor beleaguered, yet slightly devilish appearing, Gus

It’s unanimous -- no one likes Gus (nee Greta).

The heat’s finally broken and, now that we can all breathe easier, one thing’s become clear. Even Coco, who doesn’t go outside, isn’t keen on our tiny boy. She fetches me when Gaston and Rocco come around, herds me to the front door -- ‘my friends are here and they’re hungry!’ When Gus arrives she just sits in her window seat staring daggers.

An obviously stoned Gaston

Sargent Rocco

steely eyed Coco

  Rocco and Gaston, who’ve had an uneasy but evolving truce since last summer when Rocco put our fluffy Maine Coon cat in his place, seem to have banded together in their Let’s-Get-Rid-of-Gus campaign.

Gaston goes with his strength -- Industrial Caterwauling. Rocco employs the Glare of Certain Doom and, if that, oddly and unaccountably, fails he goes into angry panther mode and chases our small grey boy off.

Now, I was feeling all sorry for Gus until:

1) The Amazing Bob told me that he witnessed Gus doing the cat version of picking a fight. What’s that look like? Gus crouched down, swiftly moving into Gaston’s personal space, saying 'What'd you say? Why you lookin' at me cross eyed?' and the ever popular 'So you think you're a tough guy, do ya?'. 

Jen said she saw him, possibly, being the instigating intimidator once too.

Is Gus just defending himself? Standing his ground? I’m happy as fuck that my herd isn’t armed!

2) I witnessed Gus attempting to eat out of Gaston’s bowl while our fluffy boy was RIGHT THERE! 

An act of aggression? Naked hunger? Poor social skills? Dunno.

OK, clearly I still feel sympathy for Gus, though he’s a terribly messy eater -- half his food ends up on the ground around his bowl. He’s so small and relatively thin. He needs to eat, eat (see, this is where my Italian American heritage comes out in spades).

Whether or not Gus is a stealth, asshole beast is, as yet, unclear -- to me anyway. I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt. All I know is that, in my role of peacemaker, I will continue dispensing copious amounts of kitty weed (AKA catnip), Whisker Lickin's and Temptations cat treats, tuna and pats.

And kitty yoga breathing.

Farts and Weiners

I've got a couple of WAY important things on my mind this chilly, grey, drizzly morning. 

1.

When did fart jokes become funny to me. Honestly, I’m a 54 year old lady type human -- when did my humor sink to the level of a 12 year old boy? To be fair, it’s not so much the air biscuit jokes that I’m finding so hilarious -- except for that scene in Blazing Saddles but, c’mon, that’s just priceless -- it’s the arse acoustics themselves.

Here’s one way to tell that you and your family are totally compatible and comfy:

Jen, Oni, The Amazing Bob and I will be sitting around jawing, reading, listening to the game (Red Sox of course!) when all of a sudden there’s a loud noise. I don’t hear it of course but I see that two of us four are looking around all OK-who-did-the-deed faced. And then we all break out in giggles.

Yeah, we’re SOOOOOO mature. It’s not like we TRY to engage in frequent back door duck calls. No. We’re naturally talented and not embarrassed about normal bodily functions. With each other, that is.

One weird thing, TAB and I find that bookstores seem to inspire us to Toccata and Fugue-esque proot-proots . Jen’s theory is that my entire body relaxes the minute I cross the Havard Bookstore’s threshold. I’m in my happy place and if fizz-fuzzing while you’re in your happy place is wrong, well boyhowdy, I don’t wanna be right!

2.

Regarding the whole Anthony Weiner/Weinergate thing -- I sincerely don’t give a damn about what anyone does in the privacy of their own home, car backseat or Oval Office (as long as it’s all consensual of course). I mean, rilly now, get your wild freak flags flying and have big fun BUT, for Kali’s sake, if you’re gonna run for public office or hold any kind of big time responsible position in the community, it would be smart to exercise a good deal of discretion. Most of us just don't want to know these things and we can't UNknow them once told.

Here are a few other thoughts on this truly significant, weighty matter //snort//:

From a comment thread on a friend’s Facebook post about the NYC mayoral candidate with poor impulse control:

The thing I don't get is why men think that women want to look at photos of their wangs in the FIRST place.

Guys, if you ever text your lady a photo of your junk and she reacts with something like, "that's hot," she's lying. It's not the same as when WE send photos of boobs, which you all seem to enjoy.

Don't get me wrong, we LIKE penises, and we appreciate the majesty of those that are well-looked after, and we certainly enjoy making good use of them, but receiving a photo of one on our phone feels just a small step away from being spanked in the face with it. "Subtlety" has long since faded into the distance of the rear-view mirror at that point.

Generally, when we get sent a dick photo, you know what we think? We think, "Oh, look. A dick."

And, if we're art school graduates, we follow that thought with a yawn.

From TBogg:

For Anthony Weiner: Nobody wants to see your dick. Nobody. Ever. Not even on Grindr. Stop humiliating your wife, unless she wants to be humiliated … I don’t judge. If you must share peen with the world, please  drop out of the race and devote yourself to occasional show-and-tells on the subway where such behavior is considered quaint, but been-there-seen-that. And if you must share schlong pictures via the intertubes, please restrict them to emails to Bob Filner’s fleshlight at bobfilnersfleshlight@cox.net. (go to his post  to get a little more of the funny). 

BTW. Bob Filner is the fuck up mayor of San Diego, where Mr. Bogg resides.

and from the Facebook page ‘Whiskey and the Morning After’:

I'm not sure which is more scummy: 



1. Continuing to send pictures of your junk to random women on the internet after you resigned from Congress in shame. 



2. Being that random woman on the internet who knew full well who you were, repeatedly engaged in documented sexually explicit chats and then sold her story to Inside Edition.



3. Being the co-admin of the same "liberal" Facebook page as Ms. Leathers, knowing what was going on and after realizing you weren't going to get your cut of the proceeds, expose her real identity so you could cash in as well.

I have the feeling this is going to get even more interesting.

Oh yeah. Pass the popcorn please!

Here Comes the Sun

It's a fine day for poetry, pics and a few interesting quotes from people who fascinate me. Don'cha think?
All pics were taken by me, here on the Neck.

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

Guillaume Apollinaire

Dreams
Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

Across
Across these miles I wish you well.

May nothing haunt your heart but sleep.

May you not sense what I don't tell.

May you not dream, or doubt, or weep.

May what my pen this peaceless day

Writes on this page not reach your view

Till its deferred print lets you say
It speaks to someone else than you.

Vikram Seth
 
Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see

Mark Twain


Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must live.

Charles Bukowski

I've Got a Golden Ticket (the entire poem at this link)
I never thought my life could be

Anything but catastrophe
But suddenly
I begin to see
A bit of good luck for me



'Cause I've got a golden ticket

I've got a golden twinkle in my eye
................

I never dreamed that I would climb
Over the moon in ecstasy
But nevertheless, it's there that I'm
Shortly about to be

'Cause I've got a golden ticket
I've got a golden chance to make my way
And with a golden ticket, it's a golden day

Roald Dahl

Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.

Carrie Fisher

Here Comes the Sun -- The Beatles (written by George Harrison)

Ballistic Ballet

Head's On Fire

Do you find yourself feeling incomplete or unfulfilled when you’ve nothing to get angry about? Do you sense something missing when you experience a day without argument? Do you feel you’ve not reached your full, stunning potential when, over some short span of time, you’ve not ripped someone's head off and stuffed it up their ass?

Do you hunt for things to go ballistic on if they’re not readily apparent?

Do you still entertain revenge fantasies about that asshole cheerleader/footballer who dissed you in front of a mob of other popular kids...and you’re 50 not 18.

You, my dear friend, are a Rageaholic and someone to be ducked.

Even Gaston wants you to relax

No, no, no. I’m not saying that there aren’t a zillion splendid reasons to be annoyed, cross or in a fury. Of course there are. There's more than enough to last this planet’s lifetime. What I AM saying is that, with your fiery indignation and ire dialed up to 11 almost daily, it's guaranteed no one will listen to your, possibly, very good points.

Maybe you're the wisest, most brilliant thinker going. Perhaps you have insights that really should be heard. If you’re in majestic, burning warrior mode 24/7 (or close to it) though OR unable to have a conversation without unholstering those blasters of haughty disdain -- well boyhowdy, NO ONE is listening to you.

You’ve thrown a thick, dark, wool blanket over yourself. Even the folks who like you and know you’re one smart dude/dudette have tuned out.

All anyone hears (or reads in the case of social media) is HARSH, CRANKY, MALEVOLENCE.

Do you really want to be heard? Do you want to make a difference? Change hearts and minds? Convince others of the wisdom of your pronouncements? First try toning down the screaming banshee act. Next:

A) Don’t talk down to me.
B) Don’t assume, since you don't see me roiling with passionate outrage, that I disagree, that I’m the opposition.
C) When I'm not obviously and readily in agreement, don’t make sweeping judgements and statements about my intelligence and maturity or the lack thereof.

Don’t be the worst, most inept advocate for whatever cause you’re championing.

Getting Out of Dodge on a Budget

Jen and I are beginning to plan our Let’s-Get-the-Hell-Outta-Dodge Autumn vaca. We're attempting to pare down our ‘Let’s go here and here and HERE!’ wants list. This is NOT painless.

All things being equal, (they never are though), I’d want to go to Vienna again. Why? Oh for dog’s sake -- all the insanely fab museums, of course! I want Jen to see Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze, Breugel’s Wedding, Vermeer’s Painter in His Studio, Schiele’s Embrace, Kokoschka’s Bride of the Wind and SO much else.

What’s the prob? Eh, not only are the advertised plane fares crazy expensive (over a grand round trip) but the travel time is 15 hours, not including getting to and from the airport and the two hours spent within each one. This wouldn’t be so bad if we were going for a week or more. We’ve got five days.

Why just five? Jen doesn’t get much time off from her job and, frankly, I have one hell of a time being away from The Amazing Bob for any longer than that. Possibly I’m addicted to him. Happily, mind you. 

Last year we visited Reykjavik, Iceland which is just a little over five hours each way. Perfect! The place was utterly intriguing -- expensive but way fascinating. I could totally see flying there for a weekend in January -- spending the entire time in the Blue Lagoon. Hmmm, there’s a fine idea!

Back to vaca plans for October though -- where to go, where to go? The flight can’t be over long or wildly expensive and we want to see a bunch of cool art. London perhaps? Maybe Dublin?

Why not go to Manhattan? We could take the train down, possibly stay at a friend’s place OR at the Y -- tons of art there certainly. I'm wild about the Whitney and it’s been eons since my last visit to the Met and the MOMA.

NYC is great, duh, but it's so close to home and I've gone there tons -- it doesn't really feel like an escape holiday.

What about Toronto or Montreal? Both are short, relatively inexpensive flights. The cities are vibrant. There’s art and architecture worth seeing. The West Queen West neighborhood in Toronto sounds interesting. Montreal’s Plateau Mont-Royal looks like it’s worth a twirl.
Awesome, right? Yes, but I want to leave this continent behind even though it's only five days.

I’ve long wanted to go to Cabrera in the Dominican Republic -- the flight’s reasonably short and inexpensive so why not? Eh, we’d likely have to rent a car to drive the 80 miles to Cabrera. Not bad I suppose but escapes should be easy. No driving.

Bogota in Columbia is intriguing. I’ve recently seen a bunch of fab street art from there on line. Plus, I now have some guitar heroe's tremendous song Bogota in my head (and can't remember his name AT ALL. sigh).

Decisions, decisions, decisions!

The Odyssey of the Couch

Our literate cat

The Amazing Bob and I live in a very small house. It’s not one of those fabulous tiny homes that are all the rage now but we’re petite compared to most properties in America today.

Starting in the ‘80s sometime, the country became overrun by McMansions. You know, those monster sized homes with a bathroom for every occupant, a giant eat in kitchen and a formal dining room, a living room AND a formal living room, a ‘home office,' bedrooms for everyone with the en suite Master bedroom having its very own living room. These are homes for families who never want to be in the same space together, I guess.

In any case, our house is, maybe 900 square feet (not including the basement) which totally works for us.

The Ocean Liner

Here’s the dealio on living in a home of this size though -- our furniture has to be smallish too. We’d bought a full size couch to replace our desperately uncomfortable Victorian love seat, beautiful though it was. I thought I’d just live on that new sofa. I’d curl up there and read, do the household accounts and even sketch while cozily ensconced in one little corner. Eh. No. It was definitely a comfy sofa but it just felt way too big -- like being on an ocean liner versus a nice, tidy sloop.

TAB on our new talking love seat

While passing a Pier 1, I saw the sweetest paisley patterned love seat. It promised to be a nicer, better fit and begged me to take it home.

So I did.

We now had to find a taker for our QE2 of a couch. It was a goes-with-anything neutral taupey/grey color and in reasonably good shape, with just a wee bit of cat scratching on one end.

None of our friends needed it so we tried myriad charities -- Boomerang’s, Father Bill’s Place, Goodwill, the Salvation Army and more -- no luck. I was getting pissed. I mean, for Kali’s sake, it’s a nice, comfy piece of furniture! Jen suggested that we put an ad on Craig’s List -- ‘Free to good home. Will be left on sidewalk at XX Address.’ She also said we could put it out front with a ‘Free’ sign on it and it’d be gone within a day. I didn’t have much faith in this but also didn’t want to just send the poor thing to the dump (anthropomorphic much, Donna?), so this is what we did. Happily, Jen was right and our poor sofa was gone in 24 hours.

Turns out, a neighbor just a few doors up snagged it for one of her adult children. Win/win.

Throughout this odyssey I was reminded, haunted even, by my photojournalist friend Erik’s images of orphaned sofas throughout the San Francisco area where he lives. Look through his Flickr collection -- you’ll see these as well as a wealth of other wonderful shots.

Impressionism

What kind of first impression do we make? What kind of first impression do I make?

Can any of us know this realistically? There are ‘quizzes’ riddling the intertoobs all of which, it seems, are strange, limited and geared toward high school and college age girls. So, Pajama Party by way of the 16 Candles crowd?

This quiz is clearly meant for teenage girlie sleep overs -- the sort where all the chiclets are slim and pretty. They're from upper middle class, two parent, happy, peaceful homes. Make up and nail polish are experimented with during the evening. There are cupcake indulgences. Fellow students who are deemed different/odd are dissed and there’s much fretting about weight and boys.
From the quiz:

You made a joke at a party and nobody laughed you: 

 •  Get over it! Everyone’s a critic
 •  Explain the joke, I mean, it’s really funny.
 •  Pout and say “well, I thought it was funny.”

What? I don’t get to choose ‘laughs so hard at own joke that I snort sauvignon blanc out my nose which only sends me into uncontrollable giggle fits and then I have to go lie down because that last snorting guffaw triggered a nasty headache.’

If someone showed you a recent photo of yourself, you'd think: 

 •  "I need to lose a few pounds."
 •  "Ugh, I look horrible."
 •  "Hey, I don't look half bad."

Where’s “D. all of the above, it depends on the day?”

From a different, slightly less pink, foofy frilled quiz:

What does someone you've met once briefly typically to remember about you?
 •  Nothing.
 •  Your face, and your name if you're lucky.
 •  Your name, and maybe even a few details about you

How the hell would I know? It’s not like I do surveys after each meeting. What? I’m supposed to have clipboard and spare pencils at the ready to ask probing and utterly germane questions such as:

 •  Did meeting Donna leave you feeling all warm, fuzzy and blithe of spirit or did you feel all oogie, queasy and glad you escaped afterward. Why? Please use the back of this form if you need more room for your answer.
 •  Were Donna’s fingernails nicely manicured?
 •  Did those lavender moccasins make Donna’s ass look big?

Hey, it’s my damned survey, I’ll ask what I want.

How often do your friends complain about your manners in public?
 •  Only very rarely
 •  Never
 •  Quite a bit

What is this thing you call 'manners?'

Which of the following celebs is your role model?
 •  Kristen Stewart
 •  Lily Allen
 •  Selena Gomez

Who are these people and what makes them role model worthy? Are we now all “pass the Rougemarie nail varnish and my Cosmo plz!”

Christ on cuticle, a better list from which to choose, for me anyway, would be:

•  Wonder Woman
•  Frida Kahlo
•  Molly Ivins
•  Gloria Steinem

 but, ya know, maybe that’s just me.

If you were reincarnated as an animal, which one would best match your personality?

 •  Panther
 •  Dog
 •  Peacock

What, no cats (of the small, obscenely pampered, house variety of course)? What about Pterodactyls? OK, maybe not so cute and fuzzy but, hell, check the wing span! I mean, those babies soared and could announce their presence with authority.

And, since this is a quiz on a girlie type page -- did the author or the readers know that it’s the male, NOT female, peacock who’s all Priscilla, Queen of the Desert-ed out?

SNAP. Back to the point of this post. I know it’s here somewhere.

Yesterday The Amazing Bob and I drove down to Mattapoisett to meet The Green Miles’ fiancé’s parents -- the lovely and charming Ron and Brenda. Now, it was 92º, Horace’s AC is dodgy, it’s a 90 minute drive (which is 85 minutes too long for me) and I’ve never been to Mattapoisett before so would assuredly get us lost. PLUS, meeting new people is always stressful for me. I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted them to like me.

They’d of course fall in love with TAB -- I mean, duh, who wouldn’t? They’re sentient beings aren’t they?

Me? Eh.  We went to dinner at a lovely restaurant on the water and somehow I ended up in foulmouthed overdrive. F-bombs galore. Yes, I seem to use the lexeme as a verbal comma. Sigh.

The topic of music came around and, boyhowdy, I was in heaven. Turns out, Ron, Brenda and I like a lot of the same bands. This was awesome but I, perhaps, went a disc too far when I began rhapsodizing, in detail, over every cut from Jeff Beck’s album Truth. Honestly though, is Shapes of Things the best goddamned song on the planet and is Jeff Beck a god or what?!

Em...so yeah, you can see how I might wonder about that first impression I might be rocking. Pottymouthed, music pushing, deaf broad.

Subtle Warpage

My baseball hatted handsome TAB

The Amazing Bob and I went into a fav tavern of mine for lunch the other day. When Jen and I go there, we sit in the bar section. With Bob, we sit in the dining room, in a booth. The joint’s nice (for suburbia) but I wouldn’t say that it’s posh -- not a be-sure-to-dress-up-real-purty kind of a place.

We walked in, wearing shorts, Ts (it’s searingly hot, ‘member?), Bob in his baseball cap. The hostess gathered a couple of menus and started walking us toward a booth in the near empty cantina. A suit wearing, balding and officious, 50-something scooped the menus from her and, with a big aren’t-I-swell smile, walked us to a corner table in the bar section.

I thought nothing much of it but last night, Bob brought this up. Turns out he was offended and hurt. He felt we were redirected to the pub seating (which he doesn’t care for) and an out of the way table because we weren’t grand enough to be seen amongst the lunchtime suburban men/women-about-town sorts.

This has happened to him frequently -- he’s always been a blue jeans/blue collar type, not a suit. The boys and girls workin' the line don't score the better seats.

I allowed that, the next time this happened, he should let me know right away. I tend not to pay much attention to where I’m seated in a restaurant. If he doesn't like the table, I will get us one that he does.

Me and Burne at the Wampanoag Nation Powwow

Then I told him the story of the time my buddy Burne and I went for a post work, late lunch at Harvard Gardens (a nice enough place but, again, not posh). Burne was in an attractive, cerulean blue biz suit and I was rockin’ the biz casual look -- my hair was even combed.

The bistro was practically empty yet we were seated in the back near the restrooms. Even I noticed and had a prob with this.

Burne was, well, burning. As it turns out, this sort of thing happens all too often to her and her friends. You see, Burne’s Wampanoag -- def not pasty white like yours truly.

I was stunned. Naive me, I thought this sort of thing doesn’t happen, at least not at joints that I regularly frequent. We were on Beacon Hill not in Southie, for Bast’s sake. I stood to find and inform the maître d' that we would require a different table, a nice booth fer instance, when Burne protested ‘No don’t. I’m used to this. we can sit here.’

My reply, ‘No. No we can’t. I promise I won’t make a scene.’ And I didn’t. I walked over to the asswipe who seated us and, in my bestest condescending tone, with a very nice goodness-aren’t-you-a-lovely-peasant smile on my face, I said ‘We don’t like our seats. This booth over here will do. We’ll sit here.’ And we did.

How can you enjoy your meal if, upon entering the place, you’re treated like an inferior.

Can you imagine the pain of experiencing this in one way or another every single day?

Klondike Sushi

Sadly, larger than life size

All I feel like eating, in this vilely depraved heat, is sushi and mint chocolate chip Klondike Bars. I blame The Amazing Bob -- he turned me on to them. The Klondike Bars not the sushi. My long time pal, Cynthia Quilici revealed the glories and wonders of sushi to me. I wasn’t sold at first but, boyhowdy, I’d eat it every day/every meal now if I could.

Here’s the prob with both: they’re small.

That fabulously minty, frozen chocolate treat? It’s a mere, a piffling, three inches square. I finish one and want another RIGHT NOW. Do I raid the icebox? Do I snarf onward and upward? At 240 calories per, no I do not. With sad, joy-free wistfulness I force myself to stop at one. I deserve a medal, eh?

Their tag line, teaser ad copy? What would you do for a Klondike Bar? That ditty's an ear worm of the first order.

As for sushi -- I can pick it up, ready made in the grocery store deli section now. Awesome plus, huh? Problem, it comes in these wee trays. Sure, there’s 12 of them in there BUT they’re tiny as hell. For dog’s sake, I’ve seen bigger M&Ms! OK...no but it’s really bloody close.

I try to eat only a few, maybe four, at any time but this requires insane levels of will power. I mean, seriously folks, this is Spicy Eel Roll! At, roughly, 290 calories for a mere 6 rolls, I must be strong -- I WILL RESIST that siren song of rice and seaweed wrapped raw fishie.

Going forward I will resist, that is. This is mega hard. It’s the adult version of hot buttered movie theater popcorn (the kind from my long ago youth, not the shit they pass off as butter and popcorn now). Also too, how about some brown rice sushi? Where can I get that all fast and easy?

My other hot weather indulgence? Smoothies. TAB makes the most amazing strawberry/banana/raspberry/whatever’s left in the fridge smoothies. He uses non fat yogurt and no milk. I don’t have to feel guilty about these but, of course, I do.  Guilt is one of my more fluorescent traits.

I'm thinking today might be a good day to try a raspberry/spinach combo. Oh yeah, DEF!