"that's what...

...I want to be when I grow up! i want to be trash!"

--dolly parton

(now if they don't have that delightful mix of sinister evil and inbreeding, i just don't know who does...)

SO going to hell...

my very first in 2006

i gave in and got it cut. of course, i choose to do this the day my normal, russian-mafia ex-con cutter is off, but i couldn't take it one more day. v. p. auntie mame kept referring to me as 'little boy,' that this shagginess has taken off fifteen years. 'you look like you're fourteen, dear. h. r. will soon be asking me why i hired a child laborer.' 'and at my salary, it's slave labor at that.'

but on she went over the past two weeks: 'oh little boy, i put some chocolate kisses in the bowl outside my office, if you're a good little boy, you may ask your manager if you may have one.' 'goodness gracious! thank you, miss [her first name, said in a gosh golly! high pitched voice.]' 'oh little boy, i saved the comics from the post, and if you're a good little boy, i'll interoffice them to you.' 'wow, thank you, miss [her first name!] that would be super duper!' and on it went. but the kicker was yesterday: on the treadmill at the gym, per usual, one in front of the windows, and i'm lip-syncing to kylie minogue (my disco sure must need me.) who walks by on the sidewalk across the street... v. p. auntie mame with v. p. tightasswhobannedmefromthemensroom. (that's a post in itself, kids.) she is in a conversation, all 6'1" of her, with the tightass who is, oh, 5'3". she is in mid-sentence, and catches me with her eye, stops the tightass and they both look up (my gym is on the third floor of a high rise.)

she waves, and the tightass give me the tightass thumbs-up sign. i wave, and wipe the sweat off my face. she makes a 'you can do it!' fist-in-the-air sign, i give tightass' thumbs-up back at them. then she starts blowing kisses to me, like she's just gotten the grammy, and i pretend to catch them. just then i realize that the guy to my right, my scary neighbor here in 10014, and some faaaaartoomuch perfume chick to my left are just looking at me and the situation unfolding. i have a window, they have mirrored columns and an iffy vantage of auntie mame and tightass. 'i work with them!' i scream, over kylie. she looks away, he just shoots me a look. i wave the v. p. brigade off, as if to shoo them, and she makes the little scissor gesture at her hair with her fore and middle fingers, followed by a 'don't forget' gesture. i tightass thumbs-up again and realize it's high time for a cut.

get there today, and the ex-con is off, like i said, so i get a guy who doesn't speak much english. 'i'm growing it out, so just clean it up a bit? do something? bald, anything.' 'que?' 'clean it up?' 'yes yes, i clean.' whistling all the way. now, i hate when people get cheap haircuts and you see the buzzer setting when you look at them. 'number two, i see.' but unless one splurges for the uber-frou-frou haircut that's all scissors and perrier, there isn't much of a middle ground... until i met ramiroquavez... dude trimmed my whole goddam head, every hair, with a straight razor and a comb. i look great. he got that i'm growing it out, got that i didn't want to look like a frat boy, and got that i didn't want that scissors-thing-with-the-teeth to thin out my hair. yes, it's longer, and i may still be the office little boy, but hot damn! i am all over the straight razor. (maybe i can get him to call it the 'gay' razor? just a thought.)

happy v. d., kids!

cheers to hoping your v. d. didn't result in a greenish-yellow discharge ;-)

circus minimus?

oh, well now, that's most unfortunate... my favorite is the last sentence, though.

blizzard, 2006

last weekend on the island for at least a little while, went out for the third weekend in a row, and it was nice. then it started to snow. and snow. and snow. it was lovely, but as mum found out her mercedes bends once last fall, she's, understandably, nervous driving in iffy conditions. that and i can't well expect her 63-year old self to be shoveling in the ice and snow. 'oh, go back to the city, i'll be fiiiiiiine.' 'you've not been fine a day since i've known you. i'm staying, we'll have a snow party! with the dogs! it will be fun!' 'don't be fresh. but i did get a lovely chianti, i think you'll like it.' and so that started the snow party of the blizzard o' 2006.

when it was decided that i'll be around, we went for a quick dinner at one of my favoritest mexican restaurants in all the world, a place into which i first went on a field trip in the eighth grade to practice our spanish. ole.

'deseo un numero cuatro, por favor.' 'gracias, senior.' 'gracias, cammerrero.' 'de nada.' and that was the beginning and end of our little spanish immersion. (and as i haven't spoken or read spanish since, i'm sure that's all spelled incorrectly...) good times. fast forward to yesterday, donde nosotros order sangria and run into people, also from back in the day, who are significantly more tolerable after a bit of sangria. 'oh christ, mum, it's [the towntalk] with her whipped husband. she still doesn't seem to have grasped that the only people who wear red shoes and blue eye shadow are little girls and whores.' 'you're awful.'

'[mum!] and [my brother's name!]'

'actually, margaret, i'm [not my brother.]' this was the first time i've ever called mrs. towntalk by her first name. she's clearly not used to this reception. i even got the look that would confirm that she's mrs. towntalk, and, most certainly, not margaret, at least to me. i ignored it.

'just look. at. you! i haven't seen you since you were going off to college, heavens, what was that, five years ago?'

'eleven.'

'it's been that long! oh and [mum,] you look just wonderful. how are you doing after, you know...'

now, to pause briefly... i hate that expression... 'you know...' yes, i know, and you know i know, and since we're going to now talk about it at your prodding, why not name it and call it what it is? and why do people always drop the 'you know' bomb at the most inopportune time to talk about whatever 'it' is to which 'you know' refers? mum, however, picked it up like a champ and ran with it, and i took my cue from her:

'well, how kind of you to ask. to which 'you know' are you referring, margaret? would it be burying my husband, battling breast cancer, or the news of a blizzard that's going to stop by and say hello tonight?' i started busting out laughing. marge is a tough bird... towntalk's husband nudged her that the table was ready.

'oh, um, [marge,] i'm. so. sorry. i didn't know about the cancer! yes, i meant [homer.]'

'oh it's fine, and in the end, i laughed cancer in the face, didn't i, tom?'

'she did, she did [hic] and even bought herself a little consolation gift, i mean, one can't well drive to radiation therapy appointments in the same car used to drive to the initial appointment where one finds out one has cancer, i believe it's bad luck.'

'it is bad luck, you're right honey.'

'well, you look great. and so do you, tom. breaking all the girls' hearts, aren't you?! you've gotten so handsome, you look just like your father.'

ok, now we're at full-blown war. i GOT so handsome? dead father reference? no no no no no. going down, sister. and not in the good way.

'oh you, flattery will get you nowhere! especially with your husband next to you. [threw him a wink, and he was about ready to crawl in a hole and die, but feigns a forced laugh.] how's your son?'

'which one, they're all fine.' [large irish-uber-catholic family...]

'[the obviously gay one two years older who has since come out to your family's public chagrin.]'

'oh, him, yes, he's good.'

'send him my best, won't you? he and i should go out for a cosmo or appletini some time, we always did have so much in common. would you give him my card?'

[she turns purple...]

towntalk: 'well, we must go and have dinner now... good luck with the storm tonight.'

mum: 'oh, we're having a snow party! toodles.'

me: 'toodles [wink]'

mum, to me: 'that's my boy. what a bitch.'

'yes, and with years of training and work experience, i can confidently tell you that her solitaire is a piece of shit.'

so we go home, got some pics of the dogs in all their glory bopping around the snow, and drank and played rummy all night. marge can hang, i forgot that about her.

they got well over two feet of snow, and i shoveled, shoveled, shoveled my little hung-over self.