Not About The Oscars

When I was a kid I was often struck with fits of giggling. My family made me laugh without trying to, because they were so quirky. I remember being sent away from the dinner table at least three or four times a week, because I couldn't stop giggling. I always found something to laugh at, but we weren't allowed to laugh too much at the table. So I would sit in my room, where nothing at all was funny, and then come out thinking I had regained my composure. The moment I would sit down with my family, I would glance over at my goofy sister and start giggling. So I'd get up without being told and return to my room. Basically, I think that's what happened to me last night.

I had so much fun during The Oscars last night. But this post is not about the actual awards, because I didn't really see any of them. I realize that this is truly one of those "you had to be there" stories, but I'm going to attempt to set the scene anyway.

The Math Whiz invited me to join him to watch the awards in his room, so I brought in my butterfly chair and my bottle of whiskey and plopped down. I was chatty as we watched the show. This behavior was rather harmless at first. I don't think I distracted too much, but I probably should have been chatting at a bar instead of trying to watch television with my housemate. See, I had a couple vodka greyhounds in the afternoon, but then I switched to whiskey. Which is where the giggling comes in.

The Math Whiz is the best person to watch the Oscars with, because he knows all about who is married to whom. I had a whiskey as he told me about Hollywood couples. Then I had another drink as he listed previous nominees and answered my questions about which of this year's nominees had won in the past.

I had another whiskey as he told me he has only missed two Academy Awards ceremonies in his life. That total has risen to three now.

Have I set the scene for you? Are you already seeing how this is all going to end? For one of the viewers in this story, the Oscars is a lifelong ritual and means a hell of a lot to him. The other viewer is a drunken attention whore who just wants to laugh a lot.

The Handsome Prince wasn't watching with his boyfriend and me. He was in the living room entertaining his family, visiting from their ranch in eastern Oregon. Apparently, the main form of communication in eastern Oregon is yelling. They have so much land, I guess, so they have to shout across acres just to be heard. The Handsome Prince has a warm and loving family. They were probably encouraged to laugh at the dinner table. But when his family got too loud for us to hear the television last night, I reached over and kicked the door shut.

I guess the extra workouts I've been doing have made my legs a little stronger, because the door shut really hard. As soon as the door slammed, I realized how rude it sounded. I may as well have yelled, "Shut the fuck up," to the happy little ranch family gathered in our home. Being unintentionally rude made me laugh, for some reason.

"Sweetie!" said The Math Whiz. "That was so rude!" That made me laugh more. Being reprimanded doesn't always work with me. Usually it has the reverse effect of making me want to act up even more. Especially when the person reprimanding me smiles, which implies that they found my behavior slightly amusing.

Since the bedroom door had already been slammed shut, I reached over and slammed the closet door just to see what The Math Whiz would do. He was mortified. "Stop it! You're going to get me in trouble with my boyfriend," said The Math Whiz. But he sort of giggled when he said it, so that just encouraged me to act more childish.

I got up and opened the bedroom door again so I could slam it some more. Before I could slam it, The Handsome Prince came in to see why I was laughing so hard.

It was ridiculous, really. But just being so obnoxious released so much tension in my body. I was having the time of my life and was completely unaware of the stars parading across the stage to receive awards. Remember when Gilda Radner used to play a little girl in her bedroom slamming into walls on Saturday Night Live? That was pretty much me last night.

The Handsome Prince said they hadn't really noticed the door slamming. I'm not surprised, because they are the loudest family on the planet. Their voices should be taped and used for psychological warfare in the Middle East. However, this did not deter me. I couldn't stop slamming, because it was upsetting The Math Whiz to no end.

Finally he got up and hung a towel over the door and put shoes next to the door frame so I couldn't slam it anymore. That just made me giggle harder. Seeing him try to deal with a 6'6" 38 year old toddler was hilarious to me.

Finally I went out to apologize to the family. "I just wanted to say...um...*giggle* that I meant no offense *giggle* when I slammed the door on you people but..." I lost my head completely and bent over laughing. Then the family started laughing, which made me lose it even more. "I am very drunk right now," I announced.

Instead of getting in trouble, however, I was rewarded by laughter from everyone in the house. Then they all asked if they could have some of my whiskey. I think I am a good whiskey advertisement, frankly. So we all had a very nice time. I don't remember who won any of the awards after the first hour. But it was my favorite Academy Awards night ever.

In The Weeds

Do you know what "in the weeds" means? You have to have worked in a certain industry to know.

Well, I'm in the weeds right now.

Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven was unplugged all day today because of the demands of my new job. I know I should get a guest blogger to fill in for me, but I would rather get a guest worker to go do my job. Any takers?

My brain is fried. Today I was trying to talk about heartburn and accidentally said "Farm Aid" instead of "heartburn". I'm not kidding.

Have a great weekend. I'll be unwinding in The Vortex with friends and will have the fire going if you want to drop by.

Hot Toddy Gets Submissive

Because I will always do whatever Famous Author Rob Byrnes tells me to do.

1. Total amount of music files on your computer:
It is against company policy for us to download music to our work computers. I have 169 music files on my work computer. Don't tell.

2. The last CD you bought was:
I purchased High by The Blue Nile at the same time I purchased Impossible Dream by Patty Griffin. I don't remember which one the cashier rang up first. Is that important? I can go back and try to find her and see if she remembers...

3. What is the song you last listened to before reading this message?
Not Too Soon by Throwing Muses. I'm sorry, but I think that makes me sound incredibly cool. I'm so glad I didn't listen to my Donny & Marie album this morning.

4. Write down 5 songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you:
"Wishing That" by Jann Arden
"The Sound Of" by Jann Arden
"Icicles" by Patty Griffin
"I'll Cover You" from the musical RENT
"I'm Movin' On" by Rascal Flatts

5. Who are you going to pass this stick to? (3 persons) and why?
Three of my favorite bloggers have been on my mind lately for various reasons. One blogger holds my heart, one holds my interest, and one has his hands firmly on my crotch:
Jenny Meatball, AuburnPisces and Dan, do you want to take a shot at this?

Undergrad Attention Whore

Today is a beautiful day in Portland. The weather has been amazing for the past several days, and the warm breeze blowing through The Vortex comforts me as much as the sunshine that is, thankfully, lightening my hair to its more appealing light blonde shade.

That was such a gay sentence.

I remember springtime in college. I attended a liberal arts college in Kentucky, and our campus was so beautiful, especially in the spring. Every day after lunch, my "wonder twin", Jan, and I would lay out in the sun before our afternoon classes. Since we generally only had 10 minutes between lunch and our class, we just plopped down fully clothed on the sidewalk right in front of the education building.

I have this theory that people either fear or hate me and my Wonder Twin. When this tradition first began, the other students would stop and ask what we were doing laying on the sidewalk. (Before I continue with this story, please know that I have no concept of how to use lie, lay or laid - so deal with it. I'm too lazy to look it up. In fact, I wish I could lay down right now. Or lie down.)

So, my Wonder Twin and I would explain to curious passers-by that we were laying out in the sun before our class. They would then step over us (we were always positioned right in front of the entrance stairs) and shake their heads.

As the weeks went on, people stopped asking why we were lying/laying on our backs on the sidewalk. They would just say hello and step over our prostrate bodies.

Being an attention whore can come in handy. Our shenanigans, as we called them, kept us from being arrested on one occasion. One Friday night my Wonder Twin and I hid in a shopping mall in Lexington, Kentucky until after it closed. We wanted to see what it would be like to wander the mall after closing hours. But a security guard caught us, and we were so afraid we were going to be in big trouble. The guard threatened to call the police and chastised us for hiding in the mall, but he suddenly stopped yelling and looked at us with faint recognition. "Hey, aren't you two the ones who lay out in front of the education building after lunch? You guys are awesome!" The guard happened to be a student at our college during the day.

As a show of unity, I think everyone who reads this should lie/lay/low down in front of a public building this afternoon right after lunch. You won't get in trouble. Trust me.

Maybe today after lunch I can convince Auburn Pisces to lay out with me...

Good Enough

It's no secret that I think The Rock is one of the most gorgeous men on the planet. He is nearly perfect. He is beautiful. But this weekend, while waiting to get my haircut, I flipped through a celebrity gossip magazine and found out, to my horror, that my fantasy man recently had liposuction .

The quest for the perfect body is already difficult enough without hunky men raising the bar even higher. Why wasn't The Rock happy with his beautiful body? It just amazes me that he could find fault with his appearance.

I've been doing a really good job getting to the gym regularly. This morning I could feel that my muscles are tighter, and I'm feeling stronger and healthier. But I wonder why I bother. Is it worth all those squats and biceps curls if even The Rock feels he needs lipo?

It makes me feel bad for him. People like me who drool over the hot guys are partially to blame. The reason he is so popular is because he looks so good. Naturally, there is a pressure to maintain his muscular physique. Otherwise, what would happen to his fame?

I recently admitted to a friend that I feel sort of ashamed of the fact that I have always dated really attractive men. I almost feel like some of them were "trophies". I worry that I'm shallow for always going after the hot guys. I know that physical attraction is really important in a relationship, but do I really need to date men with model good looks? I worry that I don't look inside their hearts the way I should. I don't know how to remedy this, either.

Should I purposely seek out someone at the bar who doesn't seem attractive to me? Should I start giving my number to men who don't turn me on? How do I balance my Libra tendencies towards aesthetic beauty with my desire for a relationship with someone who is beautiful inside?

I'm also questioning my own motives for self-improvement. I know that I feel so much better when I work out, but I would be lying if I said that's the only reason I go to the gym. I want a smaller waist and bigger muscles. I want to turn heads. And I feel so shallow for wanting those things.

Maybe I can find a balance somehow. Today when I go to the gym, I'm going to have a moment of silence for The Rock. He was fine the way he was - more than fine, actually. But he didn't think he was good enough.

After my moment of reflection, I'm going to lift hard and work towards the physique I desire. I'm not ready to give up yet, even if the bar keeps raising. I just want to have the best body I can, but I refuse to look at myself in the mirror and say, "that's not good enough".

Sandy, Oh, Sandy!

The picture of me on this blog was colorized by my good friend Aaron. He took my black and white headshot and worked magic with it. He's a giver, that Aaron, and today he wants everyone to give his awesome mama some love. I'm happy to join in. I want to say Happy Birthday, Sandy!

Sandy, you have always been there for me. Well, actually, you've never been there for me. But I know you would be there for me if I asked you to be. Your son is always there for me, so I assume you would always be there for me. I mean, he's not always there for me, but he has been there for me before and would probably be there for me if I needed him unless he was being there for someone else.

Sandy, I think the best piece of advice you ever gave me was, "Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, you get paid the same amount at work whether you come into the office drunk or sober, so why not live a little?"

No, wait. That was me talking to myself this morning. Well, I'm sure you would give me great advice like that if I asked you. But since I didn't ask, you didn't tell me your opinion. That's what I like about you, Sandy. You never offer unsolicited advice. You wait until you're asked.

Another thing I like about you, Sandy, is that you have never mailed a bomb to me. Or, if you did, it must have been lost in the mail. But I don't think you've ever mailed a bomb to me. So thanks for that.

I am really happy you were born, Sandy. Because you raised a good son who later contributed to this blog by creatively colorizing my headshot. If it weren't for you, Sandy, this blog would be a much less colorful place.

Sandy, if I could offer some unsolicited advice to you, it would be this. You need to believe in yourself more, Sandy. How do you know that The Rock wouldn't be interested in taking you out for your birthday unless you ask him? And when is the last time you went on a shopping spree and asked the cashier if you could have a ninety-percent discount just because you are cute? And if they say, "No, you can't," and you threaten to dance on top of the counter until they give you your discount, where's the harm in that? You never do stuff like that, Sandy. What are you so afraid of? Being hauled away by security is not so bad. Trust me.

I also really hate that you won't eat the crust on your bread, Sandy. I know it is your birthday, and I hate to bring up the countless little things you do that drive me crazy, but I am only saying this because I love you. If you do not start eating your bread crusts, I'm going to put you inside a deep dark well made of bread crust, and you will have to eat your way out.

Actually, I won't do that to you Sandy. My father used to threaten me with that, and birthdays always remind me of family, so I brought that up because I need therapy. But we're not here to talk about me. I mean, I'm here to talk about me, but you're not here to talk about me. You probably want to see more stuff about you. I like that you don't give unsolicited advice, Sandy, but sometimes you sure are self-absorbed. I mean that in a good way.

So, Sandy, dance on store countertops today, or don't. Eat your bread crust or not. Give advice to people, or don't. Mail me a letter bomb or don't. Actually, just please don't.

What I mean to say is, Happy Birthday EVillMom!

I should totally write greeting cards.

Sealed With A Kiss

I've always been ahead of my time. When I was a young boy, I performed music videos in my room before MTV even existed. My favorite music video was for the song "Sealed With a Kiss". I would put that little 45 on my record player and sing the love song to Miss Scarlet's picture on the little card from the board game CLUE. She was the pretend love of my life, and I sang to her about my heartache at the prospect of our parting at the end of summer. "I don't want to say goodbye, for the summer. Darling, I promise you this. I'll send you all my love every day in a letter, sealed with a kiss..."

In the photo, Miss Scarlet was a beautiful Asian woman. Apparently, my passion for Asians began early, although my gender preference eventually changed. What did not change is the way music stirs my emotions. And I still sing to pretend lovers sometimes.

Music is powerful, and song lyrics often change my perceptions, my actions, and my outlook. It is not uncommon for a song to move me to action. Lyrics can cause me to change my attitude or call an old friend or drunk dial an ex-boyfriend. Perhaps growing up in the church sensitized me to the power of a song. I remember hearing songs like "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus" and being prompted to start following Jesus myself. I would stand up in the pew, walk to the front of the church, and weep as my heart told me to follow Jesus. I would come to him "Just As I Am" and tell him "I Surrender All".

Years later, Sheryl Crow helped me decide that instead of following Jesus all I really wanted to do was have some fun until the sun went down over Santa Monica Boulevard. So I quit following Jesus and started having fun. And I never wash my car, especially on my lunch hour, because the way she mocks those people makes them seem so pathetic.

I've made another decision recently, and I can't tell you how good I feel inside. There's gonna be some changes around here, kids. And they're all gonna be good.

Thank you, JTM, for your sound advice and beautiful e-mail. I won't ever forget the timing of that message. It was perfect.

Auburn Pisces shared a song with me that perfectly describes where I am right now, so I'd like to share it with you. Sorry I am not sophisticated enough to post links to MP3 files - but I'm sure the more resourceful among you can track it down if you enjoy the lyrics. Just know that this song blared from The Vortex last night for about an hour. A bottle of wine was consumed, tears were shed, phone calls were made, and an enormous weight was lifted. All on a Wednesday night.

I'm Movin' On
I've dealt with my ghosts and I've faced all my demons
Finally content with a past I regret
I've found you find strength in your moments of weakness
For once I'm at peace with myself
I've been burdened with blame, trapped in the past for too long
I'm movin' on

I've lived in this place and I know all the faces
Each one is different but they're always the same
They mean me no harm but it's time that I face it
They'll never allow me to change
But I never dreamed home would end up where I don't belong
I'm movin' on

I'm movin' on
At last I can see life has been patiently waiting for me
And I know there's no guarantees, but I'm not alone
There comes a time in everyone's life
When all you can see are the years passing by
And I have made up my mind that those days are gone

I sold what I could and packed what I couldn't
Stopped to fill up on my way out of town
I've loved like I should but lived like I shouldn't
I had to lose everything to find out
Maybe forgiveness will find me somewhere down this road
I'm movin' on

I'm movin' on
I'm movin' on

Karaoke Karma

Last night at karaoke, I whispered something mean about the Karaoke Jockey (KJ) to a friend.

"That KJ looks like she should be pushing a housekeeping cart at Holiday Inn. I should ask her for an extra shower cap..."

I know she couldn't have heard me. She was way across the bar. But karma caught up with me when she announced my name.

"And now, please welcome Hot Daddy to the stage!"

I sat there. Mortified. I refused to stand up even though I knew she was talking about me. I can't be known as Hot Daddy. I just can't.

I waited until she called my name again. This time she double-checked the karaoke slip and corrected herself. "Hot Daddy - oh - I mean Hot Toddy, come on up here."

Everyone looked to see who Hot Daddy was. They saw me and shook their heads. I could almost hear the whispers "He's not a hot daddy..."

The moral of the story is this:
Do not disrespect your KJ - no matter how much they look like a housekeeper. They have the power to make or break you.

Take a Number

I can't believe I have to work when I come to work. This is a new concept for me.

I remember those leisurely mornings in my old position when I could shuffle into the office wearing a bathrobe and shower cap and settle down at my desk to write my blog. Not that I ever really wore a bathrobe to the office, but I could have. Nobody would have noticed.

Now I come into the office and immediately jump into action. I make phone calls and respond to requests for training and coordinate class schedules. Today I found out that my voice mail message light isn't working, so when I finally checked it, I had messages from a week ago that I'd never responded to.

I miss my little chats over e-mail with Famous Author Rob Byrnes. I miss corresponding with my Gaelic boyfriend (you know who you are) and chatting about boys with Juju. I miss e-mail psychotherapist, Myron, and I think it's my turn to write him. I haven't even thanked J*den for her drunk dials and recap of 16 Candles. I never wrote to thank Pua for sending Lokelani's nuts to me. In addition to keeping up with my great friends, I've received more e-mail in the past couple weeks as new readers introduce themselves, and I am so slow at getting back to everyone. I'm thinking of creating an auto-reply message that says:

"Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven appreciates your message. Your e-mail will be answered in the order in which it was received. Please be patient and know that your issue will receive the same quality response Hot Toddy is currently providing other friends and family members at this moment. For priority service, please visit Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven at the right-hand corner of the bar next to the MegaTouch game console at CC Slaughters."

When I get used to this new job, I'm sure my blog will find its rightful place on my daily agenda. Right at the top of my To Do list. But for now, I'm just trying to keep my head above water.

Under the Weather

What does it mean to say you are feeling "under the weather"? If you are feeling healthy, does that mean you are "over the weather"? How do you get over the weather? Cause I guess I am under it right now, so I need to schedule a hot air balloon ride or something.

One of my pet peeves is reading blogs where the writer just posts an entry that says, "I'm sick in bed *cough*" or they write about all the various symptoms of their ailment and go into detail about prescriptions and talk about body fluids and describe their stomach problems. I won't put you through that...

I stayed in bed all weekend, so I don't have very many crazy stories about boys and bars and parties and stuff. Remember when Nellie Oleson pretended to be paralyzed and never left her bed? I felt like Nellie Oleson this weekend, except that I wasn't faking my bed-ridden state just to get Laura Ingalls to do my homework for me. I mean, I don't even have any homework, so what would be the point of trying to get Laura to do it for me?

Anyway.

In spite of a lonely boring weekend of being sick in bed, I do have some things to discuss with you. If you like my sense of humor, or at least appreciate the things that I seem to find funny, please run, don't walk, to your nearest video outlet and get your hands on season one of the WB show Popular. I watched Popular all weekend. If I wrote for television, this is the kind of show I would write. The writers were still trying to find their niche in the first five or six episodes, but by the seventh episode the series became a satire of WB teen dramas. It is like a teenage comedy for 35 year-old gay men. The show's creator, Ryan Murphy, who also created Nip/Tuck, is hilarious (and gay) and packs the show with over-the-top characters, campy references to pop culture, and smart dialogue. Still need more convincing? If you liked Tina Fey's movie, Mean Girls, I promise you, you'll enjoy the show. I just ordered season two today and can't wait for it to arrive next month when it's released.

I enjoyed Pua's nuts as I watched television. They remind me of my mother's recipe for Christmas "sugar plum ring" coffee cake. Maybe you can recreate my weekend by buying a bag of nuts and getting a copy of Popular. You won't regret it. Yum...

Speaking of things that make you go "yum...", did you see Bravo's Celebrity Poker Showdown with Scott Wolf? I don't really care about poker, but I certainly care about Scotty. I had to watch the show for a couple hours just to stare at him. I would be happy just watching him read a grocery list. Since I haven't seem him for awhile (no, I don't watch Everwood and don't plan to), I forgot what a crush I had on this hunk. It was so nice to be reunited with an old flame. I think he almost healed me with his dimples last night.

Don't Read This If We've Dated...

Seriously, if we have been romantically involved in the past, you should leave now. Today is for me, not for you. Thanks. Talk to ya later.

Okay, now that they're gone. Yes, "them" - not "him. Unfortunately there are a few of these guys. It seems that there has been a common theme to most of the guys I've given my heart to lately.

Valentine's day is coming up, and I really can't see sending one to anybody this year. This is the best I can do for now...

When I met you, I couldn't picture us together.
I couldn't imagine we would work. It didn't fit. It didn't make sense.

But you persisted. You wanted to know me. You wanted time with me. God, the romantic e-mails and words you used on me. You're very creative. Quite a spinner of tales.

I couldn't believe how much you seemed to like me. It was almost like you were crazy about me. I tried to get on board with your enthusiasm, but it felt like it was happening so quickly. I felt a little guilty for not trusting you.

I had to explore what you might become to me, and, eventually, you became so much more important to me than I could have imagined.

You won my heart.

Was that enough for you? Just the winning thing? 'Cause, once you won, you decided you didn't want my heart after all. So you just gave it back to me, but not in its original condition. Now it's all bruised and dirty and, really, who's gonna want it now?

There should be a "no returns" policy on dating.

Things I Learn from Watching Alias

If you've just been bitten in the neck by a drug-crazed psychotic and, although your blood tests show that you're not infected, you start hallucinating that spiders are crawling out of your tea, which has turned to blood, and then you find out the infection may not initially show up in blood tests because it acts like a dormant virus for a little while and so you take your temperature and could swear the thermometer says your temperature is 112 degrees, which is impossible to survive, and, right before you go on a mission with two other agents involving guns and life-threatening situations and one of the agents is your father and the other is your boyfriend and they ask if you are okay because you gasped and jumped back right after you imagined a man blew his head off in front of you, but a second later you realized you were hallucinating again...

Don't answer, "I'm fine."

"I feel fat" Tuesday

Mardi Gras this year was a lot more fun than last year. As The Math Whiz and I walked into the bar after complaining endlessly about the pounds we've gained this winter, he renamed the night, "I Feel Fat Tuesday".

In spite of fat feelings, I have to say that I wasn't hindered by insecurity. I met the sexiest guy last night. He was hugging me and talking to me about how much he loved my performance in 10 Naked Men last summer. I think he put me in an affectionate headlock at one point. I don't remember what this god of lust looked like, but his energy was sexy. Maybe it was pheromones or something. He was a Pheromone Monster. I can't recall ever feeling so attracted to a complete stranger. I felt this amazing chemistry and just wanted to jump him. You would think this story would have a happy ending, but, truth be told, I don't remember what he looked like and certainly don't remember his name. The whole night is a blur.

Obviously, anyone who reads Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven knows that I go out to my favorite bar, CC Slaughters, regularly. I drink often. I enjoy drinking. But I don't generally get trashed. While I was visiting him in New York City, Rob Byrnes commented that he waited all weekend to see me drunk, but it never happened. Even the hunky bartender at CCs says he's never seen me drunk. He won't be able to say that anymore.

Ladies and Gentlemen, last night I fell down while dancing. The single and gorgeous friend of Pheromone Monster was grinding with me on the floor. He, too, was a fan of 10 Naked Men and told me so. We were hitting it off. Having a blast. Then I fell down. I think it's safe to say he won't be calling me.

The hunky bartender at CC's wasn't working last night. So, for the first time ever, he and I could hang out as friends. He took off his shirt (at last!) and bought me a bunch of beads (so I could throw them at him, of course) and all the vodka tonics I could ever wish for. The hunky bartender is no longer just a hunky bartender. He is a hunky Toddtender. He tended to me all night and was very good at it. I wish he could be my personal houseboy.

Speaking of taking good care of me, Superman showed up last night. Unfortunately, he showed up after several rounds of drinks purchased for me by the Toddtender. I had hoped to dance with Superman or at least have a great conversation, but, alas, I was far too intoxicated. He truly earned his name last night. Superman rescued me from the evils of drink and drove me home safely. I owe him for this and will gladly give him any payment he requires.

This morning I chatted with Auburn Pisces about my Mardi Gras insanity. She was really happy to hear that I partied with reckless abandon. "You needed that, Toddy. You needed to just float through the bar in a haze and flirt and kiss and dance. I'm happy for you..."

You know what? It felt really, really good to just have fun and not think. I think way too much. But last night I just partied and had fun and threw beads and fell down and waited for Superman to show up. Laissez les bons temps roulez!

Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven - Season Two

In season one, Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven sure found himself in lots of crazy situations, didn't he? Open letters to wrestlers, commentaries on closed captioning, long distance crushes, sex parties and romantic dates were just some of the topics dealt with in season one.

What can we expect from season two of Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven? For one thing, expect lots of guest appearances by Toddy's future dates. Producers of Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven say the audience is tiring of Hot Toddy's search for love. They want more sex. More random flings. Less "love" and more "action".

Hot Toddy has a new job, so there are sure to be lots of zany shenanigans as Toddy attempts to manage a million dollar budget for the training department. We may even get to see Toddy on unemployment this season after he runs out of money for his department by the second quarter of 2005. What a hoot!

Readers can expect to see a change in locale this season when Hot Toddy moves into his own apartment and perhaps gets a dog or possum or something. When autumn comes, Hot Toddy will probably buy new furniture for his bachelor pad, and writers of HTTO are planning "A Very Special Toaster Oven" in which Toddy and the hunky furniture delivery guy break in his new sofa.

In order to pay production costs, Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven may occasionally air commercials like this one,

If you live in NYC, you should go check out Matt's brother's art show. (Matt, I'm only mentioning this because you call me "sexy" in your blog links.)

Welcome back. We're discussing the exciting antics of Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven in season two. Writers of HTTO have reconsidered their original plan to make Toddy a vampire slayer. "It's been done," they insist. "But Toddy may wake up on the streets of Hong Kong with amnesia, having lost two years of his life unless we find out that's also been done," said writers.

If you have suggestions for plot elements you'd like to see this season on Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, please leave a comment or e-mail me!

Saturday with Superman

The Vortex has been busy lately. This blissfully cozy patio, which now features a chimera in which we build fires, has become quite a center of entertainment. On Saturday, I hosted my first superhero. After several months of subtly hinting to one another that we should get together for drinks, I finally issued an official invitation to Superman. Because he and I have never spent time together one on one, I wasn't sure if we'd find anything to talk about. Frankly, I was nervous about it.

It wasn't like I thought Superman wouldn't fit in. The Vortex is regularly blessed with the presence of handsome charming men like him (which is why I should never ever move out of this house), but in order to gain repeated admission to The Vortex, you have to provide more than good looks. You have to keep up with the rapidly changing CDs being popped in and out of the stereo. You must be able to flow with various musical genres and conversational topics. You must know how to participate in random conversations involving ridiculous humor, namely, mine. (I will confess that at one point Saturday night, I claimed that I wanted to eat an entire race of people. I will say no more about the race or why I want to eat them. It is too weird to go into here and is also highly inappropriate.)

Superman held his own, let me tell you. He actually sang along - every word - with an entire CD. Amazing.

For me, the highlight of the evening was an extensive discourse on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, followed by an analysis of Sex & The City, followed by a recap of Alias season one (and part of season two, which is as far as he's watched the series thus far).

By the end of the evening, I wondered why I had always been so timid about inviting Superman over to hang out. I don't know why getting to know someone on a more personal level is sometimes so hard.

When I was in New York in December, I felt awkward. There was a strange pressure, most certainly self-inflicted, to be cute. Funny. Witty. Sharp. In spite of some reassurances from friends, I feel like I failed on all accounts. But that's just the way I am. I'm hard on myself. Too hard.

Honestly, there is no way I can live up to the standards I set for myself. I'm just glad that sometimes I push through the discomfort and allow myself to experience new people and situations. The rewards can be so great. New friends are always a welcome addition to my life. In fact, ever since Saturday, I find myself looking up in the sky to see if that's a bird or plane heading towards The Vortex - or if maybe, just maybe, it's Superman.

Hot Toddy's New Job

It is my first day working in my new job. I'm at a new desk. I don't know how to access my voice mail.

I can't find any pens. I packed them.

I miss Auburn Pisces. I don't work near her anymore.

I feel like an alien, even though I'm still working at the same company.

Oh, and did I mention I have to oversee a budget of almost a million bucks? Me. The guy who depletes his checking account down to 48 cents every couple weeks.

I'm lost. I'm confused.

Change is good, right? That's what they say. I haven't had a "new job" in over five years. Everything used to feel so familiar. So predictable. So routine. Now I don't even know where the breakroom is, so I'm eating my breakfast sandwich cold.

This feels like a first date. Except nobody there is no chance I'll get a kiss at the end of it.

At least I will have new things to write about...

Typical

Last night was just another typical night. A drunk guy at the bar showed me how to swing a golf club. He brought his own golf club to the bar. I guess that is his gimmick. As I attempted to imitate the stance he showed me, he stood behind me and tried to "loosen me up". Yeah, it's pretty much what you're picturing.

After I learned to swing a golf club at the bar, I talked to a lesbian about cats and dogs. Then I bought a drag queen a drink. She had enormous feathers on her head. After that, I got an urgent call from a boy I used to date. He wanted to come inside CC Slaughters but didn't have money for the cover charge, so I helped him out. Then I cheered him on in the "Mr. Dixi Normous" contest, which he should have won but didn't.

After golfing and talking about animals with a lesbian and buying a drag queen a drink and rooting for my former boyfriend to win a big penis contest, I went home and had phone sex with a guy who called me from Afghanistan. Just another typical night in my life.

Exclusive Interview with Angelina Jolie

Frequently, I receive questions from readers of Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven. I get the typical questions most bloggers usually get. "Why is your narcissism so out of control?" or "Don't you think Dr. Phil would look good dressed as a colonial patriot?" are two common themes. But the most frequently asked question is, "Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, why don't you ever talk about your relationship with Angelina Jolie?"

Today, I will end the mystery once and for all. The following interview with Angelina Jolie was conducted yesterday afternoon on my yacht. The weather was lovely. Nobody shot at us the whole time, and a cool breeze blew in from the Atlantic Ocean, traveled across the vast continent, descended upon the Willamette Valley, and smacked us hard in the face as we reclined in Adirondack chairs sipping mimosas. (The chairs were not sipping mimosas. We were.)

Angelina looked smashing, as usual. She was wearing a bikini and fancy shoes (Tangelo Blahniks, I think). I looked smashed as usual. I wore a one piece with a cover-up and a plastic visor I got free with an oil change at Jiffy Lube. Angelina had a busy day, so, with a minimal amount of french kissing, we jumped right into the interview:

Angelina Jolie: Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, what do you do for a living?

Hot Toddy: I try to eat every day and make sure I am breathing in air and drinking water. And I almost never drink anything from the bottles underneath the kitchen sink. Mostly 'cause The Handsome Prince put some kind of childproof lock on there, but even if he hadn't, I've learned my lesson.

AJ: No, Hot Toddy, not "how do you stay alive" - I meant, "What is your job"?

HT: Oh. Um. Hang on...

AJ: When you go to your office what do you do to get paid?

HT: Well, I go to my office. That' how I get paid. By going to the office.

AJ: But what assignments do you complete?

HT: I post about random stuff in my life. Sometimes I write these funny letters - like open letters to famous people and - -

AJ: No, besides blogging, what assignments do you complete?

HT: Something to do with policies. Writing policies?

AJ: You're asking me?

HT: Yes. Do I write policies?

AJ: I don't know.

HT: Then how do you expect me to know?

AJ: Because it's your job.

HT: Well, sorry, but I didn't know you were going to get all personal. I thought you were just going to ask me questions about which bloggers I've slept with.

AJ: So, which bloggers have you slept with?

HT: Don't you read my blog? It's all in there. You're just wasting my time now. I have to go answer e-mails.

AJ: Well, actually I do read your blog regularly. And I voted for you to win a Bloggie.

HT: Well, of course you did, dear.

AJ: Anyway, do you enjoy living in Portland?

HT: I'm actually thinking of moving. Today I woke up and realized I want to live in Minnesota. I have a good friend from college who lives there.

AJ: So, you would move all the way across the country to be close to your friend?

HT: Truth be told, I just need to find new dating prospects. As of Monday at 7 p.m., the Portland dating pool was officially tapped out for me. I have either slept with, made out with, cruised, flirted with, or professed my love to every available man in Portland. Oh, and most of the unavailable men too.

AJ: And they say I'm a slut.

HT: Do they? Why? What do you do?

AJ: Well, we're not here to talk about me...

HT: That's true. Anyway, you haven't asked me the most important question of all.

AJ: Let's get to it then.

HT: Angelina Jolie, the truth is, yes. Yes, I do think Dr. Phil would look really great dressed in a colonial patriot costume.

AJ: Thanks for your time, Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven.

HT: Damn. Where'd that breeze come from?

My Friends Are Weird

Last night I was surrounded by a bunch of lunatics. I sat next to them at the bar. They were my friends.

I have a new friend, but I haven't decided on a name for him yet. He is either going to be called "Blue Willie" - which he'll hate - or "Supermodel" - which he'll love. His dashing good looks and fashion sense would earn him the latter moniker. His love for a special drink he created would earn him the first nickname. Either way, he is sure to have a strong opinion, and I have no doubt he'll be letting me know what he thinks.

I'll say this for him, he seems to fit in quite well with my other friends. Last night at CC Slaughters, he screamed when we got the high score in Word Dojo while playing the Megatouch video game at the bar. The Handsome Prince actually insulted him a couple times, so I know he's won THP's heart. (If he likes you, he's mean to you.) My new friend, I've realized, can be really impossible sometimes. He seems to like arguing with me. This morning I told him I found his demeanor to be interesting. His reply was very agitated, "You're the one with a demeanor." True, that.

Poor guy. If he is looking for a fight, he's looking to the wrong person. I am the ultimate peacemaker. I don't fight. I shrug and say, "whatever". If I were any more laid back, I'd be in a coma. Still, Blue Willie/Supermodel entertains me - he makes me laugh - he's quirky and fun.

Meanwhile, back at the asylum, Auburn Pisces leaned over the bar and gave our poor bartender hell because they had the wrong type of margarita mix. She, like my new friend, can be pretty feisty. Her philosophy is that she should get exactly the type of margarita mix she wants because she "pays the goddamn light bill at CC's". According to her, I pay the mortgage for the entire building that houses the bar.

As my new friend was screaming about our high score and telling Nair horror stories, Auburn Pisces held our bartender hostage to The Great Margarita Mix Debate. I glanced over to see my best friend, The Handsome Prince, having problems with his bar stool. He hung his backpack over the stool, which caused the stool to tip over each and every time THP stood up. He stood up approximately every two minutes. Then his stool would crash to the floor, so he'd pick it up, sit down for a couple minutes, and get up again to repeat the process.

Ms. Karma, gulping sipping gin and tonic, attempted to keep the peace. That is what she and I do best. Our shared mission is to help keep our friends under control and make sure that everyone is happy. Making sure everyone is happy is impossible. Why do you think we drink so much?

The Math Whiz just sat there looking cool and sexy. He chews gum while he drinks. I think he does it just so he can show off his gorgeous smile. The Math Whiz is completely unflappable. His cool demeanor (Shut up. You're the one with the demeanor) is the stabilizing influence my little group of lunatics needs. Plus, he's so hot he makes us all look good just by sitting with us at the bar. His job is to be the one not drooling and babbling incessantly, which is an important role in any social group.

Last night, during a debate about the title of Sharon Stone's full frontal movie debut, I brought another friend into the madness. After twelve rounds of ruling out "Fatal Attraction" as the movie title, I had to use my "Phone-A-Friend" option and brought Rick into the center ring of our circus. Thanks, Rick, for clearing up the confusion. Once we established the movie title (Basic Instinct) we were able to move on to tipping over stools, harassing bartenders and stories about Nair.

I know this post makes me sound like I'm the sane one of the group. But I will confess that I have issues of my own. For the past several mornings, an awful thing happens everytime I go into the bathroom after I get up. I leave the bathroom with Sinead O'Connor's song "Black Boys on Mopeds" running through my head, and I don't know why. If you haven't heard the song, the lyrics start with, "Margaret Thatcher on TV. Shocked by the deaths that took place in Beijing. It seems strange that she should be offended. The same orders are given by her..."

There are no pictures of mopeds or black boys in the bathroom. I checked the Vanity Fair magazine sitting open next to the toilet. There is no mention of Margaret Thatcher on the page. I do not know why this song is haunting me. I haven't heard it for years and don't even own a copy of it. Apparently, I'm a lunatic too. So, I'm in great company.