Tuesday Night, CC Slaughters. 9:00 p.m.
"I can't believe I have been here for five hours. Damn this Maker's Mark. I have to make sure I get home before 9 or 10 at the latest so I can work out in the morning. I'm not going to let anything or anyone derail my plans. Who is that guy? Oh, it is that friendly man with the sparkly blue eyes. He shaved. He looks good. Here he comes. Nice smile! Too bad I have declared my independence. Now he's talking to me about his blue corvette. He has no idea I'm not interested in cars...
What's that? He saw me in 10 Naked Men? Four times!? And he's seen me in other shows too? Now he's telling me that he has had a crush on me for a long time, but he couldn't act on it because he was with partner. And now he's single. Great, just what I need. Too bad I declared my independence.
He wants to take my camping. Damn it. I have always wanted to go camping and have never been. I want to go camping with him. But, no, I can't. What? A dinner date? Oh, what harm could there be in dinner? Okay, I will go to dinner with him, but that's it.
Now he's telling me he asked a lady on the theatre board of directors about me. He wanted to know more about me? That is so sweet. Too bad I declared my - wow, he is leaning in for a kiss. How can I resist a kiss from someone with such a great smile who has had a crush on me for - is that his tongue? Oh, this is bad. And really good.
What is he doing. Is he pulling on my hair a little bit as he kisses me? That's not fair. No, I can't do this. Maybe I can just put my hand on his chest and push him away. Wow, he has a nice chest. Push him away, Todd. Push him away! No, not quite yet. This feels good. Better stop. Come up for air. Maker's Mark! Drink your Maker's Mark!!
It feels good to breathe again. But he's still talking about how he tried to get his friends to arrange for us to get in a conversation at the bar one night. And his friends had to help him get up the courage to come talk to me. Oh, man. This is getting worse. Why, oh why did I declare my independence? This is the worst possible timing.
Did he just ask me how I got to be so beautiful? Yes. Yes, he did. This is too much. And he owns three businesses and a corvette and a truck and he has these sparkly blue eyes and is a great kisser, and he doesn't live with his parents and he loves watching me perform and wants to take me camping.
Go home with you? No way. No, not tonight. I'm independent. Okay, he's willing to wait. Good answer. Maybe I can remain independent after all. I can just relax.
Well, at least until after our dinner date..."
Wednesday Morning at CC Slaughters. 1:00 a.m.
"I am so calling in sick tomorrow."
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Danish 101
I saw a tiny bit of Trippin' last night, but I turned it off when the word "fart" was uttered by Cameron Diaz. As a Libra, I have no appreciation for potty humor. It's both a blessing and a curse, I guess.
The part of the show I did see reminded me of how thrilling it is to travel. It has been a few years since I've been fortunate enough to travel abroad. The last time I received a stamp in my passport was when CT and I visited Grand Cayman about five years ago. Now that I've got a new job and am making more money, I hope I'll be able to take some cool trips in the next few years.
CT used to say that I live a charmed life. He was envious of all the places I've seen and the opportunities I have had to experience other cultures. I don't know, maybe I do live a charmed life, but the credit card debt and loans I've incurred in order to finance my life experiences do not feel so charming when they arrive each month.
Still, I wouldn't trade the memories for anything. Some of my best memories are of food, of course. I ate alligator in Kenya at a restaurant called Carnivore. Obviously, this happened before I became a vegetarian. I also remember getting kicked out of a restaurant in Paris, The Hippopotamus, because I ordered a salad, and they said I had to order meat. I remember having the most delicious honey ice cream in Paris, and I enjoyed a warm loaf of brown bread and honey with a generous family in Estonia.
The best breakfast I can remember was enjoyed while staying at a beautifully quaint hotel in Copenhagen, Denmark, I ate the most delicious breakfast of sweet yogurt and strong coffee and a couple danishes. Actually, I don't think people in Copenhagen call it a danish. That would be silly, like if we had a breakfast sandwich called a USA. Whatever they call it, it was scrumptious.
I speak a little Swedish and can also get by in French. But the Danish language is something I can barely understand when it is spoken. I could probably read a few words of it, since it's similar to Swedish, but it sounds so different from Swedish. As Swedish people say, Danes sound like they are speaking with a mouth full of potatoes. So, as I ate that delicious pastry with my friend Melanie, who sat across the table from me, I felt very protective of her. She couldn't understand a word of Danish.
After a few moments, a man approached our table and addressed my friend, "Klemson Weir?" he asked her. I smiled and said, "We don't speak Danish."
Melanie ignored me and said to him, "South Carolina." The man nodded and walked away. I was shocked that Melanie had kept her knowledge of the Danish language a secret from me. "How did you know what he said?" I asked her.
"He was talking about my sweatshirt. It says Clemson." I asked her what that meant. "It's a university, Todd. It's in South Carolina."
Realizing the Danish man had asked, "Clemson, where?", I blushed and dove into my pastry, but not before giving Melanie a word of warning. "We must never speak of this again." She ignored me and later told everyone we knew about my Jessica Simpson moment.
I guess this story just goes to show, you can take the boy out of America, but if he's blonde he'll still be an idiot.
The part of the show I did see reminded me of how thrilling it is to travel. It has been a few years since I've been fortunate enough to travel abroad. The last time I received a stamp in my passport was when CT and I visited Grand Cayman about five years ago. Now that I've got a new job and am making more money, I hope I'll be able to take some cool trips in the next few years.
CT used to say that I live a charmed life. He was envious of all the places I've seen and the opportunities I have had to experience other cultures. I don't know, maybe I do live a charmed life, but the credit card debt and loans I've incurred in order to finance my life experiences do not feel so charming when they arrive each month.
Still, I wouldn't trade the memories for anything. Some of my best memories are of food, of course. I ate alligator in Kenya at a restaurant called Carnivore. Obviously, this happened before I became a vegetarian. I also remember getting kicked out of a restaurant in Paris, The Hippopotamus, because I ordered a salad, and they said I had to order meat. I remember having the most delicious honey ice cream in Paris, and I enjoyed a warm loaf of brown bread and honey with a generous family in Estonia.
The best breakfast I can remember was enjoyed while staying at a beautifully quaint hotel in Copenhagen, Denmark, I ate the most delicious breakfast of sweet yogurt and strong coffee and a couple danishes. Actually, I don't think people in Copenhagen call it a danish. That would be silly, like if we had a breakfast sandwich called a USA. Whatever they call it, it was scrumptious.
I speak a little Swedish and can also get by in French. But the Danish language is something I can barely understand when it is spoken. I could probably read a few words of it, since it's similar to Swedish, but it sounds so different from Swedish. As Swedish people say, Danes sound like they are speaking with a mouth full of potatoes. So, as I ate that delicious pastry with my friend Melanie, who sat across the table from me, I felt very protective of her. She couldn't understand a word of Danish.
After a few moments, a man approached our table and addressed my friend, "Klemson Weir?" he asked her. I smiled and said, "We don't speak Danish."
Melanie ignored me and said to him, "South Carolina." The man nodded and walked away. I was shocked that Melanie had kept her knowledge of the Danish language a secret from me. "How did you know what he said?" I asked her.
"He was talking about my sweatshirt. It says Clemson." I asked her what that meant. "It's a university, Todd. It's in South Carolina."
Realizing the Danish man had asked, "Clemson, where?", I blushed and dove into my pastry, but not before giving Melanie a word of warning. "We must never speak of this again." She ignored me and later told everyone we knew about my Jessica Simpson moment.
I guess this story just goes to show, you can take the boy out of America, but if he's blonde he'll still be an idiot.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Declaration of Independence
One night in January, I went to a party. I didn't really want to be in the presence of lots of people, but since it was a combined birthday party for my friends Juju and Ubergirl, I couldn't possibly say no. As I sat telling my friend Buffy that I was through with dating, a beautiful man approached me and asked me to come have a drink with him. Throughout the night we got to know each other. I was standing behind the bar mixing him a drink at this party, and I remember thinking to myself, "is he into me?" It was at that moment he motioned for me to lean over the bar, and when I did, he kissed me.
We cuddled on the couch and talked. He sang a karaoke song and inserted my name into it over and over. By the end of the evening, I was enthralled with this person who kissed me passionately and said I was beautiful. A few hours earlier, I had declared that I was taking a break from dating. My resolve went out the window later that night, and he left with my phone number. Two minutes after leaving, he came running back into the room to give me one more kiss. It was so sweet.
We spent the next few weeks flirting and kissing. Sometimes he would pull away, claiming that he just wanted to be friends, and I would declare in my heart that I was, once again, through with dating. It was just too soon to feel the hurt again. Then my phone would ring, and he'd ask if we could hang out. Weakly, I would agree because he excited me and was so much fun. It didn't hurt that he was hot and sexy and had a great smile. But I was determined not to cross one particular boundary. I was determined that we would not have sex. I broke that promise too. I am so weak.
It didn't end well. It ended sort of like that scene in Dangerous Liaisons where John Malkovich strikes out at Michelle Pfeiffer and tells her she means nothing to him. And, as there are two sides to every story, maybe he would cast me as the evil one. Regardless of who did what to whom, I felt like I gave it my best shot and tried to accommodate him.
So where am I with all this now? Some people have asked if I ever hear from or see "The Present" anymore. No, I don't. He asked that I never contact him again and I agree now that this is for the best. I think he is the first person I have ever been involved with who doesn't want any sort of friendship with me. The good news is, I have learned from this experience. Something has changed, for real this time.
Yes, it finally happened. The internal shift of desire, the acceptance of what life has handed me, the belief that I am right where I need to be as a single man has become quite clear to me lately. People have begged and pleaded with me to strive for acceptance (Hi, Myron!). My friends have counseled me time and time again that I must learn to be content being alone. What finally brought me to this enlightened state?
Watching my friends fight with their boyfriends.
At last I can say I am happy to be single and really mean it. I don't desire a boyfriend. I am willing to wait as long as it takes. When it happens for me, I want a relationship that feels as natural as breathing. Right now I'm enjoying drama-free living. And for once, I am content with my independence.
We cuddled on the couch and talked. He sang a karaoke song and inserted my name into it over and over. By the end of the evening, I was enthralled with this person who kissed me passionately and said I was beautiful. A few hours earlier, I had declared that I was taking a break from dating. My resolve went out the window later that night, and he left with my phone number. Two minutes after leaving, he came running back into the room to give me one more kiss. It was so sweet.
We spent the next few weeks flirting and kissing. Sometimes he would pull away, claiming that he just wanted to be friends, and I would declare in my heart that I was, once again, through with dating. It was just too soon to feel the hurt again. Then my phone would ring, and he'd ask if we could hang out. Weakly, I would agree because he excited me and was so much fun. It didn't hurt that he was hot and sexy and had a great smile. But I was determined not to cross one particular boundary. I was determined that we would not have sex. I broke that promise too. I am so weak.
It didn't end well. It ended sort of like that scene in Dangerous Liaisons where John Malkovich strikes out at Michelle Pfeiffer and tells her she means nothing to him. And, as there are two sides to every story, maybe he would cast me as the evil one. Regardless of who did what to whom, I felt like I gave it my best shot and tried to accommodate him.
So where am I with all this now? Some people have asked if I ever hear from or see "The Present" anymore. No, I don't. He asked that I never contact him again and I agree now that this is for the best. I think he is the first person I have ever been involved with who doesn't want any sort of friendship with me. The good news is, I have learned from this experience. Something has changed, for real this time.
Yes, it finally happened. The internal shift of desire, the acceptance of what life has handed me, the belief that I am right where I need to be as a single man has become quite clear to me lately. People have begged and pleaded with me to strive for acceptance (Hi, Myron!). My friends have counseled me time and time again that I must learn to be content being alone. What finally brought me to this enlightened state?
Watching my friends fight with their boyfriends.
At last I can say I am happy to be single and really mean it. I don't desire a boyfriend. I am willing to wait as long as it takes. When it happens for me, I want a relationship that feels as natural as breathing. Right now I'm enjoying drama-free living. And for once, I am content with my independence.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Lickity Stiff
After last night's party, I now have enough supplies to make every part of my body tingle. Because my friends enjoyed the wares Juju peddled and were enthusiastic in their purchases, I received over fifty dollars worth of merchandise. I was a little bit late to work this morning since I had to try out some of my new stuff. Now if I can just find someone to help me try out the toys for "two or more".
Although I have never been to a Tupperware party, I'm confident it wouldn't be as much fun as a Pure Romance party. Unless people kissed my lips and bit my nipples at the Tupperware party.
The Handsome Prince wasn't able to make it last night since he's singing golden oldies on a cruise ship two nights a week. I hate throwing parties without him to help coordinate the food. I can't cook. Well, I can, but I don't. I have a mental block about cooking for people. I don't know if I am concerned about being judged or if it's just the fact that my own recipes don't taste as good to me as when someone else makes them. So, I just sort of throw things together and avoid any sort of real cooking.
In spite of the fact that I was only serving simple finger foods, I didn't enjoy the food preparation part of the evening at all. As I was slicing up a baguette I cursed. Deciding whether to slice or cube the cheese nearly did me in. Agonizing over how to cut the pita bread into perfect triangles pissed me off. Auburn Pisces did her best to help, but eventually she decided the only course of action she could take would be to pour me a glass of whiskey and wait for me to calm down.
I will admit, though, that I was proud of the long stem strawberries and chocolate sauce. Putting that together made me feel like I might have a little tiny bit of the gay aesthetic gene after all. I have never been very good at decorating or gourmet food preparation. My gay friends mock me when I show up at parties with my contribution to the buffet table. While others bring homemade quiche and braised whatever, I will bring a jar of olives and some horseradish. The last time I pulled that stunt my friends asked, "what are we supposed to do with olives and horseradish?"
"I don't know. Figure it out. You said the theme was Jewish food, and both of these things had a Star of David on the jar."
I'm not a butch gay man, nor am I in touch with my inner Martha Stewart. I don't know much about cars or sports, but I also know almost nothing about fashion other than what I've seen on Project Runway. I am not very handy with a hammer or saw, but that doesn't mean I'm handy with a skillet and a cutting board. Hell, I can't even work the can opener The Math Whiz brought home from Kitchen Kaboodle.
At times I am completely unsure of where I fit in when it comes to being gay. I am neither "twink" nor "bear". I am neither "butch" nor "femme". I'm somewhere in the middle. Always.
I guess my role is to be the gay guy who wears the lampshade on his head. I'm the one who puts tingling lotion on my lips and nipples and asks the other boys to kiss me. I'm not the guy you want to plan the party. I'm just the guy you want to show up. And, to be honest, I like being that guy very, very much.
Although I have never been to a Tupperware party, I'm confident it wouldn't be as much fun as a Pure Romance party. Unless people kissed my lips and bit my nipples at the Tupperware party.
The Handsome Prince wasn't able to make it last night since he's singing golden oldies on a cruise ship two nights a week. I hate throwing parties without him to help coordinate the food. I can't cook. Well, I can, but I don't. I have a mental block about cooking for people. I don't know if I am concerned about being judged or if it's just the fact that my own recipes don't taste as good to me as when someone else makes them. So, I just sort of throw things together and avoid any sort of real cooking.
In spite of the fact that I was only serving simple finger foods, I didn't enjoy the food preparation part of the evening at all. As I was slicing up a baguette I cursed. Deciding whether to slice or cube the cheese nearly did me in. Agonizing over how to cut the pita bread into perfect triangles pissed me off. Auburn Pisces did her best to help, but eventually she decided the only course of action she could take would be to pour me a glass of whiskey and wait for me to calm down.
I will admit, though, that I was proud of the long stem strawberries and chocolate sauce. Putting that together made me feel like I might have a little tiny bit of the gay aesthetic gene after all. I have never been very good at decorating or gourmet food preparation. My gay friends mock me when I show up at parties with my contribution to the buffet table. While others bring homemade quiche and braised whatever, I will bring a jar of olives and some horseradish. The last time I pulled that stunt my friends asked, "what are we supposed to do with olives and horseradish?"
"I don't know. Figure it out. You said the theme was Jewish food, and both of these things had a Star of David on the jar."
I'm not a butch gay man, nor am I in touch with my inner Martha Stewart. I don't know much about cars or sports, but I also know almost nothing about fashion other than what I've seen on Project Runway. I am not very handy with a hammer or saw, but that doesn't mean I'm handy with a skillet and a cutting board. Hell, I can't even work the can opener The Math Whiz brought home from Kitchen Kaboodle.
At times I am completely unsure of where I fit in when it comes to being gay. I am neither "twink" nor "bear". I am neither "butch" nor "femme". I'm somewhere in the middle. Always.
I guess my role is to be the gay guy who wears the lampshade on his head. I'm the one who puts tingling lotion on my lips and nipples and asks the other boys to kiss me. I'm not the guy you want to plan the party. I'm just the guy you want to show up. And, to be honest, I like being that guy very, very much.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
For Superman
Because you get angry with me when I don't update first thing in the morning, I will post something to tide you over. I know you don't have much time and need to watch Regis & Kelly get on with your day, so I'll just share a quick thought.
I think that if a person is going to sell a product, they should know how to spell the name of that product. Ms. Karma shared a story with me this morning about a Tupperware party she once attended. The Tupperware Lady (yes, all caps - they are important people) was using a chalkboard as a visual aid (I don't know either) and wrote at the top of the board, TUPPERWEAR.
I've decided that's the most pathetic story I have ever heard. I almost cried. I can't imagine being a person who can sell Tupperware, but not spell Tupperware.
I wish there really were a product called Tupperwear. That would be good for rainy days in Oregon.
That's all I've got for now. But it's better than nothing. Or is it?
Juju, I will see you tonight at the Pure Rome Ants party.
I think that if a person is going to sell a product, they should know how to spell the name of that product. Ms. Karma shared a story with me this morning about a Tupperware party she once attended. The Tupperware Lady (yes, all caps - they are important people) was using a chalkboard as a visual aid (I don't know either) and wrote at the top of the board, TUPPERWEAR.
I've decided that's the most pathetic story I have ever heard. I almost cried. I can't imagine being a person who can sell Tupperware, but not spell Tupperware.
I wish there really were a product called Tupperwear. That would be good for rainy days in Oregon.
That's all I've got for now. But it's better than nothing. Or is it?
Juju, I will see you tonight at the Pure Rome Ants party.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
That's My Final Answer
This weekend I took Dolly to Oil Can Henry's for an oil change. They also washed or flushed or replaced the transmission. Whatever.
I remember the first time I saw an Oil Can Henry's after moving to Oregon from Texas. I thought it was a fast food restaurant with really greasy food. Thankfully, one of my friends must have told me it wasn't a restaurant before I made the embarrassing mistake of pulling in to order french fries and a milkshake.
The staff at Oil Can Henry's is very professional and congenial. I like to think that all of them are named Oil Can Henry, even though they have name tags that indicate otherwise. It's more fun to think of them all as Oil Can Henry. They wear bow ties and jaunty little hats. I like their old-fashioned uniforms, so that's why I don't go to Jiffy Lube. Visiting Oil Can Henry's makes me feel like I'm living in the good old days of yesteryear and driving an old jalopy. I need to buy some ragtime music so I can crank it up while having my car serviced.
Now, as I've already established, I'm very ignorant about cars. So I have learned to prepare for the barrage of questions I'm asked whenever I take my car for service. But the one question that always seems to throw me is, "Is your transmission Manual or Automatic?"
This weekend when Oil Can Henry (Bernie) asked me the question, I was caught completely off guard. I couldn't remember the right answer. So I pretended to be reading the menu of services. Very intently, I stared at the prices and various services. I think I started moving my lips silently, pretending to read. The entire time I was trying to remember the right answer, but I looked like I was just very engrossed in my reading.
"Think, Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, THINK! Manual or automatic? Why don't they just ask if it's a stick shift or not? I know how to answer that one! It isn't a stick shift. But does that make it manual or automatic?! I mean, "Manual" means it is operated by hand. I have to use my hand to put the car into Drive or Reverse. So it could be manual. And when I drive a stick shift, I don't have to think about changing gears. It comes naturally. It's automatic. Damn it! What is the answer! I'll just tell him the opposite of what I think it is. That's probably the best way out of this good old-fashioned mess."
I looked up at Oil Can Henry Bernie. "I'm sorry. What did you ask me? I was reading."
"Manual or Automatic?"
I smiled smugly. "Oh, it's automatic." I waited to see if he would laugh at me. I imagined Oil Can Henry Roger and Oil Can Henry Jake and Oil Can Henry Susan all coming over to laugh and point at the idiot who answered the hardest question in the world incorrectly. But he just nodded. I got it right! I got it right!!
Inside my heart, I felt so proud.
I remember the first time I saw an Oil Can Henry's after moving to Oregon from Texas. I thought it was a fast food restaurant with really greasy food. Thankfully, one of my friends must have told me it wasn't a restaurant before I made the embarrassing mistake of pulling in to order french fries and a milkshake.
The staff at Oil Can Henry's is very professional and congenial. I like to think that all of them are named Oil Can Henry, even though they have name tags that indicate otherwise. It's more fun to think of them all as Oil Can Henry. They wear bow ties and jaunty little hats. I like their old-fashioned uniforms, so that's why I don't go to Jiffy Lube. Visiting Oil Can Henry's makes me feel like I'm living in the good old days of yesteryear and driving an old jalopy. I need to buy some ragtime music so I can crank it up while having my car serviced.
Now, as I've already established, I'm very ignorant about cars. So I have learned to prepare for the barrage of questions I'm asked whenever I take my car for service. But the one question that always seems to throw me is, "Is your transmission Manual or Automatic?"
This weekend when Oil Can Henry (Bernie) asked me the question, I was caught completely off guard. I couldn't remember the right answer. So I pretended to be reading the menu of services. Very intently, I stared at the prices and various services. I think I started moving my lips silently, pretending to read. The entire time I was trying to remember the right answer, but I looked like I was just very engrossed in my reading.
"Think, Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, THINK! Manual or automatic? Why don't they just ask if it's a stick shift or not? I know how to answer that one! It isn't a stick shift. But does that make it manual or automatic?! I mean, "Manual" means it is operated by hand. I have to use my hand to put the car into Drive or Reverse. So it could be manual. And when I drive a stick shift, I don't have to think about changing gears. It comes naturally. It's automatic. Damn it! What is the answer! I'll just tell him the opposite of what I think it is. That's probably the best way out of this good old-fashioned mess."
I looked up at Oil Can Henry Bernie. "I'm sorry. What did you ask me? I was reading."
"Manual or Automatic?"
I smiled smugly. "Oh, it's automatic." I waited to see if he would laugh at me. I imagined Oil Can Henry Roger and Oil Can Henry Jake and Oil Can Henry Susan all coming over to laugh and point at the idiot who answered the hardest question in the world incorrectly. But he just nodded. I got it right! I got it right!!
Inside my heart, I felt so proud.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Next, Please
Well, he was cute in a "Sleeping With The Enemy" sort of way, wasn't he?
Time to get back out there and meet boys. I am just chompin' at the bit. There are so many men who need saving. So many crazies and psycho freaks! If there is anybody in this world who needs to be rescued, I will find him. If there is a convict in need of a penpal, I'll write him and send him money. If there is a little Russian baby with no feet or an African boy with no head, I will adopt him. I am like Jesus, only nicer.
As I think about the next person I will date, I get very excited. Will he be directionless and misguided? Will he be running from the law? Will he live with his parents?! The possibilities are endless.
I wish Jeffrey Dahmer weren't dead so I could date him.
I would also like to have a shot with Robert Downey, Jr., and if they ever find Osama, he's all mine. Back off!
Michael Jackson would make a good boyfriend. Every day would be filled with new and exciting adventures and brand new faces to scare me!
As has been pointed out, if you sleep with me I will think we are married. I can't differentiate between sex and marriage. I am really a big idiot that way. It is so difficult being a huge slut who wants commitment. I want to be married to a crazy person so bad. If I dated Britney, she would probably marry me! For a couple days at least.
Hell, I should try dating some women. Is Courtney Love available? I'm sure there must be thousands of needy insane women who'd let me save them. Angelina Jolie, for starters. I could make her be faithful to me. I just know I could.
The problem with women is that I don't want to have sex with them and most do not have big enough biceps for me to grab onto. They also have too many holes. I would get confused during sex.
The wacko men of the world will just have to do for now. If you have an extra special crazy ex-boyfriend, please tell him about me and be sure to give him my e-mail address. Just let him know he can't have my phone number until I get to know him better. One short e-mail will be sufficient for me to trust him, and he can even insult me in it. I'll forgive him.
Or maybe I will get lucky and run into Alex, whose number I've thrown away a dozen times. As Juju puts it, Hot Toddy likes his men "pen-clickin crazy".
Time to get back out there and meet boys. I am just chompin' at the bit. There are so many men who need saving. So many crazies and psycho freaks! If there is anybody in this world who needs to be rescued, I will find him. If there is a convict in need of a penpal, I'll write him and send him money. If there is a little Russian baby with no feet or an African boy with no head, I will adopt him. I am like Jesus, only nicer.
As I think about the next person I will date, I get very excited. Will he be directionless and misguided? Will he be running from the law? Will he live with his parents?! The possibilities are endless.
I wish Jeffrey Dahmer weren't dead so I could date him.
I would also like to have a shot with Robert Downey, Jr., and if they ever find Osama, he's all mine. Back off!
Michael Jackson would make a good boyfriend. Every day would be filled with new and exciting adventures and brand new faces to scare me!
As has been pointed out, if you sleep with me I will think we are married. I can't differentiate between sex and marriage. I am really a big idiot that way. It is so difficult being a huge slut who wants commitment. I want to be married to a crazy person so bad. If I dated Britney, she would probably marry me! For a couple days at least.
Hell, I should try dating some women. Is Courtney Love available? I'm sure there must be thousands of needy insane women who'd let me save them. Angelina Jolie, for starters. I could make her be faithful to me. I just know I could.
The problem with women is that I don't want to have sex with them and most do not have big enough biceps for me to grab onto. They also have too many holes. I would get confused during sex.
The wacko men of the world will just have to do for now. If you have an extra special crazy ex-boyfriend, please tell him about me and be sure to give him my e-mail address. Just let him know he can't have my phone number until I get to know him better. One short e-mail will be sufficient for me to trust him, and he can even insult me in it. I'll forgive him.
Or maybe I will get lucky and run into Alex, whose number I've thrown away a dozen times. As Juju puts it, Hot Toddy likes his men "pen-clickin crazy".
Monday, March 21, 2005
Playing Games
It wasn't as bad as you might suspect. Friday morning, after a night of St. Pattie's Day festivities, I wasn't even hung over. I actually woke up at 9 a.m. and jumped into my day with enthusiastic zeal. For me, enthusiastic zeal is expressed by making a pot of coffee and watching Popular on DVD all day. But it was a peaceful relaxing day, and I think it is important to spend an entire day in bed every now and then.
Thursday night I met up with some friends at CC Slaughters. The Toddtender put a green garter around my thigh, which thrilled me to no end. Physical contact with The Toddtender is usually out of the question since he has very strict boundaries about cavorting with customers. But he made an exception on Thursday and I felt his hands on my thigh for the first, and probably last, time.
The Present had a ton of fun too. He gave his gifts to someone else that night, making it clear that he and I are going to take the friendship route. I am sure we'll see each other often, since he is one of my favorite people to play canasta with, but I can no longer call him The Present since I won't be unwrapping him anymore. The Past is a great guy, though, and I hope we'll remain friends. Besides, my friends have fun with him, so he's going to have to stick around.
Superman and I went to see a play on Saturday night and had some drinks before (and after) the show. He is fun to be around. He is funny, but thinks he isn't, although he thinks he is funny to himself. Complicated, isn't it? He thinks he is funny but has the misconception that other people don't think he is funny, but he is funny. Never mind. It was awesome to see Juju and Metro as well. They love me, and I love them. Juju is my rock, I swear. After living apart for several months, we still whisper about boys together, since we can't discuss things over morning coffee anymore.
On Sunday afternoon, I hung out alone in The Vortex and watched birds and squirrels fighting. I had placed a bird feeder on a tree branch, and immediately a squirrel began feasting on it. Then a bluejay took dive bombs at the squirrel, apparently trying to knock the furry creature to the ground. I thought about intervening, but I decided not to interfere with nature. I kind of wanted the bluejay to win, even though I think squirrels are really cute. After a while, the squirrel gave up and left, but the bluejay left too, so I guess the whole thing was just a game for him.
At this point in my entry, I have a choice. Do I begin analyzing whether or not I was just a game for people who seemed genuinely interested in me, or do I finish writing about Sunday?
Sunday night I had a few quiet drinks with someone very special to me. He says I never write about him anymore. He's right, but we don't really see each other much anymore. Things have changed.
But you must know that you can be in my heart without being in my blog...
Update: The comments have been crazy today. I've had some great e-mails and phone calls too. Please note that I really never intended to upset anybody with this post. I can't control how people respond to my words, but I really had no malice in my heart while writing today's entry. Except for the part about hoping the bluejay would beat the squirrel. That was kinda mean.
Thursday night I met up with some friends at CC Slaughters. The Toddtender put a green garter around my thigh, which thrilled me to no end. Physical contact with The Toddtender is usually out of the question since he has very strict boundaries about cavorting with customers. But he made an exception on Thursday and I felt his hands on my thigh for the first, and probably last, time.
The Present had a ton of fun too. He gave his gifts to someone else that night, making it clear that he and I are going to take the friendship route. I am sure we'll see each other often, since he is one of my favorite people to play canasta with, but I can no longer call him The Present since I won't be unwrapping him anymore. The Past is a great guy, though, and I hope we'll remain friends. Besides, my friends have fun with him, so he's going to have to stick around.
Superman and I went to see a play on Saturday night and had some drinks before (and after) the show. He is fun to be around. He is funny, but thinks he isn't, although he thinks he is funny to himself. Complicated, isn't it? He thinks he is funny but has the misconception that other people don't think he is funny, but he is funny. Never mind. It was awesome to see Juju and Metro as well. They love me, and I love them. Juju is my rock, I swear. After living apart for several months, we still whisper about boys together, since we can't discuss things over morning coffee anymore.
On Sunday afternoon, I hung out alone in The Vortex and watched birds and squirrels fighting. I had placed a bird feeder on a tree branch, and immediately a squirrel began feasting on it. Then a bluejay took dive bombs at the squirrel, apparently trying to knock the furry creature to the ground. I thought about intervening, but I decided not to interfere with nature. I kind of wanted the bluejay to win, even though I think squirrels are really cute. After a while, the squirrel gave up and left, but the bluejay left too, so I guess the whole thing was just a game for him.
At this point in my entry, I have a choice. Do I begin analyzing whether or not I was just a game for people who seemed genuinely interested in me, or do I finish writing about Sunday?
Sunday night I had a few quiet drinks with someone very special to me. He says I never write about him anymore. He's right, but we don't really see each other much anymore. Things have changed.
But you must know that you can be in my heart without being in my blog...
Update: The comments have been crazy today. I've had some great e-mails and phone calls too. Please note that I really never intended to upset anybody with this post. I can't control how people respond to my words, but I really had no malice in my heart while writing today's entry. Except for the part about hoping the bluejay would beat the squirrel. That was kinda mean.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Recipe for Disaster
Take one holiday that involves the drinking of whiskey and beer.
Schedule the holiday one day prior to payday.
Add the wearing of green clothing that accentuates Hot Toddy's blonde hair and blue eyes.
Mix with a Thursday night at CC Slaughters.
Add gallons of $1.25 well drinks and a dash of Hunky Toddtender serving said drinks.
Blend with amorous boys proclaiming, "Kiss me, I'm Irish!", and broil the entire concoction in Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven for several hours.
Garnish with Hot Toddy having Friday off from work and a full weekend of recuperation.
Serve Hot.
Voila! Utter Disaster!
See you Monday.
Schedule the holiday one day prior to payday.
Add the wearing of green clothing that accentuates Hot Toddy's blonde hair and blue eyes.
Mix with a Thursday night at CC Slaughters.
Add gallons of $1.25 well drinks and a dash of Hunky Toddtender serving said drinks.
Blend with amorous boys proclaiming, "Kiss me, I'm Irish!", and broil the entire concoction in Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven for several hours.
Garnish with Hot Toddy having Friday off from work and a full weekend of recuperation.
Serve Hot.
Voila! Utter Disaster!
See you Monday.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
I Am Sorry, American Idol
One night last week I was bored, so I watched American Idol. I know, I know. You expect better from me. But I heard The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz watching it in their bedroom, and they were laughing, and I was lonely with only a bottle of whiskey for a friend, so I gave in and tuned in. Then I started drinking whiskey and actually texting my votes. I had completely lost my mind.
Just when I thought I had reached the depths of shame, I descended even further into inane texting behavior. I signed up for American Idol Text Message Trivia. This is something I deeply regret. I'm more ashamed of this than I am of the drunk message I left my ex one night: "Youuuu arrre shuch a shelfish person, CT. I am drunk right now, but shooo what. You shelfish bastard..."
Now, for the past week, I've been receiving these annoying text messages from someone at American Idol Trivia Central. I imagine a room filled with workers with tiny thumbs texting trivia questions all across the land. I think my Trivia Question Asker's name is 60200 or something like that. I don't know if she is a robot or what, but she has been really busy typing out these trivia questions and sending them to me. I try to respond (even though I haven't watched the show since I signed up for trivia) and sometimes I guess correctly. 60200 is very encouraging when I get the right answer. "Super! You got it right!"
If I get the answer wrong, she's gentle but firm. "Nope. The answer was B". As soon as I answer a question, another question arrives, and my cell phone doorbell chime tone goes off to let me know.
60200 never seems to run out of questions. And I'm totally making up answers, but I don't think she has figured out that I'm not watching the show anymore. This morning I received a message that stated I could end the stream of American Idol trivia by replying with the word "Stop".
I typed "Stop" and paused for a moment before sending my message. How was 60200 going to feel when she saw my reply? Would she be out of a job? What if she was the personal trivia question asker assigned to me? More importantly, what if she was starting to have feelings for me? What if she considered us to be friends?
So I deleted the word "Stop" and typed, "I appreciate all you've done 4 me. I am done playing trivia now."
Three more trivia questions arrived. I replied, "Okay, thx. Enough for now! U have been great, tho!"
A couple more questions about Paula Abdul's outfit and Simon's critiques arrived. "No time to play, 60200! Love U! C ya!"
Another question popped up. I replied with a single word.
"STOP"
My phone went silent. The week-long trivia game ended as quickly as it had begun.
And now I feel so rude.
Just when I thought I had reached the depths of shame, I descended even further into inane texting behavior. I signed up for American Idol Text Message Trivia. This is something I deeply regret. I'm more ashamed of this than I am of the drunk message I left my ex one night: "Youuuu arrre shuch a shelfish person, CT. I am drunk right now, but shooo what. You shelfish bastard..."
Now, for the past week, I've been receiving these annoying text messages from someone at American Idol Trivia Central. I imagine a room filled with workers with tiny thumbs texting trivia questions all across the land. I think my Trivia Question Asker's name is 60200 or something like that. I don't know if she is a robot or what, but she has been really busy typing out these trivia questions and sending them to me. I try to respond (even though I haven't watched the show since I signed up for trivia) and sometimes I guess correctly. 60200 is very encouraging when I get the right answer. "Super! You got it right!"
If I get the answer wrong, she's gentle but firm. "Nope. The answer was B". As soon as I answer a question, another question arrives, and my cell phone doorbell chime tone goes off to let me know.
60200 never seems to run out of questions. And I'm totally making up answers, but I don't think she has figured out that I'm not watching the show anymore. This morning I received a message that stated I could end the stream of American Idol trivia by replying with the word "Stop".
I typed "Stop" and paused for a moment before sending my message. How was 60200 going to feel when she saw my reply? Would she be out of a job? What if she was the personal trivia question asker assigned to me? More importantly, what if she was starting to have feelings for me? What if she considered us to be friends?
So I deleted the word "Stop" and typed, "I appreciate all you've done 4 me. I am done playing trivia now."
Three more trivia questions arrived. I replied, "Okay, thx. Enough for now! U have been great, tho!"
A couple more questions about Paula Abdul's outfit and Simon's critiques arrived. "No time to play, 60200! Love U! C ya!"
Another question popped up. I replied with a single word.
"STOP"
My phone went silent. The week-long trivia game ended as quickly as it had begun.
And now I feel so rude.
Surely I Jest...
If you don't have a sense of humor, I think you should go away now. My fake feud with Dan Renzi seems to have attracted some humor-impaired visitors. I would like to kindly and respectfully ask that those people go away, please. I appreciate that you stopped by, but your services will not be needed here any longer. I am astonished that anyone would take too seriously a blog called "Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven", but apparently the comedy is too subtle.
While nothing thrills me more than being lectured in my comments, it might be helpful if all you Future Evangelists of America would maybe read an entry or two before deciding who I am and chastising me based on your extensive knowledge of my life based on the two paragraphs you've read.
I love the people who regularly read and comment on Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven. I love my friends from far away who send me e-mails. I love talking on the phone to several HTTO readers who live all over the country. I don't need everyone to agree with me in my comments. It's okay to disagree with my views. But it's pretty to stupid to debate a joke, don't you think? There are a few new visitors who need to lighten up or go away. Read a few of my entries and try to get some sense of who I am before you spew fire and brimstone. As my friend (and Erin's friend) Nancypants would say, "You don't know me, fucko."
I am not really feuding with Dan Renzi, I don't really think that sleeping with four guys makes me a slut, and I know that David Sedaris is gay.
Yuck, I hate this post.
To all the cool normal people who read and comment regularly, I love you now more than ever. You all know who you are.
While nothing thrills me more than being lectured in my comments, it might be helpful if all you Future Evangelists of America would maybe read an entry or two before deciding who I am and chastising me based on your extensive knowledge of my life based on the two paragraphs you've read.
I love the people who regularly read and comment on Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven. I love my friends from far away who send me e-mails. I love talking on the phone to several HTTO readers who live all over the country. I don't need everyone to agree with me in my comments. It's okay to disagree with my views. But it's pretty to stupid to debate a joke, don't you think? There are a few new visitors who need to lighten up or go away. Read a few of my entries and try to get some sense of who I am before you spew fire and brimstone. As my friend (and Erin's friend) Nancypants would say, "You don't know me, fucko."
I am not really feuding with Dan Renzi, I don't really think that sleeping with four guys makes me a slut, and I know that David Sedaris is gay.
Yuck, I hate this post.
To all the cool normal people who read and comment regularly, I love you now more than ever. You all know who you are.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Celebrity Feud
I am in a celebrity feud with Dan Renzi.
Yeah, I know I am not as big a celebrity as Dan Renzi, but I get recognized at the bars from my performance in 10 Naked Men last summer, so I still have some clout. Dan wrote me over a year ago and pretended to be very sweet and friendly towards me. Suddenly, his tone has changed. He has become a jealous petty man and regularly taunts me on his blog. Well, not so much regularly. But he has taunted me twice in two weeks, and I refuse to roll over and play dead.
This time he has gone too far by implying that I drink too much and am promiscuous. I admit, it didn't help my case much when I admitted yesterday to having slept with 80 percent of the men who visited The Vortex last weekend (not all at once). So, I was never a supermodel and will only dream of being cast in a reality television show, but why must Dan Renzi pick on the little people?
Dan, your words are hurting people. But I refuse to stoop to your level.
No, I refuse.
Okay, never mind. I will stoop just this once.
One day at work a gay man with a mullet said that I had ugly shoes. Because he was a gay man with a mullet, I took it as a compliment. I was quite relieved that he didn't care for my fashion taste. That is exactly how I feel about gaining your approval.
I watched your little television show last night. I wasn't happy. When I heard you were being sent to The Inferno, I thought it meant you had to spend the night in a pit of fire. I was excited at the thought of watching you crawl around in the flames hacking and choking from the smoke. Instead, all you had to do was hang on a pole while skillfully wrapping your legs around another man's body. Like that would be hard for you. So it turned me on a little bit. But I'm still mad at you.
I think it is your fault that I didn't win the coveted Bloggie.
(Where do we go with this now, Dan? Please e-mail me again so we can plan our next argument. I assume you have partied with Britney and Christina because you are so famous. Can they give us any pointers on how to feud? Do I get to slap you in public or anything? Can we get Flora involved in this somehow? I'm sure she would take my side, right?)
One more thing. I watched The Inferno carefully. I just wanted to say that I think Dan Renzi is lip-synching his performance.
Yeah, I know I am not as big a celebrity as Dan Renzi, but I get recognized at the bars from my performance in 10 Naked Men last summer, so I still have some clout. Dan wrote me over a year ago and pretended to be very sweet and friendly towards me. Suddenly, his tone has changed. He has become a jealous petty man and regularly taunts me on his blog. Well, not so much regularly. But he has taunted me twice in two weeks, and I refuse to roll over and play dead.
This time he has gone too far by implying that I drink too much and am promiscuous. I admit, it didn't help my case much when I admitted yesterday to having slept with 80 percent of the men who visited The Vortex last weekend (not all at once). So, I was never a supermodel and will only dream of being cast in a reality television show, but why must Dan Renzi pick on the little people?
Dan, your words are hurting people. But I refuse to stoop to your level.
No, I refuse.
Okay, never mind. I will stoop just this once.
One day at work a gay man with a mullet said that I had ugly shoes. Because he was a gay man with a mullet, I took it as a compliment. I was quite relieved that he didn't care for my fashion taste. That is exactly how I feel about gaining your approval.
I watched your little television show last night. I wasn't happy. When I heard you were being sent to The Inferno, I thought it meant you had to spend the night in a pit of fire. I was excited at the thought of watching you crawl around in the flames hacking and choking from the smoke. Instead, all you had to do was hang on a pole while skillfully wrapping your legs around another man's body. Like that would be hard for you. So it turned me on a little bit. But I'm still mad at you.
I think it is your fault that I didn't win the coveted Bloggie.
(Where do we go with this now, Dan? Please e-mail me again so we can plan our next argument. I assume you have partied with Britney and Christina because you are so famous. Can they give us any pointers on how to feud? Do I get to slap you in public or anything? Can we get Flora involved in this somehow? I'm sure she would take my side, right?)
One more thing. I watched The Inferno carefully. I just wanted to say that I think Dan Renzi is lip-synching his performance.
Still Whoring After All These Years
As we approach the Ides of March, I find myself, of course, thinking back on the time I spent with my lover, Julius. In my past life, I was Whorus Antonius. Yet, even though that time was thousands of years ago, I find myself still engaging in Whorus behavior.
This morning I was in the shower reviewing my weekend. The part I was mainly reviewing was the part where I gave The Present a back massage on my bed. The Present has the most beautiful back you have ever seen. His skin is almost the same color as The Rock's skin and is so soft and smooth.....um, anyway.
Back to the weekend. We had lots of friends over on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. But this morning, to my horror (and pride) I realized that I slept with four out of five of the men visiting The Vortex this weekend. I am not good at math, but that is like 20 percent at least, right? It is strange to sit in TheWhortex Vortex and watch your most recent ex-boyfriend engaged in conversation with someone you carried on an illicit secret affair with for over a year. It is surreal to hear them analyzing you and debating whether or not you exhibit traits of "innocence" in bed. I felt like my fantasy of being invisible and hearing what people say about me was coming true. I could have set myself on fire, and they wouldn't have noticed my presence.
On the way to work this morning, I asked The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz an important question: "Am I a slut?"
"No," they both immediately responded. I told them about my math calculations (okay, so it's 80 percent) and asked them how many men a person would have to sleep with to qualify for slut status.
The Handsome Prince thinks he knows me so well. Instead of answering my question, he responded with another question. "Are you looking for blog material?"
Like I would ever do that.
This morning I was in the shower reviewing my weekend. The part I was mainly reviewing was the part where I gave The Present a back massage on my bed. The Present has the most beautiful back you have ever seen. His skin is almost the same color as The Rock's skin and is so soft and smooth.....um, anyway.
Back to the weekend. We had lots of friends over on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. But this morning, to my horror (and pride) I realized that I slept with four out of five of the men visiting The Vortex this weekend. I am not good at math, but that is like 20 percent at least, right? It is strange to sit in The
On the way to work this morning, I asked The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz an important question: "Am I a slut?"
"No," they both immediately responded. I told them about my math calculations (okay, so it's 80 percent) and asked them how many men a person would have to sleep with to qualify for slut status.
The Handsome Prince thinks he knows me so well. Instead of answering my question, he responded with another question. "Are you looking for blog material?"
Like I would ever do that.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Reasons To Skip A Workout
He may be the gay Dave Barry, but I am the gay David Sedaris. Last night a bunch of us met up at the bar to catch up with one another's lives. Marco has been traveling all over the country promoting his novel. It was so good to see him again and to enjoy creative conversation with him. Invariably during our conversations, one of us will pull out a pen and paper to jot down ideas for plays, blogs, articles, etc.
Last night Marco and I compiled a list of our best excuses to skip the gym. Yes, we know we are dorks for scribbling notes while the rest of our friends are dancing and flirting, but this is who we are. Two tortured artists. Two slaves to the written word. Two horny guys who will never get any action if they don't look up from their notepads.
Don't beat yourself up if you skip a workout! Just use one of these handy excuses next time you'd rather eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby than endure a forty-five minute upper body workout:
1. I don't have any athletic socks. I refuse to run on a treadmill in dark socks that look ridiculous with my gym shorts.
2. I don't have my gym bag. I left it at the bar.
3. I just ate and will get acid reflux if I work out.
4. I haven't eaten yet and am too hungry to work out.
5. The hot guy I like to watch is finished with his workout, and now there is nobody hot at the gym anyway, so I should just leave.
6. That lady on the treadmill is so loud and is always trying to catch everybody up on the plot of the soap opera showing on the television.
7. I am tired of the songs on my iPod.
8. My iPod is broken.
9. I don't have an iPod.
10. The other tv is showing Oprah, and it's a re-run.
11. Happy Hour starts in five minutes.
12. Charles Ingalls on "Little House on the Prairie" never worked out and look how sexy he was.
13. Nobody will see how my body looks since mnsw - irkw ks 's temmm asod
Sorry, somebody spilled a beer on the notepad, and I couldn't make out that last one.
Have a great weekend, and thanks to all who left such great comments yesterday. I had a blast reading them! I love you all more than Morningstar Farms Vegetarian Buffalo Wings.
Last night Marco and I compiled a list of our best excuses to skip the gym. Yes, we know we are dorks for scribbling notes while the rest of our friends are dancing and flirting, but this is who we are. Two tortured artists. Two slaves to the written word. Two horny guys who will never get any action if they don't look up from their notepads.
Don't beat yourself up if you skip a workout! Just use one of these handy excuses next time you'd rather eat a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby than endure a forty-five minute upper body workout:
1. I don't have any athletic socks. I refuse to run on a treadmill in dark socks that look ridiculous with my gym shorts.
2. I don't have my gym bag. I left it at the bar.
3. I just ate and will get acid reflux if I work out.
4. I haven't eaten yet and am too hungry to work out.
5. The hot guy I like to watch is finished with his workout, and now there is nobody hot at the gym anyway, so I should just leave.
6. That lady on the treadmill is so loud and is always trying to catch everybody up on the plot of the soap opera showing on the television.
7. I am tired of the songs on my iPod.
8. My iPod is broken.
9. I don't have an iPod.
10. The other tv is showing Oprah, and it's a re-run.
11. Happy Hour starts in five minutes.
12. Charles Ingalls on "Little House on the Prairie" never worked out and look how sexy he was.
13. Nobody will see how my body looks since mnsw - irkw ks 's temmm asod
Sorry, somebody spilled a beer on the notepad, and I couldn't make out that last one.
Have a great weekend, and thanks to all who left such great comments yesterday. I had a blast reading them! I love you all more than Morningstar Farms Vegetarian Buffalo Wings.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
I Demand an Apology
Now that I have groveled and begged forgiveness, it's your turn. Normally, I am not the type of person to insist on an apology. Yesterday at lunch, I ordered an iced tea, but the waiter brought me water. I didn't say anything. Later, the waiter remembered I had asked for iced tea and brought me what I wanted. Sometimes things work out if you just keep your mouth shut and wait for people to realize their mistakes.
Last night at CC Slaughters, I asked for a Maker's Mark neat and received a shot glass of Maker's Mark. I didn't say anything, because the bartender is new and doesn't know I pay the mortgage for that establishment. But another bartender jumped to my rescue and showed the trainee how to pour me a proper glass of whiskey in a bucket, not a shotglass.
Today, instead of sitting idly by while people wrong me, I am going to insist on some apologies:
Billy Joel, I am so angry with you for writing that song "We Didn't Start the Fire," and I don't think I've ever forgiven you. That is not a song. It's a list. I fell in love with your early music, especially "Summer Highland Falls" and "Miami 2017", but you betrayed me with that stupid faux rap song. You and I are no longer on speaking terms, although you're completely unaware of my existence. Just thought you should know.
Jase, I am really angry with you for waiting to come out until after I left New York City. We could have shared something special.
Dan Renzi, how dare you taunt me in your blog. I thought you would be happy for me when I was nominated for a Bloggie. I never try to pretend that I got where I am on my own. Everyone knows you made me. You were the first to call me "nebulous, neurotic and never dull". Once I looked up nebulous in the dictionary, I realized you were complimenting me. That's why I credit you on my sidebar. But you betrayed me and mocked me publicly, so I want an apology from you, or at least a make-out session.
I also want an apology from my stupid coworker, Kimmy. You called and left me a voice mail this morning requesting lots of information. I called you back and, since you weren't available, left you a voice mail containing all the information you needed. Then you called me back and chastised me saying, "I left you a voice mail this morning, Todd!" So I responded, "Yes, and I called you back." You retorted that you hadn't checked your voice mail yet. So, how did this become my problem? Check your messages before you call and scold me, you stupid bitch. (See, I learned how to use the phrase "stupid bitch" from Dan Renzi. I told you he made me what I am today.)
And to those of you who read the details of my life and yet refuse to leave a comment, you owe me big time. You know all about my fear of Snapple lids and my obsession with The Rock and my crushes and trials and tribulations. But you refuse to participate in what could be a deeply meaningful relationship. Why do you spurn me and lurk here? Why do you stare at me in shock and horror like I am some bearded lady in the circus? Show yourselves, or feel my wrath.
Last night at CC Slaughters, I asked for a Maker's Mark neat and received a shot glass of Maker's Mark. I didn't say anything, because the bartender is new and doesn't know I pay the mortgage for that establishment. But another bartender jumped to my rescue and showed the trainee how to pour me a proper glass of whiskey in a bucket, not a shotglass.
Today, instead of sitting idly by while people wrong me, I am going to insist on some apologies:
Billy Joel, I am so angry with you for writing that song "We Didn't Start the Fire," and I don't think I've ever forgiven you. That is not a song. It's a list. I fell in love with your early music, especially "Summer Highland Falls" and "Miami 2017", but you betrayed me with that stupid faux rap song. You and I are no longer on speaking terms, although you're completely unaware of my existence. Just thought you should know.
Jase, I am really angry with you for waiting to come out until after I left New York City. We could have shared something special.
Dan Renzi, how dare you taunt me in your blog. I thought you would be happy for me when I was nominated for a Bloggie. I never try to pretend that I got where I am on my own. Everyone knows you made me. You were the first to call me "nebulous, neurotic and never dull". Once I looked up nebulous in the dictionary, I realized you were complimenting me. That's why I credit you on my sidebar. But you betrayed me and mocked me publicly, so I want an apology from you, or at least a make-out session.
I also want an apology from my stupid coworker, Kimmy. You called and left me a voice mail this morning requesting lots of information. I called you back and, since you weren't available, left you a voice mail containing all the information you needed. Then you called me back and chastised me saying, "I left you a voice mail this morning, Todd!" So I responded, "Yes, and I called you back." You retorted that you hadn't checked your voice mail yet. So, how did this become my problem? Check your messages before you call and scold me, you stupid bitch. (See, I learned how to use the phrase "stupid bitch" from Dan Renzi. I told you he made me what I am today.)
And to those of you who read the details of my life and yet refuse to leave a comment, you owe me big time. You know all about my fear of Snapple lids and my obsession with The Rock and my crushes and trials and tribulations. But you refuse to participate in what could be a deeply meaningful relationship. Why do you spurn me and lurk here? Why do you stare at me in shock and horror like I am some bearded lady in the circus? Show yourselves, or feel my wrath.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
More Apologies
The response to my offer of apologies to injured parties has been very good. By now some of you may have received e-mail apologies or at least a request for forgiveness in your blog comments.
Some of you have asked that I apologize to you for transgressions I haven't yet committed. That seems very unfair, but I apologize anyway. I am sorry I am going to hurt you. Please forgive me when the time comes.
Dirty Dan, I am truly sorry for not drunk dialing you. I am shy.
I would like to also issue another very public apology to Metro.
Two years ago he took me on the road trip of a lifetime. We went to San Francisco, Los Angeles and Las Vegas. We shared a bed, and during the night he would spoon with me. As a straight (and very cute) boy, he feels deep embarrassment about this. As a gay (and very cute) boy, I am extremely proud that I spent several nights cuddling with Metro. Basically, I talk about it all the time. To anyone and everyone who will listen.
Metro, I am sorry that I brag about having been one of the lucky few to sleep in your arms. But at least I don't tell people about how I used to watch you do sit-ups in your Jockey bikini briefs while we were in our hotel room.
Well, until now.
Some of you have asked that I apologize to you for transgressions I haven't yet committed. That seems very unfair, but I apologize anyway. I am sorry I am going to hurt you. Please forgive me when the time comes.
Dirty Dan, I am truly sorry for not drunk dialing you. I am shy.
I would like to also issue another very public apology to Metro.
Two years ago he took me on the road trip of a lifetime. We went to San Francisco, Los Angeles and Las Vegas. We shared a bed, and during the night he would spoon with me. As a straight (and very cute) boy, he feels deep embarrassment about this. As a gay (and very cute) boy, I am extremely proud that I spent several nights cuddling with Metro. Basically, I talk about it all the time. To anyone and everyone who will listen.
Metro, I am sorry that I brag about having been one of the lucky few to sleep in your arms. But at least I don't tell people about how I used to watch you do sit-ups in your Jockey bikini briefs while we were in our hotel room.
Well, until now.
Apologies
To my hot bartender, The Toddtender: I am sorry that last night I said your beard was getting too thick and that it was becoming "Santa Claus-ish".
To my housemate, The Handsome Prince: I am sorry that I overslept this morning and made you worry that I wouldn't get up to help you move our broken refrigerator into the garage. It was hard to motivate myself to replace the broken refrigerator in the kitchen with the broken refrigerator in the garage because we have made this same switch three times, and every time we exchange refrigerators it seems the one that was working while sitting in the garage immediately stops working when we get it into the kitchen and, frankly, I don't pay enough rent to take on this extra hassle, but you are my best friend so I know I should help you when you need me.
To "The Present" I unwrapped Saturday night: I am sorry that I didn't go into more detail about your stunning good looks and great personality, because I know you are almost as much of an attention whore as I am, but I can't allow myself to obsessively blog about you, because that always ruins everything. But you are right, it was "fetch".
Do I owe anyone else an apology? If you feel I have wronged you in some way, now is a good time to let me know since I am feeling penitent.
To my housemate, The Handsome Prince: I am sorry that I overslept this morning and made you worry that I wouldn't get up to help you move our broken refrigerator into the garage. It was hard to motivate myself to replace the broken refrigerator in the kitchen with the broken refrigerator in the garage because we have made this same switch three times, and every time we exchange refrigerators it seems the one that was working while sitting in the garage immediately stops working when we get it into the kitchen and, frankly, I don't pay enough rent to take on this extra hassle, but you are my best friend so I know I should help you when you need me.
To "The Present" I unwrapped Saturday night: I am sorry that I didn't go into more detail about your stunning good looks and great personality, because I know you are almost as much of an attention whore as I am, but I can't allow myself to obsessively blog about you, because that always ruins everything. But you are right, it was "fetch".
Do I owe anyone else an apology? If you feel I have wronged you in some way, now is a good time to let me know since I am feeling penitent.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Happy Birthday to Me. I mean...her.
I forgot it wasn't my birthday. It was Auburn Pisces' birthday.
I wanted to make it the best birthday ever for my dear friend. So I enlisted the help of my personal caterer, The Handsome Prince. He loves to cook, and we struck up a deal that if I bought all the food, he would prepare a Mexican-themed buffet. Auburn Pisces loves her margaritas, so we thought the theme would be appropriate.
Friday night, while sitting in The Vortex planning the party with The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz, I drunk-dialed AP and asked her what kind of cake she'd like. I put her on speaker phone so she could interact with all three of us.
"I want a Betty Crocker Cherry Chip Cake," she said sweetly.
"That sounds good," chirped The Handsome Prince.
"Yummy!" twittered the Math Whiz.
"Oh my god. That is so white trash," hissed Hot Toddy, who is Satan incarnate.
"My mom used to make me that cake every year," angelically spoke AP.
"Whatever. Fine," spewed drunk Hot Toddy.
A few minutes later I received a text message from Auburn Pisces:
"Can I change my cake order to carrot cake?"
I made a mental note to myself to tell The Handsome Prince to make carrot cake instead of whatever that other silly cake was. Then I made a mental note to myself to buy more lube and then I remembered how cool Nellie Oleson's dress was in that episode "Country Girls" when she reads her essay to the class about how rich her family was.
Anyway. Saturday morning I told The Handsome Prince, "Oh, Auburn Pisces wants carrot cake tonight instead of that other cake."
"That's because you said her cherry chip cake was white trash," he said.
I think it only took about twenty seconds for tears to form in my now sober eyes. "What? You think I really hurt her feelings?" I ran into the house to grab my cell phone and call her. By the time she answered, I had a lump in my throat the size of The Rock's biceps.
"Did you take me seriously when I said your cake was white trash?" I asked.
"Well, I knew you were joking, but after you said that I began to worry that other people at the party might think the same thing," she answered while the evil devil horns on my head grew another three inches.
"No! No, I was drunk and joking. I didn't mean it, AP. I'm white trash, not you! My family's favorite meals growing up were frozen Sarah Lee Chicken 'n Dumplings or Creamed Chip Beef on Wonder Bread toast!"
She then told me how her mom, may she rest in peace, made a Betty Crocker Cherry Chip cake for her sweet daughter every year on her birthday. And since AP won't even get a card from her darling mother this year, she wanted the cake to remind her of their special bond.
At that point I think I wailed and fell to my knees as I ripped at my clothes and put dirt on my head. After ending our phone call with the assurance that she could have whatever kind of cake she damn well wanted, I ran inside to tell The Math Whiz how awful I felt. "Oh, I forgot to tell you she text messaged me last night and asked if I thought the other people at the party would think she was white trash if she had a cherry chip birthday cake."
"I am Hitler," I told him.
Well, the party went off without a hitch. Auburn Pisces enjoyed the buffet and the margaritas and her Wonderful Elegant Godly Perfect Divine Classy Betty Crocker Cherry Chip Cake. I even made the cake as penance instead of asking The Handsome Prince to do it as originally planned. I worked extra hard to break up every tiny flour chunk in the mix. I beat the batter until my arms were sore, and believe me, I can usually beat things for a long time before my arms get sore. Sometimes my hand starts tingling a little, but my arms rarely get sore. Anyway.
The night was wonderful, and Auburn Pisces told me it was one of her favorite birthdays of her life. And she said the cake was as good as her mother's cake. I made her take back that claim, because I didn't want her mother to hear that in case she was hovering nearby her daughter at that moment.
Sometimes I can be really selfish. I was acting like it was my birthday instead of hers. For a few hours, I managed to focus on her instead of myself. I think I successfully conveyed my love for her, and I hope I made her happy on her birthday.
After she unwrapped her presents, I stopped thinking about her and went back to being a selfish attention whore. I unwrapped a gorgeous present of my own. He spent the night with me, and it was wonderful. He confirmed that I give off a lot of heat when I sleep. There is a reason I am called Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven. Oh, but you don't want to hear about that, I'm sure. The point is, it was Auburn Pisces' party. Not mine.
Happy Birthday, Auburn Pisces!
I wanted to make it the best birthday ever for my dear friend. So I enlisted the help of my personal caterer, The Handsome Prince. He loves to cook, and we struck up a deal that if I bought all the food, he would prepare a Mexican-themed buffet. Auburn Pisces loves her margaritas, so we thought the theme would be appropriate.
Friday night, while sitting in The Vortex planning the party with The Handsome Prince and The Math Whiz, I drunk-dialed AP and asked her what kind of cake she'd like. I put her on speaker phone so she could interact with all three of us.
"I want a Betty Crocker Cherry Chip Cake," she said sweetly.
"That sounds good," chirped The Handsome Prince.
"Yummy!" twittered the Math Whiz.
"Oh my god. That is so white trash," hissed Hot Toddy, who is Satan incarnate.
"My mom used to make me that cake every year," angelically spoke AP.
"Whatever. Fine," spewed drunk Hot Toddy.
A few minutes later I received a text message from Auburn Pisces:
"Can I change my cake order to carrot cake?"
I made a mental note to myself to tell The Handsome Prince to make carrot cake instead of whatever that other silly cake was. Then I made a mental note to myself to buy more lube and then I remembered how cool Nellie Oleson's dress was in that episode "Country Girls" when she reads her essay to the class about how rich her family was.
Anyway. Saturday morning I told The Handsome Prince, "Oh, Auburn Pisces wants carrot cake tonight instead of that other cake."
"That's because you said her cherry chip cake was white trash," he said.
I think it only took about twenty seconds for tears to form in my now sober eyes. "What? You think I really hurt her feelings?" I ran into the house to grab my cell phone and call her. By the time she answered, I had a lump in my throat the size of The Rock's biceps.
"Did you take me seriously when I said your cake was white trash?" I asked.
"Well, I knew you were joking, but after you said that I began to worry that other people at the party might think the same thing," she answered while the evil devil horns on my head grew another three inches.
"No! No, I was drunk and joking. I didn't mean it, AP. I'm white trash, not you! My family's favorite meals growing up were frozen Sarah Lee Chicken 'n Dumplings or Creamed Chip Beef on Wonder Bread toast!"
She then told me how her mom, may she rest in peace, made a Betty Crocker Cherry Chip cake for her sweet daughter every year on her birthday. And since AP won't even get a card from her darling mother this year, she wanted the cake to remind her of their special bond.
At that point I think I wailed and fell to my knees as I ripped at my clothes and put dirt on my head. After ending our phone call with the assurance that she could have whatever kind of cake she damn well wanted, I ran inside to tell The Math Whiz how awful I felt. "Oh, I forgot to tell you she text messaged me last night and asked if I thought the other people at the party would think she was white trash if she had a cherry chip birthday cake."
"I am Hitler," I told him.
Well, the party went off without a hitch. Auburn Pisces enjoyed the buffet and the margaritas and her Wonderful Elegant Godly Perfect Divine Classy Betty Crocker Cherry Chip Cake. I even made the cake as penance instead of asking The Handsome Prince to do it as originally planned. I worked extra hard to break up every tiny flour chunk in the mix. I beat the batter until my arms were sore, and believe me, I can usually beat things for a long time before my arms get sore. Sometimes my hand starts tingling a little, but my arms rarely get sore. Anyway.
The night was wonderful, and Auburn Pisces told me it was one of her favorite birthdays of her life. And she said the cake was as good as her mother's cake. I made her take back that claim, because I didn't want her mother to hear that in case she was hovering nearby her daughter at that moment.
Sometimes I can be really selfish. I was acting like it was my birthday instead of hers. For a few hours, I managed to focus on her instead of myself. I think I successfully conveyed my love for her, and I hope I made her happy on her birthday.
After she unwrapped her presents, I stopped thinking about her and went back to being a selfish attention whore. I unwrapped a gorgeous present of my own. He spent the night with me, and it was wonderful. He confirmed that I give off a lot of heat when I sleep. There is a reason I am called Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven. Oh, but you don't want to hear about that, I'm sure. The point is, it was Auburn Pisces' party. Not mine.
Happy Birthday, Auburn Pisces!
Friday, March 04, 2005
Bad Boys
Okay, I will admit it. I was once in love with a very bad boy. He was a mess. He drank to the point of blackouts, he did crystal meth, he had unprotected sex, and I loved him with all my heart. I saw him recently, and he's cleaned up his act. He is not doing drugs anymore, and he is in a happy relationship that has lasted for months and months. He is faithful to his boyfriend, and he has a smile on his face that radiates joy. And, after spending some time talking to him, I realized I'm not in love with him anymore. I still like him, but he doesn't make my heart skip a beat the way he used to.
I'm worried that I'm one of those rescuer types, who falls for men who are "damaged goods". That would be so typical. When I was a four-year old child in Montessori school, my report card said, "Todd does not complete his own work assignments because he spends his time helping the other children with their work. He must learn to apply himself to his own work instead of wandering about the class helping others."
I used to think it was cool that I cared so much about other people. But it isn't cool to care about others to the point of neglecting yourself. I hope it isn't too late in life for me to really learn this lesson. I'm working on it.
I've heard it said that bad boys get more attention. I think, to a certain extent, that's true. I remember sitting in a Chicago bar several years ago while I was in town for business. I struck up a conversation with a guy at the bar, and he was really friendly. He asked if I had a boyfriend, and I responded that I did. At the time, I was still with CT.
"Let me ask you something," I said to my new friend. "It is really rare that strangers in the bar will talk to me. But you didn't hesitate. I just like to talk to people and make new friends, but so many guys seem like they can't be bothered to talk to me."
The guy shook his head and told me that he wasn't at all surprised by my experiences. "You send off a vibe," he told me.
"What kind of vibe?" I asked.
"You send off a relationship vibe. Most guys at the bar are here to hook up. They're here for a quick fling. You don't fit what they're looking for," he explained. "You're, like, boyfriend material or something."
I was somewhat disappointed. I kinda wanted to be seen as a little bit slutty or, at least, open to a quick make-out session. Even though I probably wouldn't have done anything that could be constituted as cheating on CT. Still, I couldn't deny that this guy was reading me accurately. With the exception of a few desperately horny months in the past couple years, I don't go out looking to get laid. I want the camaraderie. The connection with people. And, sure, it would be nice to meet someone who wanted something more with me.
Lately, I've encountered a couple bad boys at CC Slaughters. They are starting to recognize me and pull me into conversations on a regular basis, because I have always been friendly to them when other people probably aren't. These guys are ex-cons and drug addicts, and they are in need of saving. But I think I'm learning to be more perceptive of other people's energy. Auburn Pisces, a very wise friend, is teaching me to listen to my own instincts.
So, for the past few weeks, I have started sending off a different vibe. "Don't talk to me," is the vibe I have, quite intentionally, been putting out there. The other night I pretended to be very busy with text messaging just so this one guy wouldn't engage with me, because I can just tell he is trouble. I can't fall for any more "damaged goods". But it makes me feel just a little cruel to put that wall up.
I just wanted to admit that. I'm proud of myself, but I'm also sad that I have to be cruel. Especially to guys who seem so lonely and so lost. I bet I could help them feel happier...
No. No, I couldn't. I know that's a complete fallacy.
"Todd must learn to apply himself to his own work instead of wandering about the class helping others."
I'm worried that I'm one of those rescuer types, who falls for men who are "damaged goods". That would be so typical. When I was a four-year old child in Montessori school, my report card said, "Todd does not complete his own work assignments because he spends his time helping the other children with their work. He must learn to apply himself to his own work instead of wandering about the class helping others."
I used to think it was cool that I cared so much about other people. But it isn't cool to care about others to the point of neglecting yourself. I hope it isn't too late in life for me to really learn this lesson. I'm working on it.
I've heard it said that bad boys get more attention. I think, to a certain extent, that's true. I remember sitting in a Chicago bar several years ago while I was in town for business. I struck up a conversation with a guy at the bar, and he was really friendly. He asked if I had a boyfriend, and I responded that I did. At the time, I was still with CT.
"Let me ask you something," I said to my new friend. "It is really rare that strangers in the bar will talk to me. But you didn't hesitate. I just like to talk to people and make new friends, but so many guys seem like they can't be bothered to talk to me."
The guy shook his head and told me that he wasn't at all surprised by my experiences. "You send off a vibe," he told me.
"What kind of vibe?" I asked.
"You send off a relationship vibe. Most guys at the bar are here to hook up. They're here for a quick fling. You don't fit what they're looking for," he explained. "You're, like, boyfriend material or something."
I was somewhat disappointed. I kinda wanted to be seen as a little bit slutty or, at least, open to a quick make-out session. Even though I probably wouldn't have done anything that could be constituted as cheating on CT. Still, I couldn't deny that this guy was reading me accurately. With the exception of a few desperately horny months in the past couple years, I don't go out looking to get laid. I want the camaraderie. The connection with people. And, sure, it would be nice to meet someone who wanted something more with me.
Lately, I've encountered a couple bad boys at CC Slaughters. They are starting to recognize me and pull me into conversations on a regular basis, because I have always been friendly to them when other people probably aren't. These guys are ex-cons and drug addicts, and they are in need of saving. But I think I'm learning to be more perceptive of other people's energy. Auburn Pisces, a very wise friend, is teaching me to listen to my own instincts.
So, for the past few weeks, I have started sending off a different vibe. "Don't talk to me," is the vibe I have, quite intentionally, been putting out there. The other night I pretended to be very busy with text messaging just so this one guy wouldn't engage with me, because I can just tell he is trouble. I can't fall for any more "damaged goods". But it makes me feel just a little cruel to put that wall up.
I just wanted to admit that. I'm proud of myself, but I'm also sad that I have to be cruel. Especially to guys who seem so lonely and so lost. I bet I could help them feel happier...
No. No, I couldn't. I know that's a complete fallacy.
"Todd must learn to apply himself to his own work instead of wandering about the class helping others."
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Bumper Stickers
While conversing, via e-mail, with Famous Author Rob Byrnes today, I was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea for a bumper sticker. (I think Rob is sort of like my muse. He inspires me to new creative heights. By that, I mean he makes me want to get high.)
Here is my great bumper sticker idea. I want to make a sticker that says, "I Love NY", except I would put a red heart shape in place of the word "Love". Get it? I think people would buy this sticker, don't you?
Another sticker I would love to see is one that says, "Are We Having Fun Yet?" I think that would make many people laugh or snicker or, possibly, chortle. See, it is meant to be sarcastic. The phrase "Are We Having Fun Yet" implies that nobody is really having fun at all. And there is no real expectation that fun will begin anytime soon. It would be a hoot to see someone put a sticker like that up in their cubicle at work, wouldn't it? I would definitely guffaw or cackle if I saw that sticker in the workplace.
Or, how about this: You know how some people say, from time to time, "I'm not as drunk as you think I am?" What if the person really was drunk and they accidentally said, "I'm not as think as you drunk I am." Now that would be a funny bumper sticker. I would capitalize all the words, though, for maximum comic effect. "I'm Not As Think As You Drunk I Am" - get it!?
I should go now. I really need to get back to work because I need this job very badly. I am so broke I can't even pay attention. OH MY GOSH! Did you see the joke I just invented on the fly? So broke I can't pay attention. Get it? Get it? I gotta start writing this stuff down. Oh. I guess I just did.
Time to go. See ya. Wouldn't want to be ya. (OH MY GOD!!! I am on a roll today!!!)
Here is my great bumper sticker idea. I want to make a sticker that says, "I Love NY", except I would put a red heart shape in place of the word "Love". Get it? I think people would buy this sticker, don't you?
Another sticker I would love to see is one that says, "Are We Having Fun Yet?" I think that would make many people laugh or snicker or, possibly, chortle. See, it is meant to be sarcastic. The phrase "Are We Having Fun Yet" implies that nobody is really having fun at all. And there is no real expectation that fun will begin anytime soon. It would be a hoot to see someone put a sticker like that up in their cubicle at work, wouldn't it? I would definitely guffaw or cackle if I saw that sticker in the workplace.
Or, how about this: You know how some people say, from time to time, "I'm not as drunk as you think I am?" What if the person really was drunk and they accidentally said, "I'm not as think as you drunk I am." Now that would be a funny bumper sticker. I would capitalize all the words, though, for maximum comic effect. "I'm Not As Think As You Drunk I Am" - get it!?
I should go now. I really need to get back to work because I need this job very badly. I am so broke I can't even pay attention. OH MY GOSH! Did you see the joke I just invented on the fly? So broke I can't pay attention. Get it? Get it? I gotta start writing this stuff down. Oh. I guess I just did.
Time to go. See ya. Wouldn't want to be ya. (OH MY GOD!!! I am on a roll today!!!)
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Things I Can Do in 45 Minutes
I have a meeting in 45 minutes. This is very frustrating to me, because I like to blog without a deadline. Still, I know I can write a blog entry in 45 minutes. Maybe not a brilliant hysterically funny entry. But I can write something just to tide me over until inspiration strikes.
45 minutes is a challenging time span. It's not a full hour, but it's more than 20 minutes. I am sure that you've never thought of that, have you? The fact that 45 minutes is more than 20 minutes. Do I know how to think outside the box or what?
What I mean to say is that 45 minutes is just awkward. Lunch breaks are usually an hour. Aerobic exercise usually happens in 20-30 minute intervals. Happy Hour is usually a five-hour event. Right? (Or is that just my Happy Hour?)
If I weren't blogging, what could I do with this 45 minutes? Actually, there are lots of things I can do in 45 minutes.
In 45 minutes I can...
Drunk dial 8-12 people
or
Watch an entire porn video (as long as I fast-forward through certain acts I find distasteful)
or
Read 5-10 blogs I enjoy
or
Read 75-100 blogs that bore me
or
Write a guest blog for someone I love
or
Watch almost 2 episodes of Sex & The City
or
Watch an entire episode of Popular on DVD
or
Listen to Margaret Cho's CD "Drunk with Power" as long as I skip the introduction and audience applause at the beginning
or
Walk past the convenience store by my office 90 times so I can check out the Asian bodybuilder who works there
or
Drink 3 Maker's Marks
or
Eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's (I tested this theory last night)
or
Change into gym clothes and run on a treadmill to work off the pint of ice cream
or
Read all the theater reviews and check the "Chance Meetings" personal ads in Willamette Week to see if anyone has fallen in love with me. Yet.
45 minutes is a challenging time span. It's not a full hour, but it's more than 20 minutes. I am sure that you've never thought of that, have you? The fact that 45 minutes is more than 20 minutes. Do I know how to think outside the box or what?
What I mean to say is that 45 minutes is just awkward. Lunch breaks are usually an hour. Aerobic exercise usually happens in 20-30 minute intervals. Happy Hour is usually a five-hour event. Right? (Or is that just my Happy Hour?)
If I weren't blogging, what could I do with this 45 minutes? Actually, there are lots of things I can do in 45 minutes.
In 45 minutes I can...
Drunk dial 8-12 people
or
Watch an entire porn video (as long as I fast-forward through certain acts I find distasteful)
or
Read 5-10 blogs I enjoy
or
Read 75-100 blogs that bore me
or
Write a guest blog for someone I love
or
Watch almost 2 episodes of Sex & The City
or
Watch an entire episode of Popular on DVD
or
Listen to Margaret Cho's CD "Drunk with Power" as long as I skip the introduction and audience applause at the beginning
or
Walk past the convenience store by my office 90 times so I can check out the Asian bodybuilder who works there
or
Drink 3 Maker's Marks
or
Eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's (I tested this theory last night)
or
Change into gym clothes and run on a treadmill to work off the pint of ice cream
or
Read all the theater reviews and check the "Chance Meetings" personal ads in Willamette Week to see if anyone has fallen in love with me. Yet.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven - The Cliff Notes
I received a comment yesterday from ~Pred asking if my housemates, The Math Whiz & The Handsome Prince, are a couple. I realized that I may need to recap who I am and what I'm about for those who are new to Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven.
For those lazy students who refuse to go back and read from the beginning of this blog, I will accommodate your lack of motivation. That's just the kind of guy I am.
Here is our story so far:
For the first few months of blogging I wrote about all the bitterness and sadness I experienced after I split with my partner of 7 years, CT (Cheater Thief). Then I started whoring around and writing about dates and hook-ups and flirtations. Due to a severe lack of discretion, I began writing about a blogger who captured my romantic interest. I wrote about things I shouldn't have, and when things didn't work out between us, I went into another tailspin.
After that, I spent a lot of time writing about my roomie, Juju, who always took great care of me. Sadly, I never took care of her the way I should have so she went and found a straight guy who could give her what she needed. Sex, for one thing. So, Juju moved in with Metro, and I changed my blog URL to commemorate my friendship with her. Then I moved in with my best friend, The Handsome Prince, who told me that his boyfriend would probably not move in with us for another several months. A week after I moved in with The Handsome Prince, he told me his boyfriend, The Math Whiz, was moving in the next month. So now I live with a couple like Cher did in Silkwood, and we have a cool back porch we call The Vortex, because once you sit down under the lights and the disco ball you can't leave.
Not one to learn from past mistakes, I started seeing another blogger in the summer and wrote about that incessantly. When that didn't work out, I went into my third tailspin and bored my readers to tears with stories and song lyrics and romantic hoo-hah. Then I went to meet a bunch of other bloggers and had mostly a great time, but still ended up going into a fourth tailspin. I go into tailspins a lot because it is easy and I'm good at it.
Then I had this major epiphany and got a bunch of great e-mails from people and decided to quit being so morose and self-indulgent and depressed. Then I won a Best of Blog Award (BoB) and got really conceited and started stepping all over the little people in a power hungry drive for prestige.
Then I got a new job that required me to actually work for a living instead of just blogging and e-mailing people all day. I began to stress. I stopped updating my blog as often as I wanted to. I wrote silly stories. I went into less detail about my dating life. I started writing short choppy sentences.
I'm not sure how long this creative dry spell will last, so if you get bored you may want to read some of my old entries, which I've listed to the right. Or you could check out some of my blogger friends in my links.
The only other thing you really need to know about me to enjoy this blog is that when I was in third grade my teacher was trying to show us how to do long division, and as I was staring at the chalkboard I started thinking about that scene in The Exorcist when Regan vomits that pea soup stuff all over the place. I was making a horrible face, I guess, as I pictured the disgusting vomit, and my teacher stopped her lesson to ask if I was having difficulty grasping the concept of division. I lied and said that, yes, I was having difficulty with division, but I was really just having difficulty with the gross mental images in my head. So she started over from the beginning of the lesson just for me, but I'm still not good at math.
Also, I have Attention Deficit Disorder.
There, now. Do you feel all caught up? Did I miss anything? If you still have questions about Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, let me know. I'll respond if I remember and if I don't get distracted by something else before I
For those lazy students who refuse to go back and read from the beginning of this blog, I will accommodate your lack of motivation. That's just the kind of guy I am.
Here is our story so far:
For the first few months of blogging I wrote about all the bitterness and sadness I experienced after I split with my partner of 7 years, CT (Cheater Thief). Then I started whoring around and writing about dates and hook-ups and flirtations. Due to a severe lack of discretion, I began writing about a blogger who captured my romantic interest. I wrote about things I shouldn't have, and when things didn't work out between us, I went into another tailspin.
After that, I spent a lot of time writing about my roomie, Juju, who always took great care of me. Sadly, I never took care of her the way I should have so she went and found a straight guy who could give her what she needed. Sex, for one thing. So, Juju moved in with Metro, and I changed my blog URL to commemorate my friendship with her. Then I moved in with my best friend, The Handsome Prince, who told me that his boyfriend would probably not move in with us for another several months. A week after I moved in with The Handsome Prince, he told me his boyfriend, The Math Whiz, was moving in the next month. So now I live with a couple like Cher did in Silkwood, and we have a cool back porch we call The Vortex, because once you sit down under the lights and the disco ball you can't leave.
Not one to learn from past mistakes, I started seeing another blogger in the summer and wrote about that incessantly. When that didn't work out, I went into my third tailspin and bored my readers to tears with stories and song lyrics and romantic hoo-hah. Then I went to meet a bunch of other bloggers and had mostly a great time, but still ended up going into a fourth tailspin. I go into tailspins a lot because it is easy and I'm good at it.
Then I had this major epiphany and got a bunch of great e-mails from people and decided to quit being so morose and self-indulgent and depressed. Then I won a Best of Blog Award (BoB) and got really conceited and started stepping all over the little people in a power hungry drive for prestige.
Then I got a new job that required me to actually work for a living instead of just blogging and e-mailing people all day. I began to stress. I stopped updating my blog as often as I wanted to. I wrote silly stories. I went into less detail about my dating life. I started writing short choppy sentences.
I'm not sure how long this creative dry spell will last, so if you get bored you may want to read some of my old entries, which I've listed to the right. Or you could check out some of my blogger friends in my links.
The only other thing you really need to know about me to enjoy this blog is that when I was in third grade my teacher was trying to show us how to do long division, and as I was staring at the chalkboard I started thinking about that scene in The Exorcist when Regan vomits that pea soup stuff all over the place. I was making a horrible face, I guess, as I pictured the disgusting vomit, and my teacher stopped her lesson to ask if I was having difficulty grasping the concept of division. I lied and said that, yes, I was having difficulty with division, but I was really just having difficulty with the gross mental images in my head. So she started over from the beginning of the lesson just for me, but I'm still not good at math.
Also, I have Attention Deficit Disorder.
There, now. Do you feel all caught up? Did I miss anything? If you still have questions about Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, let me know. I'll respond if I remember and if I don't get distracted by something else before I
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