3/28/06 - Tuesday
Quality Analysts - Solutions Lifecycle
Mail - Can you mail items to self if creating a new character for soloing?
Resist stun - how?
Can't use shield - ask Metro why
Are business books available for competencies? Probably not in IT section
Dwarf Names:
Thorgall/Torgall/Toregal
Professional Goals - where do I wanna go next and how do I get there?
Gnome - Renzo
Human - Hottoddy - Hatadi
It's official. My troll priest's professional advancement has taken priority over my own.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Ode to a Bar
Last night the owners of CC Slaughters said they feel the urge to shout, "NORM!" when I enter the bar.
It's true. I'm there all the time, if you haven't figured that out. But there are dozens of reasons I go to the bar. Last night I was there to celebrate JR's birthday. He's a handsome brown-eyed bartender with a big heart and sweet disposition. While there, I talked with Zeroes and Zule about World of Warcraft. Then the Toddtender and I alternated between playful barbs and friendly hugs. Our gathering took place in the small "Rainbow Room", and I felt really happy to be part of that family.
The first time I went to a gay bar I was in college. Given my relatively strict Christian upbringing, I had no idea what to expect. I assumed that homosexuals had sex in bars, so I went there hoping to experience my first time. I was visiting Fort Lauderdale, Florida with some buddies from the Christian college I attended. While my friends slept, I snuck out and walked about a mile to a gay bar. My only desire that night was to have sex with another man or two or three. Still, the thought petrified me, because it would mean damnation of my soul unless I repented and never did it a second time. I was literally trembling as I walked through the front door. My mouth was dry, and I was scared to look at anyone. To my surprise, people weren't having sex. They were dancing and talking. A couple guys were in the corner making out.
After I walked around for about two minutes, I was completely aroused. Since nobody in the bar was having sex, I assumed the guys must do it outside in their cars or something. Knowing I would probably explode if I didn't do something about my raging libido soon, I followed two guys out the front door as they were leaving. I touched the bigger one on his bare bicep and asked if I could go with them to their car. They were stunned and told me no.
With my ignorant misconceptions about gay people, I was stunned too. Stunned that homosexuals had actually turned down an offer of sex. I am sorry to say I was that stupid, but growing up in the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri, most of my information about homosexuality came directly from the Holy Bible. So, I watched the two guys walk away. Actually, they were clipping along at a pretty brisk pace. After all, a 6'6" man just asked if he could follow them to their car. What a weird thing for them to experience.
Almost 10 years later, I finally came out of the closet and went to a gay bar for the second time. This was Dallas, Texas, and the gay scene was exciting and energetic. Cedar Springs was the place to be in 1995, and I was there every night giving free blow jobs in cars and going home with anybody who asked. I was trying to make up for lost time. Nobody in the bar cared about me. The bartenders all called me "honey" or "baby", and, at first, I actually thought that meant they liked me. But I soon realized I was nobody special. Everyone with money was a "honey" or "baby".
Still, I kept going to the bar looking for my people. I saw other men laughing with their friends. Often I would see the same people hanging out together night after night, and I yearned for a group of gay guys I could relate to. I danced with strangers and slept with strangers. One night I stole somebody's boyfriend from under his nose. A few weeks later, somebody stole that same guy away from me.
For many years I was completely out of the bar scene enjoying domestic bliss with my first love. But a few years ago, I found myself single again. So, it was back to the bars, where I quickly immersed myself in old habits of whorish behavior, essentially demonstrating I had learned nothing from past experience.
Shortly after starting Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, I wrote a post that introduced a major recurring character: CC Slaughters.
I never thought of myself as a "bar person". Sometimes I read profiles online and see "not into the bar scene", and I feel a little guilty or dirty or something. Am I into the bar scene? I guess most people would say that I am. But they don't understand that, for me, the "bar scene" is very different from the CC Slaughters scene.
I go to CC's to see the bartenders I call friends. Most of these guys have cheered me up when my heart is broken. They have watched me bring a virtual parade of boyfriends through the front doors, each time vowing I was "really in love this time". They have seen me act like a fool. These guys slanderously claim to have witnessed my falling off a bar stool. (It twirled up!)
CC's is where I meet my friends for happy five hours. Some nights it is the place I sing karaoke. I have watched Bolivia Carmichaels perform "And I'm Telling You" several times and can never watch without crying. Lately, I meet the softball team there, and I help sell raffle tickets and measure the inseams of cute guys. Sometimes I go to CC's on a Thursday or Friday so I can stay out late and be bad and act inappropriately and then apologize to the entire bar staff the next time I have the courage to show my face.
Often I will see a guy come into the bar looking awkward or lonely. To me, some of them look like they are trembling. Then, I open up something in my heart and let them know they can approach me without fear of rejection. (Hey, Tim the Toddtender, I have no idea what that crazy man was saying to me last night, but you gotta admit I gave it my best shot!) I won't ever forget how it felt to sit in a bar and feel like nobody special. I don't blame people for hating the bar scene. It can eat your soul and can be the loneliest place on earth if you aren't fortunate enough to find a CC Slaughters of your own.
Last night at JR's birthday party, I asked the owners, John and Bruce, if they were the ones who checked the receipts at the end of the night. They said that was, indeed, one of their countless duties.
"Oh, so you have seen my love notes to the bartenders on the back of my receipts," I said blushing. When they laughed I knew they'd read my proclamations of adoration to my guys.
What they don't know is how often that once lonely ignorant boy sat in bars feeling friendless or following strangers to their cars hoping for sex. They don't know how badly he needed to find a place where everybody knows his name. And they have no idea how grateful he is to finally have it.
It's true. I'm there all the time, if you haven't figured that out. But there are dozens of reasons I go to the bar. Last night I was there to celebrate JR's birthday. He's a handsome brown-eyed bartender with a big heart and sweet disposition. While there, I talked with Zeroes and Zule about World of Warcraft. Then the Toddtender and I alternated between playful barbs and friendly hugs. Our gathering took place in the small "Rainbow Room", and I felt really happy to be part of that family.
The first time I went to a gay bar I was in college. Given my relatively strict Christian upbringing, I had no idea what to expect. I assumed that homosexuals had sex in bars, so I went there hoping to experience my first time. I was visiting Fort Lauderdale, Florida with some buddies from the Christian college I attended. While my friends slept, I snuck out and walked about a mile to a gay bar. My only desire that night was to have sex with another man or two or three. Still, the thought petrified me, because it would mean damnation of my soul unless I repented and never did it a second time. I was literally trembling as I walked through the front door. My mouth was dry, and I was scared to look at anyone. To my surprise, people weren't having sex. They were dancing and talking. A couple guys were in the corner making out.
After I walked around for about two minutes, I was completely aroused. Since nobody in the bar was having sex, I assumed the guys must do it outside in their cars or something. Knowing I would probably explode if I didn't do something about my raging libido soon, I followed two guys out the front door as they were leaving. I touched the bigger one on his bare bicep and asked if I could go with them to their car. They were stunned and told me no.
With my ignorant misconceptions about gay people, I was stunned too. Stunned that homosexuals had actually turned down an offer of sex. I am sorry to say I was that stupid, but growing up in the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri, most of my information about homosexuality came directly from the Holy Bible. So, I watched the two guys walk away. Actually, they were clipping along at a pretty brisk pace. After all, a 6'6" man just asked if he could follow them to their car. What a weird thing for them to experience.
Almost 10 years later, I finally came out of the closet and went to a gay bar for the second time. This was Dallas, Texas, and the gay scene was exciting and energetic. Cedar Springs was the place to be in 1995, and I was there every night giving free blow jobs in cars and going home with anybody who asked. I was trying to make up for lost time. Nobody in the bar cared about me. The bartenders all called me "honey" or "baby", and, at first, I actually thought that meant they liked me. But I soon realized I was nobody special. Everyone with money was a "honey" or "baby".
Still, I kept going to the bar looking for my people. I saw other men laughing with their friends. Often I would see the same people hanging out together night after night, and I yearned for a group of gay guys I could relate to. I danced with strangers and slept with strangers. One night I stole somebody's boyfriend from under his nose. A few weeks later, somebody stole that same guy away from me.
For many years I was completely out of the bar scene enjoying domestic bliss with my first love. But a few years ago, I found myself single again. So, it was back to the bars, where I quickly immersed myself in old habits of whorish behavior, essentially demonstrating I had learned nothing from past experience.
Shortly after starting Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, I wrote a post that introduced a major recurring character: CC Slaughters.
I never thought of myself as a "bar person". Sometimes I read profiles online and see "not into the bar scene", and I feel a little guilty or dirty or something. Am I into the bar scene? I guess most people would say that I am. But they don't understand that, for me, the "bar scene" is very different from the CC Slaughters scene.
I go to CC's to see the bartenders I call friends. Most of these guys have cheered me up when my heart is broken. They have watched me bring a virtual parade of boyfriends through the front doors, each time vowing I was "really in love this time". They have seen me act like a fool. These guys slanderously claim to have witnessed my falling off a bar stool. (It twirled up!)
CC's is where I meet my friends for happy five hours. Some nights it is the place I sing karaoke. I have watched Bolivia Carmichaels perform "And I'm Telling You" several times and can never watch without crying. Lately, I meet the softball team there, and I help sell raffle tickets and measure the inseams of cute guys. Sometimes I go to CC's on a Thursday or Friday so I can stay out late and be bad and act inappropriately and then apologize to the entire bar staff the next time I have the courage to show my face.
Often I will see a guy come into the bar looking awkward or lonely. To me, some of them look like they are trembling. Then, I open up something in my heart and let them know they can approach me without fear of rejection. (Hey, Tim the Toddtender, I have no idea what that crazy man was saying to me last night, but you gotta admit I gave it my best shot!) I won't ever forget how it felt to sit in a bar and feel like nobody special. I don't blame people for hating the bar scene. It can eat your soul and can be the loneliest place on earth if you aren't fortunate enough to find a CC Slaughters of your own.
Last night at JR's birthday party, I asked the owners, John and Bruce, if they were the ones who checked the receipts at the end of the night. They said that was, indeed, one of their countless duties.
"Oh, so you have seen my love notes to the bartenders on the back of my receipts," I said blushing. When they laughed I knew they'd read my proclamations of adoration to my guys.
What they don't know is how often that once lonely ignorant boy sat in bars feeling friendless or following strangers to their cars hoping for sex. They don't know how badly he needed to find a place where everybody knows his name. And they have no idea how grateful he is to finally have it.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Sven
Meet my new truck.
His name is Sven. He is parked in front of a place he likes to hang out.
Sven is very conscientious. Whenever Sven goes with me to happy five hours at CC Slaughters, he makes me hang out and drink lots of water before we can go home. He also told me he has a place for me to crash if I ever find that I can't safely drive.
I want to get a Swedish flag decal for the rear window. I am Norwegian, but I have this odd affinity for all things Swedish. That is how Sven got his name. I was inexplicably drawn to him. Yes, I will definitely speak to my therapist about this at our next session.
My mom loved getting pictures of the truck, but she was disappointed I did not send her pictures of myself. I usually don't like pictures of myself because I always think I look like a drunk hobo in photos. Here is an example of me as a drunk hobo.
My mom doesn't care for the photos where I am drunkenly leaning against a streetlamp in Tokyo. I only send my mom the pictures where I look sweet and Christlike. There aren't many of those pictures.
His name is Sven. He is parked in front of a place he likes to hang out.
Sven is very conscientious. Whenever Sven goes with me to happy five hours at CC Slaughters, he makes me hang out and drink lots of water before we can go home. He also told me he has a place for me to crash if I ever find that I can't safely drive.
I want to get a Swedish flag decal for the rear window. I am Norwegian, but I have this odd affinity for all things Swedish. That is how Sven got his name. I was inexplicably drawn to him. Yes, I will definitely speak to my therapist about this at our next session.
My mom loved getting pictures of the truck, but she was disappointed I did not send her pictures of myself. I usually don't like pictures of myself because I always think I look like a drunk hobo in photos. Here is an example of me as a drunk hobo.
My mom doesn't care for the photos where I am drunkenly leaning against a streetlamp in Tokyo. I only send my mom the pictures where I look sweet and Christlike. There aren't many of those pictures.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Blog Race
At work we have all these fitness contests that are designed to keep the fat women on the seventh floor from dropping dead of a heart attack. But sometimes those of us who are not fat women like to participate in these fitness contests as well.
Currently I am participating in two programs - both involve adding up the minutes you work out every week and winning prizes. (I guess not feeling like a slob is not enough of a reward to work out.) We get gift cards or yardsticks (yes, for real) or teeny tiny bags that can, maybe, hold one pair of underwear and a deodorant stick (trial size).
Today I am going to start my own contest. I will compete against myself, and let me tell you I am going to be so pissed if I lose to myself. In this contest, I will attempt to visit as many blogs as possible while still appearing to work. I have a tally sheet next to me, and I'm going to visit as many of my favorite blogs as possible - making sure to leave comments. (Unless you are my co-worker, in which case the tally sheet is actually tracking the number of times I've scheduled training). You'll be able to track my progress by visiting the blogs on my blogroll. I'll start at the top and work my way down, which is always fun.
I have one disclaimer. I get distracted easily. So very easily. If someone rattles their car keys I will
(Something weird just happened. I heard it over the cubicle wall - but I can't explain it. Two people were having separate conversations on their telephones, but their conversations fit together as if they were addressing one another - Juju heard it too. We both just started laughing about it and now I will never finish that sentence above).
Okay, it is 8:21 a.m. Pacific Standard Time. I've already visited three blogs this morning:
New site - not really a blog - he is great: Toddicus
I found Toddicus by reading my friend Zeroes' blog: Death Rays and Doughnuts
Sometimes I forget Dan Renzi is famous, because he is really nice to me (nobody famous has ever been nice to me before, not to mention the fact that he sent me a Christmas card, which I just mentioned so I can't really say "not to mention it") but last night his name flashed across the screen at CC's. It wasn't porn. He was the On-Air host for some show they were airing. I think it was for a gay television channel. Club Channel or Club One or something? Anyway. Here's Dan's link.
Update:
It is 3:00 p.m. - I made it through 63 blogs. I left comments on almost all of them unless I couldn't think of anything witty or if Blogger messed up and lost my comment before I could post it.
Next time I try something like that I'm making sure I have a bottle of whiskey nearby.
Currently I am participating in two programs - both involve adding up the minutes you work out every week and winning prizes. (I guess not feeling like a slob is not enough of a reward to work out.) We get gift cards or yardsticks (yes, for real) or teeny tiny bags that can, maybe, hold one pair of underwear and a deodorant stick (trial size).
Today I am going to start my own contest. I will compete against myself, and let me tell you I am going to be so pissed if I lose to myself. In this contest, I will attempt to visit as many blogs as possible while still appearing to work. I have a tally sheet next to me, and I'm going to visit as many of my favorite blogs as possible - making sure to leave comments. (Unless you are my co-worker, in which case the tally sheet is actually tracking the number of times I've scheduled training). You'll be able to track my progress by visiting the blogs on my blogroll. I'll start at the top and work my way down, which is always fun.
I have one disclaimer. I get distracted easily. So very easily. If someone rattles their car keys I will
(Something weird just happened. I heard it over the cubicle wall - but I can't explain it. Two people were having separate conversations on their telephones, but their conversations fit together as if they were addressing one another - Juju heard it too. We both just started laughing about it and now I will never finish that sentence above).
Okay, it is 8:21 a.m. Pacific Standard Time. I've already visited three blogs this morning:
New site - not really a blog - he is great: Toddicus
I found Toddicus by reading my friend Zeroes' blog: Death Rays and Doughnuts
Sometimes I forget Dan Renzi is famous, because he is really nice to me (nobody famous has ever been nice to me before, not to mention the fact that he sent me a Christmas card, which I just mentioned so I can't really say "not to mention it") but last night his name flashed across the screen at CC's. It wasn't porn. He was the On-Air host for some show they were airing. I think it was for a gay television channel. Club Channel or Club One or something? Anyway. Here's Dan's link.
Update:
It is 3:00 p.m. - I made it through 63 blogs. I left comments on almost all of them unless I couldn't think of anything witty or if Blogger messed up and lost my comment before I could post it.
Next time I try something like that I'm making sure I have a bottle of whiskey nearby.
Monday, March 27, 2006
The Final Workout
This morning I was browsing through "CitySports NW" (I know, I know. I am rapidly becoming ridiculous about this jock thing - er - more ridiculous) and the editor's opening comments went something like this...
"If you found out that you were about to die, how would you spend your last days? If a meteor was heading toward the earth, what plans would you make for the last few days of your workout schedule?"
I am not kidding. That is what the magazine said.
Okay, like I even need to say this. It's not like you're wondering where I stand on this issue, BUT...
If I ever find out the earth is doomed, I can promise you my last few days will be not be spent running on the treadmill and lifting weights. You will find me having sex and going to CC Slaughters (or having sex AT CC Slaughters). You will not find me at the gym, and I will not be planning my final workouts. Who would do such a thing? If there are really people like that in the world, I don't want to know about them. Certainly that is not the type of person who would read Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, so I know I'm preaching to the choir here.
If a meteor was on the way, would some people be rushing to the mailbox to make sure their credit card payment reached American Express before The End? I mean, seriously, at that point there will be no point picking up your dry cleaning or making sure the library books get returned. Come to think of it, I haven't made time for those two chores in over a year. I've owed the library six dollars in fines since 2004, and I'm sure the clothes I left at the dry cleaner last August are probably in a bin at a Goodwill store somewhere. The point is, given a warning about impending fiery destruction, I'm probably not going to be scheduling a final haircut.
But, don't worry, I will for sure blog one more time.
"If you found out that you were about to die, how would you spend your last days? If a meteor was heading toward the earth, what plans would you make for the last few days of your workout schedule?"
I am not kidding. That is what the magazine said.
Okay, like I even need to say this. It's not like you're wondering where I stand on this issue, BUT...
If I ever find out the earth is doomed, I can promise you my last few days will be not be spent running on the treadmill and lifting weights. You will find me having sex and going to CC Slaughters (or having sex AT CC Slaughters). You will not find me at the gym, and I will not be planning my final workouts. Who would do such a thing? If there are really people like that in the world, I don't want to know about them. Certainly that is not the type of person who would read Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, so I know I'm preaching to the choir here.
If a meteor was on the way, would some people be rushing to the mailbox to make sure their credit card payment reached American Express before The End? I mean, seriously, at that point there will be no point picking up your dry cleaning or making sure the library books get returned. Come to think of it, I haven't made time for those two chores in over a year. I've owed the library six dollars in fines since 2004, and I'm sure the clothes I left at the dry cleaner last August are probably in a bin at a Goodwill store somewhere. The point is, given a warning about impending fiery destruction, I'm probably not going to be scheduling a final haircut.
But, don't worry, I will for sure blog one more time.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Gay Games VII
I bought my event tickets for the Gay Games this morning. It was pretty expensive, but I figure this will be an experience I'll remember forever. I want to support my friend Muscle Chick in her competition.
I'm so glad I have an onsite therapist at work. Juju was there to counsel me right before I purchased the tickets.
"I'm going to buy tickets to the opening and closing ceremonies at the Gay Games, but it's really expensive. What should I do?" I asked her.
Juju and I lived together for almost two years, so she knows exactly how to respond to me when I'm trying to make decisions. "Do you want me to convince you to buy them or try to talk you out of it?" she asked.
"Both. First tell me why I should, and then try to talk me out of it." As she was telling me the reasons I shouldn't buy the tickets, I started smiling. "You already know exactly what I'm going to do," I said.
"Yes, we both know what you're going to do," she answered.
Thank you, Juju, for wasting your time trying to weigh the pros and cons of a decision I had already made and was only pretending to contemplate. What a friend!
Tickets to Opening and Closing Ceremonies of the Gay Games Chicago: $240
Airfare & Accommodations: $2000
Medal Ceremony for the Physique Competition (aka Hot Toddy's Husband Hunt): Priceless
Yes, that is an Asian bodybuilder right in the center of the photo. I consider this to be a sign from God.
I'm so glad I have an onsite therapist at work. Juju was there to counsel me right before I purchased the tickets.
"I'm going to buy tickets to the opening and closing ceremonies at the Gay Games, but it's really expensive. What should I do?" I asked her.
Juju and I lived together for almost two years, so she knows exactly how to respond to me when I'm trying to make decisions. "Do you want me to convince you to buy them or try to talk you out of it?" she asked.
"Both. First tell me why I should, and then try to talk me out of it." As she was telling me the reasons I shouldn't buy the tickets, I started smiling. "You already know exactly what I'm going to do," I said.
"Yes, we both know what you're going to do," she answered.
Thank you, Juju, for wasting your time trying to weigh the pros and cons of a decision I had already made and was only pretending to contemplate. What a friend!
Tickets to Opening and Closing Ceremonies of the Gay Games Chicago: $240
Airfare & Accommodations: $2000
Medal Ceremony for the Physique Competition (aka Hot Toddy's Husband Hunt): Priceless
Yes, that is an Asian bodybuilder right in the center of the photo. I consider this to be a sign from God.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Working Out and Early Morning Cuddling and Pancakes and The L Word
I bought a white truck and a 10-speed blender on the same day.
Originally, I was thinking that was the answer to the question, "How can you tell I'm a grown-up now?"
But I was sure someone would say the real question was: "You know how I know you're gay?"
I started Spring Training on Monday. That is, I signed up for a fitness program at work, and I also need to get back in shape for softball. The hardest part has been finding my groove again. What I mean is, I'm out of the habit of regular work-out times, so I need to establish my regiment once more.
I like to work out earlier in the day, but not super early. Last night Auburn Pisces, who has been very consistent in her workouts lately, was saying that she would love to work out at 4:30 in the morning but can't because of her parental duties. I was, like, "You really wish you could work out at 4:30 in the morning? I'm still DRUNK at 4:30 in the morning!" Then she laughed until she almost peed her pants and then she wished she hadn't already blogged because she would have loved to put that quote on her blog, so I'm doing it for her here.
But the point is: I don't want to work out before the sun comes up. Besides, why get in the habit of rising so early? When I eventually have a man in my bed again, there is no way I will be able to pull myself out of his arms that early in the morning. The best part of waking up with a boyfriend is the long lingering caressing in the morning. (Sometimes when I write, my thoughts can be derailed by one simple sentence. I just sat staring into space for a few minutes while my hands were poised over the keyboard as I revelled in thoughts of early morning cuddling).
Speaking of derailed, this post is so derailed. Juju just stood up and started talking to me about work over our cubicle wall. I told her "Talk to the hand," but she kept talking. Then I tricked her by mentioning her dog, Pancakes. That threw her off, and then we began talking about The L Word. So, I'm over this post. You probably are too.
My favorite time to workout is right about now. Bye.
Originally, I was thinking that was the answer to the question, "How can you tell I'm a grown-up now?"
But I was sure someone would say the real question was: "You know how I know you're gay?"
I started Spring Training on Monday. That is, I signed up for a fitness program at work, and I also need to get back in shape for softball. The hardest part has been finding my groove again. What I mean is, I'm out of the habit of regular work-out times, so I need to establish my regiment once more.
I like to work out earlier in the day, but not super early. Last night Auburn Pisces, who has been very consistent in her workouts lately, was saying that she would love to work out at 4:30 in the morning but can't because of her parental duties. I was, like, "You really wish you could work out at 4:30 in the morning? I'm still DRUNK at 4:30 in the morning!" Then she laughed until she almost peed her pants and then she wished she hadn't already blogged because she would have loved to put that quote on her blog, so I'm doing it for her here.
But the point is: I don't want to work out before the sun comes up. Besides, why get in the habit of rising so early? When I eventually have a man in my bed again, there is no way I will be able to pull myself out of his arms that early in the morning. The best part of waking up with a boyfriend is the long lingering caressing in the morning. (Sometimes when I write, my thoughts can be derailed by one simple sentence. I just sat staring into space for a few minutes while my hands were poised over the keyboard as I revelled in thoughts of early morning cuddling).
Speaking of derailed, this post is so derailed. Juju just stood up and started talking to me about work over our cubicle wall. I told her "Talk to the hand," but she kept talking. Then I tricked her by mentioning her dog, Pancakes. That threw her off, and then we began talking about The L Word. So, I'm over this post. You probably are too.
My favorite time to workout is right about now. Bye.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Q & A
This morning I could see Dolly glaring at me from the curb where her broken body is parked. She watched me climb into my new truck, and I swear a little steam came out from under her hood. I feel so awful for betraying my Mazda, but she and I are going to be separated any day now when they come and haul her off. We both need to move on. It's not easy for either of us.
Speaking of things that are not easy, naming the new truck hasn't been a walk in the park (or an offroad race through the Grand Canyon if you believe the Tundra commercials). I've wrestled with the decision of what to call my truck for almost four days. I would name him after The Rock, but, unfortunately, The Rock's real name is Dwayne, and my truck is SO not a Dwayne. I thought about calling him My Gorgeous Hunk of Gleaming Natural White Beauty, but I worry that people will say I have an inappropriate relationship with my truck if I call him that. (I will admit to looking out the window of my bedroom every few minutes to gaze upon him in the driveway, but it's more like pride than lust.)
I still need to get Pony's opinion on my truck's name after work today, but I think I've decided on Sven. The reason I need final approval from Pony is that he is the first person who ever took the time to explain car engines to me. (It's a 4x2 Regular Cab 5-speed automatic. V6. 236 horsepower.)
I will definitely post some pictures of Sven The Big White Truck. I need the sun to be shining on his strong body at just the right angle so you can see all of his striking contours. I would really like to see if he and I could get an appointment at Glamour Shots or Olan Mills (Hop In for Easter Portraits!). For my beautiful lifetime memory photographic portrait of Sven, I'd like something tasteful but sexy - maybe a blurred edge oval portrait of Sven wearing nothing but a bowtie. Maybe I'll get a Sven collage or a photo of me with my arm around him in front of a heart background.
On Saturday, right after I bought the big white truck, I drove to the store and bought a big white blender. (I imagine my Nebraska housewife hits are going to double today. Everyone who googles for toaster ovens already gets referred here, poor souls. Now that I'm throwing a blender into the mix (no pun intended) I'll probably get blog visits from every potential kitchen appliance shopper in the midwest. (This is a shout out to all my peeps in Blue Springs, Missouri. Holla!)
Back to Oscar the Osterizer (just came up with that one). I have never had a blender of my very own before, so it was pretty exciting for me to acquire such a domestic item. I am impressed that my blender has 10 speeds: puree, frappe, crush, blend, mix, stir, swizzle, decimate, muddle, and a big red button labeled "Tsunami - Push at Your Own Risk" . Actually, I'm not sure if those are the actual speeds. I haven't read the manual yet, because I still have to read Sven's manual.
Eventually, I hope to introduce Sven and Oscar to one another. But I don't need them jealously vying for their new daddy's attention right now. I love them each in their own way. Sven is hot and Oscar is cute. But they both have a place in my heart. Maybe in the spring I will take Oscar for a ride in Sven. Yes, of course I know to disengage the passenger side airbag. What kind of idiot do you take me for?
You might ask, "Hot Toddy, are you crazy? Two major purchases on a single Saturday?!" I know it seems rash, but it was time for me to have both a truck and a blender, and, like Sophie, I could not choose.
Now let's play a game.
Here is the answer:
I bought a white truck and a 10-speed blender on the same day.
What is the question?
Speaking of things that are not easy, naming the new truck hasn't been a walk in the park (or an offroad race through the Grand Canyon if you believe the Tundra commercials). I've wrestled with the decision of what to call my truck for almost four days. I would name him after The Rock, but, unfortunately, The Rock's real name is Dwayne, and my truck is SO not a Dwayne. I thought about calling him My Gorgeous Hunk of Gleaming Natural White Beauty, but I worry that people will say I have an inappropriate relationship with my truck if I call him that. (I will admit to looking out the window of my bedroom every few minutes to gaze upon him in the driveway, but it's more like pride than lust.)
I still need to get Pony's opinion on my truck's name after work today, but I think I've decided on Sven. The reason I need final approval from Pony is that he is the first person who ever took the time to explain car engines to me. (It's a 4x2 Regular Cab 5-speed automatic. V6. 236 horsepower.)
I will definitely post some pictures of Sven The Big White Truck. I need the sun to be shining on his strong body at just the right angle so you can see all of his striking contours. I would really like to see if he and I could get an appointment at Glamour Shots or Olan Mills (Hop In for Easter Portraits!). For my beautiful lifetime memory photographic portrait of Sven, I'd like something tasteful but sexy - maybe a blurred edge oval portrait of Sven wearing nothing but a bowtie. Maybe I'll get a Sven collage or a photo of me with my arm around him in front of a heart background.
On Saturday, right after I bought the big white truck, I drove to the store and bought a big white blender. (I imagine my Nebraska housewife hits are going to double today. Everyone who googles for toaster ovens already gets referred here, poor souls. Now that I'm throwing a blender into the mix (no pun intended) I'll probably get blog visits from every potential kitchen appliance shopper in the midwest. (This is a shout out to all my peeps in Blue Springs, Missouri. Holla!)
Back to Oscar the Osterizer (just came up with that one). I have never had a blender of my very own before, so it was pretty exciting for me to acquire such a domestic item. I am impressed that my blender has 10 speeds: puree, frappe, crush, blend, mix, stir, swizzle, decimate, muddle, and a big red button labeled "Tsunami - Push at Your Own Risk" . Actually, I'm not sure if those are the actual speeds. I haven't read the manual yet, because I still have to read Sven's manual.
Eventually, I hope to introduce Sven and Oscar to one another. But I don't need them jealously vying for their new daddy's attention right now. I love them each in their own way. Sven is hot and Oscar is cute. But they both have a place in my heart. Maybe in the spring I will take Oscar for a ride in Sven. Yes, of course I know to disengage the passenger side airbag. What kind of idiot do you take me for?
You might ask, "Hot Toddy, are you crazy? Two major purchases on a single Saturday?!" I know it seems rash, but it was time for me to have both a truck and a blender, and, like Sophie, I could not choose.
Now let's play a game.
Here is the answer:
I bought a white truck and a 10-speed blender on the same day.
What is the question?
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The Truck
My 2006 Toyota Tundra doesn't have a name yet. It's white, and it's beautiful, and it's all mine (in a few years).
I was going to name my new truck Madeline, after Madeline Kahn, who played Mrs. White in Clue. But, after driving him for only a day, I know he's not a she. My truck is a manly man. Now I gotta come up with a good name for him.
I already learned a lesson in driving a pickup truck. I went grocery shopping for the salmon dinner with maple brussels sprouts that I'm making tonight. I put all the food in the truck and drove the mile or so home from the store. I noticed a couple things blew out of the truck, but I was too hungry to stop and see what it was. Besides, I couldn't imagine what could possibly be blowing out of the truck since the groceries were weighing down the grocery bags, and I had the receipts in my wallet.
Now I am home and can't find the recipes for the salmon and maple brussels sprouts I brought with me to the store.
Oh. Oops.
I was going to name my new truck Madeline, after Madeline Kahn, who played Mrs. White in Clue. But, after driving him for only a day, I know he's not a she. My truck is a manly man. Now I gotta come up with a good name for him.
I already learned a lesson in driving a pickup truck. I went grocery shopping for the salmon dinner with maple brussels sprouts that I'm making tonight. I put all the food in the truck and drove the mile or so home from the store. I noticed a couple things blew out of the truck, but I was too hungry to stop and see what it was. Besides, I couldn't imagine what could possibly be blowing out of the truck since the groceries were weighing down the grocery bags, and I had the receipts in my wallet.
Now I am home and can't find the recipes for the salmon and maple brussels sprouts I brought with me to the store.
Oh. Oops.
Another Paris Dream
Last night I had another dream about Paris. This time, however, it was the person I was dreaming about instead of the city.
The next American Idol, Paris Bennett and I were doing a concert together along with a third girl. We were like Destiny's Child. Two of us (Paris and I) were talented and the third girl just filled in the harmonies. There's always one person in the trio who is just there to fill in the harmony (hello, Wendy Wilson).
Anyway, since I woke up full of truck purchasing anxiety at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday, I thought I'd share some of the zingers from my concert with Paris and the other girl. Paris and I have great chemistry together - we were spouting off these awesome one-liners. Here were the two audience favorites.
Paris: Bend over and pick that sheet music up, Hot Toddy.
Hot Toddy: Honey, I haven't bent over since 1978.
Paris: Really?
Hot Toddy: Not willingly.
(At this point several old ladies in the audience turned to each other and laughed as they said "willingly - ha! did you hear him? he said willingly! that was so funny")
Okay, here is another one. For this one I had kind of a black girl thing going on.
Paris: Hot Toddy, this is a long concert. I'm gettin kinda tired.
Hot Toddy: Mmm-hmm. Girl, sometimes I wish I was a baby.
Paris: What do you mean?
Hot Toddy: I just wanna be belly-up in a crib right now.
(Hysterical audience laughter - but wait, there's more)
Hot Toddy: Or face down in a pint of Ben & Jerry's. (Shrieking laughter and applause)
Apparently, these were the funniest jokes anybody has ever made on stage. Had I been able to get back to sleep, I feel certain Paris and I (and the other girl) would have done a couple encores.
Anyone want to interpret this one? I've had some crazy dreams lately. Reading all the dream analyses in my comments has become one of my favorite things about blogging lately.
The next American Idol, Paris Bennett and I were doing a concert together along with a third girl. We were like Destiny's Child. Two of us (Paris and I) were talented and the third girl just filled in the harmonies. There's always one person in the trio who is just there to fill in the harmony (hello, Wendy Wilson).
Anyway, since I woke up full of truck purchasing anxiety at 5:30 a.m. on a Saturday, I thought I'd share some of the zingers from my concert with Paris and the other girl. Paris and I have great chemistry together - we were spouting off these awesome one-liners. Here were the two audience favorites.
Paris: Bend over and pick that sheet music up, Hot Toddy.
Hot Toddy: Honey, I haven't bent over since 1978.
Paris: Really?
Hot Toddy: Not willingly.
(At this point several old ladies in the audience turned to each other and laughed as they said "willingly - ha! did you hear him? he said willingly! that was so funny")
Okay, here is another one. For this one I had kind of a black girl thing going on.
Paris: Hot Toddy, this is a long concert. I'm gettin kinda tired.
Hot Toddy: Mmm-hmm. Girl, sometimes I wish I was a baby.
Paris: What do you mean?
Hot Toddy: I just wanna be belly-up in a crib right now.
(Hysterical audience laughter - but wait, there's more)
Hot Toddy: Or face down in a pint of Ben & Jerry's. (Shrieking laughter and applause)
Apparently, these were the funniest jokes anybody has ever made on stage. Had I been able to get back to sleep, I feel certain Paris and I (and the other girl) would have done a couple encores.
Anyone want to interpret this one? I've had some crazy dreams lately. Reading all the dream analyses in my comments has become one of my favorite things about blogging lately.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Power Bottom
Awww, I hate putting up a new post because I am so freakin in love with my Seething Cakes of Hatred Post from Tuesday. I know I should not love my own work so much, but I haven't been so proud of a post since I wrote about Charmed.
The plan was to post a wonderful audio blog that The Handsome Prince and I recorded last night from CC Slaughters. Somehow I messed up and didn't post the message correctly. It's lost forever.
Today I just need to clear something up. Contrary to popular belief, I was not in any way involved in the Malibu car crash that destroyed the Ferrari Enzo. I know it is hard to believe there was a crash and I wasn't part of it, but it's true. I may be the reigning Magnet of Tragedy, but somehow I skirted that particular incident.
I really need to buy a vehicle soon. I am dragging my feet on this because I can't take the pressure. I know in my heart that the car salesperson will have me for dinner, and there is just no way around it. The moment I set foot on the car lot I will become the bound and gagged bottom in the porno gang rape prison scene. After all, I am the guy who takes the magazine from the Jehovah's Witness on the street corner because I don't want to hurt their feelings. I'm the guy who holds the door for someone at the mall and then stands there for five minutes as 20 more people go through, apparently mistaking me for the doorman. When I go out to dinner, I can't even send a meal back to the kitchen because I don't want to be a bother. "No, it's okay, waiter, I'll just eat around the severed thumb. It'll be fine!"
My only hope is that the Asian Bodybuilder car salesman (why do you think I'm buying a Toyota) will want a repeat performance after he gets done taking me the first time. Hopefully he'll at least make me breakfast the next morning. (Pancakes!)
The plan was to post a wonderful audio blog that The Handsome Prince and I recorded last night from CC Slaughters. Somehow I messed up and didn't post the message correctly. It's lost forever.
Today I just need to clear something up. Contrary to popular belief, I was not in any way involved in the Malibu car crash that destroyed the Ferrari Enzo. I know it is hard to believe there was a crash and I wasn't part of it, but it's true. I may be the reigning Magnet of Tragedy, but somehow I skirted that particular incident.
I really need to buy a vehicle soon. I am dragging my feet on this because I can't take the pressure. I know in my heart that the car salesperson will have me for dinner, and there is just no way around it. The moment I set foot on the car lot I will become the bound and gagged bottom in the porno gang rape prison scene. After all, I am the guy who takes the magazine from the Jehovah's Witness on the street corner because I don't want to hurt their feelings. I'm the guy who holds the door for someone at the mall and then stands there for five minutes as 20 more people go through, apparently mistaking me for the doorman. When I go out to dinner, I can't even send a meal back to the kitchen because I don't want to be a bother. "No, it's okay, waiter, I'll just eat around the severed thumb. It'll be fine!"
My only hope is that the Asian Bodybuilder car salesman (why do you think I'm buying a Toyota) will want a repeat performance after he gets done taking me the first time. Hopefully he'll at least make me breakfast the next morning. (Pancakes!)
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Seething Cakes of Hatred
Making pancakes, as I learned at AP's birthday bash at the beach this weekend, is an unbelievably tedious chore. I don't know why I even volunteered my services. I hate cooking! The only reason I thought it might be fun to make pancakes for eight people was that I could use my Jim Beam pancake syrup that has been sitting in my cupboard for at least a year. I must have bought it one day at the store when I was having an I-Should-Totally-Start-Cooking-for-Myself moment that went as quickly as it came.
On Saturday morning, a little after 8 a.m., I positioned myself at the stove to make pancakes. I was surprised that I didn't have to add eggs to the pancake mix. Just water! This is because there were powdered eggs in the mix, which I assume are produced by depriving chickens of water for weeks at a time before they lay eggs. Anyway, the not adding water thing was awesome. It was, unfortunately, the only awesome part of the whole ordeal.
I know that everybody else at the beach house thought I was the most pouty chef they've ever seen. I know that people who read this post will think it's silly of me to complain about making pancakes. But if there is one other kindred spirit out there who can relate to the challenge of a person with ADD trying to make pancakes, I know you'll defend me.
I wish I could show you my impression of making pancakes. I performed this for everyone at the breakfast table through pantomime, but I'll try to summarize the routine verbally.
Todd pours batter into a pan. Stands and stares for about 2 minutes. Sighs. Taps foot. Sees bubbles forming around the edges. Todd flips pancake. Stands and stares for about 2 hours or days or months or years. Todd puts pancake on tray. Todd puts tray in oven. Repeat 16 times.
Making pancakes is a punishment that far exceeds any crime a person could ever commit. Making pancakes is more boring than watching golf. It is more tedious than ringing a bell at a Salvation Army Christmas kettle for 8-10 hours a day.
I ladled the mix into the pan that was only big enough to make one pancake at a time. (AP had commandeered all the big pans to make mountains of hash browns, which would soon overshadow my bastard stepchild pancakes at the table.) So, the pour, wait, flip, wait, remove, warm in oven and repeat game was prolonged due to my lack of experience in staking first claim to the big skillets.
The first two pancakes weren't so bad. If I had been cooking pancakes for myself, I could have prepared an entire breakfast on one commercial break as I watched a Project Runway marathon. But I was cooking for eight, so I knew I had to repeat this process about 22 more times. No way. Screw that. People can eat two pancakes each instead of three. Only 16 pancakes would be served, I decided. I proclaimed, "Life for me ain't been no crystal stair..." as I cooked and cooked and cooked.
Four and a half days later, I had about 7 pancakes done. I realized then that the little bitches were cooling at a rapid pace. Seriously, they were getting cold faster than I can slam a vodka tonic, so I started searching for a tray to put them on so I could keep the vile starch patties warm in the oven. When I found a tray and opened the oven, I discovered that there was no room at the inn since all the space was taken up by AP's little hash brown treasures and popular beloved scrambled eggs. So my washed up loser Roseanne Barr pancakes were shoved in the oven wherever I could find space.
Seventeen thousand years later, I had only one pancake left to make. By this time people were at the table eating breakfast as I stomped and sighed and groaned and wailed and gnashed my teeth and begged sweet Jesus to take me home. I poured the last of the pancake batter into the pan and began waiting. I was so eager to be finished that I turned the burner off as soon as the batter hit the pan. That turned out to not be a great idea, because the pan cooled faster than the pancake cooked. So, six billion years later, I flipped that last uncooked pancake the bird and said, "I'm done you disgusting puddle of paste".
I brought out the stack of warmed-over pancakes to my friends who were indulging in hot tasty eggs and potatoes. The hash browns, served piping hot, were so popular with everyone. People shoveled hash browns into their mouths with gusto. The darling sweethearts of the breakfast table, scrambled eggs, were loved by all. Some people were crying and speaking in tongues as they ate their eggs.
"Who wants to try my seething cakes of hatred?" I asked as I brought the platter of breaded frisbees to the table. I threw the despised dough discs down on the table. Each person reluctantly took one seething cake of hatred, but I knew they were just doing it to be nice. Chopper mentioned that he felt happy after eating the eggs but was suddenly feeling very bitter as he ate a pancake.
When I go to hell, I already know what job I will get. I used to think my job would be stacking cases of soda pop in a stifling hot storage shed on one eternal 99 degree day in the blazing sun. I had to do that one summer at camp and thought I'd never endure greater agony. Now I know there is a worse job for the hellbound - making pancakes. My job will be to make pancakes for all eternity, and the other people in hell will be forced to eat my pancakes. I'm not sure which is the bigger punishment.
On Saturday morning, a little after 8 a.m., I positioned myself at the stove to make pancakes. I was surprised that I didn't have to add eggs to the pancake mix. Just water! This is because there were powdered eggs in the mix, which I assume are produced by depriving chickens of water for weeks at a time before they lay eggs. Anyway, the not adding water thing was awesome. It was, unfortunately, the only awesome part of the whole ordeal.
I know that everybody else at the beach house thought I was the most pouty chef they've ever seen. I know that people who read this post will think it's silly of me to complain about making pancakes. But if there is one other kindred spirit out there who can relate to the challenge of a person with ADD trying to make pancakes, I know you'll defend me.
I wish I could show you my impression of making pancakes. I performed this for everyone at the breakfast table through pantomime, but I'll try to summarize the routine verbally.
Todd pours batter into a pan. Stands and stares for about 2 minutes. Sighs. Taps foot. Sees bubbles forming around the edges. Todd flips pancake. Stands and stares for about 2 hours or days or months or years. Todd puts pancake on tray. Todd puts tray in oven. Repeat 16 times.
Making pancakes is a punishment that far exceeds any crime a person could ever commit. Making pancakes is more boring than watching golf. It is more tedious than ringing a bell at a Salvation Army Christmas kettle for 8-10 hours a day.
I ladled the mix into the pan that was only big enough to make one pancake at a time. (AP had commandeered all the big pans to make mountains of hash browns, which would soon overshadow my bastard stepchild pancakes at the table.) So, the pour, wait, flip, wait, remove, warm in oven and repeat game was prolonged due to my lack of experience in staking first claim to the big skillets.
The first two pancakes weren't so bad. If I had been cooking pancakes for myself, I could have prepared an entire breakfast on one commercial break as I watched a Project Runway marathon. But I was cooking for eight, so I knew I had to repeat this process about 22 more times. No way. Screw that. People can eat two pancakes each instead of three. Only 16 pancakes would be served, I decided. I proclaimed, "Life for me ain't been no crystal stair..." as I cooked and cooked and cooked.
Four and a half days later, I had about 7 pancakes done. I realized then that the little bitches were cooling at a rapid pace. Seriously, they were getting cold faster than I can slam a vodka tonic, so I started searching for a tray to put them on so I could keep the vile starch patties warm in the oven. When I found a tray and opened the oven, I discovered that there was no room at the inn since all the space was taken up by AP's little hash brown treasures and popular beloved scrambled eggs. So my washed up loser Roseanne Barr pancakes were shoved in the oven wherever I could find space.
Seventeen thousand years later, I had only one pancake left to make. By this time people were at the table eating breakfast as I stomped and sighed and groaned and wailed and gnashed my teeth and begged sweet Jesus to take me home. I poured the last of the pancake batter into the pan and began waiting. I was so eager to be finished that I turned the burner off as soon as the batter hit the pan. That turned out to not be a great idea, because the pan cooled faster than the pancake cooked. So, six billion years later, I flipped that last uncooked pancake the bird and said, "I'm done you disgusting puddle of paste".
I brought out the stack of warmed-over pancakes to my friends who were indulging in hot tasty eggs and potatoes. The hash browns, served piping hot, were so popular with everyone. People shoveled hash browns into their mouths with gusto. The darling sweethearts of the breakfast table, scrambled eggs, were loved by all. Some people were crying and speaking in tongues as they ate their eggs.
"Who wants to try my seething cakes of hatred?" I asked as I brought the platter of breaded frisbees to the table. I threw the despised dough discs down on the table. Each person reluctantly took one seething cake of hatred, but I knew they were just doing it to be nice. Chopper mentioned that he felt happy after eating the eggs but was suddenly feeling very bitter as he ate a pancake.
When I go to hell, I already know what job I will get. I used to think my job would be stacking cases of soda pop in a stifling hot storage shed on one eternal 99 degree day in the blazing sun. I had to do that one summer at camp and thought I'd never endure greater agony. Now I know there is a worse job for the hellbound - making pancakes. My job will be to make pancakes for all eternity, and the other people in hell will be forced to eat my pancakes. I'm not sure which is the bigger punishment.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Sorry About the Mess
I had a great time at the coast except for when I made pancakes on Saturday morning. The agony of making pancakes is something I never again want to experience. More about that another time.
Last night I had a dream the world was ending. I don't know if it was because of something that happened on The L Word (I won't spoil it) or because I'm stressed about buying a new vehicle or because I was traumatized by spending what felt like two hours making 16 pancakes Saturday morning or what.
In my dream I was flying around the world on a swing with a friend. The friend kept changing throughout the dream. One moment the person with me on the flying swing was Ms. Karma, then it was JR (who was at the coast with me this weekend), and then it was Apollo. As we flew, bombs exploded beneath us. Some almost knocked us off the swing, but I managed to avoid them and keep our swing airborne. As we flew over Paris a bomb actually hit us and destroyed the swing, forcing us to make a crash landing.
On the ground, we encountered horror and violence. All around us there were people screaming and running. The scene was bloody and terrifying, and, inexplicably, puddles of hardened wax were all over the ground. My friend, who turned back into Ms. Karma at that moment, said, "Let's go down into the Metro. I want to read you something before we die." She pointed at a magazine she was holding and, although I knew we wouldn't be any safer underground in the Paris Metro, we headed down the stairs so she could read to me.
Suddenly Auburn Pisces was there walking down the stairs with us as the hysterical cries of massive panic exploded around us. Her daughter Auburn Aries was there too. She was holding a doll and was being very brave I didn't want to upset her so I tried not to cry as I thought about the fact that I was going to die in a few moments. I wished I could call my parents to say goodbye, and I wished Thor was there with me so I could hold him one last time.
I woke up at midnight and forced myself to memorize details of the dream. It was awful, because it felt so real. The things inside of me scare me sometimes. Do you ever feel like you have such dark horrible thoughts there must be something wrong with you? I guess everyone feels that way from time to time, and dreams show us so much about our secret desires, fears and feelings.
Still, I would rather dream the world is ending than dream that I did something horribly embarrassing at work. There is a manager here at Company X who is very sweet. I like her so much, and she always smiles at me kindly when we pass each other in the hallway. I've never worked for her, but we have had some nice conversations in passing. Recently, I had a dream that I urinated on her desk while we were meeting in her office. (It wasn't like I was terribly rude about it. After all, I apologized for the mess and offered to clean it up right after I did it.) I ruined several files and upset her quite a bit in the process.
Today I saw that manager and said hello, but I think I blushed. I can't forget about that dream, and I feel a little guilty. I always have to fight the urge to tell her I had a dream I peed on her desk. "Good morning Margaret. Did I ever tell you I had a dream I took a piss on your desk? Isn't that weird?"
I think she'd be flabbergasted and/or run to Human Resources to report me.
Last night I had a dream the world was ending. I don't know if it was because of something that happened on The L Word (I won't spoil it) or because I'm stressed about buying a new vehicle or because I was traumatized by spending what felt like two hours making 16 pancakes Saturday morning or what.
In my dream I was flying around the world on a swing with a friend. The friend kept changing throughout the dream. One moment the person with me on the flying swing was Ms. Karma, then it was JR (who was at the coast with me this weekend), and then it was Apollo. As we flew, bombs exploded beneath us. Some almost knocked us off the swing, but I managed to avoid them and keep our swing airborne. As we flew over Paris a bomb actually hit us and destroyed the swing, forcing us to make a crash landing.
On the ground, we encountered horror and violence. All around us there were people screaming and running. The scene was bloody and terrifying, and, inexplicably, puddles of hardened wax were all over the ground. My friend, who turned back into Ms. Karma at that moment, said, "Let's go down into the Metro. I want to read you something before we die." She pointed at a magazine she was holding and, although I knew we wouldn't be any safer underground in the Paris Metro, we headed down the stairs so she could read to me.
Suddenly Auburn Pisces was there walking down the stairs with us as the hysterical cries of massive panic exploded around us. Her daughter Auburn Aries was there too. She was holding a doll and was being very brave I didn't want to upset her so I tried not to cry as I thought about the fact that I was going to die in a few moments. I wished I could call my parents to say goodbye, and I wished Thor was there with me so I could hold him one last time.
I woke up at midnight and forced myself to memorize details of the dream. It was awful, because it felt so real. The things inside of me scare me sometimes. Do you ever feel like you have such dark horrible thoughts there must be something wrong with you? I guess everyone feels that way from time to time, and dreams show us so much about our secret desires, fears and feelings.
Still, I would rather dream the world is ending than dream that I did something horribly embarrassing at work. There is a manager here at Company X who is very sweet. I like her so much, and she always smiles at me kindly when we pass each other in the hallway. I've never worked for her, but we have had some nice conversations in passing. Recently, I had a dream that I urinated on her desk while we were meeting in her office. (It wasn't like I was terribly rude about it. After all, I apologized for the mess and offered to clean it up right after I did it.) I ruined several files and upset her quite a bit in the process.
Today I saw that manager and said hello, but I think I blushed. I can't forget about that dream, and I feel a little guilty. I always have to fight the urge to tell her I had a dream I peed on her desk. "Good morning Margaret. Did I ever tell you I had a dream I took a piss on your desk? Isn't that weird?"
I think she'd be flabbergasted and/or run to Human Resources to report me.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Makers Mark at the Mansion
Tonight I am heading for the coast to spend a weekend with eight wonderful people. You'll find the guest list at Auburn Pisces' blog. You'll also find a link to a picture of the house and the town where we're staying so that you can stalk me if you get bored this weekend.
This getaway couldn't come at a better time. Broken bones and a sprained neck, a breakup and two car crashes have taken a lot out of me, needless to say.
I know that it is impossible to find answers at the bottom of a bottle. And for the past couple months I've been going inside for the answers, not seeking them from others. I'm pleased to report that I've learned a lot about just how strong I can be. I don't need a partner to take care of me, and I don't need a boyfriend in order to be happy. It only took me a little over three decades to figure that out. I'm a slow learner, I guess.
But back to the bottle. I am planning on seeing the bottom of one or two bottles this weekend. Not because I need to escape anything, but because I finally feel happy and strong enough to know that I'm drinking in a celebratory fashion rather than drinking to numb the pain. I have a lot to celebrate.
I called my mom last night. Yesterday was her birthday. We had a great talk and she said that I sound really good. "That makes me so happy," she said, and I knew she was right. I am back on track and have grown so much more comfortable with myself in the past few months. The last time I talked to Mom it was Christmas eve, and I broke down and cried on the phone. I was still deep in a pit of depression and my original Christmas plans with Thor fell through, so it was a rough time.
You know what, I still think about Thor every single day. I am not sure if I will ever get over losing him, and I don't think I could ever stop loving him, but the bottom line is I survived a darkness and hopelessness I'd never experienced before.
I don't want to cry anymore. Instead, I'm gonna get funky, and I'm gonna get my drink on. I will celebrate the amazing funny cool friends in my life, and I'm gonna be a big goofball and crack their shit up, and I'm gonna flirt and dance and laugh.
I'll play softball and play World of Warcraft and drive a new truck and lift heavier weights and spend extra minutes on the treadmill and get lots of sun and fly to Chicago for the Gay Games and play with Pancakes and call my family more often and maybe even learn how to do a cartwheel.
But this weekend I'll just focus on the Maker's Mark and being a goofball part.
I wonder if the broken toe will interfere with my performance of Riverdance? If all else fails, I can always do my Drunk Billie Holiday.
This getaway couldn't come at a better time. Broken bones and a sprained neck, a breakup and two car crashes have taken a lot out of me, needless to say.
I know that it is impossible to find answers at the bottom of a bottle. And for the past couple months I've been going inside for the answers, not seeking them from others. I'm pleased to report that I've learned a lot about just how strong I can be. I don't need a partner to take care of me, and I don't need a boyfriend in order to be happy. It only took me a little over three decades to figure that out. I'm a slow learner, I guess.
But back to the bottle. I am planning on seeing the bottom of one or two bottles this weekend. Not because I need to escape anything, but because I finally feel happy and strong enough to know that I'm drinking in a celebratory fashion rather than drinking to numb the pain. I have a lot to celebrate.
I called my mom last night. Yesterday was her birthday. We had a great talk and she said that I sound really good. "That makes me so happy," she said, and I knew she was right. I am back on track and have grown so much more comfortable with myself in the past few months. The last time I talked to Mom it was Christmas eve, and I broke down and cried on the phone. I was still deep in a pit of depression and my original Christmas plans with Thor fell through, so it was a rough time.
You know what, I still think about Thor every single day. I am not sure if I will ever get over losing him, and I don't think I could ever stop loving him, but the bottom line is I survived a darkness and hopelessness I'd never experienced before.
I don't want to cry anymore. Instead, I'm gonna get funky, and I'm gonna get my drink on. I will celebrate the amazing funny cool friends in my life, and I'm gonna be a big goofball and crack their shit up, and I'm gonna flirt and dance and laugh.
I'll play softball and play World of Warcraft and drive a new truck and lift heavier weights and spend extra minutes on the treadmill and get lots of sun and fly to Chicago for the Gay Games and play with Pancakes and call my family more often and maybe even learn how to do a cartwheel.
But this weekend I'll just focus on the Maker's Mark and being a goofball part.
I wonder if the broken toe will interfere with my performance of Riverdance? If all else fails, I can always do my Drunk Billie Holiday.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Car Wars
When I am not busy breaking bones or crashing cars, I like to browse the internet. Lately, I've been browsing the most boring horrible websites imaginable. I am talking about automobile websites.
I fell asleep right after I typed that.
Seriously, can you think of anything more boring than shopping for a car? Maybe watching the State of the Union address, but not much else is more boring. Today right after I researched Pearl Bailey's life and career (because one of her songs played on my iPod) I started checking out the market value of my wrecked car. I have a feeling poor Dolly is totalled. I should find out soon. I wonder if they'll let me keep her big bra when they tow her away.
So, I'm looking for my rebound car. Yesterday I told Auburn Pisces that I've started actually paying attention to the makes and models of other cars on the road. I try to imagine myself driving a different vehicle. I know I want something that will sit higher than the average car. At 6'6", I'm tired of folding my body in half to get in a car. I think a roomy truck might be nice. Also very butch. Butch = Sexy.
"Hey, Auburn Pisces. I think I might want to buy a Chevy Tacoma."
"Toyota Tacoma, but very close, Hot Toddy. Good job."
"Or I might want a Jeep Cherokee - those look cool. Unless a Wrangler is cooler. Aren't there Jeep Wranglers, or am I thinking of jeans?"
"Yes, Jeep Wranglers are the more traditional Jeeps. Toddy? Toddy? TODDY!!"
"Sorry, I dozed off for a minute."
So, where do I begin? How should I approach this awful chore of buying a car?
(Bonus points if you can give me car shopping advice without putting me to sleep.)
I fell asleep right after I typed that.
Seriously, can you think of anything more boring than shopping for a car? Maybe watching the State of the Union address, but not much else is more boring. Today right after I researched Pearl Bailey's life and career (because one of her songs played on my iPod) I started checking out the market value of my wrecked car. I have a feeling poor Dolly is totalled. I should find out soon. I wonder if they'll let me keep her big bra when they tow her away.
So, I'm looking for my rebound car. Yesterday I told Auburn Pisces that I've started actually paying attention to the makes and models of other cars on the road. I try to imagine myself driving a different vehicle. I know I want something that will sit higher than the average car. At 6'6", I'm tired of folding my body in half to get in a car. I think a roomy truck might be nice. Also very butch. Butch = Sexy.
"Hey, Auburn Pisces. I think I might want to buy a Chevy Tacoma."
"Toyota Tacoma, but very close, Hot Toddy. Good job."
"Or I might want a Jeep Cherokee - those look cool. Unless a Wrangler is cooler. Aren't there Jeep Wranglers, or am I thinking of jeans?"
"Yes, Jeep Wranglers are the more traditional Jeeps. Toddy? Toddy? TODDY!!"
"Sorry, I dozed off for a minute."
So, where do I begin? How should I approach this awful chore of buying a car?
(Bonus points if you can give me car shopping advice without putting me to sleep.)
Monday, March 06, 2006
Hang Up and Drive
I can almost walk without limping, so my toe is definitely healing fast. But now I can't turn my head without pain.
On Thursday I went to the Mazda dealer and Dolly got her 60,000 mile service. She was about 20,000 miles overdue, but I was waiting to get my finances in order after my January trip to Tokyo. The bill for service was $1200, and they found another problem that causes my check engine light to stay on. Fixing that problem (#3 cylinder if you care) will cost $1500. Because my car has to pass DEQ inspection before April, I need to get that fixed. Or do I?
Miracle of miracles, when I was driving home on Friday, I noticed my check engine light went off! If I could get to the DEQ right away, my car would probably pass inspection. Knowing the light will eventually come back on (it always does), I pulled out my DEQ notice to see how long they'd be open on a Friday night. I was sitting at a stoplight reading my form when I heard screeching tires coming from somewhere. I checked my rearview mirror and saw that I was safe. There was a truck behind me, and he was fully stopped.
Wow - some poor person was about to have a terrible acci --- WHAM!!!!
The bright headlights of the truck behind me grew brighter as the truck drove into my car. My head snapped back and my hand flew up to my neck. I sat in the car stunned and confused. When I got out, I found out just how hard I'd been hit.
Apparently a woman was talking on her cell phone while driving her vehicle of destruction and didn't notice the truck in front of her was stopped at a red light. She smashed into him so hard that his gigantic 85 Ford Pickup was propelled into my back seat. His truck was tough - it barely took any damage. My trunk looks like an aluminum can that has been crushed under a stomping foot.
I called the friend I always phone in an emergency (and there have been several lately!). Auburn Pisces was there within five minutes, and she insisted I go to the emergency room. I just wanted to go home and drink whiskey and play World of Warcraft as originally planned. She wouldn't hear of it and ended up sitting with me in the ER for 4 hours. We watched people come and go, and I made up stories about them.
"That girl who just walked in limping works at Olive Garden and she slipped while carrying a tray of breadsticks."
AP patiently listened to my chatter. She listened to my whining about how unfair life has seemed lately. For about an hour I texted her from the examination table a few feet away from her seat in the lobby.
PLZ GO GET MY BUMPER. I WANT TO SEE IT ONE LAST TIME BEFORE I DIE
MAYBE I CAN SUE THAT BITCH FOR THE BEDSORES I'M GETTING AS I WAIT TO BE SEEN
TRYING TO GIVE MYSELF A NOSEBLEED SO SOMEONE WILL SEE ME
PLEASE ORDER ME A MAKERS MARK WHEN THE COCKTAIL SERVER COMES BY
TRYING TO SELF-INDUCE VOMITING. SHOULDN'T BE LONG NOW.
THIS BACKLESS GOWN LOOKS GOOD WITH MY ID BRACELET
TRYING TO STOP MY HEART. HANG IN THERE.
I left with a prescription for muscle relaxers and instructions on treating neck and back strain.
There is a bright side to all of this.
1. I hardly think about my broken toe anymore now that I can't turn my head.
2. I may not have to spend $1500 or deal with the DEQ inspection if my car is totalled.
3. A policeman saw the whole accident. In fact, he thinks the woman saw him and freaked out, thus distracting her from her phone call. Oh, and her driving too.
On Thursday I went to the Mazda dealer and Dolly got her 60,000 mile service. She was about 20,000 miles overdue, but I was waiting to get my finances in order after my January trip to Tokyo. The bill for service was $1200, and they found another problem that causes my check engine light to stay on. Fixing that problem (#3 cylinder if you care) will cost $1500. Because my car has to pass DEQ inspection before April, I need to get that fixed. Or do I?
Miracle of miracles, when I was driving home on Friday, I noticed my check engine light went off! If I could get to the DEQ right away, my car would probably pass inspection. Knowing the light will eventually come back on (it always does), I pulled out my DEQ notice to see how long they'd be open on a Friday night. I was sitting at a stoplight reading my form when I heard screeching tires coming from somewhere. I checked my rearview mirror and saw that I was safe. There was a truck behind me, and he was fully stopped.
Wow - some poor person was about to have a terrible acci --- WHAM!!!!
The bright headlights of the truck behind me grew brighter as the truck drove into my car. My head snapped back and my hand flew up to my neck. I sat in the car stunned and confused. When I got out, I found out just how hard I'd been hit.
Apparently a woman was talking on her cell phone while driving her vehicle of destruction and didn't notice the truck in front of her was stopped at a red light. She smashed into him so hard that his gigantic 85 Ford Pickup was propelled into my back seat. His truck was tough - it barely took any damage. My trunk looks like an aluminum can that has been crushed under a stomping foot.
I called the friend I always phone in an emergency (and there have been several lately!). Auburn Pisces was there within five minutes, and she insisted I go to the emergency room. I just wanted to go home and drink whiskey and play World of Warcraft as originally planned. She wouldn't hear of it and ended up sitting with me in the ER for 4 hours. We watched people come and go, and I made up stories about them.
"That girl who just walked in limping works at Olive Garden and she slipped while carrying a tray of breadsticks."
AP patiently listened to my chatter. She listened to my whining about how unfair life has seemed lately. For about an hour I texted her from the examination table a few feet away from her seat in the lobby.
PLZ GO GET MY BUMPER. I WANT TO SEE IT ONE LAST TIME BEFORE I DIE
MAYBE I CAN SUE THAT BITCH FOR THE BEDSORES I'M GETTING AS I WAIT TO BE SEEN
TRYING TO GIVE MYSELF A NOSEBLEED SO SOMEONE WILL SEE ME
PLEASE ORDER ME A MAKERS MARK WHEN THE COCKTAIL SERVER COMES BY
TRYING TO SELF-INDUCE VOMITING. SHOULDN'T BE LONG NOW.
THIS BACKLESS GOWN LOOKS GOOD WITH MY ID BRACELET
TRYING TO STOP MY HEART. HANG IN THERE.
I left with a prescription for muscle relaxers and instructions on treating neck and back strain.
There is a bright side to all of this.
1. I hardly think about my broken toe anymore now that I can't turn my head.
2. I may not have to spend $1500 or deal with the DEQ inspection if my car is totalled.
3. A policeman saw the whole accident. In fact, he thinks the woman saw him and freaked out, thus distracting her from her phone call. Oh, and her driving too.
Friday, March 03, 2006
The Very Public Life of Hot Toddy
I suppose if one blogs, one shouldn't expect too much privacy, right?
Here at Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, we tell just about everything there is to tell. I keep no secrets. But sometimes my world seems so small. Everybody knows my business.
Earlier this week I went to have lunch at the deli by my office. I planned on having the burger of the week, but then I saw that the daily special was chicken taquitos. I was having a hard time deciding what to order, so the cashier suggested I have the daily special. "After all, the burger will be around all week, but the taquitos are only here today!"
20 minutes later as I happily munched taquitos at my desk, Ms. Karma sent me a chat to let me know she just missed me, and she went to the same deli for lunch. I told her we could go to lunch there later this week so I could try the El Paso burger. Ms. Karma replied, "After all, the burger will be around all week, but the taquitos are only here today!"
The girls working at the deli must have been chatty that day.
On Friday night I cheated. I smoked two cigarettes at CC Slaughters. At 3 a.m. on Saturday morning I received a text message from The Toddtender:
"I heard you were smoking. Jocks don't smoke." The Toddtender wasn't even working when I was there having my TWO MEASLY CIGARETTES. Word travels fast.
Someday, when I am in the Witness Protection Program (it's bound to happen), I'll be a nervous wreck - well, I would imagine most people in the program are generally nervous wrecks - but I will be particularly nervous. I just know one of my friends will slip up and say to the Mob Boss, "Oh, Toddy? He just called me from his hovel in Montana! Do you want his number?"
I live with one of my close friends, and I work with another close friend or three, and two of my former housemates work with me, and I have slept with LOTS of my close friends (but only one former housemate). I just feel like all my relationships bleed into one another to the point where my home life is not separate from my work life or my social life. I half expect to come to work on Monday and hear the guard at the front desk say, "Hot Toddy, I heard your World of Warcraft troll priest is at level 14. Good job!" (Of course by Monday I'll probably be at least level 18)
I don't know why my privacy is not respected. I mean, other than sharing the details of my life, including pictures of my injured foot, stories about sex, details of my dates, and all the ups and downs of love with about 400 people a day on Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, I pretty much keep to myself.
Here at Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, we tell just about everything there is to tell. I keep no secrets. But sometimes my world seems so small. Everybody knows my business.
Earlier this week I went to have lunch at the deli by my office. I planned on having the burger of the week, but then I saw that the daily special was chicken taquitos. I was having a hard time deciding what to order, so the cashier suggested I have the daily special. "After all, the burger will be around all week, but the taquitos are only here today!"
20 minutes later as I happily munched taquitos at my desk, Ms. Karma sent me a chat to let me know she just missed me, and she went to the same deli for lunch. I told her we could go to lunch there later this week so I could try the El Paso burger. Ms. Karma replied, "After all, the burger will be around all week, but the taquitos are only here today!"
The girls working at the deli must have been chatty that day.
On Friday night I cheated. I smoked two cigarettes at CC Slaughters. At 3 a.m. on Saturday morning I received a text message from The Toddtender:
"I heard you were smoking. Jocks don't smoke." The Toddtender wasn't even working when I was there having my TWO MEASLY CIGARETTES. Word travels fast.
Someday, when I am in the Witness Protection Program (it's bound to happen), I'll be a nervous wreck - well, I would imagine most people in the program are generally nervous wrecks - but I will be particularly nervous. I just know one of my friends will slip up and say to the Mob Boss, "Oh, Toddy? He just called me from his hovel in Montana! Do you want his number?"
I live with one of my close friends, and I work with another close friend or three, and two of my former housemates work with me, and I have slept with LOTS of my close friends (but only one former housemate). I just feel like all my relationships bleed into one another to the point where my home life is not separate from my work life or my social life. I half expect to come to work on Monday and hear the guard at the front desk say, "Hot Toddy, I heard your World of Warcraft troll priest is at level 14. Good job!" (Of course by Monday I'll probably be at least level 18)
I don't know why my privacy is not respected. I mean, other than sharing the details of my life, including pictures of my injured foot, stories about sex, details of my dates, and all the ups and downs of love with about 400 people a day on Hot Toddy's Toaster Oven, I pretty much keep to myself.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Pancakes
Pancakes came up several times after my Mardi Gras post. I mean the topic of pancakes - not the literal regurgitation of pancakes. Check yesterday's comments and tell me it's not the eeriest recurrence of the subject of pancakes that you've ever witnessed. I still have chills.
And, as if this phenomenon weren't strange enough, it gets weirder.
I want to introduce you to Juju and Metro's new baby. His name?
Pancakes!
I can't wait to meet and fall in love with you, Pancakes!
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