An Unwelcome Guest

Okay, people. I will be straight with you. Well, in my case, I guess I will be gay with you. It's crunch time. The semester is winding down. I have a ton of things to do. You know what that means. Procrastination has the ability to lead to blog entries a plenty.

I had a visit from a friend last night…a friend I like to call "stomach virus." Yeah, he is an unwelcome guest. Strangely enough, Shlomo had been suffering from a little cough all day and I suggested he take a Nyquil before going to bed. All was well. Two hours later, all hell broke loose in my digestive tract. It was to the point I was worried about becoming dehydrated. Shlomo was in a drug-induced coma. I had this image of my having to take a cab to the emergency room. Fortunately, that image did not come to fruition.

To further complicate things, I had a presentation to make in my class tonight. I debated trying to get out of it. But, I am either too proud or too stupid to approach my professor about such things. So, stomach gurgling I went to class. As I sat there waiting to present my lovely schpiel about Medea, I suddenly had this image of my going Poughkeepsie in my pants right in the middle of telling how Medea was somewhat admirable in her defiance of her gender role and not allowing herself to be the victim. Fortunately, I was not Charlotte York Goldenblatt on a Mexican vacation.

So now, I am facing a weekend filled with research on Rembrandt and his work in the Jewish ghetto. I hope my stomach holds up.

Someone Is Eating Dog Food

Yesterday was THE event of the year for my tribe in Houston. By tribe, I mean gay people. That’s right. Madonna played Minute Maid Park. Shlomo and I were there with about 70 thousand other people. It was fantastic. At 50, Madge is still at the top of her game.

To celebrate, Shlomo and I hosted a little soiree for our nearest and dearest prior to the show. I coined it, “Martinis, Mojitos, and Madonna.” Bascially, it meant I spent the day in the kitchen while Shlomo sat on his butt. Okay, that’s not entirely true. Actually, he did a lot to help. Mainly, he ran to the grocery store everytime I forgot something. By the way, when making mojitos, don’t forget to buy mint. Seriously.

He also straightened the house. By “straightened,” I mean he “gayed it up.” You know, he fluffed the pillows, lit the candles, replaced the lavender in the sachets in the undergarment drawers. Okay, the last one is not true, but it just went with the comedy rule of three.

So, after the party and the concert (which started two hours late), we saved the cleaning up part of the party until tonight. Suffice it to say, the place was a mess. Plates, glasses, cocktail napkins…they were everywhere. Anywho, Shlomo and I are in the kitchen cleaning. The dogs are on their pillows. Loco is on his perch. Well, we thought Loco was on his perch. I looked over. Loco was eating out of the dog food bowl. Seriously, he got down and walked through the living room, the dining room, past the dry bar, and into the kitchen. He then helped himself to some Science Diet Senior.

Let me just say that we had only an hour before spent over $60 at Petsmart on food and toys for Loco. He is not deprived. I now regularly buy fresh vegetables for him…not me. He does not need to eat dog food. But it is kind of like when I go to the grocery store and buy $100 worth of groceries and then go through a drive-thru on the way home. Sometimes, you just want to eat stuff you don’t really need…like those truffles I ate earlier. That, however, is another story.

Hang Ten

Hello, Possums! What a morning. I have a paper that I need to be working on today (as it is due tomorrow) so that means that I obviously had to make time for a blog entry.

I woke up with a headache this morning. It hurts real, real bad, y'all. I wanted to blame Shlomo. He had to get up early to catch a flight to Florida. When he gets up early, I get up early. He thinks I lay in bed all day and then move to the sofa to eat bonbons. He is mostly wrong. I never eat bonbons. Seriously, we all know I work way more now than I ever did as an accountant. (Remember all those blog posts? Yeah...hard at work then!)

Anywho, the head. Ouch. I thought I would be funny. I was sitting at the dining room table surfing the web and watching the Today show trying to wake up. My new little Prada sunglasses were sitting there. I put them on. I felt better. Then, it hit me. I made a jumbo-sized martini last night and drank it all before bed. Holy olives! I am totally hung over. I cannot remember the last time I was hung over. I don't get hung over.

Wait, I do remember the last time I was hung over. It was the day after my 30th birthday. That involved my share (I was with a friend) of two bottles of wine, a bottle of champagne, and a couple of martinis. It also involved a trip I barely remember to the Virgin Records store in San Francisco. Cds were procured. They are not necessarily cds that I am proud to own. I blame my drunken state. I just remember that my former friend fell in the street that night. I thought it was funny then. Now that we are really no longer friends, I think it is freakin' hysterical.

So, as you go about your day...think of me...sitting here deconstructing the Great Gatsby in my prescription Prada bifocals. Yeah...they're less cool when they are bifocals...aren't they? What can I say? I am so not cool. Oh, and please pardon my Dame Edna moment at the beginning. I love her. What can I say? I always love the LOLs (little old ladies).

And for the record, so I don't bring shame on my family. It was a big martini...probably the size of 2 or 3 if a normal person made them. I am not that much of a lightweight. Given my lack of attendance at the gym, it could be argued that I am in no way a lightweight.

To Quote Barbra

Happy days are here again.
The skies above are clear again.
Let's sing a song of cheer again.
Happy days are here again.


Congratulations, Mr. President.

They're Alive! They're Alive!

Oh happy day! For weeks, Shlomo and I have been worried sick about our friends/restaurant acquaintances the Molay, Molay, Molays. We finally decided that they had moved, or worse...had been forced to have face transplants and were living under the witness protection program due to some unseemly event they had witnessed in our neighborhood or at Neiman Marcus. Hey, those pushy perfume girls sometimes have it coming...all I'm sayin'. Alas, they are alive. Alive, I tell you. Alive. And, with the same faces.

We had gone to a little seafood dinner. We were almost finished, when Shlomo said, "Look, is that the Molay, Molay, Molays?" I had just played a similar game to throw one of my fried shrimp on his plate because I did not want it and was convinced that this was some sort of retribution on his part. I did not even really look and said that it was not. Ah distraction, such a great method to get rid of unwanted food.

Then, a few minutes later, I looked. It was them. We finished our dinner and went over to say hello. There was hugging involved. Actual hugging. They have been fine and we sort of, almost made plans to get together. And, no one had had a face transplant. Turns out, that worry was for naught.

Parenthetically, I know I have been posting sporadically lately. Sadly, I don't really see a change in that until the semester is over. However, my four readers are very important to me. So, check back. Sometimes, procrastination in writing a paper can cause me to do some very odd things.

Quick Updates

I am neck-deep in some Greek Tragedy and thought I would escape for a few minutes with some quick updates.

For those of you who have expressed concern about the Farg, thanks. We are waiting for a consult with the doggie oncologist. Sadly, it has to wait until this Greek Tragedy paper is written. Because if it is not written by 5:30 on Thursday, it will be a Texas tragedy.

Today, I got back my first test in my art history class. Not to brag, but I made an "A"...the only problem is I now have to keep it up. No rest for the weary.

How is it that Cloris Leachman is still dancing and Toni Braxton was voted off? It scares me as to what Americans are capable of doing. What does this mean for Barack Obama? Fingers crossed that it means absolutely nothing for Barack Obama.

Three words: Liza with a Z. Okay, that's three words and a letter. Still, December 5, the Palace Theatre, Shlomo, Liza, and me. Yippee. Liza, Judy, Barbra, Bette...these are names I shan't forget. Judy died before I was born and on December 6, I will have seen the other three perform live. I don't think you can be gayer than that.

Remember in college how you would stay up late studying, drinking caffeine, and watching bad tv. Shlomo's been out of town this week. I have resorted to that pattern. Stop the madness.

Cupcakes are good. Oh, and all the ice cream came out of Shlomo's shirt. But, how do you get frosting off the "Q" key on the laptop?

David Sedaris is hysterical. I have read his books for years, but I heard him speak last night. I laughed real real hard, y'all. It's too bad Shlomo was in Orlando and missed it. But, DD accompanied me. I am sure if anyone saw us together, gossip will be all over Houston. Like I care.

Okay, back to the Greek Tragedies. Life was simpler then when people were just sleeping with their mother, burying their sister alive, and killing their own children. Good times.

You Scream! I Scream!

I should preface this story by saying that I have spent at least 10 years looking for the perfect white shirt. I have only been successful twice. Once was about three years ago in New York. The second was a couple of weeks ago in Chicago. What makes the perfect white shirt, you ask? It has to be fitted but loose. It needs to have some sort of tone-on-tone stripe or slight pattern. It needs to not require an undershirt. It needs to have French cuffs. It needs to not have a button-down collar (although, I don't think that ever happens with French-cuffed shirts). As you can see, I am very specific yet vague in my desires.

A couple of months ago, I even scored one of these so-called perfect shirts for Shlomo. It was very difficult for me. I was currently without the perfect shirt and they did not have my size. I was a big person about it. I was happy for him to have it. Really, I was. Seriously, I was. Okay, I was a teensy bit envious. Okay, I was seething with jealousy.

Well, it remains to be seen if he still has said shirt. Tonight after dinner, we went to a special little creamery we like to call Baskin Robbins. It had been a rough day and I needed a little chocolate fudge on a sugar cone. I like to think of it as my cone of happiness. Shlomo got his semi-usual jamoca almond fudge.

We adjourned to the out of doors to enjoy our happiness in a cone. About two minutes passed. I was telling a story that could only be described as riveting. I looked over. Shlomo's scoop rolled off his cone and down his oh-so-perfect shirt. Miraculously, he caught the scoop in his hand. Well, he really kind of trapped it with his hand and cuff and stomach. He placed it on his cone and continued eating. We both laughed hysterically.

Riveting story continued for another two minutes or so. Shlomo had repeat performance of his act. This time, he did not catch it. However, he did manage to deflect it onto my jeans. They are my fat jeans that I usually only wear on airplanes, but not so funny. He thought so. I did not.

Perfect ending to my perfect day. I neglected telling this part earlier so as not to distract from the charm of my story. However, the results of Fargo's third biopsy came back today. I had dismissed the third biopsy because two had been benign. However, this one showed a malignancy. We do not have a prognosis yet. But, I know how it is going to end. I don't know when it is going to end. But, I now know how. It's sad. That's right...I am ending on a total down note.