No Method, Just Madness

Pardon my absence. I’ve been elbow deep in boxes full of crap lately. And just in case you think I’m exaggerating, I present you with Exhibit A:

There you have it. The contents of this particular box were so crap that they actually merited the label “crap.” There were other boxes…boxes full of Crap Of the Decorative Variety, Crap of the Electronic Variety, Crap of The Wardrobe Variety and so on and so forth. The only useful (aka, non-crap) box in this move? It was labeled “Cheese.” It’s contents were mysteriously lost in the move. In my belly.

So we’ve officially moved from our peaceful, hilltop existence in the affluent Sunset District of San Fransisco for the colorful, vibrant, hispanic Mission District of SF where, we’ve been assured by friends in the neighborhood, the burritos are worth dodging bullets for. (Ha! Just kidding Mom!) We love our new neighborhood as it does indeed come with burritos aplenty (I’ve eaten more than I care to admit in this first week…they’re so portable! So convenient! And there’s cheese in them!) and, this is the kicker, PLATANOS. On every corner¹ there’s a produce market and in them one can find enough platanos, malanga, and yucca to live out a blissful carbohydrate-laden existence for the rest of one’s days. I’m going to be cooking up so much Cuban food that before you know it, The Brit will be taking a break from his cut-throat, street-side game of dominos to wave his Cohiba ‘round frantically in the air and rant loudly, in perfectly fluent Spanish, about Castro’s oppressive communist regime.²

We’re also excited about our new “charming 1920’s” apartment…though, we’ve discovered, that “charming” and “1920’s” are really just elegant ways to say “This house is old as a motherfucker and, by the way, there’s no sink disposal. SUCKERS!!” The kitchen is equipped with a mustard yellow rotary wall phone³ that likely dates back to the Paleozoic Era and our bathroom has a specimen of a toilet seat that was surely resurrected from miles below the ice pack in an archeological dig somewhere in the Alaskan Tundra…it still had caveman butt-hair on it. Or was that dinosaur pubic hair? Hard to say. I’ve sent it off to the lab for speciation.

Speaking of being in the Caveman era…we didn’t have an internet connection for an entire week. Being without it for seven days was akin to being shuttled back to the 80’s in Marty McFly’s Dolorean and being handed a 1975 Yellow Pages. It was tough…there were days I didn’t think we’d pull through. But with the therapeutic aid of bubble wrap⁴ and alcohol, we’ve come out on the other side that much stronger!

1. Well, every corner where there isn’t a taqueria.
2. Not likely. It is safe to say that The Brit does NOT have a knack for languages. We’ve been dating for three and a half years now and he asked me a few days ago how to say “Bye” in Spanish. He believed me when I said, “Adieu.”
3. A phone that would actually be kind of retro-cool if one of the Brady brats hadn’t cracked and broken it in a fit of rage.
4. Do you have any idea how much fun that shit is to pop!?!

Ahoy! There have been many words in the last few weeks which I have meant to publish here but haven’t had the chance to. Fear not! Little has been missed! For most of these words have been some variation of “God DAMN we have a lot of crap” or “Seriously, do we REALLY need to keep that crap?” or “Man, do you need to go take a crap or something?”¹ Yeah, so, we’ve been packing for our move this weekend which has been a little hectic and alot more malodorous than expected. Additionally, I have a lovely cold. Not a serious stay-in-bed-and-moan-over-the-snot-infested-status-of-your-sinuses brand of cold, but a sneezing-in-clusters-of-three-at-the-most-inopportune-times-like- when-you-have-a-hand-full-of-tiny-little-beads-that-you-intended-
to- put-away-for-future-necklace-making-but-didn’t-get-a-chance-
to-because-your- sneeze-propelled-them- all-to-the-far-corners-of-
your-carpeted-bedroom brand of cold. Good times! (Ahh-CHOO!)

We did manage to take a break from all the packing and the sneezing (though, unfortunately, not from the farting) to sit down for a food tasting for our wedding reception dinner. The Brit, Dochechka², and I went in there fully intending to place our napkins on our laps, take small, polite bites of the food selections, chew our food to completion before swallowing, and not talk with our mouths open. I swear. Every intention. But, our behavior at the dinner last night could more accurately be described as a relay race to see who could stuff the most bacon-wrapped scallops in their mouth straight from the heated chafers, pound a vodka tonic and/or glass of champagne, and then make it back to their seat to stick the landing. I don’t recall who won the race, but I’m pretty sure the catering manager caught onto what was going on and made special notes about us in her file…probably something along the lines of “Note to self: These folks are simple, just wrap everything in swine and pan-fry it.”

1. There’s no way to put this delicately…I think The Brit might have accidentally consumed a skunk or some equally odoriferous gamey animal which is now making it’s way through is GI tract and announcing it’s progress quite frequently by means of rapid-fire flatulence. Stand back!
2. She’s opinionated and she loves food, so we put our money (quite rightly) on the idea that she’d be opinionated about food. She was our tie-breaking vote. And she ate the last friggin’ bacon-wrapped scallop. Bitch!

Dude!  San Francisco’s such a tease! He plays all cool, calm, collected, and coy with his fog and his near constant 50 degree weather.  But really, underneath it all, he’s just a hot and sticky slut…just as I suspected he was all along!  97 degrees F today!  Just knowing he’s capable of weather like this makes me love him even more.  To think he ALMOST made me reconsider my No Shorts EVER¹ rule!?!  But I quickly came to my senses and, instead, decided to just forego the shorts and sit out on the balcony in my underwear eating icecream. Because that’s what you do on the one day of summer in San Francisco. 

1. Seriously.  My thighs do not enjoy The Shorts.  Never wear em. 
2. Those of you who are astute may suggest that the icecream might have something to do with the thighs.  To you I say:  Blow me. 

Note to self:  You think you’re saving time by combining the trip down the hall to the water cooler to refill your green tea mug (which, incidentally, is clear glass) with a trip to the bathroom to pee, but don’t.  Skeptical and/or perverse officemates will think that you’ve just emptied the contents of your bladder into your mug.  Which, let’s face it, you’d only do if you really, really had to.   Like in the event of a natural disaster or something.

I’ve decided that war is an unnecessary way to deal with our enemies.  All we need to do is gather them all up, provide them with a package to mail, and then shuffle them in to stand in line at my local post office when the line is 27 deep, there’s only one clerk working the desk, and (from the sound of it) approximately 30 other USPS employees having a raging kegger in the back.  

Seriously.  Fucking.  Annoying.

This weekend just past, The Brit and I had good reason to be on a large shuttle bus with several other formally, (mostly) tastefully dressed¹ adults:  a good friend’s wedding.  And as we sat there, awaiting our departure to the land of burgeoning marital bliss, those of us sitting on the right hand side of the bus were witness to a flock of barely post-pubescent teens sheathed in all kinds of Wrong and Nuh Uh…namely neon-colored tulle, satin, and polyester.  For a brief moment, I thought the dresses, their matching cummerbunds, and their owners would be joining us on the shuttle, but alas, they walked past us to what, presumably, was their high school Prom.  At the Holiday Inn.  One of our fellow shuttle passengers leaned over her window and screamed out to the Prommers,  ”DON’T DO IT!!  SAVE YOUR VIRGINITY FOR SOMEONE BETTER…TRUST ME, THIS ISN’T AS GOOD AS IT GETS!!!”  

I was laughing too hard, otherwise I would have added, “UNLESS HE TAKES YOU OUT FOR WINE AND CHEESE FIRST, IN WHICH CASE, GO FOR IT!!”  

1.  I was maybe showing a little too much cleavage, but what the hell!  You know what they say…when you don’t got it, flaunt it!  

Cancer.  It’s an ugly, frightening word and even uglier still when it’s associated with someone you love.  Unless that someone you love is my 82 year old grandfather…my Abuelito  chooses to look Ugly and Frightening in the face and, instead of running and crying, he craftily slips a whoopee cushion onto their seat and a fake pile of plastic poo onto their dinner plate.  That’s how he rolls.  And he called me today to tell me about it:

Abuelito:  Hola, mi doctora!!!

La Cubana Gringa:  Hi Abuelito!  

Abuelito:  I’m calling you to tell you I have cancer!!  Ha!

LCG:  WHAT??

Abuelito:  Oh, the dermatologist found a little something on my nose.  No big deal.  He’s going to whack it out in a couple weeks.

LCG:  Well, what kind of cancer is it?

Abuelito:  Oh, I don’t know.  Can’t remember the name.  

LCG:  Well, it’s important to know!  There are several different types and all of them have different prognoses.

Abuelito:  Well, start naming all the skin cancers you know and I’ll tell you if any of them sound familiar.

LCG:  Well, there’s Basal Cell Carcinoma and Squamous Cell Carcinoma and Melanoma…and then there are things like Seborrheic Kerratoses or Acanthomas that are usually benign…

Abuelito:  Yeah, it’s one of those whatchamaloma’s. 

LCG:  Abuelito…they ALL end in “-oma” come on!  Some of these metastasize…they can get into your liver or your lungs…this is serious!

Abuelito:  No, no no…don’t worry mi doctora!  My cancer hasn’t metastasized!

LCG:  Oh yeah?  How do you know?

Abuelito:  Have you SEEN the size of my nose!  There’s no way it’s gotten through that thing!*

LCG:  …

Abuelito:  Listen.  Don’t worry.  Look on the bright side…if they have to cut a big hole out of my nose…it’ll be an improvement!  One more hole to breathe through! 

*  As you can imagine, this highly scientific hypothesis of his didn’t satisfy my need to know his diagnosis.  I’m going to call his doctor first thing in the morning.  Let’s all pray for Basal Cell. 

UPDATE:  Our prayers worked!  It IS, indeed, Basal Cell Carcinoma…invades locally but rarely ever metastasizes.  Phew!  I’m going shopping for celebratory nose rings right now!

Now is about the time when it would be good to know a cake maker who owed me a favor.  Preferably a three-tiered, chocolate ganache-covered favor.  Because you know what?  Wedding cakes are FUCKING EXPENSIVE!  I chuckled dismissively when the first cake maker I consulted quoted me a price of $6 per serving.  Surely, she couldn’t be serious?  Turns out, she was serious.  And, also, she’d rather that I didn’t call her Shirley. 

Shirley is not alone.  Apparently, $5 to $9 per serving is the going rate for wedding cakes these days in the bay area.  And that’s not including any additional tacky marzipan flowers or doo-dads you might want on there.  Nor does it include the taxes, the delivery fees, OR the set-up fees.  It DOES, however, include the premium, penthouse suite at the Omni Hotel in which your cake maker plans to take the absurd amount of cash she just ripped from your white-knuckled hands, pile it high onto the king sized bed, and roll around in it.  While laughing maniacally at you behind your back.  And spraying accessory bottles of Dom Perignon around in celebration.  

Just for shits and giggles…let’s do the math:  $7 times 150 guests is…let me see here…zero…carry the three…tack on the ten…A LOT OF FUCKING MONEY!  For cake!  Which…last time I checked, is made of flour.  And eggs.  And sugar.  Did I miss the memo that went around mandating that from here on out, premium, organic California-grown heroin should be a staple cake ingredient?  Because that would sure explain a LOT.  (Particularly the euphoria I get when I eat cake.  And the strong urge to take a nap when I come down from it.  And, also, the itching.)  

I have a mind to buy out Costco’s supply of Jello chocolate pudding cups and serve THOSE at our wedding.  Peel back the foil lid, stick a flower¹ in it and…TADAHHHH!  Wedding pudding!  

1.  I don’t know, though, “wedding” flowers aren’t cheap either.

Have you ever been faced with the uncomfortable sensation that the person you’re talking to can’t seem to make eye-contact with anything but your boobies?  Cuz I sure get that all the time…

Overheard in the supermarket today…

Mother to her son: Jeffrey! Don’t! Do not…(SIGH)…If you…JEFFREY!! IF YOU PUT YOUR MOUTH ON THAT, YOU NEED TO BUY IT!

Ain’t that the truth.