Archive for July, 2007




5:37 pm · category: Rocco's Modern Life... With Me

Friday, July 20, 2007
I arrive home after working 10 (very long) hours, at which point Rocco actually yells, “What’s in the pan, wench?” Tired, confused, and totally out of sorts, I start pulling foodstuffs out of the cupboards and refrigerator. Forty-five minutes later, I fix Rocco a plate, put it on the dining room table, and call him to dinner.

Monday, July 23, 2007
I’m preparing for my trip the following day to meet Cindy in Memphis, a 240-mile drive round trip. Rocco freaks out, insisting my car is unsafe for the trip. (Never mind that the car hasn’t had an oil change in the 29 months I’ve owned the [rebuilt] 1997 Mercury Sable, and yet it still gets me from Point A to Point B every single day. It’s a miracle-mobile!) Rocco changes the oil, air filter, fuel filter, and spark plugs on my car. The car drives mostly like a dream, and I make it to and from Memphis without incident.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Rocco makes Magic Cookie Bars. While they’re still warm, he puts a dollop of chocolate ice cream on them and brings me a bowl.

Friday, July 27, 2007
Rocco and I have cocktails (whiskey for me, Mai Tai for him) while watching Moulin Rouge.

I am, for all intents and purposes, married to a gay man.



Reverend to the Rescue

3:29 am · category: Kids Are All Right, The

A couple of weeks ago I performed the wedding ceremony for my cousin Bailey and her new husband Nick. The ceremony began at 8:00 p.m.; I arrived at 7:58. But I was smokin’ hot. Also, look at those things. They’re awesome!



Meet Rocco

2:09 pm · category: Rocco's Modern Life... With Me

Over dinner conversation, my roommate gleans that I’ve mentioned his existence on my blog.

Roomie: Don’t talk about me on your blog.
Me: I didn’t say anything specific. I just mentioned your existence.
Roomie: Again, don’t talk about me on your blog. And don’t tell anybody that I’m gay.
Me: What? It’s not like I’m going around telling people all willy-nilly. I mean, everybody knows. You’ve been out for, like, a decade.
Roomie: Yeah, but I’m not going to tell people anymore.
Me. Whatever. [Pause.] Does this mean I get to be your beard?
Roomie: What’s a ‘beard’?
Me: Huh? Didn’t you live in San Francisco? Isn’t that, like, your capital? [Pause.] Are you even remotely familiar with cultural stereotypes particular to your situation?
Roomie: What the fuck are you talking about?
Me: [Exasperated.] Never mind.

Later that evening…

Me: Look, I’m going to talk about you on my blog. You’re just going to have to accept it. But I’m willing to let you have an alias. Who do you want to be?
Roomie: I don’t know.
Me: Oh, come on. You can come up with something.
Roomie: What about ‘Rocco’?
Me: Works for me. [Pause.] Wait. Isn’t ‘Rocco’ Madonna’s husband’s name?*
Roomie: Yes. No. Yes. [Pause.] I’ll choose something else.
Me: Too late. Now you’re Rocco. And this is what I meant by the ‘cultural stereotype’ thing.

Even later that evening…

Me: So, if you’re serious about this ‘anonymous gay guy’ thing, I’ve got an idea. What if we let the neighbors think we’re married? You know, not flat-out lie… but who would be rude enough to ask directly? I mean, around here people just assume. So I figure we butter up everybody in the neighborhood, then we create a home owner’s association for the subdivision. Naturally, we’ll be the president and vice president by virtue of the fact that we united the neighborhood with a common purpose. Then when the members find out that we’re not married, you’re gay, and that we don’t even own the house, there’ll be a coup and we’ll be ousted from our positions of power. They’ll try to sue, but we’ll get a really good lawyer.
Rocco: No.
Me: Oh, come on. We’ll make a statement. And they might make a Lifetime move about it. And if they do, I want to be played by Alanis Morissette.
Rocco: Alanis Morissette hasn’t done crappy cable since that Nickelodeon show, and she’s a foot and a half taller than you.
Me: That’s not the point.
Rocco: [Pointedly.] No.
Me: [Pouting.] Fine.

*It has since been pointed out to me by my youngest sister that Rocco is actually the name of Madonna’s son; her husband is Guy Ritchie. Way to represent for your people, Rocco.



No Fucking Way

3:43 pm · category: Uncategorized

I’m sorry, but I’m not cooking anything when the recipe begins with “catch and skin rattlesnake.” Catch it? Are they crazy? I’ve had rattlesnake before, but I’m not going to catch one.



And So It Begins

My (new) roommate’s stuff arrived yesterday. (I didn’t mention I had a roommate now? Oh. Sorry. I have a roommate now!) Last night as he was unpacking, we got into an argument about his desire to display his collection of Muppet glasses on the baker’s rack in the kitchen. I resisted. Ultimately, we reached a compromise: he could display said “glassware” in said location if my Buffy DVDs could stay on the built-in shelves in the living room.

And so it begins.



Number Two

11:34 am · category: Aunt Doodie, The Whole Fam Damnly

I got a new cell phone. I played with it, and then I made this call:

Me: Hey! I just made you number two on my speed dial.
Sandy: What? Number two? How come I’m not number one?
Me: I couldn’t help it. My voicemail automatically defaults to number one.
Sandy: So I’m number two. [pause] I guess that makes me The Shit!
Me: Right! I think I’m going to call you Aunt Doodie now.
Sandy: [with hope, not sarcasm] Yes! Good choice! Maybe it’ll catch on.



With Both Hands Tied Behind My Back!

6:51 pm · category: Uncategorized

I moved on Sunday, and I’m still exhausted from the ordeal. I did that thing where I have a miniature breakdown because I get so overwhelmed by the very idea of packing that I shut down and quit (Thanks for that funny little quirk, bipolar disorder!), but Sandy (my aunt, she of the mermaid hair) came to my rescue again and managed to pack up my living room and kitchen in under 1.5 hours. So now I’m indebted to her. Again. Blast it!

I also (stupidly) packed all my shoes prior to the actual moving, so I was barefoot for the entire loading and unloading. Between that and traipsing up and down the stairs 4000 times, the tender soles of my feet and my oh-so-shapely calves ache terribly. I’m trying to avoid whining, but damn, the lower third of my body is in some serious discomfort.

It’s safe to say, however, that the cats have been more traumatized by the relocation than I have. They were cooped up in the bathroom at one house or the other for the better part of moving day, and between that and having to share a pet carrier for the arduous three-mile drive across town, they’re torn between seething resentment and a desperate need to be coddled, cuddled and consoled. Quentin in particular was a real pussy about it (Ha! See what I did there?), to the point that he hid so well that I panicked when I couldn’t find him in the vast expanse that is the new abode. (Note to self: long-haired gray tabby can successfully blend with ashes remaining in fire place.) But the cowering and apparent terror has given way to boundless energy and a thirst for exploration. It’s safe to say that my cats are adjusting to their 1850-square feet of outward mobility.

So, yeah. Everything is moved, but it will probably be early next week before everything is unpacked and put away. And the new job is going very, very well. Moving from a 256-room full-service hotel to a 71-room limited-service hotel? I feel like I could do this new job like the Cowardly Lion meeting the Scarecrow and Tin Man for the first time.