Drop Edge of Yonder

Six Weeks Ago
Rocco and I are sitting at the table having dinner. He had recently been offered a position at a new ATT/Apple store. Rocco asks what kind of insurance I have.

“Umm, none,” I reply. “My company doesn’t offer insurance because there are so few employees.”

“What? That’s crazy. You need insurance,” he says.

“Yeah, well, not gonna happen.” I go back to picking at my sweet peas, which are Rocco’s favorite (and my most hated) vegetable.

“I guess we’ll have to get married, then,” Rocco muses.

“HA HA HA! HA HA HA HA HA!”

“No, think about it,” Rocco continues. “I’ll have insurance and you won’t. And you need it.”

“Why?” I ask. “Because I’m old and fat and smoke?”

“…..”

“Although you might be on to something. We could register and get all kinds of free shit for the house!”

“Well, yeah. I guess,” Rocco says.

I call Aunt Doodie straight away to tell her of my hilarious impending nuptials. She immediately begins planning the wedding, including asking what kind of dress I plan to wear and offering to host both the engagement party and the reception.

“Hold your horses there, Doodie,” I say. “It’s not that kind of wedding. We’ll get a marriage license, sign it, and that’s it.”

Doodie pouts.

Four Weeks Ago
I talk about The Wedding all the time to Rocco, mostly just to freak him out. I fully anticipate he’ll break the engagement, but to my surprise he starts asking me to do things like get my credit report and find my birth certificate. (He is so romantic!)  Most of my friends think this wedding thing is beyond funny, although a few of them stand in abject horror at the very idea. But I figure there’s really no harm. Rocco and I live together and are already considering buying the house we’ve spent so much time and money renovating. He’ll never get married, and at this point it looks as though I likely won’t, either. I figure if I ever do meet someone and decide to marry, Rocco and I could have our union annulled on the grounds that we’d never consummated the marriage. But then certain buzzkills started throwing around words like “fraud” and “felony,” and I had to start being a little more careful about whom I told.

Three Weeks Ago
I make the now-famous announcement in the hospital waiting room on the night of my mother’s initial medical emergency. It is brought to my attention that if my mother was aware that I was marrying a gay man, her brain would explode all over again.

Two Weeks Ago
Rocco gets a new, better job offer with Starbucks.

“Good news!” Rocco announces. “Starbucks offers domestic partner benefits, so we don’t have to get married.”

“Wow! Okay,” I say. “So we’re not getting married anymore?”

“No point in it now, is there?” he asks.

“Well, if we got married we were going to register for gifts. And I really wanted a Cuisinart. I don’t know what a Cuisinart is, but dammit, I wanted one!”

“Oh, man! I forgot about that. I was looking forward to the free shit,” Rocco says.

“It’s okay. Maybe you’ll get fired from Starbucks and have to go to work for ATT/Apple,” I say in consolation.

But then I found out what a Cuisinart was, and now I’m disappointed. A $400 mixer? I could totally use that!

I have not had cable for more than two years. In that time, I’ve had to rely on the channels my rabbit ears could pick up for my television viewing pleasure. Interestingly, I’ve been able to pick up only CBS and Fox via rabbit ears, despite having lived in three areas of the state during said time period. Luckily, I’ve been able to find enough shows on those two networks that captured my interest to keep me from suffering from Decent Entertainment Withdrawal, even though I became embarrasingly addicted to Hell’s Kitchen and developed a certain affinity for Criminal Minds. I supplemented my viewing with VHS tapes of Heroes and Lost (Thanks, Sandy!), TWOP recaps of Boston Legal (I love me some William Shatner), and many, many viewings of my Firefly and BtVS DVDs.

Rocco, of course, thought such a set-up was ridiculous and insisted on getting cable. Truth be told, I didn’t fight too hard. Cable is a luxury for one person on my salary, but between the two of us it was more than acceptable; besides, we got the cable/internet combo package, and there was no way I was going to complain about that.

But now….. Well, now I’m a TV whore.

Who knew there was so much entertainment out there? I’d actually lobbied for Dish Network at one point, but the second-tier cable package suits us just fine. Still, I’m a little overwhelmed by all my options. And thanks to Rocco, I’m giving a look to things I’d have never previously considered watching and am finding that, more often than not, I enjoy it. This is where I currently stand with respect to TV:

• Dirty Jobs I’ve seen episodes before when visiting Sandy, but it was only in the last two weeks that I realized the host was not Dennis Quaid. It’s Michael Rowe.

 

• Gene Simmons Family Jewels I love, love, love this show. Specifically, I have an age-inappropriate crush on Nick Simmons. He’s 17; I’m 33. The math just doesn’t add up, but I love him. He’s so witty and sarcastic, and I want him to be my boy toy.

 

• Dog the Bounty Hunter I watched a couple of episodes and thought I would like it, but it’s not very interesting. Besides, Beth’s boobies scare me.

 

• The History Channel I’m obsessed. I can’t help it. When every other channel fails me, I can always find something to watch on the History Channel. Two nights ago I stayed up until five a.m. to watch a special on Vikings. Pirates or Ninjas? Cavemen or Astronauts? Who cares? Vikings kick the most ass.

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.

The following is the answering machine message I left for my aunt at 1:46 a.m. Saturday while watching the latest episode of Lost:

“So, I’m only, like, eight minutes into the last episode of Lost, and I’m already crazy. Because Hurley has turned into a human Hindenburg. Remember back in season one when he said he’d lost enough weight to scale back two belt notches? LIAR! He’s now spent less than two months on the island, and you can’t blame all that blubber on the black and white Dharma Initiative food stuffs mysteriously dropped on the island. It’s like Angel in season five; did he really get that bloated from donor bank and otter blood? Anyway, Hurley might want to try some Method Acting before he becomes a one-note meat sack in Lost history. Otherwise, they’re going to have to dig a big fucking hole to bury his fat ass.”

Let it be known that Hurley is one of my favorite characters on the show. But this is one of those continuity errors I can’t let go of, similar to when Anya “forgot she knew how to drive between “Graduation Day, Part I” and “Triangle.”

I am virtually incapable of managing my own money effectively, so Sandy takes care of my finances for me. I have my paycheck deposited into her account, and she pays my bills for me. When I need cash, she is my personal ATM. Of course, she keeps great records, which is why I’m not the only person for whom she does this.

Yesterday Sandy was describing her bookkeeping procedures to me. “Everything is recorded at least four places: their file, my file, the green book, and the purple book,” she said. “For instance, your stuff is in your file. I also keep track of it in my files. Then it’s recorded in the green book, which is where I keep track of everybody’s stuff.”

“Okay. So what’s the purple book for?” I asked.

“To make sure the green book is right,” she replied.

“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “You have a redundancy system. The Cardassians would be appalled!”

It’s true. I cried during the Super Bowl. Twice.

I didn’t even mean to watch it. I went to my aunt’s house because she watches those entertainment round up shows (Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, etc.) and I was hoping to catch the commercials. But I showed up at her house on Sunday, thinking the Super Bowl had been on Saturday. (Make fun all you want. I will not feel stupid because I didn’t know the Superbowl is always on Sunday.) So then I had to actually watch the Super Bowl. (Except that I didn’t. I had cocktails and read Entertainment Weekly while I was waiting for the commercials.)

But then the halftime show came on. I teared up as soon as Prince whispered “Dearly beloved…” I’m not even much of a Prince fan, but I could kind of feel that it was just going to be awesome. And it was! And then I felt the tears fall when the marching band came out. I couldn’t help it! I have a thing for marching bands; I always cry at DCI competitions. I teared up during Drumline, and it sucked ass. Please understand, this was a happy cry. Really!

That said, did anybody else kind of giggle when Prince sang All Along the Watchtower? I yelled, “Oh my God! He’s proselytizing during the Superbowl halftime show!”*

*That reference is so obscure and tenuous I doubt anyone understands it.

Plan A

• I don’t know about you, but all the slumber parties I ever went to usually devolved into some of the group picking on and/or hazing others. This can easily be solved by making sure there are significant age differences among the attendees. Last weekend I went to a slumber party that included my 51-year-old aunt, my 24-year-old cousin, my 12-year-old cousin, and my eight-year-old niece. No one’s panties got frozen, and no one had her hand stuck in cups of water while she was sleeping.
• Have good AND fun food. We had homemade chicken and dumplings for dinner, Purple Cows for dessert, and cheese toast for breakfast. I must say that the Purple Cows — which were my idea — were a great success. No one had ever had one except for my aunt and me, and the other three fell in love with them.
• Watch a silly movie that everyone can enjoy. We watched Thirteen Going on Thirty, which I’d have never picked out. But we all enjoyed it, and I decided that Jennifer Garner is just the cutest little thing. The image of her doing the Thriller dance will stay with me forever.

Plan B

• Get snowed in at the hotel you work at. Have your 32-year-old cousin deliver a baby* a mile from the hotel and be unable to get home.
• Eat lots of Chinese food while holed up in the hotel room.
• The next day, eat lots of Indian food while holed up in the hotel room.
• Watch Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team and Extreme Makeover. Be sure to make sarcastic remarks about the cheerleaders — especially when they say things like “I know in my heart that Jesus wants me to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. He put it in my heart when I was just a little girl.”

*I kept telling people that Kim was going to “deliver a baby, then come down to the hotel and eat Chinese and have cocktails with me.” Everyone was horrified. I didn’t realize they thought she was giving birth to the baby rather than catching the baby.

Truth be told, I mostly worked. I was on duty from 3-11 p.m. on Christmas Eve and worked 7 a.m.-3 p.m. Christmas Day, so I ended up spending the night at the hotel. Highlights from the rest of the holiday include:

Participating in a Cheer Off My 12-year-old cousin Mayme, who’s 5’6″ and 100 pounds, challenged me to a cheer off. It was kind of like Bring It On, except with way less athleticism. At the end of the second round, I concluded my presentation with a cartwheel that ended in a front split. It was awesome. Then Mayme did something that reminded me of krumping, and she was declared the winner. I pouted to my aunt, the judge, “How could she possibly have won? Her cartwheel was crooked, and her overall cheering was substandard.” Sandy replied, “She’s 12; you’re 32. Of course we’re going to let her win.” To which I replied, “That’s my point! I’m a 32-year-old woman who’s 4’11″ and weighs 160 pounds. And I did a perfect cartwheel and the splits. And she won by virtue of her age? I don’t think you’re looking at this the right way.”

An Evening With the Pontani Sisters At about 1:00 a.m. everyone had gone to bed except for me and Nathan, the husband of my cousin Kim. Just to be clear, Nathan’s a bit of an odd one. At one point he announced that he had developed a Q-Tip addiction, so he was going to sue the company like people who sue McDonald’s because they get fat from all of the fast food they eat. Nathan decided we should watch his CD/DVD of The World Famous Pontani Sisters’ dance instructions to Los Straitjackets’ Twist Party. When that was over, we watched the same thing again with the volume muted on the DVD while listening to the Lady Sovereign CD. About ten minutes into our second viewing I asked, “Is this supposed to be like watching The Wizard of Oz while listening to The Dark Side of the Moon?” He said it was, but it really didn’t work out quite like he’d hoped. Not long after Kim got up for a glass of water and I told her what Nathan was doing. “Oh, yeah,” she yawned. “He did that with a Barney DVD once.”

Roswell Revisited Nathan got a remote-controlled UFO for Christmas. Every time he would fly it near me, I’d yell, “Roswell! Roswell!” This is only funny to me because I think The X-Files‘ “Jose Chung’s From Outer Space” is the second-best episode ever.

In other news, the following things have happened to me in the past three days:

• I got sick yesterday and puked my guts up right before I left for work. Then I puked at work. Fun, fun, fun!
• I heard about a job opening for a GM at a hotel in my hometown, which I promptly applied for. My current GM got wind of it and offered me a raise and a new job. It’s almost like I pulled a power play!
• Today I fell down the stairs in my apartment. I was going downstairs to get some clean towels, and I totally missed the top step. I slid down more than half the steps before I jerked myself to a stop on the handrail. I think I might have sprained something — possibly everything — in the process. Also, the carpet burn on my left ass cheek hurts just as much as you imagine it does. It looks so easy when people fall down stairs on TV. I need a stunt double just to get fresh bath linens.
• And last but not least, last night I dreamed that Annika and I got into a huge argument wherein I insisted that gazpacho was not soup, as soup is never intentionally cold.

My aunt and I were watching NCIS a few weeks ago. A guy appeared on screen. (That happens on television more often than you’d think.) She pointed at the TV and said, “Hey! Is that–”

I interrupted, “The guy from all three? Nope. Wasn’t him. Kind of looked like him though.”

Which, when you think about it, is rather disturbing.

(This is the “guy from all three.”)

The local newspaper has offered my aunt a free 1/4 page ad in the newspaper for her dog grooming business, provided the ad says something along the lines of “advertising with you has helped my business by ________.” Because I was the advertising creative consultant to a newspaper for awhile, she asked me to write an ad for her. This is what I came up with:

“Thanks for helping us advertise our business. Now everyone in town knows we make bitches look good and that pussies aren’t allowed.”

She decided to go with different copy.