Last Friday, Tiffany and I were on time to our friends' wedding.* This is a big deal. We have never been on time to a wedding before. Once, we barely beat the bride. No, we did not squeeze in between bridesmaids and skip down the aisle. That would have been horrific, obviously. We slunk in down the side of the church and slid into the pew next to our friends who had saved our seats.
For our friends Meg and John's wedding on the South Shore of Massachusetts several years ago, Tiffany and I allowed plenty of time for regular summer Boston traffic for our drive from New Hampshire. We also allowed plenty of time to drop off our friend who was not attending the wedding. What we did not allow time for: traffic from a Red Sox game and a gay pride parade. We dropped our friend off on the side of the highway.
"Good luck!" we called as she walked down the shoulder of the exit ramp.
She gave a little wave. Or maybe it was a little middle-finger. We didn't have time to be sure. Because on that occasion, we made the terrible mistake of sending our dresses with Tiffany's mom thinking we would be able to change at the hotel. We weren't. Instead, we did our hair in the bathroom of a Dunkin' Donuts and changed in the far corner of the church parking lot. Tiffany was actually in that wedding, too, which added a whole other dimension of stress... and sweat, might I add. Have you ever tried to pull on a form-fitting fabric over damp skin? Not fun. Or pretty.
Anyway, on Friday, we managed to make it to Sonoma with plenty of time to spare. Kind of. We planned to change in a Starbucks bathroom while the barista prepared our chai latte and americano, but we had so many extra minutes that we drove to the house some of our friends had rented for the weekend. Only, when we got there, their cab was just a few minutes away (they, obviously, have never been late to a wedding). So we ended up having to rush anyway, stumbling around in the bedroom, shimmying into our dresses and peeling the price tags of our shoes.
We left at the same time as our friends, but Tiffany and I arrived at the winery where the wedding was taking place several minutes after they did (still early!).
"What happened?" they asked. "What took you so long."
"We had to do our make-up," Tiffany answered.
And in true Tiffany and Rebecca fashion, we had done it, pulled over underneath a street light, with the rear-view mirror and interior car lamp for a vanity.
*Note: The wedding, and our friends, were absolutely beautiful. I had goosebumps.
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Tuesday, November 23, 2010
50th Post Celebration: Thanksgiving
When my family and our two best friend-families started the Thanksgiving tradition that we continue to this day, I was small enough to fit in a turkey pan. So were my best friend Zac and my brother Brandon. I know this because we took turns getting into the pan that year and using it to "sled" down a dirt hill. We did this while our parents pulled each other around on a flatbed wagon. The other child in our group, "Little Rebecca," was too small for the turkey pan. She was a bald-headed baby. But later, she was in whatever we were in. Unless we kept her out. The year we jumped off the balcony in our cabin onto couches below, for example, we deemed Rebecca too small for the activity. In retaliation, she promptly told on us as soon as our parents walked through the door from their hike.
Around the year of the turkey pan sledding, or maybe the next, our turkey took an exceptionally long time to cook because of some oven malfunction we cannot recall. In the video from that year, which was taken with my dad's ancient and enormous camera that he fixed to a tripod and aimed at the table, we are never all sitting down at the table at once. We are constantly in motion. Some of us are peering into the oven to check on the turkey (which was ready for sandwiches the next day). Others are jumping up for butter or more forks or a serving spoon. We look like some Vaudeville act: the moms with their '80s hair-dos feathered and fluffed; the dads with their '80s sweatpants with elastic ankles; the kids in our gigantic '80s t-shirts, and all of us laughing and chattering and never finishing a single thought or conversation.
One year Zac's mom made him try squash and he threw it up onto his plate while we all watched in horror. One year Rebecca's mom twisted her ankle while we played tennis. Another year her cold turned into pneumonia because our cabin didn't have heat. One year my dad busted his knee open on a rock in our football game, and then, to show that he was fine, bent and extended it a few times only to bust it open further, which caused my brother to nearly pass out (my dad was not fine--he required dozens of stitches).
A few years ago, Brandon hosted Thanksgiving. On the night before the Big Meal, we had a light dinner of fried catfish and french fries. While my brother and Zac manned the fryer, Tiffany and I prepped some pies in the kitchen. The grandmothers--then both 85-years-old-- and Tiffany's mom Patty sat on the couch in front of a crackling fire watching The Polar Express. When someone mentioned that it was warm in the house, I helpfully turned on the attic fan, which sucked the smoke and ash that had been going out of the chimney into the living room. Tiffany's mom and the grandmothers didn't bat an eye at the smoke and ash whirling around them. Patty later said she thought the movie was 3-D until the fire alarm started going off and I ran shrieking for the attic fan switch.
Anyway. Thanksgiving is my favorite all-time holiday. I like Christmas music, and dressing up on Halloween is fun, but mostly I like piling up my plate with casseroles, mashed potatoes, cranberries, turkey, ham, pie, and love.
Mmmm-mmmm. Can't get me enough of that love.
Around the year of the turkey pan sledding, or maybe the next, our turkey took an exceptionally long time to cook because of some oven malfunction we cannot recall. In the video from that year, which was taken with my dad's ancient and enormous camera that he fixed to a tripod and aimed at the table, we are never all sitting down at the table at once. We are constantly in motion. Some of us are peering into the oven to check on the turkey (which was ready for sandwiches the next day). Others are jumping up for butter or more forks or a serving spoon. We look like some Vaudeville act: the moms with their '80s hair-dos feathered and fluffed; the dads with their '80s sweatpants with elastic ankles; the kids in our gigantic '80s t-shirts, and all of us laughing and chattering and never finishing a single thought or conversation.
One year Zac's mom made him try squash and he threw it up onto his plate while we all watched in horror. One year Rebecca's mom twisted her ankle while we played tennis. Another year her cold turned into pneumonia because our cabin didn't have heat. One year my dad busted his knee open on a rock in our football game, and then, to show that he was fine, bent and extended it a few times only to bust it open further, which caused my brother to nearly pass out (my dad was not fine--he required dozens of stitches).
A few years ago, Brandon hosted Thanksgiving. On the night before the Big Meal, we had a light dinner of fried catfish and french fries. While my brother and Zac manned the fryer, Tiffany and I prepped some pies in the kitchen. The grandmothers--then both 85-years-old-- and Tiffany's mom Patty sat on the couch in front of a crackling fire watching The Polar Express. When someone mentioned that it was warm in the house, I helpfully turned on the attic fan, which sucked the smoke and ash that had been going out of the chimney into the living room. Tiffany's mom and the grandmothers didn't bat an eye at the smoke and ash whirling around them. Patty later said she thought the movie was 3-D until the fire alarm started going off and I ran shrieking for the attic fan switch.
Anyway. Thanksgiving is my favorite all-time holiday. I like Christmas music, and dressing up on Halloween is fun, but mostly I like piling up my plate with casseroles, mashed potatoes, cranberries, turkey, ham, pie, and love.
Mmmm-mmmm. Can't get me enough of that love.
50th Post Celebration: Sous! Cut the Onions!
Early in our relationship Tiffany and I realized that there really can only be one cook in the kitchen, no matter how big your kitchen is. We both like to be in control, and only one of us can be. It's either my dish or Tiffany's dish; it cannot be our dish.
The solution Tiffany devised is to deem whoever came up with or is most excited about the dish, Chef. The other half of the couple is Sous-chef, or Sous for short. But I find those roles aren't very helpful. For instance, when I am in the kitchen by myself, I am Chef, obviously. And I'm good at that, in my own way. I'm perfectly comfortable with the fact that I have 15 open spice bottles or flour and sugar containers in front of me and only the slightest recollection as to which I have already used. I don't mind the fact that I have to consult my Joy (of Cooking) for every single step.
But when Tiffany is my Sous, I become very flustered. I can't help but think she's judging the fact that I consult my Joy. For. Every. Single. Step. Also, I don't have a commanding presence in the kitchen. As Sous, Tiffany often tells me what to order her to do:
"Chef, you have to tell me to get your bowls and spoons," she'll say, coming up behind me with my bowls and spoons as I pore over Joy.
"Chef, I'm going to mix the milk and eggs and that way you can sift the dry ingredients," she'll say, pushing Joy aside and handing me my dry ingredients.
This is how it was happening Sunday when we made pumpkin bread and pumpkin soup. We had 5 pounds of freshly pureed pumpkin we had prepared to make a practice-pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving, but this practice-pumpkin pie never materialized because the friends we invited over to help us make it brought two homemade pumpkin pies as examples of a finished product (that's kind of a tongue twister, isn't it? And a run-on sentence. Apologies!). It turns out there is such a thing as too much pie in a one-bedroom apartment.
Anyway, I was Chef for the bread because I like to bake, and Tiffany was Chef for the soup because... well, because I thought the soup was a bad idea to begin with (when it comes to passing judgment on Tiffany's decisions on what to prepare, I am an excellent Chef). It sounded too sweet to me. Also, I wanted to take a shower after the bread was in the oven, and Chefs cannot leave the kitchen to shower.
When I came out, I found Tiffany in tears in the kitchen, knife in hand. For a moment, I thought the pumpkin had made her suicidal, but it turns out she had been chopping the onion the soup called for. Ever since we started buying all our fruits and veggies at the farmers' market, we've noticed a major change in our onions. They are painfully potent.
"Uh oh," I said, padding into the kitchen in my slippers.
She brushed past me and threw herself down on the carpet in our living room, pressing her fists into her eyes (no kitchen is too small for that omni-present ingredient, drama).
"How am I supposed to prepare my meal if I can't see!" she howled, trying not to laugh.
I tossed myself down beside her, giggling.
"Some ice for your eyes?" I offered. "What can I do?"
"You can grab the knife and cut the onion like a sous should!"
But chefs and sous are only Chefs and Sous in the kitchen. In the living room, we're just partners. So we lay there laughing, and then we got up and finished the soup together. And it was actually quite tasty.
***
The solution Tiffany devised is to deem whoever came up with or is most excited about the dish, Chef. The other half of the couple is Sous-chef, or Sous for short. But I find those roles aren't very helpful. For instance, when I am in the kitchen by myself, I am Chef, obviously. And I'm good at that, in my own way. I'm perfectly comfortable with the fact that I have 15 open spice bottles or flour and sugar containers in front of me and only the slightest recollection as to which I have already used. I don't mind the fact that I have to consult my Joy (of Cooking) for every single step.
But when Tiffany is my Sous, I become very flustered. I can't help but think she's judging the fact that I consult my Joy. For. Every. Single. Step. Also, I don't have a commanding presence in the kitchen. As Sous, Tiffany often tells me what to order her to do:
"Chef, you have to tell me to get your bowls and spoons," she'll say, coming up behind me with my bowls and spoons as I pore over Joy.
"Chef, I'm going to mix the milk and eggs and that way you can sift the dry ingredients," she'll say, pushing Joy aside and handing me my dry ingredients.
This is how it was happening Sunday when we made pumpkin bread and pumpkin soup. We had 5 pounds of freshly pureed pumpkin we had prepared to make a practice-pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving, but this practice-pumpkin pie never materialized because the friends we invited over to help us make it brought two homemade pumpkin pies as examples of a finished product (that's kind of a tongue twister, isn't it? And a run-on sentence. Apologies!). It turns out there is such a thing as too much pie in a one-bedroom apartment.
Anyway, I was Chef for the bread because I like to bake, and Tiffany was Chef for the soup because... well, because I thought the soup was a bad idea to begin with (when it comes to passing judgment on Tiffany's decisions on what to prepare, I am an excellent Chef). It sounded too sweet to me. Also, I wanted to take a shower after the bread was in the oven, and Chefs cannot leave the kitchen to shower.
When I came out, I found Tiffany in tears in the kitchen, knife in hand. For a moment, I thought the pumpkin had made her suicidal, but it turns out she had been chopping the onion the soup called for. Ever since we started buying all our fruits and veggies at the farmers' market, we've noticed a major change in our onions. They are painfully potent.
"Uh oh," I said, padding into the kitchen in my slippers.
She brushed past me and threw herself down on the carpet in our living room, pressing her fists into her eyes (no kitchen is too small for that omni-present ingredient, drama).
"How am I supposed to prepare my meal if I can't see!" she howled, trying not to laugh.
I tossed myself down beside her, giggling.
"Some ice for your eyes?" I offered. "What can I do?"
"You can grab the knife and cut the onion like a sous should!"
But chefs and sous are only Chefs and Sous in the kitchen. In the living room, we're just partners. So we lay there laughing, and then we got up and finished the soup together. And it was actually quite tasty.
***
50th Post Celebration: Earthquake Shoes
I wore my Earthquake Shoes the other night. They're the pair of old sneakers that Tiffany made me put under our bed just in case we have an earthquake in the middle of the night and need shoes to escape our apartment.
We also made a special Target trip one weekend to stock up on Earthquake Supplies. We bought bottles of water and peanut butter and protein bars and a little first-aid kit. We took an old backpack out of our closet and stuffed those items inside, along with a couple of flashlights we had on hand and a spoon (for the peanut butter).
The peanut butter was my idea. Growing up in Kansas, I had a friend whose family kept jars of peanut butter under the seats of their car, just in case they got stuck in a snow storm or a tornado. I always thought that was strange. But after the first time Tiffany and I felt our apartment rattle around us in a little San Francisco shake, we started thinking about what we might need in an emergency. She mentioned food and I remembered the peanut butter.
We devised an Earthquake Plan, too. If we are not together, we'll each make our way to the park up the hill from our apartment and wait. Hopefully one of us is home to grab the backpack. If not, no peanut butter. Anyway, the plan is to wait at the park for each other for... we never can decide how long. I just can't visualize leaving if Tiffany wasn't there. What would I do? Look at my watch, sigh, and say, "That Tiffany. Always late. Well, gotta run!"
If we're together when the earthquake strikes, that would be better. I always feel safer with Tiffany around. Together, we'd know exactly what to do: jump from the bed, step into our Earthquake Shoes, grab our Earthquake Supplies and run from the building as it crumbles down around us.
Now, as to what we'll do once we're standing naked in our sneakers on the street... well, we're still planning for that contingency. In any case, every time I wear the Earthquake Shoes, I put them back under the bed where they belong.
We also made a special Target trip one weekend to stock up on Earthquake Supplies. We bought bottles of water and peanut butter and protein bars and a little first-aid kit. We took an old backpack out of our closet and stuffed those items inside, along with a couple of flashlights we had on hand and a spoon (for the peanut butter).
The peanut butter was my idea. Growing up in Kansas, I had a friend whose family kept jars of peanut butter under the seats of their car, just in case they got stuck in a snow storm or a tornado. I always thought that was strange. But after the first time Tiffany and I felt our apartment rattle around us in a little San Francisco shake, we started thinking about what we might need in an emergency. She mentioned food and I remembered the peanut butter.
We devised an Earthquake Plan, too. If we are not together, we'll each make our way to the park up the hill from our apartment and wait. Hopefully one of us is home to grab the backpack. If not, no peanut butter. Anyway, the plan is to wait at the park for each other for... we never can decide how long. I just can't visualize leaving if Tiffany wasn't there. What would I do? Look at my watch, sigh, and say, "That Tiffany. Always late. Well, gotta run!"
If we're together when the earthquake strikes, that would be better. I always feel safer with Tiffany around. Together, we'd know exactly what to do: jump from the bed, step into our Earthquake Shoes, grab our Earthquake Supplies and run from the building as it crumbles down around us.
Now, as to what we'll do once we're standing naked in our sneakers on the street... well, we're still planning for that contingency. In any case, every time I wear the Earthquake Shoes, I put them back under the bed where they belong.
Monday, November 22, 2010
50th Post Celebration: The Red Shoe
This is how our Wednesday fight happened. It started Tuesday night, very sneakily. As you know, Tiffany and I were in a mad hustle this week to find new dresses and shoes for our friends' wedding. On Tuesday night after work, we planned to hit up three more stores. At the first store, we found a dress for me. Feeling empowered, we hit up another store for Tiffany. But none of the dresses we found were just right. Now it was 7:30 and we were hungry. And tired. Recklessly, we decided to try for shoes. At Macy's. On a day when they were having one of those blow-out sales.
The shoe section looked like the inside of a gigantic messy closet. I guess for security reasons, the store only puts one shoe of each marked-down pair on a rack. As we came up the escalator, I gasped. There were women and shoes as far as the eye could see. And scary women, too. Women who wanted that other matching shoe, like, five minutes ago. Women screaming for sales attendants, their weary husbands slumped on sagging couches holding purses. Tiffany urged me on.
And in the middle of that madness, Tiffany and I both found a shoe we wanted the match for. I heard her find hers first.
"Oooohh," she exclaimed. "These are perfect!"
I came around the display with my own shoe to find her walking on one barefoot and one high heel, parading back and forth between the psycho women around us: up-down-up-down-up-down. I'm sure by now you've guessed where this is going... the shoe she had on her foot was the same shoe I had in my hand. A red shoe. Very sassy and fun. In a size six. I didn't even hesitate. Clearly Tiffany loved the shoe--she already had it on. I handed her mine (it didn't help her; both were left-footed). I already had a dress, after all. For the sake of our relationship, I could live without the fun shoe.
"You take it," I said. "I'll keep looking."
I circled the floor a few times, dodging elbows. When I came back, Tiffany's face had fallen. The shoes we had found were too big--fine for clomping around the department store floor but not for dancing.
"Do you have a smaller size?" Tiffany asked an exhausted saleslady.
"No!" the woman shouted.
I slipped the shoe on my foot. And, as it became clear that my toes and heel were perfectly in line with the front and back of the shoe, I felt the slightest shift in the recirculated department store air around me. Specifically, in the air between Tiffany and me. Because now I had the shoes and the dress and Tiffany had neither. Trouble.
"You wear them!" I cried, thrusting the box at her. "Stuff something under your feet!"
"No, no," she said, "they're perfect for your dress."
We left the store. On the scooter ride home, bag-laden behind Tiffany, I braced myself.
The next morning, before work, I tried on the whole shebang, dress and shoes, in front of the mirror. Before I could take the ensemble off, Tiffany came in from the kitchen.
"Awesome, looks great," she said. But then she turned on her (bare) heel.
I slunk into the kitchen after her, and she slapped the eggs she'd scrambled for me on my plate. I knew they had been cooked with love. But I couldn't really taste that love. Or feel it.
A little bit later in the day, we resolved the issue.
"I'm sorry," Tiffany said. "I'm such a girl."
"I know," I said. "But luckily that's exactly what I want you to be."
After work Wednesday, we were back on the scooter, flying through the city on our way to our last store, a boutique. We arrived 30 minutes before closing time, and I took charge.
"Can I help you?" the greeter asked.
"Yes, you can," I said. "We have a dress emergency."
I pointed to Tiffany.
And guess what? Tiffany found two dresses that night. And, because they were on sale, she bought them both. For less than I had paid for one. The next day, she got a pair of shoes. And at the wedding, when I had to take the red shoes off to restore feeling to my feet, she kept dancing in hers.
50th Post Extravaganza! Blow-Out Posting!
Today's my 50th blog post. It's also almost Thanksgiving. So for my 50th blog post, I'm going to tell you something I'm thankful for: blog stats!
I just discovered them. And now that I have, I'm thankful for them. Because all this time I've been thinking I've been blogging away in obscurity, spurred along by the occasional comment from my family (usually when the blog post is about my family). But it turns out my page has been viewed more than 4,000 times! Considering I only have 4 people in my immediate family (and only three who are computer-literate... my 86-year-old grandmother has never turned a computer on) this is fantastic news. Someone has been reading my blog in Saudi Arabia. I don't know how that's even possible, but I'm thankful for that too.
Anyway, in honor of my 50th blog post, I'll be offering up a blog a day this week. That's right... even on Thanksgiving. So, when you need a break from your family, you can come read about mine. (First post to follow)
And now I beg of you... if you read me, follow me. Comment on my posts. Please. Link me on your facebook page. E-mail me to your co-workers. But mostly, keep reading. Because now that I know you're being counted, you count. No, really, you matter to me. Or your IP address does. But these days, what's the difference?
I just discovered them. And now that I have, I'm thankful for them. Because all this time I've been thinking I've been blogging away in obscurity, spurred along by the occasional comment from my family (usually when the blog post is about my family). But it turns out my page has been viewed more than 4,000 times! Considering I only have 4 people in my immediate family (and only three who are computer-literate... my 86-year-old grandmother has never turned a computer on) this is fantastic news. Someone has been reading my blog in Saudi Arabia. I don't know how that's even possible, but I'm thankful for that too.
Anyway, in honor of my 50th blog post, I'll be offering up a blog a day this week. That's right... even on Thanksgiving. So, when you need a break from your family, you can come read about mine. (First post to follow)
And now I beg of you... if you read me, follow me. Comment on my posts. Please. Link me on your facebook page. E-mail me to your co-workers. But mostly, keep reading. Because now that I know you're being counted, you count. No, really, you matter to me. Or your IP address does. But these days, what's the difference?
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Shop 'til You Drop
"I guess my head is not a size two," I say to Tiffany, as I struggle to put my head through a head-hole on a dress that is already perfectly situated around my waist and thighs.
She giggles, her voice muffled as she tries to extricate herself from a gown she is trying on.
Ahh, shopping. Unlike most girls, I hate it. You can tell by the way I walk past the racks, trailing a finger half-heartedly, moping along by myself as Tiffany scours whichever store we are in for bargains and surprise finds. Or by the way I sometimes fail to wander off on my own and instead shadow Tiffany, clipping her heels or walking into her if she stops suddenly. I am a listless shopper, usually. As in, "lacking energy or enthusiasm," not "without a list." I actually love lists. Especially crossing things off of them.
But dress shopping is fun. I don't claim to be good at it, let's be clear. Sometimes I pick up what I think might be a likely candidate...
"How about this?" I ask Tiffany, smiling brightly.
"Are you kidding?" she answers.
"Yes," I lie. "Totally."
If you can believe it, I am a far better shopper than I am a liar, so I don't fool her or anyone who happens to be stalking the racks nearby.
On our first round, I take six dresses into the dressing room and Tiffany takes eight. We share a room. We almost always do. It saves the trouble of peeking a head out the door and calling for each other repeatedly for a second opinion. Also, trying on dresses is hard. I have a terrible fear of getting stuck. And sometimes we actually do get stuck. Today, for instance, the price tag of a dress Tiffany was trying on got stuck on the tag of her thong. So every time she tried to pull the dress over her head, her thong... well, it was uncomfortable.
The tricky thing about being a lesbian is sometimes Tiffany and I want the same things. This can be awesome, as in, we can share certain clothes and therefore have double the wardrobe. Or this can be terrible, as in, we're getting dressed to go out and we both want to wear the same thing.
At one point I tried on a dress that I loved. It had a low-plunging neck line, right between where my breasts would be, if you could see my breasts.
"I still like it," I said stubbornly. "It shows off my... sternum."
Tiffany liked the dress too. When she tried it on, she gave a little twirl.
"It looks better on me," she smiled.
"But why?" I asked.
"Because it looks good."
Because she has breasts, she meant.
I tried on another dress. The one with the tiny head-hole. I asked Tiffany to help.
"Oh my god," she said, "It's for your arm."
And indeed it was. A one-armed dress.
Who knew?
She giggles, her voice muffled as she tries to extricate herself from a gown she is trying on.
Ahh, shopping. Unlike most girls, I hate it. You can tell by the way I walk past the racks, trailing a finger half-heartedly, moping along by myself as Tiffany scours whichever store we are in for bargains and surprise finds. Or by the way I sometimes fail to wander off on my own and instead shadow Tiffany, clipping her heels or walking into her if she stops suddenly. I am a listless shopper, usually. As in, "lacking energy or enthusiasm," not "without a list." I actually love lists. Especially crossing things off of them.
But dress shopping is fun. I don't claim to be good at it, let's be clear. Sometimes I pick up what I think might be a likely candidate...
"How about this?" I ask Tiffany, smiling brightly.
"Are you kidding?" she answers.
"Yes," I lie. "Totally."
If you can believe it, I am a far better shopper than I am a liar, so I don't fool her or anyone who happens to be stalking the racks nearby.
On our first round, I take six dresses into the dressing room and Tiffany takes eight. We share a room. We almost always do. It saves the trouble of peeking a head out the door and calling for each other repeatedly for a second opinion. Also, trying on dresses is hard. I have a terrible fear of getting stuck. And sometimes we actually do get stuck. Today, for instance, the price tag of a dress Tiffany was trying on got stuck on the tag of her thong. So every time she tried to pull the dress over her head, her thong... well, it was uncomfortable.
The tricky thing about being a lesbian is sometimes Tiffany and I want the same things. This can be awesome, as in, we can share certain clothes and therefore have double the wardrobe. Or this can be terrible, as in, we're getting dressed to go out and we both want to wear the same thing.
At one point I tried on a dress that I loved. It had a low-plunging neck line, right between where my breasts would be, if you could see my breasts.
"I still like it," I said stubbornly. "It shows off my... sternum."
Tiffany liked the dress too. When she tried it on, she gave a little twirl.
"It looks better on me," she smiled.
"But why?" I asked.
"Because it looks good."
Because she has breasts, she meant.
I tried on another dress. The one with the tiny head-hole. I asked Tiffany to help.
"Oh my god," she said, "It's for your arm."
And indeed it was. A one-armed dress.
Who knew?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
A Two-(Count 'em...Two) Penis Sunday
As I'm sure you'll not be surprised to hear, I have little (translation: no) experience with the male anatomy.
Which makes what happened on Sunday so much more fun.
On Sunday, Tiffany and I and our good friends Rob and Howard* saw two penises. They were attached to two men (which makes sense) whom we saw walking down the street in the Castro. The men were not together. And their appearances in our lives were separated by a few blocks and a couple of hours.
The first man we saw from behind.
"Is he... naked?" I gasped.
"Hmm," Robert mused. "No, I'm sure he has a sock on."
As I tried to visualize that, and scurried with Howard to see, a woman who had just passed the man, shook her head.
"No, he's got nothing on," she said.
We saw the second man after lunch (thankfully, not while eating lunch). He was sitting in a metal (brrrr!) chair at the corner of Castro and Market Streets surrounded by other (fully clothed) people sitting in metal chairs. He was reading a newspaper. Again, Howard and I scurried to see. In so doing, Howard bumped into a man and I fell into a pothole.
Once I behaved similarly when Tiffany and I were walking in New York and saw Bette Midler. I stared discreetly as we passed and then, ignoring Tiffany's pleas for me to stop, circled back around and passed Ms. Midler again. As I was about to make a second circle, Tiffany grabbed my coat sleeve and yanked me back to her.
In San Francisco, it's apparently no strange thing to see naked people. But Tiffany and I generally avoid the major festivals and parades where such nakedness occurs, and all of our friends keep their clothes on. In other words, in nearly three years in the city, no penis sightings.
Mind you, I'm not complaining.
I'd take Ms. Midler over the penises any day of the week.
And twice on Sunday.
*See previous post explaining these most-amazing of men.
Which makes what happened on Sunday so much more fun.
On Sunday, Tiffany and I and our good friends Rob and Howard* saw two penises. They were attached to two men (which makes sense) whom we saw walking down the street in the Castro. The men were not together. And their appearances in our lives were separated by a few blocks and a couple of hours.
The first man we saw from behind.
"Is he... naked?" I gasped.
"Hmm," Robert mused. "No, I'm sure he has a sock on."
As I tried to visualize that, and scurried with Howard to see, a woman who had just passed the man, shook her head.
"No, he's got nothing on," she said.
We saw the second man after lunch (thankfully, not while eating lunch). He was sitting in a metal (brrrr!) chair at the corner of Castro and Market Streets surrounded by other (fully clothed) people sitting in metal chairs. He was reading a newspaper. Again, Howard and I scurried to see. In so doing, Howard bumped into a man and I fell into a pothole.
Once I behaved similarly when Tiffany and I were walking in New York and saw Bette Midler. I stared discreetly as we passed and then, ignoring Tiffany's pleas for me to stop, circled back around and passed Ms. Midler again. As I was about to make a second circle, Tiffany grabbed my coat sleeve and yanked me back to her.
In San Francisco, it's apparently no strange thing to see naked people. But Tiffany and I generally avoid the major festivals and parades where such nakedness occurs, and all of our friends keep their clothes on. In other words, in nearly three years in the city, no penis sightings.
Mind you, I'm not complaining.
I'd take Ms. Midler over the penises any day of the week.
And twice on Sunday.
*See previous post explaining these most-amazing of men.
Robin Howard
There is no such person as Robin Howard. Or there is no such person that I know. But many of my friends used to think there was because I talked about Robin Howard all the time:
"I just came back from a great weekend with Robin Howard," I'd say.
"Oh, Thanksgiving was awesome," I'd say, "Everyone in my family was there. Mom, Dad, Brandon, Robin Howard."
"Robin Howard and I went to this amazing show!" I'd say. "We had dinner in the city and took the train home. It was the best."
Eventually, of course, most of my friends met Robin Howard.
"This is Rob an' Howard," I'd say.
"Ohhhh," my friends would say, extending a hand. "You're two people!"
My family met Rob and Howard when they moved to Kansas City from New York for a few years. We went to the same church and soon became best friends. In two years, they were invited to our Thanksgiving tradition, which hadn't added a new member in more than a decade.
By the time I came out, Rob and Howard were already back in New York and I was in school in Boston. Besides my family, they were two of a few people that I wanted to tell face-to-face that I was gay. I took the Chinatown bus from my city to theirs and practiced what I would say (It turns out, I learned during this period in my life, there is no convenient way to segue into: "I'm gay"). To preface my big news (which did not surprise them), I put a package of rainbow Skittles in front of each of them.
The next year, when I went to graduate school in New York, Rob and Howard let me live with them. Once a month, I left my "rent" check (which was very small and which they only let me contribute after I told them I couldn't live with them without paying it) on the kitchen table, sometimes with a vase of fresh-cut flowers. We watched sitcoms together at night and ate dinner together around their dining room table. Sometimes Rob and I played Scrabble and he beat me--every time. When we cleaned the apartment, we blasted country music and danced around in our pajamas.
Rob and Howard (who got married two years ago on their 18th anniversary) also have the distinction of having seen--up close and personal--Tiffany and me fall in love. They took pictures of us before we went out on our first date. We went on double-dates. And on weekend mornings, we ate breakfast together at the diner in Brooklyn Heights and laughed our asses off.
Maybe you have a lot of friends. I have a handful. But the ones I have are the best. And Rob and Howard are two of them.
Or one.
Depending on how you say their names.
"I just came back from a great weekend with Robin Howard," I'd say.
"Oh, Thanksgiving was awesome," I'd say, "Everyone in my family was there. Mom, Dad, Brandon, Robin Howard."
"Robin Howard and I went to this amazing show!" I'd say. "We had dinner in the city and took the train home. It was the best."
Eventually, of course, most of my friends met Robin Howard.
"This is Rob an' Howard," I'd say.
"Ohhhh," my friends would say, extending a hand. "You're two people!"
My family met Rob and Howard when they moved to Kansas City from New York for a few years. We went to the same church and soon became best friends. In two years, they were invited to our Thanksgiving tradition, which hadn't added a new member in more than a decade.
By the time I came out, Rob and Howard were already back in New York and I was in school in Boston. Besides my family, they were two of a few people that I wanted to tell face-to-face that I was gay. I took the Chinatown bus from my city to theirs and practiced what I would say (It turns out, I learned during this period in my life, there is no convenient way to segue into: "I'm gay"). To preface my big news (which did not surprise them), I put a package of rainbow Skittles in front of each of them.
The next year, when I went to graduate school in New York, Rob and Howard let me live with them. Once a month, I left my "rent" check (which was very small and which they only let me contribute after I told them I couldn't live with them without paying it) on the kitchen table, sometimes with a vase of fresh-cut flowers. We watched sitcoms together at night and ate dinner together around their dining room table. Sometimes Rob and I played Scrabble and he beat me--every time. When we cleaned the apartment, we blasted country music and danced around in our pajamas.
Rob and Howard (who got married two years ago on their 18th anniversary) also have the distinction of having seen--up close and personal--Tiffany and me fall in love. They took pictures of us before we went out on our first date. We went on double-dates. And on weekend mornings, we ate breakfast together at the diner in Brooklyn Heights and laughed our asses off.
Maybe you have a lot of friends. I have a handful. But the ones I have are the best. And Rob and Howard are two of them.
Or one.
Depending on how you say their names.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Half-Life of Soccer
I haven't played soccer in seven years. That's a long time, but apparently not long enough.
I still dream about soccer. Quite often, actually. At least as often as I dream my other recurring dream, in which my gums are coated in a thick paste--like that mold the orthodontist gives you to make your retainer--and as I try to pull it off all my teeth come out.
Like the teeth dream, my soccer dreams aren't pleasant. Usually the team I'm playing for is cobbled together from all the teams I played for over the years (the Tigers when I was four, the Blast from about eight to 11, the Crush from about 11 to 13, the Pizzazz and Crush, the Pizzazz, and finally, in college, that fiercest of mascots, the Terriers-). Usually we're losing and I'm needed in the game. The whole team is waiting for me to come in on a substitution or to start the game, only--and here a variety of things play out on my dream-field: I can't find my shin guards; I only have one cleat; one of my contacts has mysteriously torn in half rendering me legally blind; I don't have a jersey.
In my soccer dreams, I'm never doing something awe-inspiring, like tearing down the field on a break-away or scoring a game-winning goal. No. I'm about to cry because I'm searching my bag for that shinguard, cleat or jersey or struggling to see with only one eye, all while my coach stands over me ominously and my teammates, the referees and opposing team all wait with hands on hips.
None of these things ever happened to me in real life. Okay, once I forgot my shin guards when I was about 12 in a tournament in Oklahoma City. I had just switched from the Crush to Pizzazz and none of the girls liked me yet (or even spoke to me much, which makes for an interesting playing experience), and I did want to cry. But somehow an extra pair was provided and I was able to play.
Anyway, I wouldn't go so far as to call these dreams nightmares. No one is chasing me with an axe or pushing me off a cliff. But they aren't fun. The other night I dreamed I was running full-field sprints without any cut-off point. We weren't running 10 of them or until we did them in a certain time. We were just running them, over and over again.
I woke up, thankfully. Otherwise, who knows how long I would have continued up and down that field, racing through some past world of mine while the real world waited for me outside my head?
What's so weird is I never dream that I've forgotten to pay our bills or rent or missed one of the daily deadlines I face at work. Which leads me to think I'm doomed to dream anxiety-ridden soccer dreams until I haven't played as long as I did play... in eleven more years.
I still dream about soccer. Quite often, actually. At least as often as I dream my other recurring dream, in which my gums are coated in a thick paste--like that mold the orthodontist gives you to make your retainer--and as I try to pull it off all my teeth come out.
Like the teeth dream, my soccer dreams aren't pleasant. Usually the team I'm playing for is cobbled together from all the teams I played for over the years (the Tigers when I was four, the Blast from about eight to 11, the Crush from about 11 to 13, the Pizzazz and Crush, the Pizzazz, and finally, in college, that fiercest of mascots, the Terriers-). Usually we're losing and I'm needed in the game. The whole team is waiting for me to come in on a substitution or to start the game, only--and here a variety of things play out on my dream-field: I can't find my shin guards; I only have one cleat; one of my contacts has mysteriously torn in half rendering me legally blind; I don't have a jersey.
In my soccer dreams, I'm never doing something awe-inspiring, like tearing down the field on a break-away or scoring a game-winning goal. No. I'm about to cry because I'm searching my bag for that shinguard, cleat or jersey or struggling to see with only one eye, all while my coach stands over me ominously and my teammates, the referees and opposing team all wait with hands on hips.
None of these things ever happened to me in real life. Okay, once I forgot my shin guards when I was about 12 in a tournament in Oklahoma City. I had just switched from the Crush to Pizzazz and none of the girls liked me yet (or even spoke to me much, which makes for an interesting playing experience), and I did want to cry. But somehow an extra pair was provided and I was able to play.
Anyway, I wouldn't go so far as to call these dreams nightmares. No one is chasing me with an axe or pushing me off a cliff. But they aren't fun. The other night I dreamed I was running full-field sprints without any cut-off point. We weren't running 10 of them or until we did them in a certain time. We were just running them, over and over again.
I woke up, thankfully. Otherwise, who knows how long I would have continued up and down that field, racing through some past world of mine while the real world waited for me outside my head?
What's so weird is I never dream that I've forgotten to pay our bills or rent or missed one of the daily deadlines I face at work. Which leads me to think I'm doomed to dream anxiety-ridden soccer dreams until I haven't played as long as I did play... in eleven more years.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Peace of Mind: Worth the Wrinkles
Sometimes I wish I were an old lady.
(Sometimes I feel like an old lady, like when Tiffany and I go to bed at 9 p.m. or when every bone in my body creaks in certain weather, but that's a different matter altogether.)
Sometimes I wish I were an old lady so that I could already know all the things I have to figure out before I can be an old lady. Like where to move and when to buy a house and when to move so we can buy a house (we couldn't buy a closet in this city) and how to make the most money possible and still look forward to my job every day.
If I were an old lady, I'd already have done all those things. I wouldn't have to decide because I would have already decided. And--bonus!--Tiffany and I will probably stay up later when we're old ladies because we'll be rich and won't have to work because someone will have discovered my blog and decided that rather than giving my words away for free, I should be paid to tell you these same stories!
Most women don't want to be old ladies because of all the wrinkles and stuff. But, if my mom is any indicator, I should be in pretty good shape (no, I am not saying my mom is old--by definition, however, she is older than me). Anyway, I like the wrinkles on the old ladies I know. I don't have a problem with people's perception of my age. But if I did, it wouldn't matter. People always perceive me to be younger--flight attendants have tried to kick me out of the emergency exit rows on planes. In other words, I have a ways to go before I'm old and even longer before people think I'm old.
In the meantime, I guess I'll just do this whole life thing in chronological order.
Today the Giants had their World Series parade one block from my work. In the elevator on the way up to my office, someone asked me if I was going.
"I'd like to," I said. "I'll probably dash out to see it.* But parades are tough for me because I'm so short. I never see anything but the people screaming at what I can't see."
"Well," the woman said as she got off on her floor, "maybe they'll think you're a kid and push you up to the front."**
*I did.
**They didn't.
(Sometimes I feel like an old lady, like when Tiffany and I go to bed at 9 p.m. or when every bone in my body creaks in certain weather, but that's a different matter altogether.)
Sometimes I wish I were an old lady so that I could already know all the things I have to figure out before I can be an old lady. Like where to move and when to buy a house and when to move so we can buy a house (we couldn't buy a closet in this city) and how to make the most money possible and still look forward to my job every day.
If I were an old lady, I'd already have done all those things. I wouldn't have to decide because I would have already decided. And--bonus!--Tiffany and I will probably stay up later when we're old ladies because we'll be rich and won't have to work because someone will have discovered my blog and decided that rather than giving my words away for free, I should be paid to tell you these same stories!
Most women don't want to be old ladies because of all the wrinkles and stuff. But, if my mom is any indicator, I should be in pretty good shape (no, I am not saying my mom is old--by definition, however, she is older than me). Anyway, I like the wrinkles on the old ladies I know. I don't have a problem with people's perception of my age. But if I did, it wouldn't matter. People always perceive me to be younger--flight attendants have tried to kick me out of the emergency exit rows on planes. In other words, I have a ways to go before I'm old and even longer before people think I'm old.
In the meantime, I guess I'll just do this whole life thing in chronological order.
Today the Giants had their World Series parade one block from my work. In the elevator on the way up to my office, someone asked me if I was going.
"I'd like to," I said. "I'll probably dash out to see it.* But parades are tough for me because I'm so short. I never see anything but the people screaming at what I can't see."
"Well," the woman said as she got off on her floor, "maybe they'll think you're a kid and push you up to the front."**
*I did.
**They didn't.
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