Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Fuzzy Uggs And Frosty Mugs

On Saturday afternoon, after some shopping and errands, JB and I decided it was time to treat ourselves to lunch. When it comes to eating out, we've kind of fallen into a rut. The typical restaurant selection process goes like this:

"Where would you like to eat?"

    "I don't know. Where would you like to eat?"

Repeat until one or the other sticks his neck out with a suggestion:

"How about that new Italian place?"

    "I don't know..." (Which I know means "no".) "I'm making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner."

Apparently JB is a fan of cultural diversity, as long as you rotate and evenly space out the cultures such that there's never more than one meal of the same nationality in gastric transit at any given time. That's how ghettos start, you know. Once Little Italy gets a foothold, there's no stopping Chinatown and the barrio from setting up shop. Next thing you know, your G.I. tract looks like Buford Highway.


It's kind of sad that Urban Spoon shows dozens upon dozens of eclectic eateries within walking distance of our condo, yet every time we decide to eat out we continue to hem and haw like the only choice is between Wendy's and Golden Corral.

I don't know if I was feeling adventurous on Saturday afternoon, or I was just over the whole restaurant selection process. I told JB, "You pick. Whatever you decide will be fine with me." The words still haunt me.

JB seemed momentarily taken aback by my capitulation, but he saw his opening and ran for it. "Well, since we're in Buckhead, there is one place I've been curious to try. It always looks packed during the week at lunchtime, so I'm thinking it must be pretty good."

I'd seen the place before, but I'd never been inside. From the outside it looked rustic and outdoorsy. Like a Rocky Mountain ski lodge. The inside was every bit as rustic and had a sports bar atmosphere with college football games playing on at least a dozen flat screens. As the sign instructed, we waited for a hostess to seat us.

This is when their shtick began to dawn on me. And why the place was called "Twin Peaks". And here I was hoping it might be based on the quirky 90's television series.

"This is what you chose? Jesus, it's hootier than Hooters in here!" I whispered after we sat down at our table and our Ugg-shod hostess scampered out of earshot. JB started laughing. And when our waitress, Brandi-with-an-i, came for our drink order, we both started giggling uncontrollably like we were fifteen and seeing non-mom cleavage up close for the first time.

I felt bad for Brandy... er, Brandi. It's bad enough having to go to work dressed like an Appalachian hooker just to get ogled and groped by beer-buzzed business men. Now she's got a table of gays tittering at her too.

In an attempt to ease the tension, I apologized and said, "This is our first time here. We don't get out of Midtown much." This was basically code for, "Two homosexuals wandered into your establishment by mistake. A round of Dos Equis please."

Brandi not only deciphered my code, she brought us two ice-cold beers and introduced us to her girlfriend, Ami.

Been there, done that,
bought the calendar.


Monday, December 17, 2012

No Happy Ending I Hope

Last week I took the afternoon off work to help my ex, Joe. He told me he was having a minor outpatient procedure done and needed a ride home from Piedmont Hospital.

I assumed it was yet another one of his cosmetic things. I was there for him when he had his eyes done, and again earlier this year after his double moob-ectomy. I was shocked when he told me he was actually there for heart surgery.

Joe showed me where the cardiologist went in at his groin to snake his way to the heart. It didn't look too bad, two gauze bandages on either side of where his pubic hair used to be. Certainly not as horrifically shocking as when he dropped his sweats to show me the residual bruising and swelling from the Viagra accident of 2007.

But much less funny.

I shuddered. It wasn't just the idea of having instruments threaded through my veins, but the thought of losing my friend. I insisted on spending the night. Joe momentarily resisted then relented. He was tired and, I think, relieved to have the company.

Like my current partner, Joe is also a flight attendant. No, I don't have a thing for flight attendants. And no, I can't back up that assertion with actual data. But ask JB and he'll tell you how, on the day we met, I face palmed after he told me what he did for a living.

Why? I'm loath to generalize, but all flight attendants are whoremongering sluts. At least in my experience. Experience which, to be fair, consisted of three or four short-term relationships after three years with Joe.

So as we fixed a simple dinner, I wasn't surprised when Joe showed me iPhone pics of his "masseur" in Manila. The twenty-year-old looked cute in his baby blue jockeys, and – when I swiped left – out of them. Looking up at Joe's grin, I could tell he was hoping I'd swipe that way.

"That reminds me..." Joe said as he ducked into another room. He came back with a shopping bag from Dick's Sporting Goods. "I got him a Christmas present." It was a weight-lifting belt.

I consider myself lucky that my ex and my partner are good friends. A lot of it has to do with the fact that they work for the same airline. Now that I think about it, considering how JB gets jealously suspicious of even my Twitter friends, I'm sure that has everything to do with it. But I credit their friendship for keeping Joe involved as a daily part of my life.

Joe knows that JB has a trip to Manila this week. He asks me to ask JB to pack the weight belt. Joe's "boyfriend" will come to JB's hotel to pick it up.

I'm not sure how comfortable I am with hot young Filipino "massage artists" calling on my husband in his hotel room.

Flight attendants. I shrug and take the belt.




Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Deer Sata

It's taken me a little while to recover from hosting my family for Thanksgiving. It's not all the planning, cleaning, shopping, cooking and entertaining that got to me. It's the depression that hit when when the last car load left, and the house got quiet and still.

One of the highlights of the long weekend was being able to spend time with my six year old nephew. When children are that young, a year is way too long to go without seeing them. You miss so much growing up.

Everyone says they see a lot of me in Noah. JB says it's the look his face gets when he's deep in thought. Sis says it's his huge, pumpkin-shaped "C.S." head. (Where "C.S." can stand either for "Charles Shultz", creator of the round-headed Peanuts characters, or for "C-Section".)

Then there's his colorblindness. Both Noah and I are blessed with the recessive X-chromosome that's been passed down on Mom's side of the family for generations. When Sis told me about Noah's kindergarten crayon confusion, I was tickled pink. (I may not know what pink looks like, but I know how it feels.)

When my family arrived on the day before Thanksgiving, Noah and I played Wii games until way past his bedtime. He wanted to play Wii again on Thursday but I had too much cooking to do. So I tied an apron on him which almost touched the floor, lifted him onto a step stool, and he helped me with some of the simple chores that didn't involve anything sharp or hot.

Since I still have the attention span I had at six years old, I completely understood when he asked if he could be excused from kitchen duty to play Rayman's Raving Rabbids.

It's been a week and a half since they left. Yesterday Sis sent me a copy of Noah's revised letter to Santa. It seems he's added a few new items to his wish-list since returning to Wisconsin: a Wii and his own, Noah-sized kitchen.

Noah wants some sort of football, a kid-sized snow blower, Hot Wheels,
a Wii and a kitchen area. I hope this is for Santa and not Satan.