November 21

I love these pajamas more than life itself.

 

We were at Kitchen, Etc. this morning (that's the name of the place, for those of you not in the know), because really, where the hell else would we be? Anyway, were were in there looking for a few things (spice rack. rolling thing to put garbage pail in cabinet), when there here he is, my not-yet afforded personal trainer, Gil. Holding an infant. A teeny infant. A teeny, googly-eyed infant. A month old googly-eyed infant. (Something about that optic muscle and infants. The wandering eyes. I thought my niece Willow was retarded because of it, the first few times I saw her. I was afraid to ask)

Him holding the googly-eyed infant (A girl, Jordan, in case you were curious) made me immediately realize: he falsely tripped my Gaydar. He tripped Nick's too. However, being that he was there with his wife and their child, I guess he's just really, really, not masculine sounding. Or acting. When I introduced him to Nick, Nick said "Oh, I'm supposed to be talking to you for Christmas!" Gil replied "Just slap a bow on me!". Not the most macho of answers, but whatever. I like him. His baby was cute.

We are, believe it or not, mere steps away (giant, giant steps) from being done in the kitchen. The cabinets (these are, indeed, the cabinets we've installed, but not quite so many. We have none of those cool rounded ones. Too expensive, no room. But, this is them [yeah, good english, Dana], pretend you're in my kitchen. Grab a beer. Enjoy), praise the lord, are up. The wallpaper, almost done. I am never washing another dish again as long as I live. This is a true story. I don't give a shit how much electricity I waste, the dishwasher is my new best friend. AND, did you know, you can throw potato peels into a garbage disposal? POTATO PEELS?? You can peel them directly into the disposal. I about had a stroke of happiness. Modern technology is an amazing thing (though, as was pointed out to me earlier today, garbage disposals aren't exactly NEW, but I lived with a woman who wouldn't get a push button phone because she wouldn't pay the extra quarter a month rent it cost)

Sorry, There Will Be No Shit Talk This Week:

I'm off this week, though. I didn't have any idea of what type of disarray things would be in when my family show up for Thanksgiving, and thought it prudent to be prepared. Plus, I have a ton of time off, and why the fuck shouldn't I parlay the Thursday/Friday holiday into a full week thing? I'll update, there just won't be any BS stories. Unless I think of an old one to share.

I'm King of The Dipshits:

We were sitting around eating dinner before, and Weird Science was on. It lead me to the need to confess something to each and every one of you. I'm not proud of this.

I have the hots for Anthony Michael Hall.

I don't have an explanation for this phenomena. I've just always thought he was a babe. Look:

tell me he's not cute.

He has lovely hair, for one thing. Though, I don't understand why he's called a redhead. He's really a blond. (Not that I'm going to argue, I really don't care)

Don't pick on me. I am sure each and every one of you has some person in your life, some famous person you've got a crush on who's not a classic beauty or whatever. Anthony is mine. But 80's Anthony. Sixteen Candles Anthony. Not this newer, less nebbish Anthony. (FYI: The "Pirates of Silicon Valley" was sort of a double shot of happiness for me. I also dig Noah Wyle). Anyway, he has his own web page, though he's not nearly as delightful as he used to be, every once in a while (and believe me, I looked very closely at each and every picture, giving it my thorough attention, especially the one where his pantlessness was pointed out.) you can see the babe that was. I had no idea he sang (or whatever it is he does on this album. God only knows. He could play the musical saw.)

He really does have beautiful hair. What do you think? Should I write & tell him of my feelings?

 

Moving on & Groping:

We all know web journalers are a clannish, inbred group of people. Well, Rob & I have become more clannish and inbred than most others. Since he solicited my photo for his page, I did the same. Here you go:

This is the hat Holden Caufield was supposed to be wearing, no?

I don't quite know how Rob knew this particular style of hat was my favorite. but it is. It's the very sexiest of all the hat genre. I'm a little bit turned on by the eye thing that he's got going on there. Mmm. If this hat is worn to Bradley Airport, I don't know how I'll be able to resist his masculine wiles. If he shows up in this hat, with a tape of "Sixteen Candles", it might be all over for me.

Anyway, reading what he said about me (and I promise not to do this often, this group grope thing) and our friendship. It's true. All of it. I confess. I knew. From the beginning. We'd be friends. I'm psychic like that.

It was what he wrote about the bat. And I'm too lazy to go back and look for the link now, find it yourselves. The bat did me in.

The whole possible move to Connecticut thing just seems to be a potential happy outcome. I know what I'm rooting for, and I can't wait to see how he comes through on his promise of a memorable greeting.

 

The Day the Weather Broke:

Last out in the raining weather, a girl and I
drip in the splintered light while cars slur by,
and the single drizzling reason
of rain in an alien season
turns us to eachother till a train arrives
to share, by bond of wetness, our wet lives.

Although at first we can find to put our thumb on
only the rain in common
is this not what love is? That we draw together
in the inhuman weather,
strangers, who pool our sheltered selves and take,
for the gray heavens' sake,
this luck caught without our usual cloak
the day the weather broke?

-Alastair Reid (b. 1926)

 

Don't be jealous of my week off. It starts with a trip to the dentist. Already, I lose.

 

the other day/home/email/tomorrow

Thank you to all who sent me mail about Tina. You know who you are. All of you. Thanks. It meant a lot.