[Part 3]
Somehow the threat of danger seemed to make our Christmas tree more worthwhile.
Our family room tree, in contrast with the more austere “nice tree” in the living room, was a garish, hulking thing. A hodgepodge of lights and garland and ornaments of every shape size and color, its beauty derived mainly from its randomness. Our Christmas tree didn’t give it a shit, because all other trees cold suck it. Continue reading ‘The 12 Ways of Christmas: the tree’
[Part 2]
My mom had a couple of great friends who went nuts every year with Christmas decorations in their house.
Auntie Cel and Auntie Mary had so much stuff, they had to start decorating the day after Halloween to get it all up in time for Christmas. Every room had a different theme; some rooms had more than one. There were the religious icons, the secular icons, nativities, santas and elves, snowmen and snowladies, stars, snowflakes, trees, holly, wreaths, lights, lights, and lights. Continue reading ‘The 12 Ways of Christmas: The decorating’
Bon appetit!
However, you can never be sure of the quality or the flavor. And you should really wash that stuff off before you munch on the go. So it’s a good idea to have some alternative reliable sources.
I could always find the best oranges at this little deli on 46th near Broadway, a couple doors down from my office. I don’t work in New York any more, however, and those oranges are among the things I miss most about my routine there. They were consistently easy to peel. And unlike the typically dull, pulpy monstrosities of grocery store fare, these had an intense flavor every time without fail. I don’t know what voodoo those shopkeepers were working. I have no idea where the fruit came from. But no matter the season, they were always awesome.
Having them there kept me from defaulting to a bagel with butter or a two-egg and cheese on a roll. (Though I miss those things dearly, too.) If they didn’t have any oranges in on a given day, I would walk right back out of the store.
So now that I work in Philadelphia, I need to find a new routine, a new source. I don’t yet know where to get a good bagel near the office, and that’s probably for the best.
We said good-bye to summer last week, and I’ve all but given up my dreams of garden-fresh tomatoes.
We started from seed back in February in little clay pots on the kitchen window sill. It was like a terra cotta maternity ward. I thought we were so clever to get heirloom varieties: a yellow one, a red one with stripes, and a purple one. I wouldn’t remember their funny names, but they would be so colorful! My plan was to choose the strongest, fastest growers, eliminate the rest, and plant a few of them outside.
I built a huge planter box as big as a coffin and transferred five plants around Memorial Day, when they were finally big enough to be moved. In the sunniest section of our garden, they probably got about 7 hours of direct light a day. But even with daily watering, fastidious care and trimming, fighting off slugs, chasing away bugs and alley cats — folding chicken poop into the soil — they didn’t take off until July.
We mixed up the labels on accident, and I forgot which was which, but I figured we’d be able to identify them when the tomatoes ripened into full color. The first little fruit, a lonely green globe of pure joy, came budding out a full two months later.
I was a little embarrassed to tell anyone, because August was so late, but I was proud of my little trooper anyway. His tardiness was surely my fault, not his.
Soon every plant had tomatoes growing, but we didn’t actually eat one until last night. It was that first one. Turned out to be yellow, bright and beautiful as a lemon. It tasted awesome in a salad.
One awesome salad after six months of energy and expense.
Now the plants are ready to give out. They’re starting to self-destruct, cutting off energy to their leaves and turning brown. We should be sick of tomatoes by now, but instead I’m just grateful for whatever I can scrape up.
A few months ago, I thought I might have too many. I had visions of cooking huge pots of sauce to freeze for the winter, sending some home to my mom, leaving little paper bags of tomatoes on neighbors’ doorsteps. Now I’ll be lucky to get a dozen.
So I have accepted it as my personal mission, my calling, to see those green tomatoes through to the end. This garden will not be a failure. I will see them on my dinner plate if it kills me. (At least I’m not likely to die while choking on a tomato.)
Maybe before the frost comes, we’ll see some color out there, and I’ll finally know what I planted.
Pandora Boxx, Miss May
A recent visit to Chicago last month coincided with an appearance by La Boxx at a local gay bar. The night of the performance, my husband and I were sitting around with some friends, contemplating going out. I looked at the clock. 9 p.m. I looked at my husband. I looked at my friends. I looked at the six packs and the chilled bottle of white wine waiting for us. I heard the gentle hum of the air conditioner. And I decided: I am too tired to deal with a dance bar full of screaming gay boys, flashing lights, and ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk — even to see my favorite fake lady. Heaven forgive me, but I am staying in tonight.
Sometimes getting old is no bloody fun.
I never felt good about the decision, and since then I’ve been looking for a chance to make up for it. It came last week. Pandora Boxx was in New York for a Gay Pride kick-off party at the Gramercy Theater, and I was able to get on the VIP list because my company had something to do with the event. This was it. I was going to meet the Pandora Boxx! Get a picture with her! Shake her hand and tell her I love her and that she was robbed on season 2 of RuPaul’s Drag Race — robbed, I tell you!
Continue reading ‘Foxy Boxx Really Rocks’
I wasn’t a big fan of the dress Michelle wore to her husband’s acceptance speech. But — big deal … I’m just thrilled the Obamas are going to be taking up residence at 1600 Pennsylvania.
Here’s hoping for something a little prettier at the inauguration! She should take a leaf out of RuPaul’s book! This is just gorgeous.
There’s no one more popular in New York than the woman who can’t be bothered to have her Metrocard ready when entering the subway station, but who stands in front of the turnstile desperately plumbing the depths of her oversize purse, her arm plunged up to the elbow.
Her wallet, when she finds it, will be overstuffed and as easy to extract items from as the mouth of the reptile whose skin was used in its manufacture.
When she swipes her card through the reader, the LED will display INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, and she will sigh, roll her eyes, and push her purse strap up her shoulder. She won’t notice the hordes of commuters she has forced to stream around until she steps for a second into another frantic turnstile lane, bumping someone’s arm and startling herself into the realization that other people exist.
Then she’ll turn on her heels and impatiently push her way past to the Metrocard vending machine, where she will spend a good 45 seconds to a minute searching for her credit card.
How is it acceptable to crack open a chicken egg, shake out the snot inside, whip it up and fry it? What historical accident led to this? I could understand if someone decided that an egg on its own was something to be squished and swallowed raw. It’s practically a liquid. Lord knows I’ve swallowed worse. But to whip it up, cook it, flip it? Seriously?
Don’t get me wrong: A cooked egg is a step in the right direction. But I just don’t see what possessed someone to try so hard.
And why chicken eggs? I find the thought of caviar revolting, let alone the odor. Let alone the texture. And what makes a chicken egg any better? You go to the store to buy eggs. Chicken eggs. You order a three-egg omelette. Three chicken eggs. Why not turkey eggs? Pheasant eggs? Turtle eggs?
Ugh. Egg. Even the word sort of oozes. Buy they are sort of marvelous, aren’t they? Butter. Tarragon. Cream cheese. Chives. Salt and pepper. On toast.
With bacon.
Mmmmm…
Video never did kill the radio star, but there may be a very serious casualty in the smackdown between the World Wide Web and what we old timers call the “durable media.”
Of all the great crushes in my life — Chris in 5th grade, the subject of my first boy-on-boy dream (complete with, no joke, a roaring fireplace); Justin in 7th grade, who I would surreptitiously photograph at Camp Tamarack; Paul in high school, my little brother’s YMCA swimming instructor, who I never missed sight of changing in the locker room — the one that stands out above all others is the one I met in college. An English professor introduced us. I was at once captivated by his plain language and vast knowledge; his masculine, somewhat earthy scent; his perfectly straight spine; his thin, delicate pages; his minuscule, seemingly boundless print.
What hope did I have? How could I possibly resist this true, this pure, this urgent love? I was hopelessly lost from the moment I parted those covers to examine “gun” and “hangnail” and “nickname” and other marvels.
Yet there will come a time when those hardcover multi-volume memories are all I have left. I fear that I will never see the great love of my life — the Oxford English Dictionary — in its third edition in printed form.
Oh, for how long have I dreamed of wrapping myself bodily around its two dozen volumes! Of running my fingers along its stiff, bony edges. Of digging the sharp corners of its perfect, tight binding into my softly pliant flesh! Of inhaling the musky perfumery of inks on thousands upon thousands of translucent leaves!
A recent visit to the OED Web site rudely wrestled me from such dizzying passions. Intending to confirm the third edition’s publishing date, I was shocked instead to learn that plans had changed dramatically since my last visit. The FAQ stated unmistakably that the revisions currently underway for the third edition will not be completed until 2037.
Two thousand.
Thirty-seven!
I will turn 61 years old that year.
The OED contains the history of the meaning of every blessed word in the English language, which includes by default a fair number of words from other languages, traced all the way back to their first recorded usage. It is the bible of my sacred tongue. An essential (and significantly large) part of the history of human thought itself. Few have anticipated the Second Coming with as much fervor as I have waited for this edition.
The second edition contains more than 300,000 words. Apparently more than 4,000 words are added every year. The OED will effectively double in size by the time the third edition is complete. There is no dictionary more well-endowed.
But the second edition is riddled with supplements and additions, a Frankenstein’s monster of cobbled volumes.
Bugger!
The complete CD-ROM edition is not available for Macintosh.
Bollocks!
And a subscription to the online service, perhaps the most bearable option, is unaffordable. Libraries in the UK and Ireland offer remote access for free, but the New York Public Library does not. (So much for one of the greatest knowledge institutions of the world.)
Rat bastards!
Unthinkably, there may not even be be a printing of the third edition! Can you imagine a 40-volume dictionary? In type too small for my old ass to read? What is the point of literacy? What is the point of living?
... but enough about me 