The 26-year-old virgin

1.22.09

Phone call with the Mother...

"Hi Mom. Yep, today's the day. I know, I know, it is about time. Yeah, a little nervous, but Simone's always here if anything goes wrong. Ok, I'll call you when I'm done. Oh, wait, wait... Mom? Does the chicken go in the stove or on the stove?"

Brand-new-old apron on waist, pestle and mortar borrowed from neighbor, and freshly-purchased groceries on the kitchen table—I was ready to cook my first meal! Granted, this meal was merely chicken caesar salad, but, you must remember that I am unable to cook Mac and cheese without A.) ending up with some turn-of-the-century orphanage gruel or B.) Acquiring 3rd degree burns on my forehead. 

I started by researching recipes on the internet. First, I looked up "simple caesar salad recipe", but the idea of store-bought croutons and dressing seemed to cheapen the epicurean meal I had envisioned. Finally I landed at the blog Adaptations, which featured a recipe from Jamie Oliver (I believe he's the young 'I'm-good-looking-in-an-Irish-way' chef). It called for you to make your own croutons and dressing, but still seemed simple enough for even the most novice of cooks. And by novice I mean virginal. 

Besides omitting the Pancetta (and by omitting, I mean forgetting to buy), and having to ask where the Rosemary sprigs were (it wasn't in the spice aisle), the actual preparation and cooking went along quite nicely (thank you though Simone, for assuring me the chicken was in fact cooked.) It was only moments before the unveiling of the meal, that I realized my one egregious mistake (and figured out why the dressing was so strong and had seared my mouth with a robust lingering of garlic): I had put in 1/4 of a garlic bulb not 1/4 of a garlic clove—as the recipe had called for. Whoops. 

Sandy Crunk!

I am no mathematician, but let me fill you in on a little somthin somthin: four whiskey-7s at Tollgate Inn Restaurant and Lounge + visiting your parents = Blogspot Top Ten!

Today's Top Ten Moments—Sandy Edition:

1. "Oh my god, shut the door—you're getting vomit all over it!" [our 12-year old yellow lab Maverick ate too much, too quick.]

2. Walking into the bathroom to see Sassy, our gender-indeterminate cat, drooling on herself.

3. Watching my brother win $100 playing "Princess" on the slot machines.

4. Watching the "ExtenZe: Male Enhancement Vitamin" infomercial with Grammie and my Step dad (have you ever listened to the line "noticeably thicker and more intense" while your Alzheimer-stricken grandma nodded along?) 

5. Discussing the parallels between Maverick and Brad Pitt's character in "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button". Seriously. 

6. Did I mention four drinks at Tollgate?

7. My brother insisting we stop for Raspberry-filled donuts at 7-11 at 10 pm, while mom shouts "if you become obese I'll disown you!". She was joking. I think.

8. Taking fifteen minutes to figure out how to spell "raspberry".

9. Seeing an original photograph of my Great-great grandparents in Belgium. 

10. Trying to type after four drinks at Milkshake—I mean Tollgate.

Before I forget

Last night I had a dream that, amongst other things, I was an older British gentleman. I went into a store (existing within a futuristic Truman Show-esque setting) to buy a fake dwarf for god-knows-what. Instead, I browsed the wide selection of apparel and purchased lime green spandex briefs with fringe dangling down about six inches on either side. On the rear, the word "FACE" was written in black sequins. 

Who needs drugs with naps like these...

I woke up from a nap about twenty minutes ago and am still not completely convinced I'm awake. 

As an adolescent I would commonly awake from naps to see neon heiraglyphics—sometimes indecipherable words, sometimes foreign markings and lines—etched on the walls and ceiling, which would quickly fade as I became more conscious. I would also sometimes be in such extreme states of disorientation that I couldn't even recognize a phone call from my mother. Once, she called to tell me she'd be home soon for dinner, but I couldn't even comprehend who was calling me, let alone why they were calling. Who was this woman? I had a mother? I'd been born? I had no concept of who I was, where I was, or what I was—just that I had picked up a telephone only to be answered by a bodiless voice on the other end. Oh, and no, I was not an eleven year-old acid addict or nap-time narcotics abuser.

These incidents have dwindled as I've grown older, but in the past year I've noticed an increase in a nap-time experience I'd like to call 'The Conscious Coma'. In this state, you are completely aware that you are sleeping and that you'd like to wake up. However, your body has other plans. It requires all your focus and determination just to open an eye or lift your hand—your body won't let you wake up. Today this occurred while napping in Liz's room as she cleaned and packed. After about an hour of being asleep, I "awoke" but couldn't really do anything about it. I heard her music playing, and could even distinguish which band (the everybodyfields), but couldn't manage to get my body to exert itself past a finger lift or eye flutter. Between these attempts, my body would play little dream jokes on me, where I would fall back asleep and dream that I finally woke up, got out of Liz's room, and went about my business. However, every time I'd "awake" again only to find myself lying in Liz's bed, hands neatly folded atop her Ikea duvet. Finally, I decided I needed Liz's help. I knew she was in the room (after a strenuous eye-opening mission) and decided to try and call out her name. The first few came out as inaudible hisses, but eventually (thank you Liz for having such an easy name to emergency-whisper during nap coma attacks!) I was able to emit a noise that sounded something like a very old man saying "iz". This was confirmed by Liz after I abruptly came out of my "coma", sat up and said "Liz, did you here me say your name?!"

However, because of the numerous psyche-out dreams in which I thought I actually got up, I was not quite convinced I had actually woken up—even after going to the bathroom and drinking some water. So, I decided to walk to the coffee shop down the street. This didn't really help to prove anything, since the first thing I saw was a puppy in a Blazer sweater and an English bulldog with tiger stripes—great, I'm either still dreaming or in heaven. So, I write this now in hopes that looking upon this entry tomorrow will finally prove to me that I am awake. 

Schoolin

You don't have to be in school—or even employed, for that matter—to learn things. For example, within the last 48 hours I have learned the following:

1. Salad dressing is not a proper substitute for marinara sauce.

2. St. Elmo's Fire is an electrical weather phenomenon in which the ionization of air molecules during a thunderstorm causes a faint blue or violet glow to materialize around tall, sharply pointed objects—most notably ships' masts. That, and an 80's movie starring Emilio Estevez.

3. Eating an entire box of cookies my self does not make me feel bad at all.

4. Despite being aware of learned thing #1, I will continue to do learned thing #1.

5. It's harder to run 3 miles at 7 am than 7 pm.

6. The attractiveness of a man plummets the instant you notice the kanji tattoo on his ankle surrounded by flames.

7. There is no such thing as "one quick nightcap at the Slammer"

Plungers, hammers, and nuts

This afternoon I was unexpectedly reminded (for reasons we will not be exploring here today) that our household does not have a plunger. Too embarrassed to ask the neighbors, and sorely disappointed that one did not magically appear when I closed my eyes and quickly swung open the broom closet door, I was forced to walk down to the local hardware store—wishing to complete this errand with as little fanfare as possible. 

 As soon as I enter the small store (a tidy, compact space with no windows, giving one the impression of being inside an anal retentive man's toolbox), I hear "...and if you put nuts on Mama, then that makes her Papa", followed by the type of laughter reserved only for men who have just said something vulgar while their wives aren't around. I immediately feel an odd sense of guilt for having overheard this men's-only-club-banter, but press on through the broom and rake aisle. While waiting for help and idly browsing their vast hammer selection (I need to get one for a secret-Santa gift), a lumberjack of a man slides up beside me and asks what type of hammer I'm looking for. I can tell he's not an employee and this makes me squint my eyes ever so slightly in suspicion. This "volunteer salesman" continues to discuss hammer features with me, but, since I'm not that well versed in tool-speak, I'm not sure if his conversation is laden with sexual innuendo, or if he's genuinely trying to help me find the right mallet. Finally, I'm approached by an actual clerk, find my plunger, and am at the checkout counter. Just when I think I'm home free, a Channel 2 News team walks in, video camera in hand. Instantly, nightmarish scenarios play out in my head: 

"Excuse me miss [microphone thrust in my face], what's that there you're buying? Oh, a plunger?—Hey, Tim, get a shot of the blond with the plunger!... So ma'am, what brings you in here for this today?" 

Mercifully, it turns out the news team was there to talk to the store owner about which supplies people may need to prepare for the alleged snowstorm this weekend, NOT to interview me, my plunger, and my hammer. 

Two seats down, but worlds away

I'm at a coffee shop sitting next to possibly the most attractive man I've ever encountered: His hair living its life independently in currents of light brown faintly bleached in hidden tucks and folds—not by vanity, but by an active (surf-filled?) lifestyle I presume. His face is angular and confident, suggesting a hint of Aryan architecture, but with a more Scandinavian gentleness, and what I can only imagine is an architect's sense of simple, efficient style with undertones of originality and rebellion concealed for those who care to look. He's wearing two watches—one on his right wrist, one on his left. Perhaps one is set to Swede time? Or perhaps he's just waiting to scoot next to me, strap one onto me wrist and tell me "Here, now you won't be late..." "Late for what?" I'll coo, barely able to see his tall, lean form through my hummingbird lashes. "For our date, silly."  Alas, my daydreams are dissolved by the sighting of the dreaded wedding ring. Though, truthfully I should have known the instant he pulled up outside riding a tandem bike—the second half being built for a child. But, I just naturally assumed he was late for work, and with his single-man's bike having a flat, was forced to borrow his procreating neighbor's bike. I think I'll just default to my usual theory—the wedding ring's a fake, used only to stave off the throngs of female admirers he's surely accustomed to; This mock matrimony will dissolve and the "ring" will slip off like melted butter as soon as we make eye contact. What?! What's this? He keeps looking my way... Ok, be cool, control your reactionary underarms... oh, wait. He's just looking at his bike out the window. Probably doesn't want it to be stolen. His neighbor would be pissed.