Holy Top Chef, Batman!!!

Wow. Yesterday was really fun, but started out rather embarrassingly. See, I forgot that I took a day off at work. I knew Top Chef was coming to Madison, but figured that since Orpheus and I had not been successful in getting online tickets, we were not going to get into the show. Apparently, however, I asked for the time off before tickets became available. So, I came in, and thirty minutes into a day I was sure would be one of the hardest I’d ever done, my supervisor comes up and says,

“So, Aeffchen, why are you here today? Come over to my computer… See? It looks like you have today off.” I played it cool, asked to go upstairs and call around…. Cleared spending the day together with O… And then, got the hell out. Once I reached O’s place, we quickly decided to hit Gotham for bagel sandwiches for breakfast, and signed up for overflow seating beside the Top Chef trailer on MLK St. just off the Capital Square. We didn’t get into the first show, and then had to walk all the way back to Orpheus’ place, and move my car… We went back, wandered around the small Wednesday Farmers’ Market taking place on the drive leading up to Monona Terrace (the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed, but not FLW-executed, disaster of a convention center on Lake Monona), and didn’t get into the second show, either… So we went back to O’s place after moving my car, then tromped back out for the third show. After a great deal of finger-crossing and nail-biting, my name was called from the overflow list, and Orpheus and I mounted the steps into the mysterious Top Chef Tour trailer… And climbed into a very comfortably air-conditioned, miniscule hall with 40 production chair set up so the audience could see what the two presenters were making inside the tiniest kitchen area I’ve ever seen.

The celeb chefs we saw yesterday were Dale and Stephanie, from the third and fourth seasons of Top Chef, respectively. Dale, of course, is a sexual interest for both O. and myself, and, as he entered the kitchen, Orpheus undid a gratuitous couple of buttons on his shirt… I never liked Stephanie much on the show, but in person, she’s pretty cool. They had worked together before Top Chef, and are both Chicago-based chefs, so it was really neat to hear their kitchen banter while they cooked. Nothing terribly juicy came out, but apparently Hung was a smug chump in real life, too, though they did say he wasn’t nearly as asinine as the production team made him out to be. Really, most of the time, they were just talking about how they didn’t know their own schedule for the next day while filming, and how less than 2% of what was filmed ever made it on-screen. The camera crews were with them until the last person went to sleep every night. How horrible! Oh, yeah… And they totally had no-sex clauses in their contracts.

The neat little tomato/fruit salad with half-homemade ravioli (made with wonton wrappers, as they didn’t have enough room for a pasta machine) and shaved goat cheese in a balsamic vinaigrette was quite good, especially considering that they were chatting it up and taking questions the entire time they were cooking. Afterwards, we hung out in line, and got autographed photos for free of both of them. Orpheus asked Dale to sign his chest, which Dale, prudently, I think, refused to do in public with so many kids around. Stephanie signed O’s photo “Orpheus, I TOTALLY would’ve signed your chest!!! Love, Stephanie” It was really cool. Plus, pretty early in the day, O. had found a wad of cash on the street corner with over $60. I felt a little bad about it, but we drank pretty damned well, yesterday, so all wasn’t lost. Plus, we went out to dinner at my favorite bar/restaurant, and had my fav. pulled pork sandwich in town. Yay, Nottspil!!! Unfortunately, our order was f@#$ed up by the waitress the first time, and they rushed our order for the correct sandwiches through the kitchen… Mine was perfect, but O’s gave him indigestion as it was swimming with pork fat. They usually press the meat to drive out as much of the grease as possible.

When it got time for him to live-blog the DNC last night, Orpheus kicked me out of his apartment. I wandered up to the square AGAIN, and read at the Torando Room for a bit. O. got me a book called World War Z: An Oral history of the Zombie War at the library, yesterday. It has me super-excited, and I even got hit on (I think) by the world’s hottest over-forty bartender because of the book. He engaged me in a smoldering discussion of zombie cinema. It was nice. Oh, and Orpheus and I actually managed to have some short-winded but much needed buttsex yesterday, thank God. It was, all told, a pretty awesome day.

Hooks Set... Ready, Set, ANNOY!!!

Last night was pretty interesting, if a touch miffy on my part. Orpheus live-blogged the Democratic National Convention. Rather, I should say, he live-blogged the annoyingly Olympic COMMENTARY thereof. I found it freakishly annoying to be hearing brain-dead reporters, still tired from Chinese jet-lag, pulling the least relevant shit out of their asses while you could hear good speeches going on in the background. Note to NBC: If you’re going to televise a convention, TELEVISE THE CONVENTION!!! I don’t want to hear your hack, idiot, jet-lagged journalism monkeys squawking over the floor show, no matter how distinguished their educational pedigree. But all that didn’t happen until later in the night. Let’s back up together…

I headed downtown following work, and braved a particularly idiot-laced road-riot of a driving situation before parking suspiciously easily near O’s place. Upon picking up the keys, I force-fed myself at Orpheus’ apartment, as Chemie and her two really cool Indian (like the Asian sub-continent,) roommates had gotten a cable modem, but couldn’t get their wireless network operational. So, after finally getting her computer to somewhere approaching copasetic on Saturday, I headed over after O. returned, and set up the ‘net for them while Orpheus listened to all the most annoying music channels on digital cable and they all danced around the apartment, making far too much noise for my taste and level of necessary concentration. The network is now set up, and other than a rancidly stupid password, as secure as it could possibly be given the girls’ inability to ‘fix’ any technical ‘problems’ that could occur were the network any more secure (like my brother-in-laws… He has it set up to only work for their computers, and is just lazy enough that, when you ask him to set your computer up, too, he’ll just say “I’ll do it later, please use my computer in the office for now!” Needless to say, he never does).

So, we finally leave there about an hour and a half later, and despite my sense of accomplishment, O. is EXTREMELY hungry, and dinner will take at least forty minutes to put on the table. It doesn’t help that he’s excited about live-blogging the DNC, and is spending all our travel time inside his head reflecting on the kinds of cutting witticisms he’ll employ to degrade both me and those unlucky enough to be speaking, later… I’d have been in a better mood had he paid some attention to me on the car-ride home. Then, we get back, I start cooking apple cider-curry-braised pork chops, and O. starts typing away, clickety-clack. I’m forced to spend yet more time listening to things I don’t particularly want to listen to while doing something that, while I take pride in my cooking, was a rather half-hearted task, given the late hour. This is when I started getting horribly annoyed with the networks for putting on commentary. If I’m going to be forced to listen to empty promises of schlock to come anyway, I’d rather be treated to good oratory. Senator Kennedy’s speech was glorious, for instance… Then they spent the next thirty minutes picking it apart half-heartedly, whilest I browned boneless chops, cooked down onions, added a wonderful curry powder, deglazed with vermouth, and began cooking down the cider. Fortunately, this a sweet dish, so my bitterness didn’t come out in the sauce.

This kept going, through dinner even, with Orpheus mostly ignoring me, even when I told him point-blank my meal had better be more important to his hungry butt than the pathetic interview then going on with Carolyn Kennedy, moderated by interrupt-ey, tired anchor-monkeys. After dinner, he wouldn’t stop blogging to help with dishes, and thus, to keep myself from being really nasty and saying something I’d regret, I did the damned dishes myself. Michelle Obama’s speech was pretty good, though it started out with the most disingenuous crap about her “faith” I’ve ever heard. I don’t want to hear about her faith. I don’t go to Baptist churches for a reason, and wish my Grandmother would STFU regarding God when I visited. Mrs. Obama’s relationship to some possible higher being is none of my never-mind… Conversely, my faith is mine, and anybody who tries to talk to me about it, unless they are very respectful, and very careful, will get a ridiculously profane earful.

Also, putting up Hillary as the first person she mentions as a shatterer of glass ceilings might’ve been more effective if the expression on her face hadn’t been so pinched as she said it, or if she’d apologized for the really incendiary comments she’s made in the past regarding Frau Clinton. I, like many others, am forced into the distasteful situation of supporting Barack, a candidate who I do not believe is ready for the Presidency, because of Hillary’s ouster from the bosom of her party. With ill-defined “change” promised after little substantive explanation of the mechanisms thereof, I’m precious little closer to waving an Obama flag now than I was a month ago, when it became clear it was all over. The least his wife could’ve done was wipe the stigmas she’s painted onto his campaign clear in her otherwise solid speech, and dispense with the fucking faith-crap. She’s a high-powered bitch with a law degree. She doesn’t any more believe in a caring creator than I do, and it sticks in my craw to hear her say what she said. Barack better bring it later this week’s all I’ve got to say.

The worst part of last night was after Orpheus and I had gone to bed. He said something that was really snippy when I asked if I could read the post. Instead of kicking his ass out of bed, I demanded my pillow while stealing a blanket, and informing him I’d be sleeping on the couch… It was my place. I felt irritated, powerless, and used. Fortunately for him, he showed appropriate flags at that point, rubbed my back, and got me chocolate. The shit he said about me was more or less balanced, despite being hopelessly tow-headed… Fucking English majors don’t understand politics any better than Southern Baptists. We had a nice session of mutual masturbation, and I got a wonderful night’s sleep. He’s still at my place, and after a phone call over lunch, aware that I’m still residually pissed about yesterday. It’s funny how I can be mad at him, but still feel a little sad that we’re not able to meet for lunch, or take a walk together or some such. Love sucks as wonderful journeys go, but it can be a lot of fun in addition to being a lot of work. Too bad about last night, but we’ll see about the next ten years…

Randomly woven thread

This weekend sucked rocks. Well, not really, but it wasn’t terribly interesting, either. I developed the weirdest sore on my lip, which I was assured by my doctor wasn’t an STD (post-testing), but he’ll be damned if he has any idea what it actually is, either. There’s another culture that should be coming in, soon… Thrush, maybe? That’s what I get for falling asleep without brushing my teeth after drinking wine or beer one too many times. I’m getting hits left and right for my new resume, but most of the jobs aren’t the type that I have any interest in, whatsoever. Orpheus hopes fervently that I’ll get a good call regarding a new job, as I’ve been rather a prickly pear for the last few weeks, and am drinking too much. Oh, yeah, and I’m getting fat.

The one plus (given everything else, including the [contagious?] sore, no decent job hits, the imminent exodus of Bulgaria from the US of A, etc), despite my clear preference for oral/anal/makeout to whacking off, is that I’m really hitting O’s buttons with the mutual masturbation. Until we’d established our basic interface rules early in the relationship, the sex was VERY awkward, and sometimes off-putting. For me, because Orpheus likes to be edged, and my hand would fall asleep before he was ready to cum. For him, because I like frottage, and it used to freak his shit out. Nowadays, these are rare activities in aggregate… Lately, they’ve been constant. One, two, three times daily. And he’s starting to have that happy, Mooney expression in his eyes every time he looks at me. This is nice, but I can’t wait to find out about mr. weird-sore so we can get back to the butt-sex. As he gets Mooney, I’m getting irritated. Plus, he’s got a condition where he gets multiple cankers inside his mouth when he is stressed or eats something too spicy, and he can’t eat my ass, either, so I’m not bottoming until he’s rated to ream full-bore. Boo, weird mouth sores, BOO!!!

Saturday was odd, as Bulgaria threw his going away party… He’s in the US until September 5th, but wanted to see everybody one last time. I’m supposed to be making dinner for Bulgaria and his BF next week as a last hurrah for us. It’s so depressing, and I can’t be negative about it, but when one’s best friend in a city leaves, it’s painful and distressing. Especially given the role B. played for me, getting me through the divorce. Sunday was just all-around crappy. I was at Orpheus’ place downtown while he worked, and I spent most of the day sleeping. I also slept all night last night, and I’m tired as hell today. I’ll be sleeping through my lunch break for the first time in forever. Also, it’s FREEZING in here, and I just can’t get warm. My fingers keep fumbling they’re so cold and grey with purple at the tips… Poop!

Prospecting...

Yesterday, when I woke up, I was cranky. This was odd, because the night before, I’d cooked with Aries. She made a lovely gazpacho, and I’d tricked myself into believing that tofu was, perhaps, low-quality chicken in my old walnut pork recipe. This, with the addition of a reconstituted-dried porcini duxelle in the last five minutes, and a butter-reinforced reduction of dried-mushroom-soaking-juice, dry vermouth, and thickener (corn starch, to my great chagrin), applied as a marinade to the tofu. It took about five times as long, and I don’t think the orange works as well with the heaviness of meaty mushrooms, but I was pleasantly surprised that my evil plan paid off. In any case, though, it had been a good night, and an interesting dinner with fun conversation, so it was a surprise when, upon opening my eyes, I couldn’t stand the thought of working.

I showered, I masturbated, still no will to work. So I called in. I called in, then got to work at updating my resume again, and applied to ten jobs. I also managed to get three solicitation calls today at work, in addition to one last night. The one from last night sucked, though, when I got in touch with the guy… We’ll see how things pan out. Orpheus was very kind yesterday, and even gave me a high-five when he found out I’d skipped work to do prospecting. Oy.

Roux-thickened beef stew, booze, and impotence

This weekend was an odd tapestry, all told. Orpheus and I spent a good deal of time together, and I finally got Chemie's computer set up right, more or less. There was probably some minor damage to the installation of Windows I had to re-do when I used the installation utility to partition the SCSI disk to make way for Ubuntu, but it seems like that should be easy enough to repair… And it'll probably
only mean doing something with the drivers so it recognizes the Ethernet port, again.

I cooked a cheap version of Coq au Vin with chicken breasts and instant stock (Julia forgive me), which yielded enough sauce to make a nice high fat/protein treat last night whilest O. and I were getting wasted and watching Barbarella: Queen of the Galaxy. Before Sunday, I never had any idea that, 1) such an absurdly fan-service-oriented sci-fi flop could exist, and 2) Dino de Laurentiis was such a freak, though Dune really should've clued me in… Also the fact that Giada is Giada, for the Foodies amongst you. I also made a minor-league unfortunate decision in cooking a vegetarian version of my orange walnut pork as the principal dinner dish for dinner that night, and it didn't work out terribly well. I think the addition of a nice duxelle of portobellos to the sauce may do it, or soaking dried mushrooms, reducing the resulting mushroom-y water and adding it to the thin, large strips of tofu to marinade. It just needs a slightly meatier flavor. The texture was spot-on.

Incidentally, this post also takes care of last night, which was a mixed thing, all told. Orpheus had to work late, and I wanted to get things done at my place after cooking a wonderful meal with Bulgaria… But Basso, he of the super-flakiness, wanted to come over and “watch a movie.” So, we congregated at O.’s place, popped in Barbarella, and got to poppin’. Unfortunately, I had been drinking rather heavily, and wasn’t exactly up to the task, which is quite a shame… Let’s just say that, usually, I get to be the guest of honor at these little gatherings in terms of the active role, and, as in Hamlet, too much alcohol may increase desire, but it takes away certain abilities to perform. God, how I hate booze right now.

Bingo, dingo…

Wow. Last night, I joined a few work friends in one of the most singularly off-putting (initially, anyway,) yet fascinating and fun social activities I’ve ever participated in… Bingo at the East Side Club in Madison, WI. I went with Aries, E. and G. (who are secretly dating, both also in the industrial sales department like me), and even dragged Orpheus along for the field trip. First off, it’s the last place left in Madison that I know where folks can smoke indoors. Secondly, there’s a bar abutting the bingo hall. Finally, the place is full of oxygen-tank-toting smokers-ancien (for those of you who are non-Francophones, or folks offended by my lack of proper punctuation, that’s ancient smokers,) on mobility carts, all of whom looked at O. and I as if we were baby-killers when we walked into the room.

“Oh, my stars… There are GAYS here!” was written plainly across their plastic-masked, gasping, piggy faces. Needless to say, we made a beeline for the bar, where the younger, hiper, drunker bingo-ers were already destroying their livers and lungs concurrently. Fortunately, the bar tender, while deeply stupid, was rather easy on the eyes, and the drinks were cheap. One by one, my work companions trickled in, and the conversation started. We were adopted by a really nice girl (I say girl like she wasn’t 21 already, and nearly done with her associates’ degree… And smoking like a chimney… And effectively driving two huge sheets of bingo grids w/nine games on each whilst the inept caller did his thing… And still had time to take a sip of her drink between calls… And tell us how to pull our heads out of our asses and play right,) who shall heretofore be known as BingoVirgil. She certainly led us out of a dark wood, wandering, while proving most entertaining, to boot.

Anyway, by the end of the night, after only three beers, yours truly was wasted. I’d had nothing more than a single scone for breakfast, and a packet of instant high-fiber oatmeal for lunch. We were all doing things like calling “WOO!” when O-69 was called, while the old folks’ more understated bell-ring accompanied the call of B-22. That in itself became a joke for us neophytes at the corner of the bar, putting away by far more liquor than wins. Finally, after the second round of play, we gave it up, and gifted all our extra cards to BingoVirgil, with whom we all exchanged hopes she’d see us at some point in the future. I was so far gone, O. and I just went to Qdoba for dinner. It was delicious, and has me planning braised pork shoulder with smoked chorizo, onions, peppers, lime and cilantro. Mmm…

Julie & Julia & Aeffchen, a Man Unhinged…

OK, so Orpheus got me Julie & Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen, by Julie Powell, from the public library. I started the book yesterday, having just finished The Omnivore’s Dilemma (a remarkable non-fiction read,) last Friday. Now, I’m usually not one for lightly fictionalized memoirs (oddly enough), but after about 50 pages and thirty-odd minutes of reading, I’m bloody well hooked. Perhaps its’ the niggling similarities between myself and the author… We were both partners adrift in our respective marriages, both bookish at an early age, and found Mom and Dad’s sex manual stashes at startlingly similar times and in similar fashions. This, however, wasn’t enough for Julie. She had to go and 1) successfully save her marriage, 2) discover the joys of cooking at a stressful nexus in her life, exploding into said activity instead of just puttering about, and 3) write about all this in a manner decidedly superior to mine. I’m so jealous I could scream, and pretty sure she could out-cook me without breaking a sweat.

Bitch. Marvelous bitch.

What makes it worse is, there is now no hope for me to create a break-away genre of cooking diary, because it’s already been done. There goes my Booker Prize, and, incidentally, any hope of being played by Moby in a movie version of my so-called life. A real shame, too… I’d love to know who would play an Orpheus convincingly sexy enough to live up to the fleshly beast. ;-)

I really owe Orpheus a steak dinner

This weekend, Orpheus and I nearly parted ways. I say “nearly,” and it sounds so dramatic… Really, neither of us wants to break up, but there are certain pressures having to do with our sex life that I probably need to see a therapist about. The long and short of it is, we’re still together. Much of this all has to do with my severe phobia re: sexless relationships. My ex and I didn’t scrump for over a year before our separation and divorce. With O., the type of sexual deprivation is different, and leaves me feeling like I have half a sex life (albeit a really mind-blowing half… got to give credit where it’s due). We’ve been working on it, and until last night, there hadn’t been any breakthroughs. Still, I know he resents me for the conversation, a little… He’s feeling shame because he wasn’t fulfilling my needs, and worse, the whole shebang’s not an overriding reason for him. If our positions were reversed, he wouldn’t end the relationship over it. Orpheus, being who he is, though, accepted my distress, did his best to understand, and simply tried harder. Immediately. He is the most remarkable, tender man I know under pressure.

All’s not happiness and ginger, though. The blow-back, if there’s one, is yet to come. Generally, it takes O. awhile to come around to hurt or anger. We still haven’t had our first screaming match a year and a half into the relationship. Sure, we’ve shouted at each other, but never for protracted periods, and never for more than irritation over minor rubs. It’s easy to talk through that kind of thing later, and eventually curb the behavior that caused negative emotions. This project is, to put it mildly, a larger change in behavior that involves new patterns of dominance and submission, in an area that is highly sensitive to upset. But it’s important to me, and a necessary component of the relationship. The nickname Orpheus isn’t for naught… O. has meant more to me than anyone, romantically speaking, since LaGrippe. Really, he’s begun recently to feel more important than she ever was. I think, maybe, that’s why this whole thing suddenly became so important to me. And now it’s out there.

I really owe Orpheus a steak dinner.

The whole weekend was more or less uneventful. I did get to hang out with Bulgaria a bit, and check out his new Dell, which he got to make communication with friends here more probable while at home. It’s the home stretch before he leaves, and I’m trying very hard not to mourn him already. The time we have left is very important, very precious. We cooked together again, a delicious chicken and chorizo dish, with potatoes, lemon and gremmolata. Afterwards, B., his boyfriend, O. and I all went to see ‘The Dark Knight’ again. It was a good time.

Yesterday was, of course, the date of the big talk. Afterwards, he just wanted to be close to me, touch me. This isn’t normal for Orpheus. We watched movies all night long while I was, umm, “backing up” an amazing performance of Handel’s Giulio Cesare, starring a fantastically manly Mezzo in the title role, and a hot little number cross-trained as a dancer (who’ll soon be singing in Madison,) as Cleopatra. We talked a little more, and snuggled, and had sex twice. Weird. Good sex, though.

Happy Birthd... Wait, did I lose a digit in the salad?

So, Orpheus’ birthday was lots of fun, but it didn’t go off entirely without a hitch… First off, I had a LOT more cooking to complete than I had before thought. We had to take another trip to the store in order to get a couple odds and ends that had been too disgusting to buy at Woodman’s the day before… And we didn’t get the chance to go to a movie in the morning. In fact, we didn’t even fit in O.’s birthday doink until last night. No… Instead, whilst I was half-heartedly chopping two huge, heartbreakingly beautiful leeks, my concentration slipped and I nearly sliced off the tip of my left thumb. Through the nail, I cut down into the nail bed. It was such a clean cut, I didn’t believe it (or feel it,) at first. I managed to get my thumb compressed under running cold water before it even started to bleed. This did not sever part of my finger, or expose bone, or even clip part of the nail off. Instead, I have a long clean slice in the nail, that I’ll have to develop the balls to repair with glue and a tea bag patch, then file. I’m not looking forward to this task.

Anyway, all the rest of the chopping had to be done by Orpheus, but after I’d staunched the flow of blood, taken my last remaining vicodin, and dry-dressed my half-severed digital terminus with packing left over from my unfortunate brush with driveway gravel last summer, I finished the cooking part of the deal, and helped to pack up the feast. After everybody finally showed up (minus, of course, Basso… He had to go to dress rehearsal for something he’s in early), the picnic went swimmingly, and we even got to go out afterwards with Aphrodite, which was really nice. We hit the Orpheum, which is a big, pretty old theatre that’s been transformed into a kind of art movie-house that doubles as downtown’s least seedy mid-sized venue for good bands coming through town. There’s a restaurant/bar set up in the lobby, and one of the first bar waitresses I ever developed a rapport with in Madison (at a different bar, of course,) is now the general manager. It was a pleasant evening.

Yesterday was nice, too, and though the sex wasn’t fantastic for me, that wasn’t the point. We got to do some things that O. had really wanted to do again, or try for the first time. All in all, I think he had a good time on his birthday. I get the impression that nobody’s ever really bothered to throw him a party like that, before. Plus, as I’d envisioned the dinner, I got some spill-over ego stroking from all attendees to compensate for the fact that It wasn’t my birthday. ;-) And tonight, Orpheus and I get to spend the evening naked at my place. I’m looking forward to that.

Bend until you…

I had my first session of physical therapy this morning. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined it would be, given my now-deceased Grandpa’s one-round bout with his therapist some years ago. The problem was, this guy wouldn’t listen to G-pa when told it hurt. Floyd being as out of it as he was at the time, brain riddled with Parkinsons and all, the PT didn’t think it necessary to be considerate. So he got punched. Hard. Hard enough to send him flying across the room. See, Grandpa may not have been able to balance enough to walk on his own anymore, but he was a veritable Franklin Roosevelt in the upper body strength category. My experience, fortunately, was much nicer. The lady who took care of me, we shall call her T., was amazing. She listened so well, and explained things just so, giving physical examples beautifully. I still stick with thanking god(dess-or whatever,) that I’ve never had to do this kind of work before, but would not hesitate to consider PT again in the future, if necessary.

The best part, though, was that I took a whole half-day off, just in case I was in a great deal of pain after the session. Since I started the appointment at 8 AM, this left me with a wide-open expanse of day. I jiggered it so that if I wanted to, I could come back in to work early, but didn’t… Begging “soul-wracking” soreness, I went home, had a leisurely breakfast cooked in my newly spotless kitchen (as of last night… I ignored Orpheus through the whole of Muppet Treasure Island to sterilize said isle of culinary delight), then fucked the living shit out of O. on the couch, to the accompaniment of Kathy Lee and Hoda on the Today Show, MC-ing an underwear model walk. Terra Firma is spending this entire week in the U.P. (Upper Peninsula of Michigan, for the uninitiated,) at some all-chick music festival with her girlfriend, so public-area screwing in my apartment is both feasible and deliciously permissible right now. Until T.F. returns, the policy on nudity is, once the main door closes, you’re naked. Orpheus likes it, as do I… Nudity in multiple rooms hearkens back to very early in our relationship, when I had my own two bedroom apartment, and we could have sex against any surface without worrying about grossing anybody else out. Now that I have a roomie, we are using a towel, and I’m cleaning again before Sunday… Stop making that face.

Tomorrow is Orpheus’ birthday, so after I am done at work, we’re going shopping, and I’m cooking up a storm. I have Wednesday off, and we will picnic with much pomp at dinner time, hosting Chemie, Basso, another friend, and possibly even Aphrodite, who may be back in town for the event. I’m to make pasta salad, a green salad, peach salsa, garlic/parmesan dip, fruit salad, and Faux-Chinese Chicken, which was specially requested by O. For dessert, we’ll buy a pie from L’MNO Pies, an AWESOME place near my apartment where you can get freshly baked pies, quiches, and the best pasties during lunchtime… They give you 40% off a pie on your birthday if you sign up to receive e-mails. Orpheus, of course, made sure he was on the list. We’ll also be seeing Hell Boy, if I have anything to say about it, and checking out a few fun things to do during the day. My gifts are, in reverse order of absurdity, a singing Sharpay doll a-la High School Musical (he’ll shit his pants, I swear…), a 600 mL SIGG bottle with an amusing design, and two (2) Punch Brothers’ Tickets. They’re coming back to town in September, and the last time we saw Chris Thile’s new band, it was amazing. Plus, I have to let him have me anywhere in my apartment he wants, at any time, for anything… Where did I put the poppers, again? j/k! I’ll tell you more about the party later.