Ask A Simple Question...Get A Stupid Answer

ME: So, where are you from?

HE: Well, I'm from a lot of places.

ME: [Silently, to self: No, that's impossible. You can only be from one location.] Okay, name a few.

HE: San Francisco, Colorado, Florida.

ME: [Silently to self: What, are you in Witness Protection?]

HE: But, I've been in L.A. for so long, it's like I'm from here.

ME: [Silently to self: Which is what every native of L.A. hates to hear and completely disagrees with.] Okay, but where were you born?

HE: Detroit, Michigan.

ME: [Silently to self: See, was that so effing hard to cough out?] I have family from Michigan. They do that weird thing where they grab your had to show you where we are and where we are going.

HE: [Smiles, nods. Probably what every native of Michigan hates to hear but has to acknowledge because they all do it.]

ME: So, where did you go to college?

HE: University of Michigan.

ME: Oh. [So, basically, you've spent most of your life in Michigan yet aren't really "from" there. Interesting take.]

HE: But I thought about going to school in Colorado or Boston.

ME: Because they have such better weather than Michigan?

HE: [Laughs]

ME: So, you're in real estate. Kind of a tough time.

HE: Yeah. Did you know the mortgage crisis is really Obama's fault?

ME: [*crickets*]

HE: No, really, it is.

ME: [Silently to self: REDACTED.] Wow, will you look at the time. Gotta go. Buh-bye.

She Said He Said

I've always been the chick who has more guy friends than girl friends. I didn't plan it that way. It just sort of happened. Perhaps because I preferred kickball to jumping rope. Not that I'm particularly sporty; I just liked the friendly competition the boys had going. I preferred it to the rather catty competition happening in the girls' corner. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. Little girls can be big bitches.

As I grew older, I still found myself hanging out with the lads more than the lasses. Guys didn't mind that I was opinionated and prone to use language that would make sailors blush. With guys, I didn't have to mind my Ps and Qs. And the conversations weren't about clothes or hair or boys. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. In high school, conversations ran about as deep as puddles in most cliques, no? [And I should really qualify all this by saying I grew up in a stucco-encrusted suburb I fondly refer to as Stepford.]

By the time college rolled around, I was used to palling around with the guys and usually being the only girl in the lot. That's when I noticed the whispers. Slut was a common slur. Because *obviously* I was sleeping with all of them. These guys wouldn't just be my friend if there weren't *benefits*, right? A girl couldn't be close friends with a guy unless they were very close indeed. This happened with more frequency and fervor if I was friends with a guy another girl liked but he didn't like her back. That suddenly became my fault. Because, at that age, it's always another woman in your way...right, sisters? It can never be that he isn't the right guy for you. No. It's the slutty girl "friend" re-routing the rooster.

I've come to find that there are some people who absolutely don't believe a man and a woman can have a truly platonic relationship. This is usually the thought pattern of those who sleep with their friends. I don't sleep with friends. I sleep with my boyfriend or lover, not a buddy. I'm not judging a buckfuddy situation. But, that's not what I consider a friendship. That's a quasi-relationship, ill-defined and prone to heartbreak or a bitter end. Most likely, you would not be able to sit across from that "friend's" spouse and have a pleasant conversation about all the fun times you two had without a few hesitations and awkward edits.

College is a heady time. Young adults and sexuality are much like baby rattlesnakes and venom -- we don't yet know how to control it. How much to give off. When to stop it before it goes further than planned. That's all part of growing up. And while I wasn't chaste, I was far from the hose-hound whore a some sorority sisters seemed to believe...and spread about. I can count my college conquests on one hand. And no, I don't have additional digits like Anne Bolin. I bring this up because, nearly two decades after the fact, I recently had to do a reality check. It seems that rumor and innuendo can fester into legend then harden into "fact". Which I found utterly baffling. So much so, emergency text messages were sent to two of my guy friends and a panicked after-midnight call was placed to a girl friend who, too, has her fair share of platonic male mates. Each of the communiques began with WTF?!?

It came in the form of an email in which she said he said, to which I said horseshit. At first, I really didn't care. I mean, seriously, WTF. But it was so outlandish that it began to bug me. What if all this time people were under the impression that actually happened? Now, I'm not one that feels the need to defend myself, nor do I really care what some people think of me, but I do care about the truth. I found myself going right back to sophomore year when I wanted to shout from a bullhorn at every kegger: Seriously, I'm not a slut! Just because we are hanging out does not mean we are making out...or anything else!

Sigh. Trust me, there are plenty of things I actually do that people can judge me on. That I welcome. Have at it. Spread it like wildfire. Whatever. But if I didn't do it...then I get a little pissy.

Rumormongering isn't just a girl thing. Guys were equally guilty of it. I remember one occasion where a dude in our crowd told the world I went home with a certain bloke. This, after I was nice enough to give him a ride home. Because I dropped him off first, I must have gone back to my dorm room with the other guy. When I heard about this, I was furious. The look on his face when I called him out on it -- in public -- was priceless.

"Why would you start a rumor like that?" I demanded. "Uh..." was all he could come up with. "Did you see us go into my dorm together?" I questioned. "Uh, no," he admitted. "Were we making out in front of you or flirting even?" He answered, "No." "Well, then what made you think he ended up spending the night with me?" I huffed. "I just...I...I don't know," he stuttered. "So you just made the whole thing up and spread it around? Kind of an asshole thing to do, isn't it?" He hung his head, muttered that he was sorry and couldn't look me in the eye for a month.

Now, if you'll notice, in my line of questioning I never denied going home with the guy. The truth was, I did. But, that wasn't for gossip guy to say. That was my private affair and none of his or anyone else's business. When the bloke and I later showed up as a couple, the gossiper called me on it. I explained that he assumed what happened and went about spreading the news like a twelve-year-old without asking me if anything had gone on before he did so. That's not what a friend does. But, like I said, some people don't think guys and gals can be friends. And, after that, he and I weren't.

Over the years, the ratio has shifted and I have a larger network of girl friends today. I still have a lot of guy friends, though. And, for the record, I can look every one of their wives in the eye. It's nice that we can all be friends. But it's sad when you stumble upon someone who's still sitting in the quad.

So Lonely

Today, Salon has a article on loneliness. Because, I guess, it's that time of year.

While I don't quibble with people who suffer from depression, or those who have to deal with SAD each winter, I think most of the ho-hum that comes at the holidays is the clash of our natural instincts to hibernate by the fire with a cup of spiked nog watching "A Christmas Story" and the obligations to dress up, be cheery and bear the cold to make a meal of bad hors d'oeuvres while enduring mind-numbing chit-chat during this highly social season. Or maybe that's just me.

I politely cleared my schedule this weekend. I was tired, not feeling especially social, and desperately wanted to avoid the panicked-shopper traffic this weekend seems to bring. Most of my social obligations had been met by Friday anyway. The remainder can be made up after Boxing Day. So, I snuggled up, wrapped in my Four Seasons Hotel robe, and watched movies I've seen three hundred times before.

Don't ask me why I willing watch "Terms of Endearment" when I know I'm going to cry when Huckleberry Fox does after Debra Winger tells her sons she's not getting better. Ugh. But, sometimes, I long for weekends like this. Quiet time alone. Perhaps it's part of a certain type of writer's personality. I think we are solitary creatures by nature only because there are a bunch of characters living in our heads all the time. It's sort of exhausting, at least mentally. So, if I can get those characters to be quiet, I kind of blow off the rest of the characters in my life. Which sort of makes me a cruddy friend, I suppose. But, my friends are used to it to a degree. Writers are also like exotic pets to some. Our idiosyncrasies are considered part of the charm (as long as we don't claw the furniture or crap on the rug).

Inevitably, I get a bit bored at the end of my hibernation. Typically, as I'm getting my second wind, friends have lost theirs. They are donning their robes and either nursing lingering hangovers, or trying to psyche themselves up for Monday...or neither of us is willing to drive to the other's part of town, so we end up gabbing on the phone instead of in person. Which is just as well, because I was still in my robe and didn't bother blow-drying my hair after my shower.

Then, I stumbled on the Salon article. I've always been a loner but, for a moment, I became slightly panicked that I was actually chronically lonely, and without even realizing I was! I took the lonely test and ended up in the gray zone between the "normal" and "severe" range. Then I realized that I had forgotten about the "rarely" option. Never give me four choices. It's one more than I can handle.

There's a thin line between being lonely and alone. I'm quite comfortable being alone -- which is both a good and bad thing. I like the self-sufficiency, but it can also be a bit of a bad habit. Fortunately, I have friends that will call me on my idiosyncrasies and force me to be social. They know the magic words: "Drinks", "Hal's" or "A Votre Sante". And I love them for it.

Unfortunately, they disabled the embed (where's the love, Universal Music Group?), so click here for a little slice of Charlie Sexton. Just in case your beat's so lonely, too.

To Morro, Part I

Beginning a weekend getaway on only four hours of sleep is not a good plan. Thought I might go on record with that, just in case you were thinking of doing something similarly stupid. Don't. It can be a little dangerous. Also, don't get cocky and think you can manage without caffeine on that tiny amount of sleep. That's just asinine.

It's not often I get the chance to sneak out of town. Vacations this year? Deux (and both were weekend-sized...sigh). So, when friends call to say, Let's get away, I do my best to comply. Inevitably, my schedule leading up to the break is always a fustercluck. Last week was no exception. But I was so looking forward to my weekend away at Morro Bay, I could hardly wait for Friday to arrive. Of course, I was well into Friday before I got to bed. Blogs take up a lot of time.

My lack of sleep made Friday a harried morning. I barely had time to get dressed. There was no time to run by Starbucks for fuel on my way to Client #2. Surprisingly, I had energy. I was alert. I didn't even yawn. All without a hint of caffeine. No green tea, nor chocolate covered espresso beans. I almost called Guinness.

After work, there was the scurry to get errands done. Run to the store, get gas, check tires and oil, and...oh, yeah...pack. Packing in a rush can lead to disaster. Fortunately, it only made me late, and I only forgot my eyeshadow. At least I remembered my feminine supplies, because it's only really a vacation if Aunt Flo tags along. Jeebus. Of all the luck.

Because I was running late, I had to skip the much needed car wash. I also didn't have time to make a medicinal stop at the Bucks. I was high on Midol, so I didn't care. Besides, I was hoping to make it to Morro Bay before the crash set in. Because the crash was inevitable. And it would be a bitch. I could feel it in my bones.

In order to distract myself from the impending doom of exhaustion and the bummer of traffic, I chatted with a friend for over an hour. She got me to Ventura. NIN took me the rest of the way. Once the sun fully set, the yawn-fest hit. And I was only a third of the way there. I never realized how far away Morro Bay actually is. I wasn't sure I would make it, and even considered going back home to get some sleep and drive back out the next morning. But, only a total wuss would do that. An idiot would just keep on going.

I suppose I should have paid more attention to the Google Map, because the occasional glance in the dark was not sufficient. I am a competent driver, and even a competent directions reader. But the first time I drive a new route in the dark -- especially after inadequate sleep -- can spell disaster. Or something equally annoying. All I knew was that I would take the 405 to the 101 to the 1 and -- boom -- four-plus hours later, I'd be in Morro Bay. Of course, there's more that one 1 off the 101. And, of course, I took the first one that came along.

Fifteen minutes on the darkest, single-lane highway in America, I began to draft law requiring that the highway/route/freeway number and direction it's headed be posted every so many miles (five would be my suggestion), so that when someone as exhausted as myself gets the feeling the vertigo from the winding road and begins to question if she's actually going in the right direction could look at a road sign figure that out. Instead, seeing one too many signs for Lompoc and none or Morro Bay, and worried that I might actually be headed toward Malibu instead of the Central Coast, I turned around and went back to the 101. An hour later, there was a second sign for the 1, and this one lead to Morro Bay.

Do you pay attention to all the tiny street names of the sharp turns to you take off the off-ramp to get you onto the main drag? Me neither. So, why does Google Maps add those, only to confuse me later? I don't have time while I am driving in the dark with dry contacts to note how many inches I would be driving on those streets. I'm easily distracted by places with names such as "Taco de Mexico", which leads my brain to wonder if "Taco de Ireland" would actually be a choice. So when I see street names on internet directions, I actually think they matter. Once again, I pulled off the road and called my friends to give me guidance. Five hours after I left Venice, I pulled into their driveway and, thirty seconds later, had a glass of wine in my hands. Did I tell you they are good friends?

Tune in for To Morro, Part II tomorrow.

In Your Facebook

There is something wonderfully peculiar about Facebook. I was rather a latecomer to it; I was still trying to like/master MySpace. I hesitated before joining. One more site to manage? I wasn't sure I could do it. Two MySpace pages, one on RedRoom, a website and blog, all of which were sorely neglected. I decided to dip my toe. After all, I could always abandon Facebook, too.

At first, I was taken aback by all the "Applications" I had to deal with every time someone wanted to give me a hug or a drink or good karma. Now, I know better and am a bit more choosy about which ones I add. Friends were another story, though. Those I approved willy-nilly.

It began as a virtual reunion of high school friends. I think we were still on something of a high from getting back in touch at the actual reunion. Then we bumped into those who couldn't make it to the overpriced, underwhelming bash we'd had. Suddenly, I was "talking" to people I didn't really talk to in high school. I don't mean that in a snotty way. Not at all. We just ran in different crowds, were seated on opposite ends of the classroom, or we hadn't had a class together since junior high. And, in all honesty, I so couldn't wait to get the hell out of there, I wasn't one to hang out.

Another set of "friends" came about when one lovely lass was looking for a classmate who shared my name. I explained that I didn't go to school in DC, but we could still be friends. And so we did. Another of her classmates contacted me, then another, and another and another and another. I let them all know I wasn't that Sandra, and kind of feel like I've poached her friends, who seem very nice by the way.

There are of course a few local friends I 'book with, but that's so not the point. When you live in the same area code, why bother writing on the wall when you could simply meet for dinner? Facebook is more the way to reach out and touch someone far away and bring them closer. Or at least attack them with your Zombie.

But there is the other side to it. How do you get rid of someone gracefully? Someone you didn't really expect to be your friend, just that Facebook got ahold of your Gmail and sent out invitations without you even realizing it. Or kind of an acquaintance who is a little too in love with SuperWall. Is there a way to "hide" them? I mean, I don't want to be rude or break off the virtual friendship, but there are just certain things I don't want to know or get an email notification about. It's nothing personal per se. There are just a few hairs in the salad. I'm afraid if I blocked them or something, the whole world would know. That news feed keeps nothing secret. A friend of mine wanted to tell me about her impromptu wedding first, but Facebook beat her to it by like three minutes. It's spooky.

Even with the fact it can't keep its trap shut and I know a bit more about some people than I would like, I find Facebook to be the most pleasant time suck. I can tend my virtual garden, bite some chumps, adjust karma, even slap someone with a fish and not worry about getting sued. And that's almost a perfect world for me.

Me No Likey

I watch my fair share of crime related television. I grew up on Alfred Hitchcock Presents, McMillan and Wife, and Quincy. I'm not sure a three year old should have been watching murder mysteries on her own, but I was riveted. I watched nearly the whole of the Menendez trials, became an addict of CourTV, and watch all the A&E justice stuff. There's a bit of Sherlock Holmes in me. I like to figure things out. I like to figure people out even more.

I've always been struck by the victims' families, those who could go on to speak of their loved ones and say things like: "Everybody loved her. She was so nice. She never had a harsh word to say about anyone. She didn't have an enemy in the world." The entire towns of those victims would mourn. It always seemed it's the best of us that are taken. And that is truly sad.

However, it makes me feel rather safe.

See, I don't like everybody, so I never expected everybody to like me. I'm an acquired taste with a picky personality. No one will ever say, "Everybody loved Sandra." And I'm okay with that.

I'm not nice. I don't like that word. It's right up there with "lady". They are restrictive and milquetoast and make my skin crawl. They meant I had to sit still, keep my dress clean, and not run out and play. Therefore, I refuse to be nice. That's not to say that I'm mean. I am fun, polite, professional, easy-going (at times), understanding (occasionally), but I also have a temper and an extreme sense of right and wrong, and will make my feelings very clear when necessary.

Being a writer, I have a lot of words in me. Some of them are harsh. Some I save for paper, but many are said aloud. If you've ever cut me off, you've heard a few of them.

As far as enemies go, I've made more than one. I actually considered it a point of character. Very old school: You've wronged me, sir/madam, and now you must pay! Granted, I've mellowed a great deal over time. I can't really name an active acrimony, but get me to a Republican bar in Orange County and I'll whip some up.

I never wanted to be Princess Popular. If everybody loved me, how would I ever test my boundaries? I think it's okay not to like everyone or every thing. We all have our preferences, our turn-ons and turn-offs. They should be known. That certainly doesn't mean it's fine to hate what you don't like. That's simply nonsensical. But I'm fine with saying, "Me no likey," about someone or something. Especially if it's the truth.

What a Way to Start the Day

I kind of count on Sundays being nice, relaxing or at least manageable. Yesterday sort of let me down.

I got up early to start my rush of a day. Sort laundry, make tea, grab books, get gas, haul ass to the laundromat so I could get my three loads done in relative peace and quiet. What is it they say about the best laid plans?

First, there was a line at the cheap gas gas station I use. Why the world needed to fuel up at 8:30 on a Sunday morning, I have no idea. While I was waiting, I realized I had left my travel cup full of my green tea soy latte on my coffee table and had to go back to get it. I sang a chorus of F-Words on my way back. I met each and every red light on my way to the laundromat but finally saw a ray of hopeful light when I nabbed a coveted parking space. There are only six spaces in the back lot there, so, when you get one, you feel almost blessed.

In spite of the open spaces, there was a full house within. I had to place my loads of wash in different sections and even use an oversized washer to get my shizzle done. The girl using the back row moved over to let me squeeze in my whites and colors. She seemed nice and as tired as I was in that If I put a smile on my face, maybe no one will notice my eyelids are half-staff kind of way. I broke my $10 bill into a pile of quarters and went about my set up. I'm a bit methodical about my laundry. The black load was on its own, so I left the Woolite Dark on top of its machine. I took out the All Free and Clear, the Clorox 2 for the colors, the Clorox Ultra Care for the whites, Downey for all then fed the back two machines their quarters and began to dole out their soaps. After I put the bleach in the whites I heard, "No! That's my machine!" The nice girl sharing the back row with me ran over and started trying to open the machine or find a way to stop it. "Please, don't tell me you put bleach in it," she said. My stomach sank. I did. But it was the good kind. The gentle kind. Not like that really mattered. I just wanted to look on the bright side. I profusely apologized and told her I would pay for whatever I damaged (please, God, don't let it be Prada). She said it was a furry hoodie that she got in Miami to the tune of fifty bucks. I again apologized and said that I would pay for it and hoped she could get a replacement online. My heart pounded, my stomach churned. Nothing sucks more than ruined clothes. Like the time I loaned out my favorite wool cardigan and my cheap friend put it in the wash instead of taking it to the cleaners. It wasn't terribly expensive, but it wasn't replaceable either. I apologized once more, she laughed and said it was okay. Our whites were right next to each other. Easy mistake at such an early hour. She, too, thought coming in earlier would make for an easier day. We introduced each other, and I went back to doing my own laundry. The last of my bleach was used on her whites. I thought I had everything so perfectly mapped out. So not the case.

I used the in-house ATM (something I avoid truly believing they scam your account, nab your PIN and rob you when you least expect it) and took the $50 in cash over to her. She was kind enough to say, "Let's just wait and see how it turns out." It turned out fine. The gentle bleach lived up to its name. I gave her my card, just in case, and handed her a twenty. "Thanks for being so nice about this," I told her. The least I could do was buy her a round of drinks for starting off her day in such a way.

I scurried home with my freshly folded laundry and got ready for a birthday lunch, for which I still had to buy the birthday present. I knew exactly what I had wanted to get my friend: two folding chairs for the balcony of his new apartment. Cost Plus is the mecca of folding chairs. But not yesterday. August seems to be turnover month. Out with the old in preparation for the new models. The two teak chairs out front were for display only. I could pick up the boxed ones on Tuesday. With pleading eyes, I told the manager of my desperate need. He took pity on me and let me buy them. The cashier had hawk eyes and noticed one had a crack in a slat on the seat. Bugger. One chair and one gift card to go, then over to Hollywood. Ugh.

I hate going anywhere with crap parking. Granted, I hate going anywhere east of Sepulveda period, but especially where traffic and parking are both bitches. But this was for one of my dearest friends. For that, I suck it up. It was an easy drive over (shocker), but once you get to Hollywood Boulevard, there's no way to go the near speed limit, and pedestrians like to test the jaywalking laws. Tourists. One lap around two long blocks and a non-metered space opened up. Miracle! I thanked the parking gods for that gift and carried the bow-tied chair into the restaurant, on time but out of breath (I tend to hold it in traffic and parking space quests).

While I like a good burrito as much as the next person, I generally don't crave one for my first meal. And there really isn't a healthy way to eat Mexican cuisine. There's no way one can skip the chips just sitting on the table as your stomach growls with only the remnants of a green tea soy latte sitting in it. No. And then all you are left with is a carb coma. The rest of the to-do list just isn't going to get done.

I did my best to fight it, but fell asleep at six peeyem. I woke up at ten with a Damn. I wish I could be the person who can make due with a twenty minute catnap. Nope. It was after two ayem when I went to bed only to toss and turn, but somehow I woke up with my six-thirty alarm. Miracle again! I actually made it to the gym, did my hour on the treadmill and started my workday feeling like I had already accomplished something. I sat at my desk happy and hopeful. I just wanted a simple day. An easy day. Go gracefully into the new week. Then I felt the cramps. A day early. Great. Breakfast with a Midol chaser. So not the way I had wanted to start the day.

Off the Vagon

My vegan life lasted 33 weeks and three days. Well, technically, I suppose when I realized that denouncing leather was also part of the pact, I really didn’t get past day one. And then there was the cake clause, which I realized was beyond hypocritical (like a vegetarian who eats fish). There weren’t going to be a lot of birthday parties or weddings involving vegan pastry. Cake was going to happen and there was nothing I could do about it.

It’s really not easy being a vegan. For me, anyway. Or maybe it’s being a social vegan that’s the problem. Going out with friends for dinner to any place that’s not vegan-themed (and, let’s be honest, friends will tolerate that on occasion, but their patience with faux cheese and tofu runs out quickly), makes finding something on the menu, that’s sans meat, dairy and egg, generally limited to spring greens and the hummus platter. I could easily dine daily at A Votre Sante, but most of my friends prefer someplace a little less “healthy”.

Being in LA, the finicky palates and restrictive diets brought on by the latest trend are regularly tolerated at most restaurants. Some actually add a small parcel of menu real estate for those of us who skip meat or avoid those pesky carbs. Other establishments figure that if they add a quesadilla or cheese ravioli, they've got their bases covered. Even before being vegan, cheese was not an option. Not with these allergies. Fortunately for me, there’s Hal’s in my 'hood. Hal’s offers the perfect storm for my social life: 1) It’s walking distance from chez moi; 2) It has a killer cocktail menu; and 3) I can get the “vegetarian plate”, which consists of your choice of any four of the “sides”. I always selected the tofu, brown rice, spinach and either the broccolini or asparagus. It pairs nicely with my cantaloupe martini.

I could equally live at Hal’s, and most of my friends love it as much as I do, but sometimes they want to venture out to someplace new. Being a creature of habit, I loathe that. Especially as a vegan, cake eating or otherwise. So many menus had limited offerings of what I could/should eat, and I need a little something more in my belly than lawn trimmings. Salads just aren’t my idea of a dinner. And, as I gazed at the scallops on the James’ Beach menu the other night, I knew my vegan days were numbered.

I’ve been going back and forth about putting fish back in the mix. Mostly because I have fantasies of living in Dublin or Tuscany for a bit and figured I would be a less annoying dinner guest if I at least ate seafood. And, truth be told, I really only love about four vegetables. I tolerate the rest. Friends often encouraged me to go for the scallops, get the salmon. But I was afraid. What if something went wrong? I thought it would be more prudent to do a test meal at home...just in case. I have an allergy to crab (but not any other shellfish...yet), and it hits quick. Cold sweats, stomach cramps and...it’s not pretty. I also can’t eat seabass or halibut; the reaction isn’t anywhere near the crab, thank God. It’s the same as eating raw fish; I feel like I’m digesting glass. Quinoa and pears have to be avoided, too. There is no rhyme or reason to this, I know. It’s all just the fun part of being me. I’ve also come to find that once I take something out of my diet for a length of time, it may not be welcomed back.

I figured the window would soon close and, if I was going to start eating seafood again, I might as well do it now. Being the kind who leaps off the high board and then wonders on her way down if someone did their job and filled the pool, I grabbed the menu for my new favorite Indian restaurant and ordered up some Shrimp Vindaloo. Because of the $20 minimum for delivery, I also ordered the veg curry and some samosa. Go big or go home. And, because I was home, I was prepared for anything.

It’s amazing how little your money gets you when ordering seafood. I dumped the entire contents of the Vindaloo container onto the small serving of rice I doled out on a dish (I’m trying to watch my intake of refined carbs, you know). I ordered the Vindaloo at medium heat, as I like to taste my food after the first bite. And the first bite was delicious. So was the second, third and each one after. I ate every piece of crustacean they put in (which I think totalled six), and when I was done I waited. I waited and wondered what might happen. Was the wheezing that I felt coming on the first sign of anaphylaxis, or was that the whipped cream I had in my chocolate soufflé the night before? (Okay, maybe my vegan stint lasted 33 weeks and two days.) Was the burning in my belly from the intense spices, or was something worse on its way? I ate a samosa and had a small serving of the curry an hour later (I was hungry from skipping lunch), just to see how far I could push it. Another hour passed and it seemed everything was going to stay down. My windpipe would remain opened. My plumbing would not be tested. I would indeed live to see another day.

I woke up with a jolt about 2:30 that morning. For a moment I wasn’t sure what was happening. Then I remembered what acid reflux felt like. Charming. Maybe the Vindaloo was taking it a bit too far. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest choice for someone with such a sensitive tummy to partake at the same time seafood was being reintroduced to the digestive system. But I’m not half-assed about much. Do or die. Go big or...I took a sip of water, propped up my pillows and went back to bed.

Merriam-Webster officially added the word pescetarian to the American lexicon earlier this month. That’s a vegetarian who eats fish. I always thought that was just someone who didn’t eat mammals or birds. I guess it comes down to what’s the best way to describe the kind of a pain in the ass you are to eat with. I suppose I’ll need to create my own terminology for my distinct lack of discipline. In order to avoid being offered vegetable lasagna at dinner parties or eggs dishes at friendly breakfasts, I’d still rather equate myself as vegan, even if I’m a fraudulent one allowing cod and cake. So, I’d like to coin the term fegan. Or perhaps ficakan might be even a descriptor.

I do intend to be a vegan at least 80% of the time. The tofu still calls. Hal’s will always be home to cantaloupe martinis and brown rice based entrees. A Votre Sante will remain my first dining choice, even if it’s most of my other friends’ last. But, next time I’m faced with the choice of spring greens or hummus, I’ll have the scallops if the mood so strikes. The whipped cream on the chocolate soufflé might have to go, though. Damn allergies.

Birthday Presence

Another year older. A tad more wise. A few more grays and a couple more lines. Still, no matter how many I have, I love birthdays. It’s not the cards or presents or phone calls or best wishes; it’s the party I love.

While I remain a wild child at heart, my friends have grown a bit more sedate as time goes on. Boo. I can no longer drag the full gang out for a night of drinking, dancing and going beyond last call. For the past three years, I have celebrated with large restaurant dinner parties instead...though some have been known to go to last call. While that seems to be an easy out, a soft compromise, let me tell you, it’s not.

First, forget about doing it on a Friday night. It’s the worst day of the week to try to toss a big get together. Traffic, deadlines, and simple exhaustion from the workweek causes even the most reliable to be late, or flake. If you opt for a Saturday night, you’ll need to book it well in advance and play ball with the restaurant (don’t expect to get the exact time you want, or stay as long as you’d like). This year, my birthday falls on a Wednesday (today, as a matter of fact). Since that was the weekday I was born, I decided to have a dinner that night. Surprisingly, there was no bitching. Mid-week seemed to be a crowd pleaser.

Next, you have to breakdown the guest list. I wanted to do something simple this year because it was on hump day. I didn’t make it a big deal and invite the world, not wanting to put pressure on those a long day or a long drive away. I thought eight was enough. A nice, round number. But, that somehow went to twelve. Then twelve became fourteen. Okay. Once you get double-digit, you need to pick a venue that can/will take your lot.

I’m a strong believer in the power of group dynamics. Luckily, I have a dynamic group, so it’s never an issue of someone not gelling with another. I’ve never had friends get pissy with each other. Shocker. Still, a good host always considers conversation flow. So I do a seating chart. I know, I know. It sounds über controlling, but it’s not. Would you call a maestro conducting an orchestra controlling? Of course not. Because, done well, beautiful music is made. Shy people or those new to the group need to be placed next to one more established and gabby. Commonalities need to be considered, though placed across from, not next to, each other so others will be able to more easily participate in conversation. Name cards are either envelopes holding thank-you-for-attending cards, or gift bags...because who doesn’t love a bit of swag, even if it’s homemade? It doesn’t stop there, though. The true winner and night saver is the playbill.

When you have such a large group in a setting where sitting is required (and mingling near impossible), there’s no guarantee everyone will be able to properly meet and get a chance to chat with each other. So, I create a playbill. Give the night a name, present it as a play and add in the “cast of characters”. I provide mini-bios on each guest, humorous in nature, with how we know each other or our latest misadventure. Before they even meet, guests feel like they know each other. This reduces the chances of awkward silences and need for formal introductions.

If the venue in question doesn’t have a stellar dessert lineup, ask about BYOD. Most don’t mind, or they charge a small plating fee. While cupcakes are trendy, overpriced and annoying, they are small, easy to dole out, and everyone feels obligated to eat one, so that’s my birthday “cake” of choice. I used to do a tower of Ding Dongs. That was fun. I’d stack them in a tall, silver pyramid, unwrap a few on the top for candles, blow them out, then throw the wrapped Ding Dongs to guests. Seriously. Beats cutting and passing plates. Here, catch! And, everyone looked forward to their annual taste of that chemical confection, a sweet reminder of childhood. Now, Hostess ruined that plan by taking the Dongs out of tinfoil and into ugly plastic packaging. Bastards. So, cupcakes it is. And, my feeling is that my friends are buying me dinner and picking up my bar tab; the least I can do is comp the dessert.

No matter what, people will be late. Hopefully, the restaurant won’t hold you bar hostage until the full party arrives. I only had that happen once at another friend’s dinner (and I don’t go to that venue anymore). I also don’t go to her birthdays anymore because she lied to everyone, saying that the party was fifteen minutes earlier so “everyone would be on time” — then had the effing nerve to be fifteen minutes late herself, which meant I wasted a half hour of my time waiting on her birthday girl ass. Just because it’s your GD B-day does not mean you get to lose your manners. A good host is early, or at least on time. Unless you’ve got a co-host to handle things, it’s not the night to be fashionably late.

Math skills can also be an issue. I try to resolve that by paying my own dinner (though there are always stubborn friends who refuse that demand of mine). I don’t believe in equally dividing the check, either. I’ve got friends who are rich and friends who are broke. And I’ve been the broke ass friend who has gone out with the richies, only eating a cucumber roll and drinking tap water and then asked to cough up $100. And, you know it was one drunk ass from Princeton (nothing against the school; the fact was he graduated from there and spent the whole night reminding us), who kept ordering more rounds of sushi and sake. That used to happen at happy hour with the agent boys back in the day. It was only J who would order the rounds of Patron, then he’d want us to all chip in when he saw the $100+ tab. “Dude,” we’d tell him, “we said we didn’t want them. You insisted.” So, my rule is: He/She who orders it, pays for it. That keeps things simple. And I will whip out the BlackBerry calculator and come up with to-the-penny amounts, tax and tip included.

All the hard work and over-planning ends up being worth it, though. Good food, strong drinks and lots of love. My true enjoyment comes from watching my friends engaged in conversations with each other and hearing their laughter. The greatest compliment to me is how they all end up adoring each other and, for days later, I hear, “I totally loved Soandso. He/She was great. And Whatshishername was fantastic,” then they run down the list of everyone they talked to, gushing about each one, finishing with, “Can’t wait to go out all together again.” That is the best gift. “That says a lot about you,” one friend said to me. Nope. It says a lot about the people who put up with me. I love them all. They are the best.