Random Esquire

1. The Italian has this odd habit. When he gets worked up, he starts to sing the theme from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. We’ll be talking about something and suddenly, I’ll hear him bellow, “Innnnn west Philadelphia, born and raised, in a playground’s where I spent most of my days…” and there’s just nothing to be done until he’s worked it out of his system. Anything can set him off. And not just that song. Today, I said, “I wish you watched Survivor so we could talk about how hot Amanda is.” He said, “I’m a survivor! I’m not goin’ give up!” and off he went. I sighed. This was not as bad as his insistence, the other day, that he sing New York State of Mind. I said something about his ability to sing it and he said, “All us Jews can do Billy Joel!”

Who knew?

2. I ran into Fresh Express today, walking down the hallway. I asked her how she was doing. She pinched her fingers together and said, “Oh, about this much better than yesterday.” I said, “Oh? Are you having a bad week?”

I know, I know. I don’t know why I asked.

She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “I have cramps.”

Inside my head, I screamed.

3. QTMama dedicated a song to me. Dearest QT, when I think about me, I touch myself, too. (QTmama also sent drunk text messages to me last night…except she used the wrong number and now has a text pen pal who is very interested in getting to know her better.)

4. Bev and LynchSeattle sent me two cookbooks by well known Seattle chefs. I think I’m going to try my hand at a few recipes this weekend. Thank you, Bev and Chris!

5. I am learning the value of spontaneity and not always getting things done. I ordered a pizza last night and, remembering that the Ballerina tutored just a block away from me on Wednesday nights, sent her a text and said I’d just ordered pizza – want some? And thirty minutes later, we were eating and chilling out. It was a lot better than working all night. We watched Top Chef. She rolled her eyes at Padma. I clapped.

6. Plush and I will be doing a tasting tonight, concentrating on the food and wines of Italy. I am looking forward to seeing her.

7. Little Filthy’s come hither look:

Instigator and I were able to enjoy the warm weather with a nice lunch outside. Later that afternoon, she came into my office and sat down in a chair opposite my desk. I looked up. She leaned over and whispered, “Guess what I just saw on her desk?” Clearly, she meant Fresh Express. I grinned. She said, “I walked over there and she has an exercise DVD on her desk!” I laughed. She said, “By the New York Ballet Company!” I laughed again.

She continued, “So, I figured, I’m going tell her that you like ballerinas, too!”

I yelled, “HEY! Oy! NO!” Instigator cackled, clearly pleased with herself.

See, this is the thing. What you don’t want – ever – is for Fresh Express to form a connection with you. Because she will take that small thing and turn it into something …uncomfortable. Like the time she was convinced that Boss and I loved fish. Or playing tennis. Or bike riding. Or when she found out that I like gadgets and she began to cut newspaper articles out for me from the newspapers at the Chicago Public Library’s Reference Section. She once gave me an article on Jet Bloat. I never figured that one out. Then, there was that one time she washed her socks in a coffee pot. She also dips her toothbrush into her a toothpaste filled contact lens case. Speaking of contacts, she wears just one corrective lens. And it is tinted. Then there were the plastic baggies on her feet. Anyway, you get my point. It’s all just bad news. And Instigator was poised to bring it all down upon me.

But there’s really nothing I can do. See, Instigator once interviewed with the CIA. She’s got some covert techniques. I’m pretty sure I might return to my office to find newspaper clippings fresh from the library about the Joffrey.

*sigh*

I used to say that I’d marry the first woman who threw a plate at me. I remember first thinking this as a college freshman. It was at a talent show of sorts and a woman (who looked like a young Nicole Kidman) took the stage, sat down on a stool and sang Blue Bayou. I had never heard the song before. Leaning forward in my seat, I watched as she closed her eyes and sang about the silver moon and the evening tide. She crooned. It was evocative. Her voice was smoother than oil and I was convinced her lips must smell like peaches. She had perfectly translated something into a language I understood. It was her sincere passion.

Years later, I now have the perspective to realize that it is this passion that carved its initials onto the truck of my memory. I am still fascinated by and attracted to people who wear their passions on their sleeve. It is their undercurrent. A color that settles like dust on everything they see, both invisible and blinding.

I love observing the every day and finding a way to capture it its absurdity in a way that makes someone either laugh or think. People fascinate me. And passionate people… passionate people are the most exciting because of the challenge they bring to translate their passion into the words of my own. My clearest memories, the initials carved most deeply, are by those passionate people.

1.  Plush and I were in bed, canoodle-snuggling.  I won’t go into how this topic arose, but suffice to say that at one point, Plush said, “I fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.”

*blink*

No one says that they fuckin’ love Kenny Rogers.  Well, maybe his plastic surgeon.  But that’s about it.  No one else fuckin’ loves Kenny Rogers.  Let alone says it.  In bed.

Especially since…I am not Kenny Rogers.

2. Plush told me some of the things she might blog about here, while I am away.  Of the topics she brought up…well, all I can say, people, is that you’re in for a completely different experience.   She is open to suggestions or questions, if you have any.  You can leave them in the comments section.

I don’t know if I’m more nervous for you…or for me.

3.   The Italian and I spoke today.  He paused as we were talking and said, “You…you have..in your voice..how shall I say it… Post sex conceit.  That ’sex with a hot girl’ conceit.”

I said, “Oh.  Like I’m…peacocking?”

He said, “EXACTLY.”

Guilty.

Do you know how hard it is to climb a tree in the city?

Okay, I didn’t climb a tree. There is one squirrel, in particular, that likes the tree by my patio/balcony. The funny thing is that it has no tail and so it looks somewhat like a rabbit. Plush and I were on the patio about a week ago and I pointed out the crackers I’d left for the tail-less wonder. And sure enough, the little thing came hopping along and she got to see the little beast.

Then, last week, I noticed a smudge of furry brown by the curb. I walked over and, sure enough, it was a flattened squirrel and it sure looked like my patio friend. I sent Plush a text (I resisted the urge to send her a picture mail) and told her that the squirrel was no more.

I left the patio door open today and glanced out to see Little Filthy and the squirrel having a stare-down. They were only about 2 feet from each other. It hadn’t been smooshed after all. I mixed some oats with peanut butter and stuck it on a branch. Happy little thing.

I sent a text message to Plush, “Not to be graphic…but the little squirrel is back and, thanks to the wonders of digital photography, it is now clear that she is a girl. And she has the hugest set of squirrel knockers I’ve ever never seen.”

She wrote back, “You, my dear, may need a hobby…I think your obsession with breasts may have gone too far.”

Edited to Add:  I sent a picture to QTMama so she could see what I was talking about and her response was: “HOLY GOD!  You’re right! Who knew??  Damn.”

I’m telling you people, it’s like… little saline implants.

I won’t be abandoning anonymity in my blog anytime soon. But when, about a month ago, Ms. Cheevious told me she’d be in Chicago and asked if I’d like to meet up for a drink, I decided not to let the opportunity slip by.

Plush and I met Ms. Cheevious and her friend out for dinner and drinks last night at Nacional 27. She is, officially, the first person I’ve met through my blog. I gave her a vague description of myself before heading to the restaurant and then said, “No telling what Plush will be wearing but she has long blonde hair and you won’t miss her.” Sure enough, in her strapless spring dress, Plush was impossible to miss. I told her I’d keep an eye out for the MILF to find her.

I have to say, this was a great experience. Both Ms. Cheevious and her friend were charming as hell. We all indulged in Mojitos and then sat down to a great dinner and sipped an excellent wine chosen by Ms. Cheevious’s foodie friend, who, I’ll add, would be impossible not to like. Best quote of the night occurred when I snapped a picture of Ms. Cheevious and her friend and then handed them the camera to look at the shot. Her friend said, “Hey! Look how good my tits look!” Then she paused and said to Ms. Cheevious, “Oh wait…those are your tits.”

The Seattle clan is next. Prepare to be invaded by Random and Plush.

I decided that I want a piece of a cake. Not just any cake. I want square cake.

But I’d never eat an entire cake by myself. I just want one piece. I am meeting friends out tonight for drinks so I’ve hit upon an idea. I’m going to make a cake and bring it to the bar with the explanation that it’s someone’s birthday. That way I get my piece of cake and there won’t be any leftovers.

It occurred to me that I should make it more believable so I’m going to write, “Happy Birthday, {person’s name}!” on the cake. Only, it isn’t anyone’s birthday. So I’m going to just pick one of the women and we’ll just say it is her birthday.

Only, I’m not going to tell her. It’ll be like a surprise birthday…cake. Something like that. And if she doesn’t want it, I’ll eat her piece.

It’s sort of brilliant, when you think about it.

1. Oh, Friday, thou art more beautiful than D cups.

2. Just when I thought I might write something a bit more thoughtful, something stupid (and untrue) comes out my fingers like #1.

3. My personal challenge to compliment a stranger went bust. Let me tell you why. Because compliments are supposed to be thoughtful and the most thought I could muster up for a complete stranger had something to do with how he or she (and invariably, it was a she) looked and that seemed, well, creepy. I tried again today but the closest I came was complimenting a woman on her parallel parking and that just didn’t seem quite right, either. Tomorrow is a new day. I’ll give it another go.

4. If you had a record in the Guinness Book of World Records, what would it be? This came to mind amid the David Blaine hub-bub that took place here in Chicago earlier this week. You know which one is disgusting? Longest fingernails. There’s not enough cocaine in the world to excuse that.

5. Dinner and drinks tonight. Followed by dinner and drinks tomorrow night. In fact, dinner and drinks for the rest of my life. It sort of makes me tired just thinking about it.

6. Europe is two weeks away. Perhaps Plush will hold down the blog front while I am away. I suspect I would return to find my blog turned into a coffee klatsch of debauchery and mayhem, all skillfully orchestrated by an innocent looking Plush.

1.  Plush now has posting privileges.  I like that she kicked things off with a masturbation story.

2.   I have a 48 hours cold bug.  I am being optimistic.  Today, I blew my nose and I believe I may have blown bubbles in my eye.  I spent much of my afternoon trying to recreate this.

3.   I sleep with the patio door ajar because I like cold air when I am sleeping.  While Little Filthy fell asleep on his own bed, I awoke up to find him pushing the covers up with this head in an attempt to crawl into the bed.   My bed.  I said, “hey!” and he stopped and looked at me.  I think he emoted, “It’s cold in this dump.”  So I let him under the covers.

4.  Plush and I will be meeting a blog reader for dinner this weekend at Nacional 27.  Dinner, drinks…and hell, it’s a Salsa bar so we may just have to get up and shake it.