There are only a few guilty pleasures in my life, but when I have the opportunity to indulge, I dig in…literally.
Tonight, we were discussing dinner options, all aware that none of us wanted to put forth the effort to cook anything. Mexican, which verges on a guilty pleasure for me, was a popular suggestion, but we all decided that since we eat Mexican three times a week and one was not very interested, it was probably time for a break. Bar food was another option, but that always ends up turning into a long night of people watching and jabbering at a local watering hole and someone saying "come on, just one more." Then, Joe turned around and rubbed his stomach and said, "How about KFC?!?"
Perfect.
But, then before I moved from the couch to fetch my keys, I started that internal argument. You know, the one that says, "cholesterol, fat, pounds, extra miles of running." Ha, well, the running part would be true if I were still putting in serious miles. I started to think how bad KFC is for you…all that fatty, greasy, extra-crispy goodness. Throw in some mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw, and macaroni and cheese (because one can never have too many starches and carbs) and you have a sinfully delicious dinner. Do I even need to mention the biscuits? Fluffy, flakey, buttery, golden brown.
I've talked myself into it.
So, after a quick run down the street (in the car of course, no exercise needed) a 12 piece bucket of extra crispy and original, sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, and macaroni and cheese and a bottle of Merlot, appeared on the dining room table. And the biscuits. Oh, the biscuits.
I was disappointed to see that KFC has done away with the spork. The spork is one of the best inventions ever created—half fork, half spoon. It was perfect for attacking the chicken and then scooping up gravy for the biscuit. What an ingenious creation. Instead, they gave us forks. Of course, they weren't really necessary, except for the occasional taste of cole slaw. Everything else can be scooped up with a biscuit or dipped into the gravy.
The chicken was dumped on the table, the sides were opened, and the carnage began. With greasy fingers and mouths, bones scattered on the table, and nothing but the sounds of glorious foodgasms, dinner was served. The fight began for the best piece of extra crispy. I won the first bout for the best piece, but decided to be relatively nice and shared a little piece of my next extra-crispy skin and buttermilk breaded goodness. Something I will later regret.
Scoops of coleslaw, mac and cheese, and potatoes filled our plates. Chicken bones were picked clean. Seconds, thirds, and yes, gasp, even fourths were consumed. And I wonder why my pants are starting to fit a little snug. The best part of the night was being able to scoop up the paper plates and throw them into the trash, putting the lids back on the containers and put them into the fridge, only to sit until we decide we are sufficiently tired of seeing the Colonel glaring relentlessly back at us as if to say, "Go ahead, I dare you. Eat me again!" Kind of naughty, isn't it?
So here we all sit, in our respective lounging positions...fat, happy, and miserable. There is still a trace of grease on my fingers, no matter how many times I wash my hands. I can almost hear my arteries clogging and cracking and crying out for help. But, for a minute, my body is happy. Content in knowing that I have yet again satisfied a need for something so sinful yet so delicious.
Now, where did I put those Tums, again? I am sure to need them later.
Be well, friends. And take time to enjoy some of life's guilty pleasures.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Secret from May 2007
There are very few people from who I will take a book recommendation. Only my closest friends really know what I enjoy reading or what I might find interesting. And then there is everyone else. Like the time an acquaintance recommended Mall by Eric Bogosian. It is the story of a group of people who become connected as a result of a series of murders at their local shopping mall. Very dark, but not in a good way. That is about two days of my life I will never get back. Tragic.
My best friend Cindy recommended Jonathan Frantzen's "The Corrections" and it was smashing. A dysfunctional family story involving three children wrestling with marriage troubles, sexual identity troubles, financial troubles, and parental troubles. All their elderly mother wants is one last Christmas together at the family home, where they each come face to face with their tragic past. One of those feel good stories that most of us can truly relate to and makes us smile at our own fun family mistrials.
Recently, someone I know told me I should pick up the New York Times Bestseller and Oprah Book Club recommended "The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne. My better judgement has always told me to steer clear of the self-help aisles of the bookstore. My self help collection is usually reserved for things like "101 ways to use chocolate" (use your imagination) and "Denim after 30—how to make your ass look like a 20 year olds again."
But, I decided to pick up a copy of this book in Seattle and read it on my return trip to the Midwest in anticipation of a good thought-provoking discussion over a bottle (or two) of wine. Alas, I am still waiting for the conversation, but sometimes people become distracted. Oh well. Life goes on and I have already enjoyed that bottle (or two) of wine.
As I am reading the book on my flights, several people who pass me while boarding the plane stopped to ask me what I thought of the book and how far along I was, etc. I simply smiled at them and told them that I was just getting to the good part.
The last girl to get on my flight just happened to be my neighbor and as soon as she sat down in the seat next to me, she started firing off questions. Nevermind the fact that I had already turned on my iPod and was quickly absorbed into the music. She just started talking louder and louder. When I asked her if she had read the book, she said "No, I've seen the movie and watched it three times now—who needs to read the book! You really should watch it, it is very insightful."
Insightful. What an interesting comment from a person who is too lazy to read the book.
Now, for those of you who know me, you know that I am a pretty social kind of guy. I can talk to just about anyone about anything. But, when you have just spent the last 10 days, 8-10 hours a day, in meetings, talking to just about anyone about anything, and asking people for money with no time off, all I want to do is sit and read my book and listen to my music. She finally took the hint when I stopped responding to her questions and just kept turning up my music.
I managed to finish the book and was putting it back into my bag when the pilot announced we were making our final descent into Indianapolis. I had just enough time to flip through the pages of the Sky Mall magazine and envision what the 10 foot tall lighted palm tree would look like on my deck. Tragic.
As we were walking off the plane, the gal and I were bidding each other farewell and exchanging the polite pleasantries such as "have a safe drive" and "hope your luggage doesn't come out in fourteen pieces," she asked me what I thought of the book. I stopped and kind of scratched my chin a bit and said, "You really should read the book. It's a secret."
Be well, friends. I am looking for my next read…
My best friend Cindy recommended Jonathan Frantzen's "The Corrections" and it was smashing. A dysfunctional family story involving three children wrestling with marriage troubles, sexual identity troubles, financial troubles, and parental troubles. All their elderly mother wants is one last Christmas together at the family home, where they each come face to face with their tragic past. One of those feel good stories that most of us can truly relate to and makes us smile at our own fun family mistrials.
Recently, someone I know told me I should pick up the New York Times Bestseller and Oprah Book Club recommended "The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne. My better judgement has always told me to steer clear of the self-help aisles of the bookstore. My self help collection is usually reserved for things like "101 ways to use chocolate" (use your imagination) and "Denim after 30—how to make your ass look like a 20 year olds again."
But, I decided to pick up a copy of this book in Seattle and read it on my return trip to the Midwest in anticipation of a good thought-provoking discussion over a bottle (or two) of wine. Alas, I am still waiting for the conversation, but sometimes people become distracted. Oh well. Life goes on and I have already enjoyed that bottle (or two) of wine.
As I am reading the book on my flights, several people who pass me while boarding the plane stopped to ask me what I thought of the book and how far along I was, etc. I simply smiled at them and told them that I was just getting to the good part.
The last girl to get on my flight just happened to be my neighbor and as soon as she sat down in the seat next to me, she started firing off questions. Nevermind the fact that I had already turned on my iPod and was quickly absorbed into the music. She just started talking louder and louder. When I asked her if she had read the book, she said "No, I've seen the movie and watched it three times now—who needs to read the book! You really should watch it, it is very insightful."
Insightful. What an interesting comment from a person who is too lazy to read the book.
Now, for those of you who know me, you know that I am a pretty social kind of guy. I can talk to just about anyone about anything. But, when you have just spent the last 10 days, 8-10 hours a day, in meetings, talking to just about anyone about anything, and asking people for money with no time off, all I want to do is sit and read my book and listen to my music. She finally took the hint when I stopped responding to her questions and just kept turning up my music.
I managed to finish the book and was putting it back into my bag when the pilot announced we were making our final descent into Indianapolis. I had just enough time to flip through the pages of the Sky Mall magazine and envision what the 10 foot tall lighted palm tree would look like on my deck. Tragic.
As we were walking off the plane, the gal and I were bidding each other farewell and exchanging the polite pleasantries such as "have a safe drive" and "hope your luggage doesn't come out in fourteen pieces," she asked me what I thought of the book. I stopped and kind of scratched my chin a bit and said, "You really should read the book. It's a secret."
Be well, friends. I am looking for my next read…
A Little More Wine from May 2007
The one part of packing up this house for the movers that I have been dreading is throwing away the collection of wine bottles that has been amassing over my kitchen cabinets. What started during my open house as a place to conveniently stash the empties has turned into a bit of a tradition. When we find one we like, it goes up top. Of course, as I look at some of these bottles, I have a hard time remembering what I liked so much about them.
So, as a way of cataloging some of my favorites for posterity (unless of course Myspace goes out of business and then it will be lost to the ages), I am going to post the top few on here. I don't claim to be too much of an expert, but I enjoy wine and know what I like. Please feel free to add any suggestions or comments!!
2002 Black Opal Cabernet/Merlot Blend
Cheap and easy, just how I like my men. The best of both worlds for those who like it a little dry.
Abrazo del Toro Carinena (2004)
A blend of the Garnacha and Tempranillo grapes, this is one of my best finds at Trader Joes. This Spanish wine is spicy, fun, and certainly a steal at the market.
Lo Tengo Torrontes
A very crisp and dry white wine, perfect for the white lover. My wine connoisseur friend Matthew turned me onto this one.
Penfolds Rawson's Retreat Cabernet Sauvignon (2004)
Yes, it is a "mass produced" Aussie wine, but if you are going to buy one here in the states, definitely buy Penfolds. Dark, firm, and rich, this is a great middle of the road purchase. Bring it to your next summer BBQ instead of that dreadful Oliver Mead.
Il Valore Sangiovese (2004)
Like most Italians, I haven't found many Sangioveses that I don't like. Another Trader Joes find.
Casillero del Diablo Carmenere (2004)
Unlike it's name, Cellar of the Devil, this wine is surprisingly soft, yet still spicy. Great with some good ripe cheese and a nice light pasta dish.
Honey Moon Viognier
A superb fruity, crisp, and honey-like wine perfect for the deck. I have turned lots of my friends into lovers of the Viognier and sent then to Trader Joes for this one.
Sonoma-Cutrer 2004 Russian River Ranches Chardonnay
If you love Chardonnay, this is totally worth the splurge. Most restaurants charge $45-60 for this bottle, but a good wine store will have it for around $20-25. Buy it, you'll love it!
Santa Digna 2004 Reserve Shiraz
A great Chilean Shiraz that gives the Aussies a run for their money. Since it is aged in French Oak, it has a nice toasted flavor…smoky.
Castle Rock Willamette Valley Pinot Noir (2005)
Pinot Noir is the new black. A good Pinot is like a good man…leaves you wanting for more. Ha! This is a good Pinot.
Folie a Deux Menage a Trois (California Red Table Wine)
I have to admit, I bought this wine out of sinful delight. The label intrigued me. And you know, when you usually buy from the label, the wine sucks. Not in this case. This is a lovely blend of Zinfandel, Merlot, and Cabernet. Not too dry, not too fruity, a nice blend. This is a wine that you are grateful for having a second bottle to share.
Hedges CMS
This is my "Color Me Sexy" wine. It is a superb blend of Cabernet, Merlot, and Syrah. I found this at Pete's Wine Shop in Seattle and Bellevue, WA. If you are in the area, you must visit them. They are experts on all things Pacific Northwest. I have found it in a couple of wine shops around Indy. A bit drier than the Menage, but still a perfect blend of the three grapes.
Terrazas de los Andes Malbec (2004)
This Argentinian wine is very powerful and fruity. It leaves a great taste and drinks very well. This is another great summer wine, only because it isn't too dry and it goes well with most things on the grill.
L'Ecole #41 Recess Red (Schoolhouse Red)
Found this one at Pete's in Seattle, as well. A great drink-me-now wine that has something like five or six different blends in it. If you can find a bottle, get it because L'Ecole only makes a few hundred cases and it usually sells fast.
There you have it--some of the wines that have made my top shelf! I will admit that there aren't many over $11-12 on the list, but I am a firm believer that you don't have to spend a fortune on a good bottle of wine. Happy tasting and always drink responsibly. If you've had one too many glasses, don't be afraid to call for backup!
Be well, friends, and Cheers!
So, as a way of cataloging some of my favorites for posterity (unless of course Myspace goes out of business and then it will be lost to the ages), I am going to post the top few on here. I don't claim to be too much of an expert, but I enjoy wine and know what I like. Please feel free to add any suggestions or comments!!
2002 Black Opal Cabernet/Merlot Blend
Cheap and easy, just how I like my men. The best of both worlds for those who like it a little dry.
Abrazo del Toro Carinena (2004)
A blend of the Garnacha and Tempranillo grapes, this is one of my best finds at Trader Joes. This Spanish wine is spicy, fun, and certainly a steal at the market.
Lo Tengo Torrontes
A very crisp and dry white wine, perfect for the white lover. My wine connoisseur friend Matthew turned me onto this one.
Penfolds Rawson's Retreat Cabernet Sauvignon (2004)
Yes, it is a "mass produced" Aussie wine, but if you are going to buy one here in the states, definitely buy Penfolds. Dark, firm, and rich, this is a great middle of the road purchase. Bring it to your next summer BBQ instead of that dreadful Oliver Mead.
Il Valore Sangiovese (2004)
Like most Italians, I haven't found many Sangioveses that I don't like. Another Trader Joes find.
Casillero del Diablo Carmenere (2004)
Unlike it's name, Cellar of the Devil, this wine is surprisingly soft, yet still spicy. Great with some good ripe cheese and a nice light pasta dish.
Honey Moon Viognier
A superb fruity, crisp, and honey-like wine perfect for the deck. I have turned lots of my friends into lovers of the Viognier and sent then to Trader Joes for this one.
Sonoma-Cutrer 2004 Russian River Ranches Chardonnay
If you love Chardonnay, this is totally worth the splurge. Most restaurants charge $45-60 for this bottle, but a good wine store will have it for around $20-25. Buy it, you'll love it!
Santa Digna 2004 Reserve Shiraz
A great Chilean Shiraz that gives the Aussies a run for their money. Since it is aged in French Oak, it has a nice toasted flavor…smoky.
Castle Rock Willamette Valley Pinot Noir (2005)
Pinot Noir is the new black. A good Pinot is like a good man…leaves you wanting for more. Ha! This is a good Pinot.
Folie a Deux Menage a Trois (California Red Table Wine)
I have to admit, I bought this wine out of sinful delight. The label intrigued me. And you know, when you usually buy from the label, the wine sucks. Not in this case. This is a lovely blend of Zinfandel, Merlot, and Cabernet. Not too dry, not too fruity, a nice blend. This is a wine that you are grateful for having a second bottle to share.
Hedges CMS
This is my "Color Me Sexy" wine. It is a superb blend of Cabernet, Merlot, and Syrah. I found this at Pete's Wine Shop in Seattle and Bellevue, WA. If you are in the area, you must visit them. They are experts on all things Pacific Northwest. I have found it in a couple of wine shops around Indy. A bit drier than the Menage, but still a perfect blend of the three grapes.
Terrazas de los Andes Malbec (2004)
This Argentinian wine is very powerful and fruity. It leaves a great taste and drinks very well. This is another great summer wine, only because it isn't too dry and it goes well with most things on the grill.
L'Ecole #41 Recess Red (Schoolhouse Red)
Found this one at Pete's in Seattle, as well. A great drink-me-now wine that has something like five or six different blends in it. If you can find a bottle, get it because L'Ecole only makes a few hundred cases and it usually sells fast.
There you have it--some of the wines that have made my top shelf! I will admit that there aren't many over $11-12 on the list, but I am a firm believer that you don't have to spend a fortune on a good bottle of wine. Happy tasting and always drink responsibly. If you've had one too many glasses, don't be afraid to call for backup!
Be well, friends, and Cheers!
Travel Day from April 2007
Let me start out by saying that I have always enjoyed traveling. From the time I was a little kid, crammed with my hormone-ridden teenage sister in the backseat of the family Buick, driving in the blazing August heat with the windows down—because apparently 75 cents for a gallon of gas was highway robbery in 1985 and my father refused to use the air conditioning—I have always loved a road trip. Who could forget the time during the trip to New Jersey to break in the new Lincoln Towncar, complete with rudders, an engine room, and a first mate, that we discovered the moonroof leaked?!? A lot. Did I mention that we were apparently following some monsoon along the east coast?!?
But, that was the thrill of the family vacation. We never stopped at a restaurant to eat. We always brought coolers of roast beef and ham and cheese and soda pop and chips and crackers. Most everything Mom had prepared specifically for the trip. But never ask to bring chocolate…too messy. I remember desperately wanting to go to McDonalds or Big Boy or Rax, but we simply pulled up to the rest stop and spread our goods on the picnic table and had ourselves a good ol fashioned road side picnic stop.
I have been fortunate over the years to have jobs that require quite a bit of travel. Driving, flying, training, even boating, I have been all over the country, visiting most states that I care to visit. I have yet to go to Montana and still want to experience the whole brokeback mountain thing in Big Sky Country, but I digress. I have even traveled across the world on several occasions, in lots of places where I couldn't understand a word they spoke, but it was still fun and without incident. Except for that time in Amsterdam where we decided it would be a good idea to drink for 12 hours, do backbends in the red light district and tell everyone that it was someone's birthday. That is another story for another time.
Today was a bit of a different story. I pulled into my usual parking spot at the airport and the shuttle driver was unusually chatty. That tends to be a pretty good indication that the rest of the day is about to turn to crap. It is as if the driver knows the impending doom that the travel industry is about to create. But, I oblige him and we talk about how he loves to cut the grass on his two acre farm and how much he and "the missus" love to go out "fishin' in their watering hole" on their land. I am so not joking, either. We part ways, me with my luggage in tow and he with a $5 tip in hand and I drag my belongings to the crosswalk.
Let me take a moment to express the importance of tipping while traveling. In this instance, I gave the driver $5 because he lifted my luggage out of my car and onto the shuttle bus and then took them off the bus and drug them to the curb. There is a good chance that I will see this guy again on my return trip or another visit to the airport. And he will remember me and he will go out of his way to help me. Unlike that dreadful woman who just stands there at the door and smiles and says, "which airline today?" as I practically trip up the steps with my overpacked bags. And, if you haven't experienced the wrath of the housekeeping staff in a hotel who don't get their tip, then you haven't traveled. Forget to leave a dollar or two on your pillow and expect to have the alarm clock screaming at you at deafening levels at 3:00 in the morning. Even if you do tip, remember to safely store your toothbrush where they can't find it. I'll leave it at that.
I make my way to the ticket counter with my printed boarding passes and ID in hand and scan my pass at the computer. "Your reservation requires assistance by an agent. Please see an agent for assistance." Wonderful.
I flag down help and the lady looks at me like I have three heads. The look of disbelief on her face is quite obvious and she comes out from behind the counter to see if the computer really doesn't recognize my boarding pass or if I am just lying to her. "It has been working fine all day and your reservations looks ok to me, I am just not sure why you couldn't do this." Thanks, lady. Just get me to the gate.
Sure enough, if doesn't work for her and she has to rework my reservation. She tells me that she gets my emergency exit seats back for the entire trip, but my gut tells me to believe otherwise. And when I strike up a conversation about JCrew fashions with the young guy wearing the JCrew tie who is helping her, I thought maybe that would help my chances at a first-class bump. No chance. She even says, "tell him, there isn't a nice thing about me today." Again, thanks, lady!
So I get to the gate, get on my first flight and end up next to some disgruntled engineer who is pissed off at the entire airline industry and me because apparently he was supposed to be in my aisle seat, but they screwed up his reservation too and he was put into the window seat. But, I have an emergency exit aisle seat, the next best thing to first class, and I am not going to give it up. Thank goodness for the miracle of the iPod. I grab my current issue of GQ, slip on my headphones, and disappear into a little Pete Yorn, Josh Rouse, and even some vintage David Gray. I think he got the hint.
Of course we are late getting into Minneapolis and rather than stopping at a gate close to where I am connecting at, we end up on a different concourse. After I do the deplane tango with the mixture of amateur-fliers, crackberry addicts who can't wait to start typing and screaming into their devices, and other random travelers who can't seem to gather their belongings in a timely fashion, I make my way across three concourses with just enough time to hear them calling my row for my flight. Oh sweet emergency exit row, I can't wait to sit in your expansive seat.
"We're sorry Mr. Mainella, we've had an equipment change and you're not sitting in that seat anymore." Great, I think. Maybe they had to bump me to first class. Oh no, not even a chance. "You're in a window seat." At least it might be an exit row. Wrong again. Not a chance.
Here I sit, on a four hour, completely full flight to Portland, two rows behind a very agitated and screaming child, scrunched into a window seat directly behind some guy who can't stop squirming and adjusting and in front of a woman who if she pushes my seat with her knees one more time, I might turn around the slap her. The guys sitting next to me have no desire to engage in conversation and that is perfectly ok with me. However, it probably wasn't a good idea to drink those two bottles of water on the last flight.
And, when Mr. Ant-in-his-pants in front of me asked the flight attendant for a pillow, she looked a him and said "ha, we can't afford pillows anymore." Can they afford enough fuel to get to Portland?
That is what is most important. Getting to Portland in one piece. And having my luggage there when I land would be nice too. Especially since I have my very favorite pair of jeans and my new favorite cologne in there. They are essential to my dinner date tonight.
These are the days when I kind of miss the backseat of the family Buick and the roadside picnic stops. Those were truly simpler times. Alas, the pilot has just told us to prepare for landing. That may have been the best announcement to come out of this flight.
Be well friends and safe travels!
But, that was the thrill of the family vacation. We never stopped at a restaurant to eat. We always brought coolers of roast beef and ham and cheese and soda pop and chips and crackers. Most everything Mom had prepared specifically for the trip. But never ask to bring chocolate…too messy. I remember desperately wanting to go to McDonalds or Big Boy or Rax, but we simply pulled up to the rest stop and spread our goods on the picnic table and had ourselves a good ol fashioned road side picnic stop.
I have been fortunate over the years to have jobs that require quite a bit of travel. Driving, flying, training, even boating, I have been all over the country, visiting most states that I care to visit. I have yet to go to Montana and still want to experience the whole brokeback mountain thing in Big Sky Country, but I digress. I have even traveled across the world on several occasions, in lots of places where I couldn't understand a word they spoke, but it was still fun and without incident. Except for that time in Amsterdam where we decided it would be a good idea to drink for 12 hours, do backbends in the red light district and tell everyone that it was someone's birthday. That is another story for another time.
Today was a bit of a different story. I pulled into my usual parking spot at the airport and the shuttle driver was unusually chatty. That tends to be a pretty good indication that the rest of the day is about to turn to crap. It is as if the driver knows the impending doom that the travel industry is about to create. But, I oblige him and we talk about how he loves to cut the grass on his two acre farm and how much he and "the missus" love to go out "fishin' in their watering hole" on their land. I am so not joking, either. We part ways, me with my luggage in tow and he with a $5 tip in hand and I drag my belongings to the crosswalk.
Let me take a moment to express the importance of tipping while traveling. In this instance, I gave the driver $5 because he lifted my luggage out of my car and onto the shuttle bus and then took them off the bus and drug them to the curb. There is a good chance that I will see this guy again on my return trip or another visit to the airport. And he will remember me and he will go out of his way to help me. Unlike that dreadful woman who just stands there at the door and smiles and says, "which airline today?" as I practically trip up the steps with my overpacked bags. And, if you haven't experienced the wrath of the housekeeping staff in a hotel who don't get their tip, then you haven't traveled. Forget to leave a dollar or two on your pillow and expect to have the alarm clock screaming at you at deafening levels at 3:00 in the morning. Even if you do tip, remember to safely store your toothbrush where they can't find it. I'll leave it at that.
I make my way to the ticket counter with my printed boarding passes and ID in hand and scan my pass at the computer. "Your reservation requires assistance by an agent. Please see an agent for assistance." Wonderful.
I flag down help and the lady looks at me like I have three heads. The look of disbelief on her face is quite obvious and she comes out from behind the counter to see if the computer really doesn't recognize my boarding pass or if I am just lying to her. "It has been working fine all day and your reservations looks ok to me, I am just not sure why you couldn't do this." Thanks, lady. Just get me to the gate.
Sure enough, if doesn't work for her and she has to rework my reservation. She tells me that she gets my emergency exit seats back for the entire trip, but my gut tells me to believe otherwise. And when I strike up a conversation about JCrew fashions with the young guy wearing the JCrew tie who is helping her, I thought maybe that would help my chances at a first-class bump. No chance. She even says, "tell him, there isn't a nice thing about me today." Again, thanks, lady!
So I get to the gate, get on my first flight and end up next to some disgruntled engineer who is pissed off at the entire airline industry and me because apparently he was supposed to be in my aisle seat, but they screwed up his reservation too and he was put into the window seat. But, I have an emergency exit aisle seat, the next best thing to first class, and I am not going to give it up. Thank goodness for the miracle of the iPod. I grab my current issue of GQ, slip on my headphones, and disappear into a little Pete Yorn, Josh Rouse, and even some vintage David Gray. I think he got the hint.
Of course we are late getting into Minneapolis and rather than stopping at a gate close to where I am connecting at, we end up on a different concourse. After I do the deplane tango with the mixture of amateur-fliers, crackberry addicts who can't wait to start typing and screaming into their devices, and other random travelers who can't seem to gather their belongings in a timely fashion, I make my way across three concourses with just enough time to hear them calling my row for my flight. Oh sweet emergency exit row, I can't wait to sit in your expansive seat.
"We're sorry Mr. Mainella, we've had an equipment change and you're not sitting in that seat anymore." Great, I think. Maybe they had to bump me to first class. Oh no, not even a chance. "You're in a window seat." At least it might be an exit row. Wrong again. Not a chance.
Here I sit, on a four hour, completely full flight to Portland, two rows behind a very agitated and screaming child, scrunched into a window seat directly behind some guy who can't stop squirming and adjusting and in front of a woman who if she pushes my seat with her knees one more time, I might turn around the slap her. The guys sitting next to me have no desire to engage in conversation and that is perfectly ok with me. However, it probably wasn't a good idea to drink those two bottles of water on the last flight.
And, when Mr. Ant-in-his-pants in front of me asked the flight attendant for a pillow, she looked a him and said "ha, we can't afford pillows anymore." Can they afford enough fuel to get to Portland?
That is what is most important. Getting to Portland in one piece. And having my luggage there when I land would be nice too. Especially since I have my very favorite pair of jeans and my new favorite cologne in there. They are essential to my dinner date tonight.
These are the days when I kind of miss the backseat of the family Buick and the roadside picnic stops. Those were truly simpler times. Alas, the pilot has just told us to prepare for landing. That may have been the best announcement to come out of this flight.
Be well friends and safe travels!
Sunday Morning Ramblings from April 2007
I often find myself inspired to write things at 3am when I come from an interesting night out on the town. Last night was no different, however, I opted for some much needed sleep instead. And when my biological clock decided that it would be a good idea to wake up at 8am, I threw on some clothes and pissed and moaned all the way to my computer for some Sunday morning ramblings.
The gal who cuts my hair is a hoot. Her name is Lisa and she has decided that she and I should be best friends and now she wants me to be her running coach. Of course, Lisa is in her mid 40s, married with kids, and what brought on this desire to be my best friend is that I "have the most incredible eyes I have ever seen and just think that says a lot about a person." And the running idea simply came because she has been ripping out carpet in her home and her body hurts, so she decided she needs to work out more and asked what I do to stay healthy. For some reason she didn't buy the "smoke a lot of crack and follow a strict diet of vodka and olives." I can't imagine why.
Yesterday was the Christopher and Banks MS Walk for the Cure and I agreed to walk in it with one of my best friends whose aunt passed from this disease. Ever get that feeling where you are doing something good and you just get so overcome with the emotions of the moment that you find yourself choking back tears? Yeah, that is what it was like when the walk started and I saw survivors, friends, family members, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, neighbors, pets, complete strangers walking with a deeply rooted desire to find a cure. So I sucked down some more of my mocha, made a crack about it getting cold, and walked stride for stride with some of the bravest people you may ever meet. Determination.
Perhaps one of my favorite things to do that I don't do enough is go out to breakfast. We agreed that since we just did something that made our souls feel so good, omelets were in order. Off to Taste for what was one of the best breakfast experiences I have ever had. My basil, eggplant, parmesan, and tomato egg concoction, paired with some of the finest home fries I have ever tasted and some crispy bacon made the morning perfect. It also helped that it is a good spot for pretty people watching. And as one of my friends was in mid conversation, something caught my attention and my friends totally called me out on it. "Oh, he is so not listening to us anymore." At least I can admit it.
The last thing that I feel compelled to discuss is the importance of the perfect black shirt. An essential part of every wardrobe, the black shirt can be paired with some nice dress pants for a very euro-shiek look or worn with a pair of hot jeans for a night out at your favorite club. I have spent the bigger part of a year trying to find the perfect black shirt and I think I came pretty close with my purchase yesterday. I decided to test it last night and wore it out with a favorite pair of Chip and Pepper jeans (you have a sexy bum) and it was a success. Lots of compliments, including being stopped on my way out as someone grabbed my bum and said, "you're hot." I spun around, grabbed his arm, looked him in the eyes, simply said "thanks" and walked out the door. Affirmation.
Be well, friends. And here's to that person who notices your black shirt!
The gal who cuts my hair is a hoot. Her name is Lisa and she has decided that she and I should be best friends and now she wants me to be her running coach. Of course, Lisa is in her mid 40s, married with kids, and what brought on this desire to be my best friend is that I "have the most incredible eyes I have ever seen and just think that says a lot about a person." And the running idea simply came because she has been ripping out carpet in her home and her body hurts, so she decided she needs to work out more and asked what I do to stay healthy. For some reason she didn't buy the "smoke a lot of crack and follow a strict diet of vodka and olives." I can't imagine why.
Yesterday was the Christopher and Banks MS Walk for the Cure and I agreed to walk in it with one of my best friends whose aunt passed from this disease. Ever get that feeling where you are doing something good and you just get so overcome with the emotions of the moment that you find yourself choking back tears? Yeah, that is what it was like when the walk started and I saw survivors, friends, family members, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, neighbors, pets, complete strangers walking with a deeply rooted desire to find a cure. So I sucked down some more of my mocha, made a crack about it getting cold, and walked stride for stride with some of the bravest people you may ever meet. Determination.
Perhaps one of my favorite things to do that I don't do enough is go out to breakfast. We agreed that since we just did something that made our souls feel so good, omelets were in order. Off to Taste for what was one of the best breakfast experiences I have ever had. My basil, eggplant, parmesan, and tomato egg concoction, paired with some of the finest home fries I have ever tasted and some crispy bacon made the morning perfect. It also helped that it is a good spot for pretty people watching. And as one of my friends was in mid conversation, something caught my attention and my friends totally called me out on it. "Oh, he is so not listening to us anymore." At least I can admit it.
The last thing that I feel compelled to discuss is the importance of the perfect black shirt. An essential part of every wardrobe, the black shirt can be paired with some nice dress pants for a very euro-shiek look or worn with a pair of hot jeans for a night out at your favorite club. I have spent the bigger part of a year trying to find the perfect black shirt and I think I came pretty close with my purchase yesterday. I decided to test it last night and wore it out with a favorite pair of Chip and Pepper jeans (you have a sexy bum) and it was a success. Lots of compliments, including being stopped on my way out as someone grabbed my bum and said, "you're hot." I spun around, grabbed his arm, looked him in the eyes, simply said "thanks" and walked out the door. Affirmation.
Be well, friends. And here's to that person who notices your black shirt!
Brothers and Sisters from April 2007
It can be difficult to explain my family situation to my friends. My immediate family is not very big, consisting of my brother and I and my half-sister from my Dad's first marriage who is old enough to be my mother. My brother is married with two kids and my half-sister is married with a daughter who is older than I am and she has three kids of her own. Imagine what life was like when I was seven and my 16 year old niece was calling me Uncle Johnny around her friends.
My extended family is huge and since I come from an Italian-Catholic family, I have godparents, godbrothers, and a godsister. I refer to my godparents as my aunt and uncle, simply because my Aunt Von has been like a sister to my mother for almost 50 years now. They have either lived together or across the street from each other since they met in their early 20s. My aunt always refers to their relationship as the straightest Lesbo-couple you will ever meet. However, I know better because my aunt would be more of a Harley-Loving dyke and my Mom would definitely be of the lipstick variety. And opposites don't attract in this case. Because of that, I consider my aunt's kids my brothers and sisters. Random, I know. When you throw in their kids, a few dogs, cats, and various reptiles, it makes for one interesting holiday experience.
And this past Easter was no different.
It all started with dinner on Saturday night at my godparents home. Aunt Von made Lasagna and 11 of us sat down to what should have been a nice quiet dinner. While my biological brother and sister were not there, my entire "god-family" was around the table. As soon as my seven year old niece said the blessing, my sister raises her hand high in the air (mind you she is 34 years old) and starts screaming, "Who has secrets? Who has secrets? John, why don't you go first!" My brother follows up with "Come on John, let's tell everyone. I think you should just make the announcement now." This is the game that we play at all major family functions—who can outdo the other with ridiculous stories, tales, and half-truths.
So I decided to oblige them and their shenanigans. I proceeded to fabricate details of a series of rashes and how the doctor told me that the cream would take care of the burn, but the drip that was associated with it would have to go away on its own. And then there was the discussion prompted by my sister on smoking things. Use your imagination. The look of sheer horror on my mother's and my aunt's faces was priceless. Mom shook her head and said, "Can you believe the things these kids are saying?" And without skipping a beat, my aunt said "well, they don't know the half of what we did when we were their age." At most family dinner tables, pot-smoking, blow jobs, and other random sex-comments just don't make for good conversation. I wonder why around our table it has become so common!
My ambiguously gay god-brother has always been an instigator at these occasions. He always enjoys recalling my god-sister's summer neighborhood parades. Julia would spend hours choreographing these daily routines, including dance moves, music, and props. She would dress me up and make me prance (believe me when I say prance) to some sort of "Let's hear it for the boys" music, while the rest of the neighborhood kids were performing their part, as well. Did I mention that while I was prancing, I may have been carrying a baton or a boombox?!? Yes, friends…a boombox. And people wonder why I am the way I am today!! I think my brother enjoys discussing this so much because he wants to talk about my gayness more openly and live vicariously through me. Call it justification, but I call it just plain ol' hilarity. My mom and aunt just shake their heads.
When my uncle comes to the table for more lasagna, because his dining spot is in front of the tv watching a boxing match on ESPN with the volume at jet-engine levels so he can hear it, my sister looks at him and in a voice that she knows he can't hear but we all can, she says, "Hey Dad, I went black, is that ok? And I am still trying to come back!" He looks at her and smiles and says, "Yes, honey, that's great." He has no idea to what he just agreed and just scooped out more food. Fantastic.
But, I wouldn't have it any other way. These are the people who have molded, shaped, loved, protected, and encouraged me to become who I am today. A little dirty, but with a lot of heart and passion. Who needs a television show when our families can provide enough laughs, love, and conversation to fill a lifetime of episodes!
Be well, friends. And remember to call your family!
My extended family is huge and since I come from an Italian-Catholic family, I have godparents, godbrothers, and a godsister. I refer to my godparents as my aunt and uncle, simply because my Aunt Von has been like a sister to my mother for almost 50 years now. They have either lived together or across the street from each other since they met in their early 20s. My aunt always refers to their relationship as the straightest Lesbo-couple you will ever meet. However, I know better because my aunt would be more of a Harley-Loving dyke and my Mom would definitely be of the lipstick variety. And opposites don't attract in this case. Because of that, I consider my aunt's kids my brothers and sisters. Random, I know. When you throw in their kids, a few dogs, cats, and various reptiles, it makes for one interesting holiday experience.
And this past Easter was no different.
It all started with dinner on Saturday night at my godparents home. Aunt Von made Lasagna and 11 of us sat down to what should have been a nice quiet dinner. While my biological brother and sister were not there, my entire "god-family" was around the table. As soon as my seven year old niece said the blessing, my sister raises her hand high in the air (mind you she is 34 years old) and starts screaming, "Who has secrets? Who has secrets? John, why don't you go first!" My brother follows up with "Come on John, let's tell everyone. I think you should just make the announcement now." This is the game that we play at all major family functions—who can outdo the other with ridiculous stories, tales, and half-truths.
So I decided to oblige them and their shenanigans. I proceeded to fabricate details of a series of rashes and how the doctor told me that the cream would take care of the burn, but the drip that was associated with it would have to go away on its own. And then there was the discussion prompted by my sister on smoking things. Use your imagination. The look of sheer horror on my mother's and my aunt's faces was priceless. Mom shook her head and said, "Can you believe the things these kids are saying?" And without skipping a beat, my aunt said "well, they don't know the half of what we did when we were their age." At most family dinner tables, pot-smoking, blow jobs, and other random sex-comments just don't make for good conversation. I wonder why around our table it has become so common!
My ambiguously gay god-brother has always been an instigator at these occasions. He always enjoys recalling my god-sister's summer neighborhood parades. Julia would spend hours choreographing these daily routines, including dance moves, music, and props. She would dress me up and make me prance (believe me when I say prance) to some sort of "Let's hear it for the boys" music, while the rest of the neighborhood kids were performing their part, as well. Did I mention that while I was prancing, I may have been carrying a baton or a boombox?!? Yes, friends…a boombox. And people wonder why I am the way I am today!! I think my brother enjoys discussing this so much because he wants to talk about my gayness more openly and live vicariously through me. Call it justification, but I call it just plain ol' hilarity. My mom and aunt just shake their heads.
When my uncle comes to the table for more lasagna, because his dining spot is in front of the tv watching a boxing match on ESPN with the volume at jet-engine levels so he can hear it, my sister looks at him and in a voice that she knows he can't hear but we all can, she says, "Hey Dad, I went black, is that ok? And I am still trying to come back!" He looks at her and smiles and says, "Yes, honey, that's great." He has no idea to what he just agreed and just scooped out more food. Fantastic.
But, I wouldn't have it any other way. These are the people who have molded, shaped, loved, protected, and encouraged me to become who I am today. A little dirty, but with a lot of heart and passion. Who needs a television show when our families can provide enough laughs, love, and conversation to fill a lifetime of episodes!
Be well, friends. And remember to call your family!
Professional Full Time Frat Boy from April 2007
I consider myself a professional full-time frat boy.
I work for my college fraternity and have worked for the organization since I graduated. I started by traveling around the country for two years living out of fraternity houses, wearing four inch platform shower shoes, and wondering what crazy disease might be lurking on the couch where I was sitting, all the while trying to convince 18-21 year olds that excessive drinking and sex with women can be bad for them. It was quite the testosterone charged experience, way too involved to explain here. That lasted for two years and I had enough. I realized that college boys are way too high maintenance for me.
Now, I spend my days as a professional full-time frat boy working as a professional beggar. Get your minds out of the gutter. I am a fundraiser, working with alumni to raise money for new programs, scholarships, and all that jazz.
On some rare occasions, I have an opportunity to play college frat boy again. Yesterday was one of those days.
I pulled up to the fraternity house ready to do some community service and came upon a group of shirtless boys playing basketball. It was at that point that I knew this was going to be a long and very interesting day. The mating dance of the college frat boy had begun and I was about to witness it in full effect. While it hasn't been too long ago that I was performing this same ritual, I always forget how amusing it is to see it live and in person.
The basketball is bounced over to me and I shoot around with them for a few minutes before I decide that I should find the person who is responsible for me and get my marching orders for the day. Pleasantries are exchanged, mostly in the form of "what up dawg," "hey buddy," "yo yo," all combined with some form of an intricate handshake, finger snap, and shoulder nudge greeting. You know, the man code that exerts an extreme amount of coolness. I am lucky if I can remember a quarter of their names, but I always manage to get away with the generic "hey buddy" or "hey brother."
So I spent the next hour watching these young men debate as to whether or not it was going to rain and if they should tear down all of the equipment for the talent contest and move it under a tent. Of course, there was appropriate drama involved in this decision, because that would mean several of the shirtless boys would have to get dressed after they moved things around in the rain. And, oh my goodness, what if nobody comes to watch the event if it rains?!? The clouds parted, the shirtless boys did indeed finally put on some shirts, and the crowds started to arrive. Finally, in true frat-time, the event gets started…15 minutes late.
In a cross between the Miss America pageant and Girls Gone Wild, I watched these women answer questions in formal wear, "Delt wear" of purple and gold concoctions, and performing their variation on some kind of talent—for almost three hours. Seven young ladies vying to become the next "frat-favorite," a title that obviously holds some important esteem to these people. One of the young women sang a song that called out almost every frat boy for his sexual antics, while another choreographed an old standard and changed the words in a tribute to her boyfriend.
Imagine the looks of horror on the parent faces (who were there to celebrate spring parent's weekend and enjoy all that is good and pure about college life) when their little boys were called to the carpet for…well, we'll just leave it at the carpet.
There was cup stacking, a harpist, a terrible rendition of a Fresh Prince rap, and a drawing of one of the other judges. Talk about trying to buy votes. One of my favorites was watching the expressions of the four boys who were carrying one of the ladies out on a surfboard. Think queen of sheba meets fourth grade cheerleaders. Thank goodness she didn't hit the ground.
In a sea of college hormones, here I sit taking all of this in and trying to process. Boys chasing girls, girls chasing boys, boys avoiding girls because of what they did last weekend…or last month…or last year. Boys pretending to chase girls, but really watching the other boys. And everyone is trying to figure out how I fit into this equation, especially when one of my college-age girl friends comes for a visit and jumps into my arms. For a moment, time stopped and everyone's heads turned. "This guy is old and he is picking up too?" It just isn't fair. The faces may change, but the dance stays the same. Only now instead of the song being "Da Dip" by Freak Nasty, it is "SexyBack" by the young master of sexy, JT.
At the end of the day, a winner is announced and she and her sorority sisters scream, yell, and perform their tribal victory song proclaiming them the best in the land. The boyfriend will certainly get lucky tonight and who knows, maybe so will a few of the other young lads who are lurking in the distance, waiting to pounce on the opportunity to woo with congratulations and "you're the best sorority ever!"
If you have a chance to interact with college-kids, do it. It is a good reminder of the glory days of all night drinking, early morning wake-up calls, and truly living life like there is nobody watching or taking notes. Like I said before, the faces may change, but the dance stays the same.
Be well, friends. And don't forget to try and live like no one is watching.
I work for my college fraternity and have worked for the organization since I graduated. I started by traveling around the country for two years living out of fraternity houses, wearing four inch platform shower shoes, and wondering what crazy disease might be lurking on the couch where I was sitting, all the while trying to convince 18-21 year olds that excessive drinking and sex with women can be bad for them. It was quite the testosterone charged experience, way too involved to explain here. That lasted for two years and I had enough. I realized that college boys are way too high maintenance for me.
Now, I spend my days as a professional full-time frat boy working as a professional beggar. Get your minds out of the gutter. I am a fundraiser, working with alumni to raise money for new programs, scholarships, and all that jazz.
On some rare occasions, I have an opportunity to play college frat boy again. Yesterday was one of those days.
I pulled up to the fraternity house ready to do some community service and came upon a group of shirtless boys playing basketball. It was at that point that I knew this was going to be a long and very interesting day. The mating dance of the college frat boy had begun and I was about to witness it in full effect. While it hasn't been too long ago that I was performing this same ritual, I always forget how amusing it is to see it live and in person.
The basketball is bounced over to me and I shoot around with them for a few minutes before I decide that I should find the person who is responsible for me and get my marching orders for the day. Pleasantries are exchanged, mostly in the form of "what up dawg," "hey buddy," "yo yo," all combined with some form of an intricate handshake, finger snap, and shoulder nudge greeting. You know, the man code that exerts an extreme amount of coolness. I am lucky if I can remember a quarter of their names, but I always manage to get away with the generic "hey buddy" or "hey brother."
So I spent the next hour watching these young men debate as to whether or not it was going to rain and if they should tear down all of the equipment for the talent contest and move it under a tent. Of course, there was appropriate drama involved in this decision, because that would mean several of the shirtless boys would have to get dressed after they moved things around in the rain. And, oh my goodness, what if nobody comes to watch the event if it rains?!? The clouds parted, the shirtless boys did indeed finally put on some shirts, and the crowds started to arrive. Finally, in true frat-time, the event gets started…15 minutes late.
In a cross between the Miss America pageant and Girls Gone Wild, I watched these women answer questions in formal wear, "Delt wear" of purple and gold concoctions, and performing their variation on some kind of talent—for almost three hours. Seven young ladies vying to become the next "frat-favorite," a title that obviously holds some important esteem to these people. One of the young women sang a song that called out almost every frat boy for his sexual antics, while another choreographed an old standard and changed the words in a tribute to her boyfriend.
Imagine the looks of horror on the parent faces (who were there to celebrate spring parent's weekend and enjoy all that is good and pure about college life) when their little boys were called to the carpet for…well, we'll just leave it at the carpet.
There was cup stacking, a harpist, a terrible rendition of a Fresh Prince rap, and a drawing of one of the other judges. Talk about trying to buy votes. One of my favorites was watching the expressions of the four boys who were carrying one of the ladies out on a surfboard. Think queen of sheba meets fourth grade cheerleaders. Thank goodness she didn't hit the ground.
In a sea of college hormones, here I sit taking all of this in and trying to process. Boys chasing girls, girls chasing boys, boys avoiding girls because of what they did last weekend…or last month…or last year. Boys pretending to chase girls, but really watching the other boys. And everyone is trying to figure out how I fit into this equation, especially when one of my college-age girl friends comes for a visit and jumps into my arms. For a moment, time stopped and everyone's heads turned. "This guy is old and he is picking up too?" It just isn't fair. The faces may change, but the dance stays the same. Only now instead of the song being "Da Dip" by Freak Nasty, it is "SexyBack" by the young master of sexy, JT.
At the end of the day, a winner is announced and she and her sorority sisters scream, yell, and perform their tribal victory song proclaiming them the best in the land. The boyfriend will certainly get lucky tonight and who knows, maybe so will a few of the other young lads who are lurking in the distance, waiting to pounce on the opportunity to woo with congratulations and "you're the best sorority ever!"
If you have a chance to interact with college-kids, do it. It is a good reminder of the glory days of all night drinking, early morning wake-up calls, and truly living life like there is nobody watching or taking notes. Like I said before, the faces may change, but the dance stays the same.
Be well, friends. And don't forget to try and live like no one is watching.
The Great Hole of China from March 2007
A recent conversation among some friends spawned some very interesting observations and comments about foreign travel. While most rants about this topic would include joyous and fun-filled memories of traversing through the streets of ol' gay Paris or eating one's way through the street markets and family restaurants of Italy, this particular exchange took on a very "deep" attitude. You see, a few of these people have experienced public toilets in China and like most respectable and well-mannered friends, we decided that it would be appropriate to discuss this at dinner.
I think the dinner took a decidedly downward turn when descriptions of the woman's art of "the hover," turned into demonstrations of this popular technique. Apparently, the "hole" that the Chinese call their toilet is no more than two or three inches in diameter with no known true depth and one must have a degree or certificate in archery (or darts for the bar-going crowd) or have achieved the "perfect spray" to qualify to use these so called instruments of sanitation. And unlike performing "the hover" over an American-ized toilet, this hole is literally in the floor. If one doesn't "hover" low enough, they are faced with terrible dilemmas involving the ankles and pant legs.
A hand goes up and one female friend stops the conversation with, "at one point I am trying to pull up my pant legs to keep them out of the splatter, hold them up to my knees so I don't pee on them, and pull down my pants so I can pee. Imagine doing that while trying to maintain balance--in high heels--and not touch anything around you."
Needless to say, she bit it. Hit the ground. Failed the hover test. Devastating. Dirty, too. Imagine if her heel would have fallen into that hole. I wonder where it would go.
It makes me think back to being a child and feverishly digging holes in the ground, convinced that my sister and brother were right and that I was going to dig my way to China and be famous, only to hear my mother yelling out of the kitchen window that my Dad was going to "use the belt" if I didn't get away from his tomato plants. Maybe the Chinese are taught the same thing by their hateful siblings and that is where their "holes" come from. They have just found a purpose for them. Leave it to those thrifty and inventive Asians!
"Rather than doing this hover business," says one gal, "I would just sit on the damn hole and use wet naps afterwards. Fuck it!" And she is serious. And we were all appalled and slightly disgusted. That is until one of the husbands demonstrated how a man might ensure not missing the hole or splattering around the perimeter. Think push ups...or...well, you get my point. We might find out how deep that hole is then!
Or perhaps we feel most sorry for the guy who, in the immortal words of that great poet and inspirational literary genius Jimmy Buffett, "blew out a flip flop" at the greatest spectacle in white trash history, the Indianapolis 500. He should be in therapy over that issue. I know I would be.
As men, we are lucky that we can stand and be proud to spray our goods. Particularly when we are in that bar or restaurant that looks as if it has seen more than one long, hard night of St. Patty's Day amateur drinkers, it is nice to be able to stand. But, I will be the first to admit that when I am in the comfort of my own home, I will take my own seat just to avoid cleaning "the splatter." The plight of the woman is certainly unfortunate, but I get the feeling that they are preprogrammed with "the hover" and it is something that comes to them out of instinct. While the rest of us men take the time to create our nest of toilet paper, carefully covering all that might come into contact with our bare bottoms, women run in, assume their position, and are done with it. Then they can spend the rest of their allotted bathroom time chatting about the cute guy on the other side of the bar. Or the guy who won't stop following them. Or simply reapplying the lipstick that has been smooched off all night.
As with most dinner-time conversations, this one must come to an end and we depart, all of us a little closer now that we know our deepest darkest bathroom secrets. So whether you are brave enough to accept the challenge of the public toilet or crazy enough to drive all the way home for lunch just "to go," we all have our own personal issues with the daily duty.
Be well, friends. And don't forget to flush.
I think the dinner took a decidedly downward turn when descriptions of the woman's art of "the hover," turned into demonstrations of this popular technique. Apparently, the "hole" that the Chinese call their toilet is no more than two or three inches in diameter with no known true depth and one must have a degree or certificate in archery (or darts for the bar-going crowd) or have achieved the "perfect spray" to qualify to use these so called instruments of sanitation. And unlike performing "the hover" over an American-ized toilet, this hole is literally in the floor. If one doesn't "hover" low enough, they are faced with terrible dilemmas involving the ankles and pant legs.
A hand goes up and one female friend stops the conversation with, "at one point I am trying to pull up my pant legs to keep them out of the splatter, hold them up to my knees so I don't pee on them, and pull down my pants so I can pee. Imagine doing that while trying to maintain balance--in high heels--and not touch anything around you."
Needless to say, she bit it. Hit the ground. Failed the hover test. Devastating. Dirty, too. Imagine if her heel would have fallen into that hole. I wonder where it would go.
It makes me think back to being a child and feverishly digging holes in the ground, convinced that my sister and brother were right and that I was going to dig my way to China and be famous, only to hear my mother yelling out of the kitchen window that my Dad was going to "use the belt" if I didn't get away from his tomato plants. Maybe the Chinese are taught the same thing by their hateful siblings and that is where their "holes" come from. They have just found a purpose for them. Leave it to those thrifty and inventive Asians!
"Rather than doing this hover business," says one gal, "I would just sit on the damn hole and use wet naps afterwards. Fuck it!" And she is serious. And we were all appalled and slightly disgusted. That is until one of the husbands demonstrated how a man might ensure not missing the hole or splattering around the perimeter. Think push ups...or...well, you get my point. We might find out how deep that hole is then!
Or perhaps we feel most sorry for the guy who, in the immortal words of that great poet and inspirational literary genius Jimmy Buffett, "blew out a flip flop" at the greatest spectacle in white trash history, the Indianapolis 500. He should be in therapy over that issue. I know I would be.
As men, we are lucky that we can stand and be proud to spray our goods. Particularly when we are in that bar or restaurant that looks as if it has seen more than one long, hard night of St. Patty's Day amateur drinkers, it is nice to be able to stand. But, I will be the first to admit that when I am in the comfort of my own home, I will take my own seat just to avoid cleaning "the splatter." The plight of the woman is certainly unfortunate, but I get the feeling that they are preprogrammed with "the hover" and it is something that comes to them out of instinct. While the rest of us men take the time to create our nest of toilet paper, carefully covering all that might come into contact with our bare bottoms, women run in, assume their position, and are done with it. Then they can spend the rest of their allotted bathroom time chatting about the cute guy on the other side of the bar. Or the guy who won't stop following them. Or simply reapplying the lipstick that has been smooched off all night.
As with most dinner-time conversations, this one must come to an end and we depart, all of us a little closer now that we know our deepest darkest bathroom secrets. So whether you are brave enough to accept the challenge of the public toilet or crazy enough to drive all the way home for lunch just "to go," we all have our own personal issues with the daily duty.
Be well, friends. And don't forget to flush.
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