Poker? I Hardly Know Her...

SO…every christmas my mom gives me lottery ticket (a scratch off). Every year I don’t win.


This year I didn’t bother scratching it off, til this morning.

It’s some poker thing. I know nothing about poker. But you have to make the best hand on the card to beat “the champ”.

Anyhoo…I scratch it off and almost died because I think I’ve won five hundred dollars with two pairs (3s and 8s). Then I look again and I realize I’ve won a million dollars (two pairs, Ks and 8s). the Champ doesn’t have anything.

I show our intern because…well…he’s a straight guy who plays poker with his friends in the dorms, and he confirms that it looks like I won a million dollars.

So I run down to the convenience store in our building. Wait on line. Text CawfeeMate that he may be married to a millionaire. we cyber-gag.

When the guy at the counter scans it, it comes up LOSER. So I’m trying to explain that I won and he’s like NO. if it doesn’t scan as a WINNER you LOST.

GOOD DAY, SIR.

So I walk upstairs...all dejected...and try to figure out how I lost. when the champ has no pairs, no three of a kind, no straight; just a bunch of random diamonds.

Poop.

Flush.

Spinning a Yarn

I think I may have hit the “point of no return” with my interest in the “fiber arts”. I mean, I’m definitely hooked on knitting and have, very recently, observed the merits of knowing how to crochet; I even dabbled with it last week, on a scarf I was determined to keep from being completely hideous. No, what I’m talking about is finally reaching that point where other people, not involved with knitting/crochet would cock their muggle eyebrow and question my sanity. You know the point I’m talking about; every hobby/activity has one. a point where the hobby/activity/interest almost looks like “religion”; take the Trekkies:

1. watching the occasional episode of Star Trek while high
2. watching them all (chronologically) on Netflix, straight
3. joining an online discussion board about Star Trek
4. attending a convention
5. naming your pet after either a character/actor
6. attending a convention in costume
7. writing “fan fiction”
8. traveling to another state to attend a convention
9. having a Star Trek themed wedding*
10. naming your child after either a character or actor*

right around #6 is when people might organize the intervention.

Husband Material

The other day, a business associate called and, as is our custom, we chit-chatted for about 10 minutes prior to getting to the point of her call. See, she’s originally from the Jersey Shore and now lives in San Francisco, so she has this fantastic East Coast mentality with West Coast energy-thing, which I find both interesting and friendly. Having worked together for a number of years, she always asks how Rufus and CawfeeMate are doing, and refers to him as my “partner”; CawfeeMate, not Rufus.

Let me be honest (‘cuz, y’know, I’ve been lying this whole time): of all the ways that one could refer to CawfeeMate, “partner” is one of my least favorite (behind “special friend” and “roommate”); by now, most of you know that words matter to me. When I hear the word “partner” I think of two things: 70’s/80’s cop shows like Cagney and Lacey and Starsky & Hutch, where you were bound to hear one refer to the other as their partner when talking to a third party and Bewitched where Darren worked for McMahon and Tate; we always saw Larry Tate, but never his partner, _____ McMahon*. I’m a child of the TV generation; sue me.

Anyway, the point I’m driving at is this: to me, “partner” is such an emotionless and clinical term for a relationship; it purports that the relationship would not be there if the two people weren’t working towards a common goal and removes all romantic connotations. Even the alternatives provided by the MS Word Thesaurus sound decidedly unromantic (“associate”, “colleague”, “cohort”, “equal”, and “co-worker”). While one might certainly argue the homo-erotic subtext found in both Cagney and Lacey and Starsky & Hutch, the relationships were work related. That’s not my relationship with CawfeeMate; he’s my husband. Emotionally, spiritually and legally.

Open for Business

So after about a year of kicking the idea around with CawfeeMate, and with Magenta as my seasoned business advisor, I’ve finally started selling my wares to my adoring public on Etsy! The shop has been up and running for about 2 weeks and I’ve already had a couple of special orders; a former co-worker commissioned a puppy sweater like one I made for Rufus and her friend commissioned a pair of fingerless gloves. I’ve also created a Facebook page to promote the business, so people can see other stuff I’ve made and get ideas for what they may want.

I Hate Myself for Loving Ewe

Like most things in my life I have a love/hate relationship with my yarn stash.


There are some yarns that I love which have totally returned the love by making both great end products and a satisfying knitting experience:

Brown Sheep has fantastic stuff. Their Lanaloft collection is phenomenal and was the 1st yarn I ever fell in love with; it comes in the most ridiculously fantastic colorways, knits up beautifully and frogs like a dream (you’d never know you just knit with it). It’s also a lot of bang for the buck, no matter where you buy it. I’ve used it on fingerless gloves, a sweater for the puppy and even a couple of needle rolls for my ever increasing collection of DPNS. Their Lamb’s Pride collection is also really great and I was able to make the infamous Wallaby and CawfeeMate’s favorite hat out of it. I’m also in the middle of a baby blanket using their Superwash Worsted and have been just as impressed with how well that’s working out.

Then there’s Peace Fleece Worsted. This is my absolute favorite yarn in the universe. Love the colors, love the feel, love the price*. I seriously cannot use enough of this stuff because everything I make with it, I love. Another puppy sweater, a laptop cover for my niece, a hat for both my dad and my father-in-law all worked up gorgeously because of this fantastic yarn. If they would make a sock yarn, in the same awesome colorways, I could die a happy knitter.

On the flip side, there are also 2 yarns which I hate to love**…

the Clap

The other day I was on the F train, heading home from work, knitting the 2nd in a pair of socks for the huz, when a woman tapped me on the shoulder to chat. Now, you regular reader(s) of my blog know that this is not uncommon, especially on the train; people women will randomly tap me on the shoulder (on account of my headphones) and tell me one (or all) of the following:

1. how much they like/love/are impressed by whatever I’m knitting
2. relay a quick anecdote about their mother/grandmother knitting
3. how they used to knit when they were a little girl
4. how interesting/odd/nice it is to see a man knitting

Well, this woman was no exception, she tapped my shoulder on Delancy Street and talked me up ‘til I got up at 34th and hit all 4 topics; insisting that I was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. Though she used to crochet, she wasn’t very good and couldn’t imagine making a sock with such tiny needles (“especially four of them”)! She was an absolute sweetheart and totally made my day, as random well-wishers tend to. See, that’s the thing: I love having strangers (with whom I’d normally have absolutely no social interaction) randomly telling me how awesome I am; it’s become a bit of a drug.

Knitting Takes Balls

Last Thursday, I shared a 2 hour car ride to Long Island* with three straight guys; one was a (new) co-worker, the other was his brother-in-law and the 3rd a mutual friend of theirs. Don’t get me wrong, I was mad lucky that the brother-in-law worked close by and offered to pick us up. The two hour car ride, though, was spent with the three of them talking ‘sport’. Now, please don’t misunderstand: I am eternally grateful that I got the ride (and thanked the driver profusely). Had I not been with my co-worker, I’d have been totally screwed; I would’ve had to wait until the trains ran again at 11:30, since I don’t know how else to get to LI from DT Brooklyn. I’m also not complaining that I couldn’t join in the conversation; I was the odd man out. I don’t need to talk and actually am okay with being silent while other people talk around me; I was fine not engaging in the ball related chit-chat.

Proud Mary Part I (or Easy Bake Sweater)

I was lying in bed the other night, feeling incredibly self-satisfied and proud, having just finished sewing up a cable knit MacBook cover I had made for our college bound niece. It was my first real foray into the art of cable knitting on a large scale (having only worked small cables on socks before), and the end result had far exceeded my expectations. Not one to pat myself on the back for long, it occurred to me that “doing a good job”, in this instance, meant that I read the pattern (which someone else had written) and re-created it without fucking it up; in other words: it wasn’t that I did a “great job” knitting, I did a great job following the instructions.

In a situation like this, it seems a little narcissistic to be proud of myself for being able to read. It almost feels like i made a cake using a boxed mix and canned frosting and then congratulated myself because it tasted wonderful. It’s made to taste wonderful; if you’ve followed the directions on the box correctly; it will always taste the same kinda wonderful, every time you make it.

Confessions of a Yarn Abuser

The other night, CawfeeMate taught me how to make my very first pom-pom for a hat I had finished. While winding the yarn around the cardboard donuts, he told me to wind it “tightly”. When it came time to snip it off the cardboard, he couldn’t because it had made the cardboard buckle and bend under it. before the second attempt he looked at me and said, “when I say ‘wind it tightly’ I mean ‘old lady/grandma-with-arthritis’ tightly. Not ‘I’m CawfeeGuy and I make yarn cry’ tightly”.
Hello, I’m CawfeeGuy and I’m an abusive knitter. I make yarn cry and snap needles in half.

Wishful Thinking

I'm a simple and reasonable guy, i think. I really don't want alot in life. If Aladdin's genie gave me three wishes, I'd probably be at a loss for what to do with the third one. In fact, with my birthday having just passed, I found myself wishing for only two things when it came time to blow out my candles: time and money.

a Bad Romance

I fear I’m a bad relationship and don’t know how to get out. Worse, I don’t know if I want to get out. No, it’s not CawfeeMate, you boob; the man’s a friggin saint.

It’s my knitting needle dealer.

Sock It To Me

When I 1st started knitting, CawfeeMate only had one request: he wanted a pair of wool socks. I dismissed the idea out of principle. I had better, more interesting, things that I wanted to make for myself and him! Cawfee Cozies! Hats! Scarves! A Sweater! This is why I learned to knit!

The thing is, he hardly ever gets cold (even in the harshest winter weather) and so he didn’t need or want a hat, gloves, or a scarf (we’re still looking for the right yarn for his Wallaby); all he wanted was socks to wear around the house. I tried to distract him with other things he’d want: a tea cozy, an i-Pod sock and even replacement pads for his headphones. He was quite happy to get them, but wanted to know why his iPod was now being kept cozy and not his feet. Still, I resisted and knit him a lovely green hat that he didn’t want, but loved anyway. "Besides", I told him, “socks are way more advanced knitting than I’m capable of; I  just learned how to have the right number of stitches at the end of my project"!

The truth was, I had absolutely no desire to learn to make socks, because they’re socks. They go on your feet, inside a shoe, under your pants; who sees them? Who cares? If it wasn’t for social convention, I’d never wear them. Hell, if I could get away with it, I’d never wear shoes, either. Sadly, that’s not the case. My ridiculously flat feet require arch support and my job kinda demands I keep my toes to myself. But, I digress; back to CawfeeMate.

My Semi-Annual Post

Wow. Another six months have gone by since I last blogged. Ain’t that some shit?

So what, you may ask, has happened in those last six months? Quite alot, actually, but here are some of thee highlights…

• CawfeeMate finally finished his doctorate in Physical Therapy, making him Dr. CawfeeMate DPT and me a ridiculously proud doctor’s wife. His graduation was marked by a trip to Phoenix, Arizona where I promptly fell in love with another city that is anywhere but New York.
• I finally finished my goddamn Wallaby, after about nine months and love how it came out! Somewhere around the six month mark I hit a proverbial snag and was left incredibly discouraged and frustrated. I put it down for about two months and then went back with fresh eyes and fingers (working on quite a few other projects in the interim). Its completion was a catalyst to broaden my repertoire and challenge my abilities within those categories. I now crank out socks, gloves, hats, coffee cup cozies and (my current piece) a laptop cover, in all sorts of stitch and cable patterns. I’ve learned a tremendous amount from The Yarn Girl, Magenta Sequins and YouTube. I’ve also begun to take requests from friends and family and have started making gifts for people other than CawfeeMate.
• My other great obsession, which rivals knitting, is Words With Friends on the iPhone. I’ve got eleven games going, at the moment, and usually spend half my commute (and part of the day), trying my best not to have my ass handed to me by the likes of Breen Lantern and Magenta Sequins.  Luckily, Bri-the-Pie-Guy doesn't play.
• Very recently, I left the department which caused me nothing but heartache and misery for more than two years; choosing staying within the same company. this follows a huge bout of layoffs which pared down my old department to bare bones and had me working 60+ hours a week. So far, it’s been a better move for me, at least inasmuch as I finally get to spend time with CawfeeMate and Rufus. Plus, it’s great knowing that the job which I did now takes three people. I’m really looking forward to all the challenges that have come with the move.

I think I have a couple of more posts in me, which I’ll probably be able to get down in the next few days, so stay tuned…

I'm Not Kidding

Every so often, the huz and I will meet a new group of people who find us to be something truly unique: a happy, committed gay couple in a long-term relationship. They’ll engage us in conversation about how long we’ve been together and how we met and all the usual stuff a couple gets asked. Inevitably, though, conversation will turn to that topic that is an instant buzz-kill: children. People want to know when CawfeeMate and I will begin our own family and adopt some one eyed, club footed Chinese kid or ADD crack baby; they nearly spit out their drinks when we tell them we’d rather undergo hemorrhoid surgery from a near-sited proctologist with Ectrodactyly.


Let me set the record straight, folks, we don’t want kids. Ever. Not all the gays are like the ones on Brothers & Sisters or Modern Family; We don’t all crave Burberry baby booties or Louis Vuitton diaper bags. Some of us are quite content lavishing our “disposable incomes” on ourselves and each other. Okay, I really can’t speak for CawfeeMate, but (as if you haven’t heard my opinion enough on the topic), here’s how I feel about Daddyhood:

I grew up with the most absolutely amazing parents. They were loving and attentive and there for me whenever I needed them. My dad worked three jobs to put us through catholic school and keep my mom home to tend to the house and still found time to be Scoutmaster, soccer coach, little league coach and do all the other proto-typical dad things a dad should do. My mom cooked like Julia Child, kept house like June Cleaver and swore like Sam Kinison. She was a Den Mother, Sunday School teacher and PTA mom and did without nice clothes, new shoes and even a new coat for years, but never complained. they were both incredibly supportive of anything I did and encouraged me in all my pursuits and interests. They really were the best parents a kid could ever have and I can, honestly, say that I was tremendously lucky to call them “mine”; even as a kid they made me feel lucky without telling me I was. it's only now, years later they told me that the main reason was because, as parents, it was their obligation to us to provide the best possible life they could; that they owed it to us.
That having been said, I do not believe that I could ever, under any circumstance, be that unselfish and giving to any other human being on earth (with the exception of my husband). As much as I love my friends and feel as strongly for them as other people feel about their family, there is still a limit to how giving I would be with them. My parents love was…is…completely limitless. they are the bar i measure all parents by. God forbid I was a parent, I’m confident that I would be forever comparing myself to them and find myself to be a dismal failure; there’s absolutely no way I could do without for the sake of a child who, may, turn out to be just as ungrateful and “entitled” as 90% of the kids I see every day. I’m just not that kind of person.

The wii is mine; no you can’t have a turn.
Saturday mornings are mine; I’m not blowing off my sock making class to take you to violin lessons.
The muscle car is mine; mini-van my ass.
My disposable income is mine; braces? The cannery has good dental, or so I hear.
(most importantly) CawfeeMate is mine; if there’s one thing you learn, as you go through This Gay Life, it’s to be wary of anyone younger and cuter than yourself*; there’s no way in hell I’m letting the wolf in when he knocks.

i give all of you (gay and straight) who decide to become parents, alot of credit for jumping into that with both feet, but it's just not me. I’ll admit it readily and with little shame: I’m a selfish faggot and, yes, i'm judging you by how you raise your kids.

*the puppy doesn't count as he has a brain the size of a ceci pea and no opposable thumbs.

Color by Numbers

you know that people don’t, as a matter of course, have green hair?

It’s true. Green hair is “unconventional”; rebellious, even.

Up until recently, I had no idea.

As most (read: both) of you, who read my blog (whenever I update the damn thing) know, I’m color blind. On the off chance this is news to you, I’ll explain it as briefly and as succinctly as possible:

It’s red/green color blindness which also includes brown. It’s not that I don’t see red, green or brown (I’m not a dog, people), I just have a really hard time differentiating between the three when they’re all the same shade*. i’m not sure, exactly, how it works but I think a very large part of it is psychological since I know stop signs and fire engines are red and streetlights are red green and yellow, etc.

it’s other stuff that’s tricky; things like produce, plant life and hair color. These three things are not required to be one color or another. They can, and often are, any color. It’s this “grey area” that throws my brain into a tizzy.

For example, Sundays is the day we do our weekly food shopping at the local Stop & Shop or the not-so-local Wegman’s. If CawfeeMate is tied up with homework, I’ll go alone to Stop & Shop and, invariably, spend an extra twenty minutes in the produce aisle trying to buy apples for his lunch. See, CawfeeMate prefers “Golden Delicious” apples over the other varietals (while I, myself, prefer apples only in pie form). What i have learned since shopping for his apples is that the “golden” in the title refers to the color which the apple aspires to be (if an apple can be said to have any aspirations, at all); the apples start off green and become “golden”. This color change is, apparently, quite evident to those of you born with the typical number of cones in your eyes, thus letting y’all know which ones are, in fact, golden and delicious as their name suggest. To me, however 99.9% of the apples in the Golden Delicious bin look exactly the same with their bruised skin as the only indicator of which ones to toss in my cart. Another fun fact about apples, unlike other fruit or vegetables, you can’t leave them in a bag to ripen; they stay green (or so I’m told).
It seems that, when in doubt, my brain fills in the proverbial blanks. How it chooses the colors  is a mystery to me though. I’m pretty sure it goes by what I think I know. From the time we’re little, we’re taught that trees have brown trunks and green leaves so all trees, to me, regardless of the season, have a brown trunk and varying shades of green leaves (I’m guessing that if the leaves turn brown or dark red, I’m seeing these as darker green). Visually speaking, autumn is not quite as fun and fab for CawfeeGuy as it is for the rest of you.

Hair color, though, is my favorite. For a ridiculously long time, I thought CawfeeMate’s goatee was green; I would’ve sworn to it on a stack Cher LP’s. I knew it wasn’t green, that it was either red or some shade of brown, but couldn’t be certain which. My brain defaults to (what I have heard described as) acid green: the same color I recognize as the glow inside a Borg ship, on Star Trek: Voyager. It, like the hair color of thousands of other people I’d met, was kinda fab. It was only when I asked him about it, like a week ago, that I found out it was “strawberry blonde”. This led him to break to me gently that people don’t, usually have green hair, unless it’s a “statement”. This I actually knew, if the truth can be told. Over the last 34 years I’ve seen way too many old ladies with “green” hair. I just never took the time to find out what color it was supposed to be.

This phenomenon still entertains the huz, after 6 years together. He’s often told me that he kinda feels sorry for me that autumn isn’t the explosion of colors for me that it is for him and that Christmas decorations don’t “pop” for me like they do for him. The other day at breakfast he wondered aloud what my experience would be if, suddenly, I could see colors the way other people could. I told him that it would probably be just as dramatic as the 1st time I put on glasses in the 6th grade and everything snapped into focus for the 1st time ever, but that I was quite content not being able to see what everyone else sees.
Sure it’d make shopping for food and clothes easier and it’d be nice to have the Christmas and autumn experiences that y’all have, but I’ve made it through 34 years okay. Just don’t be surprised if, when you’ve just come from the salon, I look at your highlights a little funny.

*FYI: it also means that I have a hard time telling blue and purple, and orange and yellow apart.

the Wonderful Wallaby of Oz

every step I take with this wallaby, I’m completely blown away with what I’m doing. I didn’t think I’d ever be at this point in under a year; making an actual, wearable sweater.

I thought it would be alot harder (not that I’m complaining) to create something. It’s a total trip to see the pieces taking shape as I’m knitting; like, right now, at the end of my size 8’s I’ve got my right sleeve…or maybe the left…I doesn’t matter, the point is it’s a frickin sleeve, people!

the Magic Number

not too long after I started knitting, I found a great pattern i wanted to use to make a Coffee Cup Cozy, but the yarn & needles I had would've yielded a much bigger cozy (think: Super Big Gulp Cozy). now, I'd read that patterns could be altered using ratios and measurement and gauge but had no idea how to do that. naturally, I asked my better half, since he's as fluent in math as the last president was at hate-mongering. it took me ten minutes to explain what i wanted to do, ten to explain what my knitting books were telling me to do and five for him to figure out the ratio of what I had versus what I wanted, and how I could get what I wanted with what I had. oh and another fifteen for him to explain it all to me (during which, I swear-to-god he started talking backwards just to fuck with me). at the end of the entire process I was no closer to understanding how he figured out the answer, but I was convinced my husband was truly a Hot Gay Nerd with Great Magical Powers.

math, I'm convinced, is magic; a strange and potent magic, written in the language of numbers. like any other kind of magic, some people understand and are adept at it and some people are hopeless muggles. I fall into the latter category.

I 'get' simple addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, but when talk turns to ratios and percentages and fractions (specifically their addition, subtraction and multiplication), that's where I will swear that something mystical is taking place.
higher math, like algebra, geometry, calculus and other stuff I barely passed in high school, is even more arcane and mysterious. most algebra problems...with their variables and parenthetical equations... look to me, like the recipe to turn lead into gold; 'sine', 'cosine' and 'tangent' may as well be 'bibbity bobbity boo'. I remember looking at classmates and wondering, "how do you understand this? the teacher isn't speaking English"!

see, I'm not 'stupid', I'm just scared of numbers; as surely as I'm scared of bugs and clowns and bridges. okay...maybe not in exactly the same way. lets just say I severely mistrust numbers in the same way i mistrust the Russians, Log Cabin Republicans and any gay movie netflix swears I'll love.
the thing is, math (like the 1st two), is cold and emotionless; utterly devoid of poetry or true beauty. it's also (paradoxically unlike the 1st two) inherently incapable of lying or falsehood. a mathematical product is what it is, and is subject to no man's interpretation.

I'm a word guy (contrary to what my Words With Friends opponents may tell you). words define how i think and process information; words are how i define my world and experiences. human beings have, over the millennia, crafted millions of words, each as distinct and particular in meaning and intention as a crayon in the super-huge box of Crayolas. with those words, humans can either create the verbal equivalent of stick figures or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. me? I'm kinda like a Garfield comic. numbers and math have no such subtlety or ability to create.

that's not to say that I think they're useless; quite the opposite, actually. they're great tools for creation. bridges get built on numbers, computers run on them like gas and they're the reason I get paid twice a month; even in my new hobby, knitting, numbers and math are essential. math really is everywhere, all around us, all the time. that doesn't mean I understand it any better. like The Force and other forms of magic it's just waiting for those who can understand it, to tap into its power.

there's a reason the word 'mathematician' sounds an awful lot like 'mad magician'.

Knit Wit

(the odds of this post actually being witty are pretty slim, as it's monday morning, but i was at a loss for an adequate title)


this weekend, MS and Dug dropped by for an afternoon of facetime...which turned into a weekend of facetime which was alot better than just an afternoon. while Dug and i played Lego Batman on the Wii, MS finished knitting a hat for a young lady (and sometimes model) she happens to know. totally inspired by how great the hat was coming out, i told her that i'd been thinking of learning to knit*, and (in true MS fashion) she jumped at the idea of teaching me.

the next morning, over pancakes and coffee, she sat me down on the couch and commenced the Basics of Knitting. She took it slowly and taught me to "cast on", the "knit stitch", "the purl stitch" and "casting off". in about an hour i had two small rectangles of knitted wool and a belly full of ambition. half an hour later, i walked out of A.C, Moore, $20 lighter, but with my very own set of bamboo knitting needles and some lovely blue wool/acrylic yarn. Visions of scarves, hats, sweaters and gloves for my friends and family filled my head! We returned to my house, kissed, hugged and parted ways. the huz and i then went to the supermarket for the weekly shopping. an hour or two later, i finally sat down to turn out my 1st scarf, in a lovely shade of blue.

i sat there staring at the needles and yarn for, like, 20 minutes. i'd completely forgotten how to "cast on". eventually it clicked, and i was golden. for 30 seconds.

I couldn't figure out how to make the 1st knit stitch. rather than stare blankly for another twenty minutes, I went online and found a YouTube tutorial "the knit stitch". that was fine, for an hour, until I wound up with an extra stitch and couldn't figure out how or why or how to undo what I'd been doing without unraveling everything. this time i sat, dumbly, for only ten minutes before realizing that i had no idea how to "unknit" something. the scarf was unraveled.

hit Ctrl+Alt+delete and start over.

the entire process lasted several hours; the remainder of the afternoon, into the late evening: knitting, screwing up, do-over. i was fine. i was a beginner and destined to fuck up, right? right. everything felt like it was going well. i'd gotten about 30 rows down (maybe a 4" square) without the phantom stitch appearing. all my stitches looked straight! it was pretty! so I figured I'd attempt to purl. big mistake.

an hour later, while watching Desperate Housewives, all i had to show for my day's worth of knitting was one row of stitches. all the time i'd spent knitting was completely undone by my vain and hubristic efforts at purling.

defeated, I put the needles and yarn down and had some hummus and chips. i know i'll tame the yarn, but not in one night.

*CawfeeMate and i have been catching up on old episodes of Grey's Anatomy and i was intrigued that crazy, cancer riddled Izzie could crank out a scarf for Dr. Bailey in one day. how hard could it be?

Bleeech Friday

this is the 1st Black Friday i've worked in about 6 years and, lemme tell you: never again.

my tradition of taking off, the day after Thanksgiving, dates back to my days in retail. See, for those of you who don't know, i was a retail whore for close to ten years. The Staten Island Mall was my stomping ground, and i worked the corner of a Ma & Pop suit store (where i spent nearly 9 years) and Sam Goody, throughout college and beyond. looking back with the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, smeared with the vaseline of being a corporate/finance drone, i can honestly say that those were good days; the hours were great, the pay was good (well above minimum wage) and i liked the people. Black Friday was the high holy day of retail, which meant a guaranteed open-to-close work day for senior staffers and commission on the sales you made (or those "given" to you by the cashiers). Black Friday set the tone for entire Christmas Season, and its psychotically frenzied atmosphere was a harbinger of the crazy days which lasted till New Year's Eve. it was not at all uncommon for the hours to fly by like minutes, leaving you hungry and thirsty because you'd skipped both breakfast and lunch. it was glorious.

the meaning of Black Friday changed, post-retail. sure i'd haul out the Christmas CD's and start writing out cards, but it also meant i didn't have to work, to make money. joining corporate america meant "paid vacation days" and what better way to use one than to give oneself a 4 day weekend following a bi-annual schlepp to Long Island*? after our 1st Thanksgiving spent on Long Island, i realized that getting home close to midnight and having to get up for work the next day was about as palatable as CawfeeMate's WASP aunt's cooking. There began the tradition of taking off on Black Friday.

Black Friday now took on a new meaning: post-Thanksgiving clean up and Christmas decorating! it was a glorious tradition which went wonderfully smooth, until this year. just like all the previous years, i put my vacation request in on January 2nd and didn't give it a 2nd thought. That is, until K---y, my dimwitted co-worker, came to me in September to let me know she'd be off this week. When i asked her how that was possible, she shrugged and told me that Cunty had granted signed off on her request that day. Apparently, Cunty never put me in for the day; livid does not even begin to explain how i felt.

so, here i am, at work on Black Friday wishing i wasn't. Everybody else in the world seems to be off, but i'm here at my desk (despite the numerous commuting hurdles i had to jump this morning, which got me here half an hour late). it could be worse, though. my office could've had a Door Buster.


*When the huz and i had 1st met, we realized that the holidays would be dicey. Both coming from Italian-American backgrounds, the holidays are a big deal to our mothers; in the interest of fairness, equinimity and to minimize agita, we decided to alternate the holidays: Thanksgiving at Casa Del CawfeeGuyMom, Christmas Eve at Chateau CawfeeMateMom, Christmas Day at Casa Del CawfeeGuyMom, Easter at Chateau CawfeeMateMom; the following year we'd switch (despite my mom swearing we spent all the holidays with my in-laws). on the years we'd spend Thanksgiving with the CawfeeMate family, we'd drive out to Long Island which meant leaving early in the morning and getting home late at night (the drive between LI and SI is nothing but bumper to bumber traffic).

Top 10 Things I'm Thankful For This Year

1. friends: they're really, honestly, truly like my family and despite the fact that we're all pretty scattered around the country (New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, San Francisco, Florida and Maryland) it's love that makes the distance seem less significant. we may not talk or e-mail or see each other every day, but when we do, it's like we just spoke yesterday. i hope they know that i'd take a bullet for any of them.

2. CawfeeMate: there's nobody, in all the world, who understands me like he does and suffers through my anxieties, tantrums, doldrums and idiocy; i'm so incredibly lucky to have him in my life. there's also nobody, in the world, that i love more than i love him.

3. Rufus: if there's anything better than puppy kisses and the unconditional love that come with them, i don't know what it is...

4. my parents: i know i bitch about them...alot...they're crazy and strange and they make no sense sometimes; they're also incredibly loyal and supportive and loving.

5. Mallomars: what? don't hate.

6. this blog (and its readers): i know i write sporadically (blame the recession), but on the rare occasions i get to post something actually worthwhile (not a quiz or a link to fabulously quirky t-shirts), it feels good. it feels good to have voice "out there" and a soapbox to rant from; it's even nicer knowing that some people are actually listening...

7. blogger friends: just when i think my life is a sit-com, you guys (and girls...and girls who used to be guys...) make me feel totally mainstream and ordinary! seriously though, the blogs i read from all over the world, remind me that we're such a diverse and unique community. you're all brilliant and incredibly sensitive writers.

8. my job: i know i often say i hate it, but in this day and age, any job you can get up in the morning and go to is a good one; especially if you're in the finance industry. besides, i like most of the people i work with; they're good blog fodder.

9. my health: during a recent talk with the huz, it occurred to me that with the exception of that brain tumor a couple of years ago, i'm pretty healthy; i rarely get sick (**knock on wood**) and since i've been exercising and eating better, i feel pretty damn good, much more often than not.

10. i'm queer: shocking, i know, but i really am thankful that i was born this way. aside from these reasons, i'm really so very thankful to be part of the gay community. we're so different, but united by similar experiences and lifestyles. i truly believe that we (ok, most of us) are the last guardians of wit, irony and gothic humor. i also believe that i'm lucky not to have to be saddled with kids (and relieved that they're truly an optional accessory that i am utterly repelled by). being gay in the US, means that we've got so many more options than at any other point in history; we're constantly re-defining our roles in our communities, cities and states. we can get married if we want to...in some parts of the country/world and we can define what those marriages mean. or we can choose not to get hitched. we have the option to be conventional or non-conventional; i think that's pretty damn wonderful and i'm incredibly thankful to be part of this community at this time in history.

happy thanksgiving, all. enjoy your friends and/or families.

"Thanksgiving isn't about blending of two cultures. It's about one culture wiping out another. And then they make animated specials about the part where, with the maize and the big, big belt buckles. They don't show you the next scene, where all the bison die and Squanto takes a musket ball in the stomach"~ Willow (Buffy the Vampire Slayer)