Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber

So, manager-dude has reached new heights in stupidity as of late.

First of all, we recently had a wine rep visiting and trying to sell us some of his latest acquisitions, including a dessert wine. Manager-dude felt compelled to stand behind my bar and imbibe in the offerings of the gentle and kind wine rep, who also offered me tastes and solicited my opinion.

Prior to pouring an Oregon-made (evidenced by the name of vineyard and that it said "Willamette Valley" on the label) ice wine, the kindly rep informs us (in case we didn't already know, which we should and which I did) that ice wine is made from a process involving the freezing of wine grapes before fermentation, which renders a very sweet product. After manager-dude and I both taste, he asserts to the rep, "now, all ice wines are from Iceland, right?"

I am barely able to stifle my laughter. Now, admittedly, I don't expect everyone to know that ice wine is typically a German manifestation, but Iceland???? What grows in Iceland? Certainly not wine grapes!!!

I was very embarrassed for him, particularly since the rep had just explained why it is called ice wine, and did my best to nicely point out the label (which was facing us) where it said "Willamette Valley" (and anyone who knows anything about Pacific Northwest wines knows exactly what that means!). He seemed, sadly, unfazed by this, completely oblivious to his faux pas.

Now, if he hadn't previously boasted about his wine expertise, I *may* not have thought much of this...

Furthermore, upon returning to work the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I was mortified to hear Christmas music blaring from our sound system. I felt compelled to approach manager-dude about this. I immediately learned that other employees had complained, but simply because they did not want to spend 4-14 hours a day, every day from now until Christmas, listening to Christmas music. Yet I approached him with a different, less selfish, bent. I asked him: "Do you have any idea as to the demographics of our neighborhood?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, completely perplexed.

"Um, you do realize that we are located near one of the largest synagogues in Portland and that much of our regular clientele is Jewish?"

"So," he quips back.

"So it seems it might be insulting to them or, at the very least, completely disregarding their loyal patronage and disrespectful as a result."

"I don't care."

"Well, you should - why would you want to disrespect our customers?" I ask.

"Okay, fine," his defensiveness is starting to kick in, "find me the Hanukkah station on our music service and we'll play that for awhile."

"I don't think you get it," I tell him.

"Well, how are they going to feel about the thousands of dollars worth of Christmas decorations that we are about to put up?" he quips.

"Probably slighted and marginalized."

"Fine. We'll just be all PC and put up one of those candle things, a Buddha and Kwanzaa decorations as well," he proposed, thinking himself so clever.

He continued, "If you want to be so inclusive and considerate of the diversity of our customers, why don't we just do that, huh?"

Holy cow. There is no reasoning with this clown. I re-explain to him that I wasn't aiming for political correctness or the diversity of our customers, per se, but merely considering the demographics of our existing regulars, a large amount of whom are Jewish. And that, in layman's terms, it just isn't very nice of us to shove Christmas down their throats. I inform him that I have known people, Jewish and otherwise, complain about being told "Merry Christmas" throughout the month of December every time they make grocery purchases, put gas in the car, buy a latte and whatnot.

For what it's worth, he also tried to convince me that, unless the song is about Jesus, it's not a Christmas song, it's a holiday song. Um, hello, I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, Let it Snow, The Christmas Song (aka Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire), Winter Wonderland, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Raindeer are not Christmas songs??? Sure, whatever you say, manager-dude.

He gets all huffy and then says, "Well, that's why I don't like gay pride parades."

Whoa?!?!?!? What the hell just happened? How on earth are we now discussing gay pride parades?

"And how does that relate to what we are discussing?" I inquire.

"Well, I think that's just shoving it down people's throats and I don't want to be represented by men in leather and drag queens."

Oh boy. Well I disagree with him entirely on this count, as well, but I really don't want to go there. As I'm looking at him in complete and utter disbelief, he continues.

"Why can't we just have parades with nicely dressed gay men and lesbians in pants and t-shirts holding signs (he raises his arms as if he is holding a sign) that don't offend anyone? And why do we need a parade, anyway? I just want more rights and I don't see what parades have to do with anything."

"You know, our (yes, our, he is a gay man) community owes a hell of a lot to drag queens. Do you have any idea how much we have benefited from the courage of the drag queens at Stonewall, who likely had no qualms about representing the likes of you and me?"

"I'm not talking about Stonewall, I'm talking about now."

Oh my, he really is that stupid. I shake my head and tell him that we are just going to have to agree to disagree. I just can't do this anymore. Calgon, take me away...

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 4

Part A: Dabbling in another tax bracket

I make a fine trophy wife and rock my glamorous duds with style! I get to shop in SoHo and pay full price! I dine extravagantly! I become the proud owner of a fancy schmancy Mont Blanc pen! I score the previous season's hand-me-downs from a successful production designer!

Part B: Billions and Billions and Billions of Stars

I am meeting up with a famous director to watch a quirky mockumentary at a nearby film center; I swim in the backyard pool of a handsome young actor; I meet an Academy Award winning director and screenwriter at a baby shower; I am attending film premieres and going to dinner parties with famous directors and Hollywood stars (A-list & B-list). Some of them are even speaking to me and I am quick to compose a list in my head of which famous folks are utterly charming.

Part C: Avec Le Charmante et Avec Accomplissez L'Abruti

I'm not sure if it's wise to name names, but let's just say that one was a spot-on for a Johnny Cash impersonation, one was an Indie actress from a very famous mother who drowned many years ago, and another has nudged Parker Posey from the Indie It-Girl mountain of fame. Some others, well, not so charming. Again, I won't name names (see Chapter 1 in which I assert that I can not afford to be sued), but I'll just say that one of the least charming celebrities I ever met through Amaris has appeared on the covers of several celebrity-focused mags and tabloids recently.

I'm happy and having a fun life...Amaris is wonderful and intelligent and we enjoy our myriad adventures. Despite that our life revolves around her work, I find that I don't seem to mind much, since I find her work intriguing.

Part D: Like the Shell Game, but not

Amaris is torn between staying true to the Independent film model and remaining dedicated to the art of filmmaking versus accepting more lucrative positions on more mainstream films. Shortly after she turned down a large sum of money to edit a film starring the current governator of Cauleefawrnya, she accepted a post on a different mainstream film with a much more fascinating, albeit predictable, premise.

As much as I loved so much of my fabulous stuff, I loved art and happiness more.

I was proud of her for opting not to work with the former Mr. Olympia, and I supported her decision to take the road less moneyed. Her decision led her to a two-month stay in a somewhat exotic and very tropical southeastern locale. She saved her per diem for airline tickets for my then 6 year-old daughter, K, and I to visit for two weeks over the Christmas holiday. Hooray for world travel!!

Part E: Dusting off the passports & learning how to say thank-you in another language

Determining how to spend my time in this tropical venue was never a problem. K and I went shopping in the major metropolis nearby and also at the local open-air markets. We were subjected to death-defying taxi jaunts (and K immediately learned what was meant by the words "AirCon" on the side door of the taxi). We lounged poolside and consumed beverages decorated with umbrellas and tropical fruits (except for the hotel's "monthly special," which came with a stuffed monkey...I know, I don't get it either). K determined that her new favorite genre of food is "room service." We have Christmas dinner with a Hollywood director who bears a striking resemblance to Santa Claus.

As I return home from this luxurious vacation, I am so optimistic and feeling fantastic about my life with Amaris. Neither she nor I have absolutely any clue that our world is about to be shaken and our relationship will be put to a test like never before...

Empathic Teen - Not for Sale

So, the other morning, whilst preparing for their days of school and work respectively, my teen daughter, K, says to my lovely wife, J, "did my mom have a rough night last night?"

J looks up, bewildered. "I don't think so. Why?"

K gestures to the small dry-erase board that is held by an uber-strong magnet to our refrigerator and says, "last night when I went to bed, the board was blank and now it has three booze items listed."

J looks at the board, where we all typically will jot down which grocery items we have just consumed the last of, thus simplifying the shopping for whoever eventually takes on this task. In my handwriting is the following list and nothing more:

Grand Marnier
Absolut Peppar
Bushmills

J laughs and tells K that she's pretty sure that I'm simply preparing for the holidays.

I beam with pride when this tale is later retold to me - my daughter knows what Bushmills is! She is so smart!

A Pig by Any Other Name

As a waiter with a conscience, I am frequently confronted with attending to the various and sundry diet requirements and peculiarities of others and am expected to ensure that narry a tidbit nor a morsel passes into their digestive system.

Most folks with said peculiarities are quite adamant about making their dietetic/allergic/religious restrictions known and expect that they will be honored. I've encountered people who have rattled off lengthy lists of ingredients that they will not eat and those who have handed me typed lists of forbidden ingredients.

Nevermind that I am expected to have a complete understanding of : vegetarianism, veganism, macrobiotics, Atkins, South Beach Diet, gluten-free diets, lactose intolerance, and so on. This includes, but is not limited to, knowing that the pasta bolognese contains the ever so slightest bit of milk in the recipe and that I ought not serve a Hefeweizen to one with a wheat allergy. When our catering director, Anna, began working with us, I had to suggest that she may want to stop suggesting chicken saltimbocca as a potential menu item for those planning bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, as the dish contains proscuitto and many Jewish folks do not eat pork. Anna had wondered why such an otherwise popular dish was always declined for these particular occasions.

But, as Anna learned, pork is not always called pork. It might be bacon or ham or pancetta or proscuitto. And, while I'll help someone avoid this ingredient if I'm aware that it is not permitted within their belief system, when I'm not informed that they would be endangering the potential for the ultimate afterlife, there's not a whole lot I can do.

I don't personally have any food issues (I make up for it in mental/emotional issues!), but I do my best to be pretty sensitive to those who do. At the same time, I am a firm believer of advocating for oneself, particularly in situations such as this.

Enter blond 30-something man, a customer of mine from last week, who was having dinner with what I presumed to be his wife. They both ordered drinks before dining and, when I asked if they had any questions about anything on the menu, they did not and informed me that they were ready to order. The blond 30-something man ordered the mac & cheese (listed as macaroni and cheese with pancetta on the menu - a winter comfort-food favorite) and his companion ordered one of our signature pasta dishes, also containing pancetta. Either of these items could easily be made without the pancetta and neither the man nor the woman chose to ask any questions prior to ordering.

After serving their piping hot entrees, I stopped by the table once they'd had an opportunity to taste their food. Generally, this is one of the easier parts of my job, as our food is pretty good and we seldom experience food-related mishaps. I noticed that the man's mac & cheese had been pushed away from him, toward the center of the table. Sometimes this is merely an indication that folks are sharing their dishes. When I asked how their dinners were, he picked up his fork and and gently pried away a small piece of pancetta onto the tine. Holding it up so that I could get a closer look, he said, "what's this?"

"Oh, that's pancetta." Answering this question is a little bit nerve wracking because there is always a distinct possibility that I will have a problem on my hands that will require a quick fix. And that will usually entail dealing with someone who would rather have not swallowed an oinker.

"What's pancetta?" Uh oh. I see exactly where this is going.

"Pancetta is an Italian bacon." I've found this to be the most user-friendly reply to this query.

"So, it's...pork?" This guy looks really uncomfortable. I inform him that it is, indeed, pork. He tells me that it is against his religion to consume pork and he can't eat it. I ask him if I may bring him something else instead, but he declines my gesture to remedy the situation. I apologize to him for the inconvenience and he assures me that it was his own fault. While this is true, I opt not to acknowledge that, as I deem it irrelevant at the moment. It wouldn't be that difficult to take the mac & cheese off the bill and bring him a different item (even mac & cheese) that does not contain pork. And I was totally willing to do this. Sure, the guy fucked up, but he doesn't deserve to starve for it.

He insists on going without and continues to reiterate that it was his fault. Finally, I tell him that it doesn't really matter whose fault it is and that I'm happy to bring him something else. Dude continues to play martyr and I let it go. Really, what can I do at this point?

I feel bad for the man, as I see him watching his companion eat. When it comes time for the check, I choose to remove the item from the bill and, even though he's still pulling the it's-all-my-fault card, I tell him that he shouldn't have to pay for something that he isn't able to eat and it was the least I could do. He looks at me sheepishly and I then smile and tell him that if he is not happy with that option, he may wish to take it up with the manager on duty and that would be me. He smiles back at me. He then presents me with a moral dilemma.

"It's just that we don't eat pork at all. It's against our religion. I didn't know that pancetta meant pork."

We? Our? I swear he didn't include his companion in his earlier proclamation of no pork. I would have spoken up if he had and reminded her that her dish also contained pancetta. Oh crap. I'd only five minutes prior cleared away her very empty plate. She ate every bit, probably assuming it was something else. Do I speak up and say something at this point? Do I bring her some syrup of ipecac?

I'm torn and I choose not to say anything. I feel a little awful about this, but he seemed so traumatized earlier and I really didn't want to ruin their night. I don't know if they were Jewish or Hindu or Buddhist or some other sect that does not consume pork and, not being fully versed in the minutae of religions of the world, I have no idea what the ramifications are for such consumption. Is the penalty less stern when the pork is consumed unknowingly?

I was an enabler of sin.

I didn't sleep so well that night.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 3

Part A: You've got mail!

In no time at all, Amaris and I become flirty pen pals of sorts. I find that I can't wait to get home from work and check my email for a charming and witty missive from her asking me random questions about myself and telling me interesting factoids about her life. Turns out she is a film editor and has worked on some pretty cool projects. I play it cool and try to keep the star-struckedness to something of a minimum.

I do my best to ask her intelligent and thought provoking questions about the film industry so that she'll find me worthy of discussing such things. I ask her what is the difference between a movie and a film. I still remember the answer: Speed is a movie and The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant is a film. More of an example than an explanation, but I didn't care. I was having online flirtiness and I knew for certain that it wasn't someone's grandfather with whom I was carrying on such a fun banter.

This went on for months, during which she made another visit to Portland (to make good on that raincheck for a blind date with me) and, later, I flew down to L.A. to check out her world. We had a great time together and I liked her friends and her taste in music and restaurants.

Part B: Enter the U-Haul

We learn that we have a great deal in common (movies/films! music! Volvos!) and that we both love Portland. We each rack up some more frequent flier miles over the summer and then decide to move in together into a fabulous turn-of-the century home in the artsy and cultured Irvington neighborhood of NE Portland in the fall.

Part C: In Which Life Seems Grand

Life seems grand.

Even Jackie seems happy for us - or at least happy that Amaris is living in Portland. We decorate our home, take walks in our neighborhood, and listen to NPR in the morning before I go to school.

Eventually, though, as a freelance film editor, Amaris needs to work and the liklihood of landing such a job in Portland was relatively slim. So she'd have to take off to wherever the filming/editing took her: New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Seattle, etc. She even edited a film in Portland! Sometimes she'd be gone less than a month and, other times, she'd be gone for three or four months or so. No matter, though. I was a student at the time and relished the quiet that her absences left behind. We stayed in touch via email whenever she was away, so as not to rack up costly phone bills, and we'd occasionally send one another little "care packages" to help bridge the gap of the miles between us.

I honestly thought it couldn't get any better.

Until...

Deal or No Deal

Okay, I've gotten suckered into watching this show and I actually enjoy it, although I have no idea why - it's essentially roulette with pretty girls and suitcases. The contestants don't need to be clever or well-schooled, just lucky. It's not as easy to "play along" as, say, Jeopardy! or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? But, not unlike some of the other cheesy programs I have come to enjoy, Deal or No Deal is just that much more enjoyable accompanied by the following drinking game:

• take a drink whenever Howie Mandel says "hello" when he answers the phone
• take a drink whenever Howie Mandel uses the name of the "model" when requesting that she open a suitcase
• take a drink whenever a contestant insists that the million dollars is inside the suitcase they have selected at the start of their game
• take a drink whenever any of the "models" say something
• take a drink whenever the contestant has an especially animated outburst (defining this can be left to your own discretion, but you may wish to consider fainting, falling down, jumping, funny catchphrases, tears, etc.)
• take a drink whenever the contestant's onstage support network of three begs the contestant to take the deal and the contestant does the opposite

Feel free to add your own additional accompaniments to this game in the comments section!

Whamma Damma Mammogramma

One of the delights of turning 40, I recently learned, is that is the magical age when those in the medical profession become interested in your boobs. VERY interested in your boobs.

I'd been dreading today since I made my appointment for my first ever mammogram (or just "mam" as the x-ray tech affectionally called it) sometime last August. I'd been putting it off since the first time my doctor brought it up earlier this year. Succumbing to a boob-squishing machine just didn't sound all that appealing. Yet, I knew it needed to be done.

Upon making the appointment, I was instructed to arrive free of perfume, powder or deoderant. I didn't ask why, though, as I figured they had good reasons for such requests. A thought occurred to me and I paused a moment before venturing to ask the woman at the appointment counter about it.

"This might seem like an odd question," I started in, "but I have a pierced nipple and would like to know if I'll need to remove my jewelry for the mammogram" (I wasn't yet aquainted with its nickname).

The woman making my appointment, thankfully, did not seem the least bit fazed by this question and informed me that she was pretty sure I could leave it in. I hoped that she was correct, as I'd much prefer to conduct such a maneuver in the privacy of my own home, rather than in a freezing cold examining room with an impatient x-ray tech standing by tapping her fingers on the x-ray machine while I fumble with the captive bead in the middle of the ring with my trembly hands and hoping it doesn't snap out and fly across the room. I really wanted to know for certain that this would not be an issue.

I received a phone call the day before my appointment reminding me not to wear perfume, powder or deoderant. I thanked the gentleman who called and opted not to follow up with him regarding my nipple piercing.

But after I hung up the phone with him, I began to feel panicky. Not about the nipple piercing, but about the fact that my soaps and hair products are all scented. Suddenly, I found that I did care why they insisted that I avoid perfume, powder or deoderant. I tried to call back, but the line was busy.

I stopped at the Kaiser clinic on my way to work and swung by the radiology department to ask them about scented bath and hair products. The woman sitting on the other side of the window was on a telephone call and her tone of voice and facial expression told me that she was well-acquainted with the caller on the other end. Without putting the caller on hold or covering the receiver with her hand, she asks if she can help me. I tell her that I can wait for her to finish with her caller, but she tells me to go ahead. Now, supposedly, Kaiser is concerned with patient confidentiality and this woman has no idea what I'm about to ask her, yet she deems it acceptable for her acquaintance on the other line to be privvy to my question. I debated leaving or insisting she put the caller on hold, simply out of principle, but opted against since my question wasn't that private.

When I asked her about the soap and such, she looked at me as though I'd asked a stupid question and informed me that, of course it's no problem to bathe with scented bath products prior to my appointment. Duh.

Guess I didn't have to worry about that anymore.

No way in hell I was going to ask Ms. Confidentiality-be-damned about the ole nipple piercing, so I left her to her phone call and continued on my way to work.

When I showed up for my appointment earlier today, free of perfume/powder/deoderant, it's safe to say that I was a tad bit nervous and anxious. I'd heard from other, already mammogrammed, women that one's breast is placed in a machine and then flattened like a pancake. Suddenly I hated pancakes and wished for my breasts to resemble grapefruits if they were going to resemble a breakfast item. I was given a sticker to place on the back of my Kaiser cared and shown to the waiting area.

When my name was called, another, elderly, woman was called at the same time. Who knew that mammograms were done as cattle calls? The other woman and I were both shown to separate dressing rooms, side-by-side, that were smaller than most public restroom stalls. The nurse who ushered us in instructed, "shirts and bras off, gowns facing forward."

Alrighty, then. I closed the curtain to my tres petite dressing room and found myself face to face with a sign which read, "You may be asked to remove your jewelry."

Lovely. The sign did not specify what kind of jewelry, but if they're looking at the boobs, it only stands to reason that what they are referring to here is boob jewelry, right?

I redress, as instructed, with the frumpy hospital gown opened to the front. Am I supposed to tie the strings together or just leave it open? Feeling somewhat chilly, I wrap the garment around my body, kimono-style. My name is then called and the tech asks me if this is my first "mam." I was impressed that she and the mammogram were so well acquainted that they had cutesy nicknames for one another. I admitted to being a newbie and waited for further instruction.

Suffice to say, even though the boob-squishing machine bore an uncanny resemblance to the devices at the junkyard that squish cars into metal cubes with it's flat panels coming together with great force, the procedure really wasn't painful as much as it was uncomfortable and awkward. Believe me, I've been around the block a time or two and this tech had me in positions I'd never been in before! As for the piercing? Let's just say that the tech had been around the block a time or two, as well.

And furthermore, let the record show that the boob-squishing machine renders nothing even remotely resembling a pancake! A thick and juicy hamburger, maybe...

I feel as though I'm now on the other side of a rite of passage of sorts. I'm now qualified to sit around and quaff martinis while chatting up other women about our "mams."

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 2

Part A: Someone's got some s'plainin' to do

I was crushed. Crushed, I tell you. Here I was, reluctantly willing to go on a blind date with a girl from L.A. and unexpectedly, after meeting me, the girl bails on the real part of the date, leaving me rather high and dry, or neither as the case was. Without even really knowing her, and after previously considering her charming, I was a little bit angry at Amaris.

I leater learned that she flew back to L.A. to do whatever it was she did there. I'd asked Jackie what gives with regard to Amaris backing out on the fun at the last minute. I asked Jackie if Amaris was just snooty and didn't think I was cute enough for her, being all shallow and from L.A. and all. Jackie assured me that it had nothing to do with me or my appearance and not to worry about it.

A few weeks later, I stumble upon the scrap of paper in which Jackie had jotted down Amaris' email address for me. I vaguely remember her suggesting I email Amaris, who was new to being online and might need some help navigating and such. I was about to throw it in the trash and then something compelled me not to.

Instead, I brought the scrap directly to my computer desk and logged onto my AOL account. I listened to the intermix of high pitched and crackly sounds as I watched the three icons on my screen change, the telltale crowd of faceless icons eventually indicating to me that I was connected with America Online.

I went directly to my mailbox and typed out a missive to Amaris. I told her that it was nice meeting her and that it was too bad that we didn't get a chance to get to know one another a little better while she was in town. I expressed some sort of sentiment indicating that I hoped it wasn't something I'd said that caused her to change her mind about going out with us that night. I further expressed that I had never been set up on a blind date before, so to get stood up on my first one felt like quite the blow.

"Blind date?????" she fires back.

Turns out she didn't know nutt'n 'bout no blind datage. What gives? you ask?

Part B, in which Amaris tells the real story behind her abrupt departure...

Well, lemme tell ya. It is revealed to me that Amaris and Jackie once had a little fling-a-ding culminating in Amaris realizing that alcohol impairs her judgment and Jackie realizing that she wants herself some more of that Amaris. No bueno. So, even though Amaris had been informed of the later gathering, she was not informed that she was being set up with me and was convinced that it was a ploy for Jackie to get her all liquored up so that she could, well, you get the picture. Since Amaris wasn't down for that, she pulled ye olde "look at the time...I gotta go" card so as not to have to spend the remainder of her evening peeling Jackie off of her.

I was but a decoy!!!

And dyke drama lives on...

A New Frock for my Blog!

My blog's been good to me, so I got her a new frock!

I've also sprung for accessories!

Now featuring TAGS!

Who's got links now? I've got links now!