polite chit-chat

another development related to the owner's new digs, and our different status, is i'm now meeting friends and acquaintances of his. previously under tight wraps, i'd only ever met one, and that was through a business happenstance -- one to which i only agreed when the owner intervened on said friend's behalf. (that he turned out to have been best man at the wedding and eventually privy to my role in marital unraveling shamed me badly.)

he's a friendly fellow and lowell seems perfect for that. i don't know if his building is a microcosm, or some sort of hothouse, but he already knows many more of his neighbors than do i. (then again, i don't *want* to meet new people quite as much as he seems to do.) when handshakes and names are offered, i'm simply introduced as noodle. there is no, "this is my___________, noodle." what he calls me in private won't do in public, he's yet to find something that will, and also adamantly does not want to be perceived as part of couple, for the obvious disadvantages that would present to his non-monogamy. among some, there seems to be a twinkling foreknowledge of my existence, but heaven only knows who/what they think i am. (he also will never tell me how or what he discusses about me when i'm not around, only adding to my murky view, and likely clouding many women's wishful thoughts.)

he's mentioned the bellydancer in passing, and that this weekend she was having various spreads to coincide with the party outside. he'd warned me she was hot for him, which i had no trouble believing, and been honest that she didn't float his boat. ok, clear enough.

we walk into a hen party. oh, dear. all were very nice, very friendly and her apartment was comfy in a very girly way. but the octaves were up there and the cross chat about kids and husbands is never my idea of fun. they encircled him like a swarm of bees, and the "look-at-me" mating behaviors would have been funny if not for -- no, ya know what? it was funny.

classic female style, they couldn't seem to get organized and out the door, til i reminded everybody the music for tonight was nearly through and let's go.

twice that night, i was asked what to most would be a simple question, "how did you two meet?" harmless enough, but one that i was taught never to ask. (along with, unless somebody is already discussing their work, never ask what they *do*, nor how much do they make.) chalk it up to my family's twisted sense of propriety and previously recorded bad behaviors, but the tawdry reality of us is not something anybody really wants to face, and will only beg more invasive questions. nerf balls, i deflected them easily. folks just want to talk about themselves anyway, so it's never hard to scooch sideways by answering a question with a question. (there also was the silent stone of why i've never met his brother, while they all had, i think more than once. that was trickier for a sec, but see above.)

after saving her life by killing a bug crawling on one hysterical woman's leg, i'd had it and marched solo to the nearby dance tent. i *was* here for music, lol. the owner seemed to reach his threshold shortly after, and truth be told, we didn't spend a whole lot of time with the harem over the course of the weekend. he made a polite appearance each day to her new fete, bringing me along, and we naturally ran into them here and there.

the tawdry table turned though when we awoke to her less-than-polite late-night drunken texts. oh, dear indeed, lol. at brunch, they all looked quite a bit worse for wear, yet she seemed not at all embarrassed when he showed her the digital evidence. she tried laughing it off as innocent, but 7 messages seems pretty determined to me, lol, even while swilly. it was endearing to see how gentle he was in his chiding, but she certainly didn't seem to take it as discouragement. (her invites later in the day confirming that theory, lol. however, she seems not to realize if he hasn't yet tried to fuck her, in all these months, her chances continue to diminish daily. why is it most women don't like to know how men's minds really work, lol?)

i've always teased the owner about him being irresistible -- that he's nectar to any bird in flight. his modesty makes him tell me it's only because the intensity of my attraction makes me project. it was charming to see him flattered by all the attentions and how *nice* he was to all those ladies. truly kind. in the *before time*, i never had the chance to see him through the eyes of others and i liked being reminded of just how great he is, ya know? (not that i forget, but i saw it writ large in those heaving horny women and heard it from a few other folks with whom we bent elbows.)

strange the turns life takes, the possibilities that arise and how much better so much is than i ever imagined possible.

lucky me. :)

as seen here

(more precisely, *there*, cuz i was still in lowell.)

older fellow carrying an aluminum lawn chair at the folk festival. taped to the front of his shirt, a piece of loose-leaf paper, with red magic marker writing:

please do not give any beer to this man.
thank you.
~~his spouse

i can only imagine her saying before he left the house, "if you come home without this sign, don't come home!"

livin' la vida lowell

within weeks of relocating, the owner became his adopted hometown's biggest booster. granted, i temper much of his enthusiasm with his fresh independence, but its sincerity is endearing and i'm thrilled he's found a place to rebuild his life on happiness, not sacrifice.

he's been generous in sharing some of this with me and we've banged heads more than once with the dropkick murphys and waxed mellow on the summer night grass with the indigo girls. we've been shined on and rained out at the spinners and tipped a few pints at local watering holes. however, this weekend is the raison d'etre for much of the town, with the annual folk festival. the streets are closed to car traffic, stages and pavilions are scattered throughout the downtown with free concerts all day and much of the night. food from all over the world and artists who paint, weave, carve, and work with quills and quilts round it all out.

we started our night friday with jeffery broussard and the creole cowboys and they just rocked. how long have i loved that zydeco fiddle sound? somehow we had to escort a social orphan (how'd we get her?) to the skatalites, but they were a little more mellow than we wanted, so we ditched, went back to the dance tent and the boys from louisiana. a beer garden, giant fans and couples two-stepping made for a perfect show. room to move and even the owner couldn't help but swing his hips!

stumbled on an alley with picnic tables and a flatbed trailer doing double duty as a stage. bunch of guys rocking, beer on tap and folks kicking up dust. perfect. laughed it up with townies, drank pbr's, watched grandmas cut loose and heard at least 3 different bands, none of whom will go on to greatness but were having a blast.

saturday started a little rough for some of us, so we missed the early shows, couldn't get near our cowboys, so wound our way to hear balla kouyate play his 800-year old balafon -- a west african ancestor of the xylophone. the sound was amazing. gourds! even more amazing when one considers the fractured family lines in so much of his ancestral region to know his has remained unbroken. (a very inconsiderate white woman, a baby slung on her back, insisted on videotaping the show from center aisle. at least 5 people tapped her shoulder and asked her to get out of the way before she finally did. my suspicions were confirmed by the lowell sun this morning -- she was kouyate's wife.)

we caught bits of puerto plata (well, i did, the owner was shopping and continuing his major support of the local economy); the broad gospel pipes of sister marie knight; skordalia, a traditional greek dance band; watched a step-dancing workshop (too painful, lol, even the teacher had to turn her back); and at last back to the skatalites. how old are those guys? they backed marley, ya know? they sounded great and riffed out classics that had everybody swaying. old hippies, babies in tie-dye and barefoot phish-kids all digging it.

visited our alley, caught a rock-a-billy band and saw our favorite rockin' granny (whom we now know is maggie and hangs out at the old court, lol). rounded out the evening with a bit of mighty sam mcclaine, who might have been more mighty 50 years ago. sounded great, but we'd both hoped for a bit more bo diddley, less luther vandross, so called it a night.

here's hopes that the weather will hold for today. friends of mine live nearby, so there are plans to connect there and neighbors here at love, american style are having a brunch. (more on THAT later, lmao.) even if it rains, i can't think of a more perfect weekend in a very long time. perfect. even i like lowell. )

demitasse, part deux

burdened with an armload of stuff last night, i treated myself to an elevator ride, fearing a crash of glass otherwise. while waiting, a very tan, big buff gay man approached the bay. with mandatory calf and biceps tattoos, he was holding a tiny white poof of a thing. (which i suspect is a smaller hairier version of what he might be in the winter, although i'm guessing he has a tanning/waxing membership someplace, lol.) it was in his arms, lolling about, apparently unable to support its own head. it looked the oxy dudes i see on the "t".

"uh, is your dog ok?"
"yeah, i just took him out for a carry."
"i'm sorry, what?"
"i carry him when he needs to go."
"well, his paws are wonderfully clean."

we stepped into the car and he gently juggled the puppet, under and over. it expressed zero distress at being held stomach exposed, head hanging.

"he lets me do whatever i want. he loves it."
"i'm glad you two have such a good understanding."

even my cat doesn't remain that forever relaxed, knowing danger may lurk invisibly in the immediate future.

ew.

some of these neighbors? i really *don't* wanna go inside their condos, ya know?

just business

nothing personal.

between officially accepting my new job and giving notice to my employer in person was an annoying few days. i watched others going through the motions of their final shifts and listened to one of the chefs talk about being one interview away from jumping ship. i kept mum.

he thought we were meeting to test more drinks. (no more recipes for you! drink nazi in high gear.) i handed him the paper and he was visibly shocked. truly. (you thought i was happy here? now that's shocking. ) he asked the 2 most perfunctory of questions and indicated they'd be cutting me loose before the 2 weeks was up -- which i figured and hoped. remains to be seen how much money he'll try screwing me out of come next payday.

i had 2 last days, one in each store. lots of hugs and well wishes. there are some people there i do like. not enough to cocktail with in the future, but nice enough, ya know. i lost track of how many came to me privately and admitted loathing the place. why on earth do you feel so stuck? why do you fear change? the money is really not good enough, not for servers, not for the bar, never mind the slave wages paid to managers. on the real last day, his wife was in our office working on a big computer project for the new location, so she was on-premise for several hours. we have always gotten on quite well and she's very much the good cop to her husband's bad. she came and left via the back door and never said "boo" to me. he did not wish me good luck, nor did any of the other partners. not one of my salespeople expressed surprise.

i have never worked in a place where rumor and conjecture, the words of petty cats (that backstabbing trailer whore) and a willingness to throw others under the bus was such corporate m.o. my sense of discretion and personal responsibility was clearly misplaced and only served to shine a bad light in the eyes of the owner. how many times did he admit leaving my ass to hang in the wind? he once told me he likes to think of everybody as a family, not a company. modeled on whom? the borgias? jeebus.

handing over my keys and walking out into the warm july twilight, i was surprised by my lack of relief. granted, that proves little more than how emotionally disengaged i've been and for how long.

over a week to myself. time with the owner and friends, and to catch up on some culture vulture stuff i've missed. not wearing rcg's about the new gig, but am looking forward very much to a return to ultra-fine dining, incentives and being busy. my commute is killer short and they already perceive me as "added value" through my sommelier skills. (the cfo's words, not mine.)

fresh start. it feels good. yeah for me.

the end is nigh

on a cable channel i didn't know existed there is now a game show called "hurl". guys sit down and gorge by the stop-clock. they then force themselves to puke. whomever expels the least wins $1000. (does a hapless somebody measure the volume, or the circumference of the splat?)

maybe it's my own close and cozy relationship with purging that has made me go 'round the bend over this. i'm only ever nauseated when july 4th brings nathan's hot dog eating barftacular to tv. i literally cannot watch kobayashi and the rest of 'em defy nature. (finding his name through google brought me to the alarming existence of the "ifoce-- international federation of competitive eating." i'm familiar with the old-timey tradition of county fair pie-eating contests, but how did this come to be regarded as a sport? it's on espn ffs. much like elvis and rv's it's something so peculiarly american.)

i know boys think any bodily function expressed is hilarious, and clearly i'm not the demographic for this, lol. but, um, yuk, ok?

be my friend

kids say this, right? a plaintive call of defense, solidarity or community. a plea to not be alone, i think when we're kids, it's mostly weighted with *other*. "cuz i'm inviting you to my b-day pony race." "cuz i'm asking you to go to bermuda with my family." "plz sleep over?"

years ago, a married friend and i discussed (bemoaned) the difference in how grown-ups make friends. mostly? they don't. it's the polar opposite of playground p.c. they make the most of convenience. but this is not that.

in the last few days, i've had several invites to be a "facebook friend". from guys. ok, i don't have a facebook account. (aren't i too old?) how can i be your *friend* if i don't exist there? i have some friends and acquaintances who have hilarious *fake* profiles on myspace. (amy had to pull down the heiress one. way toooooooo bad, and the traffic nearly derailed everything, lol.) how can i get snared somewhere i don't go? do they import/export their mailbook?

i feel like the less places i *am*, the better i can retain my privacy. i don't want links and people poking. my life was derailed once by the net. i'm good. thanks.

certifiable

if there was a seal, stamp or badge, it now would be attached to me permanently.it's been a busy stressful week of wrangling and reconnoitering. lawyers, snoops, advocates, adversaries, notaries; city, state and federal flaks. the penny bone connected to the dollar bone kinda thing.

the pile of denial has become very small, and i can say, with (mostly?) confidence, i have a handle on it all.

today was to be a big brush-clearing day. just like shrub at the ranch. (no, wait, not like him. i was really doing stuff that mattered. this was NOT a photo op.) i put this with that, files, copies, records, letters, receipts, staples, paper clips, color-coded envelopes.

even though i had a late close, i made it very early out the house, trying to make enough time to truly conquer all before work.

it was steamy hothot. i had to carry lots of stuff.

first stop: the dreaded d.o.r. (cue monster mansion music...) wait in line. metal detector goes off. yeah, yeah, my underwire. "which way to the dor, please?" "it ain't here, lady." "where is it now?" "i have no idea." all the signs en espanol for immigration help should have clued me in, but i was still hopin'. ok. leave the line to call my tax lady. "lady, whaddya doin?" "calling my tax lady, since you can't help me." "you have no business here. get out." ffs. my tax dollars clearly aren't being spent on charm lessons. my tax lady is also surprised the dor is no longer there. she sent me there, ok? closest *might* be in chelsea, but it could be a stealth op. the dor never really ever wants to actually see you face-to-face. ever. i bet if you owed a million bucks and had it in a satchel of cash, plus a posse of ho's to *pay* the interest, they wouldn't tell you where they are.

ok, next stop -- a hop-skip. city hall, tax assessor. another metal detector, not as posh. (hey, statey vs. fed.) but it still rang out a danger-warning about my bra, although this guard just laughed and waved me through. another line upstairs in the mezzanine, but i'm feeling happy, cuz it's money back! woo-hoo. my turn. window. uh, um. oh my FUCKING GOD. i left the house without ANY of the paperwork i prepared. nothing. nada. it was all sitting on my dining table organized and utterly of no use.

i am senile. kaput.

no choice but to go back home, get the sheaf and address some of it in the limited remaining time. 90% got done, but by mail rather than in person, so the lack of expedition pisses me right off. (yeah, yeah, dangle this.) granted, i did get a patsy cline mini-serenade of "your cheatin' heart" (which i just love cuz my uncles and grandfather used to sing it; we will skip ALL the irony of those voices rising up from the jameson's on THAT one.) from bobby at my local p.o. (who is learning spanish! omg, the wonder. truly. and he was so nice and asking the locals to correct him and help him, lol. awesome!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

in my travels today, i found a little bit of money on the sidewalk. maybe it's time for me to buy a metal sweeper for my long slow days of idiocy at the beach.

no sex, please, we're bostonians

yesterday i picked up a local rag: "the sex issue." i wasn't expecting much, i mean, the thing is free in newsboxes all over, ya know?

they had anonymous profiles of 8 people, all in their late 20s. 6 hetero's, 2 homosexual men, (why no lesbian?) some single, some dating, some married. i know enough to take any kind of sexual self-reporting with a bag of salt, but the only two who copped to wanting more sex than they currently get was the married guy and the promiscuous gay. (by promiscuous i offer that he admitted to having had 50 sexual partners in his lifetime. we all know what that makes me, right? lol.) puh-leeze.

those with partners had sex about once a week, and all claimed that was the goldilocks "just right" amount. c'mon.

other than the one slutty gay, nobody admitted bedding more than 7 sex partners. nobody had had a 3-some. *wildest* sex fantasies amounted to fucking outside or being watched. yawn.

conclusion? either i am an insane debauched nymphomaniac who happens to be owned by a ravenous psycho sex fiend, OR, the entire lame-ass article was written by just one very unimaginative prude.