Big Top Dating.

So I haven't written for a few days, b/c I've been sleepy.  I got a massage & fell asleep on the table.  I woke myself up with a soft (yet unladylike) snore.

My primary news is that I went out with a guy last week who teaches Adult Circus Arts.  I did not know what this meant.  He explained that it involves everything from juggling to "clowning" to eating glass.

Let me say that again.  He eats glass.

Also, he eats fire.

He eats glass & fire for hire, at places like libraries.  You know, like when libraries have weekend events and all the kiddies gather 'round to watch the man eat glass.

I asked him if he'd ever experienced repercussions from eating glass.  "No," he said.  "Though you do have to be careful."

He did experience repercussions from eating fire.  Shattered a tooth.

My friend Paul asked me if there was circus music playing in the background when this guy & I went out.  Um, no--but I think that might've helped.

I just don't think I'm cut out to be a glass-eater's girlfriend.

Buh dum chhhh!

Next week: NY time.

Fighting mad.

So this post is gonna be a little angry.  If you can't handle that, you'd best stop.reading.now.

Whenever Shelley has bad news about Burt's health, she sends me an email w/ this exact header:

Update on Dad.

I know it's gonna be bad news, but I open the email anyway--b/c how can you not?  Today's email was about how Burt's chemo isn't working and how his tiredness & shortness of breath are symptoms of the cancer advancing.

Then, Shelley told me what to pray for.  Which would be common f*cking sense, by the way, if I in fact prayed.

But I don't.

I hope.  I hope fervently.  Rabidly.  But I don't pray anymore.

And I resent being told
a) to pray
b) what to pray for,

as if I couldn't f*cking figure it out.

Then she tells me that she & Burt are upset about his health news.

F*cking duh.

I don't want the email.  I don't want a text message.  I want a f*cking phone call.  If it's bad enough to ask an agnostic to pray for you, then it's bad enough for a f*cking phone call.

Or better yet, talk to me in person.  Or better-better yet, don't f*cking tell me at all.  Because I can see this shit happening in front of my own f*cking face.  

Next week: The mother of days.

I'm dating.

This post is dedicated to my friend Paul, who listens to all my bullish*t & declares that I should be writing about my love life.

I've had trepidations about doing so, but hell--if I didn't write about it this wk, I'd be writing about the museum I went to last Friday.  See?

So I had a blind date with a guy I'd only seen a photo of on the internets.

He looked young in his photo.

He looked younger in person.

When I saw him, it suddenly occurred to me that we hadn't gotten around to asking each other how old we were.

Because he was sitting at the bar, drinking an alcoholic beverage, I assumed he had to be at least 21, even though he looked SIXTEEN.  Fake ID??

For those of you who don't know me personally, I'm not sixteen.  I am not 21.  I am somewhat older than 21.  Be quiet.

Turns out dude was 27.  And much smarter than I: he described his job, which was some kind of solar engineer.  I heard something like: "We take the solar panels and devise a control panel and blahblahblahblah [I tuned out]"...

He comes from a very religious background, which I like--as everyone knows that religious (& ex-religious) people are the biggest deviants.  Ask anyone who went to youth group & learned how to zip multiple sleeping bags together simultaneously.  See?

So he was really nice, and yes, we're going out again.  Even though, as I told him, "I'm old enough to be your older sister."

Next week: Back to the mothership.

Youth groupie.

My sister is hosting our YOUTH GROUP REUNION at my parents' house this summer.  Everyone who attended the youth group in the 80s is invited.

I learned about it via a group email blast, along with the rest of the post-youth-group-geeks, as my sister and I don't talk much.

It's gonna be in August at Burt and Shelley's house, & I cannot f*cking wait.

What activities will my sister orchestrate?

Potential scenarios:

• Everyone stands in a circle, holds hands, & sings Kumbaya
• Everyone stands in a circle & reaffirms their commitment to our lord Jesus Christ, thereby becoming born again.  Again.  
• Everyone stands in a circle & talks about life's challenges 
• Everyone stands in a circle & talks about life's blessings, which are from God
• Everyone stands in a circle and thinks about how f*cking hot it is in El Cajon 

My role will most likely be "Shut up about your agnosticism & refill the punch," but I'm sure I'll receive more specific instructions once I get there.

Next week: The diRosa. 

Quickie, with shrimp.

So I haven't felt like doing much of anything lately.  And you know what that means.... quickie time.

Last night, I made scampi from a Jeff Smith cookbook:

I used to watch his show on PBS when I was a kid.  I loved him.

The recipe said it would serve 2-3 people.  I ate it all, a pound of shrimp.  With pasta.

Jeff Smith was sued for molesting his cooking assistants.  I was sort of heartbroken.  But good scampi.

Next week: No clue.

Oh brother.

Burt's chemo isn't working.  He has to switch to another one: thalidomide.

If you don't know about thalidomide, you can google it--because I'm not going to show photos of what it can do.

If a man takes thalidomide for chemotherapy, he has to sign releases saying he won't impregnate people.

So, Burt won't be able to impregnate Shelley (or anyone less strident) without getting into big trouble...or something.

Which is too bad.  I've always wanted a brother.

Next week: Out & about.

I am a fancy, fancy Princess.

I hired a cleaning lady.  You heard me.

It's spring, and that means one's living space has to be spic & span.  Or spicker & spanner.  & guess what?  It ain't gonna get that way from me.

So, because I am a Fancy Princess, I went on Yelp & hired someone to come over for 3 hours next Saturday.

One problem: my fancy-princess-apartment is quite small.  There might not be enough to do for the full 3 hours.

Maybe I shall make a paste of granulated sugar, canola oil, Abba Zaba, and parmesan and spread it over the apartment's surfaces?  Get my money's worth!

Next week: I trick myself.