mayhap I’ll simply sit demurely under the ceiling fan for a while

At the end of last summer, when the weight loss was really starting to show and my confidence returned ever so tentatively, I decided to maybe have sex again. It’d been two years; the Zoloft killed my interest and then The Weight killed my charm and yeah. Oh and have sex I did! I had good sex, I had great sex, I had terrible fumbling-around-like-16-year-olds sex, I had anal sex, I had group sex, I had girl sex, and every once in while I had sweet sex, the kind where you hold hands the whole time and try not to cry from the comfort and nearness of it all. I fucked friends, strangers, tall guys, short guys, skinny guys, fat guys, hot guys, ugly guys, a coupla girls and it was fun and all but...

Now I think I might be off sex.

You know when you just get the feeling you’re working out of a phase? No? Well, maybe I’ve spent more time in therapy than you (and God bless you for it.) but once in a while I can put myself at arm’s length and see the bigger picture of what’s going on. And this is one of those times.

A couple of months after I began my quest to bang the everliving shit out of the world, one of my dearest friends told me a mutual friend had expressed her concern for me. The friend was worried I was doing all of this to “fill a void.” My response was, “yes, it is to fill a void. THE VOID IN MY VAGINA.”

Sorry, but you try going two years without sex and see if you don’t feel the same way.

But now? Eh. I’d rather just hang with my friends and talk about Batman. I have more fun with my gays than I do with the straights. I want to do things, to learn things, to live in the days instead of the nights. And maybe it’s because I’m a little bit in like, or maybe it’s because I subconsciously put myself in situations that just aren’t okay with me, but yeah. I think I’m done.

With that said… I could totally end up out Friday night, crossing and uncrossing my legs in that way that I have and this could all be forgotten by Meet the Press.

***

turkey chili for the freezer, or: I’m a working woman again

I’m headed back to full-time, office-based work on Wednesday, which means no more preparing meals at my leisure for Matt and I to enjoy. I’m looking forward to getting out of the house, having less time for the Internet and all its bullshit (and so much of it is such utter bullshit, really) but I want to make sure we don’t descend into a life of microwave meals or pasta dinners.

Today I made a big batch of red sauce for the freezer, just to have on hand, as well as huge pot of turkey chili. I’m planning to spend some time tonight looking for other good freezable recipes that I can put together tomorrow and over the weekend so we’ll have a nice stash of homecooked dinners to draw upon once I’m back to the commuting life.

I modified a recipe I found online to suit our tastes, but deliberately made it on the mild side so we can season it to our liking when we defrost it.

Turkey Chili

what you need:

2 T olive oil
1 green bell pepper, diced
1 yellow onion, diced
~1½ lbs ground turkey
1 t garlic salt
2 t chili powder
1 t ground cumin
½ t black pepper
1 15 oz can kidney beans
1 15 oz can pinto beans
1 can tomato paste
1 14 oz can diced tomatoes
7-14 oz water

what you do:

1. Heat oil in a large pot over medium heat, add onions and peppers and cook until onions are translucent, about 5 minutes
2. Add ground turkey and cook until no longer pink, about 5-7 minutes
3. Stir in garlic salt, chili powder, cumin and pepper, reduce heat slightly and allow to simmer about 2-3 minutes
4. Stir in beans, tomato paste, diced tomatoes and water
5. Simmer 20-30 minutes until thickened

***

we were supposed to stay home…

…but sometimes life takes over and you find yourself taking your roommate for his first hot dog and papaya drink at Gray’s in the Village, plastered out of your mind at 12:30 in the morning.

It started out so well: We rose early, had coffee, showered, walked to Bay Ridge to get me going on my new lower body routine – and ooooh Bosu squats, I love you so but you are clearly the handmaiden of the devil – and came home for an afternoon of frolicking in the pools and drinking bloodies (secret ingredient: A1).

Our quiet day was interrupted by an old friend of Matt’s, who found him on Manhunt – WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?! – and invited him to a cookout taking place a few hours later. I told him to go, but he hedged, so I asked if he wanted me to go with him. He did. And am I ever glad because his friend? Owns a house upstate with – ready? You should sit. No really, sit for this – a “lipstick lesbian dominatrix.” Her name is Tia.

I plan to spend the day writing Jolie hearts Tia in pink puffy paint on my Keds.

So we went to the cookout, which was really fun and random and involved conversations about the art scene in Germany and Turkey, Hell’s Angels and the New York public pool experience. I was so happy to not be with bloggers or media types or anyone who uses the word “Lehman” in casual conversation. Bleh. At about 9:30 we figured we’d drank enough of the magnum of Chardonnay we brought our host and decided to head into the city, for no reason other than it’s there and why the hell not. Matt threatened to take me to a leather bar, but on the walk there he suddenly chirped, “Do you want to go to The Stonewall Inn? I’ve never been.” “Me neither, let’s do it.”

Well there was a reason we’d never been, apparently our gays already know what we quickly found it – it’s a tourist bar. We stayed for a drink then wandered toward 8th Street, where upon spying Gray’s Papaya Matt announced, with nary an ounce of shame, that he’d never had a papaya dog.

Thank God he has me, right?

We got a dog, went to another bar, had the worst Manhattan I’ve ever had, left and went back for another dog. And the second time around I insisted he get a papaya drink too, that he should just TRUST ME ON THIS.

He’ll never doubt again.

We got on the subway, where we shared my earbuds and absolutely rocked out to Stevie and Britney and Madonna and MY GOD WE ARE SO GAY. OH OH OH AND! I totally forgot about this – on our way to Stonewall two cute guys stopped us to ask where they could find bars that weren’t gay bars. Matt directed them and then goes, “Yeah and? We’re gay.” And we laughed and laughed and laughed.

We got home, drank more bourbon because God knows we needed it and had a blues and soul dance party.

It was totally the best night ever.

***

friday night onion pie

Most onion pies have an egg base; I won’t touch anything that tastes remotely eggy and so years ago I created a recipe based on an onion dip that had no eggs. I haven’t made it in years, and I couldn’t find the original recipe so I winged it last night and Lo! It came out beautifully! Matt had seconds. And thirds.

I’ve been a little nutty lately – no, actually I’ve been bowled over by a bout of intense anxiety - but now that I’m calmer I can see that, while much of what caused it is beyond my control, part of it is that I’d not kept up with the things I need in my life to stay stable and healthy: I’ve been slacking at the gym, not cooking, not having enough quiet nights in my home with books and needlepoint and movies I’ve seen a hundred times. This weekend is all about centering myself again, and so last night Matt and I watched Heathers and enjoyed this delicious onion pie with a green salad.

It was wonderful, a perfect Friday night. And so I share the recipe with you for those nights when you need to take a moment to yourself.

What you need:

1 pie crust
3 vidalia onions, sliced
3 T olive oil
8 oz. reduced fat sour cream
4 oz. Smart Balance mayo
½ C shredded cheese of your choice
1/3 C bacon bits
Tabasco to taste (I used about 1 T)

What you do:

1. Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat; add onions and sauté until caramelized, stirring frequently, about 30-45 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside until cool.
2. Preheat oven to 350 degrees
3. In a large bowl stir together sour cream, mayo, cheese, and bacon bits.
4. Fold in onions and Tabasco, pour into pie shell
5. Bake for 30-45 minutes or until filling is set and pie crust is brown
6. Allow pie to cool before cutting; serve with a green salad

***

come join me!

Superfriends! Can I just tell you that I LOVE my tumblelog so, so, so much? I've been tumbling up a storm over there, so please join me, add it to your readers, follow me, whatever!

YAY!

***

if you hear screaming coming from brooklyn this weekend

Tomorrow I’m moving The Marquis to New York.

It’s okay, you can laugh. I know - objects are sure to be hurled.

We’re loading up the U-Haul tomorrow morning and heading down together, as I was planning on being there this weekend anyway for another Gawker Cotillion. So I’ll get him all moved in Friday before I don my new frock and head out, and then Saturday night we’ll be together in his new home, rolling around on the hideous forest green wall-to-wall in the living room since he has only bedroom furniture for the time being.

He called this morning, upset over an unpleasant parting conversation with one of his closest friends here in Boston. As he was telling me what happened my little fists curled, my teeth started grinding and I really had to work to remain calm because NO NO NO YOU CAN FUCK WITH ME (but not as much anymore!) BUT YOU CANNOT HURT MY FRIEND WITHOUT RISKING THE REMOVAL OF TESTICLES BY BLAHNIK MARYJANES.

So I’m in high flutter mode, all Mom’d up and protective of my puppy, which I guess is good because right now he needs me. And I’m happy to be there for him, even though I much prefer it when he’s his usual lacks all emotion self and I’m the one blowing out over a cross look. It would be a lot better if this trip were more lighthearted, if I wasn’t so worried about how vulnerable he is because, well? Our relationship is complicated and FUCK ME WITH THE IMPOSSIBLE FEELINGS. Shit.

Here’s to hoping he drinks himself straight again and decides to declare his unending love for me.

***

okay fine, maybe I do want to make him feel as bad as he made me feel

I was told recently that someone I cared enough about, someone who I considered a friend, spoke badly about me behind my back.

We were out together with a group of people and when I excused myself to smoke a hundred cigarettes, as I do, he said things that were designed to make me look foolish. He succeeded only in making himself look like a jerk - but the intent of it, the disloyalty, the lack of kindness stunned me. I was angry and embarrassed and more wounded by the disrespect he showed me than I should have been; I wanted to rage at him, to insult him, to tell him all the mean things I thought about him but never, ever would’ve said because hurting people hurts me so much. But I knew that ultimately doing that would make me feel worse, like Mom always told you.

So I let it go, and instead of sending a cruel email or writing a bitchy blog post I turned the other cheek.

And damn it all to hell if my reward for such Jesus-y behavior wasn’t that it STUCK IN MY CRAW AND NOW I’M CONSUMED WITH HATRED AND A DESIRE FOR REVENGE.

I’m not a violent person, but I swear to Peter and Paul and the rest of the Saints that I want to knock this person’s teeth out. So umm, could someone teach me how to throw a punch?

***