We went to a wonderful wedding on Saturday. Heterosexually speaking. Just because my queer brothers and sisters cannot join me in same sex wedded bliss does not mean I am boycotting boy-girl unions when good friends are jumping the broom, and that was just the case here.
I’m sure you must have asked yourself occasionally “What is the high point of mrpeenee’s year?” Well, obviously, it is the annual visit of Diane von Austinburg, which this year starts right about, oh, now, in fact.
Diane: so smart, so charming. A fabulous cook, she and I enjoy working in the kitchen together (not easy with my Tyrannosaurus Chef attitude.) We both love thrift stores, but I am the merest piker compared to her laser-like ability to find gold amidst the dross. Her genius at Boggle is legendary, even if it does include cheerfully making up words, which she calls “pushing the envelope” and I call “cheating.” We also have a lengthy list of the best restaurants to hit. Chez Panisse, here we come.
So what’s up Easter day at Chez peenee? Luncheon for eleven; glazed ham, macaroni and cheese, asparagus, fruit salad and DEVILED EGGS. I love R Man’s deviled eggs. Lots of champagne and cosmos. Music by Celia Cruz. We’ll save ya an egg.
Three years ago, we hosted twelve people for Thanksgiving dinner. Much beloved, one and all, but dear god, what a butt load of work. We had to have an overflow table; in order to not make sure no one felt second best seated there, I made up place cards consisting of photos of famous (or infamous) women (or sort-of women,) had people draw names, and then match their draws with the pictures. It was a supremely Martha Stewart moment, even if I did have to explain who some of the gals were. My favorite was Zsa Zsa Gabor’s mug shot from when she slapped that cop, but I was plenty happy with drawing Divine.
Thank the goddess for Diane von Austinberg who was such a tremendous help in cooking, but I still turned into the Kitchen Nazi once again, barking orders and withering comments on my guests’ attempts at prep work. “GO. Drink on the goddam patio and get out of my fucking kitchen,” tends to be my byword in these situations. I had spread sheets breaking down the whole thing into 15 minute increments for three days. R Man and those other unfortunates who get in my way think that because I am a flipped out, shrieking queen, I am not enjoying myself. Nothing could be further from the truth. I revel in the challenge and I triumph, bitches. Triumph. As I tuck into my version of my granny’s cornbread dressing, I think “Yes, I did it. I am invincible.”
This year, swinging to the complete polar opposite, we will be joining two of our friends at the Hotel W for a massive lunch and then we will come home for a nap. I plan on reveling in that, too.
I’m so very, very sorry to hear about the looming demise of the blog Fabulon. Its creator, Thombeau, has always delivered the most astonishingly clever and charming collection of images, each one striking, or witty, or beautiful. But it was mixture of all the divergent styles that created something brilliant that was greater than the sum of their parts.
And what great parts. Thombeau’s tastes (or lack thereof) synched with mine, and all the rest of his fan base. He would come up with some mid-century interior in tones of pink, aqua, and rust and announce “I could live here’ and I would think “Not if I get there first, bitch.”
I think we all understand that so many posts every day that are that good is asking a tremendous lot from someone, but especially for free. I love it and appreciate all the hard work. Thanks sweetie. And now for a word from our sponsors. Shoes.
Oh, my little chickens, what excitement around our normally sleepy little corner. Yesterday was the anniversary of R Man dropping by his cardiologist and winding up being whisked into the hospital for open heart surgery. Let that be a lesson to you, duckies. It was also our 27th anniversary of meeting in a sleazy New Orleans bar. My, my, my. Who could have known pulling my pants down in the backroom of Jewel’s would be such a brilliant first step.
And then today is R Man’s birthday; happy, happy sweetie. His 60th, in fact. To start the celebrations of such a momentous one, we had lunch at the Zuni Cafe yesterday with his best friends – delicious, amusing and LONG on very hard seats. My butt is still sore, but it was a wonderful time.
I gave R several CDs of Renaissance music including a piece written for some long gone Pope which was only performed for his Holiness, alone, all by his bad self, on Easter by a choir of men and pussyboys. God only knows what went on after that, although I am perfectly wiling to speculate.
Tomorrow, of course, is our date with destiny when the beautiful and lovely David comes over to cut down the tree in our backyard. To finish the birthday celebration, we’re having hot dogs for lunch. We have been very virtuous ever since the silly old cardiac incident by not eating fat or processed meats, which way leave out hot dogs, so this exception is a big deal. I also realize from sad experience with you guys and your lacivous comments whenever poor little Dave is mentioned, that combining him and wieners in one post is asking for it. Consider this a present to you all, you vulgar dogs you. Knock yourselves out. Happy birthday.
A most amusing lunch at the Zuni Cafe today with our friends Anne and Mike to celebrate Anne’s new position as R Man’s boss and also to mourn the loss of her dachsund, or rather, one of them. Anne enjoys packs of wiener dogs and as a model of saintliness, always picks the most ancient and decrepit ones at the shelter or rescue. Lucy died on Thursday and they got a new one yesterday at SPCA, where they know her by name and welcome her intervention with problem cases.
As we were toasting the new job and dog, and Mike’s sort of new job, and our wedding license, I insisted on a toast for me not having slapped anyone at work this week. I was just making a joke, I don’t know why they all agreed wholeheartedly on that being such an accomplishment for me. I got to start hanging around with people who know me less well.
Yesterday was the anniversary of my blog, Happy Birthday little blog! I only started this because I wanted to join in the snark festival of commenting on Fabulon but once I got going, I found out I liked it. I had always wanted to be a writer but been held back by a) a lack of talent and b) a reluctance to deal with publishers. Blogging totally eliminates b). I don’t have to look for anyone’s permission or approval, all I have to do is post pictures of semi-naked muscley boys and I’m a star.
What I hadn’t counted on was making connections here. Honestly, I hadn’t counted on anyone actually reading this, period, so to have people respond to what I write is still thrilling to me. When R Man went in the hospital for heart surgery, the support I got from you guys was the most important comfort I had; I still appreciate it. In an odd way, I feel like many of the people I know solely through their comments here and their own blogs are friends. So happy b-day to us all, love ya, mean it.
We went out to dinner last night with our friends Karen and Randy and Isaac to celebrate Randy’s birthday (editor’s note: Happy Birthday old thing) at the fabulous, fabulous Range. Comfortable with personable waiters and delicious food, what could be better? Such an amusing evening always brings up the question Why don’t we do this more often? Why is so hard to make time to get together with the people you love? Karen and Randy are both ebullient and charming and love to tell very funny stories and Isaac is so poised it’s hard to remember he’s only 13. So why do we only see them once or twice a year? I vividly remember when Karen was pregnant with Isaac (a tough time. Oooee. It makes me glad to be a gay boy with the plumbing I have) and now we’re reminiscing about his Bar Mitzvah. Still, I refuse to make promises to be better about this since I know it would just be a lie. Indolence may be a vice, but I have more interesting ones to worry about first.