Left to my own devices....

It was pouring rain in Los Angeles over the last two months. This is big out here as we have no other noticeable weather phenomena for the other ten in Southern California. We have varying degrees of temperature and separation from Kevin Bacon but the rest of the time is spent with out incident. I don't mean to ignore mudslides, Santa Ana winds and wildfires but we don't have the show the rest of the nation gets treated to daily. We have to take what we get. And we really don't take it too well.

This is the land of the pampered where the dog groomer will come to your doghouse, the spray tanner will come to you in this land of sunshine. You can find sushi in kosher grocery stores, and a valet attendant for ANYTHING. People are spoiled out here and when thrown a curve, they swerve. Rain will for all intensive purposes, shut the state down. A brief shower can cause freeway wide nightmares and lengthy showers will clear Trader Joans of milk, flat bread, tofu and cheap wine. Days of rain may as well be an extra horseman for the Apocalypse. Appointments will be late, sinkholes will swallow firetrucks and the news will have reason for program interruptions. This is great for any fallen congressman with a scandal or war far away from here, the rain will take full attention. It even has taken away from Super Bowl joire as people will now have to plan out the route to the party and scavenging for supplies for the buffet. So much extra work to do! Somebody post for assistants for rain survival on Craigslist.

Being from New England the rain doesn't bother me. Having had a 4 x 4 pickup for years, nothing was ever out of reach due to a storm. Me and the post office fear no rain sleet snow or dark of night and no evil shall escape my sight.. (is this the Green Lantern Oath? I get confused) I will not be deterred when I want Red Snapper or Red Stripe. I'm less fool hardy now driving a smaller car and keep that in mind as I charge potholes and swerve wreckage. I'm less fool hardy as I am forty and well aware of my surroundings. I'm less fool hardy as I am a damn fool. Superbowl Sunday necessitated something from the store and so Mick and I embarked on a mission of errands and then to the grocery. We had a plan and confidence. Out in to the great wet yonder.

We dodged the river running south on Coldwater, the cove that was happening at Riverside. We admired the torrent of the LA River and the speed that aqua duct carries it's load. We avoided incident and pulled into the market's parkette. On my 40th BDay Xtravaganza Sista Sal and I ventured to Target to buy 'Mamma Mia' and have an old fashioned night at home consisting of movie, wine and pasta. At Target I found the largest, switch activated rainbowy umbrella ever known to man or 'Mo'. This thing was so gay it was floating. It would transform the average human into a Fairy Poppins. This thing made 'Yes On Prop 8' r's run for fear of being clubbed. A club-a-dub-dub, I dubbed it the Big Gay Umbrella. Of course it was at home. Having left the BGU at the apartment I needed something to keep the polluted water falling from the sky off my pours. I don the green grocery bag on my head as a rain bonnet to charge to Good Rafaels. There are varying degrees of our grocery chain out here; Bad, Good, Average, Ghetto and Rock n Roll, but this is topic for another blog, another time. I make caricatures out of the bag to amuse Mick, and passers by. I pull off the bag to shop, he parts to retrieve his part of the List. We are to rendezvous at the Fish Counter at 0-Wheneverhundred hours.

I charge the aisles with my Ma's shopping stride. Swift, alert and effective I navigate the aisles, wishing fellow shoppers a "Good Day" or nodding to suggest, "The rain will leave soon, chin up". I do this with my eyebrows as well. I bob. I weave. I collect. My basket mostly full I find the Seafood Counter and recognize the attendant from Average Rafaels working today. The ladies in front of the case are displeased with my bravado and greeting. They shirk from my swagger, avoid eye contact and jockey their carts around the shiny glass display of fish. Methinks them a bit too.....under the weather, and continue my conversation letting him know he was missed at his regular store, and how the kids replacing him could care less. He smiled, went back to work thanking me. I queried where was the happy lady that was denied retirement from the company as she was such an asset that usually worked here. He quickly met these and all other small talk questions that he normally would feed off. I wondered if he was particularly busy today, I mean it was Super Bowl. But there were only three others at the counter waiting, each looking downward or away dreamily. My buddy didn't feel up to chat. No matter. We'll be home soon, dinner cooking, feet up, dry and clean.

"There you are." Mick bounds up to me at counter. "Look at me," he says. I turn my head saying, "Why?" His eyes go BIG onto my forehead, reaches and removes a plastic bread tie that had been pinched onto my forehead like a fawn's horn. Like a skate punks' hoop piercing their eyebrow this small flat pack-manager was adorning my countenance. What am I a N'avi warrior from Avatar? I had just moved through the store with similar energy and will admit that the image had crossed my mind. I had....just...moved...through...the...entire....store....with...this....on....my....head. The realization sets my internal bread bag spinning open. My surprise spills out like a waterfall. I grab my order, thank my friend and hurry to the checkout. Damn this Good Rafaels doesn't have the self-check out like Mystery Rafaels, Or Average. I'll have to see more of my watchers in line. Fie to me. Mickey is hilarious at this point and can't even look at me. If this was something I'd been unaccustomed to I might have been offended. He can't even breathe and asks, what happens when I'm by my self out in the big world. Do I have spatulas in my pockets, slippers on my feet or stickers on my elbows. He searches me for a bar code. I have one code in a bar, tip well.

The humor claims me, like a suitcase off a conveyor belt (y'know that stuff is tagged too!) We exit and are the object of stares, the laughter cited this time. I am a damn fool. I am the woman in the restaurant with the toilet paper out the back of her skirt like a tail. I am the elderly driver with their raincoat belt hanging out the car door. Hold the bread tag. Actually, I am this fool. This past Thanksgiving I trod Bad Rafaels with my bird going aisle to aisle before checkout. All the while the loudspeaker asking the patrons to "please check their carts as something is leaking from their purchases. The loudspeaker repeated this instruction several times. Low and behold I found my turkey to be......dripping....when I lift it up at checkout and the clerk looked over her glasses just enough to intimate, "asshole. It was you." I am Mr Magoo in training. I can even do Jim Bacchus voice for the cartoon if we want to remake the cartoon. Cast me. I'm crabby. Left to my own devices, I seem to be the stuff of humor, I'd say butt of jokes but as a gay man this is misleading. I am hysterical en route to the car, laughing so hard the rain isn't even noticed. In the car, we both cry and I look at the mirror making sure I'm not permanently scarred. I need to share this with another individual who is capable of such luck. Someone who will sympathize. Someone that more than likely will start mailing me one of these a month for the rest of my life. I pick up the cell phone and call Sista Sal. "Sal, you are not going to believe what I just did." I really do set myself up for these things (success).

(la rain pix courtesy of treehugger)

(breadtag pix courtesy spiderhoo)

Lights! Camera! Action!

I got a gig. And it may be in front of a camera. I just don't know yet. About the camera.

See I got this gig doing part time personal chef for a family here in the Valley. They live in a beautiful home, atop a hill, with a foyer larger than my apartment. Marble, crystal and tassels as far as they eye can see. They have a sunken living room larger than an Olympic sized swimming pool. Cars, pools, cabanas and staff. Landscapers, assistants, contractors, messengers, housekeepers abound at different times a week. And then there's me. The Cook.

"Who'd want to kill the cook??"

"Dinner wasn't that bad." - Clue, the movie.

Crazy big home with a lot going on. And it's not that I think the family is secretive or weird, it's just that since the property is sooo large scale and has many people involved that they can't not have, a Nannycam.

Nannycam's exist for very good reasons. One, they make for great TV. Two, you can't put a price on the safety of your family. And three, you can't put a price on the safety of your family. The children are older so there is no nanny. There is plenty of cat food and I have yet to see a cat. My point? This place is BIG. So there just has to be a camera involved in the security. I've seen the keypads all around entrances and emergi-lighting as well. There are some small stickers on the window and little signage on the lawn. I can see that the place is monitored inside and out. There must be a camera in the kitchen. Why forsake this one room? Secure and safe is how it all feels I'll bet the reason is because there's a little something hidden in an alcove.

I'm not paranoid, I'm just silly. I have no issue in being watched, the family deserves every ounce of security and confidence that they want. They should have that. And I actually rather enjoy being watched, it's the performer in me. My quandry is that I didn't really realize it was happening until I was just about done for the day. And again, I'm just silly. I started the day with an inventory of every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen. No stone (or pizza stone) unturned, I was determined to find the pots and pans, the knives, the trash, the cat, the platters, the containers, the bathroom, the maid, etc etc. It's always good to figure this out yourselves as when catering so you can build your own rhythm as your work the site. I'm much better self taught than a stranger explaining it to me. ADD is soaring........what was I saying? Oh yes, nannycam. I cased the kitch. I got the lay of the land down and began cooking.

I wasn't sure on timing for the job so I had prepared much of the meals the night before. I did this in preparation for the prophecy......no, I did this to give myself an edge. I had my two dinners, lunches, soups and snacks done in no time. But how it must have looked was comedy. Now I'm usually pretty easy going, but I hadn't gotten the 'hall pass' to use the toilet yet, and this may seem silly but consider the author. People are odd when it comes to natural functions and I wasn't sure where the staff 'hung out' (lol). Until I get the golden word, I don't like to assume. This is odd of me but, whatever. I'm doing the pee pee dance to the easy listening radio station that they had playing on the kitchen sound system. I'm wiggling, I'm giggling, I'm even touching myself to keep it comfy not to stimulate. I'm pogo-ing on one foot by the end. All the while I'm eyeing the ten foot door suspiciously closed and so close to my view. Not in the kitchen proper I didn't feet it covered in pre shift casing of the joint. I'm sure my heightened state of awareness stemmed from this as well. Would the Nannycam show my dancing as fairly and honestly as it would on an episode of 'So You Think You Can Dance'?

I was wrapping up the food and cleaning my station when it came to me that it would be cute to toss the bottoms of some baby bok choy into the trash from across the room. I never considered a career in the NBA and it was always an effort for Sista Sal to get me to come outside and play 'Horse'. For me I'm happier buying baskets than making them. Ah well. First one was so close but hit the side of the pull out bin and to my delight, exploded. Cabbage shrapnel made for a vegetable firework. I was hooked. The next went in, nothing but nylon. The next missed to the side (got cocky). The next missed to the other side, and I searched my board for more to toss. "Such a child..." I scolded myself. As I journeyed around the marble island to the basket I thought it would be hilarious if they came into the kitchen at this time, or even if they were to have seen it some how. Getting closer to realization....

Food was done and put away. Notes for reheating and ingredients were written and left for review. Bags were packed and ready as Poppins' were, by the door. The kitchen restored to previous order with no one the wiser. Or so I thought. I called for the clients, up the kitchen stair well they'd used earlier to no response. There was a lot of noise from the landscapers installing I don't know, a rainforest's maybe. I went to the foyer and did the same call but louder. No answer. I was so not going up the stairs, any of them and I so was not going to play this game. I did a big, "Helllllooooooo, (clients names). Time to say Goooood Daaaayyyyy". And they came forth, a-giggle from the call and from the flurry of activity on their account. We were to rendezvous back at Point A. It hit me as I saw the ginormous flat screen, their technology was large and set away. It was built in to an immense wall. The stereo likewise was sequestered and I remembered I didn't actually know where the music in the kitchen was coming from. It all seems so, hidden so, sly. Moment Of Realization. I've been a jackass for the last three hours and they probably saw the whole thing. This amused them to the point of giggles for our first (I hoped) Good bye. I knew that my behavior was for the most part fine, but I wondered if I had picked my nose, scratched my ass or tasted with the same fork twice. Why it hadn't crossed my pee-brain sooner was beyond me, and driving me to hilarity. I put on my game face and went to the kitchen.

All was cool, the clients hungry and me out the door. Our goodbyes were pleasant and my stamp on the kitchen, unmarred. They looked forward to the next episode with smiles and sent me on my way without an ill word. I laughed all the way through the gates and down the hills. I knew they would eat well but didn't count on a show included in my fee. How I get through life should be studied. This was a Lucy episode. Next weeks menu............open faced sandwiches and peasant under glass.

Monkey Monkey.

Spring. A head.

I love this time of year for so many reasons. First, the desolation of a winter's economy is fading for the restaurant business. Soon Angelenos will flock their intrepid way to the beach to come and sully the view. But that's okay as long as they help restart the local economy. This year was rough but we're all hopeful for a positive change. We can already see signs of Spring in the traffic picking up on the PCH, which is inevitably followed by the sounds of sirens. Slow down people!!!

I love the fact that I can go back to shorts. Yes I know this pisses off the east coast readers. I am most happy when I have the least amount of clothing on. Shorts and a watch are my standard apparel for my day to day activities. I just need to reinstall some pigment in to me so I stop looking like old hazelnut coffee mate nondairy creamer. I was born shirtless and so love getting back to my roots.

I love daffodils. They are all over the Trader Joe's right now and just bring a necessary smack of color to the room or hat or dashboard.

"One needs a splash of color" JBT ( we miss you Doc)

The yellow reminds me of butter and butter is good on everything
except faces. I'll tell you the "Butterface story" another time. It's a
good-un.
I lived in a tiny little cottage on the CT shoreline with Sista
Sal, a cat named
Terra (the terrible) and two different golden retrievers;
one Molly one Malone.
While I was in and out of the cottage to go to acting
gigs, I would leave my
imprint on Sally's yard with perennial gardens,
flower baskets, an ever
increasing vegetable garden and flowering bulbs. I
love working in the yard and
put in sooo many daffodils. They naturalize
which is a horticulturists
expression for spread like a bitch. Each
year the cute bundles became
awkward random patches of yellow. I just wanted
to turn the front lawn into a
bright yellow quilt but evidently the Filling
in Process was too much for the
neighbors. They wanted that lawn mowed and
the bohemian headdress put away for
another year. Philistines.

I lost control of the quote function and I'm not sure how to get back. Such a moron. I especially love that spring is marked with nice weather, pretty flowers and new produce. Three cheers for asparagus, the veg that keeps on giving. Pretty to look at, delicious to eat and a reminder when you pee that it's been around. Ain't it funny how quickly that works?

Spring ahead and enjoy what the season will bring you. Life begins anew and the lessons learned in the winter will guide us to the next. Life is that circle they tell us about never ending or beginning. Hey Doc, we miss you. Happy belated bday!

I love this.

Having a dull day? Is your Sebbeth in need of a jumpstart? Well search no more, dear heart. Pul down the latte and read a bit further. Here's a little diversion for your day, brought to us by little David Hauslaib's Queerty. He's a bud who's Aunty, Sista Sal and I have miles with. Literally. Sista Sal and I used to regularly run a roadrace in Manchester CT on Thanksgiving. We came to one race late and Aunty Maryellen had gone off without us. While hoping to cheer her on at he last mile, she came up from nowhere to scare us with a "Why Aren't You Running?????" Hee Hee. I used to amaze David's father with finishing the race and lighting up a cigarette. He thought I was out of my head, but let me tell you, people got the hell out of your way in the chutes when you just wanted to be done and out of there. "I'm from Phillip Morris, what's it to you?"

This is perfect for the man that has everything. Have them do a little click on this link. I worship this because it speaks to the silly in me, in us all. Who doesn't like to cruise with buddies and enjoy a tasty beverage? It's as american as suing someone. This will make you smile. Let the image warm up to it's full speed before you jump screen.

http://www.queerty.com/this-is-crazy-20080917/

Weekend starts now.

The holiday weekend marks the end of the furious ten weeks that are the summer. It's in this time that servers everywhere view the underbelly of society and bring them bread. When we all finally hit Labor Day weekend that we realize that we've also hit the wall. All patience gone, all senses on hyper alert food servers everywhere can snap at any given moment. I hope everyone takes a rest from the labors of the day and catches their breath.

Sista Sal and I used to have the nicest little barbecue as the summer people would load up their suv's with their kids/dogs/elderly to make their way back to NY NJ or whatever part of Hell they came from. The barbecue would include happy hour on the front lawn. We would sit in our folding chairs and toast the departure of the demons that tied up our roads, polluted our waters and drove up all the prices relevant to cost of living on the CT Shoreline (Yankee Key West) There would be a sigh of relief as we made it through another summer, grateful for fortunes made, at what price our sanity and immortal souls. Have a cold one America.

Indy.

On the fourth of July my Sista Sal and I have a tradition dating back to when we lived in a tiny little cottage near the shore in Yankee Key West. We have many strange rituals but this particular one is rather handy. The fourth of July is reserved for cleaning out the fridge. It seems random but if you've read any of my freaking posts you'll understand that I am the original Random House. I'm Random McNally when you try to 'go about it.' Get it, 'go about it'? Yeah, I know, "blah blah blah." So clean the fridge it is.

It starts around 11:30 am, so that the midday heat raises the stakes of your food going bad. Also the time guarantees you a good sweat for the task. Now the freezer is available to be part of the day, but not necessary. I only recommend doing it if you have extra hands. Connected to extra bodies to assist you I mean, not in the Jeffrey Dahmer, "Oh look the extra hands are on the Lean Cuisines" way. Onward. All old and unrecognizable products are trashed and the offending bag is brought immediately to the can in the yard, or dumpster be that as it may. No reason to gag any more than is absolutely necessary, I've always sad. Then the condiments are reorganized on the floor to make for a speedy transition back to their homes. They also make for a fun game of bowling with your pets. All the shelves are wiped and the remove able shelves scrubbed and dried. A good dose of dish detergent is recommended as Windex will only provide "The Illusion Of Clean" and a scent that will haunt your fridge like an angry pimp. Dive into the meat drawer and scrape up unused cheese products and or pate residuals. This can also provide a nice snack for some unsuspecting visitor who pops in for the holiday. Won't you just smile? After the meat drawer remove the produce bins and have at them. They endure the most abuse catching all the rotting fruit and veggies, kind of like Deena MacGreevy. Scrub and Purge, scrub and purge.

At this time send someone for sandwiches, sushi and a new Arm and Hammer Baking Soda for the fridge. Drink some of the odd beers that have collected themselves on your door. Nothing speaks the spirit of the holiday as a toast with Mexican, Japanese and Dutch beers. You should be pretty sweaty by now and the fridge is ready to restore. Replace all the drawers and shelves and wipe finger prints with semi damp cloth. Replace all food to the fridge interior, checking as you go to see if there's been spoilage. This is the added risk that makes the tradition so lively. Replace all condiments and mop floor from all the condensation. Do it with an attitude of looking down at the mess with righteous indignation, sort of a condescension to condensation. Yuk Yuk.

All in all the task should take an hour and will bring the family together. Even if you are on separate coasts, traditions can thrive and memories stay alive. My fridge is clean and my heart is too. I hope you can take from these experiences and raise your own hygiene.

Who are you?

The obsession with 'Sex And The City' is rearing it's designer head again. The movie version opens this weekend and it will be interesting to see the demographics of who'll be attending. Women and gay men alike have such affinity with the show that they love to figure out which they are; Miranda, Charlotte, Samantha, or Carrie. It's the next version of 'Six Degrees Of Kevin Bacon'. Parlor games for the bored at work. I myself find me a Carrie wanting to be Samantha. Let me tell you a story. (photo's from socialitlife)

To attend this wedding this weekend has been an expense and a half, cash and energy. In the caribbean, I would have to look amazing and needed perfect shoes to compliment the seersucker (Sista Sal keeps saying c*cksucker, not completely wrong) blue and white number I have. I found them in DSW, little woven leather slip ons, brown. Size 10. Damn. Off on the broom I blow to the next two DSW's and a mall, nada. What to do? Back to the first store, stuff my 11's into them to guage the pain. As long as I limit my flailing around the dancefloor to a minimum I shouldn't suffer to badly, they just looked too good. Back on the broom. Home. Workout. Still in the gym shorts, shirtless with the mp3, thin socks and the new shoes I go to the road to scrape the soles so I don't end up ass over tea kettle. People driving by were quite perplexed, as was my buddy Steve who I called to tell me how 'gay' this scenario. We do this often, he's in Indiana and up to his chin in corn. Steve was especially amused with me not hanging up correctly and him getting two more minutes of me shuffling my feet. I am Carrie Bradshaw. At least I was in her shoes.

Don't forget your 'Rabbit Rabbits' sunday morning. I imagine when I wake up after the wedding my first word is going to be 'Owww'.

One Brave Chick.

One Brave Chick Launches Today!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm not biased or anything. My objectivity is legendary. I think with the juris prudence of Supreme Court justice. You can count on my honest and earnest opinion in any circumstance. So in that voice I say that my Sista Sal cannot do any wrong in my eyes. It's a simple fact that people who want to be near me need to accept and encourage. Without prejudice I'm here to introduce you to the launch of her new company, new venture and new life;

One Brave Chick

I'm a sarcastic, sardonic, social individual who can't help but to tip his hat to other individuals that prove themselves extraordinary. In a country where everyone voice matters, the individuals can some time get lost in a crowd. Shame about the herds, the mentality can be stifling and the abuse suffered can trample bright spirits. When one person is able to put up there head and say, "Is that all you got, I'm still here..." and stand the ground under their feet I applaud them. It inspires me. It chills me. It gets me back out there.


One Brave Chick was hatched in September of 2007 and launched their website today. Check them out and meet five amazing women and their stories. Their network is genius and compassion mixed well, and a shot in the arm to those in need. The OBC mantra: Be Real, Be Brave, Be YOU! Says volumes.

Groak.

To stare at someone adoringly is romantic and sweet; to stare at something desirous with full intention of taking possession of the item is called groaking.

The original definition for groaking is to stare at people dining in expectations of being invited. Doing an undergraduate program as a theatre major, most of us learned groaking first hand. I had no idea on how my inner-dog could come to the surface. Most of us have an inner-child that we relentlessly try to capture thru therapy, acting majors live there and develop and inner-dog which escapes thru our behavior and morals. We eat with our eyes and groaking is our RSVP.

Sista Sal once opened a christmas present of a fleecy, lamb's wool textured, lightweight, black jacket that wasn't even in her hands for a second before yours truly, standing right behind her, absconded the coat. It's still in my possession seven years later, by the by. I'd like to think that this was a form of groaking, but I can't be sure. I'd to just rule it out as petty larceny because I'd rather be charged with something real, and Tom is the only Petty I know. I saw the coat and began eating with my eyes, felt the soft texture on my body and knew that the weight of the coat was magical. It completely lived up to my expectations and seeing the drool pouring from my fetid mouth holiday joy in my eyes, Sista Sal resigned herself to losing said coat without so much as a "how do you do". I'm not sure if that's the right expression, but I liked using it. The coat makes for good year round wearing, a pillow, a nice towel, an untested parachute, a conversation piece and a tablecloth. It was barely off my body in 2000. The coat was the predecessor for the purple corduroy coat I took from the GM at the restaurant. Again, the eyes went wide in a frenzy of groak, and in an act of charity the coat was presented to it's true owner, me. I groak, therefore I'm warm.

My groaking isn't even intentional. It's so primal that I can't stifle it. I'm very tactile and LOVE texture. When something of interest appeals to my eyes, my fingers can't be far behind (really that's my excuse in many a social situation). I find I can only groak with clothing, I don't want to groak where foods concerned. I used to be so self-conscious of this when dining out with J. I'd eat more rapidly than he and then begging scouring the table for my more food. When my eyes would make their way to his plate, I'd inevitably look up to make eye contact with him. He'd offer me some of his food, but I would feel unclean. I made an effort to limit this groaking of food when my inner-dog would jump out of his kennel to run around the restaurant. Sit. Heel. Good boy.

Colorful Vocabulary, Even Beautiful; Or CV Oh, Oh.

Groak: verb: To stare at longingly.

There are some words out there that make one think, "That can't possibly be a word". Wa is one. Compartmentalize is another. When spoken they hang in the air like an awkward christmas ornament or a beautiful woman with one earring or a plate of spaghetti with one meatball. It's uncomfortable to view and makes you question authority. Recently on the Rachel Ray show, a representitive from Websters' Oxford Collegiate Dictionary let the perky emissary of satan that her impact has been felt (heard) linguistically. RR's locomotion-like performance media domination has had a couple of constant calling cards, her mantra repeated "I'm Rachel Ray and I......" and her incessant use of "EVOO", an abreviation for Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Aside from her tv shows, cookbooks, line of cookware, and her own extra virgin olive oil RR has now distributed language. You bet I'm jealous.

One of Spatagram's missions is to effectively affect language and popularize polarized phrases and vocab words little known. We worship Anomanapia and waltz at the beginning of Ball Season. Little things are important and presentation; everything.

Groak is a little used word that is sometime applied to a dog's presence at the dinner table. They will stare longingly in hopes of being a part of the feeding. It's one part worship and one part begging. Sista Sal opened up a christmas present one holiday to find a fleecy, blackish coat. The color was an awesome charcoal and the weight, perfect. It sat fresh from the holiday package. My eyes went big, my tongue went long and before anyone knew it, I was trying it on. The jacket wasn't even warm to her touch and it was gone. Tjuzed and adored, the coat was mine. Sista Sal dropped her shoulders and said, "Well there that goes". We have a saying in our house, "The first one up's the best dressed', that's straight from Uno (Papa) To say that the power of my groak was enormous would be lacking, it was my grab that was rewarding.

I seem to have a penchant for groaking for clothing, this is not to be confused with burping for clothing which is a drinking game we can get it into at another time. At the restaurant I work in the GM got some swag from a surf company and the PRIZE was a purple courderoy lightweight jacket. The color was royal and the cut handsome. My groak was not ignored as the GM delivered said coat to me the following day. "I don't think I could wear this as well as you". It does look good on me and has fast become a prize in my rags. Sista Sal's coat is not forgotten mind you, it just aging and wearing out in spots. Perish the thought that I would give it up for a local parish clothing drive, or ever part with this prize part of the wardrobe. I'm just spreading the wealth that is my body covering.

The aural of our story today is that groak is a powerful tool in discussion, and not that I'm a clothes whore. Well, maybe it is a little bit both but mostly groak has every right to be used just as much as EVOO. It was a word before, and can even be used with."Groaking for EVOO........" damn I just used rachelslang, I'm such a language whore. Spread around the Anomanapia, the Penchant, the Courderoy, the Tjuz, and especially the Groak. Maybe someone will give you something.

Gracious Living, part three.

"Ice makes the drink." my Uncle Joe always used to say. Ice is an overlooked commodity. Empty trays in your fridge are evidence of an unthoughtful host. People will come over at the oddest times and nothing says gracious living more than a frosty jefferson cup filled with Kettle One and a homemade pickled tomatillo. Guests savor the hospitality, and you stun them with the vodka. Win, win. Ice is a necessity for shocking the color into tasty asparagus when blanching them for cruditees, ice is a necessity for when guests ignore the tasty aspargus, have multiple frosty jefferson cups filled with Kettle One, passout on your persian (rug) and wakeup with a terrible headache. A lovely icepack can make a guest feel warm and cared for as you retell the events of the night before. Ice doesn't ship well. Dry ice does, but for our purposes here, the only thing we like dry are armpits and martinis. Ice chills champagne and lower backs nicely. It makes lovely diversions for nephews and nieces as shaved, snowcones. It stacks well and can make pretty, pretty pyramids. It can revitalize a dehydrated golden retriever as well as a flaccid nipple. It is wonderful for post-sporting injuries and pre-sporting tailgating. It can be worn as an accessory, but quickly. You can name your ice to personalize your hospitality. Nothing says detail-oriented more than telling your guest that the rawbar is replete with Devon, Deborah and Dillon. Your guest will also appreciate your sense of organization by noting the gracious use of alphabetization. Then they will also find you a Xanax without you even asking. Remember, a plate is never returned empty, phone calls are returned promptly and the power of a ThankYou note is immense. So, stop whatever you are doing and run to the Icebox (see it's impact on the English language, too!). Check your trays and run at the mouth, of the sink for impending guests. Remember:


"Remember, you rule the ice. Don't let the ice rule you." - Birthday girl, Salvatrees. We love her.