Be Back Later



I just wrote this big ol' post (big. ol'.) and I accidentally deleted the whole damned wad leaving a mere lower case 't' in its place. MOST annoying. I thought about simply posting the 't' but I figured that you would not be interested in searching for the subtext of the gesture.

Now it is late and I have Langston Hughes to read, but I owe you something so how about a smitch from Saturday's party (the ultra-cool one that Steve and I loved so much that we never ever wanted to leave.)


Standing in the kitchen of the lovely old house, I firmly grasped a corkscrew in my left hand as I prepared to open a bottle of red wine. The man standing next to me said, "Can I open that for you?" Trust me, my fluffy internet penguins, I know how to open a bottle of wine. In fact, give me anything from those weird two-pronged pull thingies to a needle and some dental floss and I will get the wine out. But I am not one to take offense at the well-intended chivalrous gesture, so I just smiled and proceeded to extract the cork with the deft flick of the wrist that identifies the surgeon. Or the booze-a-dillo. Whichever. It was only as I tried to remove the cork from the screw that everything went awry and I managed to gash my knuckle on something sharp and pointy, drawing blood.

More from annoyance than pain I uttered a ladylike "Fuck me!" and looked up to find this would-be Lancelot, overgrown frat boy staring down.

"Was that an invitation?" he asked.

"Was I too subtle?" I countered.

He paused and then looked furtive, "My wife is on the porch. Can you meet me somewhere?"

I gently explained that he couldn't actually afford me. What a skeeze.

Later, I ran into my husband on my way to the bathroom. He said, "Hey! There's a guy around here who thinks he was this close to five minutes of your time in a parking lot somewhere."

"Oh yeah? Did you punch him in the nose?"

"No," my loving husband said, "I told him he couldn't afford you. I also told him you weren't worth it." 

Alright, now I owe you a GOOD story.