And so today ends a 30-day month where some of us made a promise to write everyday.  I would like the record to show that this is maybe only the second promise IN.MY.LIFE I have seen through to completion.  The first was that whole Meatless Month thing and after impressing myself with that, I vowed to complete NaBloPoMo for myself.  To say I was gonna do something and actually follow through with it.  Who the hell knew I could promise to the internets that I would live without meat AND promise to stranger friends that I would write every day and I did.  I actually did!  Surprisingly it was nowhere near as painful as I expected.  In October I felt I had to drag things out of me.  Days and days would pass without word from me.  Yet in November, my life grew horrifically boring and I still managed to write about it.  Lucky you.

These days I find myself having nothing of interest going on in my life.  No dates, no sex, no silly city-girl escapades.  Hell, not even any insect invaders in the ‘ol SFAH to report.  Such bore!  Sure there were weddings and Jews and friend drama but seriously folks, my life has hit an all-time low.  Booooring!

MP and I do this thing before bed where one of us whines to the other, “Tell me a story … Please.  Tell me a story …”  And for the last 13,286 times he has asked me this I reply, “I got nothin’ kid.  Nothin.”  At the end of my days he asks how my day was.  To which I reply, time and time again, “Good.  Busy, but good.  Nothin’ new.”  To which he begs me to tell him a sttoorryyyyy.  And in every one of these moments I reflect upon how fucking boring my life is.  I don’t know if it’s a mid-seasonal transition thing.  Where the red leaves have fallen and we’re waiting for winter to show up so we’re just doing this wait-and-see game with the seasons.  So we’re in the in-betweens.  Somewhere in a seasonal “taint” if you will …. waiting for some event to happen.  To talk about.  To share.

When that something happens, I promise you will be the first to know.

Some weeks ago I was chatting with a friend about the horrific economy.  He lives in San Francisco and unlike most gay men does not have one domestic bone in his body.  He eats out every day and doesn’t believe in cleaning.  Well, like ever.  We were on the phone and he said, “I just got back from Trader Joe’s.  I know I know … I went grocery shopping!”  To which I replied, “Whhuuuuutt?”  He said, “Yeah, I’m worried about The Depression.”  I said, “Seasonal Affective Disorder sinking in already?  Gloomy skies in San Francisco makes you want to grocery shop for the first time in 10 years?  I’m not following.”  He explained, “No. The Depression.  You know, the economy.  I’m trying to watch my spending.”

It is not as though I don’t realize the horrible state of affairs here in America.  Even if I didn’t witness poverty every day living in a city riddled with those without, the news is quick to point out how shitty things are.  He asked, “Do you think it’s affecting you?”  I had to sit back and think about this for a minute.

Living alone on a salary that is not as large as my looming school debt means I am well-aware of every cent I spend.  I live in a SFAH for pete’s sake.  I only buy enough groceries that I can carry at a time and choose very wisely between fruits and veggies, proteins and very, very few snacks (those Trader Joe’s Peppermint Jo Joes were an exception, obvi).  During these abysmal times, I am deeply grateful for my job and my health insurance.  I am grateful to have my bus pass paid for and my utilities included in my amazing $600 rent.  But when a girl wants to add pita chips to her Thanksgiving salad and sees they cost $5/bag (WTF?), I can’t help but notice that things are bleak.

For years I have watched those around me live well beyond their means.  The use of the word “need” surrounding the description of a new pair of shoes or the latest MAC eye shadow or even a new car is not something I have ever understood.  I have never been a frivolous spender.  In my working days in San Francisco, well before the reality of living on loans in grad school kicked in, I certainly went shopping on my lunch hour more than any girl needed to.  But now … I don’t know if my spending habits are a product of my poverty, or a product of reality.  As trivial as it sounds, living with so little in New Orleans and being surrounded by those with NOTHING (forget ‘living with less’ … those people have NOTHING) provided me a deep sense of understanding and appreciation for the word ‘need’.  Now I go to work and see patients suffering from grave illness due to poor health choices, not disconnected from their economic state of affairs.  I understand living without.  For years as I saw my friends buying homes with u-shaped driveways and living in a constant state of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’, I never, ever understood it.

My sister’s constant spending is a very glaring need to fill the emotional vacancies in her life.  I, thankfully, find ‘emotional deposits’ in relationships, time spent with friends, introspection and personal growth.  “Things” have never ever satiated my internal needs and for that, I am truly grateful.  I am not an emotional shoppper, and thankfully not an emotional eater.

Of the million things I am grateful for this harvest season, I am deeply thankful to have a good head on my shoulders.  A fairly adjusted sense of self.  A whole sense of being that transcends my spending, my grocery bill and thankfully my waistline.  Sure, the economy is in the crapper.  But each one of us chooses how we spend, on what.  How we teach our children to seek approval and desires through toys that last a season.  Through a trendy pair of jeans that won’t fit in a year.

I have all I need.  Sometimes a sparse fridge with tortillas and peperjack cheese.  A dwindling shoe collection that this recovering Imelda Marcos-in training never, ever thought she’d see.  Maybe all of us can use these times to reflect on how we spend our money and why.  Look within my dear friends.  Instead of feeding the instant need for now, the right-this-minute craving for the new Wii game, get your ass out and volunteer for people really living without.  I promise you that that investment will last for years to come.  Beyond the next style season.

Waiting until the last minute to grocery shop on Thanksgiving is usually a bad idea.  A very bad idea.  However, considering our work schedules, MP and I had no choice.  So we headed out to the “Social Safeway” in Georgetown (where, rumor has it, if you’re there on Saturday nights you can find your way to a party or get yourself a hot date).  We were pleasantly surprised to see the place hadn’t been completely pillaged like the LA Riots had just come to town.  Our shopping list included cornish game hens with fixins, rice, salad goods, asparagus, mashed potato ingredients and of course, wine.  I can handle not making all the “traditional” things on Thanksgiving but it’s really not a meal without mashed potatoes.  Drat!  The man has no mixer so we were prepared to eat nasty pre-made or boxed mashd potatoes.  I wasn’t thrilled about it but it would have to do.

While passing by the meat section, I saw these orange patties that I assumed were salmon burgers.  Oh my goodness, they were not salmon burgers.  They were YAM PATTIES!  I had never seen such a thing but he suggested we whip them together, add some yummy topping and we’d be good to go.  It is important to note that this man has never eaten a yam in his life and generally does not eat much that wasn’t included in his Greek mother’s repertoire.  This was a big moment folks.

When it was time to start the dinner I unwrapped the orange goodness, praying to god they’d turn out as planned.  I placed all the patties in a bowl, added some margarine goodness, whipped ‘em together and spread them in a low pyrex dish.  In a bowl I poured brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, diced pecans, cut in some more margarine and then sprinkled that sweet goodness on top of the yams.  I baked that bad boy for 30 mins. at 350 and holy mary mother of god, they were amazing!  Even the picky ass Greek LOVED them!  We’ve got enough leftovers to last us 4 days and I can’t wait to sink my teeth into that sweet, but healthy goodness.  If you see these things in the market (made by Flanders Burgers out of Arkansas …. random), you must buy them.

Due to the high school drama a couple weeks ago at the wedding, MP and I are spending Thanksgiving alone.  This has me a bit sad but we just don’t feel ready to hang out with those friends.

Of the many things I am thankful, today I am thankful for YOU!  As DGMS has become a staple in my life so have each and every one of you.

Thanks for listening and laughing alongside me. I don’t know what I’d do without this silly little blog.

I hope you all have a great day of food and football and it’s as family drama-free as possible.

Te quiero mucho

The minute I put on that wraparound lavender skirt and matching leotard in the 3rd grade I knew I had arrived.  Much like my professional ah ha moment, walking into the local rink with carpeted walls, pinball machines and enough mullets to terrify the local NAMBLA chapter, I knew roller skating and me were in it for the long haul.

As a young lass in the 80s, the roller rink was the place to be.  Not only did I get to sport that wraparound skirt and shake my ass (er, whip my hair) to Whitesnake, but the roller rink gave me a chance to hold hands with boys.  Before the years of junior high dances roller skating provided the opportunity at a very young age to do the unthinkable … the couples skate!  After a romantic lap around the rink to Journey we’d share a red rope and a giant pickle.  Maybe a brick of pink popcorn if he was feelin’ lucky.

Once high school approached and kids were too cool for school to be seen at the rink, I bought a pair of my own skates.  My best friend and I roller skated all day every day around town.  In the hilly streets of the Bay Area we’d get sundaes at the local ice cream parlor and practice our sweet moves in any parking lot we came upon.  When other girls were gettin’ busy with boys, I was gettin’ busy with my skates.  My LTR with the skates came to an end sophomore year of high school when Jenny and I decided to “shoot the duck” on the way home.  You know the move … at an indoor rink you go ’round and ’round, building speed and when the music stops you crouch down on one leg and hold out your ankle with your hands.  This trick should not be completed on a busy street, nor while traveling downhill.  My jean shorts were a tad too short to prevent my ass cheeks from scraping on the asphalt when things went awry. My legs slipped out from under me, I left a DNA sample on the street and Jenny was beside herself in hysterics.

As I skated into the driveway shaking from the pain, the blood dripping OUT of my shorts and down my legs, my parents knew my daredevil days had come to an end.  I walked in the door and dropped trou as my parents stood in disbelief.  My mom ran to the other room and grabbed the bactine.  I bent over and pulled my underwear in my ass crack while my mom sprayed that acidic shit on the wounds and my father tried to blow cold air on it to help soothe the pain.  Wouldn’t ya know my sister walked in the door and almost pissed herself at the site before her.

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Two months ago for birthday my friends organized the most amazing surprise ever!  We ordered pizzas, made cocktails and headed to the local rolller rink.  Although it had been years since I made a lap in a set of quads, I could barely contain my excitement!  Sandwiched between a store front church (don’t ever trust a ‘church’ in a strip mall) and a fried chicken/chinese food/hot subs takeout place (claaaasssy) stood the D’Light Skate Palace.

This place was a FAR cry from my days of acid washed jeans and side ponytails.  The place was PACKED with people of all ages who had the most amazing moves I had ever seen in my life.  HOLY.SHIT.PEOPLE!  That place was like a rolling, rotating Soul Train expedition!  Most were practicing for a competition later that night (with a $25k prize) and I thought … “hmmm, who knew roller rinks were like dance floors?”  Here I spent my childhood slow skating to Air Supply and these cats were creating moving pyramids and jumping over each other ON SKATES to ‘Lil Bow Wow.

Damn times have changed but me and the roller rink are still in love. 

My first job was at a bookstore in a strip mall of local shops - the hobby shop, the coffee shop, the bike shop, the greek-owned diner, the drugstore.  For such a piece of trash town, that strip of stores was pretty damn cute.  In addition to books, we also had amazing greeting cards and an entire wall of stickers.  A WALL.OF.STICKERS!  That place was all the rage, all across the land, because of those spools and spools of stickers.

Cute little girls loved ‘em and so did dads that wanted gift wrapped books with stickers all over the place.  For some strange reason, stickers also attracted The Purple Lady.

The Purple Lady was in her mid-late 50s.  Drove a purple car.  Had purple painted nails, wore a purple moo moo, signed her purple checks with her purple pen and dyed her yappy poodle purple.  Yeah.  She had a damn purple dog.  She only bought cards with purple flowers, accompanied by purple envelopes and adorned them with purple stickers.  Oh, and then she bought some classy romance novels with purple covers.  Of course.  I mean, the lady was nice enough but clearly the elevator did NOT go to the top floor.

Many years after I left the titillating job of selling romance novels to desperate housewives and monitoring the kids flipping through the Joy of Sex, I came upon The Purple Lady’s house.  Yup, you could just imagine what it looked like.  I knew it was her house the minute I saw it.  Once I saw her purple cadillac out front of THE.PURPLE.HOUSE, I screamed, “OH MY GAWD, THE PURPLE LADY!!”  Clearly my friend thought my elevator didn’t go all the way to the top and then I told my story.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Every Tuesday and Thursday I now sit 3 stools away from a new purple lady in my life.  This one is almost 60 years old and black, but HO.LY.SHIT does she have purple nails and purple lined paper and a purple pen. Aaaaand, purple died hair and a purple purse and a pretty amazing Stevie Nicks inspired purple caftan.

What the HELL, people?  Does anyone else know a purple lady?  Please tell me I’m not the common denominator here!

After my Saturday post about the party and the pumpkin dip, Jen asked for the recipe.  I was going to post it in the comments but I figured if you don’t read the comments, you may not see this recipe.  And no one should go on living without this pumpkin dip at their side.  On your nightstand.  In your fridge at all times.

Jen, I don’t believe in holding on to fabulous things like this.  Not to mention, all good things should be shared (except vibrators).  So thanks for asking and here it is for all to see.