I Got a Party in My Mouth

Dinner tonight was a festive salute to my white trash heritage. A friend had brought us tomatoes from her garden up in Napa, where it's actually hot enough to grow them, unlike here. Great big ones, as sweet and juicy as the buttocks that grace the header photo above. Naturally, I made tomato sandwiches, which are simply sliced tomatoes on white bread with salt, pepper, and mayo because that's the way my grannies made them. Deliciousness abounded.

But wait, there's more. This afternoon, R Man demanded a run to Popeye's for fried chicken so we had many delectable pieces left over. Well, many, until I got through with them. We haven't had Popeye's in four years, and then it was in the Houston airport. I had forgotten how tasty, tasty, tasty they are. Of course, I'll probably die tonight from excess grease and salt, but let it be known my last words were "It was worth it."

chicken

not chicken

Popeye's is a cultural icon in New Orleans where it originated and the offerings here are just no comparison to those bubbling out of the deep fat fryers of the mother ship. In New Orleans, I was one with my sisters who would disdainfully drive past the one on Carrolton in order to go to the one on Claiborne because everyone knew that one was better. No, these here cannot compare to those glories, but as I was tucking into my second thigh and reaching for another biscuit, I had to admit it was still pretty damn good.

Missing: One Diane

I'm not ignoring my blog, I am pouting. I tend to get this way after Diane comes for a visit and then has the nerve to leave. Never have I seen a week fly by so fast.

There is no friend so dear as one who will come to San Francisco and not mind doing nothing but helping with chores. One of the most glamorous cities around and we celebrate its charms by grocery shopping and a round of doctor appointments. God love her, one afternoon I took a nap and awoke to find she had made dinner. Greater love hath no friend than one who will whip up the nummies while you sleep.

We did make it to a couple of thrift stores and they were universally crummy. If even Diane cannot find any good stuff to be had, you know it's the store's fault.

Still, it was a wonderful time, no one is a better friend or guest than she is, even if she did challenge my score of the word "stagier" in Boggle. Jealous.

Diane

Our dearest friend, Diane von Austnburg, will be coming in for a visit Sunday morning for a week. Her visits here are a great treat. We'll cook and gad about restaurants, tear up the thrift store selections and play Boggle till hell won't have it. We're just a couple of wild cats, I tell ya. She has very kindly offered to help out with R Man, but mostly I plan on being entertained.

Seemed Like a Good Idea

So my plan to get on BART this morning and have the train I was on go so fast between the Montgomery and Embarcadero stations that I would go back in time and not be late for work turned out to be so very not effective.

Damn.

Stick

I was out watering the plants on the patio this morning before work. It was so lovely, still cool, but sunny and smelled good, little birdies singing away. I felt one small gay moment away from some stupid von Trapp number. And I only just realized shortly after lunch I had been walking around all day with a twig in my hair. Possibly a camellia, I’m not sure. Considering how very little hair I operate with, it doesn’t seem like it would be that hard to spot it, so maybe I’m just not vain. Or maybe this is another stop on the crazy train express. Could go either way.

It's a Sweet Life

We've been repeatedly assured by the local newsrag that this has been San Francisco's coldest summer on record. As if I need them to let me in on this breaking news. Fog, fog and more fog, sweaters in Junes, the fireplace roaring in July and no complaints from me. Well, maybe a few, I need the practice.

And then today, boom, a pleasant little break in the permafrost. Lovely and warm and the best part? This warm wave coincides with my jasmine blooming. Heady, delicate sweetness abounds. Mmmm.

When I planted this, on a trellis directly below my bedroom window, R Man was very struck and said how wonderful it would be to lay in bed and smell jasmine wafting by. I was more sceptical (as usual.) I wasn't even sure it could bloom here where it's so chilly and I only put it on that trellis because it was the only spot I had available. That's my gardening technique in one sentence: ignorant and sloppy. Whee.

R Man was proved right (as usual) and most summer evenings I can savor my own little Harlequin romance novel setting of jasmine perfume in my boudoir. On still, warm nights like this, though, the scent is astonishing. Heavenly. So I'm off to bed now to brood about going to work tomorrow and smell the jasmine.

Health Chat

Tonight, we continue our occasional series "TMI Theatre." The scene opens in Doctor Mark's office:

mrp: Would you hurry up. What are you, a baggage handler?

drmark: I don't know why you make such a big deal about this. You're a gay man.

mrp: So, you have patients who enjoy this? That's even creepier.

drmark: Shut. Up. And by the way, you win the prize for this week's largest prostate.

Proving that snappy patter is worthless when you're standing bent over an examination table with your pants around your ankles and the good doctor's finger up your butt.

I believe it's traditional to describe ones prostate at this point in terms of the fruit kingdom, typically a grapefruit or a watermelon. I prefer to think of mine as a guava. Stupid thing has never done anything for me except lead me into a series of wacky misadventures and now it demands to be taken for several walks every night out of my cozy bed and into the much less cozy toilet.

Also, you know that corn syrup ad? Yes, you do, it's all over the Overweight Housewives Channel. It's the one where two soccer moms are preparing to slurp down a gallon or two of some sludge based soda and one meekly advances some polite concern about consuming corn syrup as part of their bacchanal. "You know what 'they' say...." she mewls.

The other one turns on her and spits out, in the most condescending tone possible, a diatribe justifying the glop, including the fabulous rejoinder "Corn syrup is all natural." So the mousy one is put in her place, corn syrup reigns and they go off to explore their new-budding lesbian love, or whatever.

Just once, I want to see the mousy one shriek "Get you, Mary. Don't talk to me in that supercilious tone of voice, you slagheap. And by the way, arsenic, strychnine and bird droppings are all natural, too, but I don't plan on consuming them either." And then she would clock her, right beneath her smugly raised eye brow, knocking her to ground where she would kick her and smash her and pulverize her. Did I take my meds this morning?

Houseboy Seamus Feelpatrick assures us he never eats corn syrup.

We believe him.