"You can do better."

"You need to update your blog," Ms. K said over dinner in Ditmas Park a couple days ago.

"But I did today!"

She whipped out her iPhone and connected to Post No Bills, the image of which was fractured by the many tiny slivers in her screen (nb: iPhones crack when you drop them). After a quick skim of the page she declared that I could to do better.

"But it was my birthday," I sputtered, "and then it was Thanksgiving! There wasn't any time to update my blog with all the turkey eating."

She looked incredulous.

Perhaps the lady doth protest too much after all. I really could have done better but I have been unmotivated and caught in a post-holiday depression. The recent theme of decadence has given way to austerity as I take a look at my sad finances and figure out how I am going to pay my bills. I already canceled the cable and figured out how to make a week's worth of meals consist of Thanksgiving leftovers. Then I realized that I couldn't do without my cell phone or my internet, so that stays. I contacted some of my freelance clients, but stuff like that takes time to develop much less get paid. I even considered bartending, but I only have experience drinking the drinks, not pouring them for money.

So here are some scenarios where all my financial problems are solved:

* I am contacted by a heretofore unknown rich relative who wants to fund my moderately extravagant lifestyle.

* I am hired by numerous people who recognize my brilliance and want to financially compensate me for it, whether it be design, feng shui or astrology consulting, writing, or programming.

* I whore out my Gold Star for a lucrative sum. I could take applications from rich Saudi men.

* I sell a kidney.

* I win the lottery.

Incidentally my mom wrote me to ask what I wanted for Christmas. While I can't let her know that I am facing destitution and a bleak future that would have given Charles Dickens pause, I did ask for champagne glasses, clothes, and a rug for my bedroom. What I really need is, in addition to cash, a box to store my sex toys in. But that's another thing I can't share with mom.

"I didn't think I'd be fisting a turkey."

The bourbon gravy didn't quite happen. I made some rookie mistakes. I served Thanksgiving dinner on my coffee table, but fuck me if I didn't make the best turkey ever!

Yeah, last Thursday was Thanksgiving. I spent it with my gay + gay friendly friends, which is far better than spending it with family. And good friends are what I have to be thankful for.

"Yay! It's a Party About Me!"

Thank you all for birthday wishes. It was definitely the Best Birthday Ever™ and I even dressed up, although my attempts to look like Marie Antoinette on the cheap looked more Harlequin romance cover than 18th century.

Some highlights:

* Getting laid. I think this was the first time I got laid on my birthday since 1998. Fo' reals.

* The birthday cake Ms. K made for me that consisted of Guinness, "a box of butter", chocolate, and other ingredients.

* The alternative birthday cake that Dennise fondly referred to as "donut mountain." Ingredients included Entenmann's donuts held together by cookie dough topped with chocolate frosting, sprinkles, whipped cream, and crushed wafers. Not so much a highlight than a conversation piece. But surprisingly delicious at 3 am whilst drunk.

* Having my house filled with a couple dozen friends of mine, including blogging friends of mine.

* Presents!

* Corset wearing guests!

* The random gay Scottish guy who came with a friend of a friend. He mercifully forgave me with a smile when I tipsily called him Irish, to which I pleaded with apologies that I was not normally such a stupid American. He was like my own personal Alan Cumming and he stayed till the very end of the party.

* Spontaneously running around and singing Hava Nagila. I really don't know what prompted this, but I blame the 4 Calvados sidecars that I had already had by that point. Ms. K thought I was making fun of her people but then I explained that it was something I did, which includes yelling mazal tov when ever someone drops a glass or breaks something.

* The chocolate covered bacon that my friend Meegs made. Not as terrible as it sounds, but Meegs did say that it "was one of the most disgusting things [she] ever made."

* Maire showing up with case (that's 12 bottles) of prosecco. I think we blew through it all by 1 am.

* Getting paddled by Bird and her girl 29 times + one for good luck.

While this birthday was the Best Birthday™, I realized that I barely got to talk to anyone because I was too busy running around being a hostess to 20+ people. I guess there's something to be said about small intimate affairs, right? Perhaps something to aim for when I hit the big 3-0 next year.

"Do I have to wear a costume and wig?"

When Beth drunkenly called me from Paris on Wednesday it was to tell me a happy early birthday and to tell me that she had just submitted her final dissertation edits, so very soon she'll be Dr. Beth with a PhD from Cambridge doing her post-doc in Paris. Not bad at all. Looks like we both have something to celebrate!

Since she is living in France, she approves highly of my inadvertently French birthday theme. I think I have my dress sorted and figured out how to make my hair a la Marie Antoinette. Ms. K is still a bit mystified as to why I have to dress up in costume for my birthday, but I explained by saying that I am secretly a drag queen stuck in a Lesbian's body and that for one year every year she's allowed to run rampant. I think Ms. K okay with that.

Now bring on the champagne, bitches!

"Decadence - first I have to look it up and see what it means. You know us southerners."

Warning: Those who are generally grossed out by meat, observe kosher or halal dietary rules, or just object to odd combinations of food might want to skip this entry.


Right. Are we all assembled? Ready?

I love pork. I mean like really really love pork. This probably makes me a very bad lesbian. When I was a vegetarian the only thing I missed was pork. Good god, how I missed it. When I gave up meat for Lent earlier this year all I could dream about was a post Easter binge at Momofuku Ssam Bar, the mere thought of which was like seeing a porky oasis at the end of a terrible desert.

You know another thing I like? Chocolate. Perhaps you see where this blog entry is going. What I'm advocating is a sort of culinary crossing of the streams -- you think it will be bad, but it ends up being oh so good.

My 29th birthday is this Saturday and I've devised a cunning plan to celebrate it involving a singular theme -- decadence. Think Marie Antoinette. Think glitter. Think rich food. I've been spending the last couple of days trying to think of a menu that inspires decadence. And what could be more decadent than chocolate covered bacon?

It has to be good, right?

In an email exchange between a friend of mine, we weighed the pros and cons of chocolate covered bacon and learned that apparently we were not as clever as we thought. While not as strange a combination as tuna and waffles, pork + chocolate has a long history together stretching back to sixteenth century Mexico. And then there's this modern example of chocolate covered bacon. Personally I'd leave the sprinkles off.

I'm not sure if my friend is going to make her own version for my party, but I can't wait to be her guinea pig. Until then I have numerous French themed hors d'oeuvres to prepare (in honor of Marie Antoinette), not to mention French inspired cocktails -- "French Martini" punch, calvados sidecar, and plenty of champagne.

Here's my somewhat complete menu:

* Stuffed crepe purses with caramelized banana

* Spiced nuts

* Popovers

* Roasted fennel and carrots

* Aioli

* Pear clafoutis

* Cheeses

* Birthday cake

Ideas?

"I'm happy that I'm going to see you today, because you are very, very pretty, and I heart you."

I've decided that I'm crazy about Ms. K. It is both frightening and exhilarating the way I want her around all the time and I've come to crave her smell, which is an intoxicating mixture of Chanel Allure, cigarettes, and pheromones. The pleasure centers of my brain light up when I bury my face into crook of her neck leading me to be grateful for millions of years worth of evolution that has hardwired the brain towards one simple premise: good smelling woman + sex = continuance of the species. Neurotransmitters crackle and my blood pressure stirs. While I'm not in danger of getting pregnant, I am seriously enjoying the rewarding brain chemicals in the meantime. Go evolution!

Seriously, she makes all the crappy people I dated worth it.

". . . by the grace of nature, not industry."

Yesterday I started to write these words:

There's something about the sense of satisfaction that one feels when a part life begins to go right that inevitably shines a shaky, reluctant light upon the less successful areas. In the midst of enjoying Ms. K very, very much I can't help but see the string of things that need my attention. Some are mundane and others part of the big picture. From the bathroom faucet that slowly leaks and the closet organized to the freelance jobs desperately needed and the career skill set improved.

Even as I wrote these words I felt a reluctance to declare anything a mission accomplished for what is really an ongoing evolution, but really it's because I'm that superstitious. Things between Ms. K and I are delicate. For every Best Day Ever™ there is a frustrated email or text exchange that spans the gulf between two people who want to be together more but cannot for reasons far out of their control. These are sobering reasons that go beyond a simple difference of location, the severity (or rather the possibility) of which I learned last Friday.

My roommate (and colleague) Libby had been with me on a 6 train heading downtown not too long after I learned what I did. I was just trying to keep it together and not cry on the train, explaining things to her that I cannot explain here in this blog. In many ways Libby is my sounding board, which ranks her as one of my very dearest friends. The tenor of our conversation broke only negotiate rush hour train riders and the occasional joke of the stiff drink that awaited the end of our journey.

As we approached the end of the line at City Hall, the train had thinned out so much that only a few riders were left. I was close enough to see a seated woman reading Atonement by Ian McEwan, which more astute blog readers will remember as my favorite book of all time. Although I felt an instant kinship with the woman, I also remembered with sadness that my blog post about my love of Atonement was one of the things that brought Ms. K together for she too is a fan of the book. But then I was struck by the randomness by seeing it on the subway -- not exactly a popular book nor a breezy read. There was something profound in its presence at that exact moment and I saw it as an omen, a sign from the beyond. But what sort of sign? A good sign? Wait, the book is about the awful consequences that come from one stupid mistake and that can't be a good sign. But what if it's just the Universe's way of waving a hand at me and saying Hey, I'm here. Have some faith. It'll all work out.

And that's how I resolved to interpret the sign long after the subway doors opened and the remaining passengers of the 6 train dispersed into the subway station to points unknown.

When I woke up this morning (yes, with my new apnea mask on), I was reminded of the initial sentiment I was trying to express in yesterday's unfinished thought, that of constant self improvement. I think a lot of my recent reflection comes from two upcoming anniversaries -- that of my arrival in New York three years ago and that of my birth twenty-nine years ago. This past year has been life altering in ways that I could never talk about on this blog but I can liken to being repeatedly buffeted by cosmic forces with their own agenda. While I realize that there are some things simply out of my control, there are plenty of things that are.

Snuggled in bed with a cat draped over my stomach I turned the last pages of Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dilemma, a book that I have taken so long to finish that it's become a joke between Ms. K and I. Satisfied with one down and another started, I took a break for coffee and to finish this blog entry, Elliot Smith blaring over iTunes. Now I'm off to plunge my energy into the things I can change, but still keeping an eye out for those good omens, a sign from the Universe that it will all work out.

"Fo shizzle."

Wednesday was the Best Day Ever™. Why? Here's a play-by-play.

* Ms. K came up from PA and stayed with me. I took off of work.

* Copious amounts of hot lesbian sex.

* Homemade chocolate croissants courtesy of Ms. K, which ended up in me getting covered in chocolate.

* Not getting dressed till 2 pm.

* Co-showering.

* Dashing off to Manhattan to the Museum of Modern Art, Ms. K's favorite museum, where we could both be modern art nerds. There were high-fives for making it out of the house during daylight hours.

* Walking hand in hand around Midtown, keeping each other warm, and kissing in front of all the mid-western tourists.

* Going shopping at Bloomingdale's, where I helped Ms. K try on jeans. She helped by finding it necessary to instigate some dressing room sex.

* Going to Superfine in DUMBO where we drank the Best Cocktail Ever™, the apple brandy sidecar, and ate good food.

* Going home to play Strip Scrabble. I lost. She won. But I guess when you play Strip Scrabble everyone turns out a winner.

Yes, I think that was the Best Day Ever™.

"Apnea masks are hot."

56.4 seconds.

That is the longest duration of time that I went without breathing during my overnight stay at the sleep clinic a few weeks ago. The findings recently came in the mail recounting other similar scary facts, but not breathing almost a whole minute is surely the scariest. I had a total number of 155 "apneic events" with a mean duration of 26 seconds. Not good.

My apnea mask came yesterday just in time for Halloween. I used it last night and not only did I oversleep this morning, but I now feel as if I slept upside down all night long. I guess this is my body's way of reacting to being fully oxygenated?