The Old Men and the Sea (Cozumel)

I was promised a husband on this trip. I drew up an extensive contract for this arrangement and faxed it to my mother to sign off on. However since my mother doesn't own nor has she ever owned a fax machine the law offices of Stein Stein and Feinman probably received the following letter on Sanrio stationary:

Dear czar of husbandry, heretofore referred to as mom,

This contract serves as a legally binding agreement contingent upon signatures from both client Zack Eliasz and provider of husband, Mom. On the date of July somethingth Mom and Zack discussed the embarkation on a seven day cruise to the Caribbean in which Zack would be provided with a husband kind, handsome, well off, important and also presumably Jewish. This contract, if signed by both parties serves as a guarantee that an ample supply of single gay men with the above qualities will be provided on the boat and Zack will remain on the ship within reasonable proximity of the family at most times or never, whatever is more convenient. If at any time mom is unable to provide said husband material client Zack will be entitled to a second trip to Italy where he will surely be able to find a husband or at the very least buy a leather jacket and eat gelato. Please do not fax this message back to the number where it came from, which is the Staples on Wabash.

Fine print aside this vacation could not have come a better time. At work I caught a glimpse of the schedule for the next month and I wasn't on it. I knew this was coming, hotel renovations, slow months, I was getting laid off. Which for a server in a city like Chicago isn't really that big of a deal. Most servers will find another job in less than a month. Which is why I don't necessarily understand how so many people are unemployed because the refuse to carry plates of food for a living. Getting laid off wasn't upsetting reason of unemployment. This year I had basically lost everything, everything except for my job. The job has been the one stable thing for me this whole year and just the as the year was coming to an end I was going to lose it. I had no time to mourn or write self pitying song lyrics, I had a flight to catch so I hopped in a cab to ORD with my dreams and my cardigan.

If you've never been to Ohare or any airport in a major city during Christmas time let me paint the picture for you. A somewhat savvy passenger arrives three hours early for the very first flight and thinks that he'll beat the rush. This supposedly savvy passenger doesn't realize that everyone else in Chicago had the same idea. The traveler tries to put himself in the right mindset, this is but a long pilgrimage to the holy land of the Crown Princess cruise ship, where he will be showered with husbands. At first the check in line doesn't seem so bad. It's long, but moves quickly, until he realizes he's at international check-in and has to start over from the beginning in another line, twice as long, and with three times as many babies. As he approaches the economy domestic line he vows never to fly coach again. Imagine an enormous long twisting snake that has devoured every loud crying foaming at the mouth baby in the world, then the snake ate about a thousand asian tourists, then about two hundred teenagers playing Miley Cyrus and singing along, then a person in a blue vest tells him to get in the snake's mouth after all those annoying people and wait for a hundred years for the snake to digest and poop him out directly into the mouth of another long serpentine line that will tease him after an hour wait when he finally gets his ticket signed by the TSA and thinks he's to the security scanner he finds out he's only halfway through. Our traveller is weary now, not sure he'll make it to the promised land. He us undressed, scanned, prodded, barefoot, scurrying to get his clothes on. When he finally arrives at the gate his mother is waiting, sipping an iced mocha, asking,

"What took you so long? We've been waiting forever."

Our weary traveller points to a beacon of hope.

"Starbucks? What do you want?"

"Double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water."

"I'm getting you a coffee."

Our traveller is too weary to protest.

Our flight took us through Houston where we caught a shuttle to Galveston. At the shuttle a bunch of men in tropical shirts put our luggage on carts and hauled them away. They told us not to worry our bags would be at the room before we were. At first I was a little alarmed, mostly because of the lack of uniforms. I was expecting fancy porters in polyester hotel uniforms. Did these people even work for the cruise line or was this some elaborate ruse to make off with my shoes? Everything about this trip was so disorienting. Some random lady holding a sign huddled a bunch of us together at the airport and shoved us on an unmarked bus. I was pretty sure we were being sold into white slavery at that point. The amount of faith you have to have in people and logistics for these cruise vacations is astounding. Random people with no nametags take your bags and put you on strange vehicles. Is this what it felt like to be a tourist, completely at the mercy of people and procedures you were clueless about.

In the embarkment line I scoped out potential husbands. The crowd was disappointing at best. It was nothing but families and giant swarms of asians.

"Mom I don't see my husband anywhere in this line."

"He's probably already on the boat."

"Wait why aren't we in that line?" I indicated the line for suites that was mostly empty.

"Oh we're in staterooms." Silence. "But I did get you a balcony." More silence. "Don't make that face at me."

"Well, now I know why my husband isn't in this line, he surely has a penthouse suite."

"It's a boat, there is no penthouse."

"Whatever the boat equivalent is."

"So see, he's probably already boarded and at the bar waiting to buy you a drink. Oh look there's a gay!" The way she said it I thought she had spotted a parrot or howler monkey or something.

"He works for the cruise line!"

"So?"

"They don't count, everyone in hospitality is gay."

After we were finally though the boarding line our first of many novelty photo ops were presented. A fake tropical backdrop where families could take a picture together for a ridiculous fee.

"I don't understand, why would anybody going to the caribbean want a picture with a fake palm tree. Wont we be standing in front of the real thing in two days?"

At this point I was pretty skeptical about this trip. So far I was unimpressed, and was pretty sure I was going to fall victim to an outbreak of norovirus. However, some of my skepticism was alleviated once we actually boarded the ship. It was pretty much my dream realized. Let's take the tour. (Feel free to skip this paragraph if you understand just how ridiculous these cruise ships are)

From the boarding area you walk up a flight of stairs the the three story piazza with a sushi and wine bar, a cafe with unlimited (and free I might add) pastries and baked goods, there's two dining rooms on this floor and a movie theater. One floor up is a speakeasy cigar lounge and casino, stores and a martini bar, on the next floor there's a pub and library with an internet cafe.  At this point I should mention that no matter where you are on the boat if you sit down or even stand still for too long a staff member will rush over and offer you a beverage. You can basically order anything anywhere on the boat. There's an art gallery past the library where you can bid on works by mostly unknown painters, then there is a steakhouse and a little further back a lounge bar with live music  then another restaurant. This is just the center of the boat. There's about ten floors of staterooms and suites with free room service, and a pretty cheap laundry service. On the top floor is a spa and gym, private sanctuary pool with cabanas, an italian restaurant, and yet another bar. There's another nightclub at the very front of the ship that overlooks the deck. One floor down are two buffets that are usually always open with little gaps between meal periods. From the buffet court you can make your way out to a back adults only pool deck or a larger pool with a movie screen that played movies all day and night. On the back pool deck live music and DJs played alternately, there was also a pizza, hot dog, burger and ice cream bar open all day right next to the pool. And lets not forget the most important part of the ship I'll never have to go to, a kids and teenager deck which acted as a holding pen to keep the other decks clear.

Suffice to say I started drinking immediately and didn't stop for seven days. For dinner we had a standing reservation every night in the Botticelli dining room staffed to the brim with attentive eastern europeans. Working in food and beverage I can appreciate how good the service on this ship was. Every worker smiles, they will do just about anything you ask them to and never give you so much as a sideways glance. You also notice really quickly on these ships that there are next to no Americans working on them. It's my theory that we don't have the same threshold for annoying tourists that europeans do. I ordered an Iced mocha on the pool deck one day, waited about 15 minutes and finally it came. I asked the waiter what took him so long, usually the drinks came back in about a minute. I found out he had to go all the way to the bottom of the piazza where the cafe was then take an elevator and stairs from the opposite end of the boat to bring the mocha to me. I had no idea, he didn't even bat an eye when I asked him or seem even a little annoyed.

The only unfortunate part of the trip was sharing a room with my sister. We actually had a decently sized closet. For one person. We seemed to have a misunderstanding about who should get all of the hangers. From my point of view all of her lacy little skimpy dresses put together didn't have as much fabric as one of my shirts. Therefore I should get all of the hangers and she should put all of her little tissue thin loincloths on one. This seemed like the only logical solution. To repay me for bogarting the closet she left a present for me in the stateroom. I came back to the room from my first margarita bender to find her in bed reading Cosmo.

"Why does it already smell bad in this room?" She looked up and shrugged. I scoured the room for the culprit. My sister is a wild uncouth animal. I was expecting to find a partially devoured animal carcass, banana peels and watermelon seeds in her sheets. I checked under the bed for any food remnants. I looked in all the trash cans. I was frustrated. Where could the smell have been coming from? Finally I gave up looking and went to grab my cologne from the bathroom to spray the room down. It was there I found the culprit. For Christmas my sister had left me a giant present in the toilet.

"Did you forget to flush the toilet you beast?" I kicked the lid down and flushed. She looked up from her magazine. "You animal! Do I look like one of your college roommates?" I tried to thrash her with a bathrobe but she apparently thought that her lump of coal was a hilarious gift and started laughing uncontrollably. "I mean what the hell were you eating? That thing was like a sea monster." I kept beating her with the towel until she ran out onto the connecting balcony and into our parent's room. When my mother heard what she had done she chased her right back out. This trip was supposed to be about luxury and pampering not pampers for my scatologically challenged sister.

And from a forgotten flush to a royal flush I decided to escape fecal captivity for some fiscal activity. I wholly intended to activate my own stimulus plan in the casino. At first I tested the waters at the poker table, however a $1/2 no limits game can add up quickly, especially when you have a bunch of ridiculous amateurs raising the pot because they think they're a high roller, when really they just don't know what they're doing. It should have been easy money but I've found that reckless poker players are just and dangerous as experienced ones. People who bluff too much and push the pot too high raise the stakes too early make it hard to discern who at the table actually does know what they're doing. After a few hands I was up but not by much and was mostly fed up with the the casino crown. It wasn't even the fun kind of tacky with old white haired ladies with fanny packs and cigarettes. It was just depressing. I stopped in the speakeasy to have a smoke and met one of the crew.

After a few sideways glances I could tell he was gay so I asked him where all the attractive men were. I figured it was a safe bet.

"Usually there are more, this crowd seems like mostly families."

"No single older Jewish men?"

"No, they all take cruises departing in Florida. In Texas it's all christians and republicans."

"What?"

"You could try the gay mixer, they meet at the martini bar in about ten minutes. Do you know where the--"

"Okay thanksbye," the second he said gay and martini in the same sentence I was gone. In ten minutes I freshened my cologne and arrived at the LGBT group in a new outfit sans underwear. I sat at the bar and ordered and Hendricks martini while scoping out the crowd. I didn't see my gays anywhere. After a minute of sipping my martini and older (I mean much older) gentleman came up and asked if I was here for the, ahem, meeting. "Yes I'm here for the gays, where are they?" The bartender giggled like she was in on the joke. He gestured to a huddle of old men in their sixties and seventies.

"We're over there."

"That's the group? The gay mixer?"

"Grab your drink and come on over."

I glanced over at the bartender, "If I had known it was gonna be like this I would have left my underwear on." She shrugged. I had no choice but to go over and join my people. I was officially one of the old men.

Over dinner I griped to my mother.

"There were three couples, all retired, all over sixty."

"Well, at least you know they're the marrying type!"

"Because they're already married! You signed a legally binding contract."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that, I had my people fax it over."

"I don't have a fax machine. Just eat your flan and enjoy the fact that tomorrow we're snorkeling in Cozumel. You'll get your husband."

Since the gay group was such a bust I decided to go to the one activity that no gay man could resist, karaoke. I looked at all the teeny boppers singing various pop songs stumbling through the runs. I was going to find my gays even if I had to humiliate myself in the process. I ordered a double Drambuie at the bar. The bartender gave me a karaoke slip.

"There's one slot left, you better sign up if you want to sing."

"I'm not sure, I didn't see any show tunes in your book, those are my comfort zone. Hall and Oates maybe?"

"You'd be great! You have the mustache and everything. I'll sign you up."

"Wait--" but before I could stop him he had signed me up. And worse yet, I was the last song. I had never sang karaoke in front of this many people before, maybe asian style in a room with friends. But this was a full nightclub. When I was up I strolled on to the stage. They handed me the microphone and cued up the song. At first I was on fire, You Make My Dreams was my go-to shower song, I knew the whole first verse by heart, I wasn't even looking at the monitor, until of course I got to the second verse which I usually fudged through and mumbled in the shower. I looked up at the monitor and realized that the timing was off and lyrics were already a verse ahead. I had two choices I could grab a life vest and throw myself overboard, or I could hum and dance suggestively with the microphone stand and chime in at you make my dreams come true.

Afterwards I was devastated. If there were any gays in the audience I had certainly repelled them by bombing my international karaoke debut. That microphone stand would be the only thing I bump and grind on this trip. I took myself out for a cigarette to take the edge off.

"Can I get a light?" I heard from behind me. Wait a minute, that was the gay hello. I had found the gays, or well, I had found one of them. "You were great by the way, I love that song. Are you going up to the dance club?" He was a little awkward and boyish. But at this point I had no plans no panties and no reason to say no. 

Anything (under 50 lbs.) Goes

In the immortal lyric of Rodgers and Hammerstein “I'm just a girl who cain't say no.” I've struggled with this affirmative affliction like mime struggling to order a soy skim triple latte from Starbucks, I just can't seem to get the message across. So when people ask things of me, anything, and sometimes things I really don't want to do I find me mouth possessed by a demon of yes. And I don't come from a place of yes in a Bethenny Frankel positive outlook on life kind of way, I'm just a pushover. I'm also a sucker for new experiences, even unpleasant ones, if there's even an inkling of a chance I'll get a good story out of it. Hell, I'd settle for a mildly amusing blog entry (see: 80% of my posts).

So when the opportunity to bartend for an unknown event at an undisclosed location on the south side for an unaccounted for sum of money to be determined at a later date and or never, what ever came cheaper, I of course jumped at it the opportunity like it was a sale at Marc Jacobs.

I came to find the event was a Mexican birthday party for 250 people in a high school auditorium. Now when it comes to gays Latin men usually fall into two categories– closeted family oriented alpha gays with nice arms and unmistakably flaming power bottoms. And lets face it people I'm gayer than a quinceanera party dress and just as likely to be groped by an older man after too many shots of tequila. I've found in my time that most people will forgive any volume of gayness as long as you're doing one of these three things:

1. Selling clothes
2. Cutting hair
3. Serving drinks

I figured as long as I was making the anejo flow nobody would care that I'm fruitier than a holiday cake.

Then there's the little problem of language, not only do I not even speak enough Spanish to know what I'm ordering in a Mexican restaurant but I've got dark skin and a mustache so most people just assume I'm Latino which is only helpful when trying to appear ethnically diverse for scholarship applications. It's not uncommon that people just come up to me and start speaking in Spanish. This event was no exception, only it didn't really matter I'm pretty sure that tequila is the same. If someone came up to me and said something I didn't understand I just handed them a tequila and Squirt and sent them on their way. Most didn't seem to care what I made as long as it had tequila in it. I did develop a whole new disdain for mariachi music. In small doses its festive, albeit a little difficult to dance to. But for 6 hours straight blaring into a high school auditorium at brain melting volume, it's just excruciating. There is a certain absence of discernible melody and song structure that makes it seem like every song will just go on forever.

And it did go on. Even the host underestimated just how much Tequila 250 mexicans can drink. Let me break it down for you, a fifth of alcohol contains roughly 17 drinks, if you only pour an ounce and a half of alcohol in every drink. However, if guests are ordering doubles, tequila on the rocks, or double sized shots expect to get about 12 drinks out of every bottle. Meaning you will need about 15 bottles of tequila for a party of 250 if about 75 of the guests are underage and if, and this is the BIG if, every of-age guest only has one tequila drink. Over six hours plan for every guest to have five drinks, maybe only four will be tequila and the last a cerveza. Still that's 60 bottles of tequila. At cost that much tequila will run you about $2400, and that's not pesos my friend.

We started with three bottles of tequila. I looked over at the host and shook my head. I told him he would have a mass riot on his hand if he didn't buy at least another two 1750mL bottles, or jugs as they would be referred to at that point.

From Mexican endeavors to Caribbean ones I received about a hundred text messages from my mother regarding our upcoming vacation via boat to Belize. And despite my propensity for cruising sailors as they port in Chicago, cruising with them as they deport from Galveston Texas is a whole other thing. I hate boats. I hate everything about them. They attract tacky people, tropical shirts, and children who urinate in pools and other inappropriate places. I don't even like things that live in the sea: whales, mermaids, sharks, cephalopods, Kevin Costner. Although I do applaud my mother for picking a cruise destination doesn't stand a remote chance of ever encountering an iceberg I wholly intended to pass this family vacation up.

“What do you mean you don't want to go?” My mother was alarmed, like she had just presented me with my lottery winnings and I declined.

“I'm busy, I have a term paper due.”

“You graduated three years ago.”

“So you can imagine my rush to finish it.”

“Boats are fun, you can wear your tuxedo and drink martinis.”

“I can do that at the Lyric Opera, but continue.”

“You can snorkel in exotic reefs.”

“I don't care so much for that. I don't know maybe if I had a boyfriend this would be tolerable but being single and in a cabin with my sister for a week doesn't appeal to me.”

“A lot of rich older Jewish men go on cruises. Maybe you can meet one of them at a showing of Fiddler on the Roof in the theater.”

Silence. My mother knew my kryptonite: well-to-do older jewish men, and she knew I was powerless to resist. Plus I've always wanted to sing the opening number from Anything Goes on an actual ship deck.

“Okay, but I want a balcony suite.”

“You'll have to share it with your sister.”

“Okay but I want fresh cut tea roses in my suite every morning.”

“Where are they going to get flowers in the middle of the ocean?”

“Fine, I'll settle for Veuve Clicquot and some chex mix.”

“Make it Freixenet and you've got yourself a deal.”

And so it was decided. My mother tempted me with bubbly and potential hubby. All that was left was to find a way to fit my entire closet into one piece of luggage. After weeks of outfit pulls and major edits a la Rachel Zoe I had managed to curate a weeks worth of nautical themed outfits. There was just one thing left to take care of, I thought looking down at my perfectly packed suitcase. Gucci. Who would watch Gucci? Which of my extensive list of twitter friends would be available to watch Gucci? Who should I tweet? There was Karl Lagerfeld, but we're hardly speaking since I passed up Chanel as a potential cat name. Anderson Cooper was trustworthy but Gucci hates liberal media. Jennifer Hudson? Too loud. Kristen Chenoweth? Too high pitch. No, clearly none of my Twitter friends were going to do.

As I poured over my iPhone for contacts I noticed that Gucci had hopped into my open luggage. That's cute I thought, and the perfect picture for a post about how I need a catsit–wait, nope he's definitely just mistaken my open luggage for a litter box. Luckily the zip lining is waterproof and I'm like a swat team when it comes to cat pee clean up now. For his digression Gucci was promptly shampooed and locked in the bathroom with dry food and water for an hour to think about what he'd done.

And because a bladder blooper wasn't enough trauma for one night I opened my laptop to see if Oprah responded to my e-mail about Gucci crashing in her guest room and instead saw that I had an e-mail from Princess Cruises informing me that the ship I was going to board in three days had an outbreak of norovirus. I actually conveniently knew exactly what norovirus was because I happened to read about it in a sanitation catalogue sitting in the manager's office at work. Ordinarily food poisoning doesn't frighten me since I drink enough high proof alcohol to obliterate any bugs living in undercooked meat. But this particular gastrointestinal illness leads to uncontrollable and forceful projectile vomiting. Oh hell no. I'm wearing Viktor and Rolf and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some seasick hillbilly in a hawaiian shirt toss cookies on my couture. Suddenly this trip seemed more ill conceived than Bristol Palin's bastard child.

I knew what needed to be done.

I opened up a new message and typed:

Dear Andrew Lloyd Webber,

you clearly have a soft spot for cats…

Present Company

After a long, and I would say much deserved, hiatus from the spotlight I am back to appease my tens of followers. I know what you're thinking how could I leave you without guidance, ill formed irrational dating tips, and fiscally questionable budgeting tips. Well my few proud followers, the truth is I'm off the wagon. Way back when (I only had three readers) I posted my commandments and started this blog to hold myself accountable. I don't recall exactly what they were and am too lazy to look up that entry from months ago, but I'm sure they were along the lines of self betterment. Also I'm sure there was a book contract, boyfriend, and abs in the mix. Well I have failed you readers. Not in providing humorous catty anecdotes about my troublesome dating life, I'm pretty sure I've succeeded in that. I have failed at self betterment, which is, it would seem, more amusing and worth writing about. And now, of all my commandments that I made and subsequently forgot I have finally fallen off the last of many wagons. I bought a pack of cigarettes (or ten).

It all started at the wedding in Pennsylvania where, as expected I was the only gay, single, and fabulous  guest in attendance, which made me rethink my choice of three piece suit and sparkly bow tie. At the after party I was offered a cigarette by one of the guests and in my moment of weakness I accepted. But that's only one cigarette you say! Then I was back in chicago and outside with coworkers when I realized I was the only one not smoking. I had no choice but to bum one. Then I joined in on at least three other smoking excursions. Then, during a week of not eating anything but carrots and tic tacs after one of the bartenders told me I was putting on weight I had two lemon drop martinis which normally would have been quickly absorbed by my excessive carb-laden diet but settled into my stomach where they took control of the part of my brain that makes me want to smoke. Before I knew it my nicotine loving chickens had come home to roost and brought with them a pack of Pall Mall light 100's. I was ashamed and appalled. This was worse than that time I went on a bender in college and was seen wearing the same outfit two days in a row, which was really only bad because the outfit was a sparkly reindeer sweater with lime green skinny jeans. Everyone would know my dirty secret. My months of trying to rebuild my reputation as a muscle gay with excellent nutritional habits and a wildly unpopular blog had all come crashing down. 

I wrapped the pack of cigarettes in a plastic bag dropped it in a bowl of water and stuck it in the freezer. My therapist had once recommended I do this with my credit card so I would have to wait for it to thaw before making any purchases. Unfortunately my therapist failed to note that shopping for me is breathing and like a shark if I stop for even a moment I'll die. This way if I wanted the cigarettes I would have to wait an hour for it to thaw and after an hour I probably wouldn't want them any more. This method was brilliant. It worked perfectly. It worked perfectly until 8am next morning when I realized that though a block of ice may take about an hour to completely thaw a pot of water only takes a few minutes to boil, thus negating the whole cigarettes in ice thing.

Fine, I thought, I would only smoke in the morning before work. And then I added one after work to relive stress. Then another on my 30 minute break at work. Then next week I added another two during my fifteen minute breaks. Then I gave myself another freebie to smoke throughout the day whenever I felt like it. Before I knew it I was back to being a full time card carrying smoker. I had fallen off the wagon, only it wasn't just the smoking wagon. I had fallen of every wagon I got on. I was the one wagon mate in oregon trail that fell off, got dysentery, couldn't shoot a buffalo or ford the river and ultimately died of exhaustion. I failed at swimming, finding a boyfriend, not smoking, becoming a published bravolebrity with my own spin off, opening my own mens store, finincing my high end pizza concept, and taking a trip to london to shop the the original burberry. I even failed at brushing Gucci, he's got more mats that a yoga class. I feel like a failure. A handsome insanely unpopular staple of the blogosphere but a failure nonetheless. 

I was too ashamed to write about my dissent back into smokerdom. Actually, I was mostly too busy drowning my sorrows in peppermint mochas and knitting a merino wool sweater at the nearest Starbucks. But I'm sure shame had something to do with it too.

And naturally, I went from dissent in the lung department to discount in the shoe department.

I simply couldn't resist the double soled Prada brogues any longer.

When you live in a city like Chicago it's not uncommon to run into people from your past you were trying to avoid. Statistically, this occurrence will only happen when you have the flu, are wearing sweat pants, and have a food stain on your sweatshirt. So it came as a pleasant surprise when I happened to look fabulous the night I ran into my ex--shoe guy. My shoe guy and I have had a long on again off again relationship that started the first time I tried on that pair of Ferragamo driving loafers. Ever since then I was hooked, and it was my first relationship where I always seemed to be the one throwing my card down. Nevertheless it was a mutually beneficial arrangement, my feet have never looked better and I can always be trusted to clear out his back stock of Prada. We went through a rocky period during my last break up when I insisted my ex return the Choos I got him as a gift. Since he reneged on our relationship I thought it was only fair that those one thousand buckos make a round trip into my bank account. And since I was going through an expensive break up and moving into a new place I may have also returned a pair of tuxedo shoes that I never got to wear. It hadn't occured to me that those two purchases amounted to a pretty big commission that may have also gone the way of my relationship. However, we reconciled when I was back on my feet, and back in a new pair of toggle loafers.

Since then, and since starting this blog I have dialed back on the big shoe purchases. I was living alone, no friend or lover to split the rent and a kitty with expensive tastes in litter. It was time to put Prada on the shelf and start saving. So I turned away and didn't show up for the summer designer sale, an absence I'm sure my shoe guy noted with some level of remorse. It seemed that once and for all we had gone our separate ways. In my life I haven't had many lasting relationships, I can't even keep a therapist for more than a year, and so it was special to me that at least, through three break-ups there was always my shoe guy willing to pick me back up, and sell me ridiculously expensive loafers.

And what providence that I should run into him at the bar of Benny's chophouse the day before the men's designer clearance at Nordstrom where he just so happened to be holding a pair of brogues in my size that were about to be marked down two hundred dollars.

"My Prada? My Prada is going on sale?"

"Yes it is."

"But my shoes never go on sale. It's always the stupid Cole Haan Boots and ugly Gucci sneakers and sometimes the Varvatos, but never Prada wingtips!"

This chance occurrence, meeting like this at the bar, the sale, the shoes, everything was divine intervention telling me to go back to my old ways of smoking, drinking, and buying expensive shoes. My mother would say that this moment is more like a test to see how much we've learned. But my mother didn't have shoe ennui and a closet full of driving loafers that were inappropriate for winter weather. What I really needed were thick rugged soles. And in the tunnel vision of infatuation with these shoes I conveniently forgot any other option for winter footwear.

As I was transitioning footwear for the season, the hotel ownership was transitioning forever. We had been bought by a large corporate hotel chain. But what did it mean for the restaurant?

In the constellation of hotel departments there is a caste system. The people who wear suits--top floor penthouse, reservations and front desk agents--mid level lofts, housekeeping--ground floor garden unit. And the restaurant? B2, only accessible by a rickety stair case covered in fry grease. F&B is so low on the totem in hotels, we're the department of misfit toys. I can only imagine what accounting thinks of our bizarre purchasing lists: mason jars, whipped cream flavored vodka, aprons, latex gloves. For all they know we could be some wierdly themed house of burlesque for those with a very specific grotesque fetish.

And as the hotel transitions to new ownership the bacon wrapped elephant in the middle of the room on all of our minds is what does that mean for us, the sloppy misfit toys of the hotel. Luckily for us there was a regional HR director to lead the way through the underground tunnel of confusion that is rebranding as a corporate hotel.

And for a woman used to training primped and buttoned up front desk agents, I can't imagine how we looked in our makeshift uniforms, pesto stained aprons and sometimes questionable footwear choices. Currently our uniform is anything black and machine washable that doesn't have ketchup on it. Some of us have what look like hand me down chefs coats with the logo embroidered on it, some of us are wearing henleys and tee shirts, some are wearing waffle shirts and high top sneakers. We look like a depressing Benetton advertisement, or a gap campaign where everyone's wearing black.

For the most part this orientation led by the HR lady from New Jersey was pretty standard fare, bad instructional videos of how to smile at people, what to do if we see a puddle of blood borne pathogens on the ground– hands shoot up.

"Yes, you in the back with unnatural shade of eyeshadow."

"Spray it with windex?" one of the housekeepers said.

"No, call the manager."

"No, call the police."

"Call the CDC!"

"No! Call housekeeping!"

"And I spray with windex."

"I clean up tampons from bathtub one time. I use glove"

"I see walls smeared with caca one time we charge guest 50 dollars." The circle of housekeepers nod solemnly, as if they were all veterans of that war.

"So none of you have been trained in how to deal with bloodbourne pathogens? What about sharps? What if you found a syringe?"

"Call the guest to see of they want it shipped to them?"

"Depends on what's in it?"

"What? No! Who deals with your hazardous materials?"

Silence. We all looked around. A tiny woman from housekeeping raises her hand.

"Is it me?"

"What if its cow blood?"

"I think I have some of that on my apron," I said 

"Is that why you smell like salmonella?"

"No, that's the fish I ate from the employee dining room."

"I've never seen fish that color before, was it puce?"

"No more yellow like an old hard boiled egg yolk."

"That was fish?"

Clearly, this hr lady had her work cut out for her. Luckly, she was armed with shoddy low budget instructional videos from the eighties.

We watched several videos throughout our reaclimation to working for a "real" hotel. The last of which was a short motivational video with needlessly depressing music and and autistic grocery store bagger. Due to the downtrodden music we all though the bagger was going to die at the end, only after touching the lives of all the shoppers. Then we came to find that he simply inspired his coworkers to work harder and is still alive. Then the film was over. Having been a student of film, writing, and sad endings I was furious.

"Wait, he doesn't die at the end?" The HR lady shook her head. Of all the horrible things I've been through since I started working here--the recession, leopard print jeans, three Twilight films--that was pretty much the worst. I will never get those five and a half minutes of my life back."

And from emotional roller coaster to financial tilt-a-whirl. 

Due to an accounting error with the new paycheck processing center none of our tips were deducted from our paychecks. So, for the first time in our careers as servers our paychecks looked like a normal salary. Let me take a moment to explain how server paychecks work. Most servers make around four dollars an out, a nominal salary intended for simply eating up the taxes we pay on our tips. I'm sure there is some complex mathematical equation the IRS uses to determine what tipped professionals should be taxed out of their paycheck, but I like to believe their process looks something like this:

Because when I look at my paystub it looks like the mangled carcass left behind by hyenas with only the barest morsels of meat and grizzle left behind. They basically take everything we make in tips out of our already pathetic hourly wage. Which is why if you don't leave a tip when you dine in a restaurant the staff takes a camera phone image of you and adds it to their black book of naughty diners which is sent on a weekly basis to the bureau of cheapness where the identities are logged into an elaborate system and bank account information forwarded to sudanese hackers who will take all of the money out of your account, use it to buy guns and child prostitutes, and then send you and letter full of either anthrax or corn starch, whatever is cheaper in the black market there.

So imagine our surprise when our paycheck was three to four, to ten times the size of our normal checks. One of the servers actually left work and ran, not walked, ran to the bank to deposit the check before the hotel could call backsies. This error was caught immediately and taken out of subsequent paychecks, but it did serve as an ominous warning of the financial irregularities to come. The next few months will be up and down. Some nights I might walk with twenty five dollars, other nights three hundred. And as the fiscal cliff looms over Washington a much steeper cliff looms over the service industry, the two month stretch where none of us make any money. Forget taxes, we'd have to make taxable income first. 

This is why I've decided to not buy presents for anyone this year, except the maybe three people that bought me things for my birthday. My reasoning: by ignoring my birthday and failing to shower me with lavish gifts I was not disappointed by my friends but inspired to show the same neglect toward their holiday shopping. Therefore everyone is getting hand drawn peruvian themed alpaca cards in place of anything with actual monetary value. And as for my family? I've decided that they have no choice but to love me either way so I'm not buying them presents this year. A week with me in their presence is present enough. And if my present presentation of myself at Christmas isn't enough there's plenty of JoAnn Fabrics stationary with alpaca drawings to go around.

Happy Holidays!

Black tie woes

Yet another exposé on the price gap in menswear v. Women's.

Black tie event:

Woman: dress--$200

Man: tuxedo--$400, shirt--$130, and cummerbund--$150, shirt studs and cufflinks--$75

Woman cost of event: $200
Man cost of event: $755

Real blog pending... I'm working on it people

How to survive a zombie date

Zombies have now proliferated pop culture, taking over our movies, irreverent retelling of Jane Austen novels, cheap Halloween costumes. I have noted the insurgence of zombie survival guides, but feel as though I have something to add to the cannon of zombie literature. In the lexicon of zombie onslaught there has never been a thorough guide to surviving zombie first dates. This is surely an oversight on the part of zombie scholars and relationship experts alike. Singles beware, they walk among us and their out for love-- and brains.

Take my most recent match.com date. It was an ideal set up, seemingly handsome thirty-something casino dealer with a nice jawline and full head of hair. I happen to like poker so his profession was not an immediate red flag for me. Honestly a single guy in his thirties with his own place in the city is on my radar-- I don't care if he's bagging groceries at Jewel.

I began to have my doubts when he chose pick me up cafe as the meeting place for our first date. At first I assumed it was simply a cheap hipster ish alternative to a real restaurant. Little did I know all of those leopard print jeans and triple shot red eyes were simply a front for a hub for young sexually ambiguous zombies to earn a living selling fried vegan food and coffee.

Vegan (n.) a special breed of zombie that lives off of plant based brain substitute.

My date arrived late missing half his hair and all melatonin in his skin. I had also mistaken is sallow cheekbones for dimples in grainy profile pictures. Apparently lean is the new moniker for malnourished. He excused himself for his lateness on the grounds of being hungover and spending the entire morning puking.

"Well," I said, "if this were an interview I don't think you'd be getting the job right now."

"I went to a Costume party as a zombie last night."

"Yeah you should think about taking off the makeup." But I saw past his ruse. I saw resident evil, I know the drill. He then took out his phone and showed me the pictures of his costume.

"You want to know what's really fucked up about my costume, it's pretty creepy."

"Tell me you're actually an attractive banker with a condo in streeterville, and any moment now youre going to unzip your face to reveal him."

That was pretty much the gist of the date. We ordered a plate of fried nonsense that they humorously referred to as calimari and I got the gnocchi, which was more gno-like-cchi.

After polishing off my food and half of his I decided it was time to settle up so I could go back to my zombie free zipcode and he could go back to hugging a toilet bowel. I pulled out my wallet, thinking that this date really couldn't get much worse; then he put his "wallet" on the table. His wallet was one of those duct tape fabrications the high school students buy at craft fairs to convey a sense of nonchalance. But really when your wallet is made of duct tape all it conveys is that you're broke like a bad joke.

It wasn't even ironic duct tape wallet. It was just duct tape.

I'm going to interrupt this dissertation on zombie romance with a short guide to what a wallet says about the man you're with.

The rubber band: this is the devil may care type of man that can't be tied down to material things. I sense that this guy is unable to commit. A man who uses a rubber band instead of a wallet is either very masculine or very disorganized-- if he has a beard he is the former and if he's clean shaven the latter.

The clip-- these men are the minimalists of our time. They can do a lot with a little (in every conceivable way). These are the guys that don't ever get around to painting their walls, buying furniture or decorating anything but their desk at work. If the clip is silver he'll pay for dinner, if its an oversized paper clip he'll ask to borrow twenty bucks.

Bi-fold--this is the more modern wallet that most men carry. They're also the most boring. I'm sensing a really dull hobby. If the wallet has one of those chintzy plastic pullouts or is made of cloth or anything but leather he has bad taste and won't understand why you won't display his prized signed baseball on the coffee table.

Tri-fold- this is for the man with a more is more approach to life. This style of wallet is favored by short balding financial guys with an abundance of, well, crap to carry around. Think George from Seinfeld. Although this man may live a cluttered disorganized life he's got the goods to back it up and usually a near perfect credit score.

Zip wallets-- this is for a man who isn't afraid of his feminine side, but still refuses to call what he is using a coin purse. This is the wallet for born this way gays and exact changers. Just be wary of anything made of nylon or canvas or that has hello kitty on it.

Nothing at all--run, don't walk, run away from this guy.

And then there's duct tape wallet guy:

"I know my wallet is pretty lame."

"Admitting you have a problem is the fist step to recovery."

"It was a gift from my mother."

"She sounds...economical," which is to say economy class. The image of a Midwestern woman pushing a shopping cart down an aisle in WalMart came to mind.

"She made it herself."

"Mine too. My mother made it with a Visa card."

"So you want to grab a drink or dessert somewhere else?"

"Sorry I think I'm at my threshold for today."

"Fine but I never told you the really messed up thing about my costume!"

"Did your mom make that too?" Then he proceeded to tell 'the fucked up thing' was that a year ago he met his sister's husband's brother and he died recently and they gave him all of the guy's clothes. And since he didn't want to wear them he ripped them and used them as zombie clothes so his costume was the zombie of his sister's husband's brother. "Okay," I said, "You might not want to tell people that."

Instead, allow me to tell everyone for you on my blog.

The important thing to remember about zombie romance is that it can only lead to you skewering the other with a wooden stake and running in the other direction, so it's best to end things before it gets to that point. Remember, just because zombies are undead doesn't mean they don't have zombie emotions. So you'll have to let your zombie date down easy.

Not returning his messages should suffice, especially if the message is this:

"You're not going to blog about me are you?"

A satirical letter to POTUS

Dear Worst Gay President,

Mr. Obama, I’ve a bone to pick with you. Some misguided people called you our first gay president, and as someone authorized to speak on this matter I’d like to make a rebuttal. I mean, everyone knows that Abraham Lincoln was our first gay president and he was appropriately closeted--a trait I admire in a politician. Here is why I think you’re the worst gay president ever.

Let me start with this whole don’t ask don’t tell nonsense: I bet you thought you were doing us a favor making it okay to serve openly. I think it was incredibly inconsiderate to people like me that don’t want to serve and had a convenient blanket to hide under. What if the draft were reinstated? I can’t pull the gay card anymore and I’ll be forced to reach into my bag of excuses for why I can’t serve the country (I don’t know, traffic).

Then there’s this whole gays getting married topic, don’t get me started. I can’t believe, in the eleventh hour, that you are finally in support of gays getting married. Like I want that kind of pressure. Clearly, my people just want to be left alone and fabulous, vacantly roaming the streets of singledom, loose like a balloon full of helium and promiscuity. I mean could you imagine, now I have the same pressure to get married and start a life with someone that every other American has. Who wants that? Not I, said the barfly.

I’d also like to talk about the crippling effect your healthcare plan has on my community. Life was so much easier for people living with HIV when they couldn’t get insurance. I mean why would anyone want to go to a doctor and pay something like twenty dollars for co-pay to get an STD screening when he could go to a crowded and uncomfortable free clinic? And now, instead of relying on government assistance to get medications for HIV, people will have insurance that actually covers medications. We’ve got enough on our plates (parties, charity events, sales at Nordstrom) and you want us to have to worry about waiting in line at the pharmacy to pick up medications (not to mention another nominal co-pay)?

You also had the nerve to hire some of the most unattractive staff members to help you run the country. I mean geez, you could have at least told Hillary to put on some blush or something. You let her travel around the world making our country look good and the irony of how she looks is not lost on me. Obviously having an attractive team is far more important than having a capable team. Don’t you understand that you need to look good to get anyone to listen to you?

Let me recap: you’re in support of gays dying for the country, you’re in support of us stressing out about settling down, you want us to take responsibility for our own health and you clearly put intellect ahead of appearance. It’s like you want the gay community to feel like everyone else rather than feeling like a special minority with less rights and more fashion sense. I think it’s time your presidency go back in the closet.

Signed,

the gays

Cryptography of a Booty Call

I have stepped in dog shit. Not literally, but the situation is seemingly as bad as a turd caked in the heel of my penny loafers. I have now been away from my ex for nine months and I still can't seem to scrape the last little bit of him off the bottom of my shoe. I gave all of his clothes to homeless people. I blocked him. I bought new sheets. I haven't gotten a text or any contact from him or his friends in months. So I'm thinking that the whole mess is probably done when I get the following message-- not from my ex, but the guy he left me to go back to:

Single people everywhere know the perplexing nature of internet communications. There is no Emily Post for this sort of thing. Messages like this are as impossible to understand as Kryptos, and the CIA is still working on that one. Most people would just ignore this but I, being a social cryptographer, enjoy picking apart minuscule nuances of communication. When forensic scientists find the slightest bit of DNA they can build an entire case on it. So here we have the complex analysis of this seemingly harmless communication:

Background on the sender. This is the man my ex was with when we had an affair, and later he decided to break up with this guy to be with me, then did a 180 and decided to go back to him. This practice, in politically incorrect terms, is called indian giving. If only I had known to call no backsies. Also, I must assume that the text message I sent my ex: "You made your bed, and you should go lie in it with your pudgy codependent boyfriend," was shared with Nick at some point.

So, right of the bat, we must assume that this person does not like me. Unless some combination of painkillers and marijuana has made him a more benevolent force than Mother Theresa.

Now, lets examine the context. This message was not sent via text, it was not Match.com, it was not e-mail, facebook, twitter, or carrier pigeon. The sender chose Scruff, a gay "dating" app that is used primarily for hook ups and secondarily for dates. The profile lists him as single, which is not unlikely but seems a little bullshitty. Also note the time and date stamp of the message, this is clearly a post-cocktail message, further evidenced by the "Cheers" at the end. In the gay world 12:30am is also known as "who am I going home with-o-clock."

This message is cleverly timed and guised to indicate boo-tay. But lets not get too carried away with the ego of the situation. To assume that the sender is hitting on me is to fall into the trap of being punked (refer to RULE 1 in this stream of logic, which is 'we must assume this person does not like me'). We must consider all other possible solutions to the problem before resorting to this explanation last.

Let us now pick apart the diction of the message since we understand the context. We begin with the informal "Hey Zack," which seems harmless but indicates a number of things. "Hey" is the greeting used with a person you see regularly. Notice how "Hi Zack," has a different, less optimistic tone. That is the appropriate tone for greeting someone you don't particularly like. We are now further assured from the coy friendly tone that this message is disingenuous. And so, that becomes RULE 2 in decoding the message, this person does not mean what he says. Punctuation also plays a crucial role in this message. The sender chose a comma, rather than a period, to differentiate between the greeting and the body of the message. The comma is a more proper letter-format convention. However, in text messages and other communication where there are no line breaks and limited characters the period indicates a line break, or a pause, or a separate thought. For example here is the same text message:

Yo. Don't know if I can make it Monday.

Yo, don't know if I can make it Monday.

The first appears to move slower and seems a little more stiff, almost standoffish. It is assumed that the first message comes from not an enemy but someone who doesn't particularly like you, whereas the second seems a little softer because of the less jarring punctuation. Ordinarily a comma would indicate that the person is fond of you but remember our two rules: 1. this person does not like me, and 2. this person does not mean what he says.

So, we can safely surmise that the comma has the inverse meaning than it ordinarily would. Further more, it fits with the unexpectedly candid tone of the message. If the sender had used a period it would have raised a red flag that he was in some way hesitant about the message he was sending. Instead it is brazenly sent, and so we must be even more wary of this message because of it's seemingly harmless nature. This establishes RULE 3 in deciphering: this person has malicious intent.

The next part is complicated so I'll have to break it into two. First, here is the whole clause:

"...I hope you're doing as well as you look..."

Again, we mustn't be fooled by the seemingly friendly, almost flattering, nature of this message. The fist half can be paraphrased as, "I hope you're well," which indicates that the sender knows you either were not well or are still not well. A get well card when you're sick is sweet, a get well message when you've been broken up with is adding insult to injury. Also, given that I did not exactly take the break up well, this is a very subtle nod to that fact. The sender is insinuating that I am unwell in general, and simply operate in various states of unwell-ness.

In order to offset the insulting nature of this sentiment there is the additional message tacked on, which can be paraphrased as, "You look good." This message is cleverly dovetailed on the end in an attempt to inflate my ego to overcome the perceptive parts of my brain. However, because the sender has actually had very little interaction with me he wouldn't know that my bullshit compass is spot on. It takes more than a cheap compliment to pull a veil over my eyes. Most single people are ready to marry the first person that compliments them on their looks. But, we can not ignore the first half of the sentence in conjunction with the compliment.

When we bring the two parts together we see that the sentiment is not corollary, but contingent. You are good, if you look good. So, knowing that I'm not breaking any mirrors should inversely prove that I am good. But, because we know that the first part of the sentence is implied to be false due to RULE 1, 2 and 3, we must adjust the antecedent to reflect what we already know. The sender thinks you are unwell, therefore you don't look good. We can deduce that the second half of the sentence is actually an insult because A can only be true if B is true, but inversely if A is untrue then B is also untrue.

This establishes RULE 4: the sender means the opposite of what he appears to be saying. Now we can go back through the message and apply this rule to uncover its real meaning:

Original message: Hey Zack, I hope you're doing as well as you look~ Cheers : )

Deciphered meaning: Hi loser, you're crazy and unattractive ~ eat shit : (

Now that we understand the message we must examine why it was sent. I will break this part of the analysis into two categories based on the variable of whether or not this person is actually single.

If the sender is single:
A. He wants to play a trick on you
B. He wants to get back at the guy who broke up with him by fooling around
C. He is trying to get a reaction out of you

If the sender is still with your ex:
A. He wants to play a trick on you
B. He is doing surveillance
C. Someone else is using his phone for mischief

Now, since selection "A" in both lists represents 1/3 of the possibilities and all other selections represent 1/6 it is most likely that the sender is trying to play a trick rather than turn a trick. I suppose that no matter how I react, if I react at all I am fulfilling the desired result. And so, the best course of action is to DNR, DO NOT REPLY, and in my case blog extensively about it.

Shoulda Coulda...Pennsylvania!? (second course)

The single most crucial moment in a budding romance is the first time one of you takes a trip without the other. Every single gesture, things otherwise unremarkable under normal circumstances, becomes rife with meaning. This year is the first time in my adult life that I've been single on my birthday. No presents no special romantic dinner. No feeling special. When you're single every birthday and holiday becomes a reminder of what you don't have. And no wrapped gift can replace the first I miss you phone call.

The I miss you phone call (n.)

This is a romantic gesture in which you pry yourself away from the new X factor long enough to call a special person that you have feelings for. In theory this phone call could be made at any time during the day but carries the most sentimental value when made during prime time television for a duration of longer than a commercial break. This symbolically establishes you as a higher priority than television, which the foolish young singles everywhere take for granted. See also: not looking at the phone on dates, texting you in the middle of the day for no reason, letting you eat the last scoop of ice cream.

For me this call never came, nor did the text, nor did the e-mail. Ordinarily I would analyze a missed romantic landmark into oblivion but the convenient thing about going on a trip is that it distracts you from anything going on back home. So while the absence of this call was noted I was also too distracted to make this call. In math two negative numbers can either cancel each other out, make a bigger negative or somehow create a positive number. In relationships, two negative actions just makes things worse.

See also: I'm not calling you because you didn't call me.

From divergent behavior to emergent behavior, my sister called us the day after my birthday explaining that she was going to die of stomach pain. My mother, who has a soft spot for my sister and her irritable tummy of course decided to err on the side of inconvenient and tell sister to take an ambulance to the nearest hospital.

Here is what the voice of reason (I.e. my voice) says:

Web MD will tell you that stomach pain indicates:

A. Cancer (.01% of instances) 

B. Gas (80% of instances)

Ambulatory care: thousands of dollars, results in going to the nearest crappy hospital.

Taxi: tens of dollars, results in going to your preferred hospital.

So of course my sister took an ambulance, wound up at a shitty west Philly teaching hospital, was given Motrin fluids and two inconclusive ultrasounds and sent home with no diagnosis after 10 hours of me sitting in a waiting room wondering why this hospital employs 10 snide boxy legged nurses to every 1 reasonably attractive doctor.

After we spent a suitable amount of time (10 hours) waiting for a diagnosis of "possibly a ruptured cyst" (gas) the doctor finally released us back into the city. My mother had armed us with 20 bucks for a cab which I wholly intended on purchasing a round of drinks with. My sister looked at me in disgust,

"I just got released from the hospital. I still have my wristband on. And you want to go to a bar."

"Yes, that's the plan. I just wasted the whole day in the hospital to find out you had gas--"

"A cyst!"

"Well, now it's time to start my day, which is to say start drinking."

"Mom said to take me home in a cab."

"We can walk and parlay this twenty into our first round. Cosmos on mom tonight."

However, sister was not convinced. For whatever reason she insisted on taking a cab rather than walk three miles home (these people that live in Philly, geez.). Then the trouble of how, exactly do you get a cab in Philly. One would think on a major street, outside of a hospital, there would be an abundance. I'm starting to think that the motto of Philadelphia is, "No dice," or maybe, "Fat chance." I looked to my sister, as this was clearly her city, to get us a cab. She shrugged and gave me this look like how the hell was she supposed to know where the cabs are.

"Well can you call a number?"

"Like 911?" she asked.

"No, I was thinking a cab company would be more appropriate."

"You can call them?"

Just when I was ready to re-admit my sister to the hospital and hit the pubs some fortuitous grace brought us a cab down Broad street and back to whatever bumfuck west Philly college neighborhood she lives in. Her flat, sandwiched between two fraternities and a sorority was a fourth floor walk up that smelled like curry and clorox in the hallways.

Sister wanted to order food but I was feeling a bit stir crazy and decided it'd be better for me to walk somewhere and grab food (and drink). Plus I didn't want to spend one more second in the apartment of four college age girls. She directed me to some pizza place around the corner. I ordered my pizza and took a seat at the bar.

Population of the bar: 1

At first the bartender approached me like I was skittish runaway dog that would flee if she stepped too hard.

"Are you..did you want--"

"Do you have Hendricks gin?"

"I..what is?"

"Never mind, I'll have a Tanqeray dirty martini."

She stepped away slowly and frantically dug around in a bin for something, I assumed a taser, to take care of me. What she pulled out was a dusty old never-used martini shaker and held it up as if she had just unearthed the sword of camelot. I gave her a subtle nod to reassure her that she was doing the right thing. She picked up the bottle of Tanqeray in the other hand, I gave another nod. It was like watching a lunar space shuttle lift off. I saw a bead of sweat form on her forehead.

Then, when I saw the crusty old olive jar that she was about pour olive juice from I stopped her and said just a regular martini is fine. She pulled out the bottle of dry vermouth and poured and entire ounce into the shaker.

"What are you doing?"

"You wanted a martini right?"

"Yes, which really only needs the suggestion of vermouth."

"You suggest using vermouth?"

"No, what I meant was--that's just too much."

I'm going to interrupt this programming to explain how to make a proper

Dirty Gin Martini

Fill a martini glass with ice and water to chill. Add three ounces of gin and ice to a mixing glass. Stir thoroughly (Do not shake, stir enough to melt the ice slightly). Dump the water from the martini glass (this should cause the glass to frost up) and pour the tiniest splash of vermouth in the glass; slosh it around and dump the vermouth so only a light coating remains on the glass. Strain the chilled gin into the martini glass. Drizzle a small amount of olive juice on top of the martini. Garnish with two skewered olives.

She then dumped the entire thing in the sink and was about to start over when I just asked her for a scotch neat, and pointed to an unopened bottle of Glenlivet Nadurra. She had to pour at least 5 ounces of scotch in the glass, it was a ridiculous pour. Then she set a check in front of me for six dollars and fifty cents.

"Excuse me, I think you charged it wrong. Where I work this would probably cost eighteen bucks."

"Nope," she said, "That's what it costs." I looked incredulous. Maybe Philadelphia wasn't so bad. Sure the music was about ten years two thousand and late, the people dressed like the cast of Water World and apparently nobody in the state had heard of this new drink called the martini, but maybe there was something to this quaint little grotto in the armpit of North America.

Then the bartender said the sentence I've been waiting my whole adult life to hear, "The most expensive drink we have is seven dollars."

Shoulda Coulda... Pennsylvania!? (Part one)

In food and beverage we have a look. The look is one part deer in the head lights, one part confusion, one part aggravation, shaken lightly. This special look is reserved for only the strangest of requests. Can you change my $1000 bill? Can I order a pinã colada even though it's January and I'm in Chicago? Can I order a BLT with out the B, and extra L with no bread? Ensalada cesar con camarones por favor. It's shock. It's horror. It's annoyance. It's the signature look for the state of Connecticut. And, every time I travel to Pennsylvania, it's the look I seem to be getting from everyone.

This trip to Pennsylvania came at a good time. The hotel's full of Argentinians, my cat's driving me up the wall, and I've just had a successful third date with a new interest. It was time to get out of the city for a week. I've long since accepted that the love of my life is Chicago and the man in my life is my cat Gucci, and there's nothing like travel to make your love seem shiny and new. If it seems like I've been closed mouthed rather than clothes mouthed lately it's because I'm in the process of courtship, and if I've learned anything in the last few years its that there are two things that will jinx any relationship early on:

1. Blogging about it

2. Telling my mother

So, I've been very hush hush on the internet about this. I can be very superstitious about dating. Never knit a sweater for the boyfriend, never talk about it before the third date, never order spaghetti until you have a ring on your finger or you're on a date with a cocker spaniel. 

Planning a trip and taking time off is the easy part for me, it's packing for Pennsylvania that's the difficult part. Should I bring the gun or cannoli? The emu boa scarf or paisley muffler? Can I get away with a watch fob? Is a fuchsia velvet smoking jacket too much?

Here is my 

Compressed guide to packing for Pennsylvania (2012 edition):

1. Go to the nearest salvation army and ask for the jeans that Jerry Seinfeld was wearing in 1994, wear these every day

2. Anything from L.L. Bean

3. Is there something like a dragon or skull embroidered on it?

4. Did you remember your coach wristlet and Ugg boots?

5. Sweatpants, sweatpants, sweatpants!

6. Sweatshirts

7. Remember those tee shirts with Mickey mouse on them?

8. Do you still have the Family Values 2008 hoodie?

9. Tracksuits!

10. Maybe your nana has a fanny pack you can borrow? Python embossed leather?

11. gray, dark gray, slate gray, stone gray, pebble gray, expired beef gray

12. You know that Eagles shirt with holes in it that you've been using as a washcloth for a decade?

13. XXXL

14. frozen shrimp gray, shades of gray, gray gardens, raincloud gray, Alex Trebek gray

So, clearly, nothing in my closet is suitable. Pennsylvania is very much about blending it, there is prolific camouflage to prove this. I, well, I am not exactly a wallflower. Why do you think I moved to the city? I had to go somewhere that a floral Etro three piece suit wouldn't get me lynched. I traveled to Chicago, where anything goes (except Packers fans). It is with some trepidation that I return, but if I could make it 17 years here what's another week with some sideward glances from the local village folk. I packed light, bribed my friend to watch Gucci, and grabbed an early cab to O'hare. 

It was about six in the morning so I was running on auto pilot; in the security line I was following behind the guy in front of me up to the TSA desk.

"Excuse me," the TSA lady said, "Are you with this man," she said indicating the business man in front of me.

"I don't know, is he cute?" I asked, he turned around curtly. He looked vaguely like Hugh Laurie if Hugh Laurie got thrashed with rosebushes and sand for about twenty years. "Yeah, I'm not with him."

"Stand behind the line then sir."

"Ooh, yes maim!"

When it was finally my turn she grabbed the drivers license out of my hand and said,

"Happy Birthday, your license is expired."

"Well, that's the worst birthday greeting I've ever heard." And there came the look, the Connecticut glare I'll call it (this nomenclature comes from the WASPish tendency to express emotion with light variances of the facial muscles). These TSA people are like the queen's guard, they're trained to not show emotion, and have characteristically lackluster hair. This would be the first of many of this look. My usual chauffeur (my mother) met me at the Philadelphia airport and decided to promptly renew my license so as not to hinder any drinking while I was here.

Now a trip to the Bucks County DMV, also known as the cramped constipated anus of the slowest moving snail on the planet, requires three things: two forms of ID and one double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water. One of the wonderful things about the suburbs is that you never have to get out of your car for anything. There is so much useless space here that everything can be converted to a drive thru. The downfall of this is that you must order everything from a scratchy amplified speaker box with graffiti on it. We pulled up to the drive through Starbucks and my mother shot me a look.

"Just order it! C'mon, say it, I'm serious," I said to her. My mother looked agitated.

"Hi, can I have a double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water and a medium pumpkin latte." She looked back at me an shrugged. The machine crackled for a second. We were unsure if the voice at the other end registered the order.

"shhhhhh...I got the pumpkin..shhh..latte..shh..but can you repeat that other one...shhhhhhhh." I hopped up and tried to lean over to order it myself but my mother pushed me back. She swatted me back.

"Two pumpkin lattes," My mother said and drove through before I could correct him. She regarded me, "You're not in Chicago anymore!"

I got the look again when I asked the woman at the DMV if she could photoshop out the stray hair and if she could facebook it to me. I mean how was I supposed to know they don't do that there. The people in there looked at me like I was the fool. I mean I know how to behave in restaurants, I know how to behave in job interviews, I know how to address important people, how was I to know there was an etiquette guide to the DMV, and that somewhere in that guide is: don't tell the woman next to you her weave is crooked. 

People who come here from Chicago encounter several differences in culture. For example, in the midwest you can walk into a 7-11 and pick up a bottle of wine for dinner. In Pennsylvania you have to take two busses, a cab and a camel to get to some state-run liquor store that closes in time for the clerk to get home to prime time TV. And sometimes you'll get a beer depot that can't sell wine and spirits because the alcohol content is just TOO high. The only place that you can buy any alcohol is at these sparsely located stores, and god help you if you ask for green chartreuse. I settled for a bottle of St. Germaine and a fifth of Ketel 1. I made up a special Pennsylvania cocktail that I like to call a

Lemon Drop-off-the-face-of-the-earth

2 oz. Vodka

1 oz. St. Germaine

zest and juice of half a lemon

shaken and served up

drink until you're back in Chicago

(to be continued...)