The Pyramid Scheme... Birthday Party

So, it's Valentine's Day, which means nothing in our house.

Oh, not because we don't love each other-- we do love each other, very much (don't you pay attention when I write about my Mrs. Apron?) but because we started cyber-courting on February 16th, which gives us a very convenient excuse to say "Fuck you" to Valentine's Day. We celebrate our love for each other on February 16th-- and pretty much whenever we remember to do it. Like while we're in the car together, talking about linguistics, or operetta, or cop-killing, while we're baking or watching "Teen Mom 2" or whatever.

And, as I was driving to work yesterday morning (yes, I work every other weekend-- Saturday AND Sunday, which is gay. And by "gay" I mean that the fact of me working every other weekend is akin to a gentleman inserting his penile shaft into the anus of another man and moving it around and stuff.) I was thinking to myself, "Gee, if the anniversary of the beginning of our romance together is on February 16th, what holidays/special events in our lives come after that?"

I like to think ahead, see.

My sister's birthday is March 31st. But that doesn't really count. If you don't know why, read a couple posts ago. The one where I write about her moving across the street from me. They just signed papers yesterday. Kill me.

My father's birthday is April 2nd, as is my mother-in-law's.

And then, whoo, babytittycakes: It's mine.

Thirty-one.

Everybody knows that a person's thirty-first birthday is about as exciting as an eleven-year-old Mercury Sable. With cloth interior. Of course, the only birthday of mine about which I've ever gotten excited was my sixteenth birthday, because I could drive and was finally able to legally buy a jar of Vaseline and a box of Kleenex at the same time at CVS. It's been pretty much downhill from that point on as far as my birthdays are concerned. Excitement and joy for my wife's birthday (October 9, in case you're curious) have far supplanted any interest in my own natalness.

Because I don't drink, 21 was just... awkward. As were pretty much all the ones that followed-- except for my 26th, which I celebrated with my wife in Bali on our honeymoon, which easily kicked all of my other birthdays right in the dick. We went on a 20-mile bike ride and I opened presents on a gigantic pillow-top bed in a hotel that we could never afford in America unless I worked 86 hours a week for a year and sold my blood and semen for five months straight.

My 30th birthday was pretty cool, too. My wife kidnapped me and took me to a folk music retreat. I met Nathan Rogers. If you know who he is, you know that's pretty cool. And if you're Nathan Rogers and you got here by Googling yourself, it's okay. I do it, too. But, funnily enough, I never end up here.

But seriously, Crash Bandicoot, knowing that my birthday is a mere three months away got me kind of thinking about my birthday, which sounds like a really annoying thing to say but, hey-- you must be used to that sort of thing by now. I was thinking about how I'd like to spend my birthday, and all I could come up with, while driving to work on a Sunday morning, was "at home with my wife." I could care less about the dogs. They could be there, or not. Actually, maybe if they were somewhere else, that would be better.

Just looked at the calendar for May. My birthday's on a Thursday. Unless the world alters drastically, I will be working from 7a-3p. There goes that idea.

While making preparations for my thirtieth birthday, my wife sat me down and, with seriousness uncustomary, said, "You know, if you want me to invite a bunch of friends over for a party, I hope you'll be honest with me and let me know so I can plan it." I looked at her. "if... you know... that's what you want."

"Sure," I said, "that's actually a good idea. And then, instead of a cake, maybe you can jam a fork into my left testicle and twist it around like you're wrapping spaghetti around a meatball."

And we all had a jolly good laugh.

It's not that I don't like my friends, it's just that I barely have any. And the friends that I do have are all from such disparate sections of my life that I am convinced a gathering with all of them would probably be one of the most awkward, bizarre, unfortunate events with cocktail weiners to occur since Bill Gates was knighted. I mean, can you imagine the painful attempts at small-talk at that shindig?

We decided that what would be in order for the two of us would be a Pyramid Scheme Birthday Party, (it's the only way we'd amass enough people for a, um, party) where ambiguous yet exciting invitations were sent out to a select group of individuals. These unfortunates would be given a time (probably, like, tomorrow) and place (probably, like, some warehouse) to show up, but they had to bring with them at least three other people who would benefit from this once in a lifetime opportunity.

And there would be pie-charts on butcher-block paper on easels and some guy in a monochromatic shirt-and-tie combination with pit stains and thinning hair talking about widgets and things. And then we'd all eat cake.

Maybe I'd like that. Except for all the people.

The Prime (Rib In a Bowl) of Miss Jean Brodie

Soup goes in bowls.

Chili goes into bowls, too-- as does guac and salad (though that goes on small plates, too, but if you've got any good quantity of it, you're going to be jonesing for that bowl) and shredded cheese that you will then put on nachos.

Hey, speaking of nachos? Bowl.

You would be hard-pressed to put sour-cream dip and potato chips on a plate. I mean, that's just silly. You put that shit in a bowl, because it's, well, right.

You know what's not right? Putting meat in a bowl.

Oh, America. Sometimes you're so silly-- pretending it's normal to put meat in a bowl. Imagining that society will wantonly accept the fact that it will now be socially acceptable to consume meat with... a spoon?

Meat with a spoon? Get outta my pants! We don't even know each other that well yet!

Wawa, easily the creme de la creme of convenience food purveyors in my neck o' de woods, Mr. Boss-man, is in the throes of trying to convince us that we are not descending down a peg or two on the evolutionary ladder by consuming appreciable quantities of meat that are now coming to you live, via satellite, in bowl format.

There's a very large billboard where I-676 meets I-76 encouraging us to purchase

PRIME RIB: SHORTI (that's a small hoagie to you foreigners) OR BOWL: $3.99.

Prime rib. In a bowl.

Does that seem wrong to you? If it doesn't, maybe you ought to un-follow me, just like former Apron-lover 191, who fucked off yesterday, presumably because s/he is a fan of York Peppermint Patties.

Well, excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!

Now, getting back to beef in a bowl: I admit that I consume some food of questionable virtues. I get it. I've been to all-you-can-eat sushi buffets. I've been to non-ironic smorgasbords in Lancaster County where they serve, much to my genteel vegetarian wife's horror, bacon dressing. I've eaten triple-decker sandwiches. Pork roll. Scrapple. Just as Jesus may have died on the cross for you, more animals than I can count have perished from this earth in the interest of winding up in the southeastern Pennsylvania sewer system after being forcibly ejected from my brittle little body.

You know who's supposed to eat meat out of a bowl?




I mean, that makes sense to me. But... I don't know. Prime rib. People meat? In a bowl? For $3.99?

Something says to me that this is beyond the pale.

"I mean-- who are they kidding?" my wife said to me on the way home from a downtown theatre outing one night, the gargantuan billboard illuminated by the moon and the auxiliary lighting at its base, "that is just the most disgusting thing I've ever seen."

There was a momentary pause as I checked her with my peripheral vision.

"Oh-- yeah. Yeah, that's, um, that is just awful."

Another pause, this one more tense.

"Promise me you will never eat that," Mrs. Apron said.

My eyes flicked momentarily up and to the right. Classic.

"I promise."

That was months ago, and I've kept my promise, even after winning a $10.00 Wawa giftcard at work as part of a "Good Catch Award" for noticing that a deranged elderly patient had turned his oxygen concentrator up from 2 liters per minute to 6, which could have blown his lungs out.

I've spent some of the money on coffee-- a breakfast sandwich. But nothing in a bowl.

Because bowls are what you put soup into. Bowls are for sick people food. Broth and other things that look (and smell vaguely) of piss.

Because the USDA shouldn't be allowing us citizens to consume meat (especially in bowl format) that costs less than a barely fancy large cup of coffee at Starbucks.

Because, at The Prime Rib: The Civilized Steakhouse, real prime rib goes for $45.95, and while that may seem excessive, I'll bet it's fucking worth it. And they ought to know their prime rib, seeing as it's their name.

And I'll bet they put that motherfucker on a plate. A big one.

Director's Cut

I've hate people who say they hate things before they've ever tried them. Like all those people who got all up in arms over "Tropic Thunder" before they'd even seen it. I hate them, and I've never even seen any of those people. I've never seen "Tropic Thunder" either, and I've never been up in arms over it. I've never even half raised my arms over it. Or under it. Or my legs. But I assure you that, in this post, I will be blogging Full Retard.

So, after digesting the aforeparagraphed paragraphatory object, what I am about to say might and probably will seem contradictory. No, fuck that "seem" shit-- it will be contradictory. There will be contradictions aplenty. Because that's the kind of guy I am. Decidedly contradictory, controversial, and contraindicated am I, in that fully retarded way of mine.

I hate York Peppermint Patties.

I've never eaten a York Peppermint Patty. Wait-- what the screwbitch? Is it "Patty" or "Pattie." Let's go to the Google Challenge:

Patty = 70, 400 hits (approximately)

Pattie = 77, 400 (apprx)

Which just goes to show you that every vote counts. Now, if you ask me, the very fact that typing in either version of this candy's (candie's?) name generates so few Google hits tells me that it's basically a piece of shit in a silver-colored wrapper. I mean, fuck-- Google "Reese's Peanut Butter Cup" and you're looking at 264, 000 motherlovers (approximately-dottly) and if there's a person alive who dares befoul my comment section of this blog by saying that York Peppershit Patties are better than a fucking peanut cup, well, you can just unfollow me till the cows come home and set up a lemonade stand out front on the curb.

No. Not having it. Negative, Lieutenant. Permission to mate with my twin nieces denied

Now, while I'm knowingly contradicting myself by hating something I've never tried, I can honestly and in good faith state that I do not like York Peppermint Patties for the simple reason that I absolutely cannot, in no terms either certain or uncertain or even certayne, which, I think, is how they used to spell that shit in back in the dizzay, stand mint.

Hate. Vitriol. Disgust. Abhor. Um... me no likey?

It's gross and foul, and, when they mix it with chocolate, they might as well be mixing sex with TNT. Like... why? Why would you do that? I feel like Mrs. York mixed mint with dark chocolate because she was feeling bored or possessed by Hades or something. It's not something that a psychologically well-adjusted individual would do. And, since that unholy bitch started these mint-and-chocolate shenanigans, confectioners the world over have seen fit to say, "Oh, hey-- that's a good idea!" Even the poor, innocent-seeming girlscouts are not immune from this terror.

Thin-mints? Jesus. Sell enough of those and these maladjusted girlscouts will grow up thinking it's okay to have sex whilst sticking TNT up the cornholes of their lovers.

Not. Okay.

You won't ever find me buying a box of those nasty-assed things. Or Peppermint Patties. Never. I don't even brush my teeth with mint toothpaste-- which makes trips to the market sometimes frustrating. Because, if the market we're at doesn't carry Tom's of Maine Orange & Mango toothpaste-- guess what?-- we're going to every market in a ten mile radius until we find one that does. Because their Fennel toothpaste?

Not even fit for Girl Scout cookies.

I was reminded recently of my extreme hatred for York Peppermint Patties while watching television at the gym with my wife. We were on the ellipticals, and one of the flatscreens in front of us (providing a much needed break from Glenn Beck-- who was muted and looked as if he was rapping [he probably wasn't]) was broadcasting a newish commercial for York Peppermint Patties. As I said, the TV was muted, and there was probably some luscious-sounding female voiceover encouraging you to indulge in the decadence of a York Peppermint Pattie before throwing it up because of your diet thing, and on the screen was some blonde chick with impossibly red lipstick just mouth-fucking this brown circle. Extreme close-up followed by medium shot followed by close-up with another extreme close-up of her virginal white teeth sinking into this delectable-looking cake-- without a single speck getting between her teeth or on her lips. And, as I watched this absurd commercial, only one thought went through my mind:

"Can you imagine the poor motherfucker who is directing this thing?"

I mean, really-- there is someone on that set whose job it is to *ahem* direct this commercial.

"Okay, love, in this next shot I want you to pretend you've got your mouth around Prince William's whangus, really take it all in and don't forget to flick your upper lip with your tongue as your mouth curls into that I'm-a-naughty-girl-as-well-as-a-double-agent-for-the-Mossad grin. All right? Roll sound, from the top-- and, go!"

And what must this person think of when he wakes up in the morning?

"I went to film/directing/rabbinical school... for this?"

I mean, wow. THAT, my friends, is Full Pepperminty Pattylicious Retard.

Well, Scoot on My Carpet and Call it Kozy Shack Chocolate Pudding; It's... DEAR APRON!

Every now and then, I find this lump under my underarm that I'm utterly convinced is cancer until my derm tells me it's because of the deodorant I'm using.

Um...

But that's okay, because it's not cancer, it's...

DEAR APRON:

My 70-year-old father has asked his 40-year-old girlfriend to marry him. This will be his fourth marriage. They have been dating for a year, and she says she wants to have two or three children with him.

My sisters and I are not happy at all. Our father was a horrible father when we were growing up. To say he doesn't like children is putting it mildly. Also, we feel he would be incredibly selfish and irresponsible to consider bringing a baby into this world at his age when he may not be around long enough to take care of the child.

Do my sisters and I have a right to be upset about this? How would you suggest we handle this? -- DISGUSTED DAUGHTERS IN TEXAS

DEAR DISGUSTED DAUGHTERS:

I'm very confused by this letter. In fact, it's driven me to drink. Which will make my response much more interesting, though probably just as incoherent.

Does your dad have kids from Wives #2 and #3 in addition to your mom, or are you the by-product of 2 or 3? Do you even know who your mother is? Have you ever read the book, "Are You My Mother?" by P.D. Eastman? You may find it very illuminating. Perhaps you and/or your sisters were conceived during that brief period in the late 1970s when your father was married to that power shovel.

All that said, I suppose I ought to answer your pathetic, rhetorical question, "Do my sisters and I have a right to be upset about this?" The answer is, "No. You have no rights. Submit to my will, or I will break you. I dominate all who come forth to challenge my omnipotence. My seed is to you like liquid amethyst. Drink of it, verily, ye maid of alabastar knees and wanton thigh-flower."

Code-4. Suspect in custody. Once, I bought a Bill Cosby sweater. I need to stop drinking now.

Or do it a LOT more.

DEAR APRON:

I have been married to my wife almost 40 years. I love her dearly and she says she loves me, but when I want to hold her, she tenses up like I'm a rapist. When I kiss her longer than a nano-second, she makes noises that sound as though I have a pillow over her face. We haven't slept in the same bed in so long I can't remember what it's like. When I try to talk to her about it, she ignores me. How can I get her to realize how much I hurt? -- LONELY AND HURT IN MIDDLE GRANVILLE, N.Y.

DEAR LONELY AND HURT IN SOMEWHERE I DON'T CARE ABOUT:

Here's the thing. I think you need to stop dressing in all black, wearing a ski-mask, and rappelling through the porch screen window immediately prior to sex with your wife. I would also advise against your continual habit of shouting, "THIS IS A RAPE!" while shoving her underpants into her mouth. While you may have thought that this would be stimulating for your wife, it is possible that she may find it traumatic, especially if she is both irrational and unreasonable, as modern science has proven approximately 93-96% of women to be.

I might also suggest not smothering her face with that pillow anymore. I know, it probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Plus, she was just asking for it, like all the rest of 'em.

DEAR APRON:

I'm an independent, 41-year-old woman who attracts men who are 10 to 13 years younger than I am. I'm not interested in them because I feel they are only after one thing. Another problem is, when I start getting close to a man my own age, he always makes me feel "smothered." It seems I'm either loved too much or not at all.
Is there a balance, or am I just afraid of getting close? -- AVOIDING GETTING HURT IN MILWAUKEE

DEAR AVOIDING SOMETHING:

Wait-- you think they're after your shoes...

Right?

DEAR APRON:

I have employed the same cleaning lady every week for nearly 20 years. She worked for my grandparents before me. "Dora" is 70 and shows no hint of retiring. In fact, she tells me from time to time she has no intention of ever stopping.

Although I admire Dora's spunk, the truth is she is becoming increasingly careless in her work. I often come home to find something broken, knocked over or spilled. I can see she has trouble managing the stairs and carrying the vacuum cleaner. I know she needs the income and I can't imagine letting her go. What can I do? -- HOUSEBROKEN IN BUFFALO

DEAR HOUSEBROKEN:

Why that fucking, spiteful, disgusting hogcow. After all you've done for her, hiding her from ICE and INS all these years, this is how she repays you? By busting up this here chifforobe for only a nickel? Why, if Dora were MY cleaning lady, she'd be fucking "Explora"ing for a new gig with some other schelp who doesn't care that their precious antique jade Longzhi pottery and sculptures (I need to stop watching "Antiques Roadshow". And drinking.) is getting broken by this washed up has-been illegal immigrant in diabetic shoes and support hose.

Look, the answer to your dilemma is quite obvious to me. If Dora won't quit, and you can't bring yourself to fire her, clearly the most humane course of action is to take her out back behind the shed and shoot her. Just make sure she has a more spry younger sister or something to clean up that frigging mess when you're done.

Humandor

Ever rip the everloving Christshit ass out of your house looking for something you know you're never going to find?

Yeah. That was me yesterday. Special.

See, that afternoon, I happened to see a coworker of mine on the Dunhill website, shopping for cigar lighters. These objects ranged in price from approximately $500, all the way to an astonishing $2, 700 for a Rollagas lighter by Harold Riley, Carnoustie Golf Course edition, to an motherfucking cockblocking $8, 200 for a mini lighter cast in white gold, to a Federal, pound-me-in-the-ass-prison Hobnail 18-carat gold Rollagas lighter for $13, 100.

No joke. For goddamn lighter. That lights things on fire that will blacken your lungs and quite possible end up making your mouth look like those cleft palate children ads you see in Car & Driver. A thing that lights other things on fire. You know, like a match could.

I looked over his shoulder and said,

"So, I couldn't help looking over your shoulder just now. Would you like a butane Colibri cigar lighter? I think I have one at home."

My normally blase coworker's ears perked up, like a dog's might at the mention of a readily available side of beef, or a defenseless infant.

"Sure!" he said, "if you have it lying around, that'd be great. Of course I'd pay you for it."

"Meh," I replied, "if I have it, it's been lying around doing nothing for years-- you can just have the damned thing."

Pretty magnanimous of me. Of course, I don't have it anymore.

This fact became apparent after nearly two hours of furiously tossing around boxes and random objects all around my house after arriving home from work, and toileting the dogs. Actually, I confess that I started looking for the lighter before toileting the dogs. Then I felt guilty, toileted the dogs, and resumed destroying the house. It was all for naught. No lighter.

Once upon a time, say, oh, I don't know, ten years ago, I had two Colibri lighters. One was silver, and the other was cobalt blue, and they were both butane lighters. The cobalt blue one was easily the coolest one, shaped like a bullet with gas (literally) with a little flip top that the flame would shoot out of, and a flip-out cigar-cutter attachment, it was the grande dame of cigar lighters to me. At least, it was until I saw that crazy fucking Dunhill website. I mean, are you kidding me, Cletus?

I acquired the lighters, along with a burled wood humidor, and thirty Davidoff cigars, and 20 mini cigarillos from my ex-girlfriend's mother. For Christmas. In the year 2000.

"Use it in good health," she said to me before descending into the joyous throes of a smokers hacking cackle (hackle?).

"Um, thanks," I said.

According to my wife, I gave the humidor away, maybe two years ago. For the life of me, I can't remember to whom I gave the stupid thing-- probably my former best friend, who no longer speaks to me. "But I remember that you kept one of the lighters," she said.

That sounds like something I'd do.

Of course, now the one lighter, if I did indeed keep it, is as good as gone, too. I can't find it, and it won't be found. And I'll walk into work today and go, "Um, yeah, so, remember when I offered to give you something I don't actually have? Yeah. I don't have it. But the offer still stands."

All things considered, it's really not such a big deal, but it is just another infuriating reminder that I am desperately fallible and, in the exuberant rush to try to do something nice for someone, to make someone else feel good, I can't not open my mouth. I could have silently observed my coworker looking at that absurd site, and gone home quietly to look for the lighter, unimpeded and untortured by the knowledge that I had said something and that foot was firmly entrenched in mouth.

"Buddy," my wife said to me last night, "you're allowed to be human, you know."

And I know that. But I also know that my humanity is unceasingly disappointing.

I Used to Want to Be Sam Donaldson

I sometimes tell myself that, if I had more time, more talent, more motivation, more money, more... chutzpah, I could probably take a year or two off from work and pen one of those awkward, painfully funny memoirs of what it was like to grow up in my skin, my eccentric, affectionately crazy skin. Re-enacting the Pan-Am 103 disaster with Playmobil victims wrapped in Kleenex. Memorizing entire episodes of Monty Python's Flying Circus as a nine-year-old, complete with diverse English accents, coming to my elementary school's 1988 Halloween parade dressed as Richard Nixon.

I mean, you'd read that, wouldn't you?

I mean-- you are reading that. Aren't you?

Right.

Little boys spend a lot of their time and their energy thinking and fantasizing about what they want to be when they grow up. I suppose some of them want to be their Daddies. I wanted to be anything but. He was (and still is) what I referred to cheekily and audaciously as "A Girdle Man," that is, someone who has devoted his life to manufacturing compression undergarments-- first for ladies, then for professional athletes. I used to go with him to his factory some Saturdays to spread fabric from bolts that were three times taller than I was. We'd spread fabric, a long sheet across the table, weigh it down on each corner, and I'd take a huge, rusty pair of shears and he'd take a huge, rusty pair of shears, and we'd slice, slice, slice until we'd meet in the middle, and spread another sheet.

"Jesus Christ," I said to him, at age eleven, "you mean to tell me there are actually people who do this for a living?"

He laughed at me. What a dummy. Of course there are people who do this for a living. I was looking at one.

I knew I didn't want to be a laborer. A manufacturer. Someone who did something with his hands. I knew I wanted to be on screen. But I knew also, from a very early age, that my physical appearance was, well, awkward at best, and that my potential for television/film was limited, and my voice wasn't special enough-- not smooth enough or, for that matter, brash enough-- for radio. It was a dilemma for an a-typical American youth.

From a very, very early age, I enjoyed watching two things: Monty Python, and the news. While you may at first regard these two televisual pastimes as exceedingly disparate, I assure you they are more similar than at first they appear. There is one thing that they both have very much in common:

Not entirely attractive, very well-dressed men sitting behind desks talking into microphones.

I mean, John Cleese created an entire character whose sole purpose was to be dressed, usually in a tuxedo, sitting behind a beautiful wooden desk, with a gigantic, old-school BBC microphone in front of him, just to say, "And now for something completely different." Sometimes this desk would be in the middle of a field, or in a creek, or in front of an apartment building window where a young woman is getting undressed, or ascending heavenward courtesy of two large propellers attached to the desk.

And, of course, as we well know, the news is nothing BUT sometimes unfortunate-looking men sitting behind desks wearing formal blue and red striped ties talking into the camera. I began, at age eight, cutting out photographs of our local news anchors and taping them to my bedroom walls-- you know, the way normal children do with cars or, I don't know... dinosaurs?

Men behind desks. Wearing suits and ties.

Yes, I thought. I will be a man behind a desk, wearing a suit and a tie.

In addition to cutting out photographs of local news anchors, I also got into the habit of recording news theme music that I found particularly titillating. The music to ABC Nightly News was my favorite. It's not as good anymore, but, back in the eighties, it started out with the pounding of bass drums and then came in some badass trumpets heralding the arrival of something truly important-- something you've waited your whole fucking day for.

And I liked it.

So, I had one of those mini cassette recorders that I probably made my father buy for me from Radio Shack for some ridonkulous amount of money, and I would hold it up to the speaker on our living room TV, just below the green, red and white RCA logo, at exactly 6:30 to record the theme music. And I would listen to it. Alone in my room. A lot.

And then it hit me.

I had a closet full of formal wear, you know, like every child my age, I had a desk, I had a gargantuan mirror in my room, I even had a desk-mounted microphone (which I also made my father buy for me from Radio Shack for some ridonkulous amount of money).

It was time to play a little make-believe: me style.

So, one weekend morning, I dressed in my dark blue suit, with my powder blue dress shirt underneath, and completed the ensemble with an appropriately dour dark blue striped tie. I parted my hair on the side (I wore a bowl-cut back then) and wet it under the sink so it would stay that way. Not only that, but I plastered the front part of my hair down on my forehead, like my favorite ABC Nightly Newsman, Sam Donaldson. Then, I looked in the mirror and realized that something was missing. My eyebrows. No matter how I manipulated them, no matter how hard I scowled, I just didn't look enough like Sam Donaldson, with his extreme browage. So, I did what any pre-pubescent boy fantasizing about being a news anchor would do: I snuck into my parent's bedroom, ransacked my mother's admittedly scant make-up area, and found black eyeliner. I carefully drew over my eyebrows, creating a dramatic transformation. I then turned the desk to face the mirror, switched on the mini tape cassette player, and did my newscast.

In the middle, I heard my bedroom doorknob click and the door cracked open, and my mother was standing in the doorway. I saw her in reverse in the mirror, looking at me. I turned to her.

"Hi, Mommy. I'm being Sam Donaldson."

"That's nice," she replied, "could you put my makeup back when you're done?"

"I did already."

We'll be back, after these messages from our sponsors.

You Can Party Now: It's My 700TH BLOGDAY!

I met an old college friend (this phrase implies that I have a bunch of those, just, you know, sort of hanging around. I don't. I have, um, two.) for coffee in Providence on Christmas weekend. A blizzard was beginning, but he still took time out of his day to drive to Starbucks on Thayer Street and meet me. And, after we parted, I still took time to purchase a wool blazer from the 1940s at a second-hand boutique. Because I'm nucking futs.

Anyway, while we made each other laugh like no time at all had passed, assuredly to the annoyance of the other Starbucks patrons, he asked me about my blog, and, because I am an insufferable megalomaniac, I told him about it. He suggested that, one day, I should invite all of my readers (this phrase implies that I have a bunch of those, you know, sort of hanging around) to some random place for a party.

"But, I don't throw parties," I said.

"That would make it even funnier," he expertly countered. Well, he had a point there.

I was uncommonly silent.

"Can you imagine the bizarre mix of people a My Masonic Apron party would attract? People tossing back and forth your gay catchphrases and there would inevitably be this awkward moment where they'd all look at you with the realization that this... awesome schmuck is the reason they're all together? Oh my God, it would be so beautiful."

"Right," I said, "like the Last Supper, only with pork and more clothes. I would insist on fancy dress, and bacon-wrapped scallops."

This happy little reunion got me thinking about what exactly a My Masonic Apron party might look like. As I've said, I'm not so much into the whole party thing. It's distinctly possible that my stodgy side would come out at such an event, causing it to look something like this:

You might think that nobody could possibly have fun at a party like this, but you can tell that they've just come off a totally raucous game of Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Negro-Manservant, and that the tea was damn good.

It should come, I would hope, as no surprise to you that I am incapable of executing anything as self-indulgent as a party for my blog. Believe me when I say that I am perfectly happy celebrating events like my 700th Blogday as I celebrate a lot of small victories and notables: by myself. My wife, in fact, is out tutoring as I bang out this little post, recognizing my little accomplishment, and the fact that there are no random faces around me is really okay. It's kind of how I want it. It's kind of how I run my life. I'm even okay with the fact that there is no food in front of me that is wrapped in bacon.

700 posts. Since March 13th, 2009. Seven. Hundred.

Some sloppy ol' assbubble should be opening up a bottle of champagne somewhere, don't you think?

The plain fact of the matter is: I don't like parties. And I like people about as much. That's not to say I wouldn't like you if I met you-- don't get me wrong-- I just love being at a distance. It's so... safe. That's, after all, what we love about our little internet, isn't it? The safety. The avatarness of it all. The fact that we don't have to answer to anybody except our own demons and, if life gets too hot, there's always that little "x" in the upper righthand corner of the monitor.

x

That's not to say I wouldn't wholeheartedly support your hosting a My Masonic Apron Appreciation Party in my honor. Do it. I encourage this. I endorse it. Have your guests dress up as their favorite G&S character. You be the Duke of Plaza Toro. My reader in Waterbury, CT can be Patience. Tampa can be The Fairy Queen from Iolanthe. Take pictures. Put them up on The Book of Face.

You bring the bacon.

Tell me all about it.

And I'll send content, sincere, half-frown smiles from home.