Monthly Archives: November 2004
For Thanksgiving, E.S. and I and my dog A. went to E.S.’s parents’ house in New Jersey. They told me they planned to prepare a turkey and stuffing and all that good stuff, but when I asked about cranberry sauce they said they usually just got it from a can.
I muffled my gasp of horror before there was any actual vocalization to it, and suggested that it would be no problem for me to make some cranberry sauce and bring it with me. They graciously accepted my offer, and I allowed as to how, since I would already be cooking, it would be an easy thing for me to take the burden of dessert off their hands and bake a couple pies. Again, they graciously accepted.
Cranberry sauce is, in addition to being the easiest thing in the world to make, really fun, because all the cranberries pop, making this cute exploding noise while you’re cooking them. I figured I’d also throw together an apple pie and, for a challenge, a chocolate-orange tart from a recipe I got off epicurious.com.
All the preparations went off without a hitch, and on Wednesday night, E.S. and I, along with my dog, a pie, a tart, and a Tupperware container of cranberry sauce, were safely ensconced in seats on the New Jersey Transit bus. I fell asleep almost instantly, as is my wont on long trips on public transportation, and woke up as we were pulling into the station at Toms River.
Only to find that I had stepped on the apple pie in my sleep.
It was awful. I was faced with two equally unacceptable choices. If I served my hosts a pie with my footprint in it (a possibility, as it had been covered in plastic when I stepped on it), they would think I was a clumsy lout who couldn’t even take care of a pastry, much less their son, and they would hate me. If, however, I imposed on them by forcing them to take me to the grocery store and commandeering their kitchen so that I could make a new pie, they would think I was an inconsiderate boor the only explanation for whose utter lack of manners was that I was raised by wolves, and they would hate me.
In the end, E.S., working in concert with his parents, prevailed upon me just to give them the pie, and promised that nobody would hate me.
And I have to say that, despite its having been smushed, it tasted pretty good.
From a conversation I had this evening with my friend H.E., who recently broke up with her boyfriend:
H.E.: I found one of his eyelashes in my shower this morning and it made me so sad. I felt bad washing it down the drain.
Faustus: H., everybody has eyelashes.
H.E.: Yeah, but not everybody has good eyelashes. My last boyfriend’s eyelashes were transparent.
Faustus: And he didn’t use mascara?
H.E.: Faustus, I date straight men.
Faustus: Oh. (Pause.) Why would you want to do that?
A few months ago, my brother introduced me to the acronym MILF–Mom I’d Like to Fuck. Do not ask me how I could live in America in the 21st century and not have encountered this idea before. Apparently young straight men have been engaged in MILF-spotting for years, panting over women whose hips have more than recovered from the ravages of childbirth. I suppose that, since I don’t make a habit of paying attention to the pasttimes of young straight men, I can be forgiven for missing the trend at first, but apparently “MILF” has become part of our national lexicon and I am woefully behind the times.
In any case, in the apartment below me there is a DILF. He can’t be more than 37 or 38, and he has gorgeous eyes and a great body. His wife, according to my brother (who is also my roommate), is a MILF, but I really can’t be bothered to register her presence when he’s around. I mean, I’m sure she’s nice and all, but I don’t see any way she could appreciate his unique gifts as deeply as I do. And doesn’t he deserve that?
He has two children, whom I’ve never met but who are obviously loathsome simply by virtue of their being children, so of course our liaison couldn’t be anything more than a dalliance, something on which we could both look back forever with equal parts satisfaction and regret.
I have blogged before about my regular fantasies of developing supernatural powers. I must admit, however, to having been slightly disingenuous in that post when I said that I divided my time fairly evenly between fantasizing about telekinesis and fantasizing about teleportation.
Because a large part of my time is spent figuring out what form of supernatural power would best allow me to take revenge on my enemies.
It used to be that telekinesis topped the list. That fantasy goes like this: if people wronged me somehow–by, say, cutting rudely in front of me in line at the drugstore–I would lift them off the ground with my mind and float them in the air behind me as I went about my business during the day. At regular and frequent intervals I would lift them up higher in the air and then release them to smash to the ground; then I’d lift them right up again and drop them again. I’d do this several times, and then I’d continue with whatever I was doing, dragging them behind me in the air again only to be dropped again soon enough. I would ignore all pleas to let them go because they had an appointment, no matter how piteous the pleas were, no matter if they were the pope. Depending on the severity of the cutting in line (or whatever the offense), I might suspend them in the air outside my apartment in the freezing freezing cold while I slept at night, only to resume dropping them again the next day.
Recently, however, my fantasies have started to take a disturbingly subtle and less sanguinary turn. I fantasize about having the power to give people splitting, agonizing migraines. Depending on my mood, these migraines a) are permanent; b) will go away if the people involved apologize to me, a fact that I share with them; c) will go away if the people involved apologize to me, but I don’t tell them that–they have to apologize to me of their own accord; or d) will go away and be replaced by feelings of intense joy so long as the people involved are nice to everyone they meet, but will return with renewed vigor the instant they’re mean to anybody.
It’s true that the first fantasy is less convenient to me than the second, given that there are any number of circumstances in which a vanquished enemy’s presence in the air next to me would be problematic. It might be distracting during sex, for instance, or at the theater. But I’m really quite worried about how bloodless the second fantasy is. Dropping somebody to the ground and watching him bleed satisfies a visceral demand for vengeance that a headache simply can’t approach. Furthermore, what is this crap about people actually getting to feel good if they’re nice to everybody?
What is happening to me?
This morning, I stumbled across this web site and found myself wishing I were still single and a slut, simply so that I could take advantage of its utter, inescapable brilliance.
Check out the screenshots page in particular.
From a lunch conversation the other day:
FAUSTUS: I don’t understand how people with anxiety disorders survived before Law & Order was syndicated and there was Tivo.
FRIEND: Watching Tivoed episodes of Law & Order calms you down?
FAUSTUS: No, but it gives me something to do that takes less energy than sticking my head in the oven.
Everybody must go to sorryeverybody.com at once, especially those of you who live in countries other than the newly rechristened United States of Jesus.
Yesterday morning I had breakfast with my father, who was in town for the weekend. I told him about the fantasy I had in August that a giant sinkhole would open up under Madison Square Garden during the Republican National Convention and swallow the entire party whole.
My father replied, “See, Faustus, that’s your problem. You refuse to believe that it actually happened.”
“I refuse to believe that the Republicans won?”
“No, you refuse to believe that the sinkhole did open up and swallow them all whole. There are no Republicans anymore.”
“But what about the election?”
Even in childhood I was a fairly good practitioner of denial. But my father–he is a true artist.
Today, while spending the afternoon with a childhood friend who was in town doing research, I got a manicure.
This is only the third time in my life this has happened; the second time was in Beverly Hills, while everybody in Manhattan was dealing with the blackout. I cannot for the life of me remember the first time (a statement I wish I could make about any number of activities in which I habitually engage).
The problem with today’s manicure is that my friend and I were so wrapped up in discussing the porn scandal that rocked my high school last year that I accidentally told the manicurist to put clear nail polish on my nails.
Now I have nails with which I could land an airplane.
How do I fix this?