Thanksgiving hangover

Having snuck off with the Thanksgiving rib roast, and devouring every fatty inch of it, it was a Black Friday for her stomach indeed.

Debacle on 34th Street

The holiday season has begun. How do I know? 34th street has become a logistical nightmare.

It's a minefield I tell you, a minefield of people. Where the fuck did all of these people come from? Do we really have that many people on this planet? And did they all have to come to New York?

And the Christmas decorations came out the day after Halloween. There's no money in Thanksgiving decorations. You can't give gifts for Thanksgiving. So retailers put the kibosh on the whole holiday and went for the silver carrot - Christmas decor in the first week of November, when it was 70 degrees out every...single...day.

Try walking a straight line down this street. Come on, I dare you. It's not an option, I should know. By the time they all go back where they came from, I'll have vertigo from having to dodge left and right to get where I'm going.

All the people in front of Macy's, standing in my way, as they ooh and aah over the Christmas windows...suckers. The store did the same windows last year. They recycled their Christmas windows on you punks! Get your asses over to Barneys, look at Simon Doonan's windows, and save me the extra time it's taking me to get to and back from Herald Square station.

Bah humbug.

Lav from New York

The bathroom. Given the sex of its current occupant, its purpose changes. It hovers between the masculine and feminine. Hence The First Lesson of Cohabitation for C and I.

C comes shouting at the bathroom door, while I'm occupying it.
Me: "I'm in the bathroom!" and shut my eyes to drown him out.
C: *somethingsomethingsomething*
Me: "HEY! I'm. On. The. Toilet!"
C: Groan..... (sound of him walking away)

Two minutes later, I'm out and ask him: "What did you want? What were you shouting at the bathroom door for?"
C: "I had a question for you."

A question? A question?!?! Honey, if you're going to interrupt me in the bathroom, there better be a fire right outside that apartment door. I suffer from a predominantly female phenomenon called pee fear. Pee fear is the fear of publicly acknowledging in any way that you must utilize this particular bodily function. There is a second variety of this phobia, pertaining to bathroom activities, but I won't go there. 'Pee fear' is bad enough.

I don't know how the name came about, but once I explain it to others, then come nods of understandings and "Ah, yes - pee fear!". Next, the ensuing aura of vindication that illuminates us all, empowering us in that we do not suffer alone.

For the severely afflicted, we pray that silence and privacy- normally afforded to us in our private bathrooms- will be replicated in public restrooms. We'll linger until the bathroom is empty or, if it’s not possible to wait, we’ll grab the furthest stall from one that is occupied. The handicapped stall is considered prime real estate, as far as lavs go. Shutting the eyes very, very hard is also effective in drowning out noise. Nightclubs are great morale boosters, because it’s always so loud that for one glorious moment, we’re just like everyone else.

Men don’t get this, which can be largely ascribed to the forced openness in male public restrooms. The psychosis was hammered out of their heads early, dating back to pre-kindergarten. This is good. But their ensuing laid-back attitude towards all of this translates itself to the homefront. This is not good.

Nip this in the bud. Teach them. Let them know that once you enter that commode abode and close that door behind you, you do not exist. C is still somewhat befuddled, but he is 95% there. Whether I'm tap-dancing in the tub or counting the tiles in the floor, he knows that the lav becomes my feminine fortress, not to be disturbed. Unless, of course, there is a fire.

Canine pretender

Sometimes, I think Zoe is a little person zipped inside a furry suit.

Clarification

You know, it wouldn't have been my wedding if there wasn't a rumor associated with it. So let me clarify:

There wasn't any question who my matron of honor was going to be, because there's only one person in my life it could ever be. It wasn't a process of agonizing over, in addition, who would be maid of honor and how many bridesmaids; it was five minutes of thought before I said, "I can't be bothered with this political bullshit" and settled it then and there.

To date, I'm the only American born out of my entire family on both sides. It's largely 'American' to do bridesmaids, viewed by many Europeans as akin to having a gaggle of geese follow you around. So the cheers went up in my family when I announced my decision.

Enough said.

Ahhh...marital bliss

We visit the Everglades and learn that this little bird, which is indigent to the region, mates for life. Upon the death of a mate, its partner will subsequently die from self-starvation.

Later, C tells me, "If I couldn't be with you, I'd starve to death."

Today's Instant Message

Me: C just saw prince charles getting into his car in front of the carlyle hotel while walking zoe back from the park
Dino: oh how exciting
Dino: him and camilla came over to our place for margaritas last night
Dino: we played yahtzee

Later that day....

"Camilla, is that...is that Yahtzee I see???"