Moose in the Kitchen

My new work M.O. is to sit down at my computer and announce to all and sundry (otherwise known as my clock, my desk lamp, and the spider in the corner who’s either Thelma or Fred, I can’t be sure) that I’m going to write a bad first draft. A REALLY BAD first draft. By adding the spurious really with caps lock key firmly pressed, I feel safe in the knowledge that no one expects anything of me, especially not my desk lamp or Thelma/Fred, the gender nonspecific spider. That’s what I’m doing with this blog post, by the way, writing a really bad first draft. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets you going, you know? Like telling the toilet, “I know you yearn to sparkle in your hygienic porcelain whiteness, but I’m just going to give the top of your tank a half-hearted swipe with a paper towel.” Or sending someone an email regarding the book you gave them as a birthday present and saying, “You don’t have to like it. In fact, you don’t even have to read it!”

Someday this staunch devotion to instilling low expectations in everyone I meet will save me. You’ll see. Like when the crocodile about to floss his teeth with my lower intestine is stalled in his prehistoric tracks with a casual, “You know, I really don’t taste that good. My flavor is kind of gamey and I’ve eaten way too many Cheetos to be classified as organic.” Until then, I plead that recovering perfectionists must retreat into whatever coping methods they find.

Onward…To The Lotus Flower of My Heart

Yoga class this morning was taught by a sylph in tight neon yellow pants. Tight neon yellow pants that casually accented her neon yellow nails. I couldn’t stop staring. Even when she turned to demonstrate downward dog (it wasn’t downward dog, but that’s the only yoga pose I can actually name, so we’ll pretend) and I realized I was staring directly at her sylph-like ass. Her ass was neon yellow! I COULDN’T AVOID IT. When I realized I could avoid it, and maybe it was time to look elsewhere before I had to buy new contacts because the old ones were permanently seared to my eyeballs, I looked six inches up and discovered that her long (yellow) hair had hot pink tips. She looked like Holly Hobbie dipped in acid, spewing rapid-fire commentary on astrology and finding the goddess within and opening the lotus flower of your heart – essentially, the conversation one expects when taking a yoga class in San Francisco. It was fascinating. I’m totally going back next week.

Bourbon in the French Quarter, Or Whichever Neighborhood Is All Hip Nowadays And Maybe Has Crawfish

I’m starting to plan a trip to New Orleans. I’ve always wanted to go and the lotus flower of my heart declares that I must. (The lotus flower of my heart is gratifyingly eager to steer me in any direction my whim dictates.) Have any of you been to New Orleans? What would you recommend? For that matter, does anyone want to go to New Orleans with me? I’m always happy to travel alone, especially to places where they’re going to understand me. Or at least understand the language I’m speaking, if not the exact method I use to express myself. But it might be fun to have someone to poke around old tombstones and drink with, someone who will understand that my knowledge of New Orleans thusfar is owed entirely to a viewing of Interview with a Vampire. A viewing my three friends and I swooped into, black capes trailing melodramatically in our collective sixteen-year-old wake. Yes, you heard that right: Black capes. Trailing melodramatically. Yes, all of us.

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