Liberace's Musuem

The Liberace museum is billed as the best $15 you will spend in Vegas. I could not agree more. [And consider that this recommendation is coming from someone who last veered from her earth-tone course in 1994.] It was beguiling, bewitching, bedazzling. The overall organizational strategy of the pink, rhinestoned museum seemed geared toward making you say “Oh no, HE’s not gay” at least every 10 feet. Sparkling stars & striped hotpants? Gay. Swaroski crystal bejeweled convertible? Gay. Ruby-encrusted piano ring from his mother? Seriously. [We’re talking Johnny Weir territory.]

Our Docent (Bette) was one of several middle-aged groupies/museum volunteers that had it bad for the big L. We’ll call them the Liberace-ina’s. She used to work as a consultant for IBM before dedicating herself to the spangle and the glitz. She was so enthusiastic about her work at the not-for-profit museum, that I now thought less of those who merely helped the poor. Liberace Docent is JUST a higher calling.

The big draw of the museum was his wardrobe. As our Docent highlighted how he had his outfits made to match his pianos, I felt a little sheepish about my brown loafer/black sweater combo. (I sooooooo could have been Liberace’s Eliza Doolittle.) Liberace even had a full-time furrier. [Apparently, Liberace was the genesis for PETA.] Honestly, no member of the animal kingdom was safe from L’s fur fetish – turkey feathers, chinchilla, llama fur (who the hell knew llama fur made such a stylish lapel?) The best part…as we’re walking away from the “Midnight” ensemble, the Docent casually remarks that it is “made of upside-down monkey furandnow, we’ll move on to this magnificent Easter outfit.” [Why! Is it made out of the Easter bunny himself?!] We were all stunned stupid by the complete throw-away line, trying to figure why the poor monkeys had to be upside down when they were skinned silly.

As Bette worked her Docent magic, however, you actually bought into the concept that Liberace must have been “a terribly strong man because he could perform in a 210 lb pink-ostrich-feathered cape.” [Oh yes, he was Atlas under that chinchilla fur. What ARE the cape-wearing muscles again?]

In the tour-ending documentary, we found out that he even had a spangle-clad protégé that has carried on the Liberace magic [“protégé” apparently being French for “lover”]. And I don’t want to ruin Rita’s birthday surprise, but he IS available for special celebrations.

HRC Dinner

For those of you unfamiliar with HRC (Human Rights Commission), it is a national political action committee for the gays. As one of their major fundraisers, they sponsor chichi dinners across the country where everyone gets all dolled up for equality and listens to hours of big, gay speeches.

Well...a week ago Saturday – I took Rita to her first HRC dinner, Nashville style:

• I will bet you that this is the only silent auction in the South that includes trips to Provincetown, Miami Beach and Fire Island [and oh yeah… a lot of gift certificates for a free cut and color]
• If the women attending Saturday’s dinner are any indication, equality’s army will be clad in a black pantsuit.
• The equality-lovin’ liberal from California sure was an easy fund-raising mark. “But Rita, if you are going to write a check, at least get me a trip to Provincetown, Miami Beach or Fire Island.”
• I know, I know….there are more Nashville City Council Members attending than EVER …but do they all have to sit together? [“I know what your preacher Ted Haggard told you…but we’re not contagious.”]
• It’s a cash bar?! Nothing says equality like a $15 cocktail.
• “Yes, honey – the non-discriminatory ordinance that we are celebrating is from THIS year. You Californians have Berkeley…we have NASCAR. You have to grade on a curve.”
• I had to explain ALL the country music jokes to Rita [When they say…"Taylor Swift can’t hit a note with a bus…”]
• Beware the elegant southern straight ladies…who knew Iris Buehl’s speech would make the gay boys blush?
• From now on, the entertainment at these things is going to be American Idol semi-finalists, isn’t it? There’s like a 1,000 year supply.

What's Cooking

Mom’s visit to San Diego was certainly eventful…because it involved the first ever non-pizza dinner I have ever cooked. [38 years old and those merit badges just keep on coming.]

In light of my success…I thought I would put together a comprehensive how-to program for the similarly untrained who want to attempt this daunting task. So in 12 easy steps, here is my dinner-for-dummies. [Wait just a minute, here…a 12 step program…]

Step 1....Pop in “unexpectedly” to a friend’s house at dinnertime and take copious notes about what she throws together on short notice. [One man’s “college food” is another woman’s most-extensive-meal-ever-made.]

Step 2....Reject any courses involving more than 3 1 ingredient.

Step 3....Take the stolen wrapper from the prototype dinner in order to purchase the…wait a second, here….Trader Joe’s Boneless Beef Tri-Top Roast

Step 4....On appointed evening, set up ambient lighting [i.e., space heater] in mom’s Terrace Bistro & Hookah Lounge

Step 5....Make menu exactly as designed [Except the roasted potatoes became Ore Ida crinkle fries and the spicy green beans became expendable.]

Step 6...Turn on grill. Try to turn on grill. [Damn…this is the part of the process my people are supposed to be good at]

Step 7...Learn how to turn Rita’s restaurant-grade stove on

Step 8...“Delegate” stove operation to Momma sous chef

Step 9...Apologize profusely for roast on the first Friday of Lent [“Of COURSE I’m going to church, mom – why do you ask?”]

Step 10...Make sure your inaugural dinner is for your mother, who is obligated by the rules of nature to say – “Well that was just perfect!”

Day 2 [that's right...Day 2]
Step 11...Refill empty propane tank before Rita gets home
Step 12...Pay Julieta extra to destroy dirty-stove evidence of baby’s first dinner

Repeat as necessary until mom begins to host herself in your house.

Critters

My mom has critters…and we’re not talking dogs and cats. No…my mother has raccoons [plural] in the attic of her house. [I keep telling mom that wild animals do not make good pets, but nonetheless, her house has officially become….Nana Annie’s Raccoon Spa and Nocturnal Feast-aporium]

And how do we discover these little bastards are crawling around up there? Because some daughter takes an exhausting trip home, visits all day and then lays down to sleep in the upstairs bedroom….where she is buffeted by the pitter-patter of a gaggle of coons scurrying above. Did I mention overhead? Aiiiieeeeeeee And the dogs just LOVE it. I had to move downstairs after Molly had a nervous breakdown from hysterically chasing the ceiling from one end of the house to the other.  Not to mention that once embedded, asbestos is easier to remove than those little $^#%@.

Cue…~“the Critter Guy”~

The Critter Guy [these are real jobs, people!] has been out about a dozen times tending to the matter and trying to plug all the places they may be getting in. Turns out that bashing the heads of these little suckers [my suggestion for dealing with them] runs afoul of certain animal welfare laws, so they have to be “resettled”.  As of two weeks ago, the Critter Guy has removed 6 (!) different raccoons from the attic of mom’s house.  Ummmm...for those keeping score at home...that’s 200 lbs of varmint hanging out overhead. After resettling the first 5 raccoons, however, the Critter Guy didn’t charge mom for the last one. Seriously? Buy 5, get 1 free. And I am pretty sure the Critter Guy is my mother’s new BFF. I don’t know if “the Critter Guy” is his real name, but I think that’s how he’s going to show up in the will. He’s even ahead of my brother in the Love Game.  =)

6 raccoons, 1 insulation re-install and a homeowner’s insurance claim later…we THINK they are all gone.

Cannabis Central

I had no idea when I moved out here that it was the Netherlands of the West. That’s right…you can buy pot out here just about any old place you want. [Buying pot is legal, but gay marriage isn’t?? WTF. Gay commitment is below the munchies in the moral hierarchy? Got it.]

Okay – it’s not that you can buy it ANYWHERE, you have to have a prescription, from a whole new breed of doctor that seems to have popped up overnight [Dr. Beingstoned, I presume]. You also have to be a member of a “Cannabis Cooperative” – whose membership standards seem to be slightly below that of Facebook [aliases encouraged].

Cannabis Cooperatives…I am not making this up. And they advertise EVERYWHERE. If you pick up the local newsweekly, there are PAGES of ads desperately trying to attract your pot-buying dollars. The only rule in play seems to be that you must include the words “alternative” or “holistic” in the name of your cooperative. Bill and Ted’s Excellent Holistic Co-op. And from there it gets completely shameless.

Here are honest-to-god, 100%-true excerpts from a single page of adverts this week [with some additional comments added, of course]:

• Free gifts for new members or referrals [I don’t think we’re talking Happy Meal prizes here]
• Senior, military and union discount [Senior discount?! Now I know what we can do during mom’s visit. Seriously though, military and union?? Just the people MOST likely to operate heavy machinery, great.]
• Free joint Sunday [For when church is just too taxing.]
• Free edible for first time patients [ummmm…edible? Nevermind – I don’t wanna know]
• Complementary [sic] coffee, tea & cocoa [Is it true that pot makes you use the wrong word? Or maybe a good cup of cocoa really does complete your cannabis experience.]
• Walk-ins welcome [walk-outs more welcome, at least to those of us sharing the roads]

And it’s all in the name of healthcare! [And here I thought I was being creative with my FSA money. Legal and tax deductible.]

Unofficially Official

Well…it is unofficially official – when my company completes the sale of itself, I will be moving on to greener pastures. [And if I weren’t on the to-be-fired list already, one sure way to end up there is to blog about it.] But don’t cry for me, Argentina…as I am expecting to take a few months off before starting another gig. Right now, I am cruising through a 2 or 3 month wind-down period before retiring my BTB title permanently.

I have high expectations for the upcoming sabbatical – visions of a second language and community involvement and actually answering my phone when it rings. Unfortunately…if this lame-duck interim period (that I like to call my “underemployment” phase) is any indication, I will figure out ways to fill my time with slightly less impressive pursuits:

• Did anyone notice I started blogging again
• After a 2 year hiatus, I am once again caught up on my Law & Order reruns
• I am thoroughly engaged in reward point arbitrage. I now have reward accounts EVERYWHERE…Starbuckies, the grocery store, MyCoke.com. There are spreadsheets involved in the management of this complex network of worthless freebies. [Points for Diet Cokes?? I hope everyone likes them some Coca-Cola shit for Christmas.]
• I am terribly up-to-date on errand-running. Yesterday I made a special trip for pens.
• I am working on a number of techniques for that elusive tan
• I have written 32 letters to the editor of the neighborhood newsletter. “Ill-behaved pets that are not properly leashed may terrorize our mail carriers and neighbors” – indeed!

But at least I haven’t tried that bubble burst game on Facebook…YET

Background Noise

After working from home for so long, I have come to realize that many of my conference calls are accompanied by various forms of odd background noise. It’s bad enough that....thanks to the mailman's daily visits to the front porch....Every. Single. Person. I work with thinks I own a crazed rottweiler. But Molly's hysterical barking is just the start of the suspicious sounding background noise:

• The clinking of the seltzer bottles sounds a lot like a Martini kit in action [No, Boss, but I like the way you think]
• While walking the dog, the sound of neighbors saying hello sounds a lot like somebody new joining the call
• Unloading the dishwasher sounds just like….. unloading the dishwasher [You are all invited to participate in my household chores with me]
• The sound of ice cubes in my afternoon latte sounds like an early start to happy hour [very early, given the time change]
• Julieta’s vacuuming [which seems to ONLY occur when I am on a conference call] sounds like I am calling from the inside of a jet engine
• A game of fetch with Molly and her favorite squeaking toy sounds like I could give a damn about the conference call in progress.

Thank god you can’t hear someone still in their pajama’s at 3 o’clock in the afternoon…