you are here.

so, this weekend at the beach. i've tried to collect my thoughts, arrange everything into some sort of order. it wasn't just a beach vacation, and it wasn't just a time to get some sun and drink some beer, though i did both to the fullest extent of the law.

this weekend was my first glimpse into how the other half lives. i literally can't imagine growing up spending my summers in avalon. it's a postcard-town. there's a perfect main street with perfect farmers' markets and seafood shacks; rich teenagers in their land rovers everywhere you look.

more than anything else, though, what was good about the trip was the opportunity for silence. dear readers, you may or may not believe it when i tell you, but i talk. a lot. i talk a lot. sitting by myself on the deck, though, smoking a cigarette while everyone else was inside or on the boat, i had a chance to do something i never do: shut up and be alone with my thoughts. it sounds so pretentious as i type it; but if you could've been there with me, standing wrapped in a beach towel on the edge of a salt marsh, watching the rough, bright green grass get whipped by the wind, you'd understand. i stood there, away from the city and crowds and smog and dirt for the first time in a long time, and i thought, remember this, robert. breathe in. you are here.

that's the lesson i've tried to take home with me from the trip: to place myself. not to spend too much time up in my own head, but to be present in the space that i'm in. maybe this is all getting too heady--which is what i just said i was trying to get away from. old habits die hard.

linktastic

once i figure out how to put this weekend into words, a longer post will follow. until then, there are lots of pictures.

and, from my neverending quest to overtake baltimore gay life newspaper, one page at a time, here a couple of links....

queerness in any form

i'm not quite sure how to tell this story. i was in the clinic this morning making small talk with a participant's mother. there's so much time to kill that i find myself trying to keep the parents talking. somehow, we got from the mother's ambrosia salad (which she kept calling fruitcake) to her relationship with her family, and how she's not always popular because "she tells the truth, tells it just like it is."

"just like &#@ don't like it when i tell her what i think of her lifestyle choice," the mother went on. oh god, please don't go here, i thought. "she be goin' to hell, and she don't wanna hear it. all thinkin' she's a man, actin' like a man, kissin' on girls like she do." there, she's gone and said it, i thought. her 16 year old daughter came back in the room and she quieted down. then, as i was doing some paperwork, i heard them start arguing. "yeah, well, so-and-so saw you kissin' up on her on my stoop. i swear, child, all i ask for is a little respect." "how is it different from a girl kissing a boy on the stoop?" asked the daughter.

what blew me away most is that this mother/daughter team have a great rapport--they seem to feed off of each other, constantly making each other laugh. how is that kind of closeness possible when your mother's just told you that you're going to hell?

freedom of speech? what?

first i can't get married and now this!? what the fuck, people? how did we let this slip by?

a poem

my sister has this poem by anne sexton on her AIM away message...she's gettin' deep!

By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color - no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.

if i'm not at my desk...

people with crohn's disease aren't supposed to eat certain foods. my father, for instance, who has a much worse case than i do because it was caught later, isn't supposed to eat popcorn, corn chips...really anything consisting of grains that aren't easily digested by the body. if he does, he has a problem--not necessarily a trip to the hospital, but it's not comfortable.

i've been lucky in that i haven't found many foods that cause me problems, which are also known as "trigger foods." usually, those of us blessed with the gift of crohn's can't eat anything spicy (how would i live?), the aforementioned foods, anything charbroiled, anything with too much fiber...the list goes on and on. as i said, though, my main trigger foods--meaning those that have either sent me racing to the bathroom or straight into the hospital--are whole-grain spaghetti, popcorn, and charbroiled meat. the whole-grain spaghetti i can do without; i was just eating it because everyone's supposed to eat shit like that. the popcorn and charbroiled food, however, i have a problem staying away from. if i eat it in moderation i'm fine, but...

i just had a lunch that consisted of charbroiled chicken with spicy sauce and kim chee. it's going to be an interesting afternoon.

something's fishy

hilary just blogstarred me...

and she's going to be waiting a long time for that payoff...

we have michael to thank for this one. 

fatty

i think i'm going to go downstairs and buy a donut.

that's the kind of day it's going to be at work today. i'm blogging about donut-desire.

fun with eating disorders

hilary: someone has brought in a FIVE POUND hershey bar
hilary: with a knife
robert: HAHAHHAHAA
robert: EVIL!
hilary: for cutting off your desired hunk
hilary: hahhahhhah
robert: much like michael's insistence that we go for ice cream every time we hang out
hilary: what is he, bulemic?
robert: haha
robert: yeah he eats a whole pizza
robert: as i watch
robert: then a side of fries
robert: then we go for ice cream
robert: but for some reason i have to leave like right away
hilary: hmmm
hilary: wonder why?
robert: no idea

citypaper's done it again.

OUCH!

the hairy eyeball

i was just in the locker room at the gym, changing back into my slacks and tie after my workout. it's a small space, not made for more than 2 or 3 people at a time. this setup should've been fine this morning; there were only three of us in there. one of my least favorite people at hopkins was one of the three, though. mind you, i've never talked to this guy. it's someone that i see probably a few times a week at the shuttle stop or at the gym. his problem--well, i'm not exactly sure what his problem is. he shoots me weirded-out looks whenever i see him. when kel and i are together at the gym, gaying it up as we always do, the looks are even worse: they're coupled with comments to his friends.

whatever. i've dealt with homophobes before. i can't say that i've evolved so far as to be able to pity them--it still really gets under my skin when i'm faced with shit like that. this morning in the locker room it just got ridiculous. every time he removed an article of clothing, he moved from the locker area to the sink area--the farthest away from me he could get. it went like this: move to the sink, take off shirt, put on workout shirt. come back to locker. move to sink, take off socks, put on socks. come back to locker. when i finally infiltrated his lil' safe haven because i needed to put on my tie, he went into the stall and locked it before putting on his workout shorts.

i wanted to look him in the eye and say, very calmly, "look, dude, you're really flattering yourself if you think i'm going to be checking you out." and i don't even say "dude." give me a break, people. if i want to get laid i can get laid--i don't need to stare down nasty (nasty) straight dudes in my locker room.

now hot straight dudes, that's another story.

and they all do. they all want cake.

michael: but the nuances are hard
robert: well, talking on IM especially
michael: no i mean just in general
robert: how are nuances hard?
michael: no i mean nuances aren't very well stated using words......like nuances of emotion: i love cake, i love my mother
robert: in that order.
robert: though sometimes i love cake more than my mother
robert: but it has to be really good cake
michael: hahaha
robert: ok i'm lying it can be mediocre cake
robert: as long as it's cake

the reluctant bridesmaid

if this doesn't deserve to be blogged, i don't know what does: courtney facing forced gender-conformity. my only question is: will she wear a wig?


"it. arrived. by it, i mean the dress. my brother is getting married in august to a an ex-division 1 cheerleader named april. for some reason (probably because she doesn't know me very well), she asked me to be in the wedding. my guess is that after she asked my sister, she thought that i would feel left out and asked me (if this is so, then she really doesn't know me very well, since i've never been a joiner. it's impossible for me to be a joiner. i'm a short, left-handed, short-legged, large-footed african-american/native-american/caucasian lesbian with a cosmetically-produced belly button. "join" is not in my vocabulary) or it could be her fascination with twins (who's fascinated with identical twins anymore. really. i figured that all the factory-made earless and eyeless septuplets stole my thunder a long time ago). i agreed, but not without asking about what the bridesmaids would be wearing. after talking to my brother a bit more, i resigned myself to the idea of wearing a dress. now, i know what you my be thinking, robert: chicks wear dresses. but not this chick. i haven't worn a dress in a long time. however, the panic didn't totally set in until i saw the damned thing. i nearly lost control of my bodily functions after going to the davids bridal website and almost had a heart attack when i had to try on the thing at the shop (which is not in the city of baltimore; yet another casualty of suburban white flight). and don't get me started on the shoes (fit for a drag queen, since i wear size 12). the dress is candy apple red and has a halter top. my muscular shoulders from years of martial arts training betray me in it. i look like a linebacker in it. and i've never worn heels, so i'm going to have to practice around the house, which mocks me to no end. not only that, but i have to stand for hours in them during a southern baptist wedding, which i imagine will be filled with homophobic jabs. sometimes i hate my life...."

get out of debt...today!

i just cashed out investments and deposited over nine thousand dollars into my bank account. what will i do with so much money, with this windfall? maybe i'll buy some d&g or comme des garcons. maybe i'll put a downpayment on a house, or buy a car!

no, ladies, this nine grand is going straight to the collection agency that johns hopkins hospital has, unbeknownst to me, forwarded last summer's hospital bills to. crohn's ain't cheap, girls! just ask anastasia.

proof

if you haven't noticed, i posted 33928493284923 (or close to it) pictures from this weekend's festivities. click here to see 'em.

an idea

talking with michael about my apartment situation:

robert: it's kinda a hole. but whatevs

michael: cool

michael: yeah mine is too, but it works out for me financially for now

robert: my god, if i had a 300 dollar apartment

robert: i'd live like p-diddy

robert: i'd buy a hot tub for it

michael: haha

robert: and fill it with bitches

michael: yeah then you'd juts have a hot tub.....not an apartment

robert: well, it'd take up so much of the apartment that i'd just do everything in the hot tub

how on earth did my prom photo end up on the internet? i thought i had those destroyed. the memories were just too painful; my date tangled her "skirt" with my "sleeves" and it was a tragic accident. they say you can learn to cook with your feet, but i've yet to see her do it. 

drunkendebauchetastic

what can i say about this weekend? it was crazyfundramaticdrunkendebauchetastic. much like in german, i've just combined words to fit my meaning. let's just say this: there was more drinking than i'd care to admit, more cigarettes than any one human should smoke. there were drag queens and bears and kissing and being "proud." there were secret blowjobs given in friends' bathrooms (no, i wasn't involved). there was a web of ex's and a whole lot of complicated love.

now i'm sitting, hungover, at my workstation. i told hilary that instead of censoring what i tell my coworkers, as i always do, i should just tell them exactly what happened. the conversation would go something like this:

them: "so, how was your weekend?"

me: "crazy, but fun."

them: "what'd you do?"

me: "well, it was pride. so pretty much everyone i know came over to my house at 1 on saturday. we got buh-litzed on daiquiris while some people smoked weed on my back porch. then we went to the pride parade, then back to john's house where &#@ totally gave @$!% a blowjob in john's bathroom! this was, of course, after &#@ had gotten @$!%'s dick hard while we were all sitting there on the couch--and it was coming out the top of his jeans! we were dying. then we went back outside and these two bears had their hands down each other's pants."

them: -horrified silence, followed by two deliberate blinks-

maybe i'll keep a few things to myself.

glory be

i'm just back from an over-three-hour lunch with my coworkers, held at the cheesecake factory in honor of my coworker mayme's departure. first of all, let me say that "ye olde heart attack emporium," also known as "the cheesecake factory" represents everything that's wrong with america today: you order a chicken breast? they bring you two, with a pound and a half of mashed potatoes. think you're safe with a chicken salad sandwich? how about a sandwich made from 3/4 of a loaf of bread! i had a "chicken tostada salad," which was actually two heads of lettuce, a can of corn, two cans of black beans, two crispy corn tortillas, and a whole cilantro plant topped with sour cream and guacamole. seriously, people, do humans need this much food? super size me, indeed!

the other funny thing to come from the lunch was the extended discussion of gloryholes perpetrated by my boss. she was telling us that where she lives, in ellicott city, various men were busted in a sex shop for using "peep holes."

"but they're peep holes that are, like, big enough to stick their business through!"
"ew," peg said, "why would you wanna do that? you can't even see who's servicing you!"
"they're called gloryholes, not peepholes," i informed my coworkers.
"oh yeah, i've heard of that," responded bronxie jean.

GLORYHOLES, dear readers. that's what my coworkers talk about over lunch.

a definition

confused? check it out. it's news to me, too; i was just copying strangers with candy.

whirling dervish of fists and elbows

it's friday, but not just any friday. it's the friday before baltimore pride weekend, a weekend that never fails to be interesting if nothing else. my pride-day resolution is to avoid any drama at any cost: anywhere that you combine that much booze with that many fags there's going to be fireworks. last year's pride marked the last time that i drunkenly talked to (ok, so screamed at) ed. this year there will be a drunk ex-boyfriend thrown into the mix. he won't cause drama, though, so it's on my shoulders not to, either. i think i can do it. no, let me be more positive: i'll do it!

we're having people over to the apartment for a pre-parade get-together, complete with strawberry daiquiris, beer, good god you name it. i'm afraid that there could be throngs of people. well, maybe not throngs, but anything more than 10 people in our apartment starts to feel like alexander the great's army attempting an invasion. i'm watching a movie tonight with my new friend michael, but before that can happen i have to clean the apartment top-to-bottom (terry's done his part, but most of the shitty mess is mine), go to the store, and go to the gym. i could skip the gym, but the shirt i'm wearing tomorrow is sleeveless and a girl has to look pumped.

i just informed terry that i'm going to have to be a whirling dervish of cleaning. he said, "i'd like to see that." "so would i," i told him.

triumph

after much him-hawing, i've done it. i've screenprinted the t-shirt. it's a little smudged, but fuck it. it's done. we'll say that the smudges were intentional. triumph.

easy listening

my soundtrack for the day has just become "spanish flea" by herb alpert and the tijuana brass. it's really the only thing that can match the ridiculousness of this office sometimes.

squandered

i'm exhausted today. i didn't stay up last night doing homework, or cleaning my apartment in preparation for the fives of tens of people who are going to be at it on saturday. no, friends, i was trying to get my new silkscreen to work until 12:30am, and when it didn't i let it upset me so much that i was awake half the night, rolling around pissed off about it.

i'm trying to make a t-shirt; for years i've threatened to switch from iron-on transfers to silkscreen, because iron-ons tend to look...how shall i put this...homemade. i might be wearing homemade clothing, but does everyone need to know it? those queens can be ruthless.

so, i've bitten the bullet and finally bought a silkscreen. by doing so, this one faggy little sleeveless t-shirt has not only become the bain of my existence and the biggest challenge i've faced since applying for my master's, it's started to cost me quite the pretty penny. i hate to admit it, but the money i've poured into this one creative venture probably could've bought me a shirt at armani exchange. granted, now that i have the supplies i'll be able to make all the shirts i could ever dream of. i'm just going to have to make a lot of t-shirts to make myself feel like i haven't wasted money. when, in point of fact, that's exactly what i've done.

if you see me on saturday, compliment my shirt. unless i'm not wearing one. in that case you can assume the silkscreen didn't work and it's finally driven me crazy, causing me to revert to some sort of lord of the flies-like hunter/hunted lifestyle.

lust

it's going to be a good day, indeed.

pusha

ever wonder what i'd sound like in ebonics? find out!

bundle of joy

i'd like to share with you all an experience i just had that i never, not in five million years, thought i'd have: this afternoon i found myself chasing a baby around the PCRU. for those of you not science-savvy like moi, that stands for pediatric clinical research unit, or the place where i do all my clinic visits.

this mother (of course she's 17) brought her one year old child in with her today, and if he wasn't the worst-behaved baby i've ever dealt with, he certainly ranks high on the list. then again, i haven't dealt with many one year olds. if i turned away for a moment, i'd find the baby either: a) sucking on a biohazard trashcan; b) attempting to break very expensive equipment; or c) grabbing my things from the desk and throwing them. this means that i had the baby in my lap for most of the visit. IN MY LAP. that's right, bitchy little faggot robert is now a kid person. i carried that baby around the clinic like a grandma with 13 babies; he rode around on my hip and listened to me when i talked to him.

good god.

michigan, you so crazy

what!? slave labor strikes again.

fame

my friends and their stunning successes!

"Hilary Ryon managed her fairy godmother role with sparkling Queen-of-the-Night coloratura."
--The Washington Post

i'm starstruck. read the whole review here.

i'm prouded

i've discovered that if anything can make you feel like a) an old man; b) a stick-in-the-mud; c) out of touch with the club scene; or d) all of the above, it's spending nearly two full days at a gay pride festival. i stayed with ricky in DC this weekend and went to "capitol pride," having sort of an extremely gay mini-retreat with an uncomfortable bed.

so many people are ashamed of gay pride parades because they think that they show off the "worst" of the gay community--people dancing around, hairy asses sticking out of their assless chaps. the argument is that if that's all straight people know about the gay community, since gay pride parades are one of our more visible events, they'll think we all dance around with our hairy asses sticking out of our assless chaps. when, in reality, i like to keep my hairy ass tucked away in my jeans.

the leather fetishists, the skinny, black baton-twirling queen straight out of paris is burning, the people who moderate queers don't want straight people to see, those are my favorites. i imagine that the pride parade is the one time some of these people get to really show off; they practice in front of their mirrors in their apartments all year, from june to june, until they get their big chance. then again, maybe some of them are professional baton-twirlers and this is just another day at the office. a day at the office in a pink spandex unitard.

yesterday afternoon was the "capitol pride festival," and as stated earlier, nothing will make you feel older than being the only person in the crowd, standing right there at the front of the stage, who doesn't know a single one of the dance numbers the apparently-uber-famous gay diva is singing. that's not quite true--deborah cox, whose name i was at least familiar with, sang my favorite (the only) dance song i know, something about "going to work in a miniskirt" and "dressing her up in chanel." (i remember dancing with ed like crazy to that song, a few years ago at the hippo when i still danced and ed still talked to me.) the next big singer, amber, came out afterward and ran through the gamut of her greatest hits. everyone in the audience was losing their shit; i had fun, but had to invent a game with ricky called "hands up," in which we shouted "hands up!" and had to wave our hands around in the air to look as excited as the queens around us.

frenchie, american idol expatriate, sang "you're gonna love me" and blew the roof off the place, which is quite a feat since the event was outside. that bitch can SANG. i'm pretty sure they heard her at the capitol. also, chi-chi larue, drag pornographer, did a filthy dirty performance. she instructed the audience, "this is going to be dirty. i'm serious. so if any of you have kids, go take them to get a frosty. and if any of you have weak stomachs: frosty." her performance was so raunchy that i had to pretend to be shocked. the truth is, i love how much this drag queen loves cock. i mean, come on: she's a sex-forward transgendered porn director. you don't get much queerer than that, unless you're liberace sewing a taffeta ballgown while watching an episode of queer as folk and making an egg-white frittata while sucking dick.

ah, multitasking.

i regret to inform you that we don't have any roles for you at this time.

i've just returned from my annapolis opera audition; terry's still asleep because he was up until something like 4 am. i didn't sleep well, knowing he was off roving the town, but that's beside the point.

the audition went really well; the panel was complimentary (though that means absolutely nothing). i've gotten to be weird about auditions, though. i go into them so sure of my own failure that i'm not even nervous anymore. i just go in, do my thing as best i can, smile, charm 'em, and get out. then i wait three weeks for the rejection letter.

is this a bad attitude to have? shouldn't i throw myself into these situations, confident that i can wow the panelists into hiring me? that no one else out there can offer them what i can? that's what classical singer magazine tells me to do.

or is this a highly-evolved protection mechanism against my own nerves? my entire life i've been bad at auditioning. onstage, i really open up and sing well. in audition situations, though, i choke. every time. by convincing myself of my own failure even before i get to the audition, am i just trying to make myself stop caring about it, thereby getting rid of any nerves? i can say that the audition i just did went really well, partly becuse i just went in with the attitude that i was going to show these people what i had to offer, whether or not they wanted to hire me.

and i sang well. maybe defeatism has its merits.

fame at any price

i've been so busy being in the clinic and feeling sorry for myself that i nearly forgot: i had another column published today in gay life.

wanna see? go!

sisters under the belt

i just discovered while watching vh1 (yes, i'm 25 so i finally made the switch to vh1) that gay-anthem singer anastasia suffers from crohn's disease. happens to the best of 'em.

moving panic, part the third

i just realized that i was sitting here looking for an apartment online while eating my sandwich, silently freaking out. most of the freaking out i do is silent, in fact. it's a wonder that the people i work with have never seen the panic that so often lurks just behind my eyes. then again, i don't have anti-reflective lenses.

dodgeboss

work has been crazy the last few days. not like fun crazy, either. like, here's 4309832 projects to do on top of being in the clinic, having children breathe into a tube for 5 hours crazy. i've realized that i've started trying to dodge my boss at all costs. i really like her; she's insane. but every time i see her she has a question for me (that i invariably can't answer) or another thing for me to do. being so busy is kind of a shock to my system, since my first 10 months at this job consisted mainly of blogging and talking on instant messenger. suddenly i have to work for the money i make? give me a break! i'm used to having, maybe, two tasks to complete per day.

this promotion business is for the birds.

homebody

for some reason, all i want to do lately is sit around. don't take this to mean that that's all i've been doing. in the last week i've driven to myrtle beach and back, gone out to dinner with friends, conducted 3 clinic visits, gone to the grocery store, practiced...you get the idea. it's not necessarily that i want to just sit around and mope; i've been in quite the mood lately to mope, so maybe it's better that i've been keeping myself busy.

why have i, though? why does my life lately seem like plans! plans! plans!? is it because i was so used to the slower pace of married life? probably. when, for months, all you've done is go home, practice, make dinner for your boyfriend, watch tv, and go to bed, it comes as somewhat of a slap in the face to never be home. and i do have fun, and i do appreciate the fact that i still see my friends as much as i do even though i'm working 40 hours a week at a job that's in the process of making me crazy(er). but, as was determined when i dated ed ho, i'm a "nester." most people are bored staying home, cooking. when i think of some of the happiest times i've had, though, they didn't happen on the dancefloor or on any great adventure. they were intimate times at home, cooking for friends, laughing with my boyfriend.

those times will come again; i just have to ride the wave until they do.

in passing

i was just up at the gym signing out for cardio equipment (if i just tried to show up at 4:30, nothing would happen except maybe all of the sweating, skinny girls on the ellipticals would turn their heads, look at me, and laugh) and the nice girl at the front desk asked, "what time are you working out today?" "4:30," i told her. "aww, i'm going to miss you then." i feigned sadness, pouting. then she said, "no, i mean i'm leaving. i won't see you again. i just quit my job and i'm moving to sydney."

it was weird to think about. this girl's my favorite gym employee but we don't have any kind of relationship, other than making funny small talk between sets. it's weird to me, though, that i'll never see her again, just like that. i've run across all kinds of people in my life like this--in passing. some of them were acquaintances that, as they walked away from me, i thought thank god i'll never have to see him again. others, like this girl at the gym whose name i don't even know, will be missed, if only for a couple of weeks, until the next cute, blonde, and friendly gym employee has taken her place.

a new sister

the receptionist now has a sister site, dedicated purely to the crazy pictures i take on the crazy road of life. enjoy!

off the road again

i got back late last night from what could only be described as a road trip. if travelling over a thousand miles in the course of four days doesn't constitute a road trip, i just don't care to go on one. any more driving and i'd be getting paid by the mile, like a trucker. since i ridicule any gay guy in a trucker hat, that career option is out.

all in all it was a great trip. that is, it was a great trip despite adversity. for your entertainment and mine, let's make a list of the things that went wrong. they are, in order:

1. amanda got into a fender-bender before she even left new york. she called me wednesday evening, after i thought she'd be well on her way, to tell me that she'd been in an accident. i thought that i was going to have to drive to myrtle beach by myself, and i was going to shit myself. literally.
2. though i was in charge of the music for alyson's wedding reception, i didn't bother burning the huge playlist i'd made onto disc until 10:30pm, the night before we were scheduled to leave. as i reached for the laptop to burn the cd's, i realized that terry had taken it with him to chicago. fast forward twelve hours: terry is overnighting cd's he's just burned from northern illinois to our hotel (make that motel) in myrtle beach.
3. amanda and i rolled out of bed around 9 o'clock the morning we were supposed to leave. it's a nine-hour drive and we didn't end up making it out of town until noon. oops.
4. it rained--LITERALLY--the entire way from baltimore to myrtle beach, interspersing periods of mist with periods of torrential downpours.
5. upon arriving in myrtle beach, after a dandy wrong-turn courtesy of yours truly, amanda and i finally located the street on which our hotel was to be found. but there was no hotel to be found. if we were to believe mapquest, our hotel would've been sandwiched between the comfort inn and something called the "beach comber" or the "sand dune" or "xanadu III." by asking the front desk worker at the comfort inn we discovered that our hotel was not, in point of fact, in myrtle beach. it was in north myrtle beach, a town located 15 miles and 30 minutes away from myrtle beach. it has identical roads, so mapquest didn't catch the error. after 9 hours in the car, we were in the wrong city, stuck in beach-trash traffic. amazingly, amanda and i are still friends.
6. along those same lines, alyson discovered that she'd booked her rabbi--now drunk from the rehearsal dinner--a room in myrtle beach, not north myrtle beach. she had to drive him to his hotel at midnight, amidst his protestations that he was ok to drive. a drunk driving rabbi. oi!
7. it rained every day we were there. there were, luckily, enough patches of sun for us to get seriously tan/burned.

so, maybe seven crazy things happening during a four-day road trip that includes the beach and the wedding of a close friend isn't so bad. i didn't wreck my car, i didn't spend too much money, i got a tan, and i came home with a beach towel that says "wet t-shirt myrtle beach" (see picture below). i'd say it was quite a successful trip, indeed.

myrtle beach in a nutshell. 

travellin' man

amanda's on her way down to baltimore to stay here tonight, then in the morning we'll road trip it to myrtle beach. we're not just going on a beach vacation, oh no. we're marrying off our good friend from college, alyson, and she'll be the first of us to get married. amanda's single (we've decided to call her single sallie [after sallie mae, bastard holder of my student loans] even after she's landed herself a man) and god knows i'm single. if there is a god. check out my column last week for that discussion.

amanda and i haven't spent 8 hours in the car together in years; last time we did i ended up wearing her skirt and taking pictures in upstate new york. pray for us.

so, for the next four days we'll be driving to south carolina and back, going to a beach wedding, and hopefully getting ourselves nicely crisp and brown. that is, if it doesn't pour rain as it's supposed to. alyson's romantic beach wedding could turn into a drowned-rat disaster if that's the case.

dearest readers, i bid you adieu until sunday evening, at which point i hope to have some crazy pictures (but hopefully not of me in a skirt) to share. godspeed.

oops

the older i get, the more i find myself using colloquialisms my mother used when i was growing up. usually they're harmless, like "i nearly slapped him silly" or intentionally mispronouncing words for comedic effect.

this morning, however, my mother speaking through my mouth nearly got me into a lot of trouble: i was in the clinic, and started to feel bad for the sweet african-american girl whose lung function i was testing. the machine can be really challenging for a non-asthmatic grown-up and nearly impossible for a child with asthma. as i asked the child to perform another attempt at a successful measurement, i felt a marta-ism start to escape my lips:

"i know, i'm really working you hard...it's like SLAVE LABOR!"

that's right, folks. slave labor. whenever my mother had to do something gruelling, she referred to it as "slave labor." i'm sure that i've said "slave labor" in the past, though i've never been called on it.

thank GOD i caught myself before the word SLAVE came out of my mouth as i was talking to a little black girl. christ, i can just picture it: big bad massa robert makin' you do alla dat slave labor. may god have mercy on my soul.