Fey, Fi, Faux

Last weekend, I was invited to the moment I had been waiting for. The moment to sing the jingle of Army's tune into the ear of a good looking, sweet young man. And in his brain, that tune would be lodged -- gestating, vamping, tickling. And slowly it would grow on him until he realized what he could have with me. And then, we'd make sweet love... er... music together.

Of course, this young man was non other than Jay, my new boyfaux. Who happens to have a legitimate live-in boyfriend. Meh, details.


Rules of Engagement

Jay had invited Feyonce to a Christmas party at his place, and she was able to bring along a friend or significant other... or in our case, her signifauxcant other. It was my shot to size up Jay's boyf to see who this character is, what state of bliss (or discord) they shared, and how I could wreck it all with my charming ways. Yes, neo-conservative so-called Christians... this is truly the only gay agenda out there. And it doesn't concern you at all, so go fear things up elsewhere.

So Feyonce and I rocked out another party before hitting this all-important one. And like any Army, I needed to devise specific rules of engagement:

Rule #1: Make sure I get on Jay's radar.

Rule #2: Employ defense mechanisms when necessary. For instance, it was imperative going into this knowing that his boyf was quite inferior to me. Their relationship had to be in shambles.

Rule #3: Lots of ammunition. You can't win the offensive without being loaded. Inhibitions slide, your guard is down, and maybe some action is seen.

Rules in mind, we get to Jay's apartment complex, and basically everything is covered in ice. No salt in the parking lot, on the sidewalks, or anything. So we're sliding our way to his door, when we encounter the frozen steps from Home Alone. And no railing to grab hold of. So Feyonce and I are crawling up the steps, praying we don't land jaw first on concrete, cracking up the whole way there.


Let The Games Begin

We make it alive and Jay greets us at the door. He looks adorable in his collared shirt and sweater. Jay makes the introductions to the seven other people there (one of whom I knew already), and I spot the boyf. The enemy. The distraction. And he's well, kinda cute. But somewhat of a stereotype. Little bitchy. Little sassy. In my unbiased opinion, I think Jay could do much better.

I crack open a Guinness. And out comes the dreidel. For a drinking game. I felt a bit at ease that a Jew was in the group, like it was kosher and all. And thankfully, Jews don't believe in Hell. Let's just say that "Gimel" meant everyone drank. I forgot the rest. I was focused on making eye contact with Jay whenever it was appropriate. My message was subliminal, an unconscious code.

Jewish Girl mentioned something about Yiddish, and I commented that Feyonce and I were beschert (meant to be). We laughed about that for a while. I broke out a few other choice Yiddish words I knew from my viewings of Seinfeld and Sex and the City. My mis-education.

Then came the wine. First red. Then white. Then more white. And then things loosened up. We played some other game that didn't work out too well. I was certainly feeling tipsy. I kept hitting the food like it was nobody's business. The pepperoni, cheeses, spicy pigs in a blanket, cookies, et al. -- I was Bogarting the buffet every bit as much as I was "Beau-guarding" the boyfaux.

As a subplot, Feyonce was interested in one of the other attendees. She, too, had gone into the evening with some intentions to reconnoiter this gentleman. We both made sure to dress as dapper and smart as we could. A couple of sexy fauxances ready to divide and conquer our men. I had my Jay. She had her Billfriend. He seemed like a cool guy. Feyonce confesses to liking slightly nerdy guys, and he fit the bill. Literally.

Now the rest of the evening is pretty much blanketed with some of the most bizarre things I've ever said. And sadly I have forgotten most of them. So I'll attempt to recreate the few I recall with the following vignettes:

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Jay: "I want to sing karaoke, Feyonce."
Army: "What would you sing?"
Jay: "Something from the ballad genre."
Army: "You can't sing a genre, you have to give us actual song names!"
Fey: "Whoa now, Fauxance. Well what would yours be?"
Jay: "Yeah?"
Army: "Love Shack and Grace Kelly by MIKA!" (a bit too self-satisfied)

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To Feyonce: "Yuck. I'm burping gross weenies."

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Not a specific quote, but I used the words fabulash and luscious way too much. Sometimes luscious meant "tasty" or "excellent." Other times, it meant "drunk."

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So the short of it was, I got sauced, and then I got saucy. I ended up doing this dance in the kitchen as Jay air-conducted to the marching band music that was playing. It was as if we were both vying for Feyonce's attention... but we didn't know it at the time. She had to keep sober because I had imbibed a bit too much of the wine. So much for my gay agenda.

In all, it was a great evening. I enjoyed the group's company, I got to interact with Jay and the boyf, and have more fun with my Feyonce. I felt better knowing the boyf had some flaws, and it actually made me move on a little. Thankfully when I'm wined up, I don't become a depressed boozy old fairy.


Driving Miss Hazy

So the night ended with me scooting down the Home Alone steps and then "walking" with my hands and sliding on my feet across the ice rink. Thankfully, Feyonce drives manual. I gave her mild sass for stalling Andrew right away, to which she deftly replied, "the drunk person cannot criticize my driving." Touche.

I crashed at her place and woke up at 5:43 a.m. to record the details that eventually became this entry. In the background, freezing rain was pounding on the house, encasing my car in a shell, and creating a new layer of danger to the world. But I had no hangover. Nor did I have any hang-ups about my boyfaux sleeping with another man.

Facts and Figures.

Yeah okay, Army sure knows how to pick them. I have an uncanny ability to pursue ambiguously straight men, yada yada. Firmly established.

If you're new to the program, check out my Beaucoup of Beaus.

So of course, when I met Feyonce's classmate a few weeks ago, noticed his good looks, sweet charm, and genuine quality, I became immediately skeptical. How could he be available AND gay?

Our first meeting was serendipitous, really. I had worked until about 7 p.m. and on the shuttle bus to the Parking Lot at the End of the World, my Fey boarded with a small group of others, including one dashing young gentleman. I was at the back of the bus and she didn't notice me. So I just observed their group talking and made eye contact a few times with Classmate.

At the Parking Lot at the End of the World, Fey saw me and we started chatting. She introduced me to Classmate, whom I'll call Jay. We exchange hellos and Fey is quick to casually explain the Feyonce/Fauxance bit is just an inside joke, thus debunking any idea that we're anything more than good friends. Good one, Fey.

Jay's all, we've met before. And as it turns out, I gave a presentation at Illinois State a few years back and he was in attendance. I thought he looked a little familiar but who knows when you see so many people every day. Hmm, so he remembered me, eh?

Anway, as soon as I part from them, I watch from my car until Fey is alone so I can call her up. Laughing at my haste, she says she doesn't know about his "status" and promises to keep an open ear and eye, thinking we would make a cute couple. And um yeah, we would!

Now it's speculation at this point, but I may or may not have joined a social networking website run through our university to find out more about Jay and imbed myself into his unconscious mind. I'm playing it like George Constanza... remind the person of your existence in small ways. It's a subtle approach, a whisper campaign, as I like to call it. Soon enough, I'm like a radio jingle he just can't shake. He'll be humming my tune.

Plan now engaged, I lay low for a bit as part of the hush phase. Today, I get a phone call. From Feyonce.

F: Yeah, I have some bad news.

A to himself: Great, he's another ambiguously straight man. I'm going into rehab.

F: Your "boyfriend" already has a boyfriend. I befriended him on Facebook and there it was with photographic evidence.

A: Figures.

I finally find one of my own people that I'm attracted to and want to pursue and he's taken. But that's the second story of my life. You know the first.

A: Is the boyf cuter than me?

F: (laughing, placating) No. Of course not!

A: Do they look happy? Or is there some discord underneath it all?

F: Well the boyf goes to Arizona State.

A: Oh please. I can work myself into this one. The long distance thing never works.

F: That's not tacky!

A: Desperate times, desperate measures.

In all seriousness, who's to know their true status. Fact is, I've known people to maintain an "in a relationship" status on MySpace et al. simply because it was uncomfortable to change it. I tell you, these websites are life-support for failed relationships of every measure and kind.

He still seems like a guy worth knowing. And I'll just see what happens. If it's merely a friendship, then great. If I attack him in a fatal attraction kind of way, well, I'll write you guys once I'm out for good behavior.

The Crew

I've been enjoying work very much lately, thanks to the addition of some hilarious jokester co-workers -- Watson and Toph. Watson is my new roomie since MamaBean left me for the sweet suite on the first floor of the House of Condemned Splinters. After a brief moment of seriousness (oh, it couldn't last for long), we fell into this step of bizarro humor that can best be described as askew.

Like we pretend to be really serious about something until one of us laughs. And we do it to this ridonkulous melodramatic level. We pretend to be offended by anything, like someone talking in the hall. Watson will say to me over the partition "Gosh, they don't have to scream at the top of their lungs." And I'll shoot back "They are always like that when their off their medication." It's so incredibly lame, it's funny!

Watson tripped a few times when we were walking on campus, and I accused her of being this histrionic belle who fakes accidents for the attention. We ran with that one for a while. We were talking about something once, and she bolted around the partition and said "if you ever say that again, I will slit your throat!" We're such dorks. I think I'm cheating on my Feyonce with another woman. Best keep this under wraps cuz she gets insanely jealous!

And I think my vocabulary is cancerous. Today Watson and I were getting soda-pops at The Mine and we were going on about something or other. Oh, we were talking about the giganti-soda for like, a nickel. And I said "Well if you haven't noticed, I'm trying to be a healthy purchase." LOL! What the fook does that mean?

And Ambiguously Straight Guy is mad jealous that I have an attractive young woman sharing my office. Of course, I'm not sure who he's jealous of... He's still giving me the mixed messages. When I told him about my new car, he didn't seem excited. I explained how much horsepower it had because I know he likes that kind of stuff. He says that's nothing and looks up his truck to show me how much more hp it has. So I'm all "I didn't realize this was a pissing contest." Last week, he invited me over to his place to watch Snakes on a Plane with him. Um, hidden meaning there? It's weird how I'm so put out by how un-complex and uncultured he can be, yet still find him (at times) quite smoochable that I want to pounce on him. Hhmm.

Which got me thinking... gay men have this way of bonding with straight women because we have no vested sexual interest in each other. But for me, it's more than that at times. I think it's easy to be myself and unfettered around friends (especially women) because nothing is at stake. In romantic scenarios, it's too easy to hold back because I don't want to show interest too soon. And there's the whole getting-to-know-you routine. If only I could parley that openness when it comes to potential romance... is that even possible without sending mixed messages of my own? Could it come off as interest when it isn't? It's worth investigating. I've got nothing to lose.

Well, I lost my writing steam, but there's plenty more to say about The Crew, including Toph, Advagounoush, MamaBean, Blurt McLoud, JP the British Boss, and the rest. I'll save it for a future installment.

The Non-Dating Game

Warning: This post is littered with really bad sports analogies.

I received a call from Desperate Not to Be Single Guy about hanging out because he's bored. That's what he always says, "I'm bored." I find the sentiment to be a medley of insult and flattery. Admittedly, I was in a funky mood because of an emotionally intense hour of Six Feet Under. I didn't feel like talking or making plans for today, so I called a "rain delay" and committed to hanging out tomorrow.

I had a convo with Feyonce a bit later to hash out the situation. We both find his over-assertion tinted with a bit of...desperation, if that's the word. It's an eagerness for us to be in the midst of a deep relationship, which I guess is normal after hanging out twice while watching movies. And all the hand holding was annoying. I kept wondering when my obligation was contractually over. At one point I balled my hand into a fist. He tried to break through. It was like the Battle of the Bulge (and not in a good way). My forces were surrounded by his army of fingers and I simply couldn't surrender. I didn't want to. I wasn't ready.

I told Feyonce I need a Get Out of Intimacy Free card. She said I could just pull my hand away, and with the other, produce the GOIF card without a word spoken. The card says it all. I likened it to the ref throwing the foul card on the field. I think Desperate...'s trying to steal the next base, hoping to get my backfield in motion, or maybe he just wants some high-sticking. No matter what, I'm calling his plays. I'm not ready for a doubles match that is love-all.


I have to admit I had a physiological reaction to all the handedness. As he held onto me, I developed a lower back pain. I withdrew myself, walked it off, and the pain vanished. I was pain free until he grabbed onto me again. Then it came back. I've allegedly developed a psychosomatic reaction to intimacy. My body and brain have teamed up to reject intimacy!

It's like I'm the goalie of this fauxship and he's the forward trying to hit one in. Can I ever get in league with someone who puts me on the defensive?

I had dinner with B-Dub and El Nino, and we also hashed, rehashed, and prehashed. Apparently Desperate... has been texting and emailing B-Dub to ask what I've said about him. Again, he's wearing too much of that new fragrance, Desperation. Not a fan of that smell. B-Dub has remained loyally quiet but subtly pointed out to him that Army is no fan of his clingy conduct. We think he's new to relationships like I am, but his tactics don't quite match with mine.

Well sports fans, it's not over yet, but we seriously have to exchange play books and level the playing field here. Open communication is important for any team, so tomorrow will be movie-free and more about getting to know one another. Maybe we can become teammates, but we aren't there yet. Time will tell.

Non-Men, Non-Boyfriend, Non-Date

Dear readers, I have returned! Did you even know I was gone? Come to think of it, I didn't get any frantic emails asking about my absence? No pleas for more stories, more updates, more thinks...

You bums!! Pay attention to me!!

Okay, I'm done with my histrionic episode -- I wouldn't be a blogger if I didn't hatch some ploy for attention once and a while...

I was away most of last week because of a conference in Indianapolis. I had a great time hanging out with coworkers, stepping out for the evening... oh yeah, I also learned a lot about my profession too ; )

One of the highlights was going out for dinner and drinks with JP the British Boss and one of the Biz-nass advisors. We started at this Irish pub, in which I consumed two Bailey's on ice and a Murphy's stout. Dinner for me was monte cristo. JP and Mr. Biz both got bangers and mash. The conversations were all over the place. I kept eyeing a hot waiter and the cute host boy. The girls next to us were singing "Living on a Prayer" waaaaaay out of tune. After dinner, we headed over to Ram for more drinks and a lively discussion about kids these days. Another Bailey's for me. I turned in at 2 a.m. Oh, did I mention I had to present at 8 a.m. LOL

After our presentation on Saturday, Feyonce and I decide to hit the downtown mall for some real shopping that the Paign just can't offer. I have a confession -- I really like H & M, even if it is mostly eurotrashwear. Some of it is a mess, but I bought a grey zip sweater with red trim -- it's swanky AND is extra long for my long spindly arms! Thank god for svelt Europeans!

Anyway, as we're going round the stores, I can't help but notice how un-men menswear has become. Capri pants, cutsy underwear, and carry-alls? I'm all for metro and getting in touch with the feminine, but we are still men, right? Guys, am I right? So what's with all the manpri pants, manties (men panties), and murses (man purses) out there? What happened to Bermuda shorts, boxers, and a wallet? There can't be that many gay people in this world! And by the way straight white men, quit trying to encroach on the minority fun! Trying to be blacker, latino-er, gayer, female-r... you get unparalleled access to power positions and wealth -- get your own identity!

And speaking of which, has anyone seen Carson Daly recently? Is he trying to get an ethni-change? He looked faux-tanned with relaxed hair when I saw him on his show? Was it just the lighting that episode? I don't normally catch TV, so it's been a while since I saw him in his Total Request Live days, but he looked supiciously like he wanted to look like someone who was ethni-cool.

I teased Feyonce about her Non-Boyfriend. She refuses to use the term, which I find humorous. She kept picking out these sheer outfits at all the stores, which I called fore-mal wear (i.e., foreplay pre-sex romp-wear). She was all "but it's 50% off!" To which I replied "and it will be 100% off once he sees you in it!" I'm so happy Feyonce has a Non-Boyfriend Man Lover.

And speaking of which, I had a hang-out with my internet pursuer. Note how I will not use any of those familiar terms either. He came over to hang out for a bit and watch a scary movie. He insisted on "Session 9" as he had never seen it before. We agreed the only way to view such a movie is with all lights off. He admitted to getting freaked out during creepy movies and said he may need to "cuddle." During the movie, he kept edging closer during the unsettling parts until we were touching under the blanket. And we did huddle for a while, which was nice. Afterward, we watched the special feature that's creepier than the movie. Allie can attest to that! Then we talked for a while about ourselves, photography, and listened to some music. Turns out he's been inside Ashmore Estates, too! Each of us tried to play a song on my piano that's the most out of tune piano ever -- we pulled the dischord on that pretty quickly. Then he left with our plans made to watch another movie again soon.

It felt natural for only having a few conversations beforehand. Even though he's more touchy-feely than I am (which doesn't take much), it didn't feel forced. And I like that. I will have to take back my earlier judgmental wise-ass comments... well, not all of them. That would require me to erase my entire blog!

Now comes the hard part. I have to come up with a name for him! Who knows... maybe he'll become my Non-Boyfriend?

A Pile of Evidence

So Feyonce and I were in her office working hard long hours, deep into the afternoon. We had the office suite all to ourselves for our session. I had been sweating, it was so hot... outside! WHAT? You dirty-minded scoundrel, this is a PG blog. I know what you were thinking! Gosh dang.

We met up to put together this presentation, blah blah, and all the while snacking on these Halloween candies. Did you know the little Reese's Peanut Butter mummies (or whatever they were) have no hydrogenated oils!? I was all, "These are healthy!" And with that twisted logic, soon we had accumulated a pile of wrappers we referred to as the nest. Feyonce broke out her cell phone camera to capture the comical image. Meet our shrapnel, the remains of a sugar-coated thought-fest and chocolate covered plan-ology.

Then Feyonce's friend and co-worker, Janky, drops by. They talk shop about some kids in their major, blah bloo bleh. Janky points to our nest and says, "had enough candy?" I'm all, "WHAT?" in an innocent and clueless tone. "You have no proof." "There's your evidence" she pokes like a robin feathering our nest. "Circumstantial evidence at best" I retort with mock certainty. Yeah, we're dumb enough to find this exchange funny.

Then Janky tells us about this guy who sits in the front of her class and never takes notes. She's trying to figure him out. I say, "he's hot for teacher" as I give her the elevator look. "Oh yeah?" "Sure, he wants to see your legs and curves, baby. He's taking the bends like he built the roads!" WTF does that mean? LOL -- I certainly don't know, but yet, we laughed. Was it an insult or flattery? I'm not quite sure either. I have no proof.

Practice Makes Perfick

This last week, Feyonce (like Beyonce/fiance melded -- okay, I just want to make sure we're all on the same page here) and I went frolfing again. Only this time, we went to a more legit course with the medieval torture baskets. The luck and strangness is that this course is within walking distance from my house! Who knew?

We picked up some regulation discs -- we're playing for keeps. And the verdict? We serially need some H-E-L-P in the frolf department! After a few holes, it became obvious that Feyonce is a hooker and I'm a stroker. Dirrtay! And let me just add that if you apply these labels to other aspects of our lives, the metaphor carries through. I'll leave it at that, for you to fill in the gaps yourself. I can only reveal so much to the electronic public.

But practice indeed makes perfick. And while we are less than, we saw some improvement, even in technique. See, Feyonce likes to grasp and I like to pinch. This is truly too much fun to write! But we're just a couple of young faux-ances experimenting on the frolf course -- it's what the kids do! Point being, we're getting better - she's hooking less and I'm stroking less. It's all about distance and length. Okay, I need to stop!

Well, Feyonce got to meet the Mother-in-Law this weekend. Vick and I had plans for breakfast before she headed back to Ohio. And Feyonce had breakfast plans of her own. Serendipity intervened, and we ended up at the same place at the same time! So they got to meet and of course, Vick loves the faux-ance! As if I had doubts.

Frolfing in the Woods

Sounds dirrty, don't it? Well it was - figuratively! For those of you not in the know (Gregor and Frisbee Girl, back me up on this one), frolf is not just a scandalous sounding word conjuring up all sorts of connotations, it's also a nickname for Disc Golf or Frisbee® Golf. Yes, golf with a frisbee!

This game is sweet. There are frolf courses all across the nation. There are differently kinds of discs -- driver, medium range disc, and putter. They kinda petered out on the middle one, didn't they? I like to call them the longwood, iron shaft, and putter -- cuz its dirrrrtay!

As you may imagine, I am no longer a frolf virgin. And I lost my frolfinity with none other than my Feyonce... and another woman! We threw LP into the mix because we just frolf that way. We headed out to Kickapoo State Park because it features a 9-hole course. They don't have regulation holes and we were using regular throwing discs, but it was a good way for us to break in the action.

Basically, you hurl and toss a disc toward a post with the goal of hitting it. There's a lot of flicking, flinging, finger and wrist action going on. In regulation, they have these baskets that remind me of a medieval torture dungeon and that game we all played at recess that was really boring. But at Kickapoo, they just had wood posts. I have to say they did provide some challenges on the course (no sand traps or bear traps, mind you), but plenty of variety to spice up the holes.

For golfers out there, it's all about a good lie. Stay on the fairway. Same's true for frolf, or a penalty "stroke" is in order for a slice or hook into the woods. And I think each of us stroked it good at least once. And of course, because it frolf, we want a good lay, not a good lie. In fact, I once exclaimed, "That's a HOT lay!" And I had to mention a few times that I was putting from the rough. We loved it! I think that was right after we caught this guy peeing in the bushes. He and his friend hauled a cooler of beers and proceeded to have a round or three, which I'm sure induced the call of nature. It's high society on the frolf course!

And LP loved to yelp when she threw a good or bad one. "I'm a screamer!" she pointed out. Ridonkulous! After a dodgy first 9, we sat down for some lunch. As you can see, I wore a yellow shirt. And not that the food didn't attract them, but the bees were flocking to my hues. More than likely, they say something big and yellow and thought they found their Queen. Not a far stretch of truth. The whole truth is that not only am I the Queen, I'm a bee charmer!

Second round saw a great improvement on my part. We even had interference from some children straying from nearby picnics. My favorite was Zack, this little guy about 3-4 years old who would literally catapult for the frisbee when it landed and try to throw it. It was a true Zack Attack! I noted my lay and let him take a few, giving him words of encouragement. We all must do our part to encourage future generations of frolfers. He did this twice during our 18 holes. After the second time he ran off and called back to me, "You guys be good!" Classic! And then there was the young feller with the rat tail. No foolin. Possibly the only thing worse than a mullet is the rat tail. The rat tail requires intentionality, not just a lack of making a good choice. The mullet may be a faux pax, but the rat tail is just wrong.

After two rounds, we decided to stop by Kickapoo Landing, which is a boat dock and restaurant on the lake. When we pulled in and I saw the green school bus with the trailer of canoes, it reminded me of the summer camp I never attended. So I coined the locale Camp Heywoodjablowmee. I'm so adult. We laughed about it and checked out some of the water-bound activities. Apparently, paddling and canoe-dling are just a few tastes of fun one can experience at Camp Heywoodjablowmee. But there are limits, yes. NO MORE THAN 3 alcoholic bevs per adult allowed on the watercrafts. Should we encourage the marriage of boozing and boating? Is this a new tandem sport? Are we going to legitimize every activity as a new sport or something? Like frolf, right?

Serially though, don't knock it (up) until you've tried it. In fact, Feyonce and I are buying some frolf clubs, practice our putting and hitting the driving range, and who knows -- join the Frolfing Illini?

Unwinding

It's mentally and physically exhausting to invest yourself in someone else's business all day long. Especially when you do it for ten to twenty people each day. While advising has its rewards, it can sap you sometimes.

So of course, any kind of social outing is in order during these trying times. And having Becca and Smartens present means it will be nothing but surreal. I had lunch with Smartens and two other coworkers -- I updated her on our candidate search because she and I were on the committee together last time. I asked if she remembered this repeat applicant, and she's like, totally. This person applied immediately after we post the position, as if it was a stimulus-response moment -- to which Smartens says, "I think he prematurely applicated!" We all lost it! Then came the reenactments and the "Oh oh oh jeez!" Can't put a price on humor... But on a serious note, dear readers, there is hope for those who suffer from premature application. You can be the life of the applicant pool again.

My "fiance" Becca got a new license recently, which she showcased to me on the shuttle bus from the parking lot on the edge of known existence to the center of campus. And by the way, we both came in late that day from appointments and happen to show up about 10 till 10 -- pulled into the parking lot at the same time! Coincidence? I think not. Lover's synchrony? You decide. Anywho, I saw that she is an organ donor. We mockingly interlocked fingers and I told her they can't take her heart because she's already given it to me. Don't you just love it!! How randomly awful is that? Man, we're funny. And the scurry part is that there's someone out there who has said that and meant it. Ugh! It's perfick!

Then at a happy hour with all manner of advising folks, I managed to work out a verbal bet with Holster from the Division of Intercollegiate Athletics that if I finish this big ol' plate called the Horseshoe, I'd snag two tickets to a Fighting Illini basketball game (which is near impossible to get unless you are a student or manage to mug/kill a season ticket holder). The horseshoe is basically this big mass of buffalo fried chicken with a huge mound of fries on top, covered with cheese sauce. It's awe and then some! And I managed to eat it all with a Guinness under my belt, I might add. I'll be waiting for those tickets, Holster, so pony up! And then there was this funny slip of the senses where I swear Holster was talking about this guy named Ty Noodle, I kid you not! It was something close to that, but even when he repeated it, I swears it sounded like Thai Noodle. LOVE IT!

As a side note, Becca called me today and I told her the guy who fixed my lawnmower was named Warren, and she said, "Like Warren G?" which is what I was referencing in my mind, but it sounded like she said, "Like Warren Peace?" Isn't that a kickin' rapper name? I think I'll mint that for myself before some playah tries to bizzle my street cred, f'real. Yeah, totally the farthest thing from a rapper, by the way.

Army, AKA Warren Peace

My Lawnmower is a Hoe

When it rains, it pours, and apparently when things break down, they do it in "threes." My furnace decided to call it quits because it lost control, my driver's side window wants to roll down on its own timeline, and my lawnmower is all choked up. I thought my single life afforded me a style that was low maintenance. Now I have a bunch of dramatic machines to contend with. Did the devout Menonites have it right all along? Well, the singles ones at least?

And speaking of manual labor and rough transitions, I did lots of yard work this Sunday. Once things take shape, I hope to post some pictures. Basically, I'm turning my backyard into a fabulous party place! A stone patio, table and furniture, a privacy fence, simple garden areas, and string lights overhead. It'll be sweeeet! This weekend was comprised of lots of edging, digging, herbicidal tendencies... and no mowing! Ol' cranky thing.

And as an off-story, my fiance dodged a bullet today. Serially! She had (what I have coined) a character assassination attempt on her life! Her secretary has put a verbal hit on her, and I won't stand, sit, or dance for it! She basically does the following to my fiance - A) talks smack about her behind her back to others, B) avoids her to not do any work for her, and C) told my fiance to her face she didn't like how she does business! The noive (a la the Cowardly Lion) of this chick!! She better check herself before she wrecks herself because my fiance's gay fiance (me, for those keeping score at home) will lay down the smack on the tarmac. Boom Diggity.

At Times, We're All C3PO

First and foremost, allow me to lay down my operational definition:

C3PO [see-three-pee-oh] adj 1. acting in a manner that is cool, calm, collected, professional, and organized; 2. being fluent in over 6 million forms of chill.

Story of Eventual Connectedness to Above Term:

While catching up on things, my Feyonce and I were watching this TV show about these amateur tornado chasers and their crazy antics. These guys were crazy, kinda like pulling up to a tornado and giving it a hug crazy. So, during one part of the footage, this swirling mass is coming directly at them, and it hasn't touched down completely, but it's hovering about mere feet above the ground, swirling, looking menacing, and naturally, heading directly at them. Then these headlights appear on the other side of the "tornado." I'm like, another group of storm chasers? No, just some car that eventually drives THROUGH the swirling elements and continues past our thrill-joy chasers like it ain't nothin but a thang! We were dumbfounded.

But then I thought, people do grow casual with their weather. New Englanders shrug off three feet of snow, Californians sigh at earthquakes registering below 5.0, Floridians remain seated for Category 2 hurricanes, and in Oklahoma, people drive through fledgling tornadoes. They got places to go, been there, done that. It's fascinating really, how we become so comfortable and practiced with our lives. In this way, we can all be C3PO.

New terms I just coined:
- tornado huggers
- thrill-joy

The Night of Engagement and Ambiguity

I had one of those nights in which everything seemed to come together into a theme and felt as if it was preordained or remarkably coincidental. I won't try to work out which it is, just enjoy it for what it was. In order to do so, I need to catch you up on a few things, especially the origins of a guy I will refer to as Maybe Single Guy.

Here's the scoop on Maybe Single Guy. MSG is someone who I know at the university and works in another office. We've chatted all of twice during a couple of random meetings on campus. I found out from a friend that he had a boyfriend, so I'm like, figures. He's attractive and has a nice smile. Bonuses! But someone else has dibs... not so good. I'm many things, but not a relationship-wrecker. So these encounters with him took place earlier this year. I saw him at Meijer with Maybe Boyfriend about three weeks ago. I noticed them a few lanes away and was checking out when they left, so we never made eye contact, but I know he saw me. Then about a week later, he emails me about wanting to be more social and asking me to join in if interested. So I'm like, sure, hit me up. Can't hurt to meet other people in town... but I was still a bit intrigued about the intended nature of his communique.

I get an email this morning asking me along to his friend's birthday party. At first I'm apprehensive because of my awkward social phobiette (not quite a full-blown phobia) is certain situations. But after some wise counsel from Sylvia, I realize, fortune favors the bold.

Fast forward to a pre-planned delicious Thai dinner with Becca and KM. The three of us together is a bizarre sight to behold. Take the insanity of the Miss MINI Chambana debacle and multiply generously. So we're chatting on all manner of topics. It comes up that I know someone that works in Becca's environs. We played volleyball a few times, she has a killer serve, and she knows Ambiguously Straight Guy. So I have to ask if he came up in convo, and sure enough he did, and sure enough, Volleyball Pro thinks he's gay. Add to that the verdict from basically everyone else who's come into contact with him, and ASG seems to be the only one who doesn't think he's gay. So that was enlightening, and as I realized later, an omen for the near future.

After our parade insanity, Becca's friends and family from back home checked out the photos, read my blog, and now think she found a new man, Chris. But of course, there's one little hitch, which only her brother had caught onto by purusing my blog. I've got "the gays." But that didn't stop the three of us from riffing about it, and one of us had the wacky idea of taking pictures of us in a park like we just got engaged. Now, normal people would laugh and move on... but we were all like, let's go to a nearby park and totally do this! Shared brain syndrome synched us up perfickly.

Off we go to get ourselves into this hot mess! Becca wants to post these pictures all serious-like and send them to her friends/fam as her engagement photos! We are such DORKS! Check out my Uncle Rico pose second on the left. Ridiculous. KM did some great photog work : )






Then Maybe Single Guy calls to pick me up... by himself. So I'm confused. Did I receive faulty intel about the BF? Did they break up between the Meijer visit and the email (which would make me a potential Rebound Guy)? Or was that a roommate I saw? Maybe it's open relationship week? Whut up?

We head to the party, which is pretty low key, and I meet everyone, and they are nice. After sitting there a while, I'm playing the wallflower, and I noticed Girl Two looks way familiar. Then it clicks! She is totally the ex-girlfriend of Ambiguously Straight Guy!! So I'm like -- your name is ***, right? She's all yeah! And your last name is? She tells me. We've met before, I say. Huh? I met you at Dos Reales with my friend ASG. Oh yeah! You have a really good memory for such a brief encounter!

I didn't elaborate that ASG showed me all these pictures of her, and told me he broke it off because she wanted to be more serious than he did. Good thing I didn't because I think Green Shirt Guy was her new boyfriend. At post-night debrief, Becca asked, is she a lesbian? I said no, but I recall ASG telling me she likes hanging out with gay guys. And she says, um, well yeah! LOL

So we hang out with everyone for a bit, and there are a couple of cuties there -- Birthday Boy and Not Me Chris. The Host tells a story about this 18 year old student of his who is going off to be a porn star. Apparently Mom didn't like this news and kicks Porno Boy to the curb, and The Host plays Big Brother for the kid. It's suggested that he's porn-worthy but not so wise to the ways of the world. A bit later MSG wants to leave because he has issues with The Host. He tells me that The Host has wanted to get with him for a long while but often makes inappropriate comments which isn't cool. At this point, I'm further confused by MSG's status -- sounds more single at this point, right?

We head to movie night at a place I've come to know as the Orgy House. A friend had attended a birthday party there once that morphed into an orgy by the waxing of the moon and heavy consumption of libations. I also know Russian Guy who owns the place is a bit eccentric. But I'm up for anything now.

Apparently movie night usually consists of feel-good gay themed flicks, and the people are lively and at times rowdy (hence the orgy). We enter to see eight guys quietly focusing on a movie that, as it turns out, takes place in Nazi Germany during WWII in a concentration camp. It centers on these two homosexual men who are captured by the Gestapo because they are gay and all they do at the camp is move rocks and talk. I'm sure it's a great movie, but not what we expected and a bit heavy for the night. And Russian Guy says, ooh, Armstrong, so your arms must be strong! He shakes my hand and says, yes, they are strong! I just smile. Sassy old bean! I notice the back wall of the living room is plastered with pictures of semi-nude, half-nude, and fully nude men. Imagine a teen girl's wall filled with Tiger Beat posters of Kirk Cameron and Joey Lawrence -- but replace it with a plethora of naked men. And the hallway beyond was smattered likewise, so there was a whole other level of flesh and muscle to dazzle the eye.

We're there for a while, I noticed a guy who works at Aroma and nod at him, and MSG says he needs to pick up a friend who is staying with him for the night because he has no place in town to stay. Maybe Single Guy drops me off and we're like, let me know when something is going on.

An interesting evening, indeed. Not sure about my feelings for MSG. He was very sensitive to certain social issues, which I understand, but trust me when I say it seemed a bit too reactive. There were easily four instances I can think of during this evening alone. It's not a deal breaker, but I feel a bit on guard because people who are very hypersensitive tend to make melodrama from the mundane. And I don't roll that way. But then, I don't know the true status of Maybe Single Guy, so maybe he's operating from the friend angle only. Regardless, I'm interested in hanging out some more to see what comes of a friendship, relationship, or whatever.

If it doesn't work out, no big whoop. My Plan B is to hitch up with my lovely fiance, Becca : )

Can't Rain On Our Parade

Today I was in an Independence Day Parade!! The short of it is, in the olden days a bunch of people didn't like the way Britain was doing business, so they came here, threw some tea in the ocean, and decided to have a parade! And the tradition continues to this very day (literally)!

Our MINI Cooper car club (founded by yours truly) decided this year to be in the parade. I wasn't sure if we could pull it off in the short time span we had left, but we rallied six owners to the cause and got a slot in the parade fifth from last.

Best part, Becca was in on the action. As I mentioned in a previous post, Chris + Becca = all kinds of random shenanigans. Once she started telling everyone she's going to be in the parade, it snowballed into her becoming Miss MINI Chambana (local slang for Champaign-Urbana). And the unwise move on her part was to relay this information to me. So Miss MINI she became!

We travelled around town on the eve of the parade to find the most ridiculous accessories for her. We scoured the teeny girl stores, the outlets, the department stores, and the Target. We were on a mission, and the mission was so accomplished. I even found some sweet duds for me! Check out the ridiculous photo! Yeah, that's me in a teen girl's cowboy hat and girl glasses from Kohl's... it's all too true! But they were so perfick! And don't worry, that's not Becca's full parade gear -- I'm saving that for the big reveal!

Morning of the parade: First off, in another struggle against Mother Nature, it started raining during the parade line up. So not cool! Our colorful streamers were rendered unusable. How can our princess wave from my sunroof under such unpleasant conditions? Would the parade be a sham with her stuck behind a glass window? Who would appreciate her for all her achievements? Tension mounted.

Then this freaking hoss chugged past us. Not sure why they didn't get the big one instead... Upon further investigation, we found out that it runs on endangered species. It gets 15 miles to the panda. In city, of course. Whilst running over small children.


Another favorite in the parade - Guns Save Life. It's true, people. Somehow, guns save (not lives), but life. Interesting. Of course, these folks have those sing-song signs along the interstate that give Illinois its survivalist charm. And for that we love them (because we're afraid of what they'll do to us otherwise).



We had our pictures taken with celebrities! Becca found a photo op with the Hometown Buffet Bee! LOL -- And I asked Gandolf the Gray to take a moment from his wizardry to smile wide. After he put down his cell phone, we snapped this priceless picture. And I had my suspicions this wizard was really Gandolf the Girl! I love a bearded lady.


Here's our group all prepped for the parade. Thankfully the rain did let up by the start of the parade, so we dodged a bullet. Miss MINI Chambana was able to wave to her fandom in full intended glory! As a side note, Mother Nature and I have since made up.

We had the antenna flags poised, the window paint inked, and other random decorations bedazzling our cars and persons. Now gussied up, Becca takes her post through the sunroof. We were cracking up the whole time! Consult the photo montage:


How freaking silly can you get!? I love it!! Once the parade was under way, we met our spectators who had, by this point, been out in the muggy hot air watching a 2 mile an hour parde for an hour and a half. Some looked beat. But plenty were cheering and waving and looking at us like we were something else.

We basically got two strong reactions. The people who thought we were serious and the people who totally got it. Becca was doing the royal wave, calling out to people "You can be anyone you want" or "This totally isn't real." It was funny to see people wave, read the sign on the car, and THEN actually react. Again, the folks who got it would shout something out, crack up laughing, or give the royal wave back. For some reason, the middle-aged women got the biggest kick out of us. We saw people we knew in the crowd. The looks on their faces were priceless.

At the parade's end, all of us gathered in a parking lot and were reflecting on the fun. This woman and her children come up and say to Becca, "Congratulations! We just came here from Italy. How does one become Miss MINI?" She was so nice and so sincere, and started laughing with us when we told her the genesis of our hair-brained scheme. We kinda loved that people took us seriously.

In all, a most ridiculous out-of-control day of enjoyment was had. And for that, I am thankful.

For more pictures with wonderful captions, check out Becca's flickr site!

Making the Band: Crisis Averted

Ever have a funny story that only people present in the moment find humorous? Well let me try to convey such an anecdote in an even more difficult format -- electronic type!

Context: I went with Feyonce, Janky, and Jess to the "Taste of Champaign" this weekend. If you have ever been to the Taste in Chicago, erase all notions you may have that these events were similar. Just imagine a gathering of the dull and trite restaurants in your town set up in a park purveying their food and drink. You've imagined the Taste of Champaign. Which as a side note, really sucks, because we have awesome and unique restaurants here that could totally jazz up the affair...but what-ev...

So we purchase our tickets and our goodies and seek out shaded environs. Hot guy walks his dog by us, we all get a blip on the homometer (thanks for the upgrade, Allie!) But I did a lap in front of him and later Jess manufactures a reason to ask him for a light and he's either distant or snob-and-a-half in both cases. Barney.

You now have backdrop. To the real point here. This live band is playing up some funky music, and not in a good way. For example, they cover "Honkey Tonk Bedonkey Donk." Seriously. And this one song featured the lead singer belting out this weird reverb that can best be described as a record stuck in a skip-loop atop an off-balanced washer spin cycle. And he hit some nut-clutched falsettos. All around not so good. I check out the schedule to see who the honk these guys are, and it's "Hurricane Gumbo" of course! Let's just say they creole-ly sucked.

So Feyonce and I start joking about our own music group where we all have names that are weather phenomena. We cracked up because, you know, we're easily entertained. So we keep riffing and come up with the following: Feyonce is Avalanche, Jess is Flash Flood, Janky is ATMS 120 (which is a class offered on campus entitled Severe and Hazardous Weather, but it sounds cooler to say "AT-MOHS 120), and I'm Fujita Five (for the tornado intensity scale, of which 5 is the most devastating).

This snowballs, of course, (pun intended), and out of no where, I come up with the band name "Crisis Averted." Don't ask me why or how. Just laugh at our wittiness! Then things got really crazy, and I decided our first tour would have an astronomical theme (because that's related to weather patterns and climatology, or at least I want to think it is), which I seductively entitled "Big Bang in the Black Hole." Cue the hook to pull me off stage.

Anyway, we thought it was hilarious, and we will be performing live karaoke at Yardstock in Champaign on August 5, I believe. Which is basically a party in someone's backyard, but every band must start off somewheres. Don't worry, I made sure it didn't conflict with opening night of "Snakes on a Plane." I haven't lost sense of my priorities! Our first numbers will be "Rock Me Like a Hurricane" and "I Love A Rainy Night."

So put your hands together, show some love, as you pick up what we're putting down for ya! C'mon y'all, make some noise for CRISIS AVERTED!!!