jeffy mcbroadway rears his ugly head . . . again.

Last week I was surfing the personals on a cheap online dating site when I received an IM from fellow singleton je577:

“Great profile. Color me a fan.”

I looked at je577’s profile. No way. I typed back.

“Hi, Jeff. Fancy meeting you here.”

There was a pause.

“Yeah, right?”

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Jeff and I dated two years ago. I had just discovered online dating. He sent me his headshot. He was handsome, a smile both wry and self-deprecating played about his face. His eyes looked kind. We dated about six months. He was generously endowed, a fact of which he was enormously proud. I suppose if I was a skinny white guy with a huge dick, I would be as well. For me, his masculinity was eclipsed somewhat by his career as a musical theater actor. He tap-danced while we waited for the subway. I cringed somewhere deep inside.

Jeff decided he wanted condom-free sex with me. He’d just been tested. Wouldn’t I do the same? Shortly after I got tested, Jeff stopped calling me. I was puzzled. I got my test results back. In the clear, I called him. He was angry, resentful. Why had I stopped returning his calls?

“What are you talking about? You haven’t called me in two weeks!”

“Whatever, Kath. I really don’t need this in my life right now.”

“Don’t need what? You asked me to get tested. I went. Then you drop off the face of the earth. And now you’re telling me-“

Jeff hung up. I never heard from him again. Until last week. He was in New York for a few days. His dad had passed away suddenly a few months prior. He was helping his mom out in South Carolina and periodically visiting NYC for auditions.

We sat across from each other at El Azteca on 9th avenue. He attempted to explain why he didn’t recognize me when he saw my profile. My hair had been curly when we dated. Now it’s straight. I didn’t believe him but I didn’t care enough to argue. We ordered guacamole, which was prepared with mortar and pestle at our table. He nursed his drink. Clearly, there would only be one round of margaritas.

“So, how have you been?” he asked.

“Good, real good.”

“Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m getting a vibe from you like you don’t want to be here.”

“Um, I’m really not trying to give anything off, Jeff.”

“It’s just . . .Hesitation, I understand. But this is something else.”

He was being so fucking careful.

“Chicks love closure, Jeff. We rarely get it, though. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re just as blunt as ever.”

“You never knew what to do with that, did you?”

“Kath, I’m sorry. I really liked you.”

“And you freaked out,” I stared at the salt on my glass.

“I wasn’t ready to feel that way about someone.”

“That would have been nice to know.”

Jeff’s face took on that patient, vaguely pissy look that I remembered so well. The wheels were turning. He was planning, picking his words.

“So, let’s have it, “ I said.

“You got tested. It scared me.”

“You asked me to get tested. You asked me if I would lie to you, pretend that I went on the Pill for you, not for my ex –“

“That’s the way my relationship with my ex-girlfriend started. It made things . . . weighted, suggested a degree of seriousness.”

“You asked me to get tested. I did something responsible for myself and for you. And that made you run for the hills? You couldn’t just tell me you were scared, give me some kind of explanation?”

My chicken quesadilla arrived. I was suddenly starving. Jeff continued to talk. Now he was annoyed with me, articulating his case with fifty-cent words. He didn’t touch his food or his margarita.

“I couldn’t possibly know that’s what changed it for me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a cop out, Jeff. People know why they do things. Take responsibility. You’re an adult, for chrissake.”

“Look, if you want to stay angry at me, fine. But you’re here, aren’t you?”

“It really doesn’t matter, you know? I mean, it just doesn’t matter. Look at you! You haven’t even touched your quesadilla!”

“I wish you’d become a dyke or gained eighty pounds, Kath, but you haven’t. You’re just as cute as ever. Once I realized who you were, I thought, in light of my dad’s passing, I couldn’t miss a chance to see you again.”

He was playing the dead dad card. I couldn’t believe it.

“On Sunday, I go back to South Carolina. I have no friends there. My mom can’t cook. I don’t move back to New York until September. As of Sunday, my life stops for about a month.”

“You realize I’ve been through what you’re dealing with now.”

Jeff was discussing his life as though no one had ever lost a loved one before. No one had felt friendless and alone with one parent. Now I was annoyed and pissy. My mom’s death when I was a kid had taught me many lessons and now a 35-year-old was telling me he had seen the light? That people who love you don’t always stick around and one must, when presented with the possibility of love/happiness, hold on tight.

“Yes, I do. Look, when I move back, we’ll be neighbors. I’d like to see you again.”

Jeff walked me to the corner of my block. Gave me a hug. His shirtback was sweaty. He held my hand for a moment as he turned to walk away. I accidentally dug my middle fingernail into his palm.

Hamburger Pie

My dad recently bequeathed my mom's recipe box to me. He presented it with grave concern.

"Don't change anything, Kad."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't try to organize it. Your mudder had a system."
"Do you think she still needs her system?"
"Kadrin! Your poor mudder, God rest her soul."
"Dad, I'm just saying I doubt it really makes a difference at this point."
My dad just threw his hands in the air.

"I don't know. Maybe you'll discover something about your mudder."

This conversation happened over a month ago. Mom's Recipe box has sat on my counter taped shut until this afternoon. With Mr. Brown napping at my side, I delved into the Box.

It's pretty basic looking. Small, wooden, says "Recipes" on the front. Faded blue and white flowers that are slightly psychedelic looking adorn the front. Inside were hundreds of bits of notebook paper with my mom's handwriting on it, small recipes torn out of magazines: cookies, pies, fruit tarts, stripe-it-rich cake ("how to make an ordinary cake extraordinary"), playdough (edible and nonedible versions), various meat pies, apricot delights, marshmallow candy, cold pasta salad, potica (a Slovene tradition in my family) . . . a child, me perhaps, had colored with green crayon on some of the recipes. Some recipes were faded to the point of being ilegible. Some my mom had typed on to index cards or picked up at a recipe trade in the neighborhood or at a Tupperware party.

It was a time capsule of sorts. I don't know if I maintained the integrity of the Box. So many bits of paper. My recipes are mostly printed out from various websites,placed in plastic sleeves and put into 3-ring binders. I'm not judging my mom. She did have three kids after all. It was funny to find some of the things I liked as a kid. Other things, like hamburger pie, that I didn't as much. Four different pumpkin pie recipes. Reminded me of the Thanksgiving when my mom forgot to put sugar in the pumpkin pie, yet vehemently denied that she needed reading glasses.

Towards the back of the box, I pulled out my family's recipe for cornbread stuffing. Quite a find. The handwriting was different, more uniform, more familiar. My dad's. He'd dated it. He dates everything. 11/22/91. Our first Thanksgiving without mom. I remembered my dad's weight loss. I remember the general sadness that hung around his eyes and mouth. How, even surrounded by immediate and extended family, he said later that he felt utterly and completely alone.

In other news, I'm addicted to "Rock Star: Inxs." Although most days of the week I'd like Dave Navarro to fill me with his luscious manjuice, he looks like a flaming faggot on that show. Such a waste.

Coming up for air

Happy Bastille Day, dear readers.

It's been an odd few weeks as of late. The usual suspects that I turn to in time of need have taken very good care of my neurotic ass (thank you! you know who you are).

Been swamped at work and online dating and most recently, Mr. Brown.

My dad will be making a sojourn back to Florida in a week or so. He's very excited because he recently acquire a queen size bed in his FL apt.

"Mr. Brown prefers a queen, Kad."

Mr. Brown then winked at me. Swear to God.

My dad went to Virginia for a couple days and left Mr. Brown with me. Last night, Mr. Brown was scampering around my bedroom, getting the lay of the land, reacquainting himself with my space when I heard an odd sound, like a muffled lawnmower.

Mr. Brown had turned on my vibrator.

Soy Sauce on Dad's Will

Perhaps a title for a country song?

Driving up a hill
the air is so still
Eating some sushi,
got soy sauce on Dad's will

Sorry, that was terrible.
I'd never seen the word "fuck" spelled "phuck" until today. Well done, Hackett.

But seriously, I had Chinese with Big Ron a couple days ago and he gave me a copy of his will for my records. I get Mr. Brown (my father's toy poodle), apparently.

Sure enough, after my subway ride from my dad's, laden with leftover sesame chicken ...

I'm a footnote at best...I envy who comes next...wish we could just make out.

I don't know so much about the Wrens except that I really like their lyrics.

Laying in bed last night, a book of Mamet's one-acts on my chest, an overstuffed laundry bag near my feet, I found myself fascinated with the notion of writing someone off.

When I googled said notion, I found a FANTASTIC blog:
postsecret.blogspot.com.
Go there straightaway.

To some extent, I suppose I do that literally. This parade of people that have come and gone in my life. Sometimes they come back and seem to stay. Other times they're just blips on the radar. More often than not, we cast each other aside with, at best, disdain, at worst ... well ...

My friend Ji is in London today. She is safe. That seems to be all that really matters at the moment.