I punish my boss by making him overtly raw, deeply vegan food. Neither of us are vegan, mind you, but I know him well enough to know that he's a man who wants his meat and his sodium enhanced flavours; and so the second he gets home from his guitar lesson I will present to him (with a coy smile) a bowl of garbanzo bean salad, seasoned with lemon juice and pepper. Don't piss off the cook. It's good food, and to anyone with a refined sense of taste the natural flavours and textures of the gourmet olives, cherry tomatoes and yellow squash will play off each other beautifully-- but to him, it'll be torture to eat. It's woman food.
Father's day is never worthwhile for me. I should give my now-ex-step-dad a call, but the wave of depression (they tell me this morose quality of myself is perfectly natural given the circumstances) is nearly unbearable-- and I can't imagine it's easy to be near me. Everyone in this world is out having Sunday brunch with their fathers, they've probably just completed some obnoxious church service about their FATHER, and I'm sitting making a plain garbanzo bean salad thing for my middle aged lover/boss. And Ikea is making a delivery. And he'll be home soon.
I haven't improved in my obsessive infatuation, if you were wondering... which you weren't. I lost it last night in a Border's Books, right after Mr. Boss forgot our tickets to a comedy show (mind you, when I asked him to make sure he had them, he scolded me for thinking he was stupid). I was feeling ill from a bad batch of green curry, and Boss went over to Walgreens to purchase some Rolaids, a kind gesture on his part. I called my best friend: a cynical, negative, gay filmmaker whom I can't ever get enough of. I miss him. Missing him made me miss that young man, and BOOM. I thought too much and I started to cry, right there. And, of course, Boss Man came back and had no idea how to handle the situation, because how do you possible handle a crying, nauseous, and acutely hormonal Russian? You kind of just have to steer very clear. He's learning that by now, I'm proud.
They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I say that if you have a nice enough rack.... you can teach anyone anything. You'll be surprised how much they absorb.
Father's day is never worthwhile for me. I should give my now-ex-step-dad a call, but the wave of depression (they tell me this morose quality of myself is perfectly natural given the circumstances) is nearly unbearable-- and I can't imagine it's easy to be near me. Everyone in this world is out having Sunday brunch with their fathers, they've probably just completed some obnoxious church service about their FATHER, and I'm sitting making a plain garbanzo bean salad thing for my middle aged lover/boss. And Ikea is making a delivery. And he'll be home soon.
I haven't improved in my obsessive infatuation, if you were wondering... which you weren't. I lost it last night in a Border's Books, right after Mr. Boss forgot our tickets to a comedy show (mind you, when I asked him to make sure he had them, he scolded me for thinking he was stupid). I was feeling ill from a bad batch of green curry, and Boss went over to Walgreens to purchase some Rolaids, a kind gesture on his part. I called my best friend: a cynical, negative, gay filmmaker whom I can't ever get enough of. I miss him. Missing him made me miss that young man, and BOOM. I thought too much and I started to cry, right there. And, of course, Boss Man came back and had no idea how to handle the situation, because how do you possible handle a crying, nauseous, and acutely hormonal Russian? You kind of just have to steer very clear. He's learning that by now, I'm proud.
They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I say that if you have a nice enough rack.... you can teach anyone anything. You'll be surprised how much they absorb.
