FOOOOOOORE!!!

I have never enjoyed the game of golf. Some may bristle at my use of the word game when, according to them, it is in fact a sport. Since I have no personal experience with the game, I can only speak to that of my friends, for whom golf is an activity that involves hitting balls across long distances, drinking, ferrying oneself to said balls in a golf cart, drinking, and walking around on some grass. And drinking. Sorry golf snobs, but to me that series of activities describes a game.

Having never played the game, I never considered the possibility that one might need to take a bathroom break while on the tenth green and having no resources to do so. I assumed there would be bathrooms along the course at certain points, but my assumption appears to be incorrect. I had no idea that the desire to relieve oneself while playing golf was so profound. It is so great, in fact, that the makers of Uroclub invented a giant pee stick disguised as a nine iron.

I'm going to guess that most golfers wouldn't want their friends knowing exactly what their "new club" actually is. Telling someone that they aren't practicing a shot at all, but rather peeing into a giant pee stick is a delication situation at best. Furthermore, how does one disguise the fact that they have a piping-hot hollow plastic handle of urine? Wouldn't it smell? When one is using the green crotch bib, wouldn't it be obvious what they're up to as they are sighing relief and shaking the stick three times? Or is this something you would tell, nay brag, to your golf buddies about? Would they all get giant pee sticks and have a giant pee stick bag disguised as a regular golf bag?

Move over, Japan. You might have cornered the market on ridiculous baby things, but the U.S.A.'s got a steaming river of golf handle piss headed your way.

But... But Why?

In an early morning meeting, one of my coworkers used the phrase, "You can't have your cake and eat it too," speaking about an aspect of our user database. Being one that has on many occasions had this phrase directed at me, I understand the meaning. Another synonymous phrase would be, "You can't have it both ways." I went back to my office and began to think about the cake phrase and the more I thought about it, I kept arriving at the same conclusion: it sucks.

Let's start with the cake. Mmmm... delicious cake. My preferred cake is white with fruit filling [insert gay joke here]. I don't often eat cake, with the exception of mine and other people's birthdays. When I go to a local patisserie, my usual choice is something delightful and small, say a truffle or petite tart. That said, I don't turn down cake, in either the proverbial or literal sense.

Cake, in the phrase, is of course a metaphor. "Cake" refers to that which you want but cannot realistically have. In today's meeting, for instance, we wanted our database to perform in a certain way, but there was no realistic means to make this happen. The realistic piece being the money with which to pay a programmer. So there we sat, bitching about the extra steps in work we have to take, while in the same breath refusing the cost to make the necessary changes to assuage the aforementioned work.

So back to reality. Let's say you set a cake in front of me. Let's say it's not even my preferred white with fruit filling, but one that is nonetheless something I would devour in an instant (e.g. chocolate ganache). What kind of monster would give YOU a cake and then say you can't eat it? [Setting cake down], "You can have this, but you can't eat it. Ah ah ah! I said you can't eat it. But it is yours. I'm giving it to you." Now let's make it personal. Forget that someone bequeathed it unto you. You slaved away in your kitchen, carefully measuring ingredient after ingredient. The oven warms to bake a perfect sugary confection while you whisk together a cream cheese frosting befitting a queen. Then what? "Ah ah ah! You can't eat it." You know what? Fuck you. I baked this cake.

If you hadn't picked up on it, the crux of my frustration is the possessive "your" in the phrase. If it's MY cake, I can do with it as I please. I can eat it. I can lick it. I can serve it to my imaginary friends. I can throw it in your face. I am willing to bend the literal collection of words to make phrases work ("don't throw the baby out with the bathwater!,"... uh... OK). But there is no metaphoric use of your. It's yours. Or mine. You gave it to me, or I created it myself, in either case... MINE.

I submit to you that we throw the baby AND the bathwater out when it comes to, "You can't have your cake and eat it too." Because you know what? If you get between me and my cake, something is getting torn off and I don't mean that in the figurative sense.

I Farted, and Other Current Events

Flowers are blooming, my nose is revolting. I wake up each morning and dutifully squirt Flonase into my nasal cavities. A light floral aroma and tasteless fluid make Flonase quite pleasant to take. But despite what I am certain are well-aimed squirts and well-crafted chemical compounds, my allergies persist. The Flonase is trying as best it can. I feel absolutely fine except for the fact that my nose will not stop running. I can work out, go running, and do whatever other physical activity I want. My lungs and throat are clean and clear. Something in the air is causing this ruckus and I have no idea what it might be. I could go in for testing, but that's so... I dunno... efficient. I'd much rather wait until I'm bed-ridden and destitute.

One of our dear friends is preggers and ready to pop. We're hosting a baby shower this Saturday. Rather than make it one of those "girlz only" kind of things, the soon-to-be mom wanted it to be a coed event. I think this is a fantastic idea, if nothing else for the fact that we won't be the only men present. You see, being gay embiggens one with all kinds of special qualities. Chief among them is the inclusion to all gatherings feminine: baby showers, candle parties, Tupperware parties, knitting parties, gossip parties, sex parties and tampon parties. Robin and I have been invited to all sorts of these things. I would be lying if I said I didn't appreciate some of them. My first Pampered Chef party had me in such a state that I was squealing at each little gadget and stone pizza slab. We were in college at the time, had no extra money to speak of, yet walked away with a food chopper, thermometer and dry/liquid combo measure.

We went to a local Moroccan restaurant last Friday. It specializes in spice-filled Mediterranean cuisine and is absolutely delicious. Their dedication to authenticity is apparent when they bring you warm, damp towels and ask if you would like silverware or not. I ate with my bare hands until the hot goat meatballs came at which point I decided to revert to my Western sensibilities. The main reason for going, however, was not just to sample their foodstuffs, it was to see one of Robin's coworkers belly dance. Regina is, without a doubt, the best belly dancer I have ever seen. Her self-made outfit was bedecked with shiny baubles and stamped pieces of metal. She wafted around the room with a remarkable balance of delicacy and hot ass sex goddess. Every part of her body was dedicated to the performance, her fingers being one of my favorite parts. Rather than keeping them straight and posed in different directions, she allowed them to slither and wave, further enhancing her misty aura. My jaw officially fell on the floor when she took a sabre, turned it so the blade balanced on her head, and continued to move about. Her arms stretched and flowed, her hips jangled, her shoulders rotated, all the while the sabre remained absolutely still. I plan on going again sometime. It's great that the food was yummy and all, but Regina was the highlight.

The last month of winter in Oregon sets me on edge. Sick of the dreary weather, I just want to see buds on the trees and color return to the landscape. We are fortunate to live in a place where the diverse array of flora makes the spring season start early. One could argue that crocuses and daffodil are actually late winter plants, but the one arguing such is clearly being argumentative.

Grammatical learning of the day: "It's" is never a possessive. Ever. OK? "It's" is always used to signify the highly successful and lavish marriage of the words "it" and "is." You might think to yourself, "But I'm describing a quality that 'it' possesses." Something like, "it's flying buttresses." Yes. You are correct that it "has" flying buttresses. Though tempting, the correct usage is its: The neo-Gothic cathedral and its flying buttresses are bitchin' to the max. But if this causes the brain hurts (because in every other case, one uses 's or s' to signify a possessive!) simply circumvent the "its" all together and make possessive the flying buttresses like this: The neo-Gothic cathedral's flying buttresses are totally giving me the shits.

I've been wanting to use the word fecund in a sentence so badly! It means a couple of things: 1) Capable of producing offspring, in abundance, prolific, fruitful and 2) Very productive or creative intellectually. It seems forced to do it here, so I'll try to use it in a sentence with one of my coworkers today. Something like, "I rather appreciate the fecund effort you put into this email," or, "The fecund law professor worries less about the quality of his work and more about the rate at which he produced it," or, "My, for a woman in her fifties, you're fecundity is astounding!" I'll let you know how it goes.