& all that jazz

So. This has been a rather unusual day. Where to start? And what sense to make of it? And just what do I want to share, anyway?

I'll stumble through a highly edited version.

First, I was cleaning out my e-mail in-box (which, after extensive cleaning is now at 1,493 messages) and I came across some real gems in the process. If you people had any clue what I have put S2 through in the past year, you would realize you're only getting the smallest fraction of my ... whatever ... even if you are one of the people who actually gets e-mail from me. Let's face it, my e-mail is a whole other animal, compared to what I write on this here blog. And my personal journals? Well, suffice it to say that I've been contemplating lately just *who* I should give my personal and professional writings to in my will. Someone who knows how to burn shit? Or how to publish it? I couldn't tell ya....

So, along in this process, I found four e-mails that were sent from XGF and me while we were in Peru. They were colorful and descriptive, as you might imagine, but because they were typed on foreign keyboards that annoyed the shit out of both of us, they were not terribly long. I read them again and realized how much didn't make it into my travel journal, which is a rather colorful thing in its own right.

Reading these things made me sad about losing XGF as my travel partner. Interestingly, not too long after I read them, XGF e-mailed me and asked me to lunch.

So I met with her at the Tin Shed. Most of our rather fascinating conversation is not fit for public consumption. Suffice it to say, we talked for a good bit about what's going on with her and her boyfriend, then we talked a good bit about what went awry between the two of us. It was sad and cathartic and useful all at the same time.

We also talked about my very curious attraction to a particular person and what that meant, and XGF had a few useful things to say. Even when you have all sorts of strange and distorted things that go on in a relationship, sometimes it's those exes who know you best and have the most valuable thoughts. But that's only if you maintain good relations, which XGF and I have managed to do.

I felt bad, however, that I made her cry while we were waiting to pay. I have a tendency to cut straight to the heart of matters, and some people find that rather disconcerting. But it doesn't stop me. As Popeye was known to say: I yam what I yam.

After lunch, I spent the afternooon disinfecting my Germocile -- the place where I fear my freaky cold cooties have set up permanent residence -- in preparation for a visit from and dinner with The Shervinator. I have not seen her in several months. Not since the summer when I ate dinner with her at a Red Robbin in the suburbs.

Her dog was injured -- a freakish and difficult-to-heal broken leg -- and she dropped off the face of the earth. But then she resurfaced and we got together for dinner.

I like The Sherv. English majors and I tend to get along because we can always find something to talk about -- even if it's not English. I also have a fondness for those who drink wine in copious amounts, and as a consequence, we had a fabulous time talking about things all over the board.

I made a salad with pears and candied pecans. I also made a chicken tangine with lemon and olives. Word on the other side of the table is that it was delicious, but I am still too congested from my cold to have any clue what it tasted like.

If I was going to do something rather unsavory -- like eat grubs or lick a guy's balls (especially if he's not particularly hygenic) -- this would be the night. I can't smell anything. Nothing has any taste. I didn't even bother to taste the food before I served it to The Sherv. She reports that it was "yummy," but I have no way of verifying that.

However, there is *nothing* wrong with my ears -- if you ignore the fact that I can't hear speech very clearly at this point -- and so when I asked The Sherv what I should play for music, she delighted me by choosing my "Jazz & Blues" playlist in iTunes. Apparently, she loves Diana Krall -- and also never picked me for an Ella Fitzgerald fan. (How little we can know about people when we've only known them for five or six years!)

So all evening, I got to listen to some of my favorite music in the company of a friend, which is an uncommon experience. Most people find my taste in music a bit old-fashioned or something -- when they know what my taste really is. I love Dinah Washington and Billie Holiday and Ma Rainey and Ella and Sarah Vaughn, as well as more modern jazz and blues women.

It makes me a fuddy-duddy in the eyes of many of my contemporaries, but I could give a shit. Right? Those women had & have *voices.*

But then, I'm a gal who loves opera, too.

When no one's looking, I pop in Sylvia McNair singing Mozart's love sonatas (great music for sex if you're classically inclined) or Kathleen Battle singing spirituals. (If you're not classically inclined, by the way, I recommend Roger Waters' "Pros & Cons of HItchhiking" for sex. That? Was written for sex. But only if you and your lover (especially if he's a guy) have STAMINA, because it's a rather long album in comparison to the average length of heterosexual coitus.)

Speaking of which, I told The Sherv tonight that I suspect heterosexuals of having "bad" sex. By which I mean the woman gets seriously short-changed A LOT. She had some thoughts on this, mainly that there are *some* men out there in the world who are "generous" and know how to please a woman.

Her husband is one such man, she says, but that's because the average age of his lovers prior to marriage was 37 or so. "The Mrs. Robinsons of the world," she says, "are a gift to young women. When the guy is done, it's the Mrs. Robinsons who say, 'That's nice, honey, but this isn't over until you've pleased me, too.' "

Finally, when The Sherv was leaving, we were standing in the street in the BITTER FUCKING COLD talking for a few minutes, and Chin, the guy who owns the Thai restaurant downstairs, was smoking a cigarette while we stood near her car. He yelled at me, "You no sick now?"

No, I'm *still* sick, I replied.

"Want ginger candy?" he asked.

Sure! I said.

He went into his restaurant and returned with a small bowl of this ginger concoction he's whipped up. "Eat slow. Let it cover throat," he said. "Little bits."

This is the best thing about having a Thai restaurant downstairs. Thai cooks can seriously turn up the spice in their curries and create new nasal passages when you desperately need them. But as the author of the In-Flight Martini Vomit E-mail has told me time and again, Thai people are also really friendly, and when they see you sniffling and suffering and coughing, they try to do something for you. I have, in the past week, been the recipient of some green curry so hot that I've seen stars and trailers, as well as special teas and special ginger concoctions.

Chin takes an interest not just in my dog -- "taking baby for walk," he says to me nearly every day -- but in my problems with snot, as well. This is a good thing, because I otherwise would be on my own with this wretched ailment. I guess you find "community" wherever it presents itself.

Never, my friends and readers, should you turn down the "ginger candy." I don't know what the hell it is, but trust me: Eat it, love it, and let it heal what ails you.