Bachelor #13 and I went out last night for Valentine’s Day. As friends. He’s made a big point–ever since I told him that I preferred to pursue a relationship with him that doesn’t include exchanging body fluids–to mention the word in relation to everything we do. “A friendship date,” “a movie with my friend,” “galleries with my friend, Chris,” etc… I had been to his house a few weeks ago to meet his brother and his brother’s boyfriend. They made homemade cavatelli (“cava-tell,” pronounced like Carmella Soprano), served with one meat ball each. I devoured two servings, and handing them my plate for more I pleaded, “Just give me three meatballs this time, please.” As I munched through my succulent fifth big meatball, more meat than I think I’ve eaten in my entire life, my pleasure gave way to foreboding as a whiff of something burning drifted to my nose and suddenly everybody was running to the kitchen to put out the fire that had engulfed the simmering pot on the stove. “Save the meatballs!” I shrieked though my half-full mouth. Salt was tossed on the stove and the boys, relieved, headed to the window to smoke with the other guest, a friend of theirs with the cutest little dog I have ever seen. It’s the dog in those posters with the head cocked to one side that puts its paw on your lap to abjectly plead for your affection. While the boys were smoking, #13 turned to me and said, “I really like your art.” Then gravely, “I wouldn’t want it on my walls,” then brightly, “but I can appreciate it!” Later, little Fluffy turned Cujo and bit one of the boys on the nose. The poor guy had to go to the hospital to get stitches to stop the bleeding. “Bye Chris, it’s been fun!” he nasally squealed at me while pinching his nose with a kitchen towel as he jumped into the cab to the hospital.
So Valentine’s Day was considerably less dramatic. South Indian food at Dosa. We each had the prix-fixe meal, so we shared a total of 8 mouthwatering inventive spicy dishes. He wore red and I wore pink. Was it Diane Von Fursternberg who said that all reds go together?
Oh wait, I didn’t mention Bob’s 60th birthday party, did I? Well, everybody was there–Kevin & Dodie, Bill & Connie, Norma & Rob, Dean & Doug, Michael, Denny, Jocelyn, Francesca… and most frighteningly, his mother and sister. I was super freaked about seeing everybody for the first time in 3 years, especially his mother and sister, who make mush of exes with their cold hard quiet feminine stares. Did they all think I was a jerk for leaving him? Had they speculated all along that I’d abandon him? Had he been discussing my super top-secret personal things with all of his friends over tea served in those fabulous little blue and white tea cups? I made sure to at least look fabulous. I wore my chartreuse Dolce & Gabbana velvet jacket, with a superman-blue shirt, black corduroys, and shiny black Beatle boots. If they were going to snicker to themselves, “There he is, that homewrecking chubby-chaser,” they’d at least add, “He’s hot!” But everybody made me feel very welcome, like being with family again. The cakes–yes there were two, one coconut meringue, the other chocolate, both from Tartine–were fantastic. The chocolate cake was just chocolate and butter, and nothing in between, like our relationship, all sensation.