Widowered

"When a man is a widower why do we say he was widowed? Why don't we say he was widowered?"
-Annie Reed (Meg Ryan),
Sleepless in Seattle

Well, apparently they do say 'widowered."
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I had no intention of a big night out last night. And the night wasn't all that big, but it was out. I had hoped to join Jennings at the 3-D IMAX Superman show, but it was sold out. Gordon was in town and invited Kevin (and me) to dinner at Firewood. I was kept late at work and so got to Firewood about 20 minutes late, but still in time for dinner, where I met two new friends (new to me, old friends of Gordon's).

In true six-degrees fashion, one of my new friends is the housemate of the Anonymous Public Figure (and this) Truth be told, I would be much more romantically inclined towards the housemate than to the APF.

I needed a little outing, some good company, and a beer, but really needed to head home afterwards to GSD. Such would not come to pass. The new guys were much fun, and Gordon was ready for a Night Out, so we went across the street to Sadlands, even though we had just missed the 2-4-1 by about ten minutes. The plan was to stay for one drink. But there were four of us, and then everyone would buy a round so on we went. And when Oscar found out the greyhounds were for me, he was pouring them so strong it tasted more like a class of iced vodka that had just been shown to a greyhound.

The guys were much fun, and I had a great time getting to know Stephen (Steven?). This was one of Stephen's first forays Out since his partner died fourth months ago. Leukemia. Very sudden. Very tragic. I have had my own experience of caring for someone dying, although not the love of my life, and am comfortable talking of death and dying, the caring and the grieving and the dealing. Not that that was all we talked about, but I was happy to engage on the topic and I got the sense he was happy to talk casually about it with someone who wasn't awkward about it. I suppose it builds a sense of normalcy and living to the experience of dying.

We didn't dwell or anything, we just stood around drinking cocktails, telling stories, scamming the hotties, and mocking the videos. The topics of illness and blogging merged and I told him about my Caring Bridge experience, and then we started in on blogging. I confessed that I haven't kept this up as well as I would like (and I STILL haven't debriefed from the Swan Ball yet!), but with work and other parts of my life being so crazy busy I have't had time to write anything lengthy or particularly crafted. Just bits and pieces of fun fluff.

Me: "Like last night there was a Laser Tag reference at dinner and I felt the need to share that."
S: "OHMYGOD! I grew up in [red state] and there was a Laser Tag place in the mall!"
Me: "A Laser Maze! I remember those!"
G: "What's that?"
S: "Oh my God. It's like the Power Exchange without the sex!"

Oh my. That is so true. The lights, the music, the smoke machines, the dark corners and cubby holes. They might as well turn laser mazes into sex clubs after hours.

Of course, that got us talking about playing laser tag in the Power Exchange, which would be hilarious.

International Laser Tag Association

As is getting to be my habit when out drinking, I had scrawled that comment on a cocktial napkin so I could remember to blog about it later. I have another word scrawled on the same napkin. A term I could just as soon not have added to my personal lexicon, but it is as funny as it is gross.

Kevin and I mentioned out recent outing to the Martina McBride concert at the Oakland Arena. Shilpa was the only person of color, and the crowd was high on the red neck meter. We wondered what was up with the trashy (but kinda hot in a way) skinny white-trash guys with the bleached dip circles in their back pockets and their young obese girlfriends in glitter. (Oh my-- did you hear someone scream? No, that was just the buttons of her shirt.)

Stephen countered with his own red-state/red-neck story. One of his friends works for Wal-Mart corporate, and has to go to Arkansas every so often. "He says that red-neck sex is the best. And the closeted country boys get really into it." The word that stopped me cold was the redneck term for one's rear entry: turd box.

I know. I've gone one too far for the blog. But for Heaven's sakes. Turd box? Like, (insert farm accent) "Heh heh heh. I'm gonna do you in the turd box."? That is so foul that I could not stop laughing. Clearly, one beer and four greyhounds make me 12 years old.

Too nasty to tell, but too funny not to share. Now it's in your lexicon. Deal with it. And maybe one day you'll slip and tell someone they can shove it up their turd box.

Then let me know. I'll write it here.