New Theory

Ok, here's the new definitive reason I'm single.

Of course, me being me and thinking the way that I do I should totally preface this with a disclaimer that this theory has in no way been tested scientifically which means that I may very well be datable and lovable no matter the number of times I speak to the contrary.

Me also being me, this theory must in some fucked up way involve food. In this case, PIZZA!

It's all part of my unique language I have dubbed Chrisenese. If you don't speak it, you may sometimes think you are picking up the thread of what's going on in the conversation, but you'll never be quite sure.

So, I was having pizza for dinner the other night. Two things happened.

The second was that I decided after eating the whole damned thing-or as I like to put it, I fell face first into the thing and sucked-that a medium pizza should be enough to make two meals of. Not the type where you eat half one day and half the next. The type where you have someone with you eating half-maybe with a salad for balance.

THAT, I thought to myself as I dusted crust crumbs off my shirt, is what I need a boyfriend for.

And THAT, I thought immediately afterwards, is why I will never have a boyfriend. They aren't there to keep you from gorging yourself on pizza. Of that I am pretty sure.

People who know me won't be surprised that I started with the second occurrence of the evening when describing my pizza stained epiphanies. They know me well enough to not even hope for me to back track to the first one.

But, in this case...you lucky dogs. It was nearly embarrassing to me, so you know I will totally talk about it!

The first thing that happened was that the pizza guy I have a crush on was my delivery guy that night. Yay! I so want to smear pizza all over him and do rude things to him.

Anyway, he shows up and I have broken routine and not left my money clip on the table by the door. I tell him to come on in and go to the kitchen to get it...where else would it be? He puts the pizza down on the counter as I start flipping past the small bills I keep on the outside of my clip for bus fare, looking for a twenty. I flip past about five twenties before I realize I didn't have any small bills on the outside of my money clip as per my usual. I also notice out of the corner of my eye that this guy is looking like he's getting propositioned...and doesn't mind. He looks kind of comfortable with the idea.

FML.

I grin sheepishly at not paying attention, give the guy a twenty and start crying on the inside. My lusty pizza delivery guy is a hooker.

I am reminded of my amused reluctance to find a new pizza place after I moved to First Hill from Belltown. I didn't want to give up my Zeek's Pizza. I had gotten drunken slices at Hot Mama's on the Hill and thought they would be the next closest thing, rather than waiting over an hour for Zeek's to make it across town.

The thing that amused me about my reluctance was that I had heard rumors of-and I thought these to be just urban legends-the Hot Mama's guys working for their tips, if you get my drift.

This was back before my time in Seatown. In the era of the Timberline night club. An era that has passed, I assumed taking the Hot Mama's hookers with it.

The reality ended up being that the delivery guys were all gals. Really nice ones, too. Alternative and edgy with an "I can kick your ass seventeen different ways" kind of vibe. But really nice.

Until my little hottie started delivering to me. Every time I see him, I almost tell him that I lust him-barely catching myself before I hit on him while he's working.

Now, I guess it would have been ok.

FML, again! No one to share a pizza with and now no one to share a pizza delivery fantasy with. Boo-frickin'-hoo.

Blind as a...?

It's a beautiful fall day in Seattle. I decided to enjoy the day by sleeping through most of it-embrace your depression, people-and then take myself to breakfast at Zeena's, a neighborhood diner, before they closed at 3:00 as a rebound maneuver. Since it is fall-but beautifully done in a post Indian Summer kinda way-I went sans jacket, but kept on the shamefully unfashionable deep V tee shirt I slept in covered by an old Russell sweatshirt, my oldest and holiest, we're talking ass-showing-when-worn-without-underwear-and-damn-I feel-cool-just-for-owning-them-jeans and my favorite flip-flops.

To further offset the beauty of the day, I was unshowered, which means I had on one of my Nike ball caps, too.

I looked cool. My appearance was that of a dirty millionaire, belying my current financial holocaust.

I enjoyed breakfast-salami and eggs with about a pot of coffee-while reading the latest issue of the Advocate and enjoying their in version of one of my favorite games, "What If?". I inherited the love of this game from my mother, "What if you'd been in an accident?", "What if something had happened?" as she broadcast a parent's largest concern for their children-namely, all that they can't protect us from. My version-and the Advocate's in this case-is more positively speculative versus fear based love and concern. I was reading an article about what would have happened if Harvey Milk hadn't been murdered.

The restaurant closes and I am forced out on the street.

I am kicking my flip-flops through the damp leaves of First Hill's fall sidewalks as a fine mist falls. I am enjoying the wetness on my toes and the pleasant smell decaying leaves create hitting my nostrils as I walk home.

I look up, from the casual patrol my eyes are doing of the sidewalk to ensure I don't kick a raised portion of First Hill's lovely sidewalks and bloody myself or kick a dog poo a pet owner has failed to retrieve (an odd yet still practical pass-time for this afternoon considering Harvey Milk wrote and got passed into city ordinance San Francisco's Pooper Scooper law)-to see a man about a half a block away coming toward me. He is carrying a child...a toddler boy and my heart just filled with these pesky and overwhelming feelings of warmth, joy, love. My brain registered an attraction to the guy. I thought he was a hottie. A DILF.

As I passed by them, I realized the guy was a barker.

I made a mental note to get my eyes checked-or start wearing my glasses more regularly.

Still, I was amused to find myself laughing about how my eyes have betrayed me in my older years, but my ego refuses to submit to the proof before me and wear those damned glasses.

Then I thought about how bad my eyesight actually was and thought perhaps I was overreacting. My eyesight was relatively good for a person my age, right? To support this, I devised a scale for eyesight within the animal kingdom:

On the outermost left end of the scale, with excellent sight: Owls.

On the furthest right end of the scale, completely sightless: Helen Keller.

I began at the right end of the scale, pulling back to where I thought my level of ocular degeneration resided and then on toward the left end of the scale:

Helen Keller-blind, deaf and, possibly, dumb depending on whom you speak to but I disbelieve that last part, she learned sign language when hardly anyone knew it.
Naked Mole Rats-google these ugly mothers, they look like a buck toothed penis.
Bats-SONAR gives them sight-like qualities.
Snakes-increased sense of smell helps them "see".
New York governor David Paterson-legally blind.
Drunks-Beer Goggles, my only argument for this placement on the scale.
Me-given to bad attractions based on looks from across a distance, but a little more common sense at my disposal than a drunk.
Rabbits-I forget, has it been disproved that carrots are good for your eyesight?
Eagles-eagle eyes are a positive attribute, but overall, Owls are considered to have better vision than the regal eagle.
Owls.

Well, now I feel quite a bit better about my eyesight. As long as I don't look too closely at the space between myself and owls, I won't feel too bad. If I looked closely at the gap between me and owls, I might accidentally-even with my poor eyesight-notice the shorter gap between myself and the legally blind David Paterson and that would shake my rationalization.

Can't have that...

Then I started pondering how an animal's other senses make up for poor-or no-eyesight. You know: bats and their SONAR, snakes and their tongues, Helen Keller and her ability to sign R-E-S-P-E-C-T into the hand of her caretaking miracle worker, that type of thing. I wondered if I had a heightened sense that was compensation for my poor eyesight.

I stumbled, mentally, back to that overwhelming feeling of love I felt from that man toward his son. Was I able to see or sense what was in a person's heart because I was nearly blind as a common drunk? Is that what initially made me look up from my dog poo patrol to see that man and his child?

God knows, it wasn't gaydar. That's hardly my heightened sense.