The Latte Manifesto

After two years of a wonderfully civilized marriage involving separate residences and no less than three full bathrooms, we launched the Insane Cohabitation Experiment. The Experiment is comprised of 650 square feet, and a single bathroom. Bathroom quantity shall be a significant contributing factor to the success of The Experiment. Because a toilet of one’s own helps maintain the extremely thin membrane of distinction between homo sapiens and monkeys. Our relatively tiny new home required significant floor plan adjustments to accomodate two people who don’t want to get divorced. And so, the road to bathroom-sharing has been paved with months of demolition, negotiation, and big box store surrealism.

B: Didn’t we already buy these? L: Yes, and then I thought we had the wrong thing so I returned them but you were right the first time so now we’re buying them again. B: (walks as far away as possible to control stabby impulses) L: (shouts across store) Do you have enough caulk?

Say that last sentence out loud and you’ll understand why I can never return to Home Depot. And so it seemed entirely reasonable that, the final week before the big move, I would have a business trip to New York, abandoning B to total chaos. I rationalized that my not being around would actually be less stressful for both of us, and I think that did turn out to be true. I can be a giant pain in the ass. Which leads me to New York. New York in the summer, swampy and overcast but thrilling and wonderful in the way that only New York or London or any other real city can be. Friday night I decided to take myself to see Macbeth at Shakespeare in the Park. I would have to wait in the standby line and probably not get a ticket, but it was free, it was Shakespeare, it was a finally a beautiful cool evening and spending a couple of hours reading a book in Central Park seemed like a lovely proposition, regardless of the outcome. I walked to the Delacorte Theater from Midtown and found myself at the end of a very, very long line. The line that came after the folks with standby numbers. Passed the first hour reading and chatting with line-mates. We shrugged and made jokes about praying for rain to drive away everyone ahead of us. I made friends with a tiny, chipper grandma in a Red Sox cap and bright orange jean jacket. About 10 minutes before curtain: It rained. And then it poured, buckets and gallons and firehoses. With every thunderclap, the weak-willed ran for shelter and the line contracted. We stood our ground with makeshift non-umbrellas of newspaper and plastic bags. An intrepid bagpiper in full Scottish garb serenaded us. He passed the hat and I bought a dollar’s worth of instant karma. We waited, and the rain stopped, and the show was set to start at 9:30. I got a cup of hot coffee and giant sweatshirt to replace my soaked tee, and settled into my hard-won seat: second row center, baby. Perfect New York evening.

SO. After months of visualization I decided that today will be the day I put on something other than pajamas. I will go run an errand. Outside. Around people. I grabbed a large bulletin board and bag of books that needed to go live in Portland. I tromped off to the Mailboxes Etc. across the street. Which apparently no longer exists. But I was all excited about Being! Outside! (it’s gorgeous out again) and I gamely decided to hike me, my ass, a 2×3 foot chunk of particleboard and 25 lbs. of oversized reading material to the UPS Store. You may be wondering why I would walk all the way the UPS Store when, on the way, I passed several other suitable shipping outlets. Let me tell you. This particular UPS Store has a unusual and quite wonderful hiring procedure. The job application consists of only one question: Are you a 20-year-old male uberhottie with bedroom eyes, a certain Goth/Glam sensibility, snarky sense of humor, and insatiable desire to flirt with dorky, married female customers in their late 30’s? Answer: Yes. You’re HIRED! However, there is the trek there and back, through clouds of cig smoke and dodging trails of my god I hope it’s not human poop and Berkeley High brats and street kids dealing drugs and crazy, sad, crazy homeless people and the obligatory crappy street performers. Ugh. I also stopped at Planet Smoothie for a True Blueberry with a Mood Boost (apparently has yet to take effect). Delicious. Insanely. Leaving the house = good. But. It took two people 10 minutes to get their trip together enough to spend the 30 seconds required to actually MAKE the smoothie, because the other 9 minutes and 30 seconds were spent discussing what to do about being out of peanut butter. (Answer: Pretend that Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are, and always have been, identical to peanut butter.) It went something like this:

Smoothie Moron #1: (takes Other Customer’s order and begins to assemble ingredients) Smoothie Moron #2: (takes my order and begins to assemble ingredients) Smoothie Morons #1 and #2: (engage in 7 minutes of barely audible conversation about ingredients for Other Customer’s smoothie.) Smoothie Moron #1: (hauls out a giant bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups) Smoothie Moron #2: (stands there holding blender full of my not-yet-smoothified items) Other Customer: Oh, I don’t want Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in my smoothie. Don’t you have peanut butter? Smoothie Moron #1: These are exactly the same as peanut butter. Smoothie Moron #2: (totally incapacitated by this rapture-inducing debate) Other Customer: No, I don’t want those. If you don’t have peanut butter I’ll just order something else. It’s no problem. Smoothie Moron #1: These are what we always put in that smoothie. Smoothie Moron #2: (immobilized) Other Customer: I’ll just order something else. Smoothie Moron #1: These taste exactly the same as peanut butter. Other Customer: No, that’s OK. I’ll just order something else. Smoothie Moron #2: (slips into coma) Smoothie Moron #1: Ok, what would you like instead? Other Customer I’ll have the Chocolate Peanut Butter smoothie instead. Me: (brain melts)

OK, at this point in my trip, the leaving the house question is a wash. UPS Store = 1 point for; travel to/from the UPS Store = 1 point against. Planet Smoothie product = 1 point for; Planet Smoothie employees = 1 point against. And then. A little backstory on the tie breaking event. I am among the many fans of Overheard in New York. Over the weekend, my friend Eve and I decided that if a similar site existed for Berkeley, every overheard conversation would be about weed. “You could put your weed in that!” “Hey, where’d you get the weed?” “Where ya going? Oh, to get some weed.” We found this notion hilarious. And so, I’m now walking back toward home, sucking down the life-affirmingly good smoothie, being asked “Spare some change?” every five seconds, and I pass a group of exceptionally grimy looking white-with-dreadlocks pseudo-homeless kids slouched against the wall of a bookstore. Without missing a beat, one of the kids looks me right in the eye and says: “Spare a bowl?” I leave it to you, gentle reader, to decide which side scored the final point.

Life with B. is neatly categorized into two modes of operation. Pie Season, and Not Pie Season. In Pie Season, you can eat whatever you want, and lots of it. For B. , this means Pie, preferably the pumpkin variety. It goes something like this: Once or twice a week, he lands in the kitchen with a twine-tied box from Fat Apples and a sneaky grin on his face. We have the following exchange:

B: (positively reeking of impending triumph) Guess what I got?!?! Me: (rolls eyes) B: A PIE!!! (proudly displays the pie) B: (six to twelve hours later) I ate all the pie. Me: (wondering if I can squeeze any more pork products into my daily food routine, simultaneously noticing that my internal organs feel like they are wrapped in brie) Knock yourself out, baby.

“Not Pie Season” mode isn’t nearly as much fun. It consists mostly of me explaining to people why B. won’t eat something delicious.

People: Why isn’t B. having any of that triple chocolate fudge bacon buttercream cake? Me: It’s not Pie Season. People: (knowingly) Ohhhhhhh.

We are searching for manicure scissors at Long’s. After a few minutes B. announces that he’s going to wait by the checkstand. As we part ways, I pass a woman in the hair dye aisle. She doesn’t look up, we don’t make eye contact or acknowledge each other in any way. The following exchange ensues:

B: Hurry up. Me (smartass): I will NOT hurry up. Hair dye: You take your time, girl. Me: You know it. Hair dye: Men should always be kept waiting. Me: That’s right. Me: (took my time)

When you’re in Palm Springs having brunch at Manhattan in the Desert, there are some things you can safely assume. Such as the sexual orientation of a bunch of men in uniform: tight tank top, camo shorts, huge muscles, deep tan, impeccable manscaping. It’s also safe to assume that sighting this Uniformed posse was not even remotely remarkable. We were all just ogling the oversized dessert display; I was also probably thinking wistfully about not having a gay boyfriend and wondering who among my straight friends would be a halfway decent date to the Justin Timberlake concert. I didn’t realize we were in a hilarious movie until a spectacularly tall and wide member of the aforementioned crew gasped, pointed at an enormous pastry, and exclaimed: “HEY LOOK, A GIANT CREAM PUFF!” Hilarity ensued.

We finally took a much-needed vacation in Palm Springs. The whole time I could not stop thinking about ice cold milkshakes. It’s rather dry. Just as we first pulled into town, I checked the rear view mirror. About 50 yards behind us was a sea of Harleys. Hundreds of them. I thought maybe I was hallucinating (after seven hours of driving), so I asked B. if he saw them, too. He did. Within seconds we were completely surrounded by motorcycles and found ourselves involuntarily escorted down Palm Canyon Drive inside a phalanx of California Mongols. This was a little scary but mostly hilarious. I should say, WE found it mostly hilarious, but the Mongols did not seem to be amused. The entire gang’s thought bubble seemed to be: “NOPE, NOT AT ALL FUNNY, AND NOW WE WILL RUN YOU OFF THE ROAD”. I think our Honda Element was totally harshing their Mad Max vibe. It must have looked like a water buffalo being carried away by an army of really badass chrome ants. Now, you may be thinking that the Mongols were in Palm Springs for the outlet mall shopping or perhaps an architectural tour, but in fact, Palm Springs is host to the American Heat Motorcycle and Hot Rod Weekend. I’m taking Brian over to Chrome Alley tomorrow to see how many biker fights I can get him in. After all, I brought the camera, and I may as well get some use out of it.

• Blonde ladies
• Chain mail
• Cuban cigars
• Doctor guy from Deep Space Nine
• Eye patches
• Fire extinguishers
• Jimi Hendrix CDs
• Helicopter fuel
• Highly specialized razors (top-of-head only, can’t be used on beards or mustaches)
• Homoerotic tension (supressed)
• Leather jackets
• Locking and loading
• Oversized cowl neck sweaters
• Stench of death
• White people
• Whitening toothpaste
• Whispering

Evidenced by a mounting frustration and general lack of patience, fringing on a barely suppressed desire to poink people in the head with a fork. Not deep enough to cause excessive bleeding or permanent damage, but deep enough to stick out and be a little funny, in a slapstick kind of way, and it should also hurt a bit. Let’s just say the amount and duration of extra-skull pain generated by the fork should be directly in proportion to the intra-skull pain generated by the forkee’s personality. To wit: There is a somewhat new restaurant around the corner called Café Gratitude. Signs that this restaurant might be annoying: 1: It is in Berkeley. 2: It is vegan. 3: Seating is community style, big tables. You eat with strangers, and presumably have a conversation about how colon cleansing in India changed your life, or, chew quietly and hold your tablemates’ spirits in a loving, grateful presence. 4: Menu items are titled as affirmations. For example, if you want to order the stuffed avocado, you must say “I Am Generous”. For tea: “I Am Vibrant”. I Am Mystified. The waitress informs me that the question of the day is, “Who are you grateful for in your life?” A better question: Will I be able to hold down food in this environment? (Answer: Yes. I did it. And the food was pretty great.) I still wanted to catch the next JetBlue to Manhattan, where I am certain that anyone who even thought about opening a Cafe Gratitude would be, under pain of torture (this torture somehow involving a turkey baster and soup cooked above 118 degrees thereby destroying its nutritional, and let’s be honest, spiritual, potential), forced to stand in front of a McDonald’s and scream “Namaste, motherf*cker!” at all passerby. And now I have to talk about the Lesbians-On-E. Maybe this happens at other restaurants, but it happened to me at Cafe Gratitude, so they will be held partially accountable. A hipsterish young couple was seated next to me. They were high on something that made them giddy and spastic to an extent not normally associated merely with the rush that comes from eating live! raw! vegan! food! I wanted to knock their heads together, just hard enough so they would be dazed and stop skipping around the tables and giving me that presumptious glare that says “you’re looking at us because we’re lesbians”, when in fact I don’t give a crap about your orientation, I am looking at you because you’re freaking grownups playing hide-and-seek in the middle of a restaurant, and I just want to eat my goddamn stuffed avocado. I mean, I AM GENEROUS. You see, it’s these kinds of slightly violent thoughts that lead me to believe that a vacation might be in order.