Sep 5, 2008

DINNER: A 3-Act Play

Photo: Well, that's what he says.


Friday night was Whoreleen's birthday party, which resulted in a new way of eating for me: in the presence of labia. 'Labia' is probably one of my least favorite words, thanks to Wikipedia; after reading up on the proper scientific terminology, I don't even feel comfortable with my own anymore. 'Labia minora are two longitudinal cutaneous folds, that may vary widely in size from woman to woman. They are situated between the labia majora, and extending from the clitoris obliquely downward, lateralward, and backward on either side of the vulval vestibule; in the virgin the posterior ends of the labia minora are usually joined across the middle line by a fold of skin, named the frenulum labiorum pudendi, or fourchette.

Let's get a show of hands here--ladies, raise your hand if you knew there was a vestibule in your vagina? How is a clitoris "obliquely" anything? How many men have whispered in your ear sweet nothings about your longitudinal cutaneous folds? Who here knew that their labia had a major and minor, like a celestial object or a third-year college student? And what the hell is a fourchette? It sounds like a dangerous game of Foursquare and swordplay, or a fattening French treat involving bread, cheese, and me. The only problem being, I don't want bread or cheese having anything to do with my lady parts; that is a humiliating trip to the Rite-Aid pharmacy just waiting to happen.

Anyways, labia with my food isn't exactly ideal, but Friday night the food was To Die For and the labia was somewhat hidden, which is generally how I prefer my private parts to be when eating. Whoreleen's talented culinary friends made vegan sushi and served it on a very quiet, very naked human platter named Naked Sushi Girl (I didn't get her name--I was too busy blinding her with my camera flash like a Japanese tourist at Disneyland). It was a lot of fun, and completely unexpected. My favorite part of the evening was taking a ton of photos, guerilla-style, which I posted last night on my PhotoBlog. At least I was dressed.


After organizing the bejeezus out of the apartment yesterday, the Esq took me out for dinner, which felt like a reward for all of my hard (unpaid) work. We ended up at our favorite Indian restaurant, Taste of India, and ordered enough food to feed every member of Overeater's Anonymous. (Someone once told me that OA's motto was: you can put the tiger in the cage, but you still have to let it out three times a day to eat. My motto: you can put the tiger in the cage, but it would be easier just to eat it. Mmm, tiger.)

While waiting for our bounty, we were treated to the shrieking, honking sound of a woman sitting next to us; she had no volume control (which I'm familiar with, so I usually let it slide), no boundaries, and nothing interesting to say. But that didn't stop her from boring the shit out of everyone around her. She was one of those women, the kind that ages like everybody else but doesn't know it; I'd guess she was in her late fifties, but she acted and dressed like she was 19. She spoke like she was reading from a script written for a desperately optimistic drag queen, or a newly-divorced soccer mom who thinks she's in her prime: "HEY GIRLFRIEND! WHAT'S UP, HOTTIE! SOMEONE'S LOOKING LIKE A ROCK STAR! OHHH BABY! YOU LOOK FABULOUS! OH NO, SHE DI'INT! LET'S GET A COSMOPOLITAN, JUST LIKE ON SEX & THE CITY! TALK TO THE HAND! YOU GO, GIRLFRIEND!" And then she would probably do something like snap her fingers with attitude--a little white-lady Z formation to brighten up your day.
The woman was screaming out questions to her friends that sounded like statements, which made no sense to me. "ISN'T THIS WINE DIVINE. CAN'T YOU JUST TASTE THE BUTTER. YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO ME ON THE WAY TO THE AIRPORT, RIGHT." The absence of question marks could be heard around the restaurant.

Favorite overheard conversation:

Loudmouth: SO I'M SITTING THERE WATCHING...what was I watching... THE PARENT TRAP!
Snotty: *giggle*
Snotty: *snort*

I'll bet it was the Lindsay Lohan remake of The Parent Trap. I'd put money on it.

We ordered a big bowl of Mulligatawny soup, Paneer and Garlic Nan, two huge entrees, and dessert. And for the first time ever, we made it through the entire meal. Usually I come home with Second Dinner, something to re-create the experience two hours later when I've made some room, but this time we killed it; that dinner was vanquished like Voldemort. The baklava was okay, I couldn't remember trying it before; it tasted like a warm, artificial block of nuts and filo dough (which is another name for 'flakey buttery traitor'). I'm a big fan of filo, but I find that whatever the filo is encasing--Greek or Indian innards--I want to scrape it out and replace with other stuff, or replace the dessert completely. Case in point: I bit into the baklava last night, and immediately thought, 'this would taste so much better if it were chocolate mousse or a million dollars.'


We played Spore last night. If you don't know what Spore is, then you live under a rock on Mars, or in the northern incestuous corner of a red state like Idaho. It's an epic game that takes over your life and begs you to quit showering, but it's worth it.

I started out as a unicellular organism, and was able to create a little planet of my own, which I named after the underwhelming pop tart Miley Cyrus (her name is a totally planetary); as I continue to evolve to different levels, I evolve physically, as well--changing shape, adding defenses, shifting colors and getting crapped on by bigger creatures. It's a lot like high school, really. At some point, since I'm still a newbie, I'll evolve into an actual animal and hit land before you know it, but I worry because my little guy--named after Morrissey--is an herbivore; I don't want him to get stomped on by some meat-eating asshole. Welcome to natural selection, Morrissey. Natural selection says you taste gooood. Morrissey has been swimming around with his flailing flagella, scarfing down plants and trying to avoid hungry-looking fish, but he's been eaten twice already. Damn you, Darwin! Morrissey has to eat, so he can grow up and rule planet Miley Cyrus, otherwise our universe is doomed! (I wonder if Real Morrissey even knows who Miley Cyrus is; he probably had eye surgery that makes people like her invisible to him. Hey, that's how Morrissey rolls.)

So in this case I was the dinner, and, by the look of my spotted blue body, I was tasty in a bacteria al dente kind of way. Who doesn't like bacteria on their food, especially the rapidly-evolving type? Other than me, I mean.


**Tons of pics up on the PhotoBlog!


RiverMist said...

that's so funny@

Monsieur Matt said...

Once, in the City of Lights (by which I mean Paris, France, and not whatever hole Thomas Kinkaid crawled up from) I was in a charming bar-tabac on the rîve-gauche when I happened to overhear a louche Monsieur utter the following to his Alïa-clad demimonde:

"Assiyez-vous, ma petite, avec vos fourchette formidable."

Those French!

konichiwa, bitches. said...

1. I did know that my labia were divided into major and minor bits, because I had a very liberal biology teacher in 7th grade (when I was exploring this area very closely on a semi-excessive regular basis).

1b. But I was eating smoked salmon as I read Act One and wanted to yak. I also never ever ever never want to eat a) vegan sushi b) off a naked white girl. I know you didn't say she was white but clearly she was.

2. The late-middle-aged diva queen is well-known to me, but I didn't know you could eat Indian food while high as shit off coke.

3. Evidently I live under a Martian rock.

Snotty McSnotterson said...

I've had a few people say to me, "I never comment on your blog, because the comments people leave are so clever and funny in their own right", and I was all PSHAW; now I realize they were talking about you two.

Smartypants! :)

Better a Martian rock than an Idahoan.

konichiwa, bitches. said...