When I give him directions, he says "Roger that."

February 09, 2005 - 12:49 a.m.

You know I spent the whole weekend with my pilot, and I’ve been walking around in a daze ever since. Monday morning we got up together and then I walked him to the subway to see him off to O’Hare. Quite surreal, me walking down the street, having just woken up, next to a handsome, clean-shaven pilot in full uniform and adorable pilot kit full of maps. Maybe you do not know this, since you have never met me, but my physical appearance 90% of the time, is the opposite of refined, polished, clean-cut, and kempt. I look super cute for the first hour I am out of the shower, but that rapidly fades and by hour seven my hair is beginning to dreadlock. My face and my clothes, are a wreck half of the time. I’m not sure what to blame this on, maybe bad genes? My hair is in a constant state of Rat Nestafarian. I look like I am Captain Caveman’s long-lost cousin Danyell.

It is not unusual to have a friend stop by my crib and say, “It looks like you just got fucked in the back seat of a Chevy.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t”

This caveman hair can be super sexy in the right situation. Like right after a makeout session. He can look at it in wonder and amazement and think to himself, “Look what I did to her!”

To which I reply, “Yeah. Right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go brush through this and tear out clumps of hair for the next 50 minutes.”

When I go to work, I manage to look nice. I have the makeup, the nice, fitted clothes, the shined shoes. But still with the hair. Always with the caveman hair. I sit there at my desk, 94% professional, and 6% caveman. Maybe I am imagining this, but I swear that sometimes I get a queer eye from people. Like they do a double take and think, What’s with that girl, who dresses so nice, but always has hooker hair?

What was my point here? Right, that I’m ugly! No. My point is that he is a clean-cut uniformed piece of ass walking down the street with an honest-to-god Ragamuffin. He probably thinks this is adorable. Me? Not so funny.

We stopped on the sidewalk at a red light and I looked at him and shrieked, “SO CUTE I COULD DIE!”

And he grabbed me real hard around the waist and said, “No, YOU’RE so cute!” and he put the Captain’s hat on me.

Catch me now, because I am falling into the street in a faint.

So we had three nights in a row of naked sleeping with no sex, isn't that awesome? I am totally waiting for that shit. Maybe Valentine’s Day.

Last Wednesday we had planned a day at the Art Institute, and I got the bright idea that he should stay over Tuesday night so we could get an early start the next morning. You knew that shit wasn’t going to happen. A more accurate description would be that we laid in bed naked, talking and snuggling, dosing in and out of sleep until 1:30 pm, at which time I had to crawl my ass out and start getting ready for work. But only after getting pulled back in 10 times.

Here I will quickly summarize all of the many fantastic things that me and my pilot managed to accomplish in a single weekend:

1) Raw fish at Lula Café
2) Slide shows of old class projects and vacations
3) Blueberry pancakes
4) Sailboat Show at Navy Pier, inspect 50 foot yachts
5) Lie on the couch in the dark, listen to Calexico with horns and maracas, very loudly
6) Watch home movie of my Amish family
7) Reveal deep dark secrets, met with hugs, kisses, and acceptance
8) Drink Riesling until drunk, Yessssss
9) Naked fun
10) Homemade breakfast with turkey bacon
11) Braless wife beater
12) Give pilot brief lesson on Adobe Photoshop
13) Shameless self-promotion
14) Adoration
15) Introduce new pilot to best friend Belle, hand shaking, success
16) Take beautiful black and white photos with 4x5 Hasselblad camera and studio lighting
17) Thai food with pineapple and shrimp
18) Million Dollar Baby
19) Naked fun, yakking, laughing
20) Discussion of when relationship will be consummated
21) Log sleeping
22) The end

It has been brought to my attention that now that I am happy, my blog will turn into one big snorefest and go straight down the toilet. That’s understandable. Happy people are annoying as shit and you just pray to god that their grandma will get run over by a bus, to knock them down a few pegs.

So here’s what I propose. I will attempt to talk about my pilot (happy) no more than 50% of the time, and the rest of the time I’ll blab about my scummy friends, this shithole city, and my many physical defects. Not that I owe you shit, really. I mean, it’s not like you’re paying me for this or anything. Love and happiness sucks ass, unless you’re the one on the receiving end of a high hard one. I know this.

If it will make you feel any better, I also have adult-onset acne, my gums sometimes bleed, I have matronly upper arms, I’m out of toilet paper, I forgot to pay my rent, credit card, and gas bill this month, someone tore the entire rubber strip off the side of my car, my business is hairy, I’m at work in the middle of the godforsaken night, and the gray hair has actually repelled the pigment of the Ultress and now lives (not) in harmony with brown roots and dyed red hair.

And remember Fernando? The mustachioed Mexican maintenance boy? Well it just occurred to me that his name is totally NOT Fernando. His name is Francisco, and I guess I just made up a complete and total lie because I wanted to believe that I know a man named Fernando. I didn’t mean to lie, it was like my subconscious self lied to my conscious self and I fell for it hook, line and sinker. As did you. Sucker. Now that I remember that his name is Francisco, my dick has gone limp and he is dead to me. He can go straight to hell with José and Hose B.

By popular request, I leave you with a picture of the Mexican Pubic Hair.

I know it looks bad and it’s blurry, and I was unable to capture the shellackiness, and sheer mass of the MPH, but I challenge you to take a photo of a pubic hair that looks any better!

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The Fast, Days 1-6
January 28, 2007