Welcome, Friends

WELCOME, FRIENDS (Romans and countrymen also welcome … but those of you trying to slip menus under my door – keep out!)
Before entering, please remove your shoes, boots, or other footwear (especially those of you wearing those horrible fabric booties fresh from the Operating Room). I will not let you into my Japanese-inspired parlor if you keep them on, so please. Just do what I say. And don’t ask why. I mean, hey, that’s why this place is called Because I Say So!
Anyway … I must say that my day today was rather jaunty and quite jodily. I woke up at 7:45 or so, brushed my teeth (the height of glamour), told my early-morning mirror image that it was, indeed, “very cute”, and then, determined not to allow myself to sink into morning sofa spudness, stayed in here, my groovy purply lair, and read. I’m partial to Salon.com these days, which is oh so much more enjoyable than my old, embarrassing, high-fat diet of Maury/Regis, etc., ad nauseam (all right, shut up — at least I’m confessing). I had an 11:00 Pilates session with my darling Christine, after which I flew up to the library, checked out three books (I’ll tell you about them later), and then came back down, on foot, of course, to my neighborhood. It was finally cold enough to keep people out of shorts and sandals (don’t even get me started on that), so I celebrated by keeping my coat unbuttoned and smiling to the chill. Of course, this meant that I got “looks” from various passers-by — probably more for my lunatic smile than for my brazen unbuttonedness — but, as always, I didn’t really care. As the inimitable Mary Tyler Moore (aah!), says (paraphrased, I think), “Other people’s opinions of me are none of my business.”
The following are a few thoughts I had today. Weird, to think I thought these while smiling.
“Let’s just get one thing straight, fellas …”
When I make direct eye contact with you when walking down the street or in an elevator, or anywhere else, for that matter, it does not — I repeat, does NOT — mean I want to fuck/boink/shag you. I don’t know which glossy “men’s magazine” told you it does (but then again, you know, you silly boy, that you don’t read the articles). I don’t know which smushy-lipstick-smeared skank who blew you in a pissy alleyway after mere eye contact told you it does. All I do know is that this girl’s not going to suck you, fuck you, or even give you a quick, complimentary (each topping $1.25 extra) hand job — not even in the secluded area of a Barnes & Noble — just because, for the ever so fleetingest of moments, her eyes rested on yours for longer than a nanosecond. It just ain’t gonna happen, buddy boy.
“Big Crappy Ass” – Boy, do I love mnmnmneumonics!
This afternoon, I had reason to remember the letters BCA, in that order, and quickly had to come up with a way to remember it so I wouldn’t, well, forget. Instantly, and without warning, the words “Big Crappy Ass” entered my mind. I smiled what I thought was probably my most mysterious of Mona Lisa smiles and walked down Fifth Avenue, wondering if anyone knew what I was thinking. I swore they did. I swore this one guy looked at me and thought, “Pig.”
I just won on ebay.
And all I can say to the LOSER, is “Oh well”! I hope you had your heart set on winning. But you didn’t. I did. (A friend I will only identify as “the lovely A.B.” told me I am the “Master Bidder.” She’s so saucy!)