Great…ly Reduced Expectations

To quote Britney: oops…I fucking did it again.  Every time I promise myself I’m going to be better about not neglecting this blog, I do it…I write like the dickens for, well, a day, and then this thing gathers dust. 

There are a myriad of reasons for this. 

Well, really, there always are, aren’t there.

But really, this time, they’re good reasons.  For one, I have a new job.  After two years of coasting (although if you’ve ever read Wade Rouse’s excellent and hysterical account of life in an admissions office, Confessions of a Mommy Handler, you know that even ‘coasting’ comes with its share of bizarrity) (and yes, I think I just coined another new word. Sue me, Webster), I’ve landed myself a position that keeps me on my toes, both from 8-5 and, more than occasionally already, at three o’clock in the morning. 

For two, it’s pool season, and that means I’ve been busy making new friends. And inventing new poolside drinks. (Hic).

And for three, I’m…well, actually writing. I know, right?  Weird.

It’s the last of these things that is the subject of today’s post.  If you’ve been a long-time reader of this blog (like, way back when it actually was a blog, not a stop-start-stop-crickets-crickets-crickets-start-stop endeavor), you know I’ve been working on what is surely going to be the literary masterpiece of the modern era, a heart-rending and beautiful opus to shame everyone from Ayn Rand to Toni Morrison to Hemingway (who might have been alive when I started the damned project).  You also know that I’ve…err…had a slight case of writer’s block-inspired ADD, and that I took a little breather from this project first for grad school, then for work, then for more grad school, and finally to recharge creatively with a stint in creative non-fiction…which I promptly lost in a catastrophic hard drive failure.  And that then I abandoned that project to work on it’s sequel, only to turn around some thirty pages later to focus gung-ho on blogging.

And we know how that story turned out.

But voila! I’m back.  And I’ve been on the writing wagon (an hour and a half every day, even!) for some two weeks now. 

This is a good thing, to be sure, but it’s not something I’m not without ambivalence about.  See, rather than pour my efforts into The Narcissist Chronicles or the Great Universal Most Beautifully Epic and Haunting Novel in the World™, I’m writing…well…let’s just say I’ve lowered my expectations somewhat. 

Blame Stephanie Meyer.  Blame that Hunger Games chick.  Blame Amazon and its Kindle Fire, which lured me into the muddy bottom-feeding world of disposable pop fiction. (For that matter, blame my old job, which left me poor enough that those $4.99 Amazon steals were the only books I could afford to buy).

Yeah. The latest project is…entirely run-of-the-mill boy-meets-boy fiction.  Not quite bodice-ripper (codpiece-grabber?) glittery-vampires drudge (because I’m a modest, respectable gentleman, remember), but not exactly high literature.  It’s the kind of stuff that would probably make my creative writing professors weep, gnash their teeth, tear at their hair, and consider new careers in sanitation management.  And even now, I can’t quite bring myself to believe I’m writing this stuff.

But you know what? It’s writing.  Its dialogue, it’s third-person narrative, and its making me remember all those long-dormant creative writing skills.  And also, it’s a genre that’s crying out for new blood.  Trust me…I’ve read some of this stuff.

And it’s…fun.  I’m not worried about readers misconstruing a dryly ironic account of something dumbass-tastic I’ve done and thinking I’m a self-congratulatory asshole.  I’m not petrified by the thought that a genre will become passé before I even get halfway through my first book, or that I’ll run out of material three memoirs in and become a shadow of my former authorial self (hi, every multiple-book memoirist I’ve ever read!). I’m not concerned with taking myself so seriously in my craft that I slip into a pile of my own rose-fragranced crap (hi, James Joyce!).

In fact, the only thing I’m even vaguely troubled by is the off-chance that I finish this thing and, heaven forbid, find a publisher for it.  Because then I’d have to come up with a pen name, since this can’t be sold on the same shelf as The Funniest Memoirs Since Augusten Burroughs Was Good or The Greatest Most Fantastically Tragic And Transcendently Sublime Tome Ever Conjured By The Magic Pen of The Best Writer Ever™.

Because yes, those little gems will still be written.  In time, they’ll see the daylight that’s been promised them for…well, if I tell you how long, I’ll have to admit I’m at least that old.  And they will be splendid.

But in the meantime, sit back, relax, and loosen your bodice.  Because it’s about to get a whole lot more lowbrow in here…and I think, for now, I can deal with that.  Because…at least I’m writing.

Now, somebody go find me Shakespeare, because I need to make him roll over in his grave.



Baby’s got a new game, and it might just drive us all mad.

It all started out innocuously enough.

Last week, Instagram ™ came to the Android platform, and ham-fisted amateur artists around the world went crazy. Finally, we could be as cool as our iPhone-toting artist/hipster/tech-wonk/undiscovered-virtuosos-working-mundane-everyday-jobs friends!

Yes, this was a very good day for those of us with dreams of artistic glory. For the rest of the world, it was probably a very, very bad day.

For those of you not in-the-know (meaning you probably don’t wear Wayfarers, skinny ties, and have brightly-colored earbuds permanently implanted in your craniums), Instagram™ is one of the smartphone world’s greatest achievements, a little photo-editing doodad that allows even the uninspired and unartistic (and yes, even those of us who gripe about the quality of our smartphone photos a WHOLE FRIGGIN’ YEAR-AND-A-HALF before discovering we can change the photo resolution of our phone/camera, but that’s another discussion and we’re talking about the here-and-now) to think we’re creating MOMA-worthy masterpieces.

Something that allows me to believe I’m amazing? And makes for immediate-and-simple awesomeness? AND allows me to seamlessly share my magnificent works of High Creation with the world and therefore make the internet EVEN MORE all about me??? Yes, please – sign me up.

And so, when I got that little email that Instagram™ was available for my not-an-iPhone-but-just-close-enough-to-launch-a-worldwide-Jobsian-crusade-for-legal-thermonuclear-war smarphone, I quickly snatched it up.

In retrospect, this was probably my first mistake.

See, when the end is coming, we almost hardly ever know it. This simple action – my downloading of a simple little app for my phone – might very well be that global catastrophe the Mayans predicted.

Because at the time, I was at work. And this time of year, when I’m inundated with a neverending crescendo of wailing and moaning would-be students and their helicoptering parents ( and by the way, where’s a Sikorsky or a land-to-air missile when you need one?), almost ANYTHING seems more interesting and worthy of my immediate and full attention than thinking about work.

Including my foot.

Descent into Pretentious Madness, Exhibit I. Like life itself, the Pretentious Artist's foot is both colorful and slightly blurred. This is deep stuff, yo.

And that’s when the world was treated to my first Insta-shot. Because yes, I’m fairly sure that my shoe (with brand new nifty orange-and-black argyle socks!) is just as fascinating to everyone else as it is to me. Even if it’s grainy because I hadn’t yet discovered that little ‘photo resolution’ button in my camera settings.

And with that, I was on a roll. Just like that, I was an Artist, and I had a Mandate from Above – nay, an obligation to humanity and civilization as we know it – to show the world at large just how much beauty there was in it. Because obviously, if I could find the beauty in something as ordinary as my shoe, we all should be able to. And if everyone around me couldn’t, it was my artistic obligation to make sure they could.

Pretentious much? You decide.

The Obligatory Pretentious Self-Portrait of Important Artist. Note the rumpled tie and gaping collar, which signify the Pretentious Artist's rejection of all things cookie-cutter and black-and-white. Or something.

First, there were the simple artistic architectural shots: a building exhaust vent, a crumbling brick edifice, a sidewalk grate. Then came the slightly creepier (and also more profound!) ‘beauty in the grittiness of the human condition’ series: a dirty baby with an enormous grin, an old crippled lady draped in beautifully bright fabrics, an apathetic hipster and a poorly-dyed fat girl sitting on a train, separated by the reflection of a man wearing a really horribly bright and gaudy tie. And finally, by the end of last week, there were the extra-angsty (but so evocative!) ‘beauty in bleak things’ shots: an abandoned house, an old rusting sports car, sidewalk trash, a stop sign. There may or may not (okay, there was, unfortunately) a picture of pigeon poop on the sidewalk, just because I loved how artistically it looked spattered on the cement in the early-morning light.

A vent. This theoretically allows for air exchange and the avoidance of build-up of potentially lethal hot gasses. Pretentious Artists do not come equipped with these, apparently.

And such it’s been for a week now. By the end of the weekend, I was not only snapping photos of such earth-shatteringly-important images as my bathing suit (again, with my pretty sunglasses making a cameo!), a row of toppled bicycles, and more hot guys, but I was a full-fledged Artist. I’d learned not only the finer points of photo editing and filtering (i.e. experimenting with the pre-set filter buttons that come on Instagram ™), but was compositing like a mofo, aspiring to new levels of deep meaning and sublimity.

And this is just the beginning. Soon, my work will go viral, and there won’t be a dusty, remote corner of the world (well, except maybe Tucson, Arizona, which as I understand barely has pavement and electricity, no less real culture) that won’t know and be in awe of my work. Facebook and Tumblr today, gallery showings with bubbly champagne and exhibits with snooty multi-subtitled-and-hyphenated-and-parenthese’ed displays tomorrow!

Either that, or I’ll recover my senses and realize that pigeon poop and smeared bubble gum aren’t actually that compelling, and that, like most pretentious would-be artists, I’m really just retarded.

Now…anybody wanna say ‘cheese’?

Stop. The insanity, perhaps? Tortured Artists are tortured.


Usually, when one’s morning starts with sprinting from the bathroom mid-shower, water still running and torrents of it dripping off one’s body and leaving a soggy trail through the apartment, it usually isn’t an omen that it’s going to be a very good day.

But that’s exactly what happened this morning, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

For months now, I’ve struggled a bit. Not to be too dramatic about it, but I’ve kind of lost my way. No, I’m not having a Santa Evita don’t-cry-for-me moment here; just bear with me, and let me explain.

Deep down at my core, I’m a writer. It might not be what I do, but it’s always been a large part of who I am. The me the world is presented with on a day-in, day-out basis is a slightly (okay, maybe not slightly) vapid guy with a devil-may-care attitude and a penchant for smirking, scoffing, and loudly broadcasting his every thought and opinion to the world 24/7. This persona, these cares and attitudes — well, those are just clothes, trappings, flashy accoutrements. Underneath it all is a simpler me. This mellower, gentler me is my introspective, pensive, quieter ( and probably better) self. That’s the me that doesn’t care what the world around him does or thinks, who is more obsessed with Florence + the Machine than Lady Gaga, who doesn’t have a snide comment for everyone around him, isn’t obsessed with perfect abs and bigger arms, and really is perfectly content to slow down and enjoy the more subtle, sublime minutiae of life. In non-name-brand, untrendy, scrubby pajamas, even.  This stripped, more essential me is the writer.

Bet you never knew you were getting a glimpse of me nekkid when you’re reading this blog, did you?

If the louder, more…clothed…me exists in the world, the deeper, more pensive, Naked Me me lives deep in my own headspace, in a little room filled with book-lined shelves, an old leather chair, and a writing desk next to a sunny window overlooking an overgrown garden. Yes, the inner me lives in a Victorian manor, apparently.

And that quiet little library is the secret refuge I mentally retreat to every now and then when I need a break from the outside world and when I need to re-center and remind myself that all that glitters, shimmers, or wears expensive trendy clothing, has a perfect tanline, and single-digit body fat is not necessarily gold.

Lately, though, that little room of mine has been locked, and I seem to have misplaced the key.

Call it lack of time, lack of inspiration, writer’s block…call it getting carried away with more immediate concerns, like griping about my job or waistline or the myriad problems of a superficial existence. Call it what you will, but the end result is the same: the typewriter – because I’m old-school and tweedy in that mental place, remember – is gathering cobwebs. Not just slim silvery strands of casual neglect, but the funky, nasty, sticky yarns of outright abandonment.

That bugs the hell out of me. It means I’m out of balance, and that the hundred million trivial concerns of Vapid, Shallow Me are suppressing the creativity of Inherently Good, Writer Me.

And that’s why it’s a very good thing that I was racing – stark naked and soaking wet, scattering water everywhere – across the apartment this morning in search of pen and paper. Because more than just scaring the holy living hell out of the cats – which is always a good, fun thing in and of itself – it meant that things are going well enough in this outer world for me to actually reach the inner one.   It means I’m in a good headspace. And that, my friends, might just mean the end of this pernicious little case of writer’s block.

Now, somebody wanna hand me my towel?

Of Supernovas and Falling Stars

Once upon a time, long before pro(zach)nation was a blog that billions (well, hundreds) read (and long, long, waaaaay long before I got too damned busy to remember to update this blog more than once or twice every, oh, six months), I was a writer.

And…not just a writer, mind you, but a pretty decent one. Back in the day – when the Great American Novel™ wasn’t only a pet project I was procrastinating from writing by maintaining a blog and working on several silly memoirs – I was a Writer. Capital W. I wrote stuff that was huge, tragic, epic, and beautifully, achingly, heartwrenchingly good. Every evening, a tall glass (or ten) of cheap, really crappy wine (Carlo Rossi by the jug, thank you very much) accompanied me on the patio while I spun pure magic from my keyboard. The words came hard as supernovas and fast as stars spinning and falling from the sky and where they crashed down, there was the brilliance of ten thousand suns. The sheerepicawesomeness of my words gave me a great big literary hard-on. And I was hardly almost never full of hyperbole.


Fast forward.

These days, it’s hard to remember to write. Pro(zach)nation came about in the waning days of my writing ‘career’ as an exercise in keeping a struggling writer’s flame burning and as a distraction from those aforementioned creative nonfiction projects, which were in themselves a diversion from a novel that was quickly becoming too heavy to contemplate – much less add meaningful words to – on a daily basis. And now, with a career and a busy home life (heavy emphasis on the home with husband, light on life as it once was)…even this humble little blog is lucky to get much action. In the list of life’s priorities, writing – which used to be so essential to my identity – just seems to…slip. Sad, but whatcha gonna do?

Well, in this case, I’m gonna slam and lock the door. Then I’m gonna spend some quality time finding that lost identity.

Tonight – for the first time in I don’t know how long – I am writing. Yes, I actually am (see?! writing!!!). No, there’s nothing ominous or cataclysmic about this: Boyfriend (scratch that…’Husband,’ though after a month that term is still a hard one to etch into my vocabulary) and I are still giddily attached, and I haven’t found myself underemployed and scratching at my navel lately. There’s no existential quacking. But it’s September, and that means that Boyfriend is back in school. And – since travel season at work doesn’t yet have me schlepping hither and yon (stay tuned on that front…I’ve got a doozy coming) – it means that one night a week, I find myself left entirely to my own devices.

And know what? This is a good thing. A very reallyveryfuckinggood thing.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the time I spend with Boyfriend. More than I ever imagined I could enjoy spending time with any one single person, in fact. I love the person I’ve grown to be while with him, even if that’s someone a little different than who I was before. (and come on, let’s face it: I just love me, period). But that doesn’t mean that I don’t equally appreciate the infrequent times I find myself on my own. It’s MY time. I can jam out to MY tunes (not that I mind Britney Cyrus or Jason de Bieber), wander around in my underwear (well, not that I don’t anyway), and drink milk directly from the carton (and eat oreos on the couch, even!). I can drink myself under the table, if I’m so inclined. And yes, I can write.

It’s pure unadulterated bliss.

But also, when Boyfriend is done with class, I will gladly serve dinner (yes, to those longtime readers, the kitchen and I have somewhat declared an uneasy truce), banish the acoustic rock (or what Boyfriend calls my ‘weepy suicide music’) or thrashy screamo (my ‘noise’), and play nauseatingly-doting husband.

See, that’s the key to a happy and healthy relationship, I think. Now that I’m all settled into matrimonial harmony, I seem to more often than not find myself in the weird position of dispensing relationship advice to people. I’m no Dan Savage, mind you, but I can hold my own.

As a coworker and I were discussing today, sometimes you just need your own fucking time. That’s not to say you aren’t completely, blissfully happy with your relationship. It doesn’t mean that you are so adverse to spending time connecting with your significant other that you start developing a rash after spending twenty-four hours together (though if that happens, Urgent Care does offer STD testing). It isn’t a diminishment of your relationship. It doesn’t mean you’re an asshole (even if you are). It just means you’re a healthy, well-adjusted human being.

Know what else? It probably means your relationship will be stronger.

Finding yourself in the company of nobody? Embrace the motherfucker.

Thus ends this week’s little bon-mots in domesticity. If you’ll excuse me, there’s a bottle of wine calling my name and two beautiful hours before Boyfriend gets back, and it’s time to go be myself and try to write something a little bit fucking sublime.

Now, thanks for coming. Go away.

Postscript: in case you haven’t noticed, the look of pro(zach)nation has changed a bit. It will probably keep doing so for a little while until I’m completely happy with the look. Love something? Hate something? Let me know…I might listen.

In Theory: the anatomy of a bad, bad idea

Let me preface this: mornings are not my time to shine. Anyone who knows me knows this. Anyone who follows my Facebook status updates chronicling my semi-weekly mishaps with condiments and coffee knows this. Anybody within screaming range when I put lotion in my hair and hair product on my face knows this. Anybody who nearly gets run down as I race through the complex gates to just barely catch (or more often, miss) my morning train to work knows this. And anybody who watches the clock at my office those many days I show up juuuuuuust a tad bit late knows this.

So yeah. We’ve established that me and the mornings are not a good combination.

It’s not like I’m mentally challenged or anything. It’s not like I stay out to the wee early hours of the morning partying (anymore) and wake up sleep-deprived or hung over, wandering around cluelessly with my underwear backwards or inside-out until I’ve had my morning coffee.

On the contrary, most nights find me in bed by eight, and any given morning finds me a bustling ball of energy – bouncing out of bed at a hideously gawdawful hour, sweating profusely at the gym, racing around the apartment feeding and watering ravenous beasts, assembling and immaculately pressing the day’s wardrobe, doing and re-doing hair (and sometimes clothes), and mentally cataloguing all the things waiting for me at the office.

Throw in the random impromptu washing of dishes, cleaning of Kitten’s Litterbox of Death, chasing of Bird around the apartment or excursion onto the internet to check out the latest happenings in porn the news, and it makes for a very busy morning.

Really, it’s no wonder I sometimes grab the pomade instead of the eye cream, the compressed air instead of the spray starch, or the blue cheese vinaigrette instead of the half-and-half.

Now, given that we’ve established that – at last count – I could account for all my chromosomes, you would think I would learn some handy time-management skills (like getting my clothes ready the night before, setting the coffee maker to autobrew, or remembering not to take the time for that extra set of arm curls at the gym), right?

Yeah…you’d think.

And you’d think that, barring that, I’d at least recognize my inherent and constant lack of planning and chronic tardiness and at the very least not allow myself to introduce any more chaos into my morning routine, right?

Anything, like, say, an impromptu haircut, right?

Yeah. You’d think.

And you’d be wrooooooooooooong.

Because apparently, I still suffer from that common teenage delusion that not only can I do anything I put my mind to, but I’m infallible and have bulletproof hair.

I like to think it’s because I’m an unfailing optimist and an over-achiever, constantly striving to jam-pack just a little more productivity into my day.

More likely, though, it’s probably because I’m an idiot.

Which would explain why this morning I decided that if I just shaved a few minutes off my morning run, I’d totally have time to pull out the clippers and give myself a quick haircut (which, by the by, is a strict no-no around our house these days, but that’s neither here nor there) and still get to work semi-on-time.

Theoretically, this should have worked. By my reasoning, a quick trim would free up about half an hour of drying, ironing, and taming my increasingly unruly mop, or even forty minutes if I accidentally applied too much product in the taming of aforementioned mop and had to just in the shower and start from scratch again. And back in the day when I used to regularly cut my own hair, a half hour was totally enough time to do a pretty decent job.

So yeah. In theory, there was plenty of time.

And in theory, I can count.

This, folks, demonstrates just how wide a chasm can exist between theory and reality.

Because apparently, I was so impressed with all the time I was saving myself that I decided there was plenty of time to squeeze in just a few more little things.

Like those extra sets of bicep curls. And the resultant extra set of tricep presses (lest my arms get misproportioned!). And the five minutes I spent – mid-haircut – gluing hair stubbles to my chin, sideburns, and chest with hair product just to see what it would look like if I had actually been blessed with the gift of puberty. And the two ten minutes I then spent flexing and posing my newly-stubbly chest and pumped-up arms in the mirror…possibly while listening to “I’m Too Sexy” (time spent looking up Right Said Fred on my iTunes library: 3 minutes).

So yeah…by the time I was done making the bathroom my personal catwalk, the vast majority of that time that I’d tucked away for my quick little haircut was all used up.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I was not only eeeeeextra-late to work today, but it’s also why I look like I let Britney Spears cut my hair.

It’s also why, in theory, I should probably schedule an emergency trip to Alex, my fabulously talented (and patient) hairdresser, immediately.

Anybody got a weave they can spare?


If you are a regular or long-time reader of this little blog, you’ve probably figured out that I’m not exactly shy and quiet, nor am I particularly good at keeping my thoughts to myself.

(And why should I? Those thoughts are muuuuuuuuch too big to be contained in this cute little body!)


And if you’ve ever had this nagging suspicion that I just might be a walking megaphone, blurting my internal narrative to the world at large 24/7, gold star for you – you’re right. I mean, I keep a blog, right? That, right there, practically screams s-e-l-f-i-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-t.

Indeed, my track record would indicate that a life of quietude, reflection, and contemplation is simply not in the cards. Probably not ever.

There was that time in first grade when I told dear old Mrs. Faust (one of a score of teachers who retired after my year…coincidence?) that I wanted – nay, DEMANDED – a transfer because she was trying to make me do math.

Then there was that incident with the hateful third-grade Mrs. Lowry (also retiring!), who SLAPPED me for being a wee bit mouthy and telling her, in effect, that I wasn’t going to put up with her wrinkly old ass telling me what to do. (I know…imagine that)

And then there was the inter-school team-building/leadership retreat in the eighth grade when I got a stern admonition for alienating an entire visiting school team – and nearly causing a cultural i-n-c-i-d-e-n-t – when I frustratedly (and loudly, apparently) exclaimed to one and all that working with the shy students (who hailed from a tiny rural Y’upik eskimo village and were culturally more reserved than I was accustomed to) was akin to talking to a bunch of brick walls.

And so on. And on. Ad nauseum.

Factor in my propensity to loudly opine how fucking retarded/crazy/stupid/irritating/slow/cataclysmically tragic my fellow light rail riders (and restaurant servers…and grocery store cashiers…and students…and old people…and kids…and so on…and on…ad nauseum, etc.) are, my inability to slip quietly into the office without stopping to chat at least half a dozen times on my way back through the hall, and my affinity for hogging center stage at recruitment presentations…and my reputation as a t-a-l-k-a-t-i-v-e a-t-t-e-n-t-i-o-n w-h-o-r-e is pretty much sealed.

All of which renders what happened last night utterly incomprehensible.

You see, Dan Savage was on campus giving a lecture.

For those of you who might have been living under a rock the past twenty years or so, this is the Dan Savage of Savage Love sex advice columnist infamy.

This is the noble and good Dan Savage of It Gets Better (a generally awesome campaign that provides hope and inspiration for young baby gaylings, fledgling sapphists, and confused young queers), the generally in-your-face-yet-articulate sometimes-spokesman for the gay community who has, in the effusive words of one attendee last night, “done more for the cause of gay rights than anyone in the past twenty years.”

And, last but not least, this is the dimpled, muscly-armed, quirky-smiled and quick-witted man who has been my personal hero and idol for over five years and is the only man over forty who I would ever ever EVER fuck. That’s how awesome he is, folks.

In other words, this was the one occasion in which, I, He of Big Big Mouth, could be reasonably expected to run into overdrive like a hyper-caffeinated auctioneer, babbling something that – if slowed down – would sound something like this: “ohmygoddansavageIloveyouIloveyouIwanttobeyouwhenIgrowupcanIpickyourbrain


Instead of begging him to read my work and consider publishing an anthology with me, telling him his book on adopting a kid with his partner helped change my mind about ever possibly having kids, or even telling him how much I adored and worshiped him and how smart and witty and insightful he is and how much I totally remind myself of him……….I didn’t.

When The Man Himself made eye contact with me, worked his way through the crowd to take and sign my books, and asked who he should make them out to, all I could do was nod like an idiot. And there might have been drool involved.

Me. The giant overactive mouth stuck to two skinny legs. The verbal slayer of the wrong-headed and stupid, and champion of water-cooler gossip. The guy who never met a guy too hot to approach and talk to. The lover of all things center-of-attention.

Silent. Agog, even.

Not shy. Not intimidated. Not bashful. Just…silent, as if the sheer awesomeness of meeting him actually just plain broke my brain.

Luckily, Lee was there to step in and answer those suddenly-challenging questions (‘Hi, I’m Dan. What’s your name?), and I think I recovered my wits enough to not leave Mr. Savage thinking I was either chromosomally-challenged or a potential stalker. And he did leave us with his personal email address (‘not the one for all the whiners and hate mail’) and an invitation to check in with him and let him know how the wedding – which Lee thankfully remembered the date and location for – goes this August…so I guess all ended well.

But still. Me. Silent. The very thought of it renders me, well, speechless.

Horrors…may it never happen again.