A Whale's Vagina, Part 1

So here I am in San Diego. It's been nearly a week since I landed, and I'm only just now getting a moment to blog. Boy Wonder took leave this entire week, and he and I have been moving at breakneck speed to try and get us completely moved in and settled. This has included furnishing an entire bedroom from scratch, the contents of which were bought at Ikea and painstakingly put together piece by piece.


BW in our new bed, with face and nuts strategically covered.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My last week in NYC was one of the most excruciating experiences of my life. Never again, as God is my witness, will I accumulate so much stuff. After selling just about everything of value on Craig's List -- including my sofa sectionals, media cabinet, leather storage chest (that's a storage chest made of leather --not a chest made for storing leather, you kinky freaks), framed art posters, stemware and more -- and donating about 10 bags of clothing and assorted crap to the Salvation Army (and a large wooden coffee table/storage bench to Angela, my cleaning woman), I still had to make about 100 trips to the curb with countless assorted bric-a-brac, all of which which were immediately seized by hungry passers-by. Seriously, there is nothing New Yorkers won't take from the street given 10 seconds and a clean getaway.


Actual photo of the scene in front of my apartment.

Speaking of Angela, a note of clarification: She's wasn't my cleaning lady. She belongs to Rob and Robbie, a gay couple who lived three floors down from me. (Side note: At one point, there were two gay couples living across the hall from each other on that floor: Rob and Robbie, and Ron and Rodney. It was like a gay Mother Goose story.)

Anyway, I needed a professional to clear away the eight years of filth that had accumulated in my dwelling, particularly inside the refrigerator and cabinets. Angela came highly recommended, and so I put her to work the day before my departure.

I should have taken before and after photos; you'll have to do with the "afters":


So clean, you can practically eat off it!




Cue the tumbleweeds.

So thrilled was I with Angela's work that in addition to a big tip, I gave her the aforementioned wooden storage bench, which hadn't yet sold on Craig's List. She was way psyched!

By my final night, all I had left were a mattress, a reading light, a drinking glass, and my toothbrush and soap holders. It was like being in prison, but without the hot sex.

I dragged said remaining stuff to the curb at 6:30 Friday morning, along with my three giant suitcases and "carry-on" bag (which was actually just another giant suitcase). The last thing I saw as my Dial-6 Limo car drove off was my building superindentant, Rafael, smashing all my household goods to bits with a large mallet. I'm guessing he won't miss me.

During my long ride to JFK, my Sikh driver kept demanding I explain to him just how I plan to make a living in San Diego. I strongly suspect he might have been my mother in a turban.




And he was wearing the same blouse, too.

I got to the airport and grabbed a skycap. After sizing up my sizable luggage, he said: "We go to special line."

And what a special line it was! In fact, most of the people on the line seemed to have serious disabilities. There were wheelchairs and seeing eye dogs and all sorts of other freaky shit. "You wait here," instructed my skycap, after taking my driver's license from me. A few minutes later, he told me to go up to the front of the line and pay the woman $20 for my extra luggage. I still don't know how he pulled it off; all of the other disabled people had to have their bags weighed, and I didn't. And I know it costs a helluva lot more than $20 for even one extra bag these days. But not one to look a gift skycap in the mouth, I thanked him profusely, tipped him handsomely, and sped off to the gate.


The JetBlue flight was uneventful, except for the fact that my row was located on the wing, and I was therefore unable to put my seat back. Not great for a six-hour flight with a giant suitcase between my legs. Also, who knew JetBlue no longer served meals of any kind? All I got was a bag of Doritos. I had recently had a Dorito-related accident while taping a segment for Here-TV, in which I stabbed myself between the front teeth with the edge of a jagged Dorito. If you've ever done this, you know the pain is excruciating. Why must Doritos be so sharp? It seems to me they could be nice and smooth and still retain their nacho cheesy goodness.

Needless to say, I was terrified at the thought of another Dorito, but hunger got the better of me and I wound up gumming each one carefully while watching back-to-back episodes of Bravo's "Shear Genius" on my little JetBlue TV.

Upon landing and activating my cell phone, I got a strange voicemail from some delivery company, the name of which I couldn't make out. When I called back, the woman was confused: "Why are you calling us?"

"Because you called me. Something about a delivery."

"What are you expecting to be delivered?"

"Um, I don't know. Nothing, really."

"Are you sure? Are you sure you didn't order something large, like a car or a motorcycle?"

My mind raced: Could it be? Could my parents have possibly surprised me with a new car? Would that not be the most incredible, wonderful, fabulous thing EVER?

The woman interrupted my orgasmic reverie: "Oh here it is; we have your new mattress from 1-800-MATTRESS."




I'm going to look very silly driving this on the freeway.


I was so happy to see BW at the airport I nearly cried. It had been more than two months since we last saw each other, and I confess there have been moments when I've wondered, "Exactly who is it I'm dropping everything and moving across the country for?" In the instant I saw him, all doubts vanished. We just go together; it's that simple.

BW drove me back to our North Park apartment, which we are sharing with his best friend, another military guy to whom I'll refer from this point forward as Catwoman.




Meow!

Catwoman has a boyfriend whose initials, coincidentally, are AJS. They were very sweet and welcoming toward me, as were all BW's other friends, whom I met Friday night when we went out to celebrate BW's birthday. (He turned 31).
But the next morning, it was down to business, the first order of which was unpacking my clothes and trying to fit them into our single walk-in closet. Now granted, this closet is larger than many NYC bedrooms. But still, it's not a whole lot of space for two people to store their entire wardrobes, even when one of them is in the military and wears the same outfit to work every day.


And so, after shopping all over Mission Valley for storage containers, we bought six sets of plastic drawers from Lowes and spent about eight hours unpacking, folding hanging and organizing. The result was something of which Ty Pennington would have been proud.



And I hear he knows a lot about closets, if you know what I'm saying.


That afternoon we were also delighted by a visit from my dear friend Patrick, who had been in L.A. on personal business. Saturday night we all went to a birthday party in Talmadge for some German guy named Joerg. I tried to impress him by saying, "Gluklich zu sehen" ("Nice to see you"), which I remember the MC in "Cabaret" singing during the "Wilkommen" number, but apparently I said it wrong, because Joerg simply shook his head and walked away.

Jews should never attempt German.

In the next installment: Ikea insanity, and Adam goes car shopping.

Homo out West . ♥