First off, thanks so much to everyone for your delightful birthday wishes yesterday. Imbibed the leftover cake from Kingfish this morning and am experiencing a sugar crash not unlike the opium madness Burroughs wrote of in Naked Lunch. ("I've got the fear!")
If we've known each other awhile, you know this is the fourth version of this essay that has run in the past ten years. And if we know each other well, you know the full story behind it, which is even funnier, though I'll omit select details here. Let's just say a certain someone used to repeatedly mention I left out the part how we'd already dated on-and-off before this story begins and that I'd broken up with him the previous time. I'd playfully retort, "Maybe you should write your own essay then."
When a longer version of this piece was published in the Seal Press anthology, Single State of the Union, alongside essays from Margaret Cho, Chelsea Handler and some fine writers who happen to be dear friends of mine, the latter group of us were asked to do readings at Elliott Bay Book Company, the University Bookstore and at Queen Anne Books. He attended the Queen Anne Books event with my folks, clapped louder than anyone, then Mom and Dad took us to dinner afterward.
Obviously, we did get back together again, but I never did bake cookies again: