Tempted (2 page)

In fact, the last few years have been increasingly liberating in just about every aspect of life.
 
Not only do I get to work from home (thanks, April)
,
but I am my own boss!
 
No more slick sales reps schmoozing me into reading their ad copy on air ‘just this once
,’
as a favor
just for them, and did they mention my bunned hair looks lovely today?
 
No more staff meetings.
 
No more petty, jealous in-house competition.
 
No more billboards splattered with my name and some catchy jingle serving
little purpose other being waymarks that
enable bitter, gridlocked drivers to gauge their progress through traffic. No more ‘top brass’ to please and appease.
 
My current board
of directors consists solely of
the menagerie, who are usually quite happy to see things my way if peanut butter or bacon are proffered.
 

All in all
,
life is good.
 
More accurately, life is great!

Despite being a virtual shut-in, I have what I consider to be a rich and rewarding social life, albeit completely online.
 
My pesky
,
former producer Danielle opened a Facebook account for me about a year ago
–
once again without asking
–
and after many
,
lonely, uneventful days of posting for my own amusement, out of the woodwork, fans of the show and their six-degrees of separated ‘friends’ began interacting with me publicly
,
and chatting me up privately.
 
I found that I not only enjoyed it, but that I was well suited to it.
 
Rather like the salons of yesteryear, I could play hostess
non pareil,
all from my overstuffed goose down sofa, and without having to wear anything different
than I’d worn the day before
...
and the day before that.
 

So began my life of social media mania.
 
Now, a veteran user of Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, Blogger,
Pinterest,
LinkedIn, yada yada, I have fallen into a pleasant lit
tle rhythm of posting, ‘liking,’
sharing, tagging, and so on.
 
I have been introduced to the most compelling photos of manmade and natural wonders, and have had my mind opened to innovations so grand in scope
,
I can barely fathom them
–
especially TED Talks.
 
I could spend hours gett
ing contentedly lost with TED.

Then there are
the comments people add to the
posts
of others
. Good grief!
 
Comedy Central ain’t got nothin’ on them.
 
The only downside is that reading such commentary has proved hazardous on many occasions, when peals of laughter collide with a hefty swig of the libation on hand.

By and large, trolling social pages has proven to be a highly entertaining and thoroughly satisfying pastime, and keeps me in the pop culture loop, since I decided to live sans tv
–
and more recently, radio
,
for more personal reasons
–
Grrrrrr!
 
My justification for all the time spent with my online community is that it’s like doing research for my show.
 
It keeps me tapped into trends, tastes, and whatever breaking news is worth coming out of my cyber hole to follow.

Perhaps the best part of my current lifestyle is the flexibility to work at odd hours and take catnaps.
 
Oh, how I love the catnaps.
 
And the menagerie seems rather fond of them as well.
 
Nearly every day, at least once a day, I awaken with my computer still in my lap
,
after dozing off while happily working.
 
Chilled
,
foggy days li
ke today nearly beg for naps. 
And since I am all done with work until tomorrow
,
and really have nowhere I have to be, I see no reason why I shouldn’t treat myself to a br

i

e

f

.............

zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Having a reliable internal clock comes in handy, especially when it tends to go off at important times of the day, like when the dinner items are put on display at the Trader Joe’s sample bar.
 
What can I say?
I’m a foodie.
 
And not a bit ashamed of it.
 

I find pleasure in food to degrees that would make chefs either beam with pride or vow never to set foot back in a kitchen again.
 
This surprising phenomenon came to my attention a couple of years back
,
when I first experienced physical climax brought on by the stimulation of exquisite foods on appreciative taste buds.
 
I was thrilled, to say the least.
 
The same goes for magnificent music.
 
I can’t say I completely understand this form of sensual release, but I am certainly grateful for it, particularly since I
am currently a dateless hermit,
and my only male contact is with those
who have fur or feathers.

But I’ve no time for such reveries now.
 
I must slough off my kimono and Bugs footies and attempt to look somewhat presentable in order to face the cheery TJ’s staff who are awaiting me.
 
I am such a regular customer at my favorite grocery
that
I have taken the liberty of referring
to it merely by its initials.

For me
,
the TJ’s experience is much more than a shopping excursion.
 
As with most of the pleasures in my life, it has become a welcome ritual that I
look forward to with great
fervor and zest.
 
I have my in-store flight path down to a science
,
and can be in and out usually within fifteen minutes
, when the store isn’t
crowded.
 
Today is no exception.
 
I grab a couple of packages of lettuces, some
curried chicken salad, Italian P
iave cheese, Shepherd’s Pie, milk, heavenly ultra-thick whipping cream, almond biscotti, mini cherry s
cones, lemon curd, hummus,
mint chip ice cream sandwiches, and then head to the sample bar where adorably dimpled Sarah stands smiling at me.

“R
ight on time,” she says. 
“I saved you something special.”
 
She looks both ways
,
then reaches under the counter to fetch the contraband treats she’s squirreled away from the previous shift.

“Oh my gosh!
 
These are ridiculously good!” I gush, savoring every last atom of the minute deliciousness given me.
 
“What is this?”

“Tofu edamame nuggets,” she smiles.

“What?
 
No way.
 
These things are seriously good!”

“Here,” she says, handing me a box of them.
“Oh and you need this too.
 
It’s a new coffee from Sri Lanka, just in.
 
Smell those beans.”

“Oh my!” 
I close my eyes, inhale
,
and am instantly in heaven.

Moments later, I am back on the road, caught in an unexpected downpour that compels me to cancel my standing Wednesday night reservation at Il Fornaio in Corte Madera.
 
Once home, I manage to unload the groceries just before the rain descends in earnest.
 
I put away the cold items, and search for some semblance of dinner to throw together.
 
A leftover baked potato, some chicken tenderloins begging to be cooked, jam, eggs, condiments, a medley of cooked red pepper slices, onions and broccoli florets, and a packet of cream cheese that isn
’t long for this world.
 
Hmmmmm.  S
lim pickin’s.

Undaunted, I grab my trusty cast iron skillet
–
thanks Grammy Price
–
and set it on the stovetop while rummaging through the pantry for flavors that might fra
ternize well with one another.
 
After playing spice alchemist, I slather the chicken with melted butter and roll the pieces in the mosh pit of spices.
 
I then crank up the heat on the iron skillet, feeling rather like a blacksmith preparing
to forge a formidable something-or-
other.
 
I toss the chicken onto the scorching metal for a couple of minutes, drizzling the tops with more butter and enjoying the reckless abandon of it all.
 
Secretly
,
I hope for one of those lovely moments of release.
 
But unfortunately
,
it only seems to work when someone else does the cooking.

Once the chicken is done
,
I whip up my famous poor man’s Alfredo sauce, reheat the veggies, cram the potato with them and the c
hicken, drown it all with the
sauce, and shave a hefty bit of the Piave over the top.
 
Voila!
 
 
A culinary masterpiece is born
–
or so I tell myself.

I grab my plate and a seafood fork
–
a silly custom I’ve adopted to keep me from overeating
...
a gi
rl does what she’s gotta do –
and plop down on the sofa in my family room, intending to light a fire and enjoy the rain.
 
But my romantic plans come to a screeching halt the moment I dare open my laptop and ‘check in’ on my various social media pages.
 
Looks like my primary personal account has
147 notifications and 3
2 new private messages.
 
April has forwarded me a couple of t
hings that are darkly comedic,
which pleases me very much.
 
Scrolling down my page, my eyes take in a potpourri of loving affirmations, redneck jokes, photos of puppies in costume, ‘oh wow, cool’ images and interesting status updates.

Well
,
whaddaya know?
 
Peter Hamilton is fresh back from Barcelona, and waxing witty on his page.

“You run into Julian Carax during your travels?” I quip, citing the enigmatic character in Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s novel
Shadow of the Wind
–
a book
we both
love and occasionally refer to
.

“Funny you should ask.
I did the whole walk-in-the-footsteps of Daniel thing while there,” he responds, referring to the
story’s young protagonist
.

“No way!” I lamely return, trumped as usual by Mr. Perfect, as my friend April has dubbed him.

Peter Hamilton is everything a girl could ask for in an adult male.
 
A divorced/no kids/shared-dog custody literary agent living in the Presidio, he is 6’3” (my favorite height), with an unruly shock of dark, thick, straight hair and pale
,
piercing eyes. In his younger years
,
he qualified for the Olympic decathlon team
,
but never saw competition due to a training injury.
 
While an undergrad at Berkeley, he double-majored in Business Administration and English.
 
As if that weren’t
attractive
enough, he dabbles in
plein-
air
painting as a hobby, and occasionally sneaks away to do a bi
t of World Cup Yacht Racing.
 
igh>
 
To be sure, he enjoys the finer things in life, including his gleaming
,
black Range Rover and all t
he latest i-toys on the market.

I engage in what I consider to be incredibly witty banter with Mr. Hamilton as I continue to attend to my online social business, all the while taking baby nibbles of my new favorite dinner concoction
, which I think I shall ingenio
usly name ‘that
potatoey, chickeny, gooey thing
.
’
I am all caught up on my correspondence, and before I know it, have arranged to go on a bonafide date with Mr. Per
fect.
 
I immediately text April
and stare at my phone
,
awaiting her response.
 
But
,
unlike me, she has an actual life and cannot text back right away
,
as she is busy at back to school night with her young son.
 
Thus, I am left to panic, strategize, and sort out a date outfit
,
with only the aid of the menagerie.