The Captain Wore Motorcycle Boots..

and a pair of white boxers. The plain cotton kind, as if it were 1947 or something. But I guess for him, geologically speaking, 1947 was close enough.

He had lost weight and was now rather slender, a direct juxtaposition with the body of his actual actor at this very moment, who has become, let's face it: a big ol' bear that comes complete with his very own bag of chocolate chip cookies (the big ones).

"You look like you've had a hard day," I tell him.

He sits on my bed and I cuddle up behind him and massage his shoulders. His skin is a perfect shade of ivory, exactly one shade darker than my own. His big blue eyes fill with tears that drip on my forearms as I work my way around to his chest.

But he doesn't make a sound. I get a tissue and dab his eyes and he buries his face in my pecs. I stroke his hair and massage his neck. And I don't ask. I don't have to. I already know.

"When is the funeral?"

He waves his hands around as if to say, "Time?"

"Of course, right. When you get back. When you're ready. I'm sorry about your friend."

He shrugs and pulls me on top of him, where I lay perfectly still, absorbing his sorrow.

He pulls me over his side and we sleep.

We are both terribly tired.

I am,

Hilda Stinson

The Lingerie Report

Vic's was having a "panty raid"-so I went in and selected seven pairs. But then, I couldn't decide out of the 13 pairs I'd picked. I needed food. So I left and went to another mall to clear my head and get something to eat.

I went to Rubio's(TM) and got a salad. True IT was delightful, but the salmon on it had been over cooked and burnt. Dreadful. And to make matters worse? When I called in for the "survey"-it got hung up and didn't understand my pressing #3. Or #6. Or any other number. It's like-they got what they wanted and they WOULD BE DAMNED IF THEY WERE GOING TO LET ME ENTER THEIR FUCKING SWEEPSTAKES.

Okay. This is what I purchased: seven pairs of ruched back panties, 3 pink and 4 black. Because, let's be practical: white stains too easily. There I SAID it. But there was a snafu: as I was checking out, I asked the girl to be certain that all the panties were a size extra small, and she noticed that one wasn't. It was a small. SO she had to "return" it-and this involved taking my ID "You've already seen it, " I snapped.

"I have to swipe for the return," she said.

Well. All right, but it did NOT make me happy.

Ten minutes later, I left the store and headed over to the GAP(TM). I found an adorable pair of silky blue panties with ruching for under four dollars-and a bathing suit bottom that TOTALLY rocked for only 12. It was a good day.

And today? I tried on the new panties (I had hand washed them when I got home last night) and they looked aDOREable! And they were so comfy. Oh GOD! Long live VIC'S! Their panties make me look like I have the WORLD'S BEST BOTTOM!

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

(eternally sexy)

Red Lobster: DON'T Drink the Alcohol!

Last night, I went out with my parents.

My mother wore an ivory blouse, that on me would have been a dress. It was heavily embroidered and she had purchased it from one of the fancy catalogues that she is always getting in the mail. That's right folks: retirement= catalogues.

Her slacks, a fine linen, matched perfectly. She was beautiful, as always, towering over my father, who had decided to wear a jacket for once.

Of course, this being San Diego, there is no reason to dress up: I wore jeans and a grey t-shirt. True, it WAS from Banana Republic and looked fabulous, but it was still a t-shirt.

I hurried ahead of them to get a table, since there is often competition in restaurants and I did not want to wait. I had done a big workout prior-and I was hungry.

"Three," I told the hostess, "I'm waiting for my parents. They're very old." (Well they are! Dad is 80, Mom is 79. They are starting to look very skinny and frail. It worries me.)

When we were seated, I was mesmerized by the various menus. There's a promotional menu, a regular dinner menu and a little book that has pictures of the food, by section. I immediately turned to the drinks.

There they were! Fancy little drinks with fruit! My favorite. I ordered a strawberry coconut pina colada. When it arrived I took a sip-ooh! Coconut! But then the strawberry fused into the drink and it was LOADED with corn syrup and it was awful. I tried to drink it, I did. I even ate the little pineapple garnish (because how difficult IS it to get fresh pineapple?!), but by then I had had it with the drink. It was awful. So I sent it back.

When the salads came, I noted that they looked a little fresher than the kind I'm accustomed to in chain restaurants. But only a LITTLE. This does NOT mean they were fresh! The cucumber slices were unpeeled, which I attributed to laziness, and the tomatoes were mushy. But the lettuce and red onions were good! The ranch dressing, which I had ordered on the side, less so. Next time I will NOT be getting ranch. Dreadful. The croutons were very typical and I ate them out of the salad. I prefer to eat croutons ALONE.

My mother had ordered a Maine lobster, my dad the sole, and I ordered a lobster, scallop and shrimp trio. The lobster was wood grilled-and a little salty, but good. I found that when I dipped it into my baked potato it balanced nicely. Incidentally, Red Lobster has the finest baked potatoes I have ever had-BUT they could stand to serve them with MORE sour cream. Luckily my dad gave me HIS (he's on an anti-headache diet and sour cream is forbidden!). The scallops were sweet and delicious, albeit a little lukewarm, as in, things were not properly timed and my food COULD have been hotter. But the shrimp? It was disgusting. Disgusting. It tasted like dirt.

I ordered a martini to go with my meal, but when I tasted it, it tasted as if the guy had simply just poured gin in there. It did NOT taste right. So I sent it back. Without even eating the olives, which as we all know, is the best PART of a martini.

In the end, the manageress came over and things were taken off the bill, desserts given out, etc.

Mom ordered the cheesecake. It was sublime! But I was polite and only had a wee bit. The molten chocolate chip cookie with ice cream was truly divine, but I could only eat a few bites. Dad, who is not allowed to have chocolate, got some of the vanilla ice cream after I surgically removed some of it from the chocolate sauce that was drizzled on it. But the piece de resistance was the decaf that our waitress made. It was perfect. Perfect. I told her that SHE should be the bartender. Because she should be. Anyone who can make decaf so divine should be allowed, nay ordered to make ALL the drinks in the house.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Darren Shan and VERY BAD THINGS!

There is a mad love that happens every so often when I read Darren Shan. An element of the heroic that gets to me and I think: I would marry him sight unseen, despite the macabre.

Unfortunately, with the internet being what it is, I googled. And, well? The attraction is just zero. But who knows? I may read him again and find myself revived of desire. Anything can happen.

But, in the meantime the disappointment is palpable.

The column I was about to write has "disapparated". That's right, motherfuckers, I just used a "Harry Potterism" (TM).

Okay, onto food and my sins.

Half a bag of baked onion rings. So salty sweet, the corn bits (I know they use corn) crumbling in my mouth. Irresistible, I couldn't stop, until I really was full!

No dinner for me tonight!

Bad Hilda!

Yesterday I went to Jack in the Box because I WANTED curly fries. And a chocolate shake-the way the whipped cream melted into the chocolate portion was SUBLIME! BBQ sauce with the fries hit the spot. The hot curls of spicy potato, covered in saucy sauce drove me nearly insane with pleasure. And I drank my usual half Diet Coke (TM) half lemonade. Oh YUMMY. No dinner last night either.

I remain hopelessly in love with bad things,

Hilda Stinson

Dinner with Superman

He wore sweats and we shook hands, and then he said, "Give me a hug," and I did.

"You were gazing at me," he said.

"Somebody is in love with HIMself," I said inside my head.

So we went into the restaurant, PF Chang's, which is, btw, mediocre at best. He ordered us Cashew Chicken with brown rice. We shared the chicken and each had a bowl of brown rice. Healthy, tasty, but my mother's is FAR FAR better, just so you know. Just because she's Swedish, doesn't mean that she can't make a mean Chinese. And she is VASTLY superior to PF Chang's.

I ordered a funny cocktail. Some kind of martini that came with a pineapple wedge. I am slightly allergic to pineapple, but a little bit won't kill me, so I ate it; it could have been fresher.

"You know, I have better alcohol at home," he said.

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

Once we got to his place, he left me in the living room to watch tv while he showered and changed. When he emerged, he wore a gaudy striped shirt and jeans.

He was built like a Greek god who had been attending Roman orgies and had forgotten to throw up in the vomitorium one too many times. Or maybe had not ever thrown up. When one eats like a Roman, it's imperative that one throw up. (So don't eat like one!)

Either way, he had visible man boobs. They were very nice, but boobulous, nonetheless. Very firm, his skin very tan. And his eyes were the color of sea glass.

Pity he lacked inner beauty.

But he just did.

Later, after having had him, I turned to the Captain who smiled at me, "Happy?"

"Eh," I told him, "I've had worse." And I touched him, "I've had much better." He faded, pleased with me.

Superman's phone rang the next morning, waking us up. It was his sister, calling about church. I wrinkled my nose and pretended to go back to sleep. I heard him speak about Mimi's (TM) Stuffed French Toast. I murmered, "Yes, I've had it, it's crazy unbelievable". But he didn't hear me. I already had ceased to exist.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

KFC (TM) Fried Chicken Strips

First, let me say I had not dined at KFC (TM) in more than 20 years.

It took California passing a humane chicken law for me to even start eating chicken again with reckless abandon.

So I sat, in my car, at the drive through, hungry (as my lunch had been a paltry 290 calorie Healthy Choice(TM) type meal) and thirsty (am I never not thirsty?) and pondered what to get.

It had to be something I could drive with, so no chicken pieces. Ah hah. The chicken strips.

When I got the food, the choirs of angels sang, "LAAAAAAAAH" as I took the first bite, dredged in honey mustard sauce. Sublime. The chicken piece was large and flexible in my hand, it was as if it were alive. And I ate. Mostly with the honey mustard sauce, but I did try the bbq and the ranch (eh). They forgot the butter (but gave me extra honey. I mean, high fructose corn syrup) for the biscuit, which I later ate with the rest of the bbq sauce and the macaroni and cheese (mediocre, but the bbq sauce saved it.)

Last, I would like to say, I ate this in two sittings. It is entirely too much food for ONE. But suffice it to say, they DO do chicken right. It was full of chi and practically alive with joy. If and when I return, if I ever dare, it will be for those chicken strips!

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Captain Cupcake

It was the afternoon -or was it the morn, when a palpable sadness descended upon me, prompted by the quote, "great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds"- it made me realize that I could move on, maybe, and forgive those who put me where I am.

And then the Captain appeared on one knee. He took me in his arms and whispered, "It's going to be okay. I promise, it will be okay." And then he kissed me, and pulled me up with him and hugged me tightly. Then he kissed me again-and faded.

Later on I became aware of the uncomfortable need of a cupcake. Luckily, Ralph's had a tiny two-pack for me. I devoured one immediately upon my return home-and ate the second after a steak dinner.

I have to go, Cap is waiting-and gorram it! He has not taken off his boots and has his feet on my bed!

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Gelato Rules!

There is a restaurant in Hillcrest known at "Choclat"-you like the spelling? I do. It makes me think of how it feels to eat said "Choclat".

The boy I was meeting was coming from a far away place, and yet, this didn't bother me. I hoped I would like him.

To my relief, he was completely normal. And I have to say, we had talked on the phone previous, so I already liked him. And that was good.

We both decided on the chicken caesar salad, another sign, we thought. Although he didn't finish his. I suppressed the urge to eat the rest of his salad and concentrated on the bread. Or toast, as it was. SO delicious. And at Choclat, the butter is not ordinary butter-or if it IS, it sure doesn't taste it! I think it may have been some exotic type of butter. Perhaps Irish butter. Anyway, it was fabulous and I ate a lot of it.

Next we went over to the tasting bar to decide on a gelato. To those of you who are unfamiliar with gelato, let me just say, it is so smooth and creamy, yet light. I absolutely adore it. And would love to bathe in it. Except it would be cold.

I decided on the Grand Marnier (TM), which was a chocolate orange and my companion decided on Oreo (TM). We tried to taste each other's gelato, but you really couldn't. I suppose next time I go, I shall sample the Oreo (TM) first, so I can actually taste it.

Afterwards, we went over to the Hillcrest to see if Atlas Shrugged One was playing. It wasn't. Plus it was mid-afternoon and he had to go by 5 (plane to catch the next day), so we stood in the sun, holding each other, the wind blowing through my hair, his hands massaging my back. And then: he kissed me. Very nice. He was a very good tasting boy.

Over all, the whole experience was, shall we say: tasty?!

I remain,

Hilda Stinson

Andez (cont.)

We are no longer live.

It is now Tuesday.

I was effectively prevented from doing ANYTHING yesterday but the world's worst headache. Seriously. As in, I NEEDED a Vicodin (TM). But as I was out, I had to take enough ibuprofin to kill my liver. BRB. I just took some milk thistle to clean my filthy liver.

Now when the boy in question came a calling, so to speak, I was in the middle of blogging and had to sign off prematurely, so let me just say, he was an especially delicious shade of dark chocolate. He was a little fatter than his pic, but then, he was hardly a porker, so I let that slide.

We went into the bar and attempted to get some wine out of the ridiculous little machines. Finally some came out! Hooray! And then we ordered the most fabulous sushi platter that god ever made. It had the freshest avocado I'd ever had. And I swore to marry the chef sight unseen.

This followed by bbq pork pizza. Which was okay, but so much less palatable than the sushi. So folks, if you ever go to Andez, the sushi platter is DI RIGUER!

Later on in the evening, I craved a burger (my date wasn't hungry, probably because he actually ATE the bready bits of the pizza; people, first rule of weight loss: do NOT eat the bready bits of the pizza!!!!) so we ended up at the Hard Rock Cafe.

The burger was sublime, but a little salty. I would not be wedding THEIR chef, lemme tell you.

And that's all I've got to say about that particular night.

I remain,

Hilda Stinson