“Are you alright, Glorious N’orious?” my barista asked. Yes, I have a barista. But not, like, a personal servant whose sole task is to make me coffee. That’d be a pretty sweet gig though, considering I only have one a day.

Actually, “my barista” is my collective term for my awesome friends who have been making my workday coffee for so long that they have an assortment of nicknames for me. I was the Notorious Keira D, which was shortened to N’orious, and eventually lengthened again to Glorious N’orious… and occasionally shortened to gn’orious with a silent ‘g’.

I think he made sure he used the full rhyme this time because I looked deflated.

“I’m a bit devo, to be honest,” I said, not-quite-nonchalantly. Can you be semichalant? Non seems too cool.

I’ve spent a bit over a week putting on this brave face. Yeah, I’m cool with it being over. Sure, nothing will ever be as good again, but at least we’ll always have (our equivalent of) Paris. And yes, I still can’t bring myself to change my profile shot of us together just yet. Sure, all the wonderful images come flooding back in my quieter moments, or I’ll find myself smiling or laughing at the hilarious things we said and did back in those heady days when we were so, so happy, only to have my reverie shattered by reality – it was all only temporary.

And, you know, I may have been eating my feelings a bit. And drinking them. There may have been an indiscriminate amount of wine/margaritas/sangria/Listerine consumed. And food of the Italian/Mexican/Thai/Quorn persuasion. And every available kind of chocolate – even the WHITE confection.

I may’ve planned every moment of every day and night since it all ended, just so I didn’t have time to sit alone and think too much about everything we said and did. Maybe I even cried at a kitchen table at 5am when I realised the good times were definitely over and all that was left was running mascara, the stale taste of a cosmopolitan, and my own shaky handwriting in a greeting card in which words like “gratitude” and “wishes” and “monkeys” were scrawled.

Perhaps I feel like this is no ordinary ending and I’ll never be understood nor appreciated nor, I daresay, loved so completely again.

Perhaps… hey, perhaps it’s not even really over. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up…

“Gn’orious, we’re coming to see your show Friday – can’t wait. Chookas for tonight!”

…Things I already miss from [title of show]

1. Ch-ch-check 1, 2. This was my favourite part of the night (show-schmo, audience-schmaudience!). Jess would give us a theme for our sound-check song choices, which was usually followed by: Blake’s soulful serenade, Lizzie’s kick-ass belt, Paul’s loungey croon, and Jay’s Christopher Walken. Yes, you read that correctly.

2. Part Of It All. Lizzie and I had lyric-literal routines for all three of the boys’ duets, which we’d perform backstage almost without exception.

3. Don’t go away, I’m needy! Normally I’m at least a little bit relieved when a show ends, even if it was a good one. Not this time. This time, I could have happily kept going till I was old enough to knit on the bus and truuuuuuuuuck! *sigh*

…Pizza

1. The clock’s ticking, dude.  I think the Ninja Turtles are responsible for my pizza obsession.  I won’t even begrudge them for once giving me the idea to bake my frozen ham-and-pineapple with jelly beans on it.

2. Gots the dough?  I’m a fan of making my own pizza because you can control the toppings (all the good stuff without the dreaded onions) and, hence, the nutrient/fat content.  Less fat in pizza = more pizza = win.  Fresh pizza dough is amazing and if a culinarily unco person like me can make it, anyone can.  I bought some pizza-specific flour (which I think means normal flour with a pizza dough recipe on the box), dried yeast, bit of salt, warm water.  Knead.  Let it expand for a coupla hours.  Divvy it up (my recipe made enough for 8 bases and you can freeze the dough for later), flatten, top, bake.  BAM.  Amazing.  

3. That wood-fired family flavour.  So there’s been a lot of hoohah about the wood used in pizza ovens in Naples – the fuss being that it may be from exhumed coffins.  Yeah, that old chestnut.  Prior to this, the hoohah was about the pizza itself – apparently the best in the world.  In Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert talks about how pizza in Naples is so good it makes you cry with regret over all the mediocre crap you’ve ever eaten that was merely masquerading as pizza.  The stuff in Naples is the real deal.  If it’s that good, and it takes a few contraband logs to make it, then I say dig away…

…By request*: Things that should be set on fire

1. MySpace. Crappy interface, crappy layout, crappy load-time, crappety crap crap.  It’s so laden with crap I don’t know how it ever took off.  Burn, muthaf*cka, burn.

2. Don’t Forget the Lyrics. Have I told you lately… how much I hate this show?  Let’s warm our hearths next winter by a bonfire of these tapes.

3. Sparkler powder. Er, don’t try this at home or whatever.  Still, I have fond memories of watching that magnesium glow.  Sure, it’s as bright as the sun and may send you blind watching it but, meh, it’s cool.  Whoosh!

*Remember, every 10th TTD will be by request!  Leave your request below…

…Ways to make ten-pin bowling fun (when you’re badly crap at it)

1. Get your mind into the gutter. Embrace your suckage at this game by playing with a large group of people who suck as badly – if not worse – at this game as you do.  Make sure you high-ten each other EVERY SINGLE TIME you bowl, even – NAY, ESPECIALLY – if the pins remain pristinely untouched.  Which they will, often.  Because you suck.

2. Two-beer rule. I’m not normally an advocate for “drinking makes things better”, but in ye olde waxed lanes this adage definitely applies.  Bowling, unless you’re genuinely good at it, blows – really hard.  It’s precise and requires upper body strength and coordination.  And you know what else does?  Playing pool.  And you know what rule applies to every pool game?  Two beers.  Same goes for bowling.  Because, for the deeply unco, this stupid game is unbearable otherwise.

3. The Dude. Yes, making The Big Lebowski references will also make the game more fun.  Channel John Turturro by faux-licking the ball and telling people in a raspy, lisping pseudo-latino accent, “Do not f*ck with the Jesus”.  Go all John Goodman-like by donning some yellow aviators and pulling out your piece whenever someone is “OVER THE LINE” (which will be often – see clause 1).  And if someone happens to do well, turn to one of your other friends and say, “12-year-olds*, man”.

*Too far?