Saturday afternoon. I run into Rob from downstairs in the foyer. Not only do I get to uncork my first-ever “Doctor Shephard” (he doesn’t watch Lost, as it turns out), but he tells me he’s having a barbecue the next day, and would I like to come? Well, duh. I’m practically in love with him.
Sunday afternoon. I’m the first to arrive, descending to the back patio via my special staircase (in hindsight, I could have waited until 6-8 people had shown, and thus made a splashier entrance).
The patio looks beautiful, having been cleaned/clipped/swept. Rob sends me into his kitchen to grab a beer (Dos Equis, one of my favorites) and we chill out back as people start showing up. He and his wife Jen are both in Xtreme Science post-docs (him at Harvard, her at MIT), and all the other attendees were from their groups. It’s a situation I’m a professional at handling (having spent most of 1997-2001 partying extensively with Yale’s chemists); wearing the mantle of “least-educated person in the room” is old hat ’round these parts.
Anyway, I finish that first beer very quickly and re-enter the kitchen to get another one. Rob is there. Sheepishly, I approach the fridge. “Tyler,” Rob says, “I hope we’re going to get drunk tonight.”
My man. We will.
Snooty also had a good time whoring his little body out to all his new international scientist friends. His by-the-book way of doing it:
1. Bonk someone’s hand till they pet you.
2. Sit down facing away from them so they start petting your back.
3. Turn around and give them the paw so they start petting your belly. (This often requires explanation from Tyler)
4. Stand up so that the petter’s hand is now petting your groin.