Just when I thought I had sealed the deal, with seemingly incontrovertible evidence and corroboration on the Sunday exemption to the Lenten fast, and it was going to be smooth sailing to that pork roast, something else comes up.

Batch and I are entering that awkward (but exciting) phase of things—and I don't think it's all that premature at the just-shy-of-six-weeks mark—where it's not just the two of us together in this anymore.

And no, I'm not talking about threesomes here.

There are introductions to friends, and the specter of dinner parties on the horizon. And with the coming of spring, Boston and The Cape being what they are, it will be nigh impossible to escape the ghosts of lovers past everywhere (yes, the cities, towns and villages of New England will soon be thick with throngs of them, stumbling around like zombies in my own personal Evil Dead).

And while it may seem a tad soon to be sized up by prospective in-laws, I had the pleasure last week of meeting Batch's older brother. When Batch told me last night that he had recommended a movie to us, saying, "Mike might like it," it felt nice—even though the movie didn't have any full-frontal nudity (which might be why we decided to forgo the cinema and make our own entertainment instead).

But what cannot be denied is that at some point, the world outside the boudoir beckons. It's like leaving the womb in a way. Granted, sometimes it's like being born on a bus, but one must be born, mustn't one? And unfortunately, one can't always choose the place and time that suits one. In this being born is something like sex and dying.

I was an 11 lb baby (not exactly bouncy—more like a medicine ball), the product of a ten-month incubation (which I think explains a lot about my sometimes fractious relations with the mothership, among other things)—and while it may have been a bit selfish of me to outstay my welcome (they were about to induce labor when I laid down my arms and surrendered peaceably) I have never regretted barricading myself in for that extra month. The calm before the storm, I've always thought of it as.

I like the creature comforts, you could say. But our days in Arcadia are numbered. This we all know. And whether expelled from Eden for sins real or perceived (personally I think God may have overreacted a bit), or leaving of our own accord, there is life after The Fall, and lots of adventures to be had.

And that is the spirit in which I choose to look at this new phase of things with Batch. In fact, in that very spirit, I think he deserves a new pseudonym. I have been thinking about it, and I've decided for reasons that may or may not ever become clear on PJJP.

So, I bet you're wondering what's up with that pork roast?

Well, last night I broached the topic again. As I said, I'd done my homework, and I felt sure victory was close at hand. The only catch: it had to be Sunday.

"Oh, about that," he said.

I pricked up my ears.

"I have to go to my mom's on Sunday."

My ears drooped.

"But you could come along," he offered. "But you probably wouldn't want to. It'd be boring for you. I'd have to clean, and you wouldn't have anything to do. And it'd be weird..."

And on and on he went. I left the room, had a shower, brushed my teeth, went downstairs, watched some news on the TV, and then went back upstairs, where he was still going strong.

"...and then you'd be like, what the hell? And I'd be like, what? And then you probably wouldn't talk to me all the way back to Boston, and then..."

I finally interrupted.

"Um, you could just ask me if I wanted to go."

He looked a little puzzled. "Oh," he said.

I prompted him: "Would..."

"Would..." he ventured.

"You..." I continued.

"You..." he repeated.

"Like to go..." I coaxed.

"So, would you like to go with me to my mother's Sunday?" He finally asked.

"Um, no," I answered.

Actually, I would have gone along happily, because right now I want to be with him all the time, even when I don't. But as it turns out there'll be some serious chores involved, and while I am not averse to heavy lifting and deep cleaning, that's something for the six-month rather than the six-week mark. At present I don't like to do anything with Peej I can't do while kissing on him, with at least one hand free.

And by the way, I don't want it to seem like Peej is the only one whose inner dialog is running wild and occasionally bursts out in the open like a bad case of Tourette's. I'll admit I have this thing I do with sock puppets with pipy little voices. (Apologies to Jay for commandeering all his socks for my musical extravaganza "Sockfest Socktacular!"—billed as "The Puppet Woodsock.")


Even when Peej insists I take the socks off (I can wear them in the car, he says, but not during dinner—at least not at dinner in Back Bay or the South End) I just do the routine with my bare hands. That's even worse for him. Hard as it is to believe: for some, even in this day and age, sock puppet full-frontal can still be shocking.

So we've both got quirks. You don't live to see the other side of thirty without some.

The long and short of it is: it looks like that pork roast has been pre-empted and will have to wait another week. And in the meantime, I'll while away the days listening to Jeff Buckley, eating bon bons, and crying into my socks, waiting for Peej to call.