Billy BurningMan: Cold as Ice (Cream)

Sometimes one fateful decision can make or break a Billy. To wit: Billy BurningMan.

This guy and I met at (you guessed it) Burning Man, and it turned out that we lived within feasible proximity to each other, in near-neighboring Southern Billyfornia 'burbs, and so:

I went out a few times with Billy BurningMan, the early episodes of which involved that really fun, heady feeling where you might, if you were a Susie of less refinement and class than I, find yourself in a full-on half-hour carside street makeout at midnight on a weeknight.

What was his hook? Well if, as Vonnegut suggests, the sharpest understanding of human nature belongs to the person able to make a joke the quickest, Billy BurningMan was like a triple fucking Ph.D. of People. Humor goes a long, long way with me, and guy was funny. It didn't hurt that he was a super-charmer of all strangers in our vicinity regardless of setting or gender or age, a shameless performer (who had actually snagged a few real "Oh, I've heard of that show!" one-off parts), and just cute as all the aspiring actors' naive glamour-headshots a meat-grinder place like Los Billgeles chews up and spits into the gutter with subsequent lifelong substance abuse problems per day, all put together.

(Haha! No really, Billy. The tab's here.     ...*ahem.*)

So after a few days of post-makeout-OD recovery via constant Chap-Stick application, Billy BurningMan came over to partake in one of my favorite activities: co-kitcheneering. When Billy BurningMan called, I'd already been tasked to whip up some bake sale goodies for a certain group I belonged to (no, not a PTA - Jeezuhs, have you ever even read this blog?; and yes, without being a total homo about it, I can bake like a motherfucker!). I told him this, and he was adorably game to throw on an apron and jump into the mix(ing-bowl).

So we measured and poured and cracked and stirred and spilled and I laughed like I forgot how to breathe, over the course of a few baking sheets' oven-time. And here's the part where Billy BurningMan raked in extra-credit points: in anticipation of a warm cookie or two as reward for our labor, he'd spontaneously brought over a pint of salted caramel ice cream.

Not just any old.

No, this stuff was from a semi-legendary little Los Billgeles place, the kind of place folks won't tell you about when they first meet you because it's like the local magical secret, where people will stand in line forever. And it was aaaaaaammmaaaaazing.

(See? I *am* capable of wholesome dates. Just as long as that's not whole milk.)

Billy BurningMan had dished it out, and in so doing he had just heaped the whole pint into two bowls. I loved it - and made no secret about that - but I did end up putting a small, unfinished portion of my bowl back into the freezer. After all, it was late, we'd already had cookies, and there was no need to just gorge myself in front of a new Billy. That could wait.

We were both operating on a weeknight schedule and Billy BurningMan had a bit of a commute ahead of him to get home, so after the cookie-sundae action, we wrapped up and I went to the front door with him to bid him good luck on the battlefield freeway home. A kiss, a squeeze, a good night, and I closed the door. And then my mind immediately downshifted into reptile-brain gear.

See, as the night tapered off, I had found myself having a hard time concentrating on what Billy BurningMan was saying and doing, because due to being a lifelong honorary fatgirl ("fat" being the honorary element), my capacity for higher thinking was being hijacked by a big, booming voice coming from a tiny little bowl in the freezer.

Quick backstory: Punchin' Judy and I - and Billy Boulangerie, by virtue of also not only being an honorary fatgirl  ("girl" being the honorary element, in his case) but also by having just absorbed our lingo through his social proximity to the both of us - refer to this phenomenon as Kirstie-ing - as in, infamous-for-her-weight-fluctuations Kirstie Alley, but expressed as a verb:

Kirstie ('kər-stē) v.1. Uncontrolled, often compulsive, inevitably disappointing fatgirl eating behavior characterized by a rapid and excessive consumption of food, often due to late hours, too many drinks, the urge to eat one's emotions, or a combination thereof, almost invariably performed solo. (Exception: Kirstieing may occur in the presence of another girlfriend who enables due to saboteur motivations, as in the case of individuals such as Punchin' Judy and Susie Solo together. See also: Kirstie-fest.

 (Watch some news sometime, ignoramus. It's a real thing.)

No sooner did I turn back toward the kitchen, headed straight for the freezer to immediately Kirstie the remnants of abovementioned ice cream to clean up and get to bed like a responsible adult, than Billy BurningMan knocked again. Figuring he forgot his keys or a hat or something, I scanned the living room on my way to answer the door, but I saw nothing of his to turn over. This was because Billy BurningMan, I quickly discovered, had returned for what was in the freezer.

The remaining ice cream.

(Are you fucking kidding me?)

Of course, I wasn't about to admit it to an actual human being in the moment, but I wanted that ice cream. I wanted that fucking ice cream SO BAD. Here are the situational elements that made it, technically, mine:

• There was maybe half a serving left. HALF A SERVING.
• It was in *my* freezer now (possession really *is* 9/10ths of the law - I mean, everyone knows if you bring beer to a party, you either finish it, or leave what's left. Same. Rule. Applies.)
• It was dished into *my* bowl! Like MY-my bowl.
• I was already mentally fixated on those last four bites. I was prepared for them. I could feel them coming. I was almost there! Getting short-Kirstie-circuited is the new blue-balls!
• ...and Jesus Christ, it's not like it's going to make Billy BurningMan's 40-minute trek on the 405 in solid form. Seriously, what the hell?

For the love of god, I brain-screamed, just leave it, Billy! I NEED THIS!!

But Billy BurningMan, straight-faced for the first time in the night, heeded none of my telepathic pleas. With a spoon I bewilderedly handed him upon request, he shoveled the dished-up ice-cream back into the empty pint container, long abandoned on my kitchen counter. He seemed almost heartlessly unaware of my unreleased frustration and pent-up ice cream needs as I curtly wrapped the re-packed carton in a plastic bag for him to enjoy. And then, while I was handing it over, Billy BurningMan, suddenly with a revived hint of his impish jokester persona, coolly asked if he could borrow the spoon for his drive home.

(Know what? The ice cream's not even appealing! YOU'RE NOT EVEN APPEALING!)

Except it wasn't a joke. He really meant it. This was just too much.

I snatched the spoon he was currently holding out of his hand, fished an odd plastic pho takeout leftover from out of the drawer, and slapped the outcast into his palm. Right then and there, watching that ice cream slip out of my clutches, I knew the conditions were never going to align for Billy BurningMan to have the opportunity to return my silverware.

Because if I ever saw that ice cream stealing Indian giver again, Kirstie I would Eat. Him. Alive.