Answers

He says: "This weekend, why don't we go camping. I know a great place near the lake, and if we bring warm enough clothes, we should be really comfortable. We can go fishing one day, and cook what we catch for dinner. We can also do a nice hike the other day. It's not supposed to rain that hard, so if we bring rain gear, we should be comfortable. What do you say?"

"fuck"

The things I'll put up with to get laid...

Head Waiter

I would have much rather been home when the debate was on last night, but I was scheduled to work a job at a private residence last night. Thankfully, I was told it was a debate watching party, so I'd at least get to hear the debates while serving appetizers and white wine.

Now as with most Central Park West residences, all service staff must enter the back entrance where you are to ride the service elevator to the back door that opens into the kitchen. It's the new millennium version of "back of the bus". Upon walking into the kitchen, the place had a nice familiar tone. White walls, white cabinetry...something about it looked vaguely familiar.

I set up the bar and waited for the rest of the staff to arrive. The owner of the apartment came into the kitchen to introduce himself and as we shook hands, I looked him over. Well built, hot body, strong arms (this is way too familiar)...I remembered where I had met this man before.

Back in January...this man and his boyfriend had a sex party in this very apartment. His boyfriend who was also my doctor.

I could tell by the look on his face that he vaguely remembered me...but was trying to place where he had met me. I considered dropping my pants to give him a better idea, but instead continued to work. About 10 minutes later, I saw that all to knowing look of recognition on his face.

When he boyfriend arrived, the look was immediate. As well as for some of his male guests (but not their wives).

At the end of the night, he handed me $100 for my troubles, but didn't bother tipping the rest of the staff. I wonder if he tipped me for my service, or my servicing?

Gay Men in the Mist

Yesterday night, I did something I've not done in a very long time. I went to a straight bar. Now this was not really my choice, but I was asked to check out a group of people that were meeting at this bar, and see if I was interested in joining in a ski house share (oh the pitfalls of dating someone who works ski patrol on the side).

Walking into this place, I immediately got the feeling I usually get in straight singles bars. The same feeling that straight men get when going to gay bars. The feeling that I don't belong.

The group of guys that were meeting there were 7 men, all in their late 20's and early 30's, and all very heterosexual. As in, when the waitress walked away, they all started commenting on how much they really wanted to "get a piece of that". (insert ogre like agreement here)

*shudder*

I left the bar, and called a friend and asked him why is it that I, like so many of my gay friends feel uncomfortable in straight bars? He answered it was the "lingering smell of vagina". Ok...he was joking, but he honestly wasn't able to answer it. I've even been hesitant to join my own alumni club because it's been primarily straight men in their late 20's swilling beer and cheering on their college football team.

I got home and thought about it more, I have to wonder...can straight men and gay men really be friends, without having a woman friend as a commonality? Why is there such a difference between the two, and why is it so rare to find a common ground?

I've been out as a gay man since I was 15 years old. I currently can't think of many straight men I actually know on more than just a work situation basis.


As for the ski house...I wonder how comfortable the rest of this 11 bedroom house would be if they knew 2 gay men were sharing a room in their midst?

My Hole

Three weeks ago, one of my molars cracked and I am now missing a portion of my tooth. It feels weird, I'm concerned about this getting much worse before treatment (insurance takes forever to pre-approve crowns) and it's always on my mind.

So my dentist put a temporary filling in. And it promptly fell back out 24 hours later during the Italian gorging fest.

I went back to the dentist and he put in a "stronger" temporary filling, which lasted a whole two weeks, before falling out while eating onion soup in a restaurant.

And I called my dentist *again* looking for a temporary filling, but he says at this point, a temporary filling isn't the best option and instead I need to start the process and get a crown for the tooth. His secretary checked his calender and informed me that the first appointment he has available is October 17th. That's 16 days I exclaimed.

The secretary tried to appease me, but seriously...16 days?!? I ended up saying to her as I was hanging up "all I want is for him to put something in my hole!".


I hate when I have my own personal Beavis and Butthead moment.

Money Matters

The Dow drops 750 points. My coworker loses $100,000 over the last few days in his investment portfolio. I get the notice from my landlord that my rent will not be going up next year.

There is a negative side to this right?

Preparations for Reparations

A year ago, around this time, I worked an event at a private residence on the Upper East Side. The client was a very wealthy family (he's the owner of a hedge fund, she's the recipient of many face lifts) who holds a a party this time of year to show off their art collection within their 6 floor townhouse.

I've worked for many very wealthy people, some celebrities, and most recently, over 50 heads of state. Most of the time, the even patrons treat you well, but this particular family has historically treated us like slaves, not their employees.

We are not permitted to use their bathrooms, but rather must go to the Starbucks that is next door. During last year's party, the owners dog crapped on the floor and we were ordered to clean it (I *may* have washed my hands before touching the food afterwards). The woman of the house referred to me as "boy" all evening, and has now insisted the catering company not send any foreigners, as they aren't the most trustworthy.

Thus, since I'm a natural born US citizen...I've been assigned to this party once again. The company, knowing how poor we were treated, is paying us a higher pay rate...but it still isn't enough. So I'm taking matters into my own hands.

The morning, I ate an entire can of Bush's vegetarian baked beans for breakfast. Lunch has consisted of cooked cabbage and two hard boiled eggs. Dinner before this shift starts will be another can of beans with two more eggs.

I'm putting the Doyle family curse to use for the good.

Communicating

During graduate school, in my accounting class, I learned about communication and the difference between women and men. Just the kind of thing that goes with profit and loss statements. Be it inherited or learned traits is still up for debate.

As the instructor pointed out (and documented with published research), Women share the problem or issue. They explain what's wrong, share how it's affecting them, and when they are done telling about it, the other women will commiserate with them. Basically they give the "wow...that really sucks" and then everyone moves on and eventually the woman comes to the conclusion, either on her own, or by asking for assistance.

Men are the opposite. Men will tell the basic problem to other men, and throughout telling the problem, other men will offer ways of solving the issue. They may not fully understand the issue, but they will attempt to solve it.

For the record...sometimes...I just want to have someone say "wow...that really sucks."

Fois Gras

The thing that's hard about living in New York City is that eventually you become very accustomed to certain conveniences that you just can't get elsewhere. And it does change how you look at dating and friendly gatherings. When you live in the city and you say "come to my house for dinner", it's easier to get delivery than actually cook in your kitchen. Would you want to cook in a 15 sq ft kitchen when a telephone is your best cooking utensil?

So s few weeks ago, TGIBS invited me to dinner at his place after going to the Audubon society for a lecture (yawn) on birds of prey (huh? OK...kinda cool). We attended the lecture and before going back to his place, we grabbed a beer and a small basket of chips.

By the time it was time for dinner, I wasn't very hungry, so I figured I'd just have him order me the soup off the delivery menu.

Except...

He had arranged a friend of his to cook for us. An Italian chef. Did you know the first five words an Italian mother teaches her children? Mama, God, Yes, Good, and EAT! Ironically, all of those words are also used on her wedding night.

This chef had "eat" on her mind, and she never really told us how much food she had created. Thus, we sat down for a meal that neither of us were incredibly hungry for.

Our first course, consisted of a a bottle of pinot grigio and a small plate of antipasti (read = appetizer for 10 people). Both of us, being reformed Catholics, felt the need to clean our plates. So we began to shovel the crackers, brie, mozzarella, and salami into our stomachs.

Me...being the person that has difficulty eating solid food (if you don't know why...umm read the archives. Sept 06'...I'm tired of telling the story) was chasing all of this down with glasses of water.

By the second course of a mixed green salad with roasted beets, asparagus and a lemon pepper dressing paired with a chardonnay my stomach was sloshing and I was very full (not to mention a little drunk). But the Italian mother was not having it.

EAT!!!

The Third course of Angel Hair pasta with roma tomatoes and prosciutto was brought to the table with a pinot noir. Pasta is one of the most difficult things for me to eat, especially when cooked al dente...which is the only way an Italian would cook pasta. Upon running out of water, I was now chugging red wine to finish my food. My pants were now tight. I figured this was fine though seeing we could only have dessert after this. I was wrong.

EAT!!!


Fourth Course, minestrone soup. This woman wanted to kill us, and I actually had to undo my pants as I was getting uncomfortable. We opened another bottle of wine. As full as I was, my guilty conscience told me not to leave much food in the bowl...so I pushed.

EAT!!!

The woman brought out an entire branzino fish. Granted...they are smaller fish...but a whole fish for the two of us...on top of everything else was getting too much. As usual, I need to drink about a full bottle of water for every 10 bites of food. I was on bottle number 8 by this point...and I now had to pee.

EAT!!!

Now beginning to wish for bulimic tendencies as I watched the woman bring out our sixth course consisting of seared scallops and a corn succotash with a bottle of sangiovese. When the chef wasn't looking, I passed my scallops and some of my food to my eating companion...who was looking a little green himself. As she cleared the plates, we thanked her profusely for the dinner and started to gather the strength to get up from the table.

EAT!!!

We didn't get up fast enough and a seventh course of food, pork tenderloin with an apple brandy reduction, and roasted brussel sprouts were brought to us on plates. I looked in horror and asked the chef..."how much more is there?" She smiled and said,

EAT!!!

I seriously hurt, and secretly prayed for death. My dining companion had now undone his pants as well, and even then, it felt as if our clothes were too tight. In horror, I watched as the chef brought to the table frozen chocolate mousse and a freaking bottle of prosecco.

My companion, trying to be cute, took a spoonful and tried to bring it to my mouth, but I threatened him with castration. Yet when the Italian chef looked concerned that we didn't like the dessert...we both reluctantly ate a couple of spoons and smiled.

I looked at the backyard balcony and wondered if I could sneak out there, puke over the side, and not be observed by anyone. The only problem was that it would have entailed moving...and that wasn't about to happen very easily.

Moaning while sitting in my dining chair, I now know what a duck feels like as it's being made into fois gras. Next time...we're doing a bagel from the corner deli.

Machinery

I'm working a very important catering gig today that required I get a security clearance. All things went well and since I'm working the event tonight, I am not allowed to have any bags with me (as the Secret Service is not allowing them).

Unfortunately I also had a big meeting for work and had to be somewhat dressed up. So I wore my black tux pants, a black shirt, and a black tie. Normally this wouldn't be a problem (even though I look like death is visiting), however at this meeting I was required to stand in the hotel lobby and direct any attendees to exactly where the meeting was taking place. Because signs are too hard to read.

Ever stand in a hotel lobby dressed in all black? Nearly every person that walked in the door asked me directions to meetings going on in the hotel. I needed to carry a sign that said "I don't work here!", and face the look of astonishment and apologies. One woman had the audacity to actually ask me why I would dress like I was dressed, not believing that I didn't work for the hotel.

They say that the clothes make the man, and unfortunately my choice of dress says I'm the servant. It's my life...and normally it doesn't bother me, but what I find interesting is watching how people treat the service industry. I've had people I worked with in the past snap their fingers at me to refill their drinks during a catering gig (not realizing that I've worked with them on an office level).

The problem with wearing a uniform is that it makes the wearer a faceless machine. And machines don't need to hear please and thank you, and ideally people aren't supposed to be bothered by them. Those of us forced to wear a uniform are the "children" of society. Be seen and not heard. Have no opinion, as any input you have is not of significance. And for God's sake...smile.

So I smile....but excuse me if my smile looks a little forced. It's because inside I'm likely wishing your death.

Art

About six months ago, I was working an event at Sotheby's for a modern art auction. One of the hottest items was a statue of a man using his semen as a lasso. The images are here:
Jizz1
Jizz2

The piece was going for 7 million dollars minimum bid...and it SOLD! Yes, it was weird, and controversial, and even though it was still art, I wouldn't want it in my home since the Tuna Kids do come to visit every once in a while (although not nearly enough for my preference). I'd rather the kids learn about playing with jizz like I did, from my dad's porno magazines. And preferably when they are both over 40 and I'm dead.

So last night, while working at Sotheby's, a new art piece is now on display. It consists of a reddish brown cloth with splotches and streaks across the center. The title of the piece is called....wait for it...

ROPES OF CUM

This artist, shot his load 7 times on his sheets and now is selling the piece for over 7 million. It was the talk of the auction, with the high society types going dangerously close to examine the "texture". All I could think the entire night was that I would have been more than willing to sell them my comforter cover after a recent weekend for 1/2 the price.


But unfortunately I didn't think of it before this artist. So ladies and gentlemen...I bring you...

Ookie Cookie



I made it myself, and I'll be starting the bids at 1 million.

Swimming

When I was nine years old, I had made friends with a kid in school that was from a skiing family. I, being a child of "the traveling hippy mom", was desperate for any friends, and therefore more that willing to exaggerate my ability of skiing. (I hadn't been on skies by that age). I had no problem telling this child how I was an avid skier that had gone skiing all the time the winter before. It was the perfect half truth that would get me a friend...finally.

Until he and his family invited me out for a ski weekend. Thankfully, his father was a ski instructor and after seeing me take a 15' run, just knew that it was going to be "private lesson" day. Ironically, I researched his address and sent him a thank-you card when I became an instructor in Colorado.

This past weekend, while walking the Hudson river, we saw a massive sailboat looking for shipmates to sail this upcoming weekend. A short sailing leaving Friday night and returning on Sunday evening, they are looking for experienced sailors. My companion has been sailing since he was a small child and signed us both up to sail this trip.

I have never been on a sailboat. I have worked on riverboat cruise lines, as a waiter, but have still no clue between starboard and port (unless you are talking wine). I tried to explain this to the captain of the boat, but she really didn't listen.

Thank God I can swim...because I have a feeling once we hit the open sea, we're going down faster than the Titanic.

Selective Memory

Selective memory is something I find fascinating. For the most part, it bothers me that my brain will only remember certain details and block everything else out. Last month, I was in an accident at a catering gig. My left had got trapped in the mechanism of a loading dock elevator and my left middle finger was badly crushed. No broken bones, but I did leave with a significant amount of stitches. I oddly don't remember saying to stop the elevator. I remember cursing like a sailor, and then being in a cab for the hospital.

My coworkers inform me that I screamed until they stopped and reversed the elevator, then said in a calm voice that I was cut (as if the blood flowing down my arm wouldn't indicate it). I gathered my belongings including my bar kit, and offered to walk to the hospital, before the company put me in a cab.

I wish I remember that, but selective memory does have it's advantages. For Example:

Apparently, while staying in Provincetown, I was informed that during a morning while my roommate, Crash, slept only a few feet away, I was getting a little "hands-on" with my bed mate. It wasn't until my bed mate happened to notice that Crash was awake and trying desperately to ignore any activity that was going on that he stopped me from any more physical activity.

Somehow...I don't recall that.

Thankfuly

Expertise

Back in the 90's, I was sought after for my knowledge of all things. I trained well over 90 people on federal regulations, ran audits of both student and offices, and was for the most part, proud of it. That was 8 years ago...and since then, I've not really been an expert on much. Until now. For the first time in a very long time, I am on expert on a very important subject that most people have no clue about. I am the leading authority on being poor!

All these Lehman Brother's, AIG, Citicorp, Merrill Lynch castaways have no clue how to manage their lives without making those 6 figure salaries they are so addicted to. They sit at the day spa getting massaged as they moan in denial, angry that the world owes them, wanting to know why the govt didn't bail them out and save their job! They call their $280 an hour therapist and schedule extra appointments, and watch HBO while hoping their "Network" of recruiters will find them a new job.

And I sit here an expert, offering them advice.

1)You are not the only one this is happening to. Likely, your "network" doesn't have time to deal with you, as they are looking for jobs themselves.

2)Turn off the cable television. It's a damn luxury, and there isn't anything on the TV that is all that good anyway. Not to mention...do you really need to spend the $4.39 a day on a Starbuck's Latte?

3)Cut up your credit cards. It was a huge portion of people living beyond their means that caused this crisis in the first place. Learn from their mistakes.

4)Giving a good blow job could get you a job. Right FARB?

5)Groceries are not expensive if you go with a friend. One of you fill up a bag with food and have the other cause a distraction as you leave out the front of the store. Just remember to run like hell.

6)Your therapist wants you to remain depressed to continue collecting her fees. She's heard from you how hard it is being poor.

7)What the fuck do you need a three bedroom apartment for if you are living alone?

8)You can save a lot on cologne by hitting the perfume counter at the department store before going out.

9)This phrase could save your life. "Would you like to supersize that?"

10)Anything can be sold on Craigslist.

Now that I finally am an expert...I think I'm going to start charging to hold seminars for those who haven't a clue. I wonder what I should charge...

Welcome to Catering

Last night I catered a cocktail party on Fifth Avenue for a couple that was launching the new wine they've had made and are now marketing. 70 of their friends, all who have children attending a $34,000 a year school on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The family having the party have 4 boys in this school. They pay more in tuition than I have in total school loan debt. Give or take a thousand.

That being said, this party was about showing off for their friends. The lady of the house insisted that we spare no expense. She had just had the apartment repainted and decorated, specialty lighting brought in, and she insisted that all the staff come with a freshly pressed uniform (It's polyester...if I iron the damn thing it would melt). She had fois gras prepared, a special caviar bar, and fillet mignon medallions in a Bordeaux reduction.

During the party, one of her guests dropped a glass of red wine on her white sofa (which I promptly cleaned to the best of my ability). Another guest dropped a glass on her new carpet, which our staff also cleaned. She was perfectly happy.

Until she got the bill.

She didn't agree with the catering standard that cater waiters get a minimum 5 hour pay, regardless how short the shift. She wanted to only pay us for the three hours we were working.

Lesson? Money doesn't buy class.

Word

Ok...so I'm alive. I'll start off with that. As to the particulars as to why I've not been blogging...well it's complicated.

Blogging about work when you work for another blogger...um...not a smart idea.

Blogging about the catering gigs I've been working when I've signed a confidentiality agreement...well...what exactly could they sue me for? It's not like I have any money.

That being said...a certain Puerto Rican singer *may* have had a pool party where ironically no woman was at. Hmmmm...perhaps the National Enquirer will contact me? I do have pictures.

But mostly...those are just excuses. I've had a lot on my mind...but not really anything I could share with others. I still have things going on...and eventually...I'll share...but for now...it needs to remain a little private.

My apologies for pissing anyone off or disappointing you. You can call me a bad person.

---

I've been finding it hard to speak lately. I'm normally a verbal person. To a fault. I've seen looks from friends at times that say "will he ever shut up?", and I'll still go on. Part of it is that I'm a verbal thinker. When hearing the words coming out of my mouth, it's my actual thinking process. This has hurt me in the past (just ask me about the job where my opinion on anything no longer mattered). Yet, my life is all I have at times and I'm willing to share it with my friends and family.

Except.

I've become afraid of a word. One mother fucking word. No...not Republican, not McCain, Not Palin (cunt...oops...sorry Tuna), not even grandmother (cunt...happy Ricker?). I've become fearful of one particular word that I can't seem to say in public. Because if I say it...I feel like I may jinx myself.

I've been seeing this guy since June. That's not new...I'm a serial dater. But my friends noticed the difference first. I didn't nickname him. I nickname every guy I date. Curve Ball Albino, Dirty Curry, Pirogi Boy, Tiny Tot...all nicknamed. It's the way my friends are able to distinguish what has become the Sex in the City soap opera of my life. So of course my friends were the first to notice I didn't nickname this guy I've been seeing. And it's how I've been referring to him. "This guy I've been seeing". All because I've too afraid to say the "B-Word" in public. It's been used in private, but using it in public puts expectations on it. Once you say someone is your boyfriend (Aggghhh...spins three times and knocks on wood), people expect things. And if it doesn't work out...you face the disappointment in their eyes for you.

So I have problems saying that word in public.

God help me if anyone mentions the "L" word. I do know how to shoot a gun.

Johnny Appleseed

Lately, I've been thinking about mortality and how easy death can happen to any one of us. Recently, my grandmother's boyfriend's sister died after taking a fall down the stairs. She was 78, and the head trauma was too much for her. She spent her final days in a nursing home not realizing who she was or where she was at. A perfect way to go.

But it got me thinking, what if my grandmother goes? I'm the sole one responsible for her...and that just ain't pretty. So weekly, I call and just check on her. I can tell she's getting older, as she'll tell me the same things several times during our phone conversation. Yes, I know she's critical of me and not the greatest for my self esteem, but she's the only family I have. Like it or not.

So I called her yesterday, like I normally do on Sundays (not during church time) and there was no answer. I then called again around 8:30 last night...and still...no answer.

This morning, I called her at 7 am...and again...she didn't answer, and I began to panic. In my head, she was lying dead on her apartment floor, or worse...she had had a stroke and couldn't answer the phone. So I did what needed to be done. I called her building's management office and gave them permission to go into the apartment. Yes...I said they were allowed to break the door down if they needed to. (She's 83 and paranoid. Even though she lives in a security building, she still feels the need to put 16 million chains on the door when she's inside.)

The building office called me back to say she wasn't inside her home, and that they weren't sure where she was. They asked if I wanted to file a report with the police.

At this point, I did what I've done in regards to my mother. I became the freaking parent. I started calling every single person I knew that knows my grandmother, asking if they had heard from her. I googled searched and found her boyfriend's telephone number and called him.

Apparently she spent the night at his home. My daily church going grandmother spent the night at a man's home...and if she was on her knees...I don't think she was praying.

My god...my grandmother is a slut.


It's true...the apple really doesn't fall far from the tree.

Sensitivity Training

I am a sensitive guy.

Yes...I know...how progressive of me...whatever. Yes, I do try to think of other's feelings and I'm not ashamed to cry in public, but this isn't why I'm sensitive.

Yesterday afternoon, I was flipping channels and caught a medical show where people could ask the doctor anything they wanted. What caught my interest was that the entire audience was composed of nothing but men. And one of them asked the question:

How often and exactly how do I check for testicular cancer?

The doctor, being the health professional that he is, brought the guy onstage, and showed him and the audience on a cadaver that had been donated for this purpose.

Examine each testicle with both hands. Place the index and middle fingers under the testicle with the thumbs placed on top. Roll the testicle gently between the thumbs and fingers -- you shouldn't feel any pain when doing the exam. Don't be alarmed if one testicle seems slightly larger than the other, that's normal.

At this point, I was rolling on the floor in sympathy pain. This was turning into the longest 10 minutes of my life! Why the hell weren't they breaking for commercial?
As I was breaking out into a cold sweat. For the love of God!!!! I was in agony. If fact, I'm in pain just typing this.

I know I should be checking myself monthly...but you know what?

I survived cancer once... I'll chance it.

Knowledge

They say that knowledge is power, and the other night I learned something while catering.

Sweetbreads...are neither sweet...nor bread.

People who spend 2000 a plate will eat some fucked up shit. I don't care how cute you are...you'll be washing your mouth out with Listerine before kissing me.

I've never been so glad to not be able to eat much in solid foods.

Left Behind

A phone message I left this morning.

Hey. It's Patrick.
I was wondering. Did your boyfriend leave his cock ring in my apartment? If so...I found it under my pillow.

Call me later and let me know. If it is his, I'll hold onto it until the next time I see you both.

There is a perfectly rational explaination for this message...but with my reputation...nobody would believe it.

Digger

Friday night, while at happy hour (which is always happy, but way more than an hour), my friends caught a blonde man staring at me from across the bar. Seeing that they are all in relationships, they brought him over and introduced him to me.

My initial reaction was that he seems nice and he's attractive. He's 31, works in marketing, blond. But that being said, the conversation was a little bland, but that can happen while being pressured to actually converse with my friends listening to every word we said. So we moved off to the side a bit and continued our conversation.

He lives in Manhattan, is single (which is a big change in my record), and grew up in the Midwest. I still found myself thinking "eh", and then he said the magic words.

"I bought my apartment this past year".

Suddenly he was really attractive.


Ummm...what does this say about me?

Class Dismissed

Yesterday...I finally found out what it's like to be a woman. No...I didn't get pregnant, nor was I sexually harassed (although I'd welcome that), nor was I passed over for a promotion by a less qualified man. Rather, I experienced something a bit more intimate.

Who here hates Whitney Houston? To me, she is a crack addicted pimple on the butt of society. That being said, I remember when she pretended to act in the movie "Waiting to Exhale". At one point, she has sex with this guy, who climbs on top of her and climaxes within seconds, and with that...he's done. She's left there, laying on the bed, thinking..."is that it?"

There is no excuse for bad sex. I can understand if Mr. QC (quick cummer) is excited and loses control...but we have rules in gay sex.

Rule #1: If you both haven't had one...you aren't fucking done!

I'm to impatient to be a teacher, and at the age of 39...he's too old to be a student!

Class Dismissed!

Time Lines

12:01 AM I'm cleaning the puke of the drunk guy that puked on my bar while ordering yet another glass of champagne.

1:18 AM While riding the A-Train home, the woman nearest me squats between two seats and pees. Clearly, she has been eating asparagus.

3:00 AM Still tossing and turning, I finally give up and realize I will not be sleeping, and get up to read a book. Search for copy of War and Peace. Settle on Memoirs of a Geisha.

5:00 AM Leave apartment to go for a short 2 mile run hoping to burn off the 10 pounds the doctor informs me I've gained.

5:01 AM Return to my apartment shivering and deciding I'd rather stay fat.

6:15 AM At the local diner for breakfast, the server accidently serves my 2 over easy eggs, with a side of sliced tomatoes and toast onto my lap. Clothes covered in yellow goo...I go home to change.

9:00 AM After one hour and still being the only one in the office, I ponder why I didn't grab a breakfast at a different diner on the way. Try to figure a way out of working tonight, as I'm scheduled to work a dinner for 800.

So far...38 isn't all sunshine and roses.

I've not really been upset about turning 38 this year, but I do hate my birthday. For me, birthdays are a reminder of where I should be, and less a celebration about where I am.

Singles Awareness Day

Every February 14th, what couples call "Valentine's Day", the coupled people run around purchasing roses, chocolates, and bottles of champagne to celebrate their so called "love" for each other.

Roses, chocolates, and champagne all just get laid? Screw that...I'll just head to the gym steam room and save the hundred bucks. But I do find that many of my single friends don't realize that today is not Valentine's Day, but actually it is Singles Awareness Day!

Singles Awareness Day (otherwise known as SAD) is held every February 14th as a way of identifying all other singles that are not coupled (or tripled) You can easily spot the singles on this day, at the grocery store purchasing ice cream and a bottle of vodka, or sitting alone in a fast food restaurant during the dinner hours, or in the video store renting the Bridges of Madison County and Titanic.

Singles are also located on this day at the top of tall buildings looking down over the edge to the ground, throwing themselves in front of moving subway trains, and even once in a while chained to heavy objects falling rapidly to the bottom of the Hudson River.

Singles truly are everywhere on Singles Awareness Day. Even in bars. You can easily find them intoxicated and making out with the first random person who stands close to them. Now if you excuse me...I hear a cosmopolitan calling my name.