Do as I Say, Not as I Do!

Today I was in a store looking to buy a swimsuit. I picked up the one I liked and debated it.

Back in 1984 I bought a sleeveless striped shirt. Very 80's, but I saw all the hot college guys were wearing the shirts and I wanted to look like them. Of course, my arms had no muscle definition and therefore I didn't look right in the shirt. I justified that I would keep it in my closet and once I had muscle definition that I found satisfactory (read...any muscle at all), I'd wear the shirt. If I hadn't moved as many times as I had, I'd probably still have that dated shirt hanging in my closet, never worn. The shirt lasted until I was 17 and left my father.

I don't wear things that are body concious. I'm not one of those guys that wears a pair of blue jeans and a straw cowboy hat and dances in a club (the shirt only comes off when I'm drunk enough to not care). Just thinking of wearing a swimsuit makes my heart beat fast and my stomach lurch. Yet I'd be lying if I said part of me didn't want to feel comfortable enough to wear those kind of things in public, but there is a voice (I call it reason) in my head that says "Are you fucking nuts? You will be judged like no other if you wear that in public!"

Of course, if you've read my past rantings, I'm the first to scream that people shouldn't care what others think, and if they want to walk on the beach in a liime green thong or a pink tutu, go right ahead. People are beautiful because they believe they are beautiful, and the media can fuck themselves. How many ripped abs or perfect thighs do you see in real life? So why do we have to have them?

Yet, I judge myself to a much more difficult standard, one that is nearly impossible to meet. Not that I don't keep trying. Keep lifting, keep up the cardio, never let a refined carbohydrate past my lips. But don't give up the alcohol...I'm not crazy...just lacking any self confidence.

My thought though...when does it end? When do we find enough satisfaction and self confidence that we feel comfortable? Where can I buy that magic potion that allows us to see ourselves in a positive light?

Oh...and no...I didn't buy the swimsuit. I don't have the closet space.

You Rule, Vietnamese Waxer Lady

I found this piece on the Best of Craigslist. This tops the Stripper's rant.

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My regular waxer was not available and I just could not bear the wild, untamed amazon bush jungle that my, well, bush had become for another day.

So I came to you on my lunch hour, Anonymous Vietnamese Waxer Lady who works at the cheapie nail place. We were mere strangers before this afternoon, but after knowing you only an hour, I feel like I must point out the reasons why you rule.

When it was necessary to get on all fours to do the “taint” part of the wax, you applied the wax so delicately to my bunghole, then asked, in what I assumed were two of the only five English words you know, “Too hot?” I responded yes, it was too hot. And without hesitation, you blew on it to cool the hot wax. YOU BLEW ON MY BUNGHOLE, Vietnamese Waxer Lady. Do you know how special that is? Nobody blows on the bung. Nobody.

Since you were a bit clumsy with the wax, there were many bits leftover that did not get taken up onto the “Strip of Doom” as I like to call it. So without any sort of trepidation whatsoever, you happily took a cotton ball and dug the wax out of my vaginal canal yourself. How did you manage to do that without making me feel the least bit uncomfortable, Vietnamese Waxer Lady? Were you a gynecologist back in Vietnam and they wouldn’t let you practice medicine in the United States when you immigrated here, and so now you wax pubes for a living? I know that kind of thing happens all the time, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to know this occupation has not been your first foray into coochdom. And I know this is totally inappropriate, but I even started to feel, dare I say, a tiny bit frisky from the action. You just seemed to know my vagina so very well. Almost like you were two old friends, and I was this new acquaintance showing up to lunch with you and my vagina, but then was all like “Oh. I see you two have already met.”

Since you don’t speak much English, you had to motion to me where to place my legs in the air to best reach the “corner” as you called it. Most people would have been uncomfortable with their legs in the air and then having their butt cheeks spread further apart, mere centimeters from the face of a stranger. But you smiled at me and with a subtle expression, indicated that you, too, felt my pain. You should give lessons to medical students, Vietnamese Waxer Lady, on how to have good bedside manner. Or I guess in your case, ass-side manner.

I thanked you with a good tip, but I want to thank you here, publicly, for your selfless action, and for doing your part on behalf of all humanity to keep my pubes under control.

Am I Blue?

I'm a little blue today.

If I haven't mentioned it before, I work a lot. Between both jobs, I'm averaging about 70 hours a week, and when you add on my workout schedule and chores, I really only have about 1 weeknight free a week. This wouldn't be that bad, but it leaves my dating options next to nothing. Who's free for a date on a Wednesday night? So of course, romance is out for now. But sex, well that's a major food group. You can't go without for too long.

The thing is, if you think finding romance one night a week is difficult, sex can be even harder. Who has the time to come over to my place on that one scheduled night when I'm not even sure when my night off is going to be? With that kind of schedule, I'm limited to what I have at hand.

Which leaves me a very good reason to go to the gym! If I'm not getting any, the least I can do is look at the hot guys while I'm there. And believe me...there are many hot guys at the gym (and more not so hot guys...but those guys aren't relevant to this story). Watching these guys pump the iron, lay face down on the bench while they contract their hamstrings, doing crunches on their backs, and oh dear god...the stretching. By the end of their workout, I'm more than happy to hit the locker room for a cold shower.

Now every once in a while an opportunity will knock and I'll actually meet someone or at least get cruised by someone I find remotely attractive. Now if I've learned anything from Tunagirl over the last year, it's that when opportunity presents itself, you've got to grab it by the balls.

Ironic because that's almost exactly what happened to me. I had just finished my workout and was changing when I caught the eye of a guy in the locker room. He glanced long enough to make sure I saw he was interested, and then brushed past me as he headed to the showers. The angel on my right shoulder told me I should go home and catch up on my correspondence. The devil on my left shoulder grabbed me by the dick and pulled me into the shower area. As I turned the corner I saw the guy walk into the sauna, glancing back once to see if I was following. Duh! I haven't had sex in a while...of course I'm following.

I followed him in, and sat on the bench. The object of my lust leaned forward and snuck a glance up my towel. This is the part I hate about cruising in the locker rooms or any public space. I hate the cat and mouse games. By the time anybody gets the nerve to say something or make a move, you could die of heat stroke in the damn sauna. This wasn't the case with this guy.

Within a minute of us sitting down, he had a hand on my knee and was working his way up to the giblets and gravy. I could feel my pulse racing in my temples (but that could have been because it was a thousand degrees in the sauna). He stood up and moved closer to me, and whispered the most dirty and delectable things into my ear.

And with that my friends and foes, the launch sequence was started. T minus 10 and counting. There comes a point with any man that reason is left behind and only thoughts of lust remain. Placing your lips on my right nipple (as was this case) is my breaking point. "Either we are going to do something here, or back at one of our apartments", I thought. I have a feeling he would have concurred right then.

But there is a bad side to cruising. The cock tease. There are guys who get off on getting a stranger aroused, and then changing their mind and going home. This was the situation I was in. With one second left on the countdown, the guy stood up, wiped his mouth dry and walked out into the locker room. He changed clothes quickly and left the gym. I had to take a long cold shower.

Women...want to see this in action? Initiate sex with your mate, and after getting him fully aroused, say "have a good day" and walk away. He'll hate you...but you'll see how the process works.

So as I said before...I'm feeling blue now.

You Can Always Count on Me.

If you need a guy to go without salary and work too hard,
you can always count on me.
The kind of a pal who'll sneak you a file past the prison guard,
loyal to the 'nth degree.
The boss is quite the ladies man, and that's my biggest gripe.
till I showed up he never hired a boy cause he could type.
I'm no Femme Fatale, but faithful and true as a saint bernard, barking up the wrong damn tree.
You can always count on me.

There are times when I really hate being me. I'm the nice guy. The one who will stop his conversation with the guy he's interested in if you are so drunk you need an escort home. The guy who will give you his coat if you're shivering. The guy who will be treated like a doormat and will tell you that it's ok...even when it isn't. Please sir, may I have another? Saturday...I was stepped on. Actually, I was trampled in a stampede.

Three ladies came into the bar near closing time and wanted coffees and dessert. Two of the ladies live in the city here and the third was visiting from Canada. They visitor had a glass of wine while the other two had coffee. While the three enjoyed their drinks, the wolf began to circle.

I'm being somewhat discreet when I say that my one boss is attracted to women like flies are attracted to shit. Bring a woman into the bar area near closing time and she will be guaranteed free drinks. Which is exactly what happened with the visiting Canadian.

I could see the lust in his eyes as he gave her 5 shots of vodka. Unfortunately for him (and me), she was devoted to her husband back in Ontario and therefore was not about to fall for the wolf's advances. So he did what any straight asshole would do. He suggested she hang out with me since the bar was closing.

Now a not so nice guy would have said "I plan on going home." However, I am a nice guy. Fuck. I took her to a bar near where I work. And that is when my life took resemblance to a situational comedy. She hooked her arm into mine and off we went to a bar two blocks away.

We walked into the bar and out came her credit card. She bought herself and me a drink, and then proceeded to chat up the young guy sitting next to us. When I say young, I'm talking 21 years old. She was determined to convince us that we were a perfect match, even though it was apparent on both sides that we weren't interested. When my mother was my age, I was 21. I could literally and figuratively be that boy's daddy. I am not ready to have kids.

Knowing that this "Boi" and I were destined to be together, she walked off to explore the bar a bit. I kept site of her out the corner of my eye and gave the bartender one request. "Never let my drink go empty and put the order on her tab." I'm a nice guy...not a stupid guy.

The Canadian made her way back to me to ask me how my love connection was going, and to insure that I couldn't move away, she sat on my lap. She told me a quick version of her life story including how she given birth to three children (the second took the most out of her at over 23 hours of labor). She also said she respected gay people and that she herself had had 3 lesbian experiences in college.

A poor guy named Steven caught her eye and she had set her sites on a new man for me. "You are so beautiful, you have the most beautiful eyes, and your nose is perfect. Patrick! Isn't he just beautiful?" she exclaimed.

"Sweetie, exactly how much X did you take?" Steven asked her.

She didn't understand, but Steven was intrigued as to when I found this one. As I was explaining the story to him, she walked over to the stripper, pulled out his g-string, and screamed across the bar to me: "Patrick. His dick really is that big!"

If you are the stripper she did this to...my apologies, but I really didn't send her over to do that. I'm sure your endowment is fine, and really had no interest in seeing if you were stuffing or not. I also apologize for her pushing you off the block so she could dance in your place.

As she continued through the evening, she knocked drinks over (which of course she bought replacements) and continued to make friends who would tolerate her. I took a break to sip my drink and she disappeared. I figured she must be in the bathroom. When she came back, she was wearing a baseball hat and had someone's shirt, which she gave to me. Nice...except I wear a size small. Go back out there and at least get the right size.

Once again exclaiming that we all are such beautiful people, she did the insane. She called the bartender over and bought the bar a round of Jack Daniel's shots. The entire bar. I looked around at the mass of people and did some quick calculations and saw the potential for serious disaster. As she wandered off to dance near the video screen showing porn, I called the bartender over.

"Exactly how much is her tab right now?" I asked.
"Nearly $2800", he snickered.
I stood slack jawed for a second and made the decision. "Pour me another vodka cranberry, add 20% tip and close the tab. I'll have her sign the slip".

And with that, the crazy drunk lady was in debt. By the time I found her at the other end of the bar, tragedy had taken place. She no longer had her top or bra. One of the not so nice queens had taken them (probably the one who's shirt she stole). Thankfully, a drag queen was nice enough to donate a couple of feather boas to cover her up for the walk home.

I walked her back to her friends apartment, where I proceeded to fight the doorman to let me take her to her door. I gave him the option. "Do you want her passed out in the elevator or hallway?"

He let me up.

As we walked down her hallway, she "woo hoo'd" and did a little seductive dance (sorry sweetie...but those boobs are not a turn on for me. Give me hard man-pecs) and I very quickly opened her apartment door, pushed her in, dropped the key on the floor and shut the door.

I'm not going to be nice anymore.

Sigh...Until next time.

It's a Morality Issue

Situation: During rush hour, a woman gets on the A train in the Village headed for uptown. She takes a seat down on the one side of the crowded train and a man sits on the other side of the train opposite them. The woman and the man exchange glances and suddenly the man screams at her to "stop staring" at him. Words are exchanged and he gets up and punches her several times and then stabs her. The rest of the crowd on the train moves to the other end of the car to avoid the altercation but does nothing to help the woman. When the train arrived at the next stop, the woman chased him off the train while holding her own stab wound. She got assistance in the station.

A month or so ago, one of the late night news stations did fake abductions of young child to see who would help to get involved. The child would scream how the person grabbing them wasn't their dad, and except for 2 guys, nobody would help them.

That this happened is disturbing enough, but that nobody would help is what's bothering me today. Let me put this plain and simple for everyone.

IF YOU SEE SOMEONE ATTACKING SOMEONE ELSE, IT'S YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO TAKE ACTION!!! Not to look the other way, not to move to the other end of the train, and never to just ignore the whole thing. Doing that makes you as guilty as the freak doing wrong.

What the Fuck? Grab your bag and throw it at the mother fucker's head. Make noise! Call 911 on the cell phone. Where are the supposed good Christians when all this is going on? You would think attacking an attacker get them that free pass to heaven they all seem to hope for. Attack the guy with the gun...if you die...you go on a good note...if not...you're sure to get a story on the news.

Tonight...I'm taking the bus.

A Stripper's Rant

If the woman who wrote this rant ever wants to do comedy...she'll find work in a heartbeat. I so want to meet her.

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1) Hey you over there, holding that one dollar bill in your hand with a death grip and waving it around at me like it's the fucking deed to Trump Towers... what the fuck do you want me to do, grow another pussy?!? It's a fuckin' dollar, put it down on the tiprail and blow my world away already.

2) You losers that come into the club for a lapdance with NO underwear or boxers and thin-ass, nylon shorts, so we slip and slide on your hard-on (which always feel like a sharpie pen ~ fine point)...fuck you.

3) You with the thick-ass jeans, this was an impromptu visit, eh?

4) Don't pull my thong up during a dance and ask me if it felt good. IT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD.

5) Hey you, Loser, the one counting out the 20 bucks in one dollar increments, rubbing your fingers between each one to make sure you are giving me just that one dollar. Yes, you.

6) No I will not just let you "slip it in real quick" for $50 more bucks.

7) Yeah, my tits are real. As real as my affection for you.

8)If you cum in your pants, you have to tip me an extra $100 for being a lame-ass who can cum in their pants from a lapdance.

9) Stop asking me out. You're a smelly, fat loser and the only reason I'm smiling and cooing at you is because I want your money. Outside of the club I wouldn't even fart your way.

11) Stop bitching at me about the goddamn two drink minimum. First of all, your breath ranks (what'd you have for dinner, garlic and shit?), you're about 172 lbs. overweight, and you look like Jay Leno. More importantly: I don't give a shit.

12) Don't bitch at me about the $10 non-alchoholic beer either. Hide a bottle of Jack in your coat pocket next time like everyone else does.

13) My horniness is in direct proportion to your income.

14) No, you CAN'T SMOKE. Dumb. Ass.

15 )Boys, don't sit in the front row with your "homies" and act all engrossed in some deep conversation during a girls performance because you want to look like you're too "cool" to notice the hot, naked girl in front of you. It's a clear sign that you ain't getting any.

16) DON'T SIT IN THE FRONT ROW IF YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TIP. Fer chrissakes!!!!!!!!!!!


17) "So what do you guys do when you're on your period?" Answer: I lap dance with guys in dark pants.

18) STOP trying to grab my tits!!!!!!! That's extra.

19) SHOWER FIRST, you nasty fuck!

20) I had a feeling you weren't going to tip me, so I took extra care to rub my lip gloss on your collar and wear extra glitter lotion and obnoxious perfume before our dance.

21) Hey cheapasses: please don't come to my work. Just stay home and jack off to "Desperate Housewives" instead. It will save us a both a lot of unpleasantry.

22) Stop asking me why I do this job and try to get all psychologically analytical on me. For the money, you moron, that's why.

23) No seriously, my real name is Sparkle.

24) NO, I will not take a dime sac for payment. I can tell it's oregano anyway you stupid mutherfucker!

25) Sorry, I don't do that. Ask the ugly girl at the bar with the black roots and overbite.

26) I can see it's your first time at a strip club. Let me explain the dynamics to you. If you want a fuck or a blow-job, go to the ugly chicks. Hot girls don't have to do "extra services." I can give you some recommendations for a small fee.

27) It is not okay for you to bounce me on your cock like a baby on a knee. Not okay.


28) Stop complaining about how short the song was. It felt like the fucking maxi-single to me.

29)Yes I will fuck you, but only for 10 grand. More if you're ugly. So basically, more.

30) DO NOT come into the club looking for a girlfriend/date. It's like me going to PETA looking for a steak.

31) Girls--what's with the pole smell? Can we do a little hygiene check? Nothing than worse than twirling around the pole and getting a whiff of stale pussy.

32) Girls--stop lip-syncing to the song you're dancing to on stage. Especially if you don't know all the words.

33) Girls--if your toes curl and hang over your platform shoes a la' Fred Flinstone, you need to go up a size.

34) Girls--drowning yourself in Angel perfume is just as bad if not worse than the BO you're trying to cover. Take a goddamn shower, you smell like lapdance funk.

35) Hey DJ! You suck!

36)Girls--may I suggest complete sobriety before getting tatted up? Tattoos should be meaningful, or at least semi-meaningful, or at least semi semi-meaningful. That fucking dancing llama on your ass is so lame.

37)Girls--some songs just should not be stripped to. Please. No Disney soundtracks (you know who you are, you fucking weirdo), Sade, Boys II Men, or Bjork. For the love of God, Please.

Once You Had It...

Today while searching the ads of Craigslist (for furniture...I've never cruised the sex ads), I found an ad mis-categorized. The title of it was

Once You Go Jew, You'll Never Feel Blue!

***Blank stare***


Now by this point in life, most everyone has heard the phrase starting "Once you go black, you'll never go back", which had it's own empowering although egotistical use. Other people (like this Jewish man) have adapted the saying to their own use.

"Once you tried fat, you're never going back."
"Once you tried nerd, you'll be preaching the word!"

What it all comes back to is confidence. Confidence is attractive. It's sexy. The kind of confidence that says you can walk into a room and have anyone you want and the one you choose is about to have the best night of his life. And it's what I lack at times.

Now we all have our moments where we lack confidence. Sometimes it's when you are at the bar, or approaching someone in a dance club, or maybe in a work situation...just those rare moments when you have no confidence. My times of lack of confidence are when I am awake. Not good. So I'm on a quest for confidence.

I started my quest by changing the music on the IPOD to all affirming music. Missy Elliott sings in my ears "think you can handle this godonka donk donk", indicating that her big ass is more than some men can handle. Whitney Houston and I were singing to every man who has EVER done me wrong that "It's not right, but it's ok." Hell Beyonce and I agreed that we "don't think you your ready for this jelly".

Empowered, I realized the one bad by product of this method...I was turning into a black woman with some serious attitude.

So we go back to the mantra. It's what I need. This is my first attempt.

Once you tried Irish, you'll need a drink.

***pause***

Obviously I need to work on that a bit.

One...Two...Three...Breathe

There are moments when I feel like my feet are getting stepped on and that things are not within my control. Things that will look like it's my fault when they don't work, but in reality I have very little to do with it. It's at those times, when I'm really pissed off, I just need to say fuck it and wash my hands of the whole thing.

Fuck it.

Now where's my Xannax?

Two Reasons I Love Spring

The pressure is on. Must start working out more...

How Long Until I Shoot?

While watching television for the first time in weeks yesterday, I saw a commercial for Match.com which involved Dr. Phil. He's doing some type of promotions for them. What got me thinking is something he said in the commercial.

"You are the star of your own movie."

Now I am the first to admit, I hate Dr. Phil. I think he's pompous and a bit heterosexist, but he knows how to play to his demographic. He's a great politician. I wouldn't vote for him, but his words rang in my ears for a while. We are the stars in our own movies.

Now in most movies I've seen, the hero of the film starts out with their everyday life going as it usually goes, and something happens. So something is going to happen to me today, as my life is currently pretty boring.

So as I showered and got dressed in all black (I bartend tonight), and looking in the mirror, tried to guess what character I was playing. Either cat burglar or action hero. I'm not planning on a stealing anything soon, so it's action hero Patrick to the rescue.

I got onto the subway and suddenly transformed into Keanu Reeves from Speed. The train was populated by about 30 people, all innocently on their way to work and I was going to have to save all their lives on the now doomed "E-Train"! The one guy, a 6' blond man, with a very nice torso was going to be my Sandra Bullock. He could drive the train while I save the day and when this diabolical event is over, we would live happily ever after. Cue the dramatic music please.

Then the train stopped and let me off my stop. I debated continuing on the ride, if only to save the day, but that would have meant riding to Queens, and would have made me late for work. Action hero out, I must be meant for a different movie.

The romantic comedy! Today, I'm going to fall for the new stranger who comes into my office. He's going to walk through the door, and I'm going to fall for him immediately, but he won't even know I exist. To get his attention, I'll tell him I am the president of my company, and will have to kidnap and tie up my boss so this new guy doesn't ever meet my boss.

Well, it's been three hours and the door hasn't even opened...Romantic comedy is out. My next opportunity is to be cast in a horror movie. I'm going to step out of the office and go down the hall to the bathroom. When I get back, my boss and coworker will be dead, blood and gore everywhere, and the killer will be after me...

***Bathroom Break***

My boss and coworker are still alive. Shit. Fucking office staff is ruining my movie. Maybe I'm supposed to be the killer?

Somehow, I seem to have missed my staring role today or I am currently the living version of "Waiting for Godot". So I have only one chance left to star in my own movie today.

Solo Porn.

The Perils of Laundry in New York

Each day, I wake up to the alarm clock and NPR at 6:00, roll over and hug my pillow (pretending it's Brad Pitt or Antonio Banderas or the hot guy who's ass I followed up the stairs of the 51st station). Once I've grown fully awake (pun intended), I climb down my stairs and do my daily naked dash through my apartment to my bathroom for the daily shower. Post shower, I once again streak through the apartment and climb the stairs to get dressed for work. And today, when I reached into my underwear drawer, I found only one pair left.

Now some guys I know like to go commando, but I'm not one of them. For some reason, I never did shake the problem that all 17 year old boys have, and the last thing I need is to be in a meeting without underwear to hold back my "enthusiasm".

I quickly put on the last pair and placed any straggling pieces of clothing in my laundry bag to take to the Wash-N-Fold. Wash and fold service is the greatest thing ever created by man. I take my laundry to the service, weigh it (usually around 25lbs) and come back in 8 hours to have clean clothes folded to the size of a postage stamp. The closest place where I can take my clothes is the service on 83rd and Columbus, a mere 1.5 blocks from me.

Now most of these services in my neighborhood will do pick up and delivery, but I'm still way frugal. I've been broke for too long and the idea of paying extra money just to have somebody take my clothes from me and pick them up is just a bit much. And seriously, how hard is it to carry 25 lbs of laundry 1.5 blocks?

As I turned the corner with the blue-whale sized bag on my shoulder, I came to a devastating site. The wash and fold service has closed down. Now I've said this before, but if you need to find a particular business or service in New York, you will wander the streets like the Jews wandered in the desert. Searching for a wine store? You'll pass 85 Chinese take out restaurants and never even see a wine cork. Looking for a Chinese take out? You pass 20 wine stores and starve to death.

Of course this being my clothes, things are even worse. I am a gay single man in New York. I'm being nice when I say that some of my laundry resembles Monica's blue dress. I always have the fear that some Mexican woman is going to look at me and comment on the size of any stains I may have on my hand towels. "Oooo! You lonely Papi?" she would say (and I would die).

I finally found a service 4 avenues away, and I am now sore after having carried that mass of clothing that distance. Living in New York is all about convenience. Take out food is in abundance (unless your are looking for it), groceries are delivered from the internet, and I'm going to have to suck it up and have my clothes picked up and delivered. So what's an appropriate tip for a delivery man to take my dirty clothes out of my home?

Late Night Phone Calls

In 1997, my Ex and I moved across the country from Denver to Athens, Ohio (commonly called Hell) so that he could pursue his PhD. Coming from a city of 2 million and a large gay population to a county of 20,000 was daunting. Both my Ex and I hated where we were living, and our only salvation was that misery loves company.

We found a married couple, Tina and Rodger, both graduate students, also in their first year at the university. They had two children, and had rented a much better house than we did. After seeing our home, they invited us to have monthly dinners at their house as a way of evacuating what should have been condemned. Our house was a pit. We soon found ourselves spending all our time together, and sadly, we convinced both of them that Denver was a much better place than Ohio. After their daughter had a massive asthma attack, they decided to move out West.

My Ex and I both flew out to see them a few times and we still kept in touch, but time and moving often takes its toll. Tina and Rodger's marriage (like my own relationship with the Ex) had become unstable and eventually they divorced. Rodger developed an alcohol problem and all three of us hoped he would eventually get help. Instead he moved back to his home to be close to his family. He still visited his children as often as he could.

On Saturday night, Rodger fell backwards down a flight of stairs and hit the back of his head. He stopped breathing, went into cardiac arrest, and was kept alive by CPR until an ambulance arrived. He was taken to Mercy Hospital in Oklahoma City where he has been on a ventilator and unresponsive in ICU. He was in a coma and not responding well.

Last night at 11:10 I got the phone call. I hate calls that come in the middle of the night, as they are never good. Someone is in the hospital, or arrested, or has just died. In this case, Rodger died last night.

I've been lucky to miss the worst years of his alcoholism and the effect it had on his family. His kids have seen the strong man who took care of them reduced to a drunken argumentative mess. At this point, they were a bit afraid of him. Yet all I can remember is the guy who read to his daughter nightly while she endured her breathing treatments, or the guy who took his son sledding while suffering a 104 fever.

Maybe this stems from my own relationship with my family, but my hope is that his kids can hold on to those good memories. Especially now.

So You Think You Would Want to Date Me?

I've found in my past that I always end up chasing after the wrong guy, and in the end, get my heart broken. It isn't healthy, so in an effort to weed out the wrong guys, I've created a quiz.

Question 1: Yes or No. Are you or have you ever been a woman?

Question 2: True or False? A "Hail Mary Pass" is something a priest does to an alter boy.

Question 3: True or False? A facial comes from a cosmetic company.

Question 4: True or False? Skiing involves cold weather.

Question 5: Yes or no. Have you ever ordered a wine spritzer (white or red)?

Question 6: True or False? Do you need a tent to camp?

Question 7: At the gym, how much time do you spend working out?

• A) 1-2 hours, 5 times a week
• b) 1-2 hours 3 times a week
• c)Under an hour 5 times a week
• d) Under an hour 3 times a week
• e) I exercise often, but I'm not fanatical.
• f) I haven't seen a gym (or my toes) in years

Question 8: We just finished a romantic candle lit meal at home. What is our next task?

• a) You brush the side of my face with your hand and pull me in for a kiss.
  
• b) We slow-dance in the candle light to a Dolly Parton CD.
  
• c) We finish the rest of our shared bottle of wine while holding hands at the table.
  
• d) We take the plates to the kitchen, wash and put them away.

Question 9: Pick one:

• a) You own silicone lube.
  
• b) You own water based lube.
  
• c) You make your own lube.

Question 10: Afterwards, we:

• a) We cuddle.
  
• b) We rinse and repeat.
  
• c) We snore.

Question 11: Which swimsuit would you wear?
A?B?C?D?

Question 12: Yes or no? Have I dated or slept with you in the last 10 years?

Please answer all questions and get your answers back to me with your telephone number.


Until I get any responses, I'm going to lie back and relax.

Are you there God?

If so. Give me a sign. Preferably by taking my hangover away.

Separate But Equal

"You don't understand. By being exclusive, we are being inclusive..."

Last night was the "kick-off" gala event I've been working on for my real job. This event which benefits a local charity has been...Well let's just say it's been a production.

Afterwards, sitting in the local bar, I was speaking to a lighting designer who had attended the event. We were discussing the interior design industry and the relationships it has with show rooms and the retail customer. The whole thing makes no sense to me.

The showroom either manufactures the item or purchases it from a manufacturer, then displays it in a prominent storefront and then locks their door, only allowing interior designers into the showroom. These designers purchase the item, marks it up significantly in price and resells it to the customers who have hired the designer.

A retail customer who walks down the street and sees the item in the showroom window is not allowed to buy the item. It makes no business sense.

TLC, HGTV, and DIY have changed the design industry parameters and the designers and show rooms are dragging their feet. For $1000 you can change your entire room to a whole new look...and you can "do it yourself". The retail customer is looking to eliminate the designer or just take tips from them. This customer wants to browse that design showroom.

"You don't understand. By being exclusive, we are being inclusive. We are including those we want in our circle, and keeping out those that don't belong." the designer said.

"Sounds a lot like George Wallace." I answered.

"Exactly!" He answered.

Sometimes...it just isn't worth it.

I'm A Winner

Dear Patrick Doyle,
Recently you attended the Gay and Lesbian Business Expo at the Javits Center in New York City. I want to both thank you for your attendance and congratulate you on winning our raffle!

You are a proud new owner of a Lube Shooter! The lube shooter is the answer to the question, "How do you get lube up there?" Lube often deposits on the way in, leaving our depths still dry and damageable.

Once again, congratulations on winning the Lube Shooter, and we hope you find many years of use with it. The Lube Shooter will help you get your lube between the cheeks and not on the sheets!

Sincerely,

***Blank Stare***

For the record, if anyone ever asked me to use that thing, I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face.


At least I have a way to keep my roasted turkey moist now.

It's All in the Name

Being the feminist that she was, my mother taught me at a very young age to never say the phrase "Just a Housewife". The women who choose to lead this life work just as much as any other human being, and it's something I've seen in the housewives I do know (a shout out to Tuna).

Last night, as usual, I was slaving away at the bar on my night shift. When I bartend, I have to chit-chat the customer, keep them company, and talk about what they want to talk about. Normally I don't mind, but yesterday I had a customer ask where I had gone to school. I told her about both my undergraduate work and my graduate work.

"You've completed graduate work and you're working as a bartender?" she asked.

Suddenly, I'm the smallest person in the room, with the value of a cockroach. I'm just a bartender. I'm just an assistant. I'm only an office temp. I'm just the kid switched from parent to parent. I'm nothing. I'm nobody. I'm used to it.

We work hard at depreciating our own work and abilities, and the longer we go unappreciated, the less we believe in our abilities. But I do know how to smile, and I know how to secretly hate while playing nice with the customer. And I have no problem insulting people in a very polite demeanor.

"Yes, I do work as a bartender in my free time. I've also done 3 stand-up shows since I moved here. In business school, I was taught that you had two options in your free time. Spend money, or make it. Would you care to buy another glass of wine?"

You Better Work...Bitch!

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but marketing tells the beholder what to look at. If you don't match what those looks are, you aren't attractive. Maybe this is why models are stereotyped as conceited.

I've never been one of the beautiful people. I'm only 5'6", not the standard 6' model looks, and at 36 years old...well my contents have begun to shift with the shipping and handling. Now don't get me wrong. I like myself, but I am the first to admit that I don't have model looks. If I wanted it badly enough, I'd just pay for a good plastic surgeon.

That being said, I find the life of a model to be completely foreign to me. Until yesterday, when I was asked at the last minute to model eyewear at the New York Eyewear show here in New York. (que Rupal music) My friend heard about a model who didn't show up and called me to fill in. All I would need to do is wear a pair of sunglasses.

Very expensive sunglasses. When I asked what the glasses retailed for, I was told they were being sold for just over $900. Who buys $1000 glasses?

Imagine the situation. Nine men, Eight of them ranging in height from 5'11" to 6'2" and aged 18 to 22, and 36 year old 5'6" me, all lined up wearing ridiculously priced eyewear. Yet I walked that runway (with a stoic look as smiling would not be tolerated). I needed to look fierce....and oh I did.

Still, I felt weird, and that I didn't belong on the runway. But for one moment this weekend...I got to live the glamorous life. Now if you excuse me, and since my boss posted it on his site...I have a party to continue planning. Want to attend?