I managed to get down to the gayborhood and check out the all new Sue Ellen’s last Saturday night. It’s a lesbian “bar,” and by bar I mean bar/club hybrid. I had never been to a lesbian bar before, not being a lesbian myself. Once inside, I was immediately submerged into a cloud of confusion by hairstyles from all kinds of decades and eras and cultures and what I can only assume are other planets. But once I was acclimated, it was more fun than I’ve had in a long time. I hadn’t been to the gayborhood in years. Times before, I just felt way too uncomfortable. I didn’t have much of that this time around. I guess it’s safe to say I’ll be going back. I’m starting to feel the clock tick and I’m beginning to lose patience for things like low self-esteem and anxiety.
Speaking of which, I kind of felt like my efforts at the gym had plateaued. The numbers game can be depressing. Clearly there’s variation, but sometimes I forget that number is not necessarily representative of progress because of the weight loss/muscle gain ratio (I have one). Basically, I have no gauge for the latter other than eyes. As far as fat loss goes, I’m at a loss of 20-25 pounds. I’m down just over two pant sizes and I’ll be satisfied to make it down just one more, although two would be better. Borderline ridiculous, though.
Anyway, I was saying I felt I had reached a block, and then I caught a glimpse of my shirtless self in a mirror in just the right light and, clearly, I was wrong. I don’t ever plan to see abs or anything like that, but to wear a tight tshirt again would be heaven. Still, I would like more results. And quicker, kthx.
So this month is going to be fun, I hope. On the 20th, I have Jay Brannan’s concert. Two days later is my birthday, there are no plans for that. The following Saturday, I trek down to Houston for a friend’s birthday party. And the next day, a friend and I will be going to San Antonio for some river rat action. The whole following week, I am on vacation from work and plan on using that time to examine other employment opportunities. I’ve been at this place for three and a half years all for nothing. I’m actually not even convinced I’m going to last the next two weeks there. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
We have a new receptionist where I work. She’s a rather nice looking black woman who is just under 60, but obviously takes good care of herself and has a body she’s not ashamed to show off. And shouldn’t be.
She told me once that she used to date younger guys - guys younger than her 37 year old son. She told me she gave up on them because “they’re too fast.” At first I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant because I forcibly retain my childlike naivete, but further conversations revealed that, apparently, they come too quickly.
TMI.
A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to her about something work-related that I’ll never remember because she cut me off mid-sentence and said, “you know, you’re SEXY.” Oh Sweet Jesus, I think I was a deer in the headlights for about 5 seconds, but then I managed to force a smile and say “thanks!” She followed with “you should shave your head and grow a beard.” My hair is 3mm long on both my scalp and my face - I need to do neither of those things. I told her I didn’t want my head to look upside-down.
Time passed and finally I was comfortable again. Mostly. Until today.
I walked to her desk this afternoon (for something work-related, NATCH), and she looked kind of antsy so I jokingly suggested she was either on caffeine or crack. She showed me her bag of Skittles and we both laughed. She offered them to me, and I politely said “no thanks” and began to walk away.
I didn’t get 2 steps before she said, with a stone-cold, sober, unflinching, unblinking face, “well then what do you want? ’cause I can give you what you want.”
It was happeING!!!! I was being sexually-harassed by a post-menopausal strong black woman and there are no instruction books for dealing with this. I laughed nervously for what felt like three days in the Genesis sense, but was in reality more like 3 seconds. And I turned to walk away and laughingly said “you’re crazy!” and didn’t look back. She laughed.
What I really need right now is for a nice man to hold me tighly while I cry.
Andymatic told me “it’s all this Obamomentum making the black people more forward, we’re post-racial now.” Normally that would make me laugh hysterically but I think I’m too traumatized. I’m known for being a bit of a three-beer-hetero at times, but right now, I just feel… dirty… in the bad way.
Sweet Jesus, the rain here yesterday was unbelievable. I was almost evacuated from my home and as the water inched towards the foundation, I sent a text message to my “hag” asking if she got her ticket for the Ark because I didn’t want to be the only one on the boat who had sex with gay men. (I had a threesome with her boyfriend and my boyfriend when we were 17 and he was 16. It was a thing. Shut up.) I thought it was funny.
My boss has been surprisingly not hateful towards me even though as of yesterday I am completely, though still inconveniently, replaceable. We were audited today and got in a lot of trouble, leading to the gratuitous dispersement of many toldyaso’s from the hole in my face. Toldyaso’s are like employment capital. I’m investing them in everyone and everything. I will probably run out and this will lead to unfavorable circumstances, including but not limited to a broken nose or the elimination of my position, but I’ll deal. I think. Just pray to the Baby Jesus that things go well until at least just after the vacation.
Cuz you know I won’t be able to come back 5 sunny days of relaxation and deal with the Doublemeat Palace.
Also conducive to my vacationization: a large refund check in the mail I wasn’t expecting. Large meaning there’s a comma in it. Just out of nowhere in the mail, a check with a comma, and a notice that I don’t owe anymore $ to medical places. Load off, much? Why yes, yes indeed. *Sips tea*
My new favorite blog is Stuff White People Like. Relocate beverages before reading.
Meg, co-worker: “C’mon, just tell me if you’re gay. Are you or aren’t you?!”
Me: “Don’t you think that if I were gay I’d have a better job and be much better looking?”
Meg, co-worker: [long pause] “…That’s true, gay men do have a lot of money…”
This is just one more example of why I don’t like communicating with people in any way that doesn’t involve daggers coming out of my eyes. And I walked right into it, as I usually do. That’s another one of those convos that bounce around in my head long after they’re done (at least a month for that one). Anyway, I don’t mind people I work with knowing about that, but I do make an effort to not have gay sex on my desk during work hours. And it’s easy, considering how often it happens in the first place.
I think I’ve mentioned Work-twink here before, but I’m too lazy to… Work-twink is 20, a complete closet-case, and has a “girlfriend.” I don’t even know what he does there at our workplace. He waves at me a lot. And because I’m a nice guy, I wave back even though I’m trying to look away or do any number of things that involve the swift and necessary extraction of my person. But, really, I am a nice guy. I’m like… a Niceness Cappuccino with Extra Super Foam, but liberally sprinkled with Queen Bitch’s Nutmeg. Seriously.
So anyway, Work-twink has this thing for me which makes me uncomfortable because 1. he’s so fucking awkward, 2. being 20, short, and completely assless and rail-thin to the tune of a Sally Struthers infomercial makes him not my type, 3. he walks with a limp and nobody knows why, which draws all kinds of skeptical intrigue, and finally 4. which was just added to the list will be revealed in the following paragraphs.
Four is a physical kind of thing so -GROSS- that I don’t know if I can write about it, much less think about it. But I will… for you. Last Friday, a day which I do not enjoy to stay late at work, I was driving by the front of the building as he walked out and I offered to drive him to the back of the parking lot because it’s a long walk, and, you know, Niceness Cappuccino.
Long walk, short drive. I could handle it. Because I’m NICE.
We pulled up behind his vehicle and I was thinking “yay, he’s going to get out now.” But he didn’t. He kept futzing around with things and asking questions. Questions like “so, do you have a girlfriend?” “How old are you?” “Don’t you want to get married and have kids?” I should be flattered since it’s rare that males take any positive interest in me whatsoever. But I’m bored.
It drags on, and other co-workers are driving by, seeing the scene and waving goodbye and laughing. Meanwhile, I’m trying to astrally project myself into a sunny meadow. Failing miserably, I finally looked at him to say “HAIL no I don’t want to get married or produce offspring” when I noticed something…strange. Something wasn’t right.
In fact, something was very, very wrong. So wrong that I died and was immediately reincarnated as whoever won the gold medal for Extreme Vomiting (I didn’t just get the medal, I had to die first… you see?) . He was sending a text message. Oh God, I can’t even find the words here. Fungus. Nail fungus. On all his fingers. Worst I’ve ever seen. In fact I’ve only seen people ever have it on their feet, not that I’m looking for it or ever will. He doesn’t have fingernails, he has tree bark - probably from a California Redwood or maybe one of those 1,000 year old Oaks. Some very large, very old tree’s bark… that’s what he had there. And this is hilarious to my co-workers because, naturally, I was the last to know.
And by that point, he had been in my car for twenty minutes. Aside from being severely grossed out and wanting to go home, I was now convinced that both me and my car, Maximo, were contaminated. I can’t bear to do a Google search to find out how it spreads, though my inner voice tells me “hard, fast and repeatedly.” I do feel badly for him, though, and (sparingly) wonder what kinds of conditions led to that for him.
At least when it’s on your feet, I guess you can wear socks and nobody will know, and by default, no one will care. As for now, I have found my germophobia, and it starts with fungi and ends at the door of my vehicle.
I know there are worse things, but this is so typical. Finally a guy likes me, but he’s practically a teenager and obviously a demon.
I don’t really have a comment about him except “how sad,” but I would just like to note that Heath Ledger’s death prompted more phone calls and text messages than any cell phone I’ve ever had has ever seen at any particular moment in time. I swear there was smoke coming out of it.
Not that I would ever consider either of these, but I’m trying to figure out which one looks the most painful. Not for the squeamish, but highly recommended.
(more…)
I just did the lamest thing ever, and by lamest thing ever, naturally I mean that I joined a fan club at a cost in order to be able to buy pre-sale tickets to a particular concert, only to find out immediately afterward that pre-sale seats are not necessarily better than general sale seats and can, in fact, be worse. Obviously I do not go to a lot of concerts as I find them mostly disappointing.
On the bright side, I will (negating deaths, serious illnesses, natural disasters or alien abductions and other assorted unforeseen circumstances) be seeing Alanis Morissette with Matchbox Twenty and Mute Math on Friday, February 29, 2008, regardless of how much money I throw at tickets.
I saw Alanis in 2005 on the Jagged Little Pill Acoustic tour which was outstanding: I had never seen her in person before. And I haven’t seen M20 since 1998. I told Ryan that I wanted to see them before their expiry date was up. He told me that was in 1999. Maybe, but I’m adamant that they were still good until 2004.
As previously stated, my visit with the urologist went okay… if “okay” means I had to get someone with a PhD to explain my own anatomy to me. I started off by trying to convince him that I did, in fact, find a problem; something was very wrong. “I’m very familiar down there,” I said, completely forgetting that I was talking to another man, let alone a man who specializes in dealing with other men’s junk. Because, you know, only a select few are as familiar down there as I am. And I left his office blushing, stuttering and embarrassed. But the good news was that I’m fine and don’t require the amputation of anything. Nothing better than that.
As for my Scumbag coworker, well, I made sure things really cooled off. We didn’t talk for weeks, save for a smile in passing or a hey or hi. Then he took a week of vacation. And I took a few days off the following week as a birthday gift to myself. Every time I’d walk by his office, I’d hope he wouldn’t acknowledge me. Most of the time he didn’t. I had a gut feeling that I wouldn’t have to worry about the tension for very much longer.
And I was right. Only a day after I returned back to work, the gossip about his firing spread like wildfire. Many were shocked - I was not one of them. But I had to walk by his office to see if it was true, and it was. All his stuff was gone. I took a moment to be thankful that he didn’t come to say goodbye, not that he’s that type of person anyway.
See, when he wasn’t cruising sex ads online, he was doing any of your garden-variety activities of dumbass things that dumbasses do at work. He mentioned to me that he liked to crank call people who bothered him on his home phone line. So when someone told me he was fired for making crank calls, I didn’t flinch. I did flinch, though, when I was told that he was crank calling our customers.
“Seriously!? How did they know it was him?” I asked.
“Management tracked the complaints and found out they were all his customers.”
Omigod. Not only were they company customers, but they were the customers for whom he was the very representative. Unbelievable.
“So they tapped his phone line and recorded him doing it.”
I’m dying to hear this tape. I’m told he made no denials. He could’ve taken the Republican approach and simply said “I don’t recollect,” which always works for them, but I know he leans more to the left. My manager told him that business was bad enough without him chasing away the customers, “get the fuck out of here.”
Shortly after he left, I felt free to snoop a little more and opened his work email (which obviously was no longer his). More cruising sex ads, etc., blah blah, but one caught my eye. He had a date with a transsexual from Cincinnati. A date involving a fee. A fee that must be paid in cash.
Suddenly I felt completely freed of all compulsions, closed his email, and was thankful that he is gone.
After last week’s debacle of finding a doctor, I was presented with a real existential dilemma: how much should one actually manscape before seeing a urologist? I’ll spare you my habits, suffice it to say that I’m clean, but my balls were the reason I made the appointment in the first place and I thought it was a legitimate concern whether or not to shave them. I decided against it.
I had only seen one picture of the doctor I chose and it wasn’t great, but it also wasn’t one of those this-is-the-best-I-ever-look shots you see on Myspace. Like mine. He ended up being a good choice; much better looking in person. And cuteness aside, he was really fun and down to earth - exactly what an amateur patient like me needs. Referring to my gonads as “nuts” and “balls” leveled the playing field. And I liked that. Given they’re not often the topic of conversation (to say the least), I found out today just exactly how much I dislike saying the word “testicle” out loud. At least with any seriousness.
I’m not a serious person. I see no point in it.
Unless I’m trying to make a point.
Another debacle was how I was going to keep my scrotum from raisinizing in his cold office. As a rule, doctors keep their thermostats at 59 degrees Fahrenheit. So when I showered beforehand, I made sure the water was scalding. This helped the nether region, but after I showered I couldn’t stop sweating. Since I had to worry about everything under the sun, I also found myself washing every square inch of my body with the Armani shower gel that came with my cologne. You’d think I was getting ready for a date.
Anyway, he was great. And the situation was so non-sexual. I mean he was sitting there on the stool with his face in my junk and I can’t for the life of me recall the feeling of his hand groping me. I’ll bet that’s a quality a lot of heterosexual men enjoy about the doctor. Me, I’m feeling sad and left-out.
While he was groping, he asked if I had fathered any children. I laughed. I laughed and said “no, and I don’t plan to.” His head rolled upward so that he could see my face, and I believe also so that I could see his. That look of confusion. It took me a few seconds to realize he was serious. I thought he was joking. To me, that’s a funny question.
He was the first doctor in eons who didn’t want to put a finger up my ass. And sadly, the only one I would’ve gladly let do it. For those of you who are wondering, I’m fine. And my balls are on the “upper end of large,” he said. I already knew that but a little positive reinforcement never hurts!
After I left his office, I headed towards the elevator while returning a phone call. With the phone to my ear, the door opened and I stepped inside and turned around. There were two other women inside with me, but I didn’t even look at their faces.
The elevator was stopping on the floor directly below us, as one of the women stepped out from behind me and off. As she moved, I caught a brief glimpse of her profile from behind. It was one of those instances when time slows down and a real memory is etched into your brain.
I knew her.
It was Diana, one of my oldest friends. We were extremely close in high school, but didn’t keep in touch afterwards aside from a handful of run-ins in our hometown. But it had been many years. She was in a lab coat. I know that she’s pursuing her Master’s degree and probably in the medical field, but what are the chances of me being in that particular building of that particular hospital on that floor waiting for that elevator with her in it? A dozen worlds colliding all so that we could share a few feet of space, silently, for 10 seconds. A few more seconds and it never would’ve happened. It was one of those times where I felt like fate was telling me that I was exactly where I was supposed to be at exactly the right time. (For what it’s worth, I have a similar feeling about fortune cookies.) I’ve had a few of those lately and I don’t find them all that encouraging because, most of the time, I’d REALLY rather be somewhere else. I don’t believe in coincidence: it happens way too often.
The look on her face was one of brief despair. I suppose it was rude of me to get on the elevator without the slightest hint of acknowledgment of the other people inside, but really if I had noticed her, it would have been different. In fact, I would go so far as to say that my non-acknowledgment of her in the elevator, to her, was probably symbolic of times past. But it just wasn’t so.
And speaking of fortune cookies, here’s the one from my dinner tonight: “The best way to get rid of an enemy is to make him a friend.” Oh great… that’s going to be a lot of work, most notably figuring out who the enemy is.
