Goodbye '09, bring on the '10

If I had to summarize 2009, I would say that thematically it was markedly pleasant, but punctuated by a few definitive personal separations.

It started at the tail end of last year when my great grandmother died. Although she was in her 90s and we all knew it was coming, it was still quite sad. I probably took it the best of most people in our family, but there were still several times this year when I would have dreams about floating through the mobile home in which she used to live. All the furniture was there, but she wasn't. Or I would wake up, and the first thing I would think about was that she was gone, and I wouldn't see her ever again in this life. As much as I believe that death is but a door that leads to something else, once someone dies, there's something flatly undeniable about it that bears such cold finality.

Then there was Mara, the wife of my estranged biological father. She'd begun emailing me on MySpace about a year and a half ago, and I didn't know who she was. I just thought it was some random, middle aged woman being very friendly out of the blue. When my half-brother Gavin emailed me letting me know who he was, it opened the door, and I put the pieces together. It also united me with my half-sisters Lila and LM, the latter with whom I now have a wonderful relationship. I continued my correspondence with Mara after some discussion with my mom, who admitted that Mara had a rather shady history, and told me to be careful. I wanted so much to believe that this person with whom I did not have a blood connection could still be a connecting figure in my life, but as the details unfurled, I learned she was not the person I'd hoped. And I could not continue a relationship, even a harmless online one, with someone who had done the things she'd done and worse, would not even admit it. The fact that after I ceased communication with her, she began a smear campaign against me only confirmed to me what kind of person she was.

And in the most surreal of circumstances, I reunited earlier this year with an old flame, Gideon. We'd had a fast and furious fling back in 2000, and I'd always regretted that we'd parted ways so unceremoniously. I dived in, and emailed him on Facebook, we met up, had good times, and things went from platonic to romantic. But when I tried to make a commitment with him, he just wasn't in it. I'd thought he was the one that got away, but it turns out he just wasn't the one for me.

But this is all blithely depressing, when in fact, most everything else about my year was rather fantastic. I began my new promotional position at work, which, while it entailed some rather heavy projects during the year, also entailed a heftier paycheck. It is definitely nice being able to enjoy a nicer lifestyle.

And the big trip for the year was to Disneyland with my niece Ashley and sister Marie. I hadn't been in well odd fourteen years, and going back with two such dolls was a wonderful treat.

We will be at the End Up on New Year's. Aaron is in town, though LG sadly can't come. I am hoping for much fun, and a happy start to 2010, y'all. I mean, you. Guy. Sssssss.

All the ding's horses and all the ding's men

It was all set to be a wonderful chill Christmas at home, when Costella decided to make it a party fest of all too fun proportions. It was fun, but I was pooped, and I spent the latter half of it recuperating. Though I daresay, with my new laptop and smart phone, one barely need leave home. How I lived without either, I'll never know.

Of all the Disney villains, Maleficent from "Sleeping Beauty" is my favorite. While all of them have some sort of motive--Jafar thirsts for power, and wants to be Sultan; Scar is jealous of his brother, and of little Simba; Ursula is resentful at being banished by King Triton; and Cruela de Vil has a penchant for Dalmatian puppy fur--Maleficent is just evil for the sake of being evil. She puts a curse on a baby, Princess Aurora, who then has to be kept from her parents for sixteen years and out of reach from any spinning wheels. Then she locks up Prince Phillip, the only person who can wake Aurora from her endless sleep, and there's a whole scene where she mocks him and the power of "true love". Plus it's inferred at the beginning of the movie by Flora that Malficent's powers are "far to great" for the Good Fairies to simply undo her curse. She's a nasty, hateful bitch with immense power.

It's no wonder she's always the lead villain in any of the Disney video games. You've got to admire that kind of ruthless consistency.

Little Bunny Foo Foo, get out of dreams, get into my car

This past week, I've had dreams about bunnies. The first one was a few days ago. I was staying in some adorable summer cottage, and Sugar dashed out the front door. It was a beautiful night with a full moon that shone a light on the front lawn and a giant oak tree. There were a few cats lazily milling about the tree and cuddling. And just to the left of them in an alcove were several white rabbits. It was some Lisa Frank shit the likes of which was insanely cute and cuddly.

Then yesterday, I took a nap and, once again, dreamed about some rabbit that I was babysitting. The rabbit was trying to escape my grasp, but I was trying to get it back in its cage. It finally managed to escape, so I went looking for it, and looked under one of the cushions on the couch to find a baby rabbit in a baby blue sweater. It was sickeningly cute.

I have no idea why any of this is happening nor what any of it means. But I'll take dreams about bunnies over nightmares about homeless crackhead zombies any night of the week.

Apple Brown Betty

I bought new work shoes over the weekend, and it's like they've got fish hooks jutting from the inside heel. In fact, my heels are rubbed raw and have broken skin. I tried breaking them in over the weekend, even cut the backs a little for some leeway, but still, pain. I've been wearing Band Aids on my heels to help, so it just feels like someone's pressing a pencil really hard against my heels with every step I take. I thought only chicks who wear heels had to deal with this shit?

If the '80s are back in now, and we're about to go into the 2010's, does that mean the '90s will be back in soon? Flannel shirts, Doc Martins, chokers, and grunge? That would be a sight.

I have jury duty tomorrow. I'm also supposed to get an H1N1 vaccination tomorrow. The office cookie exchange party is tomorrow as well. It's like a big old fiesta of death in one day! What gives?

Hole on to your love

You know how they have iron-free clothes? Well, they should also invent rip-free clothes. At least once a month, I rip a hole in something and have to get it repaired. And it's not ripped in a sexy, stylish way. It's ripped in an annoying, what-the-hell, how did I do that way.

The other day I went to get something laminated. It was my facetious and humorous take on "'Twas The Night Before Christmas" all about my boss and her partner, which I put along with a wreath on her door for when she was to return from vacation. Nice of me, I know. But when I went to take the poem to the copy store and asked how much it would be to laminate it, the woman immediately said, "It's cheaper to do more." I waited and said nothing as she looked for the binder with the pricing. She then had to call her co-worker out, who produced the binder with the pricing, and she repeated, "Yeah, it's cheaper if you do it in bulk."

And I just wanted to slap the bitch as hard as possible across the face, you know? Groceries, I understand. Household amenities, perfectly reasonable. But a two-for-one special on laminating is not something I'm interested in, and a fucking retarded thing to try and up-sell when I've clearly only got one piece of paper in my hand, and would gain no ostensible benefit from going all the way back to work/home, ferreting out other documents, and bringing them back to be laminated. The $4.83 wasn't going to break my bank.

Stir-fried schmoozin'

According to MySpace, my blog has been viewed 337 times this week. In fact, for the past several weeks, the number of hits has always been in the triple digits. Which means one of the following:

1. Several people read my blog regularly, or at least a small number of them read it repeatedly
2. MySpace has its shit fucked up
3. I have a stalker
4. Someone is trying to break into my account

To which I say:
1. Why, thank you! Hope you enjoy
2. I'm hardly surprised
3. Who are you?
4. Whoever you are, I have a hammer

Last year was the first year I went out and actually bought real live Christmas presents for everyone, wrapped them all up, and sat in line behind several retarded people for a good hour at the post office to mail them. This year, everyone's gettin' cards.

Don't you hate it when you grab a newly washed glass off the dish rack, pour yourself a delicious beverage, and taste the tell-tale turgid tinge of dish soap in your drink?

Sugar Kitty Diva Jones

When J. Co and I first adopted Sugar from the SPCA, they told us that she wasn't the type of cat who would sit on the bed with you while you gently petted her. In fact, she was classified as a Level 4 (that was one of our nicknames for her) out of a Level 5 scale of aggression. Her bio on the front of her room at the SPCA read, "Sugar wants you to know she has a little spice", a sugar-coated way of saying that she was a sheisty animal. However, we were so won over by her forwardness, her adorable little cross-eyed green eyes and pink collar, that all she had to do was meow and we would start cooing over her like dopey new parents.

That first night we got her home, she was on my bed, and I went to pet her. After a few strokes, she suddenly grabbed my hand in a bear hug grip and began biting my fingers. Yup, the wicked little cat drew blood her first night in her new home.

She is still not keen on people petting her unless it's on her terms and when she wants to be pet, but like any loving father, I like to think she's getting better. And as much as she likes to be in the presence of people, she doesn't necessarily want to be picked up or pet.

Only now, I can say that she actually has gotten better.

Recently, when I've come home from work and am laying on the bed watching TV, she'll come right onto my lap, get comfortable, and sit there happily, gazing at me with her green drag queen eyes. It's such a touching display, I've been known to sit there for a half hour or more even if my butt begins to fall asleep. And it breaks my heart a little to have to get up and disrupt the rare and tender moment of affection from the most precious little mal-tempered feline in the west.

It's the little victories. Happy Hannukah!

Tummy yummy

I like people who have a tummy. I have a tummy. People who have tummies enjoy life. They:

1. Eat dinner after 6:00 p.m.
2. Enjoy a chocolate chip cookie every now and then
3. Partake of a cocktail once in awhile

That's not to say a perfectly flat and/or six-packed midsection isn't hot. It is. But it takes a lot of work. So you have to kill yourself at the gym. Or starve yourself to death. Or have the benefit of being young and having a naturally high metabolism.

Whatever suits your pleasure, Samantha.

If you like it then you shoulda gone and rim jobbed it

It's so cold out, it actually physically hurts.

I'm getting back into my gym routine, which had fallen by the wayside after the fallout with fucking Gideon. I had a rough go of it yesterday, and had to reduce the amount of weight on two of the machines and cut my cardio by ten minutes, but at least I got through pretty much my whole regular routine. And my body, in shock at being forced exert itself so, issued a revolt. I felt like I had to pooh and vomit at the same time. Delicious.

Isn't it something to think that someone had to teach you how to wipe your butt?

I'm finally getting a laptop and internet access. Leaping into the year 2000 with gusto and girth!

I'm, like, so past the past

Every so often, I'll have a dream about the movie theater in which I worked while I was in high school: The Pacific Trolley Theaters, located, as the name implies, by a trolley stop in San Diego. The intention was to make the area cute and bustling, as if riders would stop off at this particular spot, take up a movie, visit Borders, stop by Trader Joe's, blah blah blah.

I went and applied for a job there three days after my sixteenth birthday, finally of legal age to work and anxious for some disposable moolah of my own. Not long afterwards, I got a call for an interview, an interview I mistakenly showed up for a good hour and a half earlier, but one that I nailed, and got the job. I worked a combination of usher and snack bar attendant, got to see plenty of free movies ("Mrs. Doubtfire" is forever etched in my memory, as is "Four Weddings and a Funeral", "The Lion King", and "Schindler's List"), and worked with a vibrant group of people which included some high school aged folks like myself, a healthy handful of college kids, and a few older folks.

One of the older folks was this woman named Virgina, who was only forty, but looked well into her sixties due to a hard partying life. She'd intended to get her life straight by taking the job at the theatre, and was a plenty competent employee as well as being hysterically funny and well-liked.

Well, in the dream, I ran into her, and she looked much older and saggier. We were for some reason sitting at a table with some other people eating, and I noticed she kept looking over at me. In the dream for some reason, I was pretending to ignore her. But later on, she approached me, and I did that whole thing where you pretend to notice someone after you've ignored them, and was all like, "Oh, Virginia, that's you! I didn't recognize you!" And she just looked at me for a very long time, in disbelief, and said nothing. I waved my hands in her face as if to say "are you there?", and said, "Virginia, what's wrong?", but still, she said nothing.

Of course at some point in the dream, as is always the case when I dream about the theater, I end up being right back there, usually working there. In reality, the theatre closed, and was converted into a Japanese restaurant. The parking lot now houses a condo complex. But in the dream, I was in the theater, it was completely empty, and I was going through some upper passageway. I think I was trying to find any left over candy or popcorn (though I have no idea why--gross), or maybe trying to escape Virginia. Dunno.

I only reminisce about those days in a positive way, since the friends I had there were fun peeps, and it was good times. Only when I dream about it, it's like my life has gone to shit here and I've had to move back to SD and take my old job from high school from fourteen years ago. It's amazing how I only worked there for a year and a half, and yet it creeps into my dreams all the time.

Dat subconscious be so silly.

Dear The S.S.

December's here! Who would've thought.

I had a lovely vacation taking soused strolls throughout the City, watching holiday movies, and just generally hanging. Even though I don't sit down with the fam and open Christmas presents anymore, I still sometimes enjoy this time of the year. Like when Mandy and I were out the other day, and were sniffing the Christmas trees like freaks, enjoying that tell-tale scent of pine. Or how Union Square gets all decked out and as wintry as California can get.

Do you ever just look at certain people and start laughing?

Long Island Iced Teas are the cocktails of the poor. For I remember when I was younger and had a bit less in my pocketbook that that was the stuff that got you fucked up fast. Now I can't imagine swallowing that grim reaper's brew of multiple alcohols mixed with Satan soda. Talk about system trauma, you guys.

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I did Osha with Roze on Friday (like "Brokeback Mountain", I just can't quit that place), then we did dessert (her) and drinks (I) at some place on the water called The Plant. Afterwards, Shelly joined us, and we took a nice night walk along the Embarcadero.

MTV 2 aired old episodes of "Remote Control" last night, a pop culture game show on MTV in the '80s, in honor of its deceased host, Ken Ober. I couldn't tell you much about him, even though watching the show last night, he was a funny fellow (he asks questions from a podium, and behind him are black and white still photographs of other famous game show hosts). But I do remember how the contestants would sit in these lounge chairs, and the loser would be pulled back in his chair into the backdrop of the set. One of the losing chairs actually lifted the losing contestant up backwards in their chair. Makes me miss the good old days of MTV.

I am taking a big, fat, long and deserved vacation beginning Friday, all through next week, not to return to work until November 30th. I know, I just went on a vacay last month, but I've got the PTO--which, by the by, will be increasing in its accrual rate come March when I hit my ten year (!) mark at my job. God, I can't wait to retire.

Can a bus

Brandon brought home packages of Styrofoam plates and Styrofoam cups, and I had a slight heart palpitation. Styrofoam? I thought that'd been outlawed. And I'm pretty sure you get excommunicated from San Francisco for using it. I mean, this is the city where plastic bags have been banned, and now, one city supervisor wants to ban paper bags, too.

When I see that Logan Nietzel on "Project Runway", I just wanna lick him.

Bright, shiny, exclamatory food packaging frightens me.

Time after time

I think time seems to fly by when you're older because life generally reaches a sort of statis, and becomes more routine.

When you're young, your life is divided up grade by grade, you go from elementary school, to middle school, to high school, and maybe to college. Your life is measured out in semesters and summer breaks. When you're older, have a job, maybe a family, there isn't as much that breaks up the time into smaller, more recognizable pieces.

I have to pee.

Ephemeralyssia

I'm like a magnet for them. The homeless, that is. When I'm on the bus. I mean, I sympathize with these people--to a degree. And I guess they have the right to utilize public transportation just as I do. So if they can scrape together two bucks to hop on a bus that will take them to some other spot in the City, that is their prerogative. But they fucking reek to high heaven. And you know that when you smell something bad, you're actually breathing in microscopic particles of that thing. That thing in this case being trash and feces. At least the guy this morning was kind enough to open the window near him. But that wasn't enough for me, who tried to remain decorous by just keeping my fresh-smelling hand near my nose, before throwing in the towel and moving to the back of the bus.

My new thing is just throwing out hybrid girl names. It started with "Katelynn" at Disneyland (Kate + Lynn). Now it's gone rampant: Sabrinaessica (Sabrina + Jessica). Aprilette (April + Charlotte). Maryessennifer (Mary + Alice + Jennifer). Rachelina (Rachel + Angelina). TOO fun.

This past weekend, it all caught up with me, and I slept in, then took two to three hour naps both Saturday and Sunday. For Halloween, I watched a double feature of "The Nightmare Before Christmas" and "Bettlejuice", then crashed at 10:00. A far cry from the Halloween of '96 when I came up to the Castro, got lost from my friends, and had to sleep out on the street in red vinyl pants until the BART started back up so I could return to Mr. Altherhausen's dorm in Berkeley where I was staying. I forsake a life without cabs.

Disneyland Diaries

My trip to DLand with Marie and Ashley was a blast. Let me share with you now some highlights and lowlights, mixed together like a magical cocktail for you below:

• Since I'm usually crazily early to the airport out of my own anxious paranoia, I decided to give myself a more casual two-hour buffer before heading out to the airport--and as a result, got there just forty-five minutes before my flight, just enough time to check my baggage
• One of the security personnel at the airport was wearing a turban. I fought the urge to take a picture
• My TV on my Virgin American flight didn't have most channels. Which bit.
• Our hotel was barely a two-minute walk to both the Disneyland- and California Adventure parks
• Soarin' Over California was breathtaking, and included both views of my hometown of San Diego and the Golden Gate Bridge. And the moment you've included San Francisco in something, you've got me
• If I never see another stroller again, it won't be too soon
• By the third day there, I'd become sick of the chubby soccer moms pointing out the obvious to their children, so I just randomly began imitating them by saying, "Katelynn! Katelynn! Katelynn! Look at the jack-o-lanterns, Katelynn! Katelynn! Katelynn!"
• I've never ingested so much expensive and unhealthy food in my life. I'm weeks behind at the gym
• The Twilight Zone of Terror rocked, similar to, but better than Freefall at Magic Mountain
• Get your hand stamped when you go from one park to the other. Although they have a computerized bar code system with their tickets, you still have to do shit the old fashioned way
• I got to take a picture next to a bust of Maleficient, my hero, and favorite Disney character
• Lilo, from "Lilo and Stitch", got all up in my grill at the restaurant in our hotel when I was texting one morning at breakfast. Fuckin' puppet almost got a fork in her eye
• Fast passes are an awesome concept--when they're available
• We got to go on Thunder Mountain--which I called the Rocky Horror Picture Show Mountain Ride because I thought it was called the Rocky Mountain--multiple times because the line was so short
• My sister Marie, cosmetology princess and hair maven, had to sit in the front row on Splash Mountain, and the massively irked look on her face when the picture was taken at the drop was rich
• My eleven-year-old niece Ashley loves to go on the fast roller coasters and thinks the slow rides of Fantasyland are for the birds
• I got to spend time with two of my favorite people in the world

As always, whenever I go out of town, I'm always thrilled to get home to my city by the bay. I'm still not completely caught up on sleep, but at least it'll be a shorter week, and then it's one holiday vacation after the next. Horr-fuckin'-ray!

All you do is talk, talk

I am more of a texter than a talker, so if you're going to call me and expect me to entertain you, think again. You have to at least lead off with something interesting. And I'll most likely be entertaining anyways since I'm a scintillating conversationalist, but if you're going to make me stop whatever I'm doing, mute "Judge Judy", pause the "Viva La Bam" DVD, and set my cocktail down, ya gotta give me somethin' to start off with.

Talk about yourself. Everyone loves to. And I love to listen to people talk about themselves--within reason--because I'm such a nosey person. I poke and pry, and ask follow up questions that veer on dreadfully personal.

But you gotta at least give it that old college try, lead off with an intro, make a start, form an objective, and make it seem like you gave it a little bit of thought before you decided to call my ass.

All my single babies

I find young people annoying and old people depressing. I wonder if that means that when I'm older, I'll find all people annoying.

I've been in a dreadful sleep pattern as of late. I get to bed around 1:00 if I'm lucky, 2:00 usually. Then I awaken some time between 4:00 - 6:00, and my mind is wide awake. Then around 8:00 when I'm supposed to wake up, I can actually feel my brain secreting whatever enzyme it is that puts you to sleep. Just dreadful.

I broke out my suitcase from the closet this week as a reminder that DISNEYLAND is but 8 days away. I'm going to go on Splash Mountain 200 times. You guys.

My very mature, well-meaning, and thoughtful email to the bastard who broke my heart

Hey Gideon,
Don't be afraid. I know it's probably pretty frightful to get an email from me, but I got your text last night. I’m guessing you sent it out of some sense of obligation or maybe remorse, but I want you to know it’s okay. I think it’s just best if we made a clean break.

I wish that we could have kept things platonic instead of letting them progress to a romantic level. If you had any uncertainty about where we were headed, I wish you would have made that clearer earlier on. I admit, I may have been misreading signals or being too earnest. I’m not sure what you thought was happening between us, and I’m not sure I want to know since it’s a moot point anyways, but I still appreciate you giving me an honest “no” instead of a conciliatory “yes”.

I’m bummed because I wish we could’ve remained friends, but I think you understand why that would be too difficult. Take care of yourself, and try to look on the bright side of things once in awhile!

Josh

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What do people actually do when someone objects at a wedding?

I wish I could own every new album that is released.

Gideon texted me last night. At least, I think it was him, since I deleted his number. It was from his area code at least. Naturally, I didn't respond. He just said, "Hey, how ya doin", no doubt out of some vague sense of remorse. I'm nearly tempted to actually retain a friendship with him and dick him around much like he dicked me around. You know, like plan to meet up at some bar in the Castro one night, but not go. Then text him a half hour later and say, "Hey! I'm here!", but actually be at another bar. Then he'll come to the other bar seven blocks away, and I'll be like, "I'm out on the balcony! Where are you??". Then I'll say I went outside to look for him, ran into a friend, and segued to another place, and send him on the run after me again. God, that would be sweet.

It's a boobyfull mornin'

It was the start of a wonderful day when I flipped my calendar to October to reveal my five-day trip to Disneyland coming up in 22 (!) days. I even felt relatively rested when I woke up, even though I'd gotten to bed around 3:00 am. And the clouds parted to reveal a crisp, sunny day when I went off to work.

I also trimmed the fat and cut the ass lose by deleting Gideon from my Facebook list yesterday. It's ridiculous holding out hope that he'll reach out to me and at least apologize or ask how I'm doing. I realized over the weekend that he is ultimately a pretty thoughtless person to have gone along with the idea that we were headed towards a relationship, and then declined to make the commitment for some hodge podge sack of bullshit reasons. I'd told myself that I'd keep him as a FB friend because I still wanted to be friends with him, but why would I want to be friends with someone so thoughtless? It's a pretty distasteful quality in a person.

Something loud-ass this way comes

The worst thing in the world you could ever do to me would be to wake me up. To wit, both Saturday and Sunday, the loud-ass forces of evil outside my bedroom window conspired to awaken me nice and early, after which point I could not fall back asleep.

On Saturday, it was the loud queen across the way gossiping away at his kitchen window and then the sound of kids playing in a sandbox. Or so that's what I thought. But there isn't a sandbox anywhere outside the vicinity of my window. Only the basement, where the trash recepticles are kept, and the washer and dryer are. Go figure.

Then Sunday, it was the loud queen across the way once again making an appearance at the crack of dawn, and then someone screamed. Either that, or someone was choking a parrot. It was loud, it was piercing, and it was unpleasant.

I would just close the window, but then my room gets all stuffy. Guess I'll just go mad from sleep deprivation.

There was a marathon of "The Rachel Zoe Project" over the weekend. Rachel Zoe is a very pretty and very unhappy woman and very thin person who must be very hungry and must make a lot of money for doing not a whole lot. She dresses famous people. And has two assistants, to boot, one of whom is a cutie gay boy. And another cutie gay boy who does her make-up. And a chubby cheeked husband with ridiculous hair that no grown man should be sporting. How this woman made a career of picking out shoes and clothes for celebrities is a sheer mystery, the likes of which I'd like to solve so as to do the same.

Joy to the whirl

I know it sounds morbid to say, but if someone told me I'd die in a matter of months, I'd probably jump for joy. I mean, life is a wonderful and glorious thing--unquestionably. But when it's your time to go, it's your time. And plus, I'm as curious as anyone to know what actually happens when you die.

There are also many things I would not miss about life, a partial list of which I've included here:

• waking up in the morning
• vacuuming
• when my shoelaces become untied
• commercials
• commercials that advertise, "Results Not Typical"
• waiting in line
• having to go to the gym
• overhearing lame conversations
• calling a taxi that never shows up
• being asked for change on the street
• getting the wrong change
• sleep deprivation
• when things fall
• walking uphill
• regrets
• accidentally biting my tongue while chewing
• cleaning the toilet
• flossing
• making polite conversation
• loud noises
• unappealing people
• joint pains
• all pain
• bad music
• that uncomfortable feeling underneath the skin of my nails after I clip my nails
• taking out the trash
• the way seats in movie theatres are too fucking close to one another
• the way seats on an airplane are too fucking close to one another
• the phrase, "you guys" (although I would miss using it mockingly)
• insects
• people who stare
• pushing a door open when it's meant to be pulled
• pulling a door open when it's meant to be pushed
• the sun when it's too hot
• wind
• people who are happy and inebriated when I am not
• tipping
• junk emails
• nosebleeds
• having to refill the stapler
• sweating
• skinny jeans
• Elaine Paige
• bad grammar

Well, my goodness, I could go on forever. But you get my point, right?

Like a li'l baby lead weight sinkin' in the sea

LG came out Saturday, and we had drinks and delicious Thai treats at Osha on the Embarcadero. It was a gorgeous day, and few things beat good times under the sun with signature specialty cocktails. We then segued to the Castro for a bit of boywatching (LG's choice) and a stop off at Lime.

Sunday, I was less inclined to be mobile, and spent the greater portion of the day asleep. And I was determined to still get a good night's sleep that night to be prepared for Monday. I usually turn on my fan and heater to act as a sort of thermostat, but this time, just the heater was on to give me the impression of being back in the womb. I turned the TV off and put my sleeping mask on to avoid any extraneous light from disturbing my slumber. And I closed the window completely shut to avoid being awoken by the fucking queen across the way who always starts loudly gossiping early in the morning right at his kitchen window.

It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was warm. And then it happened--a fucking fog horn broke through them morning silence at about 7:30 am. Unbelievable. Someone has placed a curse on me so that I cannot get a good night's sleep to save my life.

Strange range

I dreamt last night that I made out with Joe Biden. And it was good. I actually like Joe Biden--but not in that way. He's kind of curmudgeonly, but intelligent, and of course, a Democrat. I loved his vice presidential debate speech against Sarah Palin (who?) where he broke it down like a mean old man.

One of my favorite expressions is, "I'm sweatin' like a wildebeest" even though it makes no sense because wildebeests are not known for profuse sweating. I know, because I looked it up.

If it's going to be this fucking hot over the weekend, count me out. I'll be happily at home, doors closed, TV on, cocktail in hand, thankyouverymuch.

Senorita Happypants is in town, and she wants to fiestarse with you!

The incident with Gideon has certainly soured my disposition, but as before, whenever I'm a bit low, I just have to remember that I'm going to Disneyland in thirty six (36!) days, you guys! There's nothing like a vacation on the horizion to make even the most miserable and hungover of Monday mornings a little brighter.

As for Gideon, I've heard neither hide nor hair from his as expected. He's not an assertive sort. I thought out an email I might send to him (I'm a visual person) explaining my confusion and displeasure, and also expressing the hope that we could still be friends. I've also toyed with the idea of deleting his fucking number from my phone and snipping him off my Facebook list. But I'll let sleeping dogs lie for now and hope it will somehow resolve itself.

I was reminded of one of the best vacations I ever had this morning when I went to get ice from the ice tray and smelled a faint chlorine-y aroma. It reminded me of when I was twelve, and my grandparents flew me and my sister Jo out to Alabama. We stayed with them, while also daytripping to the hotel my uncle was staying at with his girlfriend. The hotel had this amazing enclosed pool area with a video arcade, and I just remember swimming all day, then going to play video games, then hopping back in the pool, then going to play video games. The smell of chlorine always reminds me of that great vacation. In fact, that would still make for a great vacation now. Sign me up!

Ferosh feline

The other day, I wanted to pet Sugar, so I picked her up off her chair, brought her onto the bed with me, and put her on my chest to pet her lovingly. This, of course, was a viciously infelicitous infraction per Sugar's will, and she refused to even look me in the eye as I adoringly stroked her velvety gray coat, making ever decorous attempt to escape my loving hold.

The moment I relaxed my hands, she made this amazing Superwoman leap not just onto the bed, but up, off my chest, in mid-air for a millisecond, and down onto the ground before sashaying into the unreachable corner behind the TV, her collar jiggling furiously as she shook herself free of my man cooties and began the rigorous process of cleaning her coat, pausing only to periodically proffer maligning glares my way.

Bumeroo.com

Gideon shot me down. Well, it wasn't that bad, but it certainly wasn't what I expected.

We had Thai at a lovely restaurant near the Ferry Building, then took a walk along the Bay. And there, underneath the night sky, I asked him if he wanted to make us official. I really felt that this was sort of a formality since we'd been seeing each other for some time. But he gave me the, "It's not you, it's me" speech.

He just feels he couldn't give me himself one hundred percent, primarily because he isn't happy with what he's doing with his life. Like a lot of people, the economy has hit him hard, and he's making ends meets by working two jobs that basically just pay the bills. And because he feels defined by his real passion in life, he just doesn't feel completely fulfilled.

Now, I don't care so much about what someone does or how much they make, but who they are. I told him that if it had something to do with how he felt about me, I understood that it would probably be too uncomfortable to bring up, but he denied this.

I appreciated the fact that he gave me an honest maybe/no instead of a conciliatory yes. But we've been seeing each other for a few months now. True, it started off as friends, but took a romantic turn. I don't usually show the more cuddly side of myself to someone or allow things to progress to a physical level if I don't think it would lead to a relationship. I had put some thought into whether or not things would work between us. I'd felt the appropriate groundwork had been laid, and had read the signals from him, which seemed fairly clear.

And so, if he had any uncertainty about the outcome of us, why didn't he bring it up earlier? I would've liked to have gotten the memo before I made it a habit of being so affectionate, which is just not something I do easily unless I feel comfortable with someone. Did he think this was just something casual, a friends with benefits-type situation, and if so, what gave him that idea? I would've liked to have remained friends, so if he didn't want things to progress, he should've made that clear. Now it's just that much more difficult.

My feelings of self-worth are not diminished, though. I'm not heartbroken, so please, no comments or condolences telling me the right guy is out there for me. I'm just mightily peeved, but it will pass.

On the flip side, the Thai restaurant, Osha, was fan_tas_tic. The pineapple shrimp was da bomb, and the rice filled me up like those little toys you used to put in the water that would enlarge. And the cocktail menu is by far the best I've ever seen. Sweet and scrumptious! Let's hope I can eat there again without the recollection of unfortunate events.

Dear dumb bitch next to me on the bus this morning

Yeah, you. That's right. The little chick yapping away on her cell phone on a crowded bus. The one whose conversation began with some sort of stupid party plans, then turned to the narration of the title of a newspaper article the man across from you was reading: "'Prohibition in Dolores Park Park: Crack Down on Booze'. No, omigod, I'm just reading this newspaper article in the SF Weekly." To which the person you were talking to must've responded by telling you that fags fuck and take drugs in Dolores Park because you then said, and I quote again, "Omigod, that's disgusting....that's disgusting...that's disgusting....Omigod, I'm so grossed out right now."

Well, you bleed from your twat once a month. I find that pretty disgusting, princess.

Then you called yet another one of your Mensa friends, and went on to tell the tale of why you were on the bus--because you'd left the hot iron on at home, and had to leave work to go home and turn it off. "But I told her and I think she was kind of upset with me, but I told her I was upset with myself, but omigod, I haven't missed a day, I've never come in late...."

As soon as a spare single seat opened up, I leapt up, tossed a glare your way, which you probably didn't notice, and now would like to offer you this advice: Shut the fuck up, and get off your cell phone when you're in a public place. No one--I repeat, no one--gives a fuck about your petty, insipid little life. You are lame. You are horrible. And you oughta be euthanized.

P.S. To my other fellow Muni bus passengers: when walking down the aisle of a crowded bus, please hold any bags you have in front of you so they do not knock against the knees of tall folks such as myself. Fucking cumquats.

Indeedareeno

Guess who's going to Disneyland!!?! Yup, that's right: my ass. Along with my sister, Marie, and my niece, Ashley. Should be smashing good times. We're staying at one of the Disneyland hotels, and will be there for three days. I actually haven't been in some fifteen years, so am looking forward to it. In fact, the last time I went, which was my senior year of high school, I stayed up the entire night previously talking with one of my theatre co-workers, Irene, and we barely got any sleep. I had a blast with her and some other co-workers, and was nearly delirious by the time the trip ended. This was before I'd discovered Vivarin.

Few things are as hot as a guy in board shorts and sneakers with no socks. I always have to do a double take.

When we were younger, my sister Jo and I performed Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know" along with our babysitter's niece, Loretta, out in the driveway. We had choreography and everything. Loretta did the choreography. We were good for a couple of 8 year olds!

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred Tic Tacs

Friday was fun. I went to Red Lobster with my boss, Nell; her partner, Coraline; and our senior analyst, Ricky. I gave Coraline a Sarah Palin bobble head, since she's a fan. It was a totally enjoyable time.

Saturday was sweltering. I just sat in my room after having bought a new fan since the old one broke, and sat there sweating like a crackhead.

Then there was Sunday and the attendant Crushing Sunday Evening Depression. And last night's Crushing Sunday Evening Depression was aided by a cavalcade of downer TV programs that I shall list for you here now:

1. "The Five People You Meet In Heaven" A poignant, tearjerker of a flick based on the book of the same name, "The Five People You Meet In Heaven" is the story of a curmudgeonly amusement park maintenance man played by Jon Voight who dies, and how the story of his life affected so many others, including his disease-stricken wife who died prematurely; an old army buddy; and the legions of people and their children whose lives he'd saved in the park by all the rides he'd fixed. Very charming movie, even though you're in tears for most of it.

2. "Culture of Hate: Who Are We?" This is a documentary about the white power youth movement in Lakeside, California, a podunk, piece of shit, cowpie, cowboy town near San Diego where I had the misfortune of going to middle school. Revealing, interesting, and altogether sad, it's the sort of thing that makes me so afraid of the world outside of San Francisco.

3. "The Grey Zone" Why this gruesome Holocaust film adapted from the play of the same name was playing around midnight at night, I don't know. But it's about concentration camp prisoners who basically served the Nazis in the systematic cremation of the other prisoners. Really grim stuff with some pretty unsettling scenes.

Aside from that, I heard from Gideon again after a nearly two-week absence. He's been crazy busy with work. We are hoping to do a dinner this Wednesday where I plan to pop the question, but his schedule is ungodly. So we'll see.

G.I. Jews

Friday night saw the girls and I at Tres Agaves in SoMa, with scrumptious Mexican edibles and tequila drinks. I'm not a fan of tequila, per se, but their mixed drinks--which have long names that are in Spanish, and are expensive--really did the trick in masking it, and working up a fiesta of a buzz.

After we'd parked, Sarah and Roze got into a big old tiff because Sarah, who just announced to us that day that she'd married her boyfriend during her recent trip to the Dominican Republic, was reneging on attending a party later that night where Roze's ex-boyfriend of one year who hasn't spoken to her since their break up would be at, as well as their mutual friend Selena who was mortally pissed at Roze. (My friends' drama is virtually better than anything network TV could produce, and without the commercials. Loves it.) Sarah had to depart fairly early on, but it was coolness hanging with Roze, Dascha, and J So, all former co-workers with whom I still manage to keep in touch. I like that.

We then packed it in, I went home, and who else, but Costella phoned up, and we hung out the whole rest of the night. I was pretty much tanked for the rest of the weekend, and I have to say, I felt like I'd been beaten the hell up with a baseball bat from my workout. I don't know why it's a three-day recovery process everytime, and I know it's supposed to be that "good pain" where you know your muscles are rebuilding, but it fucking hurts like fuck.

I had Monday off, thankfully, and forced myself out of bed at the crack of noon to go to the post office, go grocery shopping, do laundry, and buy some household amenities before calling it a night.

I don't know why I'd forgotten to mention it, but the weekend or so ago when Gideon and I had gone to see "Julie and Julia", and then come back to his house for a nightcap, we were sitting out on his balcony, overlooking the bay as he smoked a cigarette, and we saw a shooting star. I don't mean to get all schmaltzy and corny, but fuck, it was a cute moment, for Chrissake. And you can guess what I wished for.

P.S. What the fuck is Tim Gunn doing sporting dyed blond hair. Go back to the silver, Timothy!

Won't you please now stand and give a hand...

...to the Nefarious Forces That Keep Me From Getting a Good Night's Sleep:

1. The Evil Dreams: Last night, for example, I was being chased by this ragged gang of homeless freaks, and was leaping from roof to roof of these dingy downtown warehouses trying to escape. Nice.

2. The Fucking Queen Across the Way: This dude should be in the theatre for his ability to project and parlay the most insipid of gossip at 8:00 am every morning. It feels like he is actually in my room when he starts going at it. The kicker is that he once bitched to J Co about the ambient blue aquarium night light I keep on in the kitchen, calling it a "strange blue light" that kept him up. I've since put a black backing on it, but am tempted to tear it the fuck off and light up the night. Bastard.

3. The Things that Go Bump in the Night: I suppose it's just the inevitable fate of someone who lives in an old school SF apartment building, but what may to some be someone just closing a door hard is like a hammer to the head when you're trying to eek out those last few bits of sleep in the morning. Sheesh.

4. Sugar, the Kitty Cat: The most forgivable culprit only gets a free pass because she's cute. And because she poops. In my room sometimes. So the moment she meows at 5:00 am, I'm up and opening the door. Even though it's more often than not just because she's bored and wants attention. Rat cat.

Pills 'n' bill, booze 'n' snooze

You know it's going to be a rough day when you wake up and the first thing you look forward to is taking a nap at lunchtime.

Do the extras in sitcoms who have to, like sit and talk in restaurants and cafes in the background, actually have scripts that they're reciting, or are they just having a silent, completely improvised conversation?

On now to a list of some of my favorite characters found on the Muni bus in the mornings:
Laotia: Laotia is a slim, non-descript woman who, I think, looks like she hails from Laos. I have no proof of this, nor know specifically what Laotians looks like. I just assume. When I see her waiting at the bus stop in the morning, I know I'll be relatively on time to work.

The Dutch Tranny: The Dutch Tranny is a male-to-female transexual who just, well, looks like she's of Dutch origin to me. She dresses very hippie librarian-ish, and could really use some moisturizer. I can't tell you why, but when I see her, I feel like she looks like Hansel and Gretel's babysitter.

Senorita Mujer: Senorita Mujer is a little Latina woman, probably somewhere in her late 20s, early 30s, who dresses to the 9's (or to the nueves), with her hair in a Spanish senorita de la villa style, and full make-up, and always carries a faded designer bag with her lunch in it. She's probably only a housekeeper, but I love the effort she puts into her look.

Monchichi Man: Remember the Monchichis? Those little animated monkey-like critters with the shirts that would say what their particular emotion was at the moment? There's this little retarded man who bears a striking resemblance to them. In fact, I think he works at my company. There's something kind of endearing and sad about seeing him board the bus with his little metallic lunchbox and bad clothes, on his way to work.

G'night, Jeanette Macdonald.

The sun'll come out manana

I hit the bottle a bit too hard Friday night, and ended up on the brighter side of crap Saturday. Still, I had enough alcohol energy in me to do two loads of laundry and run several errands including going to the bank, buying some new work shirts, some under-eye cream, and some self-tanner.

Speaking of which, the gals at the Pure Beauty in downtown San Francisco rank right up there with some of the stupidest salespeople in America. The one chick, this pretty little girl with widely-spaced eyes, was daydreaming, gazing out the window when I walked in, and didn't greet me or offer to assist me. Fine, no worries. I usually hate it when salespeople assault you right off the bat anyways. But then I go and ask her where the self-tanner is and she says to me, "Self-taaaneeeeeer?" in elongated, sorority girl syllables, as if she's never heard the word in her life. Nitwit. Much like the girl I ordered an omelet from that morning, who said, "A veggie omelet??" as if she'd just returned from the marijuana moon. Like seriously, the chick was baked.

But I rallied my defenses, and made it through the day, and finally BART-ed over to Berkeley to see Gideon. He, his roommates, couple Jonah and Gina, Gina's parents, and myself went to see "Julie and Julia". TOO adorable. I had a smile plastered on myself the whole time, even though we were in, like, the sixth row.

Then I spent the night with Gideon and had the most wonderful night's sleep on his thousand thread count bed. And awoke the next morning feeling like someone had pummeled the shit out of me. No, it wasn't due to a night of rough sex, but my muscles finally recovering from the gym three days later. I guess because I hadn't had a good night's sleep Thursday or Friday night, my body took the opportunity Saturday night to recover. So, like an old man, I creaked out of bed, kissed my man goodbye, and hobbled on back home to catnap my Sunday away.

Bliss.