World travels = World woes

Brandon, my roommate, is on vacation in the Himalayas for the next two weeks. Can you believe that shit?

I once joked with Mr. Alterhause--a bona fide world traveler in his own right, who has been to China, all over Europe, Peru, Canada, and is toying with the idea of visiting Egypt this summer--that it would be like a prison sentence for me to travel to almost any other part of the world. Seriously. I mean, if I won some sort of contest where the prize was an all-expense paid vacation to Russia, Japan, and Cuba, I would happily hand it over to a friend or loved one without a second thought.

I'm a creature of habit, and I like my creature comforts. I once went to a wedding just a couple hundred miles north near Sacramento, and I was beside myself at the hotel because I didn't have my Brita pitcher. When I went to Disneyland last October, I kept an eye out for a mini-Whole Foods or Trader Joe's among the many stores.

I am cool with exploring the world from the comfort of A&E or Google Maps, but I reckon my ancestors didn't brave the Atlantic and 'cross the nascent United States in prairie wagons just for me to throw caution to the wind and temporarily defect to some foreign place.

Plus, kitties don't travel well, and I would be worried about leaving my Punkin Rabbit in the care of someone else. So there.

Swarmin' in

I just recently started omitting the www before I type in a website address. I don't know why it took me so long.

I was out yesterday and saw one of those flags advertising an event on a city lamp post, and it said "Disco Very". And I thought, well yes, disco is very! But upon closer inspection, the sign was advertising the museum, and it was because the pole had split the word in two, and was in fact meant to read as "Discovery".

This morning, I woke up and went outside still carrying my pillow. I didn't know where I was, but I knew that I needed to get to work. I crossed this multi-lane, busy road with cars racing by. A bunch of them stopped for me as I almost neared the other side of the road, but they didn't honk. Then I realized I needed to backtrack and try to get back home. So I crossed back over the road, and as I got to the other side I fell. I couldn't move my legs, and a van was closing in on me. I had expected it to stop or veer out of the way, but the driver was clearly irritated that there was a pedestrian on the road where they shouldn't be, and they kept driving towards me. I tried dragging myself out of the way, and prepared to feel the pain of the van running over my feet.

Then I woke up.

Yup, this is the new theme of my nightmares: being discombobulated beyond belief. It's gone from this fear that I haven't graduated from college, or that I have had to move back home and resume my high school job of working in a movie theatre, to this. Losing control. And not in a good, Missy Elliot featuring Ciara "Lose Control" way. Dios mio, yg.

Raise your hand if you're shore!

I saw "Eating Out 2" last night, a gay comedy that was actually good. Most gay movies suck not just because they are independent and don't have a lot of cash for production, but because the writing is just labored and hackneyed, and the actors are just novices or models trying to break into the business. Every joke doesn't need to rely on being gay as the punchline. But this movie had me laughing out loud, rewinding, and admiring all the hotties in it. Thumbs up!

My newest nickname for Sugar is Fur Worm. 'Cause when she lays kind of prostrate with her feet underneath her, her paws tucked in, and her tail perfectly aligned against her side, she kind of looks like a gray Glo-Worm. Minus the goofy nightcap and the incandescent internal light.

It used to be that when I saw quarters, I thought of video games. Now I see quarters and I see laundry.

Long live the emotionally inconsistent

Friday night, I met up with Mandypants at Martuni's and drank about it for a bit. I almost didn't get my credit card back since one of the callous cow queens at the bar was barely in the mood to help me. Apparently, there is at least one or two of them there that have that kind of reputation, but it was no matter as I tracked my actually very friendly server down, paid for our fare, and was off.

I spent Saturday watching Rainbow Brite videos on YouTube and Sunday taking a nice long walk, the likes of which reminds me of how happy I am to be alive sometimes. It's the cheesiest thing in the world, I know, but when you go take a walk outside sometimes, unplug your iPod, put your phone away, and just look up at everything around you, that feeling can sometimes come to you.

Then I Monday, I woke up with my back janked up, and had to call in sick to work. Which annoyed me greatly. And today, I've just felt like I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Or, ideally, I wish I could be Sugar for the day, and just find a nice shoebox to curl up into, and take a seventeen-hour nap.

Mid-week kerfuffle

I saw a woman on the bus this morning whose hair looked like a coonskin cap over a mullet. Not attractive Ms. Ma'am.

I want to meet Armistead Maupin. I've started reading "Michael Tolliver Lives", and it's so nice to rediscover my old friends from Barbaray Lane again.

I was in a meeting between our fabulous new labor relations director and one of the unions and it got me all revved up. So much so, that I'm still kind of shaking. But it was certainly invigorating. The best part is is that I'm too amped up to take my usual lunchtime nap, so I'm going to get to take a walk for lunch like I used to. Noice, yg.

Truffle shuffle time

Dixie Carter died! Sad. But she was seventy. She was also a Republican. Also sad.

I had Friday off and did a little bit of nothing, but on Saturday, I met up with the girls at Farmer Brown for brunch. It's a sort of soul food-styled place, with a jazz band, and they just do a kind of buffet for brunch with not a whole lot of selections for $16.50. However, they had a cocktail menu and I got my kiwi slurricane thingy on (and on and on) while we all gossiped away.

Saturday night, Mr. Alterhausen called fresh from a club performance by the one and only Deborah Cox. So jealous. But we chatted away 'til well nigh 3:00 am, then I slept in today until 3:00 pm. Which I should actually do more often.

It's rainy and icky out, and tomorrow the work week starts yet again. Le sigh.

Talkin' 'bout turrible Tuesdays

Friday night, in seemingly typical fashion, I texted not one, not two, but three whole people to see if they were down for dancing, but not a one of them was up for it. I had intended to go to the End Up, but nixed that after seeing the steroid injecting, tina-snorting circuit queen who was spinning that night on their website, and had hoped instead to hit the 'Stro. Instead, I hit the hay, and called it a day.

Saturday, Shelley, Dascha, Tommy, and I went all the way out to Redwood Shores to celebrate Roze's birthday at her new place. It's always odd to get out of the City and into suburbia for me. I nearly had a panic attack. But it was good times in abundance in her Alice in Wonderland themed party, and the place was gorge. Unfortunately, I made the egregious party foul of forgetting my phone there, and Roze called us as we were nearly halfway back. I could hardly believe it, but at least it was there (on the welcome mat, no less. Good thing we weren't still in the city, otherwise that sucker'd be gone and sold.) By the time I was deposited back at home, it was 3:00 am-ish, and I conked right the hell out.

On Easter Sunday, the day of our lord and savior's resurrection, I took a drunken power walk as far out towards the Mission as I could before the incessant sprinkling vexed me past the point of insouciance. I called a cab and waited in front of a store for it to pick me up, only to be joined by a woman with a stroller who too was looking for a cab. As I saw my cab begin to near , she asked, "Are you waiting for a cab?" And I said, "Yeah, I just called one." Then I felt guilty that I was sort of stealing a cab from a mother with her child on this holiest of days, so I said, "Do you have your phone on you? Just call 333-3333 for Yellow Cab. They're pretty good." And she did. And I felt less guilty.

And as the Bible would say, And it was good.

My first facial

Two things that I staunchly dislike are:
1. Being touched.
2. Being in any state of undress in front of others (unless the other is someone with whom sex is imminent).

However, I do like to try and feel purty. So I undertook the feat of scheduling my first facial, and just came back from it.

I had it done at the same place that houses my gym, so I'm aware enough of the facilities, but the brochure made mention of taking a shower or shvitzing in the sauna a good 15 - 20 minutes before your session. This was enough to horrify me. I also made the egregious error of not bringing any shower sandals, so once I hastily disrobed down to my panties and cinched the robe on tight, I had to walk the twenty steps from my locker to the spa area in bare feet.

EwwwwwWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW. (Make no doubt, I scrubbed those suckers to pieces when I got home.)

But after I figured out where to go, I found myself in a quaint hallway with soft lighting and soothing decor, and read a magazine for a bit before my esthetician fetched me.

Jeanine looked like a sort of old school hippie chick, friendly enough. She led me into the room, invited me to sit down, and asked me to take off my robe as she left the room. It was all a bit lurid to me, especially since there are spa houses all throughout the city that mask as sex dens housing underaged Asian prostitutes.

Unpleasant.

But once she came in and began, I kind of got the vibe of it, and she was calming and understanding enough that it was my first time.

About ten minutes or so in, she said, "You know what would look cool? If we tinted your eyelashes." Like any fag susceptible to a beauty recommendation, I agreed. At first she thought a shade of brown would do, but then said, "Or ya know what would make them really pop? Blue black!"

Now, I dyed my hair blue-black during my junior year goth phase of high school. Against my highly white skin, it clearly stood out. And I can look back on that time as a lark and a phase, one that shalt not be repeated.

So I nixed the blue black, and she proceeded with the brown. Aside from the slight burning which terrified me enough to think I might go blind (she kindly soothed my panic with a hand massage), we finished the tint, and I took a look.

Okay, now I know that any color you put on will fade with time, and granted when hair is wet it looks darker, but I looked a bit like I had mascara on. I mean, as I left my appointment, looking in the mirror, I felt like some extra in "Cabaret" with my fucking stage make up on.

Nonetheless, she finished massaging oils and creams and forget-me-nots that kind of all just felt like water and lotion to be honest into my skin, explaining what each one was and how each one would improve this or that. I have to tell you, though, that I just couldn't relax and enjoy the massage. I mean, I know that I'm paying this person and this is their job, but I just felt self-conscious, and my body would not surrender to the feeling.

I just can't pay someone to touch me. They have to want to, I guess.

So to summarize, it was an interesting experience, but if I'm going to make any self-improvements, I'd rather go under the knife. If I'm going to have someone touch me, I'd rather it be with a scalpel and laser-precision instruments enacting fabulous results.