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.