More Blogs About Blogging.

I have to admit that I just don't feel like blogging right now. Mostly because these Blogger layout issues are annoying the hell out of me.

I just don't like it when things aren't right.

It's like when my kids mix their playdough colors. It makes me want to scream.

But for all of you have sent e-mails or left comments that you are having the same problems, here is what Blogger has to say about it.

Oh, and by the way, thank you very much to the couple of people who sent me possible fixes. Patrick and I both tried them, but unfortunately, they didn't work. It always amazes me when readers reach out to help me like that. Thanks and Tuna kisses! MWUAH!

Blogity, Blog, Blog, Blog

I happened to be surfing my own blog tonight when it hit 50,000 visitors.

Cool.

My 50,000th visitor was an English bloke (I'm assuming) who Googled the term "dirty tuna".

Great.

He (or she) linked through to my penis post.

It's enough to make a mother proud.

Oh! And speaking of bloggy things...what the fuck's up with my formatting? I didn't do any thing out of the ordinary and suddenly I'm lost below the sidebar.

It's too bad I don't live with someone who knows about this stuff.

Oh wait. I do!

But he's lost below his sidebar too.

Hmmm.

Maybe it's something in the water.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that!"

I think this may be the longest I've ever gone without blogging.

At least not without some good reason like having surgery, going on a trip, or having marathon sex sessions with my vibrat...I MEAN...husband.

But I have been doing absolutely nothing but painting rooms, watching Queer as Folk DVDs, talking on the phone, and sleeping way too much.

Not much to blog about there.

Okay. There was last Thursday night when Patrick and I met up with one of his friends and spent an alcohol-soaked night in P-Town.

I guess that could make a good story because a couple of newlywed lesbians assumed Patrick's friend and I were a couple. We were chatting and when I thanked them for making room for her at the bar, they replied, "Well, we're all family."

Actually, we're not. Unless you're talking in the global sense. But how exactly do you announce that you're straight without sounding like some freaked our housewife?

"I'm not gay! Not that there's anything wrong with that."

I saw them out later at a dance club. They wanted to buy me a drink but I had had quite enough by that point.

Man, I felt like a fraud.

It made me think though. I am quite the chameleon.

I go out with Patrick and everyone assumes he's straight. I go out with a straight girlfriend and everyone assumes we're lesbians.

I think it's time to get my husband up here. But he's growing a goatee and is going to fit right in with the whole daddy crowd. When I go out with him, everyone is going to think I'm his fag hag for sure.

A Day Out of Time

Have you ever had one of those days?

One of those days when you accomplish absolutely nothing. One of those days when you do nothing but binge eat and watch TV. One of those days when you ditch all your plans and just say, "Fuck it all!"

Have you ever had one of those days?

And did it leave you feeling rested and relaxed? Or did it leave you feeling guilty and frustrated?

Did it leave you feeling fat and useless and friendless and lonely and pathetic?

Or is it just me?

I think I'll go take a shower. Or a bath. Yes, a bath takes less energy.

And then I'll brush my teeth. And my retainer.

And then I'll throw myself across my bed and toss and turn all night thinking about the day I just wasted.

And wishing I could have the time back. To do it all again.

When you help others...

...you can't help helping yourself!

My friend Shamus is raising money for HIV/AIDS services by walking in the Cleveland AIDS Walk. Go here to donate.

Go on. Do it now. Now! Come on. You know you want to. I'll be here waiting. And when you get back I'll give you a treat.

Okay. Are you feeling good now? Thank you. MWUAH

Here's your treat. It's a link to an embarrassing picture of my good friend.

Ha! He's never going to let me near a camera again.

Queen it up, Baby!

I can understand why people would assume that Patrick and I are a couple.

We're about the same age. We obviously get along. Sometimes we go out with kids in tow.

I can understand why the salesperson at the mattress store thought we were a couple. I mean, really. How many opposite gender friends go shopping for mattresses together? It was kind of fun to freak her out by saying, "I'm going to have to call my husband before I make a decision."

And I can understand why the night clerk at the hotel where we stayed when traveling from Cleveland would assume that we were a couple. We got one room, after all.

But in Provincetown? Well, I just thought people would be more attuned.

It was bad enough when we went into the Eros toy store. I'm sure you can guess what kind of toys they sold.

As we were looking around the sales woman came up to us and said, "We have some wonderful toys for couples."

Ahhh! God! Ewww!

"We're NOT a couple!" I exclaimed, like it was the worst thing she could have ever suggested. I think Patrick's jaw just dropped.

But that's nothing compared to the faces he was making while the women who worked in the store were doing their best to sell me a $145 vibrator. I don't think he wants to be exposed to that kind of girl talk ever again.

But I think I'm ruining Patrick's chances with men all over P-Town.

We went to The Boatslip for a tea dance last Friday afternoon. Patrick had to be at work later that night, but we spent a fun hour checking out the scenery. The very buff, tan, beautiful, male scenery.

We were watching one very buff, very tan, very beautiful, very male gentleman in particular. He was the only one on the dance floor who had stripped off his shirt.

After he brushed off the unwanted attention of a certain boy, and put his shirt back on, he sidled up to us and asked, "So, did you enjoy my show?"

He explained to us how he was just a nice suburban boy who had never done that kind of thing before. He talked to us for a while before he stopped and asked Patrick, "Are you straight?"

"Not. At. Alllllllll!" was Patrick's reply.

"Oh god no!" I chimed in.

If Patrick can't be easily identified as a gay boy with a girl friend at the gay bars in Provincetown, well, then, hell! How's he ever going to meet a boy?

But the story has a happy ending at least. Buff Man went to Patrick's bar later that night and slipped him a lot of tongue. It's just too bad that he got so drunk he had to be assisted out of the bar. But not before he got Patrick's number.

Hmmm? Drunk boys slipping Patrick tongue and phone numbers? He seems to have that effect on a lot of men.

Considering his track record, maybe he shouldn't queen it up after all.

Man and Dog

I'm sad today.

I went to bed sad last night, and I woke up sad this morning.

There's nothing in the world I hate more than being sad. I'd rather be pissed off or bored or cranky or horny or hell, just about anything but sad.

Because sad is the most hopeless emotion.

I miss my husband. I miss him in a different way than I do when he's deployed. For one thing, when he's in the US, I can talk to him for hours on the phone. Having him still be a part of my everyday life makes me miss having everyday unlimited physical access to him.

That sounds dirty. But what I mean is that I miss holding his hand whenever I want. And tackling him for a hug whenever the mood strikes me. And poking him in the stomach and shoulders until he pays attention to me. And kissing the nape of his neck just because it belongs to me and I get to do that.

But we chose to spend these few weeks apart. We're extremely lucky that we live the kind of lifestyle that allows us to do this. I guess, for us a few weeks separation seems like nothing. I don't regret coming here. Not at all! The kids are sucking up grandparent time and I am getting lots of me time. And I'm having a great time with Patrick during the rare hours that he's not working. And I'm going to get to see one of my best college friends really soon.

But I miss him. And he misses me. And I can't wait until he can join us.

And he'll bring Buffy with him. I actually miss her more than I thought I would.

Buffy isn't doing so well. After a month of medication for her liver problem, her tests actually came back worse than before. Not good.

My husband is taking her to an internist next week. The hardest part of this for me is just not knowing what is wrong with her. Can we manage it with medication? Can we fix it with surgery? Will she live just a couple of years before her liver fails? It's the not-knowing that is always the hardest for me. I can deal with anything, I just need to know what I'm dealing with.

I keep telling myself that I shouldn't be so upset over a potential problem with my dog. There are so many worse things that happen to people in life. But I think you can understand. She's just a helpless little baby. And she has the best personality. Why did this have to happen to her?

Okay, so this is like the fifth time I've cried in two days. And for once, I can't blame it on PMS or war.

I'll probably be perfectly happy tomorrow. But for now, I'm going to revel in the fact that the workmen are finally hooking up my stove and drier. The Terminex man has come to kill the termites. The exterminator has taken care of the spiders. I have hot water, heat, and air conditioning.

And my man and my dog will be here in two weeks. It doesn't get any better than that.

Some things should stay private!

I haven't blogged about PMS or my period in, well, like, maybe a month.

And that is unheard of!

But, come on. Just how blogable are stories about moods and cramps?

But yesterday my best friend bought me a half pound block of chocolate. He told the cashier it was a medical emergency.

That was sweet. The chocolate was amazing. (Yes, it is already gone.) And it made me feel better for a few minutes.

But he obliterated any sweetness points he had built up by blogging about my period today.

Fucker.

And no, I'm not linking to it.

But if his key doesn't work when he gets home tonight, you'll all know why.

Here's a piece of advice for you all. If you're going to make a new best friend, consider twice before you befriend a bartender (last night! Oy vey!) and stand-up comic.

Lessons in Gay

This morning, my worlds collided in a very big way.

My mother met Patrick.

I couldn't say that my mother is that thrilled with the idea of Patrick staying in our house for the summer. She's--well--I don't know if she really knows what to think. She's not the type to come right out and ask a lot of questions or offer a lot of opinions.

Frankly, she knows that she annoys me sometimes, and I think she tries really hard not to meddle in our life. But what she doesn't get is that the reason she annoys me is that she assumes a lot, and never directly communicates with me.

So ever since she found out that my husband invited Patrick to spend the summer, she has been subtly trying to gather information about "this kid."

Other than the fact that I haven't mentioned blogs, I haven't held anything back from her. Why would I? It's not like I'm ashamed of my friendship with Patrick.

Yesterday she asked, "Has he ever been married?"

To which I replied, "Mom, he's gay. I told you that before."

"Oh, I didn't realize," was all she said.

My mother brought my kids down to the Cape House on Saturday to visit for a few days. But she was already in bed when Patrick came home from work Saturday night.

This morning, after the kids rudely awakened us, Patrick made us all breakfast. (And by the way, it takes real talent to cook scrambled eggs on a gas grill.) The five of us sat at the kitchen table and talked just a bit before Patrick had to head out for work.

Later, while the kids were napping (and after my own huge nap) my mother and I sat at the kitchen table and chatted ourselves.

"He reminds me of Jerry," my mom told me. Jerry, of course, is the only other gay man she knows.

"Why? Just because they're both gay?" I asked.

"No," she replied. "He's just like Jerry. You remember him, don't you? He was so nice-looking and so nice. It's just such a shame."

"What's a shame, Mom?"

"Well, that he's gay."

Here's where I heave a huge sigh.

My mother and I have talked about this before. I'm sure Jerry's husband doesn't think it is a shame.

I spent at least thirty minutes today talking with my mother about being gay. Not that I'm an expert. But, as I've pointed out to her, I've always had close gay friends.

We talked about whether being gay is a choice. We talked about my college friends and how happy they are now. We talked about Patrick's Ex.

And in doing so, I mentioned Patrick's cancer. And what did my mother ask me?

"Does he really have cancer, or is it AIDs?"

I could have blown up at her. My mother can astound me sometimes with her ignorance. But she lives in a very small world. And we're switching roles. It's certainly about time that I started teaching her.

So I remained calm and talked about HIV. I told her more about Patrick's cancer and I told her about Aaron's tumors.

I think my purpose is many-fold here. My mother has taken a huge backseat on my mental committee. And that is liberating. I've expanded my circle of love and my family of choice. And that feels wonderful. But I want my mother to know me. And to know me, she needs to know about the people I love.

I hope I've educated her just a little bit. She's my mother. If I can't educate her, I have little chance of educating anyone else.

And she spends so much time with my kids. It is absolutely essential to me that she has the right attitude about the things that I value. Because I refuse to let my kids be ignorant.

So tomorrow, I'm loading my mother and my kids in the car and we're taking a trip to Provincetown. I think I'll call it immersion therapy.

A Whole New Level of Fag Hag

Once upon a time, over at Shamus' site, he had a post about how to spot a fag hag.

Ewww. Those words! But anyway...

One of the items in the list was, "isn’t too ashamed to take a crap at your house."

I believe at the time I made a comment like, "I've never shit at a gay man's house and I never would."

Okay. Okay.

Clearly, considering how much time I've spent with Patrick, I have shit at a gay man's house. It was only a matter of time. I mean, come on. Everybody poops.

But I think I've taken fag hag to a whole new level.

Not only have I shit in a gay man's home, I've cleaned the shit out of a gay man's toilet.

And last night, I...well...I shit in a gay bar.

Is that bad? As usual, it's not my fault. Let me explain.

I drove to P-Town last night to pick Patrick up from work. We planned to have dinner in town and then drive back home. (Or at least that's what I thought the plan was.)

When I walked into his bar, he introduced me to one of his regulars. He was a sweet man, who clearly likes Patrick. I announced that we were celebrating because we now have hot water (woo hoo!) so Patrick poured me a white chocolate martini.

God that has a lot of alcohol.

And when our conversation turned to types of drinks, Patrick made his regular and me some sort of purple shot made with Chambord and cream. (I had forgotten about that shot until just now.)

Then the regular invited Patrick out for a drink after work. I know that Patrick assumed he meant the both of us, since we had been talking about getting dinner together. But the regular had consumed quite a few of Patrick's drinks. It was only after a while that he suddenly realized I wasn't leaving and invited me to join them.

Now you should know, if Patrick had the opportunity to *ahem* meet a wonderful man for a life time love match *ahem* I'd totally step out of the way. But unless there was the promise of hot sex with a to-die-for-man, Patrick wouldn't ditch me and our dinner plans.

So, I went out on a date with Patrick. What level of fag hag does that promote me to?

The regular was really very sweet, but he had quite a bit to drink. He kept apologizing to me, "I'm sorry but Patrick pours a good drink."

I made the mistake of letting Patrick order drinks for me all night. I had a Midori Sour (which wasn't what Patrick ordered but the bartender must have misheard him.) while on the date.

At dinner we each had two Cosmos. And I had the P-Town Scampi Trio, with lobster, shrimp, and scallops that weren't really cooked quite enough.

At the karaoke bar where we went for Patrick to sober up (and not to meet the cute waiter who told us to go there) I had...um...something. I don't remember what. Probably a vodka and cranberry.

After three or four songs, I started feeling not-so-good. I've never been drunk enough to be sick and I couldn't decide if I needed to sit or crouch by the toilet.

I've decided that the scallops are to blame.

I'm sort of glad I was in a gay bar, because there was only one woman waiting for the bathroom when I finally emerged. Poor girl. She's probably scarred for life.

But I took a shit in a gay karaoke bar while a drag queen entertained the crowd.

I have taken fag hag to a whole new scary level.

Like a Wild Animal in its Natural Habitat

Hey guys!

Yes, I made it to the Cape okay.

The kids and I drove for two entire days and we arrived at my parent's house at about 1 a.m. Sunday morning.

Of course my parents had to visit with me until about 3 a.m. and then they sent me off to sleep on an air mattress.

That air mattress sucks.

I slept until noon on Sunday. Then I left my kids with my parents and drove a couple of hours to our house on the Cape.

As I drove through my hometown, away from my kids and any responsibility what-so-ever, I felt like an entirely different person.

I put my Avenue Q album on my iPod and sang my little heart out all the way to the Cape Cod Canal.

The plan is for me to kick some contractor ass and finally get the house ready for the kids to inhabit. Poor Patrick has been staying here without heat or hot water for two weeks.

I pulled into the driveway, and well, the house looks really nice from the outside. I would have loved to go in, but alas, I have no key. I guess I assumed that Patrick would leave his key for me, but he didn't. I know how he is. He just wanted me to come visit him at work.

So I jumped in the car, again, and drove to P-town to meet up with Patrick at the bar where he works and get a key.

He works in a nice place. I was starving and ordered a lobster roll (Ahhh! Back in New England again!) and I sat at the bar eating and watching Patrick work.

It was like watching a wild animal in its native habitat.

It was fascinating.

In the half hour or so that I was there, he was french kissed by an elderly gent, collected phone numbers from at least two interested guys, and poured more drinks than I could count.

By the time I got back to my house, I was exhausted.

I have to admit that when I opened the door and entered the house, I was so, well, stressed.

This is a nice house, but it doesn't feel like it is mine. It is filled with all of my grandmother-in-law's belongings. She was a wonderful woman, but I don't like living with her stuff.

It is musty and dusty and buggy and cobwebby and (shhh, don't tell Patrick) spidery. And as of yet, there is no hot water or heat.

I have a lot of work to do to make this house our home and it is a little overwhelming.

But it is going to be fun too. Patrick is going to help me shop and paint (two things he excels at, I hear) and we'll most likely start with the living room.

I was pissed off today because the gas company didn't show up to finish this job. So I went shopping. A few hundred dollars later, I have a newly decorated bathroom. (My husband and I always say that I shouldn't be let out of the house alone with money.)

It was nice to be able to complete a least one small room over the course of one day.

This summer should be interesting. I'm mostly looking forward to getting this house livable so that we can really enjoy it next year, spending quality time with my good friend, spending relaxing time with my husband, and getting away to NYC in July.

I'm having an adventure. And I feel like a kid again.

Do a girl a favor?

First, go here. And leave a comment. Because it is embarrassing to guest blog and not get any comments.

Second, pray for me. I leave in the morning for a 25 hour drive to Cape Cod. It's just me, the kids, and a crate full of videos.

If I can survive this, I can survive anything. Do you have any idea how much my kids can talk?

I'll be out of touch for a few days. But I'll let you all know when we've arrived safely.

Behave.

Who Rocks?

Oh, that's right. You do!

A couple of weeks ago, it was my birthday.

I have to admit that since I was a teenager, I've really not been a huge fan of my birthday. I know that it sounds selfish and immature, but nobody has ever made a big deal out of my birthday.

So I never did either. And I'd always end up feeling disappointed that nobody remembered me.

Um, yeah.

Not this year.

First of all, Patrick posted this on my blog. A word of advice, people. If you make Patrick an admin on your blog, he will use that power. (He'll also call you before 8 a.m., but that's a whole different story.)

And then, I kind of ruined it for a lot of you guys by going away and being away from my computer for a week on my birthday.

But my husband was collecting packages for me at home.

First I got a hand-painted mug from Pua. It's beautiful. The background has an ocean-feel to it and it has little fish and my name. I'd post a picture but even though most of you know my real name, I never actually say it here on the blog. I have to keep the husband content with my anonyminity.

Then I got a tower of chocolate from My Adoring Fans. I had to do a little investigative work, but I think Ryan was representing my adoring fans. I'd post a picture of my tower of chocolate, but ummm, we ate it. Fast. An entire tower of chocolate lasted my husband and me a day and a half.

And at Patrick's I got some more stuff. In Mark's pictures from GB/NYC2, I noticed everybody signing a T-shirt. "Oh! What a great idea," I thought. "That will make a nice souvenir."

Who knew that it would be for me?

Mz. Ouiser was the one who bought the T-shirt and coordinated the signing. I love her! Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mz. Ouiser!

When I opened up the package from Mz. Ouiser (which also included an unsigned T-shirt for me to wear and some stickers for the kids), Patrick, Shamus, and I promptly sat down and read all the inscriptions. They made us laugh or say awwww.

I tried to get a picture that would show all of the signings, but I couldn't quite get it to work.









By the way, children make excellent models for gay-themed T-shirts written on by a bunch of drunks.

Some of you were so drunk, I wonder if you even remember what you wrote. I think my favorite, though is from MAK. He writes, "I wanted to sign on your boobs, but I'm too drunk to find them."

Thanks so much to all of you guys who wrote me messages, and the few of you who signed "by Proxy". And a hundred million thank you's to Mz. Ouiser. Who seriously rocks.

When I got home from my visit with Patrick, I had a bunch of e-cards and blog posts wishing me a happy birthday. You guys have no idea how much that means to me. I've never smiled so much on my birthday. Never.

Decisions, Decisions

I'm a great decision-maker.

I'm decisive.

I truly believe that most decisions aren't really decisions at all. Whenever a choice presents itself in life, we already know what we will do. The decision-making process is really only the process of rationalizing a way to make the choice we want to make seem like the right thing to do.

Deep, huh?

But I've had a barrage of decisions to make this week.

My husband broke his cell phone. Do I want to give him mine and change phone plans myself? Well, I thought I did, but apparently Cingular and their Early Termination Fee have other plans.

Do I want to spend an entire summer at our beach house?

I know, I know. That's quite the la-di-da decision to have to make. But it involves being away from my husband (again!) for a few weeks. Ironically, he wants me to go. I made a flippant comment about spending the summer on the Cape since it is so flipping hot here, and he answered, "Why don't you?"

Now I have to decide when to go, how to get there, and just how much I'm willing to let my parents take my kids.

Suddenly, the decision-making queen can't seem to pull her head out of her ass long enough to think things through.

So fuck it. I'm going.

I've got to clean. I've got to pack. I've got to pay bills. I've got to lose the guilt about moving my son's appointment at the sleep clinic back a couple of months. I need to shake the guilt about leaving Buffy behind with my husband because she has to go to the vet.

Oh yeah. Did I mention that my son has a sleep disorder? (A harmless one, we think.) Did I mention that Buffy is sick? (With some sort of liver disorder.)

Isn't it funny how I don't talk about the real-life things that bother me?

I might not be able to make the decision about when I want to leave for the Cape, but I can easily decide to keep all of my real fears buried deep.