Speaking of...

Patrick and I were hanging out the other day and I suddenly noticed something weird about my feet. I held them up to him and said, "Look. I shaved the top of one of my feet but not the other." Yes, I'm a hobbit. But speaking of feet...

I went to rent a movie tonight and there was a really hot guy in line in front of me. But when he went up to pay for his selection I noticed something weird about his feet. He was wearing socks with sandals. But not any sandals. They were thongs. He was wearing socks with thongs and he had the material all bunched up between his toes. Poor, poor hot guy. Obviously he needs a woman to care for him. But speaking of woman and renting movies...

The assistant manager at the video store thinks I am a lesbian. It's either because I've rented all of the Queer as Folk out on DVD, or because I tend to run in there wearing what Patrick might refer to as my lesbian clothes. I think she hit on me tonight. She suggested that when the Queer as Folk series is over, we should watch them all over again from the beginning. I'm not sure if she meant together or not. But maybe she did. I wasn't wearing a bra. But speaking of girly things...

The men in my life don't like when I put bows in Buffy's hair. But I put up with two big male dogs for nine years, and I'm ready to have a little girly fun with my little puppy. Besides she looks stupid without bows.

See?

























Speaking of my dog looking like she stuck her paw in an electrical socket, I need to go give her a bath.

Get Your Sappy On

Hey guys. I took a day off from the world today. The only thing I managed to accomplish besides refilling the toilet paper roll was guest blogging at The Traveling Spotlight.

So if you want to read something sappy and sentimental, link on over here.

Weighty Issues

My husband called my best friend a prick yesterday.

It may be because said best friend was standing on the scale at the time.

Wearing all his clothes.

Holding a vitamin in his hand.

And he even had his wallet in his pocket.

And he's still lost weight.

Yeah.

Skinny little bitch.

Is skinny little bitch worse than prick?

I'm the Mother of a Six-Year-Old

Last year on my daughter's birthday I wrote about the day she was born.

This year, I was so busy and stressed that I barely had the time to think about her birthday. Until it suddenly hit me today that I am the mother of a six-year-old.

How the hell did that happen?

We went to play mini golf tonight and we had to pay two more dollars for her than for my son. She'll be starting first grade in less than a month. She'll be holding hands with boys in only six or so more years. She'll be driving a car in just ten years. And she'll be going to college in twelve more years!

I'd be sad, but, well, right now that sounds really great!

That's not to say that she isn't a joy. My kids really are very well behaved and generally they are lovely to be around. I wouldn't give them up for the world.

But I'm getting spoiled this summer. My parents keep asking to take the kids on trips and I keep letting them. After months of being all alone with them on a daily basis, I'm still in a place where I am enjoying the freedom.

But this past Wednesday my mother brought my kids back to the Cape to celebrate my daughter's birthday. And one of my mothers-in-law and one of my fathers-in-law (yes I have two sets) came to visit for a few days.

We took my daughter to dinner for her birthday and she ate the largest brownie sundae I've ever seen in my life.

In an effort to let my husband have time with his mother, and because I feel like I make my mother-in-law very uncomfortable, I spent the next day in Provincetown with Patrick.

Speaking of Patrick, he was an awesome friend this week. He made nice with my family, spent quality birthday time with my daughter, and took care of me above and beyond the call of duty.

On Friday my parents returned with my twin nephews in tow. And on Saturday my other set of in-laws (the not-so-nice ones) and my husband's step-sister and her husband showed up for my daughter's birthday party.

My stress level was through the roof for those few days. And so was my husband's. All that family in one place...it was...well...it went fine. But it was tough.

When the last of them took off and it was just me, my man, and my offspring left the quiet was absolutely wonderful. My husband's mood went from horrid to happy. And I felt like I could breathe for the first time in days.

Now I need to pick up the pieces. I need to face the fact that my little girl is growing up faster than I realized. And the summer is swiftly wrapping up.

On Tuesday my kids are going back with my parents for a couple of weeks. On Thursday my husband heads back to work. And on about August 7, the kids and I will be heading home for the start of school.

So far this summer has been quite an experience. I've been up and down. I've been stressed and relaxed. I've been a good wife and a bad one. And I've been a good friend and a burden.

But right now I'm going to remember just this one moment. I was walking back to the house from our beach-front birthday party and I put my arm around my daughter and asked her, "Did you have a good birthday."

And she replied, "I had the best birthday! I love you, Mom."

That's what it is all about.

I wish I had genital herpes.

I really do.

The people in those Valtrex ads look so damn happy. They seem to lead such exciting lives.

Nothing like my life.

First of all, look at how attractive the couple is at their web page.

Now I'm no dog, but that girl probably weighs half as much as I do. I could break her skinny little arms in two with one hand shake. And that guy has some serious eye crinkle going on. But look at his hair. My husband is a beautiful man, but he gave up on the thick and wavy hair dream years ago.

Second of all, look at the things these genital herpes sufferers do.

I can make my life sound exciting if I try. For example, my husband and I went to New York City last weekend.

Now, if we had herpes we would have driven there in a classic convertible with the top down and the wind blowing through our thick hair. Instead, we drove a mini van.

If we had herpes, we would have sipped expensive wine with dinner after our arrival at a posh hotel. In reality, we had a hotel room next to an elevator shaft that must have been converted from a janitor closet. We did eat a wonderful dinner at the Blue Fin on Broadway, (I couldn't resist thanks to the tuna reference) but we drank tap water with our sushi and salmon.

If we had herpes we would have met our fellow herpes sufferers for a fun drink out at a kicky little lounge.

Well, we did meet some cohorts, whether or not they have herpes remains to be seen. We met MAK, Aaron, Rob, Greg, Crash, Jase, Tin Man, Mike, Patch, and Michael for this man's birthday at the X Avenue Lounge. (Which I couldn't find because I was actually looking for a number 10.)

We had a blast. A Jim Bean soaked blast. But if we had genital herpes we would have all been throwing our heads back in wide-mouthed merriment while our perfect teeth shined and sparkled in the perfect cold sore camouflaging light.

If we had herpes we would have been up bright and early enjoying the rain-soaked city. Instead we slept past noon.

If we had herpes we would have run through the pouring rain, spinning and laughing and throwing our heads back with glee. Instead we sprinted, heads down against the rain, to buy umbrellas from a camera shop, only to proceed to the largest Applebee's on earth.

Yes, we ate at Applebee's while we were in the cultural food capital of the world. Don't blame us. It was raining really hard and the Applebee's was right there looking all warm and dry. If we had genital herpes, I'm sure we would have found some cute little cafe to cuddle in. Damn those genital herpes sufferers, setting the dining bar so high for the rest of us.

If we had only had a herpes outbreak or two, we would have braved the rain to shop on 5th Avenue. Instead, my rain-hating husband bought me a cup of coffee and took me back to our janitorial closet for a nap.

I wonder if the herpes couple would have had sex then.

We didn't. We hung out and slept and were total sloths. When we finally got our shit together we dragged our asses over to X & 44 on MAK's recommendation. MAK told us, "That's my favorite restaurant over here. And not just because of the hot waiters."

The food and service were excellent and the waiters were quite hot. They were lively and beaming too. Hmmm. Maybe they have genital herpes.

We proceeded to the theater after dinner. If we had genital herpes we would have been decked out in ass-hugging and cleavage-baring formal wear. We would have jumped from a cab looking perfect and swept right into the theater to our front row seats.

Instead, we dressed nicely, but wore hooded sweatshirts over our clothes because it was still pouring out and we hadn't brought nice coats. We were also soaked form the knees down from walking through the rain and puddles. We had to wait in line to get to our seats. But since we have orchestra tastes, we ignored our mezzanine budget and sprung for some excellent seats.

I'm sure our herpes-crusted friends would have seen something like Les Miserable or Phantom of the Opera, but we saw Avenue Q.

I love that show. But I don't think the cast had herpes. They seemed a little flat. Maybe I'm just spoiled from seeing the original cast last December and listening to the cast recording way too many times.

On second thought, maybe Barrett Foa has herpes, because he was just beaming. What a beautiful, beautiful man. Yes, yes. I'm sure of it. Barrett would fit right in with the herpes folks in the television commercials.

If we had herpes we would have swept out of the theater and into a waiting limo to whisk us to some exotic place for post-show dinner and drinks. But no. We headed back to our kennel for the night where I proceeded to toss and turn and grow more and more cranky until dawn.

In the morning, we decided that our herpes-free hides had experienced enough NYC glamour and we got our mini van out of hock and headed home.

We stopped at IKEA on the way. There were no herpes outbreaks there. Just hordes and hordes of suburban parents with their little monsters. Oh. And a few hundred gay men. If I were gay, male, and single, I know where I'd be hanging out to cruise.

I've decided that I need to catch some herpes right now. I'm tired of my mundane life. I want to go on long romantic hikes. I want to be skinny and beautiful. I want to laugh with my head thrown back like I haven't a care in the world.

So, any offers? I've been told I'm pretty talented. I'll make it worth your while. But you have to wear a condom. House rules.

Wait. Will that work?

Ah hell. I guess I'll just have to hang out with my friends and get my husband drunk more often. Who knew he'd be so much fun?

Crash! Boom! Bang!

Did you all hear that noise? That tremendous crashing sound?

No. It wasn't the sound of Forth of July fireworks being launched from Boston to L.A.

It was the sound of my world's colliding together like so many cars in a demolition derby.

My husband met Patrick.

That sounds pretty dramatic, but it wasn't. Well, it wasn't to them anyway. To me it was one of the most stressful things that has ever happened to me.

Neither one of them can understand why, but I hope some of you can understand. It wasn't that I didn't think they would get along.

Well, okay. I did have some doubts. They come from two very different worlds, after all. But I did trust them both to try their best to get along.

It wasn't that I thought they would get along too well and leave me out.

Well, okay. They did gang up on me a little bit. Something about me never answering my phone. But neither one of them has a leg to stand on there so...

It was only that it isn't everyday that you introduce the man you've been living with to your husband.

Usually, when you have a best friend, you bring them into your relationship. You know. Like if I had met Patrick in high school...

Okay, I can't continue there. I would have RUN AWAY from Patrick and his crowd in high school.

But still. If Patrick was my friend and then I started dating my husband, it would have been different.

Or even if my husband and I met Patrick together and he became friends with both of us.

But I cannot change the fact that I met Patrick through the Internet. I can't change the fact that I had met up with Patrick in New York. I can't change the fact that Patrick visited while my husband was away. I can't change the fact that I spent almost a week at Patrick's house in Cleveland. And I certainly can't change the fact that Patrick and I have been living together since June.

But what I haven't mentioned, and what makes a huge difference, is that my husband suggested all of those meetings. He's the one who invited Patrick to stay at our house this summer.

The plain truth of the matter is that my husband has been treating Patrick like family without ever having met him.

That is an amazing testament to how much my husband loves and trusts me.

But it doesn't help ease my tension about my two favorite men meeting for the first time even one tiny iota.

Patrick works so much that they've barely even spent time together, but they are getting along fine.

It's me who they're driving crazy. Here's the thing:

Living with a man is hard. Living with TWO men is even harder.

But they have it easy. Because living with me is a piece of fucking cake.

Right boys?

Whoring Nicky's Ass

Go here and vote for Nicky (a.k.a. Ajax) in a best ass contest. You'll get to see some hot ones. But Nicky is #4. And clearly the hottest. Trust me.

He's my blog daddy so I feel a little dirty looking at his ass. But you might enjoy it.

Spread the...um...word.

UPDATE: Nicky won. Of course. I think it's because he had the girls on his side.

Marry Me, Bill!

Bill of Bilboard left this comment on Patrick's blog:

Fix your BLOG by changing a setting in your Blogger Dashboard - click,Change Settings, select Formatting, Scoll down to - Enable Float Alignment and select NO, save settings and you're done....Bill

Yay. I love Bill. And Patrick had met him in person and gives him mad props. (Yeah. I can't get away with using language like that, can I?) So I feel comfortable proposing marriage to him.

Yes, I'm already married. And yes, Bill is gay. But I'm sure I could do quite well in divorce proceedings and then I could support Bill in a manner to which he has become accustomed.

Have I mentioned how much I hate it when things aren't right? I hope that helps some of you too.

"Debra Messing Says Hi"

This is what my life has been reduced to.

My best friend called me after midnight to tell me, "Debra Messing says 'Hi.'"

I have to admit that I'm just a tiny bit bitter. Once I picked the kids up from my parent's last week, I slid right back into my single mom/prisoner in my own home routine.

So while I was sitting at home, listening to my kids snore and watching television, Patrick was in P-Town hanging out with Debra Messing.

Now I have to admit that it wasn't his meeting a celebrity that made me bitter. I've never been one to be awestruck by celebrities. I figure they are just people, like all of us, who happen to have jobs that cause many people to recognize them.

If I could meet anyone I wanted, I'd rather meet someone like Ryan, or Jeff, or Scott and Jay. Or Pua, or Nicky, or Knottyboy. You know. Cool people who I can relate to.

It was Patrick's being out and having fun and talking to other adults and not being alone, alone, alone that made me jealous.

But my husband is on his way here right now. The kids go back to my parents next week. And my husband and I will be in NYC July 7-10. (We're shy, you New York guys. Don't let us flounder in the big city!) I know I have some fun in store soon.

But right now I'm letting the kids watch DVDs because it's pouring out and I'm thinking we could have done this back home!

Hmmm. I may have just scooped a blog topic from Patrick. But oh well. He deserves it for having fun without me.

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.