Merry Christmas...

Or whatever holiday you celebrate right around now. Or if you don't celebrate a holiday... well, happy day off.

I got you a present!



Enjoy this holiday season, folks.

It's Better Than Drinking Alone

The holiday season is wearing me out. Not because I'm this big social butterfly with all these "events" to go to or anything. It's because I feel like I need to go out a lot more than usual (just because it's the holiday season) and then I end up drinking more than I should and getting home later than I should (like now!) and fucking up my work situation more than it's already fucked up.

Tonight I actually walked through a particularly bad thought process with my friend at JRs. It went something along the lines of "I've seen that guy here three nights in a row now. Kinda hot... I'd do him... but what a lush. He's been here three nights in a row!... Of course the only way I'd know that is because I've been here three nights in a row...."

Yeah, it's been that kind of holiday season.

I bought several new jeans the other day then realized I need new pants for work too. Why do the crotches always seem to wear out faster than any other part of the pant? While we're at it, how the fuck do I stop my ever-expanding waist size? It's hard to buy pants for short fat people like me. I need an inseam of 28 or 29. No one makes those except for people with, like 26 waists. Take a waist my size, and people assume your inseam is something like 33 or 34. No one seems to make the waist/inseam combination for me. I'm short and fat, and now shopping is becoming a challenge.

I'm not sober. Drunk blogging is fun!

Good night folks! I'm here all week. Maybe not blogging, but I'll still be here.

Giving Up the Ghost

Dear C---,

You probably don't know this -- or if you do, you're deliberately putting it out of your mind -- but I have an immense crush on you. Huge. You're sweet, and smart, and very handsome, and I love the time I've spent with you.

You possibly don't know that every time I hang out with my friends, I ask whether or not you'll be joining us.

You possibly don't know that whenever I see you, my heart skips a beat.

You possibly don't know that when we hug -- whether it's hello, or goodbye, or anything in between -- I wish it would last forever. Your warmth, your scent, your smile, your eyes: I could get lost in that moment for an eternity.

I've teetered on the precipice of falling head over heels for you for a while.

But it seems like you haven't yet gotten over your last relationship, which ended several years ago. You're still apparently quite wounded by its dissolution. You've told me and our friends explicitly that, having had the love of your life once already, you're really not interested in ever finding anyone else. And it seems like you're not going to be ready for another relationship with anyone any time soon.

I'm sorry that you've been hurt. I'm sorry that you're still hurting. But most of all, I'm sorry that everything that I can offer you, everything I want to give to you, everything I could bring myself to feel for you, won't be enough for you. I'm sorry that you're unable to accept what could be a great thing.

And I'm sorry that I find myself deciding that I'm just going to have to move on, and put what I've felt about you for a long time in the past.

Happy birthday, C---. I loved you.

Dennis!

Shop Shop Shop

IM Conversation:

Me: You interested in doing a Target and/or Costco run this weekend?
Friend: HAHAHAHAHA! You're kidding, right? Target the weekend before Christmas?
Me: Uh... I'll take that as a "no."

Symbolism

An open letter to [name redacted]:

Let me get this straight (no pun intended): You are a guy. Your life partner -- whom you call your husband -- is another guy. You are committed to each other as if you were legally married; you own a house together; the whole shebang. You had a commitment ceremony before friends and family and there you exchanged proclamations of love and fidelity with your man.

And you exchanged rings. Specifically, you wear what can only be referred to as a wedding band. On your left ring finger. And your husband wears one too.

I have no problem (obviously) with any of this. Heck, some day I'd love to be able to present a man to my family and friends and say, "This guy's the one. The rest of my life, this is the guy for me."

What strikes me as odd, though, is when you kvetch about people who see your ring -- again, it's on your left ring finger, and it's a wedding band -- and assume that you have a wife somewhere out there. You complain that this is an invasion of privacy. And you claim that it is an unwarranted conclusion to draw. You get upset that such comments, when you have to respond to them, put to you the choice of either (a) retreating to the closet by referring to your man-mate as a "wife", and switching pronouns accordingly, or (b) "outing" yourself by telling a stranger that the band represents a husband, not a wife. Neither option seems very appealing to you.

You claim that the ring is a private reminder, to yourself and your partner and to no one else, of your commitment, and it's no one's place to draw any inferences from your hand.

Honey, with all due respect, you need to face the consequences of your life choices. And by "life choices," I do not mean a choice to be gay, because I don't believe that's a choice. I'm referring to your choice to wear a wedding band, and to wear it on your left ring finger.

Let's face it: You've adopted the universal heterosexual symbol of commitment. The fact that it means something entirely different to you than it does to anyone else is of ZERO consequence here. I mean, none.

Yes, yes, yes, the issue of gay marriage has made headlines for a few years now. But with the exception of Massachusetts, no state has legal marriages. (Vermont, as I'm sure you know, created a civil equivalent to marriage for gay couples.) And every state that has since considered the question has voted to add to their state constitutions provisions that restrict marriages to a male joining with a female. So while gay marriages have, in fact, been making headlines, that doesn't exactly mean that it's been a successful P.R. drive, or that this country happily accepts men-whose-wedding-rings-represent-another-man.

Your ring is in clear public view. If you wanted a private reminder of your commitment to your man, you could have had his name tattooed across your ass. Or you could have discreetly put a ring on a chain and worn it around your neck (tucked inside your shirt). Or you could have worn a cock ring or inserted a butt plug (every time you shift in your chair, you'd think of him and smile). Hell, you could have discreetly stenciled his name on your fingernail. Each of these would have called less public attention to your union and could still have the purpose of affirming to you and your man that you are each other's life mate.

But no: you put on a ring. And by doing so you have made a public proclamation that's no different from wearing a crucifix around one's neck or a yarmulke on one's head. It's an outward manifestation pretty much compelling the viewer to reach one conclusion.

You simply cannot fault anyone for accepting your invitation to reach that conclusion.

Let's put it this way: You see a yarmulke, you're going to assume the wearer is an observant Jew. (Let's face it, yarmulkes aren't terribly fashionable among the non-Chosens.) Anyone sees a wedding ring, they're going to assume you're heterosexually coupled. Heck, if I were to put a wedding band on my left ring finger tomorrow, I'm sure strangers would think I'm hitched to a woman, despite the objective facts that I'm gay and I'm not actually coupled. The objective facts behind your ring matter only to you, but the signal that ring sends out doesn't necessarily track those objective underlying facts.

So get over it, [redacted]. Either be out and happy and prepared to talk about the unusual significance of the ring you wear, or quit bitching about having to hide the gender of your partner from people who draw that conclusion. I suppose the third option is to remove the ring completely, but even I would hate to see that happen.

The Closet

I thought that by this point in my life I'd be done with the closet. Of course, I also thought that my non-heterosexuality was kind of obvious, but I'm told it's not.*

Every Tuesday night I make my way to a local bar for poker night. It's a free night, and it's amusing and entertaining (except when I bow out ridiculously early), and I'm pretty much a regular there now. I recognize faces; I know some names; and I know who I prefer not to play against and who I enjoy playing against.

To these people, I apparently come across as "one of the guys." Which is great. And none of them come across as hatefully homophobic, which is also great. Over the past few months, I have been treated to such comments as "check out pink sweater," referring to a lithe young woman at another table whose breasts were, frankly, unbelievably perky. On another night, the men at the table shared ogling rights to an attractive, thin Asian woman who is becoming quite the regular.

Table talk has included (thankfully brief) discussions of which female celebrities are hot and which ones wouldn't be kicked out of bed. Remember when Keith in Six Feet Under starts that job in private security, and all the guys stand around and talk about chicks, and Keith is so afraid of revealing his sexuality that he even says "Yeah, I'd tap that" about one woman? Yeah, it's kinda strangely like that.

I generally play along with these discussions. No, I don't go so far as to mention which woman I'd love to tap, but I do comment that some women are attractive. Hey, I'm allowed to notice beauty. (Yes, that's a rationalization.)

But the funniest moment was one night when a gay social group decided to hold its happy hour at the bar on the same night as poker night. This made my table-mates quite nervous, from what I could tell. As we played, it was inescapable that there was an unusually large congregation of men at the bar. Not only was their sheer number noteworthy, but the total disproportion in the male-female ratio was stark.

One player at my table commented that "not one single guy playing poker tonight wants to lose early tonight of all nights." Meaning: Unlike other nights, losing early doesn't mean lounging at the bar and talking to attractive women. (Kind of a shame, actually, because the guy who said this was really very attractive. I definitely would not kick him out of bed.)

The straight boys seemed uneasy about the whole situation, though thankfully none of them spewed any hateful rhetoric. Some seemed in denial about the men at the bar, preferring to believe that it was some post-work professional networking scene. (Perhaps my gaydar is more attuned to it, but just by scanning the faces of the men, I could tell it was most decidedly not that.) One seemed unwilling to even use the word:

Me (joking): You could go get a drink with the gay guys up there.
Him: You really think that's what it is?
Me: What what is?
Him: You know... those guys up there.
Me: Do I really think that's a gay mixer going on up there? Yes, I do.

Inexplicably, I stopped myself just short of saying that I would join them when I was done, or that I was going to a different gay bar after the game.

I suppose it just never comes up in conversation, but a part of me does wish that I could "come clean" with the guys at these poker nights. When I first started going, there was this cute lesbian couple who were also regulars. They stopped showing up several months later. They never, oh, made out or anything, but it was pretty clear they were together. There are usually one or two cute guys playing with us, one of whom I think may be gay, but we never talk about it.

At some point I'm sure it'll work its way into conversation, but until then... I'll keep my queens in the pocket. Which is, again, a shame, because some of these boys are really cute.

* Recently, at a gay bar, I realized why it's somewhat unclear: there are men here who are WAY gayer than I could EVER be. I randomly made a comment to a stranger while waiting for my drink and the 23-year-old just oozed homosexuality in his response. I was actually kinda taken aback. Me, straight-acting? Go fig.

Elevator Elevator Up and Down

Random observation: Why is it that some people can't seem to even remotely guess the relative speed of elevators?

Scene: You get on the elevator on the 15th floor. You press the "Lobby" button. Someone else gets on at 12 and also presses the "Lobby" button. Then the elevator stops at 11 -- and the guy from 12 absent-minded starts to make his way off the elevator before he suddenly realizes he's not at his floor yet.

Did he really think he descended twelve floors that quickly?

This is even funnier if the person in question actually lives or works in the building in question. One would think they'd get used to it eventually.

Unreal!

WaPo reports today that "President Bush . . . dismissed calls for U.S. troop withdrawals from Iraq as unrealistic."

Because, of course, charging into Iraq with no clear plan, mission, timetable or defined goals was realistic back in 2003. It's a very convenient time for you to venture into the "real" world, Mr. President.

It's a Date

I visited a friend's house recently (within the past two weeks). At some point as we were walking through the house, I noticed a calendar pinned to the wall. Absently, I noted, "Your calendar is still set to November, 2006."

He looked at me. "Today is...?"

I was so embarrassed.

My Thanksgiving Observations

It's late, but here, in narrative form, are some observations from my Thanksgiving.

===

I purchase a fruit tart from Whole Foods and make my way to the bus stop, where I am to catch a crosstown bus to a friend's house in the Capitol Hill area in Northeast DC. The bus is surprisingly -- no, shockingly -- on time, requiring me to run to catch it. It's nearly 4:00, and I've lazed most of the day away. Most of my friends have probably started their dinners by this time; some are on their second helping, others are at their second dinner. I'm just getting started, which is all for the better, because I have a terrible habit of stuffing myself silly when presented with massive quantities of delicious food.

I take a seat in the third forward-facing set of seats, selfishly taking both seats for myself. The bus isn't all that populated, and I would have been willing to move my tart if someone needed the seat. No one ever did.

Across the aisle and one seat behind me is a girl reading a book while her earbuds presumably entertained her. She never looks up for the entire time I'm on this bus. I start creating random stories in my mind about how she's a drifter, and she's just riding the bus for fun "to see the sights." That theory would work better were she actually looking out the window instead of casually ensconced in her reading material.

An older gentleman sits facing the front door of the bus in a raincoat and suit. His suit is rumpled, as if he's actually worked through the day in it. But it's Thanksgiving Day, I think, but I suppose there are people out there who work in this day. He's reading through the Washington City Paper with studied concentration. He either finished the feature article long ago or he generally isn't interested in that kind of stuff, because he's concentrating more on the tail end of the paper, including the personals. He seems to reading every last one of them.

A few stops later, a large older man with white hair and matching (short yet scraggly) beard climbs aboard. He looks homeless, though he lacks the smell usually associated with homeless people. He's carrying two large plastic garbage bags, filled close to bursting with what appears to be junk. One man's trash is another man's treasure. Or maybe he just didn't have "nice" looking bags to carry his stuff in; not all of us have the luxury of courting around Whole Foods bags. He sits facing City Paper man; his eyes appear to glaze over as he stares vacantly out the window.

At one intersection, the bus waits for an inordinately long time. The driver has seen something I was unable to from her superior view: a large black woman was apparently making her way to the bus with some difficulty. Perhaps she had tried to run, but one could only imagine that she wouldn't have been making terribly great time even if she had made the effort. She sports a large waist-length fur coat (whether it's real fur is up for debate), which seemed incongruous when paired with her short skirt which revealed her ample thighs. Her hair consisted of both a bad cut and a bad color job; the short platinum blond waves matted themselves to her scalp like limp lasagna noodles.

A woman who appeared North African boards at the next stop. The bus continues to pull forward as she stands there and fumbles through her purse in search of the right change. From near the back exit, a voice calls out, apparently to her, "Yo Jessica, is yo' Mac-Donalds open?"

A woman with dirty blonde unruly hair also boards, carrying an oversized backpack. It's unclear whether she's one of those crunchy granola hippie types (perhaps she was backpacking across the country?), or whether she's just down on her luck and trying to keep it together. She sits two seats in front of me, her giant backpack sticking up at least two head lengths past hers.

Jessica doesn't even look up as she responds to her friend: "I don't know; I'm not there." She pays her fare and takes her seat next to Literary Girl; three rows behind her is her friend.

As we drive on, we pass the McDonald's. It is presumably the McDonald's to which Jessica's Friend referred, for she comments, "There it is... Dang, it is open!" For a brief moment, I contemplate how sad it must be to even consider having a Super-Size Value Meal as Thanksgiving dinner, but then I hear Jessica's Friend continue: "Oh wait, it ain't open."

"Hey, Jessica, you going to DC General?"

Not bothering to turn her head, Jessica responds: "Yes."

"Is it nice there?"

"It's not bad." The lack of eye contact makes me wonder whether Jessica and this woman are actually friends. No indication is given why they both happen to be heading to DC General. Where I had presumed that Jessica worked at McDonald's, perhaps she works at DC General. Or are they both friends of a long-term care patient? Or perhaps they struck up a friendship visiting their respective friends?

"I'll ride up with you," Jessica's Friend offers. "Want to come sit by me?"

Again without looking at her, Jessica takes her up on the offer ("Sure!") and moves to sit next to her.

At some point during this conversation, Fur-Laden Large Woman With Bad Hair disembarks. She is met by two well-dressed men on the street. Apparently they are all heading for the same place; the two men are each carrying what appears to be food products in boxes. I surmise that they are volunteering to serve Thanksgiving dinner to someone or another. In many past years here I have looked for the opportunity to do this and have somehow never succeeded in finding one.

A clearly angry black man boards. He's carrying two grocery-sized plastic bags. He too strikes me as homeless, and I wonder if he's even paid the fare. If the driver is demanding it of him, she isn't doing it loudly enough for me to hear, which takes some effort seeing as I'm less than ten feet from the front of the bus. He stands behind the driver, grasping at the poles for support after putting one of his plastic bags down on the seat. He mutters frequently, including inflections that, judging from the tone and vehemence of his exhalations, are likely curse words. (Perhaps he has Tourette's?). At one point, he clearly states "I'm not even gonna bother to take a seat," though he does sit down literally ten seconds after he says it. After approximately 8 stops he gets off, still cursing, including a few choice words at the driver. I still don't remember if he ever paid or not. If he was ejected for nonpayment of fare, it was the most drama-free ejection I've ever seen. Of course, given how long he was on the bus, he may very well have reached his final destination anyway.

City Paper Guy gets off a few stops later, abandoning his paper on the seat recently vacated by him. Before I -- empty handed except for my fruit tart -- can even think twice about it, Two-Trash-Bag Man lunges across the aisle and snatches it. He flips through a few pages for under a minute, then shoves the paper into one of his overfilled trash bags. This reinforces my initial thought that he appears to be some kind of pack rat.

As we approach Union Station, Jessica and Her Friend abruptly change plans. Jessica's Friend suggests they take in a movie; Jessica politely demurs. In the alternative, her friend suggests that they go looking for some food. Jessica quickly agrees, and they both hop off right outside the station, hoping that someplace or another will be open at this hour on Thanksgiving night. The nature of their relationship remains completely unclear to me, but it looks like they were willing to enjoy each other's company for Thanksgiving, and I am happy they both don't have to spend their nights alone.

As we continue to wind through Northeast Washington, I take in the views of the homes there -- well kept rowhouses, many of which probably have substantial amounts of history attached to them. The streets are strangely quiet; nary a pedestrian can be seen. I see one couple with a stroller leisurely making their way down the street, but that's all. I suppose they're all gathered around their dinner tables eating turkey, or around the television watching football. That'll be me soon enough.

I start to fret about whether I've remembered my stop correctly, and whether I should get off at 11th Street or 14th Street. I can see the street on which my friend lives, but alighting early could result in an unnecessarily long walk. Thankfully, I find that I did in fact remember my stop correctly, and I get off and walk about a block and a half to my friend's house.

It was a magical Thanksgiving even before I ever made it to dinner.

Still Here

I've been so delinquent in posting. I've just been tired and bored and uninspired. I'll be back soon. Hopefully this week.

I Don't Love You, You Don't Love Me

Insanely catchy, if laughably simplistic. Check out the "cool" handheld keyboard! I still have no idea what any of it means, but it's fun.

Lately, my life seems to be a lot closer to "I don't love you BECAUSE you don't love me" than just the random happenstance of mutual non-love. "I wish I could quit you!"

O Canada

Heading north for the weekend, just to check it out. Catch y'all on the flip side.

Why Now?

I'm not saying that Democrats should be hardasses about everything now that they've taken control of both houses of Congress.

All I'm saying is, it's really easy to call for bipartisanship when you're the party who has had one-party control of government yanked out from under you.

And it's particularly less-than-palatable when that call for bipartisanship comes from one of the guys at the very center of partisan power grabs for the better part of six years.

Yo, Dubya: I didn't see you asking for bipartisan cooperation when your Republican cronies were busy redistricting Texas to dilute out Democratic votes. I didn't see you clamor for compromise while you consistently nominated (and pushed through) ideologue after ideologue to the federal bench. I didn't see you ask your Republican friends to give any thought to their opposition concerns across the aisle when it came to -- well, any significant issue at all in the past six years that you've been in office.

For as long as you've occupied the White House, I cannot remember a single time when you've ever even noticed that this country has two political parties, one of which disagrees with yours on many issues. You consistently held fast to your party line, and you basically took the position that your party had the power, and your party therefore had the right to make the rules, however myopically they may choose to do so.

So -- again, not that I'm encouraging Democrats to retreat into a "we're in control now so everyone else shut up" shell -- but I find your plea for bipartisan cooperation now to be hollow and, frankly, more than a little desperate.

Happy Dance

Everyone seems pretty confident Democrats will be taking over the House as well as the Senate.



I've been giddily skipping around my office all day.

***

On a sadder note, gay marriage bans passed in three more jurisdictions. This saddens me because it says that even while Democrats were getting to the polls and casting their votes to defeat Republicans, these same Democrats are voting at their polling places against gay marriage. I tell ya, if we can't get Democrats' minds past the "icky" factor of gay marriage, then there's no way we're going to get Republicans to support the idea. And thus, gay men and women will forever be denied full and equal participation in this society.

***

Still, on balance, control of Congress makes me happy.

Some incredibly superficial thoughts on this Election Day (because I'm just too tired to rant on about the crap that's happening at polling places) about the front page pictures that show upon the WaPo website:

- The poor random voting woman must be mortified. She's kind of plus-size, and her eyes are bugging out as if from surprise for no apparent reason. It's not the most flattering picture of her.

- The shot of Adrian Fenty hugging one of his supporters makes him look a little standoffish. Though still, I'd like to be the one pressed up against his body.

- Jim Webb's wife is stunningly pretty.

- But the bearded smiling guy behind him is hot.

- What's up with Eskimo woman with George Allen? He's in a suit and tie and no special winter gear, and she's Nanook of the North.

Oh, right, because you actually expected substantive shit on this blog.

Just Do It.

If you're an American citizen reading this and haven't done so yet, GO VOTE!

Conversations I've Been Involved in Recently

<<1>>

Boss: "I'm back from lunch. Any calls?"
Me: "No, it's been really quiet."
Boss: "Hm. Why?"
Me: "Uh, because no one anywhere picked up the phone and dialed our particular 7- or 11-digit combination?"

<<2>>

Girl: "Did he tell you his gym story?"
Me: "You mean his story about a guy named Jim or about his workout?"
Girl: "Huh?"
Me: "Gym story, like J-I-M?"
Girl: "Oh, no, like "J-Y-M."
Me, and everyone else listening: [burst out laughing]

<<3>>

Friend: "So what are you doing right now?"
Me: "I'm in the middle of a Charlie's Angels marathon."
Friend: "Wow. You truly are a loser."

<<4>>

[Friends having some conversation about oxycodone and other pain meds.]
Me: "No, what you need to do is dissolve some of that in some water, load it up in a syringe, and shoot it up your asshole. The effect is just that much faster."
Everyone: [...]
Me: "Okay, why I picked that particular moment to inject myself into that conversation I don't know. I'm just going to go quietly back to my beer now."

<<5>>

Random guy in gay bar: "Who do I have to blow to get a drink around here?"
Almost everyone else in earshot at the bar: "Me."
Me: "Not me, I just drink here."

<<6>>

Friend, upon noticing that the phone in his rear pocket was beeping: "Oh, that IS me. I thought I was just hearing some random beeping noise."
Me: "Do you often hear random beeping noises coming out of your ass, or is that only when you back up?"

Keep On Movin'

Dear Metro Riders:

I'm addressing this to all Metro riders because I'm fairly certain not all of these actions can be attributed only to tourists. I know we Washingtonians love to hate tourists, and we blame them for a lot of the stupid stuff that happens in this city, but trust me, there are a lot of really stupid people in this city.

Why do you insist on using the "new" farecard machines for paper card transactions? Many years ago, Metro introduced SmarTrip cards to use as fare payment, but did not eliminate paper farecards at the time. Because these SmarTrip cards are plastic and reuseable, they had to install new farecard machines to accommodate them. These new machines have reader devices for the plastic cards and also accept credit cards. The "old" machines still deal only in paper farecards and hard cash.

My question, then, is this: Why do you insist on using the newer machines for cash transactions involving paper farecards? Along a bank of six farecard machines, some new and some old, I invariably have to stand in line behind you while you pop in a few singles for the purpose popping out a paper farecard. While the older machines remain idle and could have easily served your purpose, you pick one of the new machines, while I (a SmarTrip card holder) have no choice but to use the new machines, thus forcing to wait behind you. We could have both conducted our transactions at the same time -- you at an "old" machine, me at a "new" one.

You, my dear, are a moron.

Why do you insist on using the handicap turnstile? Just a gripe of mine, but why do you, a fully able-bodied person, tend to gravitate towards the extra-wide turnstile, even when all of the other turnstiles are not being used? Are you really so grossly obese in your mind's eye that you think you can't fit through the "normal" sized turnstile? Then what makes me laugh is when you try to go through those handicap turnstiles but don't realize that the paper card slot works differently than the others: so you stand there like an idiot for a second, wondering why your card has just been kicked back out of the slot you put it in while the turnstile bars have opened.

You, my dear, are an idiot.

Why do you insist on standing right in front of the doors? Lots have already been written about this, but really, make some room, people. If you force me to, I will shove past you to get out those damn doors before the train starts making its way to the next stop. I find it particularly annoying when you stand there and glare at the people who have to get past you as if you're the one being inconvenienced. Buddy, you chose to stand right near the door, and the door's not just for decoration you know.

Why do you insist on standing right in front of the doors? When you're on the platform, you ought to know that there's no prize for being the first to board the train when it pulls up at the station. Hence, standing right at the door where the train pulls up is retarded. When people are trying to get off, they (and I presume you, when you reach your eventual destination) don't particularly like being made to walk the gauntlet. This isn't Tailhook '91. Get out of the frigging way and let us off.

Really, is it just so hard?

Bedridden

An Open Letter to Phyllis:

Dear Phyllis:

Thank you so much for your help on Sunday night. You were funny and friendly, even despite my having to ask for clarification about the sex questions. (Have I noticed a decrease in sexual performance lately? Well, that would require a baseline that consists of actual sexual activity. My hand seldom disappoints, if that matters any to you....)

As Cincy Diva guessed with astounding accuracy (Steve was quite close too), I went in for a sleep study at Georgetown on Sunday night. Gay sleep disorder, be damned!


Oh, but that this were me....

I wanted to thank you, Phyllis, for being so nice and friendly during my ordeal. Okay, so "ordeal" is probably an overly strong word, but you have to admit, undergoing a sleep study isn't as fun as it may sound. I didn't expect a night at the Ritz, but I must say sleeping with all those damned wires protruding from all over my face, head and neck was kind of difficult. (That made it particularly funny when you piped up on the intercom that I should feel free to roll over onto my side if I wanted to. This would not have been particularly easy.)

You even woke me up in the middle of the night. Usually this would piss me off, seeing as I have a hard enough time getting a decent night's sleep anyway, but you did so because some of those gazillion sensors detected that I was having some trouble lapsing into restorative sleep and/or I was snoring. You slapped a CPAP machine over my face (again, not the epitome of comfort), but I dealt with it.

I actually felt pretty good for the rest of the day after you awoke me at the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m. (By the way, uh, yanking those sensors you taped to my legs within minutes after I woke up, uh, well, that kinda hurt. I kinda like my moderately hairy legs. Now there's a bald patch on them.) I didn't fall asleep at work at all the next day (and I fully expected I would, because I usually do). Even though I was not machine-assisted last night and hit the snooze button excessively today too, I am still doing okay today.

But the big news is that I made an appointment with my doctor. I've timed it so that it should fall around the same time he gets your report, so he can go ahead and tell me what he thinks and whether he should write me a prescription for the CPAP. Personally, if I can't get a man into my bed now, I can't imagine I'll be all that much sexier sleeping with a X-wing missile guidance system strapped to my face ("Use the Force, Luke!" -- "Luke, you've disengaged your guidance system, is everything okay?"), but screw it if it means a good, long night's sleep!


If only this were my bedpartner who isn't repulsed by a gas mask on my face as I sleep....

Anyway, here's to better nights of sleep to come.

Thanks again, Phyllis. You made an unpleasant evening that much more endurable.

Dennis!