Did I?

While sitting with Brian on the couch, he sniffs the air, turns to me and asks, "Did you fart or did I?"

When I Grow Up

I get turned on by people carrying guitar cases. Not the soft ones that you carry like a backpack, but the hard cases, preferably visibly scuffed, well-traveled. The kind of guitar case that says, "Here I am, give me a wide berth, unless you want my nose in your ass." Arrogantly, it takes up space in the aisle of a train or commands a seat on a bus. In the hierarchy of instrument cases, it is supreme. It has heft, a sensual shape--not impotent like a clarinet's or anonymous like a trumpet's.

Carrying a guitar case imbues its owner a sense of purpose: this man is going somewhere. When I go to my guitar classes at OldTown, I will park a couple of blocks away to give myself more ground to cover, more time to perfect my broody gaze, my sullen walk. Not content with my weekly jaunt, I would take my guitar and take a walk around the block a few times. I would hang out at the bus stop. I would set the case down and peer thoughtfully into store windows.

When I first learned to play guitar, I couldn't get enough of it. The last time this happened, the instrument involved was not made of wood. Hmmmn, maybe on second thought, it was.

 

In those days, I played a lot of Oasis. "Don't Look Back in Anger," "Wonderwall," "Champagne Supernova" all involved the same six basic chords. And what I couldn't play, I faked. A few more months of lessons, I learned enough to play songs by the Indigo Girls, Barenaked Ladies and Sheryl Crow. But I still consider myself a novice. I have not mastered the "barre" chords where it's like you are holding down six strings with one hand. It's very frustrating.

There is a young man, maybe about eighteen, who occasionally plays his guitar at the corner of Diversey and Clark, right outside my gym. The guitar is strapped over his shoulder, its case, open, a couple of feet in front. A empty plastic milk crate sits right beside him. I want to be this boy who sings like a young Eddie Vedder and plays like a wet dream. Or maybe I just want to get into his frayed corduroy pants? Or wear his ratty green Kiwanis t-shirt. I don't know, it's all very confusing.

When I grow up, I want to be this boy with his guitar on the corner. That doesn't sound right, he's over a decade younger than me. Am I already grown up? When you're in your thirties, can you still say "when I grow up, I want to be..." Or is all my growin' done?

In the movie Glengarry Glen Ross Al Pacino asks, "What is our life? Our life is looking forward, or it's looking back. That's it. That's our life. Where's the moment?"

When is the moment when we arrive? I don't know, but I will be carrying my guitar case.

Blue Pencil

It feels good to wield a blue pencil, ennit? The power to tear people down, pronounce their feelings and thoughts ridiculous, reduced to a treacle. It is inevitable that some people will not like what I write. Most of the time, I don't like what I write.

I write it anyway. It has been a lifesaver, a little sweet diversion through these days of unemployment. I write because I like the process of writing, the words formed from synapses of the brain traveling down the nervous system, to the tips of my fingers, then making that jump to a keyboard and a screen.

One unfortunate reader had been so incensed that I have written such trite passages that he wrote an entry in my guestbook, crowing of his intent to blue pencil me into oblivion. When I deleted it, he returned and decried my deletion of the original malevolent entry, contemptuous of my lack of mettle to withstand his challenge. I am not sure why he felt that I should leave it up. When you have a rabid dog in your house, you don't just sit there and drink tea, do you?

I guess he has been having an extra bad day at the office that he felt compelled to complain that I wasted his time reading my unfortunate prose when he could be doing something productive like surfing porn. Maybe his boss told him that he needed to sharpen his blue pencil on literary low-lives like me because he's not ready to edit a real manuscript.

Ok, I get it; I am not a million-selling author. If you're reading this, Mr. Guestbook, I would encourage you to move on with your life already, but I suspect you won't. You're like me: easily riled up, quixotic, impetuous. I spent two days spamming Celine after she kept putting meaningless Portuguese quotations in my comments. It was futile, she didn't know any English. But you, you got to me. You got me to write this post. Bet you're itching to blue pencil this comma right here,

If I had a blue pencil, Anne Rice would not have a career. After reading ten-odd books filled with excessively florid passages, I think that I have had enough. Never has there been such swooning over blood flowing than a group of Tampax executives.

If I had a blue pencil, I would remove entire periods from my memory, events from which I physically flinch when I remember them.

If I had a blue pencil, I would tell my friend Julie Harris that I am sorry for hurting her, for writing that damn e-mail, the one she wept over.

Where were you when I could have used your blue pencil?

Rollercoaster

I guess I have been lucky, life has been pretty much smooth sailing. Occasionally, someone will surface, a spurned lover or parole officer. A fly in the ointment, easily remedied. "Be Prepared," advises that old boy scout adage: bring rope, matches, bail money.

My mom warned me that good times will not last forever, that a fool and his money are the best for a sugar daddy. I heeded that advice, saving for the rainy day. I saved every coin I found in the church donation basket. For money I walked dogs and pinched penises. Nipples too, for $20 extra.

Champagne and caviar are fine, but learn to enjoy beer and ramen as well. It ain't gonna be cinnamon and apple pies all the time. The next jellybean from Bertie Bott's could be spinach, sardine, earwax--and no parmesan cheese to make Caesar's salad.

When I go to theme parks, my palms sweat when the rollercoaster is in sight. I often imagine myself being thrown out into the air, body slamming to the pavement. I am scared of heights, I prefer the level ground. I am swayed by friends, afraid to look silly. I get in, locking my forearms around the bars, hands clenched together, like a prayer.

I guess life is like a rollercoaster. We are thrust into the course the second we are born, the ticket bought, no choice in the matter. We could cry and whimper the whole way or learn to embrace the fear and uncertainty. You could miserably obsess about the love-of-your-life-asshole-on-again-off-again-boyfriend or break the cycle and leave yourself open for some real happiness. The circumstances don’t change, only your outlook.

Some days are fine, a hundred and twenty little concerns, other days, a barren expanse. For awhile I was euphoric, a second interview! I would be back in the workforce! I could replace my broken stapler! Two weeks later, no word. Then it's back to square one; the pasted-on smile, the monkey-suit, desperation in check. Like dating, employers are more likely to take you home if they don’t smell the Brut, the cologne of the perpetually rejected.

Here we are clinging to our seats, knuckles blue. Friends, loved ones in the cars, screaming, laughing at the top of their lungs. The wind is rushing, whipping the hair from your face, heart hanging in your throat. Here's the sky, here's the frozen air. Now, there’s the ground; now, there’s the turn--here it comes--

Playing with Legos

My Lego Avatar!

via The Naked Tree. Mini-mize yourself!

A Second Date

First dates are pretty straight forward; you ask for the guy’s name, his phone number and then you get out of his bed and get dressed.

Second dates are more treacherous; you get lulled into a false sense of security since he called you again to ask for his wallet back. You’ve already talked about the humdrum stuff like your childhood, your crazy Uncle Louie, the time you got caught shoplifting. You’ve already done your impressions of Ted Koppel, Howard Cossell, James Earl Jones; maybe it’s time to call in the big guns: Bea Arthur. Or maybe you can talk about the strange itching you’ve been having down there or is that too personal? It’s very nerve-wracking. Still, if you can only get past the second date, you could get to watch his premium cable for a couple of months.

Most people know by the second date whether there will be a third, a fourth or an orgy. By the second date you would know if the strange cologne, the two-inch “lucky” hair on his mole or the barking during orgasm really bothers you.

Hopefully, there is a mutual attraction. Nothing is more pitiful than liking someone more than they like you. If they like you more, then you get to call the shots. If you like them more, then they have to get a restraining order.

I got called in for a second interview for company “T,” a second date, if you will. They are a company that has gone through tough times in the dotcom bust, but are now upbeat in their prospects. After being unemployed for four months, I have had only 3 face-to-face interviews, and this is the only one that had asked me to come back for a second round. In the best economy, this is a job I may perhaps decline because it is located too far, the job too one-dimensional. Should I take the job if it is offered to me? Or take a chance hoping my finances will last until I find a more suitable one? Choosers may end up beggars.

Company “T” has informed me that I am one of the two finalists to whom they are going to make an offer. I feel like a beauty contestant onstage, clutching my fellow contestant’s hands, waiting for Bert Parks to announce the winner. Perhaps I am being hasty. I may end up being the first runner-up, left standing while the winner breaks away to walk down the aisle, to the swelling music of "There she is, Miss America…"

Another Celeb Bares It

Not to be outdone by Miss Janet, Miss Piggy shows her assets:

SuperBowl of Love

I really don't like sports--there aren’t enough sequins in the uniforms. Someday, somebody will make a killing if they invent Viagra for limp wrists, the gay sports handicap. I really wish that there was a sport for making catty comments, and then American Idol would be like our SuperBowl. I would join that. The only sport I was any good at was the 50 yard dash from a gay basher.

I figured that since I am now an American, I should learn how to play football. So, I went to see a podiatrist*…and he told me to register at the Chicago MSA, the local gay sports league. Learning was easier than I thought. I already knew the "Bump and Run", the "handoff", the "sack". I guess you can learn about football from a porn video.

It was fun learning a new sport, but eventually I got tired of it. The quarterback was getting too needy. So, I decided to check out 12" softball; after all, I already had the dildo. However, it didn’t really work out. I decided I liked the balls to fit snugly in my hand.

When Brian suggested that we head over to the local gay bar, Roscoe's, to see "the Cats and the Pats", I thought he meant Patrick Swayze in an Andrew Lloyd Webber show. The bar already had quite a crowd when we got there. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was confused. The bar has video screens installed throughout the bar. For the SuperBowl party, they had a VJ play music videos in alternate screens while the game was on and then turn the music off so that we could watch the commercials. And FYI, they had a projection TV in the back for the hardcore sports fans. It was packed with lesbians. Even in our community, it is gender that separates us.

We had a good time. There were cheap drinks, cheap eats, some really cheap behavior. What more could you ask for in a Sunday afternoon? As I look around me, I see men meeting men, women meeting women, I realized that there is another sport going on here, where tight shirts are the uniform; the shy grin and eye contact, the strategy; and finding love, the goal.

I look over at Brian. He's cheering at the screen.

---
*yeah, ok, that was a groaner.

Grey Sweater

It is back-breakingly cold today. The cold weighs down my shoulders, caving into the small of my back. Inside, the wind blows through airconditioner like an open window. I cover it with saran-wrap, like a left-over pork chop.

I have been alone for three days. Brian is off in a Psych conference in sunny Austin, Texas. In his absence, dust settles, accumulates, as if I don't produce enough impetus to stir the air. Dust bunnies reproduce in the corner. Pretty soon, I'll have enough to knit a hairy, grey sweater. At night, I pull the comforter over my head to ward off the winter chill, my breath humid under the covers. There is only one mound on the bed, a bra with one breast.

Judge Judy dispenses tough justice on TV. I wish she would dispense some lunch instead. I go hungry.

Tomorrow, warmer, the weatherman predicts. Brian will be home.

Revisionist History

So you came in here because this blog was listed as Freshly Updated. Yet, as far as you can see there is no new post, no new entry.

As a writer--have I earned enough stripes to call myself a writer?--nevermind, as a writer, I obsess about how words are strung together, its configuration on a page, the cadence of sentences. I jot down ideas, emotions, impressions in my spiral notebook. Sometimes they come furiously, like hungry birds. Other times, it’s painful, like The Anna Nicole Show.

I rewrite constantly. It is second nature. Every single post has had some change: punctuation corrected, paragraphs reconstructed, jokes reworked. Go on, read the last post, you may find something that wasn’t there before.

On the page, I am powerful: I can change my history, or at least the memory of it, into something bearable, less wretched. The true fiction of my life. I wish that real life can be just as easily be rewritten; I didn’t particularly enjoy high school, college or crabs. If I could change the past, I would give myself less naivety, less mediocrity, less Z. Cavaricci.

Moving to Chicago was a chance to escape my tedious past, the boredom, the outstanding warrant. I was twenty-two, but in a way much younger. I was a novice. I have never lived on my own. I didn’t know how to iron, vacuum or give a blowjob without gagging.

Not knowing anyone was lonely but exhilarating. I could be a punk or jock, Judd Nelson or Emilio Estevez. I could be anybody in The Breakfast Club buffet. I had considered giving myself a new nickname. I tried “Spike,” “Biff,” “Velveeta Jones.” But nothing really stuck. Maybe I should have gotten rid of the "Fresh Off The Boat" sign around my neck first.

One reader, Kalista, threatened to shoot herself in the head if she read “No Milk Please” listed one more time as Freshly Updated. She had an issue with me updating the site nine times in an hour. But it is in first hours after I publish a post, when it is fresh out of the mental oven, still soft, malleable, that I make the most changes. Just like in real life, when you make a mistake, it is best to make amends right away, before it becomes fact, set in stone. Before you spend the rest of your life wondering what if, what if, what if...

My Virtual Model

Got this from Bri. Make your own Virtual Model.

Enormous

The zit on my lip is enormous, like Carnie Wilson before the gastric bypass.

It is hard--no, soft--moveable, pus buried under skin, too deep to surface. It's been there a week. It sits on the edge of my lip, throbbing, letting me know it is there. It doesn't interfere with the Entenmann's donuts though. So now I am fat, in addition to being hideous.

I feel self-conscious when I am talking to someone; I feel like I need to introduce it since it is right there, part of the conversation.

Acne has been a bane for most of my life. It had followed me from my teen years to adulthood, like Wheel of Fortune. I tried it all: hot compresses, smelly ointments, a brown paper bag. I started calling my zits "spots" to give it a British flair. When I moved to Chicago, I left no forwarding address hoping to dodge it. No such luck. It must have hired a private detective.

I could have been a slut but for acne. I could have had threesomes, foursomes, orgies. Instead, I am often left flying solo. A pimple appears just before a hot date, crippling my self-confidence. Once, I got a huge one on me arse, making sitting uncomfortable. A princess on a pea.

I think that I had turned a corner after I turned thirty. It came on less frequently, more sporadically. I guess in a way, it built "character". I wish that it built a chalet in the Swiss Alps instead.

I may have to perform surgery on "Carnie." Pierce it with a needle sterilized with a lighter. I don't think I have the guts to do it myself. Maybe Brian will go Dr. Carter on it for me...

Just Good At It

The Filipino woman was grilling me, turning up the heat. She studied my resume intently, trying to fathom the truth beneath the fries. A stain is supersizing under my pits. She opens her purse and hands me balut—a delicacy she says—a boiled duck embryo, still in its shell. I crack open the egg and Mork pops out. "Nanu, nanu," he says, "Sorry, try again." I wake up with a start.

A nightmare.

So, I lied. I like being unemployed. The unemployment checks are like my morphine drip; it keeps reality from creeping in. It’s not much. Only $336 a week--enough to pay the mortgage and keep me in Vienna sausages. It deflects the self-examination, the guilt, the doubt. Do I really want to go back to Corporate America? To take home a day’s wage, an empty lunch bag, “borrowed” office supplies?

I like money. It makes me more interesting.

Inexplicably, I had two interviews last week. I have not changed my cover letter or resume since I started looking. I used the same format, same qualifications, same Glamour Shot. Yet for some reason these companies deigned to bring me in for an audience with the HR queen. I practice my curtsy.

I was nervous, after being unemployed for over 3 months, things are starting to go downhill: I have perfected my Regis impression. My last nibble was two months ago and Simon Cowell didn’t wave me in to the next level. “Relax,” Brian advised, “You’ll get the job, just be yourself—that’s how you got me.” I followed his advice. I went as Carrot Top.

An interview is like a date from an online personal ad. If you can fake being interesting and funny for just long enough, you get to sleep with the guy. I did all the tricks: I lean forward to convey my enthusiasm. I act interested in the interviewer, smiling at all the right places. I am a whore, doing anything to please a john. It left a sour taste in my mouth. Funky spunk.

This oasis, this time away from work has taught me a few things: I work to make a living. I don’t particularly enjoy what I do; I am just good at it. It affords me the lifestyle I enjoy: dinners out, movies, crystal meth. What I really enjoy doing—playing guitar, writing, annoying people—these I do for free. Everybody wishes they can get paid for what they like to do. I am not different in that respect.

One of the interviews went well, it is promising. Maybe in a couple of weeks, life will be just as it was before. Back to Normal.

That has to be enough, right?

Right?

How To Hypnotize a Man

Get Hypnotized!

Happy Chinese New Year!

This is the Year of the Monkey! Look up your Chinese Sign and then check out your horoscope!

Spam Blog

As if spam in my mailbox is not enough, now there are spam blogs. The problem is, most spam is written so poorly that it fails to do what it is supposed to do: persuade people to buy whatever it is they are selling. I mean, the spam I get is just painfully embarrassing. They are all from girls named Tiffani or Amber enticing me with their wet, dripping pussy. Eeew! Isn't it obvious with an e-mail address like hot4dick@SoSoGay.com that a hard, turgid cock would be more appropriate? If the person writing this blog only spent some time writing a more convincing story, maybe it wouldn't be so painfully obvious that it is a scam.

Here's my attempt on a spam blog:

Monday, January 19, 2004
Justin, my fourteen year-old came home today with a C in chemistry. I had been at odds with him about spending more time studying instead of playing Baldur's Gate or talking on the phone with his slutty little girlfriend. Last time she came over, she wore a skirt so short when she uncrossed her legs, you could see her soul. They're upstairs right now "meditating." Despite my extremely flexible work schedule, I find that the normal rules apply when dealing with teenagers: they treat adults like the enemy. This is the same kid that used to come running to our bedroom when Joan Rivers is on TV selling turquoise jewelry. I try to sit him down to help him study, but I realize I need help and a bottle of vodka. Maybe I should enroll him at Sylvan or something. What's the point in making a six figure salary if I can't help my own son?

Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Just talked to John at work, he gave me the number for the place he took his son Sean. Sean has already shown some improvement. His grades have gone up and the bedwetting has stopped. Sean has changed so much he has started wearing black trenchcoats to school. He's even gotten interested in learning how to shoot guns. Hopefully, my Justin will do as well. John is so happy, he told Sean that they were going to Disneyland again this year. They have been going every year since 1995. Eventually, I'll be able to do that also, since work is going so well. I will probably make a huge bonus after I meet my quota this month. I didn't think that I would ever be happy working (or should I say not working and making money), but I am. I really have to give John another blowjob for getting me this gig.

Something’s Gotta Give

There was a time when I was but a lad of ten when I thought that my aunt Evangeline was old. She was 18 years old. I adored her. She was—and still is—the coolest aunt. She took me to movies, gave me money on my birthday, taught me that houndstooth only works if you are wearing a Chanel suit.

Now that I am in my thirties (and my aunt in her forties), I look back and see that I had been so incredibly naïve: houndstooth works in trench coats too.

It’s a cliché, but when you’re young, you cannot wait to get older and when you’re old, you spend all your time trying to avoid jury duty.

When I was eighteen, I thought I knew everything. When I turned thirty, I realized I knew nothing. I have never gone skydiving. Or gone to the Ballet. I have never had English shepherd’s pie, Scottish mince pie, Irish hair pie. There are so many things that I still want to accomplish but The Real World won’t cast me in their show.

These days I look at the mirror inspecting my hair, leaning forward, turning my head this way and that. Did I lose any while I slept? I wondered how much longer before I have to wear flamboyant glasses to disguise my thinning hair. Is that guy splashing about in the pool in the Hair Club commercial really happy with the way his ass looks in speedos? If I can make it to forty with my hair intact, I promise, I won’t complain about the hair growing out of my ears.

The thing is, I don’t feel old. My left knee maybe. And the right one. Come to think of it, my ankles too. okokok, I don’t feel old, but my body is already booking a plane ticket to Florida.



The movie “Something’s Gotta Give” is about Harry (played by Jack Nicholson), a middle-aged man who only dates women in their twenties. He finds himself falling in love with playwright Erica (Diane Keaton), somebody whom he has never found attractive: a middle-aged woman. Diane Keaton, with all her “Annie Hall” charm intact, is wonderful in this film. She gamely does physical comedy but also plays her character with a deep wisdom tinged with fragility. I laughed out loud several times in this film. There was a scene where Erica cries and laughs alternately while writing her play that had me on the floor. Jack Nicholson also does a good job, playing a very sympathetic character much against type. I confess, I really don’t like Jack Nicholson and I usually tend avoid his movies. I don’t know why because he has surprised me so many times in movies like “As Good As It Gets” and “About Schmidt” where he has played characters that I have sympathized with. However, it is Diane Keaton that is the star of this movie and rightfully so: she reveals in her character the young person inside the old shell, the eternal Youth that never grows old.

Give Me No Sign

I was listening to Delilah, a call-in love song dedication radio show on WLIT here in Chicago when this girl, Janice* called in. Janice and her boyfriend were having problems with their long distance relationship: they weren’t having enough sex. She told Delilah that they were praying to God about whether or not they should continue their relationship.

This really pissed me off because first, Janice requested “I Just Called To Say I Love You” and second, because she’s tying up the prayer lines to God with her stupid question. Don’t you hate it when you pray and then you get that "doo-Doo-DOO We're sorry, all circuits are busy now. Please hang up and try your prayer again later" message? Once, I did get through, but I was like prayer number 2,572,336. I was on hold like, forever. After a long while, I was able to put in my request to get the Family Guy DVD set. I hope I get it. The last time God answered my prayers, I got a new TV, some new CDs, a DVD player. Then my check bounced.

In an episode of VH1’s Driven: Jessica Simpson, I found out that apparently during a teen Christian retreat, Jessica became born again. On that bright, sunny day, the group of teens were singing gospel songs when Jessica felt the wind blowing through her hair. She looked around and nobody else’s hair was moving. She concluded that this was a sign from God to join the flock.

When I was about 16, I had attended a similar retreat. The retreat was held in a remote location, in a very natural setting. We were told not to listen to music or watch TV and speak as little as possible. The purpose of the retreat was to find ourselves spiritually.

In retrospect, I realized each activity in the retreat was designed to encourage introspectiveness and self-examination. I remember in one such activity, we were told to go find a nice, quiet place and then think about a particular person whom we had a difficult relationship with. In another, we all sat on the grass in a circle at dusk while soft gospel music played. A clay bowl was placed in the center. A candle burned beside it. We were told to write something which we were ashamed of doing on a piece of paper. We were to take the paper, light it, and drop the burning paper in the bowl. One by one, we quietly burned our secret shame. After the last person sat back down, the counselor asked that we join him in a short prayer to ask Jesus to forgive us for our sins. As the prayer ended, the music swelled up and I found myself weeping, overcome with emotion, my guilt in ashes. The counselor then asked for people to step forward and accept Jesus as their personal savior. When I looked up, more than half of the group stepped forward, many crying openly.

Years later, while I was volunteer facilitator for a gay youth group, we conducted an activity where we sat in a circle, and had the participants write down their deepest wish on a piece of paper which they then burned. By the end of the activity, every kid was crying. At this point, if I had told them that saints Dolce & Gabbana had granted them their wish, they probably would have believed me.

It was then when it dawned on me that what I experienced during that retreat when I was 16 was all smoke-and-mirrors. The emotions I felt were real, but the message could have been tailored to fit any occasion. When I was in my early teens and questioning my sexuality, I asked God why I was gay. He sent me the International Male catalog in the mail. So I came out of the closet. In highly emotional situations, you can interpret anything, even the wind in your hair if you were Jessica Simpson, to be a message from Jesus Christ. Maybe this woman who left a prayer in my comments will find "eat me" spelled out in her alphabet soup.

Which brings us back to Janice and her prayer for a sign. Brian said that she reminded him of an episode of The Simpsons where Homer prays to God and God answers all his prayers:


Homer (praying): Dear Lord, The gods have been good to me... In gratitude, I present these milk and cookies. If you wish me to eat them for you, please give me no sign.

Homer (looking around and seeing no sign): Thy will be done (munch munch munch).

‘Nuff said.

---

*Names have been changed to protect the stupid.

Relief

I wanted to spend all day surfing the web, talking to my friends, reading novels—so I got a job. I think that the difference between being unemployed and having a job is that you get paid to take coffee breaks.

Since I lost my job, I have not called my friends; conversations inevitably veer towards my frustrating job search. Surfing the web is depressing: news of lay-offs, the weak economy, another season of Celebrity Mole. It takes too much effort to read about somebody else's depression. Besides, I not only can do depression—I use it to accessorize. My two cats are starting to wonder when my extended "visit" will be over—they hate it when I lay around on their couch, watching their TV.

Time has become meaningless. With all my friends at work, I am left to my own devices, lost in the sea of possibilities. I play my guitar, but without my neighbor to complain, I feel bereft, unappreciated. I found myself experimenting with parting my hair down the middle and wearing plaid. If unemployment can make an accomplished gay like me lose all sense of fashion, I shudder to think what effect it would have if my straight brethren gets their hands on something complicated like paisley.

Every decision looms large. While you're deciding to whether to have cereal, breakfast has turned into lunch. And then suddenly it's 3pm and there is no reason why you should take a shower and change from your pajamas—it will be time for bed soon enough.

When Brian gets home from work, we argue about whose turn it is to wash dishes, who left that gob of toothpaste in the sink, who missed the toilet. I am delighted: this is normal.

I am convinced that the only thing that keeps the world civilized is routine. Work, school, your Justin Timberlake fanclub meetings—these are commitments that keep you functioning. Routine gives you structure, responsibility; it keeps you from becoming a slacker, a derelict or Paris Hilton.

Weekends are an oasis from this limbo: you can watch movies, go to restaurants, gossip with your friends. People who work are relieved when Friday arrives, they can focus on being a friend, a father or Dungeon Master. Their lives go on.

And for a little while, so does mine. Thank God it's Friday.

Appetite

I don’t remember how I came to be cast as a cow in a Christmas Nativity pageant. This just sort of thing just happened to you when you are six years old. Your world was Sesame Street, your rubber band collection, your favorite booger-stained t-shirt. You ate the paste, licking the stick; it tasted good, you didn’t question it. If your Mom decided to have an unholy alliance with your kindergarten teacher to cast you in a tacky school play, you didn’t question that either.

I went along with my mother, who took my measurements, bought fabric. If I understood that she was going to sew a brown cow costume with golden spots, I may have suggested she picked a mocha-colored fabric, preferably satin; it would have itched less and complemented my skin tone. I look sallow in brown.

Yes, technically, it was probably more appropriate to call my part “The Bull.” But I was six, and at six, I didn’t really understand the difference between male and female, and that the difference involved our genitalia. When you were six, did you know that a male goose was a gander? That someone who had thick ankles, wore sequins, and who gustily sang “New York, New York” was not a woman but a man, albeit of dubious royalty? I think not.

That was my first time on a stage. I stood among the other six year-olds, a menagerie of of sheep, horses and other cows looking down at the plastic Baby Jesus in the manger, itching, thinking about how this was sooo not what I stood for politically. If I had my way, the Angels would have feathered wings instead of cardboard ones, and the part of Joseph would have been played by Bernard C.—he of the petulant, pouty lips and dried-up snot. I didn’t understand sex, but I understood Art Direction.

Did that first time whet my appetite for attention? Or was it something deeper than that? As a twin, I was always part of a pair, half of a one. To some people, maybe even our parents, twins are interchangeable, a cheesy Doublemint commercial waiting to happen. I wanted to be Singular. I don’t want to confuse, befuddle; I want to be picked out in a police line-up.

It is very heartening then to see when readers of my blog are appreciative, when people respond to what I have written. These thoughts, these words are mine. When Pua, and then Ray quoted directly my posts, I confess my imagination had gone girls wild. In my mind, I was signing book deals, being a spokesperson for Lactaid, showing off the condiments in my fridge on MTV’s Cribs. It was very exciting, better than when I found Portuguese spam¹ in my guestbook.

It is quite possible these words will outlive me. I just hope they won’t be used against me in a court of law.

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¹See entry #30 in my Guestbook.