My Commitment

PREVIOUSLY: The Longest Ride. Ever. Even longer than the time when I had hemorrhoids and had to take the SATs.
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Limbo.

We were in limbo. The doctor took our cat, our Cordy for x-rays to see if the vomiting was a symptom of something worse. Brian and I were left in the examination room to dwell in our own thoughts.

What could be worse? Intestinal blockage? Feline leukemia? Kidney cancer? What if the doctor said that there was something lodged in her stomach and she needs surgery?

I loved Cordy.

I rescued her from the animal shelter when she was only three months old. She's been in my life for seven years, longer than most of my relationships, including the one I had with the wart on my foot. Surgery could mean a lot of money, do I want to spend thousands to save a cat's life? What would I spend to ease her pain?

I realized now that I never really understood what kind of commitment I had made when I adopted her. What is my commitment? I still didn't understand when the doctor came back in with the x-rays. I felt like I needed to understand right now. If I didn't, I will not be able to make a decision. I will not be able to make the right decision.

The doctor said, "I couldn't find anything that would indicate any serious problems. The x-rays didn't show any blockage. Her liver and other organs look about the normal size. I do see a lot of gas," she pointed to x-ray of her stomach area, "but nothing that concerns me. Blood test results were normal."

We were relieved. She was going to be okay.

The doctor said that Cordy will be given some medication. She wanted to keep Cordy overnight with an IV drip to keep her hydrated and see if Cordy will be able to keep food down. The receptionist came in with the estimate, it was going to be about $500, do we want to admit our cat?

$500 was not that much. This way we can be sure that Cordy will be safe. The surround sound system can wait a few months, it's ok.

So I won't be immersed another world when I pop in an HD DVD; I won't feel the low rumble, the high pitched tire squeals of a high speed car chase; I won't feel like I'm right in the middle of the action in My First Gay Bukkake #3, it's ok.

I gave the receptionist my credit card.

The next day, the vet's office called us and told us that Cordy is alert and keeping her food down. She was being released.

The drive home was more relaxed than the trip to the hospital. We joked around, chatting to Cordy in the back, laughing about how we can put the soy sauce back in the fridge.

At least now, I know the minimum level of my commitment to my pet: it's $500 plus tax and prescriptions. I looked at her fondly.

Cordy meowed, cheerily talkative. She seemed very upbeat.

I studied her prescription and wondered idly if it worked on humans too...




READ THIS: What I wouldn't do for my cat...

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Get caught up with the other posts in this series:

Part 1: Confessions of a Broken Cat Part 2: The Longest Ride

Part 3: My Commitment

The Longest Ride

PREVIOUSLY: Confessions of a Broken Cat. Cordy, my cat had been throwing up, not because of bad Chinese take-out, but of something possibly worse. Brian and I rushed her to the Animal Emergency Hospital...
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An acrid smell permeated through my reverie. The smell wafted in from the back seat, bringing me out of my thoughts.

Cat pee.

She's never peed in her carrying cage before. The pee smelled thick, sweaty, earthy, like the cologne of some swarthy lothario/plumber, you know, the kind that thinks you're into him because you're avoiding eye contact, not because your eyes are being irresistably drawn to his ass crack.

The smell added a layer a sense of urgency, of danger to the events. We've taken her to the vet before and she's never peed on the way. I wondered whether she'll survive the trip and how devastated I would be if the pee got into the upholstery.

I welcomed this feeling, it weighed down the air, underlining the gravity of the situation. Up until then I had been making light of the situation, thinking that like the X-man Wolverine, all animals had enormous mutant healing powers. They recovered much faster than humans and all without the aid of any kind of drugs like acetaminophen, penicillin, crystal meth.

Since we got in the car, Cordy had been crying in the back seat of the car almost constantly. Her silence coinciding with the smell worried me. Invisible hands squeezed my heart as I turned around to make sure she was still alive, still breathing in her cage.

In another minute, we were at the hospital. Twenty minutes, said my watch. I wondered if anybody who didn't live within a block of a hospital ever survived something worse than a possible food poisoning, like multiple stab wounds or accidental electrocution? I resolved to check my vibrator for frayed cords.

If this is how long it takes to get to a hospital, how can anything but grief meet you when you get there?

Brian barely turned off the engine when I jumped out of the car and opened the back door, gingerly pulling out the cage. My calves locked in for a sprint.

Inside, the cheery voice from the earlier phone call, now reunited with her brown hair and petite frame told us that the vet will be with us shortly; the vet was attending to another patient.

We settled down to wait on the sofa. Behind the sofa was a bulletin board filled with posters, pictures and greeting cards. Brian stood up to read them to distract himself. But a few seconds later, he stopped and sat back down. He had been reading one of the greeting cards.

"I don't want to read these," Brian said. "These are cards thanking the vet for doing her best to try to save their pets."

Just then, we heard a wail followed by sobbing. The door next to the waiting area opened and a woman, head hunched down, hurried toward the exit. A man with red-rimmed eyes followed a few steps behind, a red leash clutched in his hand.

I didn't want to be them, yet the possibility was there. We could be walking out without our pet. My mind argued with itself: this wasn't going to happen to us, but at the same time--prepare yourself.

Cheery girl took us to an examination room. The doctor, a tall confident woman in blue scrubs, hair in a tight ponytail, came in. I was relieved. She would take care of our Cordy. I was sort of afraid we would get somebody like Pauly Shore in a lab coat. What would I say then, "Uh, sorry, no offense, but could we have your version of Dr. Miranda Bailey?"

We told her of the symptoms, giving her painstaking details, yet second-guessing ourselves trying to make sure we weren't exaggerating.

"She was vomiting constantly--well not constantly--but three times in the last two hours. Was it two hours? Could've been three. No blood though, or at least none that we saw. That's good right, doctor? We don't think she's eaten in two days, but can't tell for sure, we have another cat who is a pig..."

The doctor listened patiently while she examined our cat. She said, "Cordy doesn't seem to be in immediate danger, but this could be the symptom of something else." She paused here, looking steadily at us, giving it time to sink in. "I need x-rays to know for sure."

Something else. What else could there be? This was just vomiting--bulimia--we joked earlier.

She took our Cordy away, leaving us alone in the room.

NEXT: My Commitment

Confessions of a Broken Cat

Cordy cried during the whole trip.

She was in the back seat of the car, in our kitty carry-all. We were driving her to the Animal Emergency Room. If you've never heard a cat cry, it sounds eerily human, like sobbing, but without the overdramatic gasping they do in telenovelas.

The drive to the Animal Emergency Room was only about 20 minutes, but it seemed like hours. Brian drove steadily, while I sat silently trying to calm myself down, trying to ignore the cat's mewling. My mind raced ahead, envisioning various scenarios, each getting more horrific as time passed by. I tried to distract myself by thinking of other things...


When I first moved to Chicago, I didn't know a soul.

"Get a cat," my mom said, "Cats are clean and it'll keep you company."

Actually, that's not what she said. She said, "Cats are clean and if you ever get trapped in one of those terrible Chicago snowstorms, you'll have dinner in a pinch. Just sauté with a little soy sauce and ginger," but I didn't want you to think she was a barbarian. She really isn't, despite the chainmail and battle axe.

But just in case I was snowed in, I followed mom's advice and got a cat. And some soy sauce.

Cordy, my calico, is a bit dim, I'm afraid. She's doesn't sit on a window ledge and contemplate the world outside, she prefers to sit on the couch and stare at the TV all day--while it's off. She's also quite vocal, but most of the time, you can't understand a thing she says. And when you do, it's always meow meow meow meow meow. Sometimes I wish she would just shut up. It's quite annoying really. Pick another topic already.

She likes to make her opinion of my taste in décor known by grabbing knick-knacks with her mouth from around the house and leaving it outside my bedroom door. She can also be quite belligerent, like a drunk Lindsay Lohan. Cordy's much like gay men that way: when we are threatened, our manicured claws come out, nail bling and all.

Cordy is a celebrity in her own mind. She parties all night and runs around like crazy and it's not unusual to find her passed out in the morning, a pile of vomit nearby.

Cordy vomits a lot. I think it's because she eats too fast, but sometimes, I think it's because she's bulimic. She'll scarf down her food and a few minutes later, you'll hear the gah-gah-gah, the beginnings of another purging session. Then, a chunky pile in the middle of the floor. I wondered why she couldn't throw up in the toilet like other bulimics. No mess to clean up.

She does have a teensy bit of a weight problem, and no matter how much she denies it, her hips don't lie. But you know what cats don't have to worry about? Cellulite. The fur covers up the ripples.

The last couple of days however, there were more piles of vomit than normal. I noticed because I stepped into a couple of them while I was getting ready for work. Let me tell ya, suede and vomit don't go together, unless vomit comes in mauve.

There would be three chunky piles in a row, in varying degrees of dryness. I thought, well, it is a stressful time for her, she had not been able to get anyone interested in her tell-all book, probably because it has been recently discovered that the tom she's been dating had been neutered. Even that bottom feeder Perez Hilton wouldn't give her the time of day, even after Cordy e-mailed him photoshopped pics of herself with coke smears on her snout.

Then last night, the vomit piles were just frothy, like a latte--no chunks. It worried me because as far I remembered, we didn't have a barista living in our home. She must not have eaten at all. Why is she still throwing up?

It's a cry for help. I thought, I did what anybody does when confronted with cries for help--I ignored her.

But within the hour, she threw up a couple more times, all frothy messes. Brian and I began to worry. We weren't heartless. We weren't going to wait for Cordy to make a music video like LiLo in "Confessions of a Broken Heart" before we took notice.

It was 10 p.m., the vet's office was closed. We called anyway, in case the vet was in the shithouse with his wife and had to sleep in his office. No answer, but the message gave the phone number of the local animal emergency hospital.

We called.

A cheery voice answered, much cheerier than I expected from an emergency room. Either they are really good vets or the receptionist had gone crazy from all the harrowing things she's witnessed. We assumed the former. I copied down the directions to the hospital and went to find the kitty carry-all.

I found Cordy lying on her side, her head down on the floor, as if she didn't have the strength to hold it up. I could no longer make light of this. Horrible images of what might happen at the emergency room went through my head.

What if what seemed like a small digestive problem turned out to be much worse? What if they had to open her up? What if they found something horrible inside? Tears threatened, burning embers in the back of my eyes. I couldn't help imagining scenes of doctors rushing, clipboards in hand, the theme song of E.R. playing in the background...


NEXT: The Longest Ride

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Finders Keepers

"Matt, that guy's been staring at you since we walked into the diner," I whispered.

It was Saturday morning. Matt, Brian and I were having the traditional gay satanic ritual called Brunch where we gossip, bitch and talk about celebrities. Sometimes, we also pray. Today, we were worshipping at the Melrose Church and Café located on Broadway Ave.

Matt discreetly looked over at the guy, who was with three of his best gays. You can tell they were close friends because they were free and easy with each other, which only comes from years of stabbing each other in the back. I mean, if you spend all your time with people who despise you even though you buy them drinks, they must be your friends, right?

"Oh, him. We hooked up about a year ago," Matt said in a low voice.

"You must've made an impression. He's been looking over here," I said.

"You know what? I don't think that's the case. I think he's looking at my hat," replied Matt.

Matt was wearing a frayed and worn Cubs baseball cap which was once the official Cubs blue but is now sort of a grayish indigo.

"Oh, why is that?" asked Brian.

"He left this hat over at my place," said Matt.

"Do you think he wants it back?" I asked, "It's a pretty cool hat. I'd want it back if it were mine. It's stylishly faded and worn."

"I don't care. If you leave something at a trick's place, I don't think you can't expect to get it back. Finder's keepers! Besides, it's my favorite hat now. I'll scratch the eyes out of anybody who tries to take it." Matt narrowed his eyes in the guy's direction.

"Besides, if you left something at a trick's, how would you get it back?" asked Brian. "You don't have his phone number or last name."

"Hey, I did that once. I waited at this guy's place until he came out and I made him give me my stuff back," exclaimed Matt.

"That was with Rob, your ex. You lived together for over a year," said Brian.

I chimed in, "Once, a guy left his wristwatch--a Rolex--at my friend Jose's. Jose kept the Rolex. I thought Jose was entitled to it, especially since the guy had left it in Jose's ass after fisting him."

Everybody nodded in agreement. We've all seen that Rolex.

"Look, they're leaving!" whispered Brian. "Do you think he's gonna walk by and snatch the hat off your head?"

"Bitch better not," said Matt, readying himself for a confrontation.

We all held our breaths as they walked by, but as they came closer, it was clear nothing was going to happen.

They were arguing about a popular gay brunch topic: if they were in Sex and The City, which of them would be which castmember. They were quibbling about prim and proper Charlotte, even though everyone knows that all gay men are Samantha, the slut.

A gay catfight was averted again by television. Don't believe me? Next time there's tension among gays, just throw in, "I think Kate is better off with Sawyer than with Jack" and watch them bond.

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TAKE THE QUIZ: Which SaTC girl are you?

How Does It Work? - Another brunch conversation, this time about those mysterious artifacts called 'tampons.' The B-List - Once you become involved in a long-term relationship, that's it, you're relegated to your friends' B-List.

Lonely In The Crowd - You could be in a bar, surrounded by lots of people and still feel very very alone. Relief - When you're unemployed, boredom becomes your friend and constant companion.

Merry War (Christmas is Over)

The presents have been opened and returned; the holiday cheer from the prescription medication has faded; the deep resentments have been put back in storage, nestled among the fragile Christmas ornaments, ready to be unearthed at the next holiday gathering.

Another year over; a new one's just begun.

I guess it's safe for me to come out say it: I hate Christmas. I never used to hate Christmas though, probably because I never used to have to shop for anyone. That's because until I was about 23, my family and I never used to exchange gifts. My parents, in their infinite wisdom and stinginess, decreed that nobody got gifts. Ok my parents weren't really stingy, they were just very very cheap.

It's really quite an amazing thing really, because the gifts that I do receive from my family are totally unexpected and require no reciprocation. I remember a few years ago when my brother Peter who had just gotten a TiVo, enjoyed it so much that he bought me one too. He presented it to me unwrapped and unadorned one cool September.

Nobody got Game Boys, but nobody got ugly ties, macaroni art or yet another coffee mug either. Because of this, my family never gave or got gifts to each other for any holiday, birthday or graduation from modeling school/diploma mill, a situation that continues to this day, thirty-odd years later.

I should say, this situation continues to this day back home.

Here in Chicago, I am swept into this tsunami we call Christmas. I never realized how good I got it until I was standing in the middle of the Mall of Destruction. The only thing that kept me sane this past season was my mantra, which I repeated over and over as I fought through the crowds and waited in line: "Prepare to die, you motherfucker."

If you asked me what is the biggest threat facing the world today, I would say it is the Gift Exchange. That and knee-length tube socks, but I digress. Gift exchanges are tearing down the fabric of our family and our friends--the ones that we still speak to after the holidays.

Oh, don't try to defend it. For every gift you got that you begged Santa for, there is a landfill of stuff with your name on the gift tags--in a landfill.

I have spent the last two weeks before Christmas running around trying to buy the perfect gift for my friends; the gift that is the symbol of our friendship, my understanding of their spirit, my wish for their future happiness. There is only one caveat: you cannot give them the only gift that could possibly fit the bill: warm, soft money.

That would be crass. Ironic that it's inappropriate for all this crass commercialism.

And after all that, people judge you. They judge you for the gifts you give them. They think about how much they spent in relation to what they received and they judge you for not reading their minds. Even worse, they judge you for your excessive use of tape to wrap the gifts.

Can you imagine the First Christmas? Remember when the Three Kings bore gifts to the Child in the manger? Can you imagine what the guy who brought the myrrh must've thought when Mary opened the other guys' presents and it was silver and gold? Can you imagine him pulling the other two aside, hissing angrily, "I thought we agreed on a 20 chicken limit! That must've cost at least a goat and a dairy cow!"

Imagine his embarrassment when Mary said, "Myrrh... and oh, frankincense? That's... nice." and surreptitiously looked for a gift receipt? Can you imagine the hassle of traveling by donkey 200 miles to the bazaar and only managing a bazaar credit?

Christmas has come and gone. Saddam is dead. The world is still the same.

The war is still the same.

This past Christmas, I watched WWE's Tribute to The Troops: Christmas in Baghdad. John Cena, The Undertaker and CM Punk pummeled each other, bounced around the ropes and pumped their fists in the air. The troops cheered for them.

I cheered too.

I cheered for these combatants in tights, prancing in the ring, these fighters in a false war.

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The Long Way Home - Twelve posts about my incredibly interesting family and my remarkably sane relationship with them. Mistaken Identity - Switching identities with my twin brother Peter: a desperate fantasy.

...and a happy new year - A phone call to my father where we grunt, hem and haw. Catalyst - When Al Gore lost to Dubya, all I was worried about was Gay Marriage. Little did I know.

Otherwise

A poem for the new year:

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

- Jane Kenyon

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Today I Am Happy - My own attempt at a blog post in a similar vein.

...and a happy new year - A phone call to my father where we grunt, hem and haw.

Brown Suit

(c) 2006 The New Yorker

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Other cartoons that have appeared in NMP.

Pretend Holiday

"Hanukkah is a minor holiday," proclaimed Mark, my colleague at work.

Mark is Jewish. I, of course, am a Gentile. Especially my hands, since I use premium hand lotion.

"It's not a holiday where you have change your behavior," he continued. "You don't have to fast, refrain from working or anything. Hanukkah has been 'elevated' to the level of a major shopping holiday, like Christmas."

"Shopping, of course, being the operative word," I finished for him. "It's the time when we can all give each other Pieces of designer Earthenware."

He nodded, "It's all crass commercialization! The true meaning of the holidays has been lost."

Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, these holidays have been elevated to this frenzied level by the retailers. It won't be long before they have a menorah with 14 branches because we need more shopping days.

Even Christmas, now celebrated from Labor Day through the very last after-after-after-holiday markdown sale, has its origins from pagan rituals. Christmas still bears its pagan symbols: the tree, the star, the disco ball ornament.

I mean, Jesus wasn't even born in December, couldn't you tell? He had a tan for hissakes. Jesus would never have a fake-n-bake, that would be lying, a sin! I think we should pass a law that prohibits the people with fake tans from getting married, coz it threatens the sanctity of marriage.

I think that to be a major holiday, there must be sacrifice, there must be bloodshed, lots of it: Thanksgiving, the massacre; Easter, the Mel Gibson version; Valentine's Day, that time when your late boyfriend forgot to get you a gift. Christmas--it's just a pretend-holiday.

"How do you spell Hanukkah," I asked, thinking about how to blog this conversation.

"Most people spell it 'Hanukkah,' I think. Some people spell it like 'Chanukah'," he said. "It's pronounced 'Cha-nu-kah'."

He said the first syllable 'cha' as if he was calling me an 'asshole' behind a cough.

I repeated it after him.

"No, no, no, more phlegm. Say it as if you were going to hawk a loogie," he advised.

Ok, everyone, here it goes:

"Hhhcchhhappy Hhhcchanukkah, and a very merry Hhhcchristmas to you all!"

(and don't forget the true holy day behind the pretend one)

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Other holiday posts:

Baby's First Christmas - Jordan's nephew Justin becomes a mouthpiece for his disgruntled aunt. Red Envelopes - Learn the ancient Chinese tradition of gift-giving for the holidays.

Appetite - In my first Christmas nativity pageant, I played a cow when I should've been Mary. Brokeback Mountain - Hey since there is a picture of Jake, you might as well read about that gay movie he was in.

Houseguest

Having never lived with a woman, I've never really understood what that was like. I didn't know the challenges of this arrangement.

In this particular case, having to deal with random long brown hairs lying in my house. I feel like I am one clump short of a mohair sweater or a Chewbacca costume. These long hairs belong to our houseguest Kate, who is staying with us for a month.

Sometimes it irks me when I am lying on the couch and I find a strand of hair sticking to my face. It burns me up. I think dark thoughts about her, this good friend of mine, soon to be not-so-good friend if this keeps up.

I feel a twinge of guilt about this because it's not like she can help that her hair falls out. I can't help myself wishing horrible things would happen to her, like a plague of split ends, so she has to cut her hair off. I look for signs of anorexia because I hear it makes your hair fall out. To prevent this, I pour out her two-liter bottle of Diet Coke and fill it with regular Coke.

But I love her dearly, which is why Brian and I let her stay with us for a whole month. We were in agreement in this. And when I say 'agreement', I mean that I used emotional blackmail on him. I would've threatened to withhold sex instead, except that after being together nearly five years, we only have sex about six times a month, if we're lucky. If somebody forgets to wash the dishes, that dwindles down to two. So I am hesitant to use that sort of power. I reserve it for one of those really rare and special occasions, like when the cat has diarrhea.

If I had more experience, I suppose these things wouldn't surprise me.

One day, as I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I happened to notice that there was something in the trashcan that looked odd. It was something wrapped in tissue paper, one edge looking damp and red.

At first I thought, it was the leftover steak I grilled last night. I thought, why would Brian throw that out? There was enough to make a perfectly nice steak sandwich garnished with roasted peppers, arugula, and a little garlic-mayo spread on ciabatta bread. If I were a different person, I would've fished it out. It was wrapped in tissue.

Of course it was a tampon. You can't make that into a sandwich. Unless you were a vampire.

This made me think about how blood is such a part of women's lives. I get queasy at the little blood that comes out when I pop a zit. But women bleed, man. This stuff pours out of them every month. If I popped a zit everyday for the rest of my life, it wouldn't even come close to how much blood comes out of a woman in a month. To be a woman, it's like...murder--but with nice handbags. No wonder they're cranky. I think if I were a woman, I would have a lot of nice handbags.

We men will never understand this, or why women use chocolate ice cream as medication for their ails.

I tip my hat to you straight men. Women are almost a different species. You take the differences between the sexes and you make. it. work. Tim Gunn would be proud. Some of you even take it to the next level. You take a woman's period and you make something beautiful with it. I think you call it a "rusty nail"?

It's been three weeks, and I think I have learned a lot. I think I am becoming more attuned to Kate. I have learned a lot about women--some important lessons in life--like the double-edged sword of beauty, learning to live with pain, how to properly use an eyelash curler. I also learned the wiles of how to get a man to pay for dinner: by dating only rich men.

A few more days, she will be on her way. Just as our spiritual menstrual cycles were getting in synch, she'll be leaving. I wondered about what that would've been like, whether it would've taken our friendship to the next level, brought us closer together as friends, and whether I would've needed to start stocking tampons too.


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Check out some of my other friends:

Things That Might Drive Joe to Crazyville - Or, let's get to know Joe by reading his rants. Wanted: Friend - Determined never to go solo again, Han makes his move. My First Time - Annie's first guest post. But who cares when there's a pic of her boobs? Special Dispensation - Only the Pope, or my friend Matt, can grant me a special dispensation to date Kevin.

Hardly Knew You - Doug went out for lunch... and never came back. Guest Blogger - You'll be surprised at who made an appearance. If I Could Turn Back Time - A custody fight for Patrick between me and a famous sitcom star. #1 Single - Lisa Loeb and I are this close. The unlikely friendship of a popstar and a blogger.

Exhale

It's hard to show your enduring love with celery sticks. Picture this: the warm glow of candles, soft mood music, you gazing deeply in your lover's eyes, whispering sweet nothings over a plate of celery and low-calorie ranch dressing.

See? It doesn't work.

Romance is all about excess: scrumptious food, lavish gifts, spending money you took from his wallet while he was asleep. The whole point is to lull the object of your affection/unwitting victim into complacency. And once your lives are impossibly entangled, through cohabitation, vows of commitment or blackmail, you reveal your true self.

The good news is that this ritual only lasts about six months. The bad news is that in six months, you could find yourself twenty pounds heavier, no longer the size fourteen (the size zero of drag queens) you once were. It creeps up on you, this weight, like a cold sore or megalomania.

I think you can pick out the truly committed relationships. They have a glow about them that comes from mutual trust, mutual support and mutual funds with a double-digit annual growth. They are the people who have eschewed the superficial; they don't live on a strict diet of celery and tomato soup to keep their abs rock hard.

The elastic waistband is an ally, a defiant fashion statement. These people are the shining beacons of the highest potential of humans. If you see them walking down the street--stop them--see if you can learn something from them, like the directions to a decent all-you-can-eat buffet in the Chicago area. Really, I would like to know. Please send this to me via e-mail.

My waist is slipping from me. My boyfriend is complicit in this. We eat lavishly, then neglect to go to the gym. This past Thanksgiving is just the gravy on the mashed potatoes. I ate all that. And the morning after, I stole into the refrigerator and ate some more.

But you can't really lie about your waistline. The signs give you away: your inseam, that fabric that should lie flat on top of your zipper, puckers open like a botched lipo scar. Your belly fat floats on top of your waistband like an inner tube in a swimming pool.

It's like for years and years and years of being 30, I found myself shopping for 32-inch jeans. I could no longer lie to myself or anybody else. That's not true. I may be a 33, 34, but I refuse to even consider that. No no no no no no way.

I wish this was like lying about my age, which I can perpetuate as long as photoshop and myspace exists. I'm quite popular on myspace. I just got an "add" this morning, which now makes my grand total of friends to four. It would've been five, but my mom refused to add me as friend. I'm so popular that as soon as I signed up, some dude named Tom wanted desperately to be my friend.


Saturday night, a rare stint at the bars. It's crowded. Gay men and women are slowly decompressing from their deep dive into the homestead, imbibing alcohol to fend off the bends.

I am standing among the perfect, the pretty. I am holding in my stomach, holding in my breath.

I had to do this, to squeeze into my jeans. You know the dance: a quick intake of air, then jumping about on hot coals. The inch from the button to the buttonhole, a marathon route; my navel caught between scylla and charybdis.

Even then, my stomach bulges out like foam threatening to spill over a piping hot latte. I hold it in to keep it flat, drawing only short breaths. When I talk, it's amazing I don't sound like Spongebob. Or Meg Tilly.

I've been here forty-five minutes and already I want to go home. I can't wait to get out of these clothes, these jeans.

And to exhale.

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Posts about the food in my life:

Starvation - The long way home is paved with very little food. Fake Plastic Food - The airplane food finally arrives. Discharged! - An obstruction in my bowels lands me in the hospital. Rock Bottom - An Oreo Story. When you've fished food out of the trash, then you know you've hit rock bottom.

Girl, Interrupted - The story of a lost girl and the media uproar. Love On An Empty Stomach - Food lulls you into falling in love. Comfort Food - $1.50 for a bowl of rice is insane. Bagel Sandwich - I could've been a millionaire but for a bagel sandwich.

I am holding my breath until you join the mailing list!

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Undateable

Kevin, you have become undateable to me, ever since you put up that picture of you smiling, shirtless, stroking your fleshy, pink hard-on in your online profile.

Now, why did you go and do that? Did you really think that we could still whisk away to happily-ever-after, after you've put up these pics? Could you have at least cropped your face out of the photo? Then at least everybody who sees it online will just assume that the picture is fake and belongs to some skanky 80 year-old geezer in a homophobic red state. That's what I did on my online profile.

I mean, who can tell anyway? These profiles, these pictures never tell the truth. When I first put up a pic of an asshole on my website, my ex-boyfriend hired a lawyer to remove the offending picture of his face. Since I won't be dating you, you won't ever have to worry about me sending your boss your naked picture when we eventually break-up. Our relationship has ended before it started.

I realize of course that dating doesn't have to end up in a relationship--and many people who go on dates don't--but I don't think that I even want to spend an appetizer or a movie ticket on you. Normally, to lubricate our way to the path between your legs, I would've at least would've bought you a cocktail garnished with the date-rape drug du jour. But now, not so much. You've proven that you don't have the self-esteem to lie on your profile and put up fake pictures. I can't date you--what would my friends think?

I had been harboring fantasies of you and me running off away together, ever since I first found your profile in gay.com. I imagined the two of us adopting children together from fashionable third-world countries: China, Malawi, Compton.

I imagined sophisticated names that will look attractive on a vellum business card or a glossy porno box, like Rafe or Britney. We would all adopt your last name MusclJock, as stated on your gay.com profile. If you prefer, we could hyphenate: No Milk MusclJock-Please. Or does No Milk Please-MusclJock sound better?

Sigh. In my mind's eye, I could see Britney, Rafe and I playing with my collection of Barbie dolls, still mint-in-box. We would gleefully dust and catalog the Barbie collection and bid on rare items on eBay. For Halloween, Britney would be a beautiful pink princess. Rafe could be one too--it's not like we'd need to shave his legs until he's thirty if he takes after me. If he takes after you, we may want to start saving for his depilatory/college fund early.

These dreams are slowly dying; it breaks my heart not to be able to drag our beautiful kids to soccer practice, recitals or a sweatshop, if we needed the extra cash for a suede couch.

I could put up the picture of you here for the people who occasionally read this blog, so people can admire your pink member, but I am afraid that you will get mad at me. Because even though we won't be dating, I would never, ever, want to jeopardize the possibility of our hooking-up.

(If you ever return my IMs, I'll send you the naked photo I took of myself in the shower)

-----

Special Dispensation - Only the Pope, or my friend Matt, can grant me a special dispensation to date Kevin.




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What Does It Say About Me?

"What do you think my beret says about me," I asked my good friend Matt.

He studied my beret and said, "I think it says that you are trying to look younger than you are."

"Really?" I asked, crestfallen. "You don't think it says that I'm creative, hip and will give you a blowjob if you follow me into the restroom at Borders?"

"No," he said firmly.

"What do you think about hockey jerseys?" I ventured. I had just bought one recently at one crazed shopping spree at the mall. What? They were 60% off!!!

"I think it says 'I have completely given up on life and I am just waiting for Heidi to tell me auf weidersehen,'" said Matt.

"I see," I managed to say. I still had the receipt for the hockey jersey but I have been seen around town in my beret. What was I thinking? Why couldn't I just be like every decent gay guy over thirty-five and post a picture on BigMuscle.com of my big, gaping asshole? But noooo, I had to be different, I had to wear a goddamn beret.

What is it that I am trying to say anyway? All I want is to be noticed, you know, so that I wouldn't be that guy who is left out, the guy in the corner jacking himself off in an orgy.

"Anyway, if you want to say something about yourself," Matt said, oblivious to my internal struggle, "I think you should get something more subtle, you know, like a t-shirt or better yet--get a tattoo."

"To hell with subtlety. I want a t-shirt that says 'I'm a bottom'."

"Well then, let's go find a t-shirt that has big block letters that spell A-B-E-R-C-R-O-M-B-I-E."

"Ok," I said excitedly. I could have a picture of myself wearing it on my new BigMuscle.com profile by tonight.

Right next to the picture of my asshole.





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