I would just you to know that if you Google the term flaming gay men, my weblog comes up as the #10 hit.
Yep, NUMBER TEN.
That's #10 in all of the English-based internet on Earth, I'll have you know. I tried it on the UK and Australian versions too, and there it was. My flamingness is universal.
Thank you very much.
I'm still working and I don't have time to be blogging right now.
It's a huge distraction.
But I just have to come on here for a little bit, I can't stay away.
I have gone out a few times with a cerain gentleman, a.k.a., H.I.M.*, and all is well.
The other day I went and bought lunch. I got a bunch of stuff from the gourmet grocery store, chicken and sides and whatnot. One of the little tubs had peas. I love peas. I brought it home, and he politely said "I don't like peas." And I thought Oh my God I don't know what he likes it's over.
Peas.
I have been alive for 32 years, yet I'm still just a giggly nervous little girl. I can see myself: I have a white dress with pink flowers that rises just above my knobby knees. And I twiddle my fingers and chew on my lip a lot. Because I do that in real-life. Not the dress, but the rest of it, yes. Okay the dress too.
I get on the phone and I practice what I'm going to say, and then I say something completely different. And whatever I do say is obviously the worst thing I could have said, which I obsess over for the rest of the day until I get a headache, which only goes away if he calls me and I get to speak impromptu, thereby not disappointing myself with all the things I was "going to say" but didn't. But then, I can't just sit around and wait for him to call me, that's rude. And there, the torture starts. I feel like a geisha, tip-toeing around with a pot of tea, trying not to do or say the wrong thing. H.I.M. does nothing to encourage this, he's been nothing but delightful and suppportive and gracious. It's all me.
It will go away eventually I realize.
But I think anyone would probably prefer going out to dinner with an adult, instead of a whimpering nervous mess. The latter just isn't very good company.
FYI:
* H.I.M. = Homosexual Intended Mate: The beginning stages of the courtship process. Fingers are crossed.
Or should it be
H.I.M. = Hopefully Inamorato Male? ("Inamorato" is another word for "boyfriend") This one is more universal, but a bit obscure. Hmm.
I shant blog about H.I.M. on here as I fear someone, somewhere, will read it and tell him about what I say. Such is the downfall of putting your name and face on your blog. And if this is YOU reading this, then...well...hi. Welcome to the inner workings of my brain. Lucky for you, I'm an open book and what you see is what you get anyway so there will be no secrets here. Nor will I ever talk about you. If you want that to happen, get your own blog, mister.
My friend had his birthday party the other day, at a swanky bar on the beach with bottle service and neat little cabanas.
He was very nervous--it was the first time his professional and his personal worlds would meet. Correction: collide. "The people I work with don't know I'm gay," he said, as we drove to the party.
I nodded in understanding. "Okay."
"There's still some people who don't know, but I wanted everyone to be invited to the party."
"Okay."
"And the people who don't know I'm gay can't find out."
"Okay."
"So be careful who you are talking to people."
Translation: Dan, keep your mouth shut. Got it. "Okay."
I was going to ask how I would know who knew what. But then the conversation turned to the search for parking, which proved to be difficult.
Cut to an hour later--when we were the only people at the party. Turns out our bad luck with parking was plaguing everyone, and they were panickedly calling my friend and pleading for help while looping the block. So as he shouted into his cell phone, it gave me plenty of time to partake in the bottle of vodka all by myself.
It was some delicious stuff.
I was good and liquored-up when the party attendees started to arrive, first an ex-boyfriend from years ago, then another ex he dated just a few months ago. And then a few minutes later, a young woman walked in. "This is my ex-girlfriend," my friend said.
Does he have any regular friends? I thought.
"It's nice to meet you," I said. "You're the third ex of his I've met. And the first one without a penis!"
She just looked at me.
Yeah, she didn't know.
She does now.
I am the #9 Google hit for "I'm a dork."
Seriously.
Google it yourself.
That's me. There I am.
I'm even beating web sites with the word "dork" in the URL! Wow. That's hard to do.
...and I wonder why I'm ranked so high, as I type sentences like I'M EVEN BEATING WEB SITES WITH THE WORD "DORK" IN THE URL! Hmm. Maybe that has something to do with it.
I'm never going to get married.
Please excuse me, I have to go put my head in the oven and roast myself.
You know when you start singing a song, and everyone around you starts to laugh?...
...but you weren't trying to be funny?
Yeah.
So I have a funny story.
Several days ago I visited a special someone on his birthday. He requested that no one give presents; instead, we should make donations to his favorite charity. But of course close friends are still going to buy something, little knick-knacks of thoughtfulness filled with inside jokes. So the night of his birthday party his house was filled with ridiculour dollar-store finds, piled on his couch, his kitchen table, everywhere.
As he showed me all his new toys, he reached behind a table, and pulled out a thick cardboard tube. On the side it said Do-It-Yourself Stripper Pole Kit. And he handed it to me. "This is for you." And he smiled.
Here's a conversation I had recently, when I bumped into someone on the street. I'll only recount my side of what was said, you'll be able to figure out the rest. It's quite possibly the worst conversation ever.
