When I was young, I

When I was young, I used to spend a great deal of time on 31 December writing the number of the coming year over and over again in my notebook. This did not stop me from becoming an adult who writes the dates of years gone by on my current checks. I still catch myself writing “1999.”

Where does the time go?


For the past three days,

For the past three days, I have been in Florida, a state so thoroughly unspeakable that I would ordinarily not have felt the need to speak of it.

Actually, I have been having a good time, discounting the hideous bout of what appears to have been food poisoning. I would not be surprised if it was actually my body rebelling against the choice of nourishment to which I have subjected it since leaving New York: red meat, which I almost never ate before, almost every day (much of it in the form of fast food) and a renewed addiction to a candy called Spree being chief among my culinary crimes.

Rob and I are staying in a suite at the Sarasota Hilton for a few days of comfort and high-speed Internet connections before slumming it again. We actually got an extraordinary deal on the room, which is not, in any case, especially posh. As I type this, I am in the lobby while housekeeping cleans up. A badly dressed businessman just watched me pull out my sleek little Macintosh laptop and asked, “Are you in college?” A corner of my mind dearly hopes that I look as if I might indeed be a student, but it was just a little sneer at my machine, as if it was not capable of meeting the needs of anyone outside of cushy academia.

In case anyone feels as if I might be losing my touch, know that I managed an icily snotty reply that cleared the matter up nicely. He is probably unconvinced, but I comfort myself by thinking that someone with that haircut cannot possibly know as much as he thinks he does.


A little Christmas present









A little Christmas present from me to you . . . this is Goblin Foo Uvula, my little upside-down hippopotamus.


Today, 24 December, is my

Today, 24 December, is my thirty-first birthday.

I do not remember the year my birthdays went from instilling joy to provoking dread and desperation, but I do remember the last really good birthday I had. Picture it: Christmas Eve, 1995. Living with my then-boyfriend Erich in Chicago, far from my Maryland point of origin, I faced my first birthday away from my family. I believe that was the year Erich got me an umbrella as a gift, but the best present of all was that my dearest friends, Viki and Tiffany, were on hand to celebrate with me.

Being a devout Greek Orthodox Christian, Viki asked if we might visit a nearby church to see a miracle. Apparently, an icon of the Virgin Mary had been weeping, and thousands of people had witnessed this; some claimed to have been healed of various ailments and afflictions. “Sure,” I said. “Maybe she will cure my infected skin tag.” I had a skin tag, you see, and it was badly infected because I had been picking at it. I showed it to my friends, who agreed that it was not pretty.
So we went to the church, which was deserted, and saw the icon. It was not weeping (obviously it did not get wind we were coming or it would have been inconsolable), but the tear tracks on the glass and down the front of the painting were as clear as day. I do recall feeling dizzy for a moment. I had to sit down.

Later, when we got home, the skin tag was gone, as if it had never been there.

Later still, we went to a gay bar that was showing a movie called Meet the Feebles, which featured a group of shoddy puppets singing a song with the line: “Sodomy . . . you might think it’s rather odd o’ me!”

Ah, the sacred and the profane.

Apparently, since I entered my thirties, my birthday no longer warrants miracles. Unless getting out of bed counts.


Tomorrow is my birthday. One

Tomorrow is my birthday.

One might guess from recent posts that I am grumpy about this; one would be correct.

My entry for today was going to center upon the process by which I have managed to live thirty-one years (or thirty years and 364 days) without accomplishing anything. However, I thought that would be too predictable.

Instead, I will list some things I have achieved.

(Please note that this is not to boast. I detest a braggart. You need not read another word if it does not please you to do so. I do this for myself. And later, my little dog will do this for herself.)


My Successes (in no particular order), by David

Although my rent and expenses are astronomical, I have managed to support myself for years by working freelance in a crappy economy. Further, I made more money this year than last year, and will make more still next year. (This is a modest amount by most standards, but I made it own my own.)

I have maintained a regular gym schedule (three times per week) for almost six months.

When I have a problem, I may obsess over it unduly, but eventually, I do my best to solve it.

Since I began this web log earlier this year, I have published over a hundred pages of single-spaced text. This year, I have also completed over fifty pages of another writing project and have made inroads into planning a third.

I am particularly honest and usually not afraid to say what I think.

I have managed to keep Goblin alive, happy, and healthy for over two-and-a-half years.

Without even trying, I have won two graphic design awards and published a few articles and short stories.

Although I appreciate comfort, I have learned not to fear change or taking on new challenges.

I graduated with honors from one of the best universities in the country.

Despite devastating periods in my youth, I have managed to grow up relatively sane.

I have many wonderful friends and family members who, for some reason, think highly of me.

I have learned to ask for what I want.

For over a year, I have maintained my part of a more-or-less healthy relationship with a wonderful man.


My Successes (in no particular order), by Goblin

I poop poop poop after every meal!

I know how to sit and lay down and shake hands and will sometimes even do these things on command!

I’ve made my crate into a home!

I’m the only Boston terrier who gets to write in a blog!

I’m internationally renowned!

Daddy says I’m the best little girl ever!

Would you like a bone?

*lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick*


In this season of joy

In this season of joy and light, hope and peace, I give you the world premiere of my latest foray into lyric.

You’d better watch out
Get ready to cry
And scream, wail, and shout
I’m telling you why
Frankenstein is coming to town

He comes with a sneer
A menacing growl
He’ll fill you with fear
And disembowel
Frankenstein is coming to town

He’ll get you while you’re sleeping
You’ll awaken with a shake
To find that you are bleeding red
Run away for goodness sake

Oh! You’d better watch out
Get ready to cry
And scream, wail, and shout
I’m telling you why
Frankenstein is coming to town

Break out the eggnog, everybody, it’s going to be a bumpy flight.


That time has come again.

That time has come again.

No, not 20 December, which comes more or less regularly (or even 24 December, my birthday, which returns with an increasingly alarming frequency); I refer to Goblin’s and my proclivity for scrounging around in other people’s emailboxes. It is a weakness in which we would not have to indulge if anyone were to write us directly, but we understand. It is a busy time of year: shopping to do, countries to invade. Our work is never done.

So, without further ado, today’s purloined letter:

Dear Miss Manners: My husband greets everyone with a smiling, hearty “Good morning,” “Good afternoon” or “Good evening.” If the recipient does not repeat the same message in return, he says it again, a bit louder and more emphatically.

This usually gets him the reply he wants, but if not, he’ll say: “You’re not sure?”

The person will say: “What?”

He’ll say: “Whether or not it’s a good morning!”

At this time of the year, he does the same thing with “Merry Christmas.”

If the clerk, for example, doesn’t say it back, he’ll get a little closer to them and say it again. If they come back with: “Happy Holidays,” he’ll say: “No, I said Merry Christmas, not Happy Holidays.”

One clerk said: “We are not permitted to say ‘Merry Christmas.’ ” My husband then demanded to see the STORE manager. The FLOOR manager appeared and my husband lectured him on the fact that this worldwide Christian celebration is what was making his cash register ring. The least he could do was to acknowledge the cause.

I make sure I’m busy at another counter, but, believe it or not, in this example a few people started applauding him, which only gave him more confidence for the next encounter. What can I do to make him stop doing this?

David responds:
My dear friend Miss Manners was more genteel in her response, but I will get directly to the point: I hate your husband, and I hate you for marrying him. Our president becomes red in the face talking about Saddam Hussein and his alleged crimes against humanity, but the real danger to our society comes in the form of people like your husband, who suffer a pathological need to impose their brand of belligerent cheer on an innocent and unsuspecting populace.

Actually, I am uncertain the emotion qualifies as cheer, which is defined as a feeling of general well-being and optimism. If there is optimism in this behavior, it is the anticipation of snagging someone in his verbal bear trap, baited with pleasantries. Sanctimonious glee would be more accurate: if his greeting is returned in kind, fine. If it is not, as all control freaks do, he delights in foisting his personal morals and preferences upon the world. Either way, he gets what he wants. And while “Good morning,” “Good afternoon,” and “Merry Christmas” seem innocuous enough, it is a slippery slope to the Defense of Marriage Act, internment camps, and John Ashcroft.

You ask how you might stop your husband’s behavior, and as you know perfectly well, you cannot. Murder is an appealing solution, but an unlikely one, considering that you lack the chutzpah even to stand up to him as he plays his merry and sadistic game. Divorce, then. But make sure he knows exactly why you are doing it. People like that need to see that there are repercussions to their actions.

Goblin responds:
Good morning good morning good morning!

*lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick*

I like the mornings! Daddy gets up and says are you hungry? And I say yes yes yes yes yes I’m hungry! And then I eat and then I go out and poop. Poop poop poop!


I am always happy happy happy and I like to say good morning and good afternoon! I say it with a lick but Daddy says no licking! So I say it with a lick anyway.


Oh yeah. Advice.

Your husband looks cheerful but he is mean mean mean! Also insecure. Don’t bother telling him everyone hates what he does because he will feel like a martyr and do it more. He knows it anyway (mean mean mean!). Don’t bother telling him how embarrassed you are because he doesn’t care. He is trying to embarrass people even though he is incapable of feeling that himself.

*scratch scratch scratch scratch*

Make him sign up for anger management therapy or get a divorce. Either way make sure you’re not around when he pulls this stunt again.



Yesterday, someone responded to my

Yesterday, someone responded to my most recent blog, in which I published an abridged account of my Christmas shopping expedition, with the following comment:

Last night’s blog post was the most erotic and tantalizing thing I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s nothing sexier or more maddening than keeping vital information from people.

Little did I know that I could increase the appeal of my activities simply by leaving out crucial descriptions. If I become more inscrutable, perhaps people will find me even more attractive.

Note to self: look into this.

I also received my first Christmas gift: a replica of the One Ring from the Lord of the Rings. The ring is gold with elvish writing and comes with its own display stand, which glows a mystical red when touched. I adore it. Rob got one, too. I say “replica,” but actually, I was told in confidence that it is the real Ring of Power. I had suspected this was the case when Goblin started referring to it as “my precious.”

I had planned a journey to Maryland and Florida during my holiday vacation; it seems I will be making a slight detour through the evil land of Mordor (a.k.a. Tennessee) instead.


Today, in a flurry of

Today, in a flurry of holiday madness, I went Christmas shopping. As it happens, I was in the appropriate mood. Insanity abounded; I was jostled and shoved and forced to wait in Disneyesque queues with my prospective purchases clutched to my heaving chest.

Out of a sense of peace and goodwill, I did not hit anybody.

Ho ho ho.

This is what happened: First, I went to ________ to see if there were a few ________ I could get for ________. There were, of course, hundreds, but in the circuslike atmosphere, I did not feel I had the presence of mind to choose among them. Then I went to a couple of stores on Broadway looking for a ________ for ________. I had found a few online that looked delightful, but it was not guaranteed that they would be delivered on time, and I found one at ________ that cost an extremely large sum of money, which I would not object to, except it did not look to be of particularly good quality. Because I was unsure as to whether I would find another one, I had them hold it for me. Luckily, however, I did find several other ________ at ________, a destination I chose at random, and I picked a great one at a much better price. In fact, I had budgeted so much extra money that I decided to pick up ________ on my way out, a fortunate discovery I would not have made had I not gotten lost in the store. I also bought a ________ for my ________, but on second thought, that might be more appropriate for ________. After leaving ________, I wandered across the street into ________, but their selection was terrible. On an impulse, I went into a ________ to see if they could ________ on my ________ so I could give it to ________, and they could! I also went into Staples to see if they happened to have Blumberg Form X201, the submission of which would allow me to do business under a more exciting alias, but they did not. I almost bought a paper shredder to make up for it, but I figured it would be a mistake to pack too much excitement into one day. Later, I met Joe for coffee, and later still, Rob and I met Mark for coffee. After Rob went home, Mark and I went to ________, where I found two more ________ for ________, which brings us up to ________. I still have to buy _______ for ________ and ________ ________ for ________. And it goes without saying that I still have to find ________ for ________ and pick up the ________ I made for ________ and ________.

I hope I did not ruin anyone’s surprise. And as we all pause to remember the true meaning of this joyous season, allow me to point out that I wear a size medium shirt and am happy (and increasingly desperate) to accept large sums of cash.

Joy to the world.


POP QUIZ Multiple choice: Choose


Multiple choice: Choose the letter that best answers the question.

Which of the following did I not do over the weekend?

(A) Attend a show entitled Christmas with the Crawfords, which portrays the family of Joan Crawford as they are interviewed on the radio by Hedda Hopper on Christmas Eve. Mommie Dearest is joined by other glorious celebrities, such as Shirley Temple, the Andrews Sisters, Bette Davis, Carmen Miranda, Gloria Swanson, Ethel Merman, and Judy Garland, who pop in on the way to Gary Cooper’s party to sing holiday carols. An almost-all-male cast.

(B) Slice the back of my hand open with a nut pick while attempting to decorate my own cookie during a holiday party. Don’t ask.

(C) Anything I had actually planned to do, including work with a deadline of today and buying any Christmas presents.

As Joan said to Christina, “Figure it out.”


I spent such an insane

I spent such an insane amount of money getting a haircut yesterday that I might as well pack up and move to the poor house now. (Just where is the poor house, anyway? And do they take dogs?) I console myself with the idea that this is one of my best haircuts ever. The act was performed by a morose Indian man, who forced himself to make small talk at first and then lapsed into silence for twenty minutes, at which point he said, “Everyone here is on Prozac, and they think I should be, too. What do you think?” I made a noncommittal remark about people who have found things that help them tending to proselytize those things to others. Really, I was not about to upset him while he had scissors pointed at my head.

I spent the rest of the haircut (and it was a long haircut; I think he cut every hair separately) worrying about what sort of face I was making. My mind tends to drift off in situations like that, and when my mind drifts off, my face goes completely impassive. However, it has been pointed out to me that my impassive face can actually appear quite sinister. Perhaps it is my bone structure. This is of particular danger during haircuts because I often seem to be staring at my reflection with a severe expression (when I am actually thinking of something else entirely), and this upsets the stylist. And we have already established the peril of upsetting someone who has scissors pointed at one’s head.

When it was time to leave, I realized that I had made a horrible mistake. Having asked the morose Indian stylist for a jar of whatever goop he had put in my hair, I approached the receptionist to pay. The cut itself, however, cost twenty dollars more than I had anticipated, and the goop cost twenty dollars by itself. With the addition of the tip, I strolled out of the salon almost ninety dollars poorer.

But I looked damned good!

I took my new haircut out to the movies last night. Rob and I saw the new Star Trek sequel, which was mildly enjoyable, if terribly drawn out and nonsensical. Because it was opening night, the geeks were out en masse, and luck of the draw put a group of Obnoxious People™ in the row behind us.

Fiddle dee dee.


We had a lovely day

We had a lovely day in Manhattan: sunny and in the mid-50s. For her morning walk (which came in the afternoon because I was too busy arguing with a certain client all morning), I decided to forego Goblin’s coat so she could enjoy the balmy weather unfettered. As we waited to cross Central Park West, she shivered a bit in the bracing air (she is a short-haired dog, and we were in the shade), and a passing motorist was thoughtful enough to roll down his window and scream, “Put a coat on that dog! Can’t you see she’s freezing!?” His righteous indignation fluttered in the breeze as he sped off.

He was driving a Trans Am.

Now, for all I know, Goblin was merely trembling with excitement. After all, we were OUTSIDE! There were SQUIRRELS to terrorize and other DOGS to bark at! As we continued through the park, she ran and played and had a merry time, not seeming in the least physically uncomfortable or worried that the ASPCA would pop out from behind a bush and whisk her daddy away.

The first really chilly day this year-the first day Goblin wore her coat-was much colder than today. As we walked, a woman chastised me for having my dog wear a coat before the weather turned freezing. According to her fuzzy logic (if I was not too distracted by the fact that she let my dog lick her teeth to follow it correctly), nurturing her then would make her defenses fail later when she really needs them.

Stop the world, I want to get off.


Well, I feel better today,

Well, I feel better today, although I would like to stay in bed forever, or at least until I can arrange for certain individuals to be eliminated. For the past two days, during my illness, I have been battling with a client who thinks it is desirable to design an entire book without using hyphens.

Certainly, by all means: let us simply ignore what is probably the fourth most popular punctuation mark and the typesetter’s best tool at the whim of an office full of ignoramuses who think “it would just look prettier.”

While we are at it, shall we-oh, I don’t know-eliminate the letter “t” from the text, as well? Of course, that would make the text into the ex, but as I cannot wait to be their ex-designer, perhaps that is entirely appropriate.

In other news, my dear friend made the gay cheerleading squad! The tryouts were last night, and I was too weak and tired to travel down to lower Manhattan to offer my moral support. Nonetheless, I am extremely proud of him. Perhaps I will pack up the whole team and send them off to the offices of a certain client, where they can form a pyramid and exclaim in bloodcurdling tones, “Gimme an H! Gimme a Y! Gimme a P! Gimme another H! Gimme an E! Gimme an N!” And then, as the clients look on in horror when the dreaded punctuation mark is evoked, the cheerleaders can whip out their carefully concealed submachine guns (purchased without difficulty on any street corner, thanks to the effort of Republicans near you) and . . .

Perhaps I need a bit more rest.


Goblin Foo Uvula writes: It’s

Goblin Foo Uvula writes:

It’s me it’s me it’s me!

*lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick*

Daddy said I could write over the weekend but Daddy is sick sick sick. Daddy won’t let me touch his computer when he’s not watching. Daddy’s afraid I’ll use his credit card to order things off the Internet or download porn.

Porn porn porn!


Daddy said I got letters. Daddy won’t let me read them just like Harry Potter. He says it will make me uppity. Daddy said Auntie Rindy wanted to know about my boots and someone wanted to know what is like for me to walk down the street. Street street street!

*snork lick lick fart*

OK my boots are fleece and held on by Velcro around my ankles. Sometimes when I walk down the street people call them booties. Yuck yuck yuck! Babies wear booties I don’t wear booties. Daddy says I can’t have babies because I’ve been spayed.


Here’s what it’s like for me to go out. Daddy says do you want to go oooout? I say yes yes yes and jump off the bed and run to the door. Daddy puts on my coat and harness and leash and grabs a poop bag from the closet. Then we go out and I run run run to the curb to go pee pee. Daddy says that’s a good pee pee! I do good pee pees! Pee pee pee pee pee pee!


Then I walk down the street and Daddy walks behind me and says do you want to go poop? And I do I do I do want to go poop! But I need to find the right place! Daddy says go anyplace but he doesn’t know what it’s LIKE! When I find my place and poop Daddy picks it up in a plastic bag and carries it with us. Daddy says that they’re making a pyramid of my poop somewhere and I should act surprised when I see it. Poop poop poop!

*lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick*

Then we go to the park and see all kinds of dumb things. I see dogs and growl growl growl. I like to fight! Daddy says I’m scrappy. Daddy says someone is going to bite my ears off. Daddy says I’m a bitch. Sometimes people have their dogs off of their leash and they come and get me! Daddy yells at them. I would like to go off my leash but Daddy says I will run away. I will chase squirrels! Evil evil evil squirrels!

*growl whine*

Daddy takes me to where squirrels go and we run around. I want to run faster and get squirrels! Even nighttime squirrels are good in a pinch. Daddy drags me away from the squirrels. Daddy says they will hurt me. Sometimes I try to eat off the sidewalk but Daddy says no no no!
I wonder where all my poop goes.


(Daddy says he must be delirious for letting me write this. Daddy says he has a fever and will let me eat a Wheat Thin. He MUST be delirious!)


Goblin wanted to take me

Goblin wanted to take me up on my offer to write something (and in fact, questions have been pouring in), but I wanted to tell you about my Friday night. After I returned from the gym, Rob took me to a delightful dinner at the Zen Palate, and then we went to a special performance of Puccini’s La Bohème, which was directed by Baz Luhrmann of Moulin Rouge fame. I have never in all of my days seen a performance that was so visually stunning. It was so gorgeously staged; the only tragedy of the evening was that all of the gorgeous staging seemed to occur precisely on the other side of the massively headed woman who sat in front of me. Very frustrating. In the second act, Rob and I traded seats and I was able to finally relax.

After the show, Baz Luhrmann and his wife, the designer Catherine Martin, came out to answer some questions, and it became clear exactly the efforts they had gone through to make the show—which is over a hundred years old, set in Paris, and performed in operatic Italian—accessible to an American audience in 2002. And it is accessible, quite unlike the dismal Movin’ Out, which is set in this country and based upon Billy Joel songs. Rob thinks this is because one has to be a fan of modern dance to enjoy Movin’ Out, but this does not ring true for me: I would typically enjoy dance a good bit more than opera, which puts me to sleep unless performed by Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. Rather, it is a testament to conception and intent: for Luhrmann and Martin, the experience of the audience is paramount; for Twyla Tharp, perpetrator of the Billy Joel disaster, the experience of Twyla Tharp is paramount.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing about last night’s performance was not last night’s performance but that Rob and I noticed that someone had eaten an apple and discarded the rotten remains on the floor.

During an opera.

Someone ate.

An apple.

Sometimes I wish everyone else would just stay home.

(All right, Goblin can write tomorrow.)


After putting off going to

After putting off going to the gym all day because of a persistent headache, I finally dragged myself through blocks of slush only to realize upon arrival that I had forgotten to bring a tee-shirt to work out in. I did not want to use the one I was wearing because then I would be a sweaty, odoriferous mess on the walk home.

(Those of you – and here I refer to Viki and Tiffany – who claim that I am usually an odoriferous mess can just shut up.)

About to accept my lack of workout tee-shirt as a sign from the gods that there should also be a lack of workout, I remembered suddenly the time I had forgotten to bring underpants to change into afterward. Then, before entering the gym, I had run across the street to the Filene’s Basement to purchase a new pair (2(x)ist boxer briefs), which quickly became my most favorite underpants ever. So I went across the street to Filene’s Basement to purchase a new tee-shirt, which was located conveniently next to the 2(x)ist and DKNY boxer briefs, so I picked up some of those, too; they were all half the price they would be elsewhere.

The problem with Filene’s Basement is that the cheap prices come at a price. The checkout line extended for miles and was manned by a lone cashier. He was skeletal, with grey hair, and I took him for a halfwit because he was incapable of completing any purchase without calling for assistance. “Manager to Men’s frontline,” he would say in slurred tones over the tinny P.A. system. That poor halfwit, I thought, forcing myself to be sympathetic rather than annoyed at the glacial progress. When I finally got to the head of the line, I realized he was not slurring at all, but speaking in some sort of northern European accent, possibly Dutch. He still seemed, however, like he was not all there. He opened the boxes of underpants to make sure that I had not snuck more expensive pairs of underpants in there, only he felt the need to announce the contents to everyone within earshot: “2(x)ist boxer briefs, size small,” he read off the box. Sure enough, that’s what was in there.

On the way out of the store, the security guard said, “Make productive use of the rest of your day.” I told him I would, but I really had no such intention.

At the gym, changing in the locker room, I realized that the new shirt I bought clung in all the wrong places and was loose in all the wrong places, so I just gave up and wore the one I already had on. I wore the new one under my sweater on the way home.

I was not an odoriferous mess, thank you very much.


Last night, I ventured to

Last night, I ventured to lower Manhattan with Joe to offer my moral support in his audition for a local gay cheerleading team. As the directions provided were sketchy, we had to keep asking for help from passers-by, whose replies were consistent: keep going down this one particular road until you come to the housing projects and there it is.

We did, and there it was.

We arrived early, while a karate class was still practicing. I have never seen a karate class, and as I have been thinking of learning a martial art, I paid close attention. As Joe went to find the cheerleaders, I watched some black- and brown-belts spar. In some cases, it looked more as if they were bitch slapping each other than practicing a centuries-old Asian tradition, but as they repeatedly succeeded in knocking each other over, I say if the bitch fits, slap it.

Then came cheerleading, which was presided over by a queeny martinet who went on at length about some sort of donation bucket before taking the new recruits out on the floor. I sat on the top row of the bleachers and flipped through a Macworld magazine while watching the amateurs learn a few routines and the established “senior team” run through slightly more complicated maneuvers. I gave Joe a thumbs-up whenever he looked my way, and really, he was quite good . . . probably the best of the new group and better than some of the seniors. It was delightful to see him so happy. And to know that the friend I was there to support did not suck. Because then I would have to lie and say how wonderful he was; maybe even that he was one of the best.

Heh heh. He really was. Next week he will officially try out and find out if he makes the team. I hope he does, even if it means I will have to venture forth from the Upper West Side more often to see him perform.

Or maybe I will buy a jetpack.


Modern science seems to have

Modern science seems to have accomplished the once inconceivable: it has been demonstrated that I do indeed have a heart. This after an afternoon of painful contortions on an echocardiogram table and unaccustomed exertions on a treadmill.

My newly discovered organ broke on the subway home, however, as I witnessed the conversation of a son (a guy my age) trying desperately to impress his father, who did not, in fact, look particularly impressed.

Later, in the vitamin store, my battered ticker caused my blood to boil as I waited behind a woman with hair like Medusa who complained at length to the cashier about her herbal tinctures being forty percent alcohol, completely oblivious to the fact that the definition of tincture is something that has been diluted in alcohol.
Now, I am about to go out to support my dear friend Joe as he tries out for the local gay cheerleading team.

And people thought I did not have a heart.


I was prepared to post

I was prepared to post something I wrote about my first boyfriend, which has been written for over a week, when the Microsoft Word file containing my first drafts suddenly became corrupted. As it was not a flattering portrait of my early choice of suitor, one can only suspect that either God or Bill Gates is attempting to impart a little lesson on discretion.

Naturally, I will post the message as soon as I have reconstructed it-better, stronger, nastier than before.

Instead, here is a fun fact to start your Sunday off on the right foot. Did you know my old-fashioned telephone exchange is TRafalgar? Well, it is. Rob is jealous that I have an old-fashioned telephone exchange and he does not (because he wants to buy an old-fashioned phone for his apartment), but I am going to put it on my business card, once I get around to designing one. I know I have never mentioned in this forum what I do for a living, but I am a designer, so one would think I would have designed a business card by now.

One would think a lot of things. And if one is me, one tends to.

In other news, Rob, Joe, and I watched the TV remake of Carrie last night, and I was reminded of my own youth, although I could not blame my circumstances on parents who were religious whackos. I also was not voted queen of the prom, although much of my misfortune did stem from the ideas of certain people that I was a queen of another sort.

Psychokinesis would not be my first choice of special ability, but it apparently gets the job done.

(By the way, my thanks to everyone who wrote their condolences about my grandmother. Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.)