TGIF

Contrary to what my co-worker says about it not being possible to wake up on the wrong side of the bed because "wherever God touches you to wake up is the right place," (what-the-fuck-ever) I woke up on the wrong side, fo shizzle. So ... I'm in a bitter mood. Shit happens. Just ask Dubya.

Here are some things that drive me fucking crazy.

• When people prostitute themselves in an attempt to garner compliments. If your ego is so fragile that you can only feel better by saying "I'm ugly," only to have me (or whomever) say "Oh honey, no you're not," well ... guess what? You probably are. I'm usually just trying to be nice -- and so are most of the other people you bother with the same petty bullshit. But I've got my own bullshit to deal with, so take your poor body image and your poor self esteem and go to a psych clinic. Leave me the fuck alone.
• I hate people who think their destinations are infinitely more important than anyone else's, so they'll drive like madmen and give everyone in their way all kinds of shade just to stay our of their way. You know what? In the morning, most people have places to be. Your particular path is no more important than anyone else's. So slow the fuck down and stop glaring at me, you ignorant fuck, or I'll pluck your eyes out and feed them to the abundance of sparrows in the city. Let's see how fast you can drive your car without eyes.
• If one more person tells me "You have such a nice face," and then proceeds to look my plus-sized body up and down and make a half grimace, I'll end up in jail for assault. We all have different bodies. We all have different bodies to which we're attracted. I'm lucky enough to have someone who doesn't mind my extra insulation - who even finds it beautiful. (Which, I'm proud to say, it totally is.) And yes, I would feel better if I managed to lose a bit of weight, and yes, I'm working toward that goal ... but the last thing I need is Malibu Barbie and Earring Magic Ken telling me how inferior I am because I had the audacity to have seconds at the buffet. Fuck you and your bony asses. Eat a bagel with real butter and throw your Trader Joe's Protein Shake in the trash. You'll feel better with a little sugar coursing through your bile-encrusted veins.
• Gay men who go out of their way to say they're "masculine," but fail to notice the faux Prada purses that fly out of their mouths when they speak -- listen to me: There's nothing wrong with being who you are. Acting in what society deems is a "masculine manner" doesn't make you any more of a man than the so-called swishy queen who walks his featherweight dog on a rhinestone-laced leash. You both have penises. You're both men. You're just different types of men. So take your so-called "masculine energy" and devote it to broadening your knowledge bases, you arrogant pricks. How masculine are you when some other man has his cock up your ass? I'm betting the swishy boy winces less. Where's your masculinity, now, Moses?
• And all you online princesses with "versatile" or "top" in your profile? How about posting more than pics of your scraggly faces and saggy asses? And bottoms? I have no desire to see pictures of your penises. If you're advertising as a bottom, show me your ass, for Christ's sake. And if you really, honest-to-God, are not looking to hook up -- take the naked pictures out of your fucking profile. Common sense? Ya think?!? Dumb asses.

Okay, okay. Enough. I need to have more coffee and shut my own damn mouth. :-)

Oh Lord help me...

I was listening to Sarah McLachlan's cover of XTC's "Dear God" earlier, and my co-worker was doing something near my desk. She asked me to increase the volume - something had caught her ear. So I did. Big mistake. (Here are the lyrics, for those of you unfamiliar with the song.)

"Do you like that song?" she asked.

"Well, yeah, I do ... quite a bit, actually," I replied. She furrowed her brow and put her hands on her hips.

"Don't you realize that the only way to guarantee salvation is through Jesus?" she started, obviously ready to give me the proverbial what for regarding religion. I let her say what was on her mind, and then I replied.

"I respect you and your choices. I respect your faith and what it does for you. But you need to remember those choices and beliefs are yours, not necessarily mine. I don't agree with your religious convictions, but I would never expect you to believe any other way. I don't malign you for believing what you do about Jesus, religion, salvation, or whatever. I would appreciate the same courtesy."

Her reply?

"So you don't believe in God?"

ARGH!! SO not my point.

I don't know what I believe, honestly. Well ... that isn't true. I don't believe there's an old, bearded, gray-haired man in flowing robes sitting on a golden throne in "heaven" who is all-powerful and all-knowing. I just don't. I do believe there's something "else," though. I have no clue what it is ... but trust me, after 9 years of Catholic school and a pretty rigid Catholic upbringing, I'd bet good money it's not that particular dogma. I think most Catholics get wrapped up in the comfort of the rituals, the patterns of behavior, and the safety they perceive as coming with adhering to those rituals and behaviors. And that's fine. My parents find much solace in their beliefs ... and at their age, I'd never give them grief for it. It's actually comforting to me, as well, knowing they feel safe and secure. Good.

I think a lot of people who grow up in very religious homes, or who attend parochial schools, find themselves doubting those teachings when they reach adulthood. My doubts started as far back as the fifth grade. There's just so much out there ... so many different teachings, paradigms, dogmas, faiths. I tend to tell people I'm spiritual, but not religious. I like the idea of a higher power, but I can't wrap my brain around it being something sentient and humanoid. I don't know. It makes my head hurt. But I can say with certainty -- there are moments of bliss, moments of despair, and moments of uncertainty in my life that convince me something else is out there, in some way or another. There's too much beauty for it all to be a cosmic accident.

I wonder, though, why some people find it perfectly acceptable to judge others and, for all intents and purposes, demand their beliefs are the only "true" ones? It's nothing new, however. And I doubt it will ever change. But I'm pretty sure my co-worker will look at me differently from now on, and that saddens me a little bit. But hey -- it's her loss. I'm pretty fabulous ... religious uncertainty and all.

*sigh*

I love Project Runway.
Okay. There. I said it.
I have never felt more gay than I did last night, watching the casting special and first episode of season three. Seriously. I've felt less gay in the middle of torrid gay sex.
Quick thoughts:

• Laura is very, very talented for a person with no real fashion design experience. She draws on her architecture background ... a "problem solver," so to speak. The coat she threw together was really quite lovely.
• Robert from Mattel is just adorable. Well, okay, adorable might be overstating it a bit -- but he's a cutie and is also quite talented. Had it been up to me, his fabulous little dress with the gorgeous back would have won the first challenge.
• Keith, the winner of the bedsheet challenge, has more attitude than I do ... and that's saying a lot. This should be interesting.
• Alison is a total cutie. She models her own clothes! She reminds me of a little sprite.
• Kayne, the pagaent gown designer, surprised me. Tony liked his dress the best, and it was a close second for me, too. Apparently, all those "Sparkle, Neely, Sparkle!" moments have helped shape him into a damn fine designer.
• Vincent, the Daniel Franco of this season, is just a mess. My my my. It's too bad he cashed in his 401K for this ... because, honey, that basket hat with the Joan Jett chains? Hail naw!!
• Jeffrey, also known as "Santino's friend," is a boorish freak. I can't stand him. Oh how I absolutely hated his piece. He's also got this smarmy thing going on that makes Santino look generic. I have a feeling he's going to be the one that breaks rules and is asked to leave. I can totally see him going all Jennifer Jason Leigh and stabbing someone with a platform heel.
• Malan. Oh. My. God. I hate the way he moves his mouth when he speaks. I hate the pretension that oozes around each word he utters. I hate his product-heavy hair. But most of all ... I hate that accent. It has to be fake. I refuse to believe otherwise.

And Heidi Klum gets more gorgeous with each baby Seal.

Tony has really been kicking ass with the packing. He has no idea how much I appreciate his drive. This week, each night after work is devoted to packing/purging. We've got a lot to do, but he has been successful in getting a lot of the "grunt" stuff done ... so kudos to him, my hero. We'll need more boxes ... and I'll need some serious nicotine to get through it. But we'll manage. We're good that way.

We schlepped some art over and Tony hung it with care and aplomb. He's got a much better eye for that sort of thing than I do ... and even though he was ready to pound his fists into the near impenetrable walls, I think he likes to do that sort of thing, too. The front entrance room will be adorned with more "pop" and "fun" art ... his Roy Lichtenstein print, my Jimenez Donna Troy poster, the original comic art pages I own, etc. It already looks great. The other super-hero prints will adorn the hallway up the stairs and down toward the bedrooms. A good, solid plan. It's going to look fantastic. So much more "us."

We were riding with David to get some grub, and he (David) was listening to a folk music compilation of his own creation. As he sang along to each tune, I was overwhelmed by a memory I hadn't thought of in quite some time...

When I was about 12, my mother and I vacationed in Utah with my brother Johnny and his wife Kathy. Johnny, an avid fisherman and lover of the outdoors, rented a large camper/van and planned to take all of us to Montana for a week of camping, fishing, and camaraderie. I wasn't thrilled about the idea, but I was 12 -- what could I do? Anyway ... Johnny's Air Force buddy Al Domini and his family were accompanying us. I was assigned to drive the distance with Mrs. Domini and her 11 year-old daughter Heidi. I remember my sister-in-law going on and on about how cute Heidi was and how much fun she and I would have. It was an obvious attempt at preteen matchmaking. I was surprised to discover that Heidi actually was cute and sweet ... and we did hit it off in a very friendly way. No surprise, really, because most of my good friends had always been girls. I very vividly remember Mrs. Domini turning up the radio and singing along, in loud voice, to "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" by Peter, Paul, and Mary. She commented that it was one of her favorite songs, and said to no one in particular "It's part of the soundtrack of my generation." I was mesmerized by her voice and even more intrigued by her comment. Would I have a "soundtrack of my life" when I got older? What songs would be on it?

The Montana sky was just amazing. I was in awe. At night, the sky seemed to have hundreds more stars in it than what I was used to back in Indiana ... and I spent a lot of time just gazing, losing myself in the splendor. Mr. Domini showed up on day two with a surprise -- his 14 year-old son Seth. No one had mentioned another boy would be sharing the adventure, and I was, of course, both instantly smitten and terrified. Heidi who?!? Seth was "all boy" -- he brought a Nerf football with him, for God's sake. It took him a day or two to warm up to me, and I'm sure it only happened because he was bored and had a passing interest in the Justice League of America comic I was reading.

He plopped down next to me outside the camper and grabbed the comic from my hands, his curly hair backlit by the bright sun. "Does this have Aquaman in it?" he asked. I mumbled something about Aquaman being a founding member of the JLA and tried not to stare at Seth's face. And it was that simple -- we were "buds" from that point on. We played catch with the stupid football (yes, I was that much of a skeez), took off our shoes and waded in the amazingly cold creek, picked on poor Heidi, ate entirely too many hot dogs for one sitting, and because we were both wrestlers, practiced "moves" a lot. That, of course, was my favorite part.

I could tell by his level of excitement during the wrestling tumbles that Seth was enjoying himself. I'd tackle him from behind and we'd roll around under the trees, laughing. He'd grab me around the middle and try to toss me, forgetting my weight advantage and never quite succeeding. He was a strange combination of wiry and thick that I found intoxicating. Nothing explicit happened that summer, but Seth and I kept in touch. His letters told stories of girls, his parents, and wrestling, and always ended with talk of that week in Montana. When I told him I'd be back for another week the next summer, his letters doubled in frequency, and we graduated to having pages-long "conversations" about which superhero would be able to best whom in a wrestling match. Dammit -- was it summer YET?? When we did go back to Utah the following July, Seth and I picked up right where we left off. That story, however, is best saved for another time ... and it's a good one ...

Catching up ...

I spent the better part of the long weekend in Gatlinburg, TN with my best friend, Jill. It was a really nice getaway for us ... and a wonderful time to just be together. Her parents have a time share there, but were unable to use it this year. We jumped at the chance. Our friend Shelly was originally supposed to accompany us, but that didn't pan out (much to our chagrin -- but we understand), so we made the trek alone. The "suite" was nice ... a bit country in its decor (quelle surprise), but very roomy and comfortable. We did a lot of mountain sight-seeing ... lots of eating (damn they have wonderful fudge and candies there) ... entirely too much walking (hehe)... and a LOT of talking. She's still going through a lot with her husband, and I did my best to offer sound advice. By Sunday night, however, I was all out of "it's going to be ok" speeches. She knows they're both miserable ... and it doesn't appear things will ever mend themselves. It's hard, sure ... but she's going to have to take that major step and move forward with her life. She knows it. It's just a not-so lovely combination of sad, painful, and scary. She's a tough girl, though. She's going to be just fine.

Saw The Devil Wears Prada yesterday, and loved it. It's funny, bitchy, and just a solid little flick. Nothing groundbreaking. Meryl is fantastic. Emily Blunt, as one of Streep's harried assistants, is also a delight. I think Adrien Grenier looks like Chester Cheetah. The movie made me long for the passion I used to feel for journalism. What a different person I'd be had I just followed through with that in college.

Wasn't feeling especially patriotic this year, so we sort of cocooned last night. Ang came over and we had some KFC, ate entirely too much candy, and watched the director's cut of Donnie Darko. It's definitely a bizarre little movie ... but I really really like it. I had trouble sleeping because I was mulling so much of it over in my head. And please -- it has that wonderful Gary Jules cover of "Mad World" in it. Bliss.

We found an apartment. Half a double. Cute. It's going to be a rough August financially, but I think everyone involved will be much better off. I need to shake my fears and get excited. It's a really nice place.

This is all not to say that I don't still dream of packing our shit and disappearing into the night. I sometimes think there'd be nothing more delightful.