Every other Tuesday, I volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House, and as is customary, I called Hubby last night as I was nearing home.

He greeted me with growling noises, and sounded very frustrated.

“Whatcha doin?” I asked.

“OOOOOOh, I got sucked in to this damned Amazing Race and I’m FRUSTRATED.

“Oh, is it Jonathan?” Everyone, even non-watchers or sporadic watchers like me have heard of Jonathan. He treats his wife terribly, and seems to be pretty unapologetic about it.

“I don’t know who they are. I hate them all.”

Oooooh,keeeey, I was pulling in our driveway so we hung up. Walk in the door. Major dog greetings. Hubby is slouched in the BigChair, frowning.

“These people are so stupid! I don’t like ANY of them!” he complained.

I refrained from saying, “Then why the hell ya watchin’?” Instead, I said, “Well, it’s fun to see all the places they go & the things they have to do.”

He continued. “I mean, I don’t LIKE ANY OF THEM!” (He said this at least 3 more times in the last half-hour of the show. I won’t re-type each utterance. Just take my word on it.)

I was laughing, mostly on the inside, but on the outside a little bit. My poor hubby. He just liked Rupert from Survivor so much, and he expects Reality TV World to serve him up at least one likeable person in every season. I’ve only watched one full episode & two halves of this season’s Amazing Race, and I didn’t pay enough attention to avidly dislike any of them (except Jonathan, who sort of forces you to dislike him immediately).

As the end of the show crept nearer, I heard a squawk: “DATING MODELS?”

And then I did laugh out loud. “Honey, they have dating models on every season. It’s just the way it is.”

“Well, I don’t like them.”

All day, my happy yellow duck clock has been stopped at five ’til one. I had yesterday off, and it took me a while to notice His Duckness, stuckness in time.

Now, I’ve looked at that clock about 20x today, and been perpetually surprised EACH TIME. It was fine before lunch, because for that fleeting moment, time was moving really FAST. But now that it’s 4:15 p.m., and I look up and see “12:55”, I have a tiny moment of panicky confusion. Wha? Huh? God, this is a long day!

See, our computer clocks (something most people reference) are set to an incorrect clock. I know how to change it on my computer, but somehow the NETWORK manages to override it, and it overrides it with a time that’s about ten minutes slow. Which means if you rely on it, you have to play MindGames with yourself so you get to meetings on time – something my husband is infamous for. His bedroom clock? 17 minutes fast. At one point, it was 28 minutes fast. His truck clock? Who knows. It’s been anywhere from 11 to 30 minutes fast. I never know what the Real World time is when I look at his clocks. The man hates to be late. He told me, on our first date, that the only thing that could really make him mad would be someone being really late. Honestly, I didn’t have a lot of long-term hope for our relationship at that point, because I’m terminally, criminally, and sometimes unapologetically LATE. (I was five minutes late for that same first date!) He has preached the virtues of being on time. He has offered Helpful Hints that could Assist Me. I prefer to state that I live in Reality, where I use the clock on our cable box, which is fed the time from some Naval Academy in Annapolis, and when I tried to change it, it took the cable representative three tries to get through to me that I COULDN’T CHANGE THE U.S. NAVAL CLOCKS IN MARYLAND. But I know that it is the REAL time and I don’t have to do mathematical processes to know exactly what time it really IS. And I know that I’m late, by exactly how much, and I will apologize for it, when necessary. But, and I just looked at Mr. Duck again, and it’s still 12:55, at least I am not, to quote Foreigner, playing HEAD GAMES with myself. Or that official clock in Annapolis. They won’t let you, and I can testify to that.

People use interoffice email for the funniest things. For ages, we got request to return ALL INTEROFFICE ENVELOPES to the mail room, right away.

A former co-worker & I would ponder that one. So, I return all my interoffice envelopes to the mail room. Then, when I want to put something into interoffice mail, I open my drawer & whups! I don’t have any envelopes. So I go to the mail room to get one. And thus defeats the purpose of having an interoffice envelope because now I might as well walk my happy ass & document over to the recipient of my mail. OY. This is why Scott Adams is a millionaire.

Then there’s this other person who’s always losing her easel. Every two months, the easel MUST BE RETURNED IMMEDIATELY. Some poor schlub is out there, trying to finish his picasso, or else he’s joyfully scribbling on a giant tablet, and he keeps borrowing the WRONG EASEL. Thirty thumbtacks, flung in your direction.

Today, it seems, the double-sided tape has disappeared from the business center. Which is where all the office supplies are kept. So I guess we only keep one roll of double-sided tape on hand, and whoever took it is in BIG TROUBLE. Because double-sided taping needs exist in corporate amurrica, for what exactly, I’m not sure, but now that we need to stick things together, the only roll we have is gone. I have long maintained that double-sided tape is a two-faced beyotch that can’t be trusted. It looks at you while it’s walkin’ away. Whistlin’. Because it’s just that two-faced. Move the Homeland Security Alert System up a notch, Tommy. Let’s roll.

Man, I hate weekends where I anticipate being really productive, and then I’m not & all I’m left with is a house to clean, forty acres of laundry & a clingy dog. I took today off to be productive AND relax – my massage is in an hour & a half. Bless the massage therapists of the world. Their work is infinitely more important than mine.

Yesterday, we went to the Studio’s sale, and I bought a bunch o’ stuff – thank goodness I was paying cash, because the line for the other register was so long, I might have committed hari kari with my size 17 circs I was buying. And it’s a bitch getting blood out of bamboo. Plus those suckers are EX-PEN-SIVE, even at 25% off.

I love a sale – but that space is too small for me to love anything about the experience. It was clogged. And when it’s that busy, and there are that many people, you do not have the luxury to just move about and drift as you would like, or to stand back from the bins & hold yarns out, peering at them from every angle. That is what you do on every other day – when there’s not a sale. You have to be efficient, you can’t block the entire aisle, you have to move somewhat quickly. I swear, there were people there who thought they were the only ones in the store. Some of them were on their cell phones, idly blathering about non-knitting things, and blocking people’s way to get at stuff. It was SO FRUSTRATING. It gave me the Foulest Mood I Could Not Shake, and I was already dealing with some other stuff that was depressing, so I was BadCompany. Despite that, I still went to brunch with the gals, where apparently an entire freshman class of men also decided to dine. The line? Like the Studio’s. But it got better, and I got some caffeine, and I went home & took a four hour nap. I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, and three Excederin later, I am just now starting to feel like there might be hope left for this day. And I have a dream, that someday, allllll my yarn will be knit into perfectly-fitting garments, and I will have alllllll my laundry done. I HAVE A DREAM.

The fateful day was around the end of January, in a very cold St. Louis. It was a workday, but I had stayed home from work, because I felt sick to my stomach. Eventually, I went out to Schnuck’s to get soup & milk & such. By then it was dark, and I lugged the groceries up to my 2nd floor apartment. The kitchen overlooked the garage – there weren’t doors, just spaces in the garage & behind the building for the residents. As I put the groceries in the fridge, I thought I smelled smoke.

Now, I’ve always been paranoid about fire, in every apartment I’ve been in – mostly because I liked to live in old apartments with loads of “character” and crown molding, and cared less about things like central air, dishwashers, and proper wiring. So I immediately got on my hands & knees and started sniffing the outlets in my kitchen. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t have time to think about it, because as I got up from the floor, I saw the source of the smoke from my kitchen window: the ’86 Escort, parked in the garage.

Bright orange flames curled up from under the hood. Smoke was wafting out. I completely FREAKED out. I ran to the phone. 9-1-1. The operator answered, “State your emergency.”

Me: “CAR! ON! FIRE!”

I figured using extra words would take more time. “Please hold while I transfer you to the fire department.” What the ????? Obviously I am not schooled in how emergencies are handled.

“Fire department, what is the nature of your emergency?”

Me: “CAR! ON! FIRE!”

“What is your location?”

I staccato-burst told them, and after a pause, they informed me someone else had already phoned in the fire, and help was on the way.

I charged downstairs. My neighbor from the apartment below me was outside, too. His wife was out of town for a couple of days, and whenever that happened, he took full advantage of her absence by getting completely, stinking drunk. He was about 72 years old and walked like a cowboy who’d been riding a horse for a really, really long time. He also parked his car right next to mine in the garage.

“My car!” He wailed.

I looked at him, like, DUDE, are you kidding, do you not see MY car right there next to yours, slowly being engulfed in flames? Your car is not ON FIRE.

“She’s gonna BLOW!” he started howling, waving his cane and shaking his head. He said this five or six more times, but I had no time to hold his hand. The idea my car could explode was even worse news, and something had to be done to stop the fire. The neighbors in the basement apartment had rushed up with a fire extinguisher, and the husband started doing the point & shoot thing. It was a really big fire extinguisher, and I thought we might have things solved. The fire died back a bit, but wasn’t out. Smoke & fire extinguisher stuff was now clouding the whole back area behind the building. The sirens growing closer told me that the firetruck was turning on our street.

I ran down the driveway to meet them. I think I might have been talking, but I mostly waved my arms wildly, pointing in the direction of our hodgepodge group, all witnessing the death of my car.

Off came the hose. I was holding my breath, because I still believed my car could be saved.

Back came the firemen and the hose. “This hose is too short!” someone shouted. “WHA?” Now my mouth was open. They did NOT seem to be hustling to get the longer hose out, not nearly fast enough for my satisfaction. People! Seconds count! This is MY CAR!

Within five minutes, the fire was out. The fire chief, a large, tall, handsome black man, came up to me with a clipboard. “Was this your car?”

“yes.”

“I need you to fill this out.”

“Is my car ok?” I asked, hopefully.

“No, ma’am, your car is gone. The fire started under the hood & burned through the firewall.”

“Well, we can fix the firewall, right?” (I don’t know anything about cars. The fact I had a firewall had to mean something. Fire + wall = fire protection that exists just for circumstances like this.)

“No, it burned THROUGH the firewall.”

“But I can rebuild, right?” I was not letting go of my car repair dreams easily.

“Ma’am, everything under the hood of your car that wasn’t metal is gone.”

“That can be replaced, right? That’s just …. parts!” I was unwittingly vying for Stupidest Victim of the Week.

“NO. You’re not understanding me. It burned THROUGH the FIREWALL.”

Well, when people start repeating things to me, and they’re consistent in their answers, I usually re-group for a new approach. I couldn’t think of anything, so I started filling out the form with my address.

“Sign right there.”

Reality was starting to sink in – I was going to have to get a new car. I was going to have car payments. I had nothing saved up for a smoky day. I had no idea what I was going to do. I had no idea how I was getting to work the next day.

“Are you gonna charge me for this?” I whispered, in a high tiny voice.

The fire chief looked at me with a mixture of amazement & pity. He paused. “No, ma’am. This is covered by your taxes.” I had definitly won the Stupidest Victim title back at the firehouse.

I didn’t care. It was a huge mental WHEW. I could only imagine how much a fire truck house call would have been. Probably less than a new car, which I’ve already referenced buying – and at some point, I’ll compile BOTH my car shopping adventures into not only an entertaining summary, but I’ll include pointers & horror stories that will make you never, ever want to buy another car again. Unless your firewall’s been burnt through – and then? No choice.

Today was like a day brought to you on TiVo. (Or, at our household, the Time Warner DVR, which is WAY less catchy terminology.) Pause. Pause. Pause. The first half of the day was in slow motion, and then around 3:00 I FLIPPED OUT and went into high gear, getting showered, dressed, Polly in her kennel, and BAM out the door to SuperTarget. I gave myself an hour, and I was in the car 65 minutes later. But the major question was: What time does CostCo close? I got home at 5:15, called their information line – turns out! 6:00 p.m. Now I was moving at the speed where, on the DVR, the little arrows are all piled up on each other and we are moving at the highest speed possible. Got dog fed. Bruschetta ingredients gathered together. Knitting travel bag assembled. BAM, back out to the car, and I literally drove like an ambulance driver – arriving at 5:53 p.m. Whew! I had a list, I checked it twice, Baron von Trapp would have been proud. I hit a snag trying to find the goat cheese, as my inside voice started screeching, “WHERE IS THE F-ING GOAT CHEESE?!?!” but I found it, impulse-bought a rice cracker snack mix, and got out in record time. (No gay men in front of me buying wine this go-round!)

We had a lovely fondue party, I had a ginormous cranberry martini concoction and got fuzzy around the edges for about an hour. Beer cheese fondue is SO yummy, and just thinking “beer cheese” makes me nostalgic for MinneSOta, where beer cheese soup is a standard menu item. Mmmmmm. It’s funny how a few hundred miles make such a significant difference in food habits, choices, preferences! I noticed when I lived in Minneapolis that the selection of peanut butter & jelly was HUGE. Here, not so much. But if you want BBQ sauce, we’ve got acres of choices!

The bruschetta I made was copied from the same thing my friend Angela made last weekend – easy sneezy and tasty as all get out! Feel free to create your own version:

Bruschetta for a Crowd

6 medium-sized tomatoes, chopped

1/2 red onion, chopped

1-3 tsp. roasted chopped garlic (it comes in a jar!)

1-3 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar

1 package fresh basil, chopped

sprinkle of kosher salt & freshly ground black paper to taste

Mix together, place in a serving bowl.

Fresh goat cheese – place on a serving plate. (We went through almost a whole tube!)

Meanwhile, slice a french baguette into 1″ slices & place on a cookie sheet – butter lightly. Place under the broiler until toasty.

Assembly (let people do their own!): schmear goat cheese on a toasted baguette slice, top with tomato mixture, and try not to eat ten in a row.

We also ate teryaki chicken wings (Gordon’s family recipe), and had creme brulee AND peanut butter chocolate pie for dessert. I blew up like Violet Beauregarde & the Oompa Loompas had to come & roll me away. Good thing I was so inflated or else I’d want to pick them up! That’s one of my deep-seated fears, not OF little people, but that I’ll somehow lose all sensibilities & decide I need to pick them up and set them on a counter or something so they can be at eye level with me. And I imagine that they would not like that very much. I imagine they’d clean my clock for even trying. But on the counter is delightful bruschetta! Help yourself!

I don’t normally do quizzes but this one was a little different. And Kristin had me at the top of her list to do it, so I gave it a go. I actually had to THINK! and PONDER! and, of course, EDIT! So here we go:

FOUR NAMES YOU GO BY:

1. Jennifer

2. Jen

3. Nuge

4. Sweetie

FOUR SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:

1. plazajen

2. lemonzest

3. uh……… I’m old. I don’ have such an exciting life with multiple aliases

4. plaza_jen, how’s that.

FOUR THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:

1. Speedy sense of humor combined with rapier wit, sometimes only amusing to say, hm, me.

2. Being one of the smart monkeys

3. I’m tolerant, accepting & forgiving of everything except stupidity.

4. My blue eyes that ever-shift color & are exactly the same as my Auntie Karen’s and my dad’s.

FOUR THINGS YOU DON’T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:

1. I get hung up on right, wrong & fair. ALL THE TIME.

2. I am used to being fat, but I wish I were a smidge smaller sometimes.

3. Unable to stick to a routine & an intense dislike of housework

4. When I can’t be tolerant I go straight to judgemental, do not pass GO, do not collect $200, I am a judgemental beyotch and it takes a long time to get out of that place.

FOUR PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:

1. Irish

2. German

3. Danish

4. Black Labrador Retriever

FOUR THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:

1. Dying (I swear, Kristin, we have a lot of things in common, I’m not trying to copy everything)

2. Wild Dogs

3. Drunk Drivers

4. Right-Wing conservatives trying to ban shit and take away my rights.

FOUR OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:

1. LIPSTICK. Don’t leave home without it.

2. The internet.

3. Caffeine, in the form of coffee, cappucino, diet coke, diet dr.pepper, iv drip….

4. Telling my husband I love him & hearing it from him.

FOUR THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:

1. Red wool zippy cardigan (I’m cold! for once!)

2. Royal Blue pajamas

3. My wedding ring

4. Furry cream slippers with red, pink, & hot pink polka dots. I AM A FASHION PLATE.

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS (of all time):

1. Concrete Blonde

2. Annie Lennox

3. No Doubt

4. U2

and a shout out to the Beastie Boys, I’m sorry, I love you, you’re just a little overplayed on The Buzz right now. Otherwise you’d totally have the number 4 spot.

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS (of all time):

1. “Alice’s Restaurant” Arlo Guthrie

2. “Just The Way You Are” Barry White (we got married to that song!)

3. “Beautiful Day” U2

4. “If I Had A Boat” Lyle Lovett

FOUR NEW THINGS YOU WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS:

1. I would like to try to de-clutter, just a LITTLE

2. writing a book

3. writing a business plan

4. learning more about gardening

FOUR THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP

1. Trust

2. Humor

3. Independence

4. Acceptance

FOUR THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX (or same) THAT APPEAL TO YOU:

1. Humor

2. Eye contact

3. Big build

4. A strong handshake

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:

1. Knitting

2. Every Other Craft Under The Sun Except If It Involves Felt

3. Cooking

4. Shopping, but of course!

FOUR THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:

1. Eat

2. Ignore the housework

3. Go back to bed

4. knit Bobbi Bear

FOUR CAREERS YOU’RE CONSIDERING:

1. Marketing Director

2. Owning my own coffee shop

3. Media Director/assistant director

4. Owning my own media shop

FOUR PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:

1. Mexico

2. Jamaica

3. Greece (islands)

4. New Zealand

FOUR GIRLS’ NAMES:

1. Emily

2. Hannah

3. Eleanor

4. Margaret

FOUR BOYS’ NAMES:

1. Richard

2. Edgar

3. William

4. Max

FOUR THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:

1. To be completely debt-free just like the commercials say. (this includes the house)

2. Swim with the dolphins

3. Travel & buy some kickass yarn that will always remind me of my trip

4. Be famous in a limited and non-irritating way

FOUR WAYS I AM STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:

1. Sometimes – I just don’t think.

2. I leave my clothes on the floor

3. I like shoot-em-up movies

4. I listen to rap

FOUR WAYS I AM STEREOTYPICALLY A CHICK:

1. I change my mind a lot.

2. I like chick musicians and could have my own Lillith Festival with my cd collection

3. The small stuff? It bugs me. Don’t tell me not to sweat it. I still will.

4. I coo and fuss over cute stuff

TEN CELEBRITIES I’D TOTALLY DO (in no particular order):

1. Michael Chiklis (the bald pitbull from “The Shield”, and a doughier version in “The Commish”

2. Henry Rollins

3. Vin Diesel. We said DO, not converse about life with.

(do you see a pattern emerging? Big Necks.)

4. Tommy Lee Jones

5. Benjamin Bratt

6. Benecio Del Toro

7. James Gandolfini

8. George Michael. I will always love him. I could change him, I know it.

9. Lenny Kravitz

10. Kiefer Sutherland

FOUR PEOPLE WHO HAVE TO TAKE THIS QUIZ NOW:

1. Liz

2. Wild Scorpy

3. Bekah

4. Chewdy

When I visited my pal Sheila in Seattle a few years ago, their transit system was undergoing a change. As in the phone system you call in to, to hear routes & times & such. (Can I just shout really quickly how much I MISS GOOD PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION? I checked into it here & it would not only require three buses & getting up at 5 a.m. to get to work on time, I’d have to leave every day at 4:15. Riiiiiight.)

Back to the Seattle public transit. So you call this number & enter in information, and then this automated person tells you bus information and times and such. And when they were converting it, they ended up having two sources for the voice information, because they were converting from this harsh Nurse-Cratchett-Beyotch-sounding lady, to this very smooooth, calm sounding lady. With really erratic pauses.

The result? (shout the angry voice in caps, use smooth calm voice for lowercase.)

BUS number 22 WILL BE AT the intersection of MAIN and 30th street at ELEVEN thirty A.M. thank you.

It was like public transit information for schizophrenics, or manic depressives! But lordy did we giggle.

After my spate of being grouchy & resentful & not-happy looking, I decided Fridays are for being grateful & reflecting on positive things.

I offer into evidence the following, supporting the concept that the end of the world is not lurking around the corner:

1. I’m taking Monday off. Right there, we’ve swept half the negativity RIGHT off the board.

2. I’m getting a massage on Monday. I hear you saying “ooooh”, I do!

3. There’s a yarn sale at The Studio starting Sunday & the KC Hip Knit Chicks are descending when the doors open, and going for brunch afterwards.

4. The gay men & Shell Dawgg & I are all getting together for fondue & appetizers on Saturday.

5. I will have oodles of time to myself for knitting & catching up on tv!

6. The work that got shelved & caused a mini-snit got reapproved & I got to toss money from the sky to everyone, including the French-speaking class act guy.

7. My Giant Box O’ Calphalon arrived today & I got $370 worth of commercial-grade pans for $80 on amazon AND free shipping. Whatadeal!

Well, I know there’s a lot more out there that’s worth my gratitude. Most of all it’s having so many people in my life who care about me & appreciate me and want to see me happy & enjoy laughing at my jokes, as blue or shocking as they can be sometimes. So I will end with a special shout to Kristin who always asks me, “WHERE IS YOUR COAT?”

Kristin, I wore my coat today. Thank you for not wanting me to die of pneumonia.

I think one of the worst things you can say to me is, “You don’t look happy.” It elicits a knee-jerk reaction in which I feel I must convince you that I am, indeed, happy, even if I’m not, and even if I cannot convince you of this, I still must look ugly, u-g-l-y, yo mamma say you ugly.

What it boils down to is that this was said to me A LOT in high school. “Are you ok? You don’t look happy.” Hey, newsflash: I’M NOT. I’m in a punk-ass backwards town where I’m on the outside looking in, EVERY DAY, I’m suffering from hereditary chronic depression, even though it hasn’t been named yet, I encounter stupidity at every turn, I have to correct my teachers’ spelling, and I am not only the reason squeeze bottles for ketchup & mustard are no longer on the lunch tables, I’m the reason there was a moratorium on dodge ball for years, because a senior hit me in the EYE with a half-inflated ball & much to my chagrin, made me cry. I was in 8th grade and EVERYTHING has amazing importance when you’re 13. (I skipped second grade.)

So by about Junior year, I learned to be “peppy”, and I can still bring Pepster to the surface, but now I can at least laugh to myself, because I always mutter under my breath, “And the Oscar goes to…..” But I was reminded about those early Pep days, and how even the guidance counselor was so stupid. This man was concerned about me, to his credit, but he did not really have the ability to go beyond what you gave him on a plate, and so I learned to present my plate with a lot of flourish and Pep, and he left me alone & didn’t call my parents out of concern I was going to kill myself. He did, however, ask me if I’d please reconsider getting back together with the boyfriend I had for all of 2 months, Joe (also an outsider) because Joe was so distraught over our breakup, that HE was threatening to kill himself, or (worse) kidnap me on a motorcycle & go away with me. And the guidance counselor thought I should give him another chance. Just so’s he wouldn’t kill himself. Uh, yeah. Because I hear relationships formed out of guilt really rock the Casbah and are successful long-term. When I think about my reaction & decision to “stay the course & shoulder the entire town’s blame for Joe’s death” (which did not happen), I am proud of that person, because that was at a time in my life where I wasn’t independent, I was completely driven by my parents’ goals & dreams, I was so malleable & influence-prone, but my core person within turned one eye up and said, “YO, that’s f-d up, no WAY!” Besides, Joe didn’t even have a motorcycle. And we all lived, Joe moved away, lucky bastard, and I affected school policy changes until I, too, got to leave.

The ketchup bottle incident happened when Tom got into a food fight & threw food on my best friend, DeeDee. I’m a fiercely loyal person, and that was too much for me. So I grabbed the closest thing (are you KIDDING? I’m not sacrificing MY LUNCH), which happened to be a red plastic ketchup bottle. And I used both hands & squirted an awesome flourishing silly-string pattern of ketchup all over Tom.

Our punishment was to eat lunch together for a week, in the principal’s office. Which didn’t matter a bit, because in general, we were friends, we BOTH loved Duran Duran and it was just an inconvenience to balance our lunch trays on our laps. And for as finely-tuned as my gaydar has become, I had NO IDEA Tom was gay. (He didn’t, really, either.) Because eyeliner and poofy hair and dance music did not signify gayness in Northern Iowa, it was just Suspiciously Different, which meant I loved it, it was just like me, and perhaps explains the how & why of how much I love gay men now.

This afternoon, I did not look happy. I didn’t even try to hide it from the person asking. She really cares, and that makes all the difference in the world. So does eyeliner. I just put some on & look 100x more awake and happy. Are you glad to see me?