Recently in The days Category

I'm sitting at La Guardia this afternoon, waiting for my first flight out to Chicago as a consultant. My two weeks of vacationing between my old job and the new one have come and gone, and typically, all the big, great things I had planned to do got somehow laid to the side in lieu of naps, some good reading, and snuggling with the cats and the man. It was absolutely perfect time so the needle-point and calligraphy projects will be there for me some other day.

I was telling Jeff as we were driving to the airport this afternoon how strange it is that I'm so mellow and non-anxious about the new job. It's so unlike me to be so not crazed and out of control. I think it's a combination of several things, but most importantly, I think I can actually do this work and do it well. That confidence is a real anxiety-killer, from what I can see. I'm totally loving it.

The packing thing will take some practice. I managed to get everything for the next several days into my bags so hopefully it's all front-loaded work that I can mooch off of for the rest of the week. My approach to anything I've forgotten is that I'll just pick it up where ever I end up. No muss, no fuss.

So I'm back on the grid, gainfully employed and contributing once again to the greater good of the discerning tax-payer. Yay me.

Past experiences have supported the idea that me being left home alone for any amount of time, but certainly after three days, will always lead to something. This morning, fed up with spending a whole day cleaning out the attic to make room for my Martha Stewart Living magazine collection (don't judge!), I needed to take measures. If I was a 14-year old girl, I bet I would have been a cutter. As it stands, at 37, I grab the trimmers and buzz my hair.

My main complaint about everything related to myself is that I'm always 3-5 years behind everyone else. Fashion-wise, professionally, emotionally, financially, and usually pop-culturally. Flickr's 365 Day Project where each member takes one self-portrait of themselves and posts it each day for a year has been going on for years on the 'net and Blog but I've only just discovered the greatness of Flickr and these kinds of group projects that much smarter people have not only done but grown so tired of, they've moved on to bigger and better things.

With the impending new job that promises 4-5 days of traveling around the US each week, I'd been thinking that I had a great opportunity to re-infuse this blog's horrifically lagging boredom as well as give me some focus and direction. I think pairing my travelogue with the 365 Day Project makes great sense. I just didn't want to wait until January to start so I'm starting today, inspired by some really great photography on Flickr. Let me be the first to say that I'm under no illusions that I'm a photographer, have any sense of style or composition, or understand the essentials of photography tools to be able to be anything but be another blade of grass in a really big yard. That's my cop-out.

Still, here we go:

My first day on the 365 Day Project

Jeff and I caught Young Frankenstein at the Hilton Theater Wednesday night and both had to work on Friday after Thanksgiving so plans for what to do on Thursday were pretty limited. Our micro-apartment and galley kitchen isn't anyplace I want to be cooking and quite honestly, neither of us really cared too much. Even if we were able to get upstate to the house for a long weekend, the time away was more about just being away, not putting together a big feast.

So left to our own devices, we concocted a road-trip down to Atlantic City with friends we met on the Big Gay Cruise and spent the day gambling and eating at the buffet. While completely non-traditional, I have to say it was a delightful day spent with each other and friends. We also came home with some cash in our pockets thoughtfully provided by some strategic playing by Jeff. Winning at Blackjack always beats the hell out of losing. Yeah for a new Thanksgiving tradition.

We sorted through over 1000 pictures from the trip and put up the more interesting 300 HERE (Kodak requires a sign in, just FYI...but then you can leave us comments on each picture, like, "Jesus, do you have matching luggage for those bags under your eyes?").

Cruise Wrap Up is coming.

Jeff and I continue to cull through pictures, trying to catalog and sort before getting them up but I thought this was a particularly good snap of us at the Parthenon in Athens.

We're finally back from the Big Gay Cruise. Post-vacation depression has set in hard as well as trying to sort through over 1000 pictures to cull out the more interesting ones. Should have things arranged and posted by next weekend, hopefully and be able to tell the tales.

The Big Gay Cruise is 16 days away. Let's roll some numbers and current mental and emotional statuses:

47.7lbs - The weight of the big suitcase with all the clothes I thought I would take MINUS two pairs of shoes I'm considering, two pairs of jeans I'm considering, all socks and underwear I'm taking. Harness is packed and going, no matter what.

2 - number of suitcases Jeff and I are bringing each. One large one to check (and we're flying Delta so we're assuming we're going to lose them for the first couple days) and one pair of smaller wheels as a carry-on with a few days worth of clothes and accessories.

3 - Books I'm brining so far besides the Blue Guide travel books covering Spain, Rome, Florence, Greece, and Turkey. I'm taking old favorites: The Virgin Suicides, The Probably Future, Blackbird House. I was going to take the Gormanghast Trilogy but it's too damn heavy and might seem imposing to all the ab-tastic muscle heads that will be kicking sand in my face.

20.1lb - the weight of the delivery from Toomey's Mardi Gras supply. I'd ordered four masks and just a few beads to cover the Mardi Gras and Venetian Carnivale parties being thrown over the course of the two cruises. I'm unclear exactly what weighs 20.1 lbs other than a huge mis-ordering I did on beads. I've rechecked my invoice to make sure I only ordered a single dozen of something rather than a single gross. It was delivered yesterday up at home so we'll find out. Not sure where all that crap will go. A very nice guy I've been corresponding with who is going on the cruise too mentioned that we don't even have to bring our own beads because the ship supplies them. Now he tells me.

13 - The number of regular, unadorned medium and small t-shirts in various colors, though ranging mostly through the blue and green spectrum. I don't think I need this many but I'm figuring that I'll be using them as my day/excursion wear and changing into Cha Cha Wear at night time so I need all thirteen.

11 - dressed, fagged-up, decorated, bedazzled, and slogan t-shirts that I'm taking. This would meld into my Cha Cha wear depending on the circumstance, state of mind, and company. These include our Charo "Cuchi Cuchi" tee's we just bedazzled this past weekend (which, btw, is easier to do by hand then use the damn piece of plastic application shit known as "The Bedazzler". Save your money and just buy the rhinestones and do it by hand). This also includes my "Xanadude" shirt I bought from Richard (which might get some Bedazzling this weekend) which is in the running for one of the two White Parties, and my Batman Begins insigna shirt.

2 - cockrings that fit on my harness. Still can't decide which one is more comfortable in dancing mode for a long period of time.

4 - Long sleeved button down Cha Cha shirts that I tailored myself over the weekend after refusing to pay anyone else to do it. Seriously, how hard could it have been to run a seam and throw in a couple darts. I got so proficient at it that by the end of the weekend, I was pinning them on myself rather than making Jeff stand around and act like my sewing form.

4 1/2 - pairs of variously hued cargo shorts of varying length. The 1/2 covers the pair of cargo pants that will zip off to form shorts. Apparently the Catholic Church doesn't want a bunch of stickie tourists polluting St. Peter's with exposed knees.

Currently worrying about: Having some kind of city-wide black out on the 24th that would cancel our flight to Barcelona, causing us to miss our ship. Ridiculous, I know, but that is where my mind wanders these days. Also, how much Valium I'll need to take to sleep through the seven hours in coach class.

Because the Gays like to network, I posted our essential demographics on several forum sites dedicated to Atlantis cruises in an effort to have a few friendly faces on the cruise when we arrive. Twelve hours after posting, I get this email exchange:

Greekjock67: Hey, we should meet for drinks on the ship. Here's my cell: ....

Me: Wow, that would be great. We're so excited to have the trip just around the corner. We can't wait to start meeting everyone. This is our first Atlantis cruise so we're a little nervous but everyone has had such fantastic things to say about it, we're not really worried.

Greekjock67: We met last time. Your outfits were so amazing then, maybe you can let me borrow one this go around. I'm not booked for the cruise yet because I want to find a roommate first. Do you know of anyone?

Me: Hmmm...not sure what you mean. Where did we meet? We've never done an Atlantis cruise before. We hear there are some pretty amazing costumes for the theme parties but we're just going to play it down so we don't have to haul a bunch of shit to Europe.

Greekjock67: So we didn't fuck last year?

Me: ....um, I'm going to say no.

And surprisingly, I haven't heard from him since. I hope this isn't a harbinger for the cruise.

I can't believe a month has passed already. No really big doings this last month though I turned 37, dropped another few pounds, had my boss and mentor ripped from my grasp and realized that I'm in a position to make some great professional changes if I choose to walk through the door.

My presentation last week in Chicago went swimmingly...in fact several people emailed me after to say it was their best presentation of the conference which makes me feel all warm and sparkly. Or as warm and sparkly as one could feel when talking about Medicare and research billing compliance. Jeff's Mom wanted a copy of the DVD which there isn't one so she won't have to suffer through an hour of me being charming but saying, "ummm..." over and over again.

Now I'm in Columbus, OH taking a week-long training on medical coding! I'm telling you, the well runneth over. I swung into town and forced the Cousins to have an afternoon affair so I could see everyone. It's apparent that while Jeff and I have been tending our flowerbeds and whatnot, the Cousins have been procreating like rabbits. I have new cousins EVERYWHERE. A whole new generation has sprung up overnight and, if I can brag, we're a handsome, handsome family. Cuteness abounds and such sunny dispositions on such well-mannered children. I can only suspect that dark black clouds of impending adolescence, while still off in the far, far horizon, will undoubtedly be heading this way. I believe I will be staying out of Ohio between 2019 and 2024.

Also, apparently while Jeff and I were tending our flowerbeds and whatnot, the Cousins have also started hitting a special family milestone while I wasn't looking: vasectomies abound! The general rule of thumb in my family is this Right of Passage being spun into a wonderful, warm yarn told around camp-fires and family reunions. Oh the stories of wobbly-knock-knee-ed wimps who, on better days when there weren't sharp medical instruments being poked around their junk, normally were robust, manly men of the family. Someone passed out! One didn't take! The stories never end! And now, my age group has started to fill that particular well of stories again. I almost feel like I should get one to make sure I'm not excommunicated from the family. I'd consider it but only if I could get a two-for-one liposuction at the same time because no one has taken that particular angle and it's so...well, it's so me! "Oh remember when Beau went in for The Snip and came out with a size 28-waist?" That kinda has a nice literary feel to it.

I'm finally due back in New York on Friday night after having missed two of the most perfect weekends of the spring so far. I have a garden sadly lacking in attention (and a husband too, not necessarily in that order) and flowerbeds to tend. Jeff opened the porch at Bashert last weekend and so now I'm also a week behind on my Saturday afternoon naps on the porch. I need to get back to my real life and soon!

MBA-lite? MBA-LITE? Sure didn't feel like MBA-lite when I was going through it, mother fucker.

I've been trying to write about my trip to SF and more specifically about the Folsom Street Fair which I'd made such a big, sloppy deal about over the last six weeks, but honestly, every post started veering off into some melancholy, melty thing about how ridiculous I am. How I get there from a balls-to-the-wall, Leather Pride festival with a ton of mostly naked and assless-chapped hairy homo's (and large, bare-breasted Lesbians of Fierceness) beats the hell out of me.

So I was in San Francisco for work and flew out last Sunday in time to attend the street fair. Jeff believes that it was too much of a coincidence that I just happen to have a work event out there during the time of the street fair, but I just call that providence. I had scheduled the work conference before I found out that it was falling over the street fair weekend but I can say that I thought it was an amazing coincidence, none-the-less.

Because I don't know anyone in San Francisco, I went to the fair alone and didn't know what to expect other than the aforementioned naked and assless-chapped hunks of meaty men, but who am I to let that deter me. Also, because I am a leather fan and observationalist rather than a participant in the leather culture, I was a total tourist at the event. Jeans and tee for me without a harness, jock, cock-ring, piercing, tat, or aviator sunglasses to make me in any way pass. As I've mentioned to a few people who have asked, the fair can be divided into two groups, participants and tourists; either you're at the party or you're watching it from TV and it was clear to me, in my frame of mind, that I was there alone, in unfamiliar territory, WAY overdressed and under accessorized. The fun of the fair, I believe, is it being taken in as a group event. It's a get drunk with your friends and abandon all hesitations and self-censorship kind of day. Swing out, sister. And I don't do that well at all, especially not alone. I'm a feeling introvert and my safe haven is standing in the middle of something that big and removing myself from it mentally as far as possible so I can observe how I'm feeling about the whole thing. It seemed extraordinarily fucked up at the time when I was able to actually watch and feel myself doing it. Of course the easy road would have been to just get beer. There was a lot of beer flowing and I could have easily lubricated myself back into a real person with enough beer but I could also recognize that beer would have been a crutch and dangerous because I could very easily have just slid way past good behavior.

So I walked the fair for two hours, peering and leering at everything and everyone, enjoying people enjoy themselves and their friends but feeling rather melancholy about being there alone. I saw everything I'd only ever read about or seen in pictures and it was pretty cool. The boundaries some people set for themselves simply amaze and confound me. Every time I walked past the naked, old guy handcuffed to the corner light post letting people alternatively flog, verbally abuse, or yank on his wang made me want to deconstruct him into finding out at what point is this something that someone feels they need to do, either to get off or get on with their lives. It was hilarious and wonderful that in this place, on that day specifically, it was part of the grand show and was awesome. I felt that way about everything I saw, whether I understood it or not. It was all just good color to a great day.

UPDATE: Bill from SF, who reminded me that infact I DO actually know someone in SF, sent me this picture as he was looking at Folsom pictures on Flickr. All I can say is the proof is in the pudding (Not Safe For Work! Seriously, not even if you work in a pork-processing factory)...I'm so deep in thought about seeing this guy (and reading "CRISCO PIG" written on his back and looking at the piggy tail butt-plug he had inserted) that I was oblivious to anything else. I swear I was having a better time then what the picture conveys...and damn, look at that gun I'm carrying around in my pants.

Two separate social situations in the past week, his 40th birthday party last weekend and his book signing party last night, have both produced attractive, vivacious women approaching me to ask whether anyone has every told me I look like George Michael.

What?

Of course with all his recent publicity, the trysts in the parks with fugly truckers, the sleeping in the car thing, I wasn't sure how to take the question. Well, that's not true, I knew how to take it if they meant, "did I know that I look like the recent George Michael", but they clarified they were talking about the post-Wham, solo George Michael.

So in the spirit of honesty, I will reveal a few things. The first is that even back in my late teens/early 20's, people would mention more times than I care to admit I favored GM. Every time I've ever played that who-I-remind-you-of celebrity game where you have a mystery celeb taped to your back and you go around asking people questions to deduce who they picked for you, inevitably I always get GM.

The second thing is that while I dont' actually see any similarities myself, I would be an idiot not to take this as a compliment. GM, back in his zenith of stardom, wasn't such a bad looking guy. In fact, his "Father Figure" video is one of my all-time favorites because I think he's a hot looking homo mofo. Now where did I store my big, dangly crucifix earring?

I was doing some shopping today because even I'm fed up with my lack of style and how schlubby I always feel I look, unless I'm in my crappy black suit at work which is on it's last legs as it is. So of course not having any business in Bloomingdales, that's where I end up, somehow quickly swept into the multi-leveled men's department like so much jetsum on a river. I'm deposited, quite by architectural/marketing flow, into the very white, very minimalistic Hugo Boss area.

I have no business being there, because it's an actual designer's name I recognize and if they are such a brand that even I know who they are, then I can't afford them. This is a very true fact. Somehow this space/time continuum maze in which I took a half an escalator down when I first walked in pooped me out a whole floor above where I started. Bewildered, I stumbled into the DKNY section. As with the Hugo Boss thing, I know I shouldn't be here. But I spot the half-lenth black overcoat I've been looking for. And it is GORGEOUS. Soft yet formed perfectly and exactly, exactly what I want. It's a super-sophistocated coat that fulfills my lust for a pea-coat but with more class. Of course the $800 price tag all but makes me throw up a bit in my mouth. Can that even be right? Can that even be not a little bit out of my range but so far out of any reasonable sense of responsible material consumerism that I start thinking about how mis-marked it must be? And then I look at it, closer. I look at the lining a bit and the seams, rubbing the fabric inbetween my fingers. I look at the inside tag and find it's some kind of badonkadonk wool...and then this:

"I could probably make one of these for myself, couldn't I?" Only to be followed with, "It's just a spot of sewing once you find the right fabric."

I'm so fucking fucked on this one. I mean, come ON.

While in a training with a group of consultants today, I actually uttered the phrase, "...yeah, I'm super-jazzed about it". What could only make it worse is the orgasm I was having at the time over the best-selling, "Total Workday Control: Using Microsoft Outlook - The Eight Best Practices of Task and E-mail Management".

I celebrated my 36th birthday this week with some kick-ass spinach dip at Houston's and a movie. This might seem relatively mellow to some, but it was a night out on the town for me and that's better than the norm of heading home after a long, weird day at work to get fat in front of the TV. I was a huge fan of the old tv show 'Thirtysomething' and now that I'm there, I think "holy shit".

I'm back in Ohio where I grew up and came into myself, for a short visit while Jeff is off working somewhere east of here. So far my trip has included mostly forwarding Very Important Emails from my work account to people I work with/for from a touchy dial-up connection while simultaneously having someone who works for/with me read off email addresses on my cell. There have also been some coffees, lunches, and dinners between all that fun, zaniness.

I'm beginning to believe time away from work, coined adorably as a "vacation" is nothing of the kind...it's just more work except that I don't have the confort of sitting behind my big important desk and being able to boss people when I'm feeling slight and insignificant.

Also, for as dry as New York is, Ohio is that much wetter. I was driving to dinner last night to a place right out side of Xenia, which is the site of the famous 1974 Xenia Tornado, a climatic weather event so large and important in Nowheresville, Ohio, it's still thought of as the door-knocking event of the coming Apocolypse to Ohio residents. So as I'm driving to Xenia, the massing thunderheads and rolling blackness of some horrible storm gathering in the west was not providing comfort and I could, quite clearly, see the movie of the week about the returning of Xenia Tornado 2 with me in it, voluntarily driving TOWARDS the impending site of destruction. It was an ironic moment when I was able to mentally step outside myself and think, "what the fuck are you doing?" Still, dinner was awesome with the Aunts.

Left to do on this trip: visit Mom in the cemetary (perhaps guerilla garden a bit with some butterfly bushes or purple-spiked salva), make some Paula Dean Danish Swirls (almond and lemon), cook out with the brothers and family, see if the place where my grandmother goes to have her Marcel curls done has actually heard of eyebrow waxing for a quick clean up on these caterpillars of mine, and potentially meet up with the only blogger in Ohio whose email address I have.

I had my Lasik eye surgery after work last Thursday and as the Easter promise goes, when I woke up Friday morning, I could see perfectly. I'm glad Jesus used to heal the blind in the temple and now just lets us all go to certified opthomologic surgeons who he uses as his long-range helper elves. The follow-up appointment first thing the next morning confirmed I went from 20/400 (coke-bottle glasses) to 20/20 in my right eye and 20/15 in my left. Perfect and better-than-perfect vision isn't such a bad result. Thanks, Jesus! The whole procedure went exactly as described to me, taking about 15 minutes once I was on the table and Jeff even got to watch on a monitor from the room next door. As a non-blood-n-guts guy, he said he could have skipped the peeling back of the cornea after it was cut, but over all, he was impressed.

The bonus of the whole thing, as if perfect vision isn't enough, was my discovery of Valium. I love Valium! I love Valium more than the Easter-only Reese's Peanut Butter eggs. I'm going to get this stuff anytime I need to fly or go to the dentist or watch TV. I had one right before the surgery that took the edge off the whole thing, then had a second one afterwards since Jeff worked the technician and wanted me zonked out because he knows what a sucky patient I am. I didn't think I was like Miranda when she had Lasik in Sex And the City, but Jeff thinks I was quite like that. I'm hilarious! Thanks for Valium, Jesus!

Today lights and lighted things still have a slight haze around them but I'm told I'll make a full recovery and it does give a rather religious and post-Resurrection glow to the world so I'm pretty into the whole experience. That, and I can see without my glasses which I've had since I was in the 4th grade. I'm still trying to find the school picture of me in my Battlestar Galactica frames from the 6th grade. Stay tuned for it.

But I can say I Freaked.The.Fuck.Out when my final class grade posted as an A- and dropped my final GPA to a 3.89. And that is with getting all A's and A-'s!!! No B's or below the entire time and I'm going to end up with a 3.89??? Fuck the hell, NO I'M NOT.

By way of my apoplectic fit, I emailed the professor and became one of those snivelling grade-whores I loathe. Those that will argue over a tenth of a point or a technicality EVERY time they get a grade. I just don't believe in it. On the other hand, I don't believe in accepting mistakes and I know that I was kicking ass this term, getting perfect papers back up until the last week when we didn't get anything back. And that was being in Harrisburg for most of the term, stealing a few hours here and there to cull together my final project and paper. So I email him and start out, "I'm not one of those students who will complain and argue a grade, BUT..." and continued on with my meltdown.

His reply this morning was short and sweet: "Don't know where the problem is but you earned a solid A for the class. The grade-change request is accompanying this email to the Dean."

Problem resolved. No need to get upset. That is all I'm saying.

This weekend is the annual Saint-At-Large Black Party, the venerable bacchanal held every year to usher in Spring and all things living. Of all the circuit parties, it’s the dirtiest, most fetish-aligned, down-right sex-fueled grouping of them all. Of course this is where Jeff and I met eleven years ago. The swirl of his dad’s death coupled with our over-ten years anniversarishness make strange bedfellows as neither of us feels much like celebrating anything right now, and even barring Death this year, there is the third anniversary of my Mom’s death and the 15th anniversary of my grandfather’s death the next week. Barring all that, Jeff and I gave up the Black Party the year after we met, already sealing our reputations as old, married guys by claiming that the Black Party starts too late, is too expensive, and is just over. Over for us means we just have no interest in keeping up, not that it is in anyway fashionably over. When all else fails, you have the Black Party to instill hope that Spring springs eternal.

I will leave this post referencing the source of my eternal silent stalking quest, Joe My God, who is probably napping at this very moment, getting ready for a leather-clad night with his friends and hopefully has a pencil and paper tucked neatly…somewhere…to take more notes like he did last year. His posting and those he links are well worth the read to get the real feel for the Black Party. All I got out of it was a pretty good LTR.

We buried Jeff's father, Gary, on Sunday. He died after an acute illness; a combination of emphysema and newly diagnosed lung cancer. At the end of the day, his body was simply too tired to do battle with the multiple issues and we couldn't get him back. I would tell you that I was as unprepared to lose Gary as Jeff, his brothers, his wife and his family. It was simply devastating. I knew what was happening but I lost my father that day, too.

The funny thing is, as I've been participating and watching the mourning traditions of the Jewish faith, I realize that one of the most special things about Gary was his father-figure role to a host of kids of all ages around their community. The official week of mourning constitutes a week-long "open-house" where family, friends, and acquaintances call on the mourners at their home, bringing food in, and talking of the decedent and everyone who has come through the house talks of Gary as their father. Everyone who comes to the house recounts similar tales: they grew up in Gary’s house, played with the kids, saw him at the community pool in the summers, had him as a leader in the community center for several decades and all the while, treated everyone like they were his own kids. You can read Jeff’s eulogy of his father at the family website but you only have to read the comments left by so many to understand the profound and pervasive effect Gary had on everyone.

It should not be a surprise (and in retrospect, not have surprised us) that the 800 people at Gary’s funeral all felt what made Gary so special: he treated everyone like they were number one in his life and he never bullshitted them. In the many people who spoke at the funeral, everyone recounted similar qualities: truthfulness, irreverentness, salt-of-the-earth, first to lend a hand, first to give you the shirt off his back if you asked, a man of the people, respected, trusted, a friend. If you read Jeff’s eulogy, you have to understand that Jeff stood on the alter of a very old, VERY orthodox temple and perfectly captured his father in saying things like he used to love to scratch his balls and loved a good fart. The Rabbi and Cantor were practically apoplectic and one Rabbi at the temple actually pulled Jeff aside later that night at evening prayers and tried to reprimand him for disgracing and disrespecting his father’s memory with the eulogy. The rebuttal to such a selfish, inappropriate critique (imagine accosting someone over a eulogy on the day that person’s father was buried) was fast and furious. There isn’t anyone who could deny that Jeff summed up and presented exactly who his father was, warts and all, and appreciated Jeff for keeping him alive in that eulogy. It was the very, very best kind of eulogy because unlike so many instances when someone passes and people write flowery, Hallmark-y things about the person that leaving you wondering who they were talking about, everyone knew and appreciated that the best part of Gary was his warts and to have eulogized him any other way would have been an insult to his memory.

I am one of a host of people who Gary was a father to. I’m lucky in that as a son-in-law, I pulled some extra weight and got some extra attention. He and I were solid and when the time came, I was glad that he called for me, and I was able to take his hand. I’d like to think it made his journey a little bit easier having his family around him, including me.

Jeff and I lament many, many things about the untimely passing of his father. Like everyone else, we had plans and living left for him to do. He was to retire this month and in an effort to keep his parents married during the post-retirement period, we were expecting him to be up at our house a lot. Our home for him was a place he loved and a place we loved to work on to keep him in love with it. I miss him much the way I miss my Mom, in the little everyday moments of my day when I want to just call and harass him or when I need him to bust my balls a little bit. It’s not any different than anyone else who has lost a parent, but it still strikes hard and fast in the middle of my chest, leaving a ebbing, lingering hole.

"If I can just hold it together. If I can just hold it together. If I can just hold it together for a little bit longer."

While I've sort of been away, it's not been for the reasons some might expect, such as, I'm diligently sticking my head in every book on strategy to finish up my very large, very important final project for school due in two weeks. To that end, I've just submitted the third of five pieces that make up the whole project so I'm well on my way.

The real reason I've been missing around these parts lately is that Jeff's dad was suddenly diagnosed with lung cancer or mesothelioma or both (there seems to be some lack of clarity) and has been in the hospital for the last week and a half. We've been with the family most of that time to handhold and figure out what is happening. Jeff came up with a great idea for his dad's family and friends who wanted to keep up with the situation and put a blog together: The Spitz Family Blog. Things are definitely dire but everyone is holding it together and we're hoping for the best. If anyone has pull with the Big People, thoughts and prayers are readily accepted.

Awesome. I just scheduled my Lasik surgery for April.

I keep a bucket handy and every time I reference school in any context, I drop in a dollar. Whenever I reference being finished with school in any context, I drop in two. This was suppose to put me off being so fucking annoying about it and to keep intact my last few remaining relationships so that when I finish, I actually have a life to come back to.

The bucket is full, dammit. So before I start on bucket #2, I thought I'd go ahead and treat myself since our federal tax returns were just deposited (and to that, I'd like to thank the Federal Governement because when they say an 8-day turn around time for refunds on electronic filings, they mean it).

Back to me: I've posted my final draft for my very last Healthcare Finance project which means on Tuesday, I will have finished and survived Healthcare Finance (and I think I'm getting an A, not some stinking, worthless A-, thankyouverymuch). This also means that on Tuesday, I'm starting my very last class ever (Healthcare Strategy)and the end of my MBA program will come to a conclusion six short weeks from now.

I am completely crapping my pants.

OK...I've now added in $10 dollars in my to cover the annoying school crap in this blog post.

We were only about 20 minutes into "The 40-Year Old Virgin" when Jeff's deafening silence could go unnoticed no longer. So I turned to him and there he sat, shit-eating grin, not saying a word but the telepathy was as clear as a bell.

"I am NOT the 40-year old virgin," I said.

But not so secretly, I totally am. If I was straight, this is EXACTLY who I'd be. Comic reading, figurine-collector, video-gaming playing, breakfast making dweeb.

Ohhhhh...Max and Tim made it to Vegas for the Miss America pagent. My conversation with Jeff about setting it up on the TiVo went something like this:
Me: "It's on CMT"
Jeff: "What's that?"
Me: "Exactly."
Somehow I think having a trained camera on Max and Tim making snarky comments and pointing at tourists the whole time would be a lot more fun than leggy smarties with hemerroid cream under their eyes (which, btw, hasn't worked for me yet. Heloise my ASS).

Is it wrong to answer this week's health care finance discussion question, "Discuss your thoughts on inaccurate timing with regards to patient billing" with: "lucky patients"?

Of course I'm suppose to be discussing the financial impact of inaccurate billing systems on a hospital's financial status and I get it. But still, first intuition is to give the patients a high-five. I'm probably never going to be put in charge of the money pot, I think.

For anyone who remembers last spring, I was having a full-out hate-hate relationship with my finance class. I hated it and it hated me. I completed the class with an A- but that was by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin (of which I have a little bit more, now). At the time, I knew that my struggle with Finance wasn't quite over because come Spring 2006, I'd be in Healthcare Finance which I could only assume was more of the same but probably worse.

As my schedule alteration allows that I'm going to be done in March instead of May this year, Healthcare Finance starts tomorrow. Let the chest-beating, gnashing of teeth, and general whining begin. I plan to be the petulant child that wants to lay down on the grocery store floor, kicking and screaming until blood vessels burst. Seriously.

God...the perfect example of why I shouldn't be left alone. I've been watching the Blue-Collar Comedy Tour shows because I have a hard-on for Larry the Cable Guy. LARRY THE CABLE GUY!!! It's true: you can take the boy out of the briar-patch but you can't take the briar out of the boy. Sheesh.

Lest anyone thinks I've just stopped blogging, I'm actually still in school, finishing up with my class and getting ready to start on the fourth to last one of the program. I'm thiiiiiiiiiiiiiis much closer.

At my bi-annual dental cleaning a few weeks ago, the new dentist in the practice, a nimble, young Dr. Lam did a great job going through my mouth. She decided that one of my back molars had a larger crevice then she normally likes and it had a small cavity just starting to form that would be better taken care of earlier rather than later.

I'm all into prevention and proactivity...well, not really, but for some reason, with my dental health I'm all about it so I told the diminutive Dr. Lam to schedule away.

Then, to lighten the levity of my impending drillin-n-fillin, Dr. Lam thought she'd be helpful but minimizing the severity of the procedure by offering, "...and it's so minor, you probably don't need anesthesia."

What?

So I sat up quite quickly and gave the misguided Dr. Lam a little squint:

"Um...Hi. I'm just going to let you know that I'm TOTALLY going to need a LOT of anesthesia. I need anesthesia if you even want to put that dental pick in my mouth so before you even get close to me with a drill, I'm going to have be completely anesthetized. COMPLETELY. Really, no anesthesia isn't even possible for me. Just so you know."

So when I had the tooth done this weekend by one of the dental partners and NOT Dr. Lam, I regaled him and the assistant with the story of how I "wouldn't probably even need anesthesia". He just chuckled as he shoved that big chrome syringe into the back of my jaw and jiggled my cheek as if to make the junk that much more powerful. "Oh...that's so cute. Hehehe...no anesthesia, right, right," he chanted over me.

I so love my junk-wielding DDS.

Note to self:
When being the thoughtful partner and calling one's out-of-town lover to say good morning at 8:45am, please remember the three-hour time difference. The person on the receiving end would appreciate it more if you let them sleep in.

I log on to see who my professor is going to be in my new class, E-Principles in Business (yeah...I don't know what it is either) and who is it but my prof from, wait for it...FINANCE.

I'm doing a lot of deep, relaxing breathing right now.

Fuck.

UPDATE: At least for now, nevermind. I checked back (if only to stare in disbelief at my horrible luck) and found that they had removed his name as my professor and left it 'unassigned'. Either I was hallucinating or...well, I was hallucinating. I'll leave it at that until the class starts next week and then start bitching again.

I'd like to announce the waiting is over. Fun and Snazzy (aka Will and Matthew), arrived to proud parents Cousins Beth and Paul. Natural childbirth with twins...oy vey.

If anyone has been keeping track of the growing generation of new Studebakers, you'll realize there have been a preponderance of boys. In fact, Brother Mitch has the only girl right now in this crop of cabbage. No one is exactly sure why it is that boys prevail but we all know it makes the girls of the family stronger which makes us better boys.

The gift that keeps on giving and it reassures those who worry if their fathers are actually eating or just sitting around waiting for a log of bologna and a wheel of cheese to fall into their laps: a shitload of Bob Evans gift certificates in $5 denominations.

I'm a frickin' genius even if I'm never going to be financially snazzy (which goes against my Year of 35: Fun and Snazzy rule)

I could be waiting on any number of things: this horrid humidity to be over or the temperature to drop below 90-degrees in mid-June. I could be waiting to turn 35 (the year of being fun and snazzy which, coincidentally are the two adjectives I am using to represent my 35th year in all things so if I can't work 'fun' or 'snazzy' into it, I ain't doing it) or I could be waiting for a chance to see "Batman Begins" on the IMAX at Lincoln Square with the other geeks (I have a pair of dirty underwear I'm going to put on my head and be the new Scarecrow - boogaboogabooga). I could be waiting to start my post-Finance graduate career now that that horror is over and done with. I could be waiting for September when I want to order the several hundred dollars worth of daffodil and ipheion bulbs to plan for a gorgeous foral explosion next spring.

But no, honestly, the only thing I'm really waiting on right now is the arrival of Cousin Beth and Paul's twin boys, coincidentally named Fun and Snazzy, due at any time. Cousin Beth, as lithe and fragile as fine porcelin, is now practically hanging upside down on bedrest to keep the two WonderTwins from sneaking out too early so we're all wishing her well and good health and a well-medicated, epidur-tastic delivery. Twin Gemini boys...whoHA are they in for fun.

I managed to squeeze more into the last two days then I imagined. I took advantage of the early morning hours on Tuesday before the conference and walked over to see Lombard Street and then from there could see that Coit Tower was definitely just a short walk away. It ended up being a bit further than I imagined but worth it. Telegraph Hill is really quaint and seemed of all the places I've been so far, the most San Francisco-ish to me. Of course looking around I could tell it is probably where I would want to live (except maybe Pacific Heights but come on, who are we kidding with that).

After the conference was over for the day, I got out and spent a few hours at Alcatraz which was very cool. I didn't really know much about it but being there and standing in the cells while the audio tour used former Alcatraz inmates to tell their stories was pretty effective. It gave me the impression that beyond being locked into a tiny cell all day, the pure criminal nature of the inmates made it that much worse.

When I got back from Alcatraz, I swung by and saw the sea-lions lazying around Pier 39 and that was fun for about a whole minute because damn, they stink...and they just lay there.

My plan was to get to the Palace of Fine Arts by sundown and on the map, it looked like a nice walk from where I was staying. It ended up being a hour and half of steady pacing but finally getting there right around dusk, it was amazing. The enormity and volume of the remaining structure is pretty breath-taking. Since I was over there, I jaunted over to Crissy Field for a better view of the bay and the Bridge then headed back.

Yesterday the perfect 60-degree, sunny weather turned foul and it was gray and rainy all day. It was fortunate that I'd left all my shopping and museuming for the wet day and set out in the morning with my tour book in hand. I managed to hit the awesome exhibits at the Museum of Asian Art and the geeky Museum of Cartoon Art but got foiled by the SF Museum of Modern Art which was closed. I shopped around downtown, hit the Apple Store and all the famous SF chocolate stores as well as slipping into the Metreon to check out Chronicle Books, a publishing house I frequently buy from.

By yesterday evening, I was so exhausted and wet, I spent the night holed up in the hotel room trying to figure out how to repack with all the extra stuff I'd bought and watching movies. Now I just have the six hour flight back to New York to contend with and the next three days of dealing with getting readjusted to EST.

5:27am PST - I not only managed to stay up until 9:30(!) last night, I actually slept in until 5:00 this morning. I'm slowly shifting out of the East to West jetlag. It was humorous that everyone from my institution who is out here for the conference greeted me yesterday morning as I walked up to the communal breakfast table with, "what time did you wake up this morning". It seems 3:15am was about the normal.

After the conference ended yesterday, I high-tailed it down to the Castro as I was instructed. Apparently "high-tailing" out here means a lot of walking and and about an hour and a half. I managed to navigate the F-Train only to be discharged twice because something was blocking the tracks. In between I then just walked and walked and walk (and at one point threatened to take the BART or the MUNI until I realized that I had no earthly idea how to use it or even if it was going where I wanted to go...and that was with reading the maps).

So I finally get to the Castro, walk around a bit, and realized that the thing about traveling to new places is, it's not about walking around and looking at things, it's more about getting to a destination where there are things to do. My problem is I never have an agenda so in yesterday's case, simply walking around the Castro was kind of over-rated. I was tired, hot, and frustrated from the travel and it ended up looking divey and like Christofer St. in NYC. I might of felt different if I lived in Nowheresville but coming from NYC, there isn't that much new someone can do with a gay ghetto. I don't even like Christofer St. or Chelsea that much in NY so why would the Castro be different. Not only that, but I'm lame enough to forget that at 5pm in the afternoon, anywhere, that is absolutely bubkus going on. Everyone is still at work. And because I didn't want to go sit in a bar alone somewhere, I was kinda of shit-outta-luck.

So eventually after finding some coffee at Cafe Fiore, I hoped back on the F-Train and actually headed back up to Fisherman's Wharf, found some dinner, then hit the hotel and went to bed with a better plan for today.

That plan is: destination, destination, destination. This afternoon I'm either hitting Alcatraz or the Palace of Fine Arts and doing some walking around Pacific Heights and North Beach this morning. I'm conclusively a die-hard morning person and would much rather say I've seen more by 9am than most people do all day. This evening I might try to venture out for some cocktail somewhere but I'm going to have a destination in mind, not some aimless wondering like a freaking nomad.

3:30am PST - Holy Fucking Shit. I'm still on EST and I'm wide awake. No room service until 6:30am and I can't find the room's coffee pot. Decide to read and blog. I call Jeff because I know he's getting up for work. He thinks I'm just getting in from a night out. Yeah, maybe 10 years ago.

5:20am PST - The sun is up and I'm fucking starving . All I have is gum. Not sure I should be out wandering the streets at 5am looking for an all-night diner so I'm going to stay put. Managed to get a coffee-pot sent up from the front desk. I laid out all my clothes and realized I brought all the wrong things but will have to make do.

8:20am EST - I've been up half the day and the conference hasn't even started yet. I got my 6:30 breakfast then decided to go out for a walk around Fisherman's Wharf to get a lay of the land. Tourist traps are much more fun without all the tourists. Heading out here sometime this week since that is the one thing every single person has said is a must-do on this trip.

11am EST - An hour into the six hour flight from NY to SF and things aren’t too bad. My carry-on luggage actually fit into the overhead compartment even though the flight is pretty full. Bodes well for the rest of the trip.

Even though I bought two novels and one travel guide, I opt to buy some magazines at the airport incase I learn to speed-read and finish the novels en route. A little something for everyone, I buy Business Week because they’re profiling bio-tech companies and it makes me feel like I’m working, which is good since this is a work trip. Bought the new Radar magazine too because I’m a lemming and also the current New Yorker. I’ve never bought or eve read a new Yorker for that matter but you know, it’s about trying to be better.

By this time into the trip, I’ve only selectively picked through Radar. Score! A confusing but funny literature-based flow chart by Blog A-lister, Choire Sicha, with books I’ve actually read or heard of. I get the blush of blogger star-fucking as I once shared a cab with Choire across town one evening between blogger events. I’m pretty certain he thought I was the fucking dullest waste of spooge ever to have access to a blog. I still have the email he once sent me about the entry I wrote concerning anally dis-impacting Jeff’s grandfather at Passover some years back.

So far into the flight, only two patches of “chop” as described by the pilot. Uncharacteristically for me (and surprising since I forgot to get my standard four Xanax tablet prescription from my Doc), I don’t project horrific scenarios of the plane breaking up at 35,000-feet over Buffalo.

Strangely, I just remembered I brought my charged iPod with me and kicked myself for spending an hour listening to the engines and the guy snoring behind me.

11:30 EST - Another half hour later and we seem to be flying over some large shoreless body of water. I didn’t pay attention to the safety demonstration at the beginning of the flight (see Radar paragraph above). Don’t exactly know if the floatation device is under myseat or is my seat. Thinking the water below must be a Great Lake since in the Captain’s intro he mentioned Buffalo, Green Bay, Southern Idaho, the Rockies, and then San Francisco.

Absolutely no cute guys on the plane and all the stewardesses are menopausal women…on a non-stop flight between the gay Mecca of the East and the gay Mecca of the West. WTF?

1pm EST – We had to shut the window shades for the in-flight movie. Maybe it’s just me but being trapped on a steel-reinforced aluminum tube flying at 500-mph might call for some light-hearted, funny instead of watching Hillary Swank get the shit beat out of her in a boxing ring. I cracked the window shade to take peak and found we were flying over some very large, serpentine river. I immediately thought it was the Mississippi but that may be just my Midwest centrism and shitty sense of geography.

I was able to go the first three three hours of the flight through one large bottle of water and a Delta Snack-Pak before bothering the two passengers seated between me and the aisle to get up and pee. Very good omen.

12:45pm PST – We flew over what I assumed were the snow-capped Rockies and then boom, we’re in San Francisco. I’m already experiencing some loss of direction. It’s sunny but I can’t tell which way the sun is moving and have no good point of reference. The first impression of SF as I’m driving from the airport to the hotel is how expansive and spread out the city seems. I think that has more to do with being conditioned by sky-scrappers in New York. Kind of uncomfortable.

The cab driver takes me through some part of the city and I start seeing large rainbow flags lining the street. That’s kind of cool. We make it to the hotel on Fisherman’s Wharf and even after looking at several different maps, I don’t have a good sense of direction. The hills throw me off as does the irregular, diagonal grid-pattern of the streets.

2pm PST – On my way back down (up? over?) to meet up with Bill from Mermaniac. He invited me to a QueerArts festival opening that his boyfriend is producing. The hotel concierge tells me the F-Train will drop me four blocks from where I want to be and that I can take a cab from there. I kind of scoff at the suggestion of taking a cab four blocks and mention I’m from New York. He says San Francisco blocks are bigger. Size Queen. I skip the train this time and take a cab to the art exhibit just to get a feel for distances.

3:30 PST – The Latin QueerArts installation is excellent. A very good mix of works by the queer latino community and a really great turn out. Bill introduces me around and points out all the works.

4:00 PST – Walk down a few blocks to the Lone-Star. Beer-Blasts are apparently the thing to do in San Francisco on Sunday afternoons and this one is for bears. I’m literally the most hairless guy there but, wow, a whole bar full of friendly bears. I realize that I’ve seen porn that was filmed at this bar which kind of wigs me out. My Batman shirt ensemble fits in just fine.

5:30 PST – I’m starving so Bill offers to drive me around to see some of SF and find some food. We eat at a great authentic Spanish place in the Mission. Drive through the Castro, Pacific Heights, Union Station, and Downtown. The weather is friggin’ gorgeous if not a bit on the windy side.

8:00 PST – Realize I’m still on EST and am going to drop from exhaustion. Hate to admit it but am in bed and going to call it a night.

My premature posting yesterday about being done with finance was...premature. Who knew that the decision making process (including showing the formulas of such decision) would take over three hours? I mean, it's only a choice between leasing or borrowing cash for a goddamn $75000 server. Who gives a fuck, right?

So this is the first look of what its like to be really finished. The picture before this that I had intended to post was one of jubilant ecstacy...so of course it came out looking like I was either being anally assulted or getting ready to be on the receiving end of a bukkake porn. Neither are quite appropriate for this particular venue so I had to go with this one: still anxious and uptight but envisioning my celebatory beer when I get home.

As I know everyone is waiting for it if only so I'll get off this one-trick pony and move on to something else as completely boring and unimportant, I'm announcing today that, barring any unforeseen circumstances like winning the lotto or poking out my eye, Finance should be finished by about 8pm. Now for anyone counting my term weeks, you'll want to holler and ask how I could be done five days early with such a difficult course. The answer, plainly, is that I actually followed the dread advice of my professor (and went against my procrastinating personality type) and kept up with the homework problems (at the expense of actually learning anything. This resulted in essentially having most everything done except crossing the t's and dotting the i's at the start of the week.

This is all good news for a variety of reasons but most of all, it is as I always tell myself during torturous struggles like this: the end will come, regardless. That's regardless of how much work or lack there of I put in, how anxious and suicidal I become, or how much I hate every waking minute. The fact that I didn't get an A in this class is so far behind me that I could honestly give a fig less. I've emerged on the other side (or will when I cross those t's and dot those i's tonight)finally.

Yep, still really hating finance.

I thought when I got promoted to director of my office that my traveling days were done. That is pretty much right but I did manage to get invited to a database conference in San Francisco the first week of June. This is a cool thing except I'm so embroiled in school (facing the possibility of getting my first non-A, fuck, fuck, FUCK) that I can't really get into the joy of it yet.

I've never been to San Francisco and don't really know much about it or what to see so if anyone has any suggestions, I'm easy. I'm a good, dutiful tourist (Alcatraz apparently is the must see) but I like to get off the beaten path a bit too (I have this romantic notion of seeing all the famous spots from Maupin's 'Tales of the City'). Anyway, I'm looking for the San Francisco treat if anyone knows where I can find it (and a good, cold bottle of beer, to boot).

Oh boy. I thought I knew hate well. Like, I hate hemorrhoids and putting my contacts in backwards and I also hate morons. But today, I can unequivocally say, I know true hate.

I fucking HATE finance.

I remember when this started happening to Encorswish a few years back (Don't bother looking for that blog, it's now the homepage for Encorswish Soap products for dirty, filthy pig boys...so I guess, not so different from when Chris was running it, really). He was well entrenched in his graduate program and his postings, which I lived for, were comin