I've been freezing all day long. And in theory, it hasn't been that cold today. Seriously. I feel lucky that I didn't get frostbite. No gangrene to speak of, either. And that seems like the biggest stroke of luck, because damn. I may as well have been in the Arctic. Oh sure, the meteorologists probably said it was in the 40's, or somewhere in there. I don't know, because I didn't watch the news today. There are those who might say I'm weak (and I wouldn't argue their point). However. They were not the ones stuck in an office that decided to have no functioning heater. Or should I say, a heater that turned into a total tease. The main unit was working just fine. But the ducts seemed not to be taking said heat to the conveniently dispersed vents around the room.

Which meant that, where the thermostat was located (about a foot away from the furnace), it was nice and toasty. But the rest of the office was fucking frigid. And, lucky me, my desk is located at the point in the room that is farthest away from the furnace. Let's just say that if I was peer-pressured into licking the glass surface on the desk, my tongue probably would have stuck there. Someone would have had to come over and film it, then make some kind of sick movie (no plot necessary, as long as the part with me stuck to the desk by my tongue is included in there somewhere) and play it for 24 HOURS NONSTOP every November 26th.

If it's that cold when I go in to work tomorrow, I may contact the nearest travel agency and book a trip to The Bahamas immediately.

After looking at my previous blog entry, it came to my attention that it made very little sense. Which is kind of awesome, in its own right. But that's the quality writing you get when you're only half paying attention to what you're typing, while the rest of your attention is focused on the "Thanksgiving Leftovers" special on Saturday Night Live. On to the new stuff. Today was a big day: for the first time ever, I attended a baby shower. Both Robert and myself attended, and both of us were virgins. We are no longer. Although none of the "embarrassing games" of which I've heard tell were played. So in that regard, I guess we're not entirely unvirginized.

Of course, we had to regale people at the shower with our shopping tale. We heard plenty of other stories, and heard discussions involving subjects we'd just as soon not want to take part in. Mostly of the diaper changing and diaper rash variety. I must admit I hadn't expected such open and forthright conversation.

Even though we weren't the only male creatures at the shower (our host's husband and son were both there), we were the only ones talking baby shower talk with the ladies.

What also made this baby shower unique was that our friend expecting the baby was not, in fact, present. I wish her all the best! If she happens to see this blog entry, hopefully she'll enjoy the pictures of Robert and me next to our inaugural bags of gifts.

UPDATE 11/26:

I vaguely alluded to the fact that our friend was not present at her own baby shower. She had a really good reason not to be there, though: she was in the hospital having her baby! But since it was the second try at the shower, it happened anyway. At 12:20 this morning, the baby was born! He's four weeks premature, and our friend is in some pain. I'm sending as much positive energy her way as I possibly can, and also a hearty congratulations.

Lastly, my new blog friend Aimee recently posted about how the month of November is, among other things, Prematurity Awareness Month. I want to thank her for increasing my awareness, and again, I'm wishing our dear friend all the best!

Drag racing is the shit. Because on Saturday night, there's nothing better to do than just that. Goodbye, fun with friends, trips downtown, or just hanging out at home relaxing. Hello, asphalt racing ground with 35-40 mile per hour speed limits! The winner of tonight's questionably legit drag race: a souped-up silver Ford Mustang. Because how can you compete with a car that's got an engine the size of which is nearly as large as modern sedans. I knew when it pulled around me to speed up to beat me to the red light ahead, that I wasn't dealing with just any drag racer. Mere blocks away from the usual racing zone, I knew that this car played to win.

And when I saw it take on that fancy Mercury Villager, I knew the driver meant business. As the opposing light turned yellow, the sound of a revving engine could be heard coming from the Stang. As soon as our light turned green, the sound of squealing tires broke the silence of this normally calm residential street.

And that charming little mini van gave that 220-horse-power (or however much horse power is in there) Mustang a run for its money. So much so, that the Mustang felt that, in order to retain what little "self-respect" it then had, it was necessary to keep speeding along the street. Where we caught up with it at the next red light down the road. And I'm pretty sure I heard Jan and Dean blasting on their radio. I didn't get to see what the driver looked like, but it could well have been a certain "little old lady."

Today was the day after Thanksgiving. In retail land, this day is known as Black Friday. For those who seek to spread a message of peace and encourage less consumption on all counts, today is Buy Nothing Day. For me, today was simply the day after Thanksgiving. The last few weeks, we've had reasonably mild weather. Mild meaning it's been t-shirt and pants weather. Cold at night and in the morning, and warm enough to wonder whether you're getting a farmer's tan when you're outside during the day. The weather decided to do its usual Albuquerque thing (read: something totally bizarre), though. Clouds rolled in yesterday, and it suddenly decided to snow. It snowed through the night and through most of today. Big flakes, too. But the kicker: none of it stuck. Cars got blanketed a little bit, as did the grass. But the roads only got a little wet here in the city (other parts of the state weren't so lucky). So we were still able to get out and enjoy ourselves.

As far as shopping goes, I'm not terribly fond of the masses of people you encounter everywhere on this day. Robert and I wound up going to a couple of book stores, the Apple store, and, of course, the grocery store. While out, one thing I picked up was this CD, and after barely listening to it, I was hooked. I bought it on the premise that anything by Dr. Seuss is cool, and I was not disappointed. Next up: seeing the production in real life.

The highlight of the day, though, involved a trip to the Albuquerque Museum. We went to see Temples and Tombs: Treasures of Egyptian Art from The British Museum, the current featured exhibit there. The exhibit focused a great deal on Egyptian sculptures, and I was in anthropology-hog heaven the entire time. Though I'm fascinated by the civilization, I can't imagine me being well-liked, should I inadvertently be transported back in time there. Something tells me a gay Jew would not exactly be popular. But maybe if I told them how fabulous all their artwork and style is, they'd let me live.

My Thanksgiving was much better than my night-before-Thanksgiving fun. Robert and I were invited to a friend's house for Thanksgiving today, and we happily attended. It was fantastic: excellent food, great company, good wine, good conversation, and fun games. We started eating around 2:45 or so (that's a guess, I wasn't paying attention to the time), and spread the meal out all the way up until I had to leave at 5:30. We headed for home, because I also had to attend Thanksgiving dinner at my folks' house. Especially as of late, my family has been cause for great amounts of stress, so I was kinda nervous about going. My comfort was in the form of a bottle of wine, which when I had mentioned I might bring it, my maternal unit told me not to bother: only my dad would be allowed to drink; also, my little brother was not permitted to drink.

I brought a nice Riesling wine anyway, because I decided that I, as a fully responsible adult, may just want to have some wine with my food. While this earned me some fairly scathing looks, wine glasses were brought out anyway. And my little brother and I each enjoyed it, while everyone else suffered the feast without any. Martyrs, the lot of them.

Of course, what's the fun of drinking wine when you're told you're not allowed to if you don't make a mess of things? We go to toast, and I suavely reach for my wine glass, only to bump it head on and spill a bunch of wine all over the brand new tablecloth. I guess the glass of wine I shared with Robert at the earlier festivities had relaxed me more than I realized.

The trick to dealing with my folks, in addition to my two hour maximum rule, seems to be having alcohol while in their company. The fact that I'm drinking it overshadows any other issues they may have with me at any given time, and I'm much more relaxed and less responsive to them. For instance, when one brother asked how my previous gathering was, and I responded that it was nothing short of paradisiacal, he pulled this line from thin air: "Well, that's good to hear. Good gatherings are important. It's sad that people don't get together more often, but always wait for some 'holiday' or such occasion to do it." I think what's really sad is that he actually believes his own uninformed opinion.

All in all, a great Thanksgiving: I'm thankful for the wonderful friends who invited us to take part in their celebration. And I'm thankful that the evening with my folks was not a total fiasco. Mission accomplished.

It was bowling night with the brothers tonight. A night of bad jokes, fake laughter, and homophobia. I had some fun, despite this, but I've had my fill for the week (actually, for a long time to come) and am seriously dreading the prospect of actually going to Thanksgiving dinner at the folks' tomorrow. I may just keep the pie and wine for myself, then call and cancel my appearance: "Hi, I'm not going to be able to make it after all. Call me back when everyone is a little less quick on the gay bashing, and less eager to monitor my every move." The good news is: I have no sense of humor, because I don't laugh at any of the jokes. I'm really uptight, because I take offense when someone does their best gay impersonation, replete with "backdoor" punch line. I have personal space issues, because I don't want to feel my brother's breath on my cheek when he's trying to share some "important"/"funny"/"relevant" comment(s). Oh, and because I don't do every single thing the rest of my brothers do, I'm up to something and they must know exactly what it is, because I've changed and so something is wrong.

This Thanksgiving, I'm not feeling real great about things. I'm bothered by the way my family makes me feel, and angry at myself that I'm not more outspoken about it. It seems like every time I try for normal conversation and interaction, things turn to how I'm not the way they want me to be. I'm fucking tired of it.

Maint Req’d That’s the message that keeps flashing on the dashboard of my car. Every time I go anywhere, the little flashing light blinks at me. It’s taken on a life of its own, and now it sort of serves as a reminder of a number of things in my life for which maintenance is required.

• Obviously, my car needs maintenance. Hence the flashing light. I looked it up in the handy dandy owner’s manual, and it means I need an oil change. Technically, I can go another 600 miles before I actually need one, though.

• I think I need new shoes. I’m pretty hard on my shoes, but I usually only buy new tennis shoes (or cross trainers, or whatever the heck they’re called these days) once a year or so. But I recently had to perform emergency shoe maintenance because my left heel was getting poked by something in the shoe. I thought it was a goathead, or else something else spiky, but I wasn’t expecting to find a staple sticking out of the interior of my shoe. Not a good sign.

• A certain crazy driver woman’s head needs maintenance. Drivers like her are the reasons talking on your cell phone (sans horribly unattractive bluetooth or other headset device) is now illegal here. While at the red light, she saw the opposing traffic’s light turn red, but didn’t wait for her signal to turn green before going. One of the opposing lights still had a green light (left turn signal on the arrow), and she just sped off without warning, completely running the red light and nearly getting hit by oncoming traffic. To all those in Albuquerque who think the law is pointless, or somehow an infringement on your civil liberties: I give you this dumbass driver. Frankly, I don’t see how her putting my life and others’ lives in danger without our say-so is violating her civil liberty. She’s an idiot. I don’t even think she realized she’d run the light.

UPDATE 11/21

This isn’t something I need to have maintenanced, but…

• The magnetic bar code scanner thingie at Circuit City, that supposedly keeps people from shoplifting. While walking into the place, I set the darn thing off. And then everybody proceeded to stare at me. Later, when pulling my wallet out of my back pocket, I found what I suspect was the culprit that set off the bar code thing: a sticker with a bar code was still in place on the inside part of my back pocket. And thus my new jeans were inducted in style. I guess.

Today has been the best Monday I’ve had in a while. It was a nice day all around. I even did my part to help fight world hunger. I learned about a really cool website where anyone can go and help the fight against world hunger. It’s called Free Rice. Their philosophy is based on a question: how can people help a good cause and also benefit? The answer is that you take a vocabulary test! They show words, then give you a list of four options to answer which one matches the meaning of the posted word. For each word you get right, ten grains of rice is added to the pile. So you get to learn all sorts of new words, and starving people get food. The cool thing is that the site is completely non-profit, and the rice itself is bought by companies who advertise on the website.

So while you learn about new words like magniloquence, hinterland, coadjutor, adamantine, and antipyretic, rice will be compiling. Ten grains may not seem like much, but in a very short amount of time, I managed to donate almost 2,000 grains. Every little bit helps. The nice thing about the vocabulary is that it works to meet your “level” of vocabulary expertise. And if you don’t feel much like thinking, why not get by with a little help from your friends? Many people will be glad you did.

And now: reasons why I’m excited about tomorrow:

• It may be Tuesday, but it’s my Friday! No work for the rest of the week. Woo hoo!!
• Hairspray is being released on DVD! (I’ll be springing for the Two-Disc Shake & Shimmy Edition, of course.)

A persistent itch on my head remains even now that the stitches are gone. A strong sense of exhaustion engulfs me still, after an exhausting day yesterday. Together, they serve to bring me to a sort of wakeful state of sleep, or else a sleepy form of awakeness. To the point that "awakeness" is being used as an actual word. Throughout the day today, I found myself dragging. Shuffling around the house in the morning. Shuffling to the car. Shuffling to breakfast. Shuffling around the stores we visited. By the time we were at the grocery, my feet were barely leaving the ground. Though it could just be that gravity is suddenly acting much more forcefully upon me, thus making it difficult to raise my feet very high above the ground.

It really doesn't matter. What does matter is getting some sleep. Yes, I think that's very much in order.

Mock trials do more than simulate a real trial for educational purposes for you: they make you dog tired. I have no words to describe the sense of exhaustion I feel as I type this. Robert interpreted all day, and I was the supportive partner on the sidelines, silently cheering him on as well as experiencing the whole process from the outside, looking in. Having only just experienced my first bout of jury duty this past January, I wasn't exactly squirming in my seat to become one of the volunteer jurors. So I played pure spectator/interpreter observer. The mock trial consisted of a fictional murder case, in which some crazy rich woman was on trial for having shot and killed her husband. Sort of a bad murder mystery/suspense novel brought to life for the benefit of law students. All the details were sort of vague, which allowed the law students acting as defense and prosecution to get pretty creative when it came to tactics they used to approach the case. For instance: one of the prosecution teams I watched created a 3-D animation of how the scene went down, and looped it on a big projector. A defense team I saw used the upper half of a mannequin with arrows placed throughout to show how the bullets had entered and behaved on the victim. (Thankfully, the judge ixnayed that one before they could get too into it.)

It was funny to watch how the students played off one another. If they were having a difficult time, or else were doing better than they expected, they couldn't help but grin. Which looks hilarious, given the "seriousness" of the issues they're discussing. (Imagine hearing the following line delivered with a slight grin on a lawyer's face: "So you grabbed the gun off the table and shot your husband four times." Nice.) The judges, too, showed more emotion than I'd ever actually seen a judge show. At times, I caught them smiling at what the students were saying or doing. When the jury was deliberating, the judges got to give feedback to the law students, and damn. Off went the robes, and suddenly they were human! Not to mention witty and humorous.

It's a good thing I wasn't a member of the jury, because the entire time, I was forming all sorts of biases and opinions about what happened. The heartless bitch killed her husband! The dumbass detective should get fired! And just how low are all these witnesses IQs, geez? At one point, I felt an urge to jump up and interrupt the whole proceeding and announce to the courtroom that one of the jurors was asleep. But then I realized that probably wouldn't be very kosher. And besides, the sleeping juror was pretty obvious. It's hard to miss a guy with his chin resting in his palm, leaning forward, doing the trying-to-stay-awake headbang made famous by college students. The drooling, however, was probably the biggest giveaway.

Stranger still, than all things noted above, was what happened during the short ten-minute recesses from the trial. Maybe it was all the sitting. Or maybe it was the amount of brainpower it took to keep up with everything. Whatever the reason, every single break we had found me making a bee line for the restroom. I found I wasn't the only one, either. Every break, the place was full of people from the courtroom. And it didn't matter what they were doing, be it sitting in one of the stalls, using one of the urinals, washing hands, whatever, there was always some conversation taking place. The first time, there was a guy drying his hands (witness actor), a guy peeing (student lawyer), and a guy taking care of more serious matters (student lawyer, presumably) all immersed in conversation about the trial. I guess that's what you do when you're not allowed to talk about anything outside the courtroom.

Random blog post for Friday night, in the form of an unordered list:

• I actually drank coffee this morning. In its proper, hot form, no less. The last time I attempted that, I was drinking that shit black, without any sugar. Not exactly the best way for a total non-coffee drinker to be consuming it, but sometimes tiredness beats out common sense. The stuff I drank today was of the mocha variety, which Robert explained to my coffee-illiterate self is coffee flavored with chocolate. I had a Peppermint White Chocolate Mocha from the Evil Empire, and, to my great surprise, I actually liked it.
• I’m officially stitch-free. I returned to the doctor’s this morning and they snipped them free. Antennae be gone! Oh yeah, and I’m all healed up and back to normal. Woo hoo!
• While at Best Buy today, I ran into a friend of mine from college. She was working, and I reminisced with her about the place, as it’s an old stomping employment ground of mine. I also came across a star employee, who not only asked if he could help me find anything, but said that his name was Phil and I could holler if I needed anything. I said “oh, haha, mine too,” and he just sort of stood there and stared at me before saying, “oooohhhh, okay… … …so my name will be easy for you to remember.” Um, yeah, exactly. My old theory of the “Phil” bond based on a common name is being proven wrong at a discouraging rate. Dammit.

In the continuing saga of my sudden and new-found medical sense, I went to the eye doctor today. It's been a long time coming, really. Basically,I hadn't had my eyes checked in a good three or four years. I finally learned why my eyes get so blasted tired by half-way through the day, too. Thanks to a delightful astigmatism in my right eye, I can compensate for my near-sightedness to get about 20/25 vision. The only problem is that this constant work fatigues the fuck out of my eyes. Hence why I frequently feel the need to nap before I even make it to lunch. The visit itself was none too glamourous. It wasn't bad, really, just exhausting. You know. First, you have some god-awful eye drops put in, which stained some part of your eyes yellow. As if yellow isn't unattractive enough a color to use, the drops dry your eyes out a lot. And then you have to suffer through that big machine they make you put your face up to, and then they shine insanely bright light into your eye to check out all those rods and cones and stuff. As an added bonus, the yellow drops are supposed to deaden the sensitivity (to touch, I think) in your eye, so they can poke your eye and then laugh at you when you scream.

Next up was the test with the giant owl-looking lens shifter thingie. Followed by still more eye drops to dilate your pupils. Then they're like, "Okay, go sit down in the waiting room again." Which you do, and you realize for the first time exactly why those rooms all have such soft lighting. But that soft lighting gets progressively brighter, and then everything gets really fuzzy. Good luck trying to read anything. I tried to read the Russell logo on my shirt and all I saw was a big white blob.

Finally, they take you back once again, so that the Opthamologist can bombard you with a final series of obnoxious tests. Back to the little room with the uncomfortable chair and the mirrors with corresponding projectors for the little eye tests. Back to the horrible lights flashing in your eyes. Only this time you're sure you're going to be blinded by the damn things. And when your eye instinctively slams shut to keep this from happening, your eye doctor reaches over and grabs your eyelid and holds it open himself. The bastard.

Fortunately, once it's all over, you get to hit the optical store and find yourself a nice pair of glasses. At least the visit ends on a good note. You get to look at all sorts of fabulous frames that are way out of your budget, but which you want to buy anyway, and settle for dreaming about one day being able to own such stylin' specs.

You find some nice ones, and spring for them. Then you wait for a few weeks to get them, and your life can start anew with new and improved vision.

My eyes are back to their normal state again, finally. I'm less out of sorts in that regard than I was when I first got home. But then I opened the refrigerator and discovered that the light inside it burned out. I tested the little lever that turns it on and off. Nothing. I tried unscrewing it and then screwing it back in again. Nothing. Everything is still cold, and my refrigerator is otherwise fine. But not having a light on inside it is a devastating blow. I'm so lost without it, I can't even begin to describe how I feel about it.

Here's to unwanted trips down memory lane. The proclaimed "best" (not by me, mind) years of my life are to become a permanent record. Sort of. I got a letter in the mail sometime last week from my former high school. It seems the school district in which I was educated as a young lad has decided to publish an "alumni directory" for all the schools in the district.

The letter gave me a 10-day time frame to call and check on my biography, which currently probably says something like, "Phil graduated in 2002." I'm supposed to call the special toll-free number so that this "very important" charter project can get done. I, as a precious former graduate, have the special alumni "privilege" of calling said number and telling them about my life, my family, and my current occupation.

Here's what they'd probably expect from me:

Phil graduated in 2002 and went on to college in Albuquerque, where he got his degree in Accounting and Business Administration. He is currently working for one of Albuquerque's top accounting firms, and is about to get married to his girlfriend of three years.

I could be totally wrong here. I mean, I wasn't voted "most likely to succeed." But then again, I've always thought that award was lame. Like, only one person out of my graduating class would be likely to succeed? That would mean that pretty much everyone fails.

Now, if I was a popular kid, i.e. a jock or perhaps one of the drunken preppie kids, here's what my bio might read:

Phil graduated in 2002. He went to college out of state, but returned a year later. He married the girl he dated all through high school, and at the age of 23, he is the proud father of two sons. He is currently attending night school at the local community college, and is unsure what he wants to major in. He currently works at a local retail establishment.

This one was sort of inspired, actually, by a true story. I heard last year about a guy I grew up with who really did have two kids already, except that he was only 22.

But I bet most people I graduated with would flip if they knew what's really become of me:

Phil graduated in 2002 and still resides in Albuquerque. He currently works as a Signed Language Interpreter and also as a Speech Therapist in Training. He is not married, but rather is fabulously gay and has a wonderful partner with whom he shares his life. Oh yeah, and he owns a website that he blogs on frequently.

I think I've missed the 10-day deadline by now. Which is intentional. I feel no attachment to my high school days. If I really wanted to maintain contact with people from high school, I know other ways to do so. Facebook already serves that purpose for me anyway, and I hardly even use it for those I went to high school with.

Besides, the letter stated that as a graduate of my high school, I would be included in the high school directory for a school clear on the other side of town. Which makes perfect sense, right? Sorry, alumni directory putter-together people, but I'm not biting.

When I got to eat toast with apple jelly this morning (not apple butter, but actual apple jelly), I knew the day was off to a good start. I seriously think apple jelly is one of the greatest things on earth. I went my whole life not knowing about it, and then I took a trip to Taos with my partner over Labor Day this year. We stayed at a ski resort, and for breakfast, they had small packets of apple jelly to enjoy with your toast or English muffin. Talk about a convert! Even though I was full, I simply had to eat another English muffin, just so I could have apple jelly again. It's like gold. And, interestingly enough, hard to find. It took me two months of searching every grocery store I entered before I finally found some of this manna.

But I digress. This evening, Robert and I ventured into territory virtually unknown to gay men such as ourselves: Babies 'R' Us. We went in search of goods for our friend's upcoming baby shower. We figured Babies 'R' Us would have a plenty of variety, and would be a good place to start for us, because, for lack of a better explanation, we were clueless.

For my part, I was not exactly thrilled to be going into the store. As a former Toys 'R' Us purist, thanks to my being born in its heyday, I felt that any deviation the company made was not true to form, and therefore I would never, ever set foot in either of the lesser forms of 'R' Us stores.

I have to recant, though, because damn. There was so much cute stuff! The moment we walked, in, we sought help from one of the employees. We needed to be pointed in the direction of boys' clothes, stat. She was very nice, and pointed us in general directions around the store that might be useful for us.

And off we went. Before long, we were completely lost in this world of tiny things. Other shoppers in the store were calmly looking through the racks while we traipsed through the place, all the while oohing and ahhing over all the cute outfits we saw.

The staff, meanwhile, seemed amused by our antics, though I noticed they did their best not to show it. I guess it's not often they get so much fabulosity in their store.

I never thought it would be possible to actually hold up a line at a grocery store. But I did it, somehow. It wasn't really my fault, though. I finally got around to using all those stamps I'd been collecting. I was only three stamps short of getting the square grill pan I wanted. The deal actually went like this: for every $10 you spend at the store, you get one little stamp on a card. You had to save the stamps and collect a certain number in order to get the cooking items for free. For the square grill, the MSRP is around $47 or so. If you had 70 stamps, you get it for free. In other words, you get the $50 item of cookware after first spending $700 on groceries. If you spent only $350 on groceries, you'd get the pan for only $13. Going for the half price deal was far more worth it, when you think about it.

Anyway, I had talked to a cashier last week and asked if I could trade my stamps in regardless of whether I met the exact number. She was all, "yeah, we'll just adjust to the ratio and you pay the difference." Except she didn't use the word "ratio."

The cashier tonight tried to get into it with me when I went to make my purchase. He didn't want to ring me up when I was missing only three stamps. Because I didn't have the exact number, he didn't want to fudge and let it slide. And he didn't want to scan it in and add like $5 to the cost, either. I think, if it was up to him, he would have gone all bouncer on me and thrown me out of the store for not following the rules exactly as they were written.

I felt bad because I was holding everyone else in line up. Others weren't able to buy groceries on account of me. But dammit, I really wanted that pan. And the stitches on my head were itching the hell out of me. And when the cashier left to get the shift manager, I didn't say anything. I just let the guy go do his thing.

Five minutes later, the shift-manager-who-said-he-wasn't-actually- a-manager-but-was-in-charge-anyway came over. And he said: "No problem, sir. You're close enough, so I'm going to just ring you up for the $13." I thought finally all was well, but then the cashier kept refusing to scribble some initials on the card, afraid that he'd get in trouble for the shady deal that had just gone down. Because I'm such a criminal, you know. And I wasn't about to let all the money I had spent just to get that damn pan go to waste (oh, I would have spent the money on food anyway, but maybe not at this damned grocery store), and thought that I should get something for all the money and time and effort I put into collecting and saving the damn stamp things.

Honestly, I wasn't thrilled to be standing there having the stupid discussion about the stamps. But since I wasn't the one who started it, I'm glad I walked away with my fabulous new cooking toy. And with that, I will now return to my kindergarten class, where I can continue learning about issues like fairness and compromise with other fellow toddlers, in between naps and play time.

The effects of the local anesthetic to my head from yesterday have finally worn off. I didn't realize, even after being up and moving yesterday, just how much the stuff affected me. Later in the day, I was able to drive okay, but I kept it to a minimum, thankfully. Of course, I only realize this now that I'm back to normal. I went to a house concert (literally, a concert at someone's house) for one of my college friends. She's an amazing songwriter, and every time I see her perform, she's pretty much twice as good as she was the time before. It's awesome.

I couldn't stay for the whole show, because I was pretty wiped. It was certainly an interesting challenge to mingle with some of the people there. I knew some people there, but as usual, I got to meet a bunch of people I didn't know. I was pretty exhausted by the time I got there, and I must have been a sight when trying to talk to people and remain standing, because I wasn't exactly good at it.

So I talked, sort of swaying back and forth, and all the while looking for a place to sit. My mind sort of took turns drifting: topic at hand, where's a place to sit?, topic at hand, my head hurts, oh fuck, what am I supposed to be talking about again? And so on.

At some point, I wound up talking to a girl I'd never before met. She seemed nice, if a bit off kilter. She smelled of smoke and spent a lot of time talking about unconditional love. Then she suggested I go sit on the couch next to her so we could be good concert-going spectators. It was bad timing, for my part, because my brain, in its drifting state, was currently in the "finding a place to sit" phase. Against my more rational judgment, I agreed.

And thus ensued an extremely uncomfortable thirty minutes, in which I did everything I could to not let the woman violate my personal space, or even come into contact with my skin. Which, by the way, she seemed extremely to do. She kept nudging me and grabbing my arm and talking to me like we'd known each other since grade school. And because the house was settled, I found myself trapped.

Between songs, however, I managed to make my escape. I was ready to leave anyway, and just relax for the rest of the evening. I managed to get up because I'd spotted someone I knew who I hadn't yet gotten to say hello to. Ah, sweet victory! We chatted, I stayed for one more song, and then got my dog-tired self the heck out of there.

Great music + great company with the exception of one person = pretty good time.

Next time my friend plays here, I'll hopefully be in a better state to enjoy her show, and to steer clear of unwanted advances from those seeking unconditional love from complete strangers. But all's well that ends well, isn't that how the saying goes?

Today I'm up and about, and doing fantastic. One of the highlights of the day has been the breeze. When I'm outside, and the wind brushes through my hair, my crazy antennae stitches get blown around a little bit too. It's one of the weirdest sensations I've ever felt, sort of a cross between a tickle and a very light massage. I'm just glad the feeling is present (update: and "pleasant" too). At least that's one thing cool out of this ordeal.

I learned today that there are worse things, when going to a doctor's appointment, than being late. Being on time, only to find that the building where your doctor used to be has been completely demolished, is much, much worse. This morning, I had to go visit my dermatologist. For a few years, I've had a benign cyst on my head which manifested itself in the form of a bump. I decided, after noticing that it's grown, that it was high time it be removed. I can't say that I was altogether keen to go in and have the procedure done. I can say, though, that I wanted it over with.

My friend K picked me up in the morning to take me to the doctor's office. While I often have difficulty finding the place, it's never been because it wasn't actually there. We arrived early, only to find large mounds of dirt in place of the building I was looking for. I jumped on the phone and dialed the office:

Phil: Um, I can't seem to find your building. Receptionist: Where are you? Phil: Where your office should be. Hello! Receptionist: Yes but where in town?

Turns out, my dermatologist had moved to a new location four weeks ago, and even though they were supposed to remind their patients, I was completely neglected. The receptionist, whose manners were of "total bitch" caliber, blamed me for not knowing about it. She curtly told me how to find the new office, and then hung up on me before I could make sure I had the right address.

What a great combination of feelings! I was nervous about the appointment as it was, I was shocked to find a mound of dirt instead of the doctor's office, and then pissed off at the bitchy receptionist. Not a great way to arrive at the doctor's, when you need to be relaxed for the stupid thing.

I think the worst part about the whole procedure was the conversation I overheard between the doctor and his assistant. Fortunately, I had my iPod with me. I put on some excellent relaxation music and closed my eyes. I even had the volume turned up more than usual, to keep outside voices to a minimum. It didn't quite work perfectly.

Doctor: Hmmm. Assistant: What? Doctor: It just doesn't seem to want to get out of there.

Other than all this craziness, the appointment went well. I'm alive and well, the cyst is gone, and I've got a few stitches in my head instead. Luckily, they didn't have to shave any part of my head, which I guess is thanks to my now-super-short haircut. The stitches, however, are quite long. As in, I have spiky black antennae sticking out of my head. It's very unique.

I may have some of the credentials to discuss fashion, but I generally leave that up to folks who are more highly qualified than myself. I do make exceptions, however, and in this case have some advice for a certain woman who brushed past me at the bookstore tonight, violating my personal space and comfort zone:

1. If you go to the gym, don't go out afterwards without having first showered and changed back into normal clothes.
2. Workout clothes or not, a black sports bra underneath a huge and loose-fitting purple t-shirt is completely unacceptable. Especially if the neck is so stretched out that one of your shoulders is exposed, and therefore so is your nasty bra.
3. Wearing short shorts is one thing, but try to keep your body type in mind when choosing them. Oh, and using men's boxers as workout shorts is a serious no-no. Consider this your warning. If I see you wearing this again, I'm going to have to slap you.

I'm afraid that if shit like this happens too often, I'm bound to actually say something out loud. Which can be good or bad, I suppose. Good because maybe then these crazies might actually take the hint, because I doubt they're stopping by and reading this. And, well, hmmm, I can't actually think of anything bad.

Maybe I'm just thinking about this because of my recent haircut. It's like everyone around me suddenly became masters of stating the obvious. Here's a running tally of what people have told me since getting Tuesday's fateful haircut:

• "You got a haircut." (26 times)
• "Phil. Haircut. Wow." (14 times)
• "Haircut, huh?" (19 times)
• "Ah, I see you got your ears lowered." (1 time)
• "He got his ears lowered. See?" (1 time, by the same person as above)
• "Oh wow, Phil, you got a haircut." (11 times)

Some of the tallies were actually repeats. Because people seemed to find it necessary to mention to me multiple times that I had gotten a haircut. Sheesh, as if I wasn't there when it happened. Maybe I should start telling some of these people that they're so observant, they should become detectives. Then they could investigate break-ins and actually get paid for saying, "Wow, someone broke in here." And the crime rate, just like the frequency of haircuts, would plummet.

It’s been one of those days. Very fortunately, it ended on a good note. But I’m going to vent anyway, because I can.

• You in the blue jeans and baseball jacket. I suggest you lose the Mets cap, and if you lose the enormous glasses now, I might be able to see again. You’re not cool, with your faux New York accent and attitude. You’re one man eating dinner in a pizza place with three women, and despite all your brazen efforts, the only one laughing at your “jokes” is you. People who were cool “back in the day”, to borrow your phrasing, are probably still pretty cool now. And they don’t talk about the “good old days.” You’re lucky no one kicked you out of the place for telling your poor server “When I was your age, I looked like I do now.” Although I suppose dissing yourself like that in front of complete strangers takes guts, I’m amazed that you were shocked by the guy saying “that sucks” in response.
• I went to the bank today to, and had to wait twenty minutes for something that took all of forty-five seconds to get done. Everyone in front of me had some issue of major concern that took two tellers (at least) to address. Truth be told, the main source of my impatience stemmed from standing in front of the strange, smelly, quasi-gay delivery guy. Yeah, not so much.
• I overheard a conversation yesterday at lunch that involved one guy saying the words “Mel Gibson” and “wonderful” in the same sentence. Had I no sense of proper work decorum, that someone would have gotten slapped, big time. I don’t care what you think the man knows about the native people to the Americas, the fact that he’s such a bigoted, homophobic Anti-Semite should cancel out any goodness you think there might be. He’s like the male version of Ann Coulter, all theatrical and righteous. I bet if you put the two of them in a room together, things would get pretty freaky.

I'm pretty sure I just got my hair cut by Xena, Warrior Princess's real-life blonde alter ego, Polyanna. And I'm not saying they look a lot like, either. I'm thinking they have a similar passion for physically abusing other people. Seriously, this is the first time I've ever gotten a hair cut and felt like I'd just spent two minutes in a boxing ring, duking it out with Jesse Ventura. Polyanna started out nice enough, I suppose, and was actually quite the chatty cathy, starting from the point when she called me up from my chair, where I was sitting, patiently awaiting my turn to get my hair cut. Had I known it would all be chopped and whacked, I might have decided to vacate the premises immediately and return on a day she wasn't working.

Polyanna: Phil? Phil: That's me. Polyanna: Dr. Phil. Phil: ... Polyanna: Not Dr. Phil. Phil Don't get me started. Don't even get me started.

After this strange greeting was over (I should have read the signs: we were not off to a good start), she asked me how I wanted my hair cut. I explained: "Basically, pretty much the same thing you see now, only shorter."

Xena-Polyanna grabbed her clippers and set to work, on some sort of freak mission to not only cut my hair, but also to make me aware of just how many ways one's scalp can feel pain. Scissors pressed uncomfortably against my head, hair pulled in strange directions. I tried to see if there was some way to have some other hair cutter person rescue me, but to no avail. Xena-Polyanna was working alone today, it seemed, and I was to be a victim. I protested, and requested that she please go easy on me and/or use a lighter touch. I may as well have been telling my neighbor to stop flashing me.

Xena-Polyanna continued the crusade on my hair, until at last she was satisfied that she had defeated all the long and evil hairs she had confronted. I attempted to comb my hair, which was a chore, and then she doused what was left of my hair with about half a bottle of hair gel. All I need now is my camouflage gear and I'm ready for boot camp.

You'd think that it'd be easy for someone with a blog to talk about themselves. Oh sure, you're thinking, inspiration for a letter of intent should be easy to find, especially when the goal of what you're writing is already picked out for you. And besides, since you're a blogger, you talk about yourself all the time. I'll admit that I'm much freer with the written word than I used to be, but I still have a sense of perfectionism that I just can't seem to get rid of. It's like Jewish guilt meets capital punishment: no matter what you do, it's never good enough, so you may as well face the fact that, either way, you're probably going to die. Basically, inspiration doesn't strike without the pressure of a deadline, and don't expect the inspiration to amount to much better a destiny than the fate which the toys your neighbor's two-year-old grandson leaves lying around the balcony walkway meet. So even with valiant effort, death comes and leaves you ashamed.

At least this time, I managed to be ahead of the game. I've worked on it for a few days, although why I expect it to be perfect the moment it leaves my head and gets typed up, I don't know. I had some good thoughts and ideas, I think. I guess, though, that after hearing that every single thing you write for such an occasion is worthy only to be lit on fire and then used in lieu of cow manure for fertilizing the rose garden, confidence has a tendency to get sapped right out of you.

I think it's time for that to change.

It's November 4th. The month has barely begun, and I'm already swamped. This year, I decided to have a go at National Novel Writing Month. I have begun the writing process, set up on the whole idea for my novel (sort of) and with the help of some friends, devised a plan to write a certain amount of words per day in order to make the precise word count. Not surprisingly, I'm already a day behind. Looking at the month ahead, I've come to the following conclusions:

1. I probably should have instead opted for Nation Blog Posting Month, as it would be an easier alternative given my crazy time constraints at the moment.
2. Because of a number of things happening this month that must happen, I have decided not to hold myself to the stringent rules of NaNoWriMo. This means that I will still write, and continue on the project I've begun, but if I can't work every single day on it, I won't be too upset.
3. NaNoWriMo's servers, despite being as strong as they say on the site, are so catastrophically slow that I can't even log in to post stuff on there anyway.

So far, the writing process for me has gone like this:

• Nov. 1: Holy shit, it's November 1, and I have no idea what I'm going to write about. But I'm going to start typing something anyway. Two hours later, I'm thinking to myself that I seriously hate what I've started. If I had half a brain, I'd send it straight to the trash bin on the computer. Instead, I take a nap. Later, after dinner, another two hours spent working. What started out as hate has become fiery loathing.
• Nov. 2: A long-ass day at work. I arrive home with the intent of churning out the next day's word count. I decide to actually work on some character and plot stuff, to hopefully cut down on the number of hours I seem to need for this. I write about 100 words once I'm done planning, then go to dinner and a theater show with Robert for the evening. Dinner at one fabulously delicious restaurant, and Vampire Lesbians of Sodom to round out the evening. Life is grand!
• Nov. 3: Time to play catch-up for Friday's slip-up. I get to writing, but only get through Friday's work, not Saturday's. My eyes feel abused for looking at the computer screen for as long as they did.
• Nov. 4: It's enough of a chore just to set the clocks back. There's no way I'm going to do a bunch of writing today. I'm taking the day off. And oh yeah, I'm going to finish that letter of intent for my grad school application. Must hurry on that.

In other news, it seems one of my recent blog posts is making waves. One of the pilots for the Darth Vader balloon paid me a visit and left a comment for my amusement. Judging by his harsh tone, methinks he was a wee bit offended. I never claimed to be an authority (I'm a blogger, not a reporter), so I see no reason why I can't lie all I want, regardless of whether said lies can be accepted. In any case, I was really ragging on the pin vendors (well, one vendor in particular, but only because they suck). To the Darth Vader peeps: you're still cool, but just be careful not to burn the fabric on your balloon with your own burner again, capisce?

It's Halloween! It's also 7:30 and the sun still hasn't cleared the mountains yet. Though it's not something I'm consciously doing, I've been daily protesting this whole extended daylight savings time thing. Simply put, I'm not exactly fond of the extension. I like my days long, but really, what were those folks thinking when they declared that we could "save energy" by postponing the turning back of our clocks? Like, maybe we could keep the earth from spinning on its axis, or something. But the days keep getting shorter anyway. As in: we have just as many hours of light as we do without changing our clocks. Could it be because it's fall? To be honest, I don't have strong feelings one way or the other for changing the clocks twice a year. I'm passionate, though, when it comes to having to wake up early in the morning. I generally have to get up every morning around 6:00 or so, in order to get to work on time. I consider any wake-up time prior to 7:30 to be cruel and unusual punishment, and best avoided if at all possible. I'm willing to make an exception (not that my job gives me much choice), with one caveat: I want the sun to be coming up. If I wake up and it's still dark outside, I'm probably going back to sleep. Let me also point out that it's generally my subconscious making such decisions, so who am I to argue?

This year, Halloween has new significance for me. First, it's been an exciting holiday, and fun. It's Robert's and my second Halloween together, but the first one I've actually done right. Last year I had some crazy theater stuff going on, so I missed it. Second, today is the last day of October, and this year I decided to have a go at National Novel Writing Month. I'm a little intimidated at the moment. On the one hand, given all that I write for work, and all that I've been working on for a graduate school application, I think it'll be feasible. On the other hand, given all that I write for work, and all that i've been working on for a graduate school application, I wonder whether I'll even have any energy to put into a novel.

But that starts tomorrow, so I can't worry too much about that yet. First I have to get through the workday, sans students. Because all the students at my school have the day off. Because apparently, Halloween has become so controversial in this city (and maybe elsewhere, I don't know) that, rather than use the opportunity to teach some history and culture and new and open-minded perspectives on how to celebrate such a cool holiday, they'd rather kids have the day off and learn nothing about the world. Oy vay.

I'm not sure whether I should be happy that my weekend ended on the note it did, or depressed. On the one hand, it ended nice and low key. On the other, it's kind of depressing. Given just how awesome a weekend I had, it could just be par for the course. I got to do the usual amount of lazing around the house, sleeping in, and generally lavishing in having nothing to do except what I wanted to. Saturday night, Robert and I went to a Halloween party. Though in recent years, I've been considerably remiss in my Halloween costume obligations, I came back with a vengeance this year. We got a head start on costume ideas, which proved to be invaluable for me. No more waiting until the last minute for this guy. We got started in September, and it proved to be totally worth it.

I went Rastafarian. Sort of a Bob Marley meets Matisyahu sort of mix, I suppose, if you want my personal Reggae outlook. But check it out: baggy pants, chill shirt with the Hawaiian shirt combo, awesome tattooed arms, and dread locks the likes of which only the most chaste of people could go without touching, even though I know they really wanted to.

Robert went Egyptian for the evening. It was pretty much what you'd expect for a storybook, should said storybook follow some pattern of cross-century, cross-cultural theme: Rastafarian meets Pharoah, Rastafarian falls in love with Pharoah, Rastafarian runs off with Pharoah. Sure, an unlikely pair, but hey, it's Halloween.

Of course, once the Karaoke started, the Rasta suddenly became rock 'n roll, belting out tunes to rock the party and even incorporating a stunning yet dizzying display of head-banging, a la Brian Fair from Shadows Fall.

Red and blue united today, in the form of 3-D glasses. Robert and I hit the theaters and went to see Disney's re-release of Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas, in 3-D. I can't think of a better movie for my first ever 3-D movie theater experience. I suppose I could have gone to see Spy Kids 3D: Game Over, but that one was out of the question thanks to my swearing to never watch any movies in that series, due in large part to their previews. But seriously, I jumped first at the chance to see The Nightmare Before Christmas in the theater, and the added bonus of 3-D was quite fantastic.

Here's the part where things get sad. After all that fun, I went to the grocery to pick up some food for the week. To Albertson's I went. After getting everything I needed, and then purchasing the goods, the cashier told me to hold on and wait for my special stamp. That super reinforcing thing to encourage people to shop there: the stamp that, should you collect enough of them, can get you free cookware, or at least reduced cost cookware. The cashier actually left to go find some while I was on my way out. And what's worse is that I actually waited for her to return. A nearly-three-minute wait for one measly stamp. Not even worth the product value ratio, but darn it, I want that square grill.

Today was day two of having slightly improved vision. After nearly two weeks of wondering why my eyelids always felt so heavy by the end of the work day, even though I knew I wasn't all that tired, I finally broke out my glasses and tried wearing them for a change. While I can usually pull out my glasses that help with my light sensitivity, I hadn't found them to be as effective lately. So I tried using my regular glasses, and voila! Clarity. My current specs aren't a perfect solution, because they're about eight years old, but they're better than nothing right now. I can actually make it through the day, and am even able to make a lot of progress on all the crap I have to do because I'm not fighting my fatigued eyeballs. Good thing I'm going to the eye doctor here soon.

It's weird wearing my normal glasses again. I'm generally used to only wearing sunglasses. And if the glasses I'm wearing aren't those, they're most likely my glasses with colored lenses that I use for my light sensitivity. It wasn't until I was at Pei Wei on Wednesday night that I realized that people could actually see my eyes through the lenses. There I was, in the midst of chewing a bite of delicious tofu, and sort of zoning out thanks to the sweet and sour meal I was enjoying, staring but not seeing in the general direction of the counter. Some lady was there, and after a few moments it dawned on me that, given her rather sour expression and her direct gaze (directed at me), she must have thought I was staring at her. Whatever she feared or hoped, I can't say.

For the most part, it's been nice to see more clearly for a change. It's only day two, but while driving around town today I unfortunately had to share the road with a gigantic diesel testosterone-fueled jet-engine wannabe ass-ugly souped up pick-up truck. Three foot tires, giant exhaust pipes placed right behind the cab and pointing skyward, and the word FORD plastered across the hood. As if the driver hasn't already proven that, despite his biological status as a male, he still has penis envy, there's one more item of bling on the ghastly thing: a pair of silver testicles hanging by a chain near the rear tires. That metallic ball sac is so tacky that I'm afraid of looking at it up close (especially with my glasses on), lest I go blind, turn into a pillar of salt, or else have my spirit eaten out of my very body like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The last time I saw one of those things on a big truck, which incidentally seems to be the only place you ever see them, I actually saw the driver of that particular truck. I'm not generally one to judge people, but I do make exceptions. I mean, when I see a sticker plastered proudly across a Chevy Silverado that proclaims, "Sucking Gas, Hauling Ass," you're asking for it.