"It's not a date; it's just sex."

All right. Indulge me for a few minutes, and as a favour, I'll spare you most of the gory details.

Last night, I was supposed to get together with this guy. He will remain nameless. We'll just call him "Guy." Guy and I met online last weekend. We traded pictures, liked what we saw, talked on the phone a few times, and decided to meet. We were both set on this being a sex date, not a romantic thing. Fine. I don't need romance, but I do need a warm body and soft lips and maybe a strong set of bear arms to give me a warm bear hug every once in a while. Thursday was the first day either of us was available. I asked the Boss if I could have the afternoon off, and he said "Oh? You have a date?" I didn't tell him why I wanted the afternoon off. He just does that. "Fuck work. Take the whole day off." OK then.

We agreed on a mid-afternoon rendez-vous, and I waited. I took the time to go out and do some things and ended up at the Oyster Point Marina watching the planes take off from SFO, listening to a new radio station I found: 92.7 FM. All party, electronica, trance, electrance, tranceonica, what-the-fuck. It wasn't bad until I heard a remix of Belinda Carlisle's "Live Your Life Be Free" looped over and over.

Three o'clock came. Then four. Then five. Then six. (Here comes the pathetic part, unless I'm just giving myself too much credit.) Then seven. Then EIGHT. He never called. I figured by the six o'clock thing that he wouldn't call, but I was too embarrassed to go home and have to face two people who were so happy that I was venturing out into the world again.

And that's what I get for playing the Internet. Where does it get you after all? On the train to Reno, that's where. That's what I get for expecting someone to have the fucking decency to call and at least cancel. What. Ever. Moron. Now I know why old ladies have cats: Men suck. And I've dispelled yet another gay myth. You know the one, gay men can get sex from whomever, whenever, wherever, however they need it. Yeah. Uh huh. Right. Not even in San Fran-fucking-cisco.

So, even though it wasn't a date, it was just sex, I still feel humiliated, like I was stood up. I don't know why, either. People have flaked on me plenty. I always seem to be magnanimous about it. But maybe it was because I was so interested in Guy, he was so my type, and we really did have a good conversation. It was easy to talk to him. We made it clear that there were no strings attached...so I have no right to complain, right? All right, forget it.

Then, when I return to Rancho Relaxo, R&W have to know how it all went, natch. I didn't tell them that it was a sex-only date, so W asked if there would be a second date. I replied very solemnly and with full drama: "We must never speak of this night. Ever. It never happened." I didn't tell them that I was stood up; I never told them where I was. And in fact, I didn't even really lie. It never did happen, and I said as much. Oh what a web we weave.... That's enough of that. And don't bother translating that song up there. It's just a bit of self-indulgent drivel that doesn't really apply because it wasn't a date; it was just sex.

So, it's been a month. For most of that time, I avoided coming here to say anything. It's not that I didn't have anything to say. Bwah ha ha ha. Darling, I always have something to say. It's more that I didn't feel like putting it out there. I was tempted for about a week to remove the whole damn blog thing and delete all the content. I just wanted to be rid of all of this. But I just couldn't. As cheesy as this whole site is, I couldn't kill it.

Let's just say it's been an insecure month, and last night was the crowning glory. Right after Phyllis went back to Virginia for her three-week vacation, the three of us were sitting around, eating cheesecake, drinking champagne, watching some old black and white movie, and I said, damn, this is wrong. I looked down at my ankles, and I did not like what I saw. Years ago, my mother told me I had fat ankles, and years ago I denied that claim. Years later, with a mouth full of cheesecake, I finally accepted the fact that I do have fat ankles.

The mood was suddenly darkened by the realization that we had all let ourselves go. What to do, oh, what to do? We took it upon ourselves to start a new regime of health and balance. We started going to the Y every morning to burn off calories, and on the balance side, we reduced our caloric intake.

It was a rough few days at first. I was moody, depressed, sullen, and resentful, nothing new there. I didn't like getting up at 0-dark o'clock to go shed 600 calories and sweat like a pig. I didn't like having to give up peanut butter and chocolate and chips. I didn't like having to restrict myself to healthy foods. I went to Costco with R and I got angry and jealous of all the people there buying the crap that they buy. And then I got over it. It occurred to me that my caloric intake was never that much to begin with. I never ate three meals a day. But I never worked out, either. That's probably why I've maintained 205 pounds for the last couple of years.

So, in one month, I've managed to shed five pounds. Today I weighed myself at 200.8 pounds. Aside from a few slips and slides along the way, I've managed to take a little off. Don't know where it left from, but it's gone. I know that in the first few weeks of a workout program, your body has to adjust its new efficiency. And I know that it will redistribute some of the fat to other parts of itself, or something like that. Eventually I will see a difference.

So this plan is called NoMoMuMu, and I have a new mantra: No fat ankles. No fat ankles. We'll see. According to some fuck in the government, at my height (5'9"/1.75 M) and weight (200 lbs/90 kg) I'm obese. I won't be a healthy weight until I'm below 170 lbs (77 kg). Hello? My goal is only to lose about 25 to 30 pounds (11–13 kg) anyway. So I guess I'll be borderline overweight. I understand that the body mass index is a guide, and every person's body is unique, but come on. All I really care about is keeping a 34 inch waist and not having to take a deep breath to button the fuckers. A subset of the NoMoMuMu plan is to attain an NB34 (a no-breath 34 inch waistline). I will not give in and buy a bigger waist size, and it's not really that unsightly. Believe me, R would have told me so by now.

I think that's about all I can stand right now.

What a hoot!

Tombstone ATM Doles Out Inheritance

Kinda tacky, but kinda funny!

Wednesday

Well, who ever said "no pain, no gain" was right on the money. After about a month of enduring sickeningly sweet encouragement at 5:30 a.m., and sweating my ass off in front of the lovelies at the Peninsula YMCA, I have officially lost seven pounds and have managed to keep it off. I'm now under 200 pounds, for the first time in three years, if only by 1.8 pounds. I stepped on the scale on Monday, and it read 198.2, and I had to do it again to see if it was a mistake. But no, it was the real thing. And for two days, I've maintained the blissful 198.2 pounds.

But it sucks, and I'm sure it's all me, because I hate getting up that early in the morning to do anything. I don't like being woken from my deep slumber just to work my ass off at the machines and sweat like a pig. I can't be fake about it, either. I never learned how, and it's just wrong for me to lie to people. It feels wrong. So, I'm afraid that either people accept me as the bitch-in-the-morning as I am, or else I'll go it alone. I can't blame R for being angry at my emotions this morning, but then again, I can blame him for being a know-it-all 24 hours a day, even when he's wrong. We have to tolerate his arrogance, so why can't he tolerate my grumpiness in the morning. I'm telling you, after I shower and shave, I'm the cheery, lovable person I always am. It's just the first few minutes after being revived that suck the most.

Rant, rant, rant. I'm not in a bad mood today. It seems pretty typical. Summer's almost over. A month until autumn, two months until the end of daylight savings time, three months until Thanksgiving, four months until Xmas. Just call me Mr. Calendar. It's cooling down wonderfully up here. I am not looking forward to the typical Indian summer that pops up in late September, and I really do hope we have a rainy season this year. I love it when it rains.

That's all.

London Calling

I have got to find a way to live and work in England. Any advice will be graciously accepted.

I was thinking this afternoon, as I chomped on my baby carrots, that perhaps the magic drop in weight that I experienced was due to my weekend illness rather than hard work and dedication. I didn't eat a whole lot because of my cold-flu thing, but I didn't do anything either. I sat in bed watching Trading Spaces and Changing Rooms all weekend, that and Howards End and A Room with a View. I love those movies. Anyway, I'll take the help where I can get it. Only now I'm afraid to eat anything at all that has caloric value. I can eat broccoli and carrots and blueberries until I burst because they have relatively negative caloric value. But as soon as I eat a pretzel, which has no fat, I'm afraid I'm going to balloon out. Damn, just call me Ann. Ann R. Exia.

Three Inch Pizza

Last night I went home for dinner. H made one of his homemade three-inch thick pizzas with pesto, sausage, and tomatoes, with loads of cheese and onions. He also had some chocolate chip cookies laying around to indulge in after the pizza. Let's just say that NoMoMuMu was NoMo last night. It was so rich, flavorful, and delicious. Forget calories. So I'll work a little harder this weekend to burn it off. I can handle it. I didn't bother weighing in this morning, either. I was a little ashamed of my indulgence...and that's exactly what I don't want to have happen. I think it's the shame that R has given me that does it, and of that I'm deeply resentful.

So, I get back to the house right at nine o'clock, just in time to see the end of a blow-out argument between R&W and the beginning of The West Wing. I have been converted to this show. It's great. I don't always understand what's going on, but I like it. And Phyllis was kind enough to join me outside to debrief me. Apparently, R asked W to do something, which he did but not to R's specifications. So R went into a tirade about how no one can do anything right the first time, and he had better just do everything himself because he always gets it right the first time. What did I say about arrogance? So, this couple, together for twelve years, fights over something that was probably completely ridiculous all because R's ego was in the way. Well, even though I was not there to witness it, I have had enough of it. I am sick and tired of kowtowing to him just because he's "always right." I think I'm going home this weekend. I don't need to sit around and watch R gloat the whole time. It's disgusting.

And besides, Jaguar is coming out on Saturday, and I have been dying to upgrade my Mac to OS X. I think now would be a good time.

That's all for now.

Ashes turned into diamonds

Check this out.

It's like, "oh, darling, what a fabulous diamond ring! Is it a gift from your husband?"

"No, it is my husband."

TGIF

Well this morning didn't start off very well. Or should I say yesterday didn't end well? I told R last night that I was not going to the gym this morning and that I would be meeting H this evening at the Embarcadero Y instead. He asked why and suggested that that was a silly idea. No real surprise there. Anytime H usurps R's importance or place in line in my life, he gets jealous, like a new lover dealing with a past flame. And that idea is truly revolting. Ick. So I tell him that I like my gym better than his, and he continues to take it all personally. Whatever.

So this morning, he wakes me up at 6:30 a.m. and tells me to get ready for the gym. I roll over and go back to sleep. At 7:00 a.m. he comes back and with a severe amount of incredulity in his voice he says, "Michael, get up. It's time to go to the gym." My simple sleep-ridden reply was: "I told you that I'm going tonight. Sheesh." So he huffs and puffs his way out the door.

I had a really long rant session with H last night, and I won't recount the thing here, but I'll just say that it was nice. It's odd how our relationship is so malleable. It transforms itself into whatever we need it to be whenever we need it to change. I don't know if that's a good thing or not. I know he's dependable. I know I can count on him, and he should know the same for me. And he listens to me and gives good advice. I was telling him about all this R stuff and how I'm fed up with him, and he tells me simply: "Don't deal with it. You've learned when to tune me out, so do the same for him." Hmmm, good advice. And it's true, too. I guess that I have had more practice with H, over nine years, to pick and choose what about him I take seriously. Why I can't do that with R has me stumped. I've only known him for about three years. But I wonder if the length of time really matters here.

Nevertheless, he thinks it would be rash of me to quit my job just because I can't take the arrogance any longer. I'm making serious cash here, almost six figures, no questions asked, and I'm going to dump it for twelve dollars an hour because I can't take the arrogance and ego anymore? Michael, Michael, Michael. Grow up and get real. I guess I don't need to deal with it. And just thinking about it that way gives me great freedom and release. I'm not kidding. Instantly, I feel like there's a burden off my mind. You know, that could work. We should all tell the world not to deal with it. Half the shit that goes on around here would stop. Don't like someone's religious beliefs? Don't deal with it. Don't like someone's sexuality? Don't deal with it. Don't like someone's face? Don't deal with it. It's a more abrupt adaptation of "live and let live." It works for me.

By the way, like my little weather pixie? Isn't she precious?