Thursday, December 19, 2013

Santa's Pouch

This is what $250 worth of underwear looks like. How did I know what to get JB for Christmas? Easy. He took a Sharpie to the UnderGear catalog and circled the underwear models he liked. On the rest he drew mustaches, scars, eye patches and boobies. There's also a swimsuit or two in there for JB to wear on the cruise.

It was the least I could do after JB upgraded my geriatric
iPhone 4 to a 5s.

Now, in an ironic turnabout, I find myself stuffing underpants into a sock.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013


I'm not a superstitious person. My partner, JB, on the other hand is pathologically superstitious. A common complaint is the feeling that someone has given him "mal de ojo". The evil eye.

I've learned that laughing doesn't help him feel better. Quite the opposite, in fact. So my new course of action is to humor him while asking questions aimed at helping him recognize the actual source of his feelings of unease and paranoia.

"Evil eye? Who do you think would do such a thing to you?"

"I dunno. Could be anybody."

Well, I tried.

The primary cure for the ojo is a ritual involving a room-temperature egg and a bowl of water. The egg is passed repeatedly over the victim's body in an effort to draw out and absorb the negative energy. Like a magic ShamWow. Okay, like a magicker ShamWow.

You then crack the evil-saturated egg into the bowl of water. If the resulting soup appears to be looking back at you, you have your proof that you were cursed. And really, when does a raw egg floating in water not look eyeballish?

I've so far avoided actually performing this ritual on JB, although I did offer once. After exhausting all rational efforts, I was willing to give it a try if it would help him to feel better. But he declined, saying "I know you don't believe in that stuff."

Obviously this makes me unqualified to rub him with an egg.

Good thing JB wasn't home on Friday the 13th
when our black cat knocked over a mirror.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013


"Wow. It's so bright. And so... blue" JB said standing in front of the tree with his hand gripping his lower jaw. I knew what that meant.

Back in January I posted about spending an entire weekend snipping the lights out of our pre-lit artificial Christmas tree. (Delighted, January 2012.) This painstakingly anal endeavor has allowed us to wring at least one more year out of our fake tree investment. After all, this year's X-mas budget is tighter than Jack Frost's ball sack and I still have a ton of cruise-wear to purchase.

(A preliminary list of Big Gay Cruise party and T-dance themes was posted yesterday. It seems I need pirate gear and something that'll allow me to pass as a dominant top at a leather function. Oh, and gold lamé. And I still haven't come close to amassing enough swimwear for seven days.)

One expense we couldn't avoid this season however was new lights for the now-naked Christmas tree. At Target I steered JB toward the multicolor LED variety by telling him they'll last forever and pay for themselves with their energy savings. What a fool I am.

After having carefully wound eight strings of lights around our tree, I called JB into the living room for the plugging-in ceremony. It took all of five seconds for JB to declare the tree "too blue". So while I removed eight strands of blue-heavy LED lights from the faux Frasier Fir, JB went to Home Depot in search of a more balanced and subdued spectrum.

I have to admit, the incandescent lights he picked out do look better on the tree. So much warmer and prettier than LED lights. I hope they're not banned next year when half of them will inevitably need to be replaced.

This weekend I took the LED lights outside to decorate the railing of our balcony. I had to put them on a dimmer at 30% of full power to keep them from overpowering our tree and every other twinkling light in the neighborhood. And for fear the jetliners landing at Hartsfield Jackson would start diverting to Midtown. I probably shouldn't have used all eight strings.

Could be worse. It could be too red like our upstairs neighbor.
Except her place isn't decorated for Xmas. It's like that 365 days a year.

Monday, December 9, 2013

Yule Tied

During the holiday season, JB is allowed to stray ever so slightly from his standard flight attendant uniform dress code by wearing a holiday themed necktie. Last night I was shopping for an appropriate tie for him to wear to work.

I don't usually wear ties. Usually just for job interviews, weddings and funerals. But I found a tie that made me laugh and I couldn't resist buying it for myself. Now I just need a non-funeral opportunity to wear it. I really hope I get an invitation to a Christmas party.

Knowing StevieB's fondness for Christmas Penguins, I found just the right tie for him too...

Friday, December 6, 2013

The Juanita Strain, Part I

Arriving in Houston last week for Thanksgiving, JB's sister Dottie was already waiting at the airport for us. She drove us directly to lunch at a Mexican restaurant. Not a real Mexican restaurant, we went to Pappasito's. Being conscious of my calorie intake, I ordered a small salad. Their small salad was still ridiculously large, but I suppose I was in Texas now. Instead of croutons, it came topped with cheese tacos.

Dot informed us that her husband, JB's brother-in-law, Juan, would have liked to join us but he wasn't feeling well. It seems he caught some sort of bug from their daughter who caught it from her sister's daughter who brought it home from school. But Dottie assured us Juan was on the mend and already in the kitchen, cooking up a storm for the next day's feast.

I felt strange imposing on them when half of the family wasn't feeling well. But Dottie was so excited to see her brother, she probably wouldn't have told us if they were all in the intensive care ward if it would have caused us to reconsider our trip.

Later that Wednesday evening all of Dottie and Juan's children and grandchildren came over for dinner. We ordered pizza because Dottie suddenly wasn't feeling well. I maybe had half a slice of the pepperoni and mushroom. I've been saving pizza as a reward meal which I wasn't even close to deserving yet. Plus I could hear Dottie vomiting through two closed doors. I didn't like the direction this holiday was heading.

The few glimpses I caught of Dot on Thanksgiving Day told me she was miserable. I recalled how only 24 hours earlier she'd given me a big wet smack square on the mouth. Rather than succumb to blind panic, I decided a scientific approach was in order. That afternoon as the various Houston-based members of JB's large extended family gathered to celebrate Thanksgiving, I surreptitiously began collecting information by asking subtle questions. Questions like:

  • "So poor little Juanita came home from school sick? What day was that, exactly?" 
  • "Sorry to hear you weren't feeling well earlier this week. When did you first start feeling ill and what were your first symptoms? Please be specific."
  • "Approximately how long between vomiting episodes? Are we talking hours? Minutes? And how many times would you say you barfed?"
  • "These bouts of vomiting and diarrhea you experienced... were they alternating or concurrent?"
  • "So you say you're still sharting? Fascinating."

Once I had enough data I began running the epidemiological calculations in my head. The results were alarming. Far from being a super-spreader, little Juanita was merely patient zero of a highly contagious, rapidly propagating outbreak, likely viral. Probably the new GII.4 Sydney strain of Norovirus I'd been hearing about. (I really need to stop spending so much time with my CDC friends.)

I then projected the results of my calculations forward into a range of likely personal impact scenarios. Of course, the best case scenario would be not getting sick at all. But I knew the probability of that was about equal to the other extreme of the bell curve: dying in a puddle of vomit and poo.

My projections weren't encouraging. The best realistic outcome I could hope for was making it all the way to early Saturday, perhaps even Saturday afternoon. That would make our scheduled flight back to Atlanta that afternoon an iffy prospect. But there was an equal chance of not even making it to Thanksgiving dinner that evening.

I decided not to share my findings with JB and hope for the best.

To be continued...

Thursday, December 5, 2013

For BosGuy

Working title: Peanuts You Bloody French Bitch

This is the clip I linked to in my previous post showing our airplane tray table. It tickles me so much I wanted to post the actual clip.

I'm sure you AbFab fans have seen this before. My cousin is in her early twenties and never heard of Absolutely Fabulous. I joked that as a FHIT (Fag Hag In Training), AbFab was essential knowledge and made her promise to watch watch at least one episode. I suggested the episode from which this clip is taken. Now she's hooked.

Several attempts have been made to port this show to American television, but nothing ever gained traction. I suppose that's probably for the best. It's hard to imagine an American version being as funny.

I know the British accents along with all the slang and the pop-culture references make the dialog hard to follow. But in this case it makes this show even more enjoyable for me. I can watch the same episode over and over and each time pick up more of the humor. It just keeps getting funnier.

I'm dedicating this clip to BosGuy and his partner Sergio who are wrapping up what by all accounts appears to be an absolutely fabulous vacation in Brazil. Call it a hunch, but I get the feeling BosGuy also relates to this...

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Pie In The Sky

Since JB and I hosted my family last Thanksgiving, it was only fair that this year we spend the holiday with his family. So Wednesday morning we left the house with bags packed and one of JB's home-made pecan pies in hand. We walked four blocks to the nearest Marta station and took the train to the airport.

Exiting the security screening area juggling my duffel bag, coat, shoes, belt, laptop, ziplock baggie of liquids and a fucking pie; I made a comment under my breath that his family better appreciate said fucking pie.

"What did you say?"

Oops. The only time JB's artificial hip ever slows him down is when TSA agents wand his groin for ten minutes, so I was not expecting him to be right behind me. Then again, I wasn't expecting to be carrying an aluminum wrapped container with the same approximate density as plastic explosives through airport security on the busiest travel day of the year.

"Your family is going to love your wonderful pie!" I answered.

"It's not for them," JB said in a tone that indicated he wasn't fooled by my feeble attempt to cover my ass. I shut up and concentrated on literally keeping my pants up with my arms loaded until I could find a spot to put myself back together.

It turns out the pie was for the flight attendants working our flight to Houston. I was impressed by JB's thoughtful gesture toward his colleagues. Until I realized the real method to his madness when the free drinks started coming and didn't stop.

I wasn't really planning to get tipsy at 10:30am, but the relief of getting a seat on the plane, the prospect of spending four days with in-laws and the baby in the row behind me screamed me into it.

That explains why our tray table always ends up looking
like Edina's and Patsy's every time we fly.