Thursday, March 27, 2014

Lessons From A Gay Cruise

I learned to never judge a book by its cover.

I learned that, statistically, my husband gets hit on approximately 2.5 times more than I do.

I learned that if the norovirus is even half as contagious as body glitter, the only way to avoid it would be to spend the entire cruise barricaded inside your cabin with wet towels stuffed under the door.

I learned that on a gay cruise, the distinction between swimwear and underwear is fluid and subjective.

I learned that in photos posted to Facebook, the distinction between swimwear and underwear is actually quite obvious.

I learned that glass elevators are a magnet for ass prints.

I learned that, while bears are generally low-
maintenance, they do seem to be responsible
for a disproportionate share of pipe clogs.
I learned that if one gets up at the crack of dawn and puts towels on the best deck chairs at the pool, he retains ownership of said deck chairs should he and his buddies decide to make an appearance later.

I learned I can sleep in and still get a great deck chair – and make friends in the process – by being social and giving instead.

I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the various gauges of genital piercings. I did not, however, learn how those guys got their junk through the metal detectors.

I learned that at sea, just as on land, lesbians gravitate to bowling alleys.

I learned I should never stand between my husband and Carl whenever a talented pianist plays any selection from the Beaches soundtrack.

I learned that if you have a balcony stateroom, it's a good idea to wear pajamas. Just because there's nothing but open ocean as far as the eye can see when you go to bed doesn't mean you won't wake up at port to find a Disney ship docked thirty feet away.

I learned that working on a cruise ship is probably not as glamorous as The Love Boat made it seem. Especially on a gay cruise, there are some chores you couldn't pay me enough to do. I kept picturing some poor soul laundering our sheets and towels and dreaming of a promotion to glass elevator squeegee-er.

I learned that if you're looking for Stevie,
check the buffet, the spa, then the European
sunbathing deck, in that order.

Monday, March 17, 2014

No Such Thing As Life-Proof

A year ago I wrote how my partner, JB, broke his iPhone. (The Stages of Upgrading) And how I got the blame because I pushed him out of a moving vehicle, causing his phone to smash to the ground, shattering the screen. Or so he claims.

My side of the story is a little different and, dare I say, not insane. He just couldn't accept the fact that his own carelessness caused him to break his Precious. But I long ago learned that being a scapegoat is just part of the job description as JB's life partner. It falls right after ghostwriting all his formal correspondence. And just above never, ever again comparing him to Meg Ryan's character in "When Harry Met Sally".

Fortunately his old iPhone 4 was due for an upgrade, and life soon returned to normal. In order to insure I would never have to take the fall for breaking his new iPhone 5, I splurged on an pricy LifeProof case for it. This thing not only guaranteed protection from drops, it was waterproof.

JB used this case for the better part of a year before losing the arm-band accessory and then the headphone pig-tail plugs, rendering it no longer waterproof. After this he decided he'd like something with a little less bulk. It was while trying out new phone cases that he discovered his iPhone 5 had suffered some serious damage within the LifeProof case.

He insists he has no idea what happened to his phone. So of course he's blaming the LifeProof case for the damage. I can see a tiny dent on the back of the case right where the iPhone is bent which tells me the phone suffered some sort of trauma which bent it in spite of being inside the protective case. In any case, JB demands satisfaction. Which means I'll probably be ghostwriting a letter to the LifeProof company soon.

In the mean time, JB doesn't dare remove his iPhone from the LifeProof case lest it fall to pieces. Kind of like how M. Night Shyamalan's pickup truck was the only thing keeping the top half of Mel Gibson's wife alive in the movie "Signs".

Monday, March 10, 2014


Great. Carpal tunnel
and mercury poisoning.
Man, I've sucked at blogging lately. Life has been a blur since returning from the big gay cruise. It started with my first day back at work to find, with the exception of my cube, the entire floor of the office had been cleared out. Welcome back, right?

I finally tracked down my team in another building. It seems that while I was gone we'd been re-org'd into a different department. I moved my belongings into what I assumed was my new cubicle. I made this assumption based on the fact it was the only only vacant cube near my team, occupied by only a large building support column and a stash of florescent tubes.

Saturday JB uploaded a bunch of vacation pictures to Facebook. It was fun to relive all the good times and to know it all really happened, and that it wasn't just a dream. Then I made him take them off. Unfortunately not before my sister saw a photo of me in my underwear.

I've used my $2000 gym bag only once
so far. To move a Dell workstation.
I'd managed to successfully steer clear of Facebook for the better part of two years. I have a much easier time relating separately to my various groups of friends, family and acquaintances on more targeted social media outlets. Twitter is for my blog friends. LinkedIn is for my college friends, previous co-workers and business contacts. Yammer is for my work colleagues. Instagram is mostly family and my in-real-life friends. I even dabbled in Google Plus but haven't fully committed yet.

But since meeting so many great new friends on the cruise, I've been getting a lot of friend requests which has compelled me to reengage with Facebook and my tangled ball of "Facebook Friends". This mass includes all the above groups all mixed together with absolutely no context whatsoever.

And that's my problem with Facebook.

You can fill-flash my ass, Al.
As our big gay ship was docking in Saint Maarten, JB and I looked over our balcony and saw a beautiful, super-gay rainbow. I snapped a quick photo with my iPhone just before it vanished. I ran it though my Dynamic Light app to draw out the colors and brighten JB's face. After buying some internet time ashore, I thought my photo worthy of sharing on Facebook. My first post in over two years and the first comment was from a college roommate I haven't seen in twenty years.

"Pat, turn on the fill-flash next time. It'll help with the shadows."


I need to start a book club
for the humor challenged.
Later I made a post asking why, under Facebook's "book suggestions" for me, the first two recommendations were "The Bible". I mean, just because Facebook thinks it knows more about me than anybody else does, now I'm a heathen?

Again, another college acquaintance felt the need to chime in. "I recommend Plato's Republic, or Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky."

God, I hate Facebook.