My friend Pia, at Courting Destiny, has been nominated for not one, but two blog awards. Best writing and best non-professional blog. She is an exceptional writer and a better friend. And it only takes a few seconds to stop by and vote. Meanwhile, I'm trying to get Pia to endorse the following post as non-offensive.
Have been typing with one and a half hands all day. The outside of my left hand went numb last night. No matter how much I stretch it, shake it, massage my arm, it won't go away. Thought it would be fine when I woke up. It's not. I hope it's not lupus.
My mother was looking at an issue of the National Enquirer when I was over there a couple of months ago. It had a feature article on famous people who were either gay or rumored to be. Mom was just reading them off out loud. Very matter-of-factly. "Oh, Hilary Clinton. You know, I never would have thought that."
I grew up in a household where the National Enquirer was part of the weekly shopping list. And Mom pretty much thought everyone was gay. Except for me and Willie Nelson. Allow me to insert here that I despise tabloids. As for gay people, I have a two-pronged theory. If you're a guy and you're gay, I figure that's one less guy a girl can choose instead of me. If you're a girl and you're gay, I figure there's a possibility I might see you kissing another girl at some point in the future. And let's face it...
Friday afternoon, I called to schedule a massage. I haven't had one since well before Christmas. The lady said that they are renovating. Remodeling. Under investigation. Something. And they won't be offering massages for at least three months. Not good.
Fortunately, that night at Applebee's, I ran into a friend who works at another spa in town. Our conversation had a very auspicious beginning. She told me that they offer massages for ten bucks less than I have been paying. And, she assured me that a female would be doing the massaging. Which is the most important thing, after all. Good enough. End of conversation. Except that it wasn't.
She had been drinking a bit. And it was like a light bulb had just gone off in her head. She turns to J-mo and I and says quite loudly, "You two should come in and get pedicures together!"
What the--?! I almost cursed! Uhhh, no. Guys do not get pedicures together. We don't go into dressing rooms together. We don't go to the bathroom together. And we don't get together after one of us has gone thru a bad breakup to cry, eat ice cream, and dance with each other while watching Lifetime. I just want to make sure we're all clear on that.
Guys go to football games together. We work on cars together, and pretend we know what we're talking about. We go golfing together. And fishing together. But even then, talking is kept to a minimum.
I've been asked if I'm homophobic. I like to think of it more as homonoid (homo + paranoid). A friend coined that word. I borrowed it. I just prefer not to get into certain situations which might make me appear to be something that I am not. Hi, my name is Bone, and I suffer from homonoia. If I were Larry David, I would have the perfect line with which to end this post. And I would do that now. Unfortunately...
I do think that I could perhaps become the Stuart Smalley of heterocity. Let's face it. We've all been in situations that left us feeling awkward and uncomfortable. Accidentally touch hands with another guy. There's almost nothing worse than that. The mid-section of your well-groomed male hair stylist comes to rest snuggly against your arm. Or an attractive girl announces to everyone at the bar that you and your well-dressed male friend should come in and get a "pedi" together.
In times like these, I think we could all use a little positive hetero affirmation. So place your hand on your mouse and repeat after me:
I'm good enough.
I'm straight enough.
And doggone it, women like me.
"Here come the hotstepper. I'm the lyrical gangster. Dial emergency number. Still love you like that..."