Or, On How to Avoid Becoming a Lesbian at College
My friend, Frances, and I have married the same man.
Frances: Alex is bobsledding in Lillehammer. He’s a bit nervous.
Me: Why? He’s loves to ski black diamonds in brightly colored one-piece snowsuits.
Frances: The first time they go down in a big bathtub thing with five or six [...]
… has nothing to do with $$$, and never has, although travel always requires work, which requires money in exchange for goods and services.
… spent 3 years in London, and very much likes the Idea of British.
… is sometimes melancholy, and loves thick lyrics that make me want to sing along.
… eats frozen pizzas alone [...]
Or, The Case of My Dad and Neosporin
I’d like to say, for the record, that I always thought it was weird that Neosporin had the word “spore” in the middle of it. That might have been, partly, why I always liked it.
I also know that I liked it because my Dad was totally obsessed with [...]
… or Why I Wear My Hot Sexy Boots for A Gay Guy I Only See Once Every Eight Weeks
Today I went through the torture ritual of getting dressed–prior to my haircut. There was a shower too, and shaving, and an awful lot of tweezing.
I am off at 12:30 to see The Man– Mickey, my [...]
Frances and I were coming home from the West End recently, about 10:30 or so, on the Bakerloo Line. We were chatting in our normal voices — louder than most Londoners would shout if they saw the number 189 bus careening toward their dear old granny but much quieter than my beloved and now-deceased Uncle [...]
