I have been very busy working on a new project. I created a folder on my desktop called, "Hi. I've slept with you." Then I went on Facebook and downloaded photos of my exes.
Do you have any idea how many people I have dated who were in bands? In fact, most of them are STILL in bands. Clearly I have a type. In my folder now are several pictures of relatively old men standing on a stage.
And what's funny is I'll be perusing my list of FB friends and stampede right over someone and then a few minutes later go, "Oh! Bloop de Bloo Bloo! You forgot you slept with him and he belongs in the folder!" Perhaps that's not so much funny as tragic. What's even more tragic is that I could be attracted to someone named Bloop de Bloo Bloo. He had a really nice car.
Obviously, not everyone I've slept with is my Facebook friend. There are some exes who hate my guts, and some whose guts I am not particularly fond of. Some of the gut-haters (Daniel Boone) are on Facebook anyway, so I can steal their souls and photos for this useful project. Others are NOT on Facebook, and this means I have to troll the Internet looking for middle-aged white men with totally common names. You think this is easy? Why didn't I go for fewer John Smiths and more Bloop de Bloo Bloos?
And oh. Yes, I DO have a statistics textbook to edit right now. What do you mean I always find stupid things to do when I have a statistics book to work on?
MY POINT IS, and at this point you need to get dinner ready, I know, I Googled an ex and found he is, well, not a celebrity but sort of known in his region. So there was a writeup about him, and his accomplishments (they didn't mention the accomplishment of "wore a beret in college and no one kicked his ass"), and it ended with "He lives with his husband and two dogs in..."
So there it is. The first official gay ex-boyfriend. I mean, we all must have them. Well. Okay. A lot of us must have them. Which leads me to an interesting thing I read on Dooce yesterday. She has a blog post from a Mormon woman who is divorcing her gay husband. She knew he was gay when she married him.
That post led to a post from a gay Mormon man who is staying in his marriage to a woman.
And you know what? Don't judge either of them till you've read their stories. Because I was all ready to embrace the divorcer and detest the stayer, and I ended up totally feeling both of them. Look, it's not my religion, you know? I am not Mormon, do not pretend to be, do not have ANY IDEA what it's like to believe the stuff they believe. But I try VERY HARD to live and let live, and guess what? This guy is hurting no one. Not even himself.
Did you know I wasn't Mormon? I mean, based on the enormous new folder on my desktop? Is it politically incorrect to say "Mormon"? Am I supposed to say LSD or whatever they call themselves? If so, why? Is it the polygamy thing? I really don't know.
Whatever. Let's look at pictures.
lillee shoot lazers at Iriss. try to fix eyeballs. dis work, you think?
Have I ever told you that ...friend's cat, who you all cleverly named ...kitty, walks around with bags on her head? Apparently she has always done this. She sheds the bag, looks around to see where she is, then puts it back on. She can even leap to the top of the fridge with a bag on her head. She is The Unknown ...Kitty.
And you know what's funny? I mean, you won't be stitching your sides because of this, but it's funny in a sort of interesting way, is ...friend's cat doesn't automatically look at the camera, as my photographed-every-day pets do. (Did you ever notice that, Hulk? That I take my pets' photos sort of often? Has that ever bugged you? You never say so in the comments.) Do you think my pets know they're microcosmically famous and that's why they look at the camera? Or do they just know by now that if they look I will leave them the Sam Hill alone, finally. Is that it?
And to conclude, in summation, finally (FINALLY), yesterday was Faithful Reader Dawn's 46th birthday--and Dawn? Hang on to 46. HANG ON TO IT. Because I will be effing 47 in less than a month.* Anyway, Dawn's sister wrote me and asked if I'd say happy birthday, and just to suck up and ensure I'd do so, she said, "You and your uvula are our heros!"
So happy birthday, Dawn. My uvula and I celebrate our love for you. And yes, it is after 10:00 and I'm not dressed yet.
*Yes, of COURSE I added to my Amazon Wish List. Because I am a horrible woman who is greedy.
