If I Had Only Known

This is dedicated to Mrs. Robinson.  You know who you are!


A couple of months ago, I went to the doctor because I had a horrible cough that I couldn't seem to get relief from.  Turns out, I had bronchitis.  This was doubly sucky, as I was leaving for vacation the next day.  Neither of those is the real point of this story though.  See, I have an unwavering need to share.  Privacy?  Pish! (Okay, maybe that's not 100% true, as I do value my privacy; I just like to tell stupid stories about my life; of show pics of me doing ridiculous things like ripping my pants; or the occasional flash of ass.  Always in a specific context though.)

Anyway, at this visit it was discovered that I had high blood pressure.  I mean, do the reading again because it can't be right high.  I'm talking on the verge of a heart attack or stroke high.  So, in a call for honesty, my number was...........192/125.  WHAT?!?  SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!!!!  My pulse was in the low 140's.  Can you say holy fuck?!?  (I'm super competitive, so you know I'm totally like, mine's bigger than yours!  Pluuuuuuh!!!!  In this case, it is; maybe in the other case you're thinking of, it is too.  Again, not the point of this story.)

I knew it was high, but I didn't realize just how high it was.  So of course, my bronchitis took a back seat to this crazy number.  An EKG was performed with no abnormal results.  So naturally, the doctor felt the need to ask if I take stimulants.  To which I replied, "you mean like coffee"?  Him: Do you take any STIMULANTS?  Me:  Oh.  NOOOOOOOOOO!  (I'm totally a good boy; I just like to drink a little).  I'm not sure what it is about me that leads health care practitioners to think I'm under the influence.  Look folks, I'm just a little weird.

I left with a prescription for blood pressure medication, an antibiotic for the bronchitis and some vicodin to help me sleep.  Also, a follow up visit was scheduled to check in on me after my return from vacation (which was awesome, btw).

Flash forward to the day of my follow up visit.  I was chatting with a friend who was lamenting being topless in front of the young chiropractor/massage person.  I made a comment about hoping I don't end up naked at my blood pressure follow up.

So, waiting at the doctor's office and the CRNP comes in to do the exam, which I'm fine with.  I did feel a bit like a giant next to him, as there was at least a foot difference in height.  (HULK TIMMY SMASH!)  We spent time discussing my blood pressure and the proposed course of treatment and I'm taking notes and making jokes, cause that's what I do.  He's looking at random body parts and says, "Okay, now it's time for the male exam".  Really?  Is it my fault for making the comment earlier?

Mind you, I have no problem with being nude in front of folks.  People I know or strangers, I don't care.  However, it was odd considering I was there for a blood pressure follow up and funny because I made a comment about hoping to not end up naked.  Whatever.  So anyway, he's all, stand here and pull your shorts down.  So, giant Timmy is standing in front of him and I thought he said "sit in this chair".  Which was just a regular chair, with no paper or whatever.  My natural reaction was to say, "you want me to put my naked ass on that chair?!?"  He said, no and I felt super classy.  (I'm talking classier than normal.  I can't imagine what any passerby in the hall thought.)

The next thing I know, my boys are getting jingled and I'm on the verge of laughing, because I'm thinking of the conversation from earlier in the day.  So there I am, with the short guy bouncing my balls and alternately thinking don't laugh/don't get hard (what, so I like my balls jingled on occasion.  Too much?).

Then it was over.  Thankfully, before I embarrassed myself further.  Had I known I was going to be naked, I would have worn nicer shorts.  Not that they were full of holes or anything, just very boring.  I might have worn a fair pair with mustaches all over or something nice.  Yup, that was my lesson.  No boring underwear when visiting the doctor.

Just so you know, my blood pressure is much better, as is my pulse.

Jingle Jingle!

But is it Art?

Juice Update #2: The Truth About the Juice

Juice Update #1 aka Ginger is a Hateful Wench!

It's All About the Juice!

I Can Hear the Banjos!

That's Not Really the Kinda of Bat I Dig On

First, let's hear it for the double entendre!  Yayness!!!

Okay, got that out of the way.  This isn't a post about sex or special Timmy time or looking at porn or, you know, things of that nature (so get your damn mind out of the gutter already).  This is a post about baseball (or softball; six, one half as far as I'm concerned).  Sorry if that aside offended anyone, but honestly, baseball is just not my thing.  Yeah, baseball players can be hot with all of that crotch grabbing and spitting and.....where was I?  Wait, non-sexual.  Focus Timmy.  Right, baseball/softball.  (I'm probably going to use those two words interchangeably, so be warned and try not to hate me too much for it).

I'm not the athletic kind.  It has zip to do with the fact that I'm a giant mo, and more to do with the fact that I grew up without a father-type figure.  (I'm not counting my step-father, sorry, move on.  I'm also not trying to whine or be little Timmy against the world; just pointing out what I have identified as the main reason for my lack of athletic abilities).  I wasn't really allowed to play team sports as a kid either (ask my mother why, I have no clue) so that's got something to do with it.  Bygones.

Sadly, my memories of sports tend to be relegated to gym class.  (BARRRRRRRRRFFFFF!)  Those torturous events that we gay teens (who really can't pass for straight) go through that could possibly only be made better by being forced to roll around naked on broken glass.  Why so bad for me?  Well, imagine this:  standing in the baseball field waiting for my turn to bat, thinking "please suddenly rain".  Oh shit, not a cloud in the sky.  Wait, what's that?  Is that rain?  No?  Damn.  Oh crap, it's my turn to bat.  Well, let's get this over with.  1, 2, 3 -- OUT!  At least that's over with for this class.  Let's now go worry about how I carry my books in the hall.  (FUCK YOU BITCHES!  Sorry, that was what I assume a bad acid flashback feels like.)

Yup, this is sounding pathetic and maybe gets a bit worse.  (Trust though, I'm moving out of bad after school special territory).  Flash forward a few years to Timmy playing on a company softball team.  WTF?!?  Clearly I didn't learn my lesson the first go around.

So there I am, walking to bat.  I'm a big guy, so the pitcher motions for his teammates to move back in anticipation of my hitting the ball into the outfield.  (HAHA!  FOOLS!)  So I stand at the ready, flashing back to elementary school gym class, thinking about that plate of spaghetti sitting on my upper arms between my shoulder and elbow (really, the things that stay with us).  He pitches.  I swing and miss.  Wanna guess what happens next?  Yup, two more strikes and I'm out.  At least I look cute in my team shirt.  One of the more humiliating moments as an adult.  (Yeah, I know, THAT's one of the moments I'm ashamed of?  Yup.  Sidebar -- sorry for ending the sentence with a preposition.)

Now I could wallow a little bit and talk about the other epic fails at company softball, but let's end on a positive note.  Let's talk about the game where I actually hit the ball and made it to first base.  Then second.  Holy shit, I think I'm about to make it to third.....ugh, trip on big foot.  Oh, I'm not going to just flop between the bases.  So like the manly man I am (shut up), I threw myself at third base.  Safe!  YES!  Oh, I seem to be bleeding profusely from my knee and my ass is almost hanging out of the shorts that slid down.  (That happened once in tennis too.  Apparently my ass likes to make appearances.  What?  It's a nice ass.  You know you've seen it.)  Shake it off Timmy, shake it off.  To ease the suffering, yes, I made it to home base.  Finally, in my late 20's I accomplish something I never have before in my life (wow, that's just pathetic).  Injury and all, I scored for my team (so different from the other scores I've made).  I felt such vindication; however, much like an endangered species, it was never to be seen again.  I'm okay with that though, because it didn't make me like baseball.

I may not know what I'm doing, but I will play like I do.  There are still times when I'm drinking and I shout, "Let's play football!"  I think I just wanna knock people down.

It's a Drag Baby!

This Was Done By Request (and shows what a dork I am)

This Was Supposed to Be a Book Review

All in the Pursuit of Birthday Gifts; or Why Wal-Mart is a Magical Place

This Would Be Why the Olive Garden Doesn't Have Sticks

Sometimes You Just Have to Go For It

I'd like to think that I carry myself well.  At least in most situations anyway.  Sometimes though, you have to go a little out there to really drive your point home.  I could apologize for the previous, but I will not.  Take it as it is, call it making a statement, hell, call it art; just don't ask me to apologize.

Clearly, I do not have a future in politics.  Well, maybe I do.  It could be the dawn of a new era: the human, not gonna lie to you politician.  Would I want your vote?  Hell yeah, but I won't pander or change want I believe to get it.  I'm not selling out.  Although, my ass is now out there for the world and I'm not even working for tips this time.  ;-)

If it comes back to me in 5 years, at least I can say I'm proud of what I said and did.  Maybe I'd give em a live demonstration.  I should probably shut up now.

Time to Make a Stand

My Summer Plans Include...

I'm Just Gonna Apologize in Advance

And So It Begins.....

We All Need a Julia Sugarbaker in Our Lives

Lately I've found myself re-watching old episodes of 'Designing Women'.  For those of you born in the 1980's who don't know what I'm talking about, all I can say is go get a little pop culture knowledge please.  I was born in the late 70's and I still know references to that decade and before.  Okaaaay?

Anyway, I've always found the character of Julia Sugarbaker to be quite fascinating, as she was ever the lady, but could rip you to pieces with a few well chosen words.  (True characteristics of any great lady.  This is something you will also find in drag queens. Although, from my experience, they tend to be a bit more vulgar; but still, ladies none the less).  I was also surprised to learn that the actress who gave life to her, Dixie Carter, was a Republican, mainly because the character was so very Liberal.  (I'm not knocking on Republicans.  I know some and I adore them.  We recognize that we have different beliefs and that's okay.  Although, we do spend time trying to convert each other.)

Where was I?  Oh right, Julia Sugarbaker.  She was so quick to tear apart, um, er, educate those who spoke from ignorance.  She would jump to the defense of her friends and family with such force and gusto and eloquent wit, that it would make one laugh and think at the same time.  We all need a little of that in our lives.  Our own personal verbal terminator.  Minus the 80's shoulder pads, of course.

But I'm a Cheerleader!

Let me put this out there, I don't particularly like my job.  I'm not going to lie and so I love it.  Not that I have a bad job (not by any means); however, it's not my passion, so I don't want to embrace it wholeheartedly.  In fact, I think people who love their jobs are damn liars.  You're not supposed to love your job, it's....unnatural.  As far as I'm concerned, if you love your job then you are most likely highly medicated (or should be).

Even though I may not love my job, I still aim to have fun everyday; because let's face it, IF I DON'T, I'MMA TAKE A MOTHERFUCKER OUT!  See, no one wants the anger to come out.  So what do i do?  I put myself in a position to make others laugh.  If I'm not saying something dripping with humorous sarcasm, then I'm pointing out and laughing at my own screw-ups (like tripping over my big ass feet or, you know, falling out of my chair).

If I split my pants because they've shrunk (by that I mean, of course, my ass has grown), I share it with those around me.  Why?  It's funny!  (Unless I'm not wearing fun underwear, in which case, no way.  Also, be glad I wear underwear with khakis.)  Sadly, I do this way too often.  Seriously, two pairs in less than a week....just wrong.

I have also been known to dance.  Sometimes against the wall, sometimes against another person (only willing individuals...no sexual harassment on my watch) and sometimes (though not lately) on my desk.  (What bitches?  I've got moves!  I have a dance injury for crying out loud!)  Here, check out said dance injury.

Sometimes I might even split my pants while dancing for someone.  Unfortunately, that's not a joke.  I remember that RRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPP well.  And the expressions of those around me.  Sigh.

Of course, what seems to elicit the most laughter and requests is the 'Timmy Shimmy'.  Yup, it's when I shake my chest (lately my man boobs).  It should only be witnessed to be appreciated.  So, please enjoy the following short video that provides a quick demonstration (the victim gave her permission to post).  Now go forth to your place of work and dance (or split your trousers)!

Don't Be Afraid of Something New

Greg Holden is the shit.  Straight up (now tell me) his music is awesome.  Take a moment to expand your mind and listen to a new artist.  Without new sounds, we wither and die under the same mediocrity that we are faced with every day.  Take a listen to Mr. Holden and feel something fresh.

Anger in "I Don't Believe You".  We all know someone this applies to; hell, I can think of a good dozen folks I'd like to sing this to, face to face (except I can't sing, so that would be nothing short of terrifying).

Memories of a hangover and the good times that led to it in "Bar on A".  Seriously, most of us can relate to this song.  (Probably more so if he sang about puking.  Shut up and stop judging me).

Shed a tear to "The Lost Boy".

What am I trying to tell you?  Go to iTunes (or another online retailer) NOW and purchase his music.  Expand your mind folks.  Besides, you'll be ahead of the trend when he's a well known artist.

Kisses!

To Whom Do You Belong?

Children terrify me.

It's no secret; they straight up scare the bejesus outta me.  Yet, they seem to be oddly fascinated with me.  I'm convinced that, much like wild animals, they are able to smell my fear.

I wasn't always like this.  When I was younger, I didn't mind being around children.  I would play with them and try to engage them through baby talk and such.  However, as I grew older and went through a period when I wasn't around them regularly, I developed an aversion to them.  It's not like I hate them or anything.  It's just...well....let me steal a line from Margaret Cho:  when I see them, I feel nothing.

Can't help it, it's just the way I am.

Yet, there are times when I think I might want one (you know, to start my army).  I've always joked that if I had twins, I would name them Vodka and Rum (because clearly, I like to drink).  In all seriousness though, there are times when I feel like I might wanna be a dad.  (I just threw up.  Not just a little in my mouth, but all over the cat that is sitting beside me.  That's how much it freaks me out.)

I go with the normal reasons to not be a parent:

          I'm too selfish;

          I would lose interest;

          My cat would get jealous and smother him/her/it;

          Um, DIRTY DIAPERS;

          I'd kinda suck at it.

Yet, I have that damn clock ticking away telling me it's time.  "I'm a huge homo!" I scream at it!  "Only lady gays have that urge!!!"  Yet, it ticks on.  And it ticks.  Quite frankly, it's starting to annoy me.  Where the hell is the snooze button anyway?!?

(Sorry for that being less funny than I had hoped, but I'm glad it's off my chest.  Also, if I do it, I totally need a nanny, because, well, DIRTY DIAPERS!!!!)

The Dog Knows That We're "Those Kinds of People"

I Am a Classy Beast

Most of us try to exhibit a little class and decorum in our daily lives.  I certainly do.  I respect manners and try to retain some level of dignity (not that I'm afraid to share my embarrassment and shame with, well, the world).  However, we all give in and are less classy than we would like.  (I hope that most of us try to keep this in the privacy of our own homes, but who am I to judge?  Oh wait, I am Judgey McJudge most of the time, so there!)

Here, I share some of my "classiest" actions:

Everybody farts.  Blunt, yes, but true regardless.  Most of us try to refrain from passing gas in public.  I do.  I would rather suffer than show everyone I'm human.  (The same can be said of fashion: show over comfort.)  However at home, I do enjoy a nice fart.  It makes me giggle, so what of it.  Lately however, my dog has become a participant in these moments.  No we don't create a symphony of toots, instead, when I pass gas, he now runs to me and barks.  Often times at my ass.  Sometimes he brings a toy.  I'm really not sure what he's trying to tell me or how to take it.  Still, it makes me laugh.

At work, I floss at my desk.  I could walk to the restroom, but it's so much easier to whip it out and start flossing there.  I can be in the middle of a conference call and cleaning my teeth at the same time.  Why?  Cause I'm classy like that.

I have a tendency to record my drunken ramblings and post them on my blog.  Why would I do that, you ask?  Well, I am a classy motherfucker!

I swear.  A lot.  In person and online.  Can't beat my classy!

We received some snow recently.  I cleared off my car, so that the other car could be taken out of the garage.  I entered my laundry room from the garage and realized that my pant legs were wet.  I thought, "hey, I'm home alone, I'll just take my jeans off here".  As I was doing so, I was quoting Gloria from 'Modern Family' because she makes me laugh hysterically.  (CHJAAAAAAY!  We have peeckles!  Welcome to your nightmare!  Ha Ha Ha!)  Anyway, I walked into the other room just in time to hear the door open.  I was caught wearing a winter coat and little else.  Sadly, I had to take a picture to document the moment.  What you can't see in the picture, is that I'm also wearing ankle length white socks and Adidas slides.  I thought I would share this with you....because I'm so very classy.