Sigh

Three of Walmart’s finest ran into my cart in one trip and Iowa-timidated ME into saying Ope and I’m sorry but that’s just an egregious abuse of first-caucus-in-the-nation power.

Also: furnace filters + lightbulbs + non-slip rug pads + cat food-to-poop supplies = a sad, sad afternoon of quiet-desperation adulting

Flashback Friday: Bow Ties And Billowy Pleats Edition

This—THIS!—is what I thought was acceptable attire for setting foot in Washington DC's Kennedy Center to see Tyne Daly in the 1989 revival of Gypsy. (Early non-linear side note: You never forget your first Gypsy. And while I don't l-o-o-o-o-o-v-e the show like other card-carrying-Platinum gays, I still love Tyne Daly as Rose more than any other women I've seen in the role since then. And that includes Patti. Because she's never met a vowel she couldn't chew into a meaty, puddingy, distractingy triphthong.)

Anywho ... THAT OUTFIT ...

Nothing says "I sit down to pee" quite as efficiently as a bow tie. I taught myself to tie a bow tie when I was in high school, while all the other kids were doing more useful things like—oh, I don't know—hanging out with each other and forming meaningful friendships. I thought my little Madras plaid bow tie made me look so throwback-non-conformist hip 'n' cool that I went out and bought a bunch more bow ties in all kinds of colors and patterns. Which makes this plaid one my gateway bow tie. One reason I was so good at tying bow ties was those glasses. Their lenses were so expansively huge—like the much-ballyhooed-about-to-be-launched Hubble telescope!—that I barely had to bend my neck to look down and see what I was doing. And as we all know, efficiency is the DNA of questionable fashion. You can't see it clearly here, but I also had a coordinating Madras plaid watch band. As in a bow-tie-matching watch band made of sweat-absorbing-and-quickly-gross fabric. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! I somehow decided it was totally-probably-sexy-cool to wear it with the watch face ON THE INSIDE OF MY WRIST. Because WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? And let's not overlook those voluminous pleated khakis—not that we could ever tear our eyes away from the uncharted galaxies of animal-balloon space they occupied around my wispy little goblin hips. They were from The Gap, see, and I'd had a bit of an inferiority complex as a younger person that—and I am not making this up—made me feel not cool enough to shop at The Gap. I'd literally walk by it at the then-fancy Westdale Mall and feel awkward and panicked and a little bit resentful. Do not fear: My therapist has been alerted. Anyway, one fateful day I scrounged up the courage to wince timidly into that Gap and find the men's section (which in the gender-bendy '80s wasn't clearly delineated to me as I entered the store) and immediately found these dream pants with all their essential dream details: classic khaki coloring, heavy cotton poplin (a natural fiber! in the '80s! I KNOW!) (also: like every socially awkward fashionista, I knew what poplin was as a young gaylet ... and why it was more laid-back-casual-and-therefore-better than twill) (also: twill is for librarians who aren't allowed to sit with the other librarians at lunch), voluminous pleats, super-dramatic taper, securely tacked ankle-strangling cuffs. TOTAL MEGA COOL-KIDS FASHION. And I'm pretty sure I was wearing my white suede bucks with red fake-rubber soles with them. Because PLEASE BEAT ME UP I'M SUPER '80s GAY.

So let's review:

Face-swallowing glasses + perfectly puckered plaid bow tie + inside-out sweaty watch + pleats with their own ZIP codes + legs tapered in the shape of super-pointy ice-cream-cones = man who goes to the theater to see angsty-gay-anthem-filled musicals with his mom. Every time.

New flavor. Do not recommend.

Unless you have an insatiable thirst for store-brand cough syrup poured into a melted Slurpee that’s sat in a hot car for five days. Followed by four hours of sweaty jitters, of course.

Also: My office bingo card is as winning as a trump spelling be.

SURE THING!

This shirt seemed like a versatile, suitable-for-all-occasions chemise when I found it for $5 on an Old Navy tumble table way back when Old Navy was relevant and people actually said “tumble table.”

Now I find it slightly problematic for places like work and public locations in general ... so instead I’m wearing it backstage at a wholesome musical cast with legions of corruptible kids who see me as a plausible role model.

But, hey: FIVE DOLLARS

Also: Don’t judge my floofy, savagely untamed hair here; I was freshly showered and rolling my leg injuries as I took this selfie and I hadn’t yet styled my coiffure for our wholesome musical cast with legions of corruptible kids who see me as a plausible role model. SO DON’T BLAME ME WHEN THEY GROW UP TO BE DAMN COMMIE SOCIALIST HIPPIES.

Also: FIVE DOLLARS

Hello, Tech Rehearsal!

Meriwether—my severely parted old-timey coiffure is named Meriwether—and I have on our Sunday clothes and we’re ready for our 12-hour Hello, Dolly! tech rehearsal. But it’s the last gasping hours of the Victorian Era and even though the Second Industrial Revolution is in full swing, WHAT IN ALL UNHOLY TARNATION IS THIS RECTANGULAR CONTRAPTION IN MY HANDS?

Also: Mega Plaid Tweed will one day make a most excellent band name once “punk” is invented. And “bands.”

Also: Yes, there is a purportedly heterosexual Jake growing out of my shoulder. He will be surgically excised at the tonsorial parlor forthwith.

E-I-E-I-O

I’m washing and drying our poultry-themed knickknacks and the top drying towel in our kitchen drawer had a bovine motif and there’s an eagle on that antique green bottle and long story short don’t come over because it’s an absolute zoo here.

Also: There are few things in life more satisfying than rinsing the dust off of plastic flowers with a squirt of soap and the spray nozzle on the sink faucet.

Calfway there and livin' on a prayer

Walgreens rudely doesn’t have calf-compression sleeves so I had to improvise and buy a knee one. But I’m not certified on knee-to-calf conversion measurements so I bought one that’s way too big. But I layered one of those stick-on heating pads (which was designed for backs, so again: more blind-guessing conversions) underneath and I’m just hoping for the best.

Also: My ankle looks weirdly puffy.

Also: I have no idea why I’m in possession of two mismatched wastebaskets at work, but it makes me feel richer than Midas so don’t tell anyone.

I’m going to make “harder to find than the peanut butter at the west side Walmart” a common phrase in the popular English lexicon if it’s the last thing I do

(It’s by the tea. Because why put it by the bread LIKE IN EVERY OTHER GROCERY STORE IN THIS AND ALL OTHER GALAXIES?)

Also: I accidentally hit the wrong button at the gas pump and now my car is purring along on way fancier gas than it’s used to. I’m already scorning all you gutteral commoners and your sad little budget gas.

I’m at my three-month nephrology checkup to monitor any potential kidney damage from my psych and various other meds

My kidney doctor’s office ALWAYS has HGTV playing in the waiting room, so every time I talk about my pee (oops ... creatinine) I hate the countertops and I think the en-suite is too small.

Also: boat anchor shorts!

Also: super-expensive-super-awesome adidas x Raf Simons sneaks that were super-super-mega-super 75% on sale!

Also: adidas doesn’t capitalize its name, lest you think I’d EVER make a fashion typo!

My! Stitches! Are! Finally! Out!

Also: Marlin! Shorts!

I’ve been wide awake for no useful reason since four o’stupid

I’m not supposed to exert myself for fear of ripping out my sutures, but it’s been six days and the massive gash in my wrist seems to be healing nicely (I have suitably gruesome photos of it if you want to start your day with a good splash of emesis) and I’m bored and restless and feeling fat from not exercising for a whole week AND WOULD IT REALLY CRIPPLE ME FOR LIFE IF I RAN THREE TEENSY LITTLE MILES IN THIS PERFECT RUNNING WEATHER?

Also: Look at the weird stuff you can find on the Internet when you’re wide awake for no useful reason at four o’stupid.

You will be found

There’s only one thing more certain than me taking a selfie when I’m at the gym: me forgetting where I parked my car when I leave the gym. In my defense, EVERYONE at the gym today came in a silver car.

Also: new haircut!

Also: Disney running shirt!

Also: I finally found my car!

My co-workers might be starting to suspect I’m gay

Also: My birthday doughnuts had rainbow sprinkles. But the doughnuts from my plate are all gone. I might need to go to the kitchen to get more.

I thought I knew where the Angels in America angel is in Central Park, but clearly I don’t

So instead I’m commemorating my final run with a selfie in front of this gorgeous blooming tree. I’m pretty sure it’s not a cherry tree, and google isn’t offering any useful information to help me identify it. So we'll just call it gorgeous.

Also: El Camino shirt!

Huh.

It turns out that when you suddenly no longer have EXACTLY 42 MINUTES AND NOT A SECOND MORE to squeeze in a plausible workout between work and rehearsals or shows, you’ll lollygag and futz around and get to the gym an hour later than you’d planned and you’ll stretch your (expanded, to be fair) workout to almost two hours. BUT! You’ll have a whole new pile of fresh meat—oops: fresh inspiration. sorry. typo.—preventing you from taking a passable stealthfie.

Also! Not not to brag, but I just jumped up to 80 lb dumbbells on the incline press and the 80 lb barbell on skull crushers (which, if you do them right, do not, in fact, crush your skull). I may be a Peter Procrastinator tonight, but I also feel like a big ol’ Mike Monster.

Apparently it’s International Back Day But Don’t Tell Jake Let Him Figure It Out For Himself When He Gets To The Gym

because all the back equipment is being used by guys who are way bigger than I am so I could never take them in a Back Equipment Smackdown! so I’m pecking-order relegated to the lesser back equipment and since nobody’s breaking down the back (HA!) door to use my lesser back equipment I have all the time in the world to sit on it and blog about my forlornity as my lats droop into my socks.

Also: I’m wearing a hat today. Which accidentally matches my shirt. Which is exactly why I never wear hats except in extreme hair emergencies; I’m too innately coordinated when I accessorize.

Leg Day always goes better

when you’re halfway done and you can already barely walk because you timed it just right and snagged the good quad machine that destroys all things good and holy in you except your encyclopedic knowledge of Sondheim trivia and your will to live with under 100 pairs of super-cute shoes.

Also: Pink + Provincetown + muscle-cut + T-shirt is code for gay + gay + gay + T-shirt.

The dimple in my tie is totally on point tonight and I don’t want to ruin it so I won’t be doing any stripping

Also: Have you met my lovely stage wife? Shhh—don’t tell her I’m a feral jungle-beast stripper. I have a rep to protect.

When you FINALLY put away the Christmas decorations in your bedroom and bring out your regular decorations and rediscover that you’re a bit of a Francophile

Also: Covet my freshly polished, super-awesome bookshelf built from remnant wood by my homebuilder great-grandfather!

Also: My beanbag juggling cows have started yet another year (decade?) being shelf decorations instead of teaching me how to juggle.

It takes an awful lot of clothing to be a singing stripper

Also: There are grown, functioning adults in our dressing room who just asked each other in a fog of cultural bewilderment if the song “Footloose” was written for the movie Footloose or afterward in some kind of ride-the-post-Footloose-movie-pop-culture-wave frenzy. And I am apparently THE ONLY PERSON IN THE ENTIRE DRESSING ROOM WHO’D LIVED THROUGH THE ‘80s AND FOUGHT IN ITS HARDSCRABBLE BEMOMJEANED TRENCHES AND ACTUALLY SAW FOOTLOOSE IN THE THEATERS WHO COULD UNLOCK THE MYSTERIES OF THE MEDIEVAL PAST AND ANSWER THEIR QUESTION.

(Answer: The song was written for the movie. DUH.)

Also: Kevin Bacon as Ren McCormack. Or just guys named Ren in general. Sigh.