National Coming Out Day outfit, yo

I mean gurrrl.

You know why my day is better than yours?

BECAUSE I HAVE A FRESH BOX OF KLEENEX.

Never mind that it’s off-brand. And that I have a bit of a cold. Those pesky details just ruin my narrative.

Hello, corner of unambiguous gay stereotypes!

Vocabulary quiz

My cute little hexagonal-column knickknack pedestals arrived today and I organized them in artful clusters on my knickknack shelf and then carefully displayed my carefully curated running and theater and Disney knickknacks on them and how many times can I say knickknacks in one sentence?

OR:

My cute little hexagonal-column objets d’art pedestals arrived today and I organized them in artful clusters on my objets d’art shelf and then carefully displayed my carefully curated running and theater and Disney objets d’art on them and how many times can I say objets d’art in one sentence?

I just had 5-Hour Energy for breakfast!

I still haven’t taken the left and right labels off my monitors from when my office moved 18 months ago! Peach-pear La Croix tastes like dust and sadness! Let’s ride bikes! Squirrel!

Three-atre!

Tonight I had our first off-book line bash for Aurora AND our first rehearsal for Hello, Dolly! so I thought I’d go for the TCR trifecta and wear my King Triton shirt from The Little Mermaid.

Now I’m sweltering under a ceiling fan because OUR AIR CONDITIONER IS BROKEN AND NOBODY CAN COME FIX IT UNTIL FRIDAY KILL ME NOW KILL ME NOW KILL ME NOW and I’m filled with Tylenol PM to dull the pain of my mole excision and hopefully get me some sleep. Please bring snow.

Miles of decorating progress

Since my stupid owie is preventing me from doing load-bearing things like moving furniture and crawling around on the floor touching up baseboards, I’m focusing my bedroom-redo energy on artsy-craftsy projects like découpaging LiveLaughLove cutouts on my ceiling and making an art installation of my running hats, bibs and medals. I had the brilliant idea of carrying that stupid Captain America shield—mostly hidden here under my Mickey-ear ball cap—on my arm for an entire 13.1 miles in the Disney Avengers Half Marathon, so it’s staying fully enshrined among my endurance running souvenirs, no matter how cheap and out of proportion it looks.

EEK!

After a massive FIVE-WEEK wait to get on the dermatologist’s schedule, I’m finally having my scabby, itchy wrist mole—which turned out to be a squamous cell carcinoma, which it turns out is not, in fact, Bigfoot’s drag name—removed.

I tried to take a picture of Mickey looking terrified of it, but twisting my arm to show the mole next to his face looks more like I was trying to take a gratuitous flexy selfie. But the dermatologists is totally cute, so I do not regret this gross-mole-canceling serendipity.

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!

Check it out!

Disney: check.
Norway: check.
Fashion: check.
Historical research: check.
Serious, meaningful discussions of underpants: check.
Fashiony stuff I might need to know for work if we ever sell 1840s Disney Norwegian royalty underpants: I’ll keep this video bookmarked just in case.

Gah!

It’s not even 10:00 and I’ve already tried to take a drink of soda with the can completely backward, described a solid-color polo as “soiled,” killed a wombat with my bare hands, downed emergency doses of Gabapentin and 5-Hour Energy, and lied about killing a wombat with my bare hands. WHAT’S NEXT, SATAN?

It’s way too late on a Monday to go running. But it’s way too nice not too.

And I’m way too old to pull off daffy faces in selfies.

I had to use a high-contrast filter because it doesn’t photograph well ...

But long, long ago on a hot, hot day, someone set a credit card with the numbers 100 (shown here turned about 75°) on this dresser and the 100 part of the card melted into the varnish.

If I can somehow get the rest of the numbers, I’m going to DISNEY!

Goodbye, delicate-effluvium-of-the-tropics-scented lotions that I purloined from my Disney hotel room in November!

I’ve meted out your blossomy, breezy, not-really-masculiney deliciousness with Herculean restraint over the last seven months, but just like the flora you’re named for, you’ve finally dropped your last petals and drifted away into nothing but fond memories.

LAST CHANCE, PEOPLE! SNIFF ME TODAY OR FOREVER WONDER WHAT THE HELL GRAPEFRUIT BERGAMOT OCEANSIDE SCENT SMELLS LIKE.

30 YEARS AGO TODAY ...

I’m not sure what’s most disturbing about this picture: the bar mitzvah clown smile, the Disney villain eyes, the dinner-plate glasses, the scarecrow neck, the weird-ass way I wore my watch on the inside of my wrist or the pink-on-white shirt that hung on me with all the sex appeal of a Mayan burial gown on an immolated corpse. The girls on my floor (Loser alert! I was living in the Foreign Language House, a co-ed dorm filled with language dorks who stayed in on Friday nights studying verb declensions!) had decorated my door with pink 21s. Probably to match the shirt. Or the homosexuality. I’m not sure where I got the wine, but I am sure I had only a sip of it to celebrate reaching such a milestone age. Because actually drinking a whole glass of alcohol on my 21st birthday would have been something the cool kids would do.

Welp. I’ve emptied the cat box and taken out the garbage for the last time as a 50-year-old.

So the bloom’s off THAT lily.

Facebook has reminded me that I’ve apparently begun commemorating the night before each birthday with a selfie next to the girls. So here we are again. Looking gay as a purse full of kittens.

What I want for my birthday, in no particular order:
• Less stuff
• Someone objective to help me have less stuff
• A hellfire-damning Mueller report
• A fresh start with a normal kitten
• One single little sentence in which autocorrect hasn’t Needlessly capitalized something
• Less stuff
• A bedroom that I’ve finally painted rich-people blue to cover its current state of urine-sample gold
• Someone to help me find the right shade of rich-people blue
• My old abs
• Lots of cake
• But without compromising my old abs
• A Broadway dance career
• Less stuff
• Abs

Things I unearthed in this weekend’s storage-unit excavation, from left to right:

* All those random electronics cords that the world has been searching for in our collective, almost desperate random-electronics-cords drought (sorry!)
* A rubber keychain from a Chicago marathon that I will neither ever use nor apparently throw away
* A half-used container of Body Glide that—get your minds out of the gutter—distance runners use to prevent chafing on rubby body parts and that I’ve used only as a very precautious precaution because I’ve never really had chafing issues but I’d rather not discover that I do halfway through a long, sweaty run
* Art magnets for the art-magnet collection I forgot I once started and clearly never spent much time growing
* The knee brace that got me through my first marathon (can you tell I stumbled on a big box of running stuff in my excavation?)
* A crackle-finish ceramic hand that I bought during my Decorating With Fake Body Parts Phase that if I remember correctly also included a phrenology head, a skull and a fully articulated skeleton on a fake-old-timey stand (all of which no doubt await discovery in a future excavation trip to the storage unit)
* Two souvenir Disney luggage tags that currently contain business cards from four addresses ago, but that’s about to be fixed.

I also found an unopened package of razors and a slightly crumpled box of #10 envelopes that seemed a shame to just throw away, but that’s all so unimportant that I won’t even mention them here.

Those are not Mickey Mouse ears perched on my head

That is not a light saber jammed in my neck. But that IS the confident smirk of a man who just did 3x10 on the incline bench with EIGHTY-POUND DUMBBELLS.

My summer thong bod is finally here.

GREAT MOMENTS IN OSCARS HISTORY:

Allan Carr—the producer who brought us the mega-hit movie Grease in 1978, struggled mightily to keep disco relevant long enough to prevent his 1979 not-at-all-gay-porn-so-stop-giggling movie musical Can’t Stop the Music (featuring the Village People, Bruce Jenner in a wardrobe of distractingly cropped T-shirts, and a “Y.M.C.A.” musical sequence that drove a million ‘70s boys into the filthy homosexual lifestyle) from tanking, and then depleted Broadway’s entire reserves of sequins and taffeta when he made La Cage aux Folles the toast of the town in 1983—sabotaged his entire storied career and everything he’d achieved in life 30 years ago when the “antithesis of tacky” Academy Awards ceremony he produced opened with a now-and-forever-infamous-laughingstock parody of “Proud Mary” sung (extremely poorly) by (I am not making this up) Rob Lowe and (stay with me here) Snow White to celebrate (I said stay with me) “the youth of Hollywood” and (of course) get sued into oblivion by Disney.

Fun fact: He *did* that year change the convention of “And the winner is ...” to “And the Oscar goes to ...”. So there’s that.

#neverforget

When you went to bed an hour ago

but you stumbled into a click hole of Disney-secrets videos and now it’s late and you’re tired and you really need to turn the damn lights off and go to damn sleep but first you take a totally staged helicopter selfie in which you look totally unconvincingly tired and JUST PUT DOWN YOUR DAMN PHONE AND GO TO SLEEP, JAKE. Sheesh.