They Say a Watched Pot Will Never Boil

To start, it needs to be said that the first line of my last entry was meant to be read sarcastically. I do not go to CBGB's every weekend. In response to the last post, my friend Carrie, the one who made sure I was not dressed like a dork for my heavy metal concert, had this to say, "...all of our mutual friends read that and thought 'who the hell is Carrie to deem someone dressed like a dork or not for a metal concert...the girl dresses like a kindergarten teacher!'...to which, I humbly accept their criticism as truth."

Yesterday, I was home sick with a fever. After barely sleeping and then violently throwing up, I thought it might be best to not go to the office. I spent all day moving from my bed to the couch and the couch to my bed, and leaving messages like, "I feel like shit" on my parent's answering machine. I woke up this morning feeling much better, and now here I am, back at work, using my time wisely.

Two nights ago, while waiting for my friends in front of a bar called Max Fish, I overheard a homeless man named John making comments to people passing by. When a woman came out of Max Fish to have a cigarette, they began a conversation that combined English, French, Spanish and drunk. I can generally translate all four, and let me tell you, they said nothing of consequence or interest. Later, John greeted a woman as she entered her apartment. When she asked him how he was doing, he said, "not as good as you're looking." That is pure gold.

At the end of April, I am going to a wedding in Colorado Springs. Carrie called me and suggested that we extend our visit to Colorado by a few days and go to a dude ranch. She gave me a few days to think it over. I give serious thought to anything that Carrie says because she not only puts up with all of my crap, she calls me on it, too. After a few hours of contemplation, the answer became obvious. "Carrie, what was I thinking?! Sign us up."

There was an immediate problem. How would Carrie make it clear to the dude ranch, in a subtle way, that she is booking the reservation for ex-college roommates/close friends and NOT lesbian lovers escaping for a romantic Western weekend getaway?

The owner of the dude ranch put her feelers out. "Would you like twin beds or a queen bed?" Obviously, she thought that Carrie's answer would solve the puzzle. Twin beds=straight. Queen bed=gay. If only it were that simple. We want the queen bed, of course; it is much warmer than twin beds. Plus, I am an indiscriminating cuddler.

Carrie played it very cool by saying, "Oh, whatever." Very breezy. I believe we were given the twin beds.