August 2007

I had the most bizarre dream last night. For some odd reason I was selected to be the gay male co-host on the next season of “The View”. There I was, sitting around the table with Joy, Barbara and Elisabeth with an “S” sharing my opinion on just about any topic. Barbara Walters looked older (maybe it was a nightmare) and Elisabeth with an “S” was shrieking like a yapping dog. After some political discussion and more barking from Elisabeth with an “S”, Joy brought up the topic of breast enhancements on women and how she believed that some women got them because their boyfriend or husband liked bigger breasts. These women didn’t want bigger breasts but they were basically being forced to get them. There was a picture of a woman with huge breasts up on the big screen. I remember spouting off my opinion and saying that I don’t get it as you don’t see many gay men injecting their junk with silicone to make themselves bigger and more attractive, why should women have to do the same thing with their breasts just to make their man happy. If they _want_ bigger breasts, well more power to them, but they shouldn’t _have_ to get them. I remember Barbara’s head falling down onto the table when I said “junk”. The audience went wild (good thing I didn’t say ‘dick’). Then I woke up because I suddenly had a paw in my eye (someone was telling me it was time for tuna).

This is a bizarre dream on several accounts. First of all, I never notice breasts. No offense to those that have them but they don’t do a thing for me so why look for them. In fact, I think this may have been the first time in 39 years that I’ve ever dreamed of breasts. Secondly, Earl and I haven’t watched The View since the second day after Rosie’s abrupt departure and we really have no interest in watching it again. I have no desire to be on The View. I don’t even want to sit in the audience.

Maybe I just have a big mouth.

There are many uncertainties when a person joins a workgroup environment. Will the person in the cube next to me use their perfume as a marinade? Does anyone count the number of trips that I make to the bathroom? Will I get hollered at for standing on my chair to talk to the person in the next cube over? Luckily, my fears have gone unfounded on these questions unless the NSA is keeping track of me pee breaks or something.

The chief concern of our workgroup boils down to two simple words. Temperature control. I discovered early on that he who holds the rights to the thermostat essentially holds the secrets to the universe.

Working in a fancy place called the “Network Operations Center”, we have a LOT of computer equipment and related electronic devices scattered all over the place. To maintain optimum efficiency, it’s important that they run at their proper temperature, so the room has to be relatively cool to achieve this. Being a diehard geek I totally get this and understand it and so I know how to deal with it. I do have metabolism on my side, however, as my body temperature is always unusually low, hovering around 95 or so degrees Fahrenheit. I’m hardly ever cold. Except when I’m at work. At work, I freeze to death.

The room is actually a bunch of smaller rooms with all the walls knocked down and then subsequently divided up by having cubicles thrown all over the place. Our supervisor sits in the middle of the chaos and closest to the thermostat. He holds the secrets to the universe. Having to deal with the headaches associated with his job and other fun scenarios, it’s understandable that his blood pressure boils and makes him warm. So he cools the place down by spinning the dial down. This results in a couple of things. The co-worker behind me starts chattering her teeth like Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin to arrive. The co-worker next to me wraps up in a shawl, sometimes so tightly that she looks like she’s mourning the death of something. Apparently I’m cold blooded because I go into hibernation mode where my eyes glaze over, my web browser browses aimlessly and I eat little scraps of food. I then announce that I’m coming back from lunch with a parka, complete with hood. To add to the fun, I bark over the intercom for someone to pick up a can of Alpo for the sled dogs.

It is then that a brave soul takes a letter opener and jimmies it under the thermostat control, getting the dials to spin in the other direction. Good by Alaska, hello Arizona. But at least it’s a dry heat.

And so it goes, eight hours of a temperate roller coaster. I have to admit though, I kind of enjoy the ride and the folks I’m riding with.

What’s a night owl to do on a hot, muggy summer night in the beginning of August? The alarm is set for 6:00 a.m. I have hopes of going for a bike ride before getting ready for and to work by 8:00. I’m not tired at all. I can’t even fake being tired right now. All that’s going through my head is that my alarm is going to blare out the news on NPR in less than seven hours.

God bless Earl. I’ve already tried going to bed with him and purposely falling to sleep by his side. I’ve sang “Mr. Sandman” complete with bass line. I’ve chatted like some crazy cross between a whippoorwill and a loon. I’ve done impressions of Earl’s soon-to-arrive CPAP machine by covering my mouth with my hands, breathing really hard and saying “Luke, I am your father.” I’ve flipped back and forth and ended up with my knee in Earl’s back. I’ve played the beginning rhythm of Copacabana on his bare ass. He finally blurted out, “Would you shut the f*ck up?!?” His statement was full of love, no worries there.

I’m still not asleep.

Sigh. Night owls shouldn’t have to fake the day life.