Erica's Creative Team Award

Boy. I have such talented friends (and lovahs). I feel like every week I'm posting a new competition and begging all of you to vote. This one is from the creative team at Weight Watchers, where Erica works, and she asked that I post it.

Here it is:Hello everyone,

I just wanted to let you know (or remind you if you know already) that our “Stop Dieting Start Living” campaign hub is a finalist in one of the biggest Flash competitions out there – Flash Forward. You can view our submission and the other finalists here:

www.flashforwardconference.com finalists - it’s in the “Video” category at the bottom.

Also – it would be great if you could vote (and get all your friends to vote) for us in the People’s Choice Award:

www.flashforwardconference.com people's choice - again “Video” category - “Stop Dieting Start Living”

Voting ends next week so let’s get those votes in!!!

Look ... a FROG!

So sue me. I hate the outdoors. I don't like sweating. I don't like dirt. I don't like fucking bugs. I am terrified of frogs -- which are all over outdoors.

I am in Woodstock, NY where, although the actual concert was held an hour south in Bethel, hippies are banking loads of money through marketing the three days of peace and music. And for some reason it surprised me. I just didn't think 1, that people cared that much anymore and 2, that hippies would maintain their lifestyle in the sense of not bathing, but switch over to capitalism based on a concert that was held an hour away from here thirty years ago.

Although I have always fantasized about being 18 in 1968 and being a hippie at the festival, I have learned that I didn't know what I was talking about. Because if the true hippies smelled anything like the hippies I have encountered here in Woodstock (patchouli and feet), there is no way I could have ever been a hippie. Even on massive amounts of hallucinogens.

Plus, hippies love nature. They like to get right up in it. Right up to their un-deodorantized armpits. I love nature from afar.

We're here in Woodstock to celebrate Erica's mom's 60th birthday with the family. We're all staying in this huge cabin and have been eating and playing games and telling stories and having a great time. Outside every single window in this place is woods. It's beautiful. We have frequent deer sightings. I love that. We've been to town for dinner and to shop in the village green. Fun and cute and great.

And then came the hike.

Oh, we're all going on a hike and it's gonna be nice. Grandma is coming.

Cool. I can totally handle a grandma-paced hike. Not too fast, not too steep, not too creepy crawly. Awesome.

Then we get there. And we start going up. Grandma ends up not being with us so we keep going up. Up. At a 45 degree angle. In heat. And I'm starting to sweat. And then the bugs start biting. And I'm panting. Did I mention I get face sweat. Lots of face sweat. This is foul and incredibly unpleasant (not to mention unattractive, which I am not into). But I'm trudging along. I am hating every step, but I'm in there. Erica tries to cheer me up. "At least it's pretty."

We are on a hill surrounded by pine trees and moss and ivy. It was like being at home in the woods. I played in the woods as a kid. When I could tolerate humidity. And dirt. To me, I see woods and I see places for snakes. And frogs. (Terrified of them, people. Irrationally and irreparably terrified.) Yes, there are pretty elements, but as a whole, unpretty. Then she gives me an out.

Yeah. I don't want to do this either. We can go if you want.

Bingo. "Oh thank god. Yes let's go."

Hey everyone. Susan doesn't want to hike so we're going to go back.

Susan doesn't want to hike? What an asshole. To add to this, after we finally tear away from the barrage of, "Oh come on's," accompanied by a list of things meant to entice me to want to continue the torture. "Look how pretty! It'll be fun! Look ... a FROG!"

"That does it! Fuck this. I am getting off this hill."

I'm half stumbling, half stomping defiantly back toward the car. Furious. It's hot. It's humid. I have bug bites and sweat pouring off my face. I'm surrounded by a plague of amphibians and Erica completely threw me under her family's guilt bus. Plus, I'm partially blinded because I'm sobbing hysterically. Then Erica, referring to her previous statement, Yeah. I don't want to do this either. We can go if you want, says, "Well, what I meant to say was that hiking wasn't my first choice but I was doing it because I never get time to spend with my family."

Hot.

My New BFF

So.

This morning I'm walking Chulo -- it's my week. That's the system. Erica does a week, I do a week. If it's your week you are in charge of feeding and walking Chulo every morning before work.

Erica actually has some system where she makes sure she is occupied downstairs in the bathroom until Chulo has become so frantic with starvation that I give in and feed him. So her week she just walks him. And frequently she will pull a whiny, "Will you walk him this morning? Puh-lease." Erica is a lazy dog owner. But, she's a good runner. As in errand runner. So, I let her get away with it. (Though I very rarely fall for that puh-lease crap.)So. I'm walking Chulo on the usual route this morning and I see a little gathering of pigeons on the sidewalk. Then I realize that they're there because food is being thrown down to them from the third floor window of this building. Naturally I look up.

Guess who.

Mr. Bud in a bag.

No. Really. I swear.

He loves dogs and pigeons. So this man, who I run into at the shelter is not only a Budweiser lover, he's an animal lover too? People, my heart just pure swole up with love for this man.

As I looked up and saw him there in all his morning hair, bare-chested, hands full of crackers, leaning out of his window glory. Our eyes met and gave me a huge smile. And he yelled down something ... about the birds I think, or maybe it was about Chulo. Who knows? It's hard enough to decipher what he's saying when we're face to face on the street. From three stories up, it's impossible. But I think he remembered me this time and I think he might love me too.

I know he tried to hide his Bud from me on our first date, but things are moving so quickly. I think the next drink's gonna have to be on me.

I'm Switching It Up.

Hi everyone. Recently I've been doing research on how to switch from blogger to my own domain.

From what I can tell, and from knowing how limited my website-related knowledge is, this is going to take place in steps.

Step one. I'm changing the name. The web address will remain the same until I figure step two out. I'm also pressuring my designer girlfriend to get to designing something fantastic for me.

However, that may take some time as she is currently obsessed with both her new bike and how we drill into the brick wall so we can install our new Elfa shelves. (Warning. If you see Erica, do NOT ask about her new bike unless you have a minimum of 40 minutes to spare. Add another 40 if there is a computer with internet nearby.)

Fucking Cat

Erica and I bought this rug recently. We ordered it in January. It was backordered until March. We got offers from Crate and Barrel to cancel the order because it was taking so long. But dear Smoking Baby did we want it. So we waited.

We've had it for three months now and every since it came in the door, I have hated this rug. For one, I hate the color. The photo is from my phone, so it's not super precise with tones, but it's a grey rug in a room of greens and oranges and I just feel like it's too light or something. I hate it.

Now, I do love the texture. It's super comfy and I sit on the floor a lot more than I used to. I even take naps there occasionally.

Of course, it's wool, so I end up having an asthma attack most times I do, but still. This isn't my problem with it.

This is the problem:And this:See those fur balls? They're absolutely everywhere.

This rug sheds so much that I started calling it Mittens. You know like, "Aww. Mittens!" as I pull a strand off my clothing or a sloppy, gross wad out of Chulo's mouth when he can't work it out himself. It's like having a cat. A cat that I really, really despise. Whenever I'm picking up the wads, I'm usually mumbling, "Fucking cat."

I feel like we might as well have a Golden Retriever. I get asthma from Golden Retrievers. God knows they shed like maniacs. But they're Golden Retrievers. Anyone who knows a Golden, knows what I'm talking about.

I knew this Golden Retriever once -- Casey. During the early nineties, Casey adopted an injured quail -- eventually dubbed Dan, of course. What kind of animal, bred to retrieve dead animals, adopts a live, injured quail and loves it back to health? At least that's the story I remember. My friend, Jay, who was Casey's owner may remember a different story (probably the accurate one -- I have a tendency to amend history in my mind), but that's what I think happened. I definitely know Casey had a quail during Dan Quayle's Vice Presidency and his family named the quail Dan. And, to me, that's story enough.

So, what I'm saying is that Golden Retrievers are way more worth the extra effort than this fucking feline rug that spreads its fur not only all over the interior of our place, but it trails into the hallway. I've found pieces in the yard. There are strands on my shirt right this very minute.

And now, Mittens, cat I never wanted, has developed the mange.Obviously, Chulo hates the rug as much as I do. He's the cause of Mittens' mange. He has begun to methodically rip the rug apart strand by strand. Erica thinks it's a conspiracy. She likes the rug. Or so she says. I believe that she hates the rug as much as I do but just has a harder time admitting that we simply made the wrong rug decision.

Homo-wner.

Do you know why one would spend an exorbitant amount of money on buying an apartment in Brooklyn? I mean, sacrifice all clothing and accessory purchases, give up on your obsession with eating out, start buying the sub-$10 wine?Trader Joe's "Three Buck Chuck"


For those non-New Yorkers (or non-Sex and the City addicts) living across any bridge from Manhattan basically means that you have voluntarily joined a leper colony. And, if your leper colony happens to be Brooklyn, your leper colony has as many cool, trendy clothing stores, and even cooler, trendier restaurants as Manhattan does. The rents are cheaper, the apartments are larger, and yes, the commutes are longer.

So, what's a lesbian couple who wants to own property, but doesn't want to give up their social life (as it is), to do?

Buy well.

Before you think I'm being conceited or elitist, hold your rent-paying horses. Our apartment is less than 600 square feet. We live above a tattoo parlor, a bar and a dry cleaner who may or may not be sending toxic fumes through our air ducts. But!

We have a yard! Know what will get Manhattanites -- even Manhattanites who live, not downtown or on a convenient train line, but who live where they either pay $30 for a cab or have to make a transfer on the subway --to cross a bridge? A back yard.This past weekend we re-named Chateau St. Chulo to The Hamptons - Park Slope. You know. Like, University of Madison - Wisconsin. But it's our own time share, minus the share and the cost, and the gays love it. Especially my Patsy and Danny. They love it so much, not only did they spend all of Sunday afternoon with us, they are coming back next weekend!

This past Sunday culminated in a Stomp-Off a la Tyra Banks between myself and Patsy Key. (Both of us were wearing my platforms, so I did have a slight advantage.) It was gorgeous. I haven't had a better time since I wore the $400 bridesmaid dress I bought for L&A's wedding to the Miss America Pageant Party in Dan & Patrick's Williamsburgh abode. Best part?They're coming back this Sunday! However, I do have some reservations. Erica and I are making the scary move of conjoining two groups of friends. You never know how these things are going to fly. E & I absolutely adore Danny & PatsyKey. We also love, love, love Christophe and Jayme. They all think Erica and I rock. So, one would think things would go well, considering all six of us are in love with me & Erica.If we run out of current events to talk about, we can all just compliment each other. (One thing all our friends have in common, high self-admiration.)

Plus, the ultimate clincher is, the aforementioned backyard. As much as a New York party crowd may hate each other (as if), they'll suffer through anything to hang in a backyard on a spring day.