The next best thing

Over the weekend, Sabrina and I helped Jenna move in to her new place.  Nobody likes moving, but it was pretty hysterical.  Squeezing a bed through a doorframe, making fun of Jenna’s OCD (“This box says ‘Kitchen items. Location: Kitchen.'”), getting so slap-happy we were failing at English, and generally upping my self-confidence with some mad problem-solving skills.  At one point, we were unsure how to proceed with Jenna’s bed frame until I figured out how to take it apart — right as Jenna said, “we need a boy to help us.”  Of course, when Jenna says “a boy,” she means one of the five gay men she asked to help who did not show.  This just proves that when the gays don’t come through, I’m the next best thing.

Speaking of  being a gay man at heart, you probably already know that this is the hardest week of my life, lack-of-television-wise.  Not only am I missing the winter Olympics, I missed the Westminster Dog Show.  It’s killing me. Somewhere in Vancouver, full-grown men are dressed in brightly colored (and sometimes handsomely sequined) leotards, spinning and jumping and skating for all they are worth.  I imagine Scott Hamilton, that miniature bundle of excitement and surprising heterosexuality, is unable to control himself in the commentator booth.  And Bob Costas — wonderful, wonderful, love of my life Bob Costas — is nothing but control, inner-laughing all the way to the bank.

And somewhere else in the world, allegedly Westminster, middle aged overweight men and women in business suits are prancing alongside poodles with afros and names like “Secret Breeze Chimichanga Warrior, aka Fluffy.”  The owners and trainers place all of their self-worth on the ability of dogs with fantastic hairdos and names reminiscent of salad dressing or deodorant to just Be Fabulous, much like drag queens.  I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to be part of it, but I need it in my life anyway (again, like drag queens).

I can’t be alone in these passions, can I?  You’d think that since two-thirds of my closest friends are gay dudes, I’d be able to find someone who understands.  Then again, I did just try to sweet-talk My Boys into inviting me over to watch some Olympics and was denied.  You’d think that they’d be my best shot at figure skating enthusiasts (aside from the obvious, my mom), but no.  They continue to be well-rounded real people instead of stereotypes, which is kind of hard to hate.  It’s probably why I love them.  Despite all my jokes, my close friendships are not built on a foundation of rainbow, glitter and Barbra Streisand; they’re built on laughter, understanding, and caring.  So if we also find common ground in our attraction to Chris Evans, that’s just a bonus.  My friends, no matter what else defines them, are my family.

But they also won’t help you move, so eff them.

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