As of Monday morning, that’s what my toes looked like. In the bright light of the day, they sparkled and shined. And the color was starting to grow on me. However, in the dark or in dim light, they just looked yellowed and nasty, so I decided on a change.

As I entered the nail salon, I realized that this was the first time I’ve ever been in one by myself. Usually, I go with a giggle of women. (Yes, I just coined a phrase for a group of women.) And going with my girl friends to get pedicures together is fun and only a tiny bit creepy. For some reason, going in alone? Uber super creepy.

The salon I chose was near the movie theater where I was meeting a friend, and I’d never been there before. Inadvertently, I managed to pick the one with the fewest number of English speaking Asian slaves manicurists.

Using a complicated series of hand gestures, grunts, and rudimentary English words, I communicated my desire to have the polish removed from my toes and new polish applied.

“You go pick out new color,” I was instructed. After weighing my options, I chose a color that will be less likely to make my toes look yellowed and nasty in the dim light. (A color that I won’t reveal until I get to BlogHer.)

I sat in the chair and the woman went to work. Apparently, as difficult as my toes are to get clean and polished, it also makes it just as difficult to remove the polish. First she tried the dremel. Then she tried using cotton and polish remover, but the cotton just got caught on the roughness of my feet and pulled to shreds. Finally she moved to a cloth and remover and it finally started to work. After a few minutes, my toes were clean again.

The bell rang and an old woman entered, holding the door open for her husband, a tall, gaunt man who was at least 80, using a walker to take excruciatingly slow, deliberate steps. “CAN YOU PLEASE GIVE MY HUSBAND A FOOT MASSAGE?” the old lady said in the way that you speak to non-English speakers at absurdly high volumes because that helps them to understand better.

The old man was led to the chair next to me. He looked over and gave me a look. “I’ve never done this before – have you?” he said, except he said it more like “I’VE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE – HAVE YOU?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“OH, WELL AT LEAST I KNOW I’M NOT ALONE IN DOING THIS!” It was at that moment, that the woman pulled out the new polish and began to paint my toes. The old man’s eyes bugged out of his head. “ALICE,” he stage whispered, “HE’S PAINTING HIS TOES.” Then he turned to me. “ARE YOU PAINTING YOUR TOES?”

“Yup!”

“ALICE, HE IS PAINTING HIS TOES! I’VE NEVER SEEN A MAN GET HIS TOES PAINTED BEFORE.” His eyes were still bugged out of his head and a vein had started to throb on his forehead.

“Well, you don’t get out very often,” his wife said and patted his hand.

“ARE YOU MARRIED?” he asked me. By this point, the entire salon was part of the conversation.

“No, I’m not.” I said, showing him my hand.

“OH. I WAS GOING TO ASK YOU WHAT YOUR WIFE THOUGHT OF YOU DOING THAT, BUT I GUESS THAT DOESN’T MATTER.”

I nodded my head and returned my attention to my cellphone. Important games of Words With Friends awaited me. Oh, but he wasn’t done.

“SO YOU’RE REALLY GETTING YOUR NAILS PAINTED?”

I gestured towards my feet where the woman was putting on the second coat and nodded.

“I HAVE NEVER SEEN A MAN DO THAT BEFORE.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that. Well, now you have! New experiences every day.”

“I HOPE THEY DON’T TRY TO PAINT MY NAILS. I AM GOING TO KEEP AN EYE ON THEM. YOU KNOW, YOU CAN NEVER TRUST A CHINAMAN.”

Aren’t old racists just delightful?

Yesterday while tearing through a pile of work, I decided that I needed something to watch while I toiled. I pulled out my Special Collector’s Edition of the full series of Gilmore Girls and stuck in Season 1 from the beginning.

Before long, I was once again reminded why this show was one of the best shows on television. It’s smart, funny, dramatic, and Lauren Graham is absolutely gorgeous (and so was Alexis Bledel once she got a year or two older). I love this show. And just to further belabor that point, here are the top five ways that I’m the number one fan of the Gilmore Girls:

5. I have an annotated map of Stars Hollow hanging on my office wall, along with a little cardboard figure of myself that I move around the town every day. Today I’m hanging out at Al’s Pancake World.

4. I am writing a screenplay in which Lauren Graham simply reads the phone book on screen. I have high hopes for its marketability.

3. Anytime I meet someone named Luke, I squeal and say, “Like the guy on the show!”

2. When I hear the name Paris, I think of Paris Geller, not Paris Hilton.

1. My testicles are named Lorelai Gilmore and Sookie St. James.

I’m already halfway through Season 1, and I can’t wait to keep making my way through the whole series again, revisiting some of my favorite characters since it’s been way too long, getting upset about the Dean/Rory breakup, hating Jesse, liking Max, hating Christopher, liking the Logan/Rory relationship, loving Luke and Lorelai, hating Emily and Richard’s separation, crying at the speech Rory gives at her graduation, and loving Lane’s mother.

Maybe I’m having sympathy PMS from all the PMSy bitchiness enveloping me everywhere I go recently, because this video just feels kind of happy and inspiring, and I can’t think of anything cynical or sarcastic to say about it.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Where The Hell Is Matt?

ALSO: I’m guest posting over at Robin’s blog today while she’s on her honeymoon. Drop in and say hi!

Confused? Befuddled? Horrified? Concerned for the fate of my sexuality? Go find out how the hell this happened.

Yesterday, shopping at Border’s, I saw a ray of light come through the ceiling and alight on an endcap in the DVD section. Angels sang, and I walked in a hypnotic trance, grabbed the holy relic, and ran to the nearest checkout.

Gaze upon the glory of The Gilmore Girls full series DVD set:

It’s the very definition of awesomeness. Awesomosity. Awesomtastic. I should just invent more words to describe it.

And my wife doesn’t even appreciate it! She just rolls her eyes at me.

Hi, my name is Adam Avitable and I’m a Gilmorephile.

First, go see my guest post over at Tracy’s. You can also see the full image here.

Secondly, go wish Britt’s son Devin a happy birthday!

Thirdly, today is supposedly some blog crush day where you talk about your secret blog crush. Google it if you want more information – I’m too lazy. And while I have way too many blog crushes to list one in particular, I do expect several people to use their entire post today talking about me as their blog crush. Or there will be punishment!

Finally, I went to a friend’s graduation from nursing school today over in Daytona Beach. The ceremony was quick, and it was nice seeing him get some recognition. On my drive home, since I was tired, I was blasting the radio and had the windows down, like usual. Flipping through the stations, I came across “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor. For some reason, this song struck a chord, and I started singing. Loudly. And there may have been some dancing going on, too. I pulled up to a stop light in full-on gay diva dance mode and looked to my right. There was a car with four girls in it, all of the windows down, and they were listening to the same radio station and dancing and singing themselves. We glanced at each other, shared a moment, and finished the song in unison. Then, I went home, watched sports, grabbed my crotch, and watched lesbian porn. Is there anything else I should do to get my man card back?

Man, there’s a lot of pressure to be funny here today. I’ve known about writing a guest post here for a week, and I gotta tell you, I sat frozen for days wondering exactly what I was going to write about that would be entertaining for Adam’s regular readers. When my boyfriend came around with a towel in one hand and a can of Pledge in the other threatening to “dust me,” I figured I had better get to work.

When Adam guest posted for me several weeks ago, he “came out” as a straight man to all my readers. He relayed his average day of listening to Jewel and the Indigo Girls, drinking apple martinis, and watching The Gilmore Girls. It was an enlightening post, and I have decided to submit a similar break down here:

A Day in the Life of a Fag

08:00 - Ouch. What is that screaming sound? Make it stop. Makeit stop. MakeItStop!

08:27 – Roll over carefully as to not disturb the sleeping figure next to me.

08:28 - Step over the broken plastic shards of the third alarm clock I’ve destroyed this week.

08:29 - Dig a wallet out of the pants laying at the foot of the bed. Use it to identify the sleeping figure in bed. Pray the birthdate is pre-1988. Slip a twenty dollar bill out.

08:30 - Pee. Contrary to popular belief, fags do urinate. It’s usually yellow, if you’re wondering. Find some sort of pain killer to dull the pounding in my temples. What did I drink last night?

08:31 – 08:37 - Locate my clothes and quietly dress. Slip outside and blink into the sunlight. Where the fuck am I? Where’s my car?

09:02 – Arrive at home and shower. Pay particular attention to that area under the scrotum that seems to collect that musty-funk smell.

09:25 - Apply makeup to cover up the scales and horns. Make a note to talk to the Exalted Leader about replacing my skin with the new version that came out last year.

10:00 - Enjoy a healthy breakfast of whole grain cereal, organic yogurt, and a newborn baby. Make a note to pick up a fresh six pack of babies at the Co-op. Maybe I’ll try Chinese this week, as the Mexican kids tend to give me the runs. Read the paper and make a list of all the conservative Republicans that I can seduce.

10:46 – Head out to this week’s missionary job recruiting new members to the Order Of Fags (OOF). The job consists mostly of going door-to-door offering blow jobs. Just like the Mormons.

12:30 - Lunch time. I don’t have much time between appointments, so I’ll just grab a quick hot dog. Miniature Greyhound today, as I’m watching my carbs. I grab an adorable three-day-old kitten, just in case I’m hungry during my afternoon coffee break.

14:07 - Stop at the truck stop for a quick handjob with a 50-something year-old guy named “Mack.” I think. He has four teeth, one of which is on a chain around his neck. This reminds me that I must call and make an appointment with my dentist for my monthly bleaching. Maybe I can combine that appointment with my upcoming hair frosting.

15:45 - It’s been a pretty productive day, so I’ll take all my Recruitment Slips back to OOF headquarters. I have 14 slips today, which means I qualify for the deluxe toaster oven. I can sell that for $56. Excellent!

16:37 - Arrive at my doctor’s office for my weekly injection. It’s designed to make sure if I accidentally get cut my blood will appear red. Nothing is more embarrassing than a bright green nosebleed giving my true identity as a fag away. The cute male nurse flirts with me again, so I take him into the x-ray room for a fun picture.

17:26 - Get stuck in traffic. I personally make it my mission to cut off as many people as possible. I love to make people scream “YOU FAG!” at the back end of my powder blue Beetle with all the rainbow stickers.

17:39 - Stop at the gym for my power workout on the treadmill and free weights. It’s a slow day in the shower, so I only hook up with one cute black guy who couldn’t stop staring.

19:12 - Stop by the house for a quick change of clothes. I need to look especially dashing tonight, so I choose my Armani tuxedo.

19:56 - Arrive at the Westin for the Gay Marriage Now! dinner. My “on call” boyfriend arrives and poses with me for photos before my big speech. We tell everyone that we are thinking of adopting a little boy from Ghana. We are SO Brad and Angelina, but with penises.

22:12 - Finally break free from all the people at the dinner and head out to the bar. Drop a $20 bill on a tab of ecstacy. Wonder where that money came from?

22:30 – 01:45 - Lots of dancing and drinking and making out with shirtless boys at the club. Every twenty minutes or so, stop by and shmooze the old guy at the end of the bar so he’ll by me another drink. If I make him think he’s got a chance with me, he’ll even buy for this hot little Latino boy who has caught my eye.

01:52 – 07:30 – ?????????

07:35 – Destroy my fourth alarm clock of the week. Who the fuck gets up this early? Why is there a high school letter jacket on the desk chair next to the bed? Oh shit!

Well, there you have it. A day in the life of a fag. Of course anyone who knows me, knows that this isn’t MY typical day.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see if my boyfriend is still interested in making me lemony fresh.

Last night

I dream of toilets and peeing. I dream of oceans and fountains, and peeing in them. I keep having a recurring dream where I wake up, pee, and then go back to bed and then wake up and pee again.

Finally, I wake up. And guess what? I have to pee like a motherfucker.

I gracefully stumble to the bathroom, wearing nothing but underwear and a pair of socks.

I lift the toilet seat and face the toilet.

A stream of urine like none the world has ever seen shoots into the toilet. It takes all of the strength in my right hand to avoid spraying urine around the room like a fire hose.

I close my eyes. Enjoy the feeling. Say “Ahhhh…” in satisfaction of the simple things in life.

Suddenly, without warning, both of my feet begin to slide on the cold bathroom floor. In opposite directions.

Placing my left hand against the wall in an effort to prevent myself from doing what’s called the “Urination Split” does absolutely nothing, and my downward trend continues.

Meanwhile, the stream is not abating. Urine continues to flow at an ungodly rate. I fear that I shall soon become desiccated and shrivel into a piece of Avitable jerky.

My feet separate further. I am now more than a foot closer to the ground. Before long I will be urinating directly onto the bathroom rug.

I close my eyes and clench. Not my fist or my foot but my penis. From the inside. And the urine stops. But much like the little boy who stuck his finger in the dike, I couldn’t hold back for too long.

Using both hands, I push myself upright.

Quickly, I sit down on the toilet and resume peeing. It sounds like Niagara Falls.

My wife walks in, sees me sitting down to pee, and shakes her head as she walks away to use the other bathroom. I hear her mutter something about “such a girl” and “no balls”.

I finish, flush, wash, and slink ashamedly to bed.

Before you get today’s post, you get some more pimping. Don’t forget to go visit my new site, Postcard Hell and buy some embarrassingly funny postcards to send to your mom, your dad, and your favorite uncle. It’s only $4 for a 4-pack, or $5 for the assorted pack. You’ll be my favorite people in the whole world!

Sometimes I wonder why I get so many people who seemingly enjoy reading this drivel I write. Is it the nudity? Humor? Dogs licking vaginas? Nope. I figured it out – it’s the barber stories!

Tuesday, I went in for a shave and a haircut (say two bits and I’ll punch you in the crotch). I decided to make some changes, because even though I have been getting haircuts every two weeks and shaves every week, I still feel shaggy.

“Shave it all off.” I said.

“Really?” Cori, the owner, asked.

“Really.”

“Reeeealllyyy?”

” . . . Yup. Let’s do it.”

“Okay,” she said and whipped out the razor and moved it towards my head with lightning speed.

“Wait wait wait wait wait!” I flinched with the humming razor a millimeter from my beautiful locks.

“You said okay!”

“Can’t a boy change his mind? Let’s not shave it all bare. How about you use the #3?”

“Fiiine. Take all of the fun out of my work.” Cori put on the #3 guide which would still allow me to keep some of my hair.

“Hey, while you’re shaving my beard, can you give me two eyebrows, too?”

“Only if you let me wax it instead of shaving it. You’ve got hair from your hairline down to your eyebrows, and under your damn eyes. It needs a waxing, Sasquatch!”

“Will it hurt?”

“Only about as much as this.” She reached over and yanked one of my eyebrow hairs right out of my head.

“OW!”

“Pussy.”

“Fine, I’ll let you wax my eyebrows. Sigh.”

In the end, the waxing wasn’t really painful at all. She had to wax above my eyebrows all the way to my hairline, to the sideburns, and underneath my eyes, and the worst part was the anticipation. I didn’t flinch in the slightest and talked to her the whole time that she did it. All of you women who talk about how painful it is are a bunch of pussies. Next week I’m having her wax my asshole.

Go behind the curtain for pictures of me at the barber.

Before

Off with the hair.

Onto the beard.

Britt keeps texting me.

It usually takes her three or four times of shaving to get it smooth.

Trying to conduct business from the barbershop.

Wax on, wax off.

All done!

If you want to see the other 30 or so photos, go see the set on Flickr.

“So, what’s up, dogfucker?” the voice in my ear smacked loudly and then exhaled as Britt sucked on one of her cancer sticks. She is so loud on the phone when she smokes that it literally sounds like Denis Leary’s parody of smoking loudly.

“Not much, just working, like usual.” I said, barely paying attention as I responded to an email and listened as one of my employees attempted to sell a client. “Amy’s leaving early today to fly out of town for business, but that’s about it.”

“Well, blah blah blah blah,” she talked for a while about things that you don’t need to hear about – real estate, her job, her vagina. You know, the usual. (I’m NOT saying that this was boring, just that I’m not going to recount the entire conversation.)

“Mmmhmm, that’s nice.” I said, finally happy that the smoking sound had died down, only to be replaced by a peeing sound! “Are you peeing outside?” I asked, horrified.

“No, retard.” Fluuushhhhh. “I’m at the mall – I was outside smoking, and now I’m going to go buy some stuff at Bath and Body Works. But ooh – Victoria’s Secret is having a sale!” She squeeeed (it’s onomatopoeia, fucker).

My email and employee seemed less important. My focus had shifted, and I was channeling all of my brainpower into creating the ability to see. through. the. fucking. phone. line. It didn’t work. “So, what are you going to buy?” I asked, casually.

“Boobs boobs boobs Bra boobs boobs,” she breathed sexily into the phone. Or something like that.

“Oh yeah?” Trying to sound cavalier, I cavalierly asked, cavalierly, “So, what are you, like a 33B?”

“No, fuckwit. I’m a 34C. Jesus Christ, haven’t I shown you my boobs enough for you to know what size they are?”

“I am horrible with sizes. Remember how I said my penis was 43 feet long? I don’t even know what my wife’s bra size is, and I’ve been with her for eight years!”

“Really?” she judged, “that makes you a bad husband. You should find that shit out.”

“Fine. I’ll go be a good husband.” I get up with the phone and walk across the house to the master bedroom. I go into the closet and rummage through my wife’s underwear drawer, coming out with a plain white bra.

“Will it fit you?” she asked, giggling with that airy blonde lilt to her voice.

“Well, all I need to do is strip down, grab a pair of panties, and I’ll have quite the sexy ensemble,” I said, holding the bra up against my chest as I pulled the strap around to look at the tag. I do a little twirl in the closet and say “Wow, I think this would fit me! It looks like she’s a size-” right as I turn to face my wife who had come home early to pack for her trip.