You know I hate to complain

Last night I finally showered, at 8 p.m., and I didn't bother to wash my hair. It got a little wet, though, and that with the combination of my curls being in bed all day resulted in it drying into sort of dreadlocks. "You look like Perry Farrell," said Ned. Then he had the nerve to add, "What? He's a good-looking guy, right?"

Ned always has to confirm with you that a man is good looking. It's like if he were absolutely certain a man was handsome, he'd be in a bathhouse in the next 20 minutes. Why are straight men so weird about being gay? Even the gay-friendly men I know, which Ned is, are weird about seeming gay. Just this morning, Ned put on his purple shirt. It's a beautiful shirt, and I have never seen him in it before.

"Does this shirt look gay?" he wondered, like he'd just pulled on a tutu.

I mean, I don't really care if I look gay. Granted, I'd rather no one looked at me and thought, Oh, bulldyke, just because I try kind of hard to look girly and I'd hate to be that off base.


Look I'm going for.


Look I hope I'm not achieving. Although she looks adorable here.

But in general, you don't find women asking, Is this gay? Do I seem gay? And yet men seem scared to death of that label.

Why? Our society is stupid.

In other news, I got up today and took a shower and intended to go to work, but as I moved around I got hot and dizzy and my head is killing me. It's been killing me for more than 24 hours. I don't know if it's a migraine or a sinus headache or both, but I can't get rid of it.

In the meantime, I suggested to Ned that we change the sheets last night, because I laid in them all yesterday, contaminating them. This whole time we've been living together, we've used Ned's sheets, but last night I got out some of mine, which happen to be pale blue with sheepies on them, and each sheep has a number. Like you're counting sheep. Get it? Do you?

"You aren't serious," said Ned, as I spread the fitted sheet. "Oh, get over it," I said, throwing a pillow case at him. "Put a pillowcase on."

"Are these flannel? I'll sweat all night in flannel," he groused. "I'll cozy up right next to you if I get sweaty, just so you know."

Ned is so fussy, he might as well be gay.

And in case you were worried sick, he did NOT sweat in the flannel sheets, seeing as its JANUARY and all. Yeesch. What I did not tell him was I used to have matching pajamas, and I'd get into bed and ask Marvin, "Can you see me right now?"

I am a delight.

Okay, so, this has worn me out, sitting up and writing this post. I have an Iris on my lap and a Talu snoring on the bed, and I hate to tell her but she's getting joined by her mom and a blind cat in a minute. Yesterday while I was sleeping–that brief window–Iris and Lily got into the biggest tussle at the end of the bed. Lily was leaping on Iris over and over and biting her neck out and Iris was hissing. Then they'd stop and flump their tails at each other and do the thing where they raise their paws up and swing at nothing.

It was fun to watch other than the part where I lay dying.

Okay, I'm going to bed. For a change.

Oh, I forgot. On Monday, the night of our anniversary, I took a picture of us even though I was ill and looking awful.