Butch isn't butch, but femme.

Yesterday may have been the most entertaining day at work I have had ever, except maybe for the day I ratted out Celestia for outing an employee from another office in front of a bunch of other people, and she got reamed for two hours in HR Boss’ office (our sales department is a good ol’ boys club. If they found out one was gay, it would not be too good for him, and for that stupid bitch to shoot her mouth off pissed me off enough to tattle tale, which I don’t like to do).

So, Butch (not making that name up, I swear), the plumber I found in the gay pages, was fanfuckingtastic. He didn’t have on denim cut-offs, unfortunately, like Jenna had hoped for, and no pink thong like I had hoped for, but he did have the tightest goddamn Calvin Klein jeans (only a queer would do his plumbing work in Calvins) I have ever seen. His voice was not high and hissy, but there was a definite gay twang. And he was hot. Very, very hot.

When he came up to my desk to let me know he was here, the only other people in the office were Celestia, and another co-worker, Princess, but she had her office door shut. So, after chit-chatting for a few minutes about how nice it must be to work at the beach (which everyone who comes to our office tells me), and how nice the weather was, I told him where I found him, and just why I chose him specifically. He laughed, and told me he was going to over-do it a little bit at certain moments to up the discomfort factor for the other people in the office. It’s moments like these when I really love my job, and the way my warped mind works.

He was working in the bathroom downstairs, and I was talking to Snotty Downstairs Receptionist*, when I heard something hit the floor, and then I heard a high-pitched “Sssssonofabitch!” And then a Ned Flanders-like scream. I didn’t laugh (though it was hard not to), and Snotty Downstairs Receptionist just looked at me, puzzled.

“What do you think he’s doing in there?”

“Hmm… I have no idea. He’s a plumber. I don’t want to know what he’s doing in there. But he knows all about pipes, and how to properly take care of them, so I am sure it’s alright.” See how clever I am? Jesus.

Later, after he was done, he was back at my desk talking to me, and told me how he was talking casually to another co-worker, Smut Peddler,** (who is male) and he asked him if he’s ever seen him at Rage (a popular gay bar in West Hollywood). Smut Peddler, a traditional sexist hetero, told him “Fuck no!” when he told Smut Peddler what Rage was.

When he was going over the details of the bill with Soccer Mom, who oversees all the maintenance done in the building, he made a comment that the color of her jacket was “fabulous!” Soccer Mom thanked him, but looked puzzled.

After he left (and we exchanged email addresses), Soccer Mom quietly said to me, “I think that plumber might have been gay?”

“Oh my god! Do you think?”

*I am sad. Margie, my very favorite co-worker, and butcher of the English language, took a job in one of our other offices, so I don’t get to see her every day anymore.

**She named Smut Peddler because she was cleaning up one day and found a bunch of porn he printed from his computer. Because she hacks English as much as possible, at first she called him “Smet Puddler.” I love her.

I miss her.

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Oy. Yesterday.

I had to go have a blood test for my doctor, and they took TEN fucking vials of my blood, because at this point, my doctor has to check every single thing they apparently can check for in a blood test. As if God hasn’t afflicted me with enough medical maladies, he also gave me tiny, deep veins that no one can find. EVER. I get stabbed at least three times every time I have a blood test. They hate me at the hospital lab.

The worst part is, 99% of the time, they can’t find a good vein in my arms, so they have to take it out of the top of my hand. That, my friends, is pain. Serious pain. Not to mention the huge black bruise I am going to have for a week.

The hospital lab is around the corner from the OR waiting area, and you can’t go to, or leave the lab without going through this area. When I was leaving the lab, I had to haul ass because I was already running late for my doctor’s appointment. When I turned the corner, there was about 30 people huddled around a doctor, being told why someone in their family didn’t survive their surgery.

At this point, I was conflicted. I knew I was already late for my appointment to my doctor’s office who has NO sympathy for people who don’t make their appointments, and will bump me, but I didn’t want to be a big asshole and try to get through this crowd of people who just found out someone they love is dead.

I stood there for a few minutes, and watched these poor people cry, and hug each other, and listen to the doctor, and I became emotional myself. I was instantly taken back to when I was 15, and lost my favorite Uncle, who was the first person I loved that died.

My heart sank at the memory of it, and I felt a little hollow all over again. I haven’t felt that way in a long time. I was crying, and completely out of the moment. I was back in 1989, seeing my Grandmother weeping because she lost her son, and my Grandpa trying to console her, and seeing my Real Dad cry for the first (and only) time.

Finally, not realizing where I was immediately, I heard someone say, “Are you ok, honey?” I looked up to see the entire family I just saw crying, staring at me.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just said, “Yeah. I was waiting to walk through, and I was just thinking about someone I miss.” One of the women in the group came up and hugged me, and stroked my hair, and I’ll be goddamned if it didn’t make me feel better. A few other people hugged me, and I was taken by how, in the midst of their own grief, they reached out to a total stranger.

It was a wonderful moment.

Dammit. I am crying again.

I gotta stop writing about this serious shit.

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Time to change the subject.

I had many weird dreams last night, which I am sure were brought on my by some racy emailing I was doing, because they were all dirty (which my dreams usually are, but never three or four in one night).

One in particular, was a lovely romp that involved a few accessories with Portishead playing in the background. It sticks out in my mind the most, and, well… let’s just say that this morning in the shower I remembered it again.

I have to work on my segues. I went from having a poignant moment with strangers about the loss of a loved one to masturbation.

Nice.

I blame the dirty e-mailer.

Ewww. Gross. Some pervy old guy who kisses Mr. Big Shot's ass just walked up behind me, got close to my neck and told me I smell "intoxicating." *gag*