"I was a heartbeat on the danger side."

Wednesday marked the one month anniversary of the morning I woke up with a sore throat. If I had known a month later I'd still be sick, I would have sped OFTL to Phase VII -- aka hysterical, melodramatic suicide by jumping in front of a Q Train. But no, we're still in Phase III -- field research. All things in good time, right?

That said, Phase III will be on pause this weekend while I travel down to DC for my cousin's wedding. I will miss my posse of Lesbians as I sip wine with my family at the ballroom in Leisure World. Yeah, a guaranteed Lesbian free zone unless they're over 65. At least the train ride down will give me time to work on the two book ideas that have been spinning in my head recently.

[ Pauses to cough and switch mental gears ]

Having lived in Prospect-Lefferts Gardens for almost six months now, all I can say is that I love it. Yes, it lacks yuppie bars and restaurants (apart from a recently opened cafe), but I can get on the train and only go one stop to reach Park Slope and Prospect Heights. Not a big deal. Hey, I used to live in an industrial park for a year.

I noticed two things today -- one, the New York Times has a fantastic Google Maps mashup showing murders over the last two years, illustrating how the murder rate has dropped to lows not seen since the 1960s. Hmmm, don't tell my Mom as there are a bunch of flag markers in my neighborhood. Second, there are a lot of PLG haters. Hey guys, it's really not as bad as everyone thinks it is.

"What are you going to do when the world turns in on you?"

Sorry there's been a lack of updates, dear readers. Battle fatigue set in sometime late last week and I found myself limping through the days in a mood that can only be described as disillusioned. By next week I'll be entering the fifth month of OFTL and though I have a lot to show for my efforts, I can't shake the feeling that I haven't been as successful as I would have liked.

On Friday I organized a happy hour for Lesbian Club in a Lower East Side bar. And as with most LC events, there's always the chance that I will be the only one that shows up. Boy was I pleasantly surprised when seven of my regulars showed up. Later some of us went to the Slipper Room for a burlesque show -- the first time I've been back since a certain incident last November.

So after a lackluster and rain soaked weekend mostly spent watching movies, I slumped into Monday, sick again with a cough. I went back to my old Bushwick bar for Movie Night and gin -- two cures for the blues -- and got a much needed pep talk from some friends there. Too bad I had to sit through the unbelievably awful Disclosure starring Demi Moore and Michael Douglas.

Something else that should cheer me up. Dennise was inspired by my Phase III of OFTL and decided to go to the mountain . . . so to speak. She asked a guy out from her dining group to be her date for an upcoming gala. The guy said yes and now I feel rather proud that OFTL can inspire the Straights too!

"But you can blog about my beauty. I'll permit that, as long as it's haiku form."

Alright. I got nuthin.

Signe desperately wants me to blog about something. ANYTHING. At least that I figured based on the amount of times she refreshes my blog. I pointed this out to her in a friendly bout of mocking. After the mocking subsided, she suggested I blog about the recent birth of the Spawn of Cruise in an attempt to get my mental wheels going. As much as I would love to comment on TomKat's new additon (shudder . . . shudder), it's Cruise's thoughts on uses for the placenta that really give me pause.

And to think, Signe, you once lusted after this man?

In other news, I'm (a) still single (b) trying desperately to stick to my plan to only think positive thoughts in regards to OFTL and (c) failing miserably.

"No, John Stamos did not play Linda Carter's sister in Wonder Woman."

Operation Find The Lesbians switched in to Phase III yesterday as I realized that if the mountain won't come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain. Translation? I must seek The Lesbians in their natural habitat.

Phase I: Online dating
Phase II: Lesbian Club
Phase III: Field research

Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn hardly qualifies as The Lesbian's natural habitat, but it is the home of Cattyshack -- a two level lesbian bar boasting everything that a gay girl in the city could need: a pool table, selection of beer, and a patio. I observed these accouterments from my bar perch, carefully watching The Lesbians as they moved in small packs around the pool table and identifying many for possible tackling.

Though a Tuesday night was not the best time for proper field research, I was lured to Cattyshack for Trivia Tuesday (what the English would call a pub quiz). Since some of you may be aware of my awesome power to know the most random of facts, I figured I had a good shot at winning. Some of my Lesbian Clubbers helped me form a team and we decimated the competition with our intellectual prowess. And what did we win? A $40 gift certificate to Miracle Grill. I even recruited a hot girl for Lesbian Club. Let's hope she shows up for future events so I can tackle.

"Ich heisse superfantastiche!"

How cool is my life? I get to see both Franz Ferdinand and Death Cab For Cutie at the Hammerstein Ballroom with Marie, my new band buddy from Lesbian Club. Sinus infection be damned.

What an amazing show. The Cribs opened up for FF and DCFB, and while I was rocking hard core to the Cribs' first album about a year ago, kind of wish their live performance was a little tighter -- especially since FF and DCFC have mastered the tight performance. And boy did FF make me jump up and down and rock my little heart out. Too bad all the emo boys and girls who had come to see DCFC couldn't break it down too. If Alex Kapranos shakes his ass, the least you could do is reciprocate.

One thing I should note is that on the other side of Marie stood a man with a three year old boy in his arms. At first I was going to put on my best Reese Witherspoon accent a la Sweet Home Alabama and say, "You brought a baby . . . to a rock concert??" But soon I saw that the kid was wearing a white t-shirt that said,
"Littlest Fan."

How fucking cute was THAT?

And sure enough when FF came on and did their big hits like Take Me Out and Dark Of The Matinee, the little boy bopped up and down and pointed excitedly. Unfortunately he rocked it a little too hard core because by the end of the FF set, his head was buried in his dad's (?) shoulder looking like it was way past his bedtime. Maybe it was the secondhand pot fumes from the two guys a couple feet away.

"Eleanor put your boots back on."

Okay, that was fun. My doctor tells me I have sinusitis. Now I'm on lovely lovely pharmaceuticals and my voice is only now starting to return to normal.

Since I'm hardcore, it takes a lot to make me stop moving. Look at how I dragged my butt to DC after staying up till 3 am the night before drinking Belgian beer with Holly after the Josh Rouse concert. Saturday I was out till after 3 am at some Adams Morgan bar. Sunday back on a bus. But for all my hardcoreness, Monday was the Day of Reckoning. Unable to stand the pain anymore, I schlepped uptown to the doctor's office where I learned that a sinus infection had "superimposed itself" over my cold. Awesome.

I forced myself to take it easy, staying home on Monday and canceling Wednesday's Lesbian Club. I had Vi in town on Tuesday, so that was rather unavoidable. Now it's Thursday and I'm only about 75% better. I was hoping by now I could ween myself off the ibuprofin and Pseudovent, but alas -- the pain and pressure are still there. Must learn to take it easy more.

Oh but wait . . . I'm watching Franz Ferdinand and Death Cab for Cutie at the Hammerstein Ballroom tonight and while I have Good Friday off, OFTL strikes back on Saturday with Lesbian Club's picnic in the park.

Can I please please be infection free by then?

"I don't know how the penis works!"

Goddamnit. Operation Find The Lesbians has to take a break because I've got to focus on Operation Kick This Motherfucking Cold. Silly me for bragging all winter that I haven't been sick once this season. Little did I know that the English Death Plague was lurking like a microbial menace, waiting to pounce on my unsuspecting Yankee immune system. Looking back at my calendar, I first got sick on March 26th -- less than a week after returning to the States. Today is April 10th. 15 days later and I want to fucking kill myself from the sinus pain.

OFTL also took a little detour this weekend -- a 250 mile detour to DC and to Ms. Wish To See's bachelorette party. And what did I do at this party? Hung inflatable penis like balloons from Beth's wall, drank a gin and tonic from a penis straw, straddled a cucumber with a tip covered in whipped cream and a cherry, had someone suck off the whipped cream, made out with Mr. Bad Apologies (it's okay 'cause he's A Gay and a very good kisser), and kissed Ms. Write Again Soon. The later activity was my little gift to her because making out with a girl is on her list of 50 things to do before she dies and I couldn't facilitate this when she was up visiting me in Brooklyn last month. Let's hope she doesn't get my English Death Plague. Ooops!

We now return to our regularly scheduled gay programming.

"How about you play good cop and I play the cop who doesn't go to the meeting."

Today is clothing optional day. Why? Because I took a sick day to finally kick this awful cold and now I can have alone naked time -- albeit drugged up on cold medicine alone naked time. I can also catch up on episodes of Lost that I have missed while being the Grand Poobah of Gayness. (This is probably too much information, but whatever -- this whole blog can be classified as TMI.)

So I've realized a few of things lately. One, cold medicine makes me woozy. Two, jello wrestling is incredibly freeing, especially when your tits are hanging out for everyone to see. And three, sometime during the last few months I made some sort of peace with my body. I don't even know how to make you, dear reader, understand that I have spent most of my life hating myself and my body. Middle school scarred me for life, taught me that I wasn't worth as much as the pretty girls, and put a huge chip on my shoulder. What can I say -- puberty happened and I became overweight. It's only been in the last couple of years that I feel that I'm finally finding my natural size. Right now I'm a size 16 and lemme tell you how nice that is seeing how when I left college I was borderline size 26.

I realize the last sentence makes it sound like that losing weight is the only way to love myself. No, losing weight is just a bonus of healthier lifestyle and state of mind (yes, I could stand to cut down on the beer). I remember when I was doing my thing with Anne and I didn't care if she saw all my imperfections. I didn't cringe to think that maybe she'd be grossed out by my varicose veins.

And that, much like jello wrestling, is incredibly freeing.

"Come by tonight if you want the bike."

I bought a bike!!!! Her name is Ruby and she's probably a good three years older than me. I really wanted a retro bike -- not for any sort of coolness factor, but because I wanted something simple to kick around Prospect Park in. No fancy gears, switches, nobs, whatever. Operation Find The Lesbians is going mobile.

Makes me almost sad that I'll be in DC this weekend and therefore not able to ride it.

Oh and Dennise asked me when I last really rode a bike. I had to think a bit, remembering that the last bike I owned was East German (yes, you read correctly -- I owned a Commie Bike) and we all know that the Wall came down in 1989. So it's probably safe to say that the last time I rode a bike was sometime around 1993.

"I wanted you to take my top off!"

I have met my inner exhibitionist and apparently she likes to jello wrestle. Yes ladies and gentlemen, Operation Find The Lesbians moved into strange new territory last night when I donned a bustier and negligé and climbed into a kiddie pool filled with a clear gelatin like substance. The event was Amateur Female Jello Wrestling, and though I only came to watch, somehow I found myself participating. My name was the Celtic Crusher and I have the bruises and scratches this morning to prove it. The whole event descended into a topless make-out session interspersed with handfuls of flying jello.

Gave a who new meaning to tackling I suppose.