Tap Dancing in a Mine Field

The twins are falling in love.  Not with each other.

Their friend Kevin (my Oscar weekend wing man) and I are left at home, listening to the stories.   They return battle-scarred from long nights with new lovers.  It can be frustrating.  Watching them make the same mistakes we all made.

Robby in love: tap dancing in a mine field.

The hyacinths died.  The man who brought them is sick with gout.

The house is so beautiful at the moment.  The pale, watery Californian winter sunlight…perfect for my English decor and sensibility.

I must have written that a thousand times during the time I have been blogging.

The twins have their 22nd  birthday in two weeks.  They don’t want a party, they don’t want any attention.   We’ll see if they change their mind.

I have a new dog.  A Chihuahua/Boston Terrier mix called Dude.   A rescue, he can’t believe his luck.  He peed on Kevin’s bed last night.  He trots along like a Lipizzan.  He has a deep, croaky bark.  He follows me around like a shadow, much to The Little Dog’s profound irritation.

Washed all the sheets yesterday, the linen smelt heavenly when I crawled into bed last night.

Press conference at the end of the month.  Testifying for the ACLU mid April.  Dinners planned with the most unlikely allies.

Charity dinners for the LA Gay and Lesbian Center’s Homeless Youth Program and a Freedom to Marry event in April.  Trying to throw myself into the melee.   Trying to be of service.

I have categorically decided that I will not be sober much longer, just waiting for the right moment to take my first drink.  It is possible to drink and believe in God?  Many people do it.  My primary concern.

Unless I find alternative meetings where there are people more like me?  I don’t mean gay meetings.  It’s bollocks…this AA shit.

Good intentions ruined by a bunch of alcoholics.