I spent a part of the work day explaining my bitch-red acrylic nails. They were part of the gussying up I did for M.’s party on Saturday. I clean up OK, but it ain’t come natural-like. Nope, drag queens take to it more naturally. Even the boys who only dress up like girls for Halloween.

But, check out my swanky dress and shawl thingie. (Thanks to Photoshop, I largely de-Ted Kennedy-ed my bloated looking, cherry red face.) Then, there’s me and M. all coupley. I think we look kind of two kinds of vapid in the pic. Lastly, there are my two favorite shots of both of us. His is subtitled, “Bond, Jih Ming Bond,” the international man of mystery.

At least from me.

Earlier in the evening, I was decked out in a shawl, dress, heels, makeup, all the shit that says “real girl.” Or, as I like to think of it, my drag act. How fake is it, that in the women’s room, someone saw me in my wrap and said, “I couldn’t fucking find a shawl…Oh, sorry, pardon my French.” First of all, she thought I would normally own (instead of buying just a few hours before on a clearance rack at Chico’s) a fucking wrap, and, fucking hilarious, she fucking thought I would mind her language.

Anyway, on the way home, post some free wine drunk by me, we stopped at Safeway. The mega, not just groceries, grocery store, where I picked up a couple of gifts. Fuck yeah, people I knows how to shop.

Ho, fucking, ho.

Tonight, M. and I were foraging for food in the local gourmet grocery store, which is not only in walking distance to our place but serves up an array of prepared foods ready for dinner.

As we browsed the case and contemplated the possibilities, a strange woman strolled up and asked M. if he was indeed himself. By name. Full name. She introduced herself and explained they had met at the alumni fundraiser he organized. Yeah, the one that I hosted. A showcase comedy show with time upfront and smooth running between acts. Not to mention a little emceeing of the prize drawing and introducing of the fine charities.

She looks at me, and she says, “Oh, you were there, too…Oh wait, you were part of the show.”

Humbling, that’s what that was. M. is recognized, and I’m the also ran. Only it was me on stage (and in fact me who drew attention to him). Crestfallen, humbled and realizing that my star ain’t the brightest in the firmament.

Thursday was our first and possibly only NBA attendance. Interesting. I had no idea a pro basketball game was so frenetic. Every spare second of non-court play — clock rundowns, timeouts, moments for the sweat moppers to clean the floor after a spill — something fills the void. Announcements, crowd scans on the giant scoreboard thingie, mascot foolishness, giveaways, games. If I had a psychotic disorder, I quite possibly would have ended up in a convulsion and meltdown of sensory overload. I mean, at one point parachutes airlifting T-shirts were dropped from the rafters.

There are some pictures here. But with limits on the use of flash and the length of my lens, high levels of suckitude abound. Or rebound.

By the way, in my constant search for non-taxing employment, I figured out one job I don’t want. Wielding a mop center quarter or grabbing a couple of major league towels on your knees to swab the gland secretions of hulking giants who have hit the parquet, yup, I could skip that.

Also, I had no fucking idea that the NBA seems might popular with the Asian persuasions. We sat next to a middle-aged school teacher, who M. says was likely Korean, and her husband, both sporting their season ticket holder lanyards. I know she was a school teacher, because partway through the second quarter, she politely scooted past us in a rush to get free from her seat. From there, she scolded a young man three rows back for his use of bad language and returned to our row explaining her teacher’s concern for language and the exposure of nearby children.

From then, the guy took to yelling “I’m not using bad words” or somesuch before boosting the Houston Rockets and denigrating the Warriors.

Friday was the prelude to Saturday’s event. It’s not just that M. likes to run far. He likes to run far in the woods. On trails. Ideally, up and down hills with half-mile-high shifts in altitude. His because it’s there mount to be mounted is Mount Tam, as the natives call it. Beautiful place to hike, but running up and down dirt trails and switchbacks? No fucking way.

I called him all day on iPhone to iPhone. The best thing about his iPhone means he definitely carries his phone while jogging, since it’s his iPod. Saves a bit of worrying on my end. Around mile 16 he said we wasn’t sure if his knee was starting to bug him. Otherwise, he felt great. (Clearly, we are an example that opposites attract.)

With relief, he reported a bit later that he was going to call it a day at the 25-mile mark. Thank fucking god, I say. It’s a solid distance, if not crazy, and not a cakewalk on trails.

When I headed over to the races starting and ending point, where he had been shuttled, the sun had set, the wind had kicked up and here’s what I found:

He’s a bit stiff, and I keep nagging him to ice the recalcitrant knee. Otherwise, he’s fine for the wear and tear. A few pics are here.

Here’s what he looked like at 5 or so in the morning, as he headed toward adventure from our hotel room.

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