I think I want to date some retrosexuals; after all, I seem to have a lot in common with them:

OK folks, I have had it. I’ve taken all I can — and I can’t stand it any more. Every time my TV is on, all that can be seen is effeminate men prancing about, redecorating houses and talking about foreign concepts like “style” and “feng shui.” Heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, transsexual, metrosexual, non-sexual; blue, green, and purple-sexual bogus definitions have taken over the urban and suburban world!

Real men of the world, stand up, scratch your butt, belch, and yell “ENOUGH!” I hereby announce the start of a new offensive in the culture wars, the Retrosexual movement.

The Code:

A Retrosexual, no matter what the women insists, PAYS FOR THE GODDAMN DATE.

A Retrosexual opens doors for a lady. Even for the ones that fit that term only because they are female.

A Retrosexual DEALS with shit. Be it a flat tire, break-in into your home, or a natural disaster, you FUCKING DEAL WITH IT.

A Retrosexual not only eats red meat, he often kills it himself.

A Retrosexual doesn’t worry about living to be 90. It’s not how long you live, but how well. If you’re 90 years old and still smoking cigars and drinking, I salute you.

A Retrosexual does not use more hair or skin products than a woman. Women have several supermarket aisles of stuff. Retrosexuals need an endcap (possibly 2 endcaps if you include shaving goods.)

A Retrosexual does not dress in clothes from Hot Topic when he’s 30 years old. (Yes, Contagion, I’m lookin’ at you)

A Retrosexual should know how to properly kill stuff (or people) if need be. This falls under the “dealing with shit” portion of The Code.

A Retrosexual watches no TV show with “Queer” in the title.

A Retrosexual does not let neighbors fuck up rooms in his house on national TV.

A Retrosexual should not give up excessive amounts of manliness for poontang. Some is inevitable, but major re-invention of yourself will only lead to you becoming a froo-froo little puss, and in the long run, she ain’t worth it.

A Retrosexual is allowed to seek professional help for major mental stress such as drug/alcohol addiction, death of your entire family in a freak treechipper accident, favorite sports team being moved to a different city etc. You are NOT allowed to see a shrink because Daddy didn’t pay you enough attention. Daddy was busy DEALING WITH SHIT. When you fucked up, he DEALT with you. Buck up pussy.

A Retrosexual will have at least one outfit in his wardrobe designed to conceal himself from prey.

A Retrosexual knows how to tie a fucking windsor knot when wearing a tie. (There, Contagion, that made up for the Hot Topic crack)

A Retrosexual does not strip naked, get into a sweat lodge, and bang on drums to bond with other guys. That shit is gay. However dressing in kilts, banging on drums around a campfire, and drinking heavily is just fine.

A Retrosexual should have at least one good wound he can brag about getting. (If not, he can borrow some from my friend Daniel, who has enough wound stories to last for 3 lifetimes)

A Retrosexual knows how to use a basic set of tools. If you can’t hammer a damn nail, or drill a straight hole, practice in secret until you can or be rightfully ridiculed for the wuss you be.

A Retrosexual’s asshole is an exit ramp on the road of life. Ladies, contrary to what Cosmo says, spontaneously sticking a finger back there is a good way to be launched off the bed (or if Hooters hotwings have been recently consumed, lose a finger). Make you a deal, we won’t mess with yours unless you want us to, and you won’t mess with ours period.

A Retrosexual will buy feminine hygine products if he has to, but only under protest. This falls under unpleasant things you have to fucking DEAL with. Get some Hagen-Daaz while you’re at it.

A Retrosexual gives a lady his seat on the bus/subway/etc.

A Retrosexual does not order an apple martini at the bar. A Martini has fucking gin and vermouth in it dammit. And maybe an olive. In fact, why not just get a beer and a shot of scotch??

A Retrosexual knows that owning a gun is not a sign that you are riddled with fear, or are trying to make up for a small penis. Massage and cunnilingus skills are the way to make up for a small penis, guns are fucking TOOLS and are often essential to DEAL with shit. Plus it’s just damnned fun to shoot.

These are just the tip of the iceberg. I need help fleshing out The Code. Please let the testosterone flow and add your wisdom.

For the second day in a row, I woke up with a migraine. Damn hormones – the Goddess’ Dubious Blessing often triggers migraine attacks. So, for the second day in a row, I gave myself a shot of Imitrex, in order to be able to continue on with my day.

Thank heavens I don’t have a phobia of needles, but nevertheless, shots aren’t fun. Most of the time, they are rather unpleasant – I seem to have a knack for choosing injection sites which have lots of nerve-endings. Today I got lucky, and barely felt the needle or the medication going in (the needle doesn’t really hurt – but the medication going in causes a sharp burning sensation).

It’s far preferable to a migraine, however.

Our local Society for Creative Anachronism shire got a mention in the newspaper. Read all about it here. (Yes, it really is as dorky as it sounds. Nevertheless, it can be a metric butt-ton of fun.)

We love classics, but it’s great to find a new song which tempts you to dance, sing, or just tap your foot along to it. I especially like new songs which make me smile. So this week’s question is:

What new song have you heard on the radio lately that made you smile, giggle, or resolve to run out & buy the CD?

My answer is “1985” by some group I’ve never heard of called SR-71. (An “SR” is usually a state road…I bet there’s an interesting story behind the naming of that band!)

Someone actually waylayed my roommate Molly on her way home from the Culinary Institute to give her a business card for a website which deals with, of course, cooking. (Her Culinary Institute uniform of chef’s coat and checky pants is rather distinctive, after all.)

Molly found all sorts of wicked, evil products on the site – such as the pineapple corer & peeler (I love pineapple!), the garlic roaster (ditto!), and this utterly hilarious item: the Tart-Master.

It promises that “you can create shapely tarts.” I can think of at least six people off the top of my head who would love to be able to “create shapely tarts” with a tool that costs a measley $8.95! And considering that it also “cuts and seals…with a crimped edge,” I’m thinking it could be a nice little gadget for certain friends & acquaintances of the D/s persuasion!

I just can’t get over the name. “Tart-Master” Bwa ha ha ha! Say it out loud a few times and see if you aren’t chuckling, too.

They say that most accidents happen in the home. I’m betting that’s accurate, and my left shin will attest to it as well.

This morning, stepping out to retrieve the newspaper from the driveway (the newspaper offered a free trial, we said, “Sure”), my right foot slipped off the edge of my walk – which twisted my right ankle, threw me off-balance, and sent the rest of me straight down and slightly sideways. Gravity lesson #8,247.

My left shin took the impact and the damage – a nasty scrape that breaks the skin in places, about 5 inches long and a little over an inch wide, from the rough edge of the concrete walk. What amazed me was that I didn’t make a sound when it happened, mainly because I was too startled. I’ve been walking for 34 years – it’s not something I’m used to having problems with!

Thank heavens for Solarcaine.

As I work for the Evil Empire (ever noticed how much the logo resembles the Death Star? yeah), I get free unlimited local minutes on my wireless plan. As I am a Gemini, I talk a lot. I consider my free wireless service to be a major perk of the job, especially considering that I’d be forking over at least $150 a month for the time I spend on the phone if I were paying for it. (Of course, if I were paying for it, I wouldn’t feel free to talk all I want!)

I got curious about my usage, so here’s my monthly minutes for the first half of the year (with each month being the 24th of the previous month to the 23rd of the named month):

Jan – 1794
Feb – 1398
Mar – 2326
Apr – 2073
May – 1474
June – 1458

What does it all mean? It means I average 29.23 hours a month talking on my cell phone. Twenty-nine and a quarter hours. Wow.

And yes, I get unlimited text messaging too. Somehow I only send 25-40 a month, though. Weird.

I do have to pay for roadside assistance, long distance, and taxes on my account. My wireless bill averages in the vicinity of $4 or $6 a month. Yay for perks!

Eep, I’ve been pegged!

Take the 20 Questions to a Better Personality quiz! It told me:

Wackiness: 38/100
Rationality: 44/100
Constructiveness: 44/100
Leadership: 46/100

You are an SEDF—Sober Emotional Destructive Follower. This makes you an evil genius. You are extremely focused and difficult to distract from your tasks. With luck, you have learned to channel your energies into improving your intellect, rather than destroying the weak and unsuspecting.

Your friends may find you remote and a hard nut to crack. Few of your peers know you very well—even those you have known a long time—because you have expert control of the face you put forth to the world. You prefer to observe, calculate, discern and decide. Your decisions are final, and your desire to be right is impenetrable.

You are not to be messed with. You may explode.

10> Well, for starters, take off the Starfleet uniform.

9> Only go out during moonless nights, when the glare off your pasty white skin isn’t quite as blinding.

8> Join one of those “swim with the dolphins” tours and look for the ones caught in the tuna net.

7> Support the Kerry-for-president effort — everyone knows that liberal chicks are easy.

6> Do what all the other guys are doing: Marry Britney Spears.

5> Stalk Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. You won’t get anywhere with them, but you’ll have no trouble getting laid when you’re thrown in jail for harrassment.

4> Stuff the front of your Speedo… with $100 bills.

3> Pray to all that’s holy that the producers of “Extreme Makeover” call you back.

2> Move in with two women; convince the landlord you’re gay.

1> See what your former intern is up to these days.

I’m off to do final packing & grocery shopping for our trip up to PolyCamp – woo hoo!

It feels weird getting ready for a camping trip and not packing a bunch of garb. It’s only the second time in my life that I’ve gone camping that wasn’t an SCA camping event.

I’m just trying not to have too many expectations…that whole “hoping for the best & planning for the worst” thing. Having Lyse & Geoffrey with me means that the worst that can happen is we’ll fight off boredom with a private little snark-fest – but I think there will be a lot more fun than that to be had!