It has recently come to my attention that some visitors to this site might have reason to question my gender. Maybe it's the pink mastheads. Or all the ads for purses and swimsuits. It got me thinking. You know how some gay men who are trying to hide their sexuality go out and get themselves a beard?

I'm thinking that I can do the same thing. Except an actual beard. I'm going to grow a Commander Riker so everyone knows, once and for all, just how manly I really am.

Here's the progress so far.

Finally, schools are teaching girls some skills they can use in life.

Objects in equation may be exaggerated due to testosterone impairment

Between the lobby of my office building and the floor where my desk lives there are eighty-six stairs. How do I know? I counted them. Then I counted them again. In fact, I count them every time I climb them.

Why? Umm... because I have OCD, maybe?

Also, while I'm walking up them, my brain is triggered into thinking about an episode of Hill Street Blues. One in particular having something to do with an evidence room and a misplaced pistol.

Some of the parking at the building where I spend all day on Twitter work is covered by a freeway overpass. But, despite the fact that the overpass keeps the harsh weather off of my car, I rarely park in that part of the lot because it also keeps the harsh weather off of the homeless people who like to poop there. Yesterday though, I pulled into a spot under the freeway for a minute as I took a phone call that came in as I was trying to dash away for a quick dinner before an evening of lugging computers from room to room.

So there I was, minding my own beeswax, coordinating the contractors who were coming to help with the planned server move, when ... KLUNK ... as I was saying ... I was talking on the phone ... KLUNK ... What the hell? ... KLUNK ...

"I'll call you right back."

My father and I are hardly very different at all. When people meet him it is common for them to comment how alike we are in our mannerisms, conversation style and attitudes. Even the vertical wrinkle next to our left eye is the same. So it should come as no surprise at all when I tell you that my father is, generally speaking, a selfish son-of-a-bitch.

That's why I was touched and surprised, when at the end of a small get-together at his house last weekend, he casually gave me his guitar. A 1978 Guild D25M.

Now, it's not like he's been playing it since he was a boy or keeping it stored in a humidified, bullet-proof display case or anything. In fact, it was sitting at the back of a closet in an unassuming black case with orange, crushed velvet lining. The strings were old and dull-sounding and the finish was dusty and dry. The old girl was in need of a good cleaning and new strings but not much else.

Is is completely Pollyanna of me to sincerely hope everyone had a great holiday season? If so, well... tough shit. I said it, I meant it.

I've been in blog-hibernation for a few weeks, what, with a huge project pending at work, a much-heavier-than-normal performance schedule, regular holiday obligations, and my yearly bout of SAD. I know for many of you, living without my daily posts is like suffering drug withdrawals. I've come to a place where I'm ok letting you suffer like that because in order for me to find a balance, a few things have had to give a little. Sadly, writing and photography got the axe for a little while.

But I'm back. For me writing is not just about entertaining or venting or being funny. For me, this is therapy. I write about things I'm not always comfortable telling other people, including Donna. I write more often to find out how I feel rather than to express it.

When Donna was growing up, her parent always lovingly teased that she was their "big girl". I don't mean when she was like five in a gee-now-you're-in-kindergarten-please-stop-sucking-your-thumb sort of way. At five feet, seven inches, Donna is nearly as tall as her dad. So even into high school, she was their "big girl".

While she's never been anything even close to obese, and while she's never considered herself fat, I think it's a safe bet that she also never thought of herself as skinny. In fact, I think that while she's always been aware of her weight and shape, she's never really had either a positive or negative body image at all.

She's certainly been aware of her weight and size and shape but it's never seemed like it was really a part of who she is... a part of her identity.

Yesterday, as I climbed into my car, I fumbled with my backpack, my keys and my iPhone all while trying to keep my headphones in my ears and keep the door open with my foot.

Long story short, I went all Tony Romo with my iPhone and it slipped like a wet fish from my hand. It hung, in slow motion, hanging onto the headphones by its jack for a moment. And then, it happened. A sudden gust of gravity took her from my clutches.

Thunk. Slide.

This is just the sort of thing that happens when people don't plan the way I asked them to.

There had better be a damsel in a tower at the other end of this.

Since I was a kid, I've suffered from canker sores. I remember sitting on the carpeted kitchen floor of our Sandy slum, err.. rental house, in front of the avocado-green refrigerator yelping with pain every time I had to swallow. Always the caring mother, mom would be extra careful when pushing me away from the fridge with her foot when opening the door to get at the pitcher of re-hydrated Deseret Brand powdered milk.

It's been a couple years since I had a serious outbreak but it looks like I'm about overdue. The first tickle came on Friday along with a little redness in the throat. You know these sorts of things are bad when I find myself wishing for strep throat instead of cankers. By Sunday morning, a full-fledged ulcer had formed right on my uvula.

There is no know cause for cankers though some say a combination of factors are likely to blame. Including stress, lack of sleep, sodium laurel sulphate (a nearly-unavoidable main ingredient in toothpaste) and, depending who you ask, apostasy. Great, all I have to do is lie perfectly still, stop swallowing, quit my job and stop brushing my teeth. The apostasy thing is non-negotiable.