Christmas Scare-ols

Yesterday was a delightful Christmas for me, but it was over before I was ready to bid adieu. Fueled by wine and coconut cake, I was ready for a night on the town. Unfortunately, the Queen City was not cooperating. Ideally, I would’ve liked to have gone to a Christmas drag show. I envisioned a sexy Ms. Claus whose drag name was Yuletide Carol or something equally festive, who would serenade me with a bevy of Eartha Kitt and Peggy Lee classics, while I sipped a mulled cider and flirted with Donner—a slightly younger reindeer sporting a provocative leather halter and huge antlers. Sadly, it was not to be.

Instead, I lit some candles and played some Christmas music on my iPod. Unfortunately I started analyzing the lyrics of the carols. I’ve always thought “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” was vaguely threatening. It starts out as festive well-wishes, but then the caroling turns malevolent. Wishes turn to demands as the carolers' craving for figgy pudding takes over. And they “won’t go until we get some”. What the f*ck??? Who even has figgy pudding around these days? Wherein lies the fault—the poor homeowner who hasn’t properly prepared for the holiday, or the unreasonable carolers who are hopelessly out of touch with the times? I blame the carolers. A good terrorist will choose his battles more carefully, and cite demands that can actually be met.

I also marveled at “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”. What should be a heartbreaking tale of infidelity has become a children’s classic. Granted—the Santa Claus in the story is the child’s father in a costume, but the child doesn’t know that. He seems to be taking his mother’s indiscretions amazingly well. If my mom was an indiscriminate slattern with a granddaddy fetish I don’t think I’d be singing about it. “What a laugh it would’ve been, if daddy had only seen…” So much for divorce being hardest on the children. This kid is looking forward to the custody hearings—if he & Mom end up with Santa he gets free toys for the rest of his life.

I guess it’s best not to put too much thought into the holidays. As I said in the earlier posting, it’s more about the spirit of the season. I ate some great food, spent some time with people that mean a lot to me, and got some decent bling. And if I didn’t get to make out with a hot reindeer who was more hung than the Christmas stockings—I’ve still got New Year’s Eve…..

Seasons Eatings

Ah, the holidays! As clichéd and commercial as they can be, I have to admit I still love them. Friends put aside the distractions of day-to-day living and make getting together with each other a priority. Families, usually with the help of some spiked eggnog or hard cider, set aside petty differences to enjoy a day of feasting and familiarizing. Even the office Christmas parties can be fun, as you get a chance to see the person rather than the co-worker.

I love the silliness of it all as well. Whether it’s a ridiculous Christmas sweater, a cheesy Christmas song, or a poorly animated Christmas special on television—it’s just fun. Friday night I was treated to some college boys Christmas caroling and it brought back fond memories of me & my fraternity brothers doing the same thing. It’s nice to know in this cynical world there is still some honest enjoyment to be had in tradition (although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder if I could convince one of the college boys to give me a lap-carol!).

As I’ve gotten older, my reasons for loving the holidays have changed, but the love is still there. When I was little, I used to look forward to the presents. Half the fun was trying to figure out what the gift was before unwrapping it. My brother would just tear into each gift hastily, but I liked to take my time and savor the anticipation. I would try to see how little of the wrapping paper I could remove and still figure out what the gift was, reading the small print on the box or looking for a tell-tale label (Matchbox, Sony, etc.).

Nowadays, instead of slowly unwrapping a present, I love peeling the foil off a freshly baked dish as I take it out of the oven. I still take my time and savor the experience—first the aroma, then gazing at the bubbly sides of the casserole dish, then finally taking the entire layer of foil off to admire my creation. And unlike a Christmas present, I get to eat it once I unwrap it!

The holiday season is the one time of year I give myself permission to indulge in whatever fattening, delicious foods come my way. I figure it’s my reward for watching my diet the other 11 months of the year.

So anyway, I hope everyone reading this has a great holiday—whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa. Take some time to savor the season, and if you have any leftovers—let me know. I’m suddenly very hungry.

A Pessimist on Marriage

I just heard from two friends of mine in Canada who are going to get married. The unusual thing about this couple is that they are two men. Canada is one of the few countries to recognize same-sex marriages (along with Belgium, Spain, the Netherlands, and South Africa*). My friends have been together for 11 years, and I think they will have a wonderful marriage.

Here in the U.S., the battle for gay marriage is still being fought. In principle I do think it should be an option, but after watching one guy I know go through two divorces—it’s awfully hard for me to go to bat for this issue. This particular man has been making a good living for more than ten years, but after two divorces he is essentially destitute and having to live with his parents while he regains his financial footing. I have another friend from dental school who recently divorced her husband, and she too got taken to the cleaners. It sucks that by the mere act of legally declaring your love for another human being, you are setting yourself up for financial ruin. And given some of the choices I’ve made in my love life, I have a feeling I would be one of the people to get financially devastated if I should have the right and the opportunity to marry.

I had lunch with two friends today and we were talking about the old ‘70’s television series “In Search Of…” It was hosted by Leonard Nimoy, and every episode centered around the search for some mysterious entity—Bigfoot, Amelia Earhardt, UFO’s. We were joking about what they could search for these days if the show was still airing. I suggested “Affordable Health Insurance”, but one of my friends suggested “A Monogamous Gay Man”. I had to admit I knew what he was talking about—I’ve known several gay men who seemed to have issues with commitment. I’m not sure I believe gay marriage will be any more likely to lead to divorce than a straight marriage, though. I just think it will be messier.

Marriage involves two individuals making a lot of promises to each other. Whether the couple is two men, two women, or a man and a woman—there will be occasions where those promises get broken, and someone gets pissed off. If forgiveness is not to be, then a divorce most likely will occur. I’ve seen several straight marriages disintegrate, and it’s never pretty. I’ve also seen several gay relationships disintegrate, and the only good thing about it is that neither partner had the legal opportunity to go after the other’s resources.

I definitely think two people who care about each other should have the right to visit each other in the hospital, make their loved one the beneficiary of a will, and such. But I also think if we get the legal right to marry, we should have foolproof prenuptial agreements in place. Whoever said “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” obviously hadn’t met a pissed off queen.

*source=Wikipedia

Miami Vices

I went down to Miami Beach this past weekend with a friend. It was my first big trip since leaving practice (unless Myrtle Beach counts as a ‘big’ trip—see previous posting) so I was ready for a change of scenery. I also enjoy placing myself among the genetically blessed as a little sociological experiment, and Miami is chock full of them. I have never seen as many beautiful human beings in one locale as I have in South Beach. The men and women there, regardless of age and race, are flawless physical specimens. Not only are they physically attractive, they are well maintained. It’s a sea of pedicures, cheekbones, sculpted hair and exfoliated skin. The women look great too.

For me the challenge is not to be intimidated by this exotic species of human being. Even with my doctorate degree, I find myself insecure and eager for their approval. When I get it, I turn into Sally Field at the Academy Awards—“the pretty man laughed at my joke! He likes me! He really likes me!” I feel like a goat who’s wandered into a herd of gazelles, so I usually rely on my sense of humor to gain me entry into the collective.

I think some people were trying other methods, with varying degrees of success. One of the more popular t-shirts I spied around town was screen printed with what looked like an illustration from a tarot card deck. An emaciated man was being plagued by demons, and above the illustration in Gothic print was the word “Affliction”. On the right man, it was a magnificent look. Saturday afternoon, however, while we were strolling along Ocean Drive I spied a morbidly obese man wearing the same shirt. While part of me admired his chutzpah for wearing designer duds despite not having a designer bod, the other part of me had to question his choice. There are certainly clothes that flatter every body type, but this particular shirt was not among them. He had to cut a slit in the collar of the t-shirt to get it around his neck without choking him, and even then the fabric was straining. More obvious than that, though, was the sight of this unhealthy creature wearing a shirt with that particular message. I think if you are going to successfully wear a shirt that has “Affliction” written upon it, you cannot appear to be afflicted.

Seeing this man, though, did bring me back to reality. I realized I wasn’t the only one who wanted a piece of the glamorous life, and I think it’s only human to feel that way. It looks like the beautiful people are having a lot of fun. But in the end, they are only people too, and you can’t build a meaningful life on fun. A meaningful life comes from accomplishments—and I have to wonder what some of these beautiful people have really accomplished.

So by the time we hit the cocktail parties, I was over my insecurities. I won’t say I didn’t still get a little thrill whenever I got one of the gazelles to smile at me, but I felt like I was one hell of an accomplished goat whether they liked me or not. I still wasn’t secure enough to wear one of the “Affliction” shirts, however. I needed to know the beautiful people were laughing with me, not at me.

A Mile in Her Bat-shoes

I have never appreciated a pair of shoes as much as I did today when I put on my cross-trainers. This past weekend was the annual Halloween celebration, and per tradition I went in drag. I don’t mind the wig, make up, and clothes-- but women’s shoes suck. A lesbian friend of mine told me once that women’s shoes were a joke played by gay men on straight women for the benefit of straight men. I don’t think I fully understood what she meant until I put a pair of heels on for myself. It’s amazing how something so pleasing to the male eye can be so displeasing to the female (or male!) foot. The irony is that now some gay men will have to wear these same shoes if they want to be effective drag queens. Karma is a bitch with sore feet.

The costume itself turned out pretty well. I went as Batwoman. The original Batwoman was created by DC Comics in the 1950’s to quell rumors that Batman and Robin were lovers. By the 1970’s, DC apparently felt that the Dynamic Duo’s heterosexuality had been established, so they killed her off (another straight woman sacrificed once she’d outlived her usefulness to straight men—I guess her high heeled boots weren’t punishment enough). Gotham City had to carry on without a Batwoman until last year when DC Comics revived her as a lipstick lesbian, possibly related to the original character.

I was striving for the look of the contemporary Batwoman—black leather pants, long red hair, black cape—but even with these accoutrements the costume had a campy 1960’s feel to it (perhaps because I was a 41 year old man dressing as a 28 year old superheroine!). No worries, though. When you stand 6’10” in heels nobody is going to laugh in your face. And even though most people weren’t familiar with the character, I somehow felt that if Batwoman were out there, she would’ve appreciated the homage. Just as I now appreciate the difficulty of battling crime in uncomfortable shoes.

*If you’re really curious to see the pictures, they are at www.myspace.com/branchula under the “my pics” section.

Reclaiming the Work Week

I just got my first paying “non-dentist” gig! I have been retained by a non-profit group here in Charlotte to update their website. A friend of mine put me in touch with the group, and after a few informal meetings I was given essentially a shoe-box full of news clippings and internal memos from which I am to generate a narrative of what the group has been doing these last few years.

It has been such a change of pace from my clinical job. First of all it’s nice to walk into a room and have people be genuinely glad to see me. In dentistry, even the nicest patients are a bit tense when I’m present because they know at some point I’m going to pick up something sharp and stick it in their mouth! Happily I didn’t have to do that once with the non-profit group, and from their demeanor I think they appreciated that fact. Secondly, it was refreshing to get to use a different part of my brain. Dentistry is a lot of analysis, very mechanical, and confined to a decidedly small space. Going through the information given to me by the non-profit group involved more synthesis—taking the information, sorting through it, and putting the essentials into narrative form. And what a luxury to be able to spread out over my entire coffee table! I’m not sure if it’s the novelty, or if I could really do this for a living—but for now I’m having a good time.

The one thing I’ve noticed is that it’s been very difficult to fit a career back into my life. I’ve been unemployed now for two months, and somehow have managed to fill up my days without the encumbrance of a job. I heard somewhere that goldfish grow to fit whatever size environment they are placed in. If they are kept in a small tank, they stay small. If they are put into a pond, however, they can grow to be quite large. I believe that is how I have approached my life. When I was working 40 hours a week, I kept side projects to a minimum. Now that I have all this additional time—I have been able to tackle several tasks. I’ve redone the closets in my bedroom, drawn up a 5-page Emergency Plan for a performance theater of which I am a board member, and updated all the software on my lap-top. And those iTunes songs didn’t download themselves! It’s been a busy time, and trying to fit a job back into the mix is going to be very difficult. For the benefit of a paycheck, however, I think I’ll make the effort. I just have to figure out how to shrink a goldfish.

Sex & the Single Blogger

I had a date this week! Technically it was a first date, but there is some history I should explain. I met this gentleman at a party a few nights ago through some mutual friends. This is always a good way to meet a romantic prospect, because if you have friends in common most likely the gentleman is not a serial killer. Anyway, we hit it off at the party, had a few drinks and then he ended up spending the night at my place. The next day I drove him home, and we traded phone numbers. We traded a few text messages during the week, and tonight we had our first date.

This is not the way they explained dating in Phys Ed class back in middle school, nor do I think Emily Post or Miss Manners would approve, but for me it is a good system. I don't pursue all relationships in this manner, nor am I recommending it to others. I am simply saying the few times it has worked out this way it takes some of the pressure off. Again, I hold my overactive brain accountable. Dating in the traditional manner is very stressful psychologically (for me, at least). Being gay I get the double whammy of having the traditional male nagging questions and the traditional female nagging questions. On the male side we have:
“When should I make a move?”
“Do I stop with just a kiss, or should I go for more?”
“If I go for more, will he think I’m a horn-dog?”
“If I don’t go for more, will he think I’m straight?”

On the female side we have:
"How provocatively can I dress without looking slutty?"
"If I go all the way does that make me easy?”
“If I don’t go all the way does that make me a tease?”

I find myself unable to enjoy the first date and pay attention to the conversation because all of these questions are running through my head.

If you’ve already had sex with the person--suddenly you’re relieved of all these persistent doubts. You know the sex was decent enough for both parties to return for a second encounter. Now all you have to do is figure out if there’s enough there to build a relationship upon. Even then, the pressure is off. If you hit it off with the person--that’s fabulous! You now have a boyfriend. If you don’t--you can go your separate ways if you like, or perhaps just keep them on speed dial as a potential boink buddy.

I’m happy to say the first date went very well. A second date has been scheduled, and we'll take it from there. Now the only nagging question on my mind is, if this works out in the long-term, which day do I use to calculate our anniversaries????

Flawed Focus

So I got some disturbing news this past week. I went in for my annual eye exam and was informed that I now need bifocals. BIFOCALS!!!! The spectre of my mortality is now standing right in front of me--although apparently I won’t be able to see it without prescription lenses. Personally I blame dentistry. I was perfectly fine when I started dental school 17 years ago.

I went ahead and ordered some new lenses, but frankly I’m not sure I will wear them. I’m not convinced I really want razor sharp vision. What if, in His infinite wisdom and mercy, it is part of God’s plan for our eyesight to fail as we age? At least that way we can’t see the ravages of time upon our bodies. Do we really want 20/20 vision to behold every wrinkle, grey hair, and extra pound as they appear?

I remember when high definition televisions first came out. All of the display models at the electronics stores were playing a looped video of fish swimming, and the picture was so clear it looked like the televisions were aquariums. Amazing. But then you got home with the new tv and began watching your favorite shows. Suddenly every blemish on the face of your favorite celebrity was visible. It’s shocking the first time you see it. The celebrities of a certain age seem to suffer the most. Nobody over the age of 30 needs a high definition camera pointed at them.

You have to wonder what this will do for the careers of television personalities. When the movie industry made the transition from silent films to “talkies” there was a percentage of stars who did not survive the switch. They were incredibly photogenic but did not have speaking voices to match their faces. The movie “Singing in the Rain” tells this story in a funny and entertaining manner, but it was a tragedy to the celebrities who suddenly found themselves without a forum for their talent. As public demand for beautiful celebrities increases, and technological advances are making it more and more difficult to hide one’s flaws--who will be left to stand in front of the cameras?

The answer lies with the audience--either the audience will be willing to accept their celebrities with a few zits and wrinkles, or the audience will reject any flawed icons and only worship those who are, or appear to be, perfect. I hate to say it, but I think I know what the answer will be. Once I get my bifocals, I’ll be looking at zits and wrinkles in the mirror every day. That’s hard enough to accept. I don’t know if I have it in myself to also accept a ridiculously overpaid celebrity with zits and wrinkles too. I want my tv set to be the one place I can look and have a flawless face staring back at me.

Venus if you will.....

Two friends of mine have just been asked to write a singles column for one of the Charlotte newspapers. She is providing the straight woman perspective, and he is providing the gay male perspective. Along with a gay woman and a straight man they will pen a weekly column on the dating scene. Hearing my two friends discuss potential topics has gotten me thinking about my own romantic life.

In my roughly 25 years since puberty, I really haven’t dated much. Comparing myself to my friends, both straight and gay, I don’t seem to have as strong of a sex drive. My brain is my primary sex organ, and usually it’s working against me. Physical contact for me, be it a massage or sexual contact or whatever, becomes this kind of “Eyes of Laura Mars” experience. I’m suddenly seeing myself through the other person’s eyes and imagining what they must be thinking--”Can’t he do something about those love handles?” “I’ve never seen such hairy toes”. “Nice teeth, though!”

As I was taking my pre-med classes I learned about other ways of reproducing found in nature. Personally I liked the idea of spores. Why did we need to evolve past that system? Gay men could reproduce by giving off Glitter Spores, which would eventually hatch and form boy-bands. Works for me!

The times I have ventured into the dating scene it usually hasn’t gone very well. I’m not sure if it was Venus or Eros, but I’ve definitely angered one of the dating gods. I’ve been stood up on Valentine’s Day and dishonorably discharged by military boyfriends who were afraid of being outed under the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policies. Match.com even returned my own profile to me as a potential suitor with the qualifier that we were only an 85% match!

Luckily I’m fabulously self-sufficient. I have a great group of friends who allow me to live vicariously through their dating lives. It works a little like A.A. Meetings for me. They tell me their dating woes, and it steels my resolve to stay single!

As I’m going through this career change, however, I’m thinking about a complete re-invention of myself. I do realize there must be some benefits to relationships, or else nobody would put themselves through the trouble of dating. So as I seek a more rewarding career, I am also seeking a more rewarding life. I hope dating will be a part of that. Therefore, I am officially putting myself back in the game. Let’s hope Eros and Venus are kinder to me this time around.

Contempt & Envy

One of my favorite things to do now that I have my days free is crawl out of bed and head straight to the gym. Because I will just get all sweaty, I usually don’t shower beforehand. It seems wasteful to do so, and I quite enjoy the shock value of walking downtown in a disheveled state. The gym where I work out is a few blocks from my condo, so I usually grab my gym bag and stroll over. Immediately I noticed the stares. Not direct eye contact, but a sidelong glance that is a mixture of contempt and envy. Who is this unshaven man with the obvious bed-head and razor stubble? HaHaHa, I think to myself, I am Liberated Man. Of course you envy me! You beleaguered whores in your corporate costumes off to slave away in a cubicle jungle. I’ve broken free of such drudgeries (at least for the moment). It’s a rather exhilarating feeling, I must say.

As an un-showered man at the gym, I fall into the first of two groups. The first group are the people who are there to exercise. The second group are the posers. You know who I mean--the women in their tight t-shirts reading Cosmo and jiggling seductively on the elliptical machine with perfect hair and makeup; the men in their tank tops doing biceps curls in front of the mirrors. These people are sweatin’ each other, but none of this sweat has to do with actual exercise. Most of the posers are in their 20’s and don’t need to exercise to look good anyway. Once you hit 30--it takes a little effort.

I have a friend who is in a relationship with a surgeon who was just telling me this weekend, “I don’t think my man appreciates how much work I’m doing to maintain my status as his trophy husband”. It’s so true. After 30, you better spend some time looking ugly at the gym (ie. Sweaty, red-faced and hyperventilating) so you can look presentable anywhere else. It just a sad fact of life.

Walking home from the gym, looking even worse after my work out--I’ve started noticing something else. There are several cafés downtown, and most of them have outside seating. These are where the power lunches happen. The same worker bees who were looking down their noses at me now turn their eyes to menus promising interesting sandwiches, exotic soups, and colorful salads. My accountant has me on a tight budget during my mini-retirement, so trendy café food is off limits. I’m currently living on home-made turkey sandwiches and kettle chips. As I walk past these immaculately dressed men & women dining on linen tablecloths and chatting on their iPhones, with nothing but squeeze-bottle horseradish to enliven my own lunch--I’m finding myself staring at them with a mixture of contempt and envy. Kind of the same way I look at the posers!

Myrtle Beach Daze

I celebrated my unemployment and coincidentally my 41st birthday with a trip to Myrtle Beach, SC. Admittedly this was a step down from last year’s birthday. To toast my 40th birthday I had gone to Paris, France with some friends and sipped champagne on a yacht as we drifted down the Seine. I knew Myrtle Beach wouldn’t quite compare, but I was loathe to spend a lot of money with no new job prospects on the horizon.

We found ourselves at an ocean front bar called Ocean Annie’s, and I realized that Myrtle Beach is where hot chicks from the ‘80’s come to die. My friends and I were awash in a sea of forty-something women with big hair, eyeliner, and high heeled espadrilles. They were grouped in clusters around the circular oak tables nursing cigarettes and warm beer. Many of them were still attractive, but the years of smoking and tanning had taken a toll. Their expressions were as wooden as the bar stools they were sitting upon, and nearly as weather-beaten. Not that the men were any better. Draped in Big Johnson muscle T’s and crowned with their regal mullets, they sounded their barbaric yawps (actually more like “Woo Hoo’s”) over the sound system--which was serenading us with a medley of bands named after geographic hotspots (Boston, Asia, Kansas, etc.) .

Once we had settled in, however, I found myself having a good time. The view of the ocean was gorgeous, and the beers were cold. The late afternoon sun felt great, and the familiarity of the music was comforting. I’ll take classic rock over some angry rapper screaming at me any day. Maybe these people were on to something--you don’t have to spend a lot of money to “get away from it all”. It’s just a matter of finding the beauty in what is offered to you. As if to confirm my revelation, suddenly “Obsession” by Animotion came over the speakers. This was a huge hit from my high school days that I hadn’t heard in years. My friends were equally excited to hear it, and our table let out a collective yawp of our own in approval.

At that moment, my eyes locked with one of the big haired babes at a table across from where I was sitting. Through the haze of cigarette smoke obscuring her stony features, I suddenly had a flash of clairvoyance and knew exactly what she was thinking: “This must be where hot gay guys from the ‘80’s come to die.”

Leaving Dentistry

So I just quit my job. The sensationalist in me would love to attach this decision to some massive event, either catastrophic (read: arms amputated in freak dental drill accident) or miraculous (read: Leona Helmsley’s dog dies and leaves me the fortune), but it really wasn’t that dramatic.

For the past twelve years I’ve been working as a dentist. I don’t think dentistry and I were ever a great match. Sure, there were some things I enjoyed about it--there’s definitely some instant gratification. Someone walks in with a big black hole in their tooth, you fill it, and they leave with a beautiful white filling (or if they have bad insurance they leave with a shiny silver filling). That part is nice. I just never enjoyed doing it.

Now, when people hear that I quit my job, they say how courageous of me to walk away. I don’t really see it that way. The image that comes to mind for me is that of a cow that has been hooked up to a milking machine and then abandoned. The machine continues to tug on the udders, but all the milk has long since been drained. That is how I felt about dentistry. I had something initially to offer, and things were good for a while. But after twelve years I was tapped out. I really felt like I had nothing left to give to my patients. So in a situation like that is it courageous for the cow to walk away? Or is the cow just acknowledging the reality of the situation and saving everybody (mainly the cow) some pain and grief? Those milking machines have got to hurt after a while, and with no more milk to give there is no point in staying hooked up. So the cow walks away.

I’m not sure what the future will hold for me. I’d love to say that I’ve accumulated enough in my twelve years of working to be able to retire permanently, but that is sadly not the case. I do still need to work, and I want to work. I want to make a contribution to society. I just need to do it outside of a dental office. There’s a wonderful world out there and I’m ready to take a bite out of it (and I’ve got just the teeth to do so)!

As I decide what my next career will be, I will look towards the future with a sense of cautious optimism, and know that leaving dentistry was the right decision for me. Life is too short to go through it with sore udders.

My Beliefs

I believe Susan Lucci is fabulous.

I believe fast food should be taxed like cigarettes.

I believe exercise is as much for the mind as for the body.

I believe there is a God, but I also believe from the minute the first humans learned to read & write that they started putting words in His mouth.

I believe in the concept of a left/analytical brain and a right/creative brain. I also believe that somehow the left brain people have decided their contributions are more valuable than those of the right brain people--which is a shame, because as much as I enjoy Sudoku puzzles, a Sudoku puzzle has never made me laugh or feel the awesome sense of exhileration that I feel whenever I see a great play, look at an inspiring piece of art, or hear a talented musician perform.

I believe, like most Southerners, that home cooking is one of the purest expressions of love.

I believe it's a lot harder to fall in love than they made it look on "The Love Boat".

I believe you need to nurture your friendships, even if you are in love.

I believe my hair looked better with highlights.