Men who dress like women and the women who want them to...

So, I'm on the phone last night with Clostio. It was a rare call - not as rare as a call from Hillary Clinton, say, or Murphy but rare - so we were catching up on everything.

"I'm in 1982," I told him, catching him up on my chronological observation of my DVD collection.

"1982," he repeated. "Let's see... My Favorite Year?" He guessed the movie title just right. I was impressed. "Tootsie?" On this one, he was wrong.

I don't own Tootsie. It's not that it's not a great movie. It is. It contains one of Bill Murray's best, and most underrated roles. But I can't buy it and I'll tell you why - I think it's socially irrelevant. The idea of a man dressing up as a woman to get a job anchoring the news is so outdated; I wouldn't be surprised if, somewhere (probably in the morning), there's a channel that does all cross-dressing news reports. They'd call it something cute like "Criss-cross News" or something.

And I can say all that now because blog entries are so different from phone conversations. You know, you can think of shit.

For instance, these job prospects. One is with a phone company and the other is with a computer company. I spoke with one this morning and was told that all the candidates, except for myself and one other person, have been ruled out - and they're interviewing one more person on Friday. Great, I thought, but why can't today be Friday? Or Monday? I have an interview with the other company today. But the lack of any solid news has left me saying very little for the past month except, "I wish they'd hire me!" (And Vicky's getting tired of hearing that.)

Or this stuff that Vicky has given me to clean my face. See, I have these little, black dots that you can only see from about three inches away from my face. Vicky has given me this facial cleanser to help clean them, asking me to eschew soap. Okay. Fine. I'll do it. But you can tell this stuff was invented by a woman because, if the problem is really dots on my nose, you'd think a guy would have come up with a nosepiece that fits over my nose and has a scrubber inside. It could be attached to fake glasses so it could be part nose scrubber/part disguise kit. Oh well.

Of course, I didn't say any of this to Clostio. Instead, he did what he usually does when there's no real news: he psychoanalyzed me. He loves doing that and, working at a vet's office, I can only guess he has cats and dogs and hamsters on a little couch all day. Maybe that's why he kept asking me if my nose was wet...