Monday morning at O’Hare airport. Nothing like getting to the departure and find a couple passed out on the floor. When I returned Thursday night, I checked to see if they were still there.

I was flipping through the local society magazine, Chicago Social (CS is produced by Modern Luxury). Something in this issue caught my eye.

A naked women, lounging on cushions. Typically, I would keep flipping. Not this time, I slowed to gawk at the traffic accident. This wasn’t any ordinary naked lady. She had sushi artfully displayed across her breasts, belly and thighs. I will decline to make any additional comment.

After everything came into proper focus, I burst out laughing as I realized this sushi clad lady was wearing 8 inch platform shoes. The kind female strippers and porn stars used to wear. Queue up the Wacacha … Wacacha porn music.

I must admit, I am intrigued and if you are in the market for giving me an unusual gift (be sure to request a “beefy” guy … I’ll bring the music).

Tim and I rang in the New Year at the W hotel Lake Shore Drive, in Chicago. After hanging out in the lobby for a couple of drinks and some festive people watching, we took in the Navy Pier, New Years Eve Fireworks from the room.

As time ticks on, the black and white of sexuality continues to blur. I recall fondly the days when I could pick out a gay man at 20 paces. My gaydar, always vigilant, searching the crowds for another like minded soul.

Though, the other day, I thought my gaydar was in need of repair. While walking LongJohn and Buster, our resident man-magnets, I bumped into a guy moving in. My gaydar was on high alert and suddenly started flashing code pink when his painted toenails came into view. After our introduction and some polite chit-chat, the alert was over and the gray false alarm light was burning brightly.

I said my goodbyes and headed back up the block with animals in tow. My head was spinning, silver glitter toenails flashing in front of me. I hope the image will not be permanently burned in like images in a monitor without a screensaver.

The Bravo program, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy with the Fab Five, take everything one step further by sharing our “gay secrets”. I always thought, like magicians, when you receive your “gay card”, you are bound by a vow to never reveal the secrets you learn. I wonder, as the Fab Five reveal those “gay secrets”, will my gaydar give me more incorrect readings?

I go about my business wondering where I can get a gaydar check-up? Do I call my Dr. and ask him if there is anything he can do? Perhaps, there is a clinic or retreat for others like me? Or, am I just in need of a upgrade?

As I relax, sipping a Cosmopolitan, I chew on the possibility of retiring my gaydar? What is so wrong with melding the best qualities of gay and straight men? It would create a fantastic hybrid … the super straight-gay or gay-straight man … and continue to breakdown those stereotypes that destroy communities. Sounds like the next evolution for man.

I am out on a date, relaxing, waiting to see the latest chick flick and in trounces a pack of teenagers. I was fascinated with how the members of the group jockeyed for position. It took nearly 15 minutes of teeth gnashing, hair pulling and pissing before the pack settled down in front of us.

The move is in full swing and then the chatter started. Not just a few giggles when the gay son made his debut or the father touched his wife just above the breast. Nope, full on hushed conversations and comments. On and on it went … chitter chatter chitter chatter.

About mid-way through, two of the girls got up, moved closer to their friends and started to carry on a full blown conversation. That was the last straw. I leaned forward, pulled out my butch-daddy voice and said loud enough for all the other patrons to hear … “Ladies, some manners, please”.

Satisfied by the silence front of me and the sigh of relief from several adults behind me, I sat back to enjoy the rest of the movie.

For the last 5 years, we have gathered a few friends to join us at Waffle House for a tasty Christmas Dinner. Despite our Northern Migration, the tradition continues. Today we packed up the dogs, a change of clothes and pointed the car toward St. Louis, Missouri.

303 miles later, we landed at a Waffle House (unit 1138 to be precise) and settled in for dinner. After noshing on a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and an order of hashbrowns, scattered, diced and covered, the journey continued.

Next stop, the Ameristar riverboat casino for some holiday gaming. I was shocked to find the casino pack to the gills with holiday gamblers. The casino was in the Christmas spirit or I was on Santa’s Super Nice list. Not only did I get hours of entertainment, I walked away with presents from the roulette table.

Was this poodle stuffed and turned into a lamp?

I entered Max’s Deli and took a step back in time. On the table was a bowl of pickles and an ample bread basket magically appeared while I browsed a menu filled with every Jewish treat. Who knew you could find this in a Suburban strip mall.

During several recent social events, the a few new moms have popped a boob out and started feeding without interrupting the flow of conversation. First it was shock, then awe.

I wasn’t in awe of the exposed breast. I was awed at how these moms could make dinner and feed their newborn while maintaining scintillating cocktail banter.

My cousin just had a baby and declines to breast feed in or around anyone but her husband. I’m cool with that. I do tease her from time-to-time about not breast feeding in public like some other moms I’ve met. She laughs and we exchange crazy stories.

Yesterday, as she departed the family Holiday (okay … Christmas) potluck, this little ditty left her lips … “We’ve got to go so Ethan can enjoy the feast I just had”. My brain was a bit slowed by the long day of preparation topped off with a couple of glasses of wine. I chuckled and sent the family dairy farmer on her way to the milking machine.

A trip to Petsmart made it on the errand list today. While searching for dog food and cat litter, I encountered Santa with a black lab in his lap and a happy parent snapping photos. I chuckled and wondered if I should bring LongJohn and Buster back for a few pictures?

I made my way to the check out lane and headed to the car. After loading the car, I turned to find Santa behind me. I was a tad creeped out till Santa opened his mouth and asked if I had seen a three legged dog walk by. I blinked, shocked by what I heard and muttered, “No three legged dog here.”

Some would think the three legged dog question or Santa’s crooked beard didn’t phase me. I was momentarily shocked to discover Santa was not a he. As Santa turned to continue her search for the three legged dog I began to ponder … First Christ is stripped from Christmas and everything is Holiday this and Holiday that. Then Santa gets a sex change. What will be next?