Lee is a writer/producer who’s currently wondering: Pug or Puggle?

Somehow, I missed the memo. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but somehow, I did. Perhaps it was during the Homosexual Agenda Orientation Session when I fell asleep somewhere in between the sections on Converting Small Children and Destroying Traditional Marriage 101, or maybe it was when I sneaked off to pee before that first episode of Queer as Folk came on, whatever the case may be I somehow missed the informational session on how to get a fag hag.

When it comes to queer life it seems that I’ve mastered the majority of the art rather well. Stylish apartment? Check. Culinary skills? Check. Good looks, fun personality, athletic, stable job? Check, check and double check. Despite my array of qualifications, somehow this Will is missing his Grace and at this point, I’d settle for a Karen Walker.

While I recently moved to the DC area, recently being around 6 months ago, even back at my previous residence I was without a close gal-pal. And for years now I’ve been wondering, “What gives?”

In my quest for companionship I’ve consulted all the usual queer-guides, and how-tos. From Genre to XY, Oprah to Ellen, all the usual sources-of-know didn’t pan out. I marathon-watched BRAVO, and TiVo-ed LOGO. Shuffling through the Savage Love podcasts I found Dan had some great advise on how to ditch overwhelming divas but no advice on how to attract them. Cat nip maybe?

Maybe I’m not fem enough? Is being middle-of-the-road a turn off? I don’t think its the personality as I don’t seem to have trouble finding cute dates, or making conversation at the bar. Though maybe my perception is altered since I’m usually drinking when those activities are taking place. My friends at work recommended that I get a dog. They thought it would be a great way to pick up ‘chicks’. Military guys and their chicks…. sigh. Not exactly my intention, but it could work. “Hey you’re cute, want to go back to my place, drink wine and watch some bad chick flicks?”

Yeah, that line doesn’t work with guys either.

If life was a sitcom this would be so much easier. First, I wouldn’t have to search out a soul-mate: we’d have been born together, at the same time, in the same hospital; different mothers of course. Our cribs would have been side by side, and as as our Parental Units peeked in on us for the first time we would have been there for each other’s moral support. During grade school I would have helped her up from a fall at recess, and she would have picked me to be on her dodge ball team. In high school we’d both be in drama club and would’ve been the leads in the show. College would have been an adventure together, sharing the dorm room, finding the first apartment, and checking out the cute guys at frat parties and basketball games. The writers would of course send us to the same college (due to the television budget issues of shooting on two separate campuses) and there we’d start to grow apart and codependent at the same time. It would end with one of us calling Dan Savage for advice and he’d tell us to break it the fuck off because it was kind of creepy, unhealthy and shit and wow—

Could I possibly be better off without a fag hag? Certainly that couldn’t possibly be true. Not according to all the TV shows anyway. I’m definitely in better shape than I would be if I spent most evenings at home watching TV and eating Ben and Jerry’s with my girl, and my wallet is definitely thicker from the shopping excursions I’ve missed out on. But I digress.

Maybe that dog idea isn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe I’ll give it a shot. Here’s hoping my new compadre doesn’t pee on my couch. Now if only I knew what breed to get. Guess it’s time to turn on Oprah.

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