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Fittin'

2012-01-06T15:30:00.002-05:00

Maybe it’s wrong to say out loud, but Mammy is my favorite character from the movie “Gone With the Wind”. Scarlett’s too vein, Rhett’s kind of a dick, Ashley needs to grow a pair and good ol’ Mellie is just too angelic. Mammy is the voice of reason; always kind and caring, resourceful, and is rarely afraid to speak her mind. She’s one of those people you aspire to be, except for that whole not being counted as a person since you’re a slave part.

I mandated that we watch the movie a few nights back. The boyfriend had never seen it and I felt as a gay man, it’s one of those movies you have to watch. It ranks right up there with “Steel Magnolias”, “To Wong Foo” and anything with a “strong female lead” (what Netflix decided to characterize our tastes in cinema). One of the scenes I’m never able to shake is Mammy hanging her head out the window, yelling at Scarlet and saying, “It ain’t fittin’. It ain’t fittin’… ain’t fittin’” as the screen fades to black.

It’s been one of those lines that found its way into my vocabulary after I first saw the movie several years ago. Sometimes, a situation can only be summed up by sitting back in your chair with a sigh as an “It ain’t fittin’” slides out to indicate not only disapproval, but that some shit just ain’t right.

Having been recently laid up with a minor strain of plague, made worse by antibiotics that my respiratory system appreciated, while my digestive system rebelled like the county boys from Georgia at the start of the War, I’ve had plenty of time to think. Granted, some of that may have been through a Day/Nyquil induced fog, but I think I’ve hit on something that seems important.

While falling asleep the other night, the word “fit” popped into my head. Just that. “Fit”.

My fashion gay self instantly went to clothes. To all of the people I’ve helped shop for clothes over the years, the first thing I always preach is fit. Style has little to do with trend, and what’s “now”. Most of us really don’t have the time or the money to be too concerned about that. It’s fit that makes something really work. Shirt’s too big, you look dumpy, pants are too short, you’re gonna look stumpy. That’s just the basic rule of clothes and fashion. Fit comes first. So yeah, I get it. Fit’s something that’s important. (For any of you who feel too snarky, I’ll remind you that I make no claims to be able to dress myself).

But, I think I can expand on that. We’re in January, so of course people think about fitness. You want to be fit, right? I know I feel better when I’m physically fit. I can also tell you that I’m nowhere near that now. While I don’t want to make a “resolution” about it, it is something that I plan on being more aware of, mainly because some of my clothes don’t fit.

However, I’m thinking of expanding this “fit” idea a little further. Clearly, there are other areas of my life where things don’t fit. Relationships, career, money and any number of things aren’t fitting with my goals or just my desires. Some things just need a little tailoring, a little hemming, taking in, or letting out, but I’m also going to be mindful of the figurative dresses that I’ve been trying to turn into pants. The things that aren’t ever going to fit and need to be discarded or the things that just can’t be tailored.

That’s the journey that I plan on taking myself on this year. To be aware of where I am, what fits, what needs tailoring and what needs to go to the Goodwill. We all have that thing in the closet that we cling on to, just hoping that one day it’s going to magically fit. It’s time to let that go, right? So, here’s to a 2012 that ends with nothing that “ain’t fittin’”.

Christmas Chaos

2011-12-25T21:46:00.001-05:00

It isn’t until 9pm on the night of Christmas that I start to wonder why and how it is that we do this every year. Granted, I haven’t been 100% clear of late while living in a Mucinex/Sudafed/DayQuil fog. Apparently, while medicating my Christmas cold I’ve played Words with Friends games where I don’t actually recall most of the words that have been played. I spent a good part of the day yesterday marveling at how sound I was being beaten in all of my games and how 7 or so words had been played in each game that I simply had no recollection of. Disclaimer: I haven’t had a drop of booze since...ok I can’t really remember that either, but it’s been a few days.

To the point though, I found myself looking at a living room filled with gift bags, glitter, opened gifts and a tree that I hadn’t bothered to plug in all day and wondering why in the world we do this to ourselves. The traffic, the stress, the overeating, the “can I afford this” and the planning and attending events is really enough to make any of us marginally sane people quit the entire business of it. Let alone do it again next year (and with enthusiasm).

In the past week alone, I’ve done nearly all of my Christmas shopping, hosted 3 events at our place, the smallest having 7 people and the largest having 16. We’ve done 2 proper dinners and an appetizers and booze night. They’ve all been fantastic fun, but have required constant house cleaning, grocery shopping, booze shopping, scheduling and lack of sleep. I’ve had skirmishes with my mom, stressful work days and the occasional realization that I’m having my first Christmas without my grandmother. It really is enough to make anyone realize that her “Christmas phrase” of last year should really be an annual tradition.

However, there’s a constant to the middle of all of the chaos and stress that can only explain how I’ve retained any thread of sanity and that’s the boyfriend. Jason. The first time I’ve used his name on the blog. Because, ultimately this post is as close to a love letter as I’ll probably ever give him. Neither of us are the romantic type. What I suppose some couples say with flowers or dates we say with a snuggle on the sofa while we watch Top Chef.

There really isn’t much more that I would ever need. In the past few days he’s ensured I’ve taken the appropriate cold medicine (even if it’s resulted in some memory loss), made me sit down when I wanted to be up doing things, made me tea, rubbed my shoulders. While in the middle of his own Christmas chaos, he's cooked every morsel of food that has been served here and in what I think is the ultimate act of love: he served my mom (someone who hasn’t always been especially nice to him) Christmas dinner with a smile.

There’s something that makes you fall in love with a man a little more when you see him pulling a turkey out of the oven, knowing he’s intending to serve it to your family, not because they consider him family, but because he knows it makes you happy. To have them (and their crazy) and to have him in the same room, with paper plates, a flame retardant tree and the aforementioned turkey is somehow this year’s definition of happy. And he understands that without my even needing to say it.

And so, with the gifts having been given and received, the food in TupperWare and the whole EVERYTHING of everything the past week has been, I’ll say I couldn’t have done it without him, and he probably already knew that too.

Pixie Dust Redemption

2011-09-23T16:13:00.000-04:00

We all have our parental issues and I’ve probably overshared on here about my issues with my mom. In case you’ve missed it, the short version is her Jesus doesn’t so much like the fact that her womb produced homosexual offspring. Having recently been around nearly all of her family at the funeral of her mother, my amazing grandmother, I’ve even confirmed that the gay runs on her side. She also refuses to see the humor in that, believing that my “lifestyle” is somehow of my own choosing.

During our initial conversations after my coming out, she searched for answers as to how I could have arrived at the conclusion that I’m gay. She tried to blame teachers, my psychotic father, my liberal Baptist college, my semester abroad or some of my friends. After none of those quite panned out, I finally tried to convince her that it was actually Disney’s fault. Yep, that’s right; blame the mouse. Ok, not so much the mouse, but Tinkerbell. She’s the one that done it.

You see, Tinkerbell and I had an altercation once. I was on a band trip to DisneyWorld when I was 14. The trip was really fraught with disaster after calamity. Just prior to the trip I dislocated my knee cap, which left me trying to hobble around Disney and Universal on crutches. Once we landed, the first hurricane of the season blew in and once we got back home, our plane caught on fire. And while all of these things certainly helped to shape my fairly overall poor impression of Florida, I think it was my run-in with Tinkerbell that’s left the longest lasting mark.

Prior to arriving at the Magic Kingdom we were given instructions to meet beside the castle at the end of the day so we could be counted and herded back on the bus. A friend and I had spent the day together and being the good nerds we were (shout out to all the band AND academic team kids) we showed up early. However, after waiting a few minutes no one else from our group was in sight. After a few more minutes passed, the park was about to start the closing fireworks and still none of our group was anywhere to be found.

If you’ve been to DisneyWorld, you know that part of the daily closing ceremony is for a metallic, robotic Tinkerbell to fly out of the castle. She flits about the park sprinkling pixie dust and then flies back into the castle just in time for the fireworks to start. Prior to this occasion, I had never been to DisneyWorld and wasn’t familiar with my fairy friend or her usual route. So, in an attempt to find some of our group, I decided I would stand on a bench (bum knee and all) and see if I could see over the crowd to find people. It was about the time that I stood up completely and the crowd came into focus that I felt it. WHOMP!!! I felt a hard thud against the side of my head. I turned to see what had just attacked me and then felt it again. WHOMP!!! This time the impact was right in the center of my forehead. I had the good sense to duck before round three started, realizing that each impact was propelling my forward bound assailant backwards. I then looked up to see Tinkerbell flying off and realized I was covered in her sparkly pixie dust.

Yes, kids. I was attacked by a metal (cuz yes, Miss Tinkerbell packs a punch), robotic Tinkerbell as she flew on fishing wire in The Happiest Place on Earth. It’s at this moment that I like to imagine I was confirmed as a gay. Sort of a christening, if you will. As you might imagine, my mom isn’t convinced by this explanation either.

However, a couple of times in the past few months she seems to be making a new kind of peace with me. She wanted me to bring my boyfriend to the funeral and was upset with me when I didn’t. She even talked to me about wanting to spend more time with him and get to know him. Just last night, she talked to me about not wanting to upset what family we have now that the great glue that held us together has passed away.

It’s with all of this in mind that I decided to take my mom to DisneyWorld for her 60th birthday next month. She’s never flown, been to Florida or seen the ocean, so I’m packing lots of firsts into one weekend. But, I’m hoping to take a moment somewhere near the scene of the crime to grab my mom’s hand and press the reset button. Maybe we can get a little sprinkling of pixie dust, take a breath of Florida air and let the past fall away.

I don’t have any delusion that she’s going to join PFLAG, but I do hope that our weekend together will give us a chance to just be mom and son for once without all of the other baggage. Then, we can start from there. Since I didn’t sue the mouse over my head injury and emotional distress, I think he at least owes me that much.

Hopelessly Devoted

2011-06-25T21:33:00.001-04:00

First memories are supposed to be filled with favorite stuffed animals or maybe a tricycle and a warm summer day. Mine involves home invasion and proof that foreshadowing is not just a literary term.

My best guess is that my first memory comes from when I was about 2 years old. We’d been away to visit my grandmother and we came home to discover the house had been broken into. I don’t recall anything about tampered locks or broken windows. I don’t even have a clue about what was taken. All I can remember is that the burglars took one thing from my room. They took my Olivia Newton-John record. It was even a greatest hits album.

Apparently, most kids start singing along with Sesame Street or Mister Rogers after learning how to walk. I was singing along with “Physical” and “Xanadu”. My mom will tell you that I walked around singing “Let’s get phibical” all the time.

What’s even more bizarre about this is that I have no idea how this record came into possession of a 2 year old. I grew up in a household that almost exclusively listened to country music. Looking back, this random bit of pop music seems like such a strange anomaly. Let alone that it was a prized possession of a toddler.

So, what I remember is that we got home and there was an immediate bit of hysteria. There’s a blur and then I remember going into my room and finding everything was out of place. I noticed my neat pile of records had been knocked over and that she was gone. Olivia was missing. I bawled. My mom came to me and I somehow conveyed what had happened. From there, there were lots of tears until I could be taken to the TG&Y and a replacement could be purchased that very evening.

It is both the jarring feeling of someone breaking into our home and my mom making everything right again that I remember really strongly about all of this. It says a lot about my mom that in the middle of what had to be a difficult time that she made it a priority to bring Olivia back into my life. I’d also imagine it probably made the whole thing easier to deal with by shutting me up and getting me back in my room with my beloved record player.

It wasn’t until just yesterday while I was beginning to put the pieces of this post together that I specifically remembered my record player. In this particular memory, it’s completely secondary and not really anything I specifically recall. However, this record player was a huge part of my childhood. I was always a music lover and spent every penny I got as a kid on records and eventually tapes and CDs, but this portable record player was always my favorite toy.

It was sort of a briefcase shaped thing with a sky blue base and a blue and white striped lid. It had a silver latch and a white plastic handle so you could pick it up and carry it around. I lugged it to the front porch, around my room and to anyone’s house that’d let me bring it along. What I just remembered yesterday was that when you opened the lid, the underside had a little cartoony landscape painted on it that prominently featured a rainbow.

From there, I remembered that my Olivia’s record label was MCA Records. The center of each of their records had a little rainbow that would spin around with the record. I recall listening to “Hopelessly Devoted To You” and watching that rainbow spin and then seeing the matching rainbow on the record lid and always being perfectly content.

It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized that between “Grease” and the “Physical” video, that Olivia Newton-John was a gay icon. It now strikes me as more than a little humorous that that’s how my life began. I was a little gay child in southeastern Kentucky taking solace in watching rainbows spin around on the record player and listening to a songs about talking things out “horizontally”.

And so, I think back to that kid today as our city celebrates Pride and while we celebrate one more state recognizing that gays have rights too. Today, I’ve watched parents take their kids to Pride and even participated in helping 3 little boys tip a drag queen. I’ve come a long way since watching rainbows spin on a turntable, but I think I’m going to go to iTunes and download a few songs. Because even if I didn’t know it, 28 years ago in my Snoopy bedroom, I was celebrating Pride.

Happy Father's Day, Mom

2011-06-19T10:25:00.001-04:00

“You are the original template/You are the original exemplary/How seen were you, actually? How revered were you, honestly at the time?...The Heart of the House, The Heart of the House, all hail the goddess”.

--”Heart of the House” Alanis Morissette

I’ve always ignored Father’s Day. Being the product of a single parent home meant that Mother’s Day was the only Hallmark holiday that I had to worry with. While my father wasn’t totally absent from my childhood, he certainly didn’t play an integral role. He’s also kind of a dick. So, it was left to my mom to do the parental heavy lifting.

I could bore you with a sappy, single parent overcoming the odds story, but that’s all too familiar and Lifetime movie-d now. I will say that for the past few weeks my mom and I have actually not been speaking to each other. Oddly enough, it’s because I’ve been rather displeased with her for talking to my psychotic father after a good 10 years of cutting off all contact.

However, today I can’t help but think back to my first memory which is of her righting a wrong and saving the day. Growing up, she was always there to encourage me to follow my interests of writing and music even when other boys were playing Little League. She endured the endless drumming on the back of the car seat when I played percussion and barely raised an eyebrow when I conducted along with the radio after relenting and letting me try out for drum major.

She drove me to the airport and watched me fly away to places across the country and the world to go find myself and become a better person, even when we were broke and driving in big cities scared the crap out of her. Nevermind the heartbreak and terror she had of putting her baby boy on a plane and shipping him out into the world alone.

Despite how much irritation it may currently cause her, she raised both her kids to be independent, free-thinkers who are as quick to assert themselves as they are to laugh in the middle of crisis. Whether or not she intended to, by example she taught us how to stare down the world, while keeping your head down and getting through it.

It seems to me that the strongest people I know are products of single parent (usually mom) households. While I suppose that I agree with the consensus that two parents are better than one, I think there’s some valuable life lessons about self-reliance and getting through adversity that kids learn when there’s just one person playing both roles.

And so, while most are buying ties or golf gear for Dad, I think I’ll end the stalemate I’ve been at with my mom and give her a call. I should probably wish her a Happy Father’s Day.

The Wall: Part 2

2011-06-06T18:01:00.000-04:00

We’re all familiar with the alleged textbook definition of insanity and what it might imply about one who repeats certain actions. I’m back in Cleveland for my second rotation of working Catastrophe duty and it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’m back to feeling completely spent. It was about this same point in my last rotation where I hit the proverbial wall and it appears that today I’m back on the wrecking ball and swinging away at it.

I’m more physically and mentally drained this time. Mercifully, this trip has been less emotionally taxing. I’ve really only had two moments where I had to step away after hearing some harrowing story from a customer in Joplin. I’ve also been balancing out my moments of stress and homesickness with the knowledge that I shouldn’t get too stressed out, because after all, we are living in the End Times.

The day that I drove back here was the day that had been proclaimed as The End of the World by some nut job. And while some may argue that clearly didn’t happen, it does seem like it was about this time that the globe exploded in storms, earthquakes, volcano eruptions and general geological and meteorological chaos. I now hear there’s a hurricane ‘a brewin’ and I’d just imagine we’re due for a good oil spill or tsunami about any day.

If I learned anything from my Baptist, Liberal Arts education, it was that the Bible isn’t necessarily meant to be taken literally. For instance, the 6 days that the world was allegedly created in might not directly translate to 6, 24 hour spans of time. A “day” on Heavenly Father Standard Time (because we all know Daylight Savings is from the devil) might be anywhere from a millennium to an eon. So, I’ve taken to believing that while the End of the World might not have happened, it could be we’ve just reached the beginning of the end.

First off, we have to acknowledge that Oprah is off the air. The fact that the woman who had the power to elect a president has now decided to leave us to fend for ourselves has to be a bad omen. We now have to decide what to read, what to eat, how to exercise and what’s an acceptable level of overweight on our own. The vacuum she’s left is surely a sign of the apocalypse. Oh sure, she has her own network now, but we aren’t going to learn anything from watching The Judds except how much is too much mascara and red hair dye.

We have Sarah Palin running for President again, a guy named Weiner exposing himself without a hint of irony, and even the winner of American Idol was a good ol’ wholesome American boy who continuously sang a song about having sex. I can’t imagine the message America’s impressionable youth got from hearing “lock the doors and turn the lights down low” every week.

If all of these in tandem aren’t a sign that Jesus is comin’ for to carry us home, then I don’t know what is. So, bearing this in mind, I’m living it up. I’ve been eating and drinking well. I carelessly rode a roller coaster that took me 410 feet in the air at 120 miles per hour and I’m regularly driving in traffic with Ohio drivers. I stuck my bare feet in Lake Erie. I may even get careless and throw a match in the river after work.

I’ll be back home on Friday and we’ll see if my hedonistic living continues. The boyfriend may not appreciate my philosophy that Armageddon is nigh. We did go to the same college though, so maybe it won’t be too much work to convince him that we can use my few days off before I return to regular work to build an ark or at least go to J. Crew for a new rapture outfit. Baptist college also taught us that one would want to look their best when checking in at the pearly gates.

Hitting the Wall

2011-05-13T16:22:00.002-04:00

After Day 16, I’ve hit the wall. I was informed as such this morning. I’ve heard this expression used for people who are running a marathon or doing some other kind of athletic activity that would instantly break my leg or dislocate my shoulder, but never in terms of work. Especially when the most physically taxing part of my work is adjusting the height of the desk chair that keeps sinking. You may soon read a tweet that says “send Dramamine”.

To catch you up to speed, I’m working 21 days straight to assist with the onslaught of auto insurance claims across the South. I’m working 745am to 7pm daily. I get 45 minutes for lunch and I’ve had one day off. I’ve been part of our “Catastrophe Reserve Team” for about as long as I’ve worked for the company. I’ve helped out after hurricanes and nasty hailstorms here and there. I get a little extra pay for it and it’s a chance to shake up my work life a little. Thankfully, we have people who do this all year ‘round for their permanent job and I just get “called up” when things get bad.

It was one of those “Permanent CAT” employees who informed me that I had, in fact, hit the wall. After about 2 hours of attempting to focus on my computer screen and finding myself increasingly hostile to the people on the other end of my phone, I announced “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!!” My words weren’t as effective as the Gipper’s.

I remain kind of brain dead. I’ve seen photos of houses and cars reduced to nothing discernable and talked to their devastated owners. I’ve heard harrowing stories of people inside Ford Excursions being picked up and thrown 20 feet into sycamore trees. I’ve had customers tell me that we need to inspect their cars in the afternoon, because their relative’s funeral was going to be that morning. I’m emotionally spent. If I am, I can’t imagine what the ones going through it first hand feel.

I’ve also learned that when in the line of impending, near death storms, finding cover is not always the first priority for some. There are those for whom adding insurance to their 1988 Cavalier becomes pertinent. For others, they take their laptops to cower in the bathtub and lower their deductibles online. That’s the team I’m working on. We are investigating what’s fraud and what’s just good planning, even if personal safety is thrown out the recently blown out window.

After 16 days of this, my mind has turned to mush. Thankfully, I only have 4 more working days to get through after I complete this one. I don’t think I will ever be so glad to see Cincinnati and know I’m soon crossing back into the Bluegrass. Until then, I’ll slug through and hope I stay on the West Berlin side of the proverbial wall.

Average For Me

2011-05-10T16:28:00.000-04:00

If nothing else, my time in Cleveland has been an education in my insulation. I feel like I run with a pretty dissimilar crowd. We have singles, married folks, gays, straights, regular church goers and professed atheists. We have dog lovers and cat lovers, foodies and those of us who like to eat, but can’t really cook. We span a couple of generations in age and hit all kinds of income levels. While there isn’t really any racial diversity (save a half Mexican who doesn’t speak Spanish), we don’t necessarily feel like a homogenous group.

However, after spending 2 weeks with people from all across the country, I’ve learned that we’re all insulated snobs. My apologies to my friends if you weren’t aware. It just turns out that the truths that we hold to be self-evident are actually not the general suppositions of what I now understand to be the “average American”. I suppose somewhere while we were laughing at Sarah Palin and listening to public radio, the rest of the country was sucking down Cheez-Whiz and putzing around on YouTube.

Don’t get me wrong, for as snotty as some of what I might say sounds, it isn’t that I’m being judgmental. If the food at Olive Garden doesn’t taste like microwaved freezer burn to you, then more power to you. But I want to ask my fellow Cleveland travelers why in Chef Boyardee’s name would you opt for that, when there’s a whole district called Little Fuckin’ Italy? (The addition of “Fuckin’” being my own). And for what it’s worth, a meal can be had in both places for roughly the same price.

I’m also learning that for as much as I feel like these people are traveling around in a fog and missing out on the good things in life, it’s really more of my own lack of recognition that my own day to day life isn’t how most people live. My co-workers have decided that they want to go to a sports bar/pool hall for dinner tonight. Their plan is to consume cheap, light domestic beer out of a bottle or can and watch “the game”. I have no idea what game there is to watch and I feel further removed from these people by the fact that they all seem to know exactly what sporting event is being referenced. Alternatively, I plan to go to a cocktail bar I’ve been eyeing and trying a drink with some flavors I’ve never had before.

Contrary to what you might think, it isn’t an issue of money spent. I plan to have one drink. That, with tip, might barely break $10. I’m sure they’ll all at least hit $15, even if it’s happy hour. I also recognize that they would feel as out of place in my surroundings as I’d feel in theirs. However, my lack of interest in their outing has me labeled as “anti-social” and “snotty” and while I tend to reject that, I wonder if there isn’t some truth to it. I’d certainly feel more at home by myself thinking about the flavors swilling around in my rocks glass than figuring out if I should hold a pool cue like a majorette’s baton or more like I’m jerking someone off.

Or maybe the single activity is less an indicator as their quantity of beer consumption versus my single drink gets more to the point. It really may come down to appreciating quality over quantity. Someone here was horrified when I said I hated the food at The Cheesecake Factory. (Same deal, it all tastes like cardboard freezer burn). My outstanding memory there is that food comes in huge portions with a giant menu and none of it comes out very tasty. The more is more thesis also holds for the way they watch TV, drive their cars, and select their McMansion. The more they can consume, the better they feel the experience is. And while, I don’t judge them for the way they think, I really want to teach them how much better their general life experience can be.

However, I don’t assume that people will take well to me telling them their beer tastes like badly flavored water and that their houses are obnoxious. I’m sure I’d get the same look as when I’ve tried to teach them that you don’t need to say “number” after saying “VIN”. So, I’ll let them go their way and I’ll go mine. I’ll go to the bar and ask questions about how my drink is made while they go ask why “the game” isn’t on the TV by their pool table. They’ll continue to think I’m being judgey, while I feel like a citizen on the Island of Misfit Toys. But if nothing else, I might pay attention to how I grip the martini glass this evening so as not to send any signals to the guy at the other end of the bar.

Homophobia in the House

2011-05-03T22:10:00.000-04:00

I’ve never liked the word ‘homophobic’. It’s just always seemed so accusatory and hostile. And though I guess it’s the point, it seems like it’s a word that has an implicit insult. I’ve never particularly felt that it was ok.

I grew up around people who most would consider homophobic. They don’t support gay marriage and even though they’ve always had gay people around, they don’t understand it. They assume it’s a choice. They believe it’s a sin. They’re pretty sure all the gays are going to hell. Ultimately though, they’re good people who are just doing what they believe the Bible tells them. They love, but they don’t understand. It just doesn’t seem right to insult them when we only have a difference of opinion.

That’s the lens that I’ve seen homophobia through until the past few weeks. I’ve had a parent be unhappy and disappointed in me because I’m gay. I’ve had coworkers who’d still use the “f” word around me, but then apologize and still be fantastic to me. I went to a baptist college and encountered plenty of people who would be openly hostile to gays. However, I never felt wronged. I just felt like people didn’t understand. They were still nice to me. They weren’t bad people; we just didn’t agree. Kind of the same way that people who think we need to own guns and I don’t agree.

However, I can now say without reservation that my landlord is a homophobic bastard.

I’ve blogged before that despite being a good tenant, when I told him that my boyfriend had moved in with me, he immediately asked me to move out. This was strictly because he doesn’t like two men living in the same apartment. He has two straight couples living in the building, but he keeps telling me that “he doesn’t allow more than one person to live in the apartments.” Our plan was for the boyfriend to get a job and then we were going to move out.

The landlord hadn’t said a word since our initial conversation. He hadn’t forced the issue and due to the boyfriend’s unemployment, we weren’t really in a position to move out.

I then found myself in line at the car rental place in the airport about to leave for 3 weeks for work. It’ll be a bit of extra money and I’m hoping provide some cash to help us move. While standing there, I got a call from the landlord. He’s now forcing the issue. He wants us out. I explained that I was literally about to leave. He said he’d give us the month of May, however, he wants me to call him with our plan to get out when I return.

So yeah, I now believe in homophobia. I guess it’s like believing in ghosts. You believe it when you see it.

Fat in Cleveland

2011-04-30T22:49:00.000-04:00

For me, to mention the city of Cleveland always conjures almost biblical images of rivers on fire. It's cold, it's gray, it's industrial and quite frankly there isn't a hell of a lot there. So, you might imagine when I learned that I'd be spending three weeks in Cleveland for work, I was less than thrilled. I'm presently on day 3. I'm going to be working 12 hour days and I'll only get one day off while I'm here. Sure, it'll be a decent amount of extra money, but it's also going to be a lot of alone time.

I started out by eating fast food. I figured that if I was going to eat alone, then I'd just grab something and bring it back to the hotel. I didn't want to be the weird guy by himself in the restaurant. I felt too self-conscious. But, I think it was the Chik-fil-A on Day 2 that did me in. I suddenly had awful visions of eating fast food every night for the next month. The thought of grease and not so tasty food was almost enough to make me want to give up the extra cash and come back home, nevermind the 15 pounds I was going to gain.

Then, last night I made a decision. If I was going to be fat and gain the 15 pounds while I was here, I may as well eat decent food. So, instead of having crappy drive-thru, I went out. Proper going out. I decided not to feel weird about eating out alone and find myself some good food. So, I followed the call of my ancestry and decided I was going to Little Italy. I did a quick internet search and decided on the first place I came to, La Dolce Vita. After 15 minutes looking for a parking space, I finally got in, found a spot at the bar and had a delicious meal. I started with a glass of chianti (my favorite) and the mastroianni salad. It was roasted red pepper, goat cheese, arugula, and black olives over a bed of romaine with a light drizzle of olive oil. I actually let out a bit of a moan when I dug into it. I don't even like black olives, but their saltiness with the peppery arugula and creamy goat cheese was a near spiritual moment.

For my entree, I had gnocchi. The menu said I got to choose the sauce, so I asked the bartender, my waitress, what my options were. After her long sigh and while she launched into the exhaustive list, I interrupted to ask if they could just do a vodka cream sauce. She said they didn't usually, but she'd ask the chef if he would. I continued on with my salad and after what seemed like an obscenely long time (I'd almost finished my glass of wine...but maybe I just drank it a bit too quickly), she came back and said he'd be happy to. She then poured a cup full of vodka and ran it back to the kitchen. Before I could even ask for a refill on my wine glass, the smell of tomato cream and basil hit me. A giant bowl of delicious was sat down in front me. Round 2 of chianti was poured and I tucked into a made fresh (not in house, but in a pasta company in town) gnocchi in a made just for me vodka cream sauce. My little part-Italian heart nearly exploded. I finished with a house made tiramisu and a glass of port.

Yes, I have boxes of leftovers.

I thought I was going to have those for dinner tonight. However, a co-worker reminded me that Iron Chef Michael Symon is from Cleveland and has a few restaurants across town. Just one street up and a few blocks over from my hotel is his burger joint called B-Spot. Being a fan of just about any kind of burger, I decided this was going to be my culinary conquest for the night. So, on a busy Saturday night, I found a spot at the corner of the bar and enjoyed 2 very different and very good beers and a "smack yo' mama so hard yo' grandmammy can feel it" bacon cheeseburger. And this says nothing of the onion rings fried in lard. Yes. Lard.

I'm now back in the hotel room about to go to bed. I'll probably find food that's a bit lighter for the next couple of days, but contrary to what the Chik-Fil-A cows encourage, for the next 2 and a half weeks, I'm not going to eat more chikn.

Impending Spring

2011-03-18T18:22:00.000-04:00

On my way home today, I had a rare moment of optimism inspired by the sudden shower. I came home, wrote a quick poem and decided to post it. It's about 10 minutes old, so forgive that it isn't revised or edited. I'll resist the urge to explain more, but I will admit to heavily referencing my favorite poem, "The Waste Land".

roll up the window

the shower came suddenly,
as jolting as mud
on the windshield
thrown up by the semi

now taillights are misty
brake lights blurred

but even the thunder said "shanti"

spring may cruelly impend
but blossoms and buds bring more
than the wishes made on
the lap of a phony Santa Claus
in merry December.

Vent

2011-02-25T17:24:00.002-05:00

I’ve always thought that the people who say “God only gives us as much as we can handle” are out of their minds. On the off chance that there is any truth to that saying, then God must think I’m a strong son of a bitch. I’m sitting in my office at work and I’m shaking and turning red from stress. Coincidentally, I was at the doctor earlier this week for what appears to be an ulcer.

I’d been doing reasonably well with managing work stress. Having changed a little bit about how we do our jobs, mine had actually become far less stressful. However, the company I work for being what it is, they found a way to pile the stress back on. It’s currently 2pm. I haven’t moved from my chair since I sat down at about 9am. No food, no bathroom breaks, just me getting call after call of people yelling at me about situations that are beyond my control.

I know. I’m whining. If you’re already exhausted with me, stop reading now.

My awesome employer has also decided to cut my pay. This isn’t related to a performance issue. It’s just I’ve been working on the weekends and getting paid a premium to do that. They’ve decided to recalculate that premium and it results in significantly less money for me.

Right about the time all of this happens, I tell my landlord that the boyfriend has moved in with me. I’ve lived in the same apartment for 6 years. I don’t cause problems. I fix stuff myself and he’s always gotten my rent on or before when it’s due. However, because I have my boyfriend living with me, he wants us out. We’re now looking for a new place to live.

The other small issues to consider of an ill boyfriend who is also trying to find a job in this crummy job market, an ill mother whose car is about to fall apart and will likely require my finding some way to help her replace it, and making some attempt to take care of myself are just the other brief things I’ll need to attend to today.

Thank GOD I have plans for drinks after work. And maybe through a prayer of thanks for bourbon, he’ll take the hint that I’ve really, really had enough.

Christmas Phrase

2010-12-24T10:50:00.000-05:00

I couldn’t quite figure out how to work this story into the earlier post, but I had to share the story.

My grandmother might just be my hero. It’s not uncommon to hear people refer to 80 year old women as “pistols” or “spitfires,” but I’m sure that these words were truly only meant to describe her. As an octogenarian, she stays up to 3am to watch Jerry Springer. This is where she learned the word “dominatrix.” I then had to witness her teach it to my mother just about a year ago. She also makes sure she is up by 11 to watch “The Price is Right” and take her mornin’ medicine.

She grew up in a coal mining camp in Harlan County and certainly knows the meaning of hard times. However, she’s the most upbeat and constantly positive person I know. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard her say anything terribly negative, including when my grandfather, her husband of 50 years, died.

She’s as unique as her name. Her name is Vittidene. She goes by Vitt for short. I’ve been told any number of stories about where her name came from and I’m not sure that I completely believe any of them. All I know is that when she ended up having a surprise twin sister (because, c’mon this was 1930), having already decided upon Vittidene, they named her younger twin Zittidene.

I tell this much about my wonderful grandmother to tell you the story of her Christmas phrase. Vitt is prone to throwing around the 4 letter word. One of our favorite family stories is of her calling her only son a “son of a bitch” and his response of, “you would know; you’re my mom”. Her word selection is usually limited to a “dammit” or “well, hell far.” You'll have to use your Southeast Kentucky accent to get that means “fire”. She will always refer to the wasps that appear in the summer as “little bastards” when they start trying to get in her hummingbird feeder. Vitt will never drop an f-bomb. In 30 years, I’ve never heard it. Though this year, Vitt has decided her Christmas phrase is “fuck it”.

This all started when she got frustrated with my aunt. My aunt keeps a deep freeze at my grandmother’s house. She’d called two nights in a row and asked Vitt to get some items out for her to come by and pick up. However, being maybe 5 feet tall, 80 years old and unable to handle cold very well, rummaging shoulder deep in a freezer while on her tippy-toes was not her idea of a fun evening. Apparently, it wasn’t terribly productive either.

She informed me that she had stacked a few things she’d already sorted through on one side of the freezer. She’d been digging around for over 10 minutes and getting more and more frustrated the more she dug. She was cold. My aunt should really be doing this herself. Why did she need to keep so much damned shit anyway? Then, the previously sorted stack fell over, spilling everything she’d already looked through and scattering it across the deep freeze. It was then that she yelled, “Fuck it! Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it!” In her telling and my uncle’s eyewitness account, she stood there shouting that phrase for the better part of a minute. My uncle, both shocked and amused looked on while the search for a certain Schwan’s frozen food item came to a halt.

When my grandmother was telling me this story, she concluded it with “I’ve decided that’s my Christmas phrase. Fuck it. If I feel like bein’ good, I might say frig it.” And I have to say, I kind of like that as a Christmas phrase. There’s something kind of liberating about saying “fuck it” to the Christmas mess. Yes, I’ll participate and go to the parties and hang out with the family. I’ll even enjoy it. But, the second I feel frustrated by little arguments, traffic or oddly shaped presents I can’t wrap, I’m saying “fuck it” and not letting it get to me. It’s Christmas and we’re supposed to be happy and enjoying the most wonderful time of the year. Plus, as a wise woman recently told me, “it’s been too damned cold outside to have to spend your time inside digging through a friggin’ deep freeze”.

Again, Merry Christmas.

Love,

Jupe

Christmas Calm

2010-12-23T16:28:00.000-05:00

I bitch. I actually kind of bitch a lot. It’s often to be humorous. Other times, it’s just to get something out of my head. I try not to whine. There’s a difference between bitching and whining and I’m sure we all know it. It’s like porn. You can’t define it. You just kinda know it when you see it.

I started this holiday season feeling decidedly blah. I’d been fighting with my mother, the boyfriend has been sick, I’ve been sick, the job is getting closer and closer to firing people, etc. All of this didn’t quite add up to holiday cheer. So, I griped. Lots. I griped on Facebook, I griped on Twitter. I’ve avoided writing on here so as to not continue the gripefest. I’ve probably caused the boyfriend to start asylum shopping with my mood swings and moments of frustration.

Now, this could turn into a sappy Christmas story about how I suddenly got bitchslapped by the Christmas spirit. I could to tell you how I listened to Celine Dion sing “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful” on the radio today and I suddenly remembered the true meaning of Christmas. However, I think most people who know me and read this would know that’s horribly insincere. Though, I defy you to listen to Celine sing that and not at least think “damn, miss honey can saaang”.

I don’t really think those kind of Hallmark moments happen in most of our modern lives. We have to do the shopping, the wrapping, the fighting with traffic, the still going to work and the scraping of ice off the car. That is enough to bring just about anybody down.

But, the other night, I found myself freshly medicated for a cold and tucked in with my blanket and book I’d gotten as a Christmas gift. (Total diversion, but Decoded by Jay-Z is a ridiculously good read). I’d also plugged in the Christmas tree. The boyfriend had gone to see his father and we don’t really have a window in the living room, so I’d plugged it in for myself. Somewhere between looking at the first tree that the boyfriend and I had put up together and Celine today, I had a moment.

I’m not sure that I can say exactly what it was. But, I feel decidedly calm. Yes, I still have shopping to do. Yes, I’m still sick. Yes, I work out in a shopping mecca and it’s going to be hell doing my last minute shopping before I get to go home today. But, I’m sitting here at work, sipping my tea and I just feel calm. I have a great boyfriend, a crazy and occasionally infuriating family, but they usually mean well. I’ve spent the last week at Christmas parties with more than a few really close and fantastic friends. And so, really, I shouldn’t bitch.

So, it’s without any irony or post-Modern snark that I truly wish y’all a Merry Christmas.

What To Do...

2010-11-30T14:49:00.000-05:00

I started this blog a little over a year ago with the presumption of using it to get ideas out and help me figure out “what I want to do” with my life. A year later and I still haven’t a bloody clue. However, I’ve learned today that some wheels have to start turning somewhere.

The job I’m in now is soul-suckingly terrible. It’s truly a job that no one ever sets out to do. It’s just something that you end up doing for lack of anything better. Even the management where I work will tell you that this isn’t where they ever thought they’d be and really wouldn’t have stuck it out had it not been for their promotions. It’s a crummy job that leaves you truly hating humanity and feeling pretty empty inside. The upside is that the pay is pretty damned good, not fantastic, but enough to make you think twice before jumping ship.

I rode the wave in of a large group of new hires across the country about 6 years ago. We heard stories of promotions in 2 or 3 years and I was even promised one. Instead, we’ve had cut after cut and more and more work piled on us. No one has “moved up” in about 3 years and we’ve had a few rounds of layoffs.

We were told today of yet another restructuring that would basically strip me of the few parts of the job that I like. Also, all of those tasks would be assigned to one person who has been here less time than I have. The only reason given is that we are consolidating what people handle in order for people to become more specialized at doing one certain thing. Thing is, I’ve been begging for that for years. I’ve wanted to focus on this one aspect of the job for at least a couple of years now. It’s been documented in every discussion about my “development” and it’s been told to anyone who would sit still long enough. However, now that we’re actually doing it, I’m passed over.

Believe it or not, I’m not actually upset about it. What it helps me do is put the puzzle together. You strip away the duties of the employee who has been here the longest (and is making the most money…i.e. me) and give those to someone else. Once you figure out that this expensive employee isn’t needed and the organization can function without them, then you get to cut them. Really, it only makes good business sense. I’ve seen this coming down the pike for a few months now.

I had originally planned to use my year end bonus here and what little tax refund I get to just quit before I was fired and actively start looking for employment elsewhere. I’ve now decided against that. The boyfriend has been on the job hunt for a month and I can see that being voluntarily unemployed isn’t smart right now. However, I have to get a game plan together for when I am inevitably fired. I’m thinking late spring is gonna be when the axe falls.

Now, I could fall back into some job that pays the bills or I could finally do something that’s really fulfilling. I still don’t know that I have a clue what I’m good at doing. I’d mentioned having a dream of opening up a bar. However, I’m also enough of a realist to know that I don’t know jack crap about how to do that. I also know that I’m on the broke side of poor and I’d need to somehow discover a pot of gold to make that happen. It’s just seems to be something I’d like doing and that I wouldn’t mind working the 80 hour weeks for.

So now I start the process of figuring out what the hell I’m good at, what my options are and then pick a course and run with it. I can’t really tread water anymore. If I do, I’m gonna end up in April with a severance package and hoping Obama doesn’t cave to Republicans more on extending unemployment benefits. That isn’t at all where I want to be.

I’d also like to ask for a little help from you precious few readers. You read me and most of you actually know me. You also know that I suffer a bit from not always seeing what’s right in front of me. You also know that I ‘m pretty terrible at self evaluation. So, I’m asking if you have any ideas, thoughts or opinions on what direction I should take. Not necessarily, “I think you’re good at…” (though I welcome that, too), but just what are your aspirations, what would you do, what can you maybe see me doing, if you feel so inclined. Just something to use for kindling.

I thrown far more personal out here and usually with positive results. So, here’s to hoping something good comes from this.

Waking Up?

2010-11-01T12:42:00.000-04:00

I feel like a bad gay. That isn’t a particularly unusual feeling for me. Just prior to going out to a play last night, I was griping about how I look. The theater gays tend to be a skinny, well dressed group and GaGa knows, I’m none of that. I felt frumpy in my glasses and sweater. I’m growing my hair out a bit and currently have “transition hair”. A good gay wouldn’t have left the house like that.

But for once it isn’t the way I look that’s making me feel like a bad gay. I went to see “Spring Awakening” last night. I’d been told nothing but great things about it. I’d been told how moving, life changing, and groundbreaking this musical was. I’d went to an event with some of the cast before the show where they talked about how challenging the play was and audiences that left in tears.

I felt bad that I left decidedly underwhelmed.

This is to say nothing bad about the fantastic cast. Not only were they courteous, open and knowledgeable at the event beforehand, but they had great presence and amazing voices during the show.

The show is about teens coming to terms with their sexuality and doing that inside of a repressive, turn of the century German culture. The show made some good points about what that culture inevitably brings upon itself and the poor decisions and subversive ways people will act out in rebellion or ignorance. There were even some very relevant moments about teen suicides that struck very close to home.

I just didn’t like the show. The main lead male character was a bit of a prick. He was supposed to be the liberal thinking, enlightened character that taught us something. He came off as a self-important douche. His love interest was a girl who opened the show by telling us she didn’t know anything about sex and begging her mother for info about where babies come from. Due to the culture and her mother’s uncomfortableness with the subject, she was never told.

This set her up as this innocent, unknowing character who has no idea about the birds and the bees. On the other hand, her lover has written a diagrammed essay for another character about sex. So when they eventually have sex and she initially says no, he comes off as a bit of a creep trying to persuade her. When he ends up getting her pregnant, it seems like he has taken advantage of a young girl. The play even makes sure to point out to us that without every sign pointing to how she might have gotten that way, she couldn’t put two and two together.

I won’t go on about the other problems I had with the show like diversions into sub plots that never develop or the abrupt ending and it’s instant mood shift, but I’m left feeling like I somehow didn’t get something. I have to recognize that there is something wrong with me if this show won 8 Tonys and has moved audiences everywhere. I just can’t figure out what it is.

I just feel like a bad gay for not being in love with this show. Over the course of a few text messages with a friend last night I was told “it isn’t for everyone.” This didn’t help much. I’m a liberal arts English major who fancies himself an occasional poet. I appreciate a good work of art and GaGa knows I’ve been trained to analyze and look for depth, themes and meanings. I like a challenging work of art. I just wonder if that isn’t the problem.

Maybe I think too much. I spent a good bit of my time digging in and making sure I got everything that the show was trying to say and ended up frustrated. I’m also worried that something has changed in me. One of the few things that I’ve always liked about myself is my ability to connect and feel. I’ve never been afraid to cry or to open up and allow myself to invest emotionally in something. I feel bad for not getting those emotions from this play. Like I’m less than somehow.

So, I’ll spend the day thinking about that and worrying if my efforts to maintain innocence have been all for naught. On the other hand, I managed to get compliments from 3 gays on my hair last night. GaGa works in mysterious ways.

Adventures in Medicine

2010-10-25T19:41:00.000-04:00

The more interaction I have with the healthcare system in this country, the more surreal it becomes. No, I'm not going to go on a tirade about Obamacare, but I am for a single payer (I don't care if you do call it socialized medicine) system.

I've spent more time than I care for in hospital and doctor's waiting rooms while various procedures are done on my mom and now my boyfriend. What I've learned is that to get medical treatment you have to have an appetite and an appreciation for the surreal.

Today, the boyfriend is having a spinal tap. It's happening as I type this on Tyrone the BlackBerry. Here is just a taste of what we've experienced today:

We were led through the check in process by no less than 4 people. This was just to get name, date of birth and insurance. And yes, the boyfriend is insured with what most would call "good insurance," but this is still going to cost him over $1,000. I will leave it to you to draw your own conclusions about cost and number of people already involved at this early juncture.

From there, we were led to a proper hospital room by the senior member of the Lollipop Guild who hummed "Power in the Blood" as we walked down 6 hallways and took an elevator ride up 3 floors. She had a hearing aid that was of no use (likely due to her being closer to the floor than to anywhere sound might be emitting) and answered unintelligibly when we responded that we were doing fine, how was she?

And while we are on that tangent, let's have a brief discussion about how all people in the medical field greet you with "how are you?" The obvious answer, per social convention, is to just say "I'm fine," but that always seems misleading. I really wanted the boyfriend to say, "they're about to shove a 10 inch needle in my back while I'm perfectly awake and I've just gone on parade down hospital corridors only to land in a shared hospital room where I'm surrounded by people receiving chemo, so I'm a little frickin' freaked out right now, but seriously, how're the kids?"

We thought we were going to an outpatient center where we’d have a little prep room and then he’d be wheeled off to have the procedure. Instead, we were in a shared unit where an elderly man was also receiving something intravenously. However, that didn’t stop him from asking about why we were there and striking up uncomfortable conversation. Across the hall, we heard what sounded like someone giving birth. Later, we heard another man talking about his time working in the slaughterhouse.

We also got a new roommate after the first elderly man completed his round of whatever it was. This guy just wandered in, kicked off his shoes and jumped into the bed. After about 10 minutes he was greeted by a nurse who hooked him up to a few machines. Our new roommate appeared to be a frequent flyer and promptly asked for a soda and a bottle to piss in, “cuz I ain’t a gettin’ up that many times.”

Everything ended with test results pending for the boyfriend and instructions to return to the ER if he experienced any of the symptoms he went there seeking to find the cause of. So, we’re back home with him resting and me playing nurse. It’s a role I’m pretty familiar with and very comfortable playing. I’m more than glad to get food, adjust the pillows and make sure he keeps replenishing fluids. However, I refuse to bring him a bottle to piss in.

Autumn Poem

2010-09-20T22:22:00.000-04:00

I'm posting this because I think the previous entry had been up for about as long as anyone wanted to see it. I know it doesn't really feel like fall yet, but the calendar says it really should start feeling that way soon. So, without further ado, a quick poem:

Because I love the way

I feel when seasons change.

I turn brightly inward

deeper, more reflective.

something about that imminent change

the potato chip crispness of the air

while i still wear sandals.

the way coffee tastes richer and

every breath in could initiate a tear

senses more alive

eyes less heavy

the atmosphere more awake

and shaking me

like my Mom used to

when lying in bed on

those first cold mornings.

Because of this I sit in

the coffeehouse while

slow, easy almost maroon

jazz plays.

with the impending equinox

making me feel as deciduous

as an oak tree in October.

That's What She Said

2010-09-04T13:13:00.001-04:00

Me: I’ve been trying to call you back and can’t get you on either number.

Her: I am having serious issues right now. They had to call a dr in and a very bad diagnosis. Maybe you won’t have me around to bother much longer.

Me: What did I do to warrant that?

Her: Have (insert the boyfriend’s name) so far in your ass that you don’t care (if) I die as long as he don’t. It is too important that he has dinner. How disgusting.

Me: And I’m done. I’ve tried. I love you, Mom.

Her: Yea for (insert the boyfriend’s name). Sorry after 30 years I don’t matter any. Guess I can’t suck your dick and give you AIDS.

I didn’t respond to that one. How do you? What words work there? I’m very rarely speechless. I was. Honestly, speechless.

The backstory: The boyfriend went to the hospital by ambulance last Saturday. There could be a WHOLE other post on that and it’s related stress. For the sake of brevity, I’ll say he is feeling better now, but still needed a good bit of attention last weekend.

My mother came to the hospital on Sunday for what we now know is a bone infection. She was right. I couldn’t leave the boyfriend and go to the ER with her on Sunday evening. I’d asked my sister to go and for whatever reasons she couldn’t do it either. So, she went alone. She was admitted. I went the next day and the day after that.

On this day, I’d been asked to go to a local baseball game with some friends. I agreed to go. I needed a minute to be around non-sick people and also wanted a chance to get the boyfriend out of the house for a fairly non-exerting activity. My plan was to stay for a few innings and then trek back to the hospital to see my mom. She’d already called with requests for fast food (she’d been on the cardiac diet) and slippers (she’d lost hers somewhere between the ER and her hospital room).

It was during the 4th (or so) inning when the above text messages were exchanged. She’d gotten the bone infection diagnosis and had been told how it would be treated. A bone biopsy on the foot and then daily IV antibiotics that would require home health to visit for the next several weeks.

I never found out the diagnosis or treatment from my Mom. Those are the last words we exchanged. My sister had to tell me.

I’ve luckily spent the past couple of days with my chosen family. Great friends who are standing beside me, hugging me, and being more indignant that I can bring myself to be. I sort of expected this would happen. I’d been hoping it wouldn’t, but knew how she felt. It was really only a matter of time.

I write about it here only because I’ve been chronicling the fights with my Mom. I felt like this was the most succinct way to let friends know who haven’t seen me in a few days.

And maybe a request. To quote Rufus Wainwright, “please be kind, if I’m a mess.”

Even Microwaves Get the Blues

2010-07-19T16:50:00.000-04:00

I’ve cried twice today. I don’t know what it says about my character that I have no problem admitting that, but there it is. Twice. Me, actually having to grab a tissue and recompose myself crying.

The first time was while watching back this past week’s performance show of So You Think You Can Dance. Yes, reality TV made me cry. I’ll give you a moment to digest that. A piece by choreographer Travis Wall about helping his mother through sickness struck a little close to home. And so there I was on the sofa, in tears. That would end up being the least absurd of the two moments.

The second was at my trip to the recycling center. It really should have been a mundane task. The microwave quit working a couple of weeks ago. No idea why, it just did. The keypad wouldn’t work and it wouldn’t turn on. So, we got a new one. No big deal, right? These things happen in 2010. Appliances break. You get a new one.

So, I drove out Winchester Road to the Appliance Recycling Center. Now, I’ve only seen trailers for Wall-E, but in my best guess the ARC is exactly what the world of that film looks like. Nothing but discarded and broken appliances in various conditions sitting everywhere. The place was all heaps of metal sitting in piles with the occasional discernible object like a refrigerator door jutting out of the side. I pulled up and asked two guys working under the hood of a semi what I needed to do. I was instructed to drive to the other side where I’d see a refrigerator. I was told to just leave my microwave there.

I did as I was told. I then laid the microwave down with his cord wrapped up all nicely and got back in the car. That’s when it started. I looked out the window and saw my little microwave there and I lost it. I unabashedly bawled. True story: I’m beginning to again as I type this.

I wish I could say that it was some environmental guilt. That seeing the wastefulness of our society and knowing I was contributing to it had moved me. That wasn’t it. While the scenery was striking, it didn’t touch me quite that way. It wasn’t the realization of how transient and temporary everything, including people, really are. However, it wouldn’t take too poetic a mind to get there. I truly felt like I was abandoning something. Like I was leaving a puppy on the side of the road to fend for itself.

I’ve always had a sickness for giving feelings to inanimate objects. And yes, the good English major in me knows the word (anthropomorphism) and that’s truly what it was. I was sure my little microwave was feeling sad, knowing his fate. He was going from being in a happy, climate controlled home, to sitting on asphalt beside a broken down Magic Chef side-by-side in 90 degree heat. I still feel guilt for discarding him so callously.

It’s something I’ve always done. I tried to play with toys as a kid an equal amount of time so one of them wouldn’t feel bad for not getting attention. I name my cars. I talk to the washing machine. I turn off my BlackBerry to give it a rest sometimes just because I feel like it would appreciate a break.

Maybe I’m letting my crazy get a little too public by actually posting this. Or maybe I’ll find out I’m not the only one who does this (you guys are out there, aren’t you?). For now, I’m back on the sofa wondering if I should name the new microwave and being very grateful that I hadn’t named the old one.

Birthday Girl

2010-07-02T11:46:00.000-04:00

It was about a year ago that I had my first foray into the Twitterverse. The first “real” conversation I had on Twitter was regarding my pet peeve about Lexington, which is the downtown housing situation. I remember the conversation getting pretty heated and I remember both agreeing and the vehemently disagreeing with someone.

She was smart. She was sassy. She was opinionated. She was catty. I loved it.

After Donut Wars and a marathon Best of Lex/Gallery Hop night, I finally got to know the real Bluebelle in more than 140 characters. I found a kindred spirit who can be kind to fault, neurotic, passionate and a damned good time to hang out with. She can bake a cake, comment on trash tv, reference Romantic Literature, dance to a Gaga song, update her Twitter and get a localvore meal on the table for the kids all at the same time. AND she’ll do it in 4 inch heels, bitch. This is my/our Bluebelle.

And so this is just a quick post to say Happy Birthday, Rachel. I’m glad that the Twitter gods made sure we found each other.

Tonight's Poem

2010-06-09T22:04:00.000-04:00

I started several little intros to this and eventually decided to scrap them all. So without further introduction, here's a poem I wrote tonight. I don't have a title yet.

sometimes, I hear the

church chimes ring

11 minutes slow

as a kid, I waited for

the 12 o'clock whistle

to echo off an Appalachian.

everything's always been

clockwise and spinning

you spring forward

you fall back

every a.m. is a pulsing beep

and I don't wear a watch

but my phone's always on

seconds click quietly

and then it's June 9, 2010

in the year of our Lord

when it's summer

but I'm still

feeling deciduous

while all those beeps

chimes and whistles

are silent.

and I realize that

I don't know the name

on my own business card

there's always been a

game of freeze tag

a tv game show

a class

a job

to get to

and even with only

memories of reminders

I fold the laundry

and talk about dinner

but sometimes, I hear the

church chimes ring

11 minutes slow

Verdict

2010-06-02T22:24:00.001-04:00

So, we all recall that I sustained injury while voguing, yes?

After two weeks, it wasn't healing, so I went to see the doctor. X-rays were taken and all appeared well. However, my knee was still swollen and causing me a good bit of pain. So, I was referred to the orthopedic specialist. I saw him on Tuesday.

It turns out that I've been living with jacked up knees for a long time. While this isn't a revelation, I didn't quite know how bad it was. The short version is that the "soft tissue" in my knees have decided to develop such that they are pulling my kneecaps out. So, I just turn a bit and BAM, they dislocate. On top of that, I'm developing arthritis and I have lovely little bits of bone grinding off as I move my knee. You can see them in the x-rays the ortho guy took. It's like a snowglobe in my knee.

This of course has a few ramifications. First off, that goal of running a 5k near my 30th birthday...not gonna happen. It's probably all for the best that I got pissed off with running when a dog bit me and haven't been doing much of it lately. I can't imagine dislocating a kneecap while running down Old Vine. (I literally cringed while typing that).

It also means that a knee surgery is likely in my future. The doctor wants to cut me open, pull the soft tissue back where it's supposed to be and then hopefully cure my little dislocation problem. He seems to think this will fix the everything. I'm dubious. I read medical records from this particular facility all the time for work and it seems like they are kind of surgery happy. So, I'm pondering getting a second opinion.

For now, I'm opting for physical therapy. The doc says that they are going to "train me like Lance Armstrong for the Tour de France" to build up my leg muscles. The boyfriend says I'm getting my insurance to pay for a personal trainer. I have these great visions of out of shape, asthmatic me suddenly riding through the French countryside and grabbing a baguette from a bystander as I race through France on my little bike, flipping the bird to the Belgian team as I whizz past with my new, improved, non-dislocating knees.

In truth, I'll probably be lucky to make it through therapy without having to suck on my inhaler like a Bel-Ami fluffer. Though, I'm resolving to look at this positively. I'm getting in better shape before I turn 30, not that I'm 30 and falling apart. I mean, it's because of Madonna that I'm realizing how jacked up my knees are and she's pretty much the pinnacle of being old and fit, right? Right?

Strike a Pose

2010-05-18T19:36:00.000-04:00

It’s been a bit on the heavy and depressing side here lately, hasn’t it? So, I thought I’d lighten up the mood a bit with a little story from my weekend.

We had a little gathering for the boyfriend’s graduation. We started out at a local hotel bar. It’s truly one of my favorite places in town. They do good drinks and it makes for excellent people watching. We hadn’t planned on it, but we ended up moving to another “gay-friendly” bar for a bit of an after party.

That’s when it happened.

I certainly wasn’t drunk. I’d only had one at our initial party and I’d only half of another one at our second bar. Only half, because a waiter decided to take it away before I was finished. Granted, I’d abandoned it to go dance, but we had plenty of people who were lingering around the area we’d claimed. And oh, but only if a stolen half-gone drink was my only problem.

I’d been ready to go for a bit. I’m old. I was tired. I can’t quite do a party into the late night. However, the boyfriend and Bluebelle had requested “Vogue” and wanted to stay there to at least dance to that song. So, the opening...snap..snap and whispers of “vogue...vogue...vogue” started to play. I decided that I’d just get through the song and then we’d go. I even decided that I’d be a good sport and stand in the middle of the dance floor and vogue. Because, I’m a superstar, yes that’s what I am, you know it.

We hadn’t quite gotten to the second chorus when I got jolted. Someone bumped into me. I don’t know who. All I know is my body went one way and my knee went the other. When that happened, my right knee cap dislocated. I grabbed onto Bluebelle (I don’t think she noticed) to quickly steady myself. I didn’t wanna fall right there in front of God, the gays and everybody.

I found a stool to sit down on, collected myself and limped back to where we were camped out. We went home where my knee has continued to swell and hurt. I can’t really walk down stairs and I have a pretty visible limp. My knee is still swollen after much ibuprofen and ice.

I know I’m fine. I’ve dislocated about 20 knee caps in my life. I’m just resting as much as possible and I’m alternating between heat and ice. I’m staying off of it as much as I can. But come on, I’ve reached a whole new level of gay. I’ve suffered injury while voguing.

Why, Georgetown, Why

2010-05-17T13:02:00.000-04:00

"I am driving

85 in the

kind of morning

that last's all afternoon

just stuck inside the gloom

4 more exits to

my apartment, but

I am tempted to

keep the car in drive

just leave here for awhile

cuz I wonder sometimes

about the outcome

of a still

verdictless life

am I livin' it right?

--"Why, Georgia Why"--John Mayer

I had a deja vu moment this weekend. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in May. I was driving North on Highway 25 in my silver car to Georgetown to attend graduation at Georgetown College. I'd made this exact drive in May of 2002 and I was doing it again in 2010. It was my graduation then and the boyfriend's this past weekend.

The similarities were striking. The weather was nearly identical. The graduation happened on the same lawn in front of Giddings Hall. I saw many of the same professors. I'm sure the President of the college read the same script. Even the thoughts in my head were same.

Back in 2002, when I crossed the bridge over I-75 I was listening to the song that's quoted up there. It seemed relevant. I'd just came out to my mom a few months prior and was struggling with that mess. After not getting into grad school, I was trying to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life and feeling completely lost. My life certainly felt verdictless and I was wondering not only if I was making the right choices, but also trying to figure out what choices and paths were even possible.

This past weekend, as I crossed the bridge over I75 that same song ran through my head. Eight years later and I'm still dealing with the coming out mess with my mom and still trying to figure out what I want to do. My life is still verdictless.

I'll turn 30 exactly 3 months from today. I feel like I've completely wasted the past 8 years. I'm in exactly the same spot I was in back in 2002. I have a job that I hate, but have to stay in because it pays decently. And I still have no clue as to what I want to do.

I've been asked the question about what I want to do a few times lately by well meaning friends. I always feel embarrassed that I don't have an answer. Shouldn't I have already figured out my passion by now? I mean, I'm not getting any younger here.

Yes, I like to write, but I don't think the world needs another aspiring writer. Yes, I like fashion, but how the hell do you get a job doing that? Plus, I'm colorblind and that's gotta be an issue. I'm interested in politics, but how do I get a job in that? Especially one that's gonna pay me something that I can actually live on? I'm great with understanding and talking with people and have a TON of creative energy that isn't getting used, but how do I find an outlet for that?

I have tons of friends who are making significant life changes to follow their passion. One is opening her own law firm, another just opened his own design business and another has quit his job to finish school. My college roommate just got a new job getting to use his skill with numbers in a way that doesn't chain him to a desk and a computer screen everyday. It's time for me to do something (and yes, Faerie Princess, the friggin' Vision Board starts today).

I've been stagnant, because I just don't know where to go from here. I've found a decent income and I've been content to at least have that going for me. I'm no longer willing to let that be enough. The jury has been deliberating for 8 years and I think it's high time for a verdict.

Thank You

2010-05-08T19:55:00.001-04:00

I've written before about the detachment I feel about what I post here. It really seems like it's just the laptop and me on the sofa. I get the occasional comment and then it freaks me out a little. I truly forget people read it.

That's probably all changed.

I've been about as overwhelmed as I've ever been with all of the comments here, on Twitter and in person about my last couple of posts. And while I'm a Leo, I don't necessarily crave attention (all that much) and get self conscious pretty rapidly. So, it's been really bizarre for me to get so many kind words (and cookies) from friends both old and new.

I don't take kind words or compliments well. My mind is hard wired to immediately start discrediting them. The boyfriend will attest that I've done a good bit of that and he's been great at stopping me from letting that go too far.

However, I wanted to take a second to just say "thank you" to SO many people. I've been going through a bit of a nasty time and truly each of you who've said or done something has made a significant difference.

I don't want to ramble on here too long, but I just wanted to take a second to let whoever is out there and reading this know that you've made a hard past few days significantly more bearable.

Mother's Day

2010-05-06T12:36:00.000-04:00

I’ve heard it said that a gay son is the best thing a mother can ever have. You get all the benefits of a male child to do the physical heavy lifting like moving boxes, planting trees, cleaning out the shed, putting out and putting up the outdoor furniture and so on. You also get the emotional heavy lifting of a child who probably won’t have a family with kids to attend to and can focus his attention on you. He’ll send the most fabulous bouquets for Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day and always on your birthday.

I’ve written a bit about my mom and our relationship and I guess it’s the events of last night and the fact that we are approaching her day that leads me to sit down and write today.

My mom and I are very close. I’ve been with her through some pretty rough times. I’ve sat in hospital and doctor waiting rooms while she’s literally been brought back from death, beside her in court when dealing with my father and the various restraining order violations and she’s been a consistent cheerleader for me in my various endeavors, even when she wasn’t thrilled about them.

However, I came out in 2001 and something changed. Instantly. All of the things we’d been through no longer mattered. I was no longer her son. I was her gay son. That made all the difference in the world. I was by her hospital bed before she was about to be taken back for surgery a few years ago. She was terrified and worried she might not make it out the other side. Her one request to me was “Be good, so you’ll make it to heaven”. Translation: “don’t be gay, because you’re damned”. It sounds overly dramatic when I write it, but my mom’s death bed wish would be for me not to be who I am. It still stings.

Fast forward to the past couple of weeks. My mom has been on the depressed side lately. She has good reasons and I’ll spare the details. My life has been pretty hectic. It seems every night there is somewhere to go, something to do or something that requires my immediate attention the second I leave work. When I’m not doing that, I’m trying to make time for the boyfriend. I guess in doing that, I’m making her feel neglected. Granted, she’s pretty high maintenance and would take an hour phone conversation every night if I’d do it.

She’d been pitching a bit of a fit about it and it came to a head last night. I let her know by text that my phone would be off because I was seeing a play. I was trying to avoid her calling and not getting an answer (the ultimate insult for her). I didn’t want to tell her who I was with or where I was going. It’s part of our pact. I don’t mention things that make it obvious I have a boyfriend and do things with him. She pushed the issue and worked herself up into a pretty good rage when I was evasive. It ended with her telling me “things you don’t want me to know, don’t tell me.” My response was “I’ve tried not telling you things that you don’t want to know, but you won’t have it.” We left it at that.

I was in Louisville seeing a play with the boyfriend and his mother. The contrast was striking. The boyfriend’s mom likes me. She is perfectly aware of our relationship and supports it. The woman sends us emails about drag queen performances and asks us to go! She’s perfectly fabulous. When she got in the car to head over to the theatre, I looked down at my phone and turned it on silent. I’m sincerely afraid that one day it’s going to have to stay that way.

America and Gay Yoda

2010-05-04T15:23:00.000-04:00

Over the past year or so I've had an extraordinary group of new friends enter my life. To a person, they've all been fantastic in their own way and I truly feel grateful for the pleasure of getting to know them.

I call one of them my Gay Yoda. He doesn't know that. He's wise and dispenses fantastic advice and knowledge as casually as I sip bourbon. His words are occasionally cryptic and require some time to sort out, but once I have, I always come out better for it.

And though he will hate that I'm even writing this introduction, it is upon his advice that I'm posting today. He challenged me to let my inner poet speak on here. I've mentioned that I write poetry, but it never really shows up on the blog. So, I'm posting a poem I wrote a few years ago that I came across today while flipping through a notebook.

Like my blog posts, it was written quickly (after driving to work and just as I sat down at my desk). It was towards the beginning of the Iraq War and I was suddenly overwhelmed while in the car during my commute. After the bomb scare in New York this weekend and the growing popularity of the teabaggers and their ultra-patriotism, the poem seemed to still have some relevance. And so...without further ado and and with a nod to Gay Yoda, here it is:

and then it occurred to me

that i too am an american

smelling lilac through

air conditioning vents in

stop and go traffic.

there's a crest on my polo

shirt and i've just stood

in line 13 minutes for coffee.

i don't know what to think.

there's fighting in fallujah

more killing in kabul

texas runs coast to coast it seems

and i felt so

separtist

so isolated

so us and not them.

you see, i'm not what most

would call a patriot

you won't hear me singing

"oh beautiful for spacious skies"

or "pilgrim's feet"

or hell, even smog clouds and Nikes.

but on a thursday morning,

i'm reminded that i too

am an American

another consumer on the capitalist

food chain

a getter, a spender, a place me

on my mark and show me

where the rats are racing runner.

and..i'm shaken

disoriented

if i give into it

i'm shocked...i'm awed.

and i'm angry

i'm angry with myself...hypocrite!

and i'm angry at my friends...how did we get this way?

and i'm angry at the forefathers...look what you created!

and i'm angry at my country.

yes, i'm angry with you

America.

land of the free??? home of the brave???

i've been dreaming your american dream

while suffering from sleep apnea

and now i'm gasping for breath

and realizing how incredulous

you are

how sneaky and covert

you can be.

you've made me one of your own.

its your blood that flows through me

and even if i choke and wheeze

its your air that i'm breathing.

yes, i too am an american

not just because my passport says so

but because there is something you've

instilled in me.

something unmoveable

something modern

something so vital and fundamental

that it can live inside me without

my even knowing it's there.

until

this thursday morning

with the smell of lilac

filtered under my hood

and i realize the irony of

climate control and

climate change

yes, i too am an american

one of yours, and by default

one of theirs.

one of the hordes, the masses

the consuming and the consumed.

and i'm forced to wonder

if i too am an american

lady liberty,

can you take that away from me?

Lesbians and Hot Rocks

2010-04-28T18:47:00.000-04:00

Since it’s illegal for me to get married, I’ve always wondered if I shouldn’t just marry a nice lesbian, preferably one that is also a massage therapist. I’m fairly lesbian friendly. I want to go to Lilith Fair, I like Subarus and big dogs. I even have a huge crush on Portia de Rossi.

I had a fantastic massage therapist until a couple of months ago. She was everything that I wanted in a massage therapist/potential wife. She was…shall we say…appropriately sized for deep tissue massage. She was also friendly and chatty and it appeared we had a shared sense of humor. She was really everything I wanted.

However, she’s apparently quit or has been fired. I almost wonder if it wasn’t fired. I learned way more about her than a client ever should. I knew her partner’s name, I learned that both she and her mother were recovering alcoholics. I also learned that pretty much all of the male massage therapists working there are gay. This isn’t particularly surprising, but I wondered how they’d feel about her telling me who in the building was “family”.

While I was sad to see her go, the past few times have certainly been quieter and more relaxing. But now when I schedule, I’m in unfamiliar territory. I’ve had one girl who I’m certain was being a little flirty (anything for tips, I guess), another who was hearing impaired (which gave the receptionist quite a fit trying to decide how to tactfully warn me) and another who had gotten her “nails did” and appeared to be taking out the fact that I was her last appointment of the day out of my back.

See my posts on my (homo-phobia…here and here) about why I haven’t ever seen one of the guys. My fear of disrobing and getting massaged by one of the gays is really more immersion therapy that I can handle.

And yes, I know it sounds elitist to talk about my massages. I go because I have constant shoulder pain and it helps. I’ve tried physical therapy and exercises, but they didn’t help. My doctor says it’s all stress. The only stress I have is at work. Extrapolate from there.

I did the hot stone massage today. It was my first attempt at being rubbed with rocks. Turns out, they keep them in this little crock pot looking thing in water to keep them warm. It was as fantastic as you might imagine. Unfortunately, I didn’t schedule well and did it at 12:30, which meant I
had to come right back to work.

I Am Not a Breast Man

2010-04-26T20:45:00.000-04:00

I’ve never really thought that breasts would cause me any grief. However, breasts were the cause of a complete meltdown for me earlier tonight. Granted, these were poultry and not silicone.

However, before I get into that story, let me add a little backstory. We’ll all recall that my job is auto insurance adjuster. (I refuse to identify as “I am an). So Friday, I went to the house of a retired husband and wife to talk about their claim. Once business was attended to, we got on the topic of my leaving there to go to Danville. I mentioned that while not where I’d want to live, I have a soft spot for quaint college towns. I went to a small liberal arts school in a different city. The husband then launched into a little speech about how liberal arts schools taught you nothing but how to “sound fancy at parties” and taught no “sell-able skill.” He asked my major. I told him I’d double majored in English and Political Science. He then said “if you’re doing this, then do you feel like a failure?” I politely said my goodbyes.

I drove back to Lexington terribly conflicted. First thought was “fuck you”. Second thought was that ol’ dude kinda has a bloody good point. Third, “fuck you”.

So, it was with all of this in my head, I set out to make dinner tonight. You see, I have a fantastic boyfriend and the one thing he consistently does for me is make dinner. To someone who is below a culinary novice, this is a big deal. I thought I’d return the favor for him. He’s in a very busy/stressful time. His work is just getting really involved and he is wrapping up his senior year in college. He’s been at class and work all day and I’ve sat on the sofa. It really only just seems fair.

I found a recipe, complete with a video on how to make it. It seemed easy enough. It wasn’t. First step, I screwed it up. This started a really unfortunate snowball.

This chicken breast that I couldn’t properly cut, suddenly got assigned a lot of meaning. It represented my failure as a person. It represented my inability to do something good for my amazing boyfriend. It represented my general kitchen ineptitude. It represented my being unhappy with where my work-life is. This now mangled piece of chicken was getting into my head and messing with me. And it was successful in its endeavor.

The boyfriend had to take over and finish dinner. This was really the worst part. Something that was supposed to be FOR him, had to be done BY him. All because I couldn’t. He didn’t seem pleased. Granted, my ensuing meltdown over a chicken breast would really try anyone’s patience. And let me tell you, kids, the meltdown was ugly.

I will say that my adventures into cooking are over for a time. If not due to my lack of ability, then due to how a small mistake will build into all that it did tonight. However, I’ve now got another story to tell should I need to do more than just sound fancy at a party.

Uncreative

2010-04-08T19:29:00.000-04:00

I’ve been feeling like self-help platitudes and “Hey, buy my book” doesn’t get much done.

I’ve been feeling like there aren’t enough Indians.

I’ve been feeling like admission charges make it purposefully exclusive.

I’ve been feeling like self promotion comes above our supposed goal.

And so, I’ve gone to work these past few days decidedly uncreative. I think we all voice that we want the same thing and maybe even deep down we do. And if it takes a Summit to reach a peak, then I’m glad some make the journey.

Even this time of year when it makes us sneeze, I think we all bleed blue(grass). It just seems that it’s time to go work the fields and clean the stables. We have to train the colts before we let the horses run.

Luck be a Climax

2010-04-07T23:14:00.000-04:00

I believe in luck like I believe in multiple orgasms. Sure, it can happen, but probably not frequently and not for most people. I’ve always been a nose to the grindstone, do your work and then reap what benefits, if any, there are to reap. However, I feel like I’ve had 24 hours of really just terrible luck.

First, I’m driving home last night on a road I’m not familiar with. I’m driving along and see a speed limit sign. I noticed that it had dropped from being 55 to 35 miles per hour zone. I was hitting my brakes to just slow down a bit and as soon as I did, I saw the policeman. So, that’d be a $200 ticket for me. I’d been back on the road less than 2 miles when I noticed something in the road ahead of me. I slowed down just in time to see a cute little raccoon scurrying across the road. I tried to avoid him. I didn’t. So, somewhere on Highway 460 there lies an animal that I killed. This is not something I take lightly. I don’t usually kill spiders in the house, let alone cute woodland creatures.

I made it home (hitting every red light in downtown at 1230am) and went to bed. Thankfully, nothing terribly catastrophic happened at work. But, I get home and can’t WAIT to take a shower, make myself a drink and just relax. I turn on the shower and the water isn’t hot. I turn it up a bit more, still not hot. I turn it all the way up and still cold. This is the water heater that was repaired last week. It turns out, not repaired. I usually give kudos to the landlord who is always on top of stuff. He still hasn’t returned my call.

So, I’m here. I feel kinda dirty, but I’ve made arrangements to shower at a friend’s house in the morning before work. But, I’d just like to say that if luck is gonna smack me around like this, I’d at least like some counterbalance with a multiple orgasm.

Ticket in the Thames

2010-03-27T17:29:00.000-04:00

I feel like I’ve written lots about my uncomfortableness with the gays lately. I stumbled upon the fact that the London Lesbian & Gay Film Festival is going on this week and it triggered this little memory and figured I may as well share.

My decision to study abroad had nothing to do with academics. The International Studies advisor lobbied hard for me to take advantage of our partnership with Oxford and take an intensive course there. I declined. I didn’t want to spend my time abroad with my nose in a book. While the boyfriend tells me the libraries in Oxford (he took the Oxford route, being far more responsible than I) were fantastic, I wanted to see more than just that.

I’d also got it in my head that I needed to get the heck outta Dodge. I was feeling so much pressure. My family seemed to have a lot of expectations about who and what they wanted me to be. I was just starting to come to grips with being gay and realizing that I wasn’t ever going to be what they wanted. So, I decided I would take a semester, leave the country and get away from all of the pressures. I figured that if I could strip away all of the expectations and be somewhere where literally everything was foreign, then I could see how I reacted, see what I felt and thought and then, figure out who I am.

Before I left, I was out to one person. I wasn’t out to the friend who went to England and shared a room with me. My best bitch didn’t even know. However, as part of my learning process while in London, I decided that I was going to do something “gay”. I didn’t really even know what that meant. Every week we were there I bought the “Time Out” and instantly flipped to the “Gay” section to see if I could find what my gay event would be. It finally showed up.

The front page said “London Lesbian & Gay Film Festival”. I decided I would go. The only night I could make it work without anyone else in the house wondering where I went was the night they were showing “Queer as Folk”. It was even the American version. They were basically saying “look at how the Americans screwed up our show”.

I made up some excuse about why I was leaving the house and took the Tube into Central London. I remember actually starting to shake from nerves when the train was at the Hammersmith stop (about halfway into Picadilly Circus). I forged on and walked to the National Theatre and got in line to buy my ticket. I felt flushed. I was alone in a crowd of people who would assume I’m gay just by virtue of my standing there. The line was about 100 people deep.

It sounds dramatic, but I swear it’s true. I was the next person in line to buy my ticket when the guy on the other side of the glass said they were now sold out. I was both relieved and pissed off. I’d gotten my courage up and now all for nothing. Just as I was about to turn and walk out someone yelled, “Hey, do you need a ticket?” I turned around and there was a man extending a ticket out to me. I said yes and he handed it to me and walked away. I didn’t pay him and I don’t even remember what he looked like.

But I wondered inside, took my seat and watched 6 back to back episodes of “Queer as Folk.”

I’d saved all of my tickets from the 30 something plays I’d went to in London and wanted to save my ticket for going to this. However, I didn’t want to risk someone finding it. So, given my flair for drama, I let it fall from my hand down into the Thames as I walked across the bridge back to the Tube station. Given my Mom’s flair for drama, she called my pay as you go phone as I looked over the bridge and watched the ticket fall. She heard the choke in my voice and asked if i was ok. I told her I was fine, I’d just left seeing a sad movie.

Lifestyle Choices

2010-03-24T14:16:00.000-04:00

I’ve never liked going to gay clubs. This has as much to do with my being homo-phobic as it does with just not being the “go out” kind of guy. I’m much more content with ordering a pizza and playing a rousing game of Phase 10. I know that the clubs and “going out” are part of the gay experience. It’s just something that you have to do and I’ve done it a few times. I’ve just never much enjoyed it.

I’m sure there are a few things at work here. One is my aforementioned homo-phobia. Also, I think people associate the clubs with the “gay lifestyle,” a term to which I take a great deal of issue. I don’t know about you, but I’ve yet to figure out what the “gay lifestyle” is. I know gays that live all kinds of lifestyles and as best I can tell, my lifestyle isn’t terribly different from the straights that I work with. It’s just that gay clubs seem to be the example of where someone would go to live the “gay lifestyle.” Especially, if they were using the term pejoratively, what with the go-go boys, booze and drag queens.

I know something like that was on my mother’s mind during our conversations after the coming out process. She was SO upset that I would now be living the “gay lifestyle.” Now granted, this is the woman who can count among her first responses to my coming out “but you don’t even like MAYONAISSE”. So, her judgment might be dismissed as unsound. However, it was some desire to prove to her that my being gay didn’t mean anything different than her being straight that’s also played a role in my avoiding clubs.

My aversion continued until about 2 months ago. The boyfriend and I planned a “Big Gay Night Out” with 3 other friends. We carpooled up to Louisville, got dinner and then hit the club. We started at the drag show and then moved on to the dancefloor. We all had a blast. There may even be photos of my girl, Bluebelle putting dollars bills into the mouth of a go-go boy in a shower. I also learned the boyfriend can work it like a rap video dancer.

We had so many friends respond to our tweets from Big Gay Night Out 1 that we had to set up another. So, Big Gay Night Out 2 was this past weekend. We ended up with 13 people in 3 cars. We had almost as many straight women as gay guys in attendance. We even had the one hetero male in the party. (Though, some of us have our doubts…).

As I was sitting in the passenger seat while the boyfriend commandeered Marco back home, it occurred to me. This was fun. Lots. I also spent no time wondering or caring if anyone else in the place was judging me. I also didn’t feel like I was a part of any other lifestyle. I was with my best friends in the world, living life, making memories and laughing then dancing our asses off.
So, maybe I’ve made one more step towards curing my homo-phobia, but I should probably get in a game of Phase 10 before going back.

Quick Note: Nothing Special

2010-03-15T08:58:00.000-04:00

I've been up since 5am. I'm sitting in the waiting room at Central Baptist while my grandmother gets the battery on her pacemaker swapped out. Nothing terribly serious, but apparently something that must be done at an ungodly hour. My aunt brought her up, but she has her own round of doctor's appointments today. So, here I sit. Thankfully, they have Wi-Fi.

However, while I'm here I'm working on updating the resume and applying for a job at UK. Wish me luck!

Thunderstorm Warning

2010-03-12T10:42:00.000-05:00

I’ve always loved storms. Something about the charged atmosphere, the smell, the excitement that the TV meteorologists transmit and the sound and fury of nature makes me want to stand outside and watch rather than cower into a basement and hide.

I know that storms can be violent and deadly and since I’ve never experienced that firsthand, maybe I’m naïve. But when I hear that thunderstorms are rolling in, I get kind of excited.

My first experience with a big storm was when I was about 5. We lived in Loyall, KY (still the place I consider “home”) along the banks of the Cumberland River and across from the L&N Railroad tracks. My sister and I had been outside playing when Mom brought us in because “the storms were comin’”. I was only 5 so I may not have the best memory, but what I recall is that we had just walked in the house when all hell broke loose. I remember running to the picture window in the front of the house and a sunny sky had turned coal black. Thunder was causing the big Combustioneer furnace in the living room to rattle and some of the toys we’d left in the yard were now blowing down the street.

Mom had no sooner shut the back door and demanded that my sister and I get into the bathtub when she remembered she’d left blankets out on the backporch to dry. When she ran back to the backdoor to grab them, the door wouldn’t open. Even at 5 years old, I’d heard that tornadoes sounded like the horns on the trains that would run behind the house and as my sister and I left our station in the bathtub to watch Mom fight with the door, we heard the deep whistle. And it was getting louder.

Within about 2 minutes it was over. The bright sky came back and the day became sticky humid making me want to stay inside with my Transformers instead of going back outside. Oddly enough, some of my Mom’s blankets were still hanging on the backporch. However, the deck on the back of both our neighbor’s houses were torn completely off with big chunks of wood bobbing in the river. I remember thinking how cool it would be that our neighbor’s decks were going to go over Cumberland Falls.

That day started my love affair with storms. Since then, I’ve stood outside during a hurricane in Florida just to watch the clouds swirl and the palm trees bend over. I’ve seen a tornado blow the roof off of a K-Mart in Corbin and I’ve scared the bejesus out of my college roommate by opening our windows to listen to Moby while it hailed.

So, I’ll be religiously checking the forecasts and watches and warnings today. And while I certainly don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone, if it does, I may be the guy who is too stupid to get in out of the rain.

Scared Straight

2010-03-09T23:35:00.000-05:00

For about 15 years now, I’ve had a rule: no one with a penis gets to cut my hair. This harkens back to being taken to a barber when I was 13 or so. I’d been leaving my hair fairly long in the traditional “bowl cut” for years. There was a delightful lady at a salon who had been cutting it for a couple years since we’d moved to a new town. For some reason, my mom decided that I needed to go to a barber instead. Without any consultation from him, my hair was instantly shaved off. There was no discussion. I remember him saying something about how he had just assumed that is what we wanted and that was pretty much all he knew how to do. I cried. Lots. Thus, the rule was born. Penis possession = no scissors coming near my hair.

I broke the rule today. The Faerie Princess had heard me talk about having to drive out to the middle of nowhere (Palomar) to get my hair cut and my ungrateful (not so much a thank you for at least 10 regular and maybe 10 more occasional new clients) stylist. With enthusiasm and with assurance that he “does good boy hair,” she encouraged me to see her Hair Gay. It took a couple of months before I could finally get up the courage to break the rule, but I made the appointment last week and went today.

I can’t say enough great things about him. The haircut was spectacular. While my “style” may not be terribly different than it usually is, it’s more finished, more polished. The little things that make my hair what I’ve always kind of wanted, it now is. Nevermind that the Hair Gay is much closer and appears to understand the value of repeat business and referrals. I actually can’t wait to get up in the morning, just so I can “do” my hair. Seriously, it’s that good.

So, I think the rule will be amended. Penis possession + penis appreciation = perfectly acceptable. You’d think that being gay I might have already figured this out. It’s just that there is another truth at work here. Gay guys scare me. Like seriously freak me out.

It’s just that the gays tend to have high expectations. The hair should be perfect, the clothes perfectly styled, the skin should be flawless, the teeth straight and whitened (even if you smoke), the stomach should be flat and the perfect witty response to everything should always be on the tip of your tongue. It’s pressure. It’s also something that’s just not within my capacity to attain. I always feel like I’m depleting the fabulous of the room, like the other gays are wondering how I managed to get into their club.

This is all to say NOTHING bad about the Hair Gay. He was fabulous, welcoming, personable and again gave a FANTASTIC haircut. I’ll be going back. And now that I’ve broken the rule, maybe I can work on getting over my own little homo-phobia one appointment at a time.

C'mon Vogue

2010-03-03T11:54:00.000-05:00

I’m a fashion gay. Not in the Christian Siriano way, but more in the absolutely captivated by all things fashion sense. I religiously read GQ, W magazine (cuz it’s not just the men’s lines that I like) and I’m always looking at the video and pictures of the runway shows during Fashion Week. It’s just I always feel like I have to add a disclaimer of “don’t judge, I can’t dress myself” when I say that.

I have plenty of friends who actually won’t go clothes shopping unless I go with them. One of my few talents is the ability to look at someone, make a quick assessment and then make them look the best they’ve ever looked. It’s a gift, I don’t own it. (Points if you get the 80’s sitcom reference)

One of my favorite recent moments was a co-worker asking me to take him and 3 other straight guys shopping for clothes before they went on a group vacation to New York City. They didn’t want to look like Kentucky hicks in the club in New York. So, I took a fellow adjuster, a soccer coach, a police officer and I’m not honestly sure what the other guy did to the mall. Granted, we aren’t doing high fashion at J. Crew, but I had a blast having conversations about various cuts for jeans and showing them how good they could look if they’d frickin’ wear a shirt that FITS!!! Not to mention the delight I found in the conversation with one of them about how we had to be mindful of his “substantial endowment” when going for the low-rise jeans. Seriously, y’all…I got a little ferklempt in the Guess store.

It’s just that when I try to shop for myself, my super powers instantly go away. When I look at myself, I see a very overweight, out of shape, disproportionate blob. I actually made a list of 100 something things that I dislike about myself when I was in college. Most of those are things that I can’t change without a Michael Jackson-esque reincarnation under the plastic surgeon’s knife. I don’t really have the money for that.

So, I’m sitting here today at work in what I feel like would be a very cute outfit on some other guy. The ensemble consists of gray herringbone pants, dark blue striped button up and a blue military inspired wool sweater with fantastic button details. I don’t usually care about what I wear to work. I work with a group of straight guys who wear pleated pants (and the occasional lesbian), so nobody really pays much attention to me clothes-wise. But today, I’m thinking about going home for lunch and changing. I feel like flubber. The sweater is bunching in all the wrong places and I guess I’ve gained weight since I bought the shirt, because that last button was just a little tight this morning.

I know we all obsess about how our appearance, our weight, etc. I also know that I don’t eat right and don’t exercise as much as I should. So, really the onus is back on me if I’m not happy with myself. But, when you have a list of 100 things, it kind of makes it seem pointless to try. About a year ago, I weighed almost 20 pounds less than I do now and even then, I was the same level of unhappy with myself.

I didn’t want to turn this into a pity party and my apologies if I did. But if you see me today in the blue sweater, don’t judge, I can’t dress myself.

A Case of the Mondays

2010-03-01T19:05:00.000-05:00

Typically, my favorite day of the week is Monday. I recognize that may seem like a foreign concept to most people. I work Tuesday through Saturday, so Monday has became my day of rest. It often feels like I have a little bonus day. When everyone else is getting up and starting their work week, I'm getting up in time to make coffee and re-snuggle up on the sofa to catch The Price is Right. It's just every so often that I feel like I'm missing something.

I was supposed to do several things today. Get up at 5am and go volunteer for WUKY's pledge drive, get back home about 10:30 and maybe grab a quick nap, lunch at noon, meet a friend to catch up (and learn that he is moving away) at 2 and then get back home in time to do dinner with the boyfriend. Also, I need to pay bills, do laundry, ideally clean a little and if I was good, run by the car dealer and try to get them to reattach the shield I broke on my most recent trip to Harlan. Those are just the things that require my immediate attention.

In a perfect world, I'd also like to work out some, spend some time with the boyfriend (that isn't diverted by eating and staring at TV), read the Book Club book for Wednesday, talk to my Mom for a few minutes to let her know I still love her, try to repair an obliterated friendship, and maybe, just MAYBE spend some time working on this "what I want to do" question.

I don't suppose that it's any revelation that people get too caught up in the "have to-s" on any given day. I just don't know how to find the balance. I also know that I'm already physically and mentally exhausted and I still have a few things on the "have to" list. I don't have a clue how to work in the second list where I not only make time for myself, but time for the people that I love. However, one of the things that I took away from the conversation with the friend earlier today is that this stagnation has gone on far too long. I just seriously don't know how to stop it.

"O let not Time deceive you,

You cannot conquer Time.

In the burrows of the Nightmare

where Justice naked is,

Time watches from the shadow

and coughs when you would kiss.

In headaches and in worry

Vaguely life leaks away,

And Time will have his fancy

To-morrow or to-day".

excerpt from "As I Walked Out One Evening" W.H. Auden

Incentive Idea

2010-02-27T12:00:00.000-05:00

Maybe it’s presumptuous of me to write about certain topics or ideas. I’ve actually gone back and forth several times about what I would or wouldn’t like to post on here. I also don’t want to be one more hack using his little space on the Internet to rant. So, I will say that I post this with humility. I’m certain there are things I don’t know, things I don’t understand and barriers that I would have never thought of. However, it is my little piece of the Internet and as the boyfriend is fond of saying “I do what I want.”

Ok, so let’s start with the premise that we’d like to not only attract young people to Lexington, but we’d also like to retain the people that we have. I think we realize that the acquisition and retention of young, talented, industrious and creative folks are the foundation we must build to improve our city. I might go even further to say that we’d like to concentrate those people into our Downtown/Campus area. I think creating an environment where these like-minded young professionals (I’m going WAY out of my way to not say Creative Class *gag*) can live, work, play, spend and feed off of each other is not only a catalyst for growth, but also a magnet for getting them here.

I think it’s also safe to say that we are pretty well failing at appealing to those people now. Additionally, as I’ve mentioned here before, our Downtown is overpriced. And contrary to what might have been said at our debate this past week, there really isn’t much going on Downtown to entice someone to head down there, let alone form a community.

Here’s the thing though, we have some of the foundation. New housing that appeals to young people, check, thriving arts community, check, ability to get in on the ground floor of something special, check. So, then how can we maximize what we already have to catapult us into something better?

My thought: let’s invest in the young professionals we already have scattered throughout the city. Let’s say that we take $1 million. (Admittedly, that’s a lot of money, but it’s a small investment into really making our city better and making it the “World-Class City” that we all pay a lot of lip service to). But, let’s take that $1 million and provide an incentive to any first time homebuyer who buys a home within a certain area. For hypothesis sake, let’s say Euclid to Newtown to Third to Midland. Maybe we provide those first time homebuyers with $10,000 towards the purchase of a new place. (I’d also say with a contingency that you remain in the property for 3 years to encourage people to really put down roots). That’s 100 new young professionals (at least most likely) that you get into Downtown.

Now, what’s the benefit of that? You start building the community that will attract other young professionals. From there, you start attracting retail to service this new neighborhood, which then springs restaurants, nightlife and of course more business and with those businesses come jobs. It also starts the process of making living Downtown more attractive. It would also be an incentive to make someone think twice before leaving Lexington for greener pastures or even just the suburbs.

I know this isn’t a solve everything solution. However, I think we have to start building a foundation for economic growth and find ways to make our city appealing. We’ve seen that we can’t rely on businesses to do it. We’re left with a gaping hole in Downtown and shops that no one goes into when we do that. At the same time, can you blame businesses for not investing in Downtown? There’s no customer base. So, let’s establish a customer base for them and then reap the rewards. Those being, revitalized Downtown, a draw to the kinds of people we want in our city, jobs and I’d imagine increased tax revenue on both the housing that we’ve sold and the eventual businesses that open to serve these new Downtown residents.

I know there are plenty of fine-point details to this little idea that I’ve glossed over. I didn’t want to write a 10 page report to post on a blog. However, I do think that floating an idea out there can at least generate some discussion. I’ll also restate that I don’t pretend to know or understand everything. But, what harm can it do? I’m just blogging and besides, I do what I want.

Reduced Today

2010-02-26T12:59:00.000-05:00

One thing I’ve learned while on my blogging adventure is that if the words aren’t coming out easily, then I probably don’t need to try to force it.

When I sit down with an idea of a post, it usually gets typed, posted and tweeted within about 30 minutes. It’s those posts that take more effort that end up not being so good. There are few of those on here and those are usually the ones that are more rambling than informative or entertaining. So, I’ve learned that if I have to work too hard at it, it probably isn’t going to end up well.

I sat down yesterday to try to write a post about my thoughts after our Mayoral Debate. I had a whole page typed up. I hadn’t even gotten down a fraction of what I’d like to say, questions I’d like to ask or mentioned the things that I just didn’t understand. It then occurred to me that I was working pretty hard to get all of that out and it didn’t make for all that interesting reading. (reference post on brevity as well)

So, instead, I sat down today with another thought. How about I just say that I’m a complete newcomer to Lexington politics and so I’m still trying to figure people out? I’ve learned that this is a town where your history matters and so it’s taking me some time to figure out everyone’s backstory. I’ve now met just about each of the candidates, but I still don’t think I’m even close to as informed as I should be.

I know several people who do know the history and know candidates and they have a clear choice. I’d also say that even independent of them, I’m leaning the same way. However, I just feel like I’m never going to know enough. I’m never going to get all of the questions that I’d like to have answered and I’m probably never going to have the subtext filled in.

And so expect a couple of other posts here from time to time about the local election. I’ve been a political junkie for years, but I’m really just turning my attention to local politics. The bottom line is that I really care about Lexington. For whatever reason, I’ve developed an attachment to this place and really give a damn about where it’s headed and how it gets there. So bear with me while I figure it out and hopefully I won’t get too rambling.

Vision Quest

2010-02-22T17:57:00.000-05:00

"Why is it such work to stay conscious and so easy to get stuck and not the other way around?" --These R the Thoughts, Alanis Morissette

I was supposed to start a vision board.

I’ll be honest, I don’t know that I ever completely understood what that means. It was explained to me at the corner of DiscoKroger and Euclid (yes, in my world, that’s an intersection) one night after leaving book club. I think that between the cold air and the walk home it never really sank in. However, it was supposed to be one way that I could begin figuring out what it is that I “Want To Do.” That was also the original concept for this blog. I was going to chronicle my attempts at finding out what that is, what my strengths are and start towards a path for a happier, more fulfilled me. I’ve gotten a bit off track.

It’s just that every time I start to write about that subject, it turns into a whine. I don’t tolerate whining well and I certainly don’t want to be one more e-sympathy suck. God knows we have enough of that.

I just feel like I’ve got lots of energy and ideas, but they are going 1000 different directions. I was hoping that the blog would help me focus a little, maybe help me get a better perspective on what’s going on in my head. Sometimes, it seems like the blog is just one more way to divert me.

I had close to 6 hours in the car yesterday. I used that time to a) sing along very loudly with the radio and b) think a little. I don’t know that I got any further along. What I do know is that I’m not using my abilities (whatever they are) to their fullest, I absolutely loathe my current revenue stream (cuz let’s be honest, that’s all it is) and this stagnation thing sure as hell isn’t helping.

I just don’t know what else to do. Maybe I should google “vision board”.

PolyValentines

2010-02-14T22:58:00.000-05:00

I feel like it’s Valentine’s Day and that means I really should post something. I’m not one for sap or sentimentality and I don’t think that the few I know who read this are either, so something about the boyfriend wouldn’t quite be in order. I’ve sort of went back and forth about what, if anything, I’d end up writing here. What I’ve decided I should write is my confession that I’m a polygamist.

Ok, not really. However, I spent my Valentine’s Day with not one Valentine, but about 15 or 20 and that’s really the way I’d prefer it. I ate their delicious food and they drank my hurricanes. We drank and chatted and ate and ate and polished off 2 bottles of Southern Comfort before 2 this afternoon.

And while I probably should have considered doing something “romantic” on Valentine’s Day, it’s much more of a special occasion to get to gather with a group of friends who don’t see each other every day. We also don’t get to eat like that every day. We had soup, meatballs, lasagna, Spanish tortillas and Rachel’s Red Velvet cupcakes (made with love, no less) just to name a few of our dishes. To me, that is far more eventful and since my many Valentines are so wonderful, it was way more meaningful than any forced display of affection.

Now, before I get the “bad boyfriend” badge assigned to me, I should also say that we did our Valentine’s dinner on Friday. We also spent the rest of today cuddled up on the couch indulging in the Olympics, which meant a lot to both of us. I’m just not one for spreading out rose petals just because the calendar tells me it’s the assigned day.

Incidentally, earlier today we were talking about how you can get a pass on being a little creepy/polygamous if you are attractive and so here’s to hoping I get a pass, cuz like Rachel, I made my hurricanes with love.

Best Bitch

2010-02-10T23:45:00.000-05:00

In middle school, the first class of the day was always Band. For me, it made getting up and going to school worth it. I had moved to a new school in 6th grade and never quite fit in. I didn’t have a lot of great friends and being poor, gay (yeah, I did even kind of know then) and in band didn’t help matters. I would wake up dreading the teasing and general harassment that the day was about to bring. But those first 45 minutes of the day where I could just sit with my saxophone and be good at something, create and not have to worry about any of the bullies was the thing that got me up and going.

The first day of 8th grade was a day of mixed emotion. I was dreading another year of dealing with the misery of middle school, but since another guy had moved up to high school, I was going to be 1st chair saxophone. I was also a little apprehensive. I was told that we were getting a new saxophone player. She had moved to Corbin from Mississippi. I was nervous (and yes, this is SO petty) that she was going to unseat me from my 1st chair position. I was also quite comfortable the way things were going and wasn’t really happy about this new girl infringing on the one happy part of day.

However, this girl from Mississippi ended up being one of the best things that ever happened to me. That first morning literally went like this: the new girl sits down beside me and says, “Hi, I’m Monica, let’s be friends”. And I kid you not, we’ve been inseparable ever since. I was the best bitch in her wedding (read: we couldn’t think of a better name for maid of honor if that happened to be a dude). She was the person to console me on the day I came out to my mom.

I tell this story, because I really believe it was that moment that ended up being a turning point for me. Monica was the first person to accept me for me, no matter what. She is the first person that probably ever got to know me and did so without judgement. Her friendship has always been there for me no matter what is happening in my life no matter how weird, depressed, outrageous or bitchy I become. It’s been through my friendship with her that I’ve been able to find a constant place to be comfortable with myself and ultimately discover who I am.

In learning that someone will accept me, I’ve been able to forge the tons of other spectacular friendships that I have. I’ve learned that I can be myself and someone will not only be OK with that, but there are others that will understand it.

I spent the day today with Monica and some other fantastic friends. We are planning another even larger gathering tomorrow. I should also say that these are not just casual acquaintances. These are friends that I see at least once a week (for trash TV night), but usually several times more. These are people who have seen me through a lot of difficult times and vice versa.

And so I sat down to write this tonight being very thankful for these friends and because it occurred to me that I’ve came a long way since that first day in 8th grade and I should probably give some credit where credit is due.

A Few Words on Brevity

2010-02-06T11:55:00.000-05:00

The boyfriend has something that I do not: the gift of brevity.

There is probably a good reason that I have a blog and he doesn’t. He’s great at being succinct and getting exactly the right words out and concisely making his point. His blog would be a few sentences. Mine is…well, you see.

The boyfriend bought a new car. It’s a HUGE step up for him in the car department and he’s reasonably excited about it. He can break that excitement down into about 6 words and then he’s done. It’s his first car payment and he’s apprehensive. He can muster up “I’m getting pretty good and signing away my future income,” but that’s it.

This is not at all how I would approach this. I’m verbose. I’m loud. I’m hyperbolic to a fault sometimes and if you’ve read the blog, I’m also kind of a car geek. As such, I’m excited for him. I’ve been telling anyone who will sit still long enough that he’s getting a new car. I’m telling them what an upgrade it is from what he had. I’m also trying my best to assuage his fears and help him get through the process with minimal jitters.

We met some friends last night and the new car was something everyone was asking about. The boyfriend being him and me being me, I wanted to gush while he was content to say a few words. I wanted to tell everyone how proud I was of the boyfriend (for all of his 21 years) in his fierce bitch negotiation with the salesman and how much he needed to get a new vehicle and how this was just the perfect deal at the perfect time.

However, last night I got a message from a Sr. Gay offering me sage advice: “let the boyfriend tell the Car Story”. And he’s right. It’s the boyfriend’s story to tell. It’s his experience and not mine. I’m a supporting actor. If he wants to use two sentences to describe it, then that’s what he has to say. I’m there to offer car knowledge and a hug when he starts to stress out. That’s it.

By the same token, I’m left with all kinds of thoughts about an Event we went to last night. They range from supportive to irritated. I had sat down to blog about all of that this morning. I’d even written a good page worth when I realized that I probably don’t know enough to talk intelligently about it. I’d be jumping into a discourse that was probably way out of my league. Also, some eloquent words had already been written about it. Incidentally, by the same Sr. Gay who offered the advice last night. He even did in within the span of a few short paragraphs.

And so now I’m looking at the almost page that I’ve written again, when all I was trying to say is that I probably need to learn the value of brevity. Especially, if it’s someone else’s story to tell.

If I Can Do It...

2010-01-25T23:27:00.001-05:00

This post really was inevitable. I made the big deal about how I couldn’t cook. I think I even mentioned that I really didn’t care to learn how to cook. I’ve gone damned near 30 years now and people have been kind enough to cook for me. When they haven’t, I’ve let the miracle of processed food do the work (see my ever expanding stomach for proof).

So, I bothered to write about how I can’t cook and how my little shopping trip for the boyfriend stressed me out. I really thought that’d be about the end of it. Instead, I got lots of encouragement (which was appreciated) and aversion therapy.

You see, the boyfriend is kind of fantastic. He’s been/is a source of face your shit, deal with it and come out the other side a better person. When I’m inclined to be stagnant, he’s a motivator and just generally makes me a better person. So, he starts to give me a little prodding with comments like “Ya know, you ARE off today and I’m at work.” And so, at 11:33am today, I decided that I was going to make dinner.

This is not a decision that I came to lightly.

I then sat around wondering what in the world I would make. I thought about lots of things that were basically frozen food. I thought about going to Fresh Market and getting one of their prepared things that you just heat. I also thought about doing the Bisquick “Oven Fried Chicken”. However, none of those felt “special”. After running out to do a couple of other errands, I came back and continued to stress out and peruse the internet.

It was at 3:42pm (note the time I spent stressing about this) that I decided to leave it all up to fate. I decided that I was going to turn on the Rachel Ray talk show and whatever she was making, that’s what I was going to make for dinner. I figured that her recipes were for the causal home cook and if she could do it, then by God I could too.

It turns out that Rachel was featuring her best of 2009 recipes and was doing a spin on one of them for 2010 (always up with the times, that Rachel). And so, she was making a Spinach, Artichoke and Chicken Penne dish. I watched her make it and for the first time in my life had an “I can do that” moment while watching food television. I promptly found the recipe, printed and set off to DiscoKroger.

I will spare you lots of detail, but here’s what I’ve learned: Rachel does NOT make stuff in 30 minutes. If I had a whole team of people to chop, pour, stir and generally keep an eye on stuff, then great. I could make Thanksgiving dinner in 30 minutes. Her pasta dish, not so much. Those spices that she calls for just a pinch of...yeah...those are expensive. I spent $20 today on bay leaves and fresh nutmeg and I’m pretty sure that they didn’t add anything to the dish.

However, on a non-cynical note: I cooked. I for real, took some stuff and made it into food. How frickin’ cool is that? I didn’t know it, but the boyfriend tells me that I poached, made a roux, turned that into a beschamel and then combined all of that into a pretty tasty dish. So hot damn!!!

I recognize that none of this is earth shattering or “gourmet”. However, it’s a decent first step for a total novice. I will also say, it was kinda tasty. The best part? While we were cleaning up, the boyfriend said “No one’s ever cooked for me before”. That moment when I melted just a little, made the 5 hours of stress totally worth it.

Good Eats

2010-01-21T00:37:00.000-05:00

I am not a food gay. Let me repeat that, I am NOT a food gay.

That’s not to say that I don’t like to eat. You can look at me and tell that isn’t quite the case; it’s just that food confuses and frustrates me.

I grew up with a working, single mom who still managed to get dinner on the table every night. However, that dinner might have came in a box or it might have been Shake and Bake, but I never helped. I just never picked up how to turn ingredients into food.

Cooking is a skill and an art that I have yet to and will never master. Part of that is an innate desire to want to please people, so having a “test kitchen” run at making people dinner is not an option. I will not serve people bad food. The stress of just thinking about cooking for a group of friends (who I know love me and would only judge me a little) completely blocks me from being able to get started cooking.

It’s also SO daunting. I hang around with people who talk about cooking and food as though it’s as natural as signing your name or knowing the alphabet. They all know the difference between various kinds of cuts and how best to prepare this or that and what spices provide what flavor. I can tell you that the V8 soup in the box isn’t as good as the Campbell’s soup in the box and which Lean Cuisine is the tastiest. I always feel so out of place when we talk about food (which is often), because I just have no frame of reference. I have nothing intelligent to say and no stories of “well the last time I roasted a ....”

I”ll also say that I’m not ashamed to admit that I like Stouffer’s Lasagna and I’m not opposed to having pasta sauce out of a jar, and my “I”ve had a bad day dinner is a frozen pizza and a bottle of cheap shiraz”. (Shout out to The Little Penguin wine). I assume this is heresy to some.

This leads me to where I found myself earlier today. I was in Kroger with a shopping list sent to me by e-mail by the boyfriend. I’m walking around a foreign Kroger (on Chinoe) and staring at my BlackBerry experiencing actual make-me-shake-a-little stress. The list said things like “asparagus OR broccoli”. How do I decide which? How much? How do I tell which looks better? What is a good price for either? Then, “1 Onion”. Did y’all know there are like 4 kinds of onion? Red, yellow, white, vidalia and then those all over again, but organic. I was then told to buy steak. I’ve never bought steak in my life. This was it’s own stress and involved a conversation with a guy behind a counter. This made the situation worse, because I had to announce my ignorance to another.

Nevertheless, dinner was purchased and it was tasty. It was also NOT prepared by me. I did my usual make sure everyone’s glass of wine was full and manned the DVR as we watched trash TV. This is what I’m good at. I can keep people happy and entertain, I just can’t possibly feed them without assistance, not even Shake and Bake.

2010, in Summary, before The Price is Right, Jan 11

2010-01-11T10:50:00.000-05:00

Since New Year’s Day I’ve made exactly 5 attempts to blog. I’ve posted exactly nothing. So, I find myself sitting here on January 11 waiting for the The Price is Right to come on and having posted not a single thing in 2010. What follows is simply a giant condensing of what I had been trying to form into longer, more developed thoughts.

--I had never heard of the “whatever you do/eat on New Year’s day will be indicative of your entire year” belief until this year. It appears everyone in the world knew about this, but somehow had forgotten to tell me. However, if that’s the case, I’m going to spend 2010 recovering from food poisoning and eating bread and ginger ale. I’ll be having a gigantic fight with the boyfriend. I’ll also end up having delightful conversations with a friend who attempted to make me feel better and sent me home with all of the food I missed at the now legendary brunch I couldn’t attend. And in summary, I’ll probably never eat spinach salad again. That’s the January 1, 2010 summary.

--I love snow. It’s so pretty and makes me have some fairly sappy, nostalgic childhood memories. I’ve just developed an aversion to the stuff. You see, my job gets ridiculously busy when it snows. It makes me go from really hating the job to being almost unable to get out of bed and go. I was nearly 2 hours late everyday this week. It was all purely a function of barely being able to make myself get up and go. Thankfully, nobody at work really cares when I get there.

--I love the Winter Olympics (and not just the super gay figure skating) and can’t wait for them to start.

--Lastly, I first heard this “creative class” term back in June. I wrote a quick bit about it on our “Mowing the Bluegrass” site (which took a brief hiatus, but will be coming back soon). However, I will restate my initial point. We have a ton of young, creative, perfectly willing to do something people. We just are rarely engaged. We don’t need to recruit them, entice them or incentivize our city. We just need to look under our collective noses and realize we have a giant pool of untapped talent that we look over. I said it in my initial writing and I’ll say it again “we’re here and we have disposable income!”. Even more, we have some great ideas about how to take our Lexington forward and are willing to do the heavy lifting. We just have no idea how to bust through the “established voices” to be heard.

So that’s 2010 up to this point. Hopefully, this is also no indication of my using this little space in 2010. I kind of enjoy it.

How 'Bout Getting On Some Antibiotics?

2009-12-24T10:14:00.000-05:00

2009 has proved to be the year of sick.

It feels like every month I’ve had a minor cold all the way up to an organ that was rebelling against me and warranted removal.

It’s Christmas Eve and the trend continues. I’m at work (of course) and I’m sick. My throat is sore and I’m congested. It appears all of the makings of a good ol’ upper respiratory infection. I usually get a couple of these throughout any given year. I think I’ve had 5 or 6 this year.

So, what do I want for Christmas? Mucinex, Biaxin, NyQuil and a heapin’ helpin’ of Four Roses.

I’m making a trip across the street to Walgreen’s in a second. Now, if I could just find a doctor that is working today to get me the Biaxin.

Maybe This Year Will be Techier Than the Last

2009-12-19T13:25:00.000-05:00

The fact that I was in a kind of upscale local bar is not at all surprising. The fact that I was there helping people understand how to use Google Wave, now that should give Lucifer space to work on his triple Lutz.

It’s perfectly acceptable to refer to me as a Luddite. I don’t care for technology. Technology scares me and I consistently break it. However, in the past year I’ve managed to get a Twitter account, upgrade to a BlackBerry, begrudgingly get a Facebook and I’ve started a flippin’ blog.

You will see that the blog is terribly low-tech as these things are concerned. I’ve tried making the font uniform, but it doesn’t work. I have no idea how to create a link within my text and not the foggiest how to had a photo. Y’all that can add video frickin’ blow my mind.

That being said, I’ve came pretty far in less than a year. This hadn’t occurred to me until I was at aforementioned bar last week. One of the guys there actually made the comment about my “progress” and how I seemed to be embracing the 21st Century. However, I wouldn’t say that I’ve been converted. (See above).

I will say though, that this year has been one of the best that I’ve had in awhile. I also have to concede that has largely been a product of my getting with the times. I definitely had some hard things to cope with in 2009, but I’ve also really started finding some happiness, too. I’m writing again (though y’all can see I’m kind of out of practice) and I’ve met some really fantastic people. I’ve found several people who have welcomed me into their fold, into their homes and have been willing to just sit down and have a drink and a good time with me. And just about every bit of this started when I named myself Jupiter and sent my first tweet.

Through my Twitter (btw, is that supposed to be phrased my Twitter account, my Twitter Feed, my Tweets, my personal, virtual aviary in the ornithological section of the Internets?) I’ve found ways to get involved and more in touch with my city. I know more about what is going on in our local arts scene than ever before and I find myself with something to do just about every night of the week. I feel like my creative juices are flowing a bit more and my political passion/interest is getting some attention as well. I’ve even started getting accustomed to people calling me Jupiter.

A quick note about that: I will say that I’m still weirded out (not in a bad way) when I meet people for the first time and a) they call me Jupiter b) know WAY more about me than a stranger should c) refer to stuff I’ve written. It’s obviously great that people read my tweets and the blog, but I’ve yet to realize the true openness of what I write here. I also am kind of amazed that people even read it. This whole thing is very self-centered. Also, my non-techie self feels a bit of detachment from words that I type and words that people read.

However, I’m embracing my little tiptoe into technology and can only see more good things coming of it. So, here’s to 2010 and to *gulp* technology and to inadvertently renaming myself Jupiter. But you can call me, Jupe.

Visions of Boards Dance in My Head

2009-12-14T17:16:00.000-05:00

I’ve been told by someone whose judgement I trust that what I need is a vision board.

I agree. I did exactly the same thing. I rolled my eyes and thought, “Yes, that’s exactly what I need. That along with a Pure Moods cd, a stick of incense and a copy of the ‘The Secret.’”

However, I had another conversation with a friend this morning which helped me realize that the whole concept kind of makes sense. I’ve been having a difficult time focusing my attention on answering the “What do you want to do” question. A place where I could throw all of the ideas that occur to me over the course of a day for more careful, organized consideration later wouldn’t be the worst thing.

I feel like there are so many interests. I like writing (but as you can tell, it isn’t my forte), I like politics, I like music and I like meeting and talking to people. I get overwhelmed with all of my little interests and a way to get any overarching themes into one place would have to be helpful.

So, to the craft store (or maybe just Target) to get myself a vision board.

A Voice in the Downtown Wilderness

2009-12-05T16:12:00.000-05:00

Yep, you’re right. Nobody asked me. I’ll also agree that it’s way too easy for anyone to just jump into the discourse, but oh well, here’s my swan dive.

I love Lexington, KY. I want to just get that out of the way. I really flippin’ love this place. Yes, there are bigger cities that are tempting. Atlanta struck a chord with me and let’s not even get into what my semester in London did for me. However, I’ve made a home and a little bit of a niche for myself here. It’s both close and far enough from family, plus nobody is gonna look at me funny if a little Harlan County accent slips out every now and then.

I also feel like we are on the verge of doing some really great things here. We just got some funding (though not without controversy) for the Distillery District. I couldn’t possibly be more excited about this project. It reminds me of other reclaimed areas like The Flats in Cleveland, Atlantic Station in Atlanta, or even the Riverwalk in San Antonio It’s exciting to see something unique and exciting on its way to the city I love.

However, here’s my concern. We are spending quite a lot of borrowed money without laying the groundwork to make this and other developments (like the Angliana project or whatever becomes of CentrePointe) successful.

First, we have to have a population that will patronize the restaurants and bars, live in the new housing and shop in the retail establishments that will be built. And let’s just be honest, downtown and its immediate surroundings haven’t been a hub of economic activity for a long time. Right now, the population that will patronize these places is fairly finite in Lexington. Yes, Buster’s is drawing a crowd, but how many of those are people who wouldn’t be downtown already? I’d venture to guess a precious few.

I’ll concede that the Distillery District and other projects could certainly be a draw to get people to come to Lexington, however I’d argue that we have to get our existing citizenry engaged in order to get these projects off the ground and successful before we can count on their bringing in enough money to sustain them. There are just too many Lexingtonians who don’t care about what’s going on downtown. They are perfectly content to live in their neighborhoods outside the Circle and venture into downtown as infrequently as possible. How many times have we all heard someone mention “the mess downtown”?

And how do you get your average Andoverian, Palomarian or Masterson Stationite to care about downtown? You make sure you include them in the process. You build things that are going to bring them out of their neighborhood and into downtown. You stop thinking only about people that can or will spend $200,000 or more on a 1000 square feet condo and start thinking more about those that maybe want a decent, affordable meal and good way to kill a Tuesday night.

Speaking of that condo, let’s also be sure that we are building residences that are actually affordable. I’ve seen precious little of that in our downtown development. Instead, we want to build second homes for UK basketball fans, luxury penthouses and student apartments. This will not revitalize downtown, nor will it attract anyone new to consider living there.

I called in to a local radio show once to ask a developer why downtown housing is touted as catering to my demographic (young, probably single, professional who wants to be near what’s happening in the city), but is priced such that we are kept out of the market. His answer: “Just like any advertising, you market to the young to make it look attractive”. We have to avoid this kind of thinking in order to be successful. We can’t say one thing, but want something else. If we truly want to revitalize downtown and use it as a magnet for the Creative Class, then we are going to have to give them/us a place to live that we can actually afford. And I’m not talking about what we could “afford” in 2004 with an adjustable rate mortgage and no down payment.

The average income of a household in Lexington is around $50000 a year. Now imagine that a 20 or 30 something wants to live downtown. There is a fairly good chance that they are making either right around or even less that that. How are they going to afford a condo at Main + Rose or in the 500s on Main? Yes, those buildings look really cool (I’d live there in a second!), but it isn’t in my budget. And I’d imagine it isn’t for most of us with a car payment and student loans. So let’s engage some of us as well. Let’s find a way to create housing that works on all income levels and that will let some of us pioneer the effort of a young, middle class, professional downtown resident.

Don’t get me wrong, I really like the direction we are headed. I really feel like Lexington is on its way to something great. I just worry that we aren’t paying attention to the details that are going to make all of these great ideas and projects successful. We can’t keep paying lip service to what we want to create, but then getting bogged down with the same old voices and ideas that have kept us in a rut. Maybe there are too many outlets for people to air their opinions and concerns, but at the end of the day, even if it’s not my voice, there are probably a few worth listening to.

Look Away, Look Away, Gipper

2009-12-01T15:35:00.000-05:00

I know it’s better to look forward instead of backwards. I know that it doesn’t help push a conversation or argument towards any kind of resolution to dwell in the past. However, I have a really difficult time tolerating Reagan loving Conservatives.

Granted, I have a whole slew of political differences with Reagan and with the neo-Cons who have adopted him as their hero, but the thing that most sickens me is giving reverence to a president who looked the other way while thousands of his “fellow Americans” were dying of AIDS. Especially since it seems that his silence was in deference to the Radical Right that had just begun hijacking the Republican Party in the 80s. Reagan didn’t speak the word AIDS until 1985 and seemed to only begin to acknowledge its impact towards the end of his administration. This was after thousands of Americans had died and thousands more were diagnosed

So, while we do have to look forward towards a cure on World Aids Day, I feel like it doesn’t hurt to wander if we couldn’t have been further along and how many might have been saved if Reagan hadn’t listened to those who told him AIDS was a “gay” disease and had instead given the full force of federal funds towards helping to find a cure when the first few were diagnosed.

Thanksgiving Take Away

2009-11-28T12:56:00.000-05:00

Judging by the running commentary on Twitter, it seems that just about everyone I know has a bit of “good LORD, how am I related to these people” moments during Thanksgiving. It’s probably my Baptist upbringing (with a bit of Catholic school thrown in for good measure) that makes me feel like suffering is supposed to teach me something. And so, here are my Thanksgiving lessons.

1) I will never own a home. It’s not that I’m not “handy” in the average gay kind of way, but I’m completely inept. My mother was frustrated at my inability to figure out how to simply unscrew something. I know there’s a saying, but “lefty loosey” just sounds like a character in a Western themed porno. To my credit though, she hadn’t noticed there was a nut holding the screw in place on the other side. But still, nuts, screws, “right tighty” and my mind just starts to wander.

I also got the joy of helping her put away the planters, the outdoor furniture, the grill, and to hammer down the nails that were popping out of the deck. I had to climb up to change a light bulb and carry out boxes to take to the recycling center. I had planned for none of this. I had packed only a white with gray sleeves baseball hoodie of a thing and my fabulous double breasted, khaki H&M coat. These are not things that I care to get dirty, let alone have to remain in to drive home.

The point being that I’m just not suited for homeownership. I know there are some communities out there where they will mow the grass, clean the gutters and fix the water heaters when they break. However, I think I’m still about 40 years out before I’d qualify to live there. So, I shall remain in my tiny, cheap apartment and have the security that it isn’t my problem when this dishwasher inevitably gives out.

2) I have a ghetto berry. I was so proud of myself when I upgraded from my Special Needs Phone to my BlackBerry. I felt like my technophobic self was jumping into the 21st Century with reckless abandon. Then my sister shows up to Thanksgiving with her fancy new, WiFi capable, get actual internet and watch video, 3.2 megapixel camera BlackBerry. My poor phone (whose name is Tyrone) had to hide in my jeans pocket in shame. Tyrone does all that I need him to do, but I had a sense that I was actually with it. (Can you really be “with it” if you use the term “with it?) I had lied to myself.

3) Booze should be permitted. I know that I come from a family of tee-totallers (with one honest to God Baptist minister in the mix), but wouldn’t we all just get along a little better if we were at least a little tipsy?

4) I’ll end with just a few quick little nuggets of knowledge I’ve gleaned in the past couple of days. Giblets are disgusting and no one needs to ever have to see that, let alone touch it and sweet baby Jesus NEVER have to eat it. 11 year olds without any obvious impairment should be able to wipe their own ass without parental assistance. Dressing and stuffing are the same thing (who knew??) and people are way picky about it and will bitch about it no matter how or where it’s made. People who say they don’t like nuts will eat pecan pie. It is vital to stay in decent shape, because the downside of that is pretty ugly. Though family makes me wanna drive home just to be near a tall building to jump off of, they can also kinda be great when they share my love for playing cards and board games.

Maybe Not So Easy Steps

2009-11-21T12:18:00.001-05:00

It usually doesn’t take long to learn that I’m kind of in love with Alanis Morissette. I’m not at all talking about the angsty music of the “Jagged Little Pill” album. That’s probably my least favorite Alanis album. I actually fell in love with her on that album’s follow up “Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie.”

The point of bringing that up is that there is a lyric from a song called “8 Easy Steps” that keeps running through my head. The song’s verses are a listing of the things she could teach someone about what we do to sabotage ourselves in our relationships and lives. (It’s actually a very upbeat and peppy song). The line I keep thinking of is “how to sabotage your fantasies by fear of success.”

I kind of feel like that’s the point I’ve reached.

I’m truly scared to make my next move. I don’t think I would have any problem walking away from the job I’m in. As you’ve read, I hate it. Granted, I’m also afraid of the financial situation and how all that would work. (Maybe I’ll wish for a benefactor for Christmas.) However, I think the thing I’m most of afraid of is actually formulating and plan and then having to stick to it.

Let’s just say that I miraculously got into a grad school somewhere (which would be one of the first successes), then I would have to deal with the financial implications and get all of that in order. Then, I would have to commit to going to school and getting myself back in an “academic” mindset. I’m really afraid that my mind is kind of shot after working here for 5 years. My job has had a way of making me not quite as sharp as I once was.

Thinking even further out, let’s just imagine that I get into a grad program and do well and actually graduate. Then what? I’m still barely formulating what I want to do with my life. What if I do all this for nothing? Will I just end up where I am right now, but with another $50k worth of student loan debt to pay off? Will it have been worth it?

I’m about to take some time off from work and I’m going to try to get as many answers to this as I can and I’m going to actually write out a visual list of goals. As another Alanis song says “the only way out is through/the faster we’re in the better.”

Innocence Maintained

2009-10-31T17:40:00.000-04:00

Let’s just be honest, Jewel isn’t the pinnacle of artistic music. And while I’ve seen her live 5 or 6 times and own every album she’s ever made, she can be that kind of faux artsy best exemplified by most cast members of “The Real World.” And for the record, I’m talking about back when they didn’t just sleep with each other. (Shout out to the New Orleans and Seattle cast!!) She has a voice that grates on most of my friend’s nerves and many of her “deep” insights are trite at best. However, there is a line from one of her songs that has stuck with me. “Innocence can’t be lost, it just needs to be maintained”.

I’ve used that as kind of a personal motto for about 10 years now. I frequently throw that line out when explaining why I can’t watch violent movies. I use that sentence when ranting about how movies are just getting bloodier and gorier because we are becoming desensitized. It’s also one of the reasons why I get my news from NPR. I don’t need to see the bleeding corpses in Afghanistan, just let me know what happened.

I never really thought that my career would be one that made me actively work to maintain my innocence. However, the first phone call I ever made as an adjuster was on a fatality claim where the driver had been killed and the passenger survived. I had no idea. I don’t remember the name of the guy I had to call. I only remember that he was a bit younger than me. I was 24 at the time. I was told to call the passenger and confirm what happened in the accident and make sure he wasn’t injured. It was a single vehicle accident, so I didn’t think that it could be all that bad.

Imagine my surprise when my chipper self is met with a guy screaming “My best friend fucking died in the seat me beside me. How the fuck do you THINK I am?” I got off the phone as quickly as possible and immediately had a little breakdown. I could play the “shouldn’t that have been a cosmic sign to get the hell out” game all day, but I’m still here, so what’s the point?

I had to make a phone call to a mother today. Her son was killed in an accident this morning. This lady must have the resolve of Queen Elizabeth, because she didn’t seem phased at all. I’m sure she’s in shock. The guy was about a month younger than me. I know my mom would be devastated.

I felt terrible calling to tell her they had liability only and I couldn’t help them with the car. I could pay for the fence he damaged and I’d get the police report and find out who owned it. I felt like those things were so trivial. So cold and corporate. I wanted to reach through the phone and hug her and be my usual sympathetic self. However, we had “business” to attend to and that was the point of my call. Plus, my company obligates me to call her back within 2 hours of reporting the accident.

I’m going to visit one of my former professors tonight who I know will be great to talk to about how I'm feeling about all of this. I’m hoping that she will have some wise words to say that will help me deal with all of the thoughts going through my head about all of this. (What have I/am I becoming? How did I end up doing this? How do I get out? Etc.)

But probably more, I’d like to tell a mother that was on the other end of my phone a little while ago, I hope you realize that I wasn’t as uncaring as I probably seemed.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

2009-10-26T15:45:00.000-04:00

I will start this by saying that the rest of this post might likely turn into platitudes and I will also admit that it is kind of off topic from the rest of the blog.

The “coming out” process is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to deal with. I’m using present tense on purpose. It was more than 8 years ago that I actually came out to my mom. It was a mess of an over the phone conversation on my sister’s couch one morning. It continues to be a struggle. Once the words “I’m gay” came out of my mouth, she and I reached a never verbalized agreement to just never speak of it again. So, I live my normal life with my friends, co-workers and even the Twitterati where I’m perfectly out and everything is fine. Then there is the life I have with her where we talk and share our lives with each other, except for that one little piece that I withhold.

I started writing this because I’ve just been exchanging text messages with a friend who is coming out to his mom. He is just a bit older than me and has actually lived with his boyfriend for several years. He’s just never actually said the words “I’m gay” to his mother.

I know someone else who is younger and is just going through the “should I or shouldn’t I come out” process. He had worked up the courage to do it a few days ago, but when he saw his mom, she had some other family news/drama to discuss and so he tabled the conversation for another day.

I’m actually really scared for both of them. I would hate for these guys to lose that closeness, that connection and that unconditional love that only a mom can give.

Obviously, the situation may go differently for these two. I certainly hope it does. However, coming out to my mom was the first time I’d ever seen disappointment in her eyes. It was the first time I’d ever felt like I’d truly hurt her. It ended up being a giant wedge driven into our relationship and I sometimes wish I could take it back.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m perfectly happy and content being who I am. I have no guilt or reservation in being what I was created. I just wish that there was some way for me to be that and also still “a good son” in my mother’s eyes. I was watching “Glee” the other night and one of the characters came out to his dad. He was met with a hug and acceptance. I bawled like a 2 year old on the sofa. Wouldn’t it be great if real life could be like TV?

****

Even in 2009 it takes courage to be out, so big hugs to both of the guys I talk about here and to all my gays and the girlz (and the odd straight guy) who love us.

M-A-R-C-O and Marco was his name-o

2009-10-22T22:41:00.000-04:00

I will dedicate this blog post to my friend Jimmy who told me this was starting to become jupiter uninspired.

So everyone has their albatross, right?

I think it’s safe to say that mine is the automobile. Since I was a kid I’ve always had a fascination with cars. My favorite toys were my entire laundry basket full of Hot Wheels. Yes, Hot Wheels and only Hot Wheels, I would have never had Matchbox. I’ve always had very strict preferences and standards. My other favorites were my Transformers ‘cuz c’mon robots that became cars??? How frickin’ cool is that? I also had quite an affinity for my Olivia Newton John records, but that’s another post for another day.

I’m 29 years old and I’ve had 6 cars that I would consider mine. In high school, I drove my mom’s car, but I named her so I’m including her on my list. Her name was Tawanda Taurus. It’s more story than you care to hear about how she got her name, but all you need to know is that it is related to the “Fried Green Tomatoes” film and that when you hit the gas the front seat would detach from the floorboard and fly backwards. I’ve also had Corey Corsica, Hiram Hyundai, Francois Focus, Joshua Jetta and presently I drive Marco Murano.

I’ve never felt that any car I had was showy. I’ve certainly never thought that my car would impress anyone and I’ve never wanted it to. However, I’ve gone through a succession of cars and each one with their respective payments. I’ve always said, “when I pay off this one, I’ll be able to quit my job and go do what I really want to do”. However, due to ignorance on my part or poor craftsmanship on Ford’s part, I’ve yet to pay off any of them.

So, now I’m stuck with Marco. And don’t get me wrong, I like him. He’s a big, obnoxious SUV and I should have had to show proof of my family of 5 before they let me drive him off the lot, but I actually traded in Joshua to reduce my payments. But I’m still a long way from paying Marco off and I can’t help but resent him just a bit. He may have a sunroof for when it’s warm out and he may have heated seats for when it’s cold, but he is also a barrier to making me happier with life.

I had a frank conversation with a friend the other day who told me that the only thing that could possibly prevent me from going back to school was “how I’d keep paying for the car”. So, I’m afraid that without some breakthrough that I can’t forecast right now, I’m stuck where I am. I should at least get some Olivia on my iPod. I bet she’d sound great on Marco’s Bose speakers.

Cuz Why Not Share?

2009-09-11T15:52:00.001-04:00

Here's the story of my little accident this morning. I can't stress how minor it really was. But, a story, nonetheless.

So I go to the Dunkin Donuts this morning to get donuts for the office. I get those and start heading into work. For some reason, the police have the street blocked. There are cones and sawhorses everywhere. The road is a general clusterf*$k. Papaw in front of me (in a Buick Roadmaster woody wagon) gets all befuddled and can't decide what to do. So, he does the natural thing and decides to abort mission and back up. So, here I sit in morning traffic downtown and Pappy's got his reverse lights on. I'm on the horn like it's my job and Pappy just keeps on comin'.
He obviously did not put the hearing aid in when he left the house this morning. There is a police officer standing at the street that is blocked and he hears me honking. He looks over just in time to see Pappy backing and coming at me. Pappy then hits the front of my car. He then throws it into drive and drives away. I can't get my head out of the car fast enough to yell at the officer "HE JUST HIT ME!!!".

Insurance adjuster in me kicked in and I've already memorized his plate number. The officer radios it in and I pull over. Pappy apparently gets stopped somewhere down the road by another officer and comes back.
He arrives smoking and in a t shirt that says "Been There, Done That". I can attest, he indeed has. He informs me that he has never had a wreck. I'd guess his age is apx somewhere between 75 and 900. So, if the last thing on his list was to get in an accident...success, Pappy!!. You have now been there and done that, literally....everything.
Anyway, a claim is already set up with his insurance. It's a company that I deal with frequently, so I'll hear from them in 2 weeks, if I'm lucky.

But, like I said, it's minor and I'm in no hurry. Thanks to all that inquired about me this morning and sorry for it sounding a little more dramatic than it was when I sent out the first tweet.

Melt it down, you're gonna have to eventually anyway

2009-09-05T19:00:00.000-04:00

I’ve managed to not go to work proper today. I woke up feeling terrible and worked from home. This left me with a good bit of time to stay home and think. Apparently, time spent alone on the sofa all day with nothing on TV besides football leads to deep thinking and blog posts.

A little back story: I double majored in English and Political Science. I originally went to college thinking that I would go on to law school and then do something in the realm of Politics. I’ve never really had the ambition of being a politician, but I can be a bit of a policy wonk. I started taking Political Science classes my first semester of college and was about halfway through the required courses by the end of my sophomore year. However, I had a life changing experience in a general education British Lit survey class. I discovered poetry.

I fell in love with Romantic and Modern poetry and had an actual bring me to tears, pace the dorm room for about thirty minutes, chills running down my arms experience after reading the “The Waste Land” by TS Eliot. I can actually still read it and have a fairly intense experience.

So, I added my English major in order to further delve into words and poetry and find an outlet for the creative part of myself that had finally found its medium. I was so far into the Political Science major that I just kept it as well. I set my sights on getting into grad school and getting my PhD in English. The thought of getting to spend the rest of my life studying poetry and sharing my love for it with other people seemed like the perfect life.

Up to this point in life, I’d managed to attain every goal I’d set for myself. Granted, I was all of 21 years old during this time, but I’d been reasonably successful for someone my age. The thing is: I’d barely had to try. I’m not trying to come off too egotistical and Lord knows I don’t have a superiority complex. However, I’d never studied for a test, barely did “homework” and really hadn’t put a lot of effort into my college experience. I still graduated with a 3.5. I had just assumed that like everything else in life that I wanted, I’d just get into a grad school and continue on my merry way.

That didn’t happen.

I applied to four schools and didn’t get into any of them. I had been working part time as a teller at a bank my senior year of school and reluctantly went full time after college. This was the first real setback that I had ever experienced. To say that I was depressed is an understatement.

I’ll skip a lot of story, but fast forward to now. I’m 29 and I’ve been working as an insurance adjuster or 5 years. This is not at all where I thought I would be. I’ve resolved that I’m going to make changes in my life and finally get to a place where I’m significantly happier with where I am. And here’s what I think I know: I was meant to be on a college campus. I have friends who work for my alma mater and just being on campus has a “this is home” feeling. I know it sounds kind of cheesy, but I feel like something is telling me that is where I belong.

While in Nashville recently, we went through Vanderbilt’s campus and the same thing happened. I just wanted to get out of the car and walk around, because something just felt like it was where I needed to be. I frequently go for walks through UK’s campus, because something draws me in and while traveling for work to various cities, I always find the areas near a campus and spend my free time there.

However, I don’t quite think the English route is where I’m supposed to go. When I look at my transcript I see that I got nothing but As in my Political Science classes and my one and only C was in my Chaucer class. I’ve stayed interested in Politics since college following what is going on internationally, nationally and in the past few months really watching what is going on locally. It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up any of my books of poetry.

So now the questions: Given my desire to want to be in a college/academic setting, do I need to try to get into grad school for Political Science? Am I too old? Have I missed my opportunity? Can I get in? Am I smart enough? I looked at a few grad school’s websites today and I have to say, I’m overwhelmed. I’m scared. I’m doubting myself. I’m wondering if I’m really going in the right direction if I pursue that. Is there a way to know that for sure?

All things to ponder on and I certainly don’t know where I go to find the answer. Though, I have to note that the only thing saved on my DVR right now are last week’s Sunday morning political talk shows and my iPod decided that it wanted to play “You Learn” by Alanis Morissette as I am wrapping this up.

“Throw it down/the caution blocks you from the wind/hold it up/to the rays/you wait and see when the smoke clears/you live, you learn”

Process of Elimination

2009-08-31T11:45:00.001-04:00

I’ve spent way too much of my 29 years in medical facilities. I’ve broken 4 bones, dislocated more knee caps than I can count, been hospitalized at least 5 (if not more) times and I’ve had two organs removed. The gall bladder was earlier this year and I had my appendix taken out on my 16th birthday. I’m fairly certain that but for the talents of various medical professionals, natural selection should have already taken care of me.

I’m spending today going to doctor’s appointments with my mother. Her medical adventures are more than I can chronicle here. I’ve been with her for a good portion of those, too. I can’t even begin to spell most of the problems that she’s had, so I won’t try to enumerate them. I’ve been to surgeries, tests, appointments and I’ve learned enough medical jargon that I’m conversant with the various medical professionals we encounter.

There was certainly a time where I thought that I might want to do something in the medical field. The thought of being able to help someone else through the various travails that I’ve been through seems like a rewarding career. I actually talked with a PA once and for about a week looked into going back to school for that.

Then I remembered that I’m horrible at everything science related.

I only went into the Science building in college when it was absolutely mandatory. I didn’t like the smell. I didn’t like the students that were always stuck inside their books having to memorize the names of muscle groups and the difference between blood types. I was the only guy who didn’t believe in evolution in my Biology class at a Baptist college. (It’s nothing religious, I just can’t get the fish to fish with legs to fish with legs in trees to monkey to people thing. It makes no sense to me.) Instead, I spent my time reading William Blake and Wordsworth. “The Waste Land” actually changed my life and I wrote my big freshman English “defend a position” paper on what makes something a work of art.

So, while I ponder what direction I want to head with my life. I think I can officially rule out everything in the “medical field.”

First Post-Mission Statement

2009-08-27T19:25:00.000-04:00

I often find myself asking “How did I get here?” No, this does not have anything to do with a GPS unit that has somehow delivered me to the wrong county with a proud declaration of “destination ahead.” Instead, this is more of a metaphysical question that I sometimes find myself asking when my job brings me to a particular point where I would have never imagined myself.

I’m presently sitting in a driveway (and I use the term fairly loosely) in Lee County, Kentucky. I’ve driven almost 2 hours to get here. I’ve actually passed up my location once and drove about 15 miles past where I was going. It seems that the family who lives here doesn’t exactly know how to get to their house. But let me explain: to get to this house, you have to pass it up, go to the church about a quarter mile away, turn around and then come back. Apparently, some genius of engineering made the driveway such that no car, ATV or hovercraft could make the steep turn to go to this house from the “main road.”

The adventure only begins there. The road instantly goes to gravel and continues down a steep embankment. Once at the bottom of the embankment you get something out of a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book. You can either pull your car off to the side in the “wide place” and walk the 5 minutes to the house or you can press your luck and drive across the bridge. The bridge is another marvel of engineering. It consists of 6 pieces of plywood fastened by who knows what to either side of the creek bank. For a bit of shine, there is the occasional strip of sheet metal that appears to just be lying there. I assume it is more decorative than functional. Who doesn't like a little shine?

Once you’ve crossed the bridge (and in my imagination paid the troll his dragon tail and answered the riddle), you come upon the “picnic area.” The picnic area is really quite extraordinary. It actually rivals something inside of a state park. It’s got a solid wooden roof that is held up by concrete posts that have been painted black and underneath sits an array of solid wooden picnic tables. I counted at least six.

After a leisurely lunch at the picnic area, you can make a left turn and head on to the house. In the yard there are at least seven chickens and a Chihuahua to greet you. The house appears to be in decent condition. It’s white with a cute little porch that has been enclosed in lattice that is painted black. There is a proper porch swing and a few old, brown BARCO loungers that are sitting about for when you need to put your feet up.

My job has brought me here. You see, there is a lady who has been temporarily residing in this house. She has apparently stayed past her welcome and needs a ride to the homeless shelter in Lexington. I actually feel bad for her. Her story is that she left her life in Ohio and came to Kentucky to meet a man that she met on a singles line. He lives in this house. While she was on her way to him, she had an accident in Richmond and totaled her car. Enter me.

I’m the “insurance guy.” I’ve came out here to explain her total loss to her and to get all of the necessary paperwork from her so that we can get the car out of her name and sell it at salvage auction. As she now has no car and has fallen out of favor with the Man of the House, she is now going to a homeless shelter.

She seems completely unfazed by this. It appears that it was all part of her master plan. She already had the address and name of the shelter when she came this way. She wanted to start her life over and go to nursing school and if she had to stay in the shelter for a bit, then so be it. I kind of admire her for that. I certainly don’t have that kind of courage. As a matter of fact, I find her kind of inspiring.

You see, I did everything that I “good boy” is supposed to do. I went to high school, did the honors program and gradated in the Top 20 of my class. I went to a good private college complete with scholarship. I double majored and graduated in 4 years and was ready to go out and conquer the world.

Somewhere something went wrong.

I’ve now been working as an auto insurance adjuster for 5 years. My anniversary was just this past week. As an extra dig into my psyche, my 29^th birthday was the following day. I really feel like I’m at the point where something has to be done. The relationship with my boyfriend is on complete meltdown, I’ve just gotten over having to have my gall bladder removed and while trying to run to get in better shape, I got bitten by a dog.

I keep asking myself “what do you want to do with your life”. The truth is, I haven’t a clue And so I sit here, waiting for this lady to get the underwear that she was washing in the sink and the rest of her belongings and then I'm driving her and nearly two hours to a homeless shelter.

And she's inspired me to start a blog. I'm writing to get the ideas out of my head, think a little more about what it is that I want to do with my life, maybe get some feedback and hopefully get myself on some track towards a better, happier me.