Christmas Phrase

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

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...

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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.