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.