Pixie Dust Redemption

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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.