The Authentic Life

Maggie's Love

2012-03-13T00:16:00.000-04:00

She is no longer a part of my life. After so much time together, it seems strange to have forgotten about her. In order to survive the divorce, I had to leave pieces of my life behind. But when my daughter Katherine sent me a text message last week “Maggie is so sick” I had to choke back tears. When you adopt a pet you make an investment in future sadness.

Like most families we had our share of pets. Some were short lived. When my daughters were young, we bought two hamsters. They would sip from their water bottle exposing their nasty yellow teeth, run on their squeaky stationary wheel and burrow into the same cedar shavings that they urinated in. There was very little interaction between the girls and the hamsters. Most of the interaction that occurred was between the two hamsters, so that six weeks after we bought them, we owned eight hamsters. It was very much like an episode of “16 and pregnant” because mother hamster, who we will call Ashley, was too young to raise a family and became a tragic role model for our young daughters. As angry parents do, we separated the two sex-obsessed teenage trouble makers.

One morning the girls came bounding down the stairs, excited to see Ashley and her babies. But Ashley crushed by the heavy responsibility of parenthood became cannibalistic. All that was left of the babies was one lifeless, headless body in the corner of the cage. While our daughters were in school that day, we set Ashley and her baby daddy free in the field behind our house.

After that experience my wife and I decided that a dog might make a better pet for our children. We reasoned that the girls could learn responsibility by feeding the dog and when the time came, they would learn an important lesson about death, hopefully more natural than being eaten alive.

Maggie was a pound puppy. My wife travelled up a winding mountain road in the hills of western Virginia after reading an advertisement in the paper for a free, sweetly tempered dog. Unfortunately Maggie was also prone to car sickness, so that when she travelled back down that winding mountain road, she vomited the entire way. She was timid when I met her. Her black and tan head cowering and her tail lowered. She stood about eye level with our daughters, who she would run from; scared silly by a six year old and four year old girl.

We fretted over our decision. Here was another poor pet choice, like the hamsters. It was clear that she had been mistreated by her previous owner and we wondered if she could ever recover. We decided to give her a week.

Each morning I would let her out of the back door and watch her run to the far corner of the yard. As the end of the week approached Maggie must have understood that her fate was close to being sealed. While I sat on the sofa watching TV in the evening, she placed a paw next to me on the seat cushion. I looked at her big brown eyes and patted the cushion next to me. Slowly, cautiously, she climbed onto the sofa, and then quite incredibly, she placed her head on my lap. “Such a good girl” I said while rubbing her soft head and just like that, we fell in love.

Her metamorphosis from that moment on was astonishing. She greeted me happily when I came home from work and stood still, looking quite miserable when the girls placed homemade newspaper hats on her head. She would chase the girls around in a circle playfully crouching down on her front legs with her rump high in the air, tail wagging mischievously. When she caught them, she would lick their faces until they laughed uncontrollably. We were all surprised the first time we heard her bark when the doorbell rang. Not only did she become our cherished family pet but also our loving defender.

It makes me smile to think of Maggie panting and vomiting in the back seat of our car on our annual five hour trip to the beach; me taking curves gingerly so as not to upset her tender stomach. Each of us so in love with her that we could not bear to leave her in a kennel. She became a fixture in our lives and a symbol of that early happiness.

When we moved to Massachusetts, I often wondered what Maggie must have thought, jumping into the car just before we left and ending up in some foreign yard in another part of the country. Her adjustment was far easier than ours; the girls, now teenagers struggled with all of the changes, but Maggie's love was a constant. Our marriage was not.

Then one day, Maggie jumped into the car again and through my tears I watched her, the girls and my life pull away. In those early days after they left, I would reach for her head instinctively and call out “Maggie, I’m home!” when walking through the door, shocked by the silence.

There is a survival instinct that buries the emotional feelings with bitterness when you go through a divorce. When my cell phone rang last week, I looked at the display and saw my ex-wife’s number. She’s looking for money to pay the vet bills I thought angrily.

“Maggie can hardly walk and her eyes are twitching uncontrollably.” She said.

And that was all it took. I wrote a check to pay for Maggie’s final care. The investment in sadness matured, but the happy memories were strong enough to tear a hole through the bitterness. And just in time, because the bitterness was starting to eat me alive.

What goes around comes around

2012-03-07T22:34:00.000-05:00

In the Before

2012-03-02T06:49:00.001-05:00

Walking through the lobby I quickly glance at my smart phone: three minutes. "Shit!" I throw open the door and run across the uneven brick sidewalk, the heels of my shoes making a quick click-clack sound. I spring up the cement steps two at a time and emerge from the alley onto Brattle Street. But my feet have responded before my brain, it will take more than three minutes to get through Harvard Square to the bus. As the resignation seeps into my bones, the scene around me solidifies.

The accordion player on the corner nods at me while he plays some unknown tune, infusing the square with a French laissez-faire atmosphere. Two women speaking to each other point to their destination, an Indian restaurant, while walking slowly past me. Tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures, oblivious to business people quickly re-adjusting their paths to avoid a collision. There is a remnant of daylight still left on this late February evening and in the air a promise of spring. Time pauses like a ball at the end of a string in the apex of it’s upward arc.

I Turn around and begin to walk down the stairs.

“You’re going the wrong way.” Two female co-workers cheerfully warn me as they walk into the square.

“No, no I’ve decided to take a different way home.” I respond smiling.

There is a sense of acceptance and relief as I begin my walk home. Passing by the restaurant next door, I notice a group of people on the other side of a window sitting at the bar. They are chatting animatedly while lifting bright colored drinks in martini glasses. I pause and stare for a moment too long. A couple inside the bar senses my gaze and glances at me. I look down at my feet and continue walking through the alley. I used to imagine being one of those people who stopped for a drink before heading home. When I move into the city I will do that, I thought. But even after moving into the city two years ago, I am still in a hurry to get home.

My path takes me across the JFK Bridge and the boat house. The sky over the Charles River is striped in bands of orange, gold and indigo as the light drains from the sky. Silently, a team of scullers in a racing shell slips through the dark water towards the horizon.

After I have left the buzz of Harvard Square I turn onto a residential street. Neat rows of houses with yards are illuminated by soft circles of light from the street lamps. As I pass, motion sensitive porch lights flicker on to greet me as if some electrical current is emanating from my body.

I used to live in a house with a yard and a driveway.

I used to own a car.

I used to be greeted by my daughters at the end of the day.

I follow the road and cross the pedestrian bridge over the Mass Pike and I am thrown into a cacophony of sound and smells and people that make up Harvard Avenue in the Allston neighborhood; life happening. Here a blend of Korean, Irish, Italian, Middle Eastern, soul food and Jewish cuisine exists in noisy harmony. The evening air is mixed with honking horns, Asian dialects and loud college students. Graffiti and murals dot the business fronts. This is urban life.

Six years ago, in the before, I would drive down this street. It was a necessary leg on the one hour journey from my home in the suburbs to a support group that met once a week in Coolidge Corner. When I would drive down this street, I marveled at the diversity of life. I marveled that there was some pivotal moment in my life that forced me to choose a different path.

I stop in front of a second hand store, filled with tables and lamps and odds and ends; pieces of another life. In the glass I catch a reflection of myself and in that same reflection a line of cars stopped at a traffic light. If time were to bend upon itself, the younger me would be in one of those cars nervously trying to figure out what he would be revealing at the support group tonight; worried about running late, worried about all of the changes. He would look through the car window and wonder if the older me was alone in this life.

I want to talk to the younger me and tell him not to worry; that the right thing to do in life is rarely the easiest. That even though the most trying times lay ahead of him he is travelling down the right road.

At the intersection of Harvard Ave and Comm Ave., I look down the road wondering if the T is near. But I can’t see beyond the bend so I continue to cross the intersection. Halfway across, the ding-ding of the bell rings in the distance and I hesitate. I turn around and run back in time to jump on the T, suddenly in a hurry, five stops and then home.

When I walk through the door, Paul hugs me and says “It took you a little longer to get home.”

Holding onto him, not wanting to let go I whisper.

“But I am home."

Finally.

The Friendly Pencil - A Short Collaborative Story

2012-03-01T22:56:00.000-05:00

This is a collaborative piece that was passed on to me from Jayne at Suburban Soliliquy. She is a lovely writer, fellow New Englander and I look forward to her "Friday Night Frolics" weekly. Here is how it works:

Let's watch creativity happen right in front of our eyes! The first and final sentence of a short story have been provided, and the rest will be created by people in the blogosphere.

Each person nominated will write one sentence, and then pass the baton on to a different blogger. The 9th person will finally link back to Kid in the Front Row which is where this started and then we will have a complete story. I have chosen Becca at I'm Pretty Sure That , to write part 4, then she will nominate someone to do part 5, and so on, till we return to The Kid again!

1. Angela was convinced that her pencil was the friendliest pencil in the whole entire world.

2. His hue, alone, revealed his sunny disposition, and with his pink chapeau perched high on his head, the pencil gladly accommodated or cleaned up any missteps regardless of their intentions.

3. But Pencil could not be sure of Angela's intentions as she nervously held him while scratching a check mark in the "Yes" box on the note that Becky passed to her in Geometry class.

4.

5.

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7.

8.

9.

10. "That's why I'm the friendliest pencil in the world," screamed Pencil, the pencil.

Ten things I hate about you

2012-02-27T07:42:00.000-05:00

Paul has left me. Yesterday morning before I was awake, he packed his bags and took off. In order to cope, I have decided to write a list of ten things that I hate about him. This way, I will not miss him. I will be happy that he is gone.

Here goes:

I hate the way he asks me questions non-stop in the morning before I am fully awake.
I hate the way he talks so loud on the phone that whoever he is talking to does not actually need to use the phone to hear him.
I hate that when he goes shopping, he buys enough inventory to survive a nuclear holocaust.
I hate the way he shouts out all of the answers to Jeopardy before I have fully understood the question.
I hate that he is never jealous.
I hate the way he snores.
I hate that he makes me eat vegetables.
I hate that he calls our floor cleaner a Swifter, instead of a Swiffer.
I hate the way he makes me call my pot belly a “sexy belly”.
I hate that I miss him.

There, I feel much better. He can rot for all I care. Now, when I am feeling sad, I can just re-read this list and feel stronger, independent and so not in love. You can help. Read the list again with me.

I love the way he asks me questions non-stop in the morning before I am fully awake.
I love the way he talks so loud on the phone that whoever he is talking to does not actually need to use the phone to hear him.
I love that when he goes shopping, he buys enough inventory to survive a nuclear holocaust.
I love the way he shouts out all of the answers to Jeopardy before I have fully understood the question.
I love that he is never jealous.
I love the way he snores.
I love that he makes me eat vegetables.
I love that he calls our floor cleaner a Swifter, instead of a Swiffer.
I love the way he makes me call my pot belly a “sexy belly”.
I hate that I miss him.

Oh, I see what you just did there. But I will go on hating that I miss him, until he returns from school vacation with the kids next weekend. Until then, I so ~~hate~~ love him.

Sleepless on Sutherland Road

2012-02-24T06:50:00.000-05:00

Avoid caffeine.......

Random Act equals a Major Award!

2012-02-19T16:53:00.000-05:00

We are sitting street-side in a night club patio, tropical drinks in hand while the West Hollywood moon peeks through swaying palm trees. A Latin beat thumps in the background as I notice Paul’s gaze shift from me to somewhere in the middle distance. There is a look of wanton desire in his eyes as evidenced by his dark saucer-like pupils. It is reflexive, primal.

“See something you like?” I say bitterly.

“I’m sorry sweetie, I just couldn’t help myself.”

How could I blame him? We are surrounded by them as they parade down the street showing off their strong bodies, detailed impeccably. Here is a young sleek one. Here is a powerful muscular one that cruises like a predator decked out in leather. Every time they pass he checks out their rear end. It is a disgusting display of obsession.

“That one is a Rolls Royce Phantom, $400,000, forgive me I just can’t help myself.” He says.

“You might want to wipe up that drool.” I say while turning my head, marveling at the disparity between the haves and have-nots that exist within the space of one hundred feet here on Santa Monica Boulevard. While he salivates over Aston-Martins, and Bentley Continentals, I can’t take my eyes off of these poor boys that have spent all of their money on gym memberships and nutritional supplements, leaving scant resources for clothing. Indeed, some of them have only enough funds for one article of clothing, skimpy underwear. But they dance, God bless them, living in the now.

“He needs to eat, give him something.” Paul says knowing that it is not in my nature to ignore anyone in need.

“But he’ll only spend it on a nipple piercing, a strategically placed tattoo or steroids.” I offer up the oft-cited argument.

“Go ahead.”

I will do it dammit! I will ignore my doubts that he will spend the money foolishly and provide him with enough funds to buy a cheeseburger so that he may not be embarrassed by his six percent body fat that barely covers his rippling abdomen muscles. My heart is like the shining beacon of truth that is the Hollywood sign in the distance.

I pull out a few dollars, a pittance really, and walk up to one of the poor boys that dances on his sad little stage. As I get closer I realize that he has already spent money on nipple piercings and a tattoo that undulates down the side of his V shaped torso. I shake my head; at least this money will not be spent on those trivial things. But then I realize there is a flaw in my plan. He has no pockets! Where will he store the money? I experience an “A-ha moment” as I carefully tuck the bills inside the strap of his pitifully skimpy briefs. He is afraid that he will lose the money as he guides my hand deeper.

“There, there my good man, no one will take your money.” I say magnanimously.

He flashes a grateful smile, ridiculously perfect and white, hugs me and then sadly, flexes his biceps for me as if to say I will spend this money on more steroids. But I don’t care. I have selflessly practiced a random act of kindness. There was nothing in it for me. The universe will respond.

**************************************************************************

And the universe did respond! I have received a Major Award from Angie at Angie Uncovered. If you don’t read her blog, you should. It’s funny, heartfelt and thought provoking. I will practice another random act of kindness by passing this award on to three other great blogs I think you should read. But as a part of the award, I am required to tell you five random facts about me first. Consider it my awkward rambling award acceptance speech:

It's all about me

1. I was married to a woman for twenty two years and to a man, a wonderful, sexy, patient, car obsessed man for two years now. This makes me uniquely qualified to bestow my marital advice to anyone and everyone. And I'd like to start with Mr. Santorum.

2. The first time I gave a go-go boy some cheeseburger money, he fell off the bar and on top of me. I developed a rare but documented fear called Twink-a-fall-a-phobia. Paul's response? “Thank goodness it wasn’t a big ol’ bear bar.” I am happy to report that I am recovering through intense immersion therapy.

3. I have body issues. When you grow up hating what is on the inside, it’s only a matter of time before you project it to the outside. I am working through this and now I can say that I think my rack is pretty awesome. They’re real and they’re spectacular!

4. When I take a piece of clothing off of a hanger, I have to place the empty hanger in another spot with all of the other empty hangers. If they are mixed, Earth will explode.

5. Suck it Jesus! (That’s a Kathy Griffin reference, don’t get up in arms, all of my hoards of religious right readers)

When I was in California I had the pleasure to meet the following three blogger award winners. Come on down! Run down the aisle while the camera focuses on all of your jiggling awesomeness. The Price is right:

And the ~~winner is~~ award goes to

Becca at I’m Pretty Sure That: When Becca enters the room, she brings the sun with her. Her smile and laugh could warm Jack Frost’s heart. She is lovely. If I were single and straight, I would marry her. Her blog is snarky, tearful, personal and her recount of overheard conversations hilarious. .

Elizabeth at Flourish in Progress: When Elizabeth enters the room, she brings the moon; mysterious, beautiful beyond imagination she walks in beauty like the night. Her blog is wildly popular, hilarious and got it’s start from taking a year off from shopping. She was inspired by the Happiness Project and now she inspires countless minions weekly with her Monday Dares. Don’t drink anything when you read her blog, or it will come out of your nose when you guffaw.

Jim at A Southerner in San Francisco: Jim is a handsome star that seems to have discovered the fountain of youth. (Seriously Jim, give me your secret). Could it be his diet of southern fried delicacies like fried lasagna, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Cheerwine? Check out his blog to find out. His posts are near and dear to my heart because he hails from my hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina and lives in my adopted home town of San Francisco. He weaves the two together beautifully.

And so I have practiced yet another random act of kindness by giving you, my readers, the sun, the moon and the stars, with a generous side of go-go boys.

I bet the universe responds big time!

Clueless

2012-02-13T00:40:00.000-05:00

Strange Attractors

2012-02-10T14:15:00.001-05:00

The sun paused to admire its scattered reflection like millions of brilliant diamonds on the bay. Time stretched its arms deep into the blue infinity. We planted the seeds of forever.

When the moon lounged on her back we clung to each other, lips to neck, your arms pulling me into orbit. Like the fog I poured myself over you. In the morning mist our seeds sprouted, clinging to the earth on the edge of the hill. Their blooms measured the days kissed by sun and fog and the whisper of butterfly wings.

Set into motion our fractal arcs danced.

This is a 100 word response to DIY Romance's February Invitation. Click on the link and express your own voice!

http://diyromance.com/2012/02/08/a-february-invitation-part-ii/

Rejection

2012-02-03T06:00:00.000-05:00

I received a very special e-mail today. It was addressed quite formally, “Dear William Dameron”. There are few people who refer to me using my first name and last name; mostly it is my Nigerian friends seeking assistance with cashing a check. But this e-mail was not from them. It was from a publisher. Had the e-mail been addressed as “Dear Bill” or “Dear Mr. Dameron”, I might have thought oh, yay! But because it was addressed as “Dear William Dameron” I thought oh shit, because anyone who addresses me this way is not human. They are robots. Robots send rejection e-mails.

Because I am not a robot, I take rejection personally. Somewhere along the lines of my nature and nurture programming, I was wired to accept rejection as a wholesale approach as opposed to a piecemeal thing. If you reject a part of me, I’ll just go ahead and throw the baby out with the bathwater and assume that I am not partially inept, but completely inept.

You might ask why not just learn from this experience? Irrational thoughts are by definition not rational thoughts. The funny thing is that when you are thinking irrationally, you do not know this. And by funny, I do not mean humorous. I mean strange. Immediately following the rejection, little annoyances and inconveniences became major hassles. On my drive home I drove around my condo twenty times looking for a parking spot. Psychologists say that I could have turned this into a positive. I could have viewed the hike to my condo from my parking spot as a lovely little walk.

I say fuck Psychologists.

But I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. I chose to go to the gym in order to work out some of my negative thoughts and stress; a healthy approach to battling my demons. But those demons were one step ahead of me.

My demon thoughts manifested themselves as young fitness models. They posed and pumped iron. They grunted and said “look at me. Look at what you are not. Look at what you will never be, you fat little man. Even if we are dumb and cannot write, we look like brick shit-houses.”

They followed me into the locker room where they paraded their youth and firmness.

On my walk home from the gym I bought cookie dough.

Now, there is normally not a day so fine that it could not be brightened by a package of chocolate chip cookie dough, a bottle of red wine and some “Real Housewives”. But today, I found the relative fame and fortune of the Atlanta belles irritating. Take away the makeup, the hair and the mansions and you are left with some bitchy women with little discernible talent. Well, except for Kandi, she can write songs, but she sings like a smurf. If these women could make something of themselves, how un-talented was I? That question called for another bottle of wine.

And then, it all faded back to black.

“Oi, wake up!”

I’m not sure if it was the wine, the cookie dough or the despondent feelings that brought her to me, but when Amy Winehouse appears to you in a dream/vision, you’d best be listening.

“You feeling sorry for your-self?”

“That I am, Amy, that I am.”

“Ah, yeah, I know that feelin’ well, I do. But look ‘ere, you won’t find what you’re looking for in that bottle of wine. No, no, no, it’s in ‘ere.” She said pointing to her chest.

“Your bra?”

“Nah, you dolt! Not litra-lee; it’s in your ‘eart.”

After deciphering her cockney accent I began to think it was mostly BS.

“No it ain’t! Yeah, I can read minds, it comes with the terra-tory. Look, they gave me this beehive hairdo, Egyptian eyes and compared me to Ronnie Spector, but I was always me. The music was me. You think I just popped up on stage and became famous straight away? No, no, no. I paid my dues, I did and them was heavy dues. You be yourself because there ain’t no one else like you. Not them pretty boys, or them robot rejection letter writers that ain’t got no feelings. You write from your ‘eart and stay true to voice. It’s painful but it’ll happen.”

She looked down, adjusted her bra strap, made a quick sniffling sound and placed her hands on her hips. Then she looked directly at me. “You got a man?”

“Yes I do.”

“He’s a good man?”

“To know him is to love him.”

“Someone’s been listenin’ to my bonus tracks.” She smiled at my reference and then started to fade away. “You’re lucky to ‘ave a man like that Dear Mr. William Dameron, you must be somethin’ special.”

“Wait, before you go. Why you? Why me?” I asked her.

“I’m the fuckin’ tooth fairy in reverse. You place an empty bottle under your pillow and I leave you one of my teeth.”

She smiled to reveal more holes than a pair of her fishnet stockings. I couldn’t help thinking that there were too many empty bottles in this world and not enough teeth. Somewhere between a robot and Amy Winehouse is the sweet spot of emotions.

The morning sun splashed its light like cold water on my face. I sat up and reached under my pillow. No tooth, no bottle. I opened my notebook computer, smiled, and began to draw a picture.

I say fuck robots.

This American Life

2012-01-27T16:20:00.000-05:00

It is a little known fact that I was abducted as an infant. My kidnappers, part of the underground baby trade, came for me in the middle of the darkest night and spirited me away from my privileged, wealthy family living in a small European country. The road was long and twisted that led me to a loving, but inadequate middle class family in North Carolina. I might never have been the wiser were it not for the tell-tale signs that whispered of a life that was meant for riches.

Indeed, my voice twangs of North Carolina, but my heart sings for the land of my birth. Cellular memory does not forget, for the blood of noblemen courses through my veins. Some may call it false memories, but I prefer faux-souvenirs. Do you see? Even my words betray an adopted life of barbecue, big hair, Hee-Haw and smell my finger jokes.

As a child, my brothers were content to play in our dirt yard chained to their posts, but I dreamt of a life less pedestrian.

“Would you say that I’m a winter or more of a summer?” I would ask the neighborhood girls while trying out concealers to cover my E-Z Bake oven light bulb burns. Choosing the right shade was important, as was baking tasty cakes to go with our afternoon tea. It was a clear signal of my genteel DNA. That is when the doubts of my origins began. Did I see the concern in my poor adoptive mother’s face as well?

Once the seed of doubt was planted, it sprouted and began to curl, a vine of twisted truth in my mind; its tendrils pointing to the clues all around me. Like the way my oldest “brother” would pick out tunes on his hill-billy guitar, “turkey in the straw” and “stairway to heaven” shouting “How you like them apples?” My younger siblings would respond with raucous laughter and farts. Turning up my nose at the vulgarity I played the classics on my piano, “School bus stop” and “Hot Cross Buns”. I would play like the regal young lord that I was over and over again with the hopes that real music would soothe the savage beasts. To my horror, my music books were defaced with graffiti: ‘Shut up!’ and ‘You suck!’.

Life among the commoners as a child was difficult.

But I accepted it and buried the doubts deep into my sub-conscious, because that is what all healthy well-bred people do. Until one month ago, when Paul and I attended the Boston car show. It seems such an unlikely event to stir up the past. But we can only push down thoughts for so long before they bubble back up to the surface.

On the way to the car show Paul asked me what type of car I might like.

“A light blue one with leather heated seats.”

For a moment, Paul stared at my forehead as if there might be more of an answer written into the wrinkles.

“Is there any particular make or model?”

“A pretty one.” I replied hoping that might be enough. Apparently it was not.

He began to recite a long list of V-6, Turbo Diesel, blah-blah, boring stuff, I really should check my e-mail, options. I retreated to the happy place in my head, nodding politely when there was a lull. When we arrived at the car show we looked at Volkswagens and Toyotas, Kias and Hondas; common folk cars.

And then my long suppressed memories of gentility came crashing to the surface. There among the riff-raff cars were Mercedes, Bentley and Ferrari. Oh, ma mère et mon père, how could I have forgotten you? Forgive your poor humble, long lost son.

As I sat in the back of the Mercedes S600 Sedan tears of longing and remembrance streaked down my face. Yes, this is how life was meant to be. The smell of top grain leather, the sheen of real burl walnut trim, the view of the lesser world as it slips quietly by a well-tuned Bavarian engineered vehicle.

“OK, let’s go look at the Passat again.” Paul said, and just like that the vision faded.

But now I can no longer bury the memories of summer homes and country estates, of Chateaus and limousines, of my birth right, so horribly ripped from my fingers all those many years ago and replaced with polyester, grits and “Hey y’all, watch this” shenanigans. If by some small chance, my poor old wealthy, heartbroken parents happen to be cruising the Internet while on their private jet and read this, I implore you come back for me. You have a son, a son-in-law and grandchildren.

You will find me in Boston, in a Passat; a light blue one, with leather, ok, pleather seats.

#DudeFocus

2012-01-25T23:02:00.000-05:00

Another Bill + Paul Cartoon

DIY Romance

2012-01-19T14:50:00.000-05:00

Are there any among us who cannot use more love?

The Authentic Life has joined forces with DIY Romance to provide you with more of it. Just as varied as real love, the stories about it are short, long, funny, sad, fictional and non-fictional. The sky is the limit.

Please click one more time to read my latest post on DIY Romance, Sound Waves. Here is a snippet to pique your interest:

There is a closeness permitted when someone cuts your hair, their hands stroking your head, their body inches from yours. We listened to Mahler while he gently nudged my head from side to side. That closeness and tension increased through dinner while we listened to Mozart and then Brahms as we sat side by side on the sofa drinking beer after dinner. The music washed over us.

Read the full story here.

The big 5-0

2012-01-12T08:13:00.000-05:00

I am going to be fifty.

There, I said it. It’s not happening today, this month or this year, probably next year. But, I’m not going to worry about that. OK, I might be worrying a little about it. I might actually be worrying a lot about that. But worry causes stress, and stress causes wrinkles, so I’m worried that my worrying is going to make me age pre-maturely. Although at pre-fifty, I think I’m holding up pretty well.

Recently, my daughters gave me a collection of pictures in which I am sixteen years younger. I held them up and remarked to Paul how black my hair used to be. I expected him to make a loving comment about how much better looking I have become.

“Yeah and look at how thin you were then, too.” He casually replied.

Paul really is of no help in this aging thing. And here’s why, he relishes being the younger one; the arm candy, the trophy husband. To hear him talk, you would think that there were multiple generations between us. When I talk about the pinnacle of TV programming in the 1970’s being the Friday night line up consisting of both The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family he stares at me as if I am speaking Chinese.

Oh, he tries to be empathetic. At a restaurant he’ll ask if I would like for him to read the menu to me. When I emphatically refuse, he’ll ask if he can hold the menu out even further for me to read. When I miss something that the waitress has said, he’ll shout out WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO ORDER exaggerating the words while pointing to his mouth.

“I’ll just have the strangled chicken with bourbon satay.” I say, ignoring his taunts.

He rolls his eyes and whispers to the waitress “He’ll have the seared chicken with barbecue sauce” and the waitress nods knowingly.

“I only need my glasses for reading, I’ll have you know.” I say, offended.

“And the hearing aid to hear.” He whispers.

“What?”

“Oh nothing, you know, from the neck down, you could pass for a twenty year old.” He says attempting to throw me a bone. I wish I could just accept the second part of that statement and ignore the first.

“So, from the neck up, I might as well be eighty years old is what you’re really saying. What if I decide to let myself go, get fat, wrinkly, bald and smelly?” I ask him.

“Ha! That will never happen; you’re way too vain for that.”

“Damn right....wait, I don’t think you meant that as a compliment…” I say narrowing my eyes.

He laughs at all of my facial lotions, creams and lighteners; better living through chemistry is what I have always said. No, the real issue here is that Paul is afraid I am becoming a literal “Benjamin Button” progressively becoming younger. Then he won’t be the young, pretty one.

To illustrate that point, I told Paul about a recent conversation I had with some female co-workers regarding the upcoming milestone birthday. “Oh, forty must be a tough one.” They chimed in. If bodily contact in the office wasn’t such a touchy issue I would have kissed them both on the mouth. Paul’s take on it was a little different.

“Aren’t they in their twenties? Do you think they even see a difference between forty and fifty?”

But, as I said, I’m not going to worry about it. I am not going to be fifty years old, but fifty years YOUNG. And it will be a celebration. I expect a crowd of at least one hundred of my closest friends, a DJ, go-go boys and maybe a special appearance by Rihanna. I let Paul know that he should begin planning this.

“And maybe Willard Scott can announce your birthday on the Today show too.” Paul said.

“Hell yeah…wait, I don’t think you meant that as a positive thing…”

Its jealousy is what it is.

The Happiness Window

2012-01-05T16:48:00.000-05:00

I am on a quest for happiness.

I didn’t know that I needed to be on one, but during my holiday travel I was duped into the journey while looking for a snack to carry onto the plane. Here I was thinking that some trail mix with little chocolate M&M’s, a Diet Coke and an on time departure might just make me happy enough. But then I glanced at the book section. I fell for the happy yellow title of a book and bought it.

It turns out that even though you think you are happy, you’re not. I am paraphrasing. The book might actually say that there is always room for more happiness. To be honest, I got halfway through the book and then lost interest. There just wasn’t a connection between me and the author. It wasn’t the fact that her quest for happiness involved nagging less, singing more and generally having more fun. As Martha says, “That’s a good thing.” Anyone who knows me is aware that I probably sing more than I should. I don’t nag and God knows I have my fun. But my relationship with the writer ended at this sentence:

“Time spent with men doesn’t make a difference.”

It says this right near the end of page fifty two. I wasted fifty one and three quarters pages of my life searching for more happiness. It took me too long to realize that time spent with men was the one thing that would absolutely bring me happiness.

In the fourth grade Sister Mary Claire told us that a squirrel could cross the USA by jumping from branch to branch when the country was young. I used to lie in bed looking out of my window at those pine trees framed by a perfect Carolina blue sky wishing I was that squirrel; the lucky bastard. I could picture him without a worry in this world becoming a dot on the horizon as he made his way to some other part of the country.

Then one day, just like that squirrel I hopped from cloud to cloud and landed in another part of the country myself. I looked out of the window at the pine trees framed by a perfect New England blue sky. Did the squirrel feel as duped as I did when I bought the happy book? The world didn’t look any different through that window and I didn’t feel any different.

And then I discovered that time spent with men would make me happy in a way that I was never allowed to believe. I would like to say that this was an epiphany and that suddenly the world became brighter in an instant. But that is not the way that a quest for happiness works. There is not a clear path and unfortunately, each of us must find their own way.

But here is the amazing thing. When you find your way to happy land the view outside of your window changes in a way you cannot believe. When I look outside of my window from my little 497 square feet of space at the brick building next door, it is one of the most beautiful sites I have ever seen. When I go back to North Carolina and look out of my bedroom I see the same trees and the same sky as my childhood and guess what? The same happy feeling is there too.

And so my quest for happiness has come back to me. I’m about as happy as I have ever been, but I can add some more.

So I'd like to ask, what makes you happy? I’d really like to know. Everyone looks at life through a different window. To get the ball rolling I’ll give you an example. This morning walking to the bus stop my iPod landed on a song by Kylie Minogue that I had not heard in a while. It was like discovering it all over again. That made me happy.

If you are a parent, I’m going to absolve you from saying your children make you happy. That’s a given.

See that comment box below? Go ahead type in something that makes you happy, the more obscure the better. If you don’t see the box, click on the line that says # comments. And if you don’t have an account click “comment as” and select “anonymous” or Name/URL” and type in a name. Yes, I am talking to you Sam and Cary……And I am sure everyone would like to hear from you Paul....

What makes you happy?

Resolutions

2011-12-30T10:12:00.000-05:00

Another Bill + Paul cartoon.

And now for something completely different

2011-12-22T13:31:00.000-05:00

Something very strange has happened.

…

I have run out of stories.

: \

Well, not all of them, but all of the witty, insightful, irreverent ones. I’m going to blame it on Christmas. I was going to blame it on global warming, but we've had such lovely weather lately, I don’t want to jinx it. It’s easy to blame the Holidays for all types of bad things, like depression, anger, despair and loneliness. That’s why people love the holidays. Because they can act like a total ass and then sweep it under the carpet by saying “Meh, it’s Christmas”.

But, I really do love Christmas.

: )

I just wish it didn’t steal my stories.

: (

The good news is that even if I don’t have the words, I have been doodling in Microsoft Paint so I can illustrate a typical day in my life with Paul. You might call it the "Gay agenda". It’s not so very different than any other couple. At night, we go to bed just like you. Except that Paul likes the room to be exceptionally cold. In the middle of winter, he opens all of the bedroom windows.

Did I mention that we live in Boston? But I don’t mind terribly, because this is the type of compromise that couples make. They do it because they love each other and I show my love by shivering through the night, under fifteen blankets, so that Paul’s restless legs will finally rest. After his nervous legs have slept, they are ready to leap out of bed even before the sun has risen.

The sun could be halfway through its daily journey before my body wants to rise and shine.

There are some people who can immediately open their eyes, greet the day and start singing. I am not one of those people. But Paul is. Because I find it so very difficult to get out of bed in the morning Paul will snuggle me for five minutes and then all bets are off, as are all of my fifteen blankets. The world is a dark and cruel place when you are suddenly laid bare on top of your mattress in a sub-freezing bedroom.

But Paul is good for me. He makes me get out of bed and go to the gym; even when I don’t want to go. After the gym I put my pants on one leg at a time and then pretend that I am going to take the bus to work. But every day, Paul will say “But you’re too little to take the bus! Show me how sad you’d be if you had to take the bus.” And then I make a little sad face.

So we get into the car and begin the drive to my office. Paul loves to drive, so I don’t feel very guilty. He will joke with me and say “Even though I work from home, I’m so glad that we moved into the city so that I could have a commute.” But I really don’t pay attention to what he is saying because the truth be told, he says a lot in the morning while my brain is still trying to figure out if I am still sleeping.

But at some point during the drive my brain decides to wake up. It usually coincides with a song on the radio that makes me happy.

And then at some point during the drive my heart wakes up. This usually coincides with Paul’s desire to shave thirty seconds off of yesterday’s commute time.

When we get to my office, I give Paul a kiss and tell him I love him. Sometimes he will honk the horn and whistle at me. The rest of the day is probably very much the same as your day. Except that somehow my day with Paul might lead to the collapse of civilization as we know it.

Oh, you don’t think that makes sense?

I don’t either.

: )

The Message

2011-12-15T16:45:00.001-05:00

The large white envelope is propped against the lobby wall, waiting. We search for the keys and stumble through the open door; after work drinks turned into late night drinks. I know that the envelope is addressed to me before reading the label. As I bend to pick up the package Paul pushes me playfully causing me to tumble.

“No, don’t. I can’t bend this envelope.” I shout; half serious, half laughing.

Indeed, I can see from my vantage point on the carpeted lobby floor that the envelope is marked with “Do not Bend” over and over again. I stand up, pick up the envelope and steady myself. Paul looks at me devilishly.

“No, now I’m serious.” I say. He can read it in my eyes: Don’t mess with me. This package has travelled through time to reach me. I won’t let it suffer more damage in my hands tonight.

We make our way up the stairs and step into our darkened condo. The moonlight falls through the open blinds painting horizontal shadows against the walls. I want to open it now, but I’ll wait until morning; when I can appreciate it fully. I place the envelope on the kitchen counter and peer through the blinds at the moon and the stars.

****************************************************************************

“Hello little boy!” He has glasses and a small white pointy beard and moustache; like Salvador Dali’s. He is wearing khaki’s, a white shirt and a black bow tie.

“What on earth are you doing?” He says.

I open my eyes, smile and say “I’m looking at stars, Pappy!”

When I was young, about five years old, I would press the heels of my hands against my closed eyes so that the pressure would cause bursts of light to form at the corner and travel to the center of my eyelids; fascinated by the lights appearing from nowhere.

“Great heavens above, there are stars in your head? Come over here and let me show you something.” My grandfather says.

I jump up and run to sit in his lap. His studio is a room on the side of the house sitting over the garage. It is paneled with dark wood. There is a light hanging low over the drafting table illuminating a blank sheet of paper. The smell of paint is magical. He pulls out a dip pen and places a nib on the end of it and dips it into an ink well. I watch, entranced, as lines form on the paper as if the pen itself has a power all its own. It seems to me that he is merely uncovering a picture that already exists on the paper.

“It’s a cabin!” I say excitedly.

“Yes, it is. You are such a smart little boy.” My grandfather says. “Now, I want to teach you something called ‘perspective’”.

This is a new word and I cannot imagine what it means, let alone pronounce it. But I desperately want to know. In my memories, I cannot separate my grandfather, this house and the beauty surrounding it. They all exist as one. The house sits on the edge of a forest overlooking the French Broad River and the Smokey Mountains. The front path made up of mossy stones passes by a gold fish pond. We have given all of the goldfish names. Many times my grandfather has taken us for walks in the forest. His knowledge of plants and animals is as boundless as his gentleness and love, and he wants to share it all.

The pen continues to move knowingly across the paper. Undulating outlines of mountains that are as gentle as the Smokey’s form behind the cabin. Two lines drift above the chimney circling among themselves to form smoke. Pine trees recede into the distance. Then two more lines are gracefully drawn. They form a path wide and open near the edge of the paper and gradually diminishing to a point by the cabin door.

“Now the cabin is small!” I am amazed.

“It’s the same size that it was before, but the way you see it has changed. That is perspective.” He says.

A word became a picture. But, the intersection of our lives was only six years. Not time enough to define the rest of the world through art. I would practice drawing this one picture over and over again as I grew up. All of the elements were there, but the whole was never quite right.

****************************************************************************

Night becomes morning and the moon shadows are wiped from the walls; a new day and a blank canvas. I pick up the envelope and gingerly cut the tape that seals it shut. The seller has packaged the contents carefully.

Finally freed, I examine the book. It is a children’s book illustrated by my grandfather in the 1930’s, “The Three Bears”. Some child loved this book. It was stored away, forgotten and then found and placed it for sale on the Internet. As I was searching for Christmas gifts for my own children, this book appeared on the page, seemingly unrelated to my search on the same Website. The seller listed my grandfather’s name in his description of the book.

As I open the book, like a child, I search the familiar lines of my grandfather’s drawings for a hidden message. Maybe my name is hidden among the branches of the trees, or a shadow of my own likeness in the clouds. But this was illustrated and published years before my existence.

I notice that the middle pages expand out to form a panorama and a house pops open in three dimensions. The house sits at the edge of a forest and a path of mossy stones circles the house and recedes into the distant mountains. It is my grandfather’s house. The beauty that surrounded him every day suddenly surrounds me.

My grandfather has shared his love with generations of children. Four decades after that lesson I begin to understand what perspective is. It is not only the relational distance of objects, but more importantly the ability to see the beauty in the world that surrounds us.

Our 2011 Holiday Newsletter!!!!!!!

2011-12-08T20:22:00.001-05:00

2011 was a busy year, but not too busy to set aside some time to celebrate the “reason for the season” with our good friends, the Bachmann’s and the Santorum’s. Now, I know what you’re saying, “But wait, aren’t they Republicans??” The answer, of course is yes, dear readers, but new evidence suggests that they may be born this way. And honestly, shouldn’t we all practice a little more acceptance and charity during this holiday season? As long as they don’t push it on me is what I always say!! Ha ha!

Anyway, dear family and friends, as you know Paul and I have finished the renovations on our love nest in the city. A little bird whispered in my ear wouldn’t it be fun to invite Michelle and Marcus and Rick and Karen to see our new place? Oh, we’ll have the Romney’s, the Cain’s, the Perry’s and the Gingrich’s some other time, but our place is only 500 square feet as you’ll recall. And really, Herman made such a fool of himself last year that most of the wives wouldn’t dream of being around him once he’s had a glass or two of Paul’s world famous holiday rum punch!!! (Recipe to follow!!!) Last year it almost came to fist a cuffs when Mitt said his hair was prettier than Rick Perry's as you’ll remember from the Burrows-Dameron 2010 holiday newsletter. Honestly I can’t keep up with Newt’s wives, so we decided that an intimate affair might just do the trick.

Anyhoo, Paul and I scurried around all day getting the place just so. You know Paul, a place for everything and everything in its place!! We set out place cards and had just lit the candles when the doorbell rang! I gave Paul a quick peck and said “It’s show time!” I opened the door, and of course, there were Rick and Karen Santorum right on time.

“Karen, seriously, I don’t know how you do it! You gave birth to seven, oh, or is it eight? children and here you are on time wearing this lovely smock!” I said.

“And Rick look at you here all dapper and festive! It takes a real man to come back here after that unfortunate comment about the people of Boston causing the Catholic Church abuse scandal. But you are a real man, is what I always said.” Of course you know Rick, he got all “Aw shucks” and turned fifteen shades of red while shuffling from foot to foot.

We had no sooner closed the door when “ding dong!” the doorbell rang again! I opened the door and no one was there!! Just as I closed the door, the doorbell rang yet again!!! How odd I thought to myself. This time I opened the door real quick and caught sight of the Bachmann’s just in stitches laughing, I might add, trying to hide behind the bushes!!!!

“Well now aren’t you two just a bird in this world” is what I said.

Michelle saying "Where da' bitches at?"
Me, Rick, Paul and those crazy Bachmann's
Happy Holidays!!!!!

Marcus could hardly keep from laughing and gave me just the biggest hug and kiss. If I hadn’t turned my cheek it would have been right on the mouth too!!!

“Michelle, honey, is there something wrong? Your eyes are just about to bug out of that head!” I said.

“Oh, ‘miss thing’ wouldn’t stop at a gas station rest stop” Marcus said while rolling his eyes. “She’s like all afraid some lesbian might be hiding in one of the stalls.”

Well, I told her to come in this instant and take care of business! She lingered outside the bathroom and started twisting her legs together.

“Paul, sweetie, would you just go and turn on the light in the bathroom and convince Michelle that there are no lesbians in there!” I yelled to Paul, who was preparing glasses of his world famous holiday rum punch!! (Recipe to follow!!!!!!) Honestly, she’s just like an eight year old, but don’t talk to her about eight year olds!

I told them all to come in and sit down, take a load off. Well no sooner did I sit down than I noticed a lump on the sofa right beneath my little rear end. I jumped up thinking I had sat on a pair of glasses or something. Marcus was sitting next to me and was practically in tears laughing when I looked down and saw his hand, palm up!!

“Frankly Marcus, that was cute the first three or four times you did that, but now it’s just plain annoying.” I said.

“Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” I heard Rick scream! He was holding his breath and turning blue, he was just so angry!!

“Oh now Rick, you know I’m going to spend time with you too, don’t get your panties all in a wad!” I said. Well, that only made him angrier.

“Rick now, I’m sorry honey, but honestly you need to be less sensitive about that.” Every time someone says "wad" he is thinking of something else. Well poor ~~Marcia~~ Marcus had just the most confused look on ~~her~~ his face.

“Marcus, don’t tell me you haven’t Googled yourself.” I said. Marcus started making some lewd gestures referencing a certain body part and moving his arm up and down like he was cocking a gun. “And no Marcus, I’m not talking about that kind of ‘Googling yourself’! Now we all know what we’ll find when we Google Santorum.” I said under my breath. At that point Karen made a little coughing noise.

“Karen, you’re always so good to remind us about manners.” I said and rolled my eyes. Since she wrote that book, she thinks she is the end all be all on manners.

Paul brought in his world famous holiday rum punch (Recipe to follow!!!!) and I saw this little sad puppy dog look on Marcus’ face. Well he always has to have a little umbrella in his drink, so I motioned to Paul to fix his drink and then Rick starts whining, so long story short, we all had Paul’s world famous holiday rum punch (Recipe to follow!!!!!) with little umbrellas.

Drinks in hand, I thought it might be a good time to break the ice about Michelle’s recent statements regarding same sex marriage. I told her it was kind of ironic for her to say that gays and lesbians can marry, as long as they marry someone of the opposite sex. Don’t you know that everyone in the room looked at Marcus at that very instant!

“It’s personal enslavement is what it is…” Michelle started blah-blahing her campaign speak.

“I’m going to have to stop you right there Michelle. Do Paul and I look like we are enslaved?” I said. Marcus started searching the room with his eyes and I just know the poor thing was looking for whips and chains.

“Well. no. it. doesn’t.” Michelle finally admitted and then burst out into a heartwarming, slightly maniacal laugh.

“That’s right Michelle.” I said and then we all stood up as Michelle delivered a lovely holiday toast:

“No matter gay, straight, or bi
lesbian, transgendered life
I’m on the right track baby
I was born to survive!”

You sing it Michelle!

From our family to yours, Happy Holi-gays!!!!!!!

TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

Paul’s world famous (and slightly sinful) Holiday Rum Punch recipe!!!

Rick Santorum’s favorite

Removed-Paul says it's a secret family recipe......

One night in Bangkok

2011-12-01T20:23:00.002-05:00

“Tell me Bill, do the surroundings amuse you?” Serene smiles as her outstretched hand glides across the scenery.

We are overlooking the Singapore River. The equatorial night air is warm and heavy. A slight scent of smoke, not unpleasant, from an Indonesian forest fire drifts across the South China Sea. I lean back into my wheelchair as an Asian woman dressed in hospital scrubs delivers an IV filled with a bright colored fluid.

It amuses me that I am in a country where every flight is an international flight. It amuses me that I am as far away from home that I could possibly be while still remaining on this planet. When I look in the mirror it amuses me that I hardly recognize myself; shaved head, goatee and thirty pounds heavier due to new found time indulged in a weight lifting and eating routine. When you are trying to find yourself it seems easier to begin by changing what is on the outside first.

“Yes, Serene, it amuses me very much.”

I can see that this pleases her. Serene is a trim Asian woman in her forties and a manager in our Singapore office. She shows me pictures of her recent birthday party on a smartphone. Two smiling girls, her daughters, present her with a cake, one picture after another, a variation of the same scene. Then a picture of Serene and a man, who I assume to be her husband, embrace and kiss passionately. “Ai-yah!” she says embarrassed, and quickly flips to the next photo. I look away at the IV and decide to take a sip of the liquid. A cool alcoholic concoction slides down my throat. I know this is why Serene has asked if I was amused. She has picked this bar called “The Clinic”, as our after work destination. Perhaps she thinks this is just the type of medicine that I need.

“Things are well at home?” She asks.

It is November of 2007. What is home? I live alone for the first time in my life. Images flicker; a basement apartment, boxes still unpacked. Sunlight pouring through a stained glass window colors my grandmother’s coffin; the new house that my daughters live in without me. Here on the other side of the world, I am a time traveller; living in tomorrow.

“Yes, all is well” I lie.

“And tomorrow Bangkok; you go shopping-la!”

Singaporeans love to shop and when they love something, they add a “la” to the end of it for emphasis. They also love eating-la and drinking-la, which is why I feel so fat-la and tired-la.

The next day four of us, a gay man, a New Englander, an Irishman and a German board a flight for Thailand. There is no punch line.

If Singapore was the calm, Bangkok is the storm. After arriving at our hotel we venture into the chaos that is Bangkok. Every sense is assaulted. Each square inch of pavement utilized by street vendors selling fried locusts, scorpions, maggots and noodles. Unidentifiable scents flavor the air. A man walks a painted elephant in the street. Beggars sit on the side of the road with missing limbs. A mother with a child drugged to appear lifeless holds out her hand for a spare baht. Motorcycles, taxi’s and Tuk-tuks, the Thai motorized rickshaws, honk their horns and swerve perilously below the elevated highway . The air is so heavy with heat that breathing is a conscious task.

We enter an outdoor bar and immediately notice eyes burning into us. It is filled with prostitutes. I tell myself not to make eye contact, but it is too late.

“You handsome man, big!”

“I’m gay.”

“That OK, I like gay.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that. She spends the next hour standing next to me as we drink Tiger beer. I work up enough courage to go alone to the gay district, Silom2, with my new found friend guiding me. The taxi stops at the edge of the district.

“I’m OK; I can go alone from here.” I say.

“You can’t change who you are.” She says enigmatically and smiles. I hug her and give her a few hundred baht. I watch as the taxi sputters off into the night, wondering if she believes the same about herself.

There is a loneliness that you feel when no one is around and a loneliness that you feel when surrounded by a sea of humanity, which is infinitely more profound. I walk through the district distracted by thoughts of all the changes in my life.

“What are your plans tonight, sir?” A young Thai man asks me, attempting to hold my hand. “This bar here is very nice. Believe me sir, I tell the truth.”

“I’m really not interested” I say and begin to head into another bar, hoping to lose him in the crowd. I quickly enter, walk towards the back and ask the bartender for a drink.

“I am a flight attendant for Thai Airways, sir and just on a layover.” I have not lost him and if he is a flight attendant, I am the pope. I don’t answer or look at him, but he continues to talk and move in closer. I have already used the gay card, should I tell him I’m straight?

“There you are!” I hear someone say in a British accent. He is talking to me. He has a broad smile and kind eyes. “We should go for a walk. We’re going to DJ Station.” He puts his arm around me and the Thai prostitute vanishes.

I thank him profusely. We spend the rest of the night together dancing, talking and laughing. At four AM the club is beginning to close.

“I’m going to the bathroom; you should join me or wait here.” He says.

“I’ll wait here.” I say and as he walks away, I walk out of the club and into a taxi. During the ride to the hotel I argue with myself. What were you thinking, why did you leave? Even if there is no possible future, did you get a good look at him? What are you waiting for?

In the morning I fly home to Boston. I climb into bed and sleep for thirteen hours, the time difference between Boston and Bangkok. When I wake up and look out the window a layer of pure white snow blankets the world.

The surroundings amuse me.

I pick up my phone and play back a message that was left while I was sleeping.

“Hi, it’s Paul; we spoke before you left on your Asian odyssey there. I thought you might be back. Let’s meet and pick up the conversation where we left off.”

One week later on a cold November night I am standing in a restaurant parking lot in Burlington, Massachusetts shivering while I stand next to my car amid piles of snow. I look up at Paul’s face, seeing it for the first time. It is a kind and handsome face. This is what I was waiting for.

“This is new.” He says smiling while pointing to my goatee. “You didn’t have one in your profile picture.”

“No, I didn’t. But you can’t really change who you are.”

"The smile is still the same though.”

For years I have tried to find a word that described the look I saw in Paul’s face on that first night. Until now, I couldn’t find the right word. But now I know. When I looked into his face what I saw was home.

It's time

2011-11-28T13:02:00.001-05:00

Giving Thanks

2011-11-23T18:10:00.001-05:00

It started with a single post.

One poorly written blog post.

Ones and zeroes circle the globe like the bits of stardust that collected to form life in the beginning. Electronic words on a virtual wall say “I am here.” However you find me, whatever strange search words that you type or links that you click bring us together.

During this season of Thanksgiving, from my family to yours I wish you the best and thank you for reading about my small life on this tiny planet hurtling through space. Our stories matter because we are all connected.

Happy Thanksgiving.

This week's prompt was The writing on the wall

Mr. Fix-it

2011-11-18T07:53:00.000-05:00

You can’t say that I’m not handy. If I put my mind to it, I can pretty much do whatever needs to be done. But that’s the thing; it really needs to be done. I don’t go round the house searching for things to improve. If you were to show me a bathtub that holds water, I would say that was one fine bathtub. Show the same tub to Paul and he would find eighty seven things about it that need to be fixed; things like the yellow caulking or the rust spots or the gouges on the bottom of the tub that make it look like a desperate dog in need of a pedicure was trapped in it for a weekend; cosmetic things. Are you able to wash yourself in it? Alrighty then.

I’m not going to waste my precious time and energy on something that does not want to be changed. Last I noticed the bathtub was not aspiring to become the sink or the toilet. Although, I can’t imagine anything wanting to become a toilet, but people choose to become proctologists, so I suppose anything is possible. The bathtub is perfectly happy the way it is. Some might call it grime, but I call it patina.

Paul does not like patina.

I was perfectly content to leave the metal soap dish in our tub on top of the rust spot. Even though we don’t use bar soap, I thought the dish was a nice nostalgic touch. More importantly, it served its purpose as a cover up. It was left by the previous owner, who was probably a lot like me; someone who was comfortable with patina.

But when Paul installed the body soap and shampoo dispensers and purchased an inventory of those products that would last us one thousand Silkwood showers I knew the soap dish would soon be history. And with the soap dish gone the tub would reveal a pock mark too great for Paul to ignore.

I tried to divert his attention by painting the bathroom vanity, and did a pretty good job too. I just wish I remembered to paint all of the sides. While he was in the shower taking inventory of everything that was wrong with the bathtub, he glanced at the vanity.

“Uh, sweetie, did you forget something?” He shouted from the shower.

I didn’t really forget. I just couldn’t figure out a way to paint the side of the vanity that faced the tub. Who was going to see it from that angle anyway? I’ll tell you who, Paul.

Shortly after that, Paul made an appointment to have the bathtub refinished, and since we had to move the vanity in order for the refinisher to take care of the bathtub, he reasoned that there was no use in putting the old vanity back in its place, or the faucet, or the shower doors. I made certain not to stand around the bathroom to avoid being replaced too, because truth be told, I have a little patina on me.

While the bathtub was being refinished we had to shower at the gym around the corner. On this particular occasion, Paul made a comment about a young guy’s arms and how he would like to develop his own to look the same.

If you are at all the insecure type, you should probably not workout at a gym where the average age of the member is roughly half of your own age. Furthermore, you should not take showers at said gym, lest you begin to compare your body to a newer model.

“So, you liked his arms, huh? I’m sure he’s on the juice.” I said while throwing in an accusing look for good measure.

“They look natural enough to me.” He wasn’t even willing to give me that.

“But, I love my mono-pack” He said smiling while rubbing my belly. I could tell he meant it too. Maybe a little patina on the things you love does enhance the look. But, I’m not taking any chances. I’m pretty handy so I think I can make some improvements; another mile on the treadmill, another repetition. Now I need to work on wanting to change.

P.S. How do you like my comic strip? Never took a single drawing class!

Temptation

2011-11-15T11:42:00.001-05:00

“All right Adam, I’ve been working six days straight now and God is pooped! Listen, you be a good boy and pick some colors for all of these things I’ve created and I’ll give you a prize. Go ahead, you’ve got Carte blanche!”

“Well, how about we make this grass green?”

“Say now, that’s something! Go on, keep going.”

“OK, I’m thinking a nice blue for the sky, that’s going to contrast nicely.”

“Well, I’ll be a son of a monkey!”

“A little taupe here, some white to rest the eyes, just a smidge of yellow and a dash of red to make this apple pop!”

“Yikes, I’ve created a monster, quick, give me a rib, son. Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, Ha ha! And Voilà!”

“Hello, I’m Eve. Love what you’ve done with the place. But, I’m oh so famished. This looks yummy, but are you sure it should be that color?”

“NOT MY CENTERPIECE!”

This is a 158 word challenge, which must contain the phrase "are you sure it should be that color..." and should concentrate on dialogue.

The path

2011-11-12T08:47:00.001-05:00

Our shoes make a satisfying crunch in the sandy gravel as we follow the lakeside path. Side by side we walk through the early morning mist that hugs the orange and golden hued trees. The air is still in the early morning half-light and does not yet carry a hint of winter’s arrival. We chose this path instead of our typical indoor gym routine the moment we stepped outside. The fall air so welcoming that we could not refuse it. It was a shared thought that Paul vocalized “Let’s walk around the Reservoir together instead”.

Strangers would know that we are a couple because of our proximity to each other. But we each walk now cocooned in our individual thoughts while our footsteps are synchronized. In my mind I go through my closet figuring out what I will wear to the wake tonight. Charting the directions to the funeral home and then as thoughts are apt to do, flashes of scenes play. I see his empty cubicle, the pictures of his two daughters and hear him talk so proudly about them. He loved them so intensely. He was only four years older than me.

As if to highlight how separate we are at that moment, Paul abruptly says “Don’t refill the soap containers.” I laugh, because this is something I would never think to do anyway. Do people refill soap containers? I think to myself. Maybe it’s because we have chosen a different routine this morning that makes Paul think that I will continue to do things out of the ordinary.

We have walked this path many times before. But, the light is different now. The sun rests lower in the sky. The Canadian geese are gone, replaced by small mallard ducks that slowly and quietly glide across the still water. While it is the same path, it is completely different.

We round a corner and come to a long stretch of grass, brilliant green in the yellow sunlight that now manages to push through the morning clouds. I used to love mowing the grass. As a teenager I would make money by providing lawn-mowing services. It was satisfying to push the lawnmower in long neat rows, admiring the trim appearance of the yard. The hum of the mower, the smell of cut grass and the solitariness of the task was healing.

Every week I would mow The Harrell’s yard. After so many years I knew the routine. Eventually Mr. Harrell would no longer need to tell me what to do. Trim the ivy on the hill in the spring. Empty the gutters in the fall. Clean out the lawnmower before putting it to rest in the winter.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrell would banter back and forth in a playful way while I worked in their yard. Mrs. Harrell would make iced tea filled with lemons and set it on a tray outside for me on those hot muggy North Carolina days. In the fall, I would sit on their rooftop gathering clumps of leaves in my hand and watch them from my bird’s eye view carry on their daily tasks. In the sunset of their lives they were happy and content in their mutual rhythm.

Then one early summer day their son, who would be my age now, stood in the park across the street from their house, placed the barrel of a gun against his head and pulled the trigger. The daily rhythm of their lives forever changed.

A duck splashes in the water and I am shocked back to the present; amazed by the ability of my mind to play a lifetime of images and memories in an instant. The sun has climbed high enough that our faces are bathed in the morning light.

“The lighting is good” Paul says pointing to my face. This is a shared joke that needs no explanation. How many times have I been on the other end of a camera with him and said “No, don’t take my picture from this angle, the lighting isn’t good.”

I slow down and say, “I’m going to make a meat and potato pie for dinner this weekend.”

“But you never cook; why the change?”

“It’s good to mix things up” I say. “I used to be good at cooking. Its fall, it seems right.”

“And I’ll start writing a blog.” Paul says sarcastically as he pretends to type “This is my first blog, already I’m bored. Goodbye”

We laugh at the absurdity of changing roles as our footsteps fall back in sync. The sky is mirrored in the lake so that the path looks like a bridge floating in mid-air and my heart becomes so full of the beauty that I think it will burst. Soon it will be winter and the path will be so thick with snow that it will be impassable. But for now we walk side by side. I return to my thoughts and turn words over in my head examining them like jewels; back to our familiar path, our feet in lock step; a world within a world within a world.

Sticks and stones

2011-11-09T19:55:00.001-05:00

Michelle Bachmann-“If you’re involved in the gay and lesbian lifestyle, it’s bondage. It is personal bondage, personal despair and personal enslavement.”

Jamie Hubley, 15 “You can’t break when you’re already broken”

Rick Perry –“Would you rather live in a state like this, or in a state where a man can marry a man?”

Tyler Clementi, 18, “Jumping off the gw bridge sorry”

Rick Santorum-“I love my children. I love my friends, my brother. Heck, I even love my mother-in-law. Should we call these relationships marriage, too?”

Seth Walsh, 13, “Hopefully, I become the universe”

Lest we forget.

Losing Control

2011-11-04T13:46:00.002-04:00

I think I know why people talk about the weather. It’s because there is nothing we can do to control it. If we can’t control something, then we can damn well talk about it. This is why people stop by my office, which consists of an entire wall of windows overlooking a courtyard and tell me “You wouldn’t believe how nice it is outside today!” Squinting from the glare, I think No shit, Sherlock, but what I say is “You don’t say?” because people need to hear themselves talk about things they can’t control.

It would be OK if they stopped there, but they usually follow up the immediate weather report with an extended forecast. Invariably, they paint a picture of the weekend weather as perfect: Even if it will be cold and rainy with wind gusts up to fifty miles per hour. “Nice weather to curl up with a good book!” They say. I’d love to reply “Or great weather to plan that suicide you’ve been putting off!” but most people wouldn’t see the humor in that.

It is an American thing to be delusional about the uncontrollable. Several years ago I was working at a company that experienced one lay off after another. It was difficult to see our friends and co-workers leave. Those of us lucky enough to keep our jobs yammered on about what a great opportunity it would be for the departed. “You’ll find something better than this!” was heard over and over again. My Irish friend had a different take “This is shit. If I got laid off all I’d be saying is what the feck am I going to do now?” But that type of comment makes people uncomfortable. If you can’t control something, you want to think that it is beyond your control for some greater purpose; “When one door closes, another one opens” type of thinking.

Friends don't let friends quote country songs!

During the layoffs, I overheard one woman say to another “Well, I guess I’ll let go and let God.” To which her friend replied with one hand in the air à la Christina Aguilera high-note, “Jesus take the wheel.” This sort of thinking rubs me the wrong way so I couldn’t help but ask “Do you really want someone who’s not afraid of death driving you around in your car?” It seemed like a valid question. Can we really believe that everything is beyond our control and that a guiding force is watching over us?

This morning, while looking in the bathroom mirror at the gray in my hair, I begin to separate the things I can and cannot control. When your child turns twenty one, you are forced to think about these things. I turn on the cold water to brush my teeth and watch the steam rise. Apparently, cold water is something new to add to the list of uncontrollable things. It’s right below the inability to control the heat in our condo. Once it is turned on for the season, our condo maintains a steady seventy seven degrees, unless we open the windows. While the snow is falling outside, Paul and I sit around in boxers and t-shirts with the windows wide open.

That night I meet my friend Julie for drinks. Despite being out of work for one year she still maintains the same level of fun and perkiness that drew me to her in the first place. In no time we have downed two martinis and are laughing about her gay boyfriend from many years ago.

“We had this cook book that was displayed in the kitchen with our Pottery Barn china that Scott picked out. Every week he would say to me, it’s time to turn the page!” Julie says laughing. I wonder to myself how she couldn’t figure it out. By the end of the night we have had our fill of laughter and drinks.

On my walk home I think about Julie. She did not once mention how depressing it is to be out of work. Maybe the important thing is not that we lose control, but more how we react to that. Pools of light from the street lamps dot the streets as I walk through the city in the cool autumn night. Amy Winehouse plays on my iPod and I wonder if the entire world can hear her singing. The T screeches towards its next stop, disappearing into the night. A singular moment of piercing truth hits me. This is my life. I am finally who I was meant to become. Maybe there is a guiding presence looking over me. A cold breeze rustles the leaves. I button my coat. Two more blocks and then I’ll be home. I’ll climb the stairs and open the door to our condo, where it’s not uncontrollably hot, but eternally summer and the windows are always open.

Who's that Guy?

2011-11-01T13:31:00.005-04:00

What, me leave? Fuggedaboutit!

Occupy! Occupy! Wall Street we vilify

Anarchy camping, "No Fair!"

It is quite cramping this anarchy camping

In winter we shiVER!

This is a 21 word challenge that must include in winter we shiver, based on the following rhyme about Guy Fawkes:

Remember remember the fifth of November

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason

Should ever be forgot…

The emphasis must be placed on the second half of shiver. Say it as if you were freezing! OK, my Iambic beat is a little different, but I'm too tired to do anything else with it..There is smoke coming out of my brain.

You can find other entries here: http://jfb57.wordpress.com/tag/100wcgu/

Who gives a crap?

2011-10-29T17:05:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, despite the best of intentions, I find myself doing things that can only make a bad situation worse. I acknowledge that what I am doing is wrong and then proceed to do it with gusto. Flushing the toilet for a third time in a fancy hotel while thinking this time it will go down might be one of those situations.

Scrambling for towels I start searching for a plunger hidden somewhere in the room. At this point all logical reasoning goes out the window. Maybe there is a plunger in the closet, or the dresser, or the night stand? Then it becomes clear, fancy hotels do not stock their rooms with plungers. It’s not as if they simply forgot to put one in the room, but more of a conscious decision.

Most people would give up and call the front desk; not me. I begin to wonder what objects in the room might make suitable substitutions for a plunger. My eyes quickly dart around the room; the lamp, the bar tray, a power cord? Nothing seems to fit and then I open the closet door and experience an epiphany, the little wooden rod on the hanger that holds pants, perfect!

I just can't quit you!

Clearly I have learned nothing from my first round of illogical thinking. I bend the rod back and forth until it is free. My socks are drenched from walking through the water on the bathroom floor. I poke the rod into the toilet attempting to push whatever is stuck down the drain. The rod slips out of my hand and is now floating in the toilet.

I begin to pack my bags. It has only been thirty minutes since I checked in. This is the way I found the room. It seems plausible.

“Hello Mr. Dameron, how can I help you?” The hotel clerk says

“Um, yes, it’s my toilet; it seems to be stopped up.” I say

"I am so sorry Mr. Dameron. We’ll send engineering up immediately.” She says and before I can elaborate, she is gone. I peel off my wet socks and unzip my suitcase looking for dry socks. Then there is a knock on the door. Shit, shit, shit! This is the south; no one moves that quickly here! My escape plan has been foiled.

“Hello Mr. Dameron” Engineering says as I open the door. Does everyone in this hotel know my name?

“Let’s see what we got here” the engineer says while walking towards the bathroom.

“I really must apologize” I start stammering and then he lets out a whistle as if to say what the hell?

“You wouldn’t believe the shit I’ve found in toilets” he says. I want to lighten the mood and say isn’t that exactly what you would expect to find in a toilet? But “Mike” as his name tag implies does not seem to be in joking mood.

“I’ve found car keys, bottles, a Polaroid of a nekkid woman, looked like from the 1980’s”. Mike continues. How does he know that the picture of the woman was from the 1980’s, I mean if she was “nekkid”? Did she have Farrah Fawcett feathered hair? Mike interrupts my thoughts.

“I’ll be back with help.” He says and leaves.

Within ten minutes Mike returns with some type of industrial looking plunger and a sidekick. After thirty minutes of listening to the sounds of heavy machinery and dialogue between Mike and his assistant, which consists of mostly “what the fuck?” and “shit!”, the pair re-appears and announces that they are going to need to “Lift the toilet”. I have no idea what “lift the toilet” means, but it seems that the prognosis is not good.

“Ok, well do whatever you need to do.” I say. They are consulting me as if this is my child on an operating room table. After ten more minutes, I hear Mike say “Ok, let’s flush it one more time.” This is it, clear! Then I hear the most beautiful gurgling noise. My toilet has been brought back to life.

Mike and his assistant emerge from the bathroom looking triumphant, but exhausted.

“Thank you so much. I’m sorry you had to do that.” I say, considering shaking his hand and then thinking better of it.

“It wasn’t you, it was a damn woman.” Mike says with one eyebrow lifted. “There oughta’ be a law against them.” Again I consider lightening the mood by asking if he means a law against women or tampons? I decide to give him a five dollar bill instead. "Nasty things" I say and I can see Mike thinking Does he mean women or tampons?

Finally alone in my bathroom I unpack my clothes and try to hang them on the shower rod, the hanger hook is too small, so I hang them on the shower curtain hooks instead and turn the shower on full steam hot and close the door. A little tip I learned to get rid of wrinkles. A half hour later I remember to check on my clothes. A blast of steamy air singes my eyebrows as I open the door. My pants have become too heavy for the shower curtain hook and have landed in the water. Shit, shit, shit! Is that wallpaper curling? There must be some glue in this room somewhere.

Mrs. Green-Burger

2011-10-25T21:49:00.006-04:00

Dear Shakahari Pre-School parents:

I think we can all agree that last night’s dialogue session on our “zero-tolerance” policy regarding meat products was beneficial. Remember, if it had a parent, we won’t eat it! Even though I’d love to eat up your adorable children! (Ha, Ha).

Warmest Regards,

Mrs. Green

***********************************************************************************

Hello again Parents:

I sincerely apologize for yesterday's e-mail. As so many of you have pointed out, that last sentence was reprehensible.

Most Apologetically,

Mrs. Green

***********************************************************************************

Parents:

Point taken: Would the parents responsible for constructing the “Mrs. Green-Burger” effigy promptly remove it from school property?

Mrs. Green

Mrs. Green-Burger

This is a 100 word challenge for grown ups. This week’s prompt was the photo above (with some photo-shopping....)
You can find other entries at:

http://jfb57.wordpress.com/tag/100wcgu/

My dinner with David Sedaris

2011-10-21T11:16:00.003-04:00

Guess what?

Last night I had dinner with David Sedaris: Yes, THE David Sedaris! I suppose it was inevitable. I mean you can’t write diligently for eight whole months and not expect to hobnob with modern literary greats. As dinners go, it was fairly unremarkable; some type of baked chicken with green beans, but still, you can’t beat the company. Oh, Paul was there too. But he seemed less than impressed.

But I have gotten ahead of my story. Let me take a step back. The evening began with a reading at the Capitol Center for the Arts in Concord, NH. It turns out that people in New Hampshire really seem to like David Sedaris. The place was packed. Never having heard him speak publicly, I really didn’t know what to expect. So when he quickly marched on stage, eyes down, without much fanfare, to say that it was less than climatic would be an understatement.

“Hello, and thank you for coming” He sounds like a Smurf that just huffed helium.

I let out a loud laugh. When Paul squeezed my leg and told me to shut-up, I realized that this was not part of the act and that I was, in fact, the only one laughing. It was a rough start.

He redeemed himself after reading a few new essays and some quotes from his diary and then told us a joke:

A man is in bed sleeping when he hears a knock at his door. Angrily, the man says to himself “Who would be knocking at my door at this time of night?” He opens the door and there is a small snail standing at his door step. “Hello” the little snail says cheerfully, “I’d like to talk to you about purchasing some magazines!” The man kicks the snail as hard as he can. The tiny snail goes flying across the yard.

Two years later, the man is lying in bed and hears a knock at his door again. He opens the door and there is that same small snail.

“What the fuck was that about?” The snail says.

This time I laughed my ass off with everyone else.

But the real point to my story is that I sat across the table from David Sedaris while we had dinner. Well, I suppose I couldn’t really say “we” as he was doing all of the eating and truth be told, he had devoured most of it before we even got there. But you see the line to talk to him at the book signing was about an hour long.

As we waited in line and moved much like the snail from his joke, Paul said with a disgusted look on his face “He talks with a mouth full of food. Now I know why he moved to Europe. Look at those teeth.”

We watched as a woman with her entire library of David Sedaris books told him her life story. He seemed like a cat that was getting tired of playing with a ball of string, only looking up occasionally as if to say “Ok, I’ll bat this thing one more time”, while stuffing another bite of green beans into his mouth. The poor woman did not take a breath while speaking.

“If you act like that when we finally get to speak to him, I’m going to slap you.” Paul said.

Finally we reached the table. I was calm and collected, determined not to make a fool of myself as I handed him my book.

“Hi.” Mr. Sedaris said.

“Hi, I’m Bill and this is Paul!” Now my voice sounded strangely Smurf-like.

“You guys are together? How long have you been together?”

“Four years, well we’ve been married for one and a half years!” I said

“Where did you get married?” He asked.

“Boston, well Ashby, it’s a little town west of Boston. But originally I’m from North Carolina, but I moved up here. Actually, I’m from Greensboro. Your brother Paul refinished my Brother John’s hardwood floors. Your brother has the same name as my husband!” Oh God, shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, Bill. I could see Paul looking at me out of the corner of his eyes willing me to shut-up too. I flinched while waiting for that slap that he had promised me.

I tried speaking again. “Does Hugh get upset when you write about him?”

“No” he simply replied.

“Are you and Hugh going to get married?” I tried another angle

“NO!” He said this as if someone had just pissed into his green beans.

“Do you guys like Glee?” He asked as his eyes lit up.

“Um, sure” I said.

“I thought a new episode was going to be on this week, but apparently not for two more weeks. Rachel and Finn and oh, what’s that kid’s name?” Mr. Sedaris said.

“Kurt!” I said this too quickly, I thought to myself. This was not the conversation I expected to have with my fellow writer. We both grew up in North Carolina and are ex-pats, well most North Carolinians consider Boston a foreign country, and write about our witty Gay lives. But he has chosen the lowest common denominator and is talking to me about Glee.

“Kurt, yes that’s it! They’re all going to have sex in the next episode!” He says with, well, glee, as he absent-mindedly writes something in my book.

“I’d pay to see that Blaine totally nude.” He continues and looks up at me like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. I look at Paul and his eyes say “Move it along, Dameron.”

“Well, thank you Mr. Sedaris” I say slightly disappointed and pick up my book as we walk away. I open the book and read the inscription: “To Bill and Paul, 2 gay homosexuals who are gay and do homosexual things, David Sedaris.”

I look at Paul and say “What the fuck was that about?”

October 18, 1999

2011-10-18T09:31:00.002-04:00

Talk to me Dad.
Here I am.
Everyone is here.

And we’re not leaving.
Until you go.
Time waited.
Uncap the bottle.
Mix a drink.
Now it’s time.

Let it go.
Each breath is a whisper.
All is said.
Voices fill the void.
Echoes in the darkness,
Sing you home.

This is a fifty word challenge for grown ups (we get fewer words this week). This week’s prompt is The Autumn Leaves.

You can find other entries at:
http://jfb57.wordpress.com/tag/100wcgu/

Life in the bus lane

2011-10-14T07:58:00.000-04:00

“Excuse me ma’am, are you getting on the bus?” My question seems pleasant enough. What I really want to say is “Can you un-glue that phone from your ear and control your little brat long enough to make a decision?” But even to me, this seems to be a confrontational question. The type of question that might warrant an equally confrontational reply, something along the lines of oh, “Fuck you.”

So I am surprised when the reply to my pleasant question is “But is polite to wait passengers for to leave the bus” In what I imagine to be a Russian accent. I’m not sure why manners suddenly seem important now that the bus door has opened. They certainly didn’t seem to matter when she pushed her way to the front of the line and let her child perform a Bolshoi ballet on my shoes.

But to ride the bus, is to love the bus.

When I moved into the city, I gave the car to my teenage daughter in Virginia so that she could participate in demolition derby. Every month or so there would be a telephone call.

“Hi Taylor, what did you hit now? Oh OK, as long as no one was hurt.” I would say.

In the beginning, I would ask for photographs of the car so that I could survey the damage. What I received was less of an insurance adjustor’s account of the damage and more of a Seventeen magazine photo spread. Here is Taylor draped across the hood of the car. Here is Taylor with her pouty look. Here is Taylor with her palms turned up with a look of surprise on her face as if to say “What? Are you talking to me Mr. sexy officer?” The car might have been in the photographs. But clearly the focus was on Taylor. The car was simply a foil. At first I was a little frustrated. But as I looked at the photographs, I became more impressed.

“Paul, look at the extension of Taylor’s leg in this one. I think she nailed this pose, don’t you?”

“Ok Tyra. When was the last oil change?”

Leave it to Paul to kill the moment.

I suppose that sums of the difference between us. I really could care less about the care and feeding of cars while Paul assigns them human characteristics. In his eyes cars are sexy or sporty or scary. Basically, they are Spice Girls on wheels. While to me, they are a way to get from point A to point B; which is why I find myself sitting on the bus with my fellow commuters.

You would think that after a year or so of bus commuting I would get to know them. But we each travel in our own bubble. Oh, I recognize a few of them; don’t get me wrong, but not really in a way that you might say “Let’s get together for drinks" or “We must schedule a lunch”, more along the lines of being able to pick them out of a Police line-up.

Here is Mrs. Curry-coat. Her coat smells of Indian food and I imagine that the only coat hook in her home is located next to the stove. Then there is Ms. Baby-Mama-smokes. She always takes one last puff of her cigarette and flicks it to the curb while hoisting her baby carriage onto the bus steps. My, how her baby has grown! It won’t be long now before both of them spit out their cigarette butts before climbing onto the bus. Then there is Miss Awesome! Every time she enters the bus, she always asks the bus driver in the most annoyingly perky way “Hey there! How are you?” and when he grumbles back “fine, you?” her reply is always “Awesome!” While most of the people on the bus do not speak English, I see them roll their eyes when she gets on. I guess perkiness is universally despised.

Which leads me to wonder how product marketing is targeted for this bus? As I look at the advertisements above the windows I see a picture of Demi Moore dressed to the nines in an Ann Taylor advertisement. Looking at the passengers none of them scream Ann Taylor; Target maybe. The next advertisement is a sign that says “Too much Salt can lead to HEART ATTACK or STROKE!” There is a picture of soup cans with little piles of salt scattered around them. I’m pretty sure that the picture is meant to aid non-English speakers. But it seems half done. Shouldn’t there be a picture of someone clutching his heart with a look of agony on his face? Maybe he could even have X’s for eyes. If I were a foreigner, I would discard the words and think that American soup must taste better with a little pile of salt in it.

Soon I realize that the young man sitting next to me is fidgeting while looking at some papers. I discreetly look down at his paper and read the title “How has living in this country changed me?” This seems more interesting than the book I am reading so I begin to read a few lines.

“Before I came to this country I was dependent on others. This country has made me independent. I have my own job. I have my own apartment.”

Suddenly I realize that these people are not just one dimensional. They have lives and loves beyond the confines of this bus. If the lens were turned back on me, how would my fellow passengers see me? Would they only see a reasonably well-dressed middle-aged American man? Or would they look deeper? Maybe they would see my new wedding band, the contentment in my eyes and say here is a man that is happy. Here is a man that found love just when he needed it the most.

I smile to myself and stand up to get off at my stop. I choose to believe that these bus comrades see the real me: the content man, the man who sees more to life than just the surface. These are my fellow voyagers in life. I squeeze through the aisle to get to the door, and my messenger bag brushes the knee of a passenger. He makes a great display while saying “Ouch, watch your bag man!” Then I understand what my fellow passengers see in me. It is not so much of a visionary in love, but more of an annoyance.

A Brief Count

2011-10-11T10:43:00.005-04:00

Along Beacon Street I think of you. Walking through the circle I practice my car-dodging. Eventually forgetting our warm days are fading. The sun warms my face during October’s golden hour.

It’s just not the same without you. These are our streets, and so I’ll keep listening. My name haunts the air.

Did you leave it there on purpose?

Quick, run the light is still green!

Another week begins and you start travelling. Unknown variables in the points between us flip the equation. Where X marks the spot, it is the intersection of my heart; these streets and your Z-axis.

This is a one hundred word challenge for grown ups. This week’s prompt is the Alphabet.

Did you figure out the pattern? (Hint: The first two words of the sentence and the last two words of the next, until the equation flips)

You can find other entries at:

http://jfb57.wordpress.com/tag/100wcgu/

Steel trap

2011-10-08T08:23:00.000-04:00

Contrary to popular opinion, I have an excellent memory. By “popular opinion” of course I mean my husband’s opinion. For instance, I can remember what I wore on our first date over four years ago. Right down to the underwear. That point may seem trivial, but when you are getting the proper support, it makes a world of difference. But maybe that’s an unfair example. Everyone remembers what undergarments they wore to significant events.

I am a little embarrassed because I’m drawing a blank on other specific examples of my outstanding memory. But in general, I remember everything. Maybe that’s it. It’s not so much the specifics as much as the generalities that I remember. If you were to ask me what date someone’s birthday was and by “someone”, I mean my husband Paul, I would draw a blank. But honestly, that’s why Facebook was invented. If you want people to remember your birthday, you really should invest the time in creating a Facebook page. If you were to ask me what that person’s profile picture looked like, then I would be on my game. Now that I think about it, I guess my memory is more visual, while Paul’s is more a number’s thing.

“When is Zeke’s birthday?” Paul is quizzing me on my nephew’s birthdate.

“Does he have a Facebook page?” I reply.

“No, he’s nine years old. Remember the movie Nine to Five?” Paul says.

“Oh, I loved that movie! Honestly, could Dolly Parton have a smaller waist?”

“Probably not, but concentrate. The hint is Nine to Five. That’s how I remember Zeke’s birthday.” Paul says.

I narrow my eyes and search my brain, but all I can see is Lilly Tomlin as Snow White pouring rat poison into Mr. Hart’s coffee.

“Nine to Five. It’s a movie about working. His mother was in l-a-b-o-r.” Paul says this slowly as if he is speaking to someone whose second language is English.

“Labor day! That’s the day when Zeke was born!” I say triumphantly.

Paul stares at me in disbelief.

“Labor day is a different date every year, Pookie. No, Zeke was born on 9/25.”

“Well, he really should get a Facebook page.” I say defensively.

“OK, now let’s try our other nephew’s birthday.” Paul says. “Adam likes to eat all the time, so that’s your clue.”

This really means nothing to me. I begin to think of times when people eat too much and Thanksgiving comes to mind, but I have already been admonished for picking a date that changes every year. I wonder if this is the year we go to North Carolina for Thanksgiving or do we spend it in Boston? If we are going out of town, we really should begin to think about making airline reservations.

I have let too much time pass before offering an answer. Paul realizes that I have checked out of the conversation.

“Think of places that serve food all of the time.” Paul says and raises his eyebrows like that will help.

Silence and then crickets.

“7-11 serves food all of the time.” Paul answers his own question.

“July 11th. That’s right, I had forgotten.” I say snapping my fingers and shaking my head like it was there all the time.

“Close, but now reverse it. His birthday is November seventh.” Paul says.

I stare at him without blinking. “You have got to be shitting me. That’s how you remember Adam’s birthday? Why not just remember that it is on D-Day, you know the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor?” I say incredulously. Honestly his memory patterns are way too complicated.

Paul shakes his head. “D-day is on June 6th and Pearl Harbor Day, which is a separate event altogether, was on December 7th, not November 7th.”

I suppose I am a little rusty on remembering dates. But why should I even bother? Paul has them all memorized. And by “all”, I mean since the beginning of time. Drop a box of toothpicks and he could probably tell you how many have fallen out in two seconds.

This morning I stepped out of the shower and above my towel was a little label stuck to the wall that said “Squegee”. It was misspelled, but really it was just the darndest, cutest thing. We recently replaced our shower door, at this point you can really just assume that when I say “we” I mean Paul, and in order to keep it clean, we need to squeegee it after our shower. Paul put the label there to remind me to do this. It really was so cute; I had to take a picture of it.

As I was getting dressed in the bedroom Paul walked out of the bathroom and stared at me with such an enigmatic smile while taking off his shoes. We normally don’t have time for such things in the morning, but it

was Friday and so what if I was a little late to work? He walked back into the bathroom. I followed him and watched as he stepped into the shower. He smiled at me and I winked back.

Then he picked up the squeegee and started cleaning the shower door.

“Oh Crap! I was going to do that.”

Seriously, I have a great memory. But maybe Paul’s is so much better. Together, we never forget any of the important things. And when I say “we”, well I think you know what I mean.

Writer's block

2011-10-05T20:03:00.001-04:00

When you write non-fiction it is generally accepted that what you put on paper is true. When writing a blog post, I need to pull from real life incidents and remembrances, but sometimes my life and memories are really just not that exciting. So, I am just going to start typing and wait for a story to develop. This one seems to be going nowhere. I’m sorry.

It’s not that interesting things have not occurred over the past several weeks, they certainly have. But to hold a story together, there really should be a central theme: conflict and resolution.

I attended a family wedding and a thirtieth high school reunion in the past two weeks. Entire books have been devoted to those topics, so you would think that a lousy blog post or two could develop. But, no, my mind has decided to keep these stored for a while. My friend Sam told me that there is no such thing as writer’s block. It is only that the writer is afraid of expressing his emotions. Ah, so that’s it! Good, now we have some conflict. Maybe sharing just a few observations will get the old juices flowing.

Let’s start with the wedding. If I were going to write a story about it, I would have to write about the brother of the bride’s toast. Aside from his joke referencing spousal abuse and the quote from “Slaughterhouse Five” it was a good toast. OK, maybe it sucked, there is just no sugar coating that one. Watching the bride’s face turn from a smile to a wince was painful for everyone. I don’t think I can turn that one into any more of a story.

I suppose there was one other interesting incident at the wedding. There was a photo booth, the kind you might find in a suburban mall. Paul and I slipped in and had some photos made. Long story short, we shared our hotel room with my Sister-In-Law and had no alone time Suddenly, we were alone in the dark, one thing led to another and well, you get the picture. No, you won't get the pictures and neither will we. It turns out our pictures were the only ones that did not make it to the photo booth’s website. I wanted to order re-prints, but the company said something about how our pictures became corrupted on their hard drive. I guess there really isn’t much of a story in that one either.

The reunion, there certainly should be some stories there. Here I am, thirty years later returning with my husband to a high school reunion in North Carolina. As a back story they have just passed a resolution to let the people of North Carolina vote to amend the constitution to prohibit same sex marriage. This one has comedy written all over it!

It’s really hard to know where to start. I could talk about the wife of one of my classmates who was Muslim and felt a kindred spirit with the only two gay men at the reunion. Paul kept calling her muslin. When I told him she was not a cheap fabric, he failed to see the humor. Or maybe I could write about the woman who lost the love of her life after only being with him for one year, but still harbored a deep seated hatred for a classmate she had not seen in thirty years.

Perhaps the best story could center on the classmate who entered the men’s room shouting “Are there any Homo’s in here?” shortly after Paul and I went to the men’s room. When I told my mother about that story she offered "Well remember you beat him in the individual medley at the city swim meet when your were fourteen." She said this with a satisfied look that seemed to say "You'll always have that!" No, none of that stuff is very interesting.

I wish I could make a story out of the past couple of weeks for you, but as I said, I have writer’s block. Something will come together next week. Until then, I’ll leave you with a quote, said in all seriousness, by my mother after I attended the reunion. And just to give you the background one more time: A gay man married to another man returning to the south for his thirtieth high school reunion when the state is considering a constitutional amendment outlawing same sex marriage: “Well, Bill, you didn’t have anything to prove.”

Finally Home

2011-10-03T21:34:00.002-04:00

Ah, finally home. After a long weekend of travelling we slump into our seats on the "T", suitcases wedged between us. The unseasonal weather causes beads of sweat to roll down our backs as we hurtle through the dark city night.

North Carolina, the home of my childhood seemed so foreign: smiling faces, single syllable words as sweet as taffy stretched into unimaginable lengths. I glance across the aisle at my fellow strangers. These are my people: The people of Boston.

I nod to the man across the aisle. He starts barking at me like a dog. Ah, finally home.

This is a one hundred word challenge for grown ups. This week’s prompt is the unseasonal weather... You can find other entries at:

http://jfb57.wordpress.com/tag/100wcgu/

Honesty

2011-09-30T15:35:00.000-04:00

When I am socializing with my friends Sam and Cary, people often ask how we met each other. “Group therapy” is my response. I don’t say this because it is true, which it is, but more because I know how much it annoys Sam. After the awkward silence when the inquisitor has walked away, Sam scrunches up his face and looks at me with utter disgust “Dameron, you don’t need to be so freakin’ honest”. Now that he has given me the green light. The next time I will have a better answer: “It’s kind of a funny story; we were at this methadone clinic….” But I do believe that honesty really is the best policy.

I have only lied once about my relationship with Paul and that was because he asked me to. Not exactly a sound foundation, but it is the little way that we gay couples show our love for each other: by denying their existence so they can keep their job. It was about a year into our relationship. Paul’s company headquarters are located in the Midwest: “God’s country”. As luck would have it, we were both travelling through Germany for separate business trips. I joined Paul at the hotel bar for a drink and met several of his co-workers. His boss turned to me and asked “So, where did you two meet?” Looking down I searched my drink for an answer “AA, but it really didn’t do anything for us.” The lie was so obvious, that it didn’t seem like I was being dishonest. But after that, I vowed to never lie again. OK, that was a lie. I vowed never to lie about my relationship with Paul.

The whole point of the group that Sam, Cary and I attended was to become honest: A twelve week “coming out” support group. We would meet weekly and “check in”. This was our therapist’s way of putting us on the spot. Andy would take a deep breath in and then slowly let it out while saying “Bill, do you want to tell the group about your week?” It seems silly now, being so nervous about telling people we were gay, but during those first few weeks, it was excruciating. “You know, I practiced coming out to my neighbor’s dog, Rusty. He responded pretty well by licking me. Maybe next week I’ll have the courage to come out to my mother.”

Now in any other environment my friends would respond with “You came out to a dog? That is the stupidest fucking shit I have ever heard.” But because this was a supportive and non-judgmental environment, I heard “Good for you Bill. I’m sure that your mother will respond just as well as Rusty, well, minus the licking” followed by a polite round of laughter.

Eventually, it became easier and I soon exhausted all of my avenues for coming out, co-workers, family, friends, The Wal-Mart cashier with one hand on her hip, everyone was fair game: “Well now you go girl! But I’ma’ need you to enter your pin number, precious.” Nobody really seemed to care. Which was nice, but once you experience the drug of being honest, you need another hit.

Soon I learned that honesty could work like a shield, deflecting undesirable situations. Travelling through Bangkok with a sexaholic straight boss can be a challenge. “Bill, I’m going to take that girl, which one do you want?” My boss said. It was the perfect opportunity to be honest. “No shit, you’re gay? Hey, what about him, do you want him?” He didn’t miss a beat, but at least the swarm of prostitutes moved on to more promising prospects.

Acquaintances from my past would contact me through Facebook. “Bill, it’s so good to see you on FB. Last year I married the man of my dreams, he’s a missionary. Have you accepted God as your personal savior?” I would spread a little bit of honesty “You married the man of your dreams? That’s great, so did I!” Poof! She was gone.

But then I applied for a job and went through a session of intensive interviews. I was excited about the job and soon learned that I was at the top of the list of candidates. It was an “Old Boys” club. All of the executives where white middle class straight men. “So, what sports did you play in high school/college?” They would ask. And then came THE question. “Does your wife mind you travelling?” Damn, honesty is a double edged sword. I thought for a minute. “Well, actually my partner travels a lot himself.” And just like that, Poof! The job was gone.

I lamented to a friend about how I was discriminated against. It was an outrage! I wished that I had the opportunity to make the decision about the job instead of having it made for me. “But you did make a decision.” He said. This made me pause and think. He was right. Honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Gambling Man

2011-09-23T17:10:00.001-04:00

If I were a gambling man, I’d bet that I might get checked out more than I realize. Because I think that number is somewhere close to zero, I would probably win the bet. Or, at least I hope that I would win the bet. This is why I don’t gamble. Gambling takes a certain amount of confidence. And confidence is what makes average looking people more attractive.

If someone were to stare at me in a bar for instance, I might think that my hair was sticking up in a funny way. After I checked my reflection and was assured that everything was in place, no spinach between my teeth or stains on my shirt, I would look behind me to see if I could figure out who that person was staring at. Then I would do something goofy like forget to close my mouth after taking a sip of my drink. I guess that’s just the way I was raised. Of course I was raised as a closeted gay man in the south. Years of telling yourself

that you are not attracted to other people coupled with an unhealthy dose of self-deprecation can do wonders for your self-confidence.

None of this matters anymore because I have Paul. If you were to ask him how many times I was the object of someone’s attention he would offer an unrealistically high number. “Did you see that guy check you out?” He might say. “Who, that grey haired man with the walker, how can you tell? His eyes are crossed.” I would reply. Then he would say “No, that guy” and point out the twenty two year old jogger with six percent body fat. I guess you could say that we balance each other out.

When I created my online dating profile years ago, it was excruciating. The point is to describe yourself in a way that exudes self-confidence without seeming too boastful. You also want to appear comfortable with your attractiveness. Let me just say that there are a lot of guys out there with some very healthy egos. “Well, what can I say? Both of my parents were models, it’s a burden really, believe me!”

A lot of profiles begin with what could only be described as notations for a custom made suit: Chest 46 inches, waist 32 inches, height 6’ 2”. Except that there are some measurements that really aren't required, unless the pants are going to be extremely well tailored. I mostly breezed past these profiles, pausing just long enough to compare the photos to the text.

You also don’t want to reveal too much about yourself right up front. If the profile was more than four paragraphs, five tops, you could be certain that the emotional baggage was equally heavy. Full disclosure is rarely required or desired.

Posting no photo is the kiss of death. You are either so hideous that no amount of good lighting can compensate or you are married.

The text of gay men's profiles reads like those legal document templates that you can buy on the Internet: Standard language that can be selected from a list to create a custom profile. “Comfortable in my own skin, Able to laugh at myself, well adjusted”. Often verbs are discarded entirely: “SWGM, D/D Free, Top, LTR optional”

When I finally felt comfortable and published my profile, it was a boost to receive some notice. A lot of that could be attributed to being fresh meat. The dating pool for a gay man is quite a bit smaller than the general population. The dating pool for a recently out, previously married forty something year old gay man with kids is somewhere closer to twenty. Half of these were of the five paragraph profile variety and the first ones to contact me. But still, it was a start: Enough to give me confidence to contact Paul.

For a long time I worried that people would think I was a six who thought he was an eight dating a ten. But eventually my confidence increased. The beauty of being with someone you love and find to be one of the most attractive people you know is that it increases your confidence. If Paul finds me irresistible, maybe that guy at the end of the bar really is checking me out.

The other night we were sitting side by side on the sofa and Paul rolled up magazine. He turned towards me with the magazine held up to his eye like a telescope and said something to the effect of “Hey there sailor”, In a flirty way. I put my eye up to the other end and his response was “Oh this close up of your eye is not a good look, I can see all of your wrinkles, it looks like your eye is 102 years old.” As my eyes narrowed he continued “It looks like a whale eye.” In my mind, I can’t turn the phrase 102 year old whale eye into any type of compliment. But I guess that’s the beauty of being in love. If I were a gambling man, I’d bet that there were no other eyes that he would rather look into.

Giving Thanks

2011-09-19T21:53:00.002-04:00

Sunday mornings in New Hampshire are sacred in our house. It is a time to pause and reflect. While the rest of the world may continue on its hurried pace I close my eyes and give thanks: Thanks for the extra sleep, and thanks for our “Sleep Number” bed. I am a 55 in case you are wondering. Thanks for the Keurig coffee maker and thanks for the Boston Globe being delivered to our corner store. Once Paul tried to pass off the local conservative paper when they had run out of the Globe. We don’t talk about that incident anymore.

This is how our Sunday mornings typically progress. Paul is up two hours before me. I stumble down stairs and am greeted with a “Hello sleepy head.” The kids are still sleeping and I manage to make a cup of coffee before sinking into the sofa and reading the newspaper. I Start reading the front page and follow in order each section until I reach the Ideas section, Parade next and the Globe magazine last. Traditions are important.

Today, I stumble downstairs and experience a shocking revelation. Paul is on speed. He doesn’t drink caffeine, so I can’t blame it on that. “Are you going to eat eggs or do you want a waffle?” He says. Before I can answer he adds “Because I’m cleaning the stove now, so if you’re going to have eggs you better make them now.” I am bewildered. I don’t answer questions on Sunday mornings for at least one hour after waking. I thought we all understood this. “Um, a waffle” I mumble. As soon as I set my coffee cup on the counter it is swiftly moved to a “containment” area for dirty things. I haven’t showered yet, so I am afraid that I will be quarantined next.

“So when you are done with your breakfast, I need you to do a few things.” Paul says as I witness a blur move from the kitchen into the family room. “Do a few things?” I think to myself. But this is Sunday. We don’t do things on Sunday morning. That is why God invented them. So that people could sleep late, read the paper and watch trash TV. Not only is he on drugs, but he has lost his religion!

While eating my waffle I narrow my eyes and watch Paul pull out every Yankee Candle that we own. Monique, our thirteen year old is fully absorbed with reading her book. I think it is a tactic to avoid getting swept up into all of this cleaning business. If she were in China, she would have sewn more than one hundred articles of clothing by this time in the morning.

“We need the bathrooms cleaned and there are flowers that need to be arranged throughout the house and I need you to stage the shelf in the dining room.” Paul spits out my tasks. All I can think of is where is my newspaper? That is what I live for on Sunday mornings. As if he is reading my mind: “Oh, the paper is on the front seat of the car. We need to be out of here by noon. The open house starts at one PM.”

“Haven’t we sold this house yet?” I am thinking to myself. “This house is too perfect. That’s why it hasn’t sold. People are intimidated.” I say out loud. Paul gives me a look that says. “You are not getting out of these chores.” I walk to the bathroom resigned to start cleaning. There is one of the Yankee Candles that Paul has placed throughout the house burning on top of the toilet: Mistletoe. It smells like someone shit a Christmas tree.

"Is it really necessary for our bathroom to smell like Christmas?” I yell out to Paul. Instead of answering he starts singing Christmas Carols. “Up on the toilet, plop, plop, plop, down through the plumbing goes Mr. Slop.” Pretty soon we are all singing Christmas carols in the middle of September. But it is Sunday, time to pause and reflect and make a little time for God. My mother would be so proud.

Boys Beware!

2011-09-16T15:22:00.000-04:00

While I am busy finishing up a writing assigment, I want to give you something to enjoy. A classic little film that will leave you laughing your asses off. Enjoy!

Boys Beware!

Hair

2011-09-08T21:37:00.002-04:00

My friend Tina has great hair. It falls in long luxurious cinnamon brown curls framing her face perfectly. Strangers offer her compliments on it. While I shuffle down the street never meeting anyone’s eyes, she waves and smiles as if she were the grand marshal in a parade. I would too if I had her hair. We are discussing this while sipping on long straws protruding from a fish bowl in a restaurant called the Red Lantern. This is the kind of deep conversation that spontaneously materializes when you have finished drinking the Yin scorpion bowl and are half way through the Yang.

“Well, now I do have a little help with it.” She says while taking a long sip and flipping her hair over her shoulders. I am not quite getting it. Then she continues to explain. “This hair” she says while grabbing a chunk on the top of her head “is real, and these on the sides are synthetic.”

I feel like I did when I asked my mother if Santa Claus was real. “What in the hell do you think?” My mother said absent-mindedly while exhaling a curl of cigarette smoke. Yes I was twelve and really should have known better, but at what age was I expected to discern the difference between real hair and a weave?

Paul and I lean forward as Tina begins to explain the process. “And it takes how long?” I ask. “Now I don’t just have anyone do it. You really need to have a ‘bff’ that can do it for you. We get to talking and laughing and then have a few drinks, so it can take the better part of a night.” she says, nodding like this is something we should already know.

“And how often do you have it done?” I ask.

At some point in a relationship you get to a stage where no spoken words are necessary. Paul and I have reached this point. His sidelong glance at me says “Don’t even think about it.” My raised eyebrows and slightly shrugged shoulders say “what, I can’t even think about how a weave would look on my head?”

Tina interrupts our telepathic conversation by pulling out her Blackberry and shows us a picture of herself at 18. “Is that you or Condoleeza Rice?” Paul asks. It’s true. The hair is a dead ringer, but the face is still Tina. She then flips to a more recent photo and suddenly the hair is blonde and full and I guess the best word is dangerous. This time she is Tina Turner.

“That was my Vegas hair.” She says. “I have a cruise coming up so I’ll have real hair woven in because the synthetic stuff curls up and honey, there is no straightening it after it hits the water.”

There are suddenly multiple Tina's. Who is the real one? My head becomes dizzy. I am not sure if it is from the parade of hair choices or the scorpion bowls.

“You should have seen Bill when we first met.” Paul chimes in. I am telepathically telling Paul to shut the hell up, but he is ignoring me. “His online photo looked so clean cut. Then he showed up at the restaurant with a shaved head and goatee. He looked like a biker. He was over two hundred pounds then, but when he got up from the table and walked away, I saw that cute little bu…” “OK, OK, she gets the picture!” I cut Paul off. I decide that it is better to get this conversation under my own control. So I pull out my iPhone and flip to my “biker” look.

“OK, all right now!” Surprisingly, Tina seems to like this look. I flip to a picture when I was twenty one. Yes, I actually have these photos on Facebook. “That’s my favorite. He looks like Clark Kent.” Paul says. It’s my favorite too. My hair was thick and jet black. I miss that hair. If you put all of my photos together you would see a repressed young Republican, a gay porno actor and finally a middle aged “let’s deal best with what’s left” look.

Our meal arrives and Tina is preparing to eat Sushi for the very first time. I point out the options and ask her to try the Caterpillar roll. She does not hesitate to place a whole piece in her mouth. After swallowing she says with pride “Can you believe it? I just ate a caterpillar!” I want to tell her that it’s not really made with caterpillars, but the fact that she thought it was and still ate it surprises me even more.

This is the real Tina: daring, sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy, but always beautiful, just like her hair.

Hands

2011-09-06T13:23:00.000-04:00

Her hands moved with a young woman’s grace but they carried the memories of harsh prairie winters and sun drenched days. How many times I watched them smooth unseen wrinkles from her grey woolen skirt and coax silver wisps of hair back into place. When my grandmother Mary thought of me did her hands remember the shape of my face?

They rest over her heart now just as they did when she watched my hands glide over piano keys: The echo of her heartbeat in my heart. She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother and a writer. Her hands were strong.

The section above is part of a 100 word challenge for adults, brought to you by The Head's Office. You can find other entries at http://www.theheadsoffice.co.uk/. The prompt for this week was ...Mary thought....and the genre chosen was non-fiction.

For whom the bell tolls

2011-08-30T13:05:00.000-04:00

John Donne wrote “Each man’s death diminishes me.” My mother has made it a personal mission to prove the point. I want to ask her “Why the sudden fascination with ancestors? We’re not Mormons.” but we’ve made a deal. I don’t joke about religion and she doesn’t ask when the hell I am going back to church. I am paraphrasing.

“Bill, I’ve made the connection! We’re related to William Brewster from the Mayflower!” She said.

I Google him, which is what I do when I want to appear intelligent, but haven’t a clue. That is when the alarm went off.

Apparently William Brewster was the elder pilgrim on the Mayflower and has tens of thousands of descendants. One is me and another one is Sarah Palin. It stings a little. Then I look at the remainder of “notable” descendants. My name is not yet on the list. But Richard Gere is there. That one is good. I imagine myself telling people “Oh, did I tell you that Dick, you know him as Richard, Gere and I are related? Can’t you see it in the eyes?”

I scan the rest of the list: Julia Child. That’s a party conversation starter. I can do my “Saturday Night Live” parody of her. I pretend to bleed profusely and say in that distinctive voice “Now make sure you save the liver” and drop to the floor. Wait for the laughter and applause and then hit them with the punch “Well, I suppose I do such a good job of imitating her because we’re related, you know.”

There are other famous people as well, Ted Danson, Katherine Hepburn and Ashley Judd. I was meant to be famous, it’s in my blood: But what to do with this pesky Sarah Palin relationship? She has “gay friends”, she’s said so herself. But now that she has a pink branch in the family tree would she suddenly change her views?

Paul and I would show up at her house in Alaska and ring the doorbell, which I imagine is in the shape of a wolf or caribou’s head. “Sarah, it’s been ages! Now listen, we don’t want you to make a fuss. You go on and take the kids to soccer while Paul and I make ourselves at home. We’re just going to soak in this lovely view of Russia. Go on now, shoo!” We would tidy up the place, take down the awful animal heads in the living room, and arrange the furniture so that it made sense. Then we would prepare a nice meal that would not consist of moose meat.

“Now I know we shouldn’t talk politics Sarah, but as your relatives, I have to tell you that when you say that you ‘tolerate’ gay people it comes off as well, how shall we say it? Oh, ignorant.” At this point it would become clear that Paul and I have overstayed our welcome while looking down the barrel of her rifle. And honestly this line of reasoning has not worked with some of our closer relatives, why should it work with such a distant one?

I take another look at the list of William Brewster descendants and cannot find a common thread. There are suffragists, Senators, the co-founder of the ACLU, a president and the inventor of the roller skate. Then it becomes clear. They all had a vision. Most of us do. William Brewster acted on his vision and came to Plymouth four hundred years ago seeking freedom. I have found mine fifty miles from that spot. My namesake William and his descendants have paved the way for my freedom to marry the person I love. John Donne was right, each man’s death does diminish me, but more importantly, each man’s life magnifies me.

The first section above the picture is part of a 100 word challenge for adults, brought to you by The Head's Office. You can find other entries at http://www.theheadsoffice.co.uk/. The prompt for this week was ...The alarm went off....

Call of the Wild

2011-08-26T08:07:00.000-04:00

At some point in our lives we begin to understand and accept our strengths and weaknesses. This is a good thing, if for no other reason than to answer that pesky interview question. “Life coaches” explain that there are good weaknesses and bad weaknesses. During an interview you want to reveal the good ones. These are easy to spot because they are actually strengths masquerading as weaknesses, like a sheep in wolf’s clothing. “I’m a perfectionist!” or “I really need to develop more of a work/life balance” said with a slightly weary but cheerful demeanor implies that you will be working your ass off.

If you are asked “What is your biggest weakness?” and reply “Oh, pornography” or “I’m a mean drunk” you have revealed a bad weakness and will most likely not be offered the job. If you do get the job, congratulations: expect some exceptional office holiday parties.

I was thinking about my strengths and weaknesses while curled in a fetal position on the back seat of a parked Chevy Impala at four AM in a Maine forest. The conditions were far from ideal, but self-improvement is rarely comfortable. At the very least, it requires a departure from your comfort zone. Lying in the back seat of that Chevy was about as far away from my comfort zone as I cared to venture.

Several weeks ago Paul said that he and the kids were going camping. He used that “You’ve never joined us before, and there really is no excuse” tone. In a moment of weakness, which for me is a gin and tonic, I agreed to join them: For one night of their four night adventure.

I tried to convince myself that this time, it would be different. I’ll try harder. Reasoning it out like a battered spouse should have been a warning sign. Previous camping experiences as an adolescent boy scout consisted of wet stinky tents, unidentifiable food, sleep deprivation and listening to a variety of body noises, none of which particularly appealed to me. But time had softened the edges and as I bought my train ticket bound for Maine, I was actually a bit giddy.

Paul and the kids picked me up at the station. “Our campsite is a little close to the Interstate, but the constant sound of the cars is like white noise. It will help you sleep.” Paul said optimistically. I was willing to believe him. As we pulled into the campground, I must admit, it was beautifully groomed. Then we drove deeper and deeper into the woods, until it was eternally dusk.

On our walk to the pool I couldn’t help but notice that the only language I heard was French. How very cosmopolitan I thought. A young French Canadian family consisting of a mother and her six year old boy and four year old girl joined us at the pool. Here is an interesting observation, when children whine in French; it is just as irritating as it is in English. Now my French is a little rusty, but even I could figure out that the girl was not happy that her older brother was trying to drown her. Maybe the mother was a deaf French Canadian.

There really is little else to do at night while camping than sit by a camp fire and drink. Fortunately, I happen to like burning things and enjoy a nice glass or two or five of wine. As the evening wore on, I began to find more things to burn, the wine cork, the trash, pine needles and finally, the wine bottles themselves. I watched them all curl and melt and felt a strange fascination in the destruction of everyday objects. Paul was scared.

Crawling into the tent, I felt sufficiently buzzed enough to pass out and sleep through the night. Then I heard the cars, and motorcycles and Mack trucks. Layered on top of that was Paul’s snoring, which apparently he only does while sleeping on an air mattress in a tent. Somehow I was able to fall asleep, only to be awakened by a troupe of French Canadian hippies that decided to camp next to us at 3:00 AM. Can Canadians not afford hotels? I was covered in a moist cold filmy dew. For a while I lay there listening to Paul’s snoring, drunk French singing and muffler-less cars in the distance: the sounds of nature. Unable to stand it any longer, I crawled into the back seat of our car, and bent my legs back upon themselves.

“Ok, now I can check this off my bucket list” I thought to myself. But what occurred to me was that now I have a weakness masquerading as strength. When someone asks me what one of my greatest strengths is, I will say “I can make the best of bad situations”, but what I will be thinking is “I like to burn things.”

Fo shizzle!

2011-08-23T10:51:00.000-04:00

This is a one hundred word challenge for grown ups. This week’s prompt are the words "Brabble", "Growlery" and "Foozle". You can find other entries at:

http://www.theheadsoffice.co.uk/

He always wins at Jeopardy, always. Before Alex Trebek has even finished reading the question, my boo is shouting out some answer like “Brabble”, “Growlery” or “Foozle”. What do those words even mean? Who has space in their head for such words? Not me.

I’m keeping it real, Yo. While he uses that antiquated bullshit, I’mma stick with phat words that have lasting power, for real. My vocabulary is bomb diggity! All ya’ll h8ters can keep on shoutin’ out your Jeopardy answers and this G will stick to the classics. Words that will never go out of style, fo shizzle!

Say what?

2011-08-21T16:55:00.000-04:00

If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, where are gay men from? Let’s avoid the obvious potty-mouth “Uranus” answer, shall we? Like most self-help books, the 1992 best seller took a broad swipe and ended up stereo-typing genders. I should probably preface my comments by saying that I never actually read the book. But Wikipedia does a pretty good job of summarizing. The premise is that men and women communicate differently, as if they were from different planets. Men grunt, retreat to their man caves and consider taking out the trash to be huge displays of affection. While women whine about their feelings and are like Glen Close in Fatal Attraction: I will not be ignored, Dan! I’m sure there were some witty observations, funny anecdotes and nice workshops, but that’s all you really need to know about the book. The only truth is that everyone, EVERYONE is from different planets.

Paul and I are both men, but we communicate as if we speak different languages. Over the years I have figured out about 50% of his language. Throw in some alcohol and there is less than a fifty-fifty chance that I am going to understand Paul-speak.

The Eskimos have eighteen different words for snow. Paul is like an Eskimo in reverse, using one word to describe eighteen. That word is “little”. He uses it constantly. It can mean cute: as in “Look at your little shorts!” or it can mean low-calorie: as in “I had a little salad.” But sometimes he throws it together with cute for a more nuanced effect “There is a cute little restaurant over there.”, which actually gets me confused, because I’m not sure if it is a “cute- cute” restaurant or a low-calorie restaurant, or really a small restaurant.

There is one thing that is never allowed to be called little whether it means cute or not.

Another phrase that Paul uses is “You need to”. I am told that this really means “I would advise you to.” I discovered this bit of lexicon after a “discussion” that we had early on in our relationship. After the third “you need to” was uttered I became very quiet, which Paul quickly learned was “you better shut the fuck up.” But he never gets angry with me. He may get “frustrated” or “tired” or “confused”, but never angry, which makes arguments extremely difficult to figure out.

The other evening we had a “discussion” by telephone that I would like to share for educational purposes. Allow me to deconstruct it for you:

Paul: “I read your little blog post.” Translation: (It is too early in the conversation to figure out the meaning of this “little” yet, we will translate the rest before deciphering.)

Me: “Did you like it?” Translation: “I need validation!”

Paul: “Very cute.” Translation: “It sucked.” (Intonation and brevity are key here. Also, we can now decipher the first “little” to mean “trivial”)

Me: “Oh, you didn’t think it was funny?” Translation: “My humor is above you”

Paul: “I think I was too close to the situation.” Translation: “I can’t friggn’ believe that you wrote about me again!”

Paul: “You sound tired.” Translation: “You’re pissed”

Me: “I am tired.” Translation: “You’re right I’m pissed!”

Paul: “OK, why don’t you go to bed and I’ll talk to you in the morning.” Translation: “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore. Call me when you’re not being such an ass.”

Me: “OK. Love you.” Translation: “I may not like you right now, but I love you.”

Paul: “Love you too” Translation: “Ditto.”

As you can see this whole translation business can be extremely tedious. Throw in some wordplay, intonation, regional differences and as you can imagine, complete understanding becomes downright impossible. But when Paul greets me on the train platform after a week of absence we resort to the most basic of all, body language, which is never misunderstood.

Real Estate Blues

2011-08-18T18:59:00.002-04:00

“It’s sold, boys, come on home. I’m making myself a cocktail!” Our manic realtor has reached an all-time high. I can hear his elated voice through Paul’s phone. “He’s making himself a cocktail?” I ask. It’s not strange that he is drinking. It’s strange that he is drinking in our house. Alone. I suddenly have a vision of him lying on our bed luxuriating in $100 dollar bills, à la Demi Moore in “Indecent Proposal.” It is not a pretty picture, trust me.

We decided to sell our house in New Hampshire four months ago. Paul chose Hank by throwing a dead cat into the air and hitting the first realtor. “Did you use Yelp or get references?” I asked Paul. “Out of the three realtors I spoke with, he’s the one that stayed in contact with me. I think it shows how engaged he’ll be, you know?” No, I don’t know. I think a history of selling houses may have been a more accurate barometer of his abilities. Sending e-mails and making phone calls is something that my teenage daughters are capable of. But, I don’t remember them being in the running.

Hank is a short middle aged man with a cigarette induced gravelly voice, and a nose twice as big as it should be for his face. He is not the first image I conjure when someone says realtor. Now if you said used car salesman, Hank would be that image. “OK, let’s see what you’ve got, boys.” Hank said as he began to tour our house. On a loop through the first floor he says “Nicely decorated living room!” On the second loop “Hey, you’ve got a Family Room!” Paul and I look at each other dumbfounded. He is like a goldfish circling the bowl. Everything is new again after one go around. “Actually, Hank, that’s the Living Room you just noticed.” Paul tries to be polite. “Living Room, Family Room, whatevah’. Hey, that’s a bar!” He is pointing at a grouping of glasses hanging above a small section of the kitchen counter. “That adds value!” Later I would realize the value he saw in our bar was mostly personal.

But Hank appealed to our vanity. “Your house is perfect! Not a thing I can tell you to change, it’s a model home.” So, we signed him on. He produced a virtual tour of our house and e-mailed the link to me at work, with this recommendation “Turn up the volume so you can enjoy the music!” I clicked on the link and jazzy porn music from the 80’s came blaring out of my speakers. Embarrassed, I scrambled to lower the volume. Images of our house faded in and out with captions. “A room to relax in”, “lush gardens” and my personal favorite “Martini’s anyone?” describing our newly discovered martini bar. The cheesy captions, jazz music, and soft focus all had me wondering if soon there would be a beefy actor stepping out of the shower reciting a poorly written porno script: “Oh hello, I am the plumber. I just used my long snake to clean your drain. I hope you don’t mind that I used your shower but I was so dirty. You look dirty too.”

I lamented to my friend Cary. “I don’t know about our realtor. Sometimes I wonder if he is just hanging out at our house drinking when we’re not there.” If anyone can understand, it’s Cary. He has been trying to sell his Laundromat for a year. “My realtor is soooo unprofessional. I told him that I was desperate and would take any offer.” Cary says. I can truly sense the desperation in his face and voice. “Do you know what my realtor said? That he might be interested in buying the Laundromat. Is that even ethical? So then he sends me an e-mail with the subject ‘My Interest’ which made me think that maybe he was serious. The e-mail said ‘I told you I might be interested in buying the Laundromat. Yeah, I’m not...’ Bastard” Cary has the same look of desperation that I have on my face. I tell him “Don’t worry, it will sell.” But I think I’m trying to convince myself.

When we pull into the driveway, Hank is standing with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “They want everything! The house, the furniture, they loved it all. Asians, they’ve got money.” I am preparing to deliver my “Oh, no you didn’t just say that speech” when he interrupts. “Let’s go price out the rooms!” Hank walks into the kitchen, pours himself another drink and says “Let’s price out the furniture, but not the kitchen table, my wife wants that, actually, she wants the trunk in the bedroom too.” And then it hits me, it’s not just Hank spending time in our house, but his wife too. In the bedroom no less. I am worrying if they have rummaged through the night stand when Hank says. “Oh, there’s a funny smell in here. I think it’s your drain. I put a lemon down my drain every day. Every day I have a gin and tonic and the lemon goes down the drain. You should keep some lemons here.” Subtlety is not Hank’s strong suit.

“So let me ask you a personal question.” Hank says, delirious from a possible offer and two gin and tonics. “You and Paul are a couple of good guys..” Uh-oh, here it comes. The dreaded “but” clause. “But, how could you give up women?” Or “But, how do you decide who’s on top?” or my favorite “But, when did you make the choice?” But then he surprises me with an “And” clause. “And my brother in law has had a tough time with ‘partners’”. He says using air quotes. “Do you have any single friends?”

Suddenly, I start to think that Hank might be an OK guy: part of the family. Sort of like your Uncle Larry that shows up unannounced, drinks your liquor and then asks you to pull his finger. “OK, well give it some thought” Hank says and just like that he is gone.

It’s been four days now with no offer and little word from Hank. I have no idea when he’ll show up again, but when he does, I better have some lemons.

Divorce

2011-08-17T07:54:00.000-04:00

This is a one hundred word challenge for grown ups. This week’s prompt is the sun shone but. You can find other entries at:

http://www.theheadsoffice.co.uk/

Can I stop the clock?

I see them breathing, but there is no air. Through the open windows the sun shone but they were still sleeping. It is time to go now but my feet won’t move. I’ll count to ten; kiss them on the forehead and go. That’s it. I will pretend that I am just going to work and at the end of the day I will be home.

One kiss for Katherine and one kiss for Taylor. But my heart knows better. It beats but there is no blood. The sun shone but there was no light.

A penny for your thoughts

2011-08-15T20:00:00.000-04:00

Neat rows of corn and tobacco plants flicker by the car window like the spokes of a wheel. Hours go by without a word spoken between us. Then my father’s voice breaks the silence as he pats my leg.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

There are complete conversations in my head, but I offer up “Nothing.”

“Must be awfully lonely in that head.”

He reaches out to pat my leg again, but misses as he looks at the road straight ahead. He smiles, lights another cigarette and exhales a curling snake of smoke.

“Yep, awfully lonely.”

I turn my head to look at the green fields of North Carolina stretching into a forest of trees on the horizon and wonder where they end.

Floating on my back in the frigid Maine Ocean water I find memories of my father caught in the hollow of the waves tumbling over and over again. I point my feet towards the shore and let the sun warm my face, wondering for a moment if I am still thirteen and have just dreamt the last thirty five years.

I stand up, turn around and see a single white sail leaning into the wind brilliant against the blue sky where it meets the water. Turning back toward shore I see Paul on the beach and breathe a sigh of relief.

I join him on the beach. We lie on our backs and let the sun dry us. An hour goes by before he turns toward me, opens one eye, squinting from the sun and points a finger at me. “What are you thinking about? Right now!” He says this in a quick way to signify that I cannot change my mind or interpret my thoughts.

“I was just thinking I wish I was a professional writer”

“But you are a professional writer.” He says

“Technically, I would have to be paid.”

“Well, I could pay you.” He says

“You wouldn’t be paying me for my writing. That might make me a prostitute, but not a professional writer.”

“We have college bills to pay; maybe prostitution is the way to go.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man approaching four hundred pounds in a thong swimsuit walk towards the ocean.

“I’ll keep on writing.” I say.

The day stretches into evening as we join our friends on the front porch of the Inn while a full moon floats over the pine trees. Paul is recounting a story from his trip to Wells to buy cheese.

“It’s a good day to be Irish. Do you know what we’re talking about?” Paul is quoting the shop owner.

“No”

“We’re talking about the English; they all want to be Irish.” There is disdain in the shopkeeper’s voice.

“Well, I must be conflicted, because my mother is Irish Catholic and my father is English Protestant.” Paul says

“Well at least you’re not one of those queers!” The shopkeeper says.

“Actually, I am.” Paul says as he grabs the cheese and walks out.

We are dumbfounded as we look at the wedge of brie sitting on the table. I grab the knife slice the cheese, take a bite and say. “Homophobic brie is actually pretty good!”

I am thinking about Paul’s story while we sit in traffic on the trip back to Boston; the sunny days of the weekend already fading into memories under a cloudy sky. Paul looks out of the corner of his eye at me and says:

“What are you thinking about? Right now!”

I consider saying nothing, but then “I was thinking even though strangers may hate me, I’m glad that I don’t hate myself anymore.” Paul pats my leg and smiles. I look through the window of the car, past the traffic and close my eyes. There is a single white sail leaning into the wind, brilliant against the blue sky where it meets the water.

Comfortable in my own skin

2011-08-11T22:29:00.000-04:00

This is a one hundred word challenge for grown ups. This week’s prompt is the picture listed below. You can find other entries at:

http://www.theheadsoffice.co.uk/

Browsing through the online profiles, I begin to notice a formula. Amazingly, they are all well-adjusted, travelled, “comfortable in my own skin” men. They all seem so complete that I begin to wonder why they would possibly want to screw it up by including someone else in their lives.

But then I begin to meet them and it becomes clear that aside from being pathological liars their profile pictures were merely an approximation. Let’s just say that the right lighting and certain angles can make even Quasimodo look like George Clooney. But nothing could prepare me for this profile picture.

Shut up and drive!

2011-08-10T17:39:00.001-04:00

I rarely drive. But I am awesome at giving advice to Paul while he drives.

Unencumbered by all of those driving gadgets like gas pedals, steering wheels and odometer thingies I can really concentrate on the important aspects that make car travel pleasant such as the selection of music and temperature control. I find that being separated from the mechanics of driving makes me a superior and impartial back seat driver.

Paul does not agree.

This morning I offered a bit of obvious advice that I thought he might find helpful. You should not read e-mail while driving on the streets of Boston. Because 1) It is illegal and 2) you will miss your turn. To which Paul countered, 1) did we get the fuck where we were going? Because 2) there is a bus that can take me there.

Paul seems to think that an elephant could fit in the space between our car and the next while I believe only a mouse would fit. Several times I reached for the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side with both of my feet.

“This brake pedal doesn’t work!” I say with mock alarm.

“Thank God. We’d be stopping every five seconds if it did.” Paul says wearily.

A few months ago, Paul had an asthma attack in the middle of the night. He dressed; tip toed out of the bedroom and checked into the Emergency room. After his treatment, he came back home and slipped back into bed. I was completely oblivious to all of the above, which makes me a rotten husband.

The next morning I woke up, got dressed and went to the gym. I sensed that Paul had a restless night. So I did not wake him, which makes me a loving husband. I returned from the gym and noticed a bracelet on Paul’s arm, which upon closer inspection I identified as a hospital ID bracelet.

Shaking him awake I say “Did you go to the hospital last night?”

“I had a tough time breathing”

“And you didn’t wake me?”

“What could you have done?”

“Well, for starters I could have driven you!”

“Sweetie, your driving would have made it harder for me to breathe.”

Apparently, not only am I a horrid back seat driver, but an equally horrid front seat driver. I’ll admit I suck at parallel parking. Paul constantly says “It’s all about the angles.” Like this should mean something to me. But with ten cars behind me honking their horns the only angle I can think of is how I can slant this to appear as if I really wanted to switch between drive and reverse fifteen times while trying to park.

And OK, I’ll admit that I can be a bit cautious while driving. But driving is a risky business and you can never be too careful when trying to turn at a busy intersection. I check left, then right, then left again and right and then left once more just for good measure.

“Does Polly want a cracker?” Paul says.

“What?”

“You look like a parrot, bobbing your head up and down and back and forth.”

This is the kind of negative feedback that can damage a marriage. But if I’m going to be completely honest, I don’t look that good driving. Not compared to Paul. He has an easy grace sitting in the driver seat with his long legs and sexy confidence. While I look like an eighty year old man hunched over the steering wheel, nervous and fidgety.

So I will be Miss Daisy to his Hoke and let him drive and not say one word. Because those negative comments really serve no good purpose. But, I will still control the selection of music. Oh, the stories I could tell about his taste in music.

Baa-Baa Billy

2011-08-07T17:58:00.004-04:00

“Nick, I am giving you an A plus for this project, but please don’t ever, ever write children’s books.” This was the alarmed warning from my step-son’s high school teacher after he turned in his children’s book project titled “Baa-Baa Billy”. Of course I was intrigued. I am the title character. I felt a swelling of pride and asked Nick to tell me the story:

Baa-Baa Billy wandered a lonely road far from the tiny farming village that was his lambhood home. But his heart was full of wonder and his fluffy tail twitched with glee as the rocky road before him stretched into the distant hills.

His tiny hooves had carried him through the village gates with a soft click-click in the dark deep black of night while all the other farm animals slept and dreamt of buckets of oats and grain. But Baa-Baa Billy had bigger dreams. Dreams that were bigger than his simple little sheep’s brain: A pasture of his own.

“Why hello!” a deep voice called. The click-click of Billy’s hooves stopped and his little pouf of hair stood on end.

“Who’s there?” Baa-Baa Billy bleated.

“Lucifer’s my name, but you can call me Luke.”

Now because Baa-Baa Billy was so simple and could not concentrate hard enough to keep his eyes from crossing. He failed to see that his life had suddenly taken a terrible and horrifying turn.

“I’m Baa-Baa Billy!” he bleated with glee.

“Well of course you are and you are seeking a pasture of your own! I happen to own a pasture that is of no use to me.”

Baa-Baa Billy began to dance and kick up his mud covered hooves as he baa-baa’ed with abandon and joy. It was such a horrible happy sound that Lucifer covered his leathery ears and shouted:

“Quiet you stupid little piece of mutton!”

Baa-Baa Billy had no idea what mutton was but there was something in the way that Lucifer licked his pointed teeth that even poor little simple Billy could understand.

“The pasture can be all yours for such a small price.” Lucifer said this slowly so that Billy could understand.

“Baa, baa-but I have nothing to give you” Billy said as huge tear drops gathered in his wide eyes.

“The price is your soul: A pittance.”

Poor Billy had no idea what a soul was, but in a moment of confidence strange for such as small lamb he said:

“My soul is quite lovely, certainly worth more than your pasture.”

Lucifer scratched his scaly head and in a moment of pure inspiration said:

“Take this Hannah Montana CD as a down payment and give me your soul”

Poor little Billy was such a big fan that he snatched the CD in his mouth as Lucifer’s terrible smile stretched from ear to ear. Just then the village farmer spotted Billy and came running down the road.

The earth began to tremble and shake and just below Billy’s hooves the road split in two.

“Please Luke, give me my pasture before the farmer catches me!” Billy bleated.

“Your pasture? Why of course it’s your pasture, but your soul is mine and must be stored in hell. I will let you leave if you give me 99 human souls. A sheep’s soul is so tiny that it is only worth that Hannah Montana CD.”

Billy’s eyes grew wide as the farmer reached for his neck. Billy spit out the CD and clamped down hard on the farmer’s leg with his crooked buck teeth, soul number one. The earth swallowed them both whole. The stretch of country road stood empty, save for a Hannah Montana CD. Billy’s soul was devoured and the world never noticed the difference.

I am silent for a moment. I get up from the table and then hug Nick. This is pure genius! My husband Paul gives me a bewildered look and says “OK, now I know you two are related.”

It's just me (100 word challenge)

2011-08-05T13:37:00.014-04:00

This is a one hundred word challenge for grown ups. This week’s prompt, 5 words: ripple,brood, evocative, lilt and untoward (which can be used in any order). You can find other entries at:

http://www.theheadsoffice.co.uk/

“Hello sweetie, it’s just me.” This is the beginning of his every voice mail; always in that sing-song lilt. The first part is good enough; it’s the second part that seems so untoward.

“It’s just a million dollars.”

“It’s just a Renoir”

But that is Paul; never recognizing that his existence has sent a ripple through my life. We sit silently on the T as it carries us through the warm summer night.

“You are not ‘just me’” I don't mean to brood.

“But that is who I am.”

“You are everything” is my evocative reply.

But that’s just me.

Too shy, shy

2011-08-02T23:48:00.000-04:00

“There’s nothing to see in here folks, nothing to see.” Sam is holding up my jacket stretched wide between his arms as if it were a curtain. I am on one side and every other man who walks through the bathroom door is on the other. His statement produces the opposite effect of its intention. Everyone who enters the restroom is acutely interested in what, exactly, is on the other side of that jacket. At one point I overhear a curious onlooker peeking over the jacket say “What, does he have a vagina?”

“Dammit, Sam” I whisper to myself. He told me this bathroom was private and refurbished. But it is an open bank of urinals with no partitions and immediately within full view to the entire bar when the door swings open.

“William, I’m serious, take a look at the bathroom. You’re not going to believe how beautiful it is.” That is what Sam said when we first entered the bar. If Sam knows anything about me, it is that I am as gullible as my bladder is shy. I walked into the restroom expecting the best but seeing the worst. The look of disgust on my face as I turn back around and walk out of the bathroom has Sam laughing so hard that he has to catch his breath.

Still laughing Sam says, “Ok, come on you pussy, let’s go in and I’ll cover for ya’.” Surprisingly, this statement makes sense to me. Surprising because I am again believing the friend that told me the “Eagle Bar” bathroom is the Taj Mahal of bathrooms. Not surprising because two gin and tonics ago my bladder reached capacity.

So I find myself standing in the spotlight like an actor trying to remember his lines backstage before the curtains are lifted. The urinal is my audience. Relieved, I remember my line.

I have always hated public restrooms. Why do women get complete privacy while men have to stand side by side while they expose themselves? This is why women go in groups. I think they sometimes go to the restroom and never do anything in their three foot by four foot room of privacy but chat and paint their nails, because they can. They are gloating.

I love it when bars or restaurants have single occupancy restrooms. The only time that a single occupancy bathroom does not work is on airplanes. Airlines are under the impression that paper is a suitable substance for bathroom walls and two feet by two feet is ample space to pull your pants down. If that were not intimidating enough the flight attendant is always sitting on the other side of the folding cardboard door listening intently for any embarrassing sounds. Would it kill her to tell the eighty year old man jiggling the damn bathroom handle that the red light above his withered grey head means that someone is in the bathroom closet concentrating?

On a recent flight home from San Francisco to Boston, my husband Paul was in the restroom before the plane took off. A woman in her fifties prepared to sit in the middle seat between me and Paul. “Oh, I am travelling with my husband, would you like my window seat?” I say. “I’d prefer the aisle seat.” She says and immediately plops her presumptive ass down in the aisle seat. I hate her. But then I exact my revenge. I will drink more water and soda than my bladder can handle and then trouble her each time I need to get up. I am writing this as she sits next to me. She is probably nosy too. Oh well, one more bottle of water down and now one more trip to the bathroom closet.

Blue and Gay

2011-07-26T15:23:00.000-04:00

“How many Yankees were there? 10,000! How many Rebels? TWO! What did they do? CHARGE! What did they do? CHARGE! What did they do? CHARGE!” I am performing a cheer for Paul that we used at our community swim meets when I was growing up in North Carolina in the 1970’s. The wide eyed look on his face is one of bewilderment and worry. If I could read his mind I think it might be saying “Mental note: check the mail for any telltale ties to hate groups”.

“Your mascot was a rebel? Ok, not only is that borderline offensive, but stupid too: Two men against 10,000?” Paul says. “Well, think of it in terms of the movie ‘300.’” I toss this out as a bit of homoerotic mind candy in the hopes that the image will wipe away the last thirty seconds. But I have forgotten that Paul prefers my “mono-pack” to Gerard Butler’s “six pack”. So I decide to have fun with it. “Oh, we had a children’s TV show called The Old Rebel. I was on the show when I was in second grade.” Not surprisingly, Paul’s expression does not change.

If there is a negative stereotype that New Englanders apply to Southerners it is that we are a bit slow on the uptake and racist. Exhibit A: My swim team cheer. But being a part of a minority group myself, I realized long ago that racism and stereotypes are by-products of fear, hatred (many times self-hatred) and stupidity. Southerners themselves are apt to apply a negative stereotype to “Yankees” as anyone north of the Mason Dixon line is called.

“Ya’ll are moving to Bawston? That’s almost a foreign country! People are different there!” One of my neighbors’ said when I told her I was moving from Virginia years ago. And I knew that what she meant by “foreign country” was both literal and figurative. Boston was basically southern Canada and Yankees were rude, brash and liberal. The liberal part suited me just fine. It was the rude thing that I was worried about.

My brother Jake from North Carolina visited us a week ago on a work related trip and sent me this e-mail: “I would say that people don't really say "good morning" or look up at you when you try to say it.” I laughed when I read the e-mail, picturing him trying to engage people on the street. But his e-mail pretty much summed up what I had forgotten. The pleasantries and genteelness of the south are not as evident here. And I began to think about how I missed them.

When Paul and I were planning our wedding vows, I worked for months on just the right words and selection of readings. During a planning session I recited all of those words to our Justice of the Peace and then looked at Paul. “Ditto” was his reply. “Ditto? I worked for months on this and your reply is ditto?” This was clearly the difference between north and south. Paul’s reply was direct, simple and true: “Actions speak louder than words.”

I might miss the nice words and southern hospitality. And I might not always like the frank directness of my fellow New Englanders. But I am an equal here. Actions speak louder than words.

Hold the phone!

2011-07-21T21:50:00.015-04:00

“Well if he is good enough to spend time with Justin Brenner then he’s good enough for me!” I am listening reluctantly to a stranger’s phone conversation on the bus. As far as I can tell, “Justin Brenner” is the young man talking on a cell phone about himself in the third person. Basically he is saying that if this “Mr. Wonderful” is good enough to spend time with him, then he, Justin Brenner, is good enough to spend time with that someone else. It is the stupidest shit I have heard in a long time. Could the bar be set any lower? Following his logic, a stray cat, a stalker and a kidnapper all stand the same chances of becoming his Mr. Right. I am rooting for the kidnapper.

I really shouldn’t be so critical, but because he is talking so loudly not only do I have the right, but also the responsibility to judge him. His tone comes across as “Hey kids, let’s put on a show!” which adds to the irritation factor.

“I know it’s only been two weeks, but I have a good feeling about this!” He says. I laugh out loud and Justin quickly turns to look at me. I look down at my book and pretend to be amused by what I am reading. Pointing my index finger at a paragraph in my book and chuckling.

There is something particularly irritating about hearing half of a conversation in a public area. Not just any public area, but in spaces where I cannot get away, such as buses, check-out lines, the subway and public restrooms. Maybe it’s the fact that I am only allowed to hear one half of the equation.

I can't say that this is a recently acquired irritation. I have had to deal with this since childhood. My mother would talk on the wall mounted phone located next to the den for hours at a time.

“uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh” Pause and then “OK,OK,OK,OK”

She sounded like a record player that needed to be bumped. Irritated, I would yell at my brother “What did Dr. Bellows say? Turn up the TV!” My brother would have to actually get up off of the floor and manually turn up the volume.

I know what you’re thinking. I could have escaped my mother’s phone conversation, but there was simply no way around it. This was the 1970’s. In our home, there was one TV, one phone and no way to record “I dream of Jeannie”. My brothers and I were prisoners.

Eventually my mother stretches the phone cord and steps into the den, snapping her fingers while staring at me. I point at my brother with a questioning look as if to say “You want Jake?” My mother shakes her head, snaps her fingers again and points at something in the room while silently mouthing some indistinguishable word. “The lamp? The cat? You want the cat?” I say while picking up our bewildered cat named Al. I am looking at my mother with an expectant look.

“Hold on Sootie!” My mother says in a half irritated, half apologetic tone and then covers the receiver. “Why would I want the damn cat? THAT! Give me THAT pen!” I drop the cat and it is at this point that I realize I would be in trouble if I were a deaf child. My mother’s hand signals and lip movements are a foreign language.

After grudgingly handing my mother a pen, I return to “I dream of Jeannie” and begin to think of what my three wishes would be. 1) There would be multiple TV sets in the house. 2) Telephones that could be used anywhere and 3) The ability to read someone’s mind so that they would not snap their fingers and yell at you when you couldn’t read their lips.

It is the future and I realize that all of my wishes have come true. For the most part this is good. Except that the number two wish has enabled number three. We listen to everyone’s thoughts each day while they chatter incessantly on their mobile phones. I have to reconsider my third wish. Who wants to be privy to someone’s rambling thoughts anyway?

Creepy little baby teeth

2011-07-17T22:05:00.000-04:00

Determined to obtain a movie star smile in 2003 I started a journey that would ultimately lead to the murder of one of my babies. “People look at your smile and they can tell something is off, they just don’t know exactly what it is.” I knew that my smile was off, but I didn’t realize how off it was. From that moment on, I worried that people would see me smile and think “Freak!” I had come to see the orthodontist for my crooked teeth, but apparently there was much more wrong with me than I realized. Not only did I have crooked British teeth but “Peg lateral incisors” too.

On either side of my two middle upper teeth were two small stunted teeth. The rest of my mouth had matured, while the two little upper lateral incisors where eternally young. Just like Peter Pan they refused to grow up. I never noticed them before, but as my orthodontist pointed out, oh people noticed, they just couldn’t put their finger on why my smile was so bizarre.

My orthodontist had great hopes of improving my smile power, but half way through the process I moved from Virginia to Boston. Two years later, my new orthodontist was less enthusiastic about creating a Tom Cruise smile. “What do you say we remove those braces now and just put a little bonding on the lateral incisors? There really is no way to make enough room. They look fine.” I fell for it. In retrospect, I should have realized that he was just lazy and couldn’t see my vision. But I was tired of sitting next to the other awkward thirteen and fourteen year old boys and girls in the open concept office, listening to their junior high school prom stories.

When I moved into the city, I changed dentists again and during a routine cleaning the hygienist commented on my teeth. “Wow, you have really straight teeth; it’s too bad that you still have those two baby teeth.” I had a little melt down. “I know, I tried to get them fixed and now I’m stuck with them!” She sat me up, gave me a tissue and told me to rinse. Moments later the dentist was in the office describing how he could shave the two middle teeth and fit “enamel jackets” around the two baby teeth and my smile would finally look normal.

I was ecstatic. That night at dinner I had a little coming out party for my baby teeth. “See them?” I asked while pointing to them.

“Oh, yeah, I never noticed, they’re so cute!” Paul said.

“No they aren’t. They’re hideous! Don’t look at me.”

“Oh, but I like your creepy little baby teeth.”

“Well take a good look at them, because tomorrow, I’m putting them up for adoption!”

And just like that I sealed their fate. Well, not quite just like that. If I was going to get rid of my creepy little baby teeth, I might as well whiten the remaining teeth. It was called Zoom whitening, but in my opinion it should really be called “Holy shit! Whitening” because that is what I was saying as I felt the electric “zingers” that were a result of the bleaching agent hitting the nerves of my teeth.

But the end result was perfection in my mind. Even if I had to point it out to everyone. “Oh yeah, OK, I see it now, I never noticed the other teeth.”

That was one year ago and now I am sitting in the dentists’ office looking at an x-ray of a dying baby. “It couldn’t take the trauma of the re-shaping. See this dark area? That is an abscess. We’ll have to drill through the tooth and remove the inside and fill it with cement.” I am heartbroken. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so cavalier about giving them up. But then I hear an exchange in the lobby area. “Oh my gawd! He says I have to have a root canal and it’s going to cost six hundred bucks!” A woman says to her husband. “How much to just pull it?” The husband asks.

How callous, I think to myself. They are ready to toss the tooth away for the price of six nice dinners out on the town. Not me, I am much more caring. I will memorialize my tooth and preserve it. But maybe the dentist can shape my eye tooth just a little while he’s in there.

Never can say goodbye

2011-07-14T22:16:00.000-04:00

My father never could say goodbye. You know the feeling: Someone across the room that you really don’t recognize waves and smiles at you. You return the smile and wave eagerly thinking “Oh, hello…you!” Then you realize the intended recipient of the wave is behind you. It’s embarrassing and awkward. Just like conversations with my father on the telephone. One minute he was there. The next minute, I never really knew when, he had finished and hung up. No goodbye. Red-faced, I would keep on talking just in case anyone within earshot could hear me. “Oh, yeah, uh-huh, OK Dad, sure goodbye!”

He was not being rude. He was just efficient. I guess that’s just about the nicest way to say it. His efficiency extended to how he addressed each of his five children, all boys as “Son”.

“Son, this is your Dad. Just calling to see if you’re still alive”

I suppose the Dad part was redundant. But you have to admire the efficiency of not having to remember our names. On the rare occasion when he did try to call us by our name it was as awkward as his telephone conversations. He would go through the list: “Chu, John, Matt, Bill…” After each name, he would realize that it didn’t work, blink and snap his fingers. Put a beat behind it and it was a name calling scat routine.

And if he had issues with remembering our names, it paled in comparison to the list of his “lady friends” names. Being the cunning attorney that he was, he found a way to identify them all without admitting the guilt of not remembering their names. The waitress, the girlfriend, the wife, the lady with the husky cigarette voice and fire red nails all had the same name: “Sweetie”. It was necessary because he always had one waiting to enter center stage as the other one exited. Performing a Scat of girlfriend’s names was not acceptable.

I did not have the type of lady friends that my father had. My friends, who were female, actually were my friends, which was a source of constant worry for my father. While I could admire the wrapping on the package, my father enjoyed what was inside the package much more.

I did have two female roommates in college. It was a “Three’s Company” type of arrangement, but with a twist. I was the gay man playing a straight man. Because my father provided a monthly stipend based on half of the apartment costs, it only made sense to take in a third roommate without telling my father and spend the leftover money on beer. This was my college finance major in action!

What I didn’t count on was my father calling the apartment and talking to my third roommate, a blond bombshell. When Karen told me that she spoke to my father I felt like the gig was over. “But he seemed really sweet.” Karen said. “He called me sweetie!”

I called my father prepared to admit the scam.

“Hey Dad, so about Karen…” I started.

“Son, you never told me about her.” He said.

“I’m sorry I should have told you I had another roommate.”

“Yeah, sure son, another ‘roommate’” He chuckled. I could almost see the invisible air quotes he was making. This was not the reaction I expected. He suddenly sounded like Dean Martin. I half expected him to say “You old dog, you!” Then it clicked. He wanted to believe so badly that Karen was my live in lady friend: a real lady friend, happy ending and all. Who was I to deny him this one small pleasure?

Many years later he lay in his bed and waited for all five of his sons. After we all arrived, he quietly slipped away. A year after he died I was determined to visit his graveside and tell him who I was: disclosure and closure. I searched the cemetery for hours in tears looking for his tombstone. While I knew exactly where he was buried, I could not find him. Later I learned that my brother had neglected to order the headstone. Even in death, my father never could say goodbye.

What I did on my summer vacation

2011-07-11T17:22:00.001-04:00

The sound of women’s laughter pierces the evening breeze like breaking glass. Children fueled by hot dogs and sugary frozen Slurpee’s run with sparklers through the back yard. Their happy screaming voices like a pendulum, now close, now far away. In the upstairs bathroom I look at my reflection in the mirror and begin to hum “I’m going to wash that gray right out of my hair”. Damn you Miss Clairol, that jingle will be stuck in my head for a week. If you are somewhere near my age, it will be stuck in your head too. You’re welcome. No one likes to suffer alone.

It is the third of July. How quickly Paul’s family, has become my family; the day before the fourth, now our annual Independence Day celebration. Regular time stops long enough for me to understand. This is my life. This is a tradition.

As I walk out of the house and into the back yard, I see Pops giving a geography lesson to my daughter Taylor and her friend Lisa. He is pointing to the wall map of Cape Ann located behind the outdoor bar. There is a knowing and unexpected mature look exchanged between Lisa and Taylor. They are more interested in eighteen year old boys, but will kindly listen to my father-in-law’s story.

While watching the lesson unfold, something my mother-in-law said two weeks ago surfaces in my conscious brain:

“Oh my Gawd, Pops is so conceited. When he gets out of the showa’ he says ‘don’t peek!’”

I have seen my future.

I cannot count how many times I have heard Paul make that same statement while gingerly covering himself. And in terms of lessons, life with Paul is an extended “Jeopardy” episode. “I’ll take Boston history for $100, Alex”. But there is a comfort in knowing what lies around the corner. Just as I know that when it turns dark, we will fill our plastic cups with a “bikini martini” and walk down to the town common.

Most of the town will be there, waiting for flames to engulf a ten story pile of shipping pallets with an outhouse crowning the top. Firemen will spray the area immediately surrounding the kerosene soaked wood to prevent a forest fire. The fire hose will then be turned on the delighted crowd when the flames are licking the sky and red hot embers are raining down. Just to clarify, this is not my birth state of North Carolina, but Ashby, Massachusetts. Watching the crowd’s thrilled reaction, I am reminded of a joke. What are a redneck’s last words? Answer: “Hey ya’ll, watch this!”

The next day we leave the small town for Boston. Our plans mirror last years: watching fireworks with thousands along

the Charles. Unable to face the crowds, at the last minute, I text my friend Sam and ask if we can see the fireworks from his rooftop deck. When Taylor and Lisa emerge from our Boston condo bathroom, they have grown four inches taller and five years older. “Wedge” sandals are in and these girls are now young women.

As we pass the “Frat house” on our way to the T stop, I catch a young shirtless frat boy looking like an eagle on the upper deck eyeing his approaching prey.

“You should be glad your fah-thuh’s are with you, otherwise I’d say a lot more. You’re lucky men” He shouts.

Paul is retelling the story on Sam’s roof deck when he turns to me and asks “How come the frat boys never notice us like that?” But I am too busy thinking about how my gray hair has given me away as a father. And in what universe would a father be lucky that his daughters were knock outs?

But then I look at the 360 degree view surrounding me. There are fireworks filling the night time sky from the south shore to the north shore. “Boom!” the fireworks over the Charles explode in the night time sky framed by the Boston skyline before us. I feel like a child. Maybe I don’t know what’s around every corner. But I know who will be with me.

The Odd Couple

2011-07-01T07:51:00.002-04:00

Whenever Paul reads one of my blog posts he invariably reacts differently than I anticipate. At one end of the reaction scale he does not find them nearly as humorous as I do. At the other end, he is horrified.

Take The “C” Word for example. I laughed out loud while writing that one. As Paul began to read it I waited for the belly laughs, the guffaws. By the time he had finished, the disappointed look on his face made me wonder if he was constipated or had just remembered that yesterday was his mother’s birthday. His response was: “You dropped a lot of F bombs in that post.” Defensively I said “Well, that was how I felt!” I had presented my precious baby to him and his response was “Uh-huh, ugly.”

After reading another post I expected his response to somehow mirror my sentiments about our lost summers of youth accompanied by a far-off wistful look. What I saw was more of a “Where did I put that suicide prevention telephone number?” look.

“Are you getting ready to check out?” He said. There was real concern in his voice.

“What?”

“Pookie, I’m concerned, are you really that tired?”

“We all get tired. I’m just going through one of those phases.” I simply said

“I don’t allow myself to be tired.” Was his response.

I wanted to laugh. But he was serious. And then I began to think about it. It reminded me of something a neighborhood Mom had said when I remarked how well behaved her children were. “We do not allow them to misbehave.” I was as dumbfounded then as I was now. I had always thought that controlling children was just as futile as controlling bodily functions. Quite literally, shit happens.

If controlling my body was an option, sign me up. I’d start with my abs. “I don’t care what you say about the mouth eating all the time, I’m talking to you now little mister, so flatten it up!” And to my hair: “You’re looking a little thin and pale lately sweetie, let’s fatten you up and get some color back in those pretty little follicles!”

Paul sent me an e-mail this week that was a perfect example of how we differ. He had decided to get up early and drive from our condo in Boston to make a 9:30 AM appointment in New York. The e-mail started with “I got here an hour and a half early, so I put Wal-Mart in the GPS and shopped for our supplies for the weekend.” Number one, I would consider arriving anything other than five minutes early to be a waste of perfectly good sleep time. Number two, Wal-Mart would be the furthest thing from my mind at 8:00 AM. And finally, shopping for the weekend on Tuesday?

But this is how Paul operates. His mind and body are in constant planning and production mode. While it is generally accepted that once my work day ends, sitting on the sofa and watching trash TV is just about as industrious as I am going to get. I am good with creative thoughts, but bringing them to fruition is where Paul comes in. My off –hand comment that it might be nice to have a honey onyx backsplash becomes reality just by mentioning it to Paul. I pass the ball and he takes it to the end zone.

The second part of the e-mail elaborately detailed how he was going to borrow his sister’s truck to pick up a new bed at Ikea and swap the one in our Boston condo for the one in New Hampshire and then switch Nick’s bed for the one that we had. I was exhausted by the end of the e-mail. But it occurred to me that how we differed was also what made us strong. Each of us has his strengths. Maybe having a differing sense of humor also made us stronger.

Finally, Paul’s e-mail stated that he would stay in New Hampshire that night so he could get a good night sleep in the larger bed and give his “restless legs” a break. Even his legs are constantly moving. I wanted to reply back “Well maybe you just need to have a little talk with those legs. Show them the back of your hand and then we’ll see who stops shaking!” But something tells me that he would not see the humor in that.

Trajectories

2011-06-28T13:40:00.002-04:00

“Bill, wake up, we’re going to watch a man walk on the moon!” There was excitement in my parent’s voice, which they expected me to share. But this was not how we did things in this house. Even at the tender age of six, I understood this and respected the rules that my parents were cavalierly disregarding. Their disregard of rules made me fearful that overnight they had become hippies. By dragging their six year old out of bed in the middle of the night to watch TV they may as well have been saying “Watch TV little man, no rules only love!”

I sat in front of a grainy black and white image so blurry that it might as well have been static. If there was any significance to the moment, it was lost on me. All I knew was this was not “Wacky Races.” No Penelope Pitstop or Dastardly Doolittle. I sat crossed legged on the floor in front of the TV. Eyes narrowed, afraid that my mother would suddenly pull a tambourine out of her purse and start dancing, while my father played “Lucy in the sky with Diamonds” on a guitar.

It was July of 1969. This is when my memories started to form. Subsequent newscasts would cement the importance of this moment into my impressionable mind. “That’s one small step for man; One giant leap for mankind.”

One month earlier in a city as distant as the moon another object was propelled across the night time sky. While it's trajectory was barely fifteen feet, its impact would not hit my life for another thirty seven years. There were no widely broadcasted news reports or school lessons to plant that moment into my young mind.

The night was still and heavy. The city held the air so close that the heat from the pavement could not escape. In this bar, The Stonewall Inn, a group of people sought out one of the only places that they could feel safe. Outside of the bar, they were criminals and deviants: arrested and beaten.

Suddenly: bright lights, Confusion. Shit, it’s a raid again. Nowhere to run. Seven policemen entered the bar and took the “till”. They locked the first group in a paddy wagon. Their crime: touching another man, or not wearing three articles of clothing pertaining to their gender. But then unbelievably, someone threw pennies and then a bottle at the policemen. One individual became a group and the group fought back. The policmen returned the next night and the next. But the opposing group became hundreds, then thousands.

My parents never became hippies: although there is a picture of them at a mountaintop wedding where their dress is questionable. The rules of the house were left intact. While the Stonewall riots had set into motion a period of change, the ripples were slow to intersect with my life.

On a recent trip to New York, Paul and I walked to Christopher Street and stopped in front of the bar. Its appearance was unremarkable: A hole in the wall. We entered the darkened bar and ordered a five dollar special martini. There was no special code word to enter and no threat of a police raid. At the other end of the bar sat a man in his late fifties, old enough to have been there that night. Could he have been the one man that threw the first bottle and changed the lives of millions?

June 24th, 2011, almost 42 years after the riot: a Republican controlled senate voted to make marriage equality in New York a reality. Paul, I and the kids huddled around the tiny laptop screen and watched the vote take place. The hurled bottle landed in my life. “That’s one small step for man; One giant leap for mankind.”

End of the beginnings

2011-06-21T00:20:00.003-04:00

“Life is a buffet and most poor suckers are starving.” The valedictorian’s speech begins with a promising quote from Auntie Mame. Maybe this won’t be the typical “Reach for the stars” bullshit speech as my friend Sam oh so delicately calls them. But as the valedictorian begins to literally count the hours that are spent eating in a lifetime, my mind begins to wander and I begin to think about lunch. I think to myself how nice it would be to hear an honest and frank graduation speech. One that would take into account the one thing that these students do not have: a lifetime of experience and disappointments.

I was not a star pupil, but in the school of hard knocks I’m right up there. So, in my head, I begin my speech. My voice is deep and authoritative, like a gay white man’s version of James Earl Jones:

“My fellow students, faculty, family, friends and distant relatives that feel trapped into attending, and so will be drinking a little earlier than usual today. I welcome you! Sitting here before you are the sullen teenagers that you argued with this morning. Their inability to set an alarm clock or ‘for the love of God’, manage their own time was the last straw this morning. They will undoubtedly not acquire these skills in the next two months before college and more than likely, never will.

Parents, you tried your best, but let’s face it; you could have done things better. If your goal was to make sure that your children had something to talk about in therapy. You have succeeded!

Students, you probably did not try your best. Facebook, Twitter, texting and social acceptance were your first priorities. Schoolwork was merely background noise. Congratulations! The rest of your life is truly all about social acceptance and sexy profile pictures. No one picks you up in a bar because you look intelligent.”

At this point, I would hit them with a closing so poignant and relevant that it would guarantee a standing ovation. Or perhaps they would be ecstatic because the speech was so mercifully short.

“And in closing, I would like to…” And here the applause would be so thunderous, I would have to pause “Thank you, thank you, please, let me finish. Ahem, I would like to quote a line from The Real Housewives Countess LuAnn’s classic hit ‘Money Can’t buy you class’

Money can’t buy you class. Elegance is learned, oh yeah. And the primary mistake, texting on a date. If you make a lady wait, she’ll take a pass.

Thank you and congratulations, graduates!”

I realize that I have missed most, if not all of the valedictorian’s speech and now the graduates are lining up. I see my stepdaughter Evelyn getting ready to march up on stage. I am hit with an unexpected wave of pride and immediately become one of “those” parents. You know them. They are big, loud and have piercings in places that seem extremely uncomfortable if not downright unsanitary.

I am up on my feet yelling Evelyn’s name and whooping. I swear to God, I actually whooped. I sense that my husband Paul is distancing himself from me: shrugging his shoulders and rolling his eyes as if to say “I have no idea who this person is” to the strangers around us.

But I am a convert. I can see Evelyn’s future and it is bright and full of promise. I can see my future too, and it is full of a juicy cheeseburger.

Rhinestone Cowboy

2011-06-20T10:54:00.002-04:00

This is a guest post that I have written for another blog and wanted to bring the story back "home" to live with the rest of my stories. Many of you have asked if I still have those rhinestone studded jeans. Like many songs from the 70's, they were a one hit wonder and we should let them fade away. That pun was intended....However, I have scoured the Internet and actually found a picture that is shockingly similair. God, what was I thinking.....

In 1977, I was unceremoniously dumped into the public school system after eight years of Catholic school.

Studio 54 debuted, Donna Summer oozed disco sex, and Saturday Night Fever introduced me to polyester boogie nights.

It was also the year of my rhinestone-studded pants, and my brief professional writing career.

The rhinestone-studded pants were an unfortunate fashion risk that I took while attempting to fit into junior high school. Apparently, disco fever had not taken hold as quickly in Greensboro, North Carolina as it had in New York. The pants earned me the title of tackiest dresser, and taught me an important lesson: To fit in, I would have to look like everyone else.

If there was anyone who did not look like everyone else, it was Mr. Dickinson, my Social Studies teacher. With shoulder length brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and a hint of five o’clock stubble, his looks were singularly distracting. I had learned from Catholic school that my thoughts about him were immoral, but God would just have to forgive me. Not that I would ever divulge those thoughts in the confessional booth.

Mr. Dickinson, an avid environmentalist, gave us an assignment to enter an essay writing contest. The theme was “Wildlife needs you!” Yes! I thought to myself. Here was my chance to impress him.

During that entire hour of class, I poured my heart into writing about beautiful oak trees with Spanish moss, soaring eagles, and purple mountain majesties. It was a masterpiece so expressive, so well-crafted, that he would have no choice but to proclaim his love for me. He would do this discreetly, of course, probably by passing me a note.

As Mr. Dickinson walked by and collected our papers, I beamed with pride and looked over at Darnell-The-Jock’s one-sentence scribbled work: “Wildlife can suck my big fat…” And then it hit me. Darnell had taken this theme in a direction I could not have imagined. If that was what he thought about the assignment, how ridiculous was I going to look?

I won first place. But there was no impassioned note from Mr. Dickinson declaring “I love you! If you love me, check this box.” What I did receive were two tickets to the Greensboro Natural Science Center, and social suicide delivered via an announcement of my achievement on the school PA system. Second important lesson: To fit in, I had to think and act like everyone else.

My brief writing career ended. Writing about what I knew would divulge the secret I had to keep. Being Gay was not an option. In order to survive, I had to keep my thoughts to myself.

And that is what I did for 30 more years: survived. But after all those years, the secret became too heavy to bear. Just saying three words — “I am Gay” — allowed all of the other words to come spilling out. Life, it turned out, could be so much more than survival. It could be downright wonderful. I met and married a man who rivaled all that I imagined my life with Mr. Dickinson could be.

Writers write about what they know. And what I know is a variation on my ninth grade theme paper: “Life needs you.” Life needs every unique individual. When I write about my everyday laughter, loves, and neuroses in an authentic and humorous way, I validate who I am and celebrate what I have found.

I write for the ninth grade boy who wonders if he will ever find love.

I write so that others will do more than survive.

I write so that others will live.

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine

2011-06-15T17:46:00.004-04:00

“What? What do you want Dameron?” Paul says as he glances at me while driving. I am startled out of a daze and realize that I am staring at him as we are commuting into the city. That is my defensive gesture now: To become emotionally vacant while commuting. “I want a month in a cabin on the coast of Maine.” I say staring blankly.

“Oh, like Misery?” He says. “I can eat chocolates and become big like Kathy Bates and tuck it.” He is not taking me seriously. “Well, can’t we at least make it a more romantic abduction?” I say. “I’m going to look like Kathy Bates and you want to make it sexual?” He counters.

I don’t think he understands what I am trying to say. I am tired: Tired of working, tired of commuting because we have children in New Hampshire and Virginia and have lent out our condo in Boston. Tired of the rat race and simply tired because I have insomnia. Let’s face it, I’m tired!

Last summer we planned a wedding and renovated a condo. This summer was supposed to be the “Summer of Bill”. No plans. But now we have our house in New Hampshire on the market. Plans are springing up everywhere. I want a summer like the ones I had as a kid growing up in North Carolina. I want to wake up and not know or care what day of the week it is.

I lapse back into a daydream. It is morning and the window over my bed is open while the attic fan is pulling in the cool but warming morning air. The cicadas are whirring so loudly that it is hypnotic. I hear my mother’s voice like music talking and laughing on the wall mounted phone downstairs. She has the phone cord pulled tight over the counter while standing at the stove frying bacon. Someone has just mowed their yard so I smell fresh cut grass.

There is nothing to do today but get up and ride my bike to the swimming pool. Strangely, North Carolina, Boston and the Cape all exist in one geographic area, so my friends Sam and Cary meet me at the pool. We’re fifteen and I can see Sam as the Eddie Haskell that he is: Impressing the mothers with his charm and pulling out a doobie and dropping the F bomb when they walk away. Cary is the good looking quiet kid who knows the lyrics to every song on the radio and will do any crazy thing we ask him to do. There is no Internet, no cell phones, no laptops, no computers and no responsibility.

“Out on the edge of Glory, and I’m hanging on a moment with you!” Paul’s hacked rendition of Lady Gaga brings me back to the present. “I think she’s singing about sex sweetie.” He says. “Yeah, that was funny the first five times you told me that too. But, no I Googled it, she’s singing about her grandfather dying. ” I say. “That’s just dreadful, she’s singing about having sex with her grandfather while he’s dying? Jus’ dreadful.” He says while elongating the “S”. He has been in his own happy morning world while I have taken a break from reality.

Later that night, after a tough work day I take the bus home and walk up the four flights to our condo. There is a glass of wine waiting for me and dinner in the oven. After dinner, we stretch out on the sofa, watch TV and eat ice cream. The sound of the air conditioner is as numbing as the sounds of the cicadas were in my mind. It’s not a month in Maine or a return to my childhood but right then, it feels just as good.

What’s your summer dream?

Check it out. I'm a relationship expert!

2011-06-14T09:38:00.000-04:00

As a tribute to fathers during pride month, Nerve magazine interviewed three gay dads for sex and relationship advice. Follow the link below:

Sex advice from gay dads

The most beautiful man

2011-06-12T22:11:00.000-04:00

“Ask to see his Abs.” I was not sure I heard John correctly, so I simply said “What?” He repeated. “He has abs. Ask to see them!” “But we all have abs.” I said. “Yeah, but you can see his.” John said. “Well it’s a lot easier to see them when you’re in your twenties.” I said.

It was the annual gay pride parade in Boston and our group of friends was enjoying drinks on the beautiful terrace of George and Doug’s condo in the South End. This was not just any deck; it was a football field that enjoys amazing views of the Boston skyline. It was mostly a group of gay men, so you can imagine all of the jokes about “Big decks” and “Deck envy”.

I say mostly gay, because there were some straight women and one straight man that joined us along the way. He was the one with the abs. And his “straightness” was questionable to most of the men there, except for the straight woman he was with.

He was young, attractive, dressed nicely and was a part of the parade. That must make him gay. But when the question came up and someone asked me if I thought he was, I said no. “What? What?” There was pure disbelief. “He’s not gay, because he says he’s straight” was my reply. Again, shock: “But, I said I was straight when I was 28!” Someone next to me said.

I began to think about a conversation that I had with one of Paul’s friends at lunch that day. They worked together for many years. I asked her if she was surprised when Paul came out to her. “Oh, not at all” was her response. I could see Paul cringe when she said this. But she was not being critical or humorous. This was just an honest reply. Paul was obviously not happy about this, so I asked “Is there something wrong with being gay?”

I think that the gay community is its own worst enemy. And here was the perfect example of it. On one hand there was a good looking sensitive young straight guy that was marching in the parade to support us, so he must be gay. On the other hand my husband felt like someone recognizing that he was gay was somehow undesirable.

So, to celebrate gayness, I want to tell you about the most beautiful man that I saw in the parade that day. I hope that my husband will forgive me for describing him to you. He was walking by himself and striking is not a strong enough word. Dressed simply in black his skin was glistening in the cold rain. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him.

He was carrying a sign:

“Almost 56 years together & 7 married. Paul died March 31 of Leukemia”

His face was tear stained and so was mine. Here was love laid bare and open for the entire world to see. There was no better example that the words gay or straight do not matter. This was love and pride.

Agree? Disagree? Like? Dislike? Comment below! Click on the link that says "Comments" with the number next to it!

Playing with balls

2011-06-09T18:37:00.000-04:00

“You boys going to play golf?” We heard this question so many times that eventually I began to think that this was the de facto Charleston, South Carolina way to say hello. On par with “Say hi to your Mama n’ them!” It doesn’t really mean anything, but it’s nice.

Why else would seven men in their forties be together in public? Their wives weren’t with them, so they couldn’t have been duped into shopping or sightseeing. Which brings up the second most popular greeting, mostly uttered by concerned older ladies: “You boys leave your wives at home?” Paul would lean in towards me, slap me on the behind and whisper into my ear: “Oh, no, I brought my little wife with me.”

These people clearly needed to be reassured that their world order, the very foundation of their life was not being shaken. So my friend Rob devised an ingenious way to respond honestly without having to go into great detail. “Oh, I expect to hit some balls soon!” He would say. “Oh, that’s gooood!” The relieved older ladies in their visors would drawl and smile. “Hit ‘em hard boys!”

Now aside from being in my forties and flattered to be called a “boy”, I was mostly annoyed that the only thing men could possibly do together was play golf. I felt bad for all men, not just us gay ones. I suppose if they had known that we were gay, which would be obvious because we would be wearing our rainbow flag T-shirts or carrying our Judy Garland albums. The options would have expanded. They might have asked “Are you girls going to get facials?” But even with that question, we could have answered honestly “Oh, I hope to get a facial soon!

Our visit to Charleston has become an annual Columbus Day tradition. I say tradition, because we have gone once and plan on going again this year. That’s a tradition in my book.

Rob and Mark moved to Charleston from the Boston area over a year ago and built a beautiful home in a Disney like suburb. The closest that we came to playing golf was driving Rob and Mark’s golf cart through the neighborhood to the community pool and tennis courts. My husband Paul was alarmingly enamored of driving this cart. I saw my future with him in some gay retirement village version of “Del Boca Vista”. Complete with our Hawaiian shirts, knee high socks and shorts.

Later in the day we went to the beach and the weather was so warm and beautiful that most of us ended up in the water on a clear October day: something that would be unthinkable to do after August in the frigid New England waters.

“Now Mike, I want you to take a picture of those boys swimming in the ocean!” Sam overheard a lady incredulously say to her husband. I have to laugh when I think of her showing her friends and children this picture of gay men frolicking in the water. Just by looking at the photograph, there would be no indication that it was autumn, but I could hear her saying “These boys were in the water in October! They must have been hot from playing golf!” Her husband, probably a little more aware would say “Eunice, them boys were homa-sex-yuls, you dang fool!”

She would experience an epiphany as delightful as the warm water on a fall day was to us. What is on the surface is rarely a mirror of what lies beneath.

Guest Post

2011-06-07T12:58:00.000-04:00

Check out my guest blog post over at Freelancedom.com on my Reason to Write:

My Reason to Write: So that others will live

Meet the folks

2011-06-04T19:57:00.000-04:00

“Well, I guess the way the evening is going I have to ask, what are your intentions with Paul?” Ralph asked me. Now I had no idea what way the evening was going, or how its direction could possibly influence the question. But, I was like a cat backed into a corner. I could begin hissing and scratching or roll over and purr. I chose the latter.

“Oh Ralph stop!” Don demurred while playfully slapping Ralph’s arm. He reached out his gloved hand to pick up his chocolate martini and took a sip through a straw so that his lipstick would not smudge. But the whole time his fake eye lashes never batted once in anticipation of the answer. As they leaned in close, there was not a breath between them.

“Each day I wake up and think that I couldn’t love Paul any more, but each day I do.” I said. Ralph and Don exhaled. Clearly, this was the answer they were hoping for. Ralph and Don were the family that Paul chose, not the family he was born into. His “gay parents” Paul playfully calls them.

If you met Don on the street, you would not remember him. If you met his alter-ego, “Crystal Chandelier” you could not forget him. And that is who I met that first night of the inquisition. After I passed the test I asked Ralph how long it took Don to get made up. “It takes a bottle of booze and a pack of cigarettes” was his quick response as he rolled his eyes and took another sip of his drink.

Later, I had the opportunity to see this process as we sat on the deck one beautiful late summer evening in Maine. While Ralph smoked his cigarettes and weaved a story, Don began the transformation. Drink by drink and smoke by smoke Don would join us on the deck and disappear into the house. Each time he reappeared with a new layer until eventually he joined us as a glittered and feathered Crystal Chandelier

While I had to bare myself emotionally for Paul’s “gay parents”, I had to bare myself physically for his “real” family. They were all packed into a hotel room for his 13 year old son’s birthday. “Oh, don’t worry. My family is great. Don’t forget your swim suit. There’s a water park in the hotel!” Paul told me. “Swim suit? Oh, OK…” I said nervously while looking at the calendar. There weren’t enough gym days for that. I pictured myself standing on an auction block so that his family could inspect the goods. “His calves are a little spindly, but let’s see the teeth” I imagined his father saying.

But soon his sister Peggy was telling a story about her two sons. “They created a cartoon character of Grammy on the Nintendo Wii. In the boxing game they use her character as a punching bag. You should see them giving Grammy upper cuts!” She said laughing. Instantly I felt at ease. These were people that did not take themselves too seriously and laughed at themselves before laughing at others. I loved them.

It occurred to me how similar these two families were. Neither one gives a damn what the world thinks of them. It took me too long to realize the same thing about myself. But now they are my family. And they will never let me think too much of myself. Thank God for that.

Around the world in 80 Drinks

2011-05-29T16:41:00.000-04:00

OK, maybe just 8 drinks. Epcot is tailor made for the American tourist. It’s an English speaking foreign destination without the attitude or the smell. Add a liberal amount of alcohol and the appeal widens to stressed-out parents and the gay population in general.

“Canada is where they serve Molson, right?” I ask Paul. He looks at me as if I have no socially redeeming values. “William, it’s not all about the drinks. Did you see the gardens in Canada?” “There are gardens?” I reply. Paul sighs and begins walking again. The sun is beating down on us. So we decide to take a ride on Spaceship Earth for the short line and merciful air conditioning.

We are sitting in the two person car that carries its passengers on a trip through time highlighting the importance of the written word. Instead of paying attention to the mechanical movements of the ancient Phoenicians, Paul is flirting with me as if we have just entered the “Tunnel of Love” at a county fair. This is something I am sure Disney never imagined in his future world. Or maybe he did, he certainly seemed to have issues with his mother. As evidenced by the murder or absence of her in every Disney cartoon movie.

Towards the end of the ride, Judi Dench’s voice elegantly asks the passengers to record their answers to several questions on a computer screen. The answers will be used to produce our “Future World” she declares. I am happy to do something other than look at the creepy mannequins, which are decidedly dated. After all the questions are answered, a video plays with our heads superimposed onto cartoon bodies.

Our future selves purchase clothes online, and check themselves out in the mirror. They prance through our future house and push a button for breakfast. While they sip coffee a huge TV appears, so they can catch up on entertainment news. Then they pop into a hover craft bound for the city. We both have a good laugh at this.

In the car in front of us sits a single lady in her fifties with waist length wiry grey hair. Her clothes are surely made of earth friendly materials. We watch her “future world” play. She tends to a garden on her rooftop in the country while recycling all of her household materials.

Suddenly, my future world seems kind of frivolous. And to be honest, my future world is pretty much a mirror of my present world.

Later that evening, Paul and I begin the “Epcot Pub Crawl”. Ingeniously, Disney has designed a world cocktail tour with each country represented as a backdrop. We start in Great Britain (ale for me, gin & tonic for Paul) and work our way around the globe. Mexico (frozen margaritas), Norway (glacier shots), China (plum wine), Germany (Jagermeister), Italy (prosecco). Halfway there! USA (bathroom break because neither of us are fans of Bud

weiser), Japan (sake was never was my favorite so souvenirs for the kids), Morocco (Muslim so no alcohol and let’s face it, Africa and the gays don’t mix.) Finally we pick up Grey Goose Slurpees in France, bypass Canada (pretty much USA North) and then make a run for the border and end up in Mexico again for nachos.

I sip my adult Slurpee and “make love” to my Nachos, as Paul says. I look out over the manmade lake and the twinkling lights of the fake Paris in the distance. In a moment of absolute clarity that often follows a few adult beverages I romanticize my life. Sure, everything around me is a representation, but what in life is truly real? The cartoon has captured a dimension of my life, not all of it. And to be honest, if the future mirrors the present, I can live with that

Divine Design

2011-05-25T13:00:00.000-04:00

HGTV has warped my sense of reality. In the same amount of time that it takes me to consume half a package of raw cookie dough and a bottle of wine, the designers accomplish truly amazing things with imagination, a dash of design trickery and a little elbow grease. And they look pretty damn good doing it. When did carpenters begin to look like GQ cover models?

I am not sure if it was the sugar rush or the alcohol, but at the end of one show, I was certain that Paul and I could do the same thing, if not better than those pretty boys. With just a budget of $2,000 I was positive that we could renovate our Boston condo. My thinking was that the renovations featured on TV were much larger than our 497 square feet of “dated, but good bones” space. Bring on the parade of young, buff carpenters and paint chip samples!

The term “Reality” TV is a little loose. I expected young muscled guys with good hair. What showed up at our door, when they showed up, was more like something from “The Hills Have Eyes”; Science experiments that have gone terribly, terribly wrong. I would receive an e-mail from my friends, Sam and Cary after each appointment; “WELL??” the impatient subject line would state. I knew what they were expecting: “Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me….” What I was crafting in my mind was: “Dear Better Business Bureau, I never thought this would happen to me…”

When it came to picking out paint colors and furniture it was a breeze. Paul gave me a choice of two and when I started to pick the wrong one, he would gently guide me towards the other. “Pookie, you have the ‘vision’, I’m just the labor”. He said. I basked in the glow of my superior design skills, while Paul demolished, constructed and rebuilt our condo. The budget of $2,000 was not close; however, it was a multiple of $2,000.

HGTV was not there for our renovation, but I have a vision of them filming a segment on our renovated space. The film crew van would circle the block one hundred times looking for a parking space. Cue the doorbell sound while Paul and I graciously welcome the host, “Welcome to our new home.” We say. The irritated sweaty host replies “Makeup!”, because he has just climbed four flights of stairs.

“OK, Mr. Dameron, let’s see the rest of your space”. The host says. “Oh, this is pretty much it.” I reply. Giving the camera man the universal “cut” signal the host, clearly not happy says “Look, Mr. Dameron, when you filled out the online form for submission, you indicated that this was a ‘Spacious’ condo remodel!” A little embarrassed I say “Well, I’m a gay man, have you seen our online dating profiles? This is about as truthful as it gets, and in terms of size…” The host cuts me off. “Just show me the effing water view!” I crowd the crew into our bedroom and say “OK, if you can just stick the camera out that window and just a skoach to the left, you’ll catch a glimpse of the pool if you look real hard….” I turn around just in time to see the door slam behind the host. But, I don’t care; because it’s the fourth Wednesday of the month and I know their van has been towed.

It may just be 497 square feet of Martha Stewart paint, Ikea cabinetry and refinished hardwood floors in a fourth floor walkup. But it’s our 497 square feet of heaven in the city. And I married the young buff carpenter.

Rules of the game

2011-05-23T00:02:00.000-04:00

The first rule of air travel is: you do not talk about air travel. The second rule of air travel is: you do not talk about air travel. These rules are not written; they simply exist and are subject to change at any moment. I used to travel in a cocoon of ignorance, blindly following the herd, but recent trips have enlightened me and I am willing to share these rules with you if you remember rule number one.

Third rule of air travel: Do not try to do anything by phone. If you must change a reservation, never believe the Indian ticketing agent. Bairavi has been coached on how best to annoy you by mispronouncing your name, and calling you Ma’am even if you sound like Barry White and your name is John. If you ask about any other flights, she will tell you it is sold out. She does not understand English. Bypass this and fly standby by checking in at the airport.

Fourth rule of air travel: Flirt shamelessly with the counter ticketing agent. This one takes skill as you must determine if he or she will be flattered or repulsed by you. When you ask if you can be put on the standby list he will tell you that you must do this at the gate. This is a warning! You have not flattered him enough and therefore he has no interest in you. Flirt more and with luck, you will be told that you are number one on the standby list.

Fifth rule of air travel: You will always be standing behind the unseasoned traveller in the security line. Learn to spot these mouth breathing time sinks by looking for some common traits: a bewildered look, drinking from a two liter bottle of soda, or putting their luggage down and forgetting to pick it up. You cannot avoid it, but you can be prepared to skirt around them when they are surprised that they need to show ID.

Sixth rule of air travel: The counter ticketing agent is a liar. Proceed to the gate and ask the gate agent if you are on the standby list. She will tell you that you are the last person on the standby list. If you tell her you thought you were first, you may notice the airline personnel aggressive gesture: hand on hip, one eyebrow raised and lips pursed. Caution!: When you see this gesture, assume the submissive role by lowering your head and backing away slowly. Stand close to the gate so that you are in their line of sight and are not forgotten but do not look them directly in the eye.

Seventh rule of air travel: Do not joke about allergies with the flight attendant. On the rare occasion that a bag of eight peanuts are offered to you, the flight attendant will invariably be back in 45 seconds to snatch the bag of peanuts out of your hand and announce that there is an “allergy” on board. Apparently, allergies have achieved consciousness and no longer need human hosts. If you are offered pretzels instead, DO NOT joke that you are allergic to pretzels. You will immediately see the aggressive gesture described in the sixth rule. Assume the submissive role or you may see the aggressive gesture elevate to a finger wagging and neck roll.

The final rule of air travel: Your life is ending one minute at a time and if you have someone that you cherish, every tick of the clock that you save by following the air travel rules is another second closer to home. Learn them. Follow them. Love them.

The Secret

2011-05-19T23:52:00.000-04:00

I had a sneaking suspicion about my husband Paul from the beginning. There were the telltale signs that were too hard to ignore. But, I did, because I didn’t, no that’s not it, I “couldn’t” accept it. But the burden of knowing is simply too hard to bear alone. So, I am ready to admit it, even though I may be ostracized. Here it is: My husband is a morning person.

In the beginning, he would sleep late. Our habits were the same and it was sheer bliss. But then, I began to notice that the other side of the bed would be empty at 8:30 AM on weekend mornings. “It’s OK, he’s in the bathroom, just stay calm” I told myself. And I wrapped myself in ignorance, like the blanket around me, and went back to sleep until 10 AM, like any “normal” person would do on a weekend morning.

But then I began to notice other things. Was that the sound of a lawn mower at 9:00 AM? It sounded so close, as if it was in our yard! “No, it couldn’t be” and again, I would lull myself back to sleep. Clearly, I was in the denial stage.

Then, one day it became clear. I saw him leap from the bed. He was singing, damn him! I rubbed my eyes and looked at the other side of the bed, sure that I was dreaming. It was as empty as my heart felt at that moment. Slowly, I turned my head to look at the clock. It mocked me with its bright digital numbers; seven AM. So, there it was. I felt as if I had just discovered “straight” porn on his computer. That was my turning point.

I have been through all of the stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and now, finally acceptance. Apparently being a morning person is an immutable characteristic. I have done my research. People are born this way and should be accepted as they are. You can’t change them. God knows, I have tried. I would grunt monosyllable replies to his questions in the morning, but clearly he could not reciprocate.

Just yesterday Paul was driving me to work in the morning, chattering away and singing to the radio. I drifted in and out of consciousness. Pieces of his cheerful morning monologue became clear and then faded away: “Are those your cute little shorts in the back of the car?” I heard him say and then another piece of random morning speak “So, they light the little dolls on fire and cook on them!” He laughs and looks at me. “The Australians, Pookie. The barbies!” Nonsensical happy morning speak.

He flaunts it now and I have resigned myself to be a supporter. He will probably want to march in some “morning person” pride parade and I will bravely accompany him with my “I love my morning person husband” T-shirt. The problem is, it will probably be an early morning breakfast parade at some God awful hour. Maybe I can convince him to make it a brunch thing.