Life Happening

Sam sent me an e-mail and told me we were going to Keezer’s in Cambridge to pick up a tux. “It’s your run-o'-the-mill tux store. Fifty bucks, it’s where all the Harvard kids get their rentals and I’m built like a box so I don’t care about fuckin’ tapered lines”. He weaves the F-bomb into every conversation like it was a punctuation mark and discards all of the “R’s”. Sam is renting a tux for $50 and spending $300 to attend a fund raiser dinner. If you knew Sam, you would know that this somehow makes sense.

We meet after work and I know why I am there. Sam is color blind and doesn’t trust the Russian store clerk. “Dameron, don’t just stand there and look pretty, help me pick out a vest” he barks at me. At the same time he is talking to the clerk as if he has known him for years. “And I want a tie with a clasp, not like that Mr. Tux crap. I spent two hundred bucks on a tux and I had to use a fuckin’ paper clip on the tie.” The clerk chuckles and wanders through the floor to ceiling boxes to fetch a bow tie. Just then a cute young guy walks by in a rental suit and socks, Sam elbows me, one eyebrow raised and tilts his head towards the young man’s direction. “Nice suit” Sam says. The young guy smiles at Sam and blushes.

This is what I love about Sam. He says what he thinks and never apologizes. To me, Sam is Boston: Brash and outgoing one moment, personable and tender the next. When my husband, Paul and I bought our circa 1940’s mid-rise condo in Cleveland Circle I worried aloud that the Boston College student population might present a noise problem. Sam’s quick reply summed up his personality perfectly:

“That’s city life William, never bothered me. That’s life happening”

We are sitting in a Mexican restaurant in Harvard Square deep into our fourth Margarita after the tux rental. Sam is talking and laughing about an unfortunate man we call “Monkey Boy”, because the hair on his neck does not stop to meet the hair on his back. He grabs a tortilla chip from a basket sitting on the bar next to him. “They leave these appetizers sitting out for bar patrons” he says while crunching down on the chip. I grab a chip and say “Very nice”. Sam laughs and spits out “You’re so fuckin’ gullible”. But that doesn’t stop us from eating someone else’s left over basket of chips.

We could stay out all night laughing and drinking, talking about Monkey boy and pointing out the other “team members” in the bar, but Sam looks at me and says “It’s a school night, William”.

Sam drives me home. As we cross over Comm Ave, a green line T passes into the city night. I am struck with a wave of sentiment for the home I’ve chosen. As the T screeches around the corner Sam says:

“Life Happening, my friend”

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Insomnia

Three AM……I am eating salt-less pretzels and drinking Kahlua and Irish cream. The salt-less pretzels were bought in a fit of “no sodium because it’s bad for me” obsession and Kahlua and Irish cream because Nyquil is usually my alcoholic knock-out medicine of choice, but I did not put it on “The List” after it ran out.


Naturally, I open up Facebook to see what my “friends” are up to. It’s a Monday, so most of them have commented on “What a Monday” it was. This is worse than Joan Rivers and the “Bitch stole my look” segment on TV. Although I have to say Celine Dion looks pretty good for a 42 year old woman with twins. Poor thing, her husband is eighty years old and now she’ll have three sets of diapers to change.

I turn back to Facebook and look up my real friends. I say “real” friends because they are the ones that deal with my daily shit and insecurities, unlike Facebook friends that only see the good pictures of me and hear about my amazing day!: Insert LOL and smiley face here. Real friends get the short end of the stick.

The first page I look at is Sam’s. Sam calls it “Stupid Facebook”, never just Facebook. He says the only thing people post is the “stupid” stuff. His profile picture is two years old and he never updates his status. I think the only reason he has Facebook is to use it to pick up guys. As my honest friend, he will tell me things other people would not dare tell me. “Don’t get all concentration camp on me Dameron” is what he told me when I lost twenty pounds. After a new haircut his only comment was “Huh, I like you with more hair”. I respect and expect these comments from him. I am not surprised that he would hate “Stupid Facebook”.

And then there’s Cary. His status updates are obscure 1980’s song lyrics. Not surprisingly, there are twenty four comments of people finishing those lyrics. Cary’s profile picture is always handsome and current. On his page today, there is a carefully orchestrated wall photo of two glasses of champagne and desserts sitting on a porch surrounded by palm trees from his trip to Punta Cana. Sam and I have to laugh about Cary’s oh so gentle e-mail to us when we joined Facebook, telling us he was not “Out” on Facebook; an admonishment. I don’t like to stereotype, but I’m pretty sure he has already outed himself.; Exhibit A) Duran Duran lyrics and Exhibit B) Staged photos of champagne and desserts. But we play along with it. Cary is the empathetic friend that you talk to when you need some positive reinforcement. If he told me I was looking skeletal or had a lesbian hair-cut, it would kill me.

And to round out my trio of real friends, there is my husband, who is asleep somewhere in Canada on a business trip. I wonder if he knows how fortunate I consider myself to breathe the same air he breathes. So, I open up my e-mail and prepare to tell him this. Instead I type the following E-mail:

Subject: Olson Twins


Watching TV and wondering why Mary Kate and Ashley never show their teeth when they smile? Can’t sleep, thinking about you. Love you.
XOXO,
Willy


And that is enough. I don’t post anything to Sam and Cary’s wall. These are my “real” friends. They don’t need a status update to know what I am doing or how I feel and that comforts me. Now, maybe I can sleep.

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Puppy Training

Winters in New England are like boring guests, they just don’t know when to leave. So, last weekend Paul and I packed our bags and headed to Miami. This annual spring break is what gets me through the winter. While walking to the bus stop through piles of dirty snow encrusted with frozen dog poop I imagine palm trees, sandy beaches and sizzling night life. I hit the gym months ahead of time with my sole motivation being to look good in a swim suit. Shallow, I know, but as Paul always says to me. “It’s not what’s on the inside that counts, but how you look on the outside”.

This year we took a clue from the “Biggest Loser” recording our weight and keeping a log each week of the progress. We decided that a weekly weigh in was best, but because I like to obsess about myself, I weighed in twice a day and it always had to be after my run, fully unclothed and preferably after a bowel movement, to get my true weight, measured in pounds and ounces. My daily run on the treadmill increased from three miles to six miles a day. Two months later and twenty pounds lighter, I was thrilled when one of my co-workers said:

“If you don’t mind my saying, I think you look too thin. You look like a runner from Kenya”.

“Really?” I said with utter glee. I knew that I had hit my goal.

During those same two months Paul was able to shed exactly half a pound. He pulled up his shirt and extended his belly as far as possible; looking twelve months pregnant and rubbing his belly he said:

“Look honey, I think its twins!”

He had given up early and instead of hitting the treadmill, hit the tanning booth, saying only

“Fat looks better tanned”

And this is the difference between us. While I obsess about myself, Paul obsesses about everything else. A short while after we first met, I invited Paul to my apartment. He remarked at how well stocked my refrigerator was. Because I was a newly out gay man, he expected my refrigerator to contain a can of beer, ketchup and a stack of cheese, as any straight man’s refrigerator would be stocked. One month later he was still surprised at how well stocked the fridge was, until upon further inspection, he realized that it was all of the same ingredients. Holding up a clear container of two month old soup, he said in a slightly disgusted tone “Everything has separated into what it used to be”.

From that time forward, Paul would start each visit to my apartment with a garbage bag at the refrigerator removing expired items and making a shopping list for replacements. All of my different colored hangars were replaced with the same white hangars. When I moved into Paul’s house, the closet was re-organized to accommodate my clothes. Once, I “kissed” the back of the garage wall while pulling in my car. The next day marine bumpers where installed and a little stoplight sensor was mounted on the wall to indicate when I was getting too close to the wall.

Paul never complains about these things. As a matter of fact, he seems to revel in them. It is just a part of his nature to engineer his life around me and he is only too happy to do that. We have our roles and I was completely happy with the arrangement until my mother dropped one line:

“Paul treats you like a puppy”.

Parents are good at slipping in those one-liners that have to be extracted by trained therapists. Of course what she meant was that I was a grown man, fully capable of taking care of myself. This bothered me.

I was thinking about this when Paul and I were walking down Ocean Drive in Miami. I saw a man walking a puppy and people were smiling and admiring the pair. The puppy stopped, squatted and pooped on the pavement. The owner, prepared, stooped over and scooped up the pile with a plastic grocery bag, while the puppy licked the owner’s delighted face.

I smiled, turned to Paul and kissed his cheek. Paul smiled and looked at me

“What was that for?”

“That was for taking care of me” I said. And then I told Paul what my mother had told me.

He grinned and said, “You must be the puppy, because you’re the cute one.” He kissed me back, grabbed my hand and said “Pookie, If I am the one cleaning up shit after you, who really is the master?”

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Going Home

This is the first time I have felt a bit sad when returning home to Boston from my hometown in Greensboro, NC. Usually, I am ready to get the hell out of dodge. Ready to run away from the blue haired ladies that I inevitably meet when running errands with my mother, who say "Aren't you just the smartest thang?" with their sachrinny sweet smiles. I imagine them returning home swiftly to their families and saying "You'll never guess who I ran into today! Poor Julie with her cocksucker son, he lives in the gay ghetto of Bawwwston". Although I'm pretty sure they don't say cocksucker, but it's my daydream so I'll decide what they say, thank you very much.


But this time, I took my 17 year old daughter for a drive by my high school and college and even after 30 years, the memories are still vivid. It's as if the memories have settled into the walls, the grass and the trees, wakened by my passing and running after me, saying "You may think you have grown up, mister, but we knew you when you were young and stupid" and then like a line from a half crazed Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction: " I will not be ignored, DAN...!" Except it's Bill...


Now, to be sure, the memories have been there every time I have visited. This is not the first time I have been home since moving to Boston seven years ago. No, this time the memories are more emphatic because my 30th high school reunion is gearing up. Facebook pages have been created, classmates are consulting personal trainers, plastic surgeons and colorists....This is real!

My daughter, Taylor and I logged onto the high school reunion page at 11 pm Saturday night, after I had consumed two or three glasses of wine and created my profile. I was choosing only the most flattering photos of me. The ones where the light was good. Important note: never create anything online after two or three glasses of wine. As a matter of fact, you should probably disconnect wireless routers and turn off all cell phones after a few glasses of wine.

Of course the first thing we did was to click on the pictures of those that had already registered. Taylor quickly scanned the page and located all of the names with pictures by them. "Oh, she looks sweet", Taylor said, clicking on the first little camera icon. "Uh, yeah, looks can fool you", I said, while secretly hoping she had contracted some type of STD. Taylor clicked on another picture and in unison we both said "Oh!" as if a huge bug had just hit the windshield. "OK, she must have been sweet?" Taylor said trying to salvage something nice out of our involuntary reaction to the picture. "I honestly don't remember her" I said, and sadly, that is probably the reaction that everyone would have at the reunion.

Then I saw the name. The school jock, the "big man on campus", the one every boy wanted to be and every girl (ok, and some boys...) wanted to date. "There, click on that one!" I said to Taylor. And there it was, sweet justice! I laughed out loud while grabbing the bottle of wine to pour another glass.

"Look, he's bald! and check out the schnoz!" I said. Taylor was looking at me for an explanation. I wanted to see more. "There are more pictures, Taylor, click on the next one". This was too good, he was fat too! I was now pushing Taylor's hand to click on the third picture. "Oh, his wife is beautiful." Taylor said. "He was the school jock, he must have married her right out of college." I said, a little defeated. "Dad, do you want to go to this reunion just because you have your hair and you are still in good shape?"

Secretly, I loved that comment, even though she was insuinuating that I was shallow. As a gay man, I was required to work out every day and use whatever chemicals were necessary to keep my hair. This was stipulated in the gay contract and my membership card could be revoked if not strictly adhered to. High school reunions were tailor made for gay men. We hit the gym frequently and obsess over physical characteristics. While my therapist told me that I had an "unhealthy body image" I knew this would benefit me on reunion night.

So, I tried to answer Taylor . "Sweetie, I spent high school trying to fit in. You'll find out that most everyone begins to accept themselves after high school, most everyone, not Republican senators.." And then Taylor began to roll her eyes, so I reeled it back in. "Your grandmother is a smart woman, she says that we spend the rest of our lives getting over our childhood".

"And you're still doing that?" Was Taylor's question, but I think she meant it more as a statement, as a recrimination. That made me think. Here I was, doing the same thing that all high schoolers do. Measuring someone's worth based on the way they look. I was not getting over my childhood. I was returning to it. And it took another high schooler to point that out.

"You're right, Taylor". And then I took the mouse and began to upload a picture of me and Paul, sitting on the steps to our condo in Boston. His arm draped around my shoulder, smiling with that big toothy, grin. The light was not the most flattering. I uploaded a picture of me and my children standing in the early morning light in front of a rental van, holding our Dunkin Donuts bags in front of us, looking goofy and ready for our trip to the beach.

"This is what I am most proud of, Taylor." I said.

I took another look at the school jock. He looked happy. His kids were beautiful. And really, I was happy for him.

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Valentine's Day

So we are driving into work today and Paul looks at me and says,
“Where’s my Valentine’s Day card?” In an expectant, puppy dog way.
To which I reply
“Well, maybe you’re not supposed to get it until later”, trying to be coy, because I really did not plan well and thought I would run out at lunch to buy one…..
“Don’t get me a friggin’ card, it’s a Hallmark holiday, all I want is a little slap and tickle later” he says.
“Very romantic” I tell him. Of course this gets him going, which is what he was looking for. He begins singing, with a pained country singer face

“Before I met you, I didn’t know I had a manginaaaaa….”

I am spitting out my coffee laughing now and he keeps going, this time singing Katy Perry,
“Baby, you’re a firework, look at me with sparklers on my perky breastisses….” elongating the "s" in the song

“Is that what you want, Dameron? Do you want me to come to the restaurant tonight and be all lovey, dovey?”

And I have a vision of him with balloons and flowers at this small restaurant and he can see the fear on my face before I even say anything…..
”Look, Dameron, I’m driving your little ass to work today, that’s your Valentine”.

“But, you do that every day” I say.

“Yeah, I need to stop doing these little things every day, so you’ll appreciate them. Put your ass on that bus” And then he says the same thing he always does when we talk about the bus. “Show me riding on the bus like a little Japanese school boy”. And I sit there with my arms held out in front of me acting like I am holding my lunch box sitting on the bus.
“Ah, so cute. So is Valentine’s day every day for you?” He says like someone talking to their puppy.
“I guess it is” I say. And then he makes his point:
“So, do we need cards and chocolates and flowers?”
“No, we don’t.”
“So, shut up and sit there and look pretty”
And I say, “Say it nicely…”
And he says “I’m sorry. Sit there and look pretty…Bitch!”

So, that was my Valentine’s day this morning, can’t say I would have it any other way……

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Back into the Closet

This weekend I went back into the closet. It was a conscious decision that was prompted by my partner.

"Pookie, I'm getting tired of trying to wedge your clothes onto the rack. and I looked at your polo shirts and some of them have got to go..."

Paul, my partner, is incredibly organized. In such a cute, adorable way, he will say

"Ugh, you are such a straight boy"

What this means is that I throw clothes on the floor, can't move stuff in the refrigerator to find things (such as a gallon of milk), laugh at slapstick comedy like "Norbit", and leave wet sweaty workout clothes in my gym bag.

One day our little every other weekend dog "Gi-Gi" , Paul's youngest daughter's pet, was frantically digging through my gym bag.

"See" I said. "Gi-Gi likes my gym bag."

"That's because she thinks there is something dead in there". Paul said without missing a beat.

He's right. In some ways I do not act like a gay man. In other ways, I do act like a stereo-typical gay man. But really there is no way that a gay man acts. We have all seen the movies and TV shows with the stereo-types. Organized, witty, sometimes bitchy slim men. Truth be told, there are a few of us that fit this stereotype. The rest of us are exactly who we are. Shaped by our environment and genetics.

Paul has always been organized. He is an engineer by trade. There is a place for everything and everything in it's place. I have never been that organized and sometimes good enough is good enough. But, Paul pee's with the door open, calls women "gals", subscribes to three different car magazines and was the prom king at his high school. He does not "act" like a gay man.

While we were growing up in our closets Paul and I passed as straight because our personal traits did not betray us as Gay. We owe a debt of gratitude to those that could not pass as straight. they were the ones whose closet door, if they had one, was made of glass. They were the ones who opened their closet doors and demanded equal rights. Paul and I simply waited until it became somewhat acceptable to be gay. Don't misunderstand me. We both always knew that we were Gay. We just kept the door shut until it had to be opened because we were suffocating.

So, I went through my clothes and threw out anything that I had not worn in a year. Three trash bags of clothes later I felt a real sense of accomplishment. It was like a weight had been lifted. We all have closets and they really do need to be cleaned out every now and then. I will go back in to see what is in there. To get rid of the old stuff, but I'll never keep anything in there that does not belong.

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H1N1, Prop 8 and Scott Brown & Turkey Schnitzel

Today was a tough day. Last night the senate seat long held by Teddy Kennedy, a long time friend of the lgbt community, was won by Scott Brown. Brown, an impressive campaigner, wrapped up in a charismatic, good looking package is a bigot. He voted against same sex marriage in Massachusetts 25 times and described lgbt parents as "ridiculous". How could this happen in such a blue state?

I'll tell you how. Martha Coakley, the Democratic candidate ran a lack luster campaign because she knew that she was a shoe in. She was also quoted as saying Curt Schilling was a Yankee's fan and why would she want to stand outside of Fenway Park and shake hands in the cold? She disparaged Red Sox fans and believe it or not, the people of Massachusetts hold their beloved Red Sox in higher regard than their political values.

Couple this win with the fact that my partner, Paul is Scott Brown's physical twin, which everyone has commented on, and it's a formula for conflicted feelings.

I was feeling defeated this morning driving into work. Here we go again, another politician telling us how immoral we are. When I got to work, I had to deal with a technical solution that had been decided upon without my input and I am the IT Director. Everyone was out to get me! Just as this crisis subsided, my alarm alerted me that it was time for my H1N1 vaccination. I hate shots. The nurse was nice enought to point out the two pimples on my arm.

Sometimes there is a perfect storm of bad events and you need one more thing to push it over the edge. I tuned into the Prop 8 trial in California and while the team defending the LGBT community was doing an excellent job of presenting credible expert testimony, they clearly pointed out how politically powerless the lgbt community is, who discriminated we are and how much the religious institutions of the world hate us. Final straw that pushed me over the edge.

When I walked through the door head hanging low after a long commute home. I was greeted by the most delicious smelling dinner, Turkey Schnitzel, brandied apple sauce and whipped potatoes. There stood Paul, with the sexiest grin pouring a glass of wine for me and suddenly all was right with the world. This is my sanctuary and no matter what happens each day, I know that I will be greeted by the love of my life and it is perfection.

We are each other's strength and the port in the storm. Somehow fighting against the rest of the world for our right to love each other only makes it stronger. There is no where else in the world or no other way I would rather be.

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