free gaydar

A very good-looking man let me steal his seat from him at the coffee shop this morning. As I sat down the three girls at the two tables next to me started discussing if the man was gay or not. They were having a very serious debate about it. I couldn’t help laughing out loud—not one of my more stealthy eavesdropping moments. They then turned to me and asked if he was or not. I guess it shows the state of my mind that I had to tell them I hadn’t been paying enough attention to tell. Since when do I see a hot man and not try to determine if he’s gay or not? Although, to be truthful, I usually go under the assumption that if they are in my coffee shop, they probably are—and assumption that could get me in a lot of trouble when I get to some of my other moods.
I’ve been hearing a lot about a new law or ordinance or something that would allow people in free housing to have wireless internet and such. While I’ve heard a lot about it, I haven’t heard enough specifics to understand if it is a local Denver thing, a state thing, or a national thing. From what I can glean, it seems as if it would be a tax to provide this service. It’s one of those times when I have to embrace my right-wing roots. I understand everyone wanting internet and such, but come on! Free housing, free food, free internet. No one is paying anything for those of us that work full time. Or those of us that work two or more jobs and still can’t pay all our bills and such. In fact, they’re foreclosing on us! Drives me crazy! And while I would love to not have bills and have to pay for anything, I also don’t want anyone paying it for me! I hate paying bills, and I have a lot of insecurity around my inability to get ahead financially, but I sure as fuck don’t want someone else to do it for me. I want to succeed or fail due to me. I’m tired of paying for people who don’t want the same.
Speaking of such, in terms of coming to grips that I won’t be able to buy a single family home, or get away from the duplex I love so much but have way too many HWMNBN memories, I have decided to make my office a little closer to my dream library office. I will do this by painting two of the walls a luxurious chocolate brown. Not sure when I will buy the paint or do it, but I’m rather excited. I wonder if there’s a group that would sponsor this necessity of life, and paint it for me too while they’re at it.

turns out...

I find it interesting that every day I came into the coffee shop to edit, one of my favorite two seats was open and waiting for me. Every day. Since I finished editing, I’ve had to fight for me seat every single time. I hope that’s a good sign.
Monday night, I spent nearly five hours preparing different versions of my first novel, The Shattered Door to send to three different publishing houses—each one requiring slightly different criteria. I also sent a query for Submerging Inferno to my dream agent, the agent for Kelley Armstrong, the author of the Women of the Underworld series that my series is inspired by. I couldn’t believe how long that took, how much research, how much minute (I hate that minute and minute are spelled the same—stupid old white guys!) detail. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what is coming, but, wow! Much harder than actually writing. Who knows if anything will come from any of them, but let’s cross our fingers. I was also surprised that several of the publishing companies I wanted to submit to wouldn’t even look at your manuscript unless you have an agent. I kinda thought they’d prefer you not have agent, so that they could screw you over a bit more. That clarified my ponderings if I truly wanted an agent or not. Yep, I do.
I spent yesterday getting caught up on Gavin’s photo book, the one that I will do for him each year for his birthday. It was kind of a reward for working so hard the day before, but also a necessity that needed to get done if I hoped be able to finish the rest by July. While I sat in my hard-won spot at the coffee shop, I eavesdropped on the conversations happening around me, as you do. Through these ‘investigations’ (half the time, I have my earphones in but no music playing), I discovered that the two people beside me both were trying to get books published. So glad there’s not any competition to new authors out there.
The woman sitting beside me was dressed very eccentrically, kinda like a drag queen, but not, well, ‘cause, you know, the vagina and all. It’s ok, go ahead and shudder. After a bit, I turned to her and said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your phone conversation (translation, I was totally listening to your conversation as I pretended to listen to my ‘music’), and heard that you’re trying to get published. What’s your book about?” Turns out, it is a self-help book. Turns out she was talking to an on-line physic, who told her she should be a writer. Turns out, she wrote her book in two weeks. Turns out she edited her book in a couple months. Turns out she’s already self-publishing on Lulu. Turns out, she’s already looking for publishers.
HUH. Psychic phone call, book in two weeks. Hmmm. Seems my ambition since high school (fifteen years ago), starting Shattered five years ago, editing for years on end just meant I’m lazy. Two weeks!
She then told me that I need to visualize going around the world on book tours, having book signings, everyone knowing my books by name. Why wouldn’t it happen, she asked me. I resisted to list the billion reasons it wouldn’t happen and let myself get excited by her words. She’s right! Why wouldn’t it happen?
She then precedes to tell me about all her endeavors, one of which was making some of the outlandish apparel she was wearing and trying to sell them. Turns out none of her endeavors are going anywhere, and she couldn’t figure out why—which, if I followed correctly, is part of what prompted the psychic conversation and lead to the you’re-supposed-to-be-a-writer-girl (said in a Whoopie Goldberg voice) conversation.
The funny thing was, as much as I saw through all the mumbo jumbo she was spouting, and as much as I wanted to point out all the good her positive self-talk had brought to her, I couldn’t help but find her rather endearing, sweet, and encouraging.
So, while there truly might be a billion legitimate reasons why not, there only has to be one reason why. So, why not?

WTF or I I thought You Should Know

So, my kindred geeks at the coffee shop informed me that the makers of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer series are making a movie, but with an entirely new cast. WTF? I was so happy, then so sad.
A snowboarder going too fast down a black ran into a five year old girl and her mother who were stopped in the middle of the run. The child died, the snowboarder died, the mother is in critical condition. WTF were a mother and child doing on a black, much less stopped in the middle of a run. This is part of the reason, besides the expense and foot pain, that I stopped skiing—my brother and I kept getting in trouble for going too fast on blacks and black double diamonds. Uhmm, that’s why we weren’t on greens!
LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian got engaged over Christmas. Both cheated on their spouses together. Gays aren’t allowed to get married. Sanctity of marriage is still safe. Whew! Thank God! WTF!!! (Plus, if gays were allowed to get married Asshole Eddie would be marrying me instead.)

after the sparkling shredded paper

Yesterday was nearly perfect. There was about thirty minutes when it hit me again out of the blue of HWMNBN and his new ‘love’ and their first Christmas together and that we’d not have our Christmas later that night, like we used to. I was able to get a hold myself, not cry, and simply focus on Gavin. As ever, he is the best medicine for anything. I am soooo crazy for that kid. He truly made the day wonderful. He didn’t love opening presents as much as he did his first year, which was strange, but he is so dang cute. He has just entered this stage where he comes and grabs one of your fingers and drags you wherever he wants to go, points or acts out whatever it is he is wanting to do, babbling the entire time. I’ve always said pets are to be spoiled, not children. I was wrong. Very, very wrong. He’s going to be the cutest, most spoiled brat in the entire world. I’m so proud. I take full ownership for when he is rotten. Luckily, I’m trained to deal with spoiled brats, so I can undue what I’m doing now…..
I am very excited for tonight. I get to take down the Christmas tree! I am as excited to take it down as I tried to pretend I was to put it up. No more reminders of what isn’t. Right…
I just got my second favorite spot at the coffee shop, so now I can finished up the photo album for the year. Back to writing tomorrow!
I hope you all had a Christmas filled with people you love as much as mine.

up the chimney

Merry Christmas Eve!
I always love this day. My brother and I typically go out to dinner and then to a movie and he spends the night, we then go to our folks in the morning together. This year, we have Gavin, so no movie or spending the night, but still, wonderfulness. Plus, I mean, Gavin, what could be better? Maybe it’s good that I probably will never have children. If it is possible to love my own child more than I love Gavin, I don’t think my heart could handle it, and I’d smother the poor kid (with love, not a pillow).
Listening to my conservative talk radio this morning was rather interesting and, once again, reiterated how I live in a different world than the majority of the people. The topic this morning was people calling in to tell their favorite Christmas memory. Over half the people that called in talked about certain Santa memories. Things on the radio, someone dressing up like Santa, etc., etc., etc. My favorite memories are decorating with my family, the presents, the food, the lights. That day was pure magic. And still was until recently.
I never believed in Santa. I never even liked Santa. I always thought he was scary, and my folks never told me he was real. Honestly, I don’t get it. I mean I love, LOVE, fantasy, but I don’t plan on telling my kids, Lord willing, that there are mermaids or unicorns or any such thing. Why tell them there is a Santa? We can do make-believe, I just don’t ever want to lie to them. If I had ever really believed in mermaids and then found out it was all just pretend, I would be devastated. It’s pretty devastating to know there aren’t mermaids, and I’ve never even believed. I don’t have a problem with people that tell their kids there’s a Santa. However, many people have told me that I would be stealing some of the Christmas joy from children if I didn’t tell them there was a Santa. I just don’t get it. Then, there is that whole if I tell them Santa is real, then say ‘Just kidding,’ what about when I tell them about God? Am I lying about that too? Well, maybe I’m deluding myself on that one too, but we’ve talk about that before.
I guess, an argument could be made that my gayness is a result on not getting my fix of sitting on a big man’s lap enough of as a kid. It’s possible. Goodness knows I can’t get enough of it now.
And on that note! Merry Christmas!

waa waa waa

I tell you, it has been just one of those evenings. The day started off well. I got a lot done, spent about an hour, after researching several agents, writing a query to an agent and then had the guts to send it. I felt good about it. I was proud of myself. Fairly hopeful, yet realistic. The books I have read (by books, I mean book, singular) say that getting an agent can be just as hard, if not harder than getting an editor/publisher.
Then I went to see The Black Swan with three of my friends. Two of us got there first. The other being one of my oldest and most trusted friends. I had to talk myself into sitting by him instead of sitting two seats away. You might think that I didn’t want people to think we were gay or something. No, I just didn’t want to assume that he’d want to sit by me instead of one of the other friends. Seriously? What is wrong me? I told myself to get over it and said that I was worthy to sit by my friend. Still, I asked before I sat by him. Why do I do that? I hate it when people act like that. Plus, even if he didn’t want me to, what is he gonna say? Hell, no, scoot down. Not likely.
The movie was good, very well done, kept me on the edge of my seat (me being the only one of the four of us that kept jumping at the intense parts, of course), but fairly dark and depressing. No fairly about it. It was about a mental illness/breakdown. While I don’t think I see things that aren’t there, I could relate to feeling that you’re in this world that no one else sees. After the movie, we had an hour to spare before we were all going to another friend’s Christmas party. My three friends decided to go get a bite to eat. I declined, saying I had to go home and change clothes for the party and buy Christmas beer, per friend’s request. These were both true, but I was glad for the excuse. Too nervous to stay. I went home, bought beer (before I got home—they actually have Christmas beer), and changed clothes. Then had about thirty minutes to kill so that I wouldn’t be early. What better use of time than to sit and cry? It took everything in me to leave the house and go to my friend’s home. I have so many friends that a lot of my friends get mad at me because I never can find enough time to fit them all in enough. Yet the loneliness is crushing at times. When you are surrounded by people you love and that love you and you feel as if you are in a completely different world than they are. Every ghost of the past lashing you, every fear for the future consuming you. To top it off, I was a little allergic to my friend’s dog. I’ve been struggling with breathing, sneezing, and coughing the past three days due to being around my bff’s fucking cat on Sunday. The little dog allergy I have normally wouldn’t bother me, but combined with my already weakened state, I had to leave the house three different times to go cough, blow my nose, and try to breathe. I sat there, surrounded by my friends, trying to breath without wheezing, not joining in the conversation, completely focused on not crying and trying to breathe. Finally, I left. No, it wasn’t a panic attack or anything like that. It still hurts to breathe, though the hot tea is helping. I went and sat in a steam room and hot tub and felt much, much better. Then, a few blocks from home, my rear passenger tire went flat, found a razor blade in it. Nope, not kidding. Normally, I can change a tire in five minutes or less, but for some reason, I missed a step and it took me nearly half an hour in the cold with wet hair and jeans with a hole in the crotch. Not a good night to go commando. So much for any good the hot tub did.
I feel a little better now, not crying anyway. I guess the point of this is this: I have had to eat my words so many times, that you’d think I’d weigh even more than I do. I used to not have any sympathy for those who had ‘depression.’ I considered it weak, an excuse, all in their heads. And, maybe it is. But, I know this, it’s consuming, weakening, and scary at times. At least, I hope this is still depression. I hate to think this is simply being alive.

booktalk

I sat in the coffee shop for over four hours last night and tore through the last of the other novel. I am now finished with editing both novels! Well, this time, at least. It seems that part never stops—since the one I finished last night I’ve been working on for roughly five years. Since, I am ahead of schedule, sortta, I am going to do a little research into how to get an agent. It’s the last thing I wanna do. I want to do it all on my own. However, the author I spoke to last summer in Boulder told me that would be her first and biggest advice, after edit, edit, edit. I suppose I should listen to people who are living my dream (she was the teacher/author I spoke of before) and heed their words.
It’s crazy that it took me two days to do the same amount that I’ve been working on since school started in August. Partly due to timing and always feeling rushed between teaching and massage, but even more so being caught in my fear and not believing anything good could happen. There were a few moments when that took real form as I was editing the past two days, but I forced myself to stuff it and push onward. I have to fight for this.
While I’m reading my stuff, I try to look at it from an outsider’s eye. I love my characters. They are like my children. It’s hard for me to see their imperfections, whereas others won’t have that problem. I can’t really get a sense of how they will come across to others. I’ve received more negative feedback on the books than I have positive, so we will see. I can’t help but think it’s a good sign that as I was going over things, my heart would speed up at certain parts, be surprised at others, and saddened over deaths and hardships of my characters. It’s kinda silly since I wrote it, and I know what happened, but still, it got to me. I hope that’s a good sign. Of course, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. How many times have you seen a newborn baby whose parents are convinced it’s the most gorgeous thing in the world, and you have to struggle to not throw up a bit in your mouth as you confirm their belief? These are my babies.

soldier boi

I’ve looked forward to this evening to a ridiculously nerdy degree. I did chores and such during the day and then planned on spending the evening in the coffee shop. Confirmation of a great evening occurred when I walked in and all the great seats were taken, except for my favorite one! Now I’m all content and fuzzy in my little corner of the universe.
I have been giving Obama a hard time the few times I’ve dared talk about anything besides my own misery. I must now say something nice. (Even though I can’t understand the whole birth certificate thing. I had to prove who I was when I came back into the country, when I got a job, when I had to be approved to work with kids. All my work credentials are public knowledge. Shouldn’t he be held to, if not a higher level, the same expectations as me?)
On to the nice: Dear Obama, Thank you so much for allowing gays the right to die openly for their country. Thank you for following through on that issue. Thank you for having the balls to do it! Now, please give us the RIGHT to marry. (Yep, gay agenda: Equality.)
Listening to my conservative talk radio has been very frustrating the past several days. I’ve have to turn it back to my book on tape several times to that I didn’t plow my car into government agencies. The absolute preposterousness that is being spouted by political leaders, talk show hosts, and the public is asinine. If you haven’t gotten the memo yet, just be aware that the world is ending now that DADT has been overturned. That’s right, ending. Satan has arrived and devoured our world. Our military is weaker, the straight soldiers now have to live in terror, shower time will never be the same again. Both Uncle Sam and Jesus are very, very, very pissed off.
Seriously, like the gay sex hasn’t be happening—the only thing difference will be the ‘straight’ married guys getting plowed won’t be as assured their plower will keep it such a secret. The only thing that’s gonna change is that barracks will be better decorate and the camouflage will come in glitter. And, the only thing that will make it more dangerous is if the enemy comes armed with My Little Ponies and Barbies, to distract all the fagotty soldiers into doing hair.

tooth and nail

I’m rather proud of myself today. I made it through yesterday, which was no small task. I’m glad it’s behind me. I’m also proud of how I held myself to the grindstone yesterday. I torn through the second half of the fantasy novel and finished the editing. I even sent off a query email to the editor who turned me down before. I haven’t heard back from him, and since he wrote back within five minutes last time, I’m not sure how to take that. I will give him till after Christmas until I look at other options. It was the easier of the two books to edit, this other will take much more time than just a day, but I still think I can get it done in the next week or so and send off a few more queries.
It’s funny how our minds do so much to hinder us, there were a few times yesterday where I had to literally force myself to stay seated, stay in the coffee shop, stay in front of my computer. Part of what helped yesterday was exactly what was hurting too. I don’t have control over HWMNBN, my family situations, even my depression, and while I can’t control how people respond to my writing, I can control my effort. I can knock on every door until every single person I can find has turned me down. I can submit and submit until they issue restraining orders. I can’t control my other dreams, my other passions, but at least I can fight for this one with everything in me.
So, I’m off. Off to continue fighting from my seat at the coffee shop!

parties and ponderings

My ‘favorite’ night of the year is past—dinner with my favorite boys (most of them anyway). I cooked and cooked and cooked. It turned out really great, actually—maybe my favorite meal I’ve ever done. It’s nice when you work that hard and things actually turn out—too often, I have to give disclaimers on how it was supposed to be. The absence of my bff was more difficult than I anticipated. And, for the second year in a row, the absence of HWMNBN was glaring. That part is stupid. I’ve had many, many more years of this tradition than what he was a part of, how can his absence be so palatable during things that came before him?
Today is his birthday. My stomach has been in knots about it for days, feeling it build and build. Stupid, I know. I sent him his gift this morning. I also texted him happy birthday. The text came back from some girl saying he was no longer at that number. That hurt. He may not even have the same email anymore. Who knows. As ever, it just shows how his life has continued to move on without my knowledge while mine continues as it is.
While at my bff’s Christmas party last night, some friends asked if I had been seeing anyone lately. I responded by telling them a little about the man I’ve been on five or six dates with. They responded, ‘Oh, that’s wonderful! So, you two are dating!” To which I responded, “No, we’re not. We’re not exclusive. He knows I’m still a bit of mess. We are just going on dates and enjoying being together—seeing where it could go.” A half smile, “Yeah, that’s dating.”
Of course, that threw my mind into overdrive. Am I dating? I don’t want to be dating. I don’t feel like I should be yet. I really like the guy. I have a great time with him. I look forward to hearing from him. However, I don’t feel the love thing or that huge crush thing that should be required for dating. I don’t really know if I’m capable of that. Does it mean it’s not the right guy, that I’m not able to go there even if it was the right guy, ugh….
I am so thrilled to be on break from school. More relief from not being with the adults as opposed to the kids, although that is nice too. So, here I sit at the coffee shop—in my favorite spot, didn’t even have to fight for it! If it kills me, I am going to get the books finished and submitted in the next week and a half. Maybe, after, I’ll even be inspired to start a new book. I hope. Even if I am afraid of everything anymore, friends, ex’s, new dates, life, I’ll be damned if I let my fear take the joy of writing from me.

moment of serenity

After three massages last night, not one bit of me felt guilty for my Starbucks addiction. It literally hurt to get out of bed.
On my way out of Starbucks, with my Cranberry Bliss Bar and Pumpkin Spice Chai, I had to pause while the hot man in front me changed his mind halfway through the door and darted back inside.
Turning to see what had caused his distraction, I watched him walk over to a table where a solitary African-American boy sat reading a book at an empty table. He looked to be about twelve or thirteen. I hadn’t noticed him. Of course, that’s not too surprising since I didn’t even notice the hot man until he nearly ran me over.
The man went over to the boy and asked if he were with anyone and if he would like anything, an orange juice or something. The boy was obviously hesitant (smart boy), but soon nodded his head.
I don’t know why a young kid was in Starbucks by himself, I don’t know if he was short on cash or not (didn’t look like it, he was very well dressed), I don’t know what he had for breakfast or what he will have for lunch—he didn’t appear to be overly in need or anything. Even so, observing the interaction made my morning. Of course it didn’t hurt that the guy was cute, made even cuter by his actions, but really, it was like one of those stupid, cheesy, make-me-cry, ‘pass it on’ commercials.
Just as our every negative action that we think is so private affects everyone around us, so does our little unseen flashes of Godliness and humanity, our unselfish acts of love. In what has been a very emotionally hard several days, that brief moment was beautiful and perfect—somehow even more meaningful than if he had asked to buy me a drink. Sometimes, in my job, I don’t see enough people really caring for their own kids, let alone someone else’s. I’m so grateful that’s not reality. I’m so grateful for tangible evidences of love.

indulgent

The countdown to Christmas vacation, excuse me, I mean winter break, is on. On one hand, I am so excited. If nothing else, just to sleep some more—which tells me how much older I am getting, I hate sleep and have never needed it so much. There are tons of Christmas activities that I am greatly looking forward to, my annual dinner being my favorite night of the year typically. I can’t even begin to say how excited I am to see Gavin open Christmas presents. He was so much fun at six months last year, it should even be better now!
Of course, Mr. Negative is alive and well, so part of me dreads Christmas break. HWMNBN has his birthday, and yes, I know, that shouldn’t affect me, but guess what…
The other reason, my goal is to finish and submit both novels, The Shattered Door (resubmit) and Submerging Inferno (for the first time), by New Year’s Eve.
I have considered putting them away and just stopping. I’ve gotten very mixed reviews on them from the people who have read them, some claiming to love them, others not even able to finish reading them. I don’t want to waste my time. I don’t want to constantly be the guy talking about the book he’s writing. You know that guy, the one who is all talk and nothing ever happens. Even beyond that, it just is starting to feel like an ill-fated fight with destiny. Contrary to what I believed without reservation growing up, I no longer feel like I am destined to have ‘all my dreams come true.’ Just the opposite in fact. The past gets more and more powerful, not less—at least for me, which is doubly hard when I’m not even an afterthought in his mind. My family’s financial situation worsening and worsening. Custody always being in question and so much fear of what that may ultimately bring. The man in the mirror becoming less and less familiar every day. Who am I fooling? The man that used to think he could do anything, that anything was really possible seems like a fool and long dead. The pervasion of feeling of being finished and done continues to grow and has been rather crippling as of late. Despite the fact that I really am trying to live once more. It’s more like I’m trying to follow a script, force myself to appear alive, as if by faking it long enough, it will be reality.
If I am able to finish them and turn them in, or even more so, write other novels, it will only be due to not having an option. Kinda like my faith in God. I’ve gone too far to back out now. I would be nothing at all if I didn’t believe He were there, that He is with me. Likewise, I’ve gone too long with writing to turn back. I started Shattered about five years ago, written and re-written it, with two and a half other books in-between, and countless beginnings of stories that were never finished spanning over a decade before that. If I feel like a failure now, like I’m finished, how much more would that overwhelm me if I didn’t keep trudging along. However, I can’t really suppress the sensation of being an ant marching forward, thinking he’s about to reach his destination, never knowing a hurricane will send a wave to devour before he ever gets there.

still

One of my favorite songs from childhood from one of my favorite Christmas movies, All I Want For Christmas. Sung by Bill Medley. It's been tossing around constantly in my head today. I hate my brain.
"All I want is everything I lost, no matter what they cost, 'cause I've already paid. All I want is a memory or two, like the ones I had with you. I can't let it go. Don't look down on me with compromise, you can see world from my point of view, it's all up to you. All I want is the promise you’ll stay. All I want is one more yesterday. No I don’t mean to over simplify, but I cross my heart and hope to die."

the outside looking in

Last night was a Christmas party at one of my dear friend’s home.
In pure Brandon fashion, I dressed in one of blue and white striped button down shirts. Looking in the mirror I thought, “Not too bad, it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard, but the jeans don’t have holes or anything.” I also congratulated myself in remembering to bring a bottle of wine (I always forget such things—when you’re raised with wine being wrong, it takes some effort to remember that you need to bring a bottle of sin with you.). After looking through facebook for my invitation, I finally texted my friend and asked for directions. I show up, feeling like I’m looking pretty good, bottle of wine in my hand. I step through the door, and quickly realize I am once again in my own little world, and it is causing me to stick out like a sore thumb—and you know how I feel about sticking out in a crowd of people, especially when I know some of them. Everyone is dressed to the nine’s (whatever that means). Very classy, fancy dresses on the women. The men in slacks, jackets, ties, sweaters, etc. The boxes by the front door quickly filling up with toy donations. Perfect, not only do I look cheap, poor, and like a project, I am also a Scrooge who doesn’t care about the kids. (Don’t worry, I brought toys later—you know, any opportunity to buy an Ariel doll—can’t pass that up!)
Jealousy and envy (along with wine) is a sin. However, when I read about such things in the Bible, it seems like they go along with wishing someone harm due to what they have, or wishing you had what they had instead of them. Therefore, I’m not really convinced that my ‘jealousy’ is a sin. I don’t feel that way at all. I’m so happy for what my friends have and the life they are living. I honestly wouldn’t take it away from them at all in order to have it myself. That would spoil it. Maybe jealousy isn’t the right word, or maybe I’m sinning and am deluding myself. (Several of you who struggle with my gayness feel that way about me all the time, so just add this to the list.)
These two friends are my ideal and that life they are living is my ideal. They are both gorgeous and stupid sexy. The type of gorgeous I could starve myself for years for and work out for six hours every day and never attain. A kind of physical beauty that you’re just born with, that is halting. Their home is perfection. Not to some, I’m sure (as some people only want new and modern), but my idea of perfection. From the time period in which it was built, to the décor, the color, the layout. Everything. Their life together conducive to longevity, to raising children should they choose, on and on.
Let me give this disclaimer. We all know that things on the outside can be very different than what they are on the inside. Sometimes, even when you’re on the inside, they are different than you realize—as I know all too well. Therefore, I am in no way saying they have this perfect life without conflict or struggle. Just because I’m not privy to it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. However, to me, that is part of a ‘perfect’ life. That doesn’t take away any of it. I don’t want or expect a perfect life. Well, that’s a lie. I want a perfect life, but I don’t expect it.
So, last night was mixed for me. By the end, and I was there about four hours, I was feeling good about being appropriately social, despite my lack of glitz. It was wonderful to be with friends and in a warm, gorgeous, Christmasy home filled with bustle, music, great lighting, and delicious food. However, it was also hard to see be in the midst of someone else’s life that seems to be where I thought my life was going (though on a less grand scale). And maybe this is where the sin comes in. While I don’t begrudge them a second of their happiness (indeed, it truly does make me happy), it really does hurt. I don’t cry every day anymore, which is nice. I did last night. Even so, I’m glad I was there. Even if it isn’t my life or in my cards, it’s nice to see that it does exist. That it’s out there. That others have found it. I may not be riding sidesaddle with a merman upon a unicorn, but I’ve seen it. It’s beautiful.

party season

The Christmas season has officially started. I had a Christmas dinner last night (which was wonderful with PCSDR-L) and another tonight, and then it doesn’t quit until July. Well, so it seems.
I have done so many massages this week and have so many more to do that I finally have a moment, so I flew to the coffee shop, and I had just enough money for one drink. I love being here. It almost feels more like home than being at home sometimes. My goal is to spend a ton of time here over Christmas break and finish both of the books. I’ve put them off long enough and the longer I let them sit the more afraid of them I get.
I was so looking forward to blogging today, but I honesty am not in the place to be positive and happy, at least not if I start blogging right now, and I really need to keep the mood up to not turn into Eyore at my dear friend’s party tonight.
Therefore, today has turned into picture working time. Which, almost always makes me happy.
Merry Early Christmas!

right here right now

What a week it has been. So long. Police, co-worker drama, massages, meetings, sick fish, a third date (which was super low-key and super nice last night. One area I’d started to be concerned about what that I wasn’t laughing very much. Humor is one of the biggest things I look for. He had me rolling on the floor last night, so that was fun!), preparing for Christmas meals, on and on and on. I’m tired. With the exception of a couple of those things on the list, and a couple I didn’t put on, I’m actually enjoying the moment. Kinda nice. Take it where you can get it.
Actually, I’m not gonna go where I was headed next. Let’s stop with the positive. Good place to stay.
That’s my Christmas present to you: no whining and crying for you today! Enjoy.

just one wish on this christmas eve

One of the selfish reasons I love my job is that it so often shoves every part of my own life out of the way. From days where multiple kids are going off, where I have to restrain one kid while I’m teaching math to eight others, where I have to be ready to run as fast as a ten year old (which isn’t as easy as I’m sure it should be). I have to focus on the moment to simply function, to anticipate the next move, see the fire before it happens. It’s not this huge life or death thing by any means, but it is all-consuming at times, which is often such a relief, since I struggle constantly to turn my brain off. Yesterday I stayed nearly an hour past when I was planning. The person who came to pick up my second grader was intoxicated, which was good timing as social services where waiting to do an interview. The parent was at home, incoherent. As this family is homeless and continues to get kicked out of the places they do sporadically live, the police had to take my kid to figure out where he was going to be and who he was going to be with. During the time all this was going down, I kept my boy with me. We played tick-tack-toe, the dot game, read a story about a kid who has to pee really badly, and did endless rounds of MadLibs. Then he got to go in the police car, where the officer let him hang on the top of the car to see the lights flash and hear the sirens scream. (One of the few times I didn’t have authority issues with the police. Didn’t hurt he was young and hot, either.) There were no thoughts of my own life during this time, the boy consumed everything else, and, of course, has been on my mind frequently through the night. As sick as it sounds, it’s a relief—both to have myself shoved from me and to take care of someone. Of course, watching Glee later, as Rachel Berry sang Merry Christmas Darling, tears flowed freely. I hadn’t quite pictured HWMNBN and the new person he says he loves having Christmas together. I did then.
My work load is so much easier than a regular education teacher—which is why it is so silly when other teachers say they don’t know how I do it. They don’t realize how easy it is, there is no way I could be a regular ed teacher (the work load they’re under is not exaggerated, nor is the pressure and stress). I’m sure it says very fucked up things about me that my sanity often comes from the fucked up lives my children endure. And to meet my quota for the gay agenda to keep my membership in the gay community I must point out my constant frustration with the bigotry and ignorant stance that gay people are harmful to the foundation of marriage, family, and child rearing. Uh-huh. Hopefully the gay elite mafia will be satisfied with that statement. Maybe if I were more vehement, I might get a discount on my gay dues next year, maybe a free blow-up doll or lube with purchase or something.
As much as I have sworn that I will never adopt (due to all I have seen in such cases), I have two children right now that I would take home in a heartbeat if I could.

Acquainted With What You Think

“I give birth to interpret a few of the articles on your website trendy, and I extremely like your fashionableness of blogging. I added it to my favorites web age list and last will and testament be checking back soon. Will contain out of order my site as highly and fail me be acquainted with what you think. Thanks.”

This was the latest comment posted on my blog, or at least attempted, as I set it up to approve comments—just for this reason. I get comments from time to time on my blogs, which I love, no matter what they say. It’s fun to know what people think as they read, how they relate, or how they view whatever I was blogging about. I always get excited when I see I have a comment. However, three-fourths of the time, the comments are like the above—often much more confusing, actually. This one made enough sense that I thought it was funny. I know spam is there to either put a virus on your computer by clicking on it or sneak in advertisements for other sites, etc. However, most of the ones that get posted to my blog are like this one, no active link, not adverting anything, and seems to be true incoherent Ramblings of the English language. Which, maybe is exactly the point—maybe they are trying to hold a mirror up to me through example. Hmmm… Either way, it’s like a horrible MadLib gone bad. After I get over my momentary flash of frustration about getting excited to read a real comment, I often enjoy the spam. After all, who doesn’t wanna give birth to trendy? And I hope some rich stranger leaves me in their last will and testament. I also appreciate when people make up words, since I often do that to suit my need. It’s my favorite thing about Sarah Pailn. Really. There are several things people can make fun of her for, but I really find that part of her relatable and endearing, and in no sense a sign of a lower intellect. Fashionableness. I mean, come on! That rocks! However, I just noticed. No squiggle red line under fashionableness. Must be a real word. Dooh! Good thing I teach special ed.
I must confess, the past several days I have stared longingly at my bottle of anti-depressants wishing I could overdose—not in an effort to kill myself or anything, but surely if one helps a little bit a whole bottle might actually make you happy, or at least block out the ache. Don’t worry. I know it won’t. I’m not actually tempted, as no part of me wants to miss my nephew’s life or any new mermaid merchandise yet to come on the market; however, I do wish that was how those pills worked. Really want my life back. I must say though. After hours of wrapping presents for all the kids in my life and friends last night, my tree is officially stuffed full of gorgeous gifts. That sight really did cause an untainted pleasure. Both for the sheer beauty, and for the anticipation of the giving. While Christmas is more painful that I ever thought possible, there are flashes of how much I used to love it. That is really fun, and I’m so thankful for it.

playing doctor with a Jewish Barbie

After another weekend with Strep (I called off work Friday after feeling like I was going to die Thursday), my doctor is finally letting me contact the surgery department to request having my tonsils taken out! It probably makes me crazy to be excited about this, but I have been fighting for this surgery for nearly a decade with no luck. There is not guarantee that it will fix all the problems I have with strep and getting sick so much, but most people I talk to say that it really helped them. However, from everything I hear, the surgery (recovery time) for an adult is supposed to be horrible. If it works, it will sooooo be worth it!
I had a second date last night. It went really well. I used a gift certificate I had received last Christmas and had never been able to get in with reservations. Even after the certificate, it was an $80 meal. Most of the time, I would be furious about such an extravagance. If the meal is over $15 bucks a person, I tend to be a little pissy. This meal was $38 a plate. However, the meal was perfect. Truly. One of the best meals I’ve ever had. It was like something I’ve seen on Top Chef or when Food Network takes me to fancy places I assume I’ll never go. All that said, if you’re in Denver and want to spend a small fortune on an exquisite meal, go to Colt & Gray. Get the Lamb Shank. O. M. G. Seriously. Go on a cold night. The fireplace was awesome. Very romantic and mountain lodge chic. While I have no idea where this could go, if anywhere, this man has the most potential of anyone I’ve met since HWMNBN. If it does go anywhere, it will be a long time I’m thinking. Both of us have our walls up pretty high in the relationship department. Although being with him is definitely triggering a shitload of HWMNBN issues, it’s really nice. On a strange note, most guys I’m with, even the really tall ones (HWMNBN was 6-2) I typically feel like the bigger one, although not taller. This guy is 6-2 as well, but massive. I feel like a little kid with him. A feeling I don’t really like, although I enjoy the other aspects of the situation.
Since the antibiotics make me non-contagious, I worked my ass off this weekend with massage. As every December, my bills get put on hold and Christmas gifts ensue (totally immature and irresponsible, and totally wonderful). Very few things make me as happy as Christmas shopping for my friends. Well, one thing, Christmas shopping for Gavin. Oh my goodness. And it’s gonna get more and more fun. I almost bought him this huge train set yesterday. Then realized that he’s not even two yet and might want to pick out such a thing for himself and look forward to such things later. Still, baby toys are a blast too. I also got to shop for PCRL’s girls. I love girl shopping. I almost bought three Barbies yesterday. For myself. A new Ariel one, a Barbie mermaids, and this red head classic all in black Babrbie—the kind of girl I tell myself I’d be if I were a girl. When we all know I’d be Rosie O’Donnell. Okay, before the keyboard burst into flames from all the flamyness going on, I should stop.
Happy Hanukah. I’m excited about Hanukah this year. Namely because of all the savings going on at Starbucks. At least I think it’s for Hanukah. Hmmm…. Either way, Happy Hanukah!!!

Kamikaze

I’m not sure if it was payback for actually being a tad hopeful or what was going on. I got home from work and got onto Facebook to check some party events, and HWMNBN had about ten different pictures all at once on other people’s updates that he’d been tagged in. Even thought he’s blocked they still came up. I didn’t sit there and stare at them, in fact, I deleted several posts and even blocked some other friends so I wouldn’t have to see that again. It was like an instantaneous punch to the gut, like my heart was collapsing on itself. It was instant, and it was rather shocking. And, completely out of my control, which scares me. I fought tears the rest of the night, even when I shoved it from my mind as much as I could. Most people that go through what I have don’t take so long to heal, and even if they do, they are much farther ahead than I am at this point. I don’t what part of me is broken and I’m uncertain how it will be fixed, if at all. How can he hurt me over and over again when he doesn’t even realize (or care). Why can’t whatever part is inside of me accept reality and shut it off. I’m tired of being broken.

ComeWhatMay

I had a date Monday night. An actual date, one that could lead to more than fun. Having decided to throw out the rule book entirely (HWMNBN and I did everything right, everything, and here I sit, so…), I am extremely blunt and direct on dates if I’m interested. Things you shouldn’t say or ask on a fifth date I put out without much apology on the first. So, I simply asked if this was a date (he asked me) for the pure sake of having fun together or seeing where things could possibly lead and let him know either answer was fine, but I wanted to know my standing. Turns out, as I was hoping, he is wanting to see where it could go. With the exception of not jumping into a relationship quickly, I am not going to worry about the rules or what is protocol, just literally gonna see what happens. I also don’t know how to read myself. I’m not all nervous or gaga, even though I’m immensely physically attracted and we have lots of really great things in common. I don’t know if that feeling will come over time, I’m not really sure I’m even capable of that feeling anymore. Hopefully not the later, if so, then there is only one way this or any other dating relationship could go, but I guess I’ll find out.
If there is a benefit to all I’ve gone through, it is this: At least at this point, until things get very serious, I’m not worried about being hurt. Even if I do get hurt, it can’t compare with what I still go through nearly everyday (couldn’t sleep last night for all the memories and dreams assailing me). I feel like I’m going into this with eyes wide open and with cards on the table, which I appreciate. That being said, either way this goes, I’m excited about it and am hopeful of where it could lead, as there is more than one positive outcome. And, either way, it is a little off putting and flattering to have someone so physically attractive want to see where things may go. Whatever happens, it feels like an important step at the moment.

lessons that should have been learned long ago

What a crazy, crazy five-day weekend. Wow. From a friend in from out-of-town for a couple nights, to Thanksgiving, to helping my folks move, from massages and massage clients canceling (grrrrr), I haven’t even had time to work out once, let alone even think or write. I’m so tired right now that the back of my eyes are aching. Am I going to bed? No. I’m baking pumpkin bread and blogging. I need at least a couple hours by myself (with the pups, of course—a newly shorn Dunkyn).
I just returned from a double feature: Love and Other Drugs and Burlesque. LaOD, I don’t really know what to say about it. Anne Hathaway is my favorite actress and Jake, well, come on, Jake! Lot’s of naked Jake. Although lots more of naked Anne. Shudder. Gorgeous to be sure in a girl kinda way, but… really I just cringed and got goose bumps trying to write about it. So glad I’m gay! Burlesque… Perfection!
My emotions have been all over the place that past several day. I’m sure in part due to not being able to vomit all my shit on here. Blah, blah, blah…
I’ve been spending a lot of time with a gorgeous late-fiftyish man who has HIV. He has become quite dear to me. One of those relationships where I’m not exactly sure what I am taking from it, but I can feel its importance. Moments that I know I will see crystal clear for the rest of my life. Conversations that will have effect long after they are over.
The strange thing, as we share our stories with each other, we both notice that the core of our emotions are rather the same. Which is peculiar, his being based in his HIV status, and mine based on how my life has turned out.
In what is somewhat of a comfort (to know we all hurt) and somewhat of a torture, he has spoken in depth of his partner he had for year and years, who left him. Years and years ago. He never gets teary. He is a prototype of his generation and military to match. However, even in that framework, the love he has for that man is palpable and the pain he still feels is as real, and in some ways, as fresh as my own.
I really want to write his story. He is fascinating. From his struggle in the military, to his marriage to a woman, his children, his partner’s abandonment, his HIV status, everything. Fascinating, and even though not all the details are things that every person has in common, there isn’t one thing he has gone through that everyone wouldn’t understand and relate to.
We were discussing all the HIV prevention and help service that exists within the gay community. He made a truly telling statement. He feels that most, if not all, gays do their part for HIV outreach and service in name only. To simply feel good about themselves—that they really don’t want it in their faces when in the presence of someone with HIV. I feel the similar to gay marriage. Everyone wants it and is demanding equality, but I really believe the vast (98%+) majority really don’t want it. They say they want marriage, may even tell themselves that, but it’s not really true. Of course, that point of view would have nothing to do with my own experience now would it?

the drive of passion

Last week, I did something I’ve always wanted to do. Something I’m not sure why I hadn’t done yet. I’ve always wanted a fish tank filled to the brim with live plants, with no other fish beside live-bearers—such as mollies, swordtails, moons, platties, and, my all time favorite, guppies. The fishtank that HWMNBN and I had in the kitchen broke the other day, so I decided to look for a new tank. After much research on the internet, trying to find a nice used tank for cheap, I went to PetSmart to get crickets for the Harry Potter terrarium. They had these gorgeous bow-front takes on sale. I got a bigger one than what I had been looking at used for tons cheaper than I could find anywhere else. So, I now have a rather large tank behind my kitchen sink filled with live plants. It is beautiful. Like I have a little section of nature in my house. Live plants are cheap too. Most of the ones I got were $1.50!
I’ve spent ridiculous amounts of time with the lights off in the kitchen, leaning on the sink, gazing at the fish as they cavort in their little world. It’s gonna be a mess when I bring the Potter tank home at breaks. I’m never gonna get anything done!
It seems that fish are pretty much human, or at least driven by the same things that drive most people (not me, of course, others… always others). They are constantly eating. They are constantly having sex. That’s it. They do nothing else. For some reason, I didn’t even catch on to the sex thing for quite awhile; I was just enjoying their swimming antics. It quickly became apparent that all they were doing was having sex. Granted, from what I can see, the females aren’t really into it as much as the males (sooooo glad I’m gay!), but that doesn’t seem to stop the boys. You’d think these little fish would tire out, but no. The are racing here and there, constantly chasing tail (literally and figuratively) every moment of their existence, and stopping to nibble on some food along the way. They don’t even seem to care if the female is already pregnant. You’d think the poor girl would look forward to being pregnant so that that could get a few moments peace. Apparently, her allure doesn’t allow such luxury.
At this rate, the little ‘bathhouse’ in my kitchen is going to be so full of babies from all the copulating (again, soooo glad I’m gay!) that I’m going to have to have friends over for a fish fry.
Either way, it’s rather telling how much I relate to my little fish. And truth be told, you probably do too.

I Love Beaver

It was a fairly wonderful weekend. Stupidly, there were several challenges in a situation that should have been pretty simple, but overall, such a great experience. Six of us (four of my best friends, and one who is a much better friend now [we hadn’t spent much time together previously]) rented a condo in Beaver Creek at the Five Star Ritz-Carlton. Now, most of the time, I wouldn’t brag about something being Five Star, nor would I usually give a shit. However, I’d never been anywhere Five Star before (splitting the off-season cost six ways make it $50 a night, can’t even get a Motel Six for that, and I know), and it was mind blowing. I’ve stayed nice places before, but never one that felt like a real, honest to goodness home—even those townhouses and stuff you can rent. This was gorgeous and I would have moved in and not changed a thing (except for wall color, of course). The highlight of luxury for me was the spa, which I didn’t book any services, but got to enjoy their hot tub and the men’s locker room hot tub. They looked like grottos from the Little Mermaid, except sexy. The main one even had a jutting waterfall. All surrounded by rock and dimply lit candles (you know my feelings on candles). Wow. As far as vacation, the only reason we left the resort was to see the new Harry Potter (which was transcendent, of course). The rest of the time we simply hung out together and cooked and cooked and cooked. Glorious.
I struggled quite a bit with HWMNBN stuff this weekend, it was triggered a lot. (My new song mantra for him? “I see you driving ‘round town with the guy I love and I’m like, Fuck You and Fuck Him too! Although there’s pain in my chest I sill wish you the best with a Fuck You!”—Cee-Lo Green—Perfection. Although, the first time I heard it was last week. Sara Bareilles sang it at her concert.) As well as my body issues. These particular friends are all gorgeous. And not by my biased eyes, but by any magazine you care to open. There were many times I had to do quite a bit of self talk—both to keep from crying and to force myself to be with my friends. It was a battle that was well worth the effort. A reminder that there still is life, and while it is still hard and painful, it is also beautiful and luxurious. That I am surrounded by people who still chose to love me in spite of it all.
Thanks, boys!

Not so Cold

The Glee Christmas album came out yesterday. I’m rather in love with it. How could I not be? However, I’m even more enamored than I anticipated. When asked what my favorite Christmas song is, I reply ‘Oh Holy Night.’ Partly because when sung by the right person, it is one of the most haunting and beautiful song ever sang. Plus, when I was a kid, there was this Folger’s commercial where this little boy (or girl, don’t remember) is staring out the window, sad and forlorn, as the rest of the family sings Christmas carols. Then, miraculously, the older brother that he/she was missing comes back from war just in time to walk in the door and sing the solo part of ‘Oh Holy Night’ much to everyone’s amazement. No one is more thrilled however, then the little sibling. Even as a kid, the commercial made my cry, and it has stuck with me, I can’t hear that song without experiencing that emotion. However, that song has been overdone by too many people. I don’t think you should be allowed to sing that song unless your voice is registered at the appropriate quality. Due to stupid people who think they can sing, that song has lost most of its glimmer to me. All this to say, despite what I tell people, my true favorite Christmas song is “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Let’s not think too deeply about what that says about me…
This is one of the songs on the Glee album. While this song too is overdone, it is easier to sing, so it has yet to be tainted (hehe, just said taint) to such as sour degree. I was afraid Glee would change it too much or make it all artsy and lose the simplistic cadence and harmony that I love so much. They didn’t. The song was nearly half over when I realized, that I couldn’t place who was singing the songs. The rest of the songs I’d heard, it was pretty easy to tell which character was singing, but this one, I couldn’t tell. The male part had a beautiful voice, but I couldn’t bring up a face. The female voice was perfect for the song, but different than any girl I could come up with from the show. It was rather masculine, smoky maybe. My all time favorite person to sing this song is Lauren Becall. While I think she is one of the most gorgeous women of all time, let’s face it, her smoker’s voice makes her sound like a trucker on steroids. However, I find her voice so sexy on that song—go figure, I’d let a trucker ‘sing’ to me. I digress. As I listen to Glee’s version of the song, I realize that the reason I can’t place the female’s voice is that it isn’t a woman (at least I assumed—I doubted they called Lauren to come assist). As I listened as they warbled about delicious looking lips and how one of them has a vicious aunt (LOVE this song, come on, it doesn’t get better than singing about foreplay and family drama), it crashed upon me who is singing: Kurt and his boyfriend (the couple I blogged about last week) were singing one of the few Christmas love songs in existence. I couldn’t quite accept that thought. Glee is pretty progressive, sure. But turning a classic, a Christmas classic into a gay love/lust duet? Surely they knew better than to cross that line.
After research, I found out my ears hadn’t deceived me. I know these are little battles to most people. Things that are small and trivial. To me, they seem like gigantic mile stones. Moments that give me hope—both for what may lie ahead in my future—but even more for the next generation of gays following. Of course, I haven’t been able to stop listening to it. It was probably the best Christmas gift I could get. Well, outside of The Return that will never happen, all my debt getting paid, and a publishing contract. You know, outside of that.

What Good Does It Do?

A friend took me to see Sara Bareilles tonight. Always really liked her, but she blew me away. I had no idea how amazing she was. She sang this song. I hadn’t heard it before. By the end, I was sobbing. Wiping my nose on my shirt sobbing.

I don't want to talk about it to you
I'm not an open book that you can rifle through
The cold hard truth that you'll see right to
I'm just basket case without you

He's not a magic man or a perfect fit
But had a steady hand and I got used to it
And a glass cage heart and invited me in
And now I'm just a basket case without him

You're begging for the truth
So I'm saying it to you
I've been saving your place
And what good does it do?
Now I'm just a basket case
Now I'm just a basket case

I don't say much and it'll stay that way
You got a steel train touch and I'm just a track you lay
So I'll stay right here underneath you

I'm just a basket case and that what we do

You're begging for the truth
So I'm saying it to you
I've been saving your place
And what good does it do?
Now I'm just a basket case

Won't somebody come on in and tug at my seams?
Oh, send your armies in of robbers and thieves
To steal the state I'm in I don't want it anymore

You're begging for the truth
So I'm saying it to you
I've been saving your place
And what good does it do?
Now I'm just a basket case

Basket Case
Sara Bareilles

supreme

It was a fairly interesting weekend, and most of it good. Saturday I almost felt normal. Partly due to the gorgeous weather, part to hours at the coffee shop, part to friends. It was wonderful. I almost felt like me. Of course, I paid the price for that yesterday, by thing rushing back like a torrent, but still, Saturday was great.
I went one of my married (straight) couple’s home for dinner. They had me and three of my best gays. The dinner was delicious. The house was almost my ideal—a little more Victorian than Craftsman, but still great. The company sublime. The conversation very. . . entertaining. After many topics, and after three bottles of wine (not me, although I did have two martinis—they had bleu cheese olives, come on!), the conversation turned to politics and the last election. Most of the time, I don’t speak up about politics. I don’t understand enough, and my views are so broad they don’t really fit anywhere. Two of the gays were stanch Republicans. One of the gays seems to be more all over the place like me, as was the wife. The husband was very liberal. (The dynamics of this were fun, simply because, to an outsider, the roles would not be as they would have been expected to be.) Most of the time, I just listened. I honestly enjoy that more anyway. However, the husband, somehow, got on the subject of respect for the president’s title and job. He was speaking of how no matter what, it comes down to that the president (not just Obama, but any president) is there because he loves his country and simply wants to serve and help. I started to speak up, but then thought better of it, reminding myself that I don’t have to spread my negative jadedness. However, someone noticed that I had started to speak and asked me what I thought. So, I told them. You’ve heard it here before—that I don’t think all presidents are there for the pure good of the country. That for a lot, most, or all, they are there for status, prestige, and because it was their career path. Tying into another conversation we’d had that night, I also said I don’t think you have to respect the president just because he is president—akin to positions such as pastor, teacher, etc. There were near fights (not really, but very heated) by the end of the night—and not with me, but just with that point of view, which another friend believes as well, but he is much more verbal and well-spoken than I. It was so interesting how vehemently offensive this thought was. Especially to the liberal, which also surprised me. Maybe, since I question God so much, His intention, love, and true capability, questioning the president and not giving automatic deference is pretty tame. (On a side note, one that I brought up at the dinner, I’ve noticed that in publications, such as The New York Times, the president is referred to at Mr. Obama, not President Obama. I find this rather shocking and almost an intentional slight [although, I doubt that is really how it is meant]. Of course, I rather like this. I makes our president human (Obama or not) and less god-like.
I also went to church yesterday. The sermon amazing, my tears real. The song service mind-numbing in its meaningless drivel that surely had God gagging. (Except for one song that said, ‘I want more of you, less of the religion of man.’ That song I could sing and not feel like a hypocrite.) Anyway, the reason I tell you this is as follows: During the song service, my friend (yes, I actually sat with people yesterday) nudged me and motioned to the row in front of us. I had to squint to understand what I was seeing. Sure enough, the older lady in front of us had a huge curling iron atop her list of church supplies. For some reason this cracked me up. That sad thing was that this poor woman’s hair was the limpest drudgery you’ve ever seen. I was tempted to save both of us from the song service, rush to the bathroom, and do an emergency makeover.

Tastes Like Chicken

Pansy Parkinson joined my classroom terrarium late last night. She is a yellowish-brown Fire Felly Toad. She makes a well-rounded and hopefully final addition to our Harry Potter world. Five Slyerthins, two Gryffindors, and one Hufflepuff.
Upon purchasing Pansy from the Harry Potter Amphibian Superstore (AKA PetSmart), I filled out the normal papers when taking home a small animal. I had to fill them out for the other Fire-Bellied Toads as well. I thought they were simply letting me know their twelve day replace or refund policy. I’d always just initialed, signed, and dated before. You know, I’m just too busy to read through all the papers I sign…
This sales person was a little more in depth as he rambled his way through the papers I was signing. He was chattering so fast and I was so fixated on not confusing Pansy with another of the toads that I nearly didn’t catch his words.
“Really, by signing it, you’re just agreeing that you won’t eat it.”
“What?”
“That you won’t eat the frog.”
I nearly corrected him that she isn’t a frog, she’s a Fire Belly Toad, but I let that go. “I think I can handle that.”
“Well, we’ve had other people eat the frogs.”
“Really? Huh…”
He fished in the tank, grabbing the wrong toad. I corrected him and he started again, chasing down the elusive Pansy Parkinson.
When he was ready to begin catching the crickets I was purchasing, I decided to ask the question that had been playing in the back of my mind. You know how I am about conspiracy theories and intrusive laws and such. Was there someone who spied on Fire Belly Toad (Frog, apparently) owners?
“So, how do you know that they ate the toads?” I wondered if he was going to correct my non-use of the word frog. He didn’t.
“Oh, the guy ate them and then got sick. He sued us.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Now we have to tell people not to eat their pets.”
“Huh.”

skin deep

After HWMNBN left, there were (have been) several things on which I stopped spending money. Things got so much harder being a single income household again, that some of my priorities changed. I stopped spending money on a lot of ‘necessities’ and instead spent money on luxury items. I wouldn’t buy paper towels so I could buy a book on tape. I won’t buy new work clothes or shoes so that I can go to the coffee shop. I won’t pay down a credit card so that I can go to Seattle. Good decisions? No, obviously not. Decisions that help me hold onto the little sanity I have left? Most definitely.
One of the ‘necessitates’ that I stopped purchasing was night moisturizer and lotion for my face for when I wake up. Silly, gay, girly. Yeah, whatever. Part of it was because it doesn’t seem to matter about keeping my face a certain way, no one I care to impress anymore. The other thing is the expense. If I get the cheep ones that is a combined $30. That a few cups of White Russian Chai at the coffee house. It was actually something I’ve felt really guilty about. I had tried to take such good care of my face while we were together, trying to make it where I’d age less or have healthier skin the older I got. The past year an a half, I didn’t care anymore, what was the point? The past several weeks have reminded me of the point. Maybe the weather change, maybe the stress, maybe just getting older, but my face has literally been in pain. Not agony or anything, but just constantly irritated. It would split around my lips at times, my chin and jaw continuously chaffing and peeling. Shaving has always reeked havoc on my skin. It hurt, and I have been getting more and more embarrassed and self-conscious about my face and talking to people. While I was grocery shopping two days ago, getting items to go with the free buffalo meat a friend at school gave me (made buffalo burgers-OMG, so freaking good), I used some of the money I’d set aside from massage to help with the mountain trip coming up and purchased both night cream and daily moisturizer (the cheep kind, sadly).
I promise you, my skin has quite literally sighed, both when I go to bed and when I get up in the morning. It’s like it had been dying, like it had been in the desert. I didn’t realize how much it was suffering. Instantly most of the drying skin healed up, there’s only a couple places that are still mending, but those are where the cracks were deepest, and even those will be gone soon. Man, I just realized how utterly gross this sounds. It also sounds like I’m dehydrated, which I don’t see how that would be possible—just as my friends how much water I drink—maybe there is a reason I’m obsessed with mermaids.
It is a reminder that I need to do a better job taking care of myself and taking care of essential things. Going around with your face cracking is something I would imagine will do huge damage to your health and appearance for a long time. While HWMNBN doesn’t give a shit about my appearance anymore, he’s not the one that will have to live with this face for the rest of his life (I’m sure he’s cheering), but I will. I need to take care of it. Plus, I already am not as self-conscious as I speak to people.
Who else would blather on about face cream? Once again, I have no idea why you take the time to read this blog—it really makes me question your sanity. However, thanks! My insanity appreciates it!

Say What?

I’m going to bitch. Shocking and horrifying I know. However, I’m not going to bitch about what I normally bitch about, so maybe that’s a good thing. My bitching is also gonna sound extremely sexist. If you don’t know me, you’ll probably think horrible things—that’s okay, go ahead. If you do, you know that I have more extremely close girl friends than most guys (gay or straight), girls who aren’t just fag-hags. Actually, I don’t have any girlfriends that would qualify as fag hags. Dang it! I need to get one or two of those.
Disclaimer: Most of the strongest people I have met have been women. Most of the amazing men I know are amazing because of astounding mothers (myself included).
That being said, there is one type of woman who drives me absolutely batty, the kind that makes me what to find an all male club that doesn’t let any women be members. Hmmm, an all male naked club would be even better. Wait a minute. . . I think I know what those are called…
Disclaimer the Sequel: There are many types of men that drive me crazy. The arrogant asshole. The perpetual child. The one who knows all.
There is really only one type of woman that drives me crazy.
The Talker.
I love people who talk, as I prefer not to. talkers are great. However, there are talkers and then there are Talkers.
This woman (and really they mostly are women, although there is one man that comes to my mind who fits into this category perfect, and gets me even more frustrated that the women) doesn’t simply talk because she loves the sound of her own voice, she talks because it’s a compulsion, an addiction, as needed as breathing. She will speak to anything that moves, literally, and do so incessantly. It won’t matter if she’s spoken for three hours straight, she will still not be done. It won’t mater what subject is brought up, she will have the ultimate knowledge of that topic—if she doesn’t, she will continue to vomit from the mouth, even if it has nothing to do with the situation at hand. Instead of taking a moment to think through her question or statement, she will spew forth her torrent of words, her mind not catching up to her exhalations until well after the fact, if ever.
There is a woman like this that I am with every day. It is like having six other children to my roster. By the end of the day, I quit literally am trembling and need to be something without sound to decompress. In a classroom filled with young men with horrific women and mother issues, this is often a huge problem. The nagging and constant verbiage is wearing and emasculating to all of us. (Watch out, random and irreverent scripture usage.) “Better to live on a corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.” Proverbs 25:24--NIV. So flipping true.
There is a mother that calls me at least once a day, often more. She will leave ten minute voicemails. Repeating the same sentence or situation in at least twenty different ways, to the point where I want to bash the phone into my brain to stop the onslaught. Now, when I hear her voice, I just hit delete. You want to rip your skin off to escape.
Both will ask the most inane question an exorbitant amount of times—so completely incapable of facing a situation on their own or trying to use any logic or common sense.
There has not been one ounce of exaggeration here. I swear it. In fact, I’ve held my tongue in many ways.
The funny part? Where do I go to get sanity when there is nowhere else to go? (Well, yes, the bathroom. Whoever invented bathroom stalls is a saint—they are miniature little versions of Heaven.) That’s right, I go to women. It’s funny, they always know when they see me coming. They will often just say: Need some sanity? And I will nod. They use their God-given strength, courage, and humor that is so common in the female species, but so difficult to cultivate if not there naturally, and make it possible for me to work with my children the rest of the day, or return a phone call that will leave me feeling like a piñata.
To those women, and those mothers alike out there, thank you for providing sanity to the men and boys around you. Thank you for sharing your strength, humor, and clarity with all of us weak and easily beaten down men. You rock!

Gleeful Thanks

I cried watching Glee tonight.
Not the normal reason I cry when I watch Glee. There wasn’t a song that tied to HWMNBN. It didn’t highlight my loss. It didn’t remind me of things I try so desperately to cover.
I simply couldn’t believe what I was seeing on television. I was moved. I was thankful. I was filled with hope.
I’ve already noticed on Facebook that many people thought it was stupid and unrealistic. I thought it was perfect.
It was the only episode to truly, truly, deal with the gay issue. There was a scene where Kurt (the gay kid) goes to ‘spy’ on the competition at an all boys’ school (not all gay, just all boy). They completely captured the innocent romance of the moment and the wonder in Kurt’s face as he saw for the first time that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for him. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. Both because of the simplistic beauty of the scene, but also because I thought of all the gay kids out there watching this right now. Sure, maybe you think the scenes where Kurt is pushed into a locker is over-dramatic. That Kurt had never been kissed is stupid. Maybe you think it’s a little too ‘after-school-special,’ a little preachy after so many gay suicides. It’s not. Soon, high school will be twenty years in the past for me, but I remember those moments as if they were this morning. Being shoved into lockers. Being screamed ‘faggot’ down the hall. Having a huge knife slammed into the table inches from my face in wood shop. Dad sobbing in the car as he dropped me off at school, knowing I was being tormented, knowing there was nothing he could do, probably fearing that was I was being called was true. Praying that God would take away this evil or simply let me die. Living in absolute terror that someone would find out the rumors and the names they called me were true—even though my first kiss would be eight years later.
True, soon my experience will be two decades old. Things are better now you say. Really? Those gay kids are killing themselves to be cool? To be famous? To follow a fad? To send a message? Even if all those things are true, what does that tell you?
No, I no longer have faggot yelled at me (although HWMNBN and I did, from time to time). I no longer am threatened with knifes. I no longer get shoved into a locker. I no longer care if people find out my ‘evil.’ Nope. None of that.
No knives, no lockers, very little faggots. However, an equally clear message is offered by my country, my family, and many people that I love and claim to love me. I am not worthy to get married. I may or may not be good enough to die for my country (which honestly, I don’t want to—I can barely make myself vote for this bigoted, un-honest country. I love America, for what I believe she is supposed to be, not for what her people have made her [huh, it seems my God and country issues overlap]). In some places, I wouldn’t be able to teach. In many places, I’m not good enough to adopt or raise a child.
So, you’re right. It’s nearly twenty years later. Thank you so much for not pushing me into lockers still. You’re so sweet, thoughtful, holy.
As I watched Glee, I had hope. Hope one day gay kids (like I was, like so many I see now) will just be kids, like the rest. They won’t be told they are sick, wrong, broken, damned. They will grow up being able to muddle through all the relationship drama like everyone else at the right age, instead of being thirty and just barely figuring things out that most sophomores know. They will dream of an actual wedding, a real one, surrounded by true friends and family.
They will just be.

Leaping Bull

I had an out of body moment yesterday. I’d been dealing with a third grader (no, I don’t teach third graders) for over an hour at this point. He’s an adorable red headed kid. Everyone that sees us says that he could be my son. I like to think it’s because we are both adorable, but I think it has more to do with his red hair, like what I used to have. Of course, if he were my kid, he’d have a weight problem already. Anyway, for the thousandth time, this kid took off, zooming around, weaving in and out of the other six or so kids in the room, trying to make his way to the door. I sprinted to the huge horseshoe shaped table that we use for reading lessons (the boy was on the other side…you know, doing the which-way-are-you-gonna-go-I’m-gonna-go-the-other game). Racing forward I stabled myself with my left hand on the rim and catapulted myself up and over the table. [Freeze frame. This is where my out of body experience came from. It was quite literally like I stepped back from myself and took in the view of the scene. Six 4rd-6th grade boys scattered around in their desks, all staring. One red headed 3rd grader, eyes wide in shock, staring up above him. A nearly two hundred pound, short, tattooed teacher, suspended mid-air above the center table of the classroom (who said doing hurdles in high school wouldn’t relate to my adulthood?—too bad I came in last place in every damned race. Maybe I should try now?) I couldn’t believe my ‘eyes.’ Do other teachers do this? What if there was a camera in my class… I could be on the news… Probably not in a good way… One of those stories of the ‘innocent’ kid and the abusive teacher… Uh huh…] As I landed on the ground (on my feet thank you) I simultaneously scooped up my little redhead and informed him, that can run as much as he wants, that I’ll always catch him. I let him go, giving him the option of walking calmly and sensibly back to his desk or running again and seeing how far he could get. [Techniques not taught in grad school. Grad school was useless, really.] He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, then turned, walked back to his desk, and sat. (Thank God. I’m still trying to catch my breath.)

I learned a new word. Courtesy of ‘Rev.’ James David Manning of the ATLAH World Mission Church in New York City. In a sermon warning of all us damnable queers, he cautioned his parishioners of the upcoming bestiality epidemic. (Just because I fall into the ‘Wolf’ category of my gay culture, and am often attracted to ‘Muscle Bears’ doesn’t mean that I actually want to be ravaged by a grizzly. Maybe a Polar bear, I do like size… or a Panda, they are rather adorable. (Alright, Rev. Manning, you’ve set me upon the path of desiring woodland (and other landscape) creature. Thanks a lot.) He also encouraged his followers to use three words with abandon to get people’s attention. Faggot and Sodomites. The final word this African-American ‘preacher’ encouraged was Bulldaggers. Now, I’ve been called many, many things as people yelled at me in reference to my gayability, but never bulldagger I thought I’d heard them all. I kinda liked this one. It sounds tough. Bulls. Sexy. Right, Rev. Manning? Strong like … Hung like a . . . Dagger. Sexy. Forceful. Dangerous. Penetration Utensil. Hell, yeah! Bulldagger? Sign me up! I looked it up on Wikipedia, anxious to embrace my new moniker.
My discovery? Bulldagger=Dyke
Great, to top off everything else in my life, it seems I have an unconscious desire to be a lesbian.
On an up note, I guess I won’t have to feel bad about wearing plaid flannel anymore (as I actually do love it) and no longer have to manscape. Anyone wanna give lessons on how to scissor?

Eeyore

It was one of those mornings when I went to church because I wanted to be there to support him. Very little of it had to do with God. In fact, I couldn’t feel God in the slightest until maybe the last five or ten minutes. I hate it when I feel like that. I look around at the people singing choruses, most that seem flat, and merely written for the sake of rhyme, instead for any glory to God, and can’t help but shake my head. What the hell are they going on about? And if they really do believe what they are expressing, what about these surfacy songs is speaking to them? By the end, I was able to hear something that felt God-like. It’s rare when TB speaks that I don’t experience some movement from God.
It was also one of those mornings (and turning into one of those days) when I really just want to sit in a corner and suck my thumb. Maybe hide under the Christmas tree. There were some friends of mine at church I hadn’t seen in awhile. Friends from when I was happier. Happy. Whatever. I was glad to see them, but it took everything in me to not turn around and leave. It takes so much effort for me to carry on a conversation with friends who aren’t friends as old as the hills or friends that aren’t brand new. The majority of friends are in the middle and it feels like trying to breathe underwater and focus on intelligent conversation the whole time—and doing my best to steer clear of the ‘So, how are you doing?’ question. I know it comes off as arrogant and snotty, but I couldn’t make myself sit with them. I sat on the other side of the church, by myself. I hate how it looks, knowing how I come off as better-than. Too bad it’s just the opposite. I swear I need committed.
Soon enough, church was over and I was out to lunch with two people I feel mostly like myself around. We were menu planning, so you know that helped! On a side note, just as some other added torture, God saw fit to put some of the most beautiful men in church today. Apparently, it was rugby church day. Even more apparently, I have a thing for rugby players. Fun combo. Friends you’re scared of, and gorgeous men that trigger all your other insecurity issues. Praise Jesus. Let’s sing that mind-numbing chorus one more time.
I called one of my best friends yesterday to wish her happy birthday. She asked how I was. I say I was fine. I swear I said it like I meant it. I even put in a cheerful note in my voice. Really. She paused for a second and then said, “Not so great, huh.” I love her, but I hate her. She should be a mom. She has the laser vision that knows exactly what you are feeling. With that one statement, she had me tears. The conversation came down to this. I feel powerless in my life. I am powerless in my life. Powerless against HWMNBN stopping loving me and leaving. Powerless against my family’s financial issues. Powerless against the decisions revolving around my nephew. I HATE being told what to do, and being powerless is the ultimate of life telling you what to do. Honestly, I don’t feel that there is anything I can do. Don’t really see the point of fighting it, there is nothing that I can control or change. The only place that isn’t true is work. Thank God for work!
And while I can’t control this gorgeous weather, I am going to go take advantage of it with a long walk with the dogs (despite Dunkyn’s diarrhea and this horrid time change).

oh, there I am.

My phone informed me of an interesting fact. Due to the next map assistance app I installed a few weeks ago to aid in my constant state of lostness, it turns out that, if they so chose, anyone can know my whereabouts at any particular time. In fact, it reported that I was already on several people’s lists that they follow to know my location.
Uhmmm. . . Creepy much?
Luckily, it also gave instructions on how to disable this function. Even with those, I was confused. If I did it correctly, now only 911 people can use my phone to find me. It must have worked because my map program can not long tell me where I am any longer. Now, for most people, that’s probably not an issue, but there are many times where I’m not sure where I am. It was very handy in Seattle when I was walking around, lost, trying to figure out where I was and where I was trying to get to. It was even handy on Wednesday when I went to dinner with one of my best friends and got hopelessly lost. (How long have I lived in Denver, and how many times have I eaten at that particular restaurant?) Already, I couldn’t find my way to school—okay, not really. Still, I was really happy with that function, I’m sad to see it go. However, for a Show-Me state boy, full of conspiracy theories and big government control issues, I’d rather not have my location be tracked. I’m sure it is (or can be) anyway, but I don’t want to make it any easier. (It seems I think I have some governmental importance that nosily evil politicians need to keep tabs on—yeah, that’s how powerful this blog is.)
Since I share every last bowel movement on here, it probably seems that I don’t really have any privacy issues. In some ways that’s true. And, I don’t even have one secret that at least one person (if not many) know. Still, in my own codependent, enmeshed way, I am a very independent person. (Did I not tell you the name of the new book I’m working on is The Lies We Tell Ourselves?)
If nothing else, that feature makes my puppies vulnerable. They are just as important to national security as their daddy. It’s not good for others to know when they are at home, alone, unguarded. Not defenseless, mind you, lest you get the wrong idea. Those are two Corgis that you don’t wanna tangle with. One will lick you to death and the other will shit on you in terror. Not fun. (Wish I were kidding.)
For those of you who had me on your follow from afar (or from inside the house) list, I’m sorry, you may no longer enjoy your hidden voyeuristic tendencies. Besides, if you really wanna watch, all you have to do is ask.

2+7x16=feliz navidad

While I don’t believe gayness is contagious—although I wish it were, I’d hunt down Eric Dane and stand close to him until he caught it, and then we’d call Ricky Martin and Jonathon Groff—it seems my other ‘affliction’ is.
A parent came to me this morning talking about some new med changes going on with her son. As a side comment, she then started complaining about son singing Christmas carols while doing my math homework last night. (She’s a great, great mom—one of my few—so she wasn’t really complaining, but she hates Christmas.)
Sheepishly, I had to take responsibility. She about fell over when I told her about putting my tree up and wrapping presents. I told her that the kids had seen the picture of the Christmas tree. To top it off, one of the Aids that I love so, so, so much (who helps me with math) came in singing Christmas songs to the kids—which is what brought up the Christmas tree conversation, I had no idea she liked Christmas as much as me. I should have, as her parents gave her two Christmas words as her first and middle name.
I may not be able to teach math any better than a retarded chipmunk high on fermented acorns, but I can sure damn well pass on some Christmas ‘cheer.’
I now need to go off and dream about my gayness being contagious. Gonna be a good day!

Political Christmas Books for Children

Happy news? Starbucks has their holiday cups out!
Book recommendations? 1. The Hunger Games trilogy—young adult, yes, but barely. It’s so freaking good that I’m jealous I didn’t write it. As it read to my class yesterday, we were all on the edge of our seats (literally), every person holding their breath, and tears rolling down my face as I read. I did have to quit reading it to my fourth and fifth graders, too violent and too intense (it’s amazing how reading a book out loud makes it so much more powerful and personal). 2. The Good House—African-American (mostly) centered Haunted House story. Not finished with it yet, but it’s got me riveted. It’s huge, and I’m not even a third of the way done, can’t wait to see where it goes!
Best ingredient in bread pudding? American Honey Whiskey. Thank you, SMoon.

The elections are over, and as per normal, the people I actually voted on didn’t win. Not that I loved any of them anyway. I’m rather discouraged about our governor’s race. Hickenlooper won for another term. I can’t stand that man. He has done more to kill Denver’s economy than just about anyone, and his preferential treatment of people here illegally over his own citizens is deplorable. However, the three propositions that threatened my job were voted down by a huge landslide, so I am very thankful. I haven’t be able to figure out which way the whole extraterrestrial law turned out—it was so confusing I wasn’t really sure which way to vote on that one anyway. The cool (and possibly disturbing) thing was how my sixth grade math class got off the subject of math (you know how much I hate that) and started talking about voting. They had given a lot of thought to the entire process. Several had decided that they will not vote when they are able to. It was easy to see which comments came from their parents and which came from inside themselves. They really feel that all the people who run for office are bad and lie and can’t be trusted, so why vote. They went on and on with this truly thought-out and formed positions, with clear and grounded logic. I’ve never had a political talk with them, especially where I talk about what I feel politically, so I know these thoughts didn’t come from me. However, it turns out, I must have the political brain of a sixth grader. While I was rather shocked at the jadedness of their outlook on our government and leaders, I agreed with them wholeheartedly on nearly everything they said. It was also surprising, since I have struggled to make myself vote in the last two elections, feeling screwed no matter what I do, that I so vehemently pushed the agenda of how important it is for them to vote, for them to make their voices heard as much as they can, for them to be an equal part of our society. Despite my own jadedness, it seems I actually still believe in the process, broken as it is. Maybe best of all, no more offensive calls from politicians, just my ongoing relationship with bill collectors. Yay!

I have had mixed results from the Christmas tree being up. Last night was a rather negative experience. The thoughts and memories that I don’t need to name assailed me with a near physical force, keeping me awake well into the night. Taunts of what I believed and trusted. However, I’m glad it’s up, glad I chose to face it, to move on with life, and try to regain more of who I used to be. It really does make the room gorgeous. Cramped, but gorgeous. And Christmas present wrapping was perfection. Yay for a strange color pallet that is meshing better than I ever dreamed. I got these little animal finger puppets for Gavin, they are so cute. On each of his presents, there is a little animal securely nestled within the bow on top. It may quite possibly be the most adorable thing I have ever seen.

choose to celebrate

In a rare event, I am offering proof. I don’t like having pictures on the blog (which is strange since I’m a photo addict), but I thought this event called for it. The tree is up. I had to force myself to go through with it. Even with my folks helping, I almost changed my mind halfway through. It was actually harder than I was anticipating. Sure enough, I got teary a few times and had to talk myself into being sensible.
That being said, I am excited to start wrapping Christmas presents tomorrow! Yay! At first I was going with an all chocolate brown wrapping paper scheme, very classy, very luxurious, but then I changed. I decided I should have bright and ridiculous colors. Colors that shouldn’t go together, but somehow do—keep it as cheerful as possible.
I’m glad to be home, but I am so very glad I went to Seattle. Actually, I probably could have used one more day, but would have probably worn myself out if I had—not to mention exploded from all the food. I’m going to be paying for this trip for quite awhile—both in terms of even less cash flow than normal and in trying to fit into pants.
All in all, Merry Christmas!

weather for scarves without umbrellas

What glorious day of eating it has been. Glorious. Just what I needed after last night. Holy Hannah. Turns out, I can give HWMNBN a run for his money, and in all ways save one, I won! I had a ton of fun. I thought I might go out dancing again tonight, but I got it out of my system. For now.
I also purchased most of my friend’s Christmas presents today. At least the ones for the Christmas dinner. Oh, how they make me laugh. I also spent hours, hours, going through children’s books at my favorite toy store in the world. Kid books are amazing. (And expensive.) Gavin is going to have quite the collection. Turns out I am a sucker for the ones with gorgeous pictures, no surprise there, but also for ones that are rather just cute and stupid, even if the story is rather weak. I’d expect more of myself, but I’m fickle and shallow. Why hide it?
While I know I’m eating like a glutton, I don’t feel too horrible about it. I somehow manage to forget how much I walk here and how much my feet hurt. This time, my hotel is farther away due to cost, so the walking has increased exponentially.
I actually came to the coffee shop in mind to blog about some rather deep and heavy things and then continue editing the novels. However, I don’t want to. I want to keep it light. Keep it easy and breezy. (Beautiful. Covergirl.) Instead, I’m going to enjoy my hot chocolate, go through my new Seattle pictures and enjoy breathing.

boo

After a long day of walking in the rain, I am back at my hotel getting ready to get ready. It’s been a wonderful day. I don’t mind the rain here, although my jeans and shoes were soaked through, so I was freezing. However, I was here. I was in Seattle. I was far away from everything. Despite what my dreams said last night, I am focused on this moment, and only this moment.
In about an hour, I will be dressed up in my outfit (just a face mask [over the eyes]—kinda sexy actually—and jeans, boots, and tight black tshirt. I am going to dance, dance, dance, and dance. Even HWMNBN wouldn’t be able to keep up with me tonight. Okay, we all know that’s not true, but it’s gonna be as close as I can get!
Then tomorrow (sadly, I’m most excited about tomorrow) is all about the eating! And Christmas shopping. And EATING!
Speaking of Christmas shopping, I spent a couple hours in book stores today, by the end I was sitting on the floor pouring over silly books, laughing my ass off. I’m sure I looked a spectacle. I hope my friends find them as funny as I did when they open them. I get so angry when I hear people talk about their vacations and all the do is drink and go to bars. I guess I don’t have much room to talk. I spend way too much time in bookstores and coffee shops on vacation. Although, I just realized, no coffee shop today. Huh. Will try to fix that tomorrow. Either way! I’m off to Halloween it up!

glutton

One more day and I get to get the Hell outta Dodge (or Denver, whatever). I am soooo excited I can barely handle it. I need to get out of here even more than I did earlier. True, while I have lost weight, it wasn’t nearly enough to have a slutty Halloween costume. However, enough that I’ll be able to pull off ‘fairly sexy.’ At least, that’s what I plan on convincing myself. Of course, since I will not go out dancing until Saturday and/or Sunday, and I plan on eating my way through Seattle, so ‘fairly sexy’ may change to ‘rather rotund’…

Due to events that have/are transpired/ing, I’ve gotten a thought/desire caught in my craw/heart. One that was there instantly, but one I knew wasn’t really a possibility, so I was able to stuff it and use it to play the role I was given more fully. Now, while still no more of a possibility, that role isn’t only something I want, it is something that would be best all the way around, at least the way I see it. However, what I want and what should be have no impact on what is and what will be.
I’m rather angry at myself for my continued inability to turn off my desires, especially for things I know can’t be. There are three things that are equal. HWMNBN—although until the end, I believed that was reality. Getting published—although I still believe that’s a possibility. This one—although I know there is no possibility. Each desire/passion is rather consuming. Each, I would give any/all other aspect of my life for (except lives of those I love, of course). Each, resulting in ache in their current and foreseeable futures.