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!