Je déteste Delta

I ended up squeezing a $50 voucher out of Delta for my disastrous experience with them, so I plan on applying that toward a visit up to Chicago sometime. You've already heard all about my trip up, what with the fog delay, missed connection and lost luggage. I would have preferred being shipped home via that same itinerary and under those same circumstances, had I known what would end up transpiring on Saturday. The short story is that I got home a day late due to nothing other than a series of airline employees' ineptitude. It's a good thing I'm just Joe American (with a twist of Nancy), otherwise I might have succeeded in ruining everyone else's day as well.

My flight was not scheduled to depart Indianapolis until 4:25pm on Saturday - and indeed it would have, had I not gotten in its way - but I had to check out of the hotel by 11:00am. I suppose I had figured in booking my tickets that a late afternoon flight would give me time to see Deb and Phil, whom I had already met for dinner earlier in the week; or at the very least grant me a few hours more to explore the city, which I found I was able to do in a fifteen-minute car ride with Deb and Phil. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that they are quite the couple to guide one through a place; I actually learned some interesting things about the town. We even had ambient classical music wafting from the car stereo - a perfect compliment to the cold rain that fell over the seemingly endless variety of monuments we passed at 10mph. Just for excitement, we even drove the wrong way down a few streets. Their reaction was priceless, although amazingly calm.

After I watched the rest of the Auburn delegation board the 2:20pm flight to Atlanta, I settled in with my book, Stories by Ray Bradbury, and nibbled on fruit-flavored Gummy Bears. I boarded the plane shortly before 4:15pm and began to settle in for the short flight. A woman approached me a few minutes before takeoff and insisted that I was in her seat. After a flight attendant overheard and had us produce our seat assignments - both of which were indeed for the same seat - we were told to wait a minute while he investigated the situation. Two minutes later, the flight attendant reappeared and told me that I had to get off the plane. Delta had change my itinerary between when I checked in earlier that afternoon and that moment due to having canceled my connecting flight out of Atlanta, but never made an announcement at the airport and didn't stop me when I tried to board the plane. They did, however, make sure to get a few extra hundred dollars by giving away my seat.

Livid, I grabbed my bag and walked off the plane. The gate agent met me at the jetway and proceeded to tell me that I would need to stay another night in Indianapolis because all later flights to Montgomery out of Atlanta were overbooked due to the earlier flight having been canceled. I lit into him for letting me board the plane to Atlanta knowing that my seat was double-booked, for not informing me during the four hours I was sitting at the departure gate that my itinerary had changed, and for causing me to lose a day of my life. He in turn became irate and told me to get out of the jetway so he could send the plane off to Atlanta, and I refused to budge until I had a solid plan in place for my return home. Ten minutes later, they angrily shoved me back on the plane to Atlanta (which had a few free seats!!!) and told me to work it out once I got there.

After having to explain my story to everyone at Delta customer support beginning at tier one and ending at tier 5,000, they tried to tell me that it was my fault for not checking my voice mail to see that they had called me shortly before 1:00pm.

"Oh, really?" I said, "What number did you call?"

They proceded to give me my cell phone number, from which I was calling at the time.

"Don't lie to me," I accused the tier 5,000 woman, "I'm calling you from that phone right now, and it hasn't even recorded a missed call. I was in the airport when you 'called,' and had made and received several calls already. You did not call this number to inform me of anything."
When I pushed her to ask why, knowing I was somewhere in the airport, no one made the attempt to contact me in person, she had no answer. They tried to give me frequent flyer miles for my plight, but I wouldn't accept them, worthless as they are. Delta had just sent me a letter a few months ago telling me that since I flew so infrequently, they were going to cause all of my accrued mileage to expire. I had donated all of my miles to AIDS Atlanta to at least force Delta to pay for something. 3,000 miles on my new balance of 1,300 would get me nowhere. A $50 voucher was all the agent was willing to do.

I squeezed onto the 11:00pm flight to Montgomery, and was home and in bed at 2:00am on Sunday. I took today off to help reset my sleep, and will deal with the wrath of my boss when I show up tomorrow morning. I needed a break!!

Questionnaire

Careful, folks... Some of this might be TMI! You have been forewarned.

in the last 24 hours:
Had sex: Yep.
Bought something: Yep; plane tickets to Europe!
Gotten sick: Nope.
Sang: Yep. Just this morning…
Been kissed: Passionately.
Ate something: Yep – a gyro, fries, and baklava.
Felt stupid: Yes indeedy.
Talked to an ex: Nope.
Missed someone: My Anita!

Last person who...
slept or laid in bed with you: My boyfriend.
saw you cry: My ex-boyfriend.
made you cry: My ex-boyfriend.
went to the movies with you: A friend.
went to the mall with you: My boyfriend.

Have you ever...
said I love you and meant it: Yes!
got into a fight with your pet: Sadie (Butter Hound) was a bitch!
been to New York: Just the state, not the city…
been to Mexico: Yeah – Juarez.
been to Canada: Yep! All over the east-central end (Ontario, Québec).
been to Europe: Yes – twice. About to go for a third in December.
been to Japan: Not yet.
been to Italy: Yes – I got hit by a Vespa while walking on the sidewalk in Florence!

Assorted questions:
do you have a crush on someone: My boyfriend…
what books are you reading: A lot of research on GLBT college students, 100 stories by Ray Bradbury
worst feeling in the world: being betrayed – I agree with Anita. Nothing compares.
future kids names: Haven’t thought about it too much. I’ve always liked Ethan and Cody.
do you sleep with a stuffed animal: Nope!
what's under your bed: Shoes and a scale so that I can see how fat or skinny I am.
favorite sport to watch: Depends on the season. I love soccer, tennis, and the Olympics.
location: Alabama
piercings: Never!
do you drink: I love a good wine with dinner – or a beer or two.
what are you most worried about right now: My presentation this afternoon on diversity.
where do you want to get married: in Canada.
who do you really hate: people who hate (lol, but it's true) – I agree with Anita!
do you like being around people: Sometimes. I’m a strong Myers-Briggs “I”, so people drain me.
have you ever cried: I am human, not Borg. YES.
are you lonely right now: No, for one of the few times I can remember.
song that is stuck in your head: It just left my head… It was Five for Fighting’s last hit.
played strip poker: Yeah… I’m not that good at it. hehehe
has anyone said you look like a celebrity: yes, both Fred Savage and Chris O’Donnell.
been drunk for more than 2 days straight: No way!!
have you ever done an all-nighter: when I was in school I did a few of those. Same as Anita.
Been on radio or TV: On TV, but not radio (in the background of a newscast).
been in in a mosh-pit: Nope.
do you have any gay/lesbian friends: LOL. Um, yeah…
can you dance: Yes, but it’s unsightly.
What is your favorite smell: chocolate chip cookies in the oven and Michigan pines.
What is the first things you notice about the opposite sex: that I’m not sexually attracted to them.
Name someone with the same birthday as you: My friend Michelle (at work).

The Empress’ New Clothes / Les nouveaux vêtements de l’Impéatrice

Before we had even arrived at the Gulf Coast condo, we had already fought. My brother, Josh, drove from Chicago to pick me up in my university town two weeks ago, and after spending some time with my mom the next day, we set out for the big ocean blue. Only two hours into the drive, I received a phone call from my sister, Katie, who asked when we thought we would arrive.

“What?” she said, not quite able to hear me over the combination of cell phone crackles, road noise, and Moby.

I repeated to her that just over 100 miles remained of our trip southward.

“Oh. Well, I’m going to head over to pick up David (step-brother) at the airport, and probably won’t be back by the time you arrive. I’m going to let my friends stay, though.”

Josh and I were unimpressed by her decision to leave people in the condo while not there herself. Suffice it to say that, although I’m sure the three friends in question were trustworthy that day, they were once known as a pretty lawless bunch back in their recent high school days. I informed Katie that I felt it would be better for her to wish her friends adieu before going planeside. Equally unimpressed by my suggestion, Katie began to tell me exactly what she would and would not do for me, and may have been in the process of making a disparaging remark about my perceived uptightness when Josh grabbed the phone from my ear.

“Tell your friends to get the fuck out of the condo, bitch!” I imagined I heard him say to her. What I actually heard was, “Bad idea, Kate. I think they should go, too.” Or something close to that.

After a considerable and formidable exchange of undercuts, insults, and bad language, the only resolution seemed to be to call my father to inquire as to how to change the lockbox code for the front door. Equipped with the combination to the device, Katie’s relatively local friends not only would have access to the condo at any time while we were there for the week, but would also be able to key their way in after we left and throw a post-Katie beach fiesta. The tense, combative atmosphere we had created before our arrival persisted throughout the week, but was temporarily uplifted one drunken evening.

In all actuality, Katie and her boyfriend were the only ones drunk. Neither was wasted, but both were just past the point where the guard that keeps reasonable people from doing unreasonable (and defaming) things had dropped. The five of us (Josh, Katie, Katie’s boyfriend, David, and me) were all on the beach, enjoying what I believe was our first group-wide conversation without bickering and blubbering, when Katie’s boyfriend announced that he would go swimming. Five minutes later, Katie stood up, calmly but quickly removing her bikini top – and bottom.

“I’m going skinny dipping!” she announced, sashaying toward the surf.

“Evidently,” the rest of us thought.

She returned to us after her ten minute frolic under the waxing moon, soaking and nude – and quite confident, I am forced to admit. Still amused, Josh offered up a proposition (not that kind):

“Hey, Kate – I’ll give you five bucks if you walk up to those people and talk to them,” he said, gesturing toward a group of three teenagers walking down the beach in our direction. The group consisted of two girls and one guy, the latter of whom was carrying a flashlight whose beam meandered up and down the shoreline as they strolled.

Without a verbal response, Katie sidled up to the posse. The flashlight beam passed casually over her naked body, then sailed sharply downward. She asked in a sexy, vapid voice: “Hey… Umm… Anyone know where I can find a clothing store around here?”

It was hard to hear anything over our titters and snorts and the sound of the ocean waves, but we were able to make out the girl’s puzzled response: “Do you mean, like, a souvenir shop?”

She might as well have suggested an ice cream cone. Instead, she had recommended a snow globe. After finding out that the three teens hailed from Texas, I vowed never to raise a child there. That is, unless, Texans shop for clothing at the local merchant of airbrushed tees.

Le paparazi m'en veut

I turned the key in the lock and opened my kitchen door. I had agreed to meet my mom during our lunch hour and had arrived just a few minutes before her – just enough time to prepare a ham and cheese sandwich on the fresh, spongy wheat bread I had bought the night before. Even though I had long since progressed to the healthier, heavier multigrain breads, I felt possessed during my last trip to the grocery section of Wal-Mart to take a taste trip back to my childhood, when I would sit at my grandmother’s dining room table, trying to tell her about the latest playground drama as I tried with my tongue to swish away the congealed Wonder Bread glued to the roof of my mouth. As I spread a dollop of mustard onto the slice before me, I heard a knock at the front porch door.

“Hi! I brought along a couple of changes of clothes so that you can take a few glamour shots of me before lunch,” my mother said exuberantly. “Go get your digital camera. I want to put these on my matchmaking website by this Friday.”

We were both aware, of course - but as you may not be - that my father (her ex-husband) is a photographer and, were he there, would be able to quickly dismiss the request with an insistence upon doing the shoot under proper lights in the studio. This tactic would have sucked the air out of her idea balloon under those particular circumstances, but both my mother and I (and you, too, now) know that I had no such excuse for a delay/dissuasion.

“Uh, Mom, that’s just odd – making your son take pict…” I began to reply.

I promptly shut my mouth after realizing in a flash (pun intended) that I wasn’t going to win this battle. Defeated, I scrambled back to the computer desk in my bedroom and snatched the camera from its docking station. I returned to the living room, heavy with the fear of what treasurable moments might be in store for me.

“Okay,” I sighed, “we can do creepy pictures of you sitting on the couch like Grandma – only without a cigarette in hand, or we can move outside and take them in front of the… traffic on the street… er… or the non-flowering bush next to the neighbor’s house. Your choice!”

She chose the bush, and maneuvered into her first pose.

“You look like a slut, Mom! I’m not taking your picture like that.” I couldn’t believe the lewd pose she had struck, and I didn’t care that my voice had probably floated across the street and into the open neighbor’s window. At that moment, I was struck with the notion that I had never wanted, nor do I want to see again, my mother’s bedroom eyes. Flashing them once for my father was enough to bring me to this particular day and time. I temporarily – and silently - cursed that moment.

“Good.” I could see the horns sprout from her scalp. “Maybe that way I can get a date!”

I took several saucy snapshots of her in various poses in front of the withering shrubbery, then begged to return to the kitchen and finish making the sandwiches. Having already had my mind taken back to my childhood by the scent of the Wonder Bread, I found myself wanting to retreat further into the relative innocence of my childhood. I had no such luck.

“Don’t be silly! I brought a few more outfits to change into and want to do some fun shots!” She disappeared into my closet after walking briskly by my side. If the shots we had just taken weren’t considered “fun,” I didn’t want to see what “fun” would bring for me or her future online suitors.

“Where are you going?” I asked. Okay, I whined.

“Oh, I just wanted to borrow a pair of your jeans…”

“You’re not going to wear my clothes, Mom. I’ve had enough of Glamour Shots time.”

“Fine,” she sulked, then brightened again. “Then let me put on one of your blazers and a tie.”

“No.”

She shut herself in the bathroom, which adjoins my walk-in closet. I halfway expected her to emerge wearing a full but mismatched ensemble of my articles of clothing, or – worse – a trench coat ripe for the flashing. She tossed open the door, revealing a much more subtle costume change: She had taken off her sweater and turned it inside out before pulling it back over her head. Grateful for the dissolution of my nightmare scenarios, I did not question her choice in reversible fashion.

“See? It’s a whole new outfit!” Her hair had been drawn back into a “fun” pony tail.

We took several shots of her on the porch: looking longingly into the distance, laughing while seated in my deck chair, et cetera. I finally won the fight to finish the sandwiches after explaining that I could not deal with the further formation of stress-induced ulcers by adding malnutrition to my list of worries. We supped uneventfully; I was preparing to see Mom to the door and get back to my campus office when she exclaimed:

“Go get your camera again!”

“Jesus,” I thought. “I can only imagine.” Mom had disappeared into my bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I implored her with my tone to return to her move toward departure.

She had moved in front of my tall bookcase to rummage through my novels and old college textbooks, and fetched out a short French novel. She opened the book and gazed into it with the look of an academician.

“Take my picture. I want to look well-read,” she asked kindly.

It would have been classic if she had been wearing a t-shirt that read “I don’t know French,” or had she been holding the book upside-down. Thankfully for her pride and my own, she was not. I could not believe what I had been reduced to do in the name of satiating my parent. I believe you understand the degree to which I love my mother now. It is worth doing nearly anything to see her happy.

It would be tasteless of me to post any of the photos taken during this session, so I won’t… for now. Let’s just say that I’m a good photographer’s son and made my mother look like a million bucks – despite the unusual props and backgrounds. Ironically, my mom felt that they added ten years and twenty pounds. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at the old Photoshop airbrush tool.

Oh, the stories I’ll have to tell future generations… I love you anyway, Mom!

Ma nouvelle voisine: Katie Couric (Katie Couric Is My Neighbor)

When I got out of my car this morning after arriving at my house, I could hear muffled talking coming from next door. As I got a little closer to the house, I distinctly heard Al Roker tell me that today was going to be beautiful; then Katie Couric took over to explain to me why I paid so much at the pump a few days ago. I pictured Al and Katie sitting with my neighbor Ben in his living room, lounging on his couch, sipping at piping hot coffee from their Today Show mugs (they brought one for Ben, too). How nice would it be to sit down with those media moguls and talk shop for an hour or so!

I rounded the corner and leapt up the two steps leading to my kitchen door. Much to my chagrin, Katie's voice had grown quite loud - almost irate - and Matt Lauer had to calm her by stepping in to tell her and me about something happier in the news. He quickly whipped himself into a frenzied pitch as well, however. I opened the door to Katie, Matt, Al and Ann shrieking like banshees, and final woke up out of my daydream to realize that the quartet had not come to visit Ben, but to see ME! Apparently, the power had gone out overnight, and when it flickered back on, it triggered the living room tv to come on with a vengeful volume. There is no telling what Ben had to watch through the walls last night - at least I hadn't last taken in a sultry Skinamax show or left some steamy DVD spinning in the player. Embarrassed, I forced the Today Show crew out of my living room and back to New York. I'll apologize to Ben later.

The Litmus Test

“What’s your problem?” said my sister to my boyfriend when we arrived at my mother’s house for dinner on Saturday night.

While this stinging release of her inner monologue could have been (relatively) easily dismissed with a wink and half-cocked smile or an elbow to the ribs and a “just kiddin’,” my little sister had not an inkling of an intention to recant her questioning of my boyfriend’s dislike for dogs. In fact, those were her words of introduction upon meeting him for the first time. The idea that she might want to make a positive, welcoming impression on him had somehow escaped her, despite my better efforts to make her understand how much I was in love with him. I knew from that moment that the American Sisquisition had begun and would be conducted without mercy.

A good sport, he took such comments as, “You should just get over your fear of dogs because you’re weird,” “What do you mean you have never had Chinese food? You’re weird, and we’re going to have some delivered,” and “You’re making my brother weird[er than he already is],” in stride. I was continually trying to predict my sister’s next attempt at verbally accosting my boyfriend, hoping that he wasn’t wondering when my own impossible questions would begin. I made the appropriate defensive remarks, but not to the point of emasculating him; he had smartly realized that stoicism was the best response. And the floodgates opened – but quickly shut again when she realized her Sisquisition would only yield a very perturbed brother and unscathed brother’s boyfriend.

I believe he won her respect, but the challenge to her ego will be everlasting. I don’t know about you, but I always visit my relatives with the intention of breaking every other visitor who crosses the threshold. Like most brothers and sisters do when the fight becomes moot, we let what little conversation there was dissipate and resorted to throwing my mother’s armrest covers at each other’s heads.

From Myth to Reality

Margaret Cho said it best: When she met a man who possessed so many of the qualities she was looking for – a kind, gentle, caring, intelligent, truthful, and cute guy – the only question that came to her mind was, “Are you a unicorn??” I honestly think I’ve found one, and am excited to no end. It was another wonderful, relaxing weekend replete with rest and fun – so much fun, in fact that I couldn’t get to sleep last night because I didn’t want to miss a minute with him. It made this morning a bit rough, but it was worth it.

A true sweetheart, he baked blueberry muffins on Sunday night so that we would both have something to eat for breakfast. When my alarm sounded at 5:45 this morning, I rose out of bed, said my goodbyes, pulled on my “driving clothes” (read: clothes from the day before), and headed out the door, grabbing a muffin and a Diet Coke on the way. Not used to starting the trip in the darkness of daylight savings time, I glided out of the driveway and pulled away into what was left of the midnight mist. I cracked open the Diet Coke and took a few sips before turning onto the two-lane country road that would lead me along the fifty-mile trek home.

Only eight miles into the trip, I found myself thirsty again. I was, in my muddled mind, reliving highlights from the weekend simultaneously with keeping the car between the dashed yellow and solid white lines and reaching for the soda. As I lifted the drink to my lips, I could hear metallic pops and fizzing coming from within the can. Suddenly, it disappeared; it had slipped right through my morning butterfingers. The pops and fizzing sounds were replaced by hissing and gurgling, and my hand shot down to recover the upset drink. I grabbed it on the first attempt, only to hear more sounds of effervescence as I inadvertently emptied the remainder of the can’s contents onto the driver’s floor mat.

Anytime I have a 50% chance for success, it seems like lady luck always gives me the cold, sticky, bubbling shoulder. My personal Murphy’s law must state somewhere that I will pick up an overturned can in the upside-down position every time; I hope never to test this supposition again. At least I was able to spend two and half days with a mythical creature. I smiled at the thought, grabbed some old Wendy’s napkins from the glove compartment, and laid them over the spill. What a nice few days…

Cauchemar bizarre et effrayant

Okay, so here is the weird dream I had:

I was running some sort of race (you know how I love to run) that took place on some rural stretch of Interstate. As I was jogging past a farm, I noticed a pair of gentlemen in some sort of junkyard adjacent to their house, tinkering around with something I couldn't make out. For some reason, I felt like I had the time to leave the race for a bit and went over to check out the situation. The two men - one older, one younger - were trying to move a large, ten-foot long piece of heavy metal tubing, and had somehow rigged up a system of chains in order to make the task easier.

The men were fairly aggressive toward me, but at the same time were appreciative of my efforts. I found out in the limited conversation we had that the younger one was, coincidentally, the boyfriend of my acquaintance Bonnie, one of the young women who works in our IT department as a troubleshooter. After successfully relocating the metal tube from one seemingly useless location to another, I rejoined the race along the highway.

Apparently, I was quite ahead of the pack at the time I stopped to help Bonnie's boyfriend and the other man. When I reached the Interstate again, I jogged up the entrance ramp and joined the throng of runners who had since caught up with me. Among them was Bonnie, with whom I began a cheery, albeit breathless, conversation about the chance meeting that had taken place off-road only minutes ago.

The highway entered a more urban area and became elevated - much like the downtown portion of I-10 in New Orleans. As Bonnie, me, and the rest of the pack rounded a bend, I saw Bonnie's boyfriend standing at the top of the next rise - a bridge, perhaps - holding a shotgun. When he spotted me, he shouted something about my having stolen Bonnie from him (as if!), raised the shotgun to his shoulders, and fired.

I thought that you weren't supposed to die in dreams, but I felt the bullet hit my face, just below my right eye. I had enough time to slurrily wish everyone well, and then my world went black.

It's a good thing that the urban legend about dreaming of death actually causing death isn't true. I woke up next to my boyfriend, took a deep breath, and went back to sleep - peacefully.

La bonne chance / Heureux enfin / Ma belle vie

What an eventful few weeks... I just received word a few days ago that I have been offered a job at my university that will be a significant promotion over my current position, complete with a considerable raise in salary. Maybe there will be other options for lunchtime besides homemade turkey sandwiches and reduced fat Ruffles. Maybe I can even begin a 403(b) account (like a 401(k), but for us educators). I can hear the RV's engine purring as I type...

My mother recently moved to town after years of waffling (read: physically relocating, multiple times) between a small southern village and a major midwestern city. She gained employment with the University and seems to be quite happy, having started work two days ago. Maybe this third city, which carries no previous emotional baggage, will be the winning ticket for her life's lottery. I am adjusting to living near family again (it has been 11 years since I lived any fewer than 3.5 hours away from the closest relative), and helping her adjust to my - now our - fair city.

I have met quite a wonderful man, and he has been in my life for a month and a half now. Though not too much time has passed since we first met, I have never felt so special and adored, and I look forward to every moment we spend together. This is no short-term fling; I hope, as we continue getting to know one another, that the strong feelings we have will persist. We are both long-term, relationship-minded people with goals and ambition, and he has the gentlest, sweetest, most sincere personality to boot. I humbly decline to comment on my own.

I am headed down to his house for the weekend, and cannot wait for whatever is in store. He is the kind of person with whom I can do or say nothing and still be comfortable - a BIG step and important facet of a successful, healthy relationship. Although I am enjoying living in the moment, my mind has wandered down the path of the future between us. I like the scenery that lies ahead.

My Dreamy Advisor

I’m not so sure I would describe myself as “dreamy”. I don’t mean to say that I’m not a good person deserving of spectacular friends and a fulfilling relationship – just that I believe I fall a bit closer to the midpoint between the two extremes of dreamy and boorish. Two people apparently find me to be much more on the positive side of that continuum, and one in particular has made me very happy as of late.

My new boyfriend and I have been seeing each other for a about a month now, and in the days since we first met face-to-face, I have never felt so appreciated and loved. A brief assessment of some of my past relationships would yield the discovery that I have sometimes felt the need to give over 50% to keep things going – something that is emotionally taxing and leaves me feeling undeserving of the other’s love and commitment. What a difference a few weeks make! He calls me back when I call him, and I am eager to do the same each time he calls me. We can spend time doing absolutely nothing – together or separately – and still enjoy each other’s company. The look in his eyes when he gazes at me sends a warm rush of energy through my body. It is abundantly clear that he cares about me, and I believe he knows it is mutual.

Now on the other side of the first few “getting-to-know-you” weeks, I cannot believe what I would have missed had I continued along my path of being shut down. I had such a hard time getting over my last boyfriend that I nearly didn’t give him a chance to get to know me or see my softer side. I didn’t want to hurt like that again - and still don’t. Even when I explained (on Valentine’s Day evening, ironically) that I was emotionally unavailable and that it had nothing to do with him, he was not dissuaded from staying around and learning more about me, even if he was relegated to being my friend – without the possibility of anything more. It was that moment in my kitchen, while I was hurriedly washing the dishes and he was keeping me company, that he dismissed my comment about being unavailable as “okay and normal”. He began to win me over, and with each day of realizing he would be patient and respectful of my wishes not to get involved in another relationship, I began to understand that I might be missing something wonderful by not giving him a chance. I began to gradually let down my guard.

The following weekend, I took him walking on campus, showing him my office and running a quick errand. As we walked through one of the bucolic quadrangles, we passed a pair of young ladies who were sitting on a picnic blanket, pretending to study. I was so engrossed in my company that I didn’t hear one of them say hello to me. My boyfriend turned to acknowledge her, and once I realized what had transpired, I was too far along to turn around and say anything.

“Did you hear what she said after I said hi back?” he said, giggling.

She had apparently added as an aside to her friend, in a wistful, whispering tone: “That’s my advisor!”

“Isn’t he dreamy?” he added, with the same degree of longing. We collapsed into laughter.

I hope he understands that I find him dreamy, too.

Frustré

My mom has been staying at my house for the past several days, and I HAVE to rant a bit. Here are the top ten things I've noticed since Friday:

1. So that she has transportation and shelter during the day, my mom has to drive me to work in my car and unlock my back door for me when I get home. The loss of control I'm experiencing is affecting me greatly.
2. I field complaints about my house being too cold as I eye the front porch door she left flapping open in the winter wind. "It's only a heat pump..." I remind her.
3. There is an inexplicable amount of long hair left in the toilet each day. I'm not going to touch that one.
4. Cigarette butts are stabbed out in the kitchen sink and left to steep in the dishwater and/or sit in the drain catch. She's not smoking inside, so....???
5. Plans for the evening are cancelled because she has had too much to drink and cannot walk without assistance. This really bothers me, and might need to be the topic of another post.
6. Knocking on my bedroom door before entering is a mere courtesy and not really necessary since we’re all family. My naked time is kept at an EXTREME minimum, just in case. EW. And don't get the idea that I clean house in the nude, do jumping jacks in front of my open bedroom window, etc. I'm no exhibitionist!
7. Since neither of us is motivated to cook, we are eating a bunch of junk. By the way, did you know that when you order a bacon cheesburger, fries, and a Whopper combo with Diet Coke(which totals $6.48) at the local Burger King and pay the cashier $6.50, you get $0.08 in change, a chicken sandwich, a Whopper, onion rings and a Coke? I still struggle with lowering expectations sometimes...
8. I keep a running list of items I never expected to touch my couch (e.g. a BK burger patty, a chunk of chocolate cake).
9. I make long personal phone calls to avoid further conversation about life’s transitions and tribulations. Alone time is at a premium...
10. I feel guilty for writing this, and am debating whether or not to post it.

I suppose I’m an impatient, bad son for writing this, but I had to get it off my chest somehow! Despite all of her eccentricities, I love her anyway – but I still hope that she finds a new home soon.

Mon père cool

I realized after talking with my father on the phone last night that I had done something that most gay sons can only dream of doing: I joked about ways that I could still pass on the family name, despite my proclivity for other men. If you use a little imagination, you could probably guess at some of the ridiculous and lewd suggestions – some outrightly vomitous, in my opinion - offered up by both parties, but the importance lies not within the specific topic of conversation but on the simple fact that the conversation took place.

Blessed with open-minded, liberal parents, I remind myself every day of how fortunate I am to be wholly accepted by all of my family members and friends. I feel no shame, nor do I fear what others might think of me. All of this I owe to my parents – and especially my father. As I write this post, I am keeping in mind those sons who, when outed to their fathers, were shunned, excommunicated from the family or church, hated, misunderstood, ignored, kicked out of the house, financially and emotionally cut off, betrayed, beaten, or killed. Oh, yes – it happens; and more often that you think.

Bon courage, mes frères. Someday we will truly be free, but not without hard work and determination. Until then, we are all in my thoughts and prayers.

La fumée sans feu

I suppose I could have died today. I was participating with my College in a recruiting event specifically geared for honors students and their parents, dressed to the nines, sporting my lovely nametag, making small talk and just selling the University 'til my heart's content. Usually, despite my strong dislike for small talk / party situations, I for some reason excel in these situations. Perhaps because it is rather scripted, and I do not have to make any sort of emotional connection. That could not happen now, even if it was mandatory. I am very closed.

During the "browse session" at the hotel and conference center, where said event took place, I was stationed in one of the meeting rooms along with about ten other representatives from the College, geared up to answer questions about why we did not offer to by the family a boat or send them on a cruise in exchange for their student. It would seem, the way they speak, that this actually happens. Honestly, it is the most bizarre courting ritual I have seen. Nevertheless, we always seem to be able to charm some of the best into a commitment.

At first, our room had the sort of odor gotten from vacuuming up something a little too large or inappropriate (e.g. an electrical cord, a tapestry, a small child, the family dog) - that smell that emanates from the underside of the machine, where once spinning brushes have ground to a halt and caused the motor to squeal in pain and the rubber belt to speed hotly against the still brush cylinder. You know exactly what I'm talking about. We all succomb to vacuum inpropriety at some point. (On a side note, it is especially fun to suck the tassels off of a Persian rug - preferably one not yours.) We successfully played off the smell for about fifteen minutes, chalking it up to burning dust as the heat kicked in for the first time this winter (as if!) or stale faculty farts. "Man, did you smell that one Professor Robbins dropped over there?" I wanted to say. "You might consider a new major... something less poopy."

Just as I had mulled over whether actually saying that would cause a ruckus, I was brought back to the vacuum cleaner odor simile. Dark smoke began to billow out from the ceiling air vents at an amazing rate. The room began to fill with smoke from the top down, and the smell became overwhelming. As the fire alarm sounded, we staff members worked to usher people to the nearest exits in time for the fire engines to pull up in a magnificent show of promptness. I will not digress to talk about the strapping firefighters - use your imagination. The entire scene brought me back to the old "Stop, Drop and Roll" movies we used to watch in grade school. It's true - the smoke really does fill a room in only a few seconds.

Having given up on the opportunity for a free lunch, a colleague and I decided to leave for our offices, just in time to be beckoned back to the building. The ballroom had been vented and was free of smoke, so we sat down to an impressive meal of a mixed greens salad, zesty lasagne, French cut green beans sautéed in butter, soft rolls, and cheesecake for dessert. Bravo, team of chefs! I am sure that all of us will check our smoke detectors before slipping under the covers tonight.

Oh, in case you were wondering, there was an actual fire - on the roof, in the particular heating unit that served our wing of the conference center. Hélas, bad luck follows me!

Speak of the Devil

So here I am on another Sunday morning, sitting in front of the computer, wondering what the day will bring. I have taken to intentionally not making plans on Sundays in an effort to “be with myself,” as Anita puts it. Not that I won’t end up calling a friend or getting a call from a friend and going out somewhere, but today is set aside for focusing on myself. Several of my good friends have intimated to me that in this time, I can work on some sort of rediscovery of myself, but I rather look at it like an exploration of what I know is already there.

I have always loved tinkering with computers, and haven’t really done much with mine since a) I moved to my current abode and am again on a shitty dial-up connection (sorry, AOL, it’s not really your fault), and b) I haven’t spent that much time on it lately because I only play games on the Nintendo anymore, and that’s rare. A couple of weeks ago, while I was checking my email and listening to some music to fit my melancholic mood (Boulevard of Broken Dreams – Green Day, fits perfectly now*), my speakers emitted a bit of growly flatulence. “A thousand pardons to you!” I thought. The first outburst was followed only seconds later by a spray of explosive, unbridled speaker farts – the sound being such that I actually turned red at the thought of my neighbor confusing the event with my being on the toilet, begging for mercy and easy cleanup.

A quick check of the cables revealed good connections, although the speakers belched otherwise. The farts turned to sounds more like microwave popcorn, until POP – they actually blew. No one thinks about blowing out computer speakers, and I am just not surprised that it happened to me. Of course, this prompted me to have to run to Best Buy and pick up a new pair – this time with subwoofer – to replace the gaseous, popping ones.

*I really need to download the lyrics and make sure that I have not again mistaken the meaning of the song for something else – I have a tendency to do that.

The Apocalypse

"This isn't supposed to happen. Something is cosmically misaligned," I told myself, as my face slipped into a position of, "Say it ain't so." But it was so: McDonald's was out of fries. While I've always thought (believe it or not) that if this ever happened, something spectacular and totally destructive (or worldwide anarchy) would follow, all the manger was capable of muttering was a long, drawly "Shiiiit..." Surprisingly, the windows didn't implode, the roof didn't collapse, no one drove their car into the building, the arches did not spontaneously combust, no guns were drawn, nor did a riotous crowd amass and block the doors and break the drive-thru menu. In fact, no one muttered a word.

It seems that when the utterly unexpected comes to pass, there is indeed nothing to do or say - except "Shiiiit..." What I did not anticipate, however, was the latency of the crew's response. Literally two by two, eyebrows were raised as each employee passed the empty fryers. What they were on their way to doing escapes me. How long does it take for a McDonald's to grind to a halt once it is discovered that the signature item was actually available for a limited time only (like the McRib - Hurry in!)? Seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes later, I walked away with two cheeseburgers, a medium Diet Coke, and a dollar and change more from the partial refund. Amazing.

If the Cheesecake Factory served its last slice, would there be any more patrons? I would definitely dump my spaghetti on the floor in quiet disgust. My McDonald's did not close; instead of "Welcome-to-McDonald's-may-I-take-your-order?" the greeting morphed into "Welcome-to-McDonald's-may-I-take-your-order-oh-yeah-we-outta-fries." I love capitalism.

It would destroy my point to say that the customers continued to stream in and buy tepid meals, sans frites. Let me revise: I love consumers. ;-)

La Solitude

Why do I dislike being alone so much? This is a question I have posed to myself from time to time and usually when single – when I am unable to share my life with someone else. Is it that I need someone else in an emotional sense? Perhaps. I like being able to share my feelings with someone special – there is a certain inexplicable magic in the connection that keeps me energized and positive. Is it that I am filling some void in myself with someone else? Maybe. I do feel a degree of emptiness when not involved, but especially after having been involved with someone so special and complementary to me. It widens the chasm, I guess. So… What’s really missing, and what is at the bottom of the pit?

I remember as a young teenager when my mom sat me down on my bed, placed her hands in mine, and told me something that I carry with me always. She told me that, like her, I was different from most other people – that I felt in a much deeper way than most do - that I had a capacity for empathy incomprehensible to anyone else. With this being an inherited trait of mine, she explained that I would experience life much more fully. My times of joy would be so overwhelming that I would cease to worry at all. I would experience sadness so profound that no one would understand my complete (but temporary) withdrawal from life. I would love so deeply that it actually hurt, and that I would be challenged to find someone who could love me back as much or more. While most of this has proven true over time, I think my “case” might be a little more moderate. I have certainly had my share of elation and despair, but have learned over time not to crest so highly or dive so deeply.

I haven’t answered my question.

I’m really unsure.

The answer may well be very simple: I have a need to share my life with someone. The dilemma is that most other guys don’t have such a need. Not to say I haven’t met any – in fact, anyone I’ve dated for any length of time seemed to be the same way, unless I was projecting my feelings onto them. Unfortunately, that’s entirely possible, given the way my mind works sometimes. Because of the depth of feelings I experience, perhaps my true need is to be with someone who understands and is not afraid of them?

I have talked full circle.

Honestly, the true joy in my life comes from making others happy – even if it is to my detriment. THAT is the unhealthy part. I may be onto something. Anita told me that until I was happy being alone, I could not be fully happy with someone else. Am I unhappy with myself? Not totally. I successfully completed graduate school with high marks; have a wonderful career in its infancy and poised to grow in many directions; have a nice, cozy place to live with all of the amenities I desire. Material goods.

I don’t care about WHAT I have.

I measure my success in many ways, and have thankfully grown to the extent that I know myself and can be myself unapologetically. I lived twenty-five years as someone else – in the closet as it were – and there is no telling what residual damage I might still have. I think we all carry at least a little of that with us, but I feel that I have reached a healthy balance at this point.

Another thing my mom told me stands out in my head. Actually, it’s something her father told her shortly before he died in the early 1980s: “When you look back on your life, it will not matter what you had or what you did – it will matter whom you loved.” Spot on.

My Wish

I see grey-blue that lets me know he’s sailed through storms before;
Deep jade shows rolling, verdant hills where he ponders and explores;
Flecks of brown reveal depth of soul and inner strength in store;
I wish him peace and courage to overcome
And that he be happy forevermore.

Epilogue

Indeed, he drifted back to me; but just as quickly as he reappeared, he vanished with the winter breeze.