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.

A Personal Breeze

Do you ever stop to consider how the winds of your future will continue to waft people into and out of your life? I marvel at this fact almost on an obsessive level, as of late. After what turned out to be a magical weekend – you know, the kind where you go into Friday evening wondering if you will be overly shy and not in the mood to socialize, scared by the stress of the prospect of your invited friend recognizing your profound attraction to them, or perhaps just outright nervous; but instead finding on Sunday afternoon that you have been nothing but your relaxed, genuine self and have enjoyed every moment of conversation, travel, and each of the many fleeting glances and smiles – I know that I am not destined to be alone forever. It’s complicated to explain… but easy to replay in my mind. Over and over. Lately, I do not often experience oases of deep contentment; this weekend was an exception, and I am grateful for it.

Will the winds of my future be favorable and return him to me? Or will it be someone else yet? The frustrating thing is that, like the autumn breeze, my winds blow frigid one day and lukewarm the next. I can only hope that they will not be ever-changing.

Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady

Okay, okay. So this is a bit tacky to post this so close on tails of my recent lamentation, but I must.

Every town has its crazies. All neighborhoods have that single, questionably-sane man or woman who just doesn’t seem to understand the bounds of convention – and really doesn’t know, and probably wouldn’t care even if they did know. My tree-lined lane is home to one such person, whom I have dubbed Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady. Don’t shorten her name, either; it would be akin to leaving the tomato paste out of the spaghetti sauce.

Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady is… well, perspirationally gifted. I would be too if I pushed a partially loaded granny grocery cart – you know, the wire basket on wheels resembling a Kroger buggy yet reminiscent of a baby carriage – up and down the street all day. Unclean is not a word that applies here; her board-straight whitewashed hair is no dirtier than yours (let’s hope we made a good comparison here), and even has a certain bounce to it. She’s a Pantene gal, perhaps. Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady is no hobo, either; she appears to have a home just a few houses up the hill from mine. This speculation, however, is based merely on my observation that, while she spends a bit of time in many people’s yards uprooting small plants and collecting bottles and what appears to be flotsam for transport in the Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady Carriage LS, she spends the most time at her supposed home. It is the only place I have ever witnessed her unload anything, and it wasn’t apparent that it was in a spirit of discarding.

I had been pondering what she might do with the items she collects, and if it was a sufferance of my memory that I did not realize whether she often transports the same collection up and down the street or if the boards, bottles and plucked verdure were fresh for each sighting. Certainly, she could help my confusion by digging out an entire section of someone else’s shrubbery or ramming down saplings with her Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady Carriage LS – or even by allowing a simple glass bottle to break on the pavement. I have a keen eye peeled toward the idea that the cart’s contents may, in fact, not evolve at all.

Last weekend, I had two separate near run-ins with Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady. My first experience caused me to have to brake to avoid crushing her kneecaps with my front bumper. The city recycling truck was blocking both lanes, stopped due to Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady’s apparent demand for something that the workers wished to take away from her. Seemingly, she had been caught swiping a mound of cans and bottles from a blue recycling container, just as the truck made its approach from around the nearby corner. She is not without her scruples, and must have some education in politics; aware that I was waiting for this debacle to conclude, she quickly made an argument unheard by my ears that impressed the workmen enough to leave her alone. Had she promised to smother each one in turn into her perspiring bosom? Cage one between her slick thighs and the other under her shimmering arm? Whatever it was, it worked – all four of us were released to go about our business.

The second involvement was intentional on my part. Having been dared by my brother to snap a picture of her, I could not resist doing so on the day I arrived home from work to find her standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, trying to entice a loose dog over to her for petting (or putting in the Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady Carriage LS). I could not quite hear what she was promising the thirsty canine, but it eventually approached her with reticence as I tore inside to grab my digital camera. I expected to return to the same picture, in hopes of getting to hear what words her clear, even-toned, middle-aged voice conveyed. She was gone. I ran to the corner, camera in hand, only to find that she was meandering up the gentle hill of asphalt, away from me. Not wanting to be caught paparazzi-style as she bent over to pick up a stick in the driveway just up from mine, I sprinted around to the other side of the house and quickly snapped the picture you have before you.

I give you Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady – in fashionable lime green. You can count on an update on this fascinating neighborhood character.

A Delay

I was going to write a sassy post today about Sweaty Denim Jumper Lady, whom you will meet subsequently, but after having read the blog of one of my best friends in reference her visit to distribute food to the Hurricane Katrina-affected on the Mississippi coast, I cannot. Instead, I dedicate this post to those who have suffered on account of circumstance and geography. Our federal, state and local goverments' failure to adequately and swiftly coordinate your relief is an abomination to the American ideal. You, especially, deserve so much more. My heart is with you. Together, we will rebuild.

We've Got Less Gas Than "W" After Taco Bell and Rolaids

I never thought it would happen. We all knew gas prices would jump - fifty cents in one day, thirty more the next here in Auburn - but who knew we would run out? Gas stations are closed all over town. Prices have already been remarked at $3.09 for regular for the first shipment, due sometime Saturday or Sunday. Since we have so many guests in town - refugees from the hurricane and insanely rabid SEC football fans - they will likely deplete our resources again before leaving town. Sadly, I have canceled plans to travel to South Alabama to see family and friends. I cannot afford the gas, nor can I afford to be stuck in Mobile on Monday because of a lack of it.

This will be a long weekend.

Home game weekends never cease to show me the bad side of human nature. Alumni and "friends" descend upon the campus, angrily driving their RVs over curbs and onto the grass in search of the best spot to plunder for the weekend. I remember years as an undergraduate here where the University reported having to spend $10,000 to replace grass that had been worn away or torn up by fans and their vehicles. I doubt that the Athletic Department paid for that. Thankfully, the administration decided to "bollard up" the periphery of green spaces on campus. Athough they dot some of the landscape like ridiculous brown Super Mario World-style hills, they are quite effective at 1) keeping RVs and cars off our grass and 2) really destroying front- and back-ends of cars that try anyway. Yes, people attempt it every year. The bollards almost invariably reap victory, and nothing pleases me more than hearing that shrill metal-on-metal sound of an RV's side wall being gouged out or the tinkling clatter of a rear bumper falling onto the sidewalk.

This weekend poses a unique quandry for fans: If they arrive in town and a refugee family still inhabits their pre-paid hotel room, what do they do? Our University President has asked that fans not displace refugees, but he cannot actually prevent it from happening. And we all know it is. In a stroke of journalistic genious, our local NBC affiliate in Montgomery has established a number for displaced refugees to call and report rogue hotels, to be named on air in the evening broadcast, chastised for their indiscretions. After that annoucement, the bickering stopped. Deals were struck. Many beers were drunk. (Yes, drunk is the right word there.) And the people were happy. :-?

Like all things in life (football, classes, football, hapless dating, football, our sham of a federal government, football, and the rescue and rebuilding of New Orleans and Southern Mississippi and Alabama), the game must go on. This time out has lasted long enough. There are no commercials left to air. Wait a minute - we never run out of commercials*.

*bitter, party of one?

Vampires in Auburn

Some secret Dracula-in-hiding is happy. After a Bloodmobile's worth of samples taken for this test and that test, doctors are still not able to determine why I was sick with, among other things, a low-grade fever for four weeks. I cleared my full physical today with flying colors, and although I have more tests later this week, most dangerous and deadly diseases have been ruled out. I don't know about you, but I'd prefer to donate my body to science after my death - not before or during it. Happily, I'm feeling better and have my energy restored. I think it was a nasty virus that will go forever undiagnosed and unnamed. Until now.

I pronounce myself having just healed from... tepidity. Yes, tepidity - that gooey warm fever that just keeps you sweating in your sheets. Mmmm... takes you right back to Mom's chocolate chip cookies, doesn't it? The kind that are still warm from the oven (I slept with them to perfection*) and the chocolate bits are just slightly oozing (don't ask).

Otherwise, things have improved slightly on the Plains. Check out my website for pics of the new place. You should have my website address already... Email me if you don't. Work is going swimmingly; I'm really enjoying teaching this semester. It has fast become my favorite element of the term. I've met some cool people around town and have *gasp* formed some friendships and found some dating potential that I didn't know existed. True to the transient nature of a college town, Auburn guys are hard to keep around - even if they aren't students. Cross your fingers (and your legs*) for me.

*not that way

Lost in Space

That's how I feel lately. Remember just a few days ago how NASA scientists rejoiced at having their mathematical and scientific talents rewarded by witnessing a man-made spacecraft expertly crash into the leading edge of a comet? What so many people didn't pay much attention to was the fact that the entire event was caught on camera - from not-so-very afar. A "mother ship" was set in position on an interception course with the speeding comet, just waiting to jettison its lander to plunge into the mass of dust, ice, and supposedly life-enabling other material. A scientific orgasm of sorts was expected and indeed occurred.

I am that mother ship. I put myself on course to rendez-vous with a tiny little rock hurtling through space - a proverbial pebble containing some specific mass of happiness (Tons? Pounds? Ounces? Or does God prefer metric?) to which I calculated a perfectly straight trajectory accounting for every variable conceivable to man. Alas, just the conceivable ones... Something beyond my perception occurred at just the right moment to alter my course around the comet, however. I am left with my payload, alone in space after the temporary blinding effect of the corona passed before my wide-open, disbelieving - now sad - eyes. All I can do is watch my failed destiny and its seemingly magical tail stretch away from me.

In times like these I turn to my anthem of loneliness - "Table for Two" by Caedmon's Call:

Because I'm so scared of being alone / That I forget what house I live in. /But it's not my job to wait by the phone / For [him] to call... /... /And You know the plans that You have for me /And You can't plan the end and not plan the means /And so I suppose I just need some peace /Just to get me to sleep.

Oh, what I wouldn't give for a peaceful night's rest.