Random Stream of Consciousness

I try not to do this often, but I'm having a "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" moment.  The universe can sh$^# on me, and I find a way to deal.  But when the universe sh$%^ on my friends, I just feel so helpless, and so sad, and so very, very, very upset.

I could use a hug or 20.

This has been a very, very odd week for me. Sure, work has been stressful and fraught with the typical array of frustrations. But what else is new? Sure, I’ve been worried about $ and the economy, but who isn’t? Ultimately, I am healthy, am keeping my weight under control, have the best hubby in the world, and am staying on top of all the things that I need to stay on top of.

 

So why am I feeling so completely at odds with things?????????????!!!!!!!!!

 

It isn’t a new moon. It is a FULL moon. This is completely opposite of my normal mood-swing/emotional cycle, and it makes no logical sense. Control freak that I am, I want to understand why things happen. When I am unable to concentrate, feel uncomfortable, and just want to curl up on the couch, I want to know WHY. At the new moon, it makes sense. I know that that is my natural cycle, and my body’s way of reacting to what happens out there in nature. If that sounds too age-of-Aquarius for you, think of it from a scientific perspective. The moon affects the tides. The body is wha… 95% water or something like that? It only makes sense. 

 

But what about this week? 

 

Anybody else noting anything particularly freaky goin’ on? Things aren’t *bad*. But they are…. just off.

 

11:56 Post script

 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

No sooner had the nervous anticipation hit its peak when we got called on an emergency building evacuation. While that was goin’ on, I got the phonecalls and text messages that a friend was in an accident last night and didn’t make it.

 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! F$*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

The residual achy muscles that loudly pronounced themselves this morning signaled the typical tail-end of a nasty depressive attack. Perhaps “manic-depressive” is a more apt description, as I spent most of yesterday wanting to violently kick puppies. Anything cuddly, fuzzy, or sentimental brought out the inner Rambo in the hostile jungles of my mind. And to add insult to injury, the TV had become an altar of worship to the Michael Jackson memorial – BLECH! Were it not for the cynical comic-reality of Keith Olbermann and Rachel Maddow, I don’t know what I would have done.

 

Sprawled out on the couch after dinner, the mania began to fade as I gave in to Coldstones, cable news, and the desire to just have a good ol’-fashioned tearburst. These little moments aren’t frequent with me (thank the gods!), and I’ve learned that when they do hit that it is best to just go with them. Yet, while meandering through the depressive funk, I began to think about life (read that as obsess).

 

In life, does it make more sense to heavily focus on a little, or to heavily sample a lot? If you are lost by that question, please allow me to explain.

 

Paul and I know a lot of people. We do a lot of different activities. We have many different hobbies and many different interests. Questions that I frequently hear are, “Where have you guys been?” or “I wish we could see you more often.” Typically, the feeling is mutual. And the reality is, we’re rarely at home just sitting on the couch. We’re off in a completely different environment with completely different people doing a completely different activity receiving the same sort of commentary.

 

Now, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not complaining here in the slightest. I like our lives. I like our friends and acquaintances. But every now and again, I find myself really wishing that I could get more specifically involved in something, only to realize that the calendar is already full. With only 24 hours in the day, it just isn’t possible to dedicate more time to one activity or group of people without taking away from another. As such, I don’t feel like I can really dedicate quality time towards my interests and activities. 

 

I see a bunch of really good line dancers and wish I could be one of them. Guess what? That takes practice, repetition, and most of all TIME. 

 

Really cool yoga retreat coming up? That weekend is already booked.

 

I see a bunch of friends who make a point to travel to particular themed events around the country or around the world. I would love to get involved in such a thing! Oh wait, my vacation time is already dedicated or used up with other activities.

 

I would love to go to a really cool party coming up! Oh wait, I already booked that night for something else. 

 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! I’m the kid who can’t enjoy his time on the Ferris wheel because he’s thinking of all the fun he’s missing by not being on the merry-go-round. The logical thing is to say, “Get over it, kid! Enjoy your time on the Ferris wheel.” But I can’t help how I feel. This wave of upset sweeps over me, thinking that all the kids on the merry-go-round are having more fun than I am having. And guess what happens when I finally finish waiting in line and get on the merry-go-round? I look back over at the Ferris wheel and, well, you guessed it.

 

Yes, I want it all. And the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, they say. Well, on the other side of the fence, what I see are people who are more heavily entrenched in just a few things and a smaller collection of people. Yet, the bonds are tighter, and they are much more focused because they do fewer things. I guess it is that focus that I am really wanting. Yet, if I stood in that lawn and looked over at my own yard, I would probably say, “wow… those guys over there get to do sooooooooooo many cool and interesting things. All we ever do is the same ol’ one or two.” I guess I’m just never satisfied. 

 

How about you, my buds out there in LJ-land? Do you think it is better to focus, or to dabble? What works best for you?

Despite having one helluva tough yoga session last night, I woke up this morning feeling anything but relaxed.  Grumpy, angry, and unpleasant are probably the more apt words to describe how I felt.  My back is screaming in bloody tongues, my legs are throbbing, and my head has finally settled down from being achy.  Probably, this is karma kicking me in the ass for having one too many gin-n-tonics on Sunday night.  But still, getting older certainly is not easy, nor is it pleasant.  Even worse, as I walked into the studio last night, offering up a little prayer and begging for a mild class, the gods obviously decided to display their sense of humor by directing the instructor to take us through THE most intense workout that I remember having in years.

 

Oh well.  I accept what life throws at me.  I accept the aches and pains that come with living another day.  I even accept the fact that I have to work for a living.  But what I find difficult to accept is my own mood.  Following a truly exhaustive yoga session, I *should* find myself in a place of relaxation.  I *should* mentally be in a place of peace and tranquility.  So why do I just feel angry?  Not angry at any particular thing – angry at EVERY thing.  I am having a difficult time suppressing the urge to lash out at things that annoy me.  People who make noise out on the streets outside of our bedroom window before 6:00am bring out the anger.  Too many questions or too much conversation before the coffee has kicked in bring out the anger.  Sarcasm from co-workers before my “now-now, there-there, they are just clueless” filter kicks in will bring out the anger. 

 

Don’t like this behavior?  Well, guess what – neither do I.  I do not like the fact that I have so little tolerance or patience for other people.  I don’t like the fact that sometimes I just cannot stand to be around other people.  And most of all, I don’t like carrying anger.  It feels like a bowling ball in my stomach – heavy, uncomfortable, and unaccommodating. 

 

Gracious Quan Yin, sublime Goddess of peace and serenity, please pour your blessings down upon this unworthy git who so desperately needs some calm and quiet.  Somehow, someway, while on the train ride to your shangra-la, I missed my stop, and mentally ended up in Manhattan during rush hour right before a major holiday.  PLEASE take pity upon this angry li’l cub.  Jack bitschslap me into a place of chillin’.  I’ll never get to nirvana if I kick all of the sherpas on the way.

“Lookie here, Mister!” I said to my husband following a slightly disparaging portent that he had made about the bar we were about to walk into, “I went out of my way to find this place because I figured it would be something that YOU would enjoy, so I don’t wanna hear another PEEP outta you!” I was a bit tense, I must admit. As we approached the entrance to the bar, I had to fight off my own nervous anticipation, being that I would soon be facing one of my own biggest demons. Sure enough, as we entered the bar I met the devil in all directions. Everywhere I looked, women went by in their quilt-work skirts and patriotic blouses while men in boots, jeans, and black cowboy hats ordered bottles of Coors or Budweiser. And overhead, a tune by somebody named either Patsy, or Travis or Wynonna. Yes indeedy boys and girls, we were in a straight Country Western bar. 

 

As the music played and I saw the crowd around me, I had to suppress the urge to run out of the place, jump in my Jeep, and blast some Kylie Minogue or Madonna simply to return to a place of comfort. And as we waited in line for the world’s slowest bartender to crack open a couple of brewskies for us par’dners, I looked anxiously at the clock, waiting for 7:00pm to arrive.

 

Now, flash back for a moment to Long Beach Pride. As we wandered around the fairgrounds watching the crowd, we found ourselves over at the Line Dancing tent. Paul, whose people come from Texas, has always been a fan of all things Country Western. Me, not so much. But I had to admit, there are worse things in the world than watching tall muscular hairy men strut by in tight ass-hugging jeans. So, we decided to stay and watch. And as I watched, I became intrigued. The dance style was actually pretty cool, and somewhat complex. How in the world did everyone simply know what moves to make without anyone calling? I’ve taught dance in the SCA for decades now, and rarely, if ever, do I ever see an occasion where people just know the dance without at least a refresher. Obviously, these people had to have been practicing and doing these dances on a fairly regular basis. And they looked like fun! Fascinated by what I saw, I looked forward to seeing the performance of another dance. And then something happened that I would never have expected – the next dance was performed to non-CW music. “Omigod!” I thought to myself. “They are dancing to modern dance music! Music that I actually LIKE!” 

 

Now, I mean no offense to anyone who enjoys listening to country western music. Personally, I find it all very my-gal-dumped-me-and-my-pickup-done-broke-down-and-even-my-gol-dern-dog-hates-me. But hey, if that is your thing, I totally respect that. However, seeing this dance style, which I see as the great-great-grandchild of the forms of dance that are my area of interest, fascinated me. Add on that it could be performed to music that I enjoy, and I was sold on it. Finally – the perfect compromise between what Paul enjoys and what I enjoy! 

 

Right after Pride, I checked the internet, and put out my feelers with friends who do various dance circuits.  After what started out as a needle-in-a-haystack search, I found a bar that offers classes in fairly close proximity to where we live. So off on our experimental journey we went. Shortly after 7:00, a pretty and slender woman with a long black braid spilling out from under her cowgirl hat donned a microphone calling for new people to come to the floor. Readying to teach a couple’s dance, she asked for everyone to partner up. Much to her confusion, Paul and I partnered together. Only when I pulled Paul’s face down to kiss him did she figure things out. (D’oh!) I’m very pleased to report that despite being the only gay couple there, we had no issues and never once felt like we were getting weird looks or anything. In fact, the instructor actually apologized to us after the lesson for her earlier confusion. (We reassured her that no apology was necessary).

 

Shortly after taking us through the couple’s dance, the instructor taught us a line dance. It was bad enough that I kept on screwing up the couple’s dance, but I must admit that I was little better at the line dance. “For cryin’ out loud!” I kept saying to myself. “I’m a dance instructor, damnit! Not just a dance instructor, but a really good one! I teach complicated 15^th century dances with multiple sections and time changes. I teach dances that are clearly the predecessors to this style. WHY AM I NOT JUST PICKING THIS UP???!!!!!”

 

By the third dance, I found myself sweating like mad, and annoyed at myself for not just naturally falling into place with the style. By this point, I took this as an affront and a personal challenge. “As the gods witness!” I thought to myself, “I WILL make this dance style my bitch!” Sadly, the next dance was not the place where that was to happen. Dancing a particularly long dance in multiple parts, which frequently changed directions, I had to really fight to keep up. Did I do it perfectly? Heck to the no. Yet, it was fun. And much to my delight, the dance was performed to a tune by Ricky Martin. WOOHOO! Wisely, our instructor placed someone who knew the dance in each quadrant so that we would all have someone to follow. And fortunately for me, the guy in our quadrant, in particularly form-fitting jeans, was a pleasure to watch as he scooted his perfectly round rear-end around the floor. 

 

When the dance finally ended, and the class was over, Paul and I left the floor both soaked to the skin. Even that surprised me, as it usually really takes effort for me to work up a good sweat while doing a cardio routine at the gym. Ultimately, line dancing was not something I had ever expected to be interested in doing. But I must admit, it was an unexpected pleasure. 

 

Yes, we will be doing this again. 

Please, oh please, oh PLEASE may the powers that be decide to send us home early today. Such things are pretty darned rare, but on a holiday weekend, one can always have hope, right?

 

So once again, as people across American turn to simple pleasures such as back yard barbecues, icy cold drinks, shorts, and the oohs and aaahs associated with fireworks shows, I hope we can all take a moment to consider how fortunate we are. We may not be perfect here in America, but at least we have the opportunity and the freedom to do the things we enjoy. Nobody can dictate whom we must pray to and when. We have the option of wearing the tackiest and ugliest things (and some of us do). We can eat what we want. We can drink what we want. We can watch what we want and, technology depending, when we want it. Sure, times are tight this year. And some people have really had to face some difficult challenges. But in the world-scheme of things, we still have it pretty darned good.

 

Have a safe and sane 4^th of July, everybody. God/dess bless America!

Today, I learned that three good friends of mine are facing some severe health issues.  That is a lot to get hit with at once.

I want to be strong, and optomistic so that I can be there for them when/if they need it.

Anybody got some good news today?

“Flyin’ away

on a wing and a prayer.

Who could it be?

Believe it or not, it’s just me.”

 

I have no explanation for it whatsoever, but when I woke up this morning, I found myself stuck on the theme song from the Greatest American Hero. For those of you young pups out there who don’t remember or (oh, this is gonna hurt), weren’t even born when this show ran, you missed a real silly gem of American pop culture. 

 

I don’t know what it was about the late 70’s and early 80’s. Back before the dawn of Reality Television, we ensconced ourselves in completely unrealistic, unbelievable, and pretty darned hokey fantasy shows that typically featured some sort of flawed hero. Wonder Woman was powerless without her fantabulously glittery kidney belt. The bionic man and woman were very much mortal beings who could have easily been shot had any of the villains been good with a gun. The Man from Atlantis didn’t do so well when he was out of water for a long time. Let’s face it, every hero has his or her kryptonite. And then, there was the Greatest American Hero.

 

This dorky average-Joe (I’m a Joe. I can say that!), really was nothing special. He was just a normal nice guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time. Out of nowhere, a UFO showed up to give him a special suit and a book of instructions. Dork that he was, he lost the instruction book. So he found himself the owner of a superhero suit that gave him all kinds of powers. But… he had no idea how to properly use it, or what it could do. So episode by episode he tripped over himself learning new things such as how to fly, how to go invisible, etc. It was hard not to feel sorry for the stumble-bum. But week after week, he managed to do good deeds and to not kill himself. Because he was so flawed, you empathized with him. He wasn’t brilliant. He wasn’t uber physically fit. He wasn’t particularly successful in life. Yet, he managed to get by and to make a difference. 

 

“Suddenly I'm up on top of the world,

It should've been somebody else.”

 

I think that really was the appeal. Here was an average Joe – a geek in many ways. Yet, this dork had a huge heart which made him in so many ways the Greatest American Hero. It wasn’t that he could fly well, because he couldn’t. It wasn’t that he had a command of his abilities or his faculties, because he didn’t. It was that he was a tried-n-true lug who just wanted to do good and make a positive difference. That noble quality is what hooked people. That noble quality is what made all the difference. An average Joe CAN do good things. Even a dork CAN make the world a better place. Even a stumble-bum has redeeming qualities.

 

“Who could it be? Believe it or not, it’s just me…” and you and you and you and you...

Well, it’s official! The California legislature failed to pass a budget. And it should come as no shock to anyone that they are all pointing the finger (index as well as middle) at each other. The Democrats blame the Governor. They argue that they came up with a proposal that involved a combination of severe cuts and some additional taxes. But the Governor blocked it, insisting that no additional taxes be issued. The Governor blames the Democrats. He states that he said all along, no new tax hikes and that he would veto anything that proposed them. Ultimately, they all need a kick in the pants. 

 

Legislators, what the heck is wrong with you? Government budgeting should not rely on “put it on the credit card” mentality. If you only have X amount, you should budget according to that figure, and not a penny more! That is why you get paid the big bucks. And that is another thing – WHY are you getting paid the big bucks? Cuts should begin at home. The state is in such bad shape that all state employees are having mandatory furloughs put in place. Yet you get cars, per diems, etc. Shame on you!

 

Governor, what the heck is wrong with you? You lecture the legislators that they need to compromise. And by “compromise,” you mean that they must do things your way or you will veto their proposal. Yet, I understand that you are trying to end the kick-the-can-down-the-hallway practice that has happened over the span of years, but you can’t fix the problem 100% in one fell-swoop. Their plan may not have been perfect, but at least it was a plan. And it did more of a fix than anyone has seen proposed in a long time. Was it perfect? Heck no. Did it suit your agenda? Heck no. A butter knife is not ideally suited to cut through a steak. But guess what, Mr Governator, I would rather have a butter knife than to have nothing at all. It may not be ideal. It may not be perfect. But if that is the best tool for today, and I can use it up until I can afford to buy a nice steak knife, such is my preference.

 

Personally, I think the budget should have been decided upon using the Draconian Bathroom Technique. Begin session and inform everyone that there will be no bathroom breaks. As the hours drag on, and they all down their water and/or coffee, eventually there will be a more urgent need to get things done. If someone cannot stand it any more and has to leave the room, he or she is not allowed back in. Eventually, there will be a budget, even if it comes down to the last person standing while doing the pee-pee dance.

 

I am ashamed of the legislature. I really am. They failed. There is absolutely no polite way to put it. They failed. The system is severely broken. I question why they should be paid a salary when they failed to do their jobs. As for you, Aaaanold, you now have another legacy besides saying, “Hasta la Vista, baby”. I hope you’re proud.

Imagine yourself sitting in the waiting room of a doctor’s or a dentist’s office. While trying to pass the time so as not to obsess too much about what is going to be stuck in you where, you notice a stack of lifestyle magazines in front of you – Sunset, Better Homes and Gardens, Ladies Home Journal, etc. Grabbing one of them at random, you begin to flip through the dog-eared pages.

 

Somewhere, you come to an article about places that you simply have to visit in your lifetime. Maybe the list covers places that are in your state. Or maybe it is a little bit broader, covering areas across the country. Or, for the really wild at heart, the list might include everything from the banker’s building in Petra Jordan, to the pyramids in Egypt, to exotic temples in Cambodia, etc. Now admittedly, if one really had nothing but time and money, such a list would be ideal. After all, if one is able to shed the stress and responsibility of living life, who wouldn’t want to enjoy it spanning the globe without a care in the world? But alas, reality is a cruel mistress. There simply isn’t enough time, money, or resource to do it all. But does this mean that one cannot enjoy life and experience the best of what the world has to offer? Certainly not!

 

At this point, you are at a cross-road. You can either read through the list, resolve that you can’t do what the list says, and become depressed about it; or you can take the spirit of the list to heart. “The SPIRIT of the list?????” you ask. “What are you smoking, Guppyman?” When you think about it, what are such lists really about? Are they really about the destination, or are they about you? Let’s face it, the pyramids are going to be there whether you get to see them or not. But what are you doing to further your own knowledge and experience in the meantime? The point is, each of us can (and should) experience things that we haven’t yet experienced. Such is the lesson of life, right? Is hopping on a plane to go and visit the pyramids a good way to gain a new insight into life? Well, yes. But is it the only way? No.

 

Often, a new and life-enriching experience can be quite literally right around the corner. Seriously, take a look at where you live. Within a 5 to 10 mile radius of your home, what do you have available? If you look, you might find an obscure (or not all that obscure) museum that you haven’t explored. Or there may be a live theater showcasing tomorrow’s sold-out stadium-performers. Or there could be some hidden gem of a garden or park that most people just don’t know about. Or there could be a landmark building, or a site of historic significance, or a great restaurant, or a postcard view of some spectacular natural phenomena. The possibilities are endless.

 

Adventure, like life, is really what we each make of it. Are you the adventurous type who, through whatever means, manages to travel around the world and explore the sites? If so, good for you! But if you are more limited by time, money, transportation, or whatever, you need not feel cut off from enrichment. Visit a museum. Walk around in a park. Find a place nearby that you have NOT visited before, and treat yourself to a new experience. That little coffee shop that you walk by regularly – have you been IN it? How about that ethnic grocery store? Or that little bookstore? Or that cute little park - maybe you will see a beautiful flower in bloom. Go explore. Maybe you will hear some music that you have never heard before. Maybe you will see a piece of art that really inspires you in some way or another. Heck, even if none of these things happen, maybe you will find yourself in a place of calmness and serenity. And who doesn’t enjoy that?

 

Only you can decide what you should do in your lifetime. The most important, memorable, and poignant experiences are not necessarily the most complicated or the most exotic. Whether your travels keep you close, or take you far away, there is only one thing to remember when it comes to what you should do with your life - you should actually live it! 

I am too bitchy.

 

I don’t WANT to be bitchy.

I don’t particularly ENJOY being bitchy.

But let’s face it. That is what I am.

 

I could try and pad this reality with other terms such as “anal-retentive” or “perfectionist”, but that would not be completely accurate. I think the line between such things and bitchy is how one reacts to situations. It is one thing to notice the flaw or the error. To me, that is the sign of an analytical thought-process and the ability to see the details within the much larger scope. Yet, it is another thing to simply have no patience or tolerance for the flaw – whether the flaw is in oneself, one’s work, or in others. When I look at something, no matter how much I may ooh and aah over it, my mind quickly scans the entire thing and zeros in on the flaw. I try my best not to immediately point out what I perceive to be the flaw, but sometimes the synapses fire before the P.C. part of my brain can engage the manners-filter. The result – hurt feelings.

 

While the intention is to be helpful (perhaps the person wasn’t aware of the flaw? Maybe by pointing it out, I can help the person to avoid injury, inconvenience, or expense?), I think I can come across to people as dismissive or as being unappreciative of the effort. Such discouraging behavior is counterproductive. That is not what I want to happen, but I’m sure that it does on occasion.

 

I think this is an absolutely horrible characteristic and one that I wish I could change. Why am I not more patient with myself and with others? Why am I so quick to snap when I see something that is done incorrectly or inefficiently? Why do I put so much pressure on myself and on others? It isn’t right. It isn’t fair. It isn’t my place to do such things, but it is nonetheless what I find myself frequently doing.

 

I’m not very happy with myself today. Whenever I feel like I’m making progress in this area, I slip up and find myself right back in bitchy-land. I NEED to find a way to not do this. 

 

But how?

As the internet buzzes along at a kabillion miles an hour, we all dropped our jaws for a moment or four over the past few weeks reading about various celebrities who have now gone on. Some deaths were not particularly surprising, while others seem to have come out of nowhere. Yet, the hype that each has received demonstrates emphatically America’s obsession with morbidity and paparazzi. 

 

American media seems to care about one thing and one thing only – is the story flashy? It doesn’t matter if the news is good or bad. It doesn’t matter if it crosses the line of journalistic integrity. Heck, it doesn’t even seem to matter if the news is accurate. Privacy is not considered. Getting both sides of the story is an afterthought. Ultimately, the only thing of importance is maximizing the controversy. Is there a politician in the middle of an alleged sex scandal? Focus on that! Was there a famous actor seen coming out of a hospital looking like #$&$? Focus on that! How about the family mourning over the loss of their late celebrity relative? Let’s ask them questions to bring on the maximum amount of tears.

 

Ugh!

 

While celebrities are alive, the media seems to do everything possible to bring out the weird and generate the controversy. And when they die, the media mourns, focusing in on the good memories and tributes. Hypocrites!

 

Maybe I’m just a naïve little simpleton, but what ever happened to sincerity and simply treating people with respect? A little humanity, anyone?

Well, well, well. Who would have guessed it? Another right-wing Republican all-American Christian-virtue-spouting politician got caught with his pants down. OK, not literally. He got caught disappearing for a few days in the Appalachians to clear his head. OK, not really. He got caught “vacationing” down in Argentina. OK, not really. He got busted having an affair.

 

Now, before any of my Christian or Republican friends take offense, I am not trashing on either system of beliefs. If one is a Christian because one believes in the teachings of Jesus and chooses to live a good life, power to ya. If one is Republican because one believes in the ideals of Mr. Lincoln, power to ya. My issue is not with either of these philosophies. My issue is with judgmental holier-than-thou leaders who build their own personal empire by gathering supporters united in their judgment against others. As if that isn’t bad enough in and of itself, many times these very people manage to get caught doing the very thing (if not worse) than what they spout off as being the very evil of America. To those people, I have three words:

 

S*#@      MY        D*%$!

 

I’m sure you must lump me into the category of undesirable unmentionable social deviants because I’m a divorcee and now a MARRIED gay man. But I got news for you buckos – at least I’m HONEST about it! And if anything, now that we are all in the same category of social deviants, your DIShonesty actually makes you worse.

 

It isn’t that I want to shatter the image of Ward and June Cleaver. If people really want to live the life of a 1950’s household, that is their choice. But for cryin’ out loud, in no way shape, manner, or form should such an image be FORCED upon anyone else. And to JUDGE people who choose to not fit into that particular mold is simply deplorable. Both religious and political leaders (which are more and more difficult to tell apart) need to get this through their heads. 

 

I think Mr. Clinton began the new wave of disgraced hypocrites in this country. In so many ways I really liked Mr. Clinton. He was a charismatic president, a fine speaker, a persuasive man, and sharp as a tack. Yet, the very same president who oh-so-quietly signed DOMA into law is the very same one who went down in history (no pun intended) for “not having sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky.” So, in effect, in one hand he is holding the pen to defend marriage while in the other he is holding the cigar that was inserted into… EW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

The very angry Republican Party took full advantage of Mr. Clinton’s fall to band together and to stand on a soapbox of morality and “traditional values.” That would be all well and good if only they were any better. Mr. Sanford went on record calling for Mr. Clinton to resign because of the sex scandal. After all, Clinton not only strayed from his marriage, but he lied about it. Tsk. Tsk. Fast forward to this week, Mr. Sanford. If I am not mistaken, you strayed from your marriage, and you lied about it. Tsk. Tsk. So, you are drafting your resignation letter as we speak, right? Wouldn’t it be ironic if he used the same pen that Mr. Clinton used to sign DOMA?

 

I would like to think that the Salem Witchcraft Trials are just a thing of the past. Yet, the lesson applies just as much today. Arthur Miller was smart enough to see this when he wrote The Crucible. After all, it was just a play about mass-hysteria in Puritan-Salem, right? It wasn’t a smack against the government going on a witch-hunt under the guise of saving the country, right? RIGHT? This same lesson applies today. Wanna drive something out of government? Drive religious preaching and judgment out! Frankly, as long as they are not breaking the law (in any more than a “civil disobedience” kinda way), I don’t care WHAT the politicians do behind closed doors, as long as they do a good job in the capacity of their office. It isn’t the job of the politicians out there to save our souls. They should be saving our benefits, our purse-strings, and our liberties. 

 

When did America forget this?

I have just survive a four-hour defensive driving class, in which I believe I aged ten years.

No, I did not get a ticket.
No, I was not in an accident.

But for some reason, somebody in my department management to dig up some federal regulation that insists that if a gub'ment employee drives for any reason at any time in a work related situation, that person must take this class.  So despite rarely ever having to drive - I fell into that list.

The class was taught by one Mr. Sincock (giggle).  Now all in all, Mr. Sincock (giggle) didn't do an altogether bad job.  The class contained practical (read that as DUH!) information, as well as videos that were actually made after the 1950's.  Yet, one thing really stood out.  One of the topics of discussion involved distractions.  To be a defensive driver, Mr. Sincock (giggle) said, one should avoid doing other things such as eating, texting, talking on the cell phone, or faxing.

'scuse me... but did you just say, "faxing"?

Oddly enough, that piqued my interest.  I'm just picturing driving down the highway, windows rolled down, and maybe even the top down.  Because of all that wind, papers are flying as I try to shove them into the fax machine sitting in the passenger seat next to me.  Don'tcha just HATE when that happens?  I can see where that would truly be a distraction.

Am I missing something?  Does anyone out there fax while driving, and I just don't know about it?

I would have asked about this further after the class, except I don't think I could mention the instructor's name without giggling.

People often fantasize about life after retirement. Whenever my hubby and I meet with our financial advisor, we discuss where we stand in terms of eventually being able to walk away from office-life while still being young enough to have our wits about us. Yet despite having a good plan, I don’t delude myself. While it is wonderful to daydream about reaching that light at the end of the tunnel, I must be realistic – I haven’t even gotten to the tunnel yet. If anything, I’m still climbing the shear and narrow mountain roads overlooking a steep, cavernous drop below. I won’t even reach the tunnel for a while. For now, I need to just make sure that I steer the course without making a perilous turn which will send me plummeting.

 

Yet, I have to wonder, what will it be like living in retirement-land? What should I expect? Heck, even if I don’t have the zoom-zoom-zoom overachiever energy that I have today (which frankly, can be rather annoying sometimes), will I still have too much energy to enjoy sitting still for moments at a time? If so, what will I do with my time? 

 

Paul and I argue over our final destination. Living where we live today, Paul enjoys being surrounded by his Victorian fantasy. And while I don’t honestly believe he will be able to do so painlessly, he has said that when the day comes, he will be able to completely walk away from it so that we can submerge ourselves in my fantasy – living in bungalow splendor. Eventually, the plan is to live in a (hopefully 100%) restored arts and crafts bungalow. With less space to care for, less stuff to dust, and a single story to avoid the treacherous stairs that plague our aging bones, our little retirement home will grant me the serenity that only an artsy little home can grant. Now to just figure out where. I tend to favor Pasadena because of its artsy downtown, charming neighborhoods, and pure peace and quiet. Paul prefers to return to the land of his youth – San Diego. I guess we have decades in which to argue and explore our options. Heck, anything is possible, right?

 

No matter where we end up, I still have to wonder about what life will be like. Fast-forward. We’ve worked hard. We’ve slaved away for the corporate and the gub’ment man. And now, our time is our own. Now what? For Paul, I think this will be pretty easy. As long as he has a book, he’ll be good. Heck, today he is all set just having a Kindle in hand. By then, who knows what technological advances there will be? He might have some sort of implanted device that projects the images of the pages on the interior of his eyelids. He’ll be able to lie in bed with his eyes closed, while reading away at the latest novel. Like a citizen of Brave New World in a Soma-induced coma, he will be set. Me? Not so much. Even though the effects of time make themselves known in various aches and pains when I overdo it, I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be a sit-my-butt-on-a-couch kinda guy. I feel like I’m always going to need to be working on something – doing something. Maybe I will spend my time as a gardening fiend. Perhaps our perfect arts and crafts bungalow will be in the middle of a bare and neglected lot, demanding of a Japanese serenity garden with coy pond, rich red maples, flowering lantern plants, fuchsias, and an elegant teak outdoor breakfast patio. Maybe I will find myself in the midst of either some new artform or a rediscovered one. Maybe I’ll finally get that pottery wheel that I’ve always wanted so that I can make my own versions of Ephraim pots and Bachelder tiles at an affordable price. Or maybe I’ll work part-time or volunteer at some local center working towards bettering the neighborhood, or helping those in need. Worst case scenario, if I am too broken and owie-plagued to do any of these things, maybe I’ll find a way to get my butt down to the local coffee shop to order some fancy-schmancy java concoction, and watch humanity as it passes by. I’d like to think that, as time goes by and I become a regular at the local shop, I will begin to hold court with some of the other regular faces that I meet there. As the elderly king of the coffee shop, I will share with my court stories, anecdotes, and my rather strong-willed (read that as stubborn-assed) opinions of the world as it will be some distant date in the future. I hope that I can grow old with some sense of grace, a high regard to health and well-being, and the ability to look back happily at the days when I was young and turned heads when I walked by.

 

In thinking about it, it seems a little bit silly that a stubborn, strong-willed, arrogant, s.o.b. like myself can sum up his grand aspirations by ending up as the king of the local coffee shop. But for some reason, such a vision really makes me smile. It isn’t the cure to cancer. It isn’t the betterment of the human condition. It isn’t a form of art that changes social consciousness. But somehow, it represents to me the earned calm relaxation that comes with having done what needed to be done, and having led a good life guided by the right decisions. In my fantasy-world, it isn’t about having a grand mansion. It isn’t about luxury cars. It isn’t about running with célèbretants. It isn’t about having a portrait hanging in some corporate boardroom collecting dust. It is about holding court in a little coffee shop, surrounded by a couple of people who enjoy your stories, smiling as the world goes by. 

 

And when all is said and done, I’ll walk back home (assuming I am able to easily walk), and get back to pruning some of the roses along the sidewalk that have gone a wee-bit out of control. “Le Sigh,” I will think to myself while smiling. “The Coffee King’s work is just never done!”

Smooshed in-between furniture moving, and a going away party, Paul and I managed to get our butts down to South Park (no, not THAT South Park), in San Diego this past Saturday for a Home Tour. Featuring five houses, the Home Tour boasted an array of early 20^th century architecture and merchants. Each of the homes was either pure Arts and Crafts or a merger between A&C and earlier architecture, which I affectionately refer to as “Victungalows”. All in all, it was a pretty nice tour. But ultimately, none of the homes could even hold a candle to the first one we visited.

 

Starting off at the furthest house, we wended our way up along old streets, gazing at homes that have seen the two world wars, the development of amazing technology, and who knows how many sets of feet. As we rounded the bend towards the first bungalow on the tour, I was struck by the detail in just the back yard fence alone. Carefully jigsawed in a complex pattern of pickets, if this much detail could be paid to the fence, I couldn’t wait to see the inside! The tour write-up discussed this restored treasure. Having been painted over all in white (ick!) and neglected until the porch was crumbling, the owners who had never previously even heard of the Arts and Crafts movement carefully restored the home in a fitting tribute to William Morris ideology. Looking for names, the write-up carefully refused to mention anything beyond “the owners”. “Hmmmm,” I thought to myself. How interesting. All the other write-ups mention the names of the husband and the wife. Hmmmmm… Needless to say, my conspiracy-theory scheming brain began to wonder – did the author of the write-up purposely avoid mentioning the names of the owners because they might be…. two men or two women? 

 

As I read more, it discussed the owners’ collection of Stickley furniture, and affection for historical detail. Needless to say, my gaydar began pinging madly. And by the time I got to the porch, I began looking for clues. Apparently, “the owners” had done such a good job on their restoration as to be featured in an addition of American Bungalow magazine in 2006. “Hmmmm…” my bitchy competitive inner-self began to say. “How nice to have had their home featured in a key architecture magazine… once.” Yes, it was childish. Yes, it was bratty and immature. But I have to confess to smiling at my evil bitchy inner-thoughts.

 

The porch alone was a work of art. A very unusual combination of brick, river rock, and clinker brick, this mélange of materials created a unique look and texture to the pillars and wrap-around porch. Shaded by trellises of flowering vines, I could just picture taking breakfast or tea on this lovely outdoor porch, while reading the paper and listening to the birds. Gathering around the beautiful stained glass and heavy wooden front door, the docent met us to discuss some of the details of the restoration work. From all accounts, it sounded like “the owners” had done quite a lot of work on this gorgeous place. And as the door opened, I fell into an arts and crafts coma. From the floors to the box-beam ceilings, gorgeous warm woodwork welcomed all into a tranquil atmosphere that William Morris himself would have approved. “The Owners” spared no effort when it came to the idea of transporting people back to an earlier time – down to the acid-bathed lightbulbs with silicone “tails” created to simulate earlier Edison lightbulbs.  

 

Yes, I got an A&C stiffy!

 

The home in all honesty, looked more like a museum than a home where people actually lived. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was pure arts and crafts, without any sign of modern living or contemporary people. “OK, “ I thought to myself. “Game on! Where’s the gay? I KNOW the owners must be gay. Straight people just don’t go this crazy. Where are they? WHERE ARE THEY?” As I moved into the dining room, I could barely stand the perfection of the presentation. A Roycroft writing desk stood in the corner, topped off with an art nouveau writing set. GAK! It was so clean, and neat, and spotless, and perfect! In the center of the mission style dining room table, a beautiful arrangement of purple irises rose from an antique frog in the center of a large and wide antique dish. “Floral arrangements using antique flower arranging equipment????? OK Gays… Where the hell are you?!” From room to room, it was perfect, perfect, perfect. As if Martha Stewart met an arts and crafts Stepford Wife, this place honestly could not have been any more of a Bungalow-lover’s wet dream. But then, as I stepped down the central corridor, I found what I knew would be the dead giveaway. There, in the middle of the corridor, a built-in bookcase revealed a collection of modern books. “Aha!” I thought. “This should do it!” On the top shelf, a collection of hardback books covering current events, politics, etc. On the second shelf, practical books such as garden manuals, woodworking books, etc. But nosy thing that I am, I had to check out the books waaaaay down on the bottom shelf. And there, on the very bottom shelf, I found what I was looking for – “The Homosexual Matrix.” AHA! Jackpot! Pointing out the book to Paul, I smirked while on the inside, I performed the, “I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!” dance. 

 

Of course, had that not been the complete giveaway, a little further down the hall I found a nicely framed portrait of two men, both in nicely fitted jeans, with thick 70’s looking mustaches. “Holy Tom of Finland, Batman!” I said to myself. “MILITANT gay men at that!”

 

Just when I didn’t think I could fall in love with the house any further, I walked into the backyard. It was so serene, I coulda just hurled. With the lawn covered in natural stone pavers, with perfectly manicured grass in between, the left hand side of the garden was dominated by a waterfall flowing into a coy pond. To the right, past the bonsai garden, a pergola-covered hot-tub and deck area conjured up images of tiki-torch lit late night soaks with fru-fru drinks ending in “-tini”. And around the corner, next to the cat balcony (because of course, what self-respecting insane house-geek gay men wouldn’t have a screened-in cat balcony?), an outdoor shower stood just out of the way of everything else in the garden. And stashed carefully in back of that, the outdoor urinal. But of course. What DIDN’T these guys think of?!!!!!

 

Sadly, we didn’t get to meet “the owners”. Unlike Paul and I, who love to be in the house as people stroll through going “oooh!” and “aaah!”, most of the homeowners on this tour decided to make their exit. I’m hoping that at some point in time, we have a chance to meet them so we can chat about houses, arts and crafts architecture, artsy-geekness, insane restoration projects, and of course, fru-fru drinks that end in “-tini”.

Sheesh! What a week! Maybe it is because the office has been relatively quiet this week, but my non-office hours have been even fuller than normal. The most time that I actually spent home was on Wednesday night when I got home at around 8:15, tired after yoga. Between workouts and guild meetings, this week has been used, abused, and hung up to dry. And will the weekend see much rest? Um… no. Saturday morning, furniture moving, followed by a home tour in San Diego, followed by a party on Saturday night. Soooooo looking forward to Sunday, Sunday, Sunday! Aside from a workout, I just wanna stay home and putter. I have gardening that needs doing, and some painting projects. Not go mention, oh gee, just spending time with my hubby. 

 

On the one hand, I MUCH prefer being productive, and busy to not having anything to do other than listen to the tick-tick-tick of the clock. But sometimes, I wish I had just one extra evening where the world would just stop.

 

Hmmmm… I guess I’m just never satisfied. Le Sigh.

If there is one person or more on your friends list who makes your world a better place just because they exist and who you would not have met (in real life or not) without the internet, then post this same sentence in your journal.

Oh heck ya!  Thank you all from the bottom of my heart!

Children, do not try this at home! 

 

Under no circumstances would I ever recommend this exercise to any historical cooking groups out there. In many ways, I’m still horrified that we did it. But I have to admit – it was pretty freaken’ hysterical!

 

Because our beloved Baroness happened to be turning another year older, we decided to do something special for her. Having a strong Hawaiian background, Her Excellency is a product of her upbringing. And whether for good, bad, or whatever, one of her favorite comfort foods is…

 

…is…

 

…oh, I find it hard to even contemplate…

 

… one of her favorite comfort foods is Spam.

 

So in a fit of mischief, the guild came up with a plan. The challenge, to create a very cool and very authentic historical dish substituting the main ingredient for the unmentionable thing-in-a-can. 

 

We had quite the feast. The purist in me is still completely horrified, but the sheer amount of fun and silliness won out. 

 

I too can remember the funny! 

Let me count the ways!

 

As the pain begins to fade to simply a dull thud, I am able to appreciate the wonder that is modern medication. Any pill that has the power to take away the pain of a broadsword embedded just slightly above my left eyeball is A-OK with me. What is this magic brew that makes it all better? A mix of acetaminophen, aspirin, and caffeine. I keep forgetting that caffeine is good for headaches. I tend to think of it more as my salvation during exam time – which brings back a funny memory that I must share.

 

Picture it. The year was 1987, and I was a first-year college geek. Moving into the dorm with my best friend from high school, Tim, the first baby-steps into being an Adult scared the crap outta me. At the time, I really believed that I had it ooooh-sooooooo-together with practical know-how and common sense. Oh gods, how wrong I was! I had no clue. I did not understand money management. My social interaction skills were truly atrocious. And I hadn’t even the slightest idea how to cook. No kidding – I coulda burned water. 

 

Neurotic thing that I was, I was the absolute antithesis of a college party animal. In my uptight state, college was all about one thing and one thing only – studying to get good grades! And you’d think with that kind of mentality, I would have been a straight-A student. Yet sadly, such was not the case. I didn’t get college. I really could not wrap my brain around the loose structure. High school had been so structured. Teachers laid it out for you. Do X, Y, and Z to get the desired results. And that was my strength. I could follow directions. If the teacher said to do X, Y, and Z, that is what I would do. The result – good grades. College was different. Teachers would show examples, doing all kinds of different methodologies, and then give us an assignment and a due date. It was almost as if Tim Gunn had possessed all of my teachers with a “Make it work” mentality. Huh?!!! But, but, but, where was the process? How did you get from point A to point B? Where was my X, Y, and Z? WHERE WAS MY STRUCTURE?

 

That first year was hard for me. And where I felt like I was drowning in a sea of chaos, my roommate began to thrive. We had been friendly competitive rivals in high school, with me always slightly ahead. But as I quickly learned, things were about to change. Whereas I needed structure and rules, Tim thrived on creativity and the freedom to do things in his own way. In this new environment geared towards doing things your own way, he began to sore. And me? I began to panic. But even when we both freaked out over living away from home, or being college-poor, or having too many things to do at once, we helped each other through the rough times.

 

Towards the end of that first year, finals loomed. Between Engineering Physics, Engineering Calculus, and Trigonometry, I was a mess of studying stress. And only one thing could possibly help me face the inevitable – caffeine. Lots and lots of caffeine. No wonder I was so skinny in college! I remember distinctly pouring a big cup of “Jolt”, stirring in a spoonful of instant coffee, and using it to swig down some “No Doze”. UGH!

 

As we pulled our all-nighters, the caffeine would keep us awake, but it wouldn’t always keep us perfectly focused. In fact, at some magical point between 3:30 and 4:30am, we would hit a point called, “Loopy Hour”. There was no sense in fighting it. There came a point in time where we were so sleep deprived, and had so many equations going through our heads that it was best to just face the fact – we were about to get slap-happy. And to meet this inevitability head on, we had developed a ritual. Tim would pull out a tape of Henry Mancini and fast forward it to just the right point. Then, a strange magic would happen. 

 

As that familiar beat would begin to pulse from the speakers on Tim’s boom-box, we would start to parade around the dorm room to the Baby Elephant Walk. Looking like a crazy white-boy cross between a pachyderm and the Bangles walking like Eqyptians, we strutted ourselves around the dorm room, across the suite, and up and down the halls listening to the silly tune written in honor of baby elephants. Silly though it was, and as ridiculous as we must have looked, somehow, someway, it got us through. During those moments as I felt the sweat pouring down my brow as I hit a mega-stumper on my exam paper, my mind would flash back to us strutting our silly down the hall. Suppressing a laugh, I was able to calm the panic, regain my ability to concentrate, and get through the exam.

 

Fast-forward to today. I don’t remember a damned thing about any of those math and physics classes, other than dreading them. The only real-life application that I have found for any of my engineering training involves the geometry used to develop patterns for historical garments. Yet, my appreciation for caffeine is unwavering. 

 

Of course, needless to say, I cannot listen to Mancini without having to suppress a chuckle.