I have had some great friends in my day. So, if you aren't mentioned in this blog. To quote Yoda, "you will be. You ... will be." Probably. Unless you don't want to be.
And you will probably get cool names like my friends, Delilah and Drake. I mean, John and Jill. I always forget to use their fake names for the sake of the blog! So ... John and Jill ... are 2 of my really top, way up there, kinds of friends. They are great and no other words can describe them. So, allow me to try!
The legend goes back well over 40 years. (Remember, dear reader, I proudly told you I am 33? Well, I am!)
Drake -- I mean, John -- isn't even 40 yet, either.
The legend starts so early because our mothers are actually best friends. My mother and his mother have known each other since they were 14, as family lore has it. Best friends in high school, my mother can even remember when John's father came into the picture.
Funny story: It was the 1960s. They had all met in a burger joint, where people parked their cars and hung out. John's dad was a college student and our mothers were still in high school. Yeah -- I know -- scandalous! Bigger scandal? They let college boy drive around with them later in their car. Crazy! He was a stranger. Stranger danger! But, my mother -- the clever and ever-so-pure one -- put a purse in between John's dad and herself. When he asked if the purse had to stay there and she replied, "Yes," he knew he better go after the other girl. And, I believe John's parents have been together ever since!
John's mom and my mom have literally been through it all, and they don't even live near each other. They have survived a small soap opera's list of life problems -- aside from an evil twin. (Although, I've never quite trusted John. He's too good. There must be another.)
Which brings me to my point: John is pretty good. He's pretty cool. He would wear Noxema on his face as a teenager for an hour and whack tennis balls for his dogs to fetch, all while wearing orange shorts and a bandanna ... on his head. Getting a picture, yet?
Yeah, he was pretty nuts, all right. But, in that indelible, sweet kind of way. As a kid, he was fairly adventurous and always running around doing something. Teenage John used to hacky sack, play frisbee (ultimate style), and went tubing on a lake. And, he still does some crazy stuff. Don't get me started on how he runs. It annoys me.
He listened to fun music (and still does) and opened me up to new artists, like the Rustic Overtones and Ani DiFranco. And he still does that. I get CDs made for me! Sometimes, though, we still don't like the same taste in music. I will always like my pop songs! Don't try to change me, John!
Fun fact: he is the only person I really allow to ever call me "Gregory." It's on a birth certificate and that's about it, but he uses it ... regularly.
He "collects" and also just really likes anything and most things Star Wars. He's a tough customer, but one time, I was able to get him a T-shirt of Darth Vader from Gap Outlet of all places, which he actually liked. The annual Star Wars Christmas Card from John and Jill, which is staged and photographed with real toy figurines on a diorama is always an interesting form of artwork. "Christmas on Coruscant," a fave from two years ago, showed Obi-Wan as bartender and a fighter pilot break dancing. Chewie also seemed to be busting a move on the dance floor.
Through it all, he also has a super good heart, and is incredibly thoughtful. I could go on and embarrass him some more, but then I would miss out on his wife, Jill.
Oh, Jill. Jill is great. Now, when I met her, she only wore black, or shades of black. "Fifty Shades of Black" was my early nickname for her. (No, there was no nickname!) I first met her on my first full day of living and interning in Washington, D.C., for the summer. I had just turned 21!!! (Bring on the booze!) And we all were meeting up for dinner with tons of John's friends. Jill was a friend of a friend in the group and, for some reason, everyone thought it clever to sit her across from me. She didn't know anyone but her friend, and I didn't know anyone else but John. Now, you probably think that she talked my ear off all night, right? NOOOOPE! I am not even sure she looked at me. In fact, she probably didn't. How dare she? I'm stunning to look at!
The next time I saw Jill was on the 4th of July. In D.C., that day is just the most uncomfortable weather day of the year -- right next to every other summer day in D.C. It was close to 100 degrees and sunny and humid, and we sat completely in the middle of the National Mall. No trees, no shade, no service. And what did Jill wear, you ask? (You guys are such fashion mavens like me!) Yep, you guessed it! Jill wore black. And pants! I think black jeans! In summer! Brave woman! I think she may have talked a little, but conversation was definitely directed toward people she knew, which now seemed to have become John, also. Sounds like a couple had started!
The last time I saw her during that first summer was right after the completion of my internship. I was planning on staying with John for a few extra days and relaxing. There was still more in the city to see, and I was looking forward to it. Except on the day after I graduated from my program, my grandfather passed away. And Jill was there and was the sweetest person. She did small things, like make a dinner and say kind things. I think she even helped me change my flight and pack my luggage. I had bought way too much stuff to bring home. John also borrowed a car from his friend to bring me to the airport the next day.
This became known as yet another example of how John and Jill have been there for me. "They take care of you," one observer had noticed after seeing Jill shut something off in my kitchen. ("I think Greg meant to shut this off," she had said.)
They do take care of me. Never in a total parental way, though. But, they like to do things for me and with them.
They make amazing breakfasts. Jill is making cornmeal waffles today!
They suffer through something they don't always love, but I love, like when I see an outlet mall on the side of the road during one of our many road trips. (If not, I have usually grabbed the wheel and commandeered the vehicle. It's like a Dukes of Hazzard episode if they don't comply.)
They even helped me move from one apartment to Virginia to a new one. (I have helped move them, too!) They threw the goodbye dinner for me when I moved to New York. Jill and I hugged and cried a bit in front of my apartment when they had to say goodbye for the last night. John sniffled. ("He's not the type of guy who likes to cry, or say things, or do stuff" ... one of the many joke catch phrases we have in our clique.)
Hands down, these are people I love. John has been my brother for many, many years now. And Jill fast became a sister to me. In many occasions, I will take her side over his. Two against One! Plus, she eats seafood and drinks and her love of chocolate has been heard even by Tibetan monks. Jill frakkin' rocks!
What's the point of this story, you ask? Well, I have been the person I am -- in part -- due to these people. I love them, they love me. I have influenced them a bit, too. They tolerate and even like running a bit more because of me. They watch and love a TV show Archer because of me. Like any family, we have influenced each other, shared things with each other, and do things for each other. And it is good. Really good.
Love,
Me
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
I Am So Travelling.... I Am So Gay Has Hit The Road!
I Am So in D.C.!
Technically, I am in Arlington, Virginia. I hopped on a Bolt Bus and busted out of town, right before some crazy thunderstorms dominated New York last night. (I am nothing if not known for my excellent sense of timing, which is usually bad timing.)
But, let me tell you about the sheer joy of a vacation from the city. Really, it's an exhausting, sweat -filled journey any time you try and flee the city. It gives me no hope if I were to somehow be in a disaster movie-type situation. Inexplicably, I have lived in both Washington, D.C. and New York City. Both cities are pretty much always the settings for our modern day disaster movies.
I remember watching movies like Independence Day and I Am Legend. Among millions of people, both Harvey Fierstein and Will Smith's family meet horrible fates when they try to escape from the island of Manhattan.
In Independence Day, Harvey Fierstein played a gay male (typecasting) who was on the phone with his mother (typecasting) when a big ol' fireball goes through the Holland Tunnel, burning him alive. I could make a joke about a flamer dying by fire, but I will digress.
In I Am Legend, Will Smith's family (at the very beginning of the movie) get put into a helicopter fleeing Manhattan. Then, the helicopter is suddenly hit by a missile and it flies into the Brooklyn Bridge. The very bridge I would need to leave Brooklyn!
As you can tell from that destroyed Brooklyn Bridge in the movie poster, it won't end well for me if I am in a Will Smith movie. Both of these movies starred him and both times, NY-ers didn't fair very well. Needless to say - if I ever see him in real life, I will definitely be running in the opposite direction. Nothing good can ever come from Will Smith.
Back to my point: it isn't always as easy as hopping in a car and hitting the road. First of all, I don't even have a car. (Donations are welcome!) With no auto, I must rely on mass public transportation. I always take at least 3 forms of public transportation (with complete strangers) any time I go somewhere. (It's usually a subway, train or bus, then car. Don't we miss the days when it was all conveniently done by horse and buggy? No transfers!)
The first leg of my trip is the worst. I always take a subway to catch any ride out of the city. Why? Because I have to. And the subway alone has caused me to earn some grey hairs. I have actually missed a train to go to Massachusetts simply because the 2/3 train just sat at Chambers due to a "delay." I sat there and no announcements were made. The doors of the train were open and all passengers just stared at each other. After the announcement, I hopped out of the subway and tried to find a cab - to no avail. So I ran - literally - with my luggage to another avenue over and caught an A train, which crawled to Penn Station.
And so, I still missed my Amtrak train by - yes - five minutes. FIVE MINUTES! The same five minutes spent while sitting on the subway, wondering why it wasn't moving.
That day, I was forced to spend more than 2 hours and over $30 drinking my time away at ... you guessed it ... T.G.I. Fridays. It was "happy hour" and also a Friday - so I imbibed and wondered how life got to be this way. Was it worth the grey hair? No. It was not.
Other times, I have been on a bus where the kid behind me kicks my seat and cries the whole trip. And then I end up crying the whole trip, too. Or sometimes, the bus smells odd. A smell that can only be described as a food/foot hybrid. Last night, on my trip out of NYC, I was fortunate to experience ALL of that.
Regardless, it is always very fun to get out of the city and go see friends and family. I absolutely love to travel and see new places or see familiar faces. I hope to share my travel with you in other blogs because I think taking trips to places (new and old) are invigorating and good for the soul (my soul, at least.)
This weekend, I am seeing Delilah and Drake - oops I mean, John and Jill - in the DC area (an area where I used to live). So, in a sense, it's like being home again and with my family. I enjoy that a lot.
But, if I see Will Smith, I am getting the hell out of here. Seriously, that guy is good for no one.
Love,
The Traveling Gay
Technically, I am in Arlington, Virginia. I hopped on a Bolt Bus and busted out of town, right before some crazy thunderstorms dominated New York last night. (I am nothing if not known for my excellent sense of timing, which is usually bad timing.)
But, let me tell you about the sheer joy of a vacation from the city. Really, it's an exhausting, sweat -filled journey any time you try and flee the city. It gives me no hope if I were to somehow be in a disaster movie-type situation. Inexplicably, I have lived in both Washington, D.C. and New York City. Both cities are pretty much always the settings for our modern day disaster movies.
I remember watching movies like Independence Day and I Am Legend. Among millions of people, both Harvey Fierstein and Will Smith's family meet horrible fates when they try to escape from the island of Manhattan.
In Independence Day, Harvey Fierstein played a gay male (typecasting) who was on the phone with his mother (typecasting) when a big ol' fireball goes through the Holland Tunnel, burning him alive. I could make a joke about a flamer dying by fire, but I will digress.
In I Am Legend, Will Smith's family (at the very beginning of the movie) get put into a helicopter fleeing Manhattan. Then, the helicopter is suddenly hit by a missile and it flies into the Brooklyn Bridge. The very bridge I would need to leave Brooklyn!
As you can tell from that destroyed Brooklyn Bridge in the movie poster, it won't end well for me if I am in a Will Smith movie. Both of these movies starred him and both times, NY-ers didn't fair very well. Needless to say - if I ever see him in real life, I will definitely be running in the opposite direction. Nothing good can ever come from Will Smith.
Back to my point: it isn't always as easy as hopping in a car and hitting the road. First of all, I don't even have a car. (Donations are welcome!) With no auto, I must rely on mass public transportation. I always take at least 3 forms of public transportation (with complete strangers) any time I go somewhere. (It's usually a subway, train or bus, then car. Don't we miss the days when it was all conveniently done by horse and buggy? No transfers!)
The first leg of my trip is the worst. I always take a subway to catch any ride out of the city. Why? Because I have to. And the subway alone has caused me to earn some grey hairs. I have actually missed a train to go to Massachusetts simply because the 2/3 train just sat at Chambers due to a "delay." I sat there and no announcements were made. The doors of the train were open and all passengers just stared at each other. After the announcement, I hopped out of the subway and tried to find a cab - to no avail. So I ran - literally - with my luggage to another avenue over and caught an A train, which crawled to Penn Station.
And so, I still missed my Amtrak train by - yes - five minutes. FIVE MINUTES! The same five minutes spent while sitting on the subway, wondering why it wasn't moving.
That day, I was forced to spend more than 2 hours and over $30 drinking my time away at ... you guessed it ... T.G.I. Fridays. It was "happy hour" and also a Friday - so I imbibed and wondered how life got to be this way. Was it worth the grey hair? No. It was not.
Other times, I have been on a bus where the kid behind me kicks my seat and cries the whole trip. And then I end up crying the whole trip, too. Or sometimes, the bus smells odd. A smell that can only be described as a food/foot hybrid. Last night, on my trip out of NYC, I was fortunate to experience ALL of that.
Regardless, it is always very fun to get out of the city and go see friends and family. I absolutely love to travel and see new places or see familiar faces. I hope to share my travel with you in other blogs because I think taking trips to places (new and old) are invigorating and good for the soul (my soul, at least.)
This weekend, I am seeing Delilah and Drake - oops I mean, John and Jill - in the DC area (an area where I used to live). So, in a sense, it's like being home again and with my family. I enjoy that a lot.
But, if I see Will Smith, I am getting the hell out of here. Seriously, that guy is good for no one.
Love,
The Traveling Gay
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
I Am So Speechless....Am I Happy?
Lately, I have had a hard time putting into words what I am feeling. It's not a mid-life crisis, but I do often wonder about the direction my life is taking. I think a lot - a lot - about who I am, what I do, where I live, and if I am doing all the right things - the things I am supposed to be doing.
Am I saving enough?
Did I pay off every bill?
Do I need to get "xyz" at the grocery store?
Did I do this? Did I do that?
Did I workout enough this week? Am I being healthy?
Did I.....AHHHHH!!!!!!
Then the bigger questions loom:
Was today a good day?
Am I happy where I live, work, breathe, recreationally play?
Am I happy? Happiness seems to be what is all about.
If only it were as easy to walk around with a big yellow face and two black eyes, like that t-shirt. Instead, I have brown eyes. And a very expressive face. When I am happy: the whole bleepin' world knows it. And when I am less so, the bleepin' bleeped bleep must know that I am not happy.
Growing up, I was often told by my mother that she always knew when I was really sick - because she could see it ... in my eyes. She didn't say it in a creepy, ominous way - although in hindsight - eeks!!!
"I COULD SEE IT IN YOUR EYES," screamed the mad scientist/stalker in a really bad movie.
Seriously, if I wanted to have someone in my life with that kind of power, it certainly wouldn't be my mother. I would much rather my doctor know when I'm sick than good ol' Mom. That is simply a smart thing.
You can't blame Mom. The woman knows me. Probably because I look almost exactly like her. (Except I am better looking! No, I am kidding ... (whispers) Ok, has Mom left yet? So, yeah ... it's true ... I am TOTALLY better looking.)
The funny thing is: I actually never attempted to lie about being sick when I was young. Mom just always knew when I really was sick. This all must make you wonder about the power my eyes must have to convey my feelings. My eyes must be like Lassie, without all the barking. My eyes will tell you everything that is going on.
"They really are the window to your soul," said a philosophical college student trying to impress a girl.
It simply must be that ... I Am So Expressive.
And the fact that lately, particularly the past few weeks, I have been less expressive - at least vocally - has concerned me. Why am I not able to answer questions? Why do I feel a little empty inside?
I mean - the questions we have to ask ourselves on a daily basis (did I take the trash out? did I go to the bank?) - these are exhausting just to write about. And I literally don't even have to do them. Although, I really do have to take out the trash. It's like a crime scene in there. But, we have so much on our plates with our first world problems, I am not surprised that I am a bit speechless when trying to answer them all.
What is there to even say? Am I... fine? Yeah! I am fine. (VERY fine, some may say.) But, I really am ok.
The answer is: I am just figuring out. Every day is a process and every now and again, I re-evaluate my life, which I think is healthy. Am I doing all the things that I want to do? Am I living my life the way I want to live it?
Bold questions for such a bold, gay dude.
Have I mentioned that I own not one, but four different colored pairs of Calvin Klein Suede Oxford shoes? (And because you're dying to know: I own cherry red, kelly green, dark navy, and mustard.) Mustard might be a fun, yet safe choice for you to buy for your straight male partner or house servant. Navy is a color shoe he should always own because he probably only owns black or brown shoes. As for me, I heartily endorse the cherry red. They are just unbelievably awesome.
Yes, I realize shopping makes me happy - and clearly allows me to be expressive! But, there are bigger themes. We all probably (and internally - not on a blog) evaluate our lives from time to time. Some of us probably run out and buy some stupid sports car, or a new haircut, or something for the house. And why do we do it? Because we are putting something external out into the world based on our internal feelings.
I Am So Psychological? Maybe ..... not.
I am just proposing that we all think about this question of - why do I feel "eh?"
I know that we all answer the question, sometimes without realizing it, and we all do things about it in a different way.
For now, I am just sitting back (pear/lychee vodka cocktail in hand) and I am thinking about things.
I like the solace and quiet of analyzing instead of acting. I will act later. It probably won't be a little car. I live in Brooklyn. Who would I be kidding? But, it might be a trip, or a change of direction. For now, I don't have the words for it. For now, it's just me ... figuring it out ... like we all do every day.
Love,
Speechless?
Am I saving enough?
Did I pay off every bill?
Do I need to get "xyz" at the grocery store?
Did I do this? Did I do that?
Did I workout enough this week? Am I being healthy?
Did I.....AHHHHH!!!!!!
Then the bigger questions loom:
Was today a good day?
Am I happy where I live, work, breathe, recreationally play?
Am I happy? Happiness seems to be what is all about.
If only it were as easy to walk around with a big yellow face and two black eyes, like that t-shirt. Instead, I have brown eyes. And a very expressive face. When I am happy: the whole bleepin' world knows it. And when I am less so, the bleepin' bleeped bleep must know that I am not happy.
Growing up, I was often told by my mother that she always knew when I was really sick - because she could see it ... in my eyes. She didn't say it in a creepy, ominous way - although in hindsight - eeks!!!
"I COULD SEE IT IN YOUR EYES," screamed the mad scientist/stalker in a really bad movie.
Seriously, if I wanted to have someone in my life with that kind of power, it certainly wouldn't be my mother. I would much rather my doctor know when I'm sick than good ol' Mom. That is simply a smart thing.
You can't blame Mom. The woman knows me. Probably because I look almost exactly like her. (Except I am better looking! No, I am kidding ... (whispers) Ok, has Mom left yet? So, yeah ... it's true ... I am TOTALLY better looking.)
The funny thing is: I actually never attempted to lie about being sick when I was young. Mom just always knew when I really was sick. This all must make you wonder about the power my eyes must have to convey my feelings. My eyes must be like Lassie, without all the barking. My eyes will tell you everything that is going on.
"They really are the window to your soul," said a philosophical college student trying to impress a girl.
It simply must be that ... I Am So Expressive.
And the fact that lately, particularly the past few weeks, I have been less expressive - at least vocally - has concerned me. Why am I not able to answer questions? Why do I feel a little empty inside?
I mean - the questions we have to ask ourselves on a daily basis (did I take the trash out? did I go to the bank?) - these are exhausting just to write about. And I literally don't even have to do them. Although, I really do have to take out the trash. It's like a crime scene in there. But, we have so much on our plates with our first world problems, I am not surprised that I am a bit speechless when trying to answer them all.
What is there to even say? Am I... fine? Yeah! I am fine. (VERY fine, some may say.) But, I really am ok.
The answer is: I am just figuring out. Every day is a process and every now and again, I re-evaluate my life, which I think is healthy. Am I doing all the things that I want to do? Am I living my life the way I want to live it?
Bold questions for such a bold, gay dude.
Have I mentioned that I own not one, but four different colored pairs of Calvin Klein Suede Oxford shoes? (And because you're dying to know: I own cherry red, kelly green, dark navy, and mustard.) Mustard might be a fun, yet safe choice for you to buy for your straight male partner or house servant. Navy is a color shoe he should always own because he probably only owns black or brown shoes. As for me, I heartily endorse the cherry red. They are just unbelievably awesome.
Yes, I realize shopping makes me happy - and clearly allows me to be expressive! But, there are bigger themes. We all probably (and internally - not on a blog) evaluate our lives from time to time. Some of us probably run out and buy some stupid sports car, or a new haircut, or something for the house. And why do we do it? Because we are putting something external out into the world based on our internal feelings.
I Am So Psychological? Maybe ..... not.
I am just proposing that we all think about this question of - why do I feel "eh?"
I know that we all answer the question, sometimes without realizing it, and we all do things about it in a different way.
For now, I am just sitting back (pear/lychee vodka cocktail in hand) and I am thinking about things.
I like the solace and quiet of analyzing instead of acting. I will act later. It probably won't be a little car. I live in Brooklyn. Who would I be kidding? But, it might be a trip, or a change of direction. For now, I don't have the words for it. For now, it's just me ... figuring it out ... like we all do every day.
Love,
Speechless?
Sunday, July 22, 2012
I'm a Charlotte? (and why do you care?)
The resonance of Sex And The City is still really shocking to me. The show ended in 2004, a movie with all of the characters came out in 2006. And then a horrible sequel a few years later made us want to scratch our eyes out. Even after that final and really bad entry into the saga, people still talk about. The show started literally in the late 1990s and we still can relate.
Are we still dancing the Macarena? Nope, but Carrie and her gal pals are still popping up around me.
Maybe it's because I live in the Big Apple, and so did the characters. But, is that why people (and by people, I mean women and gay guys) still talk about this show?
Do we miss a TV show that we can identify with?
Do we just miss being able to label ourselves?
We must! Because I cannot - honestly I cannot - tell you on how many dates, a guy has asked me, "You are a Charlotte, aren't you?"
First off, no - I cannot tell you many dates I have been on. It's been a lot. Painfully, a lot. Please pity me.
Secondly, gay men love this show. It's probably the clothes and then the male nudity. We gays love our clothes and male nudity. It's all candy to us.
Lastly, and most importantly, you have to love being asked what is really a statement that was simply put to in the form of a question. You are telling me what I am, but then giving me the option to disagree. I prefer to be asked. If you are a robber, you don't ask, "I'm going to take your money now, can I?" So, no, you don't ask a person a question within a statement.
But, back to the point: it is REALLY interesting that I have to be labeled as a character from a TV show while on a DATE. "You're a lot like Sam from Cheers," no one ever says to me. Or, "you remind me of Stewie from Family Guy," I often never hear. Or "You're like that crusty, but lovable grandmother from that movie," everyone tells me.
Instead, I always get labeled as some female archetype. Each character on Sex And The City (for the straight men in the crowd) is essentially a type of woman. One is the tramp (Samantha), one is the independent no-nonsense worker bee (Miranda), and one is the goodie-goodie (Charlotte). Carrie, the final character, is a bit of an everywoman. She has traits everyone can identify with. She is the good girl, but liberated sexually. She works for her own money and supports herself, and yet also is the free spirit.
So, why do I get to be labeled as just one of the characters? Why can't I be all of them? Why can't I be a "Carrie?"
In essence, I was fine being labeled a Charlotte. She is sweet, always freshly dressed and very polished.
She is rich (something I am not - but score three for me if I come off looking like I am). She is polite, and nice, and good. She also sometimes can have a wild streak, although it's usually somewhat restrained. I am a lot of these things. And so, it's easy for someone you just meet to try to nail you down in a sentence so they can "get" you.
They want to know all about you, but instead of listening and dating you for years, they try to boil you down to a character from a TV show so they will know what they could get if they date you for years. It's like - what is your astrological sign? - for the non-crystals, non-hippie crowd.
The truth is somewhat more mixed. Life is not like a TV show. Life goes beyond the commercial break (if you even still watch TV live when there are commercials).
I am not a Charlotte. I am Greg. I don't own a huge, Upper East Side apartment. I rent a comfortable, yet small apartment in a "I've never heard of it" neighborhood of Brooklyn. My clothes aren't designer, but they aren't exactly bought from a dollar store either. (Seriously, if you know me at all by now - and surely you do because you read me every day - you KNOW I wear nice clothes.) And relationship-wise, I am all about certain dating etiquette rules like Charlotte, but I am less likely to be looking for a stockbroker/lawyer type from Harvard than she was.
I am me. And if, truth be told, I am probably more of a Miranda. (Straight guys: she was the no-nonsense one in the show.)
I don't like a lot of bullshit. I curse even! (Just like Miranda did a lot.) I don't have time for people's stupidity and I don't mess around. I am to the point usually and honest with my feelings. I also really enjoy my down time with TV, watching a British soap opera. I watch Downton Abbey (a real and totally awesome show - go watch it now), whereas Miranda watched Jules and Mimi (which never existed.)
The truth is: I really am not like Charlotte much beyond the completely superficial conversation aspect.
Unlike Charlotte, I am not perfect. I leave hair paste in my hair and go to work, for crying out loud!
Unlike her, I can buy my own drinks. I don't need someone to buy me a drink. It's nice if you do, but like Miranda, I will probably be skeptical about what your motives are.
Unlike her, I am happy to dress down. I like cute rolled up shorts, a fun striped tee long sleeve t-shirt, and flip flops. My flip flops are from Cole Haan and cost more than your breakfast, lunch and possibly dinner, but they are still flip flops (although extremely comfortable and stylish). Still, it's not Dolce.
Unlike her, I work. I pay my own bills. No one has ever offered to buy me things or take me away from it all. I'm not saying I'd be opposed to that idea. It just hasn't happened yet. No, seriously, I'm open to the idea. If I am coming across like I am unwilling, let me just be clear: I would love to not have to pay my own bills anymore. Just don't expect me to be some docile Barbie.
And I think guys - anyone really - will want to pigeon-hole you into that notion. You are either tough and independent or a good looking easy type who needs someone to do everything for them. Can't I have both? Can't I be it all and have it all?
So, don't put me in a corner. NOBODY PUTS BABY IN A CORNER.
My mere character is not equivalent to a literal character from a work of fiction. I know I have compared myself in a previous blog to the idea of Mary Richards taking on Minneapolis to myself taking on NYC, but I ended the comparison there. And, really, I just focused on the theme song and the idea of making it after all.
I am not Meredith Grey lusting after McDreamy. (Patrick Dempsey could call me, though. No, really, call me!!)
I am not Sue Ellen on Dallas, swigging from bottles of golden colored booze. Although who I am kidding? I am totally Sue Ellen 7 nights a week. That damn J.R.!!
I am not Liz Lemon on 30 Rock, even if I do like cheesy snack products. If only they made Sabor de Soledad! And I am pretty sure I would rock those glasses of hers.
Ultimately it seems that gays must compare each other to female characters on TV shows. And I think it's more funny to say it, than to be realistic about it. To have an ACTUAL conversation around it seems ridiculous. And I might have encouraged said conversation with a person, but let's bring it down a notch, ok, fellas?
I am way cooler and funny than anything network TV can put out. I am even better than HBO. I am better than Charlotte, or anyone of the gal pals.
Because I'm real.
Love,
A new character
Are we still dancing the Macarena? Nope, but Carrie and her gal pals are still popping up around me.
Maybe it's because I live in the Big Apple, and so did the characters. But, is that why people (and by people, I mean women and gay guys) still talk about this show?
Do we miss a TV show that we can identify with?
Do we just miss being able to label ourselves?
We must! Because I cannot - honestly I cannot - tell you on how many dates, a guy has asked me, "You are a Charlotte, aren't you?"
First off, no - I cannot tell you many dates I have been on. It's been a lot. Painfully, a lot. Please pity me.
Secondly, gay men love this show. It's probably the clothes and then the male nudity. We gays love our clothes and male nudity. It's all candy to us.
Lastly, and most importantly, you have to love being asked what is really a statement that was simply put to in the form of a question. You are telling me what I am, but then giving me the option to disagree. I prefer to be asked. If you are a robber, you don't ask, "I'm going to take your money now, can I?" So, no, you don't ask a person a question within a statement.
But, back to the point: it is REALLY interesting that I have to be labeled as a character from a TV show while on a DATE. "You're a lot like Sam from Cheers," no one ever says to me. Or, "you remind me of Stewie from Family Guy," I often never hear. Or "You're like that crusty, but lovable grandmother from that movie," everyone tells me.
Instead, I always get labeled as some female archetype. Each character on Sex And The City (for the straight men in the crowd) is essentially a type of woman. One is the tramp (Samantha), one is the independent no-nonsense worker bee (Miranda), and one is the goodie-goodie (Charlotte). Carrie, the final character, is a bit of an everywoman. She has traits everyone can identify with. She is the good girl, but liberated sexually. She works for her own money and supports herself, and yet also is the free spirit.
So, why do I get to be labeled as just one of the characters? Why can't I be all of them? Why can't I be a "Carrie?"
In essence, I was fine being labeled a Charlotte. She is sweet, always freshly dressed and very polished.
She is rich (something I am not - but score three for me if I come off looking like I am). She is polite, and nice, and good. She also sometimes can have a wild streak, although it's usually somewhat restrained. I am a lot of these things. And so, it's easy for someone you just meet to try to nail you down in a sentence so they can "get" you.
They want to know all about you, but instead of listening and dating you for years, they try to boil you down to a character from a TV show so they will know what they could get if they date you for years. It's like - what is your astrological sign? - for the non-crystals, non-hippie crowd.
The truth is somewhat more mixed. Life is not like a TV show. Life goes beyond the commercial break (if you even still watch TV live when there are commercials).
I am not a Charlotte. I am Greg. I don't own a huge, Upper East Side apartment. I rent a comfortable, yet small apartment in a "I've never heard of it" neighborhood of Brooklyn. My clothes aren't designer, but they aren't exactly bought from a dollar store either. (Seriously, if you know me at all by now - and surely you do because you read me every day - you KNOW I wear nice clothes.) And relationship-wise, I am all about certain dating etiquette rules like Charlotte, but I am less likely to be looking for a stockbroker/lawyer type from Harvard than she was.
I am me. And if, truth be told, I am probably more of a Miranda. (Straight guys: she was the no-nonsense one in the show.)
I don't like a lot of bullshit. I curse even! (Just like Miranda did a lot.) I don't have time for people's stupidity and I don't mess around. I am to the point usually and honest with my feelings. I also really enjoy my down time with TV, watching a British soap opera. I watch Downton Abbey (a real and totally awesome show - go watch it now), whereas Miranda watched Jules and Mimi (which never existed.)
The truth is: I really am not like Charlotte much beyond the completely superficial conversation aspect.
Unlike Charlotte, I am not perfect. I leave hair paste in my hair and go to work, for crying out loud!
Unlike her, I can buy my own drinks. I don't need someone to buy me a drink. It's nice if you do, but like Miranda, I will probably be skeptical about what your motives are.
Unlike her, I am happy to dress down. I like cute rolled up shorts, a fun striped tee long sleeve t-shirt, and flip flops. My flip flops are from Cole Haan and cost more than your breakfast, lunch and possibly dinner, but they are still flip flops (although extremely comfortable and stylish). Still, it's not Dolce.
Unlike her, I work. I pay my own bills. No one has ever offered to buy me things or take me away from it all. I'm not saying I'd be opposed to that idea. It just hasn't happened yet. No, seriously, I'm open to the idea. If I am coming across like I am unwilling, let me just be clear: I would love to not have to pay my own bills anymore. Just don't expect me to be some docile Barbie.
And I think guys - anyone really - will want to pigeon-hole you into that notion. You are either tough and independent or a good looking easy type who needs someone to do everything for them. Can't I have both? Can't I be it all and have it all?
So, don't put me in a corner. NOBODY PUTS BABY IN A CORNER.
My mere character is not equivalent to a literal character from a work of fiction. I know I have compared myself in a previous blog to the idea of Mary Richards taking on Minneapolis to myself taking on NYC, but I ended the comparison there. And, really, I just focused on the theme song and the idea of making it after all.
I am not Meredith Grey lusting after McDreamy. (Patrick Dempsey could call me, though. No, really, call me!!)
I am not Sue Ellen on Dallas, swigging from bottles of golden colored booze. Although who I am kidding? I am totally Sue Ellen 7 nights a week. That damn J.R.!!
I am not Liz Lemon on 30 Rock, even if I do like cheesy snack products. If only they made Sabor de Soledad! And I am pretty sure I would rock those glasses of hers.
Ultimately it seems that gays must compare each other to female characters on TV shows. And I think it's more funny to say it, than to be realistic about it. To have an ACTUAL conversation around it seems ridiculous. And I might have encouraged said conversation with a person, but let's bring it down a notch, ok, fellas?
I am way cooler and funny than anything network TV can put out. I am even better than HBO. I am better than Charlotte, or anyone of the gal pals.
Because I'm real.
Love,
A new character
Friday, July 20, 2012
There's Something About Gregory .... (and, yes, it involves hair paste)
I just want to start right off by saying: I use hair paste. Not gel. Gel is sticky, and paste blends in and leaves a more natural hand feel to my hair.
I have thick and naturally curly/wavy hair. And (if cut pretty short), I look like I simply have thick straight/wavy hair. Ultimately, though, it's the kind of curly hair that old ladies are very jealous of. And, yes, I am very lucky to have old women envy me. Score one for me!
But, back to the hair paste. I prefer a type of hair paste that is a bit heavy, so I only need just a little to blend into my hair carefully. I have tried many kinds and still use them, but ultimately have landed on a premium world-class product, made from someone who had his own Bravo TV Show. Yes! Bravo TV! It gets classy!
Fans of the show "Blow Out" from the mid 2000s, may remember Jonathan Antin and his modestly self-named Jonathan product. He created a paste so divine he named it "Dirt." And I use Dirt on my hair from someone who was on Cable TV.
I am so ... glamorous?
Anyways, not only do I use "dirt," but I also am half awake most mornings when I need to get ready for work. Like most Americans who need a "value" size of coffee in their system before even getting out of bed, I don't even know my own name until I have had some java. It literally is a tough choice between: do I go into the kitchen and make coffee or go to the bathroom? I usually choose making coffee first.
Even with my IV bag of coffee, I still make critical errors in judgment. I forgot the umbrella and, oh yeah, it's gonna rain today. I also wore flip flops and shorts, and yep - still going to rain. Or gasp - I left my thermos of coffee on the kitchen counter instead of bringing it with me for work. This all happened to me in this week alone.
All of these mistakes is just the closest to hell that I ever could be on a Thursday. (Unless, I do actually go to hell. Honest! I promise to be good!)
But - bringing it to back to hair paste - have you guessed it? The biggest, most horrible error I made is: that I leave hair paste in my hair and then go to work.
And I have done this - not just once - but several times! Some might even say that this happens once a month.
I unfortunately rush while getting ready. I use eye cream and you're supposed to gently apply and rub in circles, but I just slap it on my face. I take careful time with flossing because that could hurt if done too quickly. But, oh yes, just like the eye cream - my hair is just kind of thrown together. Since I hate my hair, and usually like it spikey-looking, I kind of throw some paste in and move it around.
And somehow... I manage to leave a semi-noticeable glob of white in the back or top of my head. It's a fun fashion statement, perhaps? Nope, it's not. It's just weird.
The best part: people actually see this! AND SAY NOTHING! Total strangers, but still! It usually isn't until I get to work, and about 35 minutes later that someone walks by me and says "... uh...oh! I think you have something in your hair."
Now, sometimes I write drafts for this blog on my iPhone on the subway into work. I am my most creative in the morning (after my swimming pool of coffee has been enjoyed). So, I will sometimes write down rough ideas that pop into my head. As I typed down some notes for this blog, some kid next to me was reading my iPhone over my shoulder. He was starting to laugh. And I am pretty sure he checked me up and down and really checked my hair. True story!
I knew I had a winner of a blog post if I could have him laughing. Even total strangers think I'm funny? Score two for me!
So, I went into work yesterday - robust and proud - knowing I had a really funny (moderately funny?) blog post to write soon. I also felt a little stylish in my yellow suede Oxford shoes, and Active blue colored jeans, and a J. Crew "nautical" striped sweater. I looked good!
Until about 35 minutes into the work day.
You guessed it! On the very day I wanted to write about hair paste, well - hair paste had other plans! A big ol' glob was right on top of my head. PROVING MY STORY!! And also proving how total strangers don't tell me I have paste in my hair!! Even after I just inadvertently told them about this problem!!! UGH!
Thankfully, my coworker (who for the sake of the blog I will call, Yolanda) told me out loud - not discreetly - that I had hair paste in my hair.
But, she was a real pal. She actually used her own hand and mussed around in my stylish 'do to blend in the paste into my hair. She rolled up her sleeves (not literally) and got "dirty" (pardon the pun).
She did more than most strangers would. She did more than I even know how to do.
I really need a personal hair dresser every day. It will definitely be the first thing I do when I hit it big.
Love,
A Style Icon
I have thick and naturally curly/wavy hair. And (if cut pretty short), I look like I simply have thick straight/wavy hair. Ultimately, though, it's the kind of curly hair that old ladies are very jealous of. And, yes, I am very lucky to have old women envy me. Score one for me!
But, back to the hair paste. I prefer a type of hair paste that is a bit heavy, so I only need just a little to blend into my hair carefully. I have tried many kinds and still use them, but ultimately have landed on a premium world-class product, made from someone who had his own Bravo TV Show. Yes! Bravo TV! It gets classy!
Fans of the show "Blow Out" from the mid 2000s, may remember Jonathan Antin and his modestly self-named Jonathan product. He created a paste so divine he named it "Dirt." And I use Dirt on my hair from someone who was on Cable TV.
I am so ... glamorous?
Anyways, not only do I use "dirt," but I also am half awake most mornings when I need to get ready for work. Like most Americans who need a "value" size of coffee in their system before even getting out of bed, I don't even know my own name until I have had some java. It literally is a tough choice between: do I go into the kitchen and make coffee or go to the bathroom? I usually choose making coffee first.
Even with my IV bag of coffee, I still make critical errors in judgment. I forgot the umbrella and, oh yeah, it's gonna rain today. I also wore flip flops and shorts, and yep - still going to rain. Or gasp - I left my thermos of coffee on the kitchen counter instead of bringing it with me for work. This all happened to me in this week alone.
All of these mistakes is just the closest to hell that I ever could be on a Thursday. (Unless, I do actually go to hell. Honest! I promise to be good!)
But - bringing it to back to hair paste - have you guessed it? The biggest, most horrible error I made is: that I leave hair paste in my hair and then go to work.
And I have done this - not just once - but several times! Some might even say that this happens once a month.
I unfortunately rush while getting ready. I use eye cream and you're supposed to gently apply and rub in circles, but I just slap it on my face. I take careful time with flossing because that could hurt if done too quickly. But, oh yes, just like the eye cream - my hair is just kind of thrown together. Since I hate my hair, and usually like it spikey-looking, I kind of throw some paste in and move it around.
And somehow... I manage to leave a semi-noticeable glob of white in the back or top of my head. It's a fun fashion statement, perhaps? Nope, it's not. It's just weird.
The best part: people actually see this! AND SAY NOTHING! Total strangers, but still! It usually isn't until I get to work, and about 35 minutes later that someone walks by me and says "... uh...oh! I think you have something in your hair."
Now, sometimes I write drafts for this blog on my iPhone on the subway into work. I am my most creative in the morning (after my swimming pool of coffee has been enjoyed). So, I will sometimes write down rough ideas that pop into my head. As I typed down some notes for this blog, some kid next to me was reading my iPhone over my shoulder. He was starting to laugh. And I am pretty sure he checked me up and down and really checked my hair. True story!
I knew I had a winner of a blog post if I could have him laughing. Even total strangers think I'm funny? Score two for me!
So, I went into work yesterday - robust and proud - knowing I had a really funny (moderately funny?) blog post to write soon. I also felt a little stylish in my yellow suede Oxford shoes, and Active blue colored jeans, and a J. Crew "nautical" striped sweater. I looked good!
Until about 35 minutes into the work day.
You guessed it! On the very day I wanted to write about hair paste, well - hair paste had other plans! A big ol' glob was right on top of my head. PROVING MY STORY!! And also proving how total strangers don't tell me I have paste in my hair!! Even after I just inadvertently told them about this problem!!! UGH!
Thankfully, my coworker (who for the sake of the blog I will call, Yolanda) told me out loud - not discreetly - that I had hair paste in my hair.
But, she was a real pal. She actually used her own hand and mussed around in my stylish 'do to blend in the paste into my hair. She rolled up her sleeves (not literally) and got "dirty" (pardon the pun).
She did more than most strangers would. She did more than I even know how to do.
I really need a personal hair dresser every day. It will definitely be the first thing I do when I hit it big.
Love,
A Style Icon
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Subway And The City (... or Does Your Hand Need To Be There?)
Subways.
They sound busy, fast paced, and exciting. The truth is ... less so ...
That isn't to say that it isn't busy, though. It definitely can be. Especially when you are 15 minutes late for work and literally are running down the steps when you hear that train coming into the station. Nothing is better than catching it just as the doors open. Nothing is worse than getting to the platform and having the door close on your face. Or getting there in time to see it drive away. That is super fun!
As evidenced by this picture I took of myself this week:
I took this picture after I was shoved from someone smaller, some more womanly (who knew that was possible!?), and someone who was BEHIND me. You see ... when I catch a F train to get into the city, I then have to transfer across the platform to a connecting A train. (The Alphabet City has alphabet subway names.)
So, while on a F train, and waiting to get off the F train, a woman from behind me shoved me so she could get off the train before me. Well, that makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?
And I did what anyone else with manners would do ... I yelled at her. "We will all get off the train in time! No need to shove!" There wasn't even a connecting train waiting for us. She just shoved to shove.
And New Yorkers do this kind of thing all the time.
If you ask a New Yorker, we all have stories of absolute horror to share about the subway.
I won't name names - but I have had friends (both female) who have seen masturbating men (yup, penis!). The men were proud, the women horrified, and the penis small.
To my credit, I have only one story of absolute sexual perversion on a train. An overweight Hasidic Jew got to feel my butt up. Why? Who knows why he did it! On a super crowded train, he really went at it and rubbed me up and down. I was shocked and embarrassed. First off, he was dressed and presented himself as someone deeply religious. I am a Catholic. And I don't go to church often. So, was this some kind of religion thing I missed? I always felt people who show their religion must be better than I am and never do bad things. But, here was proof: they can do bad, really bad things, too.
I just didn't know what to do.
Like most people who have been assaulted, there is a moment of ... what should I do?
I essentially just tried not to draw attention to the sheer awfulness of the moment. As soon as I could move and face him, I did. I stared him down and glared. I give really good evil looks. I can squint my eyes like the best soap opera star ever. Erica Kane, watch out!
But, I never spoke and said out loud - "what you are doing is wrong!!!"
So, since that moment a few years ago, I learned to find my voice. I don't like rudeness. Being shoved for no reason isn't fun. But, being groped by anyone (unless after a vodka something) is just not cool.
So, do-no-gooders - if you are on a subway car with me, watch out! I will now call you out on your shizz. And - you can do the same to me. Because this is NYC after all, and we are a very ... expressive ... community.
However, before I go... allow me to call you on your shizz! HA!
Top Ten Things Not To Do To Me or Anyone (A list for common BLEEPING courtesy!!)
1. SO, yeah ... your backpack on your back. Not cool. It's a crowded train. There's no room for your big butt, your oversize travel humpback, and your ego. So, take the backpack off, and put it between your legs. Also, when did it become acceptable for a 30 year old to use a back pack? What's next? A G.I. Joe lunchbox? I don't think so.
2. Your backpack is still on. And now its ramming me in the back every time the train lurches, which is very five seconds. You are oblivious to this because you don't care. Quit it. Read #1 again, please!
3. You are now taking up 2 seats on the train. It's so great you get to sit. Now, let someone else!
4. You have now fallen asleep on the train and have started snoring. Are you kidding? I get that waking up and getting on a train is exhausting, but come on. I don't allow snoring for anyone I date, and I ain't putting up with that crap here, either!
5. You have now started a really loud conversation with your vapid, Gossip Girl-style friend. "She did what??" I don't care!!!!
6. You have suddenly started making out with your significant other. These slow, "lips barely touching" kisses are disgusting. I haven't even had my coffee yet, madam! Is one of you so whipped, or did one of you just escape from prison? Either way, go to your room or wherever you prefer to do private things. Because this is NOT a private place. There are 35 of us watching two ugly (and possibly still drunk from the night before) adults making out like they are in high school. Real pros at the foreplay stuff know when to bring it home, and a NYC subway isn't the place. It's not like there are candles and awesome lighting. In fact, the lighting is awful. I can see your pores. EW!! CUT IT OUT!
7. Now you have started stepping on my new, suede oxfords. I frakkin' love these shoes. STEP OFF!
8. You have sneezed on me. Good GOD! I think I liked you better when you were snoring. (And yes, friends, I have actually been sneezed on, coughed on, and have also had children hit and kick me "accidentally" with their sticky hands and shoes. FUN!)
9. You have stood up now before the train has even pulled into a station. We are nowhere near there yet. There are now 47 of us in this area of the train. Where am I supposed to go? On the ceiling? What am I? Spider-Man? SIT BACK DOWN!
10. It's now my stop and you have decided to block the door. What are you? A bouncer? This is the worst gay club ever. All the guys on here are married and straight, there is no drink car like on Amtrak, and you are just the worst person ever. As you can tell by this picture, this is what I think of you:
See, I give good glares.
Love,
The NYC Subway
They sound busy, fast paced, and exciting. The truth is ... less so ...
That isn't to say that it isn't busy, though. It definitely can be. Especially when you are 15 minutes late for work and literally are running down the steps when you hear that train coming into the station. Nothing is better than catching it just as the doors open. Nothing is worse than getting to the platform and having the door close on your face. Or getting there in time to see it drive away. That is super fun!
As evidenced by this picture I took of myself this week:
I took this picture after I was shoved from someone smaller, some more womanly (who knew that was possible!?), and someone who was BEHIND me. You see ... when I catch a F train to get into the city, I then have to transfer across the platform to a connecting A train. (The Alphabet City has alphabet subway names.)
So, while on a F train, and waiting to get off the F train, a woman from behind me shoved me so she could get off the train before me. Well, that makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?
And I did what anyone else with manners would do ... I yelled at her. "We will all get off the train in time! No need to shove!" There wasn't even a connecting train waiting for us. She just shoved to shove.
And New Yorkers do this kind of thing all the time.
If you ask a New Yorker, we all have stories of absolute horror to share about the subway.
I won't name names - but I have had friends (both female) who have seen masturbating men (yup, penis!). The men were proud, the women horrified, and the penis small.
To my credit, I have only one story of absolute sexual perversion on a train. An overweight Hasidic Jew got to feel my butt up. Why? Who knows why he did it! On a super crowded train, he really went at it and rubbed me up and down. I was shocked and embarrassed. First off, he was dressed and presented himself as someone deeply religious. I am a Catholic. And I don't go to church often. So, was this some kind of religion thing I missed? I always felt people who show their religion must be better than I am and never do bad things. But, here was proof: they can do bad, really bad things, too.
I just didn't know what to do.
Like most people who have been assaulted, there is a moment of ... what should I do?
I essentially just tried not to draw attention to the sheer awfulness of the moment. As soon as I could move and face him, I did. I stared him down and glared. I give really good evil looks. I can squint my eyes like the best soap opera star ever. Erica Kane, watch out!
But, I never spoke and said out loud - "what you are doing is wrong!!!"
So, since that moment a few years ago, I learned to find my voice. I don't like rudeness. Being shoved for no reason isn't fun. But, being groped by anyone (unless after a vodka something) is just not cool.
So, do-no-gooders - if you are on a subway car with me, watch out! I will now call you out on your shizz. And - you can do the same to me. Because this is NYC after all, and we are a very ... expressive ... community.
However, before I go... allow me to call you on your shizz! HA!
Top Ten Things Not To Do To Me or Anyone (A list for common BLEEPING courtesy!!)
1. SO, yeah ... your backpack on your back. Not cool. It's a crowded train. There's no room for your big butt, your oversize travel humpback, and your ego. So, take the backpack off, and put it between your legs. Also, when did it become acceptable for a 30 year old to use a back pack? What's next? A G.I. Joe lunchbox? I don't think so.
2. Your backpack is still on. And now its ramming me in the back every time the train lurches, which is very five seconds. You are oblivious to this because you don't care. Quit it. Read #1 again, please!
3. You are now taking up 2 seats on the train. It's so great you get to sit. Now, let someone else!
4. You have now fallen asleep on the train and have started snoring. Are you kidding? I get that waking up and getting on a train is exhausting, but come on. I don't allow snoring for anyone I date, and I ain't putting up with that crap here, either!
5. You have now started a really loud conversation with your vapid, Gossip Girl-style friend. "She did what??" I don't care!!!!
6. You have suddenly started making out with your significant other. These slow, "lips barely touching" kisses are disgusting. I haven't even had my coffee yet, madam! Is one of you so whipped, or did one of you just escape from prison? Either way, go to your room or wherever you prefer to do private things. Because this is NOT a private place. There are 35 of us watching two ugly (and possibly still drunk from the night before) adults making out like they are in high school. Real pros at the foreplay stuff know when to bring it home, and a NYC subway isn't the place. It's not like there are candles and awesome lighting. In fact, the lighting is awful. I can see your pores. EW!! CUT IT OUT!
7. Now you have started stepping on my new, suede oxfords. I frakkin' love these shoes. STEP OFF!
8. You have sneezed on me. Good GOD! I think I liked you better when you were snoring. (And yes, friends, I have actually been sneezed on, coughed on, and have also had children hit and kick me "accidentally" with their sticky hands and shoes. FUN!)
9. You have stood up now before the train has even pulled into a station. We are nowhere near there yet. There are now 47 of us in this area of the train. Where am I supposed to go? On the ceiling? What am I? Spider-Man? SIT BACK DOWN!
10. It's now my stop and you have decided to block the door. What are you? A bouncer? This is the worst gay club ever. All the guys on here are married and straight, there is no drink car like on Amtrak, and you are just the worst person ever. As you can tell by this picture, this is what I think of you:
See, I give good glares.
Love,
The NYC Subway
Friday, July 13, 2012
Gay Paree (and will my father want to go?)
This is a short story. A very short story with no real point other than to make you love my family more. But, I hope it makes you chuckle, as its been nearly 10 years and I still laugh.
In Christmas 2003, I was home for the holidays from DC. While we were driving to my cousin's house, I decided to pop a fun CD I had brought for the car ride. It was just myself, my Dad and my Mom. In hindsight, it wasn't the most holiday-centric CD to listen to while wearing a Cosby sweater, but it's like I always say ... ("insert inspirational line here"). And it's true. I often tell people to insert an inspirational line - and they don't. Maybe if they did more often, I would have less funny stories. Hmm....
So, back to the story: I played a CD for my father titled "Paris Cafe." I thought it would be relaxing and jazzy. And since my father is seriously scary to drive with, "jazzy and relaxing" seem like a more "fun" choice than clutching the arm rest and hoping I won't see the ghosts of Christmas Past. (Wink!)
Anyways, Dad didn't like the choice. I believe his exact words were, "This is Christmas. Can't we listen to something more Christmasy?" By the way, good folks, Christmasy is a word.
Dad was a humble sport. He tried. I think I got 3 songs out of him before Jingle Bell Rock was thrust upon us all. (Don't get me wrong. I frakkin' love Jingle Bell Rock. I mean, I can practically see the silver tinsel tree when I hear that song. I always picture drunken 1950s types dancing around in poodle skirts and cigarettes. Ah, Christmas!)
As for me, I was merely trying to bring something new into all of our lives. And my Mom is 100% French (Canadian) so I was also trying to appeal to her native instincts.
Fun fact about Mom: she thinks she is 100% Irish.
God bless us both, but I also think I'm 100% Irish.
Blarney!
The point is: Paree on Le Eve de Christmas did not go over well.
So, we laughed about it (Mom laughed, too) and we listened to some other fun music. We all happily climb over to my cousin's house, who for the sake of the blog I will call Maureen. (Because that's her name.)
Every year, one of my five "Parker Girl" cousins will host Christmas Eve for the Parker side. There is always cold shrimp and I always eat my weight in it. Also, there is wine. And I am a happy, happy camper. Plus, my cousins are there. They are a good 10 years older than me, but since I was probably 17, I have felt like were we all just a few years apart. My wishful thinking or theirs? You be the judge! (Probably my wishful thinking because they are awesome.) The point is: I have 5 female cousins. Their houses rotate each year for the party. And it can be hard to remember who's house you were at and on which year it was. Especially if you got buzzed and stuffed off wine and shrimp.
By the way - Good Hosting Tip #73: Wine and shrimp, and then something chocolate based anything for dessert = amazing! And ... you are welcome!!!
Back to the story: I was settling down nicely into my plate of shrimp and my goblet of wine (probably and realistically a plastic cup, but a goblet makes me seem regal and alcoholic in this story). So, I was nice and happy. And if I haven't said yet - being around the cousins also make me happy.
I was home and hadn't seen everyone (parents included) in a really long time because I was living in DC. So, I was grinning ear to ear most likely - and I have big ears!
And then the presents came!
And, of course, by sheer nature, my Dad had to get a CD.
Oh, you could see his Cheshire cat grin a mile away!
God, I love this man. He makes me laugh. You can know what he's thinking when he's got a good joke. So, in addition to my shrimp and wine smile plastered on my face, I had a smile from the knowledge that a good zinger was headed my way.
Side note - I don't often like getting my head handed to me, but when you zing me - and it's good (not hurtful), I do kind of love it.
So, yes, Dad had a zinger.
"Thanks!," he said to the present giver. "We will definitely be listening to this CD in the car ride home. AND NOT THAT GAY PAREE CRAP YOU MADE ME LISTEN TO!," he said, while pointing at me.
Dad unfortunately doesn't always understand the key element in talking, which is: TONE. While making a joke, he YELLED. And POINTED. At me - his son - the only bleeping gay dude in the room.
And every one - EVERY ONE - didn't get the joke. All of my five female cousins LITERALLY and AUDIBLY gasped. I believe one cousin grabbed my shoulder as if to protect me.
I cracked up, of course (probably choking on shrimp) because it was hysterical on so many levels.
I was - first off - so impressed by how my Dad managed to tackle the comedy of it all. I knew the second he got a CD that - oh yeah - I'd be hearing about this one. My Dad and I have always appreciated humor. In some ways, he taught me how to be funny. (I naturally have surpassed the teacher.)
Instead of setting up a joke for his audience, Dad went right to the semi-biggotted punchline. Surprisingly, though, I enjoy bigotry when used correctly in the context of comedy, because if you can't laugh at yourself than you might as well pack up shop and call it in. You have to laugh at the irony of a gay dude putting on a "gay" Paris CD for his Dad on Christmas. I mean, come on - this is funny stuff, friends! And yep, I do these kinds of things all the time! And without sensing the irony at all. Or the fact that it's really awesome, also.
Secondly, I was so completely touched that I had 5 family members ready to defend me in the heart of a holiday. I could tell that - oh yes! - this would be the uncomfortable meltdown of the Parker family. Family member against family member. Defending equality and love! My cousins were ready to go to bat for me and calm my father off the ledge of being so heterosexual. "Accept your son already, Dad," they said to no one.
And lastly, I laughed so hard because Dad was so fine with my being gay. He loves the hell out of me. Need proof? He bought me Christmas presents that he probably doesn't like or use, but I do. He goes 45 minutes to the nearest Trader Joe's to buy me a gift card for Christmas. He doesn't like to drive far. 45 minutes is like practically Paris, France to my parents. They gas up the tank and bring supplies with them before they go. They do this only once a year for presents. When people do that kind of thing, it's definitely love.
So, I am pretty sure tears were dripping down my face and probably into my wine goblet.
The reason why I remember it was Maureen's house was because she has a really big wide open kitchen and breakfast area and a lot of people were all around naturally. I remember she was standing next to me, and I had to grab her and say it was ok (while probably chewing shrimp and laughing and crying). "Dad's ok with me being gay. We listened to a CD on the way here. He's just joking."
The cousins were skeptical. Clearly, I had "battered housewife syndrome" and was trying to pacify the situation, their eyes seemed to say. One cousin may have implied this, also.
Eventually, they came around to believing us and we all had a good laugh.
On a final note, it's all true. The country of France has yet to allow Dad into their country. Word of this story leaked, and an international incident occurred. Which suits Mom just fine because in 2010 they went to Ireland. Her French heart did a little jig. And her Frog legs might have also danced a jig, also.
Uh oh. I called her French legs = Frog legs. I guess both Dad and I won't be seeing the "gay" sights anytime soon now.
Le sigh....
Love,
The Gay Dude on Christmas
In Christmas 2003, I was home for the holidays from DC. While we were driving to my cousin's house, I decided to pop a fun CD I had brought for the car ride. It was just myself, my Dad and my Mom. In hindsight, it wasn't the most holiday-centric CD to listen to while wearing a Cosby sweater, but it's like I always say ... ("insert inspirational line here"). And it's true. I often tell people to insert an inspirational line - and they don't. Maybe if they did more often, I would have less funny stories. Hmm....
So, back to the story: I played a CD for my father titled "Paris Cafe." I thought it would be relaxing and jazzy. And since my father is seriously scary to drive with, "jazzy and relaxing" seem like a more "fun" choice than clutching the arm rest and hoping I won't see the ghosts of Christmas Past. (Wink!)
Anyways, Dad didn't like the choice. I believe his exact words were, "This is Christmas. Can't we listen to something more Christmasy?" By the way, good folks, Christmasy is a word.
Dad was a humble sport. He tried. I think I got 3 songs out of him before Jingle Bell Rock was thrust upon us all. (Don't get me wrong. I frakkin' love Jingle Bell Rock. I mean, I can practically see the silver tinsel tree when I hear that song. I always picture drunken 1950s types dancing around in poodle skirts and cigarettes. Ah, Christmas!)
As for me, I was merely trying to bring something new into all of our lives. And my Mom is 100% French (Canadian) so I was also trying to appeal to her native instincts.
Fun fact about Mom: she thinks she is 100% Irish.
God bless us both, but I also think I'm 100% Irish.
Blarney!
The point is: Paree on Le Eve de Christmas did not go over well.
So, we laughed about it (Mom laughed, too) and we listened to some other fun music. We all happily climb over to my cousin's house, who for the sake of the blog I will call Maureen. (Because that's her name.)
Every year, one of my five "Parker Girl" cousins will host Christmas Eve for the Parker side. There is always cold shrimp and I always eat my weight in it. Also, there is wine. And I am a happy, happy camper. Plus, my cousins are there. They are a good 10 years older than me, but since I was probably 17, I have felt like were we all just a few years apart. My wishful thinking or theirs? You be the judge! (Probably my wishful thinking because they are awesome.) The point is: I have 5 female cousins. Their houses rotate each year for the party. And it can be hard to remember who's house you were at and on which year it was. Especially if you got buzzed and stuffed off wine and shrimp.
By the way - Good Hosting Tip #73: Wine and shrimp, and then something chocolate based anything for dessert = amazing! And ... you are welcome!!!
Back to the story: I was settling down nicely into my plate of shrimp and my goblet of wine (probably and realistically a plastic cup, but a goblet makes me seem regal and alcoholic in this story). So, I was nice and happy. And if I haven't said yet - being around the cousins also make me happy.
I was home and hadn't seen everyone (parents included) in a really long time because I was living in DC. So, I was grinning ear to ear most likely - and I have big ears!
And then the presents came!
And, of course, by sheer nature, my Dad had to get a CD.
Oh, you could see his Cheshire cat grin a mile away!
God, I love this man. He makes me laugh. You can know what he's thinking when he's got a good joke. So, in addition to my shrimp and wine smile plastered on my face, I had a smile from the knowledge that a good zinger was headed my way.
Side note - I don't often like getting my head handed to me, but when you zing me - and it's good (not hurtful), I do kind of love it.
So, yes, Dad had a zinger.
"Thanks!," he said to the present giver. "We will definitely be listening to this CD in the car ride home. AND NOT THAT GAY PAREE CRAP YOU MADE ME LISTEN TO!," he said, while pointing at me.
Dad unfortunately doesn't always understand the key element in talking, which is: TONE. While making a joke, he YELLED. And POINTED. At me - his son - the only bleeping gay dude in the room.
And every one - EVERY ONE - didn't get the joke. All of my five female cousins LITERALLY and AUDIBLY gasped. I believe one cousin grabbed my shoulder as if to protect me.
I cracked up, of course (probably choking on shrimp) because it was hysterical on so many levels.
I was - first off - so impressed by how my Dad managed to tackle the comedy of it all. I knew the second he got a CD that - oh yeah - I'd be hearing about this one. My Dad and I have always appreciated humor. In some ways, he taught me how to be funny. (I naturally have surpassed the teacher.)
Instead of setting up a joke for his audience, Dad went right to the semi-biggotted punchline. Surprisingly, though, I enjoy bigotry when used correctly in the context of comedy, because if you can't laugh at yourself than you might as well pack up shop and call it in. You have to laugh at the irony of a gay dude putting on a "gay" Paris CD for his Dad on Christmas. I mean, come on - this is funny stuff, friends! And yep, I do these kinds of things all the time! And without sensing the irony at all. Or the fact that it's really awesome, also.
Secondly, I was so completely touched that I had 5 family members ready to defend me in the heart of a holiday. I could tell that - oh yes! - this would be the uncomfortable meltdown of the Parker family. Family member against family member. Defending equality and love! My cousins were ready to go to bat for me and calm my father off the ledge of being so heterosexual. "Accept your son already, Dad," they said to no one.
And lastly, I laughed so hard because Dad was so fine with my being gay. He loves the hell out of me. Need proof? He bought me Christmas presents that he probably doesn't like or use, but I do. He goes 45 minutes to the nearest Trader Joe's to buy me a gift card for Christmas. He doesn't like to drive far. 45 minutes is like practically Paris, France to my parents. They gas up the tank and bring supplies with them before they go. They do this only once a year for presents. When people do that kind of thing, it's definitely love.
So, I am pretty sure tears were dripping down my face and probably into my wine goblet.
The reason why I remember it was Maureen's house was because she has a really big wide open kitchen and breakfast area and a lot of people were all around naturally. I remember she was standing next to me, and I had to grab her and say it was ok (while probably chewing shrimp and laughing and crying). "Dad's ok with me being gay. We listened to a CD on the way here. He's just joking."
The cousins were skeptical. Clearly, I had "battered housewife syndrome" and was trying to pacify the situation, their eyes seemed to say. One cousin may have implied this, also.
Eventually, they came around to believing us and we all had a good laugh.
On a final note, it's all true. The country of France has yet to allow Dad into their country. Word of this story leaked, and an international incident occurred. Which suits Mom just fine because in 2010 they went to Ireland. Her French heart did a little jig. And her Frog legs might have also danced a jig, also.
Uh oh. I called her French legs = Frog legs. I guess both Dad and I won't be seeing the "gay" sights anytime soon now.
Le sigh....
Love,
The Gay Dude on Christmas
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
I Am So ... Flawed (Still Gay, But Flawed Too...)
I know, right? Me? Flawed?
Does a guy who look this good seemed flawed?
It's true! I am good looking. And I surround myself with equally good looking people. The person next to me in this picture is a really, really, really great friend. Really.
For the sake of the blog, we will call her ... Mary. (It's such a common name - it couldn't possibly be her real name. I could call her Margarita to sound more like the telenovela my life is, but Mary doesn't drink Tequila often enough, so Mary is the name we will go with.)
Mary is someone I met essentially the first week of college. And we look better now than we did then. (That is totally true and if you don't believe me, well, I had longer, crazier, naturally curly hair - so yes! We look better! And if you still don't believe - what is your problem?)
When I first started the blog, you unknowingly asked, "Will this be like an episode of Will and Grace?" And I said - "Sure! It's nothing like that and more!"
But - it kinda is. Except I am very much a hybrid of Karen Walker/Me. And Mary is Mary. I'm drunk/Me and Mary is awesome and not cliche like a TV show.
Mary is beyond a really great friend. In some ways, she is a soul mate for me. Which is, like, way better than best friend status. Because soul mate implies a huge motherlovin' connection.
In honor of said connection, I have devoted a Top Ten List. David Letterman and I have so much in common, too.
Top Ten Things Great About Mary (in no order of greatness):
Like..... soooooooo flawed. So ... very ... flawed.
Does a guy who look this good seemed flawed?
It's true! I am good looking. And I surround myself with equally good looking people. The person next to me in this picture is a really, really, really great friend. Really.
For the sake of the blog, we will call her ... Mary. (It's such a common name - it couldn't possibly be her real name. I could call her Margarita to sound more like the telenovela my life is, but Mary doesn't drink Tequila often enough, so Mary is the name we will go with.)
Mary is someone I met essentially the first week of college. And we look better now than we did then. (That is totally true and if you don't believe me, well, I had longer, crazier, naturally curly hair - so yes! We look better! And if you still don't believe - what is your problem?)
When I first started the blog, you unknowingly asked, "Will this be like an episode of Will and Grace?" And I said - "Sure! It's nothing like that and more!"
But - it kinda is. Except I am very much a hybrid of Karen Walker/Me. And Mary is Mary. I'm drunk/Me and Mary is awesome and not cliche like a TV show.
Mary is beyond a really great friend. In some ways, she is a soul mate for me. Which is, like, way better than best friend status. Because soul mate implies a huge motherlovin' connection.
In honor of said connection, I have devoted a Top Ten List. David Letterman and I have so much in common, too.
Top Ten Things Great About Mary (in no order of greatness):
- Mary finishes my sentences. She is probably finishing this ... one ... right ... now...
- Mary is born one day after me. (It sucks that I'm older, but I'm TOTES wiser. Wink.)
- Mary introduced me to James Bond movies and my life has been forever changed. Seriously.
- Mary compliments me any time I see her or we talk. How amazing is that to have someone (who is already amazing) in your life and she makes you feel amazing?
- Mary is a Taurus. Since she's born one day after me, Taurus people frakkin' rock. Hello, Earth sign! We be grounded and loyal and all that shizz!
- Mary still loves the Boston Red Sox and stays true to her roots in every sense, even though she hasn't lived anywhere on the East Coast in years. She still knows the players. I don't even know my middle name. (I think it's Latin for something.)
- Mary likes me for even the moments or things I hate about myself. Again, amazing. I know! I told you, did I not?
- Mary is down for a movie anytime. I love movies. I love Mary.
- Mary, at her core being, hasn't changed. I know, this goes back to the roots thing. But seriously, it's true. She is the girl I met 15 years ago. In the best way possible.
- Mary makes me realize things about myself that I don't always think about.
This last one may shock Mary.
Mary came to NYC a few weeks ago. It was amazing. And I felt like I was 19 again. In a good way.
Mary made me feel glamorous, and said so after. Mary always makes me feel like I just got my stuff going on. I have it together. The thing was and is: I don't really feel that way about myself. Without even thinking twice about it, Mary made realize something big about myself that I already knew.
I am so flawed.
Like..... soooooooo flawed. So ... very ... flawed.
I may come across to many as funny, confident, and having it all. We all project images of ourselves. Things we actually do feel this way on most days. But, the reality is slightly more ... shades of grey. AND NOT FIFTY SHADES OF GREY - you pervert!
It's all a bit more complicated (is what I mean to say). I definitely try to act like I have my act together. And, for the most part, I do. But, we all have doubts. And so do I. I doubt like it's nobody's business. And it is nobody's business.
I think it would be so great if we all just took down the big statues of ourselves that we have built up.
We're human. We're frail, regardless of how strong we think we are.
We're human. We're frail, regardless of how strong we think we are.
I doubt myself all the time. I shouldn't. I know when I make a decision, it's the right one. I am smart; I have thought about it before I make a move. But I still have doubt. Because I have made bad choices.
I know what I need for myself, but some times, we make mistakes.
We choose a bad guy to date. (Read my blog yet on that one?)
We listen and believe someone who insults us. (There's been a few blogs on this one.)
We do the exact opposite of what we know we should do. (Re: bad boys)
The point is: I am just skating by like the rest of us on this thin, oh-so thin layer of ice. I'm no millionaire. YET! But, I am a paycheck guy just like most of us are ... for the moment.
I am someone who's shoelaces come undone while on subway steps.
I am someone who has had laundry piled up for probably 3 weeks. (Good thing I own a lot of underwear.)
I am someone who is afraid to say the right thing in the moment, and rambles or mutters because of it.
I am someone who has liked a guy, but wasn't confident enough to say it. And lost the chance to ever say it.
I am someone who has made choices, and could have and (in some cases) should have made other choices.
But. we're all like this. None of us are any different or any more special. We all are so flawed. And that gives me comfort. No one is better than me. Thank God, right?
I am many things. And so are you for reading this.
Monday, July 9, 2012
I Can Turn The World On (Oh - get your mind out of the gutter, please!)
I wake up and feel great and pop down the street. My TV show theme song is playing in the background as I walk to the subway. (The theme song would be something along the lines of a modern version of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Except I would never throw my hat in the air. My song would end with me turning around and winking at the camera. Naturally.)
But, now I jump down the stairs of the subway and bounce onto the platform, just as a train comes right up to greet me - of course. And I will happily be on time for work. Nothing could be better.
Except, just as I enter through the doors, I see a cute guy. I mean ... a CUTE guy! I think ... maybe this day CAN get better. He's in a suit, too! Good hair cut, clean shaven but with a bit of stubble, and he is tall. Yes, check, check, check. And the best part? I LOOK AMAZING TODAY. So, I glance up and smile. He looks distant, sadly. I look up and down. Did I miss spotting anything? And wouldn't you know.... a wedding ring!
A wedding ring is like a 1970s game show and the "Whammy" pops up or it's Family Feud and the big, obnoxious "X" buzzes loudly in my ear.
DAMN IT!!
It always feels like strike one at a baseball game. How many strikes are there? THREE? Well, there have been more three strikes at my little game!
The fact of the matter is: if you are male, and I am attracted to you - there are two things you can count on. You are straight and you are married. Just my luck.
Now ... the part that really gets me - is the unattractive ones. They are young, overweight, sloppy and smelly. And they have a frakkin' wedding ring. And there are numerous amounts of these guys! "What the bloody hell?," I say in my best Charles Dickens voice.
Now, if you have been the avid follower of the blog (and I know you are), you clearly know that I'm cute. I mean ... you've seen my pics. I'm down right adorable. I even hold up cuter babies to show just how adorable I can be. (Baby A in this picture is far cuter than me, not to mention he has blue eyes and softer skin than me. But... I CAN EAT SOLID FOODS and more importantly DRINK WINE - so ha! See, I'm just as cuddly, too!)
Plus - I am rocking aqua and purple gingham. Again - adorable!
I am far cuter than the smelly, young slobs on the subway who have a ball and chain at home. So ... what's the deal? Charles Dickens accent aside, "What have I done wrong, Mum?" Oh blast, that foul accent has come around again!
Based on these guys, I would say she married him for the money. My detective instincts kick in, though, and based on their clothes, I'd say there was very little money to be had or every day was a Salvation Army spending spree. (God, aren't we judgmental?! And by "we," I really mean - you!)
Yes! You have to get serious for a second. One must wonder what is my deal. And by deal, I don't mean I am 19.99 plus tax. I am far more expensive.
The "deal" is: I am fine with being single in some sense. As much as I would love to have subway suit guy sweep me off my feet, I am in many ways, the girl who can turn the world on with her smile.
Subway suit guy,who for the sake of the blog we will call Prince Harry, will have to wait! Because love IS all around. No need to waste it. I can have the town, and I will take it. I might just make it after all. (If you never watched Nick at Nite, you are lost at sea with what I just wrote for you.) Yes, Mary Tyler Moore!
Even her "less attractive" friend, Rhoda, got married, but Mary stayed single. (I think Valerie Harper was very attractive, but this was TV so you went along with the deprecating jokes) The point is: I am Mary Richards. While I don't work in a newsroom, but I have stayed single.
And I have been single long enough that I really am fine on my own. If I was married at 19, it would have been good. I was lost in my 20s. I didn't know how to do anything. I didn't even know to pay taxes or fix things or kill a gross, icky bug.
But I learned. I became independent. I learned how to live mostly on my own. I moved away from my family completely when I was 23. I drove to Virginia in my Honda Civic EX with everything I thought I needed and had an apartment with an old friend waiting for me. I hadn't even seen the place I was moving to, and I drove to a place I didn't know. (This was the day before the iPhone Map App, so one could easily get lost!)
I started an adventure that was in many ways similar to the real theme song of that old TV show. She also packed up her car and drove off to a new home. I am still doing the journey that Mary began. That first move taught me lessons that have carried me well.
I have learned slowly to depend on myself only, trust my instincts, listen to my voice, and especially be my own best friend. I learned to comfort myself, and not need someone's hand. It's hard. I won't lie. And it's lonely. But if my comfort was a wedding ring. I may feel shackled and not in the way I want to one day embrace. Because now, I do like depending on myself. Some days, it would be nice to have that crutch. I don't have it, and I do it all on my own.
So who cares about wedding rings!?! SCREW THEM (not literally, you dirty bird!)
At the end of any day, it's my smile that can turn my world on. And I WILL just make it ... after all.
Love,
Mary
But, now I jump down the stairs of the subway and bounce onto the platform, just as a train comes right up to greet me - of course. And I will happily be on time for work. Nothing could be better.
Except, just as I enter through the doors, I see a cute guy. I mean ... a CUTE guy! I think ... maybe this day CAN get better. He's in a suit, too! Good hair cut, clean shaven but with a bit of stubble, and he is tall. Yes, check, check, check. And the best part? I LOOK AMAZING TODAY. So, I glance up and smile. He looks distant, sadly. I look up and down. Did I miss spotting anything? And wouldn't you know.... a wedding ring!
A wedding ring is like a 1970s game show and the "Whammy" pops up or it's Family Feud and the big, obnoxious "X" buzzes loudly in my ear.
DAMN IT!!
It always feels like strike one at a baseball game. How many strikes are there? THREE? Well, there have been more three strikes at my little game!
The fact of the matter is: if you are male, and I am attracted to you - there are two things you can count on. You are straight and you are married. Just my luck.
Now ... the part that really gets me - is the unattractive ones. They are young, overweight, sloppy and smelly. And they have a frakkin' wedding ring. And there are numerous amounts of these guys! "What the bloody hell?," I say in my best Charles Dickens voice.
Now, if you have been the avid follower of the blog (and I know you are), you clearly know that I'm cute. I mean ... you've seen my pics. I'm down right adorable. I even hold up cuter babies to show just how adorable I can be. (Baby A in this picture is far cuter than me, not to mention he has blue eyes and softer skin than me. But... I CAN EAT SOLID FOODS and more importantly DRINK WINE - so ha! See, I'm just as cuddly, too!)
Plus - I am rocking aqua and purple gingham. Again - adorable!
I am far cuter than the smelly, young slobs on the subway who have a ball and chain at home. So ... what's the deal? Charles Dickens accent aside, "What have I done wrong, Mum?" Oh blast, that foul accent has come around again!
Based on these guys, I would say she married him for the money. My detective instincts kick in, though, and based on their clothes, I'd say there was very little money to be had or every day was a Salvation Army spending spree. (God, aren't we judgmental?! And by "we," I really mean - you!)
Yes! You have to get serious for a second. One must wonder what is my deal. And by deal, I don't mean I am 19.99 plus tax. I am far more expensive.
The "deal" is: I am fine with being single in some sense. As much as I would love to have subway suit guy sweep me off my feet, I am in many ways, the girl who can turn the world on with her smile.
Subway suit guy,who for the sake of the blog we will call Prince Harry, will have to wait! Because love IS all around. No need to waste it. I can have the town, and I will take it. I might just make it after all. (If you never watched Nick at Nite, you are lost at sea with what I just wrote for you.) Yes, Mary Tyler Moore!
Even her "less attractive" friend, Rhoda, got married, but Mary stayed single. (I think Valerie Harper was very attractive, but this was TV so you went along with the deprecating jokes) The point is: I am Mary Richards. While I don't work in a newsroom, but I have stayed single.
And I have been single long enough that I really am fine on my own. If I was married at 19, it would have been good. I was lost in my 20s. I didn't know how to do anything. I didn't even know to pay taxes or fix things or kill a gross, icky bug.
But I learned. I became independent. I learned how to live mostly on my own. I moved away from my family completely when I was 23. I drove to Virginia in my Honda Civic EX with everything I thought I needed and had an apartment with an old friend waiting for me. I hadn't even seen the place I was moving to, and I drove to a place I didn't know. (This was the day before the iPhone Map App, so one could easily get lost!)
I started an adventure that was in many ways similar to the real theme song of that old TV show. She also packed up her car and drove off to a new home. I am still doing the journey that Mary began. That first move taught me lessons that have carried me well.
I have learned slowly to depend on myself only, trust my instincts, listen to my voice, and especially be my own best friend. I learned to comfort myself, and not need someone's hand. It's hard. I won't lie. And it's lonely. But if my comfort was a wedding ring. I may feel shackled and not in the way I want to one day embrace. Because now, I do like depending on myself. Some days, it would be nice to have that crutch. I don't have it, and I do it all on my own.
So who cares about wedding rings!?! SCREW THEM (not literally, you dirty bird!)
At the end of any day, it's my smile that can turn my world on. And I WILL just make it ... after all.
Love,
Mary
Thursday, July 5, 2012
I Am So Gay ... How I Came Out Of The Closet
This is one of the most difficult stories I have ever had tell. And I often have to tell it.
Because people often usually ask me how I came out. (Even on dates, if you can believe it!)
The reasons why coming out was so difficult was because of the timing of events and my fear of the outcome. The reason I am telling you, though, is incredibly simple. If this helps one person, then it was worth it. I survived being gay and closeted for 22 years and so can you.
Now ... you may not be gay. You may not know you're gay, or bisexual, or confused, or what have you. Or you may know you're gay. OR you could be a big ol' straight-ie.
Either way, what you must know is: every story is different. This is mine. But every story is hard for any person with any secret. We can all relate to secrets. And my biggest secret was about to come out.
And my secret put me in a place called the closet.
First of all, "the closet?" The CLOSET? What am I? A dress shirt? I don't think so.
I didn't like the term. I wasn't really comfortable with anything about being gay. "I wasn't gay," I thought. Gay people were flamboyant and went to clubs and wore tank tops. I don't like tank tops!
But, slowly, the feelings were becoming more and more obvious. I liked men. It just was a part of me. I liked movies. I liked blueberries. I liked being with friends. And I also just happened to like men. You couldn't change it. It would be like asking me to stop liking blueberries. Blueberries make a bad analogy - but you get the idea. We are all born with a set of interests and likes and no one can change those.
One of the hardest things was not being able to show or express this interest, but faking an interest in women - well, that was much harder. One thing people people say about me is: I'm pretty transparent. And if you need more proof: well... how about the playful title of this blog? "I am so gay." So, yes ... it was pretty difficult to hide my interest in men.
The ... saddest ... part of this secret I have to say was: most people already knew!!! Which made the "secret," in hindsight, all the more painful. I don't begrudge anyone for not reaching out and telling me they knew, but I wish someone had. I didn't really feel like I was ever safe. Honestly. For 22 years, did I ever really breathe and feel safe? Nope. I always worried. Worried about hate, worried about being disowned, worried about being kicked out of the house, no where to go and worried about never being loved. All I ever felt was worry. What would happen to me?
It eventually became a heavy weight in my life. I couldn't be really happy in a way or have careless fun. What if I slipped up? What if I looked too long at a guy when we all went to the beach? What if I laughed at a joke a girl said about a guy?
This weight eventually forced me in a sense to gain weight in college. A lot more weight than one should. The secret was literally and figuratively weighing on me! When I graduated, I felt a little more freedom, even though I still lived at home. The day to day pressure of being around my 5 straight male roommates was at least gone. But, there was this pressure to find a job (a real job - not working at the mall) and the pressure to lose some weight.
I was a big fan of Diet Coke and Subway that summer. You guessed it! Affordable dieting! And it made that guy Jared lose some weight, so what the hell? And I did lose some weight. So, thanks, major food chain and major soda conglomerate! You were probably not 100% healthy, but it wasn't like I was trying those cigarettes and bulimia all the kids were talking about! (I'm no doctor, but none of these options seem really ideal. This is a funny blog, so keep that in mind. At the very least, you should probably come running with me, though. It's healthy and it's ... like ... TOTES fun!)
Where was I? Oh yeah! While some pressures were reduced, I had the added pressure of living at home with my parents and being a 22 year old horny male, which I tried to bury. I wanted to be a good son and be especially good for my parents.
A little back story on my parents. They had their rough moments in life and, fundamentally speaking, are the best, most honest and decent people I know (aside from that awesome Jesus guy). So, I always felt the urge to make them proud and be good. So, I never did really lie to them or act badly or drink or whatever.
But, I did lie. I had lied all my life in a sense. But, then I really lied. Boy, did I lie. What happened? Well, some work friends from the mall asked me out after work. They were going to a gay bar, a little dive called the Grotto. It was a bit of a small dance bar/club and it wasn't an amazing scene, but it was the most fun I had in years.
It was an awakening. And I stayed out until it was four in the morning. I don't even think in college I stayed out that late. (Sad, party of one? No! I'm a good boy, remember? Ok...yea...sad, party of one.)
Anyways, I had the most fun of my life that night. I talked with guys. I danced with guys. I laughed with guys. It was a lot of fun. And my parents freaked out. "What the hell were you doing out 'til 4 in the morning?," my Dad oh-so-quietly asked. "There is NOTHING to do at FOUR in the MORNING," he whispered.
My Dad was not subtle. He was angry. He was ... concerned. (Need more proof? Keep reading the blog. Over time, you will learn my parents are nothing if not always concerned. Need even more proof?? Ok, well - for example - they didn't have an ATM/debit card until 2010. This is ALL true!)
The point is: I then had to lie to my parents to make them feel safe. They didn't 100% buy the story, but they loved me and trusted me, and the story I told wasn't too ridiculous in hindsight. It was roughly along the line of ... "I lost track of time" ... and "the gang all went back to So-and-So's house."
It ate me up inside, though. I had never really lied to my parents in such a deliberate, pointed, and outlandish way. I pretty much always told the truth or had always given them a close version of the truth. NO parent needs to know the ENTIRE truth. For instance, every father when he meets his future son-in-law knows, "this guy will be having sex with my daughter." But no one says it!
It always makes me laugh, though, when parents are excited for grandchildren. "Um... you know that guy in the corner did that to your daughter, right?," I say to no one.
So, yes, there is simply a version of the truth to tell. You tell your parents most of the truth! That's what good kids do. But, I was a bad kid that Saturday morning.
It was Saturday, September 8th. And it ate me up inside. I had to go back to work at the mall. My Dad was a little unwilling to let me have the car again to go to work, but he knew money for his kid was a good thing, so he allowed it. I worked and came home that night. No late night for me.
That day at work, though! Everyone was talking about me going out! How was it? You were the little dancer, Greg! Blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, I confided into my coworker, who (for the sake of the blog) I will call Melissa because she looked liked my really good friend from high school named ... Melissa.
Melissa and I weren't close. But, I trusted her and liked her a lot because she was filling the void in my life from the real Melissa, who I coincidentally wasn't close to at that chapter in my life. She was calm and very logical and very thoughtful. She basically said that it seemed like I wanted to tell people and that I knew in my heart that I was gay, so if I felt I could do it - I should tell my parents. She understood why it hurt me to lie to my parents. (Again, I know you're all bad eggs, but I was a good kid. I like my parents, thank you very much! And so what if I still call them every Sunday?)
Melissa made sense, though. She essentially gave me the boot I needed and secretly had felt for some time. If my parents did, in fact, love me - then they would love ALL of me. Even the different stuff.
I needed a few days to process it all. This was heady stuff. I'm Gay. Wow. Yeah... I am. Ok. So what to do with that?
And... well, you know ... a few days pass. I was thinking about all a major decision, after all. And then what would happen? Wouldn't you know - September 11th! Yes, THE September 11th. Only the worst day in the modern history of our country. A day anyone alive will remember where they were and what happened to them. It made my problem seem small, but Jesus Christ - the world was ending!!! I ate my cereal, watching the Today show, and saw the second plane fly into the second tower. I shut off the TV in horror and just said, "get ready for work." This was when people thought we could put the fire out. The building surely would be fine.
I was driving to work when the plane hit the Pentagon. The announcers on the radio were in a panic. I was near Westover Air Force Base, and I saw a plane fly over me, and I scrunched down a little bit in the car to feel safer.
I was at the mall. NO customers were there. And I watched from the Radio Shack across the hall, as the first tower fell. Silence. No one said anything except, of course, the gasps.
My problem. Was nothing. Nothing. Compared to today.
That night, I spent with my parents in one room (and my parents never watch anything together in the same room, so this was big). And we watched it all over, and over, and over. From different angles, from New Jersey, from Brooklyn, from people running from the debris. From hell.
We knew nothing, but we knew it was terrorism. We all went to bed a bit tired, and a bit shaken. And I know we all hugged that night. I remember their hugs.
The next day was September 12th and I didn't go into work. The mall was closed. Life had stopped. I don't think anyone went to work that day. And maybe it was all that time together. And maybe it was hearing people on their cell phones calling their spouses, crying, saying good-bye, and hearing it on the nightly news. I know it was that. It was people saying their final, most important thing to the people they loved. In fact, it made my father look right at me and say, "And you are getting a cell phone this week. I don't care what it costs you." When people say those kind of things, you know you're loved.
So, on September 12th (a day I have never forgotten), I came out to my parents. This, to me, is my real coming out. Because they mattered more than any other person in my life still. What they thought about me defined how I would be as a gay man and, in some ways, it still does. Friends had known before. I confessed to my favorite aunt, too. But, my parents were the true firsts. They were my parents.
I came out because I had lied. And I came out because after the news, it was time to start living.
So, this is the day I came out.
9/11 was a Tuesday. My coming out was a Wednesday. The best part of all of this was after my coming out. By the end of the conversation, Dad merely said before he went to bed, very tired, "Well, I can't wait to see what happens on Thursday." HIS. EXACT. WORDS. It made me laugh then, and still does.
I can laugh, because - while not at all easy in any way - it turned out ok. I sat them both down in one room. And Mom knew something was up. Her eyes welled up a little. She confessed later that she thought I was going to say I was moving out. That - to my Mom - was the worst news she could hear. God bless, my mother.
I simply said. "There is something I have wanted to tell you. And it may be hard for you to hear, but it's who I am and I need to tell you. I'm Gay." I didn't draw it out, not that I remember. I led with the top story.
They asked thoughtful questions. Mom confessed (while crying a little) that people would blame her. And I, and this is when I really broke down sobbing, said the only thing people could blame her for is loving me so much.
It was heart wrenching. I'm sure in some ways, especially for my Dad, he felt like he lost a son. Over time, I think he looked at as gaining a daughter. My Dad has always been an affectionate and giving man to his kids. Over time, he became more kind and softer to me in a way that I think daughters experience with their dads. It was subtle, extremely subtle, but different from the way that Dads talk to their sons.
My Dad (I am sure) would argue with this. Because he said the night I came out, "I don't care if you are gay. You're my son. And you are part of me. I created you and you came from me. So I couldn't hate you because you are me." So, I know my Dad thinks of me in every way possible as his son. And he loves me more than he loves himself.
Dad got it all right away. The next morning, I was smiling over breakfast. Trying to be chipper and pretend like I didn't shake their entire world. Mom was supremely shell shocked. (She took over two and a half years!!! to come around and accepting it. You can deny it, Mom, but it's the truth. It took awhile.) So, Mom, over breakfast, looked like a good 1960s housewife. She was cooking and had the facial expression of the wind completely knocked out of her.
Dad, on the other hand, looked at me and talked. After breakfast, he rubbed my right shoulder and said, "you seem lighter. You always had this expression that the weight of the world was on you. And I never knew why. And now you don't. And I'm glad."
I love my father more than life itself. Mom, too, of course. Dad is simply far more expressive in the moment than Mom often is. They are just different that way. Mom will come at you in a different approach and shows her love by doing things for you. Dad will just come right at you and say it like it is. I like to think of myself as a balance, but I am probably more like my father in this way.
Dad's words meant EVERYTHING to me. It helped me grow from there. It helped me be free.
And that is how I came out.
And that is how I survived it all.
Thank you, Mom and Dad. (and thank you for reading this.)
Love
Greg
Because people often usually ask me how I came out. (Even on dates, if you can believe it!)
The reasons why coming out was so difficult was because of the timing of events and my fear of the outcome. The reason I am telling you, though, is incredibly simple. If this helps one person, then it was worth it. I survived being gay and closeted for 22 years and so can you.
Now ... you may not be gay. You may not know you're gay, or bisexual, or confused, or what have you. Or you may know you're gay. OR you could be a big ol' straight-ie.
Either way, what you must know is: every story is different. This is mine. But every story is hard for any person with any secret. We can all relate to secrets. And my biggest secret was about to come out.
And my secret put me in a place called the closet.
First of all, "the closet?" The CLOSET? What am I? A dress shirt? I don't think so.
I didn't like the term. I wasn't really comfortable with anything about being gay. "I wasn't gay," I thought. Gay people were flamboyant and went to clubs and wore tank tops. I don't like tank tops!
But, slowly, the feelings were becoming more and more obvious. I liked men. It just was a part of me. I liked movies. I liked blueberries. I liked being with friends. And I also just happened to like men. You couldn't change it. It would be like asking me to stop liking blueberries. Blueberries make a bad analogy - but you get the idea. We are all born with a set of interests and likes and no one can change those.
One of the hardest things was not being able to show or express this interest, but faking an interest in women - well, that was much harder. One thing people people say about me is: I'm pretty transparent. And if you need more proof: well... how about the playful title of this blog? "I am so gay." So, yes ... it was pretty difficult to hide my interest in men.
The ... saddest ... part of this secret I have to say was: most people already knew!!! Which made the "secret," in hindsight, all the more painful. I don't begrudge anyone for not reaching out and telling me they knew, but I wish someone had. I didn't really feel like I was ever safe. Honestly. For 22 years, did I ever really breathe and feel safe? Nope. I always worried. Worried about hate, worried about being disowned, worried about being kicked out of the house, no where to go and worried about never being loved. All I ever felt was worry. What would happen to me?
It eventually became a heavy weight in my life. I couldn't be really happy in a way or have careless fun. What if I slipped up? What if I looked too long at a guy when we all went to the beach? What if I laughed at a joke a girl said about a guy?
This weight eventually forced me in a sense to gain weight in college. A lot more weight than one should. The secret was literally and figuratively weighing on me! When I graduated, I felt a little more freedom, even though I still lived at home. The day to day pressure of being around my 5 straight male roommates was at least gone. But, there was this pressure to find a job (a real job - not working at the mall) and the pressure to lose some weight.
I was a big fan of Diet Coke and Subway that summer. You guessed it! Affordable dieting! And it made that guy Jared lose some weight, so what the hell? And I did lose some weight. So, thanks, major food chain and major soda conglomerate! You were probably not 100% healthy, but it wasn't like I was trying those cigarettes and bulimia all the kids were talking about! (I'm no doctor, but none of these options seem really ideal. This is a funny blog, so keep that in mind. At the very least, you should probably come running with me, though. It's healthy and it's ... like ... TOTES fun!)
Where was I? Oh yeah! While some pressures were reduced, I had the added pressure of living at home with my parents and being a 22 year old horny male, which I tried to bury. I wanted to be a good son and be especially good for my parents.
A little back story on my parents. They had their rough moments in life and, fundamentally speaking, are the best, most honest and decent people I know (aside from that awesome Jesus guy). So, I always felt the urge to make them proud and be good. So, I never did really lie to them or act badly or drink or whatever.
But, I did lie. I had lied all my life in a sense. But, then I really lied. Boy, did I lie. What happened? Well, some work friends from the mall asked me out after work. They were going to a gay bar, a little dive called the Grotto. It was a bit of a small dance bar/club and it wasn't an amazing scene, but it was the most fun I had in years.
It was an awakening. And I stayed out until it was four in the morning. I don't even think in college I stayed out that late. (Sad, party of one? No! I'm a good boy, remember? Ok...yea...sad, party of one.)
Anyways, I had the most fun of my life that night. I talked with guys. I danced with guys. I laughed with guys. It was a lot of fun. And my parents freaked out. "What the hell were you doing out 'til 4 in the morning?," my Dad oh-so-quietly asked. "There is NOTHING to do at FOUR in the MORNING," he whispered.
My Dad was not subtle. He was angry. He was ... concerned. (Need more proof? Keep reading the blog. Over time, you will learn my parents are nothing if not always concerned. Need even more proof?? Ok, well - for example - they didn't have an ATM/debit card until 2010. This is ALL true!)
The point is: I then had to lie to my parents to make them feel safe. They didn't 100% buy the story, but they loved me and trusted me, and the story I told wasn't too ridiculous in hindsight. It was roughly along the line of ... "I lost track of time" ... and "the gang all went back to So-and-So's house."
It ate me up inside, though. I had never really lied to my parents in such a deliberate, pointed, and outlandish way. I pretty much always told the truth or had always given them a close version of the truth. NO parent needs to know the ENTIRE truth. For instance, every father when he meets his future son-in-law knows, "this guy will be having sex with my daughter." But no one says it!
It always makes me laugh, though, when parents are excited for grandchildren. "Um... you know that guy in the corner did that to your daughter, right?," I say to no one.
So, yes, there is simply a version of the truth to tell. You tell your parents most of the truth! That's what good kids do. But, I was a bad kid that Saturday morning.
It was Saturday, September 8th. And it ate me up inside. I had to go back to work at the mall. My Dad was a little unwilling to let me have the car again to go to work, but he knew money for his kid was a good thing, so he allowed it. I worked and came home that night. No late night for me.
That day at work, though! Everyone was talking about me going out! How was it? You were the little dancer, Greg! Blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, I confided into my coworker, who (for the sake of the blog) I will call Melissa because she looked liked my really good friend from high school named ... Melissa.
Melissa and I weren't close. But, I trusted her and liked her a lot because she was filling the void in my life from the real Melissa, who I coincidentally wasn't close to at that chapter in my life. She was calm and very logical and very thoughtful. She basically said that it seemed like I wanted to tell people and that I knew in my heart that I was gay, so if I felt I could do it - I should tell my parents. She understood why it hurt me to lie to my parents. (Again, I know you're all bad eggs, but I was a good kid. I like my parents, thank you very much! And so what if I still call them every Sunday?)
Melissa made sense, though. She essentially gave me the boot I needed and secretly had felt for some time. If my parents did, in fact, love me - then they would love ALL of me. Even the different stuff.
I needed a few days to process it all. This was heady stuff. I'm Gay. Wow. Yeah... I am. Ok. So what to do with that?
And... well, you know ... a few days pass. I was thinking about all a major decision, after all. And then what would happen? Wouldn't you know - September 11th! Yes, THE September 11th. Only the worst day in the modern history of our country. A day anyone alive will remember where they were and what happened to them. It made my problem seem small, but Jesus Christ - the world was ending!!! I ate my cereal, watching the Today show, and saw the second plane fly into the second tower. I shut off the TV in horror and just said, "get ready for work." This was when people thought we could put the fire out. The building surely would be fine.
I was driving to work when the plane hit the Pentagon. The announcers on the radio were in a panic. I was near Westover Air Force Base, and I saw a plane fly over me, and I scrunched down a little bit in the car to feel safer.
I was at the mall. NO customers were there. And I watched from the Radio Shack across the hall, as the first tower fell. Silence. No one said anything except, of course, the gasps.
My problem. Was nothing. Nothing. Compared to today.
That night, I spent with my parents in one room (and my parents never watch anything together in the same room, so this was big). And we watched it all over, and over, and over. From different angles, from New Jersey, from Brooklyn, from people running from the debris. From hell.
We knew nothing, but we knew it was terrorism. We all went to bed a bit tired, and a bit shaken. And I know we all hugged that night. I remember their hugs.
The next day was September 12th and I didn't go into work. The mall was closed. Life had stopped. I don't think anyone went to work that day. And maybe it was all that time together. And maybe it was hearing people on their cell phones calling their spouses, crying, saying good-bye, and hearing it on the nightly news. I know it was that. It was people saying their final, most important thing to the people they loved. In fact, it made my father look right at me and say, "And you are getting a cell phone this week. I don't care what it costs you." When people say those kind of things, you know you're loved.
So, on September 12th (a day I have never forgotten), I came out to my parents. This, to me, is my real coming out. Because they mattered more than any other person in my life still. What they thought about me defined how I would be as a gay man and, in some ways, it still does. Friends had known before. I confessed to my favorite aunt, too. But, my parents were the true firsts. They were my parents.
I came out because I had lied. And I came out because after the news, it was time to start living.
So, this is the day I came out.
9/11 was a Tuesday. My coming out was a Wednesday. The best part of all of this was after my coming out. By the end of the conversation, Dad merely said before he went to bed, very tired, "Well, I can't wait to see what happens on Thursday." HIS. EXACT. WORDS. It made me laugh then, and still does.
I can laugh, because - while not at all easy in any way - it turned out ok. I sat them both down in one room. And Mom knew something was up. Her eyes welled up a little. She confessed later that she thought I was going to say I was moving out. That - to my Mom - was the worst news she could hear. God bless, my mother.
I simply said. "There is something I have wanted to tell you. And it may be hard for you to hear, but it's who I am and I need to tell you. I'm Gay." I didn't draw it out, not that I remember. I led with the top story.
They asked thoughtful questions. Mom confessed (while crying a little) that people would blame her. And I, and this is when I really broke down sobbing, said the only thing people could blame her for is loving me so much.
It was heart wrenching. I'm sure in some ways, especially for my Dad, he felt like he lost a son. Over time, I think he looked at as gaining a daughter. My Dad has always been an affectionate and giving man to his kids. Over time, he became more kind and softer to me in a way that I think daughters experience with their dads. It was subtle, extremely subtle, but different from the way that Dads talk to their sons.
My Dad (I am sure) would argue with this. Because he said the night I came out, "I don't care if you are gay. You're my son. And you are part of me. I created you and you came from me. So I couldn't hate you because you are me." So, I know my Dad thinks of me in every way possible as his son. And he loves me more than he loves himself.
Dad got it all right away. The next morning, I was smiling over breakfast. Trying to be chipper and pretend like I didn't shake their entire world. Mom was supremely shell shocked. (She took over two and a half years!!! to come around and accepting it. You can deny it, Mom, but it's the truth. It took awhile.) So, Mom, over breakfast, looked like a good 1960s housewife. She was cooking and had the facial expression of the wind completely knocked out of her.
Dad, on the other hand, looked at me and talked. After breakfast, he rubbed my right shoulder and said, "you seem lighter. You always had this expression that the weight of the world was on you. And I never knew why. And now you don't. And I'm glad."
I love my father more than life itself. Mom, too, of course. Dad is simply far more expressive in the moment than Mom often is. They are just different that way. Mom will come at you in a different approach and shows her love by doing things for you. Dad will just come right at you and say it like it is. I like to think of myself as a balance, but I am probably more like my father in this way.
Dad's words meant EVERYTHING to me. It helped me grow from there. It helped me be free.
And that is how I came out.
And that is how I survived it all.
Thank you, Mom and Dad. (and thank you for reading this.)
Love
Greg
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