I'm a Coney Island Baby

Some New Yorkers like the glitz of a fancy pool at the Gansevoort Hotel. Some may even like the splash of a chair at the Soho House. At these posh pools in the city, you get sun, shade, and supermodel bodies. The staff will bring you drinks while you're stirred or perhaps shaken among the rich and richer.

As for me, I prefer the quick jaunt on the glamorous F line train - all the way to the beach. Coney Island's beach, to be specific.

Sure, I have no wait staff bringing me drinks. Instead, I bring a thermos of wine. Because I'm classy like that. And frankly speaking, I wouldn't have it any other way.

My legs: the other white meat. 

Sure, there are no supermodel bodies. Well . . . occasionally there are some fit studs walking around. But, I definitely feel like the hottest guy on the beach some time. I have no six pack and neither do they. So, I feel pretty confident on my beach days. In fact, I feel downright sexy.

I mean: just look at my picture! Definitely the hottest legs this side of the Mississippi, am I right? Well, that's all me, baby. And those Coney Island legs aren't just for show!

No! Those gams are also used to walk the fabulous boardwalk. It's like a step into the past in some ways. There is a carnival element - complete with an amusement park, an actual freak show, and even a vintage wooden roller coaster, the Cyclone, which is now a national landmark!

There are nods to the Vintage old-timey Coney Island everywhere. It's just a feeling in the air.

There are Nathan's Hot Dogs. There is a minor league baseball team called . . . you guessed it: the Brooklyn Cyclones!

Sandy? Your name should be more like Grabby!

Here is a photo of myself with their mascot, Sandy the Seagull.

And yes, you'd be right. I am pretty sure he was flirting with me, too.

Don't let the semi-calm look on my face deceive you.
I was scared for me bleepin' life! 

And, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the Wonder Wheel: the world's scariest ride ever. If you happen to be afraid of heights. Which I am. As evidenced, by this picture of me on the ride. You can get a swinging bird cage if you prefer, or a non-swinging. I chose a non-swinging and proceeded to death grip the bench as if that helped alleviate the problem of being suspended in air. No doubt, I have very sharp survival skills.

It's pretty, right? Don't be fooled. You can see Texas from the top of it. 

Needless to say, Coney Island is all very fun. There is literally WONDER to it all, and not just in its Wheels.

The people spectating sport alone is worth the adventure. I won't show pictures as that would be mean, but there are characters on this boardwalk, let's just say that.

Last summer, I fondly named my Eastern European middle aged bartender, Surly. She was surly towards all of her customers in a way but, I believe that with time, she came to tolerate me and my love of her frozen alcoholic drinks. Alas, the bar where she worked, Cha Cha's, was a victim to her Hurricane Sandy last year and it has since closed for good as a result. It had been a Coney Island staple and now, like so many others before, it is a Coney Island legend of the past and not the present.

And while I have found one establishment on the boardwalk serving frozen margaritas, the loss of Cha Cha's has taught me that this is an area to cherish. There is magic here. There is beach. There is baseball. There is booze. What isn't to love and hold on to for dear life? Imagine yourself on the Wonder Wheel with me and grab on.

So, my friends - the others can have their Hamptons or what have them. As for me, I'm just a Coney Island baby.


Who wouldn't be, I ask you, after seeing a view like this?

Almost 1 Year Anniversary

As I am one day away from I Am So Gay (and so are you for reading this)'s one year anniversary, I am literally filled with thoughts and emotions.

For me, starting this blog was a gigantic, huge first step.

Many years ago, I called my Aunt Ellen to wish her my support, as she had just found out she had breast cancer. It was a mixed conversation. Here she was - facing a serious health battle, which in just a few, short years would take her life - and she ended up giving me yet another gift and her loving support. While we spoke of many things (how she was feeling, what the next steps were, etc.), she cared way more about me and how I was doing. Can you believe the depth of that heart? It's unfathomable. I am too vain and self involved. I would be worrying all about me and my health, if I had been in her shoes. But, my aunt was seemingly always selfless.

What she told me that day has stayed with me forever. I can even remember where I was when she said just four simple words to me. They were meant as a suggestion, but the way she said was more like a direction. And it froze me in my steps.

Unable to move, and not sure how to reply, my aunt told me what my heart had told me for years. She told me, "you should be writing."

How did she know? It's because she knew me. With that, you would think I would have started writing right away. But I didn't. I didn't write for almost the better half of a decade later.

It took all those years since her diagnosis. I moved cities in that time. She saw me take a big step, just a different one - moving from DC to NYC for a job in the fashion world. She never got to see me write in my post college years. I did write privately. They were mostly scribbles on a pad, a journal, a post-it: anywhere when a phrase or thought popped in my head. But, they weren't formed. They weren't this.

Now, I can be a decisive, swift person. In theory.

Actually, I am often afraid or cautious. When I do make a decision, it usually has been well thought out, as I have debated it 18 billion times in my head, out loud, and with friends.

The idea for this blog wasn't simply thought out in a day. I knew I wanted to do humor. I want to make you laugh. I also wanted to maybe inspire some of you just a bit. The rest of what inspired this blog took time and now I feel like it's going in some kind of a direction, one in which is not quite there yet.

I'm not quite there with what I have and want to say to everyone, but I hope we're having fun on the journey. And that's what this is for me. I am writing about my journey finally.

In this blog - and even in today's story - you will see my look at my past. This past, though, is what has shaped my present and is what will push my future. I am writing about my life in my 30s. In New York. As a gay male. As a single male. As a hopefully funny male. And these are the bumps along the way.

I will always continue to write for those who maybe don't know that being gay is OK. Because it is.

When I write, I am writing to the 17 year old Greg, so I can tell him that everything will turn out OK. That life will have its bumps and we all find our way, even if it isn't always perfect. I hope I am reaching a few others who are young and in doubt. We all grow up. Gay, straight, or super curvy, we all grow up. Things pass. People change. You will always be great.

When I write, I try to make myself laugh. And if I don't, I know it isn't my best blog. They can't all be:

 http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2013/04/reese-witherspoon-is-brunette-world-is.html

OR

http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2012/11/hiding-in-soup-aisle-isnt-easy-but.html

But, in the end, I write because I am hoping to learn something and maybe we will learn it together.

I write because I am single and I want people to know that it is also OK. It isn't the end. What has started as a happy accident of bad dating choices has turned into a deliberate series of conscious choices to remain single. I could have settled down years ago, but I chose my own path. (Not that anyone offered me a ring or anything. Because if jewelry was involved, I totally . . . probably . . . would have chosen the bling.)

Looking back, I hope I make Auntie (yes, I called her auntie) Ellen laugh. I really hope that she's above me - or maybe looking next to me - and that she is laughing with me. She is in on the joke.

For her last Christmas, I had bought a box of Christmas cards that had classic Christmas sayings, but there was an obvious double meaning. Auntie Ellen got the card that said simply, "Merry And Gay." Or something like that. But that was all it said on the outside. No cutesy Santa or Snowman. Just a big ol' gay Christmas card (with something sweet written by me on the inside). And I know it brought her a few laughs over and over as she looked at it, across the sea of traditional Christmas cards to see 1 BIG GAY ONE.

So, I don't know what the future holds for this blog, but I know this: I will keep writing. It's been the best thing for me personally. This is my passion. And making others laugh is also my passion. I like to crack a joke. Some will be zingers, some will be losers, but hopefully we will keep laughing together for many more years to come.

Thanks for reading and being apart of this first year - this journey.
Keep smiling.

Thanks,
Greg


 

Please Don't Touch Me With Your Hair

Please don't touch me with your hair.

I mean, I'm sure you washed it.

Actually, now that I am thinking of it: how do I know that? It's just an assumption. A hope. A belief in your general sense of duty that you clean yourself (head included) daily. But, from what I am told about women, they don't wash their hair every day. Something about how it's shinier if they don't. And also there's a preference to wash hair in the evening because it takes so long to dry or something. Which means if you washed it last night, it's been on your dirty pillow all night.

And I've seen the Dateline NBC when they used the black light to show us what is on hotel pillows, so I can only assume that your pillow is likely worse than the good folks at Marriott.

So, I am going to take it back. I don't think that you have washed your hair. I am not THAT trusting of an individual and frankly speaking, you're a little casual with your hair flipping.

Here I am: reading my book my book on the subway (like a smart and responsible individual caring about the environment by using mass transit) and I get whacked in the face with your hair, which has been God-knows-where!

Where is a transit cop when you need one?

I feel violated.

Bonjour! Some say I have perfect hair, mon ami!

I am a self aware individual. I have size 11 feet and if I step on a person's foot on the train, I apologize sincerely. But you - YOU - just whack innocents with your Rapunzel-like hair day in/day out and laugh it off with your friends. 

Since this is a democracy, you get to grow your hair to whichever catastrophic level length you choose, while I keep my hair nice and trim. Some have even said my hair is perfect. "What a nice hair cut, Greg!," they exclaim. 

You might get the same praise if you go a little more to the shorn side. 

And I'm sorry for so personally attacking you. Because you aren't the only one who is committing this crime. It really has gone to epidemic levels. 

Why - I can remember just last week when I was on my way to a nice Saturday night dinner with some friends and I got a mouthful of hair. I was casually minding myself at the bar and waiting for my friends and - BAM - violated by someone long haired. A girl, no more than 25, threw her hair up in the air to look flirty (and let's face it: trampy) to her male companion and whacked me right in the face. Evidently, not only are "long hairs" completely unaware of the tight social spaces we face in large, metropolitan areas like Brooklyn, but also the very split ends of their hair are so dead they cannot tell when they hit people. 

It's a cause for concern! 

I've thought about alerting local authorities, the media or perhaps a support group, but in the end, it's me  - a "short hair" - against a "long hair" world.

Just don't mind the person with a face mask on a subway. He isn't a criminal. He is just simply avoiding the "real" criminals out there. 

Dude (Looks Like A Lady)

So, I am just gonna start off this whole story with the truth that I somehow got a subscription to Ladies' Home Journal.

I know what you must be thinking. It was what I was thinking! 

"But, you're not a lady, Greg!" And you'd be right! 

Technically, I am not a Lady. I am a Male. And while I don't subscribe to Cars and Gears Monthly or Gym Weights Weekly, I would like to state that I don't exactly have the same agenda as the good editors' of Ladies' Home Journal. 

I like to run. I drink wine. I travel, go to museums, read, watch movies, and I have lots of other run of the mill, non-gender specific interests. And even though I can bake a mean batch of Triple Chocolate Chip cookies, I didn't get the recipe from a female driven magazine. I got it where I get everything in life: the internet. 

(Seriously, this internet thing = awesome! I can shop from home? Done! I can watch old episodes of TV on my lap top? OK!) 

But, let me take you back a few steps. 

I came home from a long day at work and was actually a little sleepy. It happens. So, when I was sorting through the mail, I assumed that the copy of LADIES' Home Journal, was actually for my female neighbor who lives across the hall. Silly mail man! 

I mean - mail carrier!!! Mail Carrier. Postal Employee. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't assume it was a man who delivered this magazine. Although, I'm pretty sure it is a man because he lives around the corner from me and while I was on a run one night I saw him outside his house smoking in his postal uniform. Which I'm pretty sure is illegal. Actually, I'm not that sure, but it really, really surprised me.

Any-who, my neighbor politely returned the magazine back to me, which - to this day - is still a source of huge embarrassment. It is one thing to say: I think this is your mail. It's another thing when it's your mail in the first place and that mail is actually Ladies' Home Journal. 

So, that was fun! After I walked away from my neighbor and feeling ashamed, I began to feel supremely confused. Which isn't hard for me to feel when I'm tired. 

Tina. Expletive. Fey.

I put the magazine down on my kitchen table and walked away. I left the room for a minute and when I came back, this is what I saw: 

TINA. LADY HOME JOURNAL LOVIN.' FEY.

My idol!

Dressed up like J. Lo. 

With the caption: "Look Better At Any Age."

I was horrified. 

And I stil am horrified. 

In the bottom corner was what I can only assume is her signature. Her autograph! Tina?! You signed this? You are better than this. 

I mean: she will wear a paper bag and still be beautiful to me. And she is beautiful here. But, it is not her. It's not her style. 

It's not even her earrings.

And don't get me started on ... wait, why is she squatting!? And in those shoes?

This meant war. Ladies' Home Journal took my idol and made her out to be some hot-to-trot soccer mom looking to score some pills. And I wasn't going to take this lying down. 

I wanted to call them up and give 'em H - E - Double Hockey sticks! Take this, Ladies Home Journal. You may have gotten to Tina, but I won't let you take Amy Poehler and Mindy Kaling. You can't ruin Jenny Lawson or Rachel Dratch. God help them! What if they had already gotten to Mom?! 

Come to think of it: This is totally something Mom could have masterminded. And by masterminded, I mean "accidentally checked the box for Ladies' Home Journal instead of Entertainment Weekly. 

Regardless, this had to end. I had to find out how did I get this subscription and I had to cancel it to teach them a lesson. 

After a long wait time, I spoke with a phone operator who did not act the LEAST bit surprised that a male like me got a subscription or Ladies' Home Journal. 

I tried a joke. "Come on, right? I mean how many guys get this magazine? Didn't anyone raise an eyebrow when they sent this to me?" The operator didn't reply. 

After a long, awkward pause, I said, "Well, I didn't sign up for Ladies' Home Journal and I want to make sure that I am not being charged for this and I would like to cancel it." 

She explained that this was set up by a third party as a promotional vehicle, that I had a year subscription for free and I could cancel it if I wanted to, but not through her. I would have to call the third party agency. 

The whole thing exhausted me. 

So, I gave up. Sorry Mindy. Sorry Amy. I hope you will still love me. 

It's June now, according to Ladies' Home Journal. And I have met Alison Sweeney, who hosts The Biggest Loser, which is a TV show I actually love. So, it's not all bad. Plus, there are tips on looking better at any age, which - frankly speaking - I don't have the luxury to avoid. We all need to look better. 

But, just don't call me Lady! 

**************************

Writer's Note: - here's a fun drinking game! Re-read this story and take a shot every time I say Ladies' Home Journal. Good luck! 

By the way, don't do that. You'd be crazy to do it. I say Ladies' Home Journal like a thousand times in this story. Seriously, don't do it. Just get a subscription to Ladies' Home Journal instead. They totally need the readers just as much as I do. Ladies' Home Journal and I both want you - alive and healthy. And sober. And laughing. 

Ladies' Home Journal. 

(I had to say it one more time. Sorry.)

I Apologize . . . For Not Wearing Better Shoes Tonight

I know. I'm sorry.

Flip Flops? What was I thinking?

Here we are: 2 stylish friends out on the town on Saturday night and I'm that guy.

But, side note: I'm in pain. I just ran a half marathon this morning and I needed to be in these flip flops.

Most Awesome Advertisement . . . Ever

Darth Vader called and said, "Luke, it's your destiny." I tried to correct him and say my name is Greg, but, well . . . you can argue with that guy. This is the dude who cut off his son's hand with a light saber, so I wasn't about to get all sassy on a phone call.

So, I wore the flip flops. (And they are Cole Haan flip flops, too! I think name dropping the brand helps here when wearing flip flops out to dinner on a Saturday night in Manhattan.)

And despite the pain I was in: I even tried to compensate by wearing a banging outfit, if I say so myself. (See how I'm such a martyr for you and for fashion?)

Tight white skinny jeans (I know, I'm a slave to trends) and a bright colored stripey sweater from J. Crew. I look all very preppy chic. J. Crew might be calling me to go to Cape Cod right this second to be in some pictures for them for the catalog.

And might I add: I can fit into these skinny jeans because I just ran the aforementioned half marathon today! So, the flip flops were a trade off for skinny jeans if you think about it. Which would you rather I wear: baggy jeans or skinny jeans? Um... yeah, skinny jeans! That's what I thought.

I also accessorized the outfit tonight, as best I could in my fractured state. I brought a super cute tote bag and my Mindy Kaling book, and a blue checkered umbrella, because the sky tonight just looks like it's itching for some rain.

And wow do you have a good memory! Yes, I am re-reading Mindy Kaling's amazing book (for the 3rd time). It's almost as if you really, really love this blog. Good for you!

What? You didn't remember. Ugh, I am so disappointed in you.  I still love you.

Here's your homework, though:
http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2012/06/am-i-naked-in-this-blog-or-am-i-just.html

Getting back on track: Mindy Kaling's book in my cute shoulder tote possibly makes me the coolest guy in the East Village tonight. Sure, their outfits all look cheap and cost millions of dollars. Sure, there is a Great Gatsby party going on in the other room with guys LITERALLY in tuxedos. (This is true. They ordered drinks in small little glasses, fancy dresses, the works. And they were obnoxious and oblivious to the other patrons enjoying dinner around them. But, more importantly, I still can't believe those jerks in tuxes had to show me up like that.)

And sure, I am wearing flip flops.

But, you're my friend and you like me. So, maybe I am just the coolest guy in the room because of that fact alone.

You were so great that you didn't even notice that I was wearing flip flops. Until I brought it up like an idiot. You were just impressed that I was able to rally the rest of my body into going from Brooklyn into Manhattan and was able to walk. Because you're cool like that.

They're crazy awesome, right?

But, next time we hang, I will be rocking shoes. I promise. Unless we hang out at the beach. Or any time in August.

Otherwise, I may just one-up those loud (incredibly loud) Gatsby fools with my array of awesome shoes. And then the world can breathe a sigh of relief. Because my Grey and Pink Cole Haan shoes (name dropping) will always trump those guys.

Love,
Greg

I love my Mom (and so do you for reading this.)

I am sure we can all agree that our Moms are the best. Everyone loves their Mom, right? (Well, maybe not the little girl from Mommie Dearest. She probably celebrates Mother's Day in a  . . . different way.) 

And, while I do love screaming, "CHRISTINA! HAND ME THE AX!," to anyone I meet, I am no exception to the mother-loving phenomenon. I love my Mom. 

  

I could list a lot of reasons why or how she is better than your Mom, but why brag? I mean, really? Why rub it in your face how clearly awesome my Mom is and yours is truly sub par?

Oh, OK. I will. 

1. My Mom wrote notes in my lunchbox as a kid. Oh your Mom did that too? Did she always make the same Fluffernutter sandwich for you? Nope, didn't think so. 

Nowadays, Mom would get hauled off to County Jail for endangering school children with peanut allergies, but back in the 80s, we just called it lunch time. And it was awesome and I always knew it was packed with love. 

2. My Mom saved me from falling out of the car after seeing the movie, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. To preface, I am a person who has always been deeply moved by the arts. Films especially. And at the tender age of three, I was no different. (Spoiler alert: E.T. goes home. And an adorable, curly haired child in Massachusetts was devastated.) I identified with Henry Thomas and wanted to ride my bike in the sky with E.T. Or maybe I just wanted to eat Reese's Pieces, the hippest candy of 1982.

In any event, I had to be dragged out of the theater immediately, as my loud cries must have been disturbing other patrons. I must have been "making a real scene" or perhaps (as my acting coach calls it) I was simply "in the moment." 

In response to my display of raw talent, Mom and Dad threw me in the car and Dad immediately sped off. Either seat belts weren't invented then or my parents had a real lack of foresight there, but the result was that my door popped wide open and a sobbing mess known as ME was sliding right out of the car, as my Dad was making a left turn. And Mom, ever so quick and nimble (like a Ninja!) swung from the front seat and grabbed me with one arm and got me back in the car. 

Nowadays, Mom AND Dad probably would be hauled off to the State Penitentiary, but back in the 80s, we were just appreciative that Mom's cat-like reflexes saved my life! Did your mom save your life like that? Hmm.... I didn't think so! 

3. My Mom doesn't swear. And we all know that your mother swears like a truck driver. And a sailor. On shore leave. 

Seriously, though, MY Mom doesn't curse. One time - only just a few years ago -while driving home with her, another driver swerved in front of us in a dangerous way. He cut in front of us, and it caused us to abruptly slam on the brakes on a crowded road. It could have been a real pile up. 

My mother, with all her grit and determination, hung onto her steering wheel as if she was commanding a mighty battleship. She slowly uttered, "Youuuuuuu .... Jerk!" 

I said, "Good, Mom! I'm glad you let that out. Let him have it." We later laughed over that. 

Clearly, the man learned his lesson. Don't mess with Mom. (This is a woman who could have been in jail twice now, so you really don't want to give her road rage to boot.) 

4. My Mom just likes simple things. Your Mom also might like the small stuff, but my Mom does it with a twist. 

She likes a deal at Kohl's. (I mean: who doesn't really? You get the Kohl's Cash and life is pretty thrilling. Am I right? In the sense of my mother, I feel this is the closest she will ever get to stealing. When she gets a small appliance for $6 bucks, Mom is transported to her version of Las Vegas. 

Mom also likes the 2 for $20 meals at Applebees. Eatin' good in the neighborhood. Literally. It's like 6 blocks from their house. I counted. And with the money she saved on dinner, it affords her a raspberry margarita. Tequila and Mom = winning combination, am I right?

She gets really excited when her TV show is going to be on. It's like a treat. But, man, can she get upset when the TV networks program one good show against another show that she also watches. She has to choose. CBS' The Good Wife vs. ABC's Revenge really was hard for all of us to get over. I try to explain the internet, or on demand TV watching, but I might as well as be speaking in Mandarin, because we all know she won't be going to the internet to watch TV, like your mother probably does. (Your mother probably also does online banking, which is clearly dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.) 

 

Lastly, Mom would be really, really, really happy if I sent her cards on her birthdays or Mother's Day. The woman loves a good card. I think Hallmark would have folded years ago if it weren't for my Mom. (She is the largest customer for the dancing and singing snowman they sell each year. God help us, if they do not produce a Snowball who wishes you a Merry Kwanzaa. She will lose her hat.)  

I'd like to say I sent her a card this year, but I didn't. In addition to 2 phone calls this weekend (I rock), she also gets this lovely blog post devoted exclusively to her. Son of the Year 2013, I say! 

5. My Mom is just really nice. Your mother probably is, but mostly just pretends to be nice to people. My mom is the real deal. 

I never have heard people say, "Oh, that woman's your mother?! Well, she's a real bee....hive." 

Most people almost always first remark how I look like her. (It's true. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, same nose. And we both are age-defying, so whatever. I'll take it.) 

They also always state plainly how nice she is. To which, I always say something funny back. 

"You don't live with her."

"She beats me when you're not looking. I can show you the bruises!"

"She's stealing from your office, you know?" 

"Really? She always says just the opposite about you!" 

"When she's sober!" 

I have a million comebacks. But no one believes me. Because my Mom actually is pretty darn nice. A woman who doesn't curse would give that impression. It's hopeless for us. I've tried to set the world straight. If they only knew her diabolical plans....

6. My Mom still worries about me. 

Now, many of you would probably say, "WITH GOOD REASON." And you'd be wrong, "friends."

My Mom is just a classic worrier. Maybe she watched too many episodes of Dark Shadows as a kid, but she's always thinking something dark and deadly is lurking around the corner. Maybe she's right. But, leave it to Mom to tell me today, " I hope it doesn't rain" about a half marathon I will be running in SIX days. Who thinks of that? Even my iPhone worries about weather that is only FIVE days away. 

My mom outworries technology. Can your Mom do that? Again, didn't think so!   

7. Last, but not least, My Mom is MY Mom. She gave birth to me, for God's sakes! Without meds!!!! 

Evidently, there were TV shows about how hospital drugs used during birth in the 70s were giving defects to babies. Counter productive if you ask me, and Mom agreed with me. So she did it all "military-tough" like. I picture Mom surviving Guantanamo pretty well. 

Dad said she didn't even scream. 

Mom's simple reply, "What's the point? It was still going to hurt." 

Did I mention that I was also ... three weeks late? (Classic Me to be late to my own birthday!)

On the date of my birth, Mom weighed something around 700 lbs. It was a real hardship for her. I was supposed to be a belated April birthday present to her. Instead, I ended up being an early Mother's Day present. (You're welcome!) 

So, Samuel L. Jackson would undoubtedly call my Mom a "bad-ache mother-lover." (That's what he says, right?)

The thing is: my mom is pretty selfless. She sacrificed a lot during my childhood and always liked doing the Mom stuff. 

I like seeing her do things for herself now. Treating herself when the occasion seems fitting to her. Keep doing it, Mom. You deserve it. 

I love you, Mom (and so do you for reading this.) 

From Thirty Four, With Love

On Saturday, May 4th, 2013, I turned "Thirty-Four." Which totally wasn't scary. I mean it can be. Age is tricky that way. But, this year wasn't scary for some reason. I can't explain it, but I was all very zen and low key about turning another year.

"Thirty-Four" seems pretty chill so far. I kicked off my year a bit earlier than ever.

Even though I was born in May, I decided to call April my "birthday month" -  or if any coworkers asked why I was getting so many shoes delivered to the office, I would answer simply that it was all pre-birthday presents. (In my defense, I believe it was only 2 pairs of shoes. And a pair of sandals. And a belt. And some new underwear. And some drugstore.com stuff. Hey, we all need shampoo, am I right here?)

As I said last year, you have to treat yourself.

http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2012/06/so-i-turned-33-alone-and-i-survived-and.html

Last year, I splurged on The Book of Mormon. And while I didn't get a picture of myself with a celeb as cute as Andrew Rannells (am I right, ladies and gents?) like last year, I did have a pretty great day/weekend/month regardless. 

This year, I decided to just start having fun. I was going to celebrate myself. I was going to smile. A lot. 
I like to think I nailed it. 

Besides the shopping, I treated myself to Broadway, which increasingly over the past year I have regarded as ice cream that I must allow myself to eat from time to time. It's a treat that one MUST totally take part in. Imagine life with no toppings? Personally, I've always liked the toppings the most. 

I saw Lucky Guy with Tom Hanks (written by my heroine, Nora Ephron). I was in the second to last row of the cheapest of cheap seats, but I felt like I was at a real scene. Something to be seen, you know? 

I saw Nathan Lane in The Nance. How could I write a blog called I Am So Gay and not seen Nathan Lane in a show about a gay vaudeville actor? Sacrilege, right? Well, I saw it and it was awesome. I wonder what it was to see The Producers . . .

I saw Vanessa Williams, Cuba Gooding, Jr. and - best of all - Cicely Tyson in The Trip To Bountiful, a show where the audience  (I KID YOU NOT) spontaneously bursts into song with Ms. Tyson. I cried at one point. I missed my Grandmother, maybe. I missed a time gone by. I admired the spunk of the character. I went on the journey with her. 

I saw The Big Knife with Bobby Cannavale (HOT guy from Will and Grace. He was Will's boyfriend. Just Google it already!)

And when I saw my most recent show, I totally imagined I was Liz Lemon while watching Alec Baldwin in Orphans from Orchestra, Row G. It was Jack! LIVE! Awesome!

The thing about my month or so of splurging was taking part into things that have been in NYC for a long time and I never really took part in. And that just seemed like a shame. In the end, my seats might not have always been as Grrrrreat as G, but I dove into the adventure. The thrill of getting a ticket and seeing a Broadway show. To go to Broadway . . . well, there is just nothing like it. Even in the cheap seats, life can be a thrill. (Remember that!) 

Now, you might be thinking to yourself: "OK, Greg Broadway and shoes. Really?" 

Well, I did even more. I celebrated time. I celebrated time with others. And  I liked the quality time and laughs with special people the most. 

I am very fortunate. I know A LOT of great special people. And they are all over the place. Some I couldn't see for my birthday/weekend/month. But the handful of truly good people I did see, made "Thirty-Four" tick right along. 

I'd say with most of all of my friends, we giggle when we get together. And when we haven't seen each other in months, or even a year, we can still pick up like no time has gone by. That's truth. That's beauty. 

Well, last Wednesday, I had Pre-Birthday Dinner #1. I smile just thinking about that dinner. Friends cooked in my kitchen. I got really good hugs that night and drank too much wine. Smiles. 

I had Pre-Birthday Dinner #2 on Friday, and this time it was a surprise dinner. Four of my oldest DC friends popped out of nowhere while Drake, Delilah and I were having drinks on the Potomac River. I was in my beloved Georgetown at a restaurant I had loved when I lived there. Could it get better? Life is ice cream with the toppings. That night, I had ALL the toppings. 

On my actual birthday, I slept in, but still early enough to hear my parents call me at 8:23 am (when I was actually born) so they could sing to me. Cheesy and awesome. Who else gets that every year? I eat it up. 

Drake, Delilah and I went outlet shopping and then onto wineries. The combination of sunshine, 40% off everything at the J. Crew Factory Store, and delicious cheese and wine is a level of fun known only to the gods. Just try to argue with me on this! 

It was a long day. And it was a great day. I wasn't able to beat The Charles Sasser Challenge of 5 wineries in one day. We did four on May 4th, so I think I'm still impressive and very cool (numerically speaking, at the very least).

Relaxing, travelling, shopping, nature, wine, eating, laughing, smiling, sunshine, friends. 

Ice Cream with the toppings. 

On a final note, I want to say to you, Mr "Thirty-Four," a few of my hopes: 

I hope I cherish you. 
I hope I own this year. 
I hope I make the moments count. 

I hope for health. Mine and others. Because life is so very, very short.

I hope if I see something I want, I do it or buy it (within reason) because I never want to regret it. 

I hope a boy is really awesome to me this year and vice versa. 

I hope I run. I hope I laugh. I hope. 

I hope I come out ahead on my way to "Thirty-Five."

I hope I eat lots and lots of toppings. :)