Park It

Not too long ago, the huz and I started doing our weekly food shopping at the local Wegman’s (which is hardly local as it is in a completely different state, but still only 15 minutes away) in Perth Amboy, New Jersey. See, to a Staten Islander, Wegman’s is the Disneyworld of supermarkets, with obscenely amazing meat, cheese, and produce sections; their quality in all three greatly eclipse the SI supermarkets. But this post isn’t about better brussel sprouts, fresher organic chicken thighs or fourteen different kinds of gouda; this post is about parking*.

see, I have a really big problem with this sign. Can anyone tell me why parents need specialized parking? Is procreation finally considered a handicap? Are kids finally being seen as crippling external tumors which have been expelled and given animus? or maybe they're life sucking parasitic viruses? I guess it depends on who you ask.


Now, I know the purported rationale is probably…um…er…actually, I can’t even fathom the rationale behind it is. I seriously don’t know why Mom and/or Dad (or Mom and Mom, etc.) would need special parking. I’m straining my brain on this one, but is it so they don’t have to walk with their kid(s) through the parking lot to the minivan (whose doors, trunk and engine open and start remotely)? That’s just nonsense. I mean really though: a good parent would have their kid sitting in the wagon or they’d be keeping an eye on it so that it doesn’t run, tear ass, through the parking lot (or the store); and Maury knows that most of the kids in the US could use the exercise a walk to the mom-mobile would give.

Believe it or not, this isn't about the kids (for once); it's also not a "gay/straight thing". it's about how the store views parents versus the rest of us. Regardless of the rationale behind the “preferred parking”, it’s clearly a complete crock of shit. There is absolutely no, legitimate, reason people with kids can’t park in the 1st available spot they see, just like everyone else; this is tantamount to those people who drive around with handicap placards they faked their way into getting**.Luckily, though, while you can get a ticket for parking in a handicap spot (sans placard), this Parental Parking nonsense is not enforceable. It’s something made up by the store to show their patrons “they care”, about some of them. Parents’ money must be greener and fresher than those of us who don’t have kids. I guess they never heard the expression “disposable income”.

Since this ridiculousness isn’t enforceable, the huz and I have absolutely no problem parking in one of those spots, should they become available while we’re attempting to park. The last time we went shopping some soccer mom decided to mouth off about us parking thereand we put her in her place right quick but stating that it doesn’t state that the child has to be present, or even human; our child was home…in his cage.

She was not amused and blanched suitably.

* and was evoked my Facebook status, today “David wonders what the HRC and other LGBT groups will do when The Gays finally achieve marriage equality (and we will, goddamn it)”. to which Breen Lantern commented “LGBT PARKING”!
** and don’t give me the “not all handicaps can be seen” nonsense, you know who I mean; if you can climb down out of a Hummer, the handicap can’t be that bad.

I'm Not Kidding

Every so often, the huz and I will meet a new group of people who find us to be something truly unique: a happy, committed gay couple in a long-term relationship. They’ll engage us in conversation about how long we’ve been together and how we met and all the usual stuff a couple gets asked. Inevitably, though, conversation will turn to that topic that is an instant buzz-kill: children. People want to know when CawfeeMate and I will begin our own family and adopt some one eyed, club footed Chinese kid or ADD crack baby; they nearly spit out their drinks when we tell them we’d rather undergo hemorrhoid surgery from a near-sited proctologist with Ectrodactyly.


Let me set the record straight, folks, we don’t want kids. Ever. Not all the gays are like the ones on Brothers & Sisters or Modern Family; We don’t all crave Burberry baby booties or Louis Vuitton diaper bags. Some of us are quite content lavishing our “disposable incomes” on ourselves and each other. Okay, I really can’t speak for CawfeeMate, but (as if you haven’t heard my opinion enough on the topic), here’s how I feel about Daddyhood:

I grew up with the most absolutely amazing parents. They were loving and attentive and there for me whenever I needed them. My dad worked three jobs to put us through catholic school and keep my mom home to tend to the house and still found time to be Scoutmaster, soccer coach, little league coach and do all the other proto-typical dad things a dad should do. My mom cooked like Julia Child, kept house like June Cleaver and swore like Sam Kinison. She was a Den Mother, Sunday School teacher and PTA mom and did without nice clothes, new shoes and even a new coat for years, but never complained. they were both incredibly supportive of anything I did and encouraged me in all my pursuits and interests. They really were the best parents a kid could ever have and I can, honestly, say that I was tremendously lucky to call them “mine”; even as a kid they made me feel lucky without telling me I was. it's only now, years later they told me that the main reason was because, as parents, it was their obligation to us to provide the best possible life they could; that they owed it to us.
That having been said, I do not believe that I could ever, under any circumstance, be that unselfish and giving to any other human being on earth (with the exception of my husband). As much as I love my friends and feel as strongly for them as other people feel about their family, there is still a limit to how giving I would be with them. My parents love was…is…completely limitless. they are the bar i measure all parents by. God forbid I was a parent, I’m confident that I would be forever comparing myself to them and find myself to be a dismal failure; there’s absolutely no way I could do without for the sake of a child who, may, turn out to be just as ungrateful and “entitled” as 90% of the kids I see every day. I’m just not that kind of person.

The wii is mine; no you can’t have a turn.
Saturday mornings are mine; I’m not blowing off my sock making class to take you to violin lessons.
The muscle car is mine; mini-van my ass.
My disposable income is mine; braces? The cannery has good dental, or so I hear.
(most importantly) CawfeeMate is mine; if there’s one thing you learn, as you go through This Gay Life, it’s to be wary of anyone younger and cuter than yourself*; there’s no way in hell I’m letting the wolf in when he knocks.

i give all of you (gay and straight) who decide to become parents, alot of credit for jumping into that with both feet, but it's just not me. I’ll admit it readily and with little shame: I’m a selfish faggot and, yes, i'm judging you by how you raise your kids.

*the puppy doesn't count as he has a brain the size of a ceci pea and no opposable thumbs.

the Other Kind of Knitters (or Neither a Lender Nor a Borrower Be)

So my regular knitting shop was closed yesterday when I decided I wanted to try this One Hour Scarf idea I’ve been seeing on the bulletin boards and chatrooms on Ravelry. so i go to Michael’s and all they have are size 13’s in plastic (have you ever used plastic? I haven’t and I don’t know how I feel about them…). So, on a whim, I swing by my other knitting store (the Naked Sheep) and she’s open. Score.

Well I tell her my plan (blah blah blah worsted blah blah blah double yarn blah blah) and she’s like WELL you can use a size 11 or 13 (she said they don’t make a 12; who knew?) and it’ll work just as well but she’s all out of 13s. then she says that she knows me and I’m in there enough that she trusts me, and that if I want to borrow her size 13’s she’d be fine with it. she's super sweet and super nice and really great, but this seems kind of inappropriately kind since i'm not there nearly as much as i'm at the Yarn Girl, and to be quite honest, i only shop there when Yarn Girl is closed; that's my knitting "home away from home". I politely decline and she takes me to the size 11’s. it's all good.

Suddenly, this woman who’s sittin there knittin, leaps up outta her chair and tells me I must borrow her size 13 Addi Turbos*. She’s got the ones like my mom, with the interchangeable cable, etc, only they’re the version 2.0 that people  like. I’m all, Thanks but no and she refuses to take no for an answer. So I’m starting to get really uncomfortable and she’s still thrusting these needles at me like the mother of an ugly fat girl on prom night, but I’m trying really hard not to be a dick to this woman who’s all “we’re a community of knitters” and “this just means you have to come back and show us what you’re working on”, etc. I know, at this point, I’m blushing like a virgin, but only because I don’t know how to get her to leave me alone without jamming the needle in her neck.

So I stop and I’m like, “Ma’am thanks; I really appreciate it and I’m absolutely, positively touched that you’d loan your needles to a perfect stranger, but I really really can’t accept them. I can’t tell you how wonderful the gesture is, and I know you mean it, but I just can’t”. she has no idea what to say. Really. she's dumbfounded that i won't take her needles.  i paid for my needles and got the hell out of there leaving only dust bunnies and yarn balls behind me.

i mean, i get why she was all We Are the World and shit, but it hit a level of creepy i haven't experienced in years. besides: i'm a new yorker; the minute you, a complete stranger, act nice to me, i check my wallet and fight off the crippling feeling of vertigo brought on by instant and incalculable sense of mistrust.

next time i go needles shopping i'm bringing pepper spray.

*these are the Lamborghini of knitting needles, kids.