Yarn Charades

Once upon a time, I was the assistant manager of a mall music store (Sam Goody, if you’re old enough to remember them). I thought it was going to be fifty shades of Empire Records, but alas, it was not. Oh it had it’s fun moments, to be sure, but Rex Manning never came to visit and schtupp the resident minx, nor did manager look like Anthony La Paglia. It was just another mall job; Hollywood lied to me again. The best part of the job, by far was not chasing shoplifters through the mall, but playing Name That Tune with the customers:

Customer: I’m looking for a song. I don’t know who sings it.
Me: ok…do you know the lyrics..?
Customer: I don’t know who sings it, but it kinda sounds like two guys
Me: gotcha. Can you hum it.
Customer: random tuneless humming and mumbling of lyrics
Me: um. What about the chorus…?
Customer: something about “bright eyes”
Me: do you mean “turn around/bright eyes”..?
Customer: YEAH!!!
Me: um yeah...that’s Bonnie Tyler; Total Eclipse of the Heart
Customer: Great! Gimme the single!
Me: the song is 15 years old; there’s no single
Customer: oh…then forget it.

Bear in mind, this was before iPhones with Shazam or Soundhound or Songify. I was Shazam. Better than that: I was CawfeeBoy: Music Detective, able to use my ridiculously eclectic music taste (and those of my friends who I’d call when stumped) for good and help those who needed it; I was performing a public service for those in need. i used to love those customers, but mostly because I felt superior to them for their ignorance. Never did I think I’d ever become one of those customers.

Live and Learn

“Any day you haven’t learned something, is a wasted day”; that’s what my mom always said. So, for the last 35 years, I’ve made it a point to not waste the day. the 1st eighteen years were pretty much a given; something was always new and, by the time I had reached eighteen, I was convinced I knew everything. Luckily I was wrong and still managed to learn a little something about life every day, the most important of which was that I wasn’t done learning. Fast forward to two years ago when I learned to knit; now, every day was a guaranteed learning experience.

Husband Material

The other day, a business associate called and, as is our custom, we chit-chatted for about 10 minutes prior to getting to the point of her call. See, she’s originally from the Jersey Shore and now lives in San Francisco, so she has this fantastic East Coast mentality with West Coast energy-thing, which I find both interesting and friendly. Having worked together for a number of years, she always asks how Rufus and CawfeeMate are doing, and refers to him as my “partner”; CawfeeMate, not Rufus.

Let me be honest (‘cuz, y’know, I’ve been lying this whole time): of all the ways that one could refer to CawfeeMate, “partner” is one of my least favorite (behind “special friend” and “roommate”); by now, most of you know that words matter to me. When I hear the word “partner” I think of two things: 70’s/80’s cop shows like Cagney and Lacey and Starsky & Hutch, where you were bound to hear one refer to the other as their partner when talking to a third party and Bewitched where Darren worked for McMahon and Tate; we always saw Larry Tate, but never his partner, _____ McMahon*. I’m a child of the TV generation; sue me.

Anyway, the point I’m driving at is this: to me, “partner” is such an emotionless and clinical term for a relationship; it purports that the relationship would not be there if the two people weren’t working towards a common goal and removes all romantic connotations. Even the alternatives provided by the MS Word Thesaurus sound decidedly unromantic (“associate”, “colleague”, “cohort”, “equal”, and “co-worker”). While one might certainly argue the homo-erotic subtext found in both Cagney and Lacey and Starsky & Hutch, the relationships were work related. That’s not my relationship with CawfeeMate; he’s my husband. Emotionally, spiritually and legally.

You (Unfortunately) Can't Spell Christmas Without Christ

The other day I was goofing off at work on break, checking out Facebook, when I saw a friend’s status update mention that he and his husband were out to eat and he was less than thrilled because a religious Christmas song came on. It got me thinking:

I, myself, am not religious. While I was raised Roman Catholic, and spent about 16 years in the Catholic educational system, I remember reaching a point in that education (around senior year of high school) where I found it all quite distasteful, duplicitous and shameful; owing to having known too many Catholics (both professionally and recreationally) who were just awful, rotten people. Still, I wound up attending a catholic college (for the education) and it’s been more than a decade since I last received Communion or sought penance; since to do either seemed hollow and hypocritical. Nowadays, with all the crap being handed to the gays by right wing religious nuts, I find most organized religions abhorrent and especially bristle when it comes to “Christians”. The “Christians” drive me particularly nuts, since most of them are so ridiculously cult-like, preying on the dimwitted, weak-willed and empty; not to mention the tentacles of evil that have wound their way into politics. Nope, I’m not a fan of religion.

 Except when it comes to Christmas. I love Christmas; always have and always will.

 

the Clap

The other day I was on the F train, heading home from work, knitting the 2nd in a pair of socks for the huz, when a woman tapped me on the shoulder to chat. Now, you regular reader(s) of my blog know that this is not uncommon, especially on the train; people women will randomly tap me on the shoulder (on account of my headphones) and tell me one (or all) of the following:

1. how much they like/love/are impressed by whatever I’m knitting
2. relay a quick anecdote about their mother/grandmother knitting
3. how they used to knit when they were a little girl
4. how interesting/odd/nice it is to see a man knitting

Well, this woman was no exception, she tapped my shoulder on Delancy Street and talked me up ‘til I got up at 34th and hit all 4 topics; insisting that I was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. Though she used to crochet, she wasn’t very good and couldn’t imagine making a sock with such tiny needles (“especially four of them”)! She was an absolute sweetheart and totally made my day, as random well-wishers tend to. See, that’s the thing: I love having strangers (with whom I’d normally have absolutely no social interaction) randomly telling me how awesome I am; it’s become a bit of a drug.

High End Moral Dilemma #237

I go to the same Starbucks, every day, before i go in to work.  It's conveniently located up the block from my office and is barely a mentionable detour, on the way from the F train. Granted, it can get ridiculously busy and overcrowded, throughout the day, but it's the only Starbucks within walking distance. Oh and did i mention i'm currently in a battle for Mayor of this particular Starbucks, on Foursquare? i digress. I know all the baristas; most by name, but a couple only by face; and they, in turn, know me and my “drinks”. Most of them know that Monday through Thursday I get a venti bold classic with 3 pumps and Fridays are usually a 5 shot venti skim something or other (initially this was to limit my caffeine and sugar but has, more recently, been to save money). Most of them also know to wait for what kind of 5 shot venti skim beverage i want; sometimes it's a Caramel Latte, sometimes it's a Peppermint Mocha, once in a blue moon it's a White Mocha; lately it's been a Cinnamon Dolce Latte.  sorry, another digression...where was it? oh yeah...

Ho-Ho-Hold UP

The holidays are right around the corner and I’m totally not having any of it. I’ve been seeing all kinds of Christmas decorations in my travels around 3 of the 5 boroughs, since Halloween. Wasn’t Halloween, like, last Tuesday? “My” Starbucks has had their iconic red cups since November 1st and started serving Christmas Blend this past Monday. It’s all happening way too quickly for me.

It Can Get Better

A few weeks ago, a friend updated his Facebook status to say:

“I am so sick of all the ‘stop the hate. Together’ and associated ‘it gets better’ bullshit. Enough with the pussification of america. How about ‘sometimes it sucks’ and ‘stick up for youself’ and ‘don’t be a coward’ hate and bullying are a lot older than any of us and cannot be stopped. Teach independence, not cowardice”.

Naturally, I was outraged. A few weeks later, I posted a link to Unicorn Booty’s article on the suicide of Jamie Hubley with the comment “he shoulda just manned up, right” and his response was:

“Well, he did want to be a unicorn. Self cutting? Suicide blogs? Where’s mom and dad? Sad, yes, but necessary, no. I was the only out gay kid in HS and I got out and graduated in 3 years rather than taking a swan dive off a bridge. My point is, there are options other than suicide. Now it seems almost fashionable, which, in my opinion, only increases the level of cowardice of the act”.

again, I was outraged...but a little less so... See, on one hand he’s right. Where were this kid’s parents? Teachers? Didn’t his doctor/pediatrician notice the kid was cutting himself?

That said, I continued with the outrage…

Tic Toc Tic Toc Tic Toc

Okay, I’ll admit it: I live by certain sets of rules. I have rules for just about everything: being a straphanger, grammar, workplace etiquette, winter driving; the list of lists of rules goes on for days. These rules (and many more*) have taken me 35 years to craft and have served me well over that time. There’s one rule, though, that I’ve come to think of as a matter of social convention; one that almost everyone must should abide by: punctuality.

R-E-S-P-etc.

This post probably won’t win me Miss Congeniality; it might actually be cause for the Boy Scouts of America to revoke a few merit badges and the ACLU to cut up my membership card.

I was heading home on the bus the other day and people were getting on, at various stops, along 42nd street. By the time the bus had hit 7th avenue, all the seats were taken, which is nothing new; usually, the bus home is packed, with only one or two empty seats. When the bus hit 8th avenue, the bus driver explicitly told the people waiting that the bus was full and it was SRO. Again, this isn’t uncommon, either; at least once a week, there are people standing in the aisle. Well this particular night, only one person opted to stand. He was a heavy set, older man (late sixties?), clearly as affected by the heat as everyone else. What struck me, though, is that he got on knowing there weren’t any seats available and then looked from passenger to passenger with an expression that I interpreted to mean “ok, which one of you is going to stand so I can sit”? I don’t know why I interpreted it as such, he never said that out loud (at least not that I could hear over my headphones), but that’s what my inner Jean Grey picked up. He just looked so…expectant. i won’t lie and tell you that I leapt up and gave him my seat, because that’s not what happened. I’ll admit, I was very tempted to give him my seat; but I didn’t.

You Don't Have to Be Crazy to Work Here...

It seems there are a few things that weren't covered in the new hire orientation or in the employee handbook we need to read and affirm annually:

1. Elevator etiquette: if you see someone running towards the elevator, and there’s room, hold the door for them. We’re all in a hurry to go somewhere, whether it’s home or up to your desk, would it kill you show some courtesy? Oh and when/if they do make it in time and cause the doors to re-open so they can get on, don’t give them attitude/face; you’re the jerk, not them.

2. Speaker of the House: unless you’re in your own office, with a door that closes, speakerphone is incredibly irritating to those around you. how 'bout picking up that receiver, buddy?

3. Potty Mouth: guys, if you’re too pee shy to use a urinal, at least have the decency to lift the seat in the stall. Or, if you can’t wait that long, clean it off afterward, y’filthy animal.

4. Spellbound: outlook has spell check, built-in, let it do its job…please.

5. Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood: your cubicle is not a self contained biosphere sealing you off from your co-workers, other people can see you picking your nose, hear you belching and smell your wretched lunch.

6. Door Jam: ladies bitches, having a door held open for you is a privilege, not a right; try saying “thank you” and reciprocating once in a while



7. Finger Print: Printer etiquette has been a pet peeve of mine, for years; so much so, that it had a list of its own, way back when and then again, a few years later. i still stand behind both posts.
ladies

Might I Have a Word?

So, as I mentioned in my previous post, I’ve become sort-of addicted to Words With Friends. I say sort-of, because despite the fact that I have eleven games going, with people from almost every facet of my life*, I think it’s a pretty healthy addiction.

When I was a kid, we had Family Game night, once every few weeks (and after dinner on major holidays). Often it was either Trivial Pursuit or Uno, but every once in a while it’d be Scrabble. Looking back, our games probably weren’t high scoring ones; I think we all wanted to put down a “good” word more than we wanted to maximize our points. I know that, for me, it was all about showing off my vocabulary. Winning was a happy accident and fifteen point words were the norm. It’s only now, almost twenty years later, that I realize that other people (read: everyone else who plays the game) are actually playing to win and the best way to do that is to get the most points for each word they put down. Yeah, I know, this seems elementary, but I never put the two things together until CawfeeMate, Breen Lantern and Magenta Sequins started laying down forty and fifty point words; doubling or tripling my score and beating me by one hundred and fifty points or more. CawfeeMate was nice enough to explain to me that while DJIN is a fun word, unless it’s on a double or triple word multiplier, it’s not worth putting on the board.

So, I learned strategy:

1. always save your S’s
2. build off the beginning or end of another word to get double the points
3.  sometimes it’s better to put down a 3 point word on this turn and let your opponent open up the path to the double word or triple letter multiplier
4.  if you have to swap out letters, it’s not worth swapping less than 5 (see #1)
5. get rid of Qs, Js, Xs and Zs as soon as you can

I also learned how frustrating electronic scrabble is:

1. QI, JO and XI have to be the most frustrating two letter words on the planet; almost nobody knows what they mean, but everyone uses them to unload those pesky letters that are otherwise impossible to use later in the game.
2. The “random distribution” of letters is frequently debatable; I just went through a two week drought where, in almost every game I was playing, I never had fewer that either five vowels or five consonants and at least two sets of duped letters
3. there are no two letter words that start with either the C or V
4. I have no idea what dictionary the game uses, but I’d love to know how it defines words like JANE, TURFY, and RIAL.
5. Some people cheat using other iPhone apps; those people never get a rematch.

All in all, though, I’m loving this game. I like being able to chat with people I don’t get to interact with, otherwise; it’s also makes a nice diversion from knitting straight through my daily commute to and from work and from work itself (where i can't knit). It’s also nice to know that even though certain players continue to kick my ass with 75 point words I’ve never seen, I can occasionally beat them (even if it is only one game out of every ten we play).

send me an invite, but be warned: now that i've got a strategy i'm a little harder to beat...until i get stuck with three I's  a Q, Z, J & X again...
*High School classmates, former co-workers from my 1st Mall Job, current co-workers, Blog buddies, Facebook Friends, actual friends, and even friends & co-workers of CawfeeMate

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.

Color by Numbers

you know that people don’t, as a matter of course, have green hair?

It’s true. Green hair is “unconventional”; rebellious, even.

Up until recently, I had no idea.

As most (read: both) of you, who read my blog (whenever I update the damn thing) know, I’m color blind. On the off chance this is news to you, I’ll explain it as briefly and as succinctly as possible:

It’s red/green color blindness which also includes brown. It’s not that I don’t see red, green or brown (I’m not a dog, people), I just have a really hard time differentiating between the three when they’re all the same shade*. i’m not sure, exactly, how it works but I think a very large part of it is psychological since I know stop signs and fire engines are red and streetlights are red green and yellow, etc.

it’s other stuff that’s tricky; things like produce, plant life and hair color. These three things are not required to be one color or another. They can, and often are, any color. It’s this “grey area” that throws my brain into a tizzy.

For example, Sundays is the day we do our weekly food shopping at the local Stop & Shop or the not-so-local Wegman’s. If CawfeeMate is tied up with homework, I’ll go alone to Stop & Shop and, invariably, spend an extra twenty minutes in the produce aisle trying to buy apples for his lunch. See, CawfeeMate prefers “Golden Delicious” apples over the other varietals (while I, myself, prefer apples only in pie form). What i have learned since shopping for his apples is that the “golden” in the title refers to the color which the apple aspires to be (if an apple can be said to have any aspirations, at all); the apples start off green and become “golden”. This color change is, apparently, quite evident to those of you born with the typical number of cones in your eyes, thus letting y’all know which ones are, in fact, golden and delicious as their name suggest. To me, however 99.9% of the apples in the Golden Delicious bin look exactly the same with their bruised skin as the only indicator of which ones to toss in my cart. Another fun fact about apples, unlike other fruit or vegetables, you can’t leave them in a bag to ripen; they stay green (or so I’m told).
It seems that, when in doubt, my brain fills in the proverbial blanks. How it chooses the colors  is a mystery to me though. I’m pretty sure it goes by what I think I know. From the time we’re little, we’re taught that trees have brown trunks and green leaves so all trees, to me, regardless of the season, have a brown trunk and varying shades of green leaves (I’m guessing that if the leaves turn brown or dark red, I’m seeing these as darker green). Visually speaking, autumn is not quite as fun and fab for CawfeeGuy as it is for the rest of you.

Hair color, though, is my favorite. For a ridiculously long time, I thought CawfeeMate’s goatee was green; I would’ve sworn to it on a stack Cher LP’s. I knew it wasn’t green, that it was either red or some shade of brown, but couldn’t be certain which. My brain defaults to (what I have heard described as) acid green: the same color I recognize as the glow inside a Borg ship, on Star Trek: Voyager. It, like the hair color of thousands of other people I’d met, was kinda fab. It was only when I asked him about it, like a week ago, that I found out it was “strawberry blonde”. This led him to break to me gently that people don’t, usually have green hair, unless it’s a “statement”. This I actually knew, if the truth can be told. Over the last 34 years I’ve seen way too many old ladies with “green” hair. I just never took the time to find out what color it was supposed to be.

This phenomenon still entertains the huz, after 6 years together. He’s often told me that he kinda feels sorry for me that autumn isn’t the explosion of colors for me that it is for him and that Christmas decorations don’t “pop” for me like they do for him. The other day at breakfast he wondered aloud what my experience would be if, suddenly, I could see colors the way other people could. I told him that it would probably be just as dramatic as the 1st time I put on glasses in the 6th grade and everything snapped into focus for the 1st time ever, but that I was quite content not being able to see what everyone else sees.
Sure it’d make shopping for food and clothes easier and it’d be nice to have the Christmas and autumn experiences that y’all have, but I’ve made it through 34 years okay. Just don’t be surprised if, when you’ve just come from the salon, I look at your highlights a little funny.

*FYI: it also means that I have a hard time telling blue and purple, and orange and yellow apart.

the Magic Number

not too long after I started knitting, I found a great pattern i wanted to use to make a Coffee Cup Cozy, but the yarn & needles I had would've yielded a much bigger cozy (think: Super Big Gulp Cozy). now, I'd read that patterns could be altered using ratios and measurement and gauge but had no idea how to do that. naturally, I asked my better half, since he's as fluent in math as the last president was at hate-mongering. it took me ten minutes to explain what i wanted to do, ten to explain what my knitting books were telling me to do and five for him to figure out the ratio of what I had versus what I wanted, and how I could get what I wanted with what I had. oh and another fifteen for him to explain it all to me (during which, I swear-to-god he started talking backwards just to fuck with me). at the end of the entire process I was no closer to understanding how he figured out the answer, but I was convinced my husband was truly a Hot Gay Nerd with Great Magical Powers.

math, I'm convinced, is magic; a strange and potent magic, written in the language of numbers. like any other kind of magic, some people understand and are adept at it and some people are hopeless muggles. I fall into the latter category.

I 'get' simple addition, subtraction, multiplication and division, but when talk turns to ratios and percentages and fractions (specifically their addition, subtraction and multiplication), that's where I will swear that something mystical is taking place.
higher math, like algebra, geometry, calculus and other stuff I barely passed in high school, is even more arcane and mysterious. most algebra problems...with their variables and parenthetical equations... look to me, like the recipe to turn lead into gold; 'sine', 'cosine' and 'tangent' may as well be 'bibbity bobbity boo'. I remember looking at classmates and wondering, "how do you understand this? the teacher isn't speaking English"!

see, I'm not 'stupid', I'm just scared of numbers; as surely as I'm scared of bugs and clowns and bridges. okay...maybe not in exactly the same way. lets just say I severely mistrust numbers in the same way i mistrust the Russians, Log Cabin Republicans and any gay movie netflix swears I'll love.
the thing is, math (like the 1st two), is cold and emotionless; utterly devoid of poetry or true beauty. it's also (paradoxically unlike the 1st two) inherently incapable of lying or falsehood. a mathematical product is what it is, and is subject to no man's interpretation.

I'm a word guy (contrary to what my Words With Friends opponents may tell you). words define how i think and process information; words are how i define my world and experiences. human beings have, over the millennia, crafted millions of words, each as distinct and particular in meaning and intention as a crayon in the super-huge box of Crayolas. with those words, humans can either create the verbal equivalent of stick figures or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. me? I'm kinda like a Garfield comic. numbers and math have no such subtlety or ability to create.

that's not to say that I think they're useless; quite the opposite, actually. they're great tools for creation. bridges get built on numbers, computers run on them like gas and they're the reason I get paid twice a month; even in my new hobby, knitting, numbers and math are essential. math really is everywhere, all around us, all the time. that doesn't mean I understand it any better. like The Force and other forms of magic it's just waiting for those who can understand it, to tap into its power.

there's a reason the word 'mathematician' sounds an awful lot like 'mad magician'.

Bleeech Friday

this is the 1st Black Friday i've worked in about 6 years and, lemme tell you: never again.

my tradition of taking off, the day after Thanksgiving, dates back to my days in retail. See, for those of you who don't know, i was a retail whore for close to ten years. The Staten Island Mall was my stomping ground, and i worked the corner of a Ma & Pop suit store (where i spent nearly 9 years) and Sam Goody, throughout college and beyond. looking back with the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, smeared with the vaseline of being a corporate/finance drone, i can honestly say that those were good days; the hours were great, the pay was good (well above minimum wage) and i liked the people. Black Friday was the high holy day of retail, which meant a guaranteed open-to-close work day for senior staffers and commission on the sales you made (or those "given" to you by the cashiers). Black Friday set the tone for entire Christmas Season, and its psychotically frenzied atmosphere was a harbinger of the crazy days which lasted till New Year's Eve. it was not at all uncommon for the hours to fly by like minutes, leaving you hungry and thirsty because you'd skipped both breakfast and lunch. it was glorious.

the meaning of Black Friday changed, post-retail. sure i'd haul out the Christmas CD's and start writing out cards, but it also meant i didn't have to work, to make money. joining corporate america meant "paid vacation days" and what better way to use one than to give oneself a 4 day weekend following a bi-annual schlepp to Long Island*? after our 1st Thanksgiving spent on Long Island, i realized that getting home close to midnight and having to get up for work the next day was about as palatable as CawfeeMate's WASP aunt's cooking. There began the tradition of taking off on Black Friday.

Black Friday now took on a new meaning: post-Thanksgiving clean up and Christmas decorating! it was a glorious tradition which went wonderfully smooth, until this year. just like all the previous years, i put my vacation request in on January 2nd and didn't give it a 2nd thought. That is, until K---y, my dimwitted co-worker, came to me in September to let me know she'd be off this week. When i asked her how that was possible, she shrugged and told me that Cunty had granted signed off on her request that day. Apparently, Cunty never put me in for the day; livid does not even begin to explain how i felt.

so, here i am, at work on Black Friday wishing i wasn't. Everybody else in the world seems to be off, but i'm here at my desk (despite the numerous commuting hurdles i had to jump this morning, which got me here half an hour late). it could be worse, though. my office could've had a Door Buster.


*When the huz and i had 1st met, we realized that the holidays would be dicey. Both coming from Italian-American backgrounds, the holidays are a big deal to our mothers; in the interest of fairness, equinimity and to minimize agita, we decided to alternate the holidays: Thanksgiving at Casa Del CawfeeGuyMom, Christmas Eve at Chateau CawfeeMateMom, Christmas Day at Casa Del CawfeeGuyMom, Easter at Chateau CawfeeMateMom; the following year we'd switch (despite my mom swearing we spent all the holidays with my in-laws). on the years we'd spend Thanksgiving with the CawfeeMate family, we'd drive out to Long Island which meant leaving early in the morning and getting home late at night (the drive between LI and SI is nothing but bumper to bumber traffic).

Random Life Lesson #56

yesterday, while on the way home from work, i heard (between songs on my iPod) an announcement in the subway station telling people not to stick hands or bags between the doors in an attempt to stop them. the announcer was very irate about this and stressed that there was no need to hold the train; there's always another one behind it. this reminded me of my own train door story...

a few years ago, while on the way home from AIDS Walk NY, CawfeeMate and i had planned to take the subway from Central Park, down to the Village (or possibly Chelsea) for dinner and some window shopping. Thankfully, he is one of those New Yorkers that knows where all the trains stop, start and wind up; which are locals, which run express, which have good air conditioning and the best overhead lighting. he guided us to the nearest subway entrance as a train was pulling in. being the complete opposite in every way, i have no idea which trains go where, but my golden retriever-esque brain flashed the urgent message "there's a train" and i bolted to catch it, regardless of whether or not it was "our" train.

as it turns out it wasn't and with one foot in and one foot out, CawfeeMate grabbed me by my backpack before we were separated. in an instant, the doors closed aroudn the ankle of the one foot which was in, which happened to be wearing a leather flip-flop. after several seconds, the doors opened and i was able to extricate myself from the door. sadly, now the flip flop was stuck in the door. this time, though the doors didn't open and i chased after the train and eventually retrieve it.

the entire affair couldn't have taken more than 30 seconds, but provided a lifetime of lessons, not the least important of which is that i never attempt to hold the doors on a departing train and will never wear flip-flops to the AIDS Walk ever again.

See You Next Week, Kids!

i'm on...

Supersize Me

i have an incredibly "love/hate" relationship with food; i love to eat, but i hate to gain weight.
i love food; meat, vegetables, bread, cakes, sweets. i come from foodies and my mom and dad raised me to try everything before saying i don't like it. lately i've even begun to re-visit things i hadn't liked in the past, attempting to see if my taste really has changed*.
the problem is, i like food a little too much. over the last 33 years i've lost and gained and lost and gained to an almost ridiculous degree; i'm starting to feel like Kirstie Alley. here are the highlights:

• (1999, about a year after graduating college) i was 165 lbs and wearing a size 30 jeans*, thanks to a really hot mexican guy who gave me mono.
• (2006) a year before CawfeeMate and i tied the knot  i was 210 lbs
• (2007) thanks to Weight Watchers, i was down to 172 by the time we got married, on October 6th.
• (2008) a year later, i was up to 190 lbs, when we got married (again) on October 11th. 
• as of this morning, i'm down to 173 lbs.
  
  
  

i can pretty much point to my complete unwillingness to participate in any physical activity as the cause of my ascent to 210. i do not like sports. i do not like to exercise. given the opportunity, i would lie around (be it on the couch or in a hammock), reading and playing videogames all day. actually, that's exactly what i did for six months, in 2003, while i was unemployed and mooching off CawfeeMate;  that's where the bulk of my...bulk...came from. 

but, in the end, all the rest of the ups and downs all come back to food.

i almost always want to eat, but i know that i can't.

i could snack all day at work; i could drop $5 a day on the lady who sits 3 desks over and sells snack-sized bags of chips and cookies and pretzels and things...but i walk by her every day and only say hello.

at home, i'd gladly indulge in second helpings of whatever we make for dinner***,  and then sit down to watch tv with thebag of pita chips and a tub of hummus we got from Costco...but, instead, i measure out one portion of chips (admitedly about 2 cups) and about half a cup of the hummus. and dessert? i could easily down half a pint of Ben & Jerry's Cake Batter ice cream or half a package of Oreos or Mallomars in an evening, instead of stopping after one scoop or 3 cookies.

if i didn't exercise restraint, i'd feel terrible about myself. i'd be racked with good old fashioned catholic flavored guilt about not being able to overcome my basest urges. because that's what it's all about, at the end of the day: being able to lie in bed**** and say "your will-power stopped you from eating today". well that and being able to fit in size 32 pants.

i slipped this morning and indulged in the craving i've had for McDonald's breakfast. There's alot of fat and alot of calories in a bacon, egg and cheese on a bagel, folks, but i had to give in. there was no way i'd be able to make it another day without one. so, as "penance" i skipped lunch and will forgo my after dinner chips and hummus. as i finish writing this (i started about 4 hours ago), i'm unbelievably hungry. Debbie, the chip lady, has one bag of Cinnamon Scooby Snack graham crackers left (only 55 cents!) but i'm going to walk past her, on the way out the door, no matter how tempted i am to slip twice in one day.

i have to will myself not to because each time i do, it's another step closer toward 210...someplace that i refuse to ever see again.

* i have CawfeeMate to thank for this, since his way of cooking and tastes aren't quite the same as mine. he's a brilliant cook, so chances are if he makes it, i'll like it.

** truth to be told, i probably should've been wearing a size 32, but i was 23 and had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of and make change, so why quibble?

*** 99% of the time, whatever we cook is made in a way that the WW gurus would approve of: low fat or no fat cheeses on our pizza, chicken sausage, green vegetables every day, measured portions, little or no oil, nothing fried, etc.
**** maybe this explains why CawfeeMate tells me that i "sleep eat"; that is: make noises like i'm eating and drinking, in my sleep.

Gays of Future Past

anyone who knows me can probably attest that, when it comes to my looks, i'm not a "blow my own horn" kinda guy; if anything, i've been told (by CawfeeMate) that i have more than a few body dismorphic issues. this is, conservatively speaking, a pretty fair assesment of me. having grown up with a weight problem and other issues, i'm usually very uncomfortable and unhappy with how i look. i seldom believe the odd compliment i may receive, and it's extremely rare when i feel young, handsome and/or thin. yesterday, though, i felt all three at the same time. i owe it all to being in a room of eight older (55+), overweight, unattractive gay men at a brunch hosted by a friend of CawfeeMate. call it "schadenfreude for the vain".

we had been, invited a number of weeks ago by a friend whom CawfeeMate sees almost annually; for argument's sake, i'll refer to this friend as HowOdd*.Anyway, the invitation was for a 1pm brunch in Queens. no other details (ie. guestlist) were included in the e-mail invite and even while driving there we wondered if it would be mutual friends of CawfeeMate and HowOdd, from the hospital they had both worked at (HowOdd had recently retired). When we walked in, i was immediately struck with the knowledge that, for the 1st time in a very long time, i was the youngest person in the room by about  25 years (with CawfeeMate coming a very close second by being only 7 years my senior). Ordinarily, facts like that don't really phase me; like Nicky Arnstein (and a sponge), i can usually fit in almost anywhere. i've always hung out with a slightly older crowd and have been attracted to/enjoyed the company of older men, so i'm fairly comfortable with the salt-and-peppered hair set. this group, though, was another story. Our arrival was met with the cocktail party silence of a group of people, who already know each other, sizing up the newbies. introductions were made and CawfeeMate and i stood together, nursing our Bloody Marys, till brunch was served. during the 15 or 20 minutes between our arrival and the food observed the following:

• with the exception of myself and CawfeeMate, everyone assembled was either retired or ten minutes away from retirement.
• one man had, perhaps, the worst wig/toupee i have ever seen, bar none in a completely unbelievable shade of red as to suggest Raggedy Andy or Ronald McDonald. within 5 minutes of meeting him it struck me that he was also incredibly pretentious, bordering on obnoxious.
• two gentlemen had obvious dye jobs (c'mon mary, nobody's hair is that black after the age of forty. who are you, Anne Miller?)
• one couple (there were three) looked like brothers.

after my initial shock/knee-jerk-bitch reaction relaxed and wore off (or perhaps the 2nd Bloody Mary kicked in) we sat around talking and i learned:

• one of the guys was a retired figure skater!
• this was the pre-Stonewall generation
•  they'd all, obviously, survived the 80's and the AIDS epidemic.
• with the exception of WigMan, they were all exceptionally interesting to talk to, having been "there" and done "that" several decades before i was even a thought.
• we're everywhere and have been forever
• talk of Shirley Bassey, clubs and drag queens transcends every gay generation

after a while the mood transitioned from uncomfortable to surreal. it was like looking way into the future (like in Spice World or that episode of AbFab) and seeing my friends...in their sixties...sitting around eating bagels, lox and ruggelach remembering the "gay nineties"...

*HowOdd was CawfeeMate's supervisor at a previous job and despite their sigificant age difference (both HowOdd and his boyfriend are in their early sixties), HowOdd's incredibly strange sense of humor and CawfeeMate's change of jobs they remained friendly.