Scared Straight

          I do not usually allow myself to get dragged into the middle of political debates.  Having more degrees than a thermometer, this is my brother’s arena and best left to him.  However, in today’s politically charged climate, I feel it necessary to climb atop my soapbox and weigh in.  I have to warn readers that my comments may be offensive, but I will not apologize for the truths that I hold closest and will spout them on occasion if compelled…and after certain comments made by recent presidential contenders, I am convicted to write.

                This country affords many opportunities and I feel very fortunate to have been blessed to have been born in a southern home with traditional Christian values that were tested and then disregarded by my parents who chose to love me, their gay son, unconditionally.  My parents were bible-toting, foot- stomping, revival-loving Christians and after they found out that I was not going to be what they had imagined me to be, they prayed for answers and most often the ones that they found were from a society that holds homosexuals in poor regard or in downright contempt. 

Not only does the bible say that it is immorally and sinfully wrong to be gay, but most people think it is wrong, or not right, or just unnatural to be gay.  While I do not agree with those that spout biblical rhetoric as justification to their prejudices, I can understand their convictions.  Let me explain, why this point is so relevant to the mass population as well.

You have most likely heard that America is a puritanical society.  This is undisputed.  America was founded within the limited constraints of religion.  This “religiosity” or fundamental approach to our lives as a whole is still very much pervasive today.  Whether or not you are Christian, Baptist, Jewish, Muslim, or any number or combination of faiths, you are influenced by them and their doctrines.  Sorry to inform you, but yes, even you, the Agnostics, Wiccans, Mystics and Atheists are shaped by the same “godly” principles.  This is called social conditioning and it is inescapable.  We are all brought up believing in dogma whether it is from our parents, our friends and relatives, our churches or through advertising. 

Today, advertising is most arguably the biggest and direct influence in any of our lives.  We are bombarded from birth images that portray heterosexuality as the ideal.  Love is for heterosexuals.  Sex is for heterosexuals.  Marriage and family are also only relevant and natural for heterosexuals.  Anything in contrast is morally reprehensible and detrimental to our societal fabric.  “Being gay is wrong.  If you choose to be a fag, you will live a life of pain and lonely bitterness.”  Pay attention, WE ARE ALL TAUGHT THIS MESSAGE!  IT IS NOT SUBTLE.  IT IS OVERT AND VERY BLATENT. 

There have been few great advancements in the rights of gay people in this country or even globally, because no matter your sexual orientation, you are socially conditioned to hate gay people.  I will not argue the semantics of that statement with Christians that say “We love the sinner, but hate the sin.”  We are all taught that we hate gay.  This is especially tragic for gay people, because they grow up hating themselves. 

Because most of my faithful readers know that I can never seem to make a point without circumnavigating around and through and then back again, I will try now to do so.  To my gay family, my brothers and sisters who have known more struggle and oppression than is imaginable to most, we must become a viable force in this country to effect long term change.  We have to stop hating ourselves and stop tearing each other down in bars, gyms and cafes due to labels that society defines appropriate.

“He’s too fem.”  “He’s a gym bunny.”  “He’s a nelly bottom.”  “He’s a slut.”  Just stop and insist on better, because let me tell you now that the straight girls that you may be dancing with, or your straight fraternity brothers that you share beer with, will NEVER know you like that queer that you might be making fun of.   It is impossible for a single straight person to empathize with who you are in the core way that all gay people can relate. 

Listening to Michele Bachmann, I am reminded of the significance of solidarity.  I believe that the issues that should matter in the next election will take a backseat to issues in the bedroom.  All the heterosexually oriented people, despite race or gender, which cast their vote, will undoubtedly and far outnumber the homosexual.  There are more people that will choose to express their distaste for homosexuals while in the safe and anonymous confines of the ballot booth than not. Those same people that laugh at Will & Grace and party with us at clubs are the same ones that will vote against our rights in the next election and I am frightened…and I for one will be scared straight to the polls, if nothing more than with a single message.  “I refuse to allow your blatant or subconscious views to define the individual view of myself any longer.  I will love myself in the way that I love others and will be an example for a generation.”

Roller Coasters

          A couple of weeks ago, I went to an amusement park with a group of friends.  Worlds of Fun boasted descriptions like “Tallest,” “Fastest,” and even “Meanest” on billboards along the side of the highway twenty miles before we even got to the actual park.  Now I should probably mention that while I do not particularly enjoy roller coasters, I decided to tag along on the group outing since my choice of floating in a pool with a pitcher of sangria seemed boring to my friends who are obviously adrenaline junkies.  It’s not like I scare easily, I did survive my childhood virtually unscathed, physically at least.  I would just prefer having my feet firmly planted on the ground, tucked safely inside a pair of comfy shoes instead of, for example, cliff diving into waters that (in my mind) are clearly shark-infested.

                While my closest friends would argue that I am somewhat of a control-freak who tends to go a little nuts when the smallest detail of his perfectly planned life goes astray, I instead see myself as someone who simply sees the beauty in stability.  I don’t feel the need to ride something called “The Prowler,” when, as many of you are aware, I tend to date them.

                Once parked precariously between two high school busses and a thousand miles and a hundred degrees from the entrance, we unpacked ourselves from the car and began the trek towards a promised fun day getaway…according to ten of the highway billboards.  Cheerful music was piped into the parking lot from speakers shaped like various objects such as rocks and plastic shrubbery where I only assume the purpose was to make the mile and a half line more like an attraction and to perhaps take the financial sting out of the forty dollar ticket price.

                Once inside the park, the loops of twisted metal and steel rose above me and all I could hear were deafening screams of terror intermingled with the pungent smell of vomit coming from the sidewalk below.  This made me remember a recent and short-lived relationship where I had met someone that swept me off my feet and took my breath away.  For a few weeks he said all the right things, did all the right stuff and even managed to work in a few perfect moments.  A week after that he just disappeared.  No telephone call, no text message, he just left me scratching my head and my friends wondering what happened. 

                Just like those roller coasters, a new relationship is wonderful and scary all wrapped up in a terrifying splendor of mixed emotions that I had successfully avoided for a very long time.  So long in fact, that I had forgotten how much fun the ride could be.  Although we never know if those brand new relationships will turn out to leave us lying in a heap of twisted emotional carnage or give us the ride of our lives, it is far better than looking up and watching as everyone else experiences the thrill.

Spoiled

          The dissolution of an eight year relationship left me with plenty of time on my hand and lots going on in my mind.  To fill the space and quiet the voices, I decided to return back to school.  Subsequently, the eight years spent living as a Stepford Wife left me somewhat more mature than my college peers…and by mature, I mean older.  As most of my friends, co-workers, colleagues and editor can tell you, I am occasionally prone to tantrums if I do not get my way on an issue that I feel strongly about…or even ambiguously about depending on when you should ask my opinion.

          This sense of entitlement coupled with simply being Southern, I suppose, disposes me with a flair for being “dramatic” bordering on histrionic.  I, however, prefer the term “passionate.”   When someone says that someone else is “passionate about their beliefs,” folks always seem to think that a compliment.  So I like to think myself very passionate.  For example, last week, I was very passionate at the DMV when the lady behind the glass told me that I couldn’t use the same photo that I had been using to renew my driver’s license.  I passionately explained to her that the lighting at her fine location made my skin an eerie color and although the picture on my currently expired license had been taken fifteen years ago, I still looked the same.  Coincidentally, until the lady and I resolve this situation, I cannot technically operate a motor vehicle.  I am trying to stand firm to my conviction, but I never learned to ride a bicycle and the thought of speeding down an expressway leaves me terrified.

                As a child, my mother learned very early to leave me waiting in the car while she ran errands if there was a remote possibility that I would be driven to distraction during one of her trips at something I saw.  Leaving the window cracked for air, I would be left to my own devises with a box of crayons while she paid bills, shopped for groceries, or had her weekly meetings with one of my teachers.

                I concede that I could be a handful at those moments when I spied a new toy lurking on a shelf just out of my reach, begging for me to take it home.  I could literally hear it pleading from behind the shiny, clear wall of plastic.  “Take me home with you,” it would say.  “Our adventures will be legendary.”  I would then begin a soft whine to get my mother’s attention.  After being ignored a few times, I would be forced to shriek and throw myself to the floor kicking and screaming.  My mother was nearly as passionate in her conviction of not allowing me the thing, even though I would always promise never to ask for another thing ever…After a few of those episodes which generally ended in her dragging my limp body out of the store crying, she thought it best to just leave me in the car to avoid upsetting me.

                To this day, I refuse to believe that I was spoiled.  Despite dirty looks from passersby and whispers advising my parents to spank me, my grandmother would say that I was just high-spirited.  She never punished me and would not allow my parents to punish me if she were anywhere around.  Around thirteen, I learned that unreservedly throwing myself to the ground while wailing and kicking rarely produced a desired result and merely looked ridiculous. Instead, I learned to effectively bargain or manipulate circumstances to favor my intents.

                Think or say what you will, but I grew up with the freedom that allowed me the luxury of believing that nothing was out of my reach.   Growing up surrounded by the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, most people struggle to get by, but I was allowed to soar over them. 

As the years passed, I became more and more reserved, more passive and less like the strong-willed aggressive brat that I was once labeled.  After eight years, I no longer recognized who I was, so it was no surprise that my partner didn’t recognize me either.  He began to cheat and then he left me alone with nothing but time to remember the person that should have insisted on better.  Age doesn’t necessarily include wisdom, and I learned early that sometimes you have to wail, kick and scream until you get what you deserve…I just temporarily forgot.

Can you be a re-virgin??

         Sitting in a local coffee shop on Saturday morning last week, I overheard a group of young girls discuss everything that you would expect them to talk about.  Such as cute boys, the latest “Gossip Girl” episode and which jeans do not make their asses look fat.  There was one topic, however, that took me a little by surprise.  It was the idea that if you were to use a condom when having intercourse, that it technically did not count as sex and if you somehow happened to mess that detail up, then all you had to do was abstain from intercourse for seven years to have your “virgin” status reinstated.  Apparently, during that period of celibacy, the hymen reattached itself (magically perhaps?).

                After I chocked on my skinny vanilla soy latte, I had a thought—Wouldn’t it be great if we could all apply those rules to other aspects of our lives.  Sort of like a cosmic do-over concept.  For me, I would start driving without my shoes and the next time I get pulled over for speeding, I would confidently look the officer square in the eyes and say, “Sir, you can just rip that ticket right up, because today, my lead foot isn’t wearing shoes…and after all, speeding doesn’t count if you’re not wearing shoes.”

                I especially love the idea of regaining your virgin status via a waiting game.  This is the anatomical by-law that somehow supersedes the normally mundane rules of life.  Gravity, space-time and physics be damned, The Rule of the Waiting Game trumps mere logic and I, for one am in favor of such a clause.  I am a serial dater and for all attempts and purposes, have not had a real relationship in seven years.  Does this make me a “relationship re-virgin?”

                There is something appealing about waking up and starting fresh.  Before that first break-up, you were braver, more willing to take chances.  Before the first time someone made you cry, you pursued every relationship with reckless abandon.  Before that first broken heart, you saw every opportunity as an infinite amount of possibilities.  The world was brighter, the colors were electric and the glass was always half-full.

                The colors seemed to fade with every heartbreak and you become more fearful, less trusting and more guarded.   Dating became an effort and sometimes a Saturday evening spent in your pajamas beside your faithful schnauzer was far more preferable to a dinner and movie spent with a stranger.

                With every broken heart, every morning that you woke up on a tear-stained pillow, you also gained experience.  You gained wisdom.  If in fact, we are the sum of all our experiences, those experiences not only make us who we are, but give us the opportunity to learn what we are looking for in someone else.  Heartbreak is a tightrope that you walk and it can be awful difficult not to allow yourself to become jaded while you’re gaining that experience through those tears. 

                Listening carefully to those girls at the coffee shop, I wanted to give them some piece of advice to take out the door with them into the cold harshness that awaits them.  Having no desire for a full conversation debunking sexual myths and untruths, I would leave them with this:  Once your heart gets broken the first time, it can never be unbroken.  It will heal, but there will always be a scar to remind us of that experience and urge us to garner the wisdom so that we will never be so reckless with something so precious. 

Broken Birds

          I spent most of my childhood collecting things.  There were the usual things I suppose, different colored rocks that I would stumble across in the backyard or intricately detailed seashells from a summer vacation spent on the beach.  However, one of the things that I collected disturbed my parents far more than the gallons of seashells that took up valuable closet space.  These things were stray animals. 
          I was six years old when I stumbled upon my new hobby.  I can remember every detail of that day so clearly that it could have happened yesterday.  My family's house sat on a hillside up a long winding road that was flanked on both sides by trees that were so tall and old that God himself must have planted them.  They formed a thick canopy over the actual road that grew thicker and thicker the further you traveled.
          Everyday my mother would walk my older brother and me down to the end of the road to catch the school bus and be waiting for us when it was time to get back off.  My mother would guide us through the canopy, past the neighbor's houses, shielding me away from Mrs. Collins and her big black dog, Butch, who was always in a terrible mood when we walked past.   He would pull, growl and strain his chain all the while slobbering and barking up a storm while we ran to the other side of the street to avoid being eaten.
          Butch was the biggest, meanest dog you could imagine.  The whole neighborhood called him “Satan.”  I don’t use that term loosely, trust me, but Butch definitely deserved the title.  My Dad would tell us stories of how Butch would eat our fingers if we wandered too close…or if we refused to clean our rooms, eat our vegetables or generally vexed him too much when he was watching television. 
          After school one day, my brother and I stepped off the bus, but my mom was nowhere in sight.  After carefully weighing our options on whether to wait patiently on my mother or risk missing an afternoon of cartoons, we decided to make the trek to our house.  We justified our decision on the fact that our mother was being incredibly insensitive to not only our schedules, but also to the television station itself.  After all, there would be a lot of folks out of work if kids started missing afternoon programming because of absent-minded mothers.
            Crossing the street while just beginning the voyage home, I heard a muffled chirping sound--faint and barely audible coming from what would be a fallen nest hidden behind a trash can.  Since my brother could not be less interested in what was occupying my attentions, I gently and carefully stuffed the nest and its newborn resident into my coat pocket, being extra careful, right before my mother rounded the corner and scolded us for crossing the street alone.
            I stood patiently while my mom yelled at my older brother and reminding him of all the horrible men walking around in the world just waiting to abduct two little boys that wouldn’t follow their mother’s advice.  She gave us the same speech whenever the opportunity arose and I assumed that the only reason she ever watched the local news was to provide her additional proof that she would then use to keep us inline. While my mother stood wringing her hands in frustration, I couldn’t wait to get back home and nurse my new pet back to health.
            Every day I fed the baby bird squiggly worms and other backyard creatures that I imagined were tasty treats.  My parents began to wonder why I spent so much time in my room that week, but I always came up with an excuse, confident that it was totally believable. After a week, I came rushing home and found my baby bird swaddled in my lower sock drawer motionless and hard as a brick pack.  Even at six, I was prone to histrionics.  I began to wail and cry, throwing myself to the floor, understanding now, that there is no such thing as overreacting to a child.  My mother rushed into my bedroom and saw my little baby bird cupped in my hands and after my sobbing subsided, I told her the entire story.  I was prepared for a lecture on the inherent dangers of bringing potentially rabid birds into her house, but instead, she just scooped me up and held me close until I cried myself to sleep.
            Throughout the rest of my childhood, I repeatedly brought orphaned and abandoned critters into my mama’s house and hid them.  Some were lost, some were hurt and broken.  Most of them died, but there were a few that I was able to care for and nurse back to health.
            This pattern continued into adulthood, but it wasn’t fuzzy squirrels or tiny birds that I swaddled up in my sock drawer—it was guys.  They were the broken creatures that I found and was confident I could fix.  I could heal them and take care of them, and in return, they would love me.
            I see this happening now in the lives of a few of my friends and I want to tell them the lesson that took me too long to learn.  Be careful of those people that you take home and attempt to mend, patiently and selflessly swaddling back to health…most of the time, it is your heart that gets broken.
         

My Birthday is a National Holiday, Damnit!

My birthday is February 14^th.  For all you that are unaware of the significance of this day, allow me to interpret; this is Valentine’s Day.  This is the one day set aside to communicate your feelings of devotion with chocolate treats or shiny trinkets.  It would be unlike me to mention that my birth date happens to coincide with a national holiday for the purposes of soliciting a gift.  As a serious journalist with a public forum, this would pose a small conflict of interest.  Some might see this as wrong.  However, I feel strongly that subtle hints are completely acceptable without being presumptuous.  

After all, who am I to deny the pleasure of another person who happens to faithfully follow the wise mantra of “‘tis better to give than receive” especially on birthdays/federal holidays?   I would maintain that denying a fellow human and more importantly, a loyal reader, this small token would be the real crime.   In a theoretical way, I am doing a service by benevolently allowing someone to bestow bounties to me on my birthday.  Yes, I am the true giver in this situation.

          Although, currently I expect the whole country to celebrate my birthday, my expectations were not always so lofty.  As a kid, my actual birthday, fell more often than not, during the week, so I was unfairly forced to go to school.  Shouldn’t there be a law against forcing anyone to learn on their birthday?   I also assumed that I was kind of an afterthought because my mom would receive a gift as well.  My dad would hand her an enormous heart-shaped box full of the most delicious chocolate candy that I had ever tasted followed by a tiny velvet box that always made her scream.    Usually, I was only allowed a couple pieces before she shut the lid and hid them somewhere in her bedroom (at the top of her closet, over to the left and under her ratty pink bathrobe).

On Saturday, after I waited sometimes an entire week, my folks would throw me a party where there would always be two cakes.  One for the party goers that was purchased in the bakery department of the local Piggly Wiggly and a smaller version personalized just for me that my mother would bake.   My mom has lots of great qualities, but baking is just not one of them.   The boxed Duncan Hines cake mix would of course start out with promises of grandeur, but my mom seemed to annually overestimate her culinary prowess and the more frustrated she became, the more she compensated by having a glass of wine. 

By the time her chocolate heart shaped concoction was carted out, it tended to resemble an actual organ than the one she pictured in her mind.   One year, my mother was proudly delivering her token of love to the table ablaze with candles when we noticed that the candles seemed to shrink on her approach.  The cake actually seemed to be devouring the candles one by one.   My mother seemed blissfully oblivious to this paranormal phenomenon. 

There was a semi-logical explanation for this:  After a couple martinis, my mother fancied herself some sort of structural engineer and since most of the original cake was still in the kitchen stuck to the pan, she simply filled the empty spaces with chocolate frosting.   The hotter that frosting became, the less support it provided to the tiny torches that were precariously perched on top.  By the time the “cake” reached the table, there were only a few lighted nubs barely poking through the surface and the rest were gently sliding down the side. 

It’s hard to fault my mother for her culinary creativity when she was always the loudest singing “Happy Birthday” no matter the condition of the cake when it finally arrived.   My mom hated cooking, she loathed it actually, and I am convinced that we would have all starved to death had it not been for pre-packaged meals and pizza delivery.  So even as a kid, I knew she meant well and did it out of love. 

Now however, as a semi-local pseudo celebrity, born on a global holiday, good intentions are not nearly as favorable to me as tangible tokens.  While I am not overtly requesting that you remember your most trusted dating columnist, turned serious journalist on February 14^th by dropping off wrapped packages at my office, I am hinting that they will not be turned away… That would be rude.

Breaking Wind

During lunch with my editor, she asked me what my column was going to be about this week.   This was her passive aggressive attempt at reminding me of my impending deadline, which I nearly always seem to disregard in my passive aggressive attempt at standing up to the system.  I responded that there were a couple of issues rolling around in my head that I felt necessary to get off my chest.   This is the kind of responses that I always tend to give authority figures that doesn’t necessarily represent the entire truth. 

For example, in high school, I would tell my teachers that my baby brother ate my homework to get an extension on assignments.  I thought using a dog was a bit too clichéd and potentially threaten the validity of my excuse because I didn’t actually have a dog.  What if my teachers started asking questions?  What if they wanted to see pictures of me and Fido playing at the beach or playing fetch in the park?  No, I couldn’t use a canine in my story because my teachers were also fully aware of my allergies.  I couldn’t even sit next to the guinea pig cages in the science lab without breaking into large, boil-like hives.   Coincidentally, this would occasionally cause a pretty large disruption in their lecture after they were forced to jump over a row of desks to inject me with an eppy pen in order to keep me from swallowing my tongue.   I discovered early that when telling a small harmless fib, it is best to keep things simple.  

I did indeed have a baby brother who would, in fact pick up anything found on the floor and immediately pop it into his gaping pie-hole.   To circumnavigate the truth without actually lying, I would scribble my name along with a few sentences on a piece of paper and shove it fist full into my siblings drooling orifice.  Yes, my way was better than using a worn and tired cliché about a dog.

While in an effort to divert attention away from the fact that I may not be the best of employees, I told my editor of my most recent date this week. 

I met my date at my loft and we drove to a local restaurant where I could watch the latest America’s Got Talent and order drinks.  The conversation with my suitor was as easy and as light as my mood.  I decided to take the risk and order actual food.  As a general rule, I avoid things like calamari and spinach dip while on a date due to the pungent odor they leave behind on my breath, but after a couple strong cocktails, I was glad that I had ordered something to soak up the sudden influx of gin that was going straight to my head.

Driving back to my loft after dinner, there was a momentary lag in the conversation and everything was quiet.   Typically, I would use this time to reflect about the date itself and decide between an awkward handshake or a good night kiss.  During those brief seconds of silence in the car ride back home, I did something that even eclipsed falling off the risers at my high school graduation and taking a couple innocent seniors with me. 

While adjusting the seat belt, I farted…quite loudly.  My date looked at me in sheer horror, and for a slight moment, I actually thought of jumping out of the moving car and running down Southwest Boulevard to avoid the awkwardness that was sure to follow.  While my southern charm goes a long way in many situations, there a few things that are unforgivable during even the briefest of courtships.  Letting one rip on the first date is one of those things.

Looking for a lesson is easy and would have to be this; during moments of extreme humility, even a self-confessed dating expert is reminded of his ordinary humanity and sometimes, you just have to laugh in spite of yourself.

Jigsaw Puzzles

                    When I was younger, my favorite way to spend a rainy Saturday was to sleep in, leave my pajamas on all afternoon and help my grandmother piece together jigsaw puzzles.  Those lazy days always started in the same way; I would wake up and hear the sound of rain ping-ping-pinging on the tin roof of my grandmother’s house, and suddenly realized with horror that my whole day would be effectively ruined with every drop.  When I could no longer stay in bed, I would wrap myself in my favorite fuzzy blue blanket and stomp my way toward the living room.

                I would pause briefly in the kitchen to slide across the linoleum floor in my sock feet going about warp 4 before crashing into the cupboard.  Gran would leave my cereal bowl and box of Lucky Charms sitting beside a half carton of milk and a clean dishtowel in expectation of the spilled milk over flowing from the sugar-infused breakfast that I was about to consume.

                Once safely positioned in front of the Saturday morning cartoons, I would inhale my tub-sized portion of the dried marshmallow goodness while Gargamel and his trusty feline side-kick, sought to boil little blue hermaphrodites down into gold. Coincidentally, Smurf-hunting was my initial foray into get-rich quick schemes, which seemed unlikely, given the current weather conditions plaguing my neighborhood. 

                With no let-up in sight, and after some initial urging, those rainy afternoons were spent piecing irregular shaped cardboard pictures into cohesive pieces of art.  The real Empire State Building took 410 days to erect.  However, with the warm comfort of fuzzy socks, the picture from the front of the box, and my grandmother’s help, it took only a few hours to construct my one dimensional replica.   In Gran’s living room, Stonehenge, the Arc de Triumph, and even puppies in Christmas hats were constructed and dismantled in a single afternoon.

                As I grew older, the routine of sliding across a worn linoleum floor changed with my choices in breakfast foods.  Pre-sweetened and processed cereal became a plain bagel with cream cheese and coffee.  I no longer wanted to profit from the suffering of Smurfs and those cartoons were replaced with pre-teen dramas like Saved by the Bell.  The older that I became, the more I began to relish those afternoons with my grandmother rebuilding the Great Pyramids.

                Over tiny puzzle pieces, my grandmother would share her thoughts on everything from politics to Pat Sajak and would occasionally throw in her rules for romantic predicaments. 

                These days there are a lot of people with a lot of opinions about love.  What it is, what it’s not, how to hold on or when to let go.  Rainy Saturdays spent piecing puzzles taught me a great lesson…Love is finding that one person who takes your pieces, all mixed-up and disjointed, and gives them back to you, put together.

               

My dog Jeb



          Because I stay up late most nights writing about what goes on during the day in my life or thanks to TIVO, catching up on the Kardashian’s and what goes on in their life, mornings are difficult.  I actually get up pretty early, thanks in part to being raised on a farm for the first part of my childhood, but in all honesty, it’s mostly because I have an impatient little dog that finds it necessary to poke my nose or tug my hair until my eyes are fully open.

          Although my dog, Jeb, goes to the bathroom before bed and of course, first thing in the morning often before I do, it seems the fatter he gets, the smaller his bladder becomes.  He now forces me up around 3:30am for his pre-morning pee.   He can be quite a ruthless dictator should I not immediately comply with his demands, which is mostly out of fear of retribution.  I have discovered that the punishment for not bowing to his demands for instance,  could be a chewed up shoe, the $250.00 psychology text book bought at the university bookstore or once, he relieved himself on my pillow…when I was still under the blanket.

Getting Jeb ready for the outdoors is always an ordeal, but can be infinitely more cumbersome in inclement weather.  Because he is not overly fond of the cold, I am forced to put on the appropriate gear over his pajamas.  (He also does not like to sleep in the nude.)  To keep his highness from frostbite if the outside temperature plummets below fifty degrees or so, I have to squeeze him into a sweater, a jacket and if it is raining or the grass is too dewey, there are four tiny yellow galoshes for his feet.

By the time, we finally make it into the elevator; it is now around 4 am and Jeb resembles a sausage in his clothes that are increasingly too small.  (He refuses to buy the larger size and prefers to blame me and the dryer for our incompetence at laundering.)  I realize the solution seems obvious and I should just put him on a diet, which would then affect his weight thus halting his inconvenient incontinence, but I have discovered that his mood elevates in direct proportion to the kinds of treats he consumes.

Initially, I would buy treats that were mass-produced and sold at stores such as Target or Wal-Mart with the happy cartoon dog licking his lips on the packaging, but these became known as “over-the-counter” treats.  Like medications, they are generally fine in a pinch, but not nearly as good as say, the prescription stuff you can order from Canada online and without a prescription.  As a side note, should you go this route, please realize that due to pesky U.S. drug trafficking laws, sometimes these medications are confiscated at the border, so be sure to order from multiple vendors to ensure that at least one bottle makes it through.

After buying a cookbook that caters to canine cuisine, I no longer buy his treats, I now make them homemade.  He is particularly fond of mini-cupcakes, scones and blueberry muffins.  He likes them with his morning coffee.   I am fully aware that coffee is likely an unhealthy thing for even a dog with Jeb’s sophisticated palate, so I switched him to decaf a few months ago and for the most part, I don’t think he has noticed.

My relationship with my dog may be unusual, but it is uncomplicated.  He has been my one constant companion.  Through the roughest break-ups, bad dates and heart arches, he is always waiting right at the front door shaking his stubby tail welcoming me back home.  When I feel the loneliest, though I’m often surrounded by people, it is Jeb who reminds me that I am never alone and provides me with fierce and unwavering loyalty.

Yes, he can be difficult, ill behaved and sometimes even contentious, but through all that, no one will ever love me as much as my dog…but it’d be fantastic if he’d stop chewing on my shoes.

               

I am not a stalker...I'm doing research.

I asked my grandma once when I was a child what love looked like.  She replied, “Well it’s bigger than the whole world, but small enough to fit inside your heart.”  My grandma typically gave vague answers like that. I learned to never ask her questions and expect a direct answer.

Many evenings instead of doing the obligatory task of studying, I can be found eating with friends, lazily reading non-academic books and buying jeans.  While to you this all may sound frivolous, even a little irresponsible, especially since the GRE’s are this week, I like to think of it as a kind of ongoing research.  Not in the traditional sort of way, but in the “I am a dating columnist, therefore it is necessary to be social” sort of way.

Scoff if you will, but even when trying on new shoes, I am working.  I am always listening to others’ conversations.  I am always in the next changing room eavesdropping on the lives of my fellow urbanites.  I am always watching out of the corner of my eye as I walk through the mall, picking up bits of information to use for later when I am all alone, sitting in front of my laptop.

Oh relax! I am not a stalker.
I am just hard-wired to observe people.  I watch the way they interact and the way their dialogue unfolds before the actual conversation begins.

The polite but guarded way someone might smile at a stranger or the overt sexual leer from a man at a bar to the group of females just walking inside. 

I like to watch couples most of all. You can always tell what type of couple they are just by the way they stand next to each other.  For instance, there was a middle- aged couple waiting for a table the other night at a downtown restaurant.  I noticed the way she leaned into him as he kept eyeing the young auburn-haired hostess.

This tells me he is having an affair with someone, most likely from his office, and that she knows all about it, but refuses to give him up to another woman because she fears the uncertainty of being alone.

In class this week, two seats across from me, a boy wearing a basketball jersey was constantly stealing looks at a fraternity boy wearing a tight white t-shirt while the professor was lecturing about the innate differences between philosophies of Hume and Kant.

What the jock didn’t see was the frat boy noticed him as well and, should they both be reading this column, I’d like to say, “Yes, he likes you, too…Now will you both please pay attention to what the professor is lecturing about.”

 I like most about my parents’ relationship is the ease at which they relate to each other without uttering a single syllable.  I feel blessed to be a witness to the small way my parents look at each other sometimes and it’s as if they are saying, “You are still the one that I fell for on the playground 40 years ago.”

Body language is not a talent or some unattainable psychic ability limited to a few persons with exceptional abilities.  If you stop, look up and pay attention, you might sneak a peek into what others are thinking, and more importantly, you might become better at communicating honestly what you’re feeling.

I am a people-watcher and I cannot escape this habit, nor would I if given the opportunity, because along with all those awkward moments you often witness…on very rare occasions, you also get a glimpse into what love actually looks like.

New Year's Resolutions...better late than never

As the summer trudges on refusing to loosen its grip on the city’s sidewalks, pavements or pedestrians, most have broken at least a few if not all of their New Year’s resolutions by now.  I, on the other hand, have just begun thinking about mine.  I admit and would agree with you that the deadline for this has come and gone and would not been easily missed given that the rest of the television-watching country openly celebrates the passing with Ryan Seacrest and his glittery descending ball.

Although I am contentedly ostracized here in the Midwest, even I could nearly hear the throngs of people huddled on top of each other urging Ryan’s giant ball to drop inch by inch screaming, initially in delight, but dissipating quickly once it reached its intended destination: the dirty streets of Times Square.

On a side note, Dick Clark’s ball dropped at the same time, but had far less appeal given that most of us don’t necessarily want to see Dick’s old and lackluster ball drop anymore.  Albeit, he is a legend, I personally think it perverse and slightly creepy to watch as Dick attempts to comb his hair over ears which have for years now been lifted and placed squarely at the top of his head.

Dick is not unlike many of the women I see while walking through the mall.  They skillfully dart from behind dark corners on the second level near Victoria’s Secret drinking their diet colas wearing velour track suits that expose their midriff and c-section scars.  They usually have bright white hair extensions and I try not to look them directly in the eye as I pass them on my way into Barnes and Noble Bookstores.  I have heard that this can be taken as a sign of aggression towards them and I have to confess that they frighten me a little.  From the safety of the food court and the masses that surround me, I am free to study the phenomena that have become these women…these cougars.

They chew on leaves of lettuce ever mindful of their figures which for some have not yet healed from a recent procedure and I suddenly imagine a sweltering Mexican doctor’s office where hordes of them are prodded in like cattle to receive another lift, tuck or even parts re-assignment.  I read once (or possibly made-up this fact between the first and five cocktails and now have simply convinced myself that I read it in some scholarly source such as People or InTouch Weekly), that the fat from your butt is often re-assimilated quite easily into the most bizarre of places. 

I personally can’t imagine having the extraneous fat sucked from my left buttock and pumped into, say, my lips.  Which now brings me to wonder, since I read that this procedure is so incredibly common, if I have indeed kissed someone’s ass?

I must have been starring too long, which I tend to do, and I inadvertently made eye contact with presumably, the head cougar.  As she gazed at me, her tanned leathery skin, devoid of any natural moisture but glistening with a mixture of Oil of Olay and hundred dollar lotion.  I noticed how her papery thin face was pulled so tight that she could almost blink her lips.  She parted them however, and I expected her to eat me, but she just smiled and her voice was velvet, soft and sincere as she said “hello.”

This brings me to my resolution, although delayed, it is long overdue.

We are all no different from Dick Clark.  If we are lucky, our ball too, will get old and all but a few loyal followers will want to watch it drop. 

My delayed resolution contradicts the cliché we are told as children, but my friends and loyal readers; I resolve never to grow old gracefully.  I too, will party through the New Year with Dick and the rest of my fellow cougars hell bent on preserving my flesh…along with child hood wonderment.  So bring on the New Year…what’s left of it anyway because the world and the latest plastic surgeries will never cease to amaze me and I resolve never to conform to the pressure to grow up.

My best friend's wedding...

I don’t really “do” weddings.  This statement may sound strange and as foreign coming from me as a newly docked boat full of Asian immigrants singing “Yankee Doodle”, but I can assure you that it’s true. 

Indulge me the opportunity, if you will, as I feebly attempt to explain my position before you dismiss me as ungrateful or even worse a hypocrite.  It is not that I don’t relish the sentiments of “happily ever after” per say.  I am sure that most people’s eyes get misty seeing the blushing bride or the groom in freshly rented tails while toddlers throw rose petals haphazardly down the aisle.  However, I don’t especially enjoy them.  I compare this to the mechanic who never changes his own oil or the chef who survives solely on the nourishment of Ramen Noodles.  Every day I write about love.  I swim immersed in it.

          What it means when he calls.  What it means when he doesn’t call.

I discern how it behaves and how to go about finding it when you can’t really tell the difference between raging hormones and the rarity of it all. 

I plunge heart first into love and it consumes my thoughts and keeps me huddled over my laptop well past the time when the rest of the city is sleeping.  Tumultuous and twisting, these thoughts sweep across my face and behind my eyes, but rarely for myself or my own selfish gratification.

          Every date is a lesson.  Every date is a column.  Every date is for you.

I was recently and forcibly coerced into attending my best friend’s wedding. 

Although never discussed, I suspected that that he understood my ambivalence towards actual wedding ceremonies when I had declined all other invitations sent me over the last four years.  This was perhaps the reason a follow-up telephone call was made after I had not responded graciously to his R.S.V.P.

“I fully intend to celebrate at the reception as long as there is liquor.” I offered.

“Best friend trumps neurosis.” He said to which I had to grievously acquiesce.

Along with my plus one, I made it to the cathedral with barley a noticeable slur in my wording as I greeted people I rarely see.  Excusing myself, I made my way behind the rows and rows of seating and through some back panel doors down a hallway trying to find the bathroom.

There she was, dressed head to toe in white silk with lace and about a million tiny buttons.    For a single moment, her eyes caught mine and took my breath away.  I smiled despite my best efforts.  Her eyes were transparent and I could see all the way into her.

          There was so much excitement and promise blinking from behind them.  Sure, she was scared, but it was the kind of terror that you feel right before you take an exam that you know you’re going to ace. 

It was lovely to witness her in those briefest of moments.

Making my way back to the metal folding chair, which was supplied to the guests who arrived late, I sat down just in time to hear the organ announce the procession.

I saw the groom’s eyes puddle with tears as the bride gracefully marched to his side and I looked over to see my friends sitting beside me crying into tissues after they heard “I do”.  In an effort to lighten the moment, I poked my plus one and said, “Relax, it’s only their first marriage.”  Although my plus one laughed, the couples sitting in front of us did not find my statement amusing. 

Mercifully, the reception had a fully stocked bar which provided the tools needed for me to shove my emotions back down into the little black box inside my heart where I keep them safely hidden.  I looked across the table and saw friends coupled with their plus ones and suddenly thought to myself, “O my, we’re growing up.  Soon it will be their turn walking down the aisle.”  Weeknights full of martinis and gossip will be replaced by endless baby showers and circus themed birthday parties.

With this, my floodgates were opened and my eyes began to leak.  It wasn’t because I need any kind of assurance that I too one day will find the one who will love me for who I am and will simply relish living with all my eccentricities. 

The truth is, I love my life. 

I love being single and first dates with their endless possibilities. 

I love coming in after a date and writing about what made it special and sometimes uniquely disastrous.

…And mostly, I love that you continue to read.

Lessons from late night T.V.

          Despite my urging to the contrary, I have one friend that has gone completely loony over a boy while the other is swearing them off forever.  They both text me, call me and drunk dial me urging me to listen to a new predicament that reaffirms their position while interrogating me for answers on what to do next.

I will never understand why folks ask for advice that they have absolutely no intention of paying attention to.  Personally, I have a strong aversion of learning the lessons the hard way, but once solicited for my opinion, I have learned that it’s better to simply refer the asker to classic television versus throwing pearls before swine. 

Allow me to explain.  I grew-up in front of a television set and I have found that there is not a single question that could not be answered from watching shows like Gilligan’s Island, Bewitched or even my new favorite classic, Hannah Montana.  This is especially true in romantic entanglements and the zany antics to which love invokes.  This is especially true because of witty scripts, a studio audience and built in laugh tracks.  All of which are far more entertaining than listening to friends complain about their love lives or lack thereof.

I am a believer that I am a bountiful bevy of wisdom, but it seems that most don’t learn through the trials and tribulations of another; or else the whole world would be a little wiser thanks in part to Hollywood icons like Liz Taylor or even your favorite afternoon soap opera.  If we all attained one iota of information from the above examples, every relationship would produce a perfume deal…and we could all avoid satanic possession. 

And while the latter is probably not ideal, Marlena did eventually end up with John Black …after he renounced his priestly vows once he exorcised the demon from her.

While I am in favor one hundred percent of falling in love as many times as it takes until you get it right, there is a difference of doing it the right way and being as wrong as the devil on a Sunday.  Before you go throwing your head at someone, pay attention to any warning signs that maybe flashing, trying to get your attention by investing in some quality cable programming from a syndicated series.

For instance, age may just be a number, but when it comes to falling for someone, there is a gigantic difference in a few years versus centuries.  Buffy is our prime example.  Although Angel was broody and hot in ways that only vampires can be, she ultimately knew that he could never relate to her, after all, she was a teenager and he was 270 years old.  I believe he loved the “idea” of her.  And by “idea”, I don’t mean her adolescent brain, I mean her eighteen year old ass and perky…personality.

As for my friend who has given up on men, I would ask, “Did Fran give up on Maxwell even after four seasons and three kids that weren’t her own?”  No.  She did not.  She continued to wear those tacky short skirts, tease him (and her hair) while laughing in that nasal way until he told her he loved her…and then took it back.

But like all good classic Hollywood love stories, he finally married her.

          We find lessons in the most unlikely of places.  Every once in awhile when you're having trouble sleeping, I urge you to microwave some popcorn, pour a cocktail and prop a couple pillows behind your back and learn a few of them from watching late night televison.

In response to a crazy fan...

I assume that during the dogged heat of summer, there are going to be a few people that simply succumb to the heat and go a little crazy.  Let me first clarify the term crazy, because it gets tossed around a lot and as most of you know, there are subtle, yet distinctive levels of “crazy.”  For instance, wearing flip-flops when you haven’t had a pedicure in a couple of years, is not crazy, it’s just a little gross, but as an FYI, no one voluntarily wants to see those scaly hooves trudging across the city...Now as for the folks that actually like to see them...Well, they have a particular fetish that’s crazy.

While the above example is not necessarily certifiable by any means, there are scores of folks that are, I assume during any other time of the year, completely level-headed.  However, once the temperatures starts to climb, their intelligence level drops according to the mercury level in the outside thermometer.  Most of these people are easily spotted and tend to make guest apperances on the evening news for things like slapping police officers after they've been pulled over or spouting incoherent phrases during manic episodes that end up driving t-shirt sales.  There are others however, that require the trained eye of a dating columnist to spot.

On Wednesday, I met some friends for lunch at an outdoor café.

It was a gorgeous day, and apparently the whole city played hookey from work because the place was packed ear to elbow.  Surrounded not only by a few friends and a few pitchers of sangria, we were forced to compete with the noise level of the city’s transit system and with the rest of the patrons’ conversation as we got reacquainted.

After about an hour, I excused myself, walked across the restaurant and headed into the bathroom.  This is where it gets a little crazy.

I bumped into an attractive younger guy waiting outside the bathroom. 

Overhearing that I wrote a dating column, from a few tables over, he solicited advice.  Because I rarely give advice to strangers who stalk me outside of public urinals and never while my mental filters may be slightly impaired from the deliciousness of sangria, I referred him to my column this week.  So in appreciation of his fortitude, although slightly creepy, here is his question and my response.

He asked, “Should I tell my girlfriend I am bi?”

Any healthy relationship is built with honesty.  I know this philosophy may be old fashioned and even cliché, however it holds true even by today’s standards.  Having studied The Kinsey Scale on sexual behaviors back in Psychology 101, I fully understand the error of simply labeling someone’s bedroom behavior.  However, being Southern, I am also fully aware that most men want their cake and would gladly eat it too if given the opportunity.  While I am more of a traditional sort of guy who prefers moonlight and magnolias over ménage a trios, relationships are defined by the participants. 

If y’all want to swing from the rafters with the entire swim team, that’s your collective preference…but you don’t get to make that decision alone.  If you are going to continue this relationship, you must tell your girlfriend the truth and the both of you will have to re-define what your relationship means.
          As a word of caution, you might want to think about removing all sharp or heavy objects in your immediate vicinity when you tell her, if you’ve engaged in any “extra-curricular” activities because she most assuredly will ask.
Hey, I never said that honesty wasn’t sometimes gonna hurt.

Why can't we be friends?

After four years of writing my column and now this blog, which coincidentally is lovingly referred to as, “my little dog and pony show,” it should come as no surprise to anyone that I date a lot. In fact, I am a serial dater and unless there is a neon warning sign flashing out of my peripheral vision, I assume twenty to forty minutes alone in a public place over coffee or a cocktail might end in a full length column…or at the very least, an honorable mention in a future one.

Let’s face it, it takes a lot of effort to ask anyone out on a date and especially when the object of your affection has a public forum to complain about a potentially bad experience.  That is, I suppose, a tremendous amount of pressure.  When someone bravely saunters up to me at a bar, nightclub, restaurant, and even a gas station parking lot and should profess a willingness to spend time with me, as a general rule, I find it polite to graciously agree to their, often times shaky request. 

Having stated this, I take for granted that most people read my column, digest every morsel of wisdom, and commit entire sections to memory. 

...Ok, well that is a little too much to hope for, but I assume folks at least glance at it while they line their kitty litter or use it to wrap glasses as they move out of their apartment (or is some cases, get evicted).

My point is this; I write about my dating life, social circles, and even my friends dating lives.  So should you haphazardly stumble like a bull in a china shop into my personal dating pool, odds are good that I may have to put you in the center ring of my little dog and pony show.

          Which brings me to a date went on a couple months ago.

The first date lead into a second and even a third.  However, there was no real connection and I didn’t see a long term relationship looming on our horizon, but the end of date kisses were well above PG and sometimes even bordering on NC17. 

You simply cannot teach a good kiss, and once you find that rare person that excels in this talent, good night kisses tend to linger way past the time they’re supposed to end.

Because modesty is not a particular talent in which I possess, I can blatently make the proclamation that I am a great kisser.  Next to making the perfect martini, I would say that kissing is my second most useful talent. But as great as the end of our evenings were, the beginnings, middles and in-betweens were as dull as butter knives.

It has been said, that all good things must come to an end, so nearing the end of one of our dates, I thought it time to drop the “F” bomb.  Now that I have gotten your attention, with that last statement, I will ask you to unfold my column from that glass you’re wrapping and have a seat for what  I’m about to explain.  The “F” word to which I’m referring to is “friends.”

          Once you date someone, why is it impossible for most to be friends after the relationship?  For me, after dating someone two dates or twenty, I find it easy to make the switch from romance to a casual companionship.  I have discovered that most do not share this philosophy.  After someone’s tongue has been in my mouth, the least I could expect is a resemblance of cordiality if I stand behind them in the express line at Target.

            After my date heard, in my opionion, one of my best, “It’s not you, it’s me, I think we should be friends” speeches, he actually taught me a lesson.

My lesson from this debacle is to make sure that if I am planning on dropping the “F” bomb while still on a date, then I'd better make sure that I am at least within walking distance to my loft or have a cab waiting nearby.

Your lesson should be to use an actual litter box liner instead of my column...it’s far more absorbent.