August 2007
MY FAIR LADY
8/04/07
Rex Harrison sings (or rather speaks. lol) that he'll "never let a woman in his life."
I love women. No, I don't want to have sexual relations with them, but I love women.
In my experience, girls have mostly accepted me more than boys. Growing up, all sisters; all my friends from the neighborhood were girls. (Yes, apparently our street produced estrogen more than testosterone. LOL)
Girls were my friends, playmates; we were all one and the same.
School came along, a whole new "society" different from which I was accustomed. Boys and girls together; that was a twist for a boy who only knew girls.
The differences between boys and girls go far beyond genitalia. Upbringing does influence these differences, but there are innate differences.
Other than the "schoolyard love" that happens in early childhood, my first experience with a girl as a girl was in 8th grade. We had our first boy-girl-school sponsored dance (Catholic School. lol.) Among the chaperones that evening were my parents. UGH...lol
Well, a girl approached me (we'd been in the same class since first grade,) and asked me to dance. Wow.... me? Here I was a fat kid, mocked, abused and tortured by the other boys.... and here was a girl asking me to dance with her. I don't remember the song, but with arms extended and fingers entwined; my hand on her waist, her hand over my shoulder, we danced. The song ended, she went her way back to the crowd of kids, I went back to where I'd been sitting, heady from the experience.
I gazed after her as she went back to the group of her friends. I saw the laughing, the glances my way, and the money being turned over to her. I learned later, she was bet to dance with me. Apparently, it was five dollars from each boy who said she didn't have the guts to ask and dance with me. I don't know how much money she got from that 3 or 4 minutes with me on the dance floor. Whatever monetary gain she had, could never equate the humiliation, embarrassment and fear that I experienced. Especially with my mother and father in attendance and watching the whole ordeal without ever knowing the reality of it.
I learned quite a lesson that evening, even at the tender age of 14. The lesson I learned was: I'm different; everyone knows it. I didn't quite understand what they did at the time. What I did understand was the way others can be so mean to someone.
I never lost faith in girls, though. After all, some of my sisters and best friends were girls. LOL THEY never set me up for humiliation; they accepted me and loved me for whom I was; and to this day, for whom I've become.
I find my women friends (including my sisters) to be very important in my life. It could also be, growing up with all girls that I'm able to see "both sides of the fence." I've got all the male feelings and desire; yet I also have the female feelings. (Once at lunch with my boss and his wife, she talked. I asked questions and she responded...later, my boss said to me, "I would have never thought to ask her THOSE questions.")
As I said before, no, I have no desire for the female body; but I do love women. Another difference between men and women: talking, sharing, and accepting. Men seem to have lost those qualities.
The men, with whom I work, from what I've heard, enjoy me, respect me; but they also probably have their own thoughts about me. That's okay to me. Whatever! LOL
The women with whom I work often seek me out to talk, express their feelings; feeling secure about doing such with a man. I can listen, understand, sympathize and empathize; If they want to hear it, I can offer my thoughts, opinions and/or advice.....often not the same they'd hear from another woman.
No, I'll never NOT let another woman in my life.
Some Levity: Get To Know Me
8/10/07
1. What time did you get up this morning?
Do you mean wake up or actually get out of bed?
2. Diamonds or Pearls?
Depends on what shoes I'm wearing.
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
I know it was something...but what was it? Oh, right: "Bewitched" with Nicole Kidman. Now I remember why I forget it.
4. What is your favorite TV show?
The one on which I star!
5. What did you have for breakfast?
Does coffee and cigarettes count?
6. What is your middle name?
Noooooooo way! You're not stealing MY identity, Mister!
7. What is your favorite cuisine?
I've never been on a cuisine; since I saw Titanic, I'm afraid of boats.
8. What foods do you dislike?
Which ones dislike me?
9. Your favorite Potato chip?
The one that is shaped like a heart.
10. What is your favorite CD at the moment?
I don't really know any cross-dressers.
11. What kind of car do you drive?
The kind that is lent to me.
12. Favorite sandwich?
The one that is delivered.
13. What characteristics do you despise?
In myself or others?
14. What are your favorite clothes?
The ones that FIT!
15. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation,where WOULDN'T you
go?
Paris....because on "Beverly Hills 90210", Kelly and Brenda went there and at dinner they were served something's brains. YUK!
17. Favorite brand of clothing?
I love Van Heusen shirts; Lee jeans; St. John's Bay pants and leisure wear; Hanes boxer/briefs.
18. Where would you want to retire to?
Someplace where they don't end sentences with a preposition.
19. Favorite time of day?
The exact minute? What are you, an airline?
20. Where were you born?
The hospital.
21. What is your favorite sport to watch?
You mean there's more than one?
22. Who do you think will not send this back?
Jack Klugman
24. Person you expect to send it back first?
Is this a race?
24 Pepsi or Coke?
Pepsi because coke always makes me thirsty.
25. Beavers or Ducks?
Is THIS a trick question?
26. Are you a morning person or night owl?
I'm not much of a morning person and neither am I an owl...except of course because my hearing is going and I must ask often "Whoooooooo?"
27. Pedicure or Manicure?
Whatever, just clip 'em and get on with life.
28. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with everyone?
I don't get the newspaper, sorry.
30. What did you want to be when you were little?
Christopher Robin living in the Thousand Acre Wood. Funny, I grew to become Eeyore.
31. What is your best childhood memory?
Lying on the floor in front of the television, a plate of cheese and crackers in front of me, watching "Match Game" and "Bewitched" (the classic series, not that stupid movie)
32. Piercing?
No, thanks. I have my own.
33. Ever been to Africa?
Only with Meryl Streep and Katherine Hepburn.
34. Ever been toilet papering?
Of course, everytime the roll runs out.
35. Been in a car accident?
As opposed to being in a car on purpose?
36. Favorite day of the week?
The one that goes well.
37. Favorite restaurant?
Dominos; McDonalds....depending on my mood.
39 Favorite ice cream?
Where did I put that LactAid?
40. Favorite fast food restaurant?
See question 37.
41. How many times did you fail your drivers test?
Which part -- written or driving?
42. From whom did you get your last e-mail?
If I told you, you'd get jealous demand one as well; I'll keep the peace and my mouth shut.
43. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
That may be more information than you really want to know.
44. Bedtime?
I really think you should buy me dinner FIRST!
45. Who are you most curious about their responses to this?
Do I look like Curious George?
46. Last person you went to dinner with?
Three of us: me, myself and I
47. What are you listening to right now?
The voices in my head arguing about how to answer these questions.
48. What is your favorite color?
The one that looks best on me.
49 How many people are you sending this Email to?
I don't know yet.
50. Favorite magazine?
That's a little personal, isn't it?
51. What time did you finish this e-mail?
How could that possibly matter? You don't know what time I started it. Are you keeping track of ME? Are you a stalker?
Reading IS fundamental.
8/17/07
I am a Harry Potter fan.
When Rosie O’Donnell had her morning talk/variety show, I was a rabid fan; I taped the show everyday and kept many on videotape for reviewing. I loved it and her; I even have the "Rosie O’Doll" (it was actually a present bought for and given to me by co-workers at the time for my birthday.) One day I came home from work and rewound the videotape to watch "The Rosie O’Donnell Show" as I did each evening after work while I ate dinner (which normally was a bowl of Combos cheese-filled crackers while waiting for my slices of Dominoes pizza to reheat.) That was when it happened.
J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter books, was on the show to promote the release of, I believe, the third installment of the series Harry Potter and the Prisoner Of Azkaban. Previous to this point, I’d never heard of the author or the books. I watch the interview and was captivated. With the help of Amazon.com, I immediately bought the first two Harry Potter books and pre-ordered the third. While I was reading these first two, Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone and Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets, the third was delivered to my home. I read all three in quick succession loving each one more. Afterward, I had to wait for each new book as it was completed and released. Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire followed a year later.
I was an addict. I’d not been so addicted to a series of books since Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. Unlike Ms. Rowling, however, Mr. King let several years lapse between new installments; so many in fact that when a new installment finally arrived I needed to reread the previous books in order to reacquaint myself with the story. Frankly, that was annoying; I mean five years between the first two, The Gunslinger and The Drawing of the Three; four years until The Wastelands; six more years until Wizard and Glass; five more before Wolves of the Calla; then the final two The Song of Susannah and The Dark Tower the next year. When Wizard and Glass was released, my niece and her friends discovered the series and began reading them. When she told me about these great new books I had to laugh and tell her, "Oh, honey. I’ve read them; actually I read them over ten years ago when they really were new." Of course this tidbit of fact amazed her: her uncle must be really cool if he knows about these books and has read them.
I bring up both series of books not to confuse but there is a point and I shall get to it.
I bought each Dark Tower book as it was released, though infrequent as they were. In the interim, I discovered the Harry Potter series and bought each one. At the same time my niece asked to borrow the first Harry Potter book and she as well fell in love with it; so each book that I bought for myself I bought her one and had it delivered to her the same time as mine, on each book’s date of release. Imagine that – uncle and niece bound by not just blood but by the love of books and reading.
Life circumstances changed for me and I was in less of a position financially to purchase books (after all, a hard-back cover can easily cost $25.) Here is where things get a bit hazy.
When the seventh Harry Potter book was released, my brother-in-law and son each got a copy for himself. They each finished the over-700 page volume that weekend (my 11-year-old nephew read it in six hours. Yeah, genius-boy…my little "Rain-Man.") My sister asked if I wanted to borrow it since she knew I am a Harry Potter fan. I told her that I’d not read the sixth book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, yet. She produced the book for me to read. Nearly salivating I brought the book home with me ready to devour it. I read the first page and thought to myself, "I’ve read this." No, I must just be so excited that I think I have. Yet I got to page 80 and realized that everything was familiar and I knew what was not only happening but what was going to happen.
Could I have read this already? I must have. Yes, this must be one of the books that I’d borrowed from the library. I just forgot that I’d read it. I re-read the entire book, though. This was the last week of July when I’d taken three days of vacation to clean and sort through the clutter that had piled up in my dining room (which I’ve been entirely lax in controlling.) As I waded, sifted and sorted through the clutter I found a book. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. "OH NO," I thought, "tell me I never returned it to the library!" I searched the book but there were no indications that it was a library book.
THAT is how stupid I am: not only did I not remember reading the book, I didn’t remember owning the book!
Then it came back to me. It was from the library that I read the last of the Dark Tower books! (See, that is the point of intersection of both series of books…LOL)
So after I finished the sixth Harry Potter book, I borrowed the seventh from my sister. Again, as usual, I did little else in my free time but read it. I was at the same time excited, ravenous and apprehensive. As much as I wanted to know what happens, I didn’t want it to end. Alas, I did finish the book and the Harry Potter series; as well as the Dark Tower series.
I am an avid reader. I love books and I love reading. A neighbor of mine passed away this year and another neighbor became in possession of her books; she had been a member of a book club, and she gave to me three boxes of books that had been the collection of books of the deceased woman who I’d known since childhood and who had watched me grow up. I’ve been enjoying many of them, although I do tend to pass on the Danielle Steele novels. LOL
After finishing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, I began reading another from the collection of my neighbor. It is Jane Eyre. You know, the classic novel, which is "literature" and often-required reading in high school. I’d never read before. I’m more than halfway through it and I am enjoying it; though the language of mid-1800 England is a bit different and sometimes difficult to follow. I cannot imagine any high school teenager liking this book or even able to understand it; especially teenage boys.
Don’t get me wrong: when I was in high school and had to read the likes of Ethan Frome, The Crucible, Death Be Not Proud (which actually that one I did read and have read again since), Watership Down, The Canterbury Tales, The Scarlet Letter, To Kill a Mockingbird (again, I read and have since), mostly I either didn’t bother or relied on "cliffnotes" to inform me of the important points of the stories for the ensuing test. As a young boy if a book wasn’t Dr. Seuss or Curious George or took any effort on my part, it wasn’t worth it; as kids most of us are the same, aren’t we?
I found my love of reading after graduation from high school; when reading was no longer a chore but became a source of pleasure. Since then I’ve read nearly every Stephen King novel, most Patricia Cornwell "Kay Scarpetta" books, the Harry Potter series, the Flowers in the Attic series, Richard North Patterson, Jodi Picoult and many, many others. As well, gay-themed books: A Little Love Story by Roland Merullo, The Mammoth Book of Gay Short Stories edited by Peter Burton, Reeling in the Years: Gay men’s Perspectives on Age and Ageism by Tim Bergling, Broken Fever: Reflections of
Gay Boyhood by James Morrison, Back Where He Started by Jay Quinn, Sissyphobia by Tim Berglinger, Male Lust: Pleasure, Power and Transformation editors Kerwin Kay, Jill Nagle, Baruch Gould.
I gain much from reading – enjoyment; relaxation; information; when I read my imagination is much more vivid than anything that can be shown on a television or movie screen; when I read a book I am challenged and I learn more about myself, my thoughts, my feelings.
In other words through reading I not only entertain myself, I learn and grow as well.
TIME STEALS SOFTLY
8/24/2007
Was it just yesterday or a lifetime ago? I keep getting the two confused.
My niece headed off to Marshall University this week; wasn’t it just yesterday she was eleven years old and came to my house and baked Christmas cookies with me? Her sister is entering high school this fall; wasn’t it just yesterday she toddled to me and climbed me like a money on a tree to sit on my lap? My godson, "the most perfect child on earth," is six years old and will start kindergarten this fall; wasn’t it just yesterday I was rolling on the floor playing with him as he crawled faster than the speed of light? I realized that this year I graduated high school twenty-five years ago; wasn’t it just yesterday I was lying on the living room floor watching "Bewitched" reruns with my mother? My youngest sister is thirty-five years old; wasn’t it just yesterday Mom brought this infant, new sister, home?
"Time flies!" Yeah, it sure does; not necessarily day by day, but looking back I wonder how it went by so fast. Kids see the school-year as never-ending; the month leading up to Christmas is agonizingly long; the three months of summer vacation seems to stretch out like eternity until August; waiting to grow up is endless until one day you blink your eyes and decades have gone by.
This week brings an anniversary that astounds me with the passage of time.
My grandfather, my father’s father, was at our house to celebrate my mother’s birthday with the rest of the family and relatives. My grandfather: earthy, gruff old man who spoke his mind, the father of five sons and one daughter, owner of a family business that had been started by his father; a man who knew how to lose his patience and throw a temper-tantrum (as my father has said of him, "He could swear all day and never repeat himself.)
Of course, that description of him wasn’t the same man we 15 grandchildren (at the time) saw. That gruff old man, that’s what his sons called him "the old man," who could bully, scream, yell and intimidate, was a very different man to us. As a grandfather he was a pussycat; he was gentle, loving, devoted, protective, playful. He could spend hours playing cards, gin-rummy, with his grandchildren. No, he was never a "push-over," he was always an authoritative figure who disciplined when necessary; however, in my memory at least, not as a tyrant but with his own style of cantankerous love. I think he probably gave his children a much harder time than he did us, his grandchildren.
How much I loved him. I loved sitting with him and talking with him, even just sitting with him without talking, just watching television with him. He’d open up a box of chocolate-covered cherries and share them; to this day, chocolate-covered cherries are my favorite candy. He’d give us soda pop. There was a safe and loving haven found sitting on his lap with his arms around me. He in his recliner and me sitting in the other separated physically only by the table and floor ashtray that looked somewhat like something from a boat with rope wrapping up the base leading up to the brown glass into which he stubbed his cigarettes.
When I was a pre-teen boy, my father would drive me to my grandparents’ house on Saturdays to cut the grass for them; it was at the same time a way to help them and earn me some spending money because my grandparents would pay me. One hot summer day my father dropped me off then went off to look at a job for the family company, which he and my uncle took over when my grandfather retired. Later my father returned to pick me up. I was in the yard mowing the lawn with the electric mower. My grandfather was sitting on the back porch when my father entered the back yard. My grandfather said to my father, "Come here. It’s too hot for that boy out there." My father said to his father, "Pap, he’s using an electric mower." (Or something to that effect.) My grandfather relented nothing; "I said it’s too hot for that boy!" My father came to me and told me to go back to the house whereupon he took up mowing the grass. My father looked toward the porch after an interval and saw Pap giving me a Coke and Grandma putting money in my hand. That was my Pap-pap. My father finished cutting the grass and I got a cold drink, money and sat with Pap on the porch while my father worked. Grandparents, gotta love ‘em.
After the birthday party for my mother that evening, my grandfather was taken to the hospital where he died.
I was thirteen years old and this was my first experience with death that I remember. Certainly there had been other deaths in the family prior to this, but I’d been either too young or not known enough at the time. My grandfather’s death affected me profoundly. I was sad and confused. I understood yet didn’t; I understood the words and meaning of my grandfather being dead, yet I expected him to be exactly where I thought he should be and as he’d always been. What does a child know or understand?
That was thirty years ago this week, thirty years ago. Wasn’t it just the other day? I still remember him and think about him. I still have him. There is a part of him that resides in my heart, in my memory. My Pap-pap; my grandfather; gone from this world physically, but always a part of my life.
Perennial
8/31/07
I live in the house where I grew up. The family home passed from my father to me; well, the mortgage company and me. It was important to me that our family home remains in the family. It was more than the structure that housed my parents, my sisters and me it was HOME. Such a deep connection I have to this house and the memories that live within its walls; my mother’s house.
When my sisters and I were young my father put up an aluminum utility house, metal shed, in the back yard. There were five of us, my sisters and I, so imagine the clutter of toys, balls, bicycles, etc. The utility house was used to store our bicycles and such. Quickly it filled. Eventually my father built a wood shed for his own things, lawn mower, edger, and "father-stuff," that could no longer be stored in the utility house because of our things (five bicycles alone filled it.)
Last autumn I had it removed. It was at least 35 years old, time and weather had taken its toll on it. Left in its place was bare dirt. On the other side of the back yard was the hibiscus plant my mother planted when we were children in the 1970s. So proud and happy she had always been of her flowering shrub. Each summer it grew and bloomed, each autumn it died only to reappear again the next summer. So, I thought I’d plant a little flower garden in the space left by the utility house.
The question was "What should I plant?" knowing little about flowers as I do. One of my sisters tends a "rainforest" on her back porch and she gave me seeds she had left over. On my windowsill this past spring I began Bachelor Buttons, Sunflowers, Cosmos and Zinnias. At the end of May when they were ready to be planted into the ground we experienced unseasonably cold weather; nighttime temperatures dropped to freezing. I waited for the cold to snap before I planted.
On Memorial Day I began my flower garden pursuit. My next-door neighbor, who has knows about landscaping and flowers, saw me and came over and offered his help. I was glad for that because I had no idea how to begin. There I was with my pick and spade when he picked up a shovel and started turning the earth. Just to show how ignorant I am, I asked whether I should call Miss Utility before we continued digging. He laughed good-naturedly and said, "We won’t be going down that far."
He worked with me removing weeds and turning over the dirt. Once his shovel hit something solid and he asked me if something had been built underneath where he dug; I was certain that no fallout shelter had been built in our backyard. He dug up the obstruction and we found it to be cement. It struck me then; he was digging exactly where our childhood swing-set had been and the cement block must have been the grounding for it. I hadn’t thought about that swing-set in years.
He gave me an azalea bush and we planted it. I planted the flowers that had been beginning on my kitchen windowsill. Not everything I planted produced growth. In fact, the space I had was much more than I’d thought for the few flowers I’d planted. Next year I’d know more.
Horticulture is a science that takes understanding and effort. I was confused between "annual" and "perennial." I think most of us are (for the record, "annual" is a plant that grows one year; "perennial" is one that returns each year.)
Spring turned to summer and my new little flower garden showed little. Then grew a leafy bush in the center just in front of the azalea. It grew and grew and grew. After a while, blooms appeared and flowered. This was the Cosmos. It not only thrived it took over. Its shrubbery grew to nearly my height and its stems with budding flowers grew taller. A beautiful plant it is; much larger than I expected it to become. It has become center stage, overshadowing the azalea and anything else.
I think I should move it from the center of my flower garden to a corner where it won’t overtake everything else. I’ll try that if it is one of those that will renew each season. On the other side of the backyard the hibiscus flourishes; even after 30 years it thrives. In the fall when the flowers have died off, I just mow over the entire plant. My neighbor laughs saying, "No matter what Joey does to it, that plant comes back every year."
The hibiscus is quite amazing to me, though. It is living proof of the cycle of life in its growth, death and resurrection. My mother planted that seed and she tended it; much the same way she did her children. She gave birth to us, nurtured us, loved us encouraging us to grow and flower. Like a perennial we did just that and like a perennial, no matter the harsh times, bitter cold, rough treatment or being ignored we continue to grow and flower.
I’ve come to see the hibiscus as a metaphor for my mother: gone but not really gone. I see her everyday in some seemingly small and insignificant things. She may be gone from our earthly lives but her presence is constant. I didn’t always see this or understand it like I do now. I wallowed in grief and self-absorbed sadness for years. I felt that if I were happy in life I was betraying my mother. How could I be happy and enjoy life when she was dead? Who was I without the most trusted and loved person in my life? To what can I hold onto all alone? What meaning does my life have without her?
I missed the boat entirely; I didn’t understand. My mother was the gardener and I was the flower. Never would she want her flower to stop growing; she devoted her life to bringing her seeds to fruition, happiness, love and life. My not endeavoring to be or achieve all that she wanted, hoped and loved for me is betraying her memory. She gave me love and laughter; she gave me who I am. After 15 years, I finally understand. It’s not a betrayal to my mother to be happy and live my life; the betrayal is NOT living my life. She didn’t teach me to hide and be afraid of life; she taught me to embrace life and love life. Through all her years of illness and consequent dying and death, she encouraged me (and all of us) to be everything we could be; she wanted nothing more than for us to be happy. Regardless of how she felt or what she was experiencing we, her children her flowers, were encouraged to grow and bloom.
Tomorrow (August 26) my mother would have been 70 years old. Fifteen years after her death she continues to be the gardener of this flower that is her son. A flower continually nourished by her; a boy loved by his mother who loved her more than anything; a man who has finally grown the man of whom his mother would have approved, delighted, respected and been proud.
I think so; I hope so; I pray so.
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