It's A Good Day, Even With Poo On My Shoe

Sometimes it's almost as if the powers that be are bored and like to play games with us mere mortals, to throw different obstacles our way- some big, some small, all to catch us off balance, throw us off course. On this day, I had some small annoyances like the frustration of simply having to spell out to someone that while its unfortunate they FEEL bad, they have to dust of their big girl panties, slap em on, stop whining, and get to getting because quite simply lady - you've got to do your goddamn job! There were bigger things, like receiving an unexpected phone call from my mother and having one of those come to Jesus moments - telling her that in spite of her and the chaos of her life with my father, I actually turned out ok. They don't get credit. To my surprise, she acknowledged that fact and agreed with my sentiment. Who knew she'd be so agreeable? There are the larger things still, at the sadness of knowing that while things could potentially be on track with one parent, they are painfully off track with the other. And then, once again, the small things like almost being knocked out of a crowded subway train during rush hour by a someone, who looked human at least, with buffalo matter for brains. Dude, I'm  holding on for dear life trying to get home just like you buster! And more small things when you're stared out like a zombie on a different subway journey, only to be stopped later by that person and told your hair looks nice - that's why they're staring. It's NYC and people don't speak, so that's cool. But there are always the larger things, like watching a friend struggle through the recent death of one grandmother, and the cancer struggle of another. And, of course, more small things like ending the day with a pile of poo on your right shoe and doing a dance on 8th and 23rd in an attempt to wipe it off. It could always be better and it could always be worse. In the scheme of things, here comes that word I hate...I have lots to feel "blessed" about. YUCK! Today, I decided, that it was a good day. And even if it really wasn't, I was going to make it so...with poo on my shoe and all. 

Boobs and Picassos

I always worry they're going to swallow a fly!

Let me just say that MAYBE I could have married a woman if I really had to! It's sort of like Brussels Sprouts, not really my thing, but if you serve them up with enough oil and wrap them in some bacon, I'll slop those suckers right on down. Hmm, maybe in my quest to prove my ability to wiggle into my straight suit, I should have used a different phrase. Anyway, anything is possible folks. But all jokes aside, I appreciate woman - like a nice bottle of wine, or how I feel about a Picasso. Neat, really neat, but I still wouldn't want to to take it to bed with me, make it scream my name, and break the bed frame - but I can still appreciate it. It's good to appreciate things. However, if I had to, I could take it to the bedroom and maybe be fruitful and multiple. Isn't that what The Bible says we're supposed to be doing anyway? No fun, no name screaming - just the purpose of being fruitful and multiplying. Doesn't seem too fun and more like a duty that I maybe would only have to do twice. I am very serious about my duties. I think I could handle that. 

But had I decided to stay in what would have been my messy and unorganized closet, I could have potentially lived with a woman. I can kiss a woman, I can even grab a pair of boobs - they're fun Yeah, boobs are cool. More importantly, you can decorate them in all sorts of fun bras these days, which is cool. Bras are like cars - so many models! I generally prefer a harder more defined chest, but I can handle cleavage. Yes, boobs are neat. I think my only struggle would have been with "the box." "The Box," as I like to call it - in a whisper - is the downstairs equipment. There are just too many bells and whistles going on down there and I am not really into anything that leads to deep darker places. I like to know where I'm headed at all times. But I also didn't like wine when I was in 21. Now it's one of my favorite things so maybe I could have learned to tolerate "The Box." Maybe I should let me father read this post! Maybe there is hope after all!

I thought about boobs being cool when I met a very good friend for dinner today. I told her that she looked young today and then, with another glance, very nice. I looked at her one more time, sitting across from me, and told her she looked spicy. My compliments seemed to fall upon death ears, which made me think - can a gay guy not give a straight girl a compliment? Does my compliment mean less because I bop around in my skivvies at least three times per week to a Madonna song? Quicker than a Ray of Liiiiiiiiiight!!!! Anyway, I was hurt that she didn't seem interested in my compliment. Now, in her defense, I might have let out a slight growl while talking about her hotness, so maybe it was hard to take me seriously. I digress...a compliment is a compliment. Maybe it was that straight boys don't say things like you "look spicy." Hell many self-respecting people, gay or straight, probably don't tell people they look spicy. Maybe I simply need to work on pick-up lines - who knows. I felt as though my compliment deserved proper attention and appreciation. Again, I can admire the Picasso without taking it home and breaking bed frames. 

Yes, I maybe could have married a woman and maybe have been a back up dancer and a NFL quarterback too! I suppose I could have been a great many things with some things simply more likely than others - like being caught dancing in my skivvies, my hands flaring in the air. And, of course, some of those things may preclude any self-respecting woman from choosing me as a husband, which may adversely effect the entire premise of this post regarding my ability to marry a woman. Let me think about this a little more and get back to you. 

Who Runs the World?

Who runs the world? Apparently gays. I am being facetious with that statement, but I was catching up with a straight friend who congratulated me on the passage of Question 6 in Maryland, allowing same-sex marriage. I joked that I was proud of my Maryland peeps and then joked that us gays were taking over! Gays were running this mother! He agreed and we laughed about that idea for a bit, but then it dawned on me, that there must be a real segment of the population that truly believes us gays are taking over the world and are hunkering down in their homes with guns and pictures of female vagina's to ward us off! I mean, they must have nightmares about an episode of Glee exploding in their homes and infecting everything in it. I've never understood the gay hysteria, but sometimes can understand the  Glee nightmares! Boys sometimes like boys, get over it. Boys sometimes want to grow up and marry boys. If you're not gay, probably a good idea that you refrain from gay activities and hobbies. I'm not into girls, so I sit out joint boy and girl bedroom activities. Yep, I keep my tail parked on the sidelines. I actually feel that way about some other social issues that plague these good ole United States of America, but that's for another post! And can I just say, for the record, that it takes a real commitment to be a gay man! A real commitment, you don't go into this light heartedly and flippantly, oh no, just ask a gay boy's ass! Uh oh, maybe that was too much for a weekday. Too much? Moving along...

I remember a few years back when my father was trying to decode my expressed his displeasure about the lesbian storyline currently airing on All My Children (may she rest in peace) and questioned me as to why this particular storyline was necessary. He just didn't understand why gay people were, in his words, suddenly everywhere. I guess its the same way some Republicans felt about security allowing Barack Obama the interloper to escape from the kitchen and into the living quarters of the White House. There are dishes to be done and food to cook damn it! I kid again - all in jest folks! And I only said some Republicans! John McCain was my friend until he snatched Sarah Palin from her elk hunting trip, slapped some lipstick on her, smacked her on her ass and pushed her behind a podium - and into the living rooms of unsuspecting Americans. It just wasn't fair! Anyway, as someone being gay to my father was as difficult to understand as calculus, I ventured to guess that lesbian storyline was most likely an attempt by the writer's to create a show, a cast of characters, more representative of the world in which we actually lived. I ended my thought with the simple thought that times change. Gays exist and the President has a really good tan. I also found it humorous that a solidly straight man was discussing a storyline on All My Children. I digress.

But it does make one think. How many backwoods beer bellied crotch scratching fools looks at the world in 2012 and somehow feels that the America that they knew and loved is slipping away? How many ignorant hillbillies are clutching to their sheets with their left hand and biting the nails of their right, afraid that the big purple gay monster is going to crawl from underneath their bed and pounce.

Ok...so gays don't run the world, but you know who does? Beyoncé and apparently GIRLS! Love this little ditty and I may have had my own private dance party listening to this song. Enjoy.

The Christmas Freak Show

"Oh my God, her boob fell into the mashed potatoes again!" I was saddened to know that for the second year in a row, there was no possiblity that I would hear those words whispered in my ear by one of my few sensible relatives. The Boy and I have started a tradition of braving the Great Beyond that is the Deep South to spend Christmas with his family. As New Yorkers, places south of the Mason Dixon Line can seem scary, but we brave those accents and still waiving Confederate Flags - all to spend Christmas with the best future in-laws anyone could want.  His parents are warm and fun and have a lovely home. We eat and play games and there is free booze and more importantly there is free booze and maybe eat again! It's a great time. There is only one problem, it's all too normal. I mean no one does tacky better than my family and every once in awhile you need a little tacky to keep things lively. Who would have ever thought that it would be impossible for me to get a little tacky in the South!

For starters, at The Boy's family Christmas, dinner will not be held at his grandparent's home. Due to this, there will be no one to play the role of my horny Grandfather, with duct tape on his glasses, coming into the kitchen and slapping my Grandmother on the ass. They have slept in seperate bedrooms for as long as I can remember and my Grandmother has not be interested in his old "funky ass," as she calls him, for a very long time. I guess you can't blame the man for copping a feel! He may be on Medicare, but he ain't dead!  I will miss the oversized cackle that my Grandfather would let out every year when my Grandmother slaps his hand away in the kitchen and then becomes even more frustrated that he'd laugh, so she would finish the slap with her favorite "shut the shit up, I'm sick of you!" Oh, love and old age! 

Of course, my Grandmother usually has no pants on by this time of night, which might explain why my Grandfather is in the mood for ass. A sweater, panties, and slippers  are all you apparently need do the dishes with company present. It's not that she is pantless for all of Christmas, but after a full meal and a piece of Pecan Pie or two, there is no shame in an old woman unbuttoning her pants and letting it all hang out, or in the case - completely remove them and carry on with the usual days activities. Full removal of your pants in front of your family when you're an over 80-year old woman is, of course, the logical thing to do when you've eaten too much. 

And whose left boob is going to fall in the mashed potatoes?  Not The Boy's mother, she is far too refined. Oh, Aunt J - I miss her. She's a big woman and there is nothing wrong with bigness per se, but there is something wrong with having H sized jugs and not investing in a sturdy bra with straps made of iron. Nope, braless and with a shirt she's probably had on all week - comes to join the festivities. You see she lives with my Grandmother and Grandfather and is a miserable crotechety woman, most likely because she still lives with her parents and because her boobs consistently fall into plates and bowls filled with food. I'd be miserable too, especially if you took the time to change shirts each time it occurred. She conceded defeat a long time ago. And long before there was ever a show called Hoarders to tell me that people were really fucked up, I saw it first hand - as Aunt J's room is filled from floor to ceiling, with just the area of her bed remotely uncluttered. Of course, the avalanche of the cliffs of junk would slide down to the mattress below from time to time. The point is, she didn't have a long trek to the dinner table and, so, a shirt and no bra always seemed appropiate for her. The normal rising from your chair and reaching over the table for the mashed potato bowl always ineviatbly ended up in at least one boob taking a dip, in my Grandmother's finely whipped potatoes. If she doesn't make potatoes this year, I am sure they would dip in something else - the left or the right - or both - maybe in the Pecan pie, maybe in the gravy. To-may-toes, to-mah-toes - there were someplace they shouldn't be. 

But I don't know who was worse, Aunt J or the rest of the family. We'd whisper amongst ourselves, "Oh God her boob is in the potatoes again." When the inevitable piece of roast beef fell from her mouth and onto her chest, only to rest peacefully like a a pretty necklace - everyone was silent. She ate, she laughed, we ate, we laughed, and everyone would carry on like nothing unusual had happened. We were all culpable. No one said, hey - you've got potatoes dripping off your boobies and a piece of roast beef just chilling out for no reason! Get a napkin! Nope, no one ever stepped up. With my Grandmother  running around in her panties and my Grandfather having too much to drink - I suppose there was no need. Yes, yes...The Boy's family simply does not live up to this.

So as I prepare to buy my plane ticket to visit with The Boy's family in a few weeks, a part of me is sad. I had many a fun and tacky childhood Christmas. And while it has been a number of years prior to starting this tradition with The Boy, the likelihood of me ever going back to see the crazy is even less likely. The Christmas Tree being essentially "pissed on" as my Grandmother thought of it, only happened once and I doubt that incident would be replicated this year - although the plumbing issue I am sure remains unfixed, so anything is possible. But the food covered boobies and pantless Grandmother, that's forever! And to think,  I only talked about one crazy aunt. Another fun aunt shot her husband (he lived, and deserved the bullet I hear), but still...makes for good entertainment at the holidays. Oh and, of course, my mother, my mother - but that's for another day. 

We Never Discussed Toothbrushes

The Boy travels a lot for work and apparently on this particular trip decided to take my toothbrush with him! While I have shared many things with The Boy, a toothbrush is not one of them and I decided that we would not start last night! I decided that the mouthwash and "finger brushing" trick would have to suffice last night and again this morning. I then proceeded to buy a new toothbrush and toothpaste this morning on my way to work. I had a simple plan. When I made it to work, I'd simply walk into the bathroom, address my currently poor oral hygiene, and return to my desk - unnoticed and with minimal shame. The powers that be had other plans for me it seemed. 

As I walked into my office, the staff was fawning over my receptionist's new wig. Shiny things, shiny things, I too was drawn to the new wig - it had such personality. My toothbrush and toothpaste were left on the counter in the break room. Sufficiently distracted, I now went on with my day and entered my office, had some coffee, put the Ipod on the dock -the work day had begun. "Hey, you left your bag on the counter in the back," I heard someone say. It was my assistant. Such an able assistant, but now she was assisting too much! This situation was to be handled discreetly. No one was to know I didn't brush my teeth! What do I do? What do I say? I am horrible liar. Deny, deny, deny when confronted a mentor once told me! What kind of boss comes to work with un-brushed teeth? She probably looked inside the bag. She would have had to have looked. Maybe I shouldn't say anything. I don't owe her an explanation! It's not against the law to not brush one's teeth. But I am a horrible liar and so I rambled out the truth. There was talk of The Boys trip to California and using mouthwash and stopping at Duane Reade and how I have brushed my teeth every other time I came to work in the past - honest! No one cared. "Ok, well I'll leave it on the counter," she said calmly.  Ok, so that wasn't so bad. Well, I might as well finish my coffee at this point and then brush my teeth - that makes the most sense. 

A coffee sip here, a Madonna tune and chair dance there, some e-mails, phone calls to this person and that person and it was suddenly Noon and time for lunch. My assistant was hungry and so was I, so we grabbed lunch and came back to the office. "Hey, don't forget to brush your teeth," she said concerned Cricket. "Oh, right." She probably thinks I am the type of guy who does not wash his hands after peeing and probably wondering if I put on deodorant every day or every other day. Did I? Remind yourself to do a smell test later!  Oh the embarrassment. The indignity. The assistant was assisting once more, busy little bee, essentially trying to assist me in playing an adult for the day. "I won't, I promise," I said softly - reduced to a five year old. I put my head down and ate my rice in shame. My boss called me after lunch, I responded to some more e-mails,  spoke with some tenants, signed off on end of year bonuses, and my Assistant Superintendent brought me some grapes. It was now close to 6pm. I closed the office door and left for home. iPod securely in hand, I walked across town, jumped on the subway and arrived home. 

I checked my phone once in the apartment - one missed call and a text. Checked the text... "You left your toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter" - and this message was from the Receptionist. The news had spread. EPIC FAIL. Thanks for the help lad, but if it weren't for your new weekly wig I wouldn't be in this boat! It was shiny and extra flippy on the ends, so I cannot be blamed! My failure to brush my teeth had become the incident of the day. I imagined that even staff members who didn't say anything knew about the man child's buttery teeth too! I mustered back the strength to text back a simple thanks. All good managers brush their teeth before coming to work, at least that was always something I imagined they did. It was one of my personal life rules. 

The Boy's toothbrush didn't seem like such a bad option now. We had shared a lot, but toothbrushes were always sacred in my mind, like tighty whities - you don't share them with anyone. He and I have never had the toothbrush discussion. We'd discussed pet peeves, family members, and finances. We discussed the possibility of children, pets, and the sharing of sock drawers - but never toothbrushes. Should I call and ask permission? Do I use it and not tell him? I wonder if he used my kidnapped toothbrush? My assistant saying "Don't forget to brush your teeth" rang through my mind again and the scene from earlier played itself out in a little bubble accept I was dressed in overalls and clearly hadn't brushed my hair. Enough was enough! Could have saved yourself a lot of trouble - jackass. I looked in the mirror and then down at the toothbrush. I decided it was time for The Boy and I to get much closer...