Offers and Mothers...

Finally. After 4 more showings Houston we have an offer. In writing. Although we haven't read it. “It might take a while to close,” our perky realtor said on the phone, “because their realtor just isn’t that bright.” I love her. Sally.

Despite a dim bulb we have an offer. We took it. We’ll run with it. That’s all that matters.

These are probably really old. But I still love them. And. Find myself even using them.

My mother taught me TO APPRECIATE A JOB WELL DONE.
“If you’re going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished cleaning.”

My mother taught me about TIME TRAVEL.
“If you don’t straighten up, I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week!”

My mother taught me about BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION
“Stop that! You’re acting just like your father!”

My mother taught me HUMOR.
“Go ahead! Keep doing that! When the mower cuts off all your toes don’t come running to me!”

My mother taught me about JUSTICE.
“One day you’ll have kids and I hope they turn out JUST LKE YOU!”

Spouses selling houses..

I logged onto AOL this morning and had 56 emails. Apparently I’ve been AWOL. You know, missing. MIA. How do you spell awol? What does it mean?

Anyway. Our house on Whittier is still for sale. We had an offer. Written. Then no offer. Then another offer. Then no. Then the first offer people want to come back for a 2nd showing. Okay. Offer. Nope, no offer. Then second offer people say they want to come back for a counter offer. There is no offer to counter. Or is there? I’m confused. Totally. So far we have one written offer, no realtor, and a 2nd showing for the first offer that cancelled. All of that between 3 and 8pm this evening.

Three more showings tonight. Our realtor is now on “vacation.” We have shown our home 22 times. Yes, 22 in one month. We’ve had a total of four offers. Two were really low and then the other two, well, you know that story. Our realtor who is on vacation has shown it 3 times. Something is wrong here. Not a mathematician but something is wrong.

Here are a few more why’s to add to the list: Why do people look at three bedroom houses when they want five? Why do people look at houses with no basements when they must have a basement? Why do realtors bring their children along with them when their clients have four children but we have a three bedroom house? Why doesn’t our tenant ever open his blinds? Why do people not ask about how close the train station is but want to know how far away NYC because they work there? Why do people talk in Spanish when they say something nasty but in English when it’s nice? David knows Spanish FYI. Why do people ask if our dog bites while they are petting her? Why do people open up our dishwasher and look inside? Why don’t people ask about closet space but open up dresser drawers? Why did I leave a dirty diaper in the middle of the bedroom floor during a showing? Why did David have to use the bathroom two minutes before a showing and proceed to stink up the entire upstairs of our home? That’s not exactly baking cookies folks. It’s just not. Why? Why? Why?

FYI from the one who is MIA: Selling a home is NOT fun.

Blah?

I listen well. Just not according to David.

I hear most of what he’s saying. I really do. Percentage? Probably 75%.

The problem? The past couple of years it’s been all about the blah’s. Kind of like when David talks I hear this: Booger (that’s my nickname. Ugh. Affectionate but rather gross) the hospital is going to call today and if I can’t get the phone can you blah blah that I blah remember blah blah blah blah! I blah. Okay? Are you listening blah blah? I’ll get take out for dinner!

10 Minutes later…

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Yes, Hello? (I always say yes first when I answer. Heard it on a soap opera once and being the drama queen that I am I loved it). Um, no, David can’t come to the phone right now but….um…..he said something about….uh……He’ll call you back, okay?

Blah blah. Now that’s love. I know he hears everything I say though. Yes. Everything.

Moo?

It’s 7:20 am. I do not want to start this day. Why? Fear of a repeat of yesterday!

Our car (the one that couldn’t be repaired for days on end?) will now be miraculously ready by 12 pm today. It’s now a cash cow. The dealer called to tell us that we would owe nearly $1,000.00 in repair bills. $600 for a tune up. Choke me now. $30 for an oil change. $300 for brakes. $100 for alignment. Cha-Ching. We can now take your car please.

The problem as to why the dashboard lit up like Christmas at Rockefeller center? Some sensor malfunctioned along with my pants. Charge to repair it? Free. Love the warranty.

David is now driving a rental car as we are not the one car kinda family here. He calls it death on wheels or something to that effect. It’s the size of a tuna can. I wouldn’t drive it if you paid me to do it on an hourly basis. Well, okay. Maybe I would. I do most anything for cash these days. Being a student brings out my inner ho. It’s neon blue though. I swear it glowed in the dark and kept the neighbors up.

We called the lovely dealer this morning and told them to nix the $600 tune up as that’s a rip off but to fix the brakes as I don’t feel like being Pebble’s Flintstone whilst I stop my motor vehicle. Oy.

Is it over yet?

Rant on

It’s 4:12pm right now. This day has suckola’d the big one so far.

Lilly woke up way too early – we’re talking 6 am when she normally isn’t up until 8am. So much for me time. I shower, shave, get dressed, get Lilly out of bed, clean her up, dress her, give her some milk and cheerios, she spills them, I clean them up, go down stairs so she can watch the wiggles while I make her lunch.

On my way I walk by the mirror and see that my pants are ripping, yes ripping, my girth is causing the fabric to give, not attractive, not attractive at all, so I run back up stairs searching for a needle and thread only to find that our 15 year old cat has now barfed all over the bed and it’s dripping down the comforter (that is so gross I can’t even believe it myself to this very moment) which isn’t good as our house is for sale and we have a showing at 7pm tonight, the last I knew the steam cleaner carpet cleaner thingy wasn’t working, fuckity fuck.

Lilly is screaming downstairs as she’s going through separation anxiety or some neurosis, so back down stairs I go after I mend my pants oh so quickly – I could have found other ones but these are my favorite fat pants, I wear them a lot as they give, well they done gave too damn much and they fucking burst at the seams.

Lilly is busy watching the wiggles but stops to follow me around the kitchen whining, whimpering, being incredibly cute but really annoying, she was giggling two minutes ago, now she’s whining, I give her milk, no. I give her juice, no. I give her some fruit, no. fuck. I give up.

I pack up her lunch, feed the dog, pack up my lunch which is an atkins shake and a bottle of water, take lilly into the living room to distract her while I take everything out to the car, she screams anyway, I load up the car, come back to the house to get her, then get her buckled into her car seat.

I forgot my sun glasses, where are they? Back in the house I go, I can hear lilly screaming from the car in the kitchen, I smack the cat on the nose as he’s now eating again and I don’t know where he will projectile vomit next.

I get in the car and sneeze, sneeze again, and again, and again, hayfever this year is horrible but I don’t have a tissue, I find a receipt from checkers fast food where I stuffed myself with a double cheeseburger last night and use that. Gross. Worse than the cat barf but who will know? I look in the rearview mirror and my hair looks like shit, I forgot to put anything in it, no gel, nothing, and I wonder if I even remembered to put deodorant on. I’ll find out later it’s supposed to be 70 today.

I pull into daycare about 20 minutes away and hit a speed bump, I generally go over them really fast to amuse lilly but this time the dashboard lights up like a freakin’ Christmas tree, warning lights, the car nearly stalls, bells, whistles, lilly starts to cry, the check engine light comes on, the traction control light comes on, and we sputter into the parking lot of daycare.

Oh my fucking God this day will not get worse. Fuck it. It does.

I get lilly into daycare she’s miserable and crying, I start to cry, then get mad, then leave, and start looking for my cell phone. I don’t have it. I don’t have my cell phone, my car is dead and I don’t have my cell phone, so back into daycare I go, I couldn’t use the regular phone as they were blabbing so the b-itch tells me to use the fax phone, I hate them, the cord is too short. I call the dealer then the tow company.

I stand and wait for 2 and one half hours of my life until the tow truck man arrives. I am stinky, hot, sweaty and in a surprisingly good mood, everything looked like a Marlboro light menthol 100 cigarette including the tow truck driver who was NOT cute.

I sit in traffic with him – windows down – stinking – hot – sweaty – from one side of long island to the other on the way to the dealer. I’m still in a good mood. Not taking drugs, so what is wrong with me?

Get to the dealer and he says they can’t look at the car today, I can’t call david though because he’s a work since 6 am and I DON’T HAVE MY CELL PHONE! I’m still hanging in there. The bill will be 600 dollars. That’s outrageous. Unreal. I’m still okay. They call me a cab so I can go to david’s work and find him to get the other car.

Outside I waiting and there are two other men, brothers, who are waiting for their car, and one of them is really angry. The other one lectures me about how he had a girlfriend of 6 years break his heart and as a result he had two strokes. I look at him and wonder if he’s drunk, on something, stupid, or just has no social skills at all, am I a shrink? No. Studying to be one. I must have it written on my forehead, I don’t want to listen to him I just want to leave that place now.

No cab. The guy keeps talking about his strokes and how he only weighs 140 pounds. I weigh 200 pounds and I sewed my fucking pants back together this morning with a needle and thread while my daughter screamed at the bottom of the stairs watching the wiggles, my cat puked, I don’t have a phone, just got a bill for 600 dollars, my car broke down, I waited for nearly 3 hours, I’m hot and stinky and my pants feel like they are going to burst and he’s telling me his problems? This day could not get worse.

The cab comes. I can’t understand him. I reach into my pocket and realize I have 2 dollars. Yes, two dollars. I’m in a cab with no money, so I tell the driver who I can’t understand and we drive by a bank and I scream stop stop stop. He does. I think he’s afraid of me and he’ll leave me if I leave the cab and I need the cab because I’m going to david’s job to see if I can find him if he’s not in surgery, I can’t call him to find out because I DON’T HAVE MY CELL PHONE.

I race out of the bank and the cab is there but halfway to the hospital I realize that since I can’t call david and that there are security gates at the hospital that I’ll need his id badge for that, if I can’t get in touch with him I’ll be stuck, so I shouldn’t go there, instead I tell the driver to take me home, he doesn’t’ understand but I write down our address for him and he talks to someone on the phone.

Then, cher comes on singing do you believe in life after love? I’m thinking cher I love you but I don’t’ give a fuck just get me home right now I know you’re in Canada finishing your never ending goodbye tour which we saw last November, it rocked, I’m still in a good mood, thank you for that, but damn this day sucks, I looked out the window and saw kids playing, the sun shining, birds flying, and I thought what a great day it is. I am certifiably nuts for thinking that.

We find our house and pull up in front of it and the driver yells at me that our house is for sale and asks if we’re working with a reetor, I think? I don’t know. I gave up and just walked away flapping my hands at him, although I don’t know why I flapped my hands I must have looked really gay.

It’s now 4;34 and david is supposed to call so that he can drive home or I can take a cab to his job so I can get the car, put the car seat back in it that david took out the other weekend that was in the back of the car that broke down so I’m glad I thought to take it out of there over the weekend, and then I can go back to daycare and get Lilly, and then we having a showing tonight at 7pm and I can then study for my final exam tomorrow.

Rant off.

Whew. I’m tired.

The DSM-IV

The DSM. #IV that is. Not 1. 2. Not 3. This is #4. Fascinating reading. All the answers in one big book. Every single mental illness that there is. Known to man anyway. It’s all there. In black and white for the world to read.

It would seem like it would have to be a pretty big book. The DSM-IV. Someone had a tiny one though. Just the other day. She said it was “cute.”

Cute. That’s not a word that I would associate with a book filled with mental illnesses. How strange language is. How strange. Isn’t it? Cute.

It’s a book. Just a book. To some. To me it’s people. That’s my problem. To me it’s people. It’s not a book.

I bet you don’t think you’re in that cute big book. Do you? Only crazy people are in that book. Right?

Everything in that book is a person. A person. Get it? They might be sitting in a room. Waiting on line in the grocery store. Your boyfriend. In a hospital room writhing in pain. They might live right next door. Could be driving a car. Operating on you. Driving you somewhere. Teaching your child. My child. Lying in bed with you. Sitting in a car next to you. Standing near you. At a party. In a bar. They could be your boss. My boss. My brother. Your sister. My Mother. Your uncle. Every single one of them. They’re all in that book. Even you. Even me.

You just don’t know it. Do you? Really? You must read the DSM-IV. Diagnostic Statistical Manual. It’s a book. If you’ve been to therapy your shrink read it. Why? Cuz you’re in it. If you go to therapy. You’re in it. Even if you don’t. You’re still in there.
We’re all in there.

But only crazy people are in that book. Just like you. Just like me.

Still sound like just a book?

I didn’t think it would.

Just wait until #5 hits the stands. It’s coming. Soon. To a therapist’s office near you.

Starbucks...

We went for coffee the other afternoon. Just a cup. Of coffee. That's it. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Then there was Starbucks.

I don’t get it. Starbucks that is.

I stood in awe. Regular coffee? The clerk was stunned. Just stunned.

Mocha choca lattee over easy with ice on the side. Half crème latte with butter and pancakes skip the milk. Double espressor mocho macho mocha loco poco loco latte with skim.

I was amazed. The orders were impressive.

Do they know what they are ordering? What are they drinking?

If it takes more than 10 words to order it should you?

Just my two cents.

It’s just coffee. Right? Or did I miss something? Where’s Juan. Valdez that is. Regular coffee please. Sweat and Light. (That means milk and sugar although I always add my own. Watchin’ the carb intake dontcha know.)

My Shrink...

She’s not exactly my favorite. So far anyway. I’ve liked all of them. My professors that is. Until Dr. Shlumpomo. She’s blind in one eye.

There’s something about her. Don’t know what it is. She parts her hair on one side. Big bang hanging down to hide it. The bad eye. I don’t think that works. Draws more attention. She’s blind. A Ph.D. even. Who cares? Silly isn’t it? Not the hair. Or the eye. But Me. 18 point font. That’s what we print in. Just for her.

I bitch. And bitch. And bitch. Then stew. Then talk. Who does she remind you of? My 70 year old shrink asked me last Monday.

Remind me of? I asked to stall for a minute or two. What do you mean? I knew.

Good question.

Does everyone I don’t like remind me of someone else who I don’t like?

Another good question. Another good stall. Nope. Didn’t work.

Can’t I just not like someone because I don’t like someone and they don’t remind me of someone that I already don’t like?

Okay. We’re getting there.

Why does it bother you so much that you don’t like her? That’s my shrink. Miriam. Always asking me questions I don’t want to answer. And I pay her to do it. What’s up with that? Why does it bother you that she doesn’t like you? Me? Yeah. You.

I want to be liked.

There. I said it. Is that so wrong?

It is if it bothers you when someone doesn’t like you. Says Miriam. I hate her. Miriam. I love her. Too.

Maybe I remind her of someone that she doesn’t like. Ever think of that? There I go again.

I don’t like her. So what. Big deal. If I loved it when people don’t like me wouldn’t that be bad? That’s what I asked Miriam. Yes. That was her final answer. She wasn’t buyin’ it. Stop changing the subject. She warned.

She has power. I said without a thought. Not in my head. In my heart. She can say what she wants. Do what she wants. Act like an ass. Be nice. Be rude. The professor with one good eye. I have to be nice. I have to be good. I have to stay in line or plop. I’ll be put back in my place all over again. She gives the final grade. Suck it up. A or C? College’s care after all. She has the power. I’m powerless to do anything about it.
People don’t always like people. People who need people? Great song. Not the right one though. Love the Babs. But if someone doesn’t like me I might not like it. But. I don’t talk about it for days later.

What does she remind you of in yourself? Who does she remind you of? Why does it bother me so? Miriam asked a lot this time. She peered through her bifocals.

Who knows?

You know. Miriam said without a pause. You control the world. Control freak you are. She doesn’t. You do. But you don’t. Not in her world. It’s not about me. It’s about her. It’s all about you. Oh. That Miriam knows.

I have to think. Really? I am? This Monday with Miriam. I’ll find out and let myself know.

Freedom of Speech..

I started losing it about 3 days ago. My voice that is. I don’t know where it went. It was kinda nice. Not annoying. So I heard. Not too loud. Not too screechy. Not too nasal like Fran. Not too uppity like Julie.

Alas. I’m sure it will return.

It’s there. Just not fully. Just enough for me to speak. But not enough to be completely understood. Make sense? Try this.

Me: Hi. I’m Mi . I’m cal g from ug and alcoho eatme t co t.

Simple things come out very wrong. Oh well.

I miss my voice. I’m just not 1000% sure that David does. That bugger.

Re: Banned

On second thought. Who gives a poop. I've got much bigger fish to fry. Ro toughen up. Enjoy your cruise. If you put it out there people know it. Don't like it? Don't put it out there. Simple. Solved. Next! Love, the Banned One. Buh-bye.

Banned?

I went back to Rosie’s site the other day. I read. Spent some time -- which I don’t really have -- reading. Got confused. Wanted to ask. Comments are back on. Poof. She has the power. Don’t like a post. Poof it’s gone. I have one of my own. It’s still here. Hate never dies. Anyway. I asked. The response came back. I’ve been banned.

Yikes. I felt embarrassed and no one was around. What’s up with that? No one knows who I am. Yet I felt badly. I’ve never been banned before. Why I’m not sure. My words were kind to her there. Not here. But there. Never a mean word. That’s not my style at someone’s home.

Maybe she came here a while ago. Who knows. Maybe she read that I called her a liar. That was my truth. Now I know better. Not nice. I need to think before I post my thoughts while craving a Marlboro light 100. Menthol please. They made my breath smell better. Or so I thought. My clothes told me otherwise.

Rosie wrote that being a celebrity took away her yellow. I took it to mean her joy. Her anonymity. No more not knowing who you are. Everyone knows. I was touched by her post. I truly was.

I wanted to know why. Why did she crave fame so badly? Why do I? If it hurt her. Took her joy away. Why? Why be on 20/20. Just last week. Promoting her cruises. Showing her life. Again. Why be on TV the week before that? I’m confused. I just wanted to know. If something hurts you and robs you of your joy why not walk away? I’ll never know. Been banned.

Always in the public eye. She remains. Yet her show took her yellow. I guess there are different degrees of fame. Maybe? It must be really hard to walk away. That love. That yellow. Just walk away. Be normal. Must be really hard. Never again. Never normal again. Who cares what I think? People care what Rosie thinks. That’s the difference.

Fame is a funny thing. No? All that work. Struggling. No guarantee for fame. Then it comes. The power. The wealth. The money. The perks. The loss of privacy. Mansions. They live in. Behind gates safely tucked away from their adoring fans. Unhappy. Fame but no joy. No thanks I say. No thanks. I’d rather be struggling to remain middle class than give away my freedom for a price.

I read hundreds of them. Comments from fans. Some wonderful others definitely in the DSM 4, 5, and 6. Frightening. Fame is. It would frighten me.

So. I’m sorry Ro. Sorry if my words hurt you. You know your truth. That’s all that matters. I know mine. You know yours.

Academia...

Academia is a wonderful world. Graduate school Ah. The high life. Um…

I had to call Kristine. I’m not sure if it’s with a C or a K and if it ends in E or not. Who gives a fuckity fuck (learned that from another blogger. LOVE IT!). I explained my stats.

I explained them again.

And again.

And again.

I’m moving. No. I don’t live there. I live here. Where? Here. Not there. Here.

We were disconnected.

Hi. Kristine. Can I help you?

I explained again.

And again.

And again.

Okay. Welcome to the Graduate school of fuckity fuck. Great. How do I register? Come in. No. I don’t live there. I live here. I don’t live there. I’m mooooooving there. I’m heeeere now.

I said it really slowly just to be an ass. I silently wonder if she has my degree. Any degree?

Didn’t work. It’s in the mail. Where I don’t know. But it’s in the mail.

Then I call Stacey. She’s the secretary. The gatekeeper that I must pass. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. No Stacey. That was last week. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. No Stacey. That was two days ago. Ring…oh fuckity fuck you get the point. No Stacey. It’s day 14.

Where’s Stacey? I can’t get through the gate if there isn’t a gatekeeper answering her phone. Do you know Stacey? Where is she? I need to speak with her. Now.

I love academia. The higher the education the better. That’s what I’m paying 10 G’s a semester for. No?

There but for the Grace of God...

I thought he was drunk. There was something about him. His big brown eyes. I Didn’t know him. Didn’t recognize him. But there was something about him. Young. Maybe 30’s. It’s hard to tell. Drugs make the young look old.

Chris. That’s my name. Well. Not really he said through gritted teeth. I shorten it all the time. Dark hair. Chubby face. Italian I think. The last name always gives us away. Nice. But something is wrong. Terribly wrong. I think he’s drunk. But he’s not.

We talked for a little bit. I was looking at him. He was looking at me but mostly at the floor. Used to make lots of money. Or so he said. Used to have a girl friend. Nice car. Nice apartment. But not anymore. All thanks to Wall Street he said. I don’t know. That’s when it started.

I don’t like Doctors or lawyers. He said while he raised his voice and hand. Dentists. He likes dentists. Why? I like pain. He said. I like pain in my mouth. What do I say? There’s nothing to say.

I stared. I wondered. I tried not to stare. I wanted to stare. I couldn’t. It’s so rude. But I wanted to. There is something wrong. Terribly wrong. I think he’s drunk. But he’s not.

Time stood still. At least it seemed that way. Questions and answers. That’s what it’s all about.

Chris was getting upset. Ringing in his ears he said. Ringing in his ears. I wish I could give it to him. Chris said to me pointing to a man. I wish I could give this to him so that he knew the pain. No one knows the pain. He’d know the pain if I could give it to him.

They would empathize with you then? I wanted to know. Yes. He said. They would. I’d take it back, you know. He said as he smirked. I’m not an asshole. I’m crazy as a fuck. But I’m not an asshole. But he likes pain in his mouth.

What is it? I had to know. Two days later I had to know. Major Depression my supervisor said. He suffers from major depression. But I thought he was drunk. There’s still something terribly wrong. The DSM knows all. But it doesn’t seem to know Chris. Not at all. Maybe #5 will know.

Ringing in his ears. Constant. Deafening he said. Speed. Special K. Heroin. Crack. Cocaine. Amp’s. THC. Vicodin. He had it all. Tried it all. Didn’t make the ringing stop. He likes pain. Pain in his mouth. He didn’t go to detox his unhappy case manager reported. No one seemed to know what happened to Chris with the big brown eyes.

I Don’t know if I’ll see him again. Chris. Maybe at the clinic. On the news. Or in the newspaper. I do still see him though. For now. If only in my minds eye. Dark hair. Big hands. Big brown eyes.

I want to help. I want to stare. I want to figure it all out. Fix it. Change it. Hand it back to them. But that’s not life. That’s not how it works. Chris has to want to change. That’s what they say. He has to want to get better. Chris with the ringing in his ears. I want to get better. That’s what he said just before he left. I do. I want to. But it hurts.

Why Chris? Why not me? There but for the grace of God go I. Isn’t that how it’s said. But he has to help himself. He has to help himself. Isn’t that God walking before me? Isn’t that me? No. It’s Chris. Chris with the big brown eyes.

Intended Fathers...

A diary. My diary. That’s what I needed to start. Two weeks into our journey. I had to write. And write. And write. Unreal things were happening. Unbelievable conversations. Realizations. Soul Searching. It was all such an incredible mess. No. I was an incredible mess.

Adoption came first. Phone calls were made. Many weren’t returned. Good news and some bad news. Hundreds of photographs of children. Beautiful children. Needing homes. Needing love. Did they need me? I wasn’t sure. More soul searching. We couldn’t do it. Adopt a special needs child. A child outside of our race. Two children. Brother and sister. We couldn’t do it. From what country? Where? Who is your mother? Did she want you desperately but couldn't keep you? Two fathers? Two whammies or so it seemed. A different race and two gay dads? What more harm could we do to a child? So it seemed. Such a mess.

I wrote. I wrote everything. Good, bad, indifferent, rants, raves, tirades, love, and joy. I wrote. I wrote everything. Too much. I had to get it out. It? The truth. My truth about becoming a dad. It was exciting. But it was hard. It was wonderful. But it hurt. It was amazing. But it was so complicated. Talking about money in one sentence and a baby in the next was excruciating. Pain right to my soul. Or so it seemed. A diary of a confused gay guy striving to become a dad. What started as a diary became a book.

“For all gay men considering parenthood through reproductive technology this book is REQUIRED READING. The author takes readers step-by-step through the process of using a surrogate. At the same time, in an honest and forthright fashion, he raises some serious questions and issues surrounding surrogacy and gay parenting. This book gives readers access and insight into the private world of a surrogate and her intended gay parents.” Angeline Acain, Publisher Gay Parent Magazine.

The reviews are coming in. It’s a very strange feeling. Using a surrogate? I hate that word. I hate the word hate.

“This book is truthfully written, holding nothing back. The story is very real and the reader will ride the emotional, physical, and financial roller-coaster ride right along with the dads.” Cheryl Jaques, Former President The Human Rights Campaign.

I wrote. I wrote everything. Probably too much. But I had to get it out. The private. The personal. I had to get it out. For her. For Lilly. It’s her story as much as it is ours. It’s how she came to be. It’s the truth.

Journal Entry, January, 2003
This morning, I found myself lying on the bathroom floor of our hotel room trying to well, rise to the occasion and do my thing. But first, I had to drown out the sound of Mom doing dishes, humming, and talking on the telephone in the background. Trust me, it wasn’t easy. But I did learn that turning the water on in the bathtub, running water in both sinks, and turning on the overhead fan worked just fine as distractions.

I don’t know if she’ll like it. Maybe she’ll hate us. Maybe she’ll love us. Maybe she’ll feel bought and sold. Maybe not. How will she feel? Only time will tell. Did we do the right thing? Only time will tell.

Choices...

According to some I chose to be gay. They are usually straight. But somehow they know that I chose to be gay.

They didn’t choose to be straight. I chose to be gay.

Sexuality is a toss up to them. I guess.

I somehow experimented with both sexes and chose the gay lifestyle. I don’t remember it. But, some say that I did anyway.

They’ve never slept with the same sex. They’ve never chosen. But somehow they know I did.

Religion. Ah. God. Sinners. It’s okay to be gay. Just don’t act on the sin. Lie about it. It hurts. People will hate you for it later. But don’t sin. It’s not nice to sin. Just lie.

Straight men are the worst. Haters. A lot of them. Stirs up some feelings they had that they wish they didn’t. I think. Why else? Who cares? They do for some big reason. I want them they all seem to think. It’s all about sex after all. Don’t flatter yourself.

Special rights, women say. Is the right to vote a special right? If you’re a woman you didn’t have it all that long ago. Sorry. Men suck. You must like making less money than they do. You’re different. You’re not equal. Like me.

Black people will say it too. They didn’t have rights. Fought for rights. Died for rights. But it’s different. They didn’t choose to be black. Gay=Sin. Bible says so. If Bible said to jump off a bridge would they? I wonder. I wish.

Woman has the word “man” in it you know. Why aren’t you wo’s? A fellow “feminist” student of mine once asked in class. Made me laugh all the way home. Wo’s. Damn her shoes were ugly. Prada. But, ugly.

Vicious circle or so it seems. You have what I want so I’ll fight for it but you’ll have to fight for it too because you don’t deserve what I have even though I fought for it like you’re going to have to do. I am it. You chose it. Big difference.

Hate me. Doesn’t change me. Still going after 16 years together. Been called every single name in the book. Doesn’t work. Even in death I’m still gay or was gay. Doesn’t change it. Never will. Wasted emotion.

The trap is they hate me I hate them. Can’t fall into it.

Some say teens have it better now. Lots of role models. Stay in the closet if you want to work. That’s what Hollywood says. Ask Ellen. Too gay and you lose your job. Ask Rosie. TV? Forget it.

Nate is gay. Never knew it. Then disaster made it known. Women think he’s a “hottie.” Sex sells. But, not if you’re gay. Partner or friend? Big difference in Hollywood. Gay=no lusting=no viewers=no advertisers=no Nate. Shhh. It’s a secret.

Who is my role model? Everyone. I see me in everyone. Don’t always like it. That’s life.

Eustress...

Stress is stress. It’s generally bad. But eustress is good stress. Or so the text books say.

It’s stress but it’s not negative. Nope. It's good. Go figure. Feels like stress that's for sure. It’s not stress like a psychotic boss. I've had them. Hated it. It’s stress like having to pick between two good job offers.

I’m stressed. It’s good stress. But, damn it, I’m stressed.

Two good offers. Two different parts of the country. One near family (can be both horrific and good depending upon the mood and/or holiday). One is an hour from NYC. The other is 3 ½ hrs from NYC.

One gay friendly. One not so gay friendly. Maybe anonymous lives there?

One I could just transfer schools and keep all credits. The other transfer and take only 7 little credits with me. Not so good. I’d be a year behind all over again. Student loans? Oy.

One salary is better than the other. Not by much. But a little. For now. Give it three years and one has huge earning potential. The other good, but not nearly as much.

What to do. What to do.

How do I tell someone no because of something that I want? How do I tell someone no you can’t have what you want because I won’t get what I want?

Eustress. It’s good stress. But it’s still good ol’ stress. Making lists. Checking them twice. Making more lists. Doing some homework. Cognitive/Behavior modality of counseling. Never liked it. But, I’m getting used to it.

Reality?

Sometimes I think that I’m the only person in the US of A that doesn’t watch any of the “reality” shows on television – aka the boob tube in our home. (Don’t ask. I have no idea why it’s called that).

I watched 10 minutes of American Idol last night and was nearly ill. I know that’s a tad dramatic, but hey, my daughter has a little diva in her and I know where she gets it from. I hated it. Fantastica or something was up on stage singing. No, it was more like screaming. I had seen her perform on some Elton John tribute program. Screaming. Then along came heather Headly (sp?) amazing woman from Lion King and she brought down the house. Made fastastica look like amateur night at my old high school or something. It was ugly. Real ugly.

Then, someone was voted off. They actually made him sing! Imagine getting voted off a show. Being heart broken. And then having someone throw a mic in your face and say sing! Sing! He was horrible. I don’t think he hit one single note or if he did I’m tone deaf now and can’t tell anyway. He was no heather headly either.

Maybe it’s because I worked in TV for nearly 15 years. I don’t know. But it’s not “reality” it’s staged TV. The apprentice? Give me a break. Those people are hand picked for drama not brains. Boobs, braun, drama and ratings. That’s reality TV. Survivor I watched the first year. Got it. Saw it. Thought it was kind of fun. Hated it. Stopped watching it. The woman from Minnesota drove me crazy. Her accent is worse than the one here. She didn’t seem that bright. Rudy? Ugh. Gimme a break. 15 minutes of fame was wasted over and over and over again.

The Starlet? Oy. Is it Faye Dunaway? Mommy dearest didn’t do well for her I guess. Now she’s a B-Itch on the WB. It’s rather sad. Whatever happened to going to Julliard for acting? I guess it’s overrated or something. Classically trained actors would die if they watched that show. I almost did.

So that’s my take on “reality” TV. Hated it. I wasted 15 minutes of my life last night on American Idol. Oh, and Paula? She sounds like Mickey Mouse. Simon? He should not be wearing tight shirts. He’s not 20 anymore. Grow up.

Rant off.

Money...money...money...

An offer came in today. A good job offer. One hour from NYC in a nice gay-friendly little suburb. School would be close-by for me. Maybe an hour at it's worst.

D just scratched his head. He's still scratching. Thinking. Wondering. Staring at the back of my head as I type this. Wondering.

What's the problem? Money.

The offer was good. Damn good. But, for some reason now good is not enough. When did six-figures get to be not good enough? What's wrong with that picture?

Six figures at 34% taxes, that's what is wrong.

Six figures means bigger house. Nicer car. Nicer clothes. More rooms. More land. More taxes. More bills. More expenses. More...more...more...more...

It never ends.

Until we make it stop.

temper...temper...

She may only be 18 months old but I'm starting to think she has some diva in her blood.

Go straight from the car to the house without playing outside in the pouring rain. Total meltdown. Shake your head no when she points at the Wizard of Oz Glenda the Good Witch Barbie Doll (hey it was a gift from a boss I didn't buy it!) and wants to play. Utter meltdown. Mute the sound on the television during a Disney channel music video. Hall hath no fury.

Turn off The Wiggles during a show tune. Meltdown of the decade complete with kicking feet and beat red face.

That's my daugther.

Advice has been to ignore it, don't give in to it, pick and choose your battles, and/or hug her. My reaction thus far has been to stand, petrified, in amazement that something so gorgeous could turn so evil in a matter of moments, and stare at her. Sometimes, I admit, I do give in. Other times I get angry. Then I sometimes just walk away.

The best temper tantrums though, I'm learning, happen just one minute before the realtor knocks on our door to show our home. Those are the best. Talk about the purple elephant in the living room that no one wants to talk about.

Try ignoring that one.

Ahh. The joys of parenting. But wait, they say, until she starts talking.

Hope...

It's been almost 8 years. Eight years since our lives changed in very drastic ways.

It wasn't a death. It wasn't a life. It wasn't earth shattering. But, to me it was.

One person's dream wasn't mine. I chose not to stand in his way. Take a chance. Make a wish. Then sail away. I couldn't stand in his way. Be the best you can, I said. The best you can be. I'll go along for the ride.

It's been almost 8 years. I barely remember anything. But, I do remember everything.

Houses were sold. Dreams were put on hold. Families were in uproar. Twitches came, and went, and came back again. Love walked the fine line of hate. Hate walked the fine line of love. All because of a wish and a chance. Who would have thought that one dream - one person's dream - would cause so much. But, it did.

It's been almost 8 years. Now the end is in sight. No fanfare. No parades. No parties. But, it's almost the end.

New beginnings. New houses. New dreams. Families still in uproar. Add one new one to the mix. Twitches still come and go. All because of a wish. A chance. A dream come true. But now, where uncertainty used to be there's hope.

I'll take it.

Promises, PrOmisEs

It was pretty short and sweet. The email I just got. Not quite a promise. But a statement of fact. I guess. "I'm going to get better."

It's time "to focus on myself rather than my children and my family."

Now, it's her turn.

I'll "get well because I deserve to be well enough to enjoy the rest of my life."

Recovery is an amazing process. Years of selfishness. Pleas to get help. Arrests. Begging. Pleading. Now it's time for help so that enjoyment can be had until death.

Ironic isn't it? Her life for the past 40 years was just as much about alcohol as it was about her children and her family. But now it's not about children. It's not about family. But, it's still about alcohol. Just not drinking it anymore now. The selfishness remains.