Well, I dipped my pinky toe back into the dating pool, and the piranhas bit it off. Somehow I managed to have yet another catastrophically bad date, despite deliberate planning and intentional choices.
I met the guy on Manhunt, which admittedly is not the best website for dating, but I felt like my screening process was adequate. We traded several emails, and I liked the way he presented himself in writing. We met for coffee and that went well too. He was attractive, close to my age, and seemed to have career goals and responsibilities. So, when the subject came up of having a proper date, I was amenable.
Usually for a first date I like to choose a place that is very public. My reasoning is that I’m less likely to be murdered by a serial killer if I’m in a crowded place. I have learned from my time on this earth that I am NOT a great judge of character, so better to take steps on the front end to protect myself rather than leave it to chance. Unfortunately, it still backfired on me.
The place I chose for our first date was the performance theatre where I have just become a Board member. I figured it would provide the public setting to ensure I don’t get chainsaw-ed to death, and show my support for my new colleagues at the theatre.
He did show up for the rendezvous, and I introduced him to my friends at the theatre. My date seemed a little tense, but I figured it was just first-date jitters. Soon it was time to sit down for the performance.
I immediately knew something was up when I heard him breathing heavily beside me. My first thought was that maybe he had food poisoning, but he seemed way too fidgety for intestinal distress. His hands were clutching the armrests of his chair, not his stomach or (thank goodness) his crotch. Suddenly he stood straight up and hastily said to me, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this! I have to get out of here!!!” With that he bolted to the nearest exit.
Nothing makes a man feel hotter than seeing his date literally crawling over the other patrons in their seats to get away from him.
I chased him and managed to stop him briefly at the doors that entered into the lobby of the theatre. He hastily explained that it wasn’t me, but the play that had freaked him out. With that, he was gone.
Admittedly, the play was a challenging one. It was “The Rabbit Hole”, which had garnered Cynthia Nixon a Tony Award on Broadway for portraying a mother who has lost her son to an auto accident. All kinds of terrible thoughts were going through my head—had he lost a child? A car? A Tony Award? What could it be???
I was worried about my date, so after the show I resolved to call him. On a hunch, though, I decided to check Manhunt first. There he was, back online trying to salvage what was left of his Saturday night by finding another guy. So much for him being upset.
Since that night, he has called once and sent me an email. I decided not to return the call. I did write him back, and told him I felt like he had some more pressing matters to deal with other than starting a romantic relationship. I also apologized for taking him to a play that obviously upset him. Unfortunately, I can’t be the one to fix him.
If I were in my twenties, I would probably see this as my chance to ride in on my white horse and nurse him back to psychological health. Now that I’m in my forties, I know that it never works. Either you don’t fix them and you end up with a co-dependent cripple, or you do fix them and they dump you for someone younger and hotter who didn’t know them when they were damaged.
That’s the last I’ve heard from this gentleman. He has since taken his profile off Manhunt, so I don’t guess I’ll ever see him again. I do sincerely hope this guy gets the help that he needs. I also hope he doesn’t come looking for me with a chainsaw.
P.S. I'm not completely insensitive. If I really thought this guy had lost a child, I'd have never made light of this evening. The fact that he ditched me and went straight home to get back online makes me believe he had other reasons for leaving the theatre that night. Just wanted to be clear on that.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Turns for the Worse
Desperate people can be driven to do desperate things. Every now & again I’m reminded of how true this can be.
Charlotte roads are known for being two things: confusing and constantly under construction. The same road may change names several times in the course of a few miles, and most likely will either be closed or littered with orange & white construction barrels blocking the lanes. I’ve lived in Charlotte for close to a decade, so I think I’ve got the names down - but the construction still gives me trouble.
The other day I was late for a meeting, and as I approached the building I was dismayed to see the road was closed due to construction. I followed the detour signs and found myself positioned down from where I needed to be on a one-way street. The only way I saw to get to the building was to take an illegal left turn and dash into the parking lot before oncoming traffic approached. Convinced there had to be another option, I searched again. Unfortunately I ended up in the same situation: confronted with taking an illegal left turn. I felt like I had exhausted every avenue, so finally in desperation I just took it.
I feel the same way about finding music online. I understood when record companies shut down Napster as a free music downloading site*—but still was angry. It makes sense to me that the industry does not want people stealing music that is available in the stores to purchase. It is not fair to the artist, the label, or the vendors. Unfortunately, I was using Napster to obtain music that was out of print. Much of what I was getting was from obscure 1980’s acts (Vanity, Apollonia 6, Donna Allen) that have been out of print for years. This is music I remember from my teenage years that holds very fond memories for me. If the record companies would make it available to buy, I would buy it. But it’s not available.
The other day I was looking for another of these obscure songs: “When Love Surges” by Jules Shear. No reason why you would know it. I searched Amazon, iTunes and even eBay for a digital version of this song- nowhere to be found. Completely frustrated, I Googled it. It showed up on one of those Napster offspring websites. There it was, dangling right in front of me like the apple that tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden. I had tried to buy it legally, but it wasn’t available. All it would take was a push of the “Download Now” button. Convinced there had to be another option, I searched again. Unfortunately I ended up in the same situation: confronted with taking an illegal download. I felt like I had exhausted every avenue, so finally in desperation I just took it.
*Blender magazine, in their April 2008 issue talked about the history of music downloading. Before the 1980’s, consumers had the option of buying a hit single, or if they preferred, an entire album. Once cd’s came out in the 1980’s, the music industry got greedy. They figured if they discontinued singles, consumers would be forced to buy the albums (which cost more). It worked for a while, until technology in the 1990’s enabled consumers to share music as digital files. Consumers had found a way to circumvent a system built around greed and get the singles they wanted.
Rather than learn from their mistakes and try to reach a compromise that would work for everyone, the music industry shut down Napster and began suing people caught illegally downloading songs (including a single mother of two, with a yearly income of $36,000, for $222,000). It was a publicity nightmare, and by shutting down the ONE site where everyone was going (rather than try to work something out that would benefit everyone) they encouraged users to scatter and create innumerable copy-cat sites. Today there are scads of these sites available, and no conceivable way to stop or control them. When one is shut down, another surfaces to take its place. Napster was restructured as a pay-per-download site, but it was too late. Most Napster users had moved on to these other websites.
Charlotte roads are known for being two things: confusing and constantly under construction. The same road may change names several times in the course of a few miles, and most likely will either be closed or littered with orange & white construction barrels blocking the lanes. I’ve lived in Charlotte for close to a decade, so I think I’ve got the names down - but the construction still gives me trouble.
The other day I was late for a meeting, and as I approached the building I was dismayed to see the road was closed due to construction. I followed the detour signs and found myself positioned down from where I needed to be on a one-way street. The only way I saw to get to the building was to take an illegal left turn and dash into the parking lot before oncoming traffic approached. Convinced there had to be another option, I searched again. Unfortunately I ended up in the same situation: confronted with taking an illegal left turn. I felt like I had exhausted every avenue, so finally in desperation I just took it.
I feel the same way about finding music online. I understood when record companies shut down Napster as a free music downloading site*—but still was angry. It makes sense to me that the industry does not want people stealing music that is available in the stores to purchase. It is not fair to the artist, the label, or the vendors. Unfortunately, I was using Napster to obtain music that was out of print. Much of what I was getting was from obscure 1980’s acts (Vanity, Apollonia 6, Donna Allen) that have been out of print for years. This is music I remember from my teenage years that holds very fond memories for me. If the record companies would make it available to buy, I would buy it. But it’s not available.
The other day I was looking for another of these obscure songs: “When Love Surges” by Jules Shear. No reason why you would know it. I searched Amazon, iTunes and even eBay for a digital version of this song- nowhere to be found. Completely frustrated, I Googled it. It showed up on one of those Napster offspring websites. There it was, dangling right in front of me like the apple that tempted Eve in the Garden of Eden. I had tried to buy it legally, but it wasn’t available. All it would take was a push of the “Download Now” button. Convinced there had to be another option, I searched again. Unfortunately I ended up in the same situation: confronted with taking an illegal download. I felt like I had exhausted every avenue, so finally in desperation I just took it.
*Blender magazine, in their April 2008 issue talked about the history of music downloading. Before the 1980’s, consumers had the option of buying a hit single, or if they preferred, an entire album. Once cd’s came out in the 1980’s, the music industry got greedy. They figured if they discontinued singles, consumers would be forced to buy the albums (which cost more). It worked for a while, until technology in the 1990’s enabled consumers to share music as digital files. Consumers had found a way to circumvent a system built around greed and get the singles they wanted.
Rather than learn from their mistakes and try to reach a compromise that would work for everyone, the music industry shut down Napster and began suing people caught illegally downloading songs (including a single mother of two, with a yearly income of $36,000, for $222,000). It was a publicity nightmare, and by shutting down the ONE site where everyone was going (rather than try to work something out that would benefit everyone) they encouraged users to scatter and create innumerable copy-cat sites. Today there are scads of these sites available, and no conceivable way to stop or control them. When one is shut down, another surfaces to take its place. Napster was restructured as a pay-per-download site, but it was too late. Most Napster users had moved on to these other websites.
Monday, October 6, 2008
A Tale of Two Parties
Recently I was invited to attend two 40th birthday parties on the same night. Having celebrated a 40th birthday myself, I didn’t want to miss either event—so I double-booked. People need all the support they can get when they hit 40.
The first party was being hosted by a guy who had found much success in Charlotte. He lived in a gated community in a beautiful home. The party was being catered and he’d hired a DJ and a bartender to mix drinks. As we arrived at the house, my friend mentioned that we were NOT supposed to talk about anything “gay” once we got inside. Since this person was one of the most obviously gay men I could think of (and he had personally hit on me one night—confirming what I already knew), I assumed my friend was kidding. He assured me he was serious. This man was not openly gay.
We entered the party and were greeted by our host. He gave us a quick tour of his home, calling our attention to his walk-in closet with designer suits and hand-made scarves from Scotland (!), his master bedroom with the canopy bed (!!), and the dessert table loaded with pastries that he had made himself after finishing his Pastry Cooking Class (!!!). Each announcement was met with stifled praise and sidelong glances. It was like fireworks were going off and nobody would admit it was the Fourth of July.
The most uncomfortable moment came when someone suggested they have a Roast for the birthday boy. When volunteers were asked to step forward and tell stories, nobody would do it. Nobody seemed to know what was safe to tease him about. After an uncomfortable silence, the DJ mercifully started the music again and people just turned back to their conversations. My friend & I decided that was a good time to leave.
The second party was being hosted by a lesbian friend of ours and her partner. She was a poetess who had worked as a sign language interpreter to put her girlfriend through Culinary School. Now that her girlfriend was working, she was paying for the poetess to go back to school. Money was very tight, but what they lacked in financial support was more than compensated for with emotional support. There were no caterers, DJs or bartenders at the party. In honor of the poetess’ 40th birthday, there was a big washtub with 40 ounce beers on ice. Music was provided by a mix tape made by one of their friends. The place was packed, though, and everyone was laughing. Their tiny house was filled to capacity so the party had spilled out into the back yard. Young, old, gay, straight, black, white, latino, abled & disabled attendees were there to toast their friend. It was a perfect celebration.
I’m sure as you’re reading this, you are thinking that this is YET ANOTHER plea for people to come out of the closet and pursue their own happiness. That’s definitely part of it. The lesson I took away from this evening, though, expands upon that idea. The choices you make as an individual are going to affect the people around you. If people are truly your friends, they will want you to be happy. If you aren’t able to name that happiness and your desire to pursue it, then how can your friends support you? You have to pick up that baton and lead your friends in the parade. When you aren’t true to yourself, you not only screw up your own life—you ruin the party for everyone else.
The first party was being hosted by a guy who had found much success in Charlotte. He lived in a gated community in a beautiful home. The party was being catered and he’d hired a DJ and a bartender to mix drinks. As we arrived at the house, my friend mentioned that we were NOT supposed to talk about anything “gay” once we got inside. Since this person was one of the most obviously gay men I could think of (and he had personally hit on me one night—confirming what I already knew), I assumed my friend was kidding. He assured me he was serious. This man was not openly gay.
We entered the party and were greeted by our host. He gave us a quick tour of his home, calling our attention to his walk-in closet with designer suits and hand-made scarves from Scotland (!), his master bedroom with the canopy bed (!!), and the dessert table loaded with pastries that he had made himself after finishing his Pastry Cooking Class (!!!). Each announcement was met with stifled praise and sidelong glances. It was like fireworks were going off and nobody would admit it was the Fourth of July.
The most uncomfortable moment came when someone suggested they have a Roast for the birthday boy. When volunteers were asked to step forward and tell stories, nobody would do it. Nobody seemed to know what was safe to tease him about. After an uncomfortable silence, the DJ mercifully started the music again and people just turned back to their conversations. My friend & I decided that was a good time to leave.
The second party was being hosted by a lesbian friend of ours and her partner. She was a poetess who had worked as a sign language interpreter to put her girlfriend through Culinary School. Now that her girlfriend was working, she was paying for the poetess to go back to school. Money was very tight, but what they lacked in financial support was more than compensated for with emotional support. There were no caterers, DJs or bartenders at the party. In honor of the poetess’ 40th birthday, there was a big washtub with 40 ounce beers on ice. Music was provided by a mix tape made by one of their friends. The place was packed, though, and everyone was laughing. Their tiny house was filled to capacity so the party had spilled out into the back yard. Young, old, gay, straight, black, white, latino, abled & disabled attendees were there to toast their friend. It was a perfect celebration.
I’m sure as you’re reading this, you are thinking that this is YET ANOTHER plea for people to come out of the closet and pursue their own happiness. That’s definitely part of it. The lesson I took away from this evening, though, expands upon that idea. The choices you make as an individual are going to affect the people around you. If people are truly your friends, they will want you to be happy. If you aren’t able to name that happiness and your desire to pursue it, then how can your friends support you? You have to pick up that baton and lead your friends in the parade. When you aren’t true to yourself, you not only screw up your own life—you ruin the party for everyone else.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Vexed by Text
Recently I met a guy in whom I was interested, and my pro-active straight friends decided to help push things along. They were going to a Carolina Panthers game over the weekend and had some extra tickets. My friend invited me, and she got one of her friends who knew the gentleman of interest to invite him. I was excited at the prospect of getting to spend some time with this guy, and I figured a group setting would be less stressful than a formal date.
We had arranged to meet at a bar near the stadium that had outside tables. It was a beautiful afternoon and everyone was looking forward to dinner outdoors. Seating was strategically planned so that I would be beside my guy. Unfortunately, once everyone was in place, a female in the group who was unaware of the dynamics asked if anyone would trade seats with her because she was getting too much sun. My guy immediately got up and traded seats.
I was still a bit nonplussed with this development when I got a text message on my cell phone. It was a flirty comment from my guy! My mood immediately improved. During dinner and the accompanying conversations, we traded flirty text messages with each other discretely under the table. It felt fun and a bit naughty. Soon it was time to go to the game.
Again, my awesome friends had arranged for me to sit beside my person of interest. At this point, things began to get strange. The guy positioned himself with his back to me (WTF??) and engaged the woman (one of our group) sitting on the other side of him in conversation. I tried once or twice to start a conversation, but he’d always eventually turn back to his friend. Disenchanted, I went with one of my friends to get a beer. Then the text messages started to arrive:
“Where’d you go?”
“Ur not leaving, are you?”
Now I was getting annoyed. It’s one thing to text me when we’re not sitting together, but to talk to your friend while I’m sitting beside you and THEN send a text after I leave is completely aggravating. I was sure when I returned he would be more attentive, but that didn’t seem to be the case. So I just struck up a conversation of my own with the friend on the other side of me.
After the game, I was convinced there were no sparks between myself and this guy—but my friend assured me he was interested. In a last ditch effort, I asked the guy if he’d want to have dinner together sometime soon. He said he would.
I guess the next step is to get something scheduled. I’m totally willing to take the initiative to call this guy and make some plans. I just hope this time he’ll actually speak to me instead of texting. Maybe we can have dinner at a hospital cafeteria—last I heard, they don’t allow cell phones in hospitals.
We had arranged to meet at a bar near the stadium that had outside tables. It was a beautiful afternoon and everyone was looking forward to dinner outdoors. Seating was strategically planned so that I would be beside my guy. Unfortunately, once everyone was in place, a female in the group who was unaware of the dynamics asked if anyone would trade seats with her because she was getting too much sun. My guy immediately got up and traded seats.
I was still a bit nonplussed with this development when I got a text message on my cell phone. It was a flirty comment from my guy! My mood immediately improved. During dinner and the accompanying conversations, we traded flirty text messages with each other discretely under the table. It felt fun and a bit naughty. Soon it was time to go to the game.
Again, my awesome friends had arranged for me to sit beside my person of interest. At this point, things began to get strange. The guy positioned himself with his back to me (WTF??) and engaged the woman (one of our group) sitting on the other side of him in conversation. I tried once or twice to start a conversation, but he’d always eventually turn back to his friend. Disenchanted, I went with one of my friends to get a beer. Then the text messages started to arrive:
“Where’d you go?”
“Ur not leaving, are you?”
Now I was getting annoyed. It’s one thing to text me when we’re not sitting together, but to talk to your friend while I’m sitting beside you and THEN send a text after I leave is completely aggravating. I was sure when I returned he would be more attentive, but that didn’t seem to be the case. So I just struck up a conversation of my own with the friend on the other side of me.
After the game, I was convinced there were no sparks between myself and this guy—but my friend assured me he was interested. In a last ditch effort, I asked the guy if he’d want to have dinner together sometime soon. He said he would.
I guess the next step is to get something scheduled. I’m totally willing to take the initiative to call this guy and make some plans. I just hope this time he’ll actually speak to me instead of texting. Maybe we can have dinner at a hospital cafeteria—last I heard, they don’t allow cell phones in hospitals.
The First Anniversary
I was looking at my calendar this week and realized that it was one year ago that I left my dental practice. In some ways it seems like it was only yesterday. In others it seems like a lifetime ago. It seems like forever since I actually worked on a patient. Unfortunately, the feelings I was having last year at this time are still pretty strong whenever I think about going back to dentistry. And the feelings I was having that last day at the office are still with me.
Because they knew I was leaving and a new doctor was coming in who would need to be trained, etc, most of the staff at my office decided to go on vacation the last two weeks I was there. It was reasonable to do so, and I don’t blame them—but it didn’t make my last two weeks a lot of fun. I was left to manage the office by myself. I got through it, but then on my last day—as my last patient walked out the door—I packed up my stuff and went to say ‘goodbye’. I was halfway down the hall before I realized there wasn’t really anyone to say ‘goodbye’ to. I had been working with the other doctor’s assistant that week, and we weren’t really that close. There was a new woman we had hired who was acting as receptionist, so she & I were still relative strangers as well. I just took my belongings and walked out the back. I remember feeling as though the profession I had never really liked apparently didn’t like me either.
So how am I feeling one year later? I’m still a little apprehensive about the future. I like my new job, and I’m learning a lot from the friend who hired me. I watch him work and it all seems to come so easy for him. I wonder if I will get to that point. I remind myself that he’s been doing this job for 12 years, and I’m only 8 months in—but it can still be intimidating.
I do feel like I’m on a better path now. I feel like I am growing again as an individual and as a member of my community. Dentistry left me so drained I didn’t pursue outside activities. Since leaving, I have joined the Board of a performance theatre and have really been able to dedicate some time to them. I’ve met a lot of people I would not have met otherwise—people of varied backgrounds and experiences from whom I feel I can learn. And I’ve been able to spend more time with the friends and family I already had.
All in all, it’s been a challenging and rewarding year. Was leaving dentistry the right decision? I believe it was, for me. Am I where I want to be? Honestly, not yet. But I feel like I’m heading in the right direction. It will be interesting to see where I am next year at this time.
Because they knew I was leaving and a new doctor was coming in who would need to be trained, etc, most of the staff at my office decided to go on vacation the last two weeks I was there. It was reasonable to do so, and I don’t blame them—but it didn’t make my last two weeks a lot of fun. I was left to manage the office by myself. I got through it, but then on my last day—as my last patient walked out the door—I packed up my stuff and went to say ‘goodbye’. I was halfway down the hall before I realized there wasn’t really anyone to say ‘goodbye’ to. I had been working with the other doctor’s assistant that week, and we weren’t really that close. There was a new woman we had hired who was acting as receptionist, so she & I were still relative strangers as well. I just took my belongings and walked out the back. I remember feeling as though the profession I had never really liked apparently didn’t like me either.
So how am I feeling one year later? I’m still a little apprehensive about the future. I like my new job, and I’m learning a lot from the friend who hired me. I watch him work and it all seems to come so easy for him. I wonder if I will get to that point. I remind myself that he’s been doing this job for 12 years, and I’m only 8 months in—but it can still be intimidating.
I do feel like I’m on a better path now. I feel like I am growing again as an individual and as a member of my community. Dentistry left me so drained I didn’t pursue outside activities. Since leaving, I have joined the Board of a performance theatre and have really been able to dedicate some time to them. I’ve met a lot of people I would not have met otherwise—people of varied backgrounds and experiences from whom I feel I can learn. And I’ve been able to spend more time with the friends and family I already had.
All in all, it’s been a challenging and rewarding year. Was leaving dentistry the right decision? I believe it was, for me. Am I where I want to be? Honestly, not yet. But I feel like I’m heading in the right direction. It will be interesting to see where I am next year at this time.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Grave Concerns, Part Two
What is it about dead birds that’s so unnerving? I grew up in a small town in the South, and seeing dead animals is nothing new to me. All manner of fauna could be found smushed along our rural country roads. Smelly? Oftentimes. But not as unpleasant on a visceral level as seeing a dead bird.
For the longest time I assumed maybe it was just me that felt this way, but then I heard an Eddie Murphy comedy album and he talked about terrorizing young girls when he was a child by threatening to put a dead bird on them. It was comforting to know that I wasn’t alone. I at least shared a phobia with the three-year old girls of the world.
I was jogging this past Saturday morning, listening to some old school club music*, and feeling very self-satisfied. Here I was doing something positive for my health while the rest of the world recovered from their hangovers. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and life was good. Suddenly I spied something directly in my path. It was a dead bird. Even though there was no turntable in sight, it was as if the needle had scratched and the music had stopped. It was horrible—just a compact pile of feathers and claws jutting out at odd angles. To my gay sensibilities it looked like a drag queen who had perished in some unfortunate sky-diving accident. The remainder of my run was haunted by the spectre of that feathered carcass.
As I finished my run, I tried to ascertain what it was about dead birds that freaked me out. Death itself doesn’t really bother me. And I like birds, as a general rule. I don’t think I’d want one as a pet—they are totally messy animals—but I like seeing them out in nature. Many of them are quite beautiful. I think that’s where the shock derives: how can something so beautiful in life look so unsightly in death? It’s as if, in the mere act of succumbing, everything that makes a bird so beautiful goes haywire. For the most part, you don’t see that anywhere else in the animal kingdom. Fish float upside down. People just turn grey. Birds die and suddenly it’s feathers and beaks and claws in complete disarray.
I haven’t decided if the fault lies with the bird, or with the feathers. Just in case, though—I need to leave some funeral instructions for dressing my corpse. If they have a viewing before my eco-burial, ABSOLUTELY NO FEATHER BOAS.
*”Kickin’ in the Beat” by Pamela Fernandez, if you must know. I DARE you to be unhappy when you listen to this song. It’s NOT possible.
For the longest time I assumed maybe it was just me that felt this way, but then I heard an Eddie Murphy comedy album and he talked about terrorizing young girls when he was a child by threatening to put a dead bird on them. It was comforting to know that I wasn’t alone. I at least shared a phobia with the three-year old girls of the world.
I was jogging this past Saturday morning, listening to some old school club music*, and feeling very self-satisfied. Here I was doing something positive for my health while the rest of the world recovered from their hangovers. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and life was good. Suddenly I spied something directly in my path. It was a dead bird. Even though there was no turntable in sight, it was as if the needle had scratched and the music had stopped. It was horrible—just a compact pile of feathers and claws jutting out at odd angles. To my gay sensibilities it looked like a drag queen who had perished in some unfortunate sky-diving accident. The remainder of my run was haunted by the spectre of that feathered carcass.
As I finished my run, I tried to ascertain what it was about dead birds that freaked me out. Death itself doesn’t really bother me. And I like birds, as a general rule. I don’t think I’d want one as a pet—they are totally messy animals—but I like seeing them out in nature. Many of them are quite beautiful. I think that’s where the shock derives: how can something so beautiful in life look so unsightly in death? It’s as if, in the mere act of succumbing, everything that makes a bird so beautiful goes haywire. For the most part, you don’t see that anywhere else in the animal kingdom. Fish float upside down. People just turn grey. Birds die and suddenly it’s feathers and beaks and claws in complete disarray.
I haven’t decided if the fault lies with the bird, or with the feathers. Just in case, though—I need to leave some funeral instructions for dressing my corpse. If they have a viewing before my eco-burial, ABSOLUTELY NO FEATHER BOAS.
*”Kickin’ in the Beat” by Pamela Fernandez, if you must know. I DARE you to be unhappy when you listen to this song. It’s NOT possible.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Grave Concerns
I’m about two-thirds of the way into my 90-in-90 exercise plan (see 5-30-08 posting). I’m not gonna lie and say I’ve been to the gym EVERY day since I started, but what I have tried to do is make up any days I miss by doing two workouts—eg. Weights + Cardio. Trying to find something different to do every day has forced me to sample some different exercise regimens. I tried Bikram (hot) yoga and sweated my butt off. I also revisited Cardio Kickboxing, but still found my enjoyment of the class was very dependent on the instructor, which is why I quit going originally.
One thing I have enjoyed is jogging in the cemetery. A guy I met recently thought that was totally creepy, but I disagree. Southerners are quite good to their dead, and the cemetery where I run is no exception. It’s very lush and green and well-tended. There is a paved road that winds through the grounds, and never any traffic. I’ll take that over jogging in the city streets any day of the week. Plus, being around all those skeletons makes me want to stay skinny too.
I can’t help but read the headstones as I run around, and the competitive side of me finds myself pitting my possible age of death against the age they died:
52 years old—I think I can beat that
77 years old—That’s gonna be a bit tougher
96 years old—Now that’s just showing off….
If I get a vote, which clearly I won’t, I think 85 is a good time to move on. Hopefully you’ll have had plenty of years to enjoy, some mistakes from which to learn, and someone younger to whom you can pass on your wisdom. By the time you reach 85, I’m assuming, your health issues will most likely be overshadowing your happiness. I can’t imagine you’ll be missing out on too much fun if you kick it at 85. Not much left to do after that but lose your teeth and poo on yourself.
As I look at all the tombstones, I do wonder if there’s not a better way to dispose of our dead. Dead bodies take up a lot of space. Will we eventually run out of places to put them? I’ve seen some of the cemeteries in Europe where bodies are packed upon bodies like a posthumous orgy. No thanks. I think I want an eco-burial.
Basically what they do is freeze your body to -321 F and grind you into powder. Then you are dehydrated and filtered (coffee, anyone?) to rid the powder of any heavy metals, etc. In about two hours you become compost, which can be used to fertilize a garden or forest. You can have a little memorial garden planted in your name, or just be scattered in the woods—if you don’t want to call attention to yourself. Either way, your remains will be useful, and not just cluttering up the place. I like that idea.
It does make me sad that I may not end up in a beautiful Southern cemetery with hot young joggers passing by, but maybe I can be scattered along a trail in the woods where there are hikers or something to keep me company. I could go for that….but hopefully not until I’m 85.
One thing I have enjoyed is jogging in the cemetery. A guy I met recently thought that was totally creepy, but I disagree. Southerners are quite good to their dead, and the cemetery where I run is no exception. It’s very lush and green and well-tended. There is a paved road that winds through the grounds, and never any traffic. I’ll take that over jogging in the city streets any day of the week. Plus, being around all those skeletons makes me want to stay skinny too.
I can’t help but read the headstones as I run around, and the competitive side of me finds myself pitting my possible age of death against the age they died:
52 years old—I think I can beat that
77 years old—That’s gonna be a bit tougher
96 years old—Now that’s just showing off….
If I get a vote, which clearly I won’t, I think 85 is a good time to move on. Hopefully you’ll have had plenty of years to enjoy, some mistakes from which to learn, and someone younger to whom you can pass on your wisdom. By the time you reach 85, I’m assuming, your health issues will most likely be overshadowing your happiness. I can’t imagine you’ll be missing out on too much fun if you kick it at 85. Not much left to do after that but lose your teeth and poo on yourself.
As I look at all the tombstones, I do wonder if there’s not a better way to dispose of our dead. Dead bodies take up a lot of space. Will we eventually run out of places to put them? I’ve seen some of the cemeteries in Europe where bodies are packed upon bodies like a posthumous orgy. No thanks. I think I want an eco-burial.
Basically what they do is freeze your body to -321 F and grind you into powder. Then you are dehydrated and filtered (coffee, anyone?) to rid the powder of any heavy metals, etc. In about two hours you become compost, which can be used to fertilize a garden or forest. You can have a little memorial garden planted in your name, or just be scattered in the woods—if you don’t want to call attention to yourself. Either way, your remains will be useful, and not just cluttering up the place. I like that idea.
It does make me sad that I may not end up in a beautiful Southern cemetery with hot young joggers passing by, but maybe I can be scattered along a trail in the woods where there are hikers or something to keep me company. I could go for that….but hopefully not until I’m 85.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Old Maid
This week was my god-daughter’s 4th birthday. I wasn’t sure what to get her until I stumbled across a deck of “Old Maid” cards at the gift shop. I remember loving that game. The package said ‘3+ years’ so I went ahead a bought it. It didn’t hold my god-daughter’s attention for very long (I was competing with a Strawberry Shortcake scooter and stuffed animals, so I didn’t take it too personally), but I was fascinated once I started poring through the deck. There was no longer a picture of a sad looking spinster on the “Old Maid” card! Instead it was a group shot of all the characters, and the words “Old Maid” written across the top. WTF????
I’m guessing that in these politically correct times, it just wasn’t acceptable to show an unmarried woman on the loser card. But speaking as a single individual of a certain age, I can’t say I was ever really offended. First of all, it’s a children’s card game—get over it! Secondly, I don’t think I ever identified with the grey haired woman in the Victorian gown that I remember seeing on the Old Maid card.
In my “Old Maid” deck, I’d put a much different woman on the solo card. First of all, she’d look terrific. She doesn’t have children waking her up at night and running her ragged during the day. She also has reams of disposable income, since there are no colleges to pay for, no day care, etc. This cash reserve is used to buy a kickin’ wardrobe, highlights for her hair, and a swanky uptown condo. She would be wearing unusual jewelry purchased on one of her many trips to exotic lands. My Old Maid would be of an indeterminate age—she’s had work done! And her social calendar would be filled with dinner parties, concerts, and (if she’s so inclined) the occasional date. She’d be laughing and toasting the great life that she built single-handedly.
When playing with my “Old Maid” deck, the person holding the “Old Maid” card may have lost, but the woman on the card is still in the game!
I’m guessing that in these politically correct times, it just wasn’t acceptable to show an unmarried woman on the loser card. But speaking as a single individual of a certain age, I can’t say I was ever really offended. First of all, it’s a children’s card game—get over it! Secondly, I don’t think I ever identified with the grey haired woman in the Victorian gown that I remember seeing on the Old Maid card.
In my “Old Maid” deck, I’d put a much different woman on the solo card. First of all, she’d look terrific. She doesn’t have children waking her up at night and running her ragged during the day. She also has reams of disposable income, since there are no colleges to pay for, no day care, etc. This cash reserve is used to buy a kickin’ wardrobe, highlights for her hair, and a swanky uptown condo. She would be wearing unusual jewelry purchased on one of her many trips to exotic lands. My Old Maid would be of an indeterminate age—she’s had work done! And her social calendar would be filled with dinner parties, concerts, and (if she’s so inclined) the occasional date. She’d be laughing and toasting the great life that she built single-handedly.
When playing with my “Old Maid” deck, the person holding the “Old Maid” card may have lost, but the woman on the card is still in the game!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Illegal Smiles
Sometimes you have one of those nights where the stars just seem to line up and everything is groovy. The Bruce Springsteen concert the other night was one of those times. I’d gone with some friends, but instead of assigned seats we just had tickets for the floor in front of the stage. As expected, it was really crowded and hectic and soon I found myself separated from my posse. No worries, I had a cold beer in hand and Bruce was kicking into my favorite song, “Girls in Their Summer Clothes”, off his new cd. I was singing along when I suddenly noticed an arm around my shoulder. I looked over and a young (college-aged) Latino guy was drunkenly singing along with me. We finished our little duet (along with Bruce and the many other concert attendees) and the boy smiled real big and patted me on the back. Next thing I knew, he pulled out what appeared to be a hand-rolled cigarette, winked at me and said, “Make my night, dude. Split this with me!” So I did. By the end of the show, he & his friends had adopted me into their clan and we were taking pictures together and singing along with every song. It wasn’t until after the final encore that I remembered I had actually come to the show with another group of friends that I would have to track down (which I did very easily thanks to the miracle of cell phones). When I found them, I recounted my story with them and they were appropriately jealous. All in all, a perfect evening.
There seems to be something about music (and dare I say, what appears to be hand-rolled cigarettes?!) that brings people together. I’ve always found that to be true. A few months ago I was going through old photo albums trying to decide which pictures to scan for my online profile. I stumbled across a picture of me with a very regal looking African-American woman. I had no clue who she was, at first. Then I remembered and had to smile. I had gone to another show (the Who, I believe) back in the ‘80’s while I was in undergrad. It was a similar dynamic—I was with a group of my fraternity bro’s, we lit up, and found ourselves dancing and singing along with this super-cool couple (one of whom was the woman in the picture). We hung out with them the entire night, took some pics, and then never saw them again. But still, it was another perfect evening.
As you probably assumed, I haven’t seen the Latino guy since the Springsteen show. I don’t even remember if I gave him my email address so he could send me copies of the pictures. I’m fine with that. Part of me hopes, though, that one day—years from now—he’ll be going through his old photographs from when he was in his twenties, and he’ll stumble across the one of me with him. I’m sure he’ll wonder who the hell I am. And if and when he remembers—I hope he smiles.
There seems to be something about music (and dare I say, what appears to be hand-rolled cigarettes?!) that brings people together. I’ve always found that to be true. A few months ago I was going through old photo albums trying to decide which pictures to scan for my online profile. I stumbled across a picture of me with a very regal looking African-American woman. I had no clue who she was, at first. Then I remembered and had to smile. I had gone to another show (the Who, I believe) back in the ‘80’s while I was in undergrad. It was a similar dynamic—I was with a group of my fraternity bro’s, we lit up, and found ourselves dancing and singing along with this super-cool couple (one of whom was the woman in the picture). We hung out with them the entire night, took some pics, and then never saw them again. But still, it was another perfect evening.
As you probably assumed, I haven’t seen the Latino guy since the Springsteen show. I don’t even remember if I gave him my email address so he could send me copies of the pictures. I’m fine with that. Part of me hopes, though, that one day—years from now—he’ll be going through his old photographs from when he was in his twenties, and he’ll stumble across the one of me with him. I’m sure he’ll wonder who the hell I am. And if and when he remembers—I hope he smiles.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Potent Potables
I have to admit, I was recently jealous. I went to Playa del Carmen for a friend’s 40th birthday. The trip was perfect. That didn’t bother me. The weather was great. I was fine with that. He was surrounded by people who love him. I was one of them. What I envied was that during the course of the festivities, the party planner that put together the event worked with a bartender and came up with a signature drink in his honor. A drink named after him! I couldn’t stand it! So of course I came home and got out my junior chemistry set to come up with a drink of my own. I googled the ingredients and as far as I know, nobody has mixed these before. Where’s the *%$!! Patent Office???
The Branchula (Branchula is a nick-name of mine, in case you’re wondering—rhymes with tarantula)
1 part Irish whiskey (an unexpected ingredient that is both exotic and memorable)
1 part Canada Dry Green tea ginger ale (for effervescence AND some healthy antioxidants)
1 part Cranberry juice cocktail (for color and necessary fruitiness!)
Mix together in a lowball glass and serve over ice. Hopefully you will find it light and refreshing—especially those of you who shy away from dark liquors!
And for those of you who are more health conscious, here is my secret pre-workout power drink. It’s great for those days you don’t really feel like working out—by the time you get to the gym you’ll be bouncing off the walls!
Brant’s Energizing Work Out Shake
3/4 cup chilled coffee (I like a bold coffee like Starbucks Sumatra)
3/4 cup 2% milk
1 scoop chocolate protein powder (lately I’ve been using American Sports Double Dutch Chocolate Supreme—20 g protein per scoop)
Mix in a blender and enjoy 45 minutes before you go to the gym. By the time you get there the caffeine will have kicked in, and you’ll have the protein available to build muscle.
So whether you want to work out or pass out, I have a beverage for you! Drink up, sweeties!
The Branchula (Branchula is a nick-name of mine, in case you’re wondering—rhymes with tarantula)
1 part Irish whiskey (an unexpected ingredient that is both exotic and memorable)
1 part Canada Dry Green tea ginger ale (for effervescence AND some healthy antioxidants)
1 part Cranberry juice cocktail (for color and necessary fruitiness!)
Mix together in a lowball glass and serve over ice. Hopefully you will find it light and refreshing—especially those of you who shy away from dark liquors!
And for those of you who are more health conscious, here is my secret pre-workout power drink. It’s great for those days you don’t really feel like working out—by the time you get to the gym you’ll be bouncing off the walls!
Brant’s Energizing Work Out Shake
3/4 cup chilled coffee (I like a bold coffee like Starbucks Sumatra)
3/4 cup 2% milk
1 scoop chocolate protein powder (lately I’ve been using American Sports Double Dutch Chocolate Supreme—20 g protein per scoop)
Mix in a blender and enjoy 45 minutes before you go to the gym. By the time you get there the caffeine will have kicked in, and you’ll have the protein available to build muscle.
So whether you want to work out or pass out, I have a beverage for you! Drink up, sweeties!
Friday, June 27, 2008
Prayer for a Wiener
Every now and then you see something that sticks in your head and you can’t stop thinking about it. I decided to hit the gym yesterday during my lunch hour, and as I was walking over I spied a woman saying grace over a plain hotdog in a bun. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
At first I felt bad for the lady, to be so grateful for a measly $1.19 hotdog. Had life been so unkind to her that she felt lucky to have this sole wiener in a bun? The cynical side of me chimed in that if times were this tough, she would’ve loaded up on toppings since those were free with purchase of the hotdog. This woman had not done that. She didn’t seem to be suffering. She was very nicely dressed and seemed to be a white-collar worker.
I then decided she must be a very devout individual. Good for her. Life is hard, and a good belief system enables a person to cope. Then I began to ponder this. God is quite busy—I’m sure that while He appreciates the gratitude, He probably doesn’t feel like you have to send Him thanks for every possible thing that is sent your way. It’s like the coworkers who copy you on EVERY SINGLE email. Perhaps it would be better to just make a mental note of what you’re grateful for and send one comprehensive prayer at the end of the day.
I also started thinking about the hotdog itself. They aren’t particularly good for you. In fact they are loaded with preservatives and Nitrates and fat. God probably doesn’t want credit for that hotdog any more than the French want credit for French fries. What if hotdogs are the work of Satan? In that case it was at best misdirected and at worst horribly inappropriate for this woman to thank God for the work of Satan. You wouldn’t thank God for murders or theft or disease or pestilence, so don’t thank Him for your poor food choices. God deserves better than that.
I never decided what the true story was. I DID decide that I had definitely put more thought into this woman’s meal than she had. After my workout, I made a conscious decision to eat a healthy lunch. Maybe that was why God had put that woman in my path…to get me to eat a healthier lunch than the one she was eating. And for that I am grateful.
At first I felt bad for the lady, to be so grateful for a measly $1.19 hotdog. Had life been so unkind to her that she felt lucky to have this sole wiener in a bun? The cynical side of me chimed in that if times were this tough, she would’ve loaded up on toppings since those were free with purchase of the hotdog. This woman had not done that. She didn’t seem to be suffering. She was very nicely dressed and seemed to be a white-collar worker.
I then decided she must be a very devout individual. Good for her. Life is hard, and a good belief system enables a person to cope. Then I began to ponder this. God is quite busy—I’m sure that while He appreciates the gratitude, He probably doesn’t feel like you have to send Him thanks for every possible thing that is sent your way. It’s like the coworkers who copy you on EVERY SINGLE email. Perhaps it would be better to just make a mental note of what you’re grateful for and send one comprehensive prayer at the end of the day.
I also started thinking about the hotdog itself. They aren’t particularly good for you. In fact they are loaded with preservatives and Nitrates and fat. God probably doesn’t want credit for that hotdog any more than the French want credit for French fries. What if hotdogs are the work of Satan? In that case it was at best misdirected and at worst horribly inappropriate for this woman to thank God for the work of Satan. You wouldn’t thank God for murders or theft or disease or pestilence, so don’t thank Him for your poor food choices. God deserves better than that.
I never decided what the true story was. I DID decide that I had definitely put more thought into this woman’s meal than she had. After my workout, I made a conscious decision to eat a healthy lunch. Maybe that was why God had put that woman in my path…to get me to eat a healthier lunch than the one she was eating. And for that I am grateful.
Friday, May 30, 2008
90 in 90
Desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s been 5 months since the holidays and I still haven’t lost the weight I put on between Thanksgiving and New Years. Usually I gain a bit during the holidays, but once they are over and the Christmas parties and huge meals and luscious leftovers are behind me, the weight falls off. I guess this is one more curse of getting older. This time around the holidays have stayed with me, and not in a good way.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had to make adjustments for my ever-slowing metabolism. I remember when I turned 30 I had to give up my precious Chinese buffets. At 35 I had to hire a personal trainer*. Now it seems at 41 something else will have to happen. It occurs to me that I may be able to take a page from the Alcoholics Anonymous rulebook.
I have some friends in the program, and through osmosis I’ve become aware of some of the tenets of the organization. I’m not necessarily referring to the 12 steps, which I’m sure are available online, but to some of the things I’ve heard AA members are asked to do. Some of them seem to apply to weight loss as well as drinking.
1. Admit you have a problem. I certainly do. I’m gaining weight and can’t get into some of my clothes comfortably.
2. Admit you are powerless over alcohol. Apparently I’m powerless over food. I do love to eat, and don’t seem to have the power to metabolize it like I used to.
3. Attend 90 meetings in 90 days. This is the one which really intrigues me. Attending that many meetings in a row really demonstrates a commitment. Maybe if I commit to 90 gym visits in 90 days, it will be enough to jump start some weight loss and establish some healthy habits. I’m sure I can’t commit to exercising every day for the rest of my life, but if I get into the habit of going whenever possible, that has to be a good thing!
So that is what I’m going to try to do. I’m also hoping by publishing this, it will reinforce my commitment. Unfortunately I doubt I’ll see results before summer is well underway, which brings me to another step:
4. Make amends to people you have wronged. So, if you are unlucky enough to see me in a swimsuit this summer, you may be getting an apology letter in the fall.
*Part of me is wondering if the retained weight is a side effect of my un-retained personal trainer (had to let him go after December 2007), but since I don’t foresee him returning I will have to come up with another plan.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had to make adjustments for my ever-slowing metabolism. I remember when I turned 30 I had to give up my precious Chinese buffets. At 35 I had to hire a personal trainer*. Now it seems at 41 something else will have to happen. It occurs to me that I may be able to take a page from the Alcoholics Anonymous rulebook.
I have some friends in the program, and through osmosis I’ve become aware of some of the tenets of the organization. I’m not necessarily referring to the 12 steps, which I’m sure are available online, but to some of the things I’ve heard AA members are asked to do. Some of them seem to apply to weight loss as well as drinking.
1. Admit you have a problem. I certainly do. I’m gaining weight and can’t get into some of my clothes comfortably.
2. Admit you are powerless over alcohol. Apparently I’m powerless over food. I do love to eat, and don’t seem to have the power to metabolize it like I used to.
3. Attend 90 meetings in 90 days. This is the one which really intrigues me. Attending that many meetings in a row really demonstrates a commitment. Maybe if I commit to 90 gym visits in 90 days, it will be enough to jump start some weight loss and establish some healthy habits. I’m sure I can’t commit to exercising every day for the rest of my life, but if I get into the habit of going whenever possible, that has to be a good thing!
So that is what I’m going to try to do. I’m also hoping by publishing this, it will reinforce my commitment. Unfortunately I doubt I’ll see results before summer is well underway, which brings me to another step:
4. Make amends to people you have wronged. So, if you are unlucky enough to see me in a swimsuit this summer, you may be getting an apology letter in the fall.
*Part of me is wondering if the retained weight is a side effect of my un-retained personal trainer (had to let him go after December 2007), but since I don’t foresee him returning I will have to come up with another plan.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Ball Pass
I just heard from a friend of mine who was returning from a vacation in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He had a splendid time, but was a tad disappointed over one incident. He was out with his boyfriend and ran into a favorite celebrity—Matthew Rush, the renowned porn star. He got up the courage to talk to Mr. Rush, but his boyfriend became quite threatened and my friend was forced to leave before asking to take a picture with his idol. I don’t know Mr. Rush, but I was devastated for my friend. He’ll never get that opportunity again. And for his boyfriend to be that threatened over a simple photograph cannot be a good sign. A good partner should be able to tolerate a lot more than a photograph with a celebrity.
Personally, I believe every relationship should have Ball Passes. These would work like the Hall Passes we used to get in school. A Hall Pass gave you the opportunity to wander the halls during regularly scheduled class time. The Ball Pass would give you the opportunity to wander outside your monogamous relationship. It’s not a free pass to sleep around, however. As with the Hall Pass, it would only be issued under the most unusual of circumstances. Frankly, I think one Ball Pass per person per relationship is plenty. That way, if you happen to meet a celebrity and the chance arises to have sex with that celebrity—you can do so without damaging your primary relationship.
If the man I was dating had the chance to go to bed with Jake Gyllenhaal—I wouldn’t want to be the one to make him miss out on that opportunity. I’d want him to have it (and hopefully take pictures to show me later!). And if the situation were reversed, I’d want to be able to do the same without worrying about what my partner would think. Can you imagine how you would feel if you missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime because of your partner? And how would you feel if you & your partner broke up, and you had missed out on that opportunity? You could have had a great story to tell for the rest of your life, and now you passed it up for nothing! Why take a chance on building that kind of resentment?
I mentioned this idea to my friend, but I haven’t heard back from him yet. Part of me is wondering, though, if it’s not ideas like this that have kept me single for most of my adult life. Oh well. Better single than resentful.
Personally, I believe every relationship should have Ball Passes. These would work like the Hall Passes we used to get in school. A Hall Pass gave you the opportunity to wander the halls during regularly scheduled class time. The Ball Pass would give you the opportunity to wander outside your monogamous relationship. It’s not a free pass to sleep around, however. As with the Hall Pass, it would only be issued under the most unusual of circumstances. Frankly, I think one Ball Pass per person per relationship is plenty. That way, if you happen to meet a celebrity and the chance arises to have sex with that celebrity—you can do so without damaging your primary relationship.
If the man I was dating had the chance to go to bed with Jake Gyllenhaal—I wouldn’t want to be the one to make him miss out on that opportunity. I’d want him to have it (and hopefully take pictures to show me later!). And if the situation were reversed, I’d want to be able to do the same without worrying about what my partner would think. Can you imagine how you would feel if you missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime because of your partner? And how would you feel if you & your partner broke up, and you had missed out on that opportunity? You could have had a great story to tell for the rest of your life, and now you passed it up for nothing! Why take a chance on building that kind of resentment?
I mentioned this idea to my friend, but I haven’t heard back from him yet. Part of me is wondering, though, if it’s not ideas like this that have kept me single for most of my adult life. Oh well. Better single than resentful.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Maneater
Last night was the glorious Maneater Party. This is an annual tradition that started 21 years ago with a group of friends who decided to have a get-together and cook some chili. Today it has become one of
I spent the first part of the evening mingling and catching up with acquaintances. Once the chili was served, however, I had some time to sit back and look over the crowd. I noted several of the men there I had dated at one time or another. There was the guy I picked up at jury duty. I can’t remember why that didn’t work out…I think he stole one of my Joni Mitchell cds. Then I saw the guy who told me about his penis pump on our first date—I definitely remember why that didn’t work out. I even saw the guy I really liked until he let it slip that he was married. I guess at this point he’s come out (let’s hope so for his wife’s sake!) and is now openly gay. He kept staring at me, but I couldn’t get a read on what he was thinking. I debated about talking to him, but decided that if he’d cheat on his wife—he’d certainly cheat on me. So I turned my attention back to my chili and my friends.
After the party, I was surprised to find myself in such a good mood. I half expected to be depressed after seeing so many failed attempts at finding a life partner. With a bit more reflection, though, I had to admit I was proud of myself. Sometimes I feel like I don’t really put myself out there—but after the party I realized that I have been putting myself out there and dating. I haven’t met Mr. Right, but at least I haven’t given up either. And I didn’t see anyone at the party that I felt like I had missed an opportunity. The guys I had broken things off with still didn’t appear to be what I was looking for. Happily there were plenty of new prospects at the party who could be what I’m looking for.
So I won’t beat myself up for not finding a man before I turned 40. The shame isn’t in failing, it’s in not trying. And I have been trying. But speaking of shame, it’d be a shame not to have some more of that fabulous chili. I wonder if they had any leftovers…..
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Better not Butternut
Woo hoo! I just got my taxes done, and it looks like I am due for a refund.
I debated about paying someone to do them this year, since I’m still on a budget, but finally took them to my accountant. When I first graduated from dental school, I would do my own tax returns. Over the years, with investments and property etc, it just became too complicated. I didn’t trust myself to do them correctly, and the time it would take me to figure them out wasn’t worth it to me. Better to pay someone who knows what they’re doing. It’ll get done faster, and I’ll still get to reap the benefits.
Once I get my refund, I intend to treat myself to a nice dinner in a fancy restaurant. I have been in a bit of a food rut lately, since I’m trying to do my own cooking—and my attempts to expand my dietary repertoire have had limited success. The other day I was browsing through the produce section and saw that they had butternut squash on sale. Hey, I thought to myself, I love butternut squash! I’d never made it before, but there was a sticker on the squash with instructions: “Cut squash in half, remove seeds, and heat until tender.” That didn’t sound too difficult, so I bought one. Never again.
What they neglect to tell you on the sticker is that butternut squash can only be cut in half with a bone saw. I was using the sharpest kitchen knife I had, and doing only slightly better than a monkey trying to cut open a coconut with a plastic spork…..and I have opposable thumbs! I know I spent 45 minutes hacking that stupid squash apart, and as much trouble as I was having, it’s a miracle the knife didn’t slip and hack off one of my fabulous opposable thumbs. Once it was cut open, I still had to scoop out the seeds and cook it. By the time it was all done, I had completely lost my enthusiasm. I decided the next time I had butternut squash, it would be in a restaurant where I could pay someone else to deal with the hassle of cooking it.
I guess the lesson to be learned here is that sometimes in the kitchen, as well as in your finances—it’s better to just pay someone who knows what they’re doing. It’ll get done faster, and you’ll still get to reap the benefits.
I debated about paying someone to do them this year, since I’m still on a budget, but finally took them to my accountant. When I first graduated from dental school, I would do my own tax returns. Over the years, with investments and property etc, it just became too complicated. I didn’t trust myself to do them correctly, and the time it would take me to figure them out wasn’t worth it to me. Better to pay someone who knows what they’re doing. It’ll get done faster, and I’ll still get to reap the benefits.
Once I get my refund, I intend to treat myself to a nice dinner in a fancy restaurant. I have been in a bit of a food rut lately, since I’m trying to do my own cooking—and my attempts to expand my dietary repertoire have had limited success. The other day I was browsing through the produce section and saw that they had butternut squash on sale. Hey, I thought to myself, I love butternut squash! I’d never made it before, but there was a sticker on the squash with instructions: “Cut squash in half, remove seeds, and heat until tender.” That didn’t sound too difficult, so I bought one. Never again.
What they neglect to tell you on the sticker is that butternut squash can only be cut in half with a bone saw. I was using the sharpest kitchen knife I had, and doing only slightly better than a monkey trying to cut open a coconut with a plastic spork…..and I have opposable thumbs! I know I spent 45 minutes hacking that stupid squash apart, and as much trouble as I was having, it’s a miracle the knife didn’t slip and hack off one of my fabulous opposable thumbs. Once it was cut open, I still had to scoop out the seeds and cook it. By the time it was all done, I had completely lost my enthusiasm. I decided the next time I had butternut squash, it would be in a restaurant where I could pay someone else to deal with the hassle of cooking it.
I guess the lesson to be learned here is that sometimes in the kitchen, as well as in your finances—it’s better to just pay someone who knows what they’re doing. It’ll get done faster, and you’ll still get to reap the benefits.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wiggin' Out at the Gym
Something terrible happened at the gym tonight. I ended up on a treadmill beside Smelly Sweaty Guy. This is the guy every gym seems to have who doesn’t feel the need to wear deodorant. I would have moved but there were no other available machines. So my choices were to abort my workout, or tough it out beside SSG. I decided to stay, but I was full of resentment. I may not shower before I go to the gym, but I certainly put on a fresh coat of antiperspirant so I don’t stink up the place. Getting motivated to exercise is tough enough without the negative reinforcement of having to inhale the fragrant fruits of someone else’s armpit glands.
While I was trying to ignore the fact that my nasal hairs were being singed off by the putrid fumes emanating from my neighbor on the treadmill, I reminded myself that human beings didn’t always have an agreeable smell. Deodorant has only been around since the 1880’s. It can’t have been pleasant to be around people before then. Obviously, somebody felt the same way because they invented deodorant. If only the guy beside me on the treadmill had gotten the news.
Happily, for the rest of us personal hygiene has made great strides in the last few hundred years. I remember when the movie “Marie Antoinette” came out, I did some reading about her. One of the things that shocked me the most was what I read about her hair. I always thought the huge beehive hairdos of that time were amazing, especially when you consider the French didn’t have Aqua Net in the 1700’s. Apparently, in the absence of hair spray, lard was used. It didn’t take long for these elegant hairdos to become rancid, and often they would attract vermin like bugs and mice while the women slept. Ladies of the time would carry a special device that looked something like a fondue fork with a bent tip to scratch their itchy heads and perhaps chase off whatever was burrowing around in there. I wonder if Kirsten Dunst would have wanted to play Marie Antoinette if she’d have had to wear one of these five-star roach motels on her head. Lucky for her, in these modern times, it wasn’t necessary.
Life is good now, and if a woman wants to have big, bug-free hair—the technology is in place for her to be able to do it. Unfortunately, if she goes to the gym—she still may have to work out beside Smelly Sweaty Guy.
While I was trying to ignore the fact that my nasal hairs were being singed off by the putrid fumes emanating from my neighbor on the treadmill, I reminded myself that human beings didn’t always have an agreeable smell. Deodorant has only been around since the 1880’s. It can’t have been pleasant to be around people before then. Obviously, somebody felt the same way because they invented deodorant. If only the guy beside me on the treadmill had gotten the news.
Happily, for the rest of us personal hygiene has made great strides in the last few hundred years. I remember when the movie “Marie Antoinette” came out, I did some reading about her. One of the things that shocked me the most was what I read about her hair. I always thought the huge beehive hairdos of that time were amazing, especially when you consider the French didn’t have Aqua Net in the 1700’s. Apparently, in the absence of hair spray, lard was used. It didn’t take long for these elegant hairdos to become rancid, and often they would attract vermin like bugs and mice while the women slept. Ladies of the time would carry a special device that looked something like a fondue fork with a bent tip to scratch their itchy heads and perhaps chase off whatever was burrowing around in there. I wonder if Kirsten Dunst would have wanted to play Marie Antoinette if she’d have had to wear one of these five-star roach motels on her head. Lucky for her, in these modern times, it wasn’t necessary.
Life is good now, and if a woman wants to have big, bug-free hair—the technology is in place for her to be able to do it. Unfortunately, if she goes to the gym—she still may have to work out beside Smelly Sweaty Guy.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
To Breed or Not To Breed....?
I had a dream last night that I was a daddy. Not the leather pants and paddle type, but the biological kind. I must admit, I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I’ve just entered my forties (yikes!) and I have to decide if children are something I want to have. I know my parents would love it. I hear them talk about their friends’ grandchildren, and I can tell that they would love to have some of their own. That’s not a great reason for me to bring a human being into the world, however.
I also am at the point where I’m seeing adults from my childhood age into convalescence. Most of them are lucky enough to have children who can take care of them (or at least put them in a home where they can be cared for). I can’t help but wonder what will happen to me in my old age if I don’t have offspring to look out for me. Again, not a great reason for me to bring a human being into the world.
I don’t really feel like I am much of a caretaker. It’s about all I can do not to kill my houseplants. I remember once a good friend of mine left me with her two young children while she ran an errand. She said she would only be out for a few minutes, and the kids were eating so everything should be fine. Famous last words.
Her three year old and I got along great. I could talk to him and he could talk to me and we understood each other. The one year old was a different matter. He let me spoon feed him for a bit, and then suddenly began crying at the top of his lungs. I asked the three year old what mommy did when this would happen and he just shrugged. Thanks, kid.
I tried everything I could think of—making faces, pretending the spoon was an airplane, begging—but nothing was working. I was stumped. So the three year old and I just decided to let the toddler cry while we finished our dinners and stared uncomfortably in the opposite direction.
When my friend got home, she laughed and said the baby just wanted to be held. Honestly that had never occurred to me. Even if it had, I doubt I’d have done that. I was wearing a Burberry shirt, for pete’s sake. That baby had more food on him than in him.
So much for my innate parenting skills.
I do see that there are some rewards in raising children though. My friends who are parents (straight and gay) say it’s the best thing they ever did. Maybe I could find a nice lesbian couple who would do most of the child-rearing, and I could be the cool uncle or step-dad who pitched in every now and then. Maybe if I were in a stable relationship and had someone who could be daddy #2, I would even consider being the custodial parent. Either way, I’d have some help.
I guess what I’ve decided is that I need to bring another human being into MY world, before I start bringing human beings into THE world.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Date That Never Was
I almost had a date with someone! Before I stopped going to my personal trainer, I had developed a little crush on the guy who had the appointment before mine. He had salt and pepper hair, a decent build for a guy in his 40’s, and a great boyish smile. We had developed this rapport as he was leaving the gym and I was going in. I’d ask him if he’d survived his workout session, and he’d smile, nod and wish me luck. I told my trainer that I thought the guy was cute, but didn’t think anything else about it. I figured once I stopped seeing my trainer I’d stop seeing the cute guy.
About a month ago I got an email from my trainer. He informed me that his cute client had asked about me, and wanted to go out with me sometime on a date. My trainer also passed along the guy’s phone number! Suddenly I was in the hot seat.
After steeling my resolve, I finally called the number. The guy seemed very excited that I had phoned. I asked him out to dinner, and he sighed. It seems he was on the planning committee of the HRC (Human Rights Campaign) and their big fundraiser was this weekend. He asked if we could postpone the date until after the weekend. So I did.
The next week I called again. The guy seemed very excited that I had phoned. I asked him out to dinner, and he sighed. It seems he had a business trip he couldn’t get out of, and he would not be back until late Sunday night. He asked if we could postpone the date until after the weekend. So I did.
At this point I decided it was up to him to get something scheduled. Miraculously, he called me this past Monday night and left a message on my voice mail. He still was looking forward to our date. Okay, I thought. Maybe I was a bit too hasty to write this guy off. So last night I called him back and suggested Thursday. I didn’t hear back from him today. Not a big deal.
Tonight I had a meeting with a friend to discuss some fundraising for the performance theatre of which we are both board members. I walked into the restaurant and who should I see but the cute guy from the gym. I started to walk over, but he saw me and motioned to his ear—he was on his cell phone. Okay, I thought. I’d just sit at the bar until my friend showed up, and wait for the cute guy to get off the phone. Well, the cute guy got off the phone and DIDN’T COME OVER! My dinner companion hadn’t arrived yet, so it’s not like he saw me with someone and thought I was on a date. He just didn’t feel like coming over to talk to me.
Needless to say, I won’t be going on a date with the cute guy from the gym. I have to give him credit though. Usually I need at least one date with a guy before I decide to dump him.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
L.A. Story
I went out to L.A. this past weekend to visit some friends. They were going to have a party to allow me to meet some of their single buddies, so I was super excited. Of course after meeting everyone and mingling I made my decision. Turns out the one I liked was the one friend they had to invite to the party but didn’t want me to go out with. He’s cute and a lot of fun to be around, but quite a partier and very much a player. Apparently not relationship material. Oh well.
In happier news, L.A. has an Amoeba Music store. Amoeba is a new & used CD store, and my favorite one is on Haight Street in San Francisco. The great thing about these stores on the West Coast is that music industry people will go there to sell their used discs. A lot of the stuff you find there is out of print, or promotional discs that didn’t get released to the general public.
On this excursion, I found a U.K. promotional single from Courtney Love’s old group Hole. The cd had 2 (two!!!) unreleased songs. Who needs a man when I’ve got super-rare Courtney Love recordings??? I also picked up a Bright Eyes live disc and a free promotional disc by some artist I’d never heard of. All in all, a good spree.
Courtney’s new solo disc, Nobody’s Daughter, was supposed to be released last year, but unfortunately it hasn’t materialized. I’m scared and excited to hear it. Excited because I love Courtney (pun intended) and can’t wait to hear new material from her. Scared because she had sobered up by the time she recorded it. I know that she’s a mother and a human being and that this is the best course for her to live a long and healthy life, but personally I like my rock stars to be f*cked up.
There’s a quote from the British sit-com ‘Absolutely Fabulous’ that goes, “You can’t play rock and roll on a diet of corn, veggie juice, and Linda bloody McCartney’s Tofu Treats.” I couldn’t agree more. Drugs, sex and alcohol don’t make for a long life, but it does make for some great music. Witness Billie Holiday, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Pete Doherty, Amy Winehouse, etc. etc. They all were/are emotional and pharmaceutical train wrecks as people, but made/make great music.
So while as a humanitarian I wish Courtney all the luck in the world as she lives the sober life, the music fan in me is going to be skeptical until I hear the new disc. Hopefully she will prove me wrong and the new disc will be awesome. But if it’s not, I know I’m going to wonder if going straight caused Courtney Love to lose her edge.
Whether it’s romantically or musically, I seem to be drawn to the same type of individual. Someone who is quite a partier, very much a player, and not really relationship material.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
New Year, New Job
The New Year has brought with it a new job. My friend with the PR company that had given me a few projects to do last year has hired me full time. The pay is not what I was making as a dentist (goodbye, personal trainer! farewell, dual gym memberships and other extravagances!) but I’m grateful for this opportunity. My friend and I agreed that I’d work for him for six months and then re-evaluate. If things are going well, I will stay on. If not, I will leave with six months of great field experience. I should also have a better feel for where I want to go next—back to dentistry or onward to another career. I will say that so far I have not missed the dentistry.
I’d forgotten how mentally draining it is to start a new job full-time. I guess it’s because everything is new and takes your full concentration. The type of work is very different than what I am used to as well. A day at the dental office is very structured—you have appointments set and finite expectations of what you will do in the time given. In this PR office there are usually several projects going at once. You work on one thing for a while, then something else is given to you, or you may have to go back and revise something that you thought you had finished! I’m also learning the software and formats so it’s been doubly challenging. So far I’m enjoying it, though. My friend has also been a great mentor, so that’s fortunate.
For anyone who’s considered making a career change, I do have some advice.
- Make sure that you’ve saved a financial cushion for yourself, because most likely you will have to start at the bottom of the ladder. This means less pay while you are learning your new trade. Hopefully you will be able to support yourself, but it will be a lot less stressful for you if you know you have some reserves available.
- Don’t let that discourage you. I was making good money but wasn’t happy. I’d gladly take a pay cut in exchange for some bliss. I still believe that if you love what you do and work hard, the money will eventually come.
- Use your social connections—friends and colleagues are your best resource. They are much more likely to take a chance on you than a total stranger would be.
- Feel the fear and do it anyway. You never know until you try. If things work out, great. If they don’t—at least you now know that whatever you attempted is no longer an option. Isn’t that better than always wondering?
- Don’t burn bridges! If things don’t work out in your new career, you want to be able to turn to the associates in your former career either to hire you back or recommend you to someone who can hire you.
- Be humble and willing to learn. I was a doctor in my previous job, but in this one I am an apprentice. Taking initiative is fine, but I don’t need to be giving orders quite yet!
I guess that’s all for now. This blog has been great therapy for me, and even with the new job I intend to keep it going. Right now, however, I need to get back to work!
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Looking Great in 2008
New Year’s Eve came and went without a love connection, but 2008 appears to be looking up. A straight male friend of mine is taking me to a party this week where he wants to introduce me to some single gay friends of his. Martin Luther King weekend I’m going to
Lord knows I can’t be trusted to do this on my own. Take tonight for example—I was going to dinner and a movie with a female friend of mine. I figured since I’d be sitting in the dark for most of the evening, a minimal amount of grooming was required. After awakening from an afternoon nap, I simply smoothed my hair down with a wet comb, threw on an old turtleneck sweater and jeans, and headed out. When we got to the movie theatre, the show was sold out. We weren’t interested in any of the other pictures, so my friend suggested we go to a neighborhood restaurant for a glass of wine.
When we got to the restaurant, I was dismayed. The place was loaded with gay men. Add a urinal and it could’ve been a Republican restroom. This wasn’t even a gay or gay owned business. When will I learn that being single is like being a celebrity? You can’t EVER afford to leave the house looking bad. If you’re a celebrity you will run into the paparazzi. If you’re single you’ll run into hot prospects who will see you looking like sh*t and NEVER want to kiss you. How sad that after 40 years I still haven’t learned this.
I guess that will be my New Year’s Resolution. I will NOT leave the house looking disheveled. Even if I’m just walking to the grocery down the street, I will primp. If my dear friends are going to expend effort to get me paired off, I can at least expend some effort to look presentable. And then, once I’ve met my soul mate and pledged my trough—I can totally let myself go.
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