Yes, You DO Cross My Mind, Anytime! – Don’t Get Me Started!

For years I have found myself randomly singing the Bryan McKnight classic, “Anytime” to myself. It’s always sort of been a haunting tune to me, asking questions like, “Do I ever cross your mind, anytime? Do you ever wake up reaching out for me?” So many people come in and out of our lives and I’m the first to admit there are people who have “friended” me on Facebook and I have no idea who they are or how I knew them but they somehow sort  of feel familiar (they usually stay in the inbox – not accepted but not rejected). I’ve always done my best to make a lasting impression (knowing it could just as easily be a negative one as a positive one). And while I’d like to think there’s someone out there who thought so much of me that they’re wondering where I am, I find more and more I think of people who have touched my life that I wish I could reach out to in order to let them know that yes, you DO cross my mind, anytime! – Don’t Get Me Started!

As shocking as it may be to some reading this, not everyone is on Facebook (my spouse is an example of this phenomenon) so it’s not always as easy as you think to just Google someone or search and friend them on Facebook. The women have been married and often renamed and the men sometimes have a common name that brings up approximately six billion people with that name when you search. I don’t want to stalk or go to a private detective; I’d just like to find out what happened to her or him and let them know that there are times when I think about them, even today.

There was the boy I think people thought I was having sex with in high school. (I always talked a good game but I can assure you I wasn’t having sex with anyone but myself during high school!) He was handsome, younger than me and moved to another state after I graduated so pretty much impossible to find. If somehow you’re him and reading this, like some sort of message in a bottle lost at sea for a thousand years, I want you to know I think about you and the thought of you makes me smile.

And there’s the woman who worked at the department store with me. She was what I considered a real beauty. She worked in the makeup department (and always had so much on that I probably wouldn’t have recognized her even back then without it). We would go to lunch together and laugh about anything and everything. She used the initial of her first name on her name tag and last name. I don’t know that I ever knew her first name; I always called her by her initial and last name just as it read on her tag. If you’re reading this “B” – thanks for always being so kind to me and being a great audience.

For me it’s not about a feeling of being forlorn (as the song seems to suggest) or having any regrets about the moments I spent (or didn’t spend) with this person or that person. It’s more about the curiosity of wondering what happened to them and wanting them to know that yes, you DO cross my mind, anytime! – Don’t Get Me Started!

What Is YOUR Disclaimer? – Don’t Get Me Started!

When I got to the front of the line at Trader Joe’s I noticed that the older woman who had been ringing people up was switching off with a very tall young man. He immediately began rifling through his cash drawer, ensuring that all of the money in its proper compartment was facing the same way. He said, “Sorry to make you wait, it’s my OCD, when someone else has been in my drawer I have to make sure that all of the money is facing the same way before I can use it.” This guy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and he moved so quickly rotating the bills that there was really no wait; no need for an explanation or disclaimer. That’s when it dawned on me, how many times do I give a “disclaimer” of sorts when talking to people? What is YOUR disclaimer? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Disclaimers are normally used by lawyers on products to let us know that the medicine we’re about to take may make us jittery or sleepy, may constipate us or give us diarrhea or could blind us and give us cramps. If you look up the definition you’ll find that it’s a “denial of legal liability for any injury associated with a product.” But let’s just say the product is you. What do you tell people so as to be able to say, “Well, you knew when you met me I was like this because I told you I was a <insert annoying habit here>.” This is your disclaimer. The question is do we give disclaimers for the person we’re talking to or as the legal professions uses it, to “deny legal liability?”

Within moments of meeting me you will find that I may say something to let you know I’m Jewish, I’m gay and perhaps even that I’m a Scorpio. While I do it all in a humorous tone (there are few things in life I feel really good about when talking about myself, I adore my sense of humor) what I’m really doing is putting forth my disclaimers. Take the Jewish thing for a moment. When I was very young, probably four, I remember a boy we had played with in the neighborhood came over to our house one day to announce to my brother and myself that he could no longer play with us because his father said we were, “dirty Jews.” This was around 1968 but even at that early age I remember thinking, “What am I not the same kid you played with yesterday? So you’re not going to play with us anymore because your father is an asshole?” I think I announce my Jewishness today because of this incident. You see, I don’t want to invest my time with you if when you find out I’m Jewish you don’t want to play with me anymore. I’d rather you know upfront so that if that’s an issue, you’re out and I know you’re out.

The problem is how to make the disclaimer. More often than not I find myself doing it in a self deprecating way that can often feel as though I’m apologizing for who I am. That can eventually really wear down your self esteem. But much like the kid at Trader Joe’s who felt he needed to share with me that he was OCD, I began to wonder if we really need to give a disclaimer? After all, we aren’t products (on the whole) so what is someone going to do, sue us? The answer came to me rather quickly, it’s not that we’re worried about being sued, we’re worried about not being liked. So if there’s something that we think is quirky about ourselves we want to let people know right away.

So, will I continue to give my own personal disclaimers, probably but I’m going to try and give less because just like reading all of the possible reactions to a drug before you take it, if you give too many to someone you’ve just met they may decide it’s probably better to stroke out one day from high blood pressure as opposed to walking around having anal leakage because you’re taking the medication or in this case, involved with the person. Just something to think about. What is YOUR disclaimer? – Don’t Get Me Started!

I Didn’t Mean To Rile Everyone Up On Facebook But Now That I Have, I’m Loving It! – Don’t Get Me Started!

As with any other tale I tell, it’s important to remember that some of this will be fact and some will be fiction. I give this disclaimer knowing full well that the people who really know me (and I really know) don’t need this disclaimer but after a recent knock down drag out on Facebook (my first, believe it or not) I felt that perhaps I needed to start giving this disclaimer to everything I write anywhere, maybe even on checks. I didn’t mean to rile everyone up on Facebook but now that I have, I’m loving it! – Don’t Get Me Started!

It all started simply enough, in a bathroom where I was reading my Facebook feed. There it was, this odd status from one of my friends for a thousand years. It started out sort of benign but then had some weirdness at the end that seemed very personal. I didn’t get it. I was mad I didn’t get it. I was friends beyond cyberspace with this person so I should be able to understand their “code” right? But I didn’t. I’ve read other status updates like this before but for some reason this one just hit me to tweet the following, “If you’re going to put personal crap on FB, don’t be cryptic about it. You’ve all ready shared too much, may as well have it make sense” That’s when the real shit storm began.

In what I thought would be just a silly statement, people from the different periods and careers of my life started intersecting, causing a shift in the time continuum or something because as the comments kept coming the more I didn’t get it. There was talk of television shows, the importance of being cryptic in marketing and finally an actual email from someone who thought I was pissed at them about something I didn’t even know they had posted about me days before. In an effort to stop the storm in my own silly way, I added, “Obviously this needs to be a blog entry where I can expand my thoughts on the topic. Make no mistake about it, I’m right. So says me!” The next thing you know I’m practically Satan’s helper turning up the thermostat. More comments, this time about my “rightness.” Again, I tried, this time writing, “Dear God people, please see humor; sense of” apparently this wasn’t the right thing to write either. Comments started being deleted, a helpful pal posted from the Urban Dictionary, “vaguebooking” (look it up if you don’t get it) to which I replied “Love it” at the same time one of the heated people from the other side of my FB were typing something in that no doubt made them think I had seen their comment first before posting my reply, which probably seemed snarky. I cared for a moment but just like gas, it passed rather quickly.

The first thing I have to say is that it invigorated me. I have been writing my blog for years and while I have purposely pushed buttons I knew would rile people up, this time I was actually innocent. And instead of it being people I didn’t know telling me I was going to hell or that I was a horrible person, friend, human it was people who had actually known me at some point. Some were sticking up for me, some weren’t and to be honest, while I guess it’s nice to know people “have your back” I’d much prefer they have my back when I have to move something heavy or be picked up at the airport.

I guess the thing I learned is that when you write, it’s open for interpretation especially when it’s only 140 characters. So will I be more careful about what I write, probably not.  I enjoy people telling me how wrong I am and I love heated exchanges. Let’s face it that’s what hell is probably all about, right?! And as I always tell everyone, I plan to get there first so that everyone I know who follows me will have to live with my décor for the rest of all eternity!

Don’t Take It Personally; Just Take It Somewhere Over There Out Of My Sight! – Don’t Get Me Started!

Everything they tell you about age is true. The older I get the more I realize that the clichés are all true, that although for years I’ve been frightened of the Red Hat Ladies (whose motto seems to be to do whatever they please and walk around in red hats as a sort of symbol of their freedom), I may just becoming one. For years I have tried to please so much that I lost sight of myself more than once. (True, I didn’t really want to see myself as my waistline expanded and the hair left my hair faster than the people leaving the theatre after Lincoln was shot) but as time continues its march onward I’ve discovered the less I give a shit what people think of me. And you should do the same. Don’t take it personally, just take it somewhere over there out of my sight! – Don’t Get Me Started!

I can tell you from experience (this is a classic start to any older person giving you advice) that what you do has very little and everything to do with what people think of you as a person. Like a pack of wild animals, show a weakness and you’re going to end up being eaten (and not in any sort of sexual way that’s going to bring you any sort of pleasure). By the same token, act as if you don’t give a shit about anyone and you’re going to end up drinking alone. So as the medical book my mother often uses to diagnose our family’s illnesses from with frightening accuracy (we call her an AAD – Almost A Doctor) after looking up your symptoms and determining your diagnosis the book states, “what shall be done.” Well, I’ll tell you what shall be done.

Take a little piece of everyone who crosses your path that impresses you or makes you look twice whether it’s someone you know or would just like to know or even just look at. The way you interpret these pieces and place them on yourself will ultimately assist you in becoming your own person. Sure there are going to be photos you look back at and wonder why you ever thought that mustard yellow silk suit with the shoulder pads larger than most doorway openings was a good idea (scroll down to the right to see my picture submitted for evidence) it’s all part of learning life’s most valuable lesson, the ability to laugh at yourself!

I always say that one of my maternal grandmother’s most valuable lessons she taught me (other than how to iron, which whether people believe it or not, is important) was that you have to dress for depression. If you feel like crap, that’s your business and doesn’t need to be shared with everyone else. Contrary to popular belief, misery may love company but no one wants to keep company with anyone miserable unless they’re just as miserable themselves. Other than a few trusted friends, keep your troubles to yourself, suck it up and put on your game face.

A game face doesn’t happen on its own, it needs to be crafted by a talented makeup artist, you. Only you know what will make you happy or feel successful so what other people think should matter less than what you think. However, when interacting with others make eye contact, ask questions and listen to the answer, and make sure the heels of your shoes aren’t worn down (this includes those of you who insist on wearing flip flops and thinking any of us want to see your nasty crusty non-moisturized heels). The point is that ultimately you can’t make people like you, love you or respect you all you can do is be fabulous and give the appearance of being flawlessly confident in yourself. Let people draw their own conclusions about your life canvas you’re painting for and of yourself. And whatever you do, don’t take it personally; just take it somewhere over there out of my sight! – Don’t Get Me Started!

Redecorating The New Year’s Resolution Tradition – Don’t Get Me Started!

Soon the gyms will be filled with people believing their own self-deception that they tell themselves every year, that THIS year is going to be different, this year they are going to work out and be able to look at themselves in a full length mirror naked without throwing up in their mouths. God bless them for trying over and over again with the gym, telling themselves they’ll drink less, that they’ll eat less, that they’ll open themselves up to living in the moment and every other New Year’s cliché and new idea they can come up with to torture themselves. But just as the gays moved into bad neighborhoods and raised property values, I think it’s time for this gay to start redecorating the New Year’s resolution tradition – Don’t Get Me Started!

I must confess that I have never made a list of resolutions (or a bucket list for that matter) even though I’m a list maker from way back and consider myself one of the more organized people on the planet. So as always I feel the need for a disclaimer that this will be a little bit like having me give advice on cooking – oh, I don’t cook but I have a lot of opinions about it!

Change does not come easy. (Look at the kids working at fast food places; they need the computer to do it for them.) So you can imagine how hard it is to change habits that have been with us for so long that they’re the only thing that feels comfortable to us, no matter how dysfunctional they may be. So creating a list, even mentally seems like a big set up for failure or at the very least a reminder of the promise you didn’t keep with yourself when it all blows up in your face sometime in February. (I think that’s why they made February shorter, less days to stress about not keeping promises to yourself before March comes in like a lion.) And what if how we behave or do certain things is just us? The way we were intended to be? Of course I’m not talking about doing heroin but maybe I was put on this earth to just go ahead and eat the wrong things and then bitch about why I’m not more toned. Taking it a step further, what if I could just go ahead and accept that when I eat crap I’m going to feel like crap and look like crap? What if I could remove the guilt from the whole process? Stop being judge and jury on my own life? Wait, does that sound too much like a resolution?

Perhaps it’s my short attention span or maybe some will see this as a type of resolution but it’s not a list, it’s one thing. Enough. From now on when I doubt myself, my looks or even my place in this world as it stands currently, I’m going to whisper in my own ear, “enough.” I’m going to realize that I’m doing enough, I’m working out enough, I’ve had enough of those Thin Mint cookies so I don’t need to eat the entire box in one sitting and perhaps along the way I’ll discover that I’m enough for myself. The problem with always being an overachiever is not in finding the next mountain to climb it’s knowing that you’ve climbed enough to be satisfied with what you’ve done so you’re not freezing your ass off struggling to get up the next mountain and the next one after that in some sort of crazed frenzy to keep yourself so busy that you don’t have to really see yourself. I’m not talking about being complacent I’m just talking about starting to realize when you’ve had enough and are enough.

So you see, it’s not a resolution, it’s just a word, “enough.”  And the great thing is that you don’t have to start it on the first of the year you can start it now realizing that what may be “enough” for you today may not be tomorrow. Like life and your waistline, it’s constantly evolving, changing shape. So enough all ready with the lists, enough with the unrealistic goals that are set in January only to be drunkenly forgotten about before March arrives. As a gay who has prided himself on taking judgmental into an art form, allow me to streamline and redecorate your old resolution process with a new sleek way of looking at life and telling you quite simply, enough all ready, you are ENOUGH!

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No, Let’s Not Be Honest, Shall We? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Have you ever been talking with someone who says, “…let’s be honest…” and what follows is never anything you want to hear? I’ve made a real decision; I only want honesty from people whose opinions matter to me and the older I get, it turns out that the list of people whose opinions really matter to me is less and less. So while I appreciate you thinking your advice is as sage as Aristotle’s, do me a favor and just post it on Facebook like everyone else. No, let’s NOT be honest, shall we?

I like lies. I like people telling me I look good, that I look as though I’ve lost weight or even that I look better than I did in high school. There’s enough reality to reality (the real kind, the life kind, not what they show on television) that when I see someone who is an acquaintance or get that random message through Facebook the last thing I really care about is their “honest” opinion. The more I know people the more I believe that people aren’t all that honest to begin with so usually their “honest” opinion is just a little closer to the truth than their average run of the mill opinion or story they give you. So keep your honesty to yourself when you’re alone late at night and keep the lies flowing when talking to me. I’ll appreciate you more for lying because frankly lying takes more work than just being completely honest. (If we’re being completely honest with one another. Are we? Now I’ve confused even myself.)

Embellishment is the embroidery of memories. Who wants to hear a dull story? I know I don’t. So if I weave a few shiny threads through the dull wool fabric that is the “truth” of the story, just sit back, smile and enjoy it.

Though some may see this as a cynical outlook I assure you I have moments of complete cockeyed optimism that makes Annie look like Rex Reed (if you’re too young for that reference, Google it). I’ll leave what some call optimism to the people who believe reality television is reality. I prefer my reality through the gauze filter that allows me to see it just a bit out of focus and able to laugh at it all.

Sure honesty matters in life and in its place but people who say they’re always honest never are and it cracks me up when they use this phrase to say things like, “let’s be honest, he looked like his mother in that coat, not like he was on a runway in Milan.” I take it all back. I’m realizing that most people use the phrase, “let’s be honest” as a precursor to some really slamming quip about someone. Used in this context, you have my permission to continue to use. Because let’s be honest, no one wants to live in this world without clever repartee, right?

The Auto-Tuning Of Broadway – Don’t Get Me Started!

I was raised that the release of the Original Cast Album was as exciting of an event as my birthday. When you could take your thumbnail and slice the thin plastic off that album cover, pull that record out of its inner tissue paper jacket, put in on your stereo, drop the needle and listen to never before heard songs, ideas and mostly voices it was a true celebration. I remember reading the linear notes over and over as I listened to the album and tried to imagine what the actors were doing on this phrase or that but more often than not, after one listen to the album I was up on my feet doing what I thought should be done as I belted the newly memorized songs out in my living room. I would try to imitate the particular phrasing and sound of the singers I heard, each one having more than a nuanced difference in their voices and performances. They all had their own sound and this round record caught every inflection. A recent watch of the cast of the revival of Godspell on The View made me stop and think about how the sound of Broadway performers has changed over the years. More to the point, I began to think about how everyone seems to sound the same anymore. Don’t get me wrong, they have fabulous sounding voices but listen and what you’ll hear is what I’m calling the auto-tuning of Broadway. Don’t Get Me Started!

I think it’s difficult for people to revive shows that reflect a time period heavy with social commentary and period changing sound for the musical theatre. An example is the revival of Hair which just seemed forced to me. What was once done by a cast that actually had long hair and were singing about their own experiences or what was going on at the time in this country was suddenly a bunch of people in lace front wigs “acting” like what they thought hippies acted like “back in the day.” I know what you’re going to say, you’re going to say that the same could be said for someone trying to revive a show like Guys and Dolls. After all, these people aren’t from that period either. But I think it’s different when it comes to shows that were done originally in the 1960’s and 1970’s. In the revival versions few casts (directors, production teams, etc.) seem to really evoke the period for those of us who lived it. Look at the recent revival of A Chorus Line. What made A Chorus Line revolutionary in the 1970’s wasn’t the quality of the voices as much as the stories from the actual dancers who were telling it. And as you went through the show you saw the individual’s strengths and weaknesses as characters both vocally and as dancers as “Zach” tried to find dancers and singers for the chorus where he wanted no one to “pull focus.” He got his wish in the revival. The recent revival was so slick you were wondering why everyone didn’t make the “cut” at the end of the show. Listen to the original cast’s version of At The Ballet and then listen to the “New Cast” version and you’ll see exactly what I mean. When you hear the original cast you feel, you don’t just listen to someone with a lovely voice singing a lovely song there is a difference, a huge difference. And when I listen to these new cast recordings more often than not I feel like the character “Morales” from the show, “And I felt nothing.”

Look, I get that times change and I get that just like athletes that run faster today than they did back in the day (either from science, new technology or drugs) the same can be said for Broadway performers. While the dancers all now look like they could go on So You Think You Can Dance and the singers all seem to sound like one another, I think we’ve lost something, something really important. We’ve lost that indefinable “it” factor it seems. Sure it comes along every once in awhile but it used to be when you listened to an album or saw a show everyone who had a role in the show had their own “it” factor. Now it seems more and more that no one really stands out as special. Maybe it has to do with the wave of putting movie and television stars on Broadway who have more box office appeal than talent for the stage so they had to bring the talent of the rest of the cast down to not outshine the “star du jour” they put in the show.

Whatever it is, I miss hearing performers like an unmistakable Nell Carter belting it out with an uptempo number and then breaking your heart as you hear her voice and heartbreak when she’s delivering a ballad.  I want to hear the likes of Mandy Patinkin spitting not only contempt as “Che” in Evita but as a singer in a performance that made you feel just as much as you enjoyed the sound. While some things are better glossier and refined, I’d rather have the “edge” back in my Broadway performers (and probably a little of that crackling you used to hear when listening to a record on a record player too). The auto-tuning of Broadway – Don’t Get Me Started!

Honestly, Enough All Ready With The Polls For Everything! – Don’t Get Me Started!

I read an interesting article that basically said that polls are created by people to prove their point. I tend to agree. I don’t know when it happened but it seems what used to be reserved for the world of politics has now become common place for everything from who hates the Kardashians to what age group is eating more celery. Any time I see a “poll” mentioned I roll my eyes and think to myself, “Honestly, enough all ready with the polls for everything!” – Don’t Get Me Started!

I don’t know anyone who has been polled (and believe me, I’ve polled everyone I know). So who are these phantom people who are telling us that shoppers are more optimistic this holiday season than last year? Really?!? With all the unemployment? Does anyone else not feel the fervor to maintain holiday standards by the violence we see on what is becoming Black and Blue Friday (which is now Thursday and Cyber Monday which really happened on Cyber Saturday)? I’m glad that so many, according to “the polls” have that holiday feeling but the people I’ve talked to are more stressed out than ever before figuring out how to pay their regular bills let alone figuring out how they’re going to pay for gifts for their kids. Still someone somewhere took a poll so I guess we have to believe them. <insert eye roll>

The thing is that while it may be great for some marketing people to sit around a table and see that a poll of eighteen-somethings are more apt to buy a Droid phone than an iPhone, I don’t really want my newspapers or the “entertainment” websites that I read to use any poll as the spine of their story. And more and more it seems as though there really is no story, just a poll. I obviously missed something somewhere. Screw becoming a doctor, lawyer or even the American Idol kids, if you want to become part of a business that’s booming become a poll maker-upper! You can probably just sit on your ass and eat Cheetohs all day and just “poll” people online. On the rare occasion that you do have to go out to poll real people, look at it this way, at least you’re getting paid to take your raggedy assed sweats for an airing out!

The other thing is that I think most people lie. That’s right, I’ve said it before that I make shit up but I’m a mere amateur in comparison to some people. Some people can’t make it twenty minutes without lying. Test yourself, see how long you can get into your day without telling someone who looks like shit that they look good (and telling them they look “tired” is still a lie – they don’t look tired, they look a good fifteen years older than their chronological age). We all lie and whoever made up the color code for lies, “It’s just a little white lie” has got to be the same person who came up with the terror alert color codes, it’s not like shades of pink, there’s the truth and there’s a lie. Get it? So if everyone’s a liar (and those of you who don’t admit that you lie are the biggest liars in the world) then how can we believe any poll taken from a bunch of liars? The easy answer is that we can’t.

While politicians and marketing executives have tried for years to put us all in age boxes and those who “like” and those who “don’t like” categories to figure out what to sell us and whose buying, the truth of the matter is that I think polls are really about seeing just how sheep-like we humans are willing to become.  I think polls are used to sway us and bully us into believing someone else’s point of view. As those of you who read my blog know, while I’ll admit a good marketing campaign could probably make me buy even tampons, when it comes to how I feel about politicians or cheddar cheese (let’s face it, they’re very similar) I don’t need to know what other forty-somethings think, I’m confident enough in knowing my opinion is the one that really matters to me. Honestly, enough all ready with the polls for everything!  – Don’t Get Me Started!

It Just Makes Me Happy To See The Strangers That Are Going To Be In Hell With Me! – Don’t Get Me Started!

Long have people written in to me telling me I’m going to hell. I take great pride when I move what I lovingly call, “Cheetoh stained finger people” to write in, quote bible verses and generally telling me how horrible I am that I don’t think anyone should be going sleeveless after forty thinking they’re looking like an Abercrombie model when they look more like the old weathered boat in the ad than the Taylor Lautner look-a-like model in the ad. (Mirrors don’t lie people but you have to use them correctly. You look in them and you see what’s really there, not what you’d like to be there.) I’ll admit that most of the times I write in a voice that is more flamboyant than me in real life. I do this because it’s amusing to me (and hopefully others) but I also do this because sometimes I really want to rile people up. And while many will say I’m too critical of others, there are times when I catch it, someone I don’t even know making a face when they see someone wearing something they shouldn’t or rolling their eyes and jabbing the friend they’re walking with to “get a load of” someone else. I admit it, it just makes me happy to see the strangers that are going to be in hell with me! – Don’t Get Me Started!

My first official boyfriend (he was eleven years my senior however with the way he lies about his age I think he claims to be an age that is younger than me now) used to say to me, “you’re jaded beyond your years.” My friend once told me I am “NBA – Nasty But Accurate.” But through the years what I’ve discovered is that I cut my teeth on being a person by watching Paul Lynde and people like Waylon Flowers (always accompanied by his puppet Madame) men who were funny and known for their biting sarcasm. Some people idolize sports figures, mine were these guys and of course a Judy Garland here and there for good measure. So while some may think of it as being nasty to others, I just think of it as being the perfect party guest (and for me that party is whenever and wherever I am).

So while some many post things on Facebook that either are from the bible or sound like them, “I saw the face of God today in my child’s eyes” or become philosophers in 140 characters on twitter, “the person you want to be is the person you all ready are, just look inside your heart to find your true self” I prefer to say things like, “there are not enough letters in the word, ‘pink’ to cover your ass so choose another color like chartreuse if you’re going to put words on your ass.” And as much as the people who write in tell me that I am the only one who thinks or says/writes these things I know that I am not.

Today as I walked into the grocery store I couldn’t help notice a very slight man who appeared to be in his seventies. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts that made Richard Simmons’ shorts look like long pants. His legs were so skinny and hairy that if he were blue he could be a double for Grover from Sesame Street. Never mind that it was forty degrees or that he was taking his uncovered hairy legs into a grocery store, he just shouldn’t have been out in public looking like that because (as I would soon discover) it wasn’t just making me sick it was giving my fellow hellmates the same reaction. As I began walking into the store I noticed the boy who was gathering the shopping carts from the parking lot (and come on people, you really can’t walk three extra feet to put the shopping carts in the place where they’re supposed to go instead of strewn all over the parking lot dinging up all our cars as they roll unattended all over the place – you lazy asses) the boy was looking at Grover, sr. and the grimace that came over his face was priceless. In that instant I knew I had a fellow hell traveler.

And although I always tell everyone that I’m going to hell first so that I can decorate in the colors I want and they have to live with it for all eternity with me, sometimes it’s fun to see a complete stranger who will be bitching about the primary colored pop art hell I’ll be creating and they’ll be having to live with when they get to hell. It just makes me happy to see the strangers that are going to be in hell with me! – Don’t Get Me Started!

Reflections On My Forty-Seventh Birthday! – Don’t Get Me Started!

“Hello darkness, my old friend” (overdramatic, table for one?). To be honest, I’m not all that broken up (or thrilled) about my birthday. I know, I know, as a gay man I should be devastated but I am not. I’m actually really bored with any birthdays that don’t cap off a decade but I suppose you have to have them every year in order to get to one of those decade ending ones. So this is my birthday and as the day gets closer to its end, here are my reflections on my forty-seventh birthday – Don’t Get Me Started!

I see today as the start of my own sort of marathon. While I know several of my contemporaries choose to run actual marathons in their forties (to which I always tell them, “Good for you but you know you’re still going to die like the rest of us, right? You’re just going to do it without toe nails and annoy the crap out of us while you train and run this thing.”) I am starting my training for the marathon that will take me through the rest of my life. Never have I been so much aware of how little everything in life means. I know what you’re thinking but hear me out (or read me out, I suppose I should say).

Sure I mean material “things” but I also mean “everything” in the sense that I have spent a lifetime worrying about everything instead of just a few things or at the very least, the things right in front of me, right now. I have been the great mutli-tasker worrier for the world for most of my life. I don’t just worry about my own problems, I worry about yours (even the ones you don’t know about like the fact that the shirt you’re wearing looks awful on you). But as I begin my new “training” program, I’m going to start slowly but I’m no longer going to spend my time worrying about what’s going to happen next week or worry and make a plan for what I’ll watch when they will have done so many spin offs of Project Runway that they’re now doing Project Flatware or something. I am going to worry about right now and let the rest fall in place the way it wants to because it’s going to whether I like it or not.

I have always been the person convinced that I had magical powers of control. I used to sit in class in grade school and imagine that I could make the clock move forward. (I’m ashamed to say I was thinking myself more “Samantha” from Bewitched than who I’d eventually become, “Uncle Arthur”) I couldn’t make the clock move and I can’t really do anything more than what my parents said for years, “Just do your best.” Even Oprah says, “When you know better you do better.” Well, I don’t know that I “know better” but I finally have admitted that I know I can’t make time move (or washboard abs appear on my body). I’ve also realized I don’t know what my best really is which is a problem because if you never think your best IS your best then you’re constantly disappointed.

So from this day forward I’m going to start to entertain the possibility that what I’m doing right now may indeed be “the best” that I can do. I am going to continue to work on myself without worrying that no one else is noticing the work and begin to realize that I’ve had the ruby slippers on all along. That’s right, no matter what life has thrown at me from success to failure (sometimes all in the same day) I’ve dealt with all of it because I had the power all along where mere mortals would have crumbled. The thing that I get now is that Glinda wasn’t the bitch I always thought she was by not telling Dorothy at the beginning. Let’s face it like she said, I just wouldn’t have believed her if she had told me, I had to learn it for myself. So as I begin my walk on my own personal yellow brick road I’m going to enjoy the trip to the Emerald City with my friends I see and meet along the way, throw water on any witches I encounter and eventually I’ll get to the Emerald City spa. Can’t wait for the whole “rub, rub here, rub, rub there thing!” (I’m also going to embrace the fact that everything always seems to go back to a Wizard of Oz metaphor for me and my life!) Here’s to me, Happy Birthday!

This entry was written for HubPages and although it's all content created by me, it can't also appear here and there according to their rules and regs. 

So forgive the link to a link to a link but I'm hoping once you get there and read it, you'll enjoy it!

And you'll get to see an older, fatter picture of me (no, I don't have any shame) so go there now to see it and read!!!

Big Love,

.s.

http://somelikeitscott.hubpages.com/hub/Ill-miss-Andy-Rooney-too-but-heres-why-I-should-have-his-old-job

How I Almost Lost A Nipple Using Nair Men (Or Why You Should Read The Instructions) – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’m not hairy. Well, not hairy enough so as to look manly. I’m one of those eight hairs on my chest kind of men. But as I grow older and deal with the constant trimming of my nose hair and wild eyebrow hair (not a waxing of my eyebrows like the boys of Jersey Shore who end up looking like a Maybelline ad from the 60’s, just trimming of the few hairs growing out of control and choosing not to comply with the growth pattern of the rest of the hairs above my eyes) I have found there are additional places growing hair that I don’t want. As I lose more and more of the hair on the back of my head (a good place to lose your hair because as you rarely see the back of your head you can just pretend it’s there. You know, like pretending that dead relative is just on vacation or not speaking to you anymore instead of really being dead) the new places hair has found to grow is getting on my nerves big time. How I almost lost a nipple using Nair Men (or why you should read the instructions) – Don’t Get Me Started!

Yes, I’m aware that women have had to deal with shaving their hairy legs and underarms for years and so I should just shut up and deal with it. But this is much more than a bitching blog, it’s a warning for those of us men who will just slather crap on and not read the instructions. I come from a long line of men in my family who don’t feel the need to read directions. My father is what we call an, “FW” which translated is “f*cking wonder” because the man can do anything. Now to the best of my knowledge he’s never read a book so I think all of his knowledge comes from television but whatever it is, my father not only knows about it but he knows how to make it. The downside to this is that he doesn’t feel the need to read the instructions (well, until in most cases it’s too late) so growing up we had many a household item that once put together there was a screw that my father convinced us the item didn’t need or was “extra” and then we would watch said item lean or be wobbly for the rest of all eternity. I am my father’s son.

I don’t really know how I discovered it because I rarely look at myself naked (I’ve always felt that was my spouse’s job) but one day lo and behold I was shaving my face and as I scanned down I discovered that not only were the eight hairs on my chest creeping up my neck to where they looked as though they would look like plants reaching toward the sun if I wore a v-neck anything but there was a lot of hair around my nipples. What?!? Are you kidding me? Yes, there it was looking like fur trimmed crotchless underwear on my chest. Around both nipples were these hairs growing in all different directions and surrounding my nipples like some sort of hair swat team! Well, this was not going to be permitted. So I reached for a can of Nair Men and began to read the instructions. “Shake can. Use an ample amount. Don’t rub in.” That was about as far as I got before I thought, “I can do this, I don’t need no stinking instructions!” So the slathering of the not so great smelling Nair Men began. I first attacked the uprising of hairs on the center of my chest straining to reach my neck. Then I began to attack the nipple area. That’s when it happened, I got a little on the actual nipple and I thought, “What am I outlining my nipples in this crap for, may as well cover the whole nipple and be done with it.” And so I did. And so I waited the three minutes (or whatever it said) and then left it on for an additional minute because I was convinced I wanted this to REALLY work so I would not have to do it again soon. And then I used a warm washcloth to wipe it all off.

Wow, the hair was really coming off. (I don’t know why but I’m always surprised when a product works the way it says it’s going to) And as I wiped I noticed that my nipples were feeling amazingly sensitive. They could feel the breeze much more than I think men’s nipples are supposed to feel the breeze. I cleaned up and decided to take my new hairless chest for a ride in a v-neck t-shirt. Hmmm, I could really feel the cotton shirt against my nipples. Odd, I never really noticed my nipples being sensitive before but now they seemed to be the epicenter of all feeling on my body. By the end of the day things seemed to be back to normal in my nipple area so I didn’t think anything about it.

The next morning after my shower and while shaving my face I looked down to admire my new smooth chest. That’s when I noticed some red dots around my nipples. A quick feel enlightened me that not only were my nipples no longer sensitive (in fact it would take a month or more before I could even tell if something was touching my nipples) but there were tiny little what appeared to be scabs on the areola areas around my nipples. I immediately looked at the Nair Men can and while I didn’t read it so closely before application, this time I did. There it was, the “don’t put this directly on your nipples” sentence that I had glossed over before glossing over my nipples with the product. While some would say that I sometimes share too much, I’ve always seem myself as a “giver” or life coach in the making and I just want to make sure no other man has to lose the use of his nipples for a month due to not reading instructions. So take it from me boys, it’s a great product but for Chrissakes, read how to use it! How I almost lost a nipple using Nair Men (or why you should read the instructions) – Don’t Get Me Started!

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Kim Kardashian Files For Divorce After Ten Weeks And Gays Just Got A Little More Smug! – Don’t Get Me Started!

The only reason I even know about Schadenfruede (happiness at the misfortune of others) is due to the musical Avenue Q. And while I know I’m supposed to be sending positive vibes out into the universe in order to be able to receive them, I can’t help but think about the unhappiness of all of the people against gays being allowed to have the same rights as straightees when it comes to marriage. And with the very high profile millions upon millions of dollars spent on the overly produced wedding of Kim Kardashian (masterminded by her mother who makes Mama Rose from Gypsy look like an amateur) comes to a close I can’t help but feel a little vindication for those that say marriage can only be entrusted to the straightees. Kim Kardashian files for divorce after ten weeks and gays just got a little more smug! – Don’t Get Me Started!

I have been with my spouse for 23 years now. I don’t know why but I always feel compelled to also say that we’ve been monogamous all of this time (mostly because it seems as though many think that us gays are the biggest sluts in the land). But being monogamous is not enough for most bible thumping folks that spend millions upon millions making sure we gays aren’t allowed to share the same rights as our straightee married counterparts. Sure, we’re all thrilled that the laws are changing in some states but nationally we’re still barred from over 1,000 rights that straightees get when they say, “I do!” The state we live in only allows us to be domestic partners and so when the law was passed, my spouse and I registered with the state. Interestingly enough, it really only gives us the right to hospital visits and a few other things but when it comes to paying taxes we’re still considered “single” after 23 years. What’s even more interesting is that the Domestic Partner law in our state while it doesn’t give us some things, what it DOES do is make us both responsible for one another’s debts. That’s right, we can’t get a tax break for being a couple but if I pay my credit card payment late they can come after my spouse. Nice, right?

Look, I’m not really happy that Kim Kardashian’s mother forced her into a wedding for ratings and now it’s falling apart. I don’t wish anyone unhappiness. But I can’t help it, I want those holier than thou straightees to stop and give pause, to think for one moment about how they parade their ideals of marriage from the 1900’s around as if they’re somehow better than us gays when for so many, marriage seems as fleeting as all the sex we gays are supposed to be having in back alleys.

Marriage is not something to be gone into lightly. And I’ll be honest, one of my dearest gay friends recently went through a difficult divorce so I’m not saying we gays are going to be a lot better at this than straightees but it’s not about whose better at it, it’s about having the right to be married. Over the course of 23 years my spouse and I have been through as much as any other couple but we made a commitment to one another and we’re together because we really love one another no matter what trial or tribulation befalls us. We’re still together not because of the piece of paper we’re not allowed to have but because we love one another and it works for us.

So imagine making the same commitment as someone else and then finding out that you have to fight to get your spouse on your health benefits at work (and pay more than straight couples because the insurance companies are allowed to charge companies more for allowing gay spouses to have coverage) imagine paying hundreds and even thousands of dollars more in taxes each year because the health benefits you fought for are considered income to the employed spouse and added on and taxed unlike straight married couples and imagine the other hundreds of rights you don’t even get even if you’re willing to pay up to double of what your straight counterparts pay because there’s not a vagina and a penis in the home. And then look at these high profile weddings that are like Mary Poppins described about promises, “That’s a pie crust promise. Easily made, easily broken.” And tell me us gays who have been in committed relationships for years aren’t allowed to feel a little superior. Kim Kardashian files for divorce after ten weeks and gays just got a little more smug! – Don’t Get Me Started!

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