Olives Gathered

These chirren. I've spent the better part of the week, into tomorrow still, house & child over seeing for a friend of mine. The chirren are 13 and 11.

Yesterday the girl, 13, called to tell me she's going to a carnival in town with friends. I said, "Are you asking me or telling me?" "Telling you. I already talked to Mom." "Well OK then." A few minutes later on the phone, the Mom said, "That girl doesn't even have $20. She wants me to borrow it from you for her, and pay you back when I get back in town."

So the 13 year old with a touch of diva "tells me" she's going somewhere, which of course requires me to take her, and pick up her two friends on the way, and wait up to pick them up, but forgets she has to ask me for her going money.

A few nights ago I was talking with them at the supper table, and the 13 year old kept reaching over acting like she would hit her brother's head. I said, "If you grew an afro like most black boys, it wouldn't hurt so much." He said, "Those are ugly!" The girl said, "We're very lucky to live like we do. Some of the kids at school say "Why don't you dress black?" and I'm like, "uh - maybe I LIKE white clothes."

I tell ya - the more I am around these children, the more I realize how doubly blessed I am - blessed to have them in my life, and blessed that they're not mine!

Small Happy

A small happy to my day, one of the attorneys for whom I am working part time needs me to go tomorrow and take some papers to a courthouse about 2 hours from here, and all of 15 minutes from where My Fella lives. I can't stay, I'm house sitting for a friend, but it sure would be nice to see him for lunch. Though the little devil in me may try to arrange a little rendezvous at his house.

Spyder & Sass

S&S's parents invited me to join them for supper last night at my very favorite pizza joint. I kept Spyder & Sass afterwards while they went off to a movie. Sass turned on the water works when her parents walked out. You'd have thought they were leaving her behind to go into the jungles of Peru, not walking across the street to a movie. Oh how she stood at the window and cried.

Not making fun of a child crying, but she is a wee bit of a daddy's girl, and a natural born princess. First, I asked Spyder to "be the big brother" and console her, thinking that she might intuitively realize it's ok if her brother is still here, then I realized we would just need to be on with the evening, because standing at the window waiting for them wasn't going to help.

So hand in hand, we crossed the parking lot, and by the time we were in the car, she was almost dried up.

A trip to Garden Ridge for them was very exciting. Spyder wanted to remember the name of the store so he can tell his Mom. They had to touch everything, with Spyder explaining the differences between man made and machine made. Then they each got one thing at Dollar Tree. Spyder picked out the glass stones in the arts section, pretending they are precious jewels. Ever the princess, Sass picked out a feather fan, which was broken before we'd gone 1/2 a mile towards home.

The evening finished off with a game of each of us flicking a stone towards an object, to see who could come the closest without going past. Spyder seems to be the best at controlling his flick.

Olives at my table, they are precious to me.

Gather Children Like Olives Around Your Table

I was at a baby shower yesterday (don't ask me, I'm not sure how I got that lucky) and at the end of the party, the preacher's wife said:

In a tone very authoritative, charismatic, religious:
"I believe that children are a gift from god.
The bible tells us to gather children around our table like olives.
And at the Holy Church of the Loving God we are blessed to have many children at our table."

Then she changed tones and said,
"I don't believe we have to HAVE them all, we just have to gather them! Now I got to go, and to those of you in my church, I will see you tomorrow at the Holy Church of the Loving God
and she grabbed a styrofoam plate covered with food, wrapped in aluminum foil, and was out the door.


I have thought on that a lot since yesterday afternoon, and I think my life is summed up nicely by that verse. If my life is a table, I have gathered children like olives. I have two beautiful blood nephews, I have shared over 20 years of life with my four adopted cousins, I have Spyder & Sass, I have spent much time with G's & D's boys, I enjoy my time with so many children whose parents allow me to be a part of their lives. I have one "nephew" who tells people "I have 3 Uncle Mike's, but this is the only one that takes me places." I have gathered children like olive plants around my table. But like the preacher's wife said, I didn't have to HAVE them. Thankfully, I can send every last one of them back to their parents when times up!



Version: KJVPsa 128:3Thy wife [shall be] as a fruitful vine by the sides of thine house: thy children like olive plants round about thy table.

Being Gay is a lot like being on Star Trek

I am writing a blog, which will appear later, about an experience I had yesterday at a baby shower. I was the only white and the only male and the only gay at this baby shower. I walked into a room full of black women - every size, shape and color. And it's got me to thinking that being gay is a lot like being on Star Trek. Sometimes, you just boldly go where no man has gone before.

Darned Television Addictions

I am just all put out. Apparently BBC started Season 3 of the new Doctor Who on December 25, 2006. I've been wondering why the 'ell it was taking so long, but it looks like SciFi decided not to pick it up. I've occasionally glanced across the BBC channel on my Comcast, but don't see it. So now we're knee deep into April, I'm left hanging with the goodbye season from last season where Rose & The Doctor say goodbye, and some new girl in a wedding dress showed up.

A quick look on imdb tonight confirmed my worst fears. I've missed it. I've missed it. I've missed it.



http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0436992/episodes


My Fella asked me to come next weekend to his home and us go to a fundraiser fish fry. He remembers me telling him that my "dream" rehearsal dinner for a wedding would be a fish fry. The big ol' local Southern kind with a local man who probably handmade a fryer that deep, and is probably associated with the local fire department, is fryin up stuff faster than the other folks can spread it out for kith & kin to put on their styrofoam plates.

We were going to take Jamie to the zoo, but the zoo can wait. And after a year's worth of My Fella driving here to see me, who am I to turn down his invitation to go to a fish fry? He does know how to charm me. If the weather's good, we'll go for another horse riding lesson.

The Mule, The Stud & The Queen

The Mule, The Stud & The Queen

What a weekend.
Right on the heels of my bad work news Friday, I went on to My Fella’s house for the weekend. It’s an easy enough drive, right at 100 miles, state highway the whole way. I’ve found that right at halfway, I like to stop and go in the store there and have a pee, get a Coke, and move on. I’m not sure why, it’s only an hour to there, and an hour on. But I usually travel with a drink in hand, so it’s not uncommon to need to pull over.

The weather was overcast, but I hoped for no rain, since we wanted to ride horses. It would be my third ride, and still a little cool, but an extra layer of Old Navy fleece would help with it. Just about the time I pulled up, the overcast turned to a drizzly rain, cold and icky. So we nixed the idea of a ride.

My Fella’s brother walked up. We’ll call him Jamie. Jamie deserves his own area in the blog to be introduced, he’s such a special person. But here he comes, always anxious to see whose around and what’s going on. We decided to sit on the porch for a while and watch the drizzle come down. Just talking and catching up. Jamie must have decided it wasn’t for him, so he walked back towards his parents. About ten minutes later, he returns, and I pulled a chair closer over to us for him. Why he couldn’t do that himself, I don’t know. Jamie likes to be taken care of just a little bit, but don’t we all?

It got so cool out there, My Fella got us all three blankets and we sat like old women on the porch until we were all chilled to the bone.

Darkness comes out in the country, and comes in a complete, velvet like cover. My Fella wonders why I fall completely asleep on the couch at 7p.m. At some point, Jamie’s wandered home and gotten himself mad about something and wanders back, muttering and stuttering to no end. He finally mutters himself to sleep, and My Fella is pecking away at his p.c., trying to work out a good senior photo for his nephew.

By the time Jamie and I are both awake again, we’re hungry-hungry, and eventually off to Pizza Hut. Not the cleanest joint to which I’ve been, Pizza Hut’s always have that “a horde of kids just rushed out of here” look and vibe to me, but the waitress was very friendly, the tea was good, and the pizza was piping hot. There was a storm of rain coming down outside by the time we left, but Jamie and I convinced My Fella to pull through the Dairy Queen for a little something sweet. Though he told Jamie that we didn’t get him anything, we always do.

Early to bed, early to rise, and with three men in the house, there’s a lot of peeing going on starting around 5:30 in the morning. But the rain is pouring down on the roof, and we all stay in bed.

After a hearty breakfast, we decided that we had planned to go Mule Day, and even though it’s been raining, and we’re late leaving, we’ll do just that. It’s probably 10:30 before we get away, well after the 6:30 or 7a.m. leave time we had planned, but it’s our day together. So the three of us pile in the truck and head . . . . . in some direction . . . .. “Go West, young man.” Even had Mule Days not been in action, it was a very nice drive through that part of the state. But Mule Day delivered on all it promised.

Breakfast
His parents culinary skills deserve mentioning. These people make good homemade biscuits. White flour and buttermilk, and worth every calorie and carb. A mason jar of homemade apple jelly (do not use a fork, the tines tear the jelly) and a jar of molasses from the farmers co-op, and thin cut country ham. Here’s a tip for you – when the butcher’s saw cuts through to slice the ham, it dusts bone meal onto the slices. When frying country ham, consider whether or not you want to rinse off the bone meal. The taste difference is slight, but noticeable if you know it’s there.

Mules, Mules, Everywhere Mules
Mules drawing carts, mules ridden like horses, mules in competitions for appearance, mules in pulling contests. More mules than you can shake a stick at – mules as big as horses, bigger than horses, smaller than goats, mules, mules, mules.

I know this now about mules: Mules are their own thing. They’re not a donkey. A donkey is a donkey. A horse is a horse. A mule is a cross breed between a horse and a donkey. Bred by man to be beasts of burden (I suppose), the Amish, so I am told, will not use a mule on their farms, because it is not a creation of The Big Guy. They’ll use horses, and they’ll use donkeys, both of which should have been on Noah’s Ark. But not a mule, because it’s a man made animal. Who knew?

This is what I think – 50 or 150 years ago, Mule Days was probably a live stock farmers exchange, a yearly time to meet and buy and sell these beast of burdens. Their website backs up this theory of mine, with the local lore and legend. But sometime a few decades ago, somebody realized that you can turn most anything into a good festival if you give it a try. You know every good Southern town likes to have it’s own festival, sort of a birthday party for the folks. Mule Day delivers it’s promise – if you’re looking for mules, you can find them here.

A mule pull is a contest with mules pulling sleds of weight. To the untrained eye (mine), the sled looks like a wooden flat, and the weight is stacks of cinder blocks. Three gentlemen in southern black and white (county jail stripes) get the day out of the pokey for volunteering to stack and unstack the blocks. I swear, it looked so . . . . rural . . . that I thought they were costumes. I don’t know why I was so surprised, about 300 miles in another direction, my father spent a career’s lifetime with a badge on, and I’ve known many a “trustee” to mow a yard. Still, to see the black and white stripes surrounded by teams of mules, it just looked so . . . . picturesque. Shame I didn’t take a picture.

I always like a good row of booths, and after an hour’s worth or more of mule watching, well, there’s just so much mule any one needs. Jamie has told us both he’s hungry, My Fella is getting close to wanting to leave, and I’m wanting to look at every single booth they have – I mean, that’s the whole reason it’s a festival, right? I buy a $3 miniature basket, handwoven, from some Amish girl with missing teeth. (I just have to think The Big Guy wants you to have good teeth. It should be ok with him to have that fixed.) I tell her I couldn’t make the big one, I sure couldn’t make the small one. But on my limited income, the $3 is all I’m willing to spend. Besides, all I would do with a large handwoven basket is eventually sell it in a yard sale or take it to Goodwill, with the recipient never knowing it’s handmade Amish. My fella gets annoyed at “all the plastic crap” in the booths and wants to leave, and poor Jamie’s starving and getting tired. So we drive into town to see . .. . .

My Cousin
Working as a restaurant manager, newly relocated to town, is a cousin of mine. In the same generation as my father, younger than him and older than me, we did not know each other until coincidence took us to both working at the same business. She ran a restaurant and I worked in the marketing department. Her parents, the same generation as my grandfather, were childhood favorites of mine. Fun, exciting, and loving, they would come to town. They even rode cross country on motorcycles. Her mother was very pretty, in a way reminiscent of a 70’s country singer like Dottie West. She was pretty, but it was a “real” pretty, not a story book pretty.

Anyway, she and I are friendly, but not really friends. We didn’t really know each other until the last 5 years or so, she’s two grown kids and lived a full life before I ever met her. So we’re really more like friends from work. I often forget that my aunt and uncle were her parents, because we know each other independent of any blood relationship.

But we knew she had moved there, and My Fella knew where in town the restaurant was located, so with Jamie in tow, we headed there for a meal. She was working but didn’t see me come in, so I stepped behind My Fella, called the restaurant and asked for her, and told her to turn around. She was certainly surprised, and it was good to see her. My Fella thought she should have been able to spend more time with us, but I understood she is the manager, not a manager, and it was a busy afternoon. You still have to let your employees take their breaks, etc. So she sat with us when she could and kept an eye on the restaurant, leaving when she had to. The food was good, typical fare for a mid level, family oriented, chain restaurant. We all ate from the buffet. I told Jamie “No” when he wanted spaghetti. It may be the first time I’ve ever told him no. But I just wasn’t gonna do pasta and sauce with him. But he got plenty, we got plenty, and we hit the road on an overcast afternoon wondering if we would beat the rain home.

Amish
My Fella takes his horses on an Amish ferrier about halfway to his home, and just to show me the country side, he pulls off the road. A mile or two down the way, he says, “That’s an Amish house.” I say, “How can you tell?” He says, “There’s no power.” I say, “How can you tell?” . . . . . . . wait for it . . . . . . he says, “There’s no power lines.” Duh. No power lines, no power poles, no power. The houses all look similar, sort of white color with dust on it, and on this overcast day, the land looks especially dreary. I hope during a pretty day, it offers more to them. All pitched roofs, two story buildings, sometimes with a sort of annex on the back, and sometimes a causeway between two houses. My Fella speculates that’s an extension to a now grown member of the family – perhaps a son who grew up and built his own house within spitting distance of his parents.

From the road, I can see the Amish children, dressed just like in the movies. The boys in suspenders and straw hats, the girls with bonnets. It looks very much like “For Richer or Poorer” except not quite as picturesque today. Muddy and wet. But I would like to think that a warmer week of Spring, and then Summer, will bring their land to a full green.

My Fella shows me the house where his ferrier lives, and points to the building where the horses get shoed. As we drive through, most every house has a sign on a wood board, plain white in black lettering, telling what is sold or serviced at the house. Home made breads, homemade jellys, candies, saddles, furniture, etc. My Fella says he thinks the rules are pretty simple, if it’s Sunday, there’s no sale. If the door is open during the week, they will sell. If it’s closed, they won’t. Word is the jellys are the best you can find, My Fella tells me not to buy homemade butter because it turns rotten quickly. I tell him that as soon as I find a job, I want to come back and buy one of everything, including two rockers sold at a store on the highway. She had beautiful quilts, hand stitched, all the colors in dark shades of blue. The largest one could have carpeted my living room and was over $800. But there was no doubting it was hand stitched. The thick batting of yesteryear has been replaced with fiber fill, since our homes all now have central heat and air. But they are beautiful pieces of stitching and quilting. And it’s a very nice afternoon ride with My Fella and his brother.

The Dairy Queen & The Story
My Fella has a nephew with a wildly inappropriate nickname. About 15 years old, he exhibits every movie stereotype of an effeminate sissy you could want – if there’s a checklist, he’s got all checks. Swish when he walks? Check. Wings out? Check. Multi-tasking with hair & cell phone? Check. Hair did? Check. The list goes on.

When I met this young fella, he was dressed in a camouflage, down quilted hunters coat. The irony of being gay, is how many different facets of your life fit. It’s a cold night, you have a very warm camouflage goose down coat. All the while clicking on his cell phone and talking about tanning with lotion. That same night, he just about climbed into his uncle’s lap, leaving me with one raised eye brow and about half a minute from telling him to get the helloffa my boyfriend. But then, one remembers when one was young.

So back to our night, an hour or two after we get home, when My Fella’s mom comes flying through the door, ostensibly to get Jamie, but beating 90 to nothing to tell us all about this fight at the local restaurant. Seems some 70 year old lady and some waitress had it out, and his Mom & Dad, along with a restaurant full of locals, was there to witness it. While it really was a funny story, I don’t know any of the participants, so I’m not retelling it here.

Off to the Dairy Queen for a late snack, we pull up and My Fella says, “You’re in luck” because there’s Stud, the mis-nick named nephew, with his father (My Fella’s brother), and step mother. I had not yet met this brother or his wife, but Stud and I have met. Stud’s not his real nick name, but let me assure you, it is as equally inappropriate as his real nickname.

My Fella asks his brother if they’ve talked to the Mom & Dad, and what ensues is a hollerin’ back and forth retelling of the Restaurant Story, which by now most everyone in town has no doubt heard about, but this brother did not know his Mom & Dad were eye witnesses. My Fella knew details with names, where the brother only knew vague details. I decided that I knew as much as anyone there, having heard it just as My Fella did, so I told what I knew, with a generous emphasis on their Mother’s excitement about the whole thing.

So we’re the only people in a Dairy Queen probably not 20 feet wide, and hollerin’ like we’re two football fields from each other. Then Stud and his StepMother tell us how Stud picked out her whole outfit – shoes, pants, shirt, and did her hair. Seems Stud has a flat iron, and isn’t afraid to use it. StepMother, my age, picked out her own panties, which Stud said were “ugly with smiley faces.” The brother is over there, country boy to the hilt, studying intently on his French fries. I’m a wonderin’ to myself, how do you get to be close to 40, and have your teenage son picking out panties and doing hair for your wife? Could be worse, I suppose. Stud could have bad taste.

So the brother, in what I am sure is an attempt to gross out the city slicker (me), starts telling us work related stories about men with split open heads and brain matter you can see (can you believe he’s back home and it’s only been a week?) and catheter insertions gone wrong (as if there’s a good one.) He used, and I promise this is not a lie, the phrase “Choke it like a chicken and pull it up towards his head.”

Stud is much put out over a much publicized murder trial, and we all take to hollerin’ at each other about whether she’ll get off or not, and if she does, how she’ll do it, and whether it’s an iron clad fact that she did the killin’, just that she’ll probly get off. (I know, I misspelled “probably.”) Stud’s just all worked up over it, with some of us tellin’ him to go to church and pray for her, and I’m just as loud as the rest of the bunch. Now, keep in mind, we’re sitting in booths next to each other, and the entire restaurant probably isn’t 20 feet across, not the two football fields apart you’d think, the way we’re carryin’ on. My Fella takes to drivin’ his diabetes into over drive with an ice cream concoction that would make emperors jealous of the gluttony, and after a while we all leave, with brother driving a crew cab diesel truck. Why do diesel’s always sound like they’re about to shake apart? Surely that can be fixed.

This whole day and night has just wore me out, and I am secretly glad that brother Jamie is staying at his parents house this night. He tends to wake up pretty early, and walk around waiting for everyone else to wake up, including trips to your room, just to see if you are or are not awake. I’m happy to know we’ll be able to sleep in.

So Sunday Comes
So Sunday comes, as it always does. And finds us sleeping in and stretching and yawning. About 9, I suppose, I yawn and stretch and try to come to life. And guess where My Fella wants to go eat breakfast? You guessed it – the scene of last night’s altercation. He just can’t resist the pull of the small town excitement, and apparently neither can anyone else in there. You see the waitresses being waived over, the owner leaning down at tables and grinnin’, and even I couldn’t resist saying, “This tastes old. I’m not paying for it.”

Sitting at the table waiting for breakfast, My Fella has the nerve to say to me, about the crafts yesterday, “Did you see that lady making the real big shawl?” Uh – No. Mr. “It’sallplasticcrap” made us leave before I saw everything, and now wants to ask me if I saw the lady hand making a really big shawl. Ugh!

Strange Times Indeed
It was a sometimes funny, sometimes cold and rainy, sometimes warm weekend. This weekend is not indicative of my time spent with him. Usually we’re much more subdued, much more relaxed, without near so much excitement. It was a fun diversion.

A year ago, to think I would be in love, driving down a gravel driveway, going to Mule Day, and just carrying on so for a weekend, . . . . . . . . but every single minute of it was spent with My Fella. All the hoopla, all the rain, the 75 cent bag of peanuts at the festival, to that last kiss before I drove home. Strange Times Indeed. But better ones, I’m not sure I’ve had.

Strange times my friend

I said to my friend, "G" the other day, I said, "G", (that's what I call her sometimes), "G, if you had told me a year ago that I would be in love, sleeping in a home with a gravel driveway, and spending my weekends going to mule day . . . . . . "

"Strange times my friend" G said. "Mule days. There's a story for the grandkids."

I'll Restart It For You

The Movie House

Sissy got me to thinking last night about the movie house in our home town. She reminded me of a fun afternoon years ago with her and a hometown, high school friend.

A few weeks ago I was home, and had run in a grocery store in the shopping mall where the empty cinema still stands. I’m not sure why, but I drove over there. It’s one of those small town shopping centers, a big parking lot off the main highway, with the edges banked by one or two long buildings – a grocery store, maybe a clothing store, a Radio Shack, etc. And there on the left, is the Twin Cinema. It carries a man’s name – we’ll just call Joe Smith. “Joe Smith’s Twin Cinema.” I never knew "Joe Smith", or anyone else that claimed to know him. I would guess that he once owned the cinema, but I think I heard he’d sold it at some point, to a man that kept the name because it was such an ingrained part of the name. “JoeSmith’sTwinCinema.”

Two theatre’s – one on the left, one on the right. Doors on the left, doors on the right. The ticket seller was in the middle, and once you walked in, the concession stand was there with the ticket seller – a little island from where they could sell to the left or the right.

I can remember so clearly (or at least I think I do) standing in line to see Escape to Witch Mountain (1975), The Cat from Outer Space (1978), the original Star Wars movie (1977). I can also remember going by myself to see the first Star Trek movie (1979). I was such a die-hard geek just yearning for ultra-geekiness, that my social gene that wanted me to only go to movies with people fought with my geeky gene, that so badly wanted to see that movie. To my recollection, I went to the matinee, probably thinking there was a lesser chance of being caught alone at the movie.

Sometime around 7 or 8 years ago, maybe fewer, a nearby casino was rumored to have bought the cinema, or at least the business, if not the building. I’m not sure if they did or not, but right around that time, the cinema closed, and the casino opened a two movie cinema in their building, which they closed soon after.

Having worked in casino’s for so long, and knowing something of the management of that particular one, it seems like something they would do. Spend a modest sum to buy an aging business in a small town, temporarily move the entertainment option to their location, then eventually just close it all down under the guise of a renovation or remodel, that just never opened back up.

But parked there a month ago, looking directly at the brick columned awning and the plate glass windows, covered in dust with finger print writing, able to see the wood paneling and the concession island, I could see myself in line. Far from 37 years and 300 pounds, I was 10, 11, 12, 15, 16, and I was skinny, though I didn’t appreciate it at the time. I was in line with dreams of a great movie, or just a great time. I can remember even then going to the bathroom and cursing myself for drinking so much during the movie. (Even today I try to get an aisle seat, because I always gotta pee.). It was a different time, a different life, a different town. But movies still feel magical to me. I love the feel of sitting down, love the Coke and popcorn in hand, love the internal argument of how long can I go before I have to go? I had forgotten until Sissy wrote it that the seats were different, just an incline, no stair steps. And the floor often sticky from popcorn and cokes before us. The heavy drapes. And someone who would tell you if you were the only ones at the matinee, “I’ll restart it for you.” What a nice gift in life, “I’ll restart it for you.”

Where ever he is, that man with his name on the front of the cinema, I wonder if he knows his name is still on the sign.







Guest Blog:
A little step back
I grew up in a small town, but it was the largest small town around, and we were lucky enough to have a movie theatre. The name -- "Twin Cinema" -- says it all. There were two screens, and if you were lucky, whatever movie you wanted to see would be playing on one of the two screens. The show times were 7:00 pm and 9:15 pm daily. When I was a senior in high school, they went crazy and started showing 2:00 pm matinées on Saturday and Sunday.To be honest, they probably didn't need more showings than that. One of my best memories in that theatre is going to see Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure with “Ramblings from Another Gay Guy” and MAPD (names changed). We were the only ones there, and we had gotten there a few minutes after the movie started. The guy in the projection room called down, "Don't worry! I'll restart it for you!"We've started going to an older theatre here that reminds me of that theatre in my hometown, with the heavy draperies on the walls and the close seats that are placed on an incline toward the screen.Last week I took Sass and Spyder to see Meet the Robinsons on opening day, and we were the only people in the theatre. The only people. As we were walking in, Sass cut her foot, and the lady running the place (from whom we had just bought our tickets) said, "Just take her in the bathroom and wash it. I'll bring a Band-Aid and some Neosporin." And she did. Today we saw Firehouse Dog with “Ramblings from Another Gay Guy” , and again, we were the only ones in the theatre. The lady who sold us the tickets served us our popcorn, then she started the movie. And I'll bet if we had been late, she would have restarted it for us.For a long time I think I bought into the idea that newer and nicer was always better. Not consciously, but I did go to the bigger and nicer chain theatre for a long time without really questioning why I chose that one.I've decided that the smaller theatre really is the better one for me, if only because it allows me to take a little step back into my past.

My child-keeping exploits

A short blog for today.
I kept Spyder & Sass a few hours while Sissy picked up a half shift at work. Ever the good uncle, I asked the two, "Do you like Kool-Aid?" Sass said, "What's Kool-Aid?"

I have to keep those kids more. Introduce them to the three food groups: Hamburger Helper, Little Debbie snack cakes, and Kool-Aid drinks.

Firehouse Dog
Sissy, Sass & Spyder took me to the movies today. It was a perfect matinee movie, straight up 12 noon. It was a good children’s movie. From an adult perspective, probably just a wee bit predictable. You had to know who at least one of the bad guys was, since there weren’t that many actors in the movie, and you had to know that the dog would save the day. But it was a good kids movie. I’m not an avid fan of Bruce Greenwood. In fact, I can’t tell you anything else he’s done, he’s just one of those actor faces you know is an actor. But he held up nicely as a wee bit of eye candy in all that dark blue for a fireman. I’m going to keep Sass & Spyder tomorrow for a few hours while Sissy works. We’ll do one of the museums, I’m sure. If the wind just would die down to a pretty day, we could spend some sunshine time here, but I don’t think it’ll happen for us.


General
Not much more for the blog today. I did a 20 minute walk at the gym and two classes – one on goal setting and one kitchen class with a great grilled cheese sandwich with a little Italian flair.

Well, for lack of any other way to do it, I’ll just get started this way:

Fat Boy
In an effort to curb my ever increasing waist band, I joined a gym. It’s not a regular for profit gym. It’s part of a church ministry to the community, so there are no contracts to sign, and their mission is to help people change their over all health.

I’m at 289 pounds, closing in fast on 300. While in my mind, and to my fella, I’m very handsome, I am realistic enough to know that I haven’t seen my feet or my penis in quite a while. So, the phone woke me up ringing at about 7:45 this morning, and I used that as impetus to go on to the gym and at least do a 20 minute walk. I can handle 20 minutes, but I haven’t pushed it much further. I did an assessment class to outline some different cardio and strength training exercises, but I haven’t started them yet. No reason why, no excuses, just haven’t.

As I was leaving from the walk, I saw they were about to have a class in their class kitchen, and the board said it was “whole grains.” So I just decided to stay, and took a seat at one of the islands. The class ended up being a recipe for reduced fat, reduced sugar homemade blueberry muffins with some whole wheat. So me and 3 ladies made it together. One took to stirring stuff, and another was adding things in, and then they asked me if I wanted to take part, so I was the sifter guy. I took the bowl of part all purpose flour and part whole wheat flour and sifted it good into the mix, then I added me some vanilla and skim milk. I got to tell you, those muffins are yummy.

So I’m gonna get up tomorrow and go to a goal setting class, and then to a menu planning class. And then I’ll do my 20 minute walk. It didn’t all come on over night, it won’t all go off over night. But I’ll get it off.

Red
My fag hag, we’ll just call her “Red” for short, breezed through town today. She was making a quick run close to her home for a personal matter, and she called to tell me when she’d hit town on her way back. I had to run to her best friend slash hair dresser slash fag and pick up some of her hair color for her. She just doesn’t trust another beauty operator to get the right shade of red, so she makes him mix up the powders and stuff for her. She’s crazy like that. I told him, only that girl could be driving through town on a personal matter in her hometown, and have two queers running all over this city to meet each other for her hair care products.

But it was good to see Red again. She’s been moved away a while now, but it does me good to see her, to hear that raspy voice of hers, smell those menthol cigarettes. I truly believe I was only half the gay guy I could have been until I met her. Heck, I’m about half convinced she’s a gay guy living in drag.

Death
A pillar of small town life is death and marriage. Within minutes of a man being found this morning in his own home, my brother called to tell me. Small town style, he heard it on the scanner, knew the codes, and looked up the address. He knew it was the father of a friend of mine from high school, and called to tell me. The mother died a few months ago. I think the consensus will be that he “grieved himself to death.” You know, we like that in the South – the idea that someone so loved another, that they simply die without them.

I’ve said that about a grandmother of mine, that she grieved herself to death. She took about 10 years, and untold packs of cigarettes and half gallon jugs of Old Charter to do it. But still, I think she never got over losing him.

Anyway, I’ll probably make a quick journey home for the visitation. It’s the polite thing to do. I went for his mother’s death a few months ago. She was a fun, fun lady. Ever so proud of her son, always talking about him.

Unfortunate Period of Under Employment
Will this ever end? I’ve been unemployed now since mid-December. So far, I’ve focused my job search only on areas similar to what I’ve done in the past. I’m looking for another relatively decent job in my career, though I know I’ll probably have to take a step back in title and cash flow. But still, geeze, you’d think I’d find something. Soon I’ll take to looking for part time work of some kind. A fellas got to have groceries and such.

My Handsome, Handsome Man
I don’t think that’ll be his nick name on all future postings. I’ll probably condense it to “my fella.” He’s learnin’ me to ride horses. He and his family have some farm horses, a few are pure bred this and that, some are just stock. But I’m enjoying learning to ride them. It’s quite a lesson, as so many things are between he and I, in really “being country” and really not being country, and about compromises and learning and stuff.

In Closing
It’s raining outside. Not as much as it looked like it would, and probably not enough to wash the bird poop off my car. But rain just the same. Tonight’s episodes of A.I., House & Boston Legal were . . good. Well, actually A.I.’s about the same every week. “There can be only one.” And I’m not sure it should really be any of them up there. Really though, don’t shows become fairly routine? As much as I enjoyed House, it’s not really different from any other week’s episode. Someone’s sick, no one knows what it is, and they spend an hour running tests and arguing with each other until they find the easy cure.

All right, enough’s enough. It’s just a blog.

Introduction: Ramblings from a southern gay guy

I'm doing this at the suggestion of my "sister of my heart." She's been blogging anonymously, and encouraging me to do the same. So I decided finally to give it a try. I'm going to be anonymous, and will use faux names for people. For her, I'll use "Sissy" probably. Not that I think I'm worth stalking or anything like that, but since blogs may involve other folks, it's probly best if, out of respect to them, I don't just post my/ their names all over the world wide internet.

I'm also tellin' myself that I'm not going to blog anything that's really insulting. That's probably for my best interest. If I'm mad at someone and they have found my blog and find drama all through it, well, that's just better not done.

Maybe this will be dull, maybe not. But it will be . . . . ramblings from a southern gay guy.