A New Target? Because Gay Sexiness is so Passé.

Have y’all read the headlines lately?

Or have you had your Facebook news feeds inundated by gay marriage ads, the first lesbian couple to marry with Mickey and Goofy as witnesses, and young LGBT’s bringing class action lawsuits against their bigot-run schools?

Good. That means you’re supposed to be my Facebook friend.

Because those stories may mean that, sooner than many of us think, the large-scale disenfranchisement of LGBT’s nationwide will become a smarting blemish on our country’s history of civil rights violations.

(And yes, let’s go ahead and make that clear: LGBT inequality is a civil rights issue.

Don’t get me started about what skin color someone has to have to qualify as experiencing civil rights violations. LGBT’s experiencing inequality aren’t trying to uproot and appropriate the 60’s. Meaningful, long overdue strides were made then by incredibly talented, headstrong, and historically revered leaders; and they, and their cohorts, should be honored accordingly and their work appreciated.

LGBT’s have long endured inhuman equations to the lowest form of humanity. Whether starved and worked to death inside barbed-wire fences, dragged behind cars and lit ablaze, or tied to fence posts and left to die, LGBT’s have a history of having hate-centered violence directed at them.

So, let’s all stop the minority in-fighting and agree that hatred directed at anyone is wrong.

And anyone who stands against it is a pioneer in their own right.

Tangential rant over.)

***

With every new ad campaign, every high-profile celebrity that comes out or speaks out as an ally, every corporation that backs all of their employees, we all come a few steps closer to equality.

It won’t happen overnight, but it’s happening little by little.

But with so much happening so quickly, I’m left to wonder why.

Why now?

Is it because people are starting to see the light?

Is it because it’s trendy to back LGBT rights?

Is it because LGBT’s are pretty people?

Is it because it’s sexy to feature LGBT’s in ads?

In some ways, I think it’s a little bit of everything blended together.

Still, I think it’s odd that the sex-bent (ba dah bah!) ads are geared more to gay men than the rest of the LGBT community.

I know, I know.

Every advertising executive would respond with the whole “Not every ad can cater to every identity group.”

But I think corporations should try to diversify their LGBT ads.

Because, even now, much of mainstream society is getting many stereotypes reified with every hot, muscly gay couple happily traipsing down some exotic beach to a chuppah.

Not all gays are like that.

We don’t all shave our chests, have tons of money, work out non-stop, or eat 300 calories a day. I’m not trying to sound bitter–really, this time–because I know many gays who juggle crazy lives and have chiseled physiques; I’m just not one of them.

So, again, why the gay men?

In some ways, I think it comes down to some advertising-centric, decided on sexiness factor.

Because what sells ads?

Teddy bears and roses?

Nah.

But two muscle bears holding bouquets over their junk, the tagline reading, “Two bouquets for the price of one! He’ll be beary happy you did!”?

Perhaps.

For whatever reason, two men together ooze bizarre degrees of sexiness to some heterosexual demographics. Meaning: tweens staring at ripped abs (wishing their boyfriends had those, while said boyfriends are secretly wishing they had those, because then–then!–they might get to second base, whatever that is these days); and closeted men staring at those bouquets.

But, again, the proverbial WHY? of it all. Why would two guys be the most marketable of LGBT’s?

I think it’s because more heteros understand the mechanics of gay male sex.

Even if they think it’s ewwww, gross!

Even if they have problematic, subversively misogynistic thoughts like, “So, who’s the woman in all that?” (Clue: It’s two men. It’s nothing like heterosexual sex.) Or, secretly, “I bet they get less teeth.” (We do.)

So, while the Culture Industry is making a buck off your gay boyfriend’s abs, and letting those questioning kids know that they’re not alone, I’m still standing there watching it all unfold, wondering, “Who’s the next target?”

Cynical?

A little.

But let’s be realistic.

Because when the whole taboo against discussing LGBT issues–sex, love, civil rights protections, adoption–falls by the wayside and becomes less edgy, some other minority has to get thrown under the Not-So-Magic American Disenfranchisement School Bus. (Which I imagine being driven by an amalgamation of DuhW and Pat Robertson with Ms. Frizzle’s hair.)

***

My hope is that once LGBT rights are more commonplace than not, not only will there be a little less hatred and misinformation floating around out there, but nationwide LGBT equality will be one of the last civil rights hurdles our country has to clear before getting with the program, catching up with progressive nations, and realizing how ass-backwards we’ve been for far too long.

Because, personally, I’d love to live in a nation where a billboard featuring a gay male couple is looked at as just that–a piece of wood sporting those sporting wood, rather than another attempt by the wicked gays to lead The Children into fiery damnation.

I guess I’m just waiting for gay male sexiness to have less of a charged air about it than it does now. (Maybe then Andy and I can be in a gay-centric toothpaste ad, like a friend suggested after I posted this photo from last year’s NC Pride.)

A future tame, gay-centric toothpaste add? Something like, "Even during a rain-soaked Pride, we're still proud of our smiles!"?

That, and for more representative LGBT imagery in the media.

Whenever that happens, I’ll welcome the chance to pass the goth hipsters of the future–wearing those oh-so-alternative 2000’s fashions and ruminating about Life and Death.

Especially when they pass a few old gays at a bistro table, roll their eyes, and mutter in their misunderstood way, “That whole being gay thing is so passé.”

Cold Reality

Sometimes, we all just need a day.

So I let my hair default to Chia Pet, blasted Silversun Pickups through defunct iPod earbuds, and ventured into a hand-numbingly cold, blustery day.

Oh, Chia Pet hair. How unwieldy ye are.

Because, sometimes, we just have to walk it out.

***

Reconciling unemployment with everything I’ve been conditioned to think about success has been harder than I thought.

Even though I thought I knew better, I’ve realized my default definition of success has involved a 9 to 5, 8 to 4–whatever. You know, the American way: working yourself to the bone, even if you hate what you do, because that’s just how it’s done.

Because you’re told to keep your head down, your nose to the grindstone.

Because your parents did it. And their parents. And their parents’ parents.

Because that’s just how you derive from life the things that make it worthwhile.

***

Life throws shit at you. And you step in it. And you drag it around with you, stinking up everything.

But there comes a time when you have to scrape it off your shoes with as much grace as possible and move on.

Get that mess off your mental shoes.

Because the people who matter know better. They remind you that you’re not useless. That your contributions don’t have a price tag, and don’t come with a pay stub. And they never have.

***

Self-worth in our society has long been measured by bank statements, rather than by the degree to which what we do impacts others.

That’s what really matters. Not who contributes what or how much.

These relatively simple realizations smacked me across the face with more punch than the freezing wind and snow flurries as I walked around Raleigh today.

As I looked for answers in battered facades.

Battered, but not yet beaten.

In signs.

Posted.

In street notes.

Priority mail for "Witch Kult Friends." You'd think they'd at least get the spelling right.

In unfinished portraits.

Unfinished body. But aren't we all?

In masks.

Masked temporarily. But the beauty underneath is what counts.

In inner-workings.

Inner-workings.

In emergency exits.

Escaping halfway.

In pops of color.

Pops of color.

Not in me.

But that’s where they are.

Locked away, layered with dust. Waiting for today.

When the pity party ends.

When I realize that I did this.

That I’m happier for it.

That I’ll be fine.

The Name Game

Call me crazy, but I never really got the whole change-your-last name business.

Probably because I never saw myself as the marrying kind–for multiple reasons–much less someone who’d actually be fortunate enough to snag someone genuinely wonderful in today’s ridiculously difficult dating pool.

Because I always felt like that really hairy guy with floaties on who’d have to grab an oar, whack a guy upside his head, pull him poolside, and act all like I-saved-your-life-here’s-some-mouth-to-mouth-and-maybe-let’s-get-coffee-sometime.

You know, like a real lifeguard.

No?

But smack me across the face and call me Sally (don’t), I did find someone when I least expected it.

And, still, I can’t really fathom how he fell into my life.

He was like *poof* insta-boyfriend/companion/friend/confidant/partner-in-crime-and-life.

It just happened so quickly that I’m still waiting to wake up from some accidental Melatonin overdose and drive to my horrible former job and be back in my former life.

But, here I am: happily coupled, and unshackle…er, employed.

(Alright, one happy outcome out of two life-changers ain’t bad.)

The main thing is that I’m happy.

We’re happy.

Everyone’s happy.

Except that grumpy cat everyone keeps inserting into memes.

***

So when the auto technician came up to the waiting area this morning and called, “Matt Corbin,” I jumped up so quickly that I nearly launched my book across the room, smacking the employee arguing over the phone with a disoriented wrong number caller.

Was this some sort of ruse?

Was this a surprise proposal, and was I expected to walk down the ADA ramp like an aisle, clutching the license plate bracket I’d just bought like a bouquet, and meet Andy at the check-out counter, the service parts team members tossing tree air fresheners like rice?

No.

Which is probably why I got some weird looks when I started humming the wedding song on my way down the ramp.

Not really.

I mean, I’m prone to letting my imagination get away with me. But I know I’ll be the one proposing whenever the time comes. Because, really, we’ve talked about it: It’ll be safer for the general public if I have some means of knowing when to anticipate it.

So, yes, y’all should thank me for sparing you my accidental elbow-to-eye gouges, rogue flying dinner knives to restaurant patrons’ thighs, or decibel-breaking, eardrum-rupturing shrieks, all of which are likely should I ever be surprised. (That goes for parties, too.)

I aim to please.

Anyway.

So I got up, chatted with the technician, sat back down, and smiled to myself.

Because even though we plan to eventually hyphenate our last names, it’s still the unexpected reminders, slips of the tongue, that get me.

Because when two names collide, even with a hyphenated cushion, you know there’s a story tied with it.

Roses, bow ties, and photos--oh, my! The stories.

And I love stories.

Especially ours.

The Weird Factor

Humans are odd creatures.

I mean, this isn’t a noteworthy or earth-shattering realization. But I’m always intrigued by the degree to which some people exercise their weirdness.

Like the bizarrely huggy gal I met at a social event I organized last week. Who, quite seriously, hugged every single person she encountered, and then debated with me about the potato-ness of a particular bag of chips.

HG: “THESE ARE NOT POTATO CHIPS!”

Me: “Yes, yes they are.”

HG: “NO THEY ARE NOT.”

Me *in Yodaese*: “Chips, they are.”

Or a researcher who’s determined to follow through with a batshitcrazy study, despite push back from so many professionals, one of whom is a dear, dear friend.

DF: “And then, he’s going to ——– and have them use ——– to measure their ——– response to ——–.”

Me: “WHAAAAAAAAAT?!”

DF: “I know. It’s nasty.”

Me: “Are they at least going to clean it first?”

***

Still.

I can’t really talk.

I mean, I’m weird by nature.

Weirdness incarnate? Or a birthday wish to a friend? A little of both.

I have plenty of neuroses, of which all too many people are aware by sad happenstance.

Like being in the room when I spy an unopened jar of Nutella.

Or standing beside me when I botch French toast with the last of the eggs.

Or having a conversation with me when I see a differently abled dog puttering along on wheels or hopping on three legs. (And if there’s a bandana or a sweater. Watch. OUT.)

But it seems that unemployment has had an odd effect on my own neurotic weirdness factor. I mean, I figured that I’d be cleaning the floors every other day, or screaming down from the window at random passersby about no more goddamned wire hangars.

But I’m actually a bit more subdued than usual.

Sure, that doesn’t mean much when I’m still OCD-ADD fabulous every single day.

The floors are clean, things are in order. And I don’t accost passersby.

Still, it’s sort of interesting that I’m not freaking out to the excessive degree to which I supposed I would. I guess it’s because Andy and I have a few plans in the works, and we’re in limbo right now–waiting to see which one works out, or if one isn’t in the cards this time around.

I guess I’m strangely optimistic that, even if things don’t pan out according to our plans, we’ll still be fine. We’ll soldier on and still be fabulous.

Because if unemployment and the road to it have taught me anything, it’s that a little optimism can be spread far and wide.

Like new asphalt on a pothole-marked highway.

An Eclectic New Life By Design

I love stuff.

Most everything old and worn, vintage and quirky, tattered and treasured.

Still, I’ve had to make some decisions about stuff–what to keep and what to sell, what to give away and what to toss.

After all, design is an ever-changing field.

One day taxidermy is the new thing, the next week it’s those horrendous Keep Calm and Carry On posters adorning hipster sorority girls’ dorm rooms everywhere.

(Kidding! Sort of. Not really.)

***

Regardless of your style, it’s the people who stick with something–own it and make it work–that really pique my interest. You know, the friends whose places you love to visit to see what new thing they’ve incorporated, and what old tragic piece of crap they’ve discarded.

And while I’m no design expert, I do know what I love, and sprinkle that throughout our apartment. And even though I’m trying to be good and curb the antiquing a bit–oh, money, why must you constantly be so elusive?–sometimes you just have to eat rice and beans a few days more than you’d like.

Because certain things are just so cool, and dovetail so effortlessly with your aesthetic, that you must possess it.

Like a ridiculously dramatic mirrored Deco serving tray.

This baby is ready for some drinks...and maybe a Murder, She Wrote marathon

Or a ridiculously dramatic mirrored Deco vanity in need of some imagination and TLC (minus the whole chasing waterfalls bit).

Her rose-colored self is ready for a face-lift!

Sensing a theme?

I know, IKEA-Contemporary.

Kidding!

(By the way, go check out Sanford Antique Mall. You can get some beautiful pieces. But not this one.)

***

One of the most enjoyable things I’ve learned from melding households is snagging finds that speak to us both. In some instances, one of us sees the hidden potential, or realizes the way its lines–when juxtaposed with a completely different style of furniture–makes us both love other things that we have that much more.

Like pairing a beautifully simple, modern bookcase with an ornate, Downton Abbey-like mirror.

A touch of modern, and splash of Downton Abbey.

Individually, each is fine and functional and beautiful. But together, I love them.

Even the little things that you have squirreled away can be reborn. Like my grandfather’s vintage political buttons, now housed in this cool Catherineholm bowl.

Bowled over with fabulous. Pinned.

(And I’m still trying to figure out where to hang his two hats.)

We wear our politics on our...heads these days.

Plus, loving what you have makes everything more fun.

Like eating a healthier, cheaper apple in lieu of a $500 jar of Nutella. (Seriously, Nutella, why are you so expensive?)

Apple break on the Riviera. (Ba dah bah!)

Because why wouldn’t this cute Riviera plate not make you smile and help you forget that this apple is not chocolate-hazelnut spread?

***

When you love the things surrounding you, you’re better able to appreciate the little things that much more.

Like growing an apple tree. (Andy, I’m working on it.)

A tree has to start somewhere. And why not with a snack?

Or figuring out what to do with one of the 12 onions you may have.

Maybe it'll grow into a chariot! Oh, wait. That was a damn pumpkin.

Or realizing that you need to water your African Violet.

Dehydrated violet...

It’s all about balancing the things you love with the functional rigors of the daily grind. And when you’re able to meld lovely aesthetics with high functionality, double-plus bonus. Which is why I love our home even more now than ever before. Because everywhere I look, I see something we use and love.

More than that, though, I’m reminded of the memories embodied in each piece.

And these days, I’m all for remembering good times.

Especially as I cobble together a skill set here, tack it onto a passion there, and try to design a life that complements it all.

Quiet Things

Maybe I’ve been listening to “Brand New” a little too much.

Or, perhaps my mind is starting to re-tune itself to life, minus the initial detox it often needs after a life-changing move.

Either way, I’m starting to feel a bit more like myself. Taking pleasure in the little things, the quiet moments that would’ve normally been obliterated by a hasty Starbucks run to stave-off realizing a daydream of smacking McNutterpants upside her head, or a crazy-long work commute.

Just this and that.

Like roses drying in a kitchen warmed by a yellowed 1970s stove, the air filled with a hint of vanilla-bourbon and chocolate from cookies cooling on the farm table.

Like pops of color.

Pops of color, courtesy of our ever-expanding Fiestaware collection.

Like pulling together a recipe without instructions. Just flour, sugar, eggs, and butter. And, voila, cookies.

Baked happiness.

Like dreaming of being a writer, piling up some of my favorite authors’ books and hoping that, one day, I might have front and back covers with some pages sandwiched between them.

Author-atative inspiration...

Like realizing how fortunate I am to have Andy beside me when I wake from a horrendous nightmare.

Like receiving Andy’s unsolicited reassurance that I’m adding value when I’m feeling completely useless.

Like dreaming about the future, and planning a weekend getaway.

Quiet things that keep each us going.

Keep our glasses colored rose.

Even if it’s just around the rims.