Life goals – Page 9 – Yellow Brick Missives

February 10, 2013

Is That Burned Flesh or A Valentine?

Right after I fully deconstructed my nightmare involving the mist from The Mist, zombies from The Walking Dead, and the My Little Pony castle, but not before poking the Keurig like a non-caffeinated Neanderthal (redundant?) and giving up and going with the French press, I thought about a blog post I read a few nights ago.

No, not the stellar drivel I post on here. (But, thanks!)

It was a hilarious one a friend re-posted on Facebook about Valentine’s Day and coupledom. And how upchuck-worthy the whole shebang pans out to be.

***

Now, I’ll be the first one to write, say, or scream that I rather loathe the overtly saccharine, heart-studded, flower-bedecked celebration that is Valentine’s Day. (Because, really, nothing says Happy Burned Alive Martyr Day than a stuffed bear holding a “Be Mine” heart.)

Until this year, I had every reason to accidentally slash the tires of deliver trucks carting said stuffed animals and rose bouquets to happy couples.

And maybe invest in Nutella stock and dust off that copy of Elizabethtown.

Not that I was ever bitter.

But this year, I actually have a cute, 5′ 11″ reason to become frantic and ensure something fantastical marks the evening.

Or at least serve pre- pre-dinner cocktails so that he won’t mind that our V-day meal is mostly lentils, and the flowery centerpiece looks suspiciously like the blooms growing in the only nice yard on the street. (Hey, cutting costs, y’all!)

Still, neither of us is super gung-ho about V-Day (which sounds like a celebration of venereal disease). Mostly because it conjures up memories of past V-Day’s.

*Shudders*

Or other holidays I’ve spent alone. Like New Year’s 2011, when my pajama dancing to “Raise Your Glass” was illuminated by police cruiser lights, as the authorities investigated a domestic disturbance in my sketchy neighborhood.

You know, the ‘hood where my neighbor stole half of my storm door in retribution for me not lending her high self my car to pick up her “cousin” in Greensboro. Probably the same racist cousin who wanted to kill me for giving his cousin a ride to the bar to pick up his hungover self.

Not that I’m bitter about that.

Anywho, I ADDigress.

All of these shades of V-day’s past made me appreciate Orlando Soria’s blog post all the more.

***

So, Soria highlights multiple ways couples make it unbearable (in general) for single folks, especially around the holidays.

(1) You say “we” instead of “I.”

We have no idea what you’re talking about. Kidding!

I catch myself doing this a lot, mostly because I’m southern and try to be inclusive and not leave anyone out.

(2) You make everyone else feel like a third wheel.

I have no idea what you mean. But could you be a peach and go refill our martinis?

I really hope we–er, I, er…ah!–don’t do that. But honestly, I’ve felt like the third wheel way too damn much in my life. So get the hell over it. Kisses!

(3) You were more fun when you were single.

If you mean, did I drink a lot more, stay out later, and maybe go into more adult stores? Sure. But did I do all of that in the hopes I’d find a man? Yes.

(4) Inviting you to parties is way less exciting because you’re not going to hook up with anyone.

That’s a scream. I was never cool enough to hook up with anyone at a party, much less talk about it afterward. The closest I got was when some random guy gave me and a friend a mystery shot on our way out the door from a college party, and I barely got home before the roofie kicked in (after I drove over a roundabout, destroying a flowerbed of pansies).

(5) Because the dramatic relationship you have with your boyfriend seems interesting to you, but is boring to everyone else.

I think the most drama we have is over decor or coffee. Or both. I mean, we drove across the country and back, unpacked our shit a bazillion times, and still didn’t kill each other. In fact, we only had a few tiffs. And they were usually fueled by coffee deprivation.

(6) You and your boyfriend look alike, and that’s creepy.

A 5′ 10″ curly-haired brunette with a facial scar, brown eyes, Italian nose, tattoos, and a voice that sounds like a strangled cat doesn’t really resemble the 5′ 11″ fair-skinned, blue-green-eyed blonde WASP.

(7) Because inviting you means we have to invite your totally annoying boyfriend.

I hope I’m not that annoying.

(8) You nuzzle noses. At. The. Dinner. Table.

Andy’s not a fan of PDA. So nuzzling is out. Despite my mother’s chanting of, “Kiss him, kiss him!” at the dinner table when she and my dad first met Andy.

(9) You act like you’ve been married for ten years and you’ve been dating for two weeks.

Now, I’ve written about this before, in the context of gay time vs. straight time. But that’s not to say that we don’t act like a married couple. Even if we can’t legally get married.

(10) Now that you’ve entered coupledom your only hobby is shopping flea markets to find vintage furniture for your awesome house.

Precisely. But I loved doing that before Andy and I got together. Still, it’s a lot more fun to hunt around for vintage Fiestaware with him. Plus, if someone’s going to grab the same thing, one of us can trip them. (When it comes to antiquing and snagging finds, we’re coordinated like friggin velociraptors going in for the kill.)

(11) Let’s face it. Sluts are more fun.

One night-stand stories get old, though. Because everyone has them. Some are funny, but most end with, “And I tried to get out of the house, but the alarm was set.”

What?

(12) You have twice the wardrobe because you’re the same size as your boyfriend and that’s just not fair to the rest of us who have to buy all our clothes.

Andy’s wardrobe–full of cashmere and cardigans and J. Crew–is much better than mine. And I get corroboration every single time I wear something of his. Like the cowl neck sweater I wore the other day. A massively butch soldier stopped me as I walked in circles trying to remember where I parked my car, and said, “Man, that’s a nice sweater. Like, seriously. Classic.”

NO ONE HAS EVER SAID THAT ABOUT MY CONVERSE SHIRT!

(13) You save money on rent by co-habitating, and that is also not fair to the rest of us who have to pay our own damn rent.

Yes, but. When everyone else was settling down out of college, I ended up in a basement apartment with a mold problem, a drug-dealer neighbor, and a shower drain that, according to the plumber, “was full of a wookie-looking thing” from the previous tenant. Not to mention the ugly cry I had on a moving box that first night after realizing what a mistake I’d made.

(14) Because you use the phrase “Date Night.”

Bah. Never. I’m not even that gay.

(15) You post pictures of your obnoxious smarmy dates and your stupid glamorous vacations all over Facebook while constantly writing saccharine status updates professing your love.

Bah. Always. (Even if I’m the one doing it because someone else never gets on Facebook. Kidding, snookums!)

(16) Because your on-again, off-again relationship is constantly forcing your friends to choose whose side they’re on.

Well, since I’m happy to report we’re always on, that’s a non-issue.

(17) You only hang out with other couples.

Ha! We don’t hang out with anybody!

Actually, our jobs are ridiculously far away, and we have approximately two hours every night before bed to actually decompress. Socializing rarely makes the cut.

Instead, we watch The Tudors.

***

So, yes. I can see why the upcoming Day of Burned Flesh may be eye roll-inducing for a lot of people. But I’m not sweating it. (Unlike St. Valentine–oh! Alright, I’m done. Really.)

Because all the social hype around it seems to reinforce that ridiculous notion that you can only be happy when you’ve found a complement to your crazy self. That anything outside of that is far from perfection.

But that’s absurd.

If everything was perfect, Andy and I could shower bon bons on one another every single day, not finalize a budget and scrimp and save where we can.

We’d both have jobs where we’re appreciated and our efforts acknowledged. Not the situation we’re preparing to enter, with me being unemployed and Andy continuing in his job until we can make something else work.

We’d be able to think every single day is Valentine’s Day–that life is always sweet, and rose petals line every path we take.

But kittens, I don’t have to tell y’all that we don’t live in that kind of world.

We live in a world where we’re each trying to find a balance–trying to sort out our lives, balancing the sweet with the bitter, the savory with the foul.

And as I skim my hand across Andy’s chest every night, instead of across an empty pillow, I’m reminded never to take him for granted.

Never to think that I need one day above all others to remind me that I’m ridiculously fortunate.

February 7, 2013

Beating the Bastards to the Pink Slip

Halfway through his second sentence, my supervisor (whom we’ll call “Precious”) smiles warily.

My eye starts twitching.

And I know what’s about to pop out of my mouth like the Kool-Aid man through a brick wall.

“Matt, you’re killing me,” he laughs.

“Oh, Precious. Before I provide further comment on that issue, let me say something.”

“Oh…er, okay.”

“I’m done, Precious. I’m done. Even if Congress sorts out this mess.”

*Silence*

*Precious tilts his head*

“Now, Precious. About the emails I sent.”

***

Kittens, y’all know about McNutterpants. So I’m not about to drag that toe up horse out of the barn and beat it to death. But yesterday, when she started shooting off emails lined with crazy, I lost it.

And the bitch sprinkle cap popped off.

And those sundaes got coated, y’all.

Coated.

But just so y’all have an idea, here’s a sample email I sent after I was excluded from yet another office-wide email:

Hi all,

McNutterpants, thanks again for including me. I know I’m invisible, but it’d be great to be told so directly (like this) instead of typical passive-aggressive tactics. I’ll be sure to contribute a representative (—-) photograph, too.

Best,

Matt

Which was followed by:

Matt. Please do not email me again.

McNutterpants

Because, as we’ve seen, ignoring the problem is the best way to solve it.

***

So, Precious and I chat a bit, and I try not to vomit up my lentils as he begins assuming the apologist role instead of his supervisorial mantle. And then, when the patronizing commentary starts trickling between his statements, and the subtle chastising begins, my other eye starts twitching.

And I do a complicated hand motion.

And I serve up a plate of insubordination with a side of realness.

Because I can only be professional to a degree before I start laying it out and my Italian chattery kicks into overdrive.

(This is when Precious begins faltering. Because reconciling confrontation isn’t his strongest suit.)

Nearly an hour later, the realization that I’m nearly free from this welter of madness begins to sink in. And I get tired. Really tired. Exhausted–like with imitation Luis Vuitton bags hanging under my eyes.

I think I feel a few hairs suddenly go gray.

And I go print off a two line notice, sign it, then turn right around and hand it to him.

With the warm paper between his fingers, and my signature still slightly wet, he suddenly looks like I smacked him across the face.

And he, too, looks tired.

“Oh, uh, so, uh, you’re sure? Were you planning to, uh, do this already?”

“Positive. And as you’ve well known, it’s been a long time coming.”

***

That’s how it ends.

Two lines and weary eyes.

Because as much as I’d love to rock out to “Dancing Queen” while raising my middle fingers and wearing a skin-tight pink leotard and doing cartwheels and knocking over cubicle walls, I’m just too damn tired.

It’s as though the nearly three years I’ve let this place suck from my life have suddenly been multiplied by ten, and I’m standing at the edge of a new world like Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption.

Too dramatic?

Probably.

***

But there’s no curmudgeonly crow on my shoulder, and I have no need for a noose.

Not when I have a partner reassuring me that I’ve made the right decision—that we’ll make it work.

Or when there’s a birthday to celebrate, a cupcake tower to demolish, and liquor to drink.

February 5, 2013

On Lentils and Unemployment

Do you ever have those days when you just feel like crying and watching 50/50 and eating a dozen donuts and maybe buying three pairs of shoes online?

Neither do I.

(Andy, I didn’t buy three pairs of shoes. Just two. Kidding! So there’s really no reason to look at the next bank statement.)

Maybe it’s all of the Will-I-have-a-job-in-a-week?-Oh-we’ll-be-fine-no-need-to-worry yo-yoing going on at work these days.

Or hormones.

Or cutting back on Starbucks.

Really, though, it feels like we’re so close to starting a new life chapter, but are getting papercuts right as we’re trying to turn the page.

***

Right after The Great Cull of 2013, Andy and I felt lighter. Unburdened.

And then, while Andy was abroad on business, I got a work-related smack across the face.

And stress ate a box of Thin Mints

(Fine. And Caramel Delites.)

(FINE. And Peanut Butter Patties.)

But then I called him in Indonesia, and we started figuring things out.

And he was wonderful.

And I felt fat.

So then, to cool the burn of looming unemployment, and the feeling that I’m a disposable cog, I made cutting our monthly expenses sort of a game.

Gym. Bubye. I can run outside.

Starbucks. Adios. I. Can. Do. Without. Coffee. *Sniff*

(Until Andy saw me uncaffeinated. Then decided, “Maybe you going cold turkey off Starbucks isn’t the best thing right now.”)

Lentils, hello. Ridiculously overpriced Fresh Market treats, peace out.

Candy, you’re awesome but expensive. (You’re welcome, teeth.)

Monthly Greenpeace contributions, out. The orangutans are going to have to make it work for a little while.

Credit cards, you no longer hold us in your debty grasp. To the scissory guillotine with ye!

A little here. More there.

Then, wabam!

We’re down a few hundred dollars a month in expenses.

And we’re actually financially and physically healthier than before.

(Even if lentils aren’t as appetizing as a buttery croissant and coffee. And take a little getting used to gastronomically speaking.)

***

And it’s then, when we’ve cut and culled and budgeted and saved, that I realize that we’re pretty damn fortunate to be in this position.

To have a roof over our heads.

To only have to worry about the usual bills.

To have a plan.

To have a bit of savings squirreled away to catch us if we start teetering.

***

So, we enjoy the quieter moments that much more.

Celebrate our accomplishments.

(With Fiestaware)

Still have a life on the weekends.

And bandage our thumbs so we can turn that stubborn page.

Even if it first takes a little sweat.

A dollop of blood.

A few tears.

Or ~~three~~ four boxes of Girl Scout Cookies.

January 31, 2013January 31, 2013

Slipping and Shining

We’ve all had those moments of self doubt.

When we’ve asked ourselves the really important questions in life.

“Am I happy?”

“Can I succeed?”

“Will I make it through to the end?”

“Too much teeth?”

You know, the basics.

***

Some of these incisive questions can leave you wanting, wondering what’s going to happen next.

Not unlike passing a note in sixth grade, wringing your hands because you’re worried that you should’ve darkened the circle around “Maybe,” and more thoroughly erased the one around “No Way.”

(Oh, who am I kidding? That note was being returned to me. Bitch.)

But knowing a little snippet of paper is being printed off for me in the bowels of The Pink Slip Factory of Death packs more of a punch.

More so than I expected.

***

Now, I’m not saying that my job is fulfilling.

Or appreciated.

Or enjoyable.

I’m not saying that it hasn’t killed my work ethic.

Hasn’t driven me to drink on occasion.

Hasn’t made me question why I got an MA in a dying discipline.

But hey, let’s flip that coin.

After all, had it not been for this job, I would’ve never had the joyful motivation to pen this or that, or start this blog.

I would’ve never experienced the catharsis of email-slapping a sad sack of human flesh masquerading as a professional.

***

Now, back to that coin. Let’s give’er another flip.

Had it not been for this job, I wouldn’t have had to go into debt when this happened on the drive home from work:

So that I could buy this to get back to work:

Only to have this happen to it two months later on the way to work:

But, I also wouldn’t have moved to a small town closer to The Job, where I made amazing friends.

And I also wouldn’t have gotten so depressed by that small town’s lack of LGBT life that I’d decide to make a move for myself–to Raleigh.

So that I could ignite a long-held passion for LGBT activism.

So that I could do something for the community.

Nor would I have then gotten so overly involved with volunteer activities that I’d given up hope of meeting that guy, and was my most basest and stressed out self…

…on the day I met him.

And my life changed forever.

***

So. There you have it. The most flipped coin ever.

And as I snuffled and cried and stress ate a box of Thin Mints last night, Andy’s reassuring voice over the phone line reminded me that we’ll be fine.

Because we’ve already overcome so much. And we’ll get through much more.

And have plenty of time to realize just how much light this silver lining can reflect.

How we, too, can still shine.

January 28, 2013January 28, 2013

An Adonis I Am Not. Please Pass the Cake.

Okay.

I’ll just go ahead and throw out a few caveats beforehand.

One, it’s 2:40 AM on a Monday that’s promising freezing rain during my hour-and-a-half work commute. Two, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days. Three, my normal weekday alarm will be going off in less than an hour.

So, kittens, there you have it. Because you know what’s coming. A bitch sprinkle-topped sundae to start your Monday off right.

***

Now, in my quest to reclaim some much needed sleep, I drink water, pee, check to see if there’s the slightest chance that work will be cancelled and I can take an anti-anxiety pill to calm my nerves and smack me into a deep sleep.

Alas, now I have to pee more, and get to look forward to a fun-filled drive to work at 4 AM.

But just for shits and giggles, I figure I may as well catch up on the world and read something.

So, as I scroll through the emotion-filled Facebook posts about Downtown Abbey, I happen upon this article about gay men and body image, specifically how seemingly pervasive body dysmorphic disorder is among gay men.

I figure, “Great, this’ll be interesting.”

Instead, I’m angry and more than a smidge disappointed.

***

Like most subcultures nested within any identity group, gay men have plenty of stereotypes mapped onto them. Some are slightly accurate. Some are fun to re-appropriate and deploy among gay friends. Most are just plain annoying.

And this article played right into those stereotypes, with its first ab-clad image.

Sure, who hasn’t been discontent with their body?

Whether you’re straight or LGBT, it’s hard to find a single person who’s never had some form of body dysmorphic disorder–who’s looked into the mirror every single day of their life and said, “Oh hey, hot stuff. Lookin’ good as always! *Wink*”

But the two main justifications for why it seems that gay men are disproportionately affected are what floored me: (1) Childhood trauma, including parental rejection; (2) Heteronormative social morays.

Alakazam!

So, because my parents hated me, because the Catholic church preached that homosexuality is a sin in the eyes of an omnipotent God, because society’s default is heteronormative behavior, I’m doomed to do extra crunches for the rest of my life?

Um, no.

For one, my parents didn’t hate me; they just didn’t know part of me. Because, being gay isn’t who I am, it’s only one part. And now they’re unbelievably supportive.

Did they reify certain heteronormative behaviors and map them onto me as a kid? Sure. But what parents don’t screw up their kids in some way? Did that irrevocably damage me? No. Did it make my coming out process that much more difficult and seemingly stunt me sociosexually? A bit.

Secondly, whether it was juvenile angst, disinterest, or a combination of the two, I never really paid attention in church. Because, well, I thought all of those things being preached about were a bit restrictive. Not so unlike the polyester-blend pants I wore to CCD.

I mean, even when we glossed over the sinful topic of “self-love” in confirmation class, and I saw all the boys shift nervously and uncomfortably, I knew they each had their own little secrets that only they, their hands, and whomever washed their bed sheets knew.

Third, were gay porn stars and the gays-for-pay on Queer as Folk the closest figures to role models this oppressive heteronormative society left me? (And, yes, I know some of the QaF actors are LGBT.) No. Were they the ones I saw the most as a 21 year-old trying to reconcile all of this in my noggin? Sure.

And after I announced my gayness to my empty faux wood-paneled apartment in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, did I say to myself, “Okay, I’m gay. Now what?” And from there, did I revamp my diet, go to the gym every single day, and begin cycling into anorexia? Yes, yes, and yes. In the process, did I find that elusive six pack, Orlando Bloom’s chiseled jaw? No. But did I want that? I thought I did.

But after I destroyed my legs from improper weight-lifting, followed by excessive cardio; after I lost fifteen pounds and could fit into XS shirts, but still felt awful; after I told myself I was in control, but knew better after waking up in a series of beds, did I blame my parents, my former faith, American society?

Hell no. I blamed myself.

Because regardless of your background, only you can become comfortable with yourself. That’s the most basic truth anyone can ever fully realize about themselves.

Nothing’s going to happen magically, or through prayer, or because you saved that puppy from getting plowed over in the interstate. You’re not going to wake up and have a six pack, have defined biceps, have amazing quads if you don’t get off your ass and do something about it.

And you’re not going to find a counterpart if you align your mental cogs with a defeatist mentality that’s constantly whispering, “Nobody will love you and your love handles. Life’s so unfair for you.”

Maybe I’m just annoyed because I’m finally at a point in my life where I’m comfortable with myself. And sure, that took going through anorexia, bulimia, self-mutilation, and nearly entertaining suicidal thoughts.

But now I’m content enough with my body that I don’t have to run to the gym whenever I go on a carb bender. Nor do I shove my finger down my throat.

I exercise when I can, strengthening my mind and body as I go. Because when you’re finally at a point when you can look in the mirror and not cringe–when you’re not exactly where you want to be, but, hey, you’re fine with that–you begin to exude this sense of self worth that’s more potent than any pheromone. And people pick up on that.

More importantly, gay guys, the worthwhile gays recognize it. And those who don’t, or think you’re delusional, are too preoccupied with finding their Castro clone amidst a sea of rippling thighs and bulging biceps. But we’re not all Brian Kinney’s in search of a Justin; some of us are Ted’s, or Emmett’s, or Michael’s, or Justin’s, or Ben’s.

Or ourselves.

A quirky mess. But I own it, y'all.

And there’re plenty of allies, faith groups, friends, and LGBTs who recognize that, too. My family, friends, and boyfriend all do.

Life’s not a flowerbed that’s suddenly glutted by roses. And there’s not always going to be firm grounding to root into. It takes weeding, tilling, cultivation, and maintenance.

And while you’ll get pricked by life’s thorns, and meet plenty of pricks in the process, those experiences and people won’t define who you are or who you want to be. Only you can do that.

***

Now, many of y’all (the three people who read this blog) are probably rolling your eyes or saying that I’m contradicting myself and reaffirming everything this article’s author has discussed.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a saint. That I’ve entertained some pretty dangerous behavior. That I’ve been untrue to myself. That I’ve told myself who I want and what I’ll be and that nothing will change that.

But experience changes you. Every single one. And it’s up to you to learn from them, dovetail them with your personal history, and make something worthwhile out of it all. Not tell yourself you’re a gay victim in the straight world.

For me as a gay man, I started out writing my life’s memoir as a ghost writer–some other shade of the person I thought I’d be.

But for a while now, I’ve been happy to take that pen back and take credit where it’s due.

January 17, 2013January 17, 2013

On Tattoos and Purging

Okay, I’ll admit the title is a tad misleading.

Because this post isn’t about tattooed bulimics.

I mean, I have tattoos.

And used to be bulimic.

But this isn’t about rehashing the past. Nor is it about glorifying tattoos.

So. Just to be clear, kittens: go get inked if you want, and eat a sandwich if you’re hungry.

PSA over.

***

Now, y’all might remember a certain post a little while back about purging stuff. You know, all that crap you amass in a ridiculously short amount of time. Those things that, individually, are a lot of fun finding and making your own, but together can become a little overwhelming.

Especially when two households combine.

Because there’s no superhero that bursts out of the ground booming, “By your powers combined!” with a handbook about making everything fit into your design aesthetic. And there’s definitely no pointy-eared brother turning into water. (I mean, if I was Jayna, I’d have dumped that mop water of a brother into some kitty litter a while ago. And wash my hands of him completely.)

Now, it’s not like our apartment was an homage to Hoarders. In fact, it was all sparkly and clean and pretty. (Well, I might be a little biased because of a lil Apartment Therapy tour…even though it predated Andy, and our place looks nothing like this now.)

But lurking in the closets were little reminders that all décor is not created equal. Past decorative trends and accents were suffocating in trunks and boxes, left unused and unseen for years.

And then there’s stuff that’s good and all, but just doesn’t have its former pizzazz.

The solution?

A cross country road trip!

Okay. So that wasn’t the main reason we packed up the Prius and drove to CA. But once we were there, and on the way back, we knew we’d have a clean sweep of such epic proportions it’d make Niecy Nash blush and scream, “GUUuuurl!” right before she passed her fabulous self out onto one of her trademark hair flowers.

We’d barely unpacked everything before we both disappeared into different rooms and started grabbing things off table tops and ripping jackets, boxes, and files out of closets.

***

With a very strong cocktail in hand, I sifted through my three distilled-down boxes of graduate school notes, papers, and drafted theses before emptying the entire lot into the garbage, and tossing most of my seminar books into the Sell pile.

Clothes came next. And seven massive garbage bags’ worth later, our respective wardrobes breathed sighs of relief. (Mine mostly because an amazing influx of cashmere and cardigans phased out polyester-blends and overwashed cotton. Bam!)

Next, each piece of furniture and decorative bit underwent a critical assessment, determining its functional worth versus its decorative appeal. So the pile grew with beautiful, lovely things that function pretty ineffectively. At least for us.

And then there was the kitchen.

And, guuurl. Did I clean it out.

Out came roughly a bazillion tumblers, and juice, wine, and martini glasses. (And even though I loathe tequila, we still had margarita glasses.) And dishes? If it wasn’t Fiestaware or locally-made pottery, it got tossed atop the Pile o’ Stuff.

But it’s not like we were going willy-nilly. I mean, we did set some parameters before we started–like, if we haven’t used it in a year, we clearly don’t need it. Or there are two of us, so we don’t need 70 wine glasses.

So, so much stuff.

And why do we have it?

Because, like getting tattoos, buying shit is addictive. More than that, though, that chair or DVD or stand-mixer quenches your thirst for excitement, and leaves a material aftertaste.

But then, you’re surrounded. And you realize that you’ve just created a den of unhappiness. Because even if you have killer design sense, the common thematic element with every little thing around you isn’t paisley or purple.

It’s depression. Or anxiety. Or bitterness. Or other nasty emotions made tangible.

And that’s why it’s hard not to respond cattily to certain comments. Comments that, especially during this whole downsizing-purging process, keep evoking expressions that make me resemble Two Face, or Tommy Lee Jones, or Tommy Lee Jones as Two Face. (Bless his heart.)

Like, “Why would you part with something so great?!”

Here’s the thing: it’s not easy. In fact, we’ve both lost sleep over it. Had tiffs here and there. Not just because our apartment is in disarray, but because trimming the fat is hard and exhausting and symbolic.

***

Change is never easy. But it’s necessary. And we need it more than a great Deco vanity.

We need a sense of permanence and purpose.

It’s like when I look at my tattoos. There’s no regret, only good memories about the people I’ve been, the friendships I have, and the experiences that’ve made me who I am.

And we both need to be able to look around us–wherever we may land–and feel that same sense of satisfaction.

And the two of us will. Whether that’s in a month, six months, or a year. We’ll get there.

Whether it’s casting aside a throw pillow, or shipping off the first piece of Deco furniture I ever bought, it’s all about moving forward. And if I learned anything from Susan Sarandon’s character in Elizabethtown, it’s that “All forward motion counts.”

And we’re keeping that momentum going. Because that’s all we can do, especially when we have goals to achieve.

Dreams to realize.

January 16, 2013January 16, 2013

A Gay, Man-infested Destiny: The Third Leg, AR to OK

Midway through our third leg, we realize the rumors are true.

The stretch from Arkansas to Oklahoma should be known as The Land Starbucks Forgot.

So.

We suffer in silence.

Kidding!

I never suffer in silence.

Still, we persevere.

But are reduced to taking photos of billboards instead of scenic vistas.

Before long, we get there. And have a critical decision to make.

“So, we’re going to make it to the antique shops today, right?” Andy asks, clenching the wheel so hard his knuckles go white.

“Right.”

His knuckles regain color.

(Reason #547 I love him.)

***

Cutting through Norman’s outer suburban hell, we pass into a safe haven: the historic district. We pull up to Amanda’s cute cottage, and get out to a deafening cacophony of wiener dog barking.

Amanda gives us the grand tour, and I get to remember antique-centric moments from years’ past while she recounts stories of her acquisitions. Or, in some cases, stories of when I pulled something out of the garbage and gave it to her.

Like a pristine 1950s kitchen table some dolt threw away.

Not that I’m keeping tabs.

Anywho.

Our feline docent Hernando, the dumbest (thus, skinniest) of Amanda’s two cats, accompanies us, while Tristan, whose blobby form could buckle a chair, casts disdainful glances from his surveillance position and awaits offerings of The Food.

Sensing valuable antiquing time slipping away, we decide to head downtown.

But not before we stop for lunch. And for waiter ogling.

We hit downtown Oklahoma City’s antiquing haunts hard, whisking away Fiestaware and Blenko in crazed swoops. And after each jaunt, we quietly revel in our finds, listening to the occasional tink from the plates, decanters, and teapots we’re balancing while motoring through the city’s labyrinthine highway system.

The sounds of another successful antiquing excursion.

We’re set.

***

We stop back at Amanda’s place long enough to drop our finds and unpack the Prius. Meanwhile, Amanda makes us some bourbony-delicious drinks to help rally us for our little hike to a nearby restaurant.

(Like I’d ever tire of the eating-antiquing-drinking-eating process. It’s so, er, holistic.)

Whether it’s The Drink or reality, I decide to declare that I’m no longer allergic to cats as Hernando investigates our tall tumblers. (Hey, it’s the little revelations, really.)

Regardless, there’s food to be eaten. So the vintage glasses are emptied, coats are layered, and we walk a whole five blocks to a cool little hangout, the Cool Factor for which is amplified by the warmth oozing out of its doorways into the chilly evening air.

Well, that and the drinks.

And the bruschetta.

Nom nom nom

The mac n’ cheese doesn’t exactly go to waste.

Neither do the spinach and artichoke potstickers.

Nor do the cheese-coated chips.

Quadruple wee! And where’s my Lactaid?

Meh.

***

By the time we come to a consensus that our waiter is a missing, but high, Harry Potter character, and owl calling “Whooooowhowhowhoooooo!” as he disappears with the check, we’re a little tipsey.

Which means it’s time for a walk around the University of Oklahoma.

But it’s too cold, and Andy and I doth protest too much. Fine. It’s all me.

So, it’s time to scamper back to the digs. And talk about the past, and muse about the future, and just get lost in those booze-soaked, reflective moments.

And then sleep.

***

Mornings after a night of drinking are always interesting. Mostly because I don’t know how (1) I’ll ever dress myself; (2) I’ll tame my ratnest head of hair; and (3) I’ll make any sense before coffee.

Enter: local coffee shop.

With an amazingly cool retro vibe.

Quiet sitting areas.

And welcoming atmosphere.

Oh, and the coffee and peach-mango muffin ain’t half bad.

And it’s around that time that I realize that I’ve long misjudged Oklahoma. Sure, there’re unsavory parts like anywhere. But, on the flipside, it has revealed its little secrets, each of which has made me appreciate its charm all the more.

So as we putter back with coffee in hand to say our goodbyes, I have a warm and tingly feeling about this little visit.

Not just because Amanda is always fun and awesome and antique-obsessed and quirky in all the right ways, but because I’ve decided there’s quite a bit of stock in that adage about judging a place before you visit it.

Or is that about judging people?

Whatevs.

Either way, there’s plenty more to be learned as we hit the road, our eyes toward the horizon and Sin City.

January 8, 2013January 9, 2013

A Gay, Man-infested Destiny: The Second Leg, AL to AR

Musing about the probability of patrons contracting hookworms from a fish and chicken restaurant’s “special” combo meal, we try to identify the gas station on the outskirts of Birmingham that’ll be the least likely to steal our debit card information.

“Let’s go ahead and fill up so my feet don’t have to touch the ground in Mississippi.”

“Alright. I’ll pump. You go pee.”

Andy disappears into the restroom on the other side of the pumps. But before I fill the tank, he’s back. (And since it takes approximately two minutes to top off a Prius, that’s saying something.)

“That was quick. How is it?”

“The door’s broken, the toilet paper dispenser’s busted open, and there’s shit smeared on the walls.”

“Anything else?”

“There’s no soap.”

*Cue Psycho music*

“Well, I have to pee. Good thing we brought the industrial-sized Purell.”

Here’s the thing: I loathe public restrooms.

And while I completely appreciate their First World luxurious utility, I still can’t quite ever recover from the horrors that often wait inside, or on, the character-depressed concrete block walls. It’s like all social etiquette disappears, and it becomes completely acceptable for your child to channel their inner Pollock and use a very natural medium to express themselves.

So, as I stand on my tiptoes to avoid as much floor-caked muck as possible, push one leg back to hold the door closed with my foot, and squint my eyes closed enough to fuzz out the inadvertent Gerber ad covering the wall while I pee, I realize I might’ve been able to play Bjork’s stand-in for Dancer in the Dark.

I pirouette to the door and nearly knock out another brave soul venturing into the abyss.

“Good luck.”

Andy already has the car started and is looking toward the bathroom. After I get in, he pumps a massive Purell blob into the palm of my outstretched hand.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Agreed.”

I stare out the window at another billboard and contemplate my need for pro laser liposuction.

***

As we near the Mississippi state line, it starts misting, making the desolate landscape that much more enjoyable.

“It’s no wonder these people cling to Jesus. I doubt there’s a Starbucks around here.”

“But, lo! The Mississippi Welcome Center. Do you want to stop and pee?”

“Not really. But I’d rather here than another gas station.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s shit on these walls, too.”

“And a strung up gay in the bathroom asking, ‘Is my Miata still in the parking lot?’”

We laugh at the problematically macabre mental imagery, park in the deserted lot, inhale, and jog up to the porch.

An elderly woman sweeps three oppressive leaves off the Spartan sidewalk and sings hymns.

Andy and I exchange looks and open the double doors.

We walk in and three voices chime in sync, stopping us cold.

“Well, hello there. Would you both like some apple cider?”

We turn to face three elderly blue-haired women smiling thinly from behind the courtesy desk. Each is bedecked in a Christmas turtleneck sweater.

“Laced with Jesus?” Andy mumbles under his breath.

“No, but thanks.”

***

On the road again, we start a riveting game of I Spy.

“I spy destitution.”

“I spy filth.”

And repeat until Memphis.

***

We pull up to a dimly lit gas station, with bubbas clutching forties streaming out into elevated pickups.

“Let’s be sure to turn down Celine before opening the door.”

“Good idea.”

Andy goes in. I punch the uncooperative machine’s buttons, muttering expletives at the repeated “Transaction cancelled” message. Bubbas start looking over at my conversation.

Andy returns right as I explode at the machine.

“Come on, we’re leaving. If this fucking place can’t get their shit together, they’re not getting our money! Turn Celine back on.”

A Jesus-centric billboard with the website IsHeInYou.com provides egregious fodder for the rest of the evening. And the sign for Catfish Chicken Chinese Restaurant staves off our appetites until Little Rock.

Johnny Cash queues onto the playlist.

“Did he just say ‘draining my eye’? Like, peeing?”

“No. That reminds me, though, I have to pee. I couldn’t back there. But I think I’d rather go in my Starbucks cup.”

***

Before long, we pull up to our hotel, succumb to the requisite valet parking, and go up to our room where I promptly redistribute our wet laundry from Alabama across every piece of furniture. (It’s a funny thing, the whole off-grid life: it also means your highly environmentally-friendly, green dryer doesn’t dry quite as quickly as regular ones.)

So as clothes dry in the room, and we curse Little Rock’s downtown establishments for not being open on Sunday, we compromise.

On a sports bar.

Tired and drained, we collapse into our seats and find ourselves actually watching football. But then we get melted cheese and bread and fried goodness and appletinis and everything is right with the world and we go back to judging the fifty-somethings next to us who can’t keep their hands off each other’s goods.

“Well, Jesus made the rounds tonight. I mean, really, He had to have been in a lot of people for this much to be closed.”

We laugh. Walk down the deserted street. Then settle down for the night.

With our sweet sacrilege to tuck us in.

January 4, 2013January 4, 2013

A Gay, Man-infested Destiny: The First Leg, NC to AL

Do you ever have moments while driving when the music’s just right and you think, Wow, this is just like a movie sequence?

Alright. Maybe I watch too many movies, and bitterly know that I’ll never be in one. So instead of stardom, I just inflate those moments and revel in a kind of narcissistic, starlet-centric projection.

Hey, at least I’m honest.

Regardless, there were so many moments like that during the course of our trip that I thought it was all a dream. Like I’d wake up and still be stuck in my horrible basement apartment from several years’ past, smacking roaches with rolled up Cottage Living and scrubbing off my bedroom closet wall’s black mold with equal parts Clorox and tears.

Thankfully, it was more dream-like than nightmarish.

Still, since we both have extreme commutes, it took us a minute to realize that, no, this isn’t another drive to the office.

But when we passed the exit Andy normally takes for work, it started to hit us: We’re really doing this.

It was high time for an adventure of the Thelma & Louise sort. Minus the whole murder-suicide bit. (Although I would’ve shot that barfly bastard, too.)

It was time to rediscover and unlock those neglected parts of our personalities through roadside experiences, local food, good and horrible hotels, scenic vistas, exhaustion-induced spats, the warming sun. Dust them off. Rejuvenate them.

So we set the tone with Brandi Carlile’s hauntingly beautiful voice.

Because, really, when your hands are numbed by a random cold snap, you’re excited, sleep-deprived mind can only think about coffee, and a plane ride back to Raleigh from a business trip leaves you exhausted, Brandi is your only recourse.

Only she can knock that frost off your hands, get you through a few miles before the coffee sets in, and soothe you to sleep. (Well, maybe not the driver.)

We add a few Neko Case songs to the playlist for good measure.

Ready.

Set.

Go!

***

By the time we get down to Atlanta, the sun is setting beyond the gridlocked traffic. So we occupy our time entertaining thoughts about what we’ll do if Rick Grimes sidles up next to us on that poor, doomed Clydesdale, warning us that “Atlanta belongs to the dead now.”

*Creepy silence*

Alright, so I should probably cut back on The Walking Dead. (Still, there could be much more worse looking zombie-killers, right? Right.)

As we wind our way through the rest of Georgia and cross the Chattahoochee into Alabama, I clarify where exactly my parents live.

“Basically in the middle of nowhere. Partially underground.”

Meh, clarity is overrated. Before long, we turn onto county roads, then onto back country roads. I slow at the unimposing mailbox and pull onto the gravel access road.

***

“Here we are!”

“Wow. Okay. This is a little creepy.”

“Oh, it’s not that scary, ” I reassure, walking into the surrounding darkness, rattling padlock chains against the metal access gate.

Andy inches closer to the open car door.

Tammy the Prius putters down the narrow, mile-long road. On either side: dark woods. Above: a beautifully clear night sky studded with stars.

Along the way, I point out the family dog’s grave and a historic house site, then motion down the road to a partially illuminated hillside.

“There it is.”

***

We pull up to the stone and glass façade and are soon greeted by my parents and Petey, the hyperactive Jack Russell (then again, “hyperactive Jack Russell” is redundant).

My parents usher us and our ridiculously overpacked luggage inside (hey, we really needed ten pairs of shoes between us). After the requisite reunion with my feathery brother–the every curmudgeonly 25 year-old African Grey, Scooby–we give Andy the tour of the hobbit house before settling in for the night.

It may have been the driving. But I think it was the unfamiliar pitch black silence replacing the usual ambient streetlight-fratastic ruckus that drove me into a deep sleep.

***

Waking up to sweet potato muffins and pancakes the next morning reminds me how lucky I am to have the family I do.

As does hiking with my sister, talking about life and the future, all the while crunching leaves and branches under our feet on the way down to the creek.

About an hour or so later, we walk back in and find our dad watching The Walking Dead Season One finale.

“Wait, didn’t you start watching that before we left?”

“Well, yeah, but this damn TV is busted, so I had to watch the whole disc to get to the last episode.”

“Ah.”

He turns back around, hunches toward the TV, and continues watching, letting loose the occasional “Ewwgah!” as Andy and I prep to leave for my hometown, Opelika.

***

Conjuring stories from my childhood and teen years while driving past my parents’ former historic home, and through a newly revitalized downtown, makes me nostalgic for the little things that made my childhood exactly that. But most of the stores I remember have long since moved, the streets have been reoriented, and the town where I grew up has an even more foreign air to it than when I visited during graduate school. Still, I watch Andy take in the places I cherish and dovetail them with our personal history, gaining a greater understanding of where I come from and how I’ve changed.

And I do the same thing as we peruse an antique mall, pick up things, assess their appeal, and, in most cases, laugh before putting them back.

Over dinner that night, the family eats well, drinks fully, and reminisces about past times and future times, exuding a certain glow—one that’s a mixture of pride and longing.

In the morning, syrup-soaked French toast and black coffee fuels us to continue our trek. (After family photos, of course.)

And then my hometown becomes a check off the list as we head to Little Rock.

But not before we log away more memories–to push us on when we get frustrated and wonder why in the hell we ever thought this was a good idea.

While delicious, heavy carbs can only fuel you so far when you tire at the wheel. New memories, though, are like jolts of caffeine. Reminding us that this is what it’s all about: figuring out this crazy life on our own terms.

And reveling in the journey.

January 1, 2013January 1, 2013

Learning Curves

I’ll just go ahead and write it. Put it out there. Feel the weight of a lackadaisical writing mantle be lifted off of me and onto the shoulders of some other, more resolute writerlyish person. Deep breath.

Using a limited vocabulary to convey just how life-changing a trip can be is, well, limiting.

(See?!)

Just kidding! I’ll never shut up, nor will I ever stop using words incorrectly.

So, here we go. The first (but definitely not last) post since the cross country road trip came to its conclusion Sunday night.

***

Like I was writing, a road trip of this scale can leave much more in its wake than an ear infection and six cavities. Because there’re certain things we learned along the way that’ll have long-lasting implications for every single thing we do from here on out.

Such as:

1. Never substitute anything for your favorite vodka. Dirty, dry martinis just aren’t the same without Grey Goose.

2. You should get drunk and watch The Muppet Show on mute in a trashy gay bar at least once. And appreciate how well their mouthing syncs with Rihanna’s music.

3. French toast will never be the same after eating at Olea’s in San Francisco.

4. When faded and tattered, Hampton Inn signage is incredibly disturbing.

5. When all else fails, and you have no idea of a city’s sketchiness factor, plug the local Whole Foods address into the GPS. You may have to fight over the last of the vegan gummy bears, but at least you won’t get knifed. And you might even see Jake Gyllenhaal.

6. If you have a visible tattoo, use it to your advantage in Bubba Land while doing your best to engage in overly butch behavior. (Yes, even in a line at a gas station Subway. Especially in a line at a gas station Subway.)

7. Celebrities are much shorter in real life. But they still sort of shine.

8. Coffee is a necessity. If trying to travel cheaply, just skip lunch. Your partner will thank you for it.
9. Always tip the silver fox valet. Well.

10. Los Angeles has a lot of charm if you’re willing to wade through some muck first.

11. Don’t ever discount a city or state without first visiting it. Almost every state has something amazing hidden away. Except Mississippi.

12. Only stop at Mississippi’s visitor’s center if you want to be offered apple cider laced with Jesus.

13. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is always a good default. Culinary safety blankets should never be underestimated.

14. If you want a primer on what’s wrong with America, spend approximately six minutes at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.

15. Alabama’s red clay has restorative properties.

16. Traipse around the woods and talk about life. It’s incredibly freeing. Even if you’re not talking to anyone.

17. Daydreaming is the basis for action and change.

18. Frustration and borderline migraines will dispel after the first bite of well-cooked chow mein. Even at 11:00 PM. On Christmas.

19. Always carry an umbrella in San Francisco. And remember it may not always fit between construction scaffolding.

20. Strong drinks and antiquing should almost always be coupled.

21. Silence can be just as meaningful as conversation.

22. Brandi Carlile should be on every traveler’s playlist.

23. Wait for that overnighted fleece. You will reap the rewards your entire trip. Even if you have to admit that he was right.

24. Never eat at a Vegas casino. It’ll just make you sad inside. And your insides sad.

25. Sometimes, you just have to quiet that inner food critic and eat something because, as Andy says, “It’s warm. And you can chew it.”

26. The Grand Canyon will take your breathe away. (Or is that the 14 degree weather?)

27. A Post It that reads “Duvet covers & sheets are clean for your arrival” probably means exactly the opposite. And that a porno was just shot there.

28. The comfort of holding hands in silence cannot be overstated.

29. Deciding that you can’t grow anymore in a place you love means it’s time to move on. Not that you’ve failed.

30. Revel in the ambiguity, for it’s all that we know.

***

I know what you’re thinking. Chow mein, really?

Alright.

But at least a few of them are serious and slightly sentimental. (Or are you crying because you have a wicked New Year’s hangover? At least now you know Point 1 is valid. Booyah.)

So, while I’m downing medication for my agitated ear and sinuses, and Andy and I are setting our sights on the future, there’s plenty more to figure out.

One fork-full of chow mein at a time.

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