Grim Reaper…Stop. You've Already Met Your Quota

Wow.  I just looked at what was trending on Yahoo, and I noticed that Pat Summerall died.  Sad.  I remember Summerall from my youth in the 70s, a saavy guy who did sportscasts for the National Football League.  Most Sundays, I tried to avoid Mr. Pat and his jovial sidekick John Madden, since their pre-game appearance simply meant that my dad was going to watch sports on TV for the remainder of the afternoon  I’d rather been outside playing.

But, Holy Moley!  In visiting the CNN site to read the details of Summerall’s death, I came across a page entitled “People We Lost in 2013.”  And it’s only mid-April.

The biggest shock?  (And this may speak to how gay I am) Bonnie Franklin, the actress who portrayed Ann Romano on the 70s sitcom “One Day at a Time.” the strong single mom to Mackenzie Phillips and Valerie Bertinelli.  I watched that show religiously.  I always wanted to be the kid brother to Julie and Barbara.

It is only mid-April, and here are some of the losses so far this year:

• Jonathan Winters – The lovable, goofy comedian.  “If God had really intended man to fly, He’d make it easier to get to the airport."
• Annette Funicello – One of the original Mouseketeers in the Mickey Mouse Club, and the babe from many 60s Beach Party movies.  Made familiar in a quote from the movie Grease: “"Nobody's jugs are bigger than Annette's”
• Margaret Thatcher – Former British Prime Minister (Morrissey probably smiled at that news – she finally answered his question "When will you die?")
• Roger Ebert – I grew up taking movie viewing advice from him and Gene Siskel.  “Two Thumbs Down” for the loss of them both.
• Phil Ramone – Famous record producer, who worked with Billy Joel on one of my all-time favorites, The Stranger.  No, Phil did not die of a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.
• Hugo Chavez – One of the most bizarrely entertaining U.S. adversary presidents ever.  You know…he’s the guy from such insanity as his “Life on Mars” theory, his assertion of the “Army of Voodoo Witches” set upon him by his political opponents, and his role as “sadistic butt-kicking soccer player” (literally...he'd kick opponents in the rear, if they dared score against him).
• Van Cliburn – A classical musician, who stepped into pop culture after winning, in 1958 (during the height of the Cold War), the International Tchaikovsky Piano Competition in Moscow.  He even got a ticker-tape parade upon his return to the States.
• Ed Koch – The larger-than-life former New York City mayor, the "How'm I doin'" politicial, who was in office for more than ten years from late 70s throughout the 80s.  In addition to being a political figure, he also make appearances on Sex and the City, Saturday Night Live, and in the movie The Muppets Take Manhattan.  Quite a CV.

While I was busy being surprised by the passing of people who had always been figures in my life, it didn't dawn on me until later that people, say of my son's generation, may not know who most of these icons were.  It only makes sense that as I get older, many of the people who were in the public eye, when I was at such an impressionable age, are going to pass on.



Regardless.  I remember seeing Jonathan Winters on a number of 70s TV variety shows (which themselves, have gone the way of the dinosaur). In 1983, Roger Ebert gave The Outsiders a bum review (which pissed off the 19 year-old me).  I didn't even notice when Koch was no longer the mayor of New York City.  I thought he was at a royalty level, and would die in office.

I'm sure that I'll continue to be surprised as 2013 moves along, and we lose more famous public figures.  These losses hit the public conscience, hopefully reminding us that we only have so much time on this Earth.  And we should take Jonathan Winter's advice:

"If your ship doesn't come in, swim out to meet it."

I Won't Expect You To Be What I Want You To Be

Some of life’s lessons have taken me quite a while to learn.  Abstract concepts, complex theories, intricate hypotheses?  I typically have no trouble understanding these.  The most practical knowledge often eludes me, though.  But when I do catch on, I can observe my surroundings with beautiful, crystal-clear vision.

This year (with many birthdays behind me), I was able to put in place for myself, something that I have been touting to others for years.

• You can’t really change anyone.  You can influence them, but change has to come from within
• Which ties to somthing much more important:  Appreciate people for who they are.  Others are not here on this planet for your convenience.  (That frame of mind is not only unreal, it’s down-right inconsiderate.)

These realizations did not come like a bolt out of the blue to me this year.  I would imagine that this kind of awareness for other people, as it was for me, comes over a period of time.

This year, a lot of the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.  Maybe the planets were aligned. Maybe Mercury was advancing, instead of retrograding.  Doubtful.  I believe that it's just that I opened my ears and listened to the wisdom being shared with me by those who care for me.  Maybe I opened my mind to the reality of common life experiences.  Maybe I was able to open my heart and understand that while people were going easy on me, helping me to understand the world around me, looking out for my best interests, I was able to go easy on myself.

Among those who taught me were:

• A good friend at work, who always tells me, "Oh...that's just [insert name here]" or “You have to let [insert name here] be [insert same name here].”
• My husband, who always accepts me just the way I am.  The luxury of this treatment is golden to me, especially when I see other couples who constantly have trouble understanding and accepting one another.
• My son, who points out to me when I’m being impatient with or not understanding other people.  He has a practical, yet exceptional, way of taking each person that he encounters exactly as he or she is. 

So I’m still learning:

·        From my friend, to be accepting of others.

·        From my husband, to love unconditionally

·        From my son, to love humanity in general

And in the spirit of an Oscar-winner’s acceptance speech. “Thanks to anyone who also helped me who I didn’t mention. You know who you are.”

I don't think that I would be too far off base if I believed that each of us during some point in life felt that they had to satisfy expectations of others.  I could cite numerous instances in my own life.

We are most comfortable around those people who accept us, who understand us; those who we can be ourselves around.  So, let's all go easy on ourselves and each other.  How about it?
 

Thank You, Puerto Rico

“My name is Alfred.”  Odd.  The Puerto Rican gentleman introducing himself at baggage claim as we wearily stumbled up to the carousel after the four-hour flight.  The driver.  I expected Alberto, Alejandro or Augustus.  I guess I was being a bigot.  Shame on me.  Waiting for our bags, The Redhead was clapping and whooping, happy to be free from the States for a while.  The rest of us (The Brunette, The Dude, The Man and me) were unexcitedly hovering to snag the luggage.  Locals ambled by, making eye contact and smiling.  Weird.  One lady cruised by carrying a lap-dog to the aww’s of The Redhead and The Brunette.  The woman made a beeline to my friends, allowing the two to pet the pup.  Downright strange.  Never in Houston.  I started loving Puerto Rico at that moment, even before I dived in.

Alfred led us to the van.  We five climbed in.  First stop, the local mainland-based grocery store to stock up on provisions.  Along the way, we passed one-story plain square dwellings with peeling paint and cracking stucco walls, saw roadside carts overflowing with fresh local fruit, and became incorporated into snakes of traffic that attempted to, but never quite, held to lanes.  At the shopping center, The Man, The Redhead, The Brunette, The Dude and I all filed into the store, to the apprehensive warning of The Dude.  “At this moment, this man has all our stuff!”

I laughed.  “C’mon, buddy.”  Although Alfred was a bit above it all, I thought him trustworthy.

 

We grabbed the staples:  cookies, cheese, chips, coffee, three bottles of wine, three bottles of rum.  We were good to go.

When we arrived at the condo building, we elevatored to the sixth floor.  Alfred saw us inside, was tipped and, faster than you could say “boo,” disappeared.  Ok…  We immediately made our way to the balcony.  Perfect.  Palms, pool, sand, beach, bay.  We waited there for a few minutes as a storm quickly moved across the aqua vastness, dumped rain (dissipating before running ashore) and produced a welcome in the form of a bright rainbow.  We dispersed to our respective rooms to unpack, change into swimwear and head for the beach.

The Redhead and the Man relaxed on lounges and read.  The Brunette, The Dude and I swam in the warm clear water.  All the while worked by the push and pull of the waves, the world back home kept a firm grip on me.  After a couple of hours of sun, we headed up to the suite to plan next steps over our principal drink for the trip:  piña coladas (That damn song from the 70s followed me the rest of the vacation).

We trekked over to the main building of the resort - a hotel - to grab a taxi, discarding Alfred in the hopes of hiring a more personable, less smug driver.  We did.  A handsome young native named José.

Demerit for José?  Dropping up at a marginal restaurant that he suggested.  We all laughed because Alfred had recommended the same restaurant.  Kickback?  Maybe.

Plusses for José?  He had spent time in the States for service in the armed forces, so he got most of our stupid pop references, and he also laughed with us at our skewed senses of humor, especially when The Dude overshared about an interest back home, a woman possessing some abnormal physical features.  In addition, José played salsa music for us on the stereo as we rode, painting pictures of weekend festivals in the small towns and people dancing in the streets.

   

Before saying good night, we asked José for advice on one thing to check out while we were on the island (two outings seemed an overwhelming proposition for the lazy lot of us).  His suggestion? Old San Juan.  The original historic district of the city.  We made plans for him to pick us up the following afternoon.

Riding through the emerald hills, then the flat stretches clogged with vehicles, and finally along the freeways slipping through the heartbreak of decaying housing projects and the skyscrapers of the tourist district (and still work and worries from Texas keeping me distracted), we arrived at the original sector of the island capital.  The quarter was unsurprisingly charming and loaded with tourists.  We arrived a bit late, around 5 PM, and almost all of the shops were closing.  We did a bit of souvenir shopping, then headed to another restaurant at José’s suggestion.  Racies (translated from Spanish – “Roots”).  Delicious.  Though I experienced a bit of discomfort, due to my overly PC nature, at the displays of the various races of the island and their contributions to its culture:  the Natives with arts and crafts; the Spaniards with religion and the Spanish language; and slightly prejudiced in my view, Africans with their spirit as “indefatigable workers,” At any rate, I ordered mofongo, a local dish served with a choice of various seafood or meat (beef, in my case, I am Texan) over a base of fried and mashed plantains.  My serving was mouth-watering and completely satisfying.

After the unimaginative fare of the grill the night before and the delicious food from the restaurant in Old San Juan, we did gather that cooking most of our meals in the condo would be most time-practical for the remainder of the stay.  On the way back to the resort, we asked José to stop by the grocery.  We shopped a bit more sensibly this time:  bacon, steaks, broccoli, potatoes, sweetrolls.

 

Arriving at the suite, The Brunette and I decided on an expedition up the coast.  We walked past the hotel grounds with the teeming vacationers, continued up the beach passing jetskis and motorboats, and happily happened along a beautiful lagoon with a cloud-topped mountain framing the background.  We crossed the chilly waist-deep water, coming upon a local woman out walking her dog.  We smiled greetings and attempted (unsuccessfully) to pet the skittish pup.  And without my noticing, my outside world fell away.

For the rest of our time there, I focused on Mad-Libs with my friends in the evening, pool and surf during the day, and waking in the morning to stunning views of the clouded peaks of the rainforest.

On our final day, The Man and I body-surfed together, alone.  I said to him the things that I say when we are by ourselves.  Those marshmallow words.

One of the best parts of the trip?  José became a real person while running us around.  He shared about his wife, his daughters, his family in Boston and New Jersey, his compromise to live near his wife’s family in a village near the resort instead of enjoying the more modern-day conveniences of San Juan, where he was raised.  He also shared with us his decision as a young man to stay on the island, giving up the opportunity to study in Tennessee on a baseball scholarship.  His sacrifice made for love.  Less than a year following his choice to stay, the relationship fell apart:  his sweetheart gone and the offer of a free education passed.  Poor guy was still kicking himself.

We had a bit of extra time the morning of the flight back to Houston.  José offered to take us along the coast, where the locals gather to enjoy the beach.  As we weaved through the lush foliage skirting the road, the beach would suddenly appear, revealing the brown islanders adorning the turquoise waters.  We went through small settlements dividing the way, where people gathered around food stands that radiated delectable aromas.  We passed a large civic park where throngs of children romped and ran around colorful structures.  José said that he would stop at any point where we would like to take pictures.  None of us asked.  Maybe we did not want to take this special part of the island away from the citizens.  The trip along the seaside was José’s gift to us.

As we approached the airport, the world back home started encroaching again.  But not in a bad way.  I was looking forward to seeing our pets and home.  I was ready to return to work with my batteries recharged.  I would face Houston with fresh eyes and appreciate my hometown a bit more (at least until she frustrated me again with some minor infraction).

Standing at the curb of the airport sidewalk, our Puerto Rican friend gave each of us a solid handshake and a warm look in the eye.  It had been a wonderful trip to an island where time attempts to stall, but the progress of the States speeds in.  The most important thing I learned?  The beauty of Puerto Rico is in its beaches, its rainforests, its architecture, and its music.  But essentially, the splendor is in its everyday beautiful people.

Thinking Inside the Box

From since I can remember, I have categorized.  That tree is an oak.  That dog is a spaniel.  That car is a Mustang.  It makes life easier.  We all sort things into well-defined groups.  But categorizing people?  We should all tread lightly here.

I blame my grouping practices on my mom (God rest her soul), who always had astrology books lying around the house.  And on my aunt, who always asked when I began to date someone new, “What’s her zodiac sign?”  So I got a good start putting people into groups.  Pisces, dreamy. Taurus, reliable.  Libra, charming.  And so on…  I got a few zodiac glyphs tattooed on my arm based on my birth chart, blowing it off breezily as “I just like the symbols.”  Upon meeting people for the first time, I cut to the chase.  “What’s your sign?”  To which I received more than a few snickers or raised eyebrows (understandably).  After a number of these reactions, I stepped out of the 70s.

But at work, I got more type reinforcement through “teambuilding” activities.  In a personality study at one employer, I found that I was “yellow.”  “Yellow” meant people-oriented, fun-loving and quick-thinking.  At another employer I found out that I was “blue.”  “Blue” people were said to be supportive, protective and enthusiastic.  Through my most recent behavioral enlightenment, I found that I am articulate, enthusiastic, entertaining and optimistic.  Do I really need to take another of these pigeonholing surveys?  They all point to the same general classification.

Preconceived notions work the same way.  When my current employer hired a woman from Pennsylvania, she expected to come to Texas and see cowboys and horses everywhere.  She arrived and realized that Houston is far removed from the western model.  She mentioned to me that she wanted to move far north of the city to a small spread of land to see if she could hook a rancher.  I tried to dissuade her.  “You’d be much more happy living in the heart of the city, so you can take in some culture and have urban conveniences at hand.”  She didn’t listen to me, and moved about an hour north of town.  Then she complained about the commute, the lack of single men in her city and what she perceived to be a backward nature of her neighbors.  She returned to Pennsylvania within a year.

Immediately upon hearing that I am from Louisiana, people ask “Are you French?” 

Answer “I am from north Louisiana, home of the redneck.” 

I also get questions like “Did you have alligators in your backyard?” 

“Nope, I lived in a subdivision with a lake nearby.  The most we had was a stray snake moving through our lawn.”

 Then I get “Can you cook gumbo or jambalaya?” 

“Well, yes.  But I had to learn from recipes.  My mom and grandmothers were meat-and-potatoes women.”

When people learn that I lived in Los Angeles for some time, I get “Aren’t Californians rude?” 

To which I respond, “That’s not what I found.  They are just less likely to get in your business.” 

I also get “Don’t people drive wildly there?” 

“Nope, actually I found the drivers there to be very courteous.”

But preconceived notices are not limited to geography.  I have been tall since my early teens.  So I got “Do you play basketball.”

            “Only around the neighborhood.  I play tuba in the band.” 

Also, people upon meeting me would expect calmness and decorum like my dad projected and were a bit shocked when they observed me being rambunctious and goofy.

 And it goes on.  When people learn that I’m gay and have a son, usually the first question is “How did that happen?” 

“Well, I married when I was young.” 

At which comes, “Didn’t you know you were gay back then?” 

“Yes, but I was trying to fit in to societal norms.” 

When people discover that I am gay and in a relationship, I still get the question, “Which one’s the man?” 

Seriously.  Sad, right? 

I simply say, “We both are at the latest check of our anatomy.” 

Fortunately (as you can see), I am not bothered by absurd questions.

A friend of mine once described me as a paradox.  He could not understand how I could enjoy the rodeo and the opera, classical music and rock n roll, sleazy bars and stately museums.  He did not get how I was tough and sweet, jaded and innocent, plain-spoken and charming.  I don’t know why either.  I don’t care to know.  I figure that each of us is unique.

Ultimately, we react and behave according to our situations, environment and/or motivation.  Sure, we may react or behave differently based on personality, background or mindset.  But I am more like you than different from you. 

Bathroom Instruction

At the office today, this sign was taped to the mirror of the men’s restroom on our floor.

I was pretty sure that the cleaning lady did not post this message for us guys.  Upon returning to my desk, I immediately sent an e-mail to one of my co-workers:

Thanks.  Blunt, but effective.

The reply:

How’d you know it was me?

My explanation:

Well, if anyone knows truck stop bathrooms…

His comeback:

            That’s offensive.  You know I prefer roadside parks.

You have to appreciate this kind of camaraderie.  My friend posts on my “regular” Facebook page occasionally.  At the end of his comments, he’ll call me “bitch” and “faggot,” (yes, he’s gay himself). I wince with the knowledge that my family and hometown friends might see the crude comments.  But I never squelch him.  He has to be himself, and I respect that.

It’s not that I don’t provoke him.  Almost every morning, I sneak up behind him and slide my middle finger in front of his face.  Juvenile.  Well, of course.  Maybe we are trying to get over the gruesome fact that we are both in our forties.  Maybe we never grew up and are Peter Pans navigating the corporate world.  Either way, our antics make the workday go faster.

Furthermore, neither of us is leaving hemorrhoid pad packages in the restroom.

What to Do? AKA "Mystery Dance"

I miss him.  For about 20 years, he was a constant in my life.  And then we weren’t there for each other.  I wish I could understand, but I can’t figure it out.

When I first came out in my 20s, I began to go to Shreveport, Louisiana to experience the nightlife.  As luck would have it, my first trip to the gay bar in the city was a bit of a jolt.  As I approached the door, I saw the younger guys (like me) pulling out their IDs to show the man just inside.  I pulled out my driver’s license and walked into the bar.  Who was working the door?  A guy from my hometown.  Not only a guy from my hometown, but one of my old school mates.  He had boxed with my cousin in middle school.  He and I were in high school band together.  When I saw him, I almost turned around and made the hour drive back home.  But I took a deep breath.  I approached his podium and handed over my ID.  He raised his eyebrows as he looked at me.  “I thought that was you!” he smiled.  “I didn’t know you were gay!”  The truth be known, I had always had my suspicions about him. 

Although we had not been close in school, he and I became good friends:  he introduced me around the gay scene, telling me who to avoid, helping me when I didn’t take his advice, being a mentor in my early queer years.

One night, he had a party at his house.  He had invited a photographer from the city paper.  Let’s call her “Sherry.”  Sherry brought a guest.  A tall thin guy with fair skin, high cheekbones, green eyes and glasses.  He was a bit quiet.  He and I played darts in the gameroom.  He was horrible at it.  He had a bit too much to drink and seemed to only hit the drywall around the dartboard.  I liked him.  Let’s call him “Greg.”

Another night, another party at my classmate’s home.  When the party got a bit rowdy, Greg suggested that we hang out at his place and have a couple of beers.  Before I got into his car, he had to move a pile of cassette tapes from the front to the back seat.  When I got in, I looked at the back seat.  It was stacked with tapes.  I laughed.  He smiled sheepishly.  I was a big music fan.  When we got to his place, I was really impressed.  He had about a hundred albums and a turntable.  “Play anything you want.” We drank beer and listened to music until late in the night.

Another night, my classmate and I were at the bar.  Sherry was there and more than a little drunk.  “Greg loves you, you know.” She slurred at me.

What?

“He told me so”

The next time I came to Shreveport, I dropped by Greg’s house.  We were just hanging out in his kitchen as he prepared coffee.  I decided to drop the bomb.  “So…Sherry told me that you are interested in me.”

He blushed and turned to face me.  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

It didn't work.  It’s as simple as that.

We maintained the friendship, and it became stronger than ever. 

He began looking for work in Houston.  I visited Houston myself and ran into a man who fell for me.  So I began looking for work in Houston myself.  I got a job and relocated.  About a year later, Greg found a job in Houston.  We never missed a beat in our friendship.  We hung out together a couple of times a week, went to the clubs together, listened to a lot of music.

He saw me through a lot of men.  I would go through a new one about once a year.  He would roll his eyes a lot.  He would say that people didn’t need to be coupled.

I met “The Man” about five years ago now.  Around three years ago, Greg, The Man and I had breakfast together.  I was in an especially cantankerous mood, complaining about the long lines and generally making a scene over nothing.  Greg was distant as we said our good-byes. 

I called him about a week after that breakfast.  I had to leave a message.  I called again the next week.  I had to leave another message.  I called a couple of weeks later.  Another message.  He never called me back.  After a year and a half (about six months ago), I called again.  Another message.

A couple of weeks after that call, I grabbed a six pack of his favorite beer and headed to his house.  I knew he’d be there, since he works from home.  I knocked on his door.  He answered the door with a look of bewilderment.  “Hello?”

“You want a beer?”

“I’m working right now.”

“Can’t you take a break?”

“I really can’t.  Can you give me your number?  And I’ll call you.”  (He deleted my number?)

I was shocked as I drove away. 

Greg did call that evening.  “You want to come over?”

“Sure!”

When I got to his house, Greg was quiet.  We made small talk until I couldn’t take it anymore.  “Greg, did I do something wrong?  You just disappeared on me.”

“I just thought that we needed a break from each other.”

We made plans to meet for lunch.  And then we did a couple of times.  We made plans to meet one day for lunch, and work got busy for me.  I called him and asked if we could reschedule.  “Sure,” he said.  “Just call me next week.”

Work didn’t slow down until a month later.  I called him and got his voicemail.  I left a message.  A couple of weeks ago when I didn’t get a call back, I sent an e-mail.  No reply.

It’s a mystery to me.  And it hurts.  Does there come a time when you just let go of a friendship?  This guy introduced me to Elvis Costello, to the Clash, to the Pretenders, to Rancid, to Joni Mitchell.  I may call him again.

Average ... Maybe Not

After a long day at work, it's great to come home to a house full of life.  The Man is here with dinner on the table.  The two dogs are outside, getting their paws muddy with more than a little help from the rain that has carried on for the better part of the afternoon.  One cat is crashed on the bed.  The other is following me around like a puppy, but whining loudly for attention.  I give her a little, and then she jumps up to join her brother and curls up on the bed.
Sounds as if we have the average household.  In my mind, we do.
Just The Man and I plus our four pets.  I would say "kids," but they're animals (c'mon folks).  The Man and I enjoy each other's company, a lot.  How many couples can say that after four years together, but every time I look into his eyes, I see the rest of my life reflected back to me.  I proposed to him earlier this year.

Sound as if we have the average household.  And in my mind, we don't.
The average household is not made up of a gay couple and their pets.  Furthermore, I get more than a little frustrated about the fact that he and I cannot just run down to the justice of the peace and get hitched (my style) or plan a big elaborate wedding ceremony and after-party (his style).  Our friends ask questions like "Why do you need your union validated by marriage?"  Or say things like "Don't worry.  The tide will turn one day and same-sex marriage will be adopted in the States."  When?  When I'm 64?  I reside in a state that will be one of the last in the Union to allow gay marriage.  Texas is not exactly the most liberal of the great 50.
I can't wait forever.  Maybe same-sex marriage is for the next generation of gay and lesbian couples.  I'd like to get in on the action.
When I first proposed to the Man, we immediately started looking to have the wedding in Toronto.  We had visited the city the year before and fell in love with it.  We caught a Blue Jay's game.  We toured the city in a double-decker bus (a bit cheesy but total fun).  We ferried over to the islands that skirt the harbor of the city and biked around the paths, around the parks, fountains and cottages.  We enjoyed it so much that we talked of getting married there and then relocating to the city (much to the chagrin of our family and friends).  We've pulled back from those Pollyanna dream (much to the delight of our family and friends).  With winter approaching, we gave it a second look...we live in Houston, and Toronto is COLD during those winter months.
So, we'll have to wait to truly be an average family.  I guess that's good in a way.  Right now...I can feel as if I am part of an above-average family.

Cosmic Wormholes

Ok, I get it ... he's a science freak. So I get to hear about crust-shift theory, tech improvements, and tests on diabetic mice. This weekend he came at me with cosmic wormholes. These are supposed to be shortcuts through space-time. And I try to act interested, I honestly do. But...
After a few months of dating, I began to take him home with me for my visits with the family. It was easy. Everybody loves the man (I keep telling y'all he's perfect). On one trip, my young niece (she must have been 8 years-old at the time) caught him alone and commented, "You and my uncle have a lot in common." Well, yes sweetheart ... and no.
I had to chase him for almost a month before he would agree to go out with me. When he finally said "Yes" and we decided on a place for dinner, I told him that I would come by his place to pick him up for the restaurant.
That first look at his face is still welded in my mind. Green eyes (I still say blue), shaved head, a genuine smile. I was hooked at sight.
We dated, and it was easy. Sunday easy. And the entire time, we dated I knew that he was only on a temporary assignment here in Houston. I told my friends "This is the perfect man, and after September I'm never going to see him again."
I was wrong.

And my niece, again I say ... well, yes sweetheart... and no.
Yes.
He listens to AFI.
He loves "The Simpsons."
He loves to travel
And no.
He listens to Rammstein.
He watches "What Not to Wear" and "RuPaul's Drag Race."
He likes to travel to Brenham to see the bluebonnets.

I'd just like to think that we got sucked through a cosmic wormhole, where all the little stuff doesn't matter, where you can be partnered to your best friend, where you are loved every day of your life, unconditionally and completely. But then, I don't know anything about wormholes...