...and how was your weekend?

 Here was mine:

240 miles: Saturday morning – Houston, Texas to hometown Natchitoches, Louisiana.

40 miles:  Natchitoches to Kisatchie Bayou Campground, where son, nephew and friends are staying the night.

Son’s car – Flat tire. No spare. No jack. No lug wrench. No air pump.  No joke.

Son’s friend – “Leesville is only about 12 to 15 miles south.”

Me – “Oh, ok.  We’ll just run to the Wal-mart there and get what we need.”  The Man, my son’s fiancée and I jump in my truck.

40 miles later.  Wal-mart.

Leesville, Louisiana.  Picture?  Ok.  Leesville is a small city in east-Jesus, Louisiana.  It is known for its close proximity to army base Fort Polk.  Bible belt meets Military brass.  Imagine the weirdness. 

40 miles back to the camp.  Somewhat quicker.  At least seeming that way from the familiarity of the route.  And furthermore, by a moment of levity. 

Me:  “I hope we are getting close to the turn-off at the ranger station.”

The Man:  “Oh, we are.  I saw that “moderate” sign on the way south.”

Me:  “That ‘what’ sign?”

The Man:  “Moderāte”

Me:  “That’s ‘moderăte’ as in ‘Moderăte Fire Danger.’"  The fiancée and I got a good snicker. 

A bit further down the road.  The fiancée:  “I’m a bit chilly.  Do ya’ll feel that?”  Beat.  “It’s moderătely cold in here.”

Flat tire problem solved.  Hung out for a couple of hours.

40 miles back to Natchitoches.  Watched “Juno” with The Man and the fiancée.  Crashed.

10 miles to my sister’s house.  Hung out for an hour.  Nap.  Hung out for another hour.

2 miles to my father’s house.  Coffee.  Wonderful cake, compliments of my stepmom. Sat outside.  Weather, perfect.

240 miles:  Natchitoches to our front door (where our dogs were mega-excited to see us; our cats were completely apathetic).

Simply adding the miles:  612 miles.

 

We could have driven to Destin, Florida to some breathtaking beach.  We could have driven to Memphis and listened to some amazing blues.   We could have driven to Wichita to see the The Old Cowtown Museum (a replica of an 1870s Midwestern cattle town, complete with a blacksmith, dance-hall girls and sarsaparilla).

We could have done all of those things.  I would have missed my family.

For the record, from the Pendleton Bridge that passes over Toledo Bend Reservoir at the Texas-Louisiana state line to our front door - 188.7 miles.  This is of no interest to anyone but me, but after this weekend you’ll indulge me.  Please?

G’nite.

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. 

Blue, Pink, Orange, Purple, Green

Last weekend I landed in a funk.  I attributed it to too much naptime.  But I checked with The Man, and he said that he felt it himself.  And the blue feeling hung around for a while.  I didn’t help it much.  I read some gloomy posts on various blogs on the web.  I listened to lots of “Blue” songs:  “Little Girl Blue” by Nancy Wilson, “Almost Blue” by Elvis Costello, “Red-Eyed and Blue” by Wilco, “Blue” by the Jayhawks, “When the Stars Go Blue” by Ryan Adams (you get the picture).

I’d not noticed before.  Well, maybe I did and didn’t remember.  All the pretty pink flowers on the roadside.  They are everywhere this year.  And beautiful.  I just found out this year that they are called primroses.  I had always called them “buttercups,” knowing somehow that was wrong.  I had to look them up on Google images to get the correct name.  And I became a bit bummed, knowing as spring heated up here in Houston they would disappear (at least until next spring).

As I was driving to the gym one evening after work this week, I caught a glimpse of the setting sun hanging on the horizon in a spectacular glow of orange.  And I caught a special pang of melancholy, where the past that I loved seemed so devastatingly far away.  I found myself missing all the people that I knew I would never see again, separated from me by death, by ruined relations or by miles.  It only lasted for a minute or two, but it was sufficient.  The orange of the sun punctuated the blue of my past week.

We have a Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow shrub by our front door.  If you are not familiar with the plant, it blooms purple flowers that over days turn to violet and then to white.  I noticed earlier this week that the shrub was covered with buds about to bloom.  I pointed it out to The Man, and he became excited (he’s so cute – he gets thrilled by the simplest things).  He doesn’t need much to get him over the blues.

Today, I was in the garage.  Knowing that The Man was in the office, I used the remote on my iPhone to cue up and play “(They Long to Be) Close to You” by the Carpenters on my computer’s speakers.  Minutes later, he peeked out the door and said “Come with me.”  I followed him into the office.  “Start it from the beginning.”  I set the song to the beginning, and he held up his hands.  I laughed and pulled him close to me.  We danced around the office.  I pulled back just enough to look into his beautiful green eyes.

And suddenly my blues were gone.

Photos - Cane Rosso (blue), The Marmot (pink), Ollie Crafoord (orange), Carl E. Lewis (purple), Nathan F (green)

Impatiently Training

In January, I resolved to go to the gym five days a week.  No, it wasn’t a New Year’s resolution.  I’d like to think I’m too unconventional for that sort of thing, thank you (besides, I didn't begin on January 1st).  At the start, I weighed 197 pounds.  As the days went by, I was excited to see the pounds fly off.  I reduced my weight almost daily.  Then my body caught on to the game.  I hit a plateau at 192 pounds.  Frustrated, I changed my workout to see if I could force the weight loss to begin again.  And it worked.  My weight dropped to 187 last week.  And then I weighed this morning.  192.  Really?!  C’mon!!

I’m trying to convince myself that muscle weighs more than fat.  I’m trying to concentrate on the benefits of all the exercise that I’m getting.  But, I want results.  Of course, maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that entire bag of popcorn this past Saturday.  I could have done without those three spoonfuls of crunchy peanut butter on Sunday.  The pizza Saturday night didn’t help.  The non-light Sunday evening beer didn’t either.  I’m not a monk, body.  Cut me some slack!

When on the treadmill at the gym, I watch the activity on the floor.  I am a people-watching addict.  One of the personal trainers at the gym also works out there.  I stare with amazement when he is on the treadmill.  As I plod along at my 2.5 mile per hour pace, he is sprinting at 7.5 miles per hour and punching wildly at the air in front of him.  He tires me just watching him.

There are some gym pluses:  I see other people giving their all and making slow simple progress like I am, the attractive young women who work the front desk all know me by name since I’ve been going so frequently, I see the buffed and built men there who give me additional motivation to reach my goal.

Swimsuit season is coming and I still have the body shape of the Grinch.  But one thought is running through my head:  at least I have four months until my trip to Cozumel. 

Avoiding Reality

I never was interested. Even to this day, I’m blissfully unaware. CNN? No thanks. CNBC? Blah. Fox News? You must be joking.

As a child, I spent summer days at my grandparents. One of my duties was to retrieve the paper from the drive on Thursdays. The paper only came on Thursdays and Saturdays. Hey, it was a small town – not much to report. At lunch-time, my grandfather would get the paper first. My grandmother would read it next, and then my sister who is only a couple of years older than me would read it cover to cover. Me? I might read Peanuts (the only cartoon in the Thursday edition) or check what was playing at the local movie-house (Yes, movie. This was the days before mass-cinemas). I might quickly check out the black-and-white photos to see if any of my friends were lucky enough to capture the town spotlight. Most Thursdays, I did not bother at all. Building forts with hay bales in the barn loft was much more fun.

As an adult, I moved to Orlando for a year or so. My sister would write me (this was the days before e-mails or texts). In her letters, she would send clippings from the hometown newspaper. I would laugh a bit. She was trying to keep me abreast on happenings back home. I just wanted the news she sent of family and friends, not the current events.

I once shared an apartment with a man who was fascinated with news stories. CNN played constantly in the living room. I kept my headphones on most of the time, read in my bedroom, or took the dog for extended walks. I discovered lots of cool music, caught up on some classic lit, and lost quite a bit of weight. Turned out that the news really was good for me.

A few years ago, a friend shared with me a story that certified what I had known since my childhood. People who do not keep up with the news live longer, happier lives. Call me unaware. At least you can call me that for many years to come.

(Writer's note:  I realize that I should have referred to MSNBC instead of CNBC - that should illustrate how out of it I am.  Also, I do read the Onion, but I think that hardly qualifies as "news.")

Messing with My World

I look at the same map every day.  It is on the wall of my cubicle at work.  The map divides the country into regions.  And it pisses me off.

I have to keep track of our company representatives who work in each part of the States. In the individual regions, there are photos of the reps smiling honestly, but I know they are part of this map propaganda. 

Oh, I learned the regions in grade school.  I was fascinated with geography back then.  My family had a set of World Books, and one of my favorite past-times was to study the states and their attributes.  I would look at the state flags, mottos, birds, and flowers.  I would memorize the shape of each state and its capitol.  I would observe the state’s region.  And hence, this company map mocks me daily.

I excelled in Geography in school, given all the prior study I had completed at home.  I learned the different regions:  New England, Mid-Atlantic, Southern, Great Lakes, Midwest, Southwest, Mountain and Pacific.  The company map has five regions.  Yes, only five:  North Atlantic, Mid-Atlantic, Southern, Central and Northwest.  My biggest gripe:  both Ohio and Nevada are in the Central region.  Wonderful.  They are only about 1,800 miles apart.  It’s like grouping Romania and Azerbaijan in the same continent.

This company map shouldn’t bother my aesthetic, but it does.  In attempting to confirm my original understanding of the different regions, I could find only one map on the internet that supported my original division of the States.  Well, I guess I shouldn’t be so persnickety.  I suppose that Akron and Reno are closer than I originally imagined. 

  

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.