Reboot

My husband and I have been together for almost eight years now, married for more than two years.  I never dreamt that a relationship could be so easy and idyllic.  Even after eight years of spending almost every day together (I think that we’ve been apart for a total of 10 nights in the eight-year span), we still do not take each other for granted.  We say “Thank you” almost daily for small things that we do for one another.  We text little red hearts and smiley-faces to each other throughout the work days, when we’re apart.  We go to bed each night with an “I love you.”  It’s steady.  It’s nice.  It’s sweet.  It’s damn-near perfect.

There is an old saying: “Familiarity breeds contempt.”  I don’t buy it.  I think that a person would have to be a sociopath to follow that logic.  However, I will admit, while my man and I do not take one another for granted, we sure are “used-to” being around one another.  We have a wide circle of friends, and spend a lot of time with different groups, but the majority of our time is spent at home.  And while we may not be in the same room, for example, he may be in his office, catching up on internet news (he’s a bit of a junkie), he might be writing reproachful letters to our elected representatives (I swear he is going to get us on a list, and the FBI or CIA are going to drone us) or he, most probably, will be playing video games like “The Sims” or “Skyrim” (yes, he is a big kid), whereas, I may be in the living room, writing, playing piano, reading, listening to music, or watching old “30 Rock” reruns on Netflix.  While not in the same room, we can hear each other faintly, or at least, have the knowledge that the other is close by.

So there is more of a chance of our not jumping up and down when we see one another (the way our dogs do every time we enter the house).  BUT…the other day, I was surfing the web, and stumbled across this video “End of the World” by Matt Alber:

Now, apparently this video was played often on the LOGO (read, “gay”) cable channel a few years ago between programs and became rather popular.  But I never watch “regular” TV (shoot, we even canceled our cable last year), so this video was completely new to me.  After I watched it all the way through, I called my husband into my office, and showed him.  He got a little choked up (he’s like that - it’s inherited from his sweet father).  I restarted the video, and danced him around the room a bit.  He loves that.

Over the next few days, I was walking around with stars in my eyes and butterflies in my stomach, so I found Matt Alber’s e-mail on his website and shot him a quick e-mail:

Hey Matt,
Sometimes I am a bit late, but the other day I first saw the video for your song "End of the World."  It was so romantic, I showed it to my husband. 
We've been together for 7 years, and since we watched that video, it's as if we just started dating. 
So I just want to say "Thank you.”
The best to you.

And Matt Alber surprised me by responding in just a few moments:

Wow, thank you for your sweet note. Made me smile! 

So thank you again, Matt.  Keep spreading the romance, guy.

Castles with Axles

It didn't occur to me that the mode of abode for most of my young life might have been atypical, déclassé, or second-rate.   I never gave it much thought.  Call it what you will: mobile home, manufactured home, prefabricated house…it was always simply a “trailer” to me.  When I was in third grade, my family moved from a rent house into a brand-spanking new trailer.  And it was so cool. 

It was the early 70s, and bold earth-tones dominated middle-class style.  The aluminum siding on the trailer was white, with brown and orange shutters and trim.  Inside, shag carpeting moved like fire, all over the floors in vibrant orange, gold, and brown, save for the slightly-elevated floor of the kitchen, which denied the flame with its mushroom-brown surface.

Plus, the house came with its own groovy-cool furniture: two swivel-rockers covered in saffron crushed-velvet accented with white buttons, a matching headboard for my parent’s king-sized bed, and harvest-gold kitchen appliances in stark relief against pearly-white cabinets.  I immediately fell in love with the place. 

During my time in our trailer, I experienced some of the most lasting memories of my childhood:

·        Producing, directing, and starring in plays and musicals in our backyard (yes, I was, and am, just that gay)

·        Watching my mom’s fish give birth to speck-sized guppies in our large tank on the kitchen bar

·        Helping my dad build a plywood shed for our riding mowers

·        “Playing sick” on winter mornings by placing a thermometer on the floor heater vents, so I could cut class and watch TV gameshows all day

·        Spinning for endless hours on the candy-apple red merry-go-round that my dad built for us

·        Playing baseball with my buddies so late in evening that pitches became bruise-inflicting grenades in the disappearing sunlight  

·        Calming my sister, who would wake me in the middle of stormy nights, asking, “Hey…do you hear a train?”  She thought that sound was a tornado’s voice, and firmly believed that mobile homes were twister-magnets.

·        Proving my theory that Santa was a big hoax by silently observing my dad putting presents under the tree in the wee hours of Christmas morning

We moved from the trailer when I was in eighth grade, and as happy as I was to move into the trailer, I was just as happy to move out of it, and into our new ranch-style house in the adjoining lot.  My honeymoon with the trailer was over, I had the five-year itch, and the grass, which was only 300 feet away, looked so much greener.

My grandparents moved into the trailer, so I visited often.  But it was no longer my trailer.  I’d moved up in the world, and my love affair with the trailer was over.  My grandmother passed away while she still lived there.  And my grandfather lived there as long as he could, before his move to assisted-living, due to the debilitating dementia of Alzheimer’s. 

I would live in a trailer once more in my life.  Shortly after I was married, my wife and I bought a mobile home from my aunt.  The home was across the way from my parents’ house and, as a result, my old trailer, as well.  It was comforting to see my two former cribs from my new bedroom window.

When my marriage ended, I got custody of my new trailer.  When I decided to move to Houston, I toyed with the idea of transporting the mobile home to a trailer park in the city.  But then, my city friends told me that trailer parks in the city were not lower-middle class; most parks were upper-lower class at best.  So I sold my trailer to my sister, and she became a Louisiana landlord.  Parting with the new trailer was not difficult.  It hadn't been my first love.

All these memory bubbles came up when my husband mentioned an interview that he heard on NPR with a county music singer-songwriter, Kacey Musgraves.  Musgraves is a young, but wise, artist.  Her major-label debut was released earlier this month.  And it’s full of musings on everyday life in the lower middle-class of rural-suburbia.  The name of the disc?  “Same Trailer, Different Park” 

Before hearing the music, I thought that I’d never miss my old trailer.  A sincere thank-you, Kacey, for proving me wrong.

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?
 

As Innocent As I Can Get

Since Labor Day was last week, today was a double-dip Monday.  It was like the extra scoop of Rocky Road that you really didn’t want and certainly didn’t need.  Ok, ice cream is probably a bad analogy.  But Rocky Road…nail on the head, folks.  Nail. On. The. Head.

After I arrived home and wolfed down the tasty pizza that my husband made for me (complete with the black olives and the mushrooms, which he both loathes), I went immediately to the piano.

I noodled around in Burgmuller’s Opus 100 (which is basically a beginner’s book for classical music aficionados), and finally set myself to work on “Innocence,” the number five piece.  I kept having a tough time getting it right.  My electronic keyboard has various voice settings, so after starting in “Grand Piano,”

 

I always laugh at myself, when I make mistakes

My piano teacher is very familiar with the sound of my laughter

 

I worked my way through:

·         Electric Piano (better suited for A Flock of Seagulls than Burgmuller)

·         Strings (too saccharine, even for a interpretation of innocence)

·        Church Organ (raised as a good Southern Baptist boy, I almost pulled this off, but the resonance in our music room,...ok...our dining room..., was a bit overwhelming)

·        Harpsichord (brutal in showing all the flaws of my technique – or altogether lack thereof)

I finally landed on “Vibraphone,” the last setting on my piano.   The sound was warm, soothing, and very forgiving of my uneven tempo, my occasional botched notes, my disregard for dynamics, and my clunky runs.

After a Rocky-Road Monday, I needed a bit of mercy and a lot of goofing around on the ivories.

 

 

A bit better.

You'll notice how I immediately pull my hands from the keyboard.

This way, I can guarantee there will be no additional mistakes.

 

(Special thanks to my cinematographing better-half - somehow he always hears beautiful music coming from my keyboard.  And that's only one reason that he's my husband).

 

Man...I hope my piano teacher doesn't see this post.

Wonderfully Away

This weekend was one of my great lost ones.  I didn't do much. 

• Saturday morning with our Breakfast Bunch 
• Saturday afternoon with our best friends, helping them move furniture
• Lots of piano practice

That was about it.

Sunday afternoon, I left the house for my piano lesson a bit early.  I thought that I'd just take my time on the freeways and not have to be in much of a rush.  But that was not meant to be.

When I turned from West Bellfort and onto South Post Oak to get on the West Loop, I saw back-to-back traffic waiting for me.  After living in Houston for almost 20 years, sometimes I'm still stunned at the number of people on the freeways.  Now, if I were more of a sports fan, I would have been better prepared.  The Texans had played at home today.  The game must have just let out (I did check the score later to see that the Texas beat the Dolphins).

For the drive, I had Circuital by My Morning Jacket in my stereo "Wonderful (The Way I Feel)" came on.  I put the song on repeat and slowly worked my way in the bumper-to-bumper.  The song can always take me away.  So I did a bit of day-dreaming as I inched north. 

As the song played, I found myself

• Sailing on a catamaran, off the coast of Cozumel
• Looking at clouds at Galveston Island
• Swimming in the waters of Puerto Rico
• Walking around my sister's yard and enjoying her flowers, planted among the Louisiana pines. 

I was only five minutes late for my piano lesson.  Amazing, since I'd been thousands of miles away during the drive.

Back on the freeway after my lesson, I listened to the same song over and again, all the way home.

I hope you also had the chance to get away from it all this weekend.

Labor Day. Yeah, Well…I Did.

On Labor Day this year, the GOP House Majority Leader, Eric Cantor, posted a statement on Twitter praising entrepreneurs, and downplaying the importance of our United States labor force.  Makes perfect sense to me.  I do not own my own business; therefore, I ended up working all weekend.

With many of my projects at work wrapping up at the beginning of the 4^th quarter, I’ve had competing priorities without a clue on how to decide what takes priority.  So, when many of my gay brothers were spending the weekend partying it up at Southern Decadence in New Orleans or sunning themselves at Last Splash at Hippie Hollow near Austin, I found myself in the office or both Saturday and Sunday.  Additionally, when I left the office on Sunday, I brought my laptop home so I could work Monday as well.

If I’d only taken better notes or paid better attention to my professors in business school, maybe I’d be running my own empire.  And I would imagine that, as a business owner, I still would have worked the weekend.  Running your own business is a tough job.  As a child, I watched as my enterprising father run businesses simultaneously.  Well, I caught sight of him occasionally; the man was busy. 

In addition to doing my day-job work each day of the holiday weekend, I went to my piano lesson (it’s an effort, people, albeit an enjoyable one), I did my yard work (I’m the rare Houstonian who knows how to push a lawnmower around his own parcel of land), I bathed the dogs (you can read what a chore this is here), I cleaned the litter box (yes, I’m a servant to my animals).

If I examine the amount of time that I spent on the activities mentioned in the preceding paragraph, maybe I did have a sufficient holiday. 

·         My piano lesson?  Typically, after practicing for an hour each day, I tend to make the same mistakes over and again at my teacher’s piano, laughing at myself as I play.  But there is that moment of zen, when all falls in place, and I perfectly play a passage that had given me the devil for weeks.  It surprises me, although my teacher says, matter-of-factly and with a smile, “You worked it out.”  Ok, so maybe it’s not work.

·         The yard work?  I watched my grandfather do his own lawn up until the time that his vision prevented him from seeing well enough.  I feel connected to him as I push my mower around the yard.  I plug in my headphone, put some rock music on, and the whole task seems like it’s over in minutes.  (But why does my iPod always offer me “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas?  It’s a pretty, but disheartening song.  I really need to remove it)

·         Bathing the dogs?  They smell so great afterwards.  ‘Nuff said.

·         Cleaning out the litter pan?   Oddly enough, the cats act grateful.  (I mean, who wouldn’t be happy if someone came in to clean your bathroom?)

 

But I am left wondering how Eric spent his weekend?  Given the perks and privileges offered to a high-rolling politician,  I’m guessing that his was not remotely like mine.