New Year's Resolutions

Why not jump on the freakin' bandwagon and make new year's resolutions? I've never been good at keeping them anyway, but this year I resolve will be different.

1. I resolve to keep my new year's resolutions.
2. I resolve to lose 15 pounds by April 30th, and find my size 30/31 waist again. I currently tip the scales at 166.8 pounds, and I would very much like to see 150 again. I got some great pants that I want to squeeze my ass into.
3. I resolve to not feel like I need to wear a shirt by the pool this summer.
4. I resolve to exercise more so that I won't have to wear that shirt, and so I can get my cholesterol and my blood pressure down.
5. I resolve to begin attending a church where I feel comfortable. And no offense, but I'm not sure the Episcopal Church is the way to go for me. I want to at least attend once a month, maybe First Congo or the Unitarian Universalist.
6. I resolve to paint more.
7. I resolve to write more, something that isn't posted on this blog.
8. I resolve to get out of the house more.
9. I resolve to love my job.

Eh, maybe I'm maybe asking too much of myself.

He's So Gay...

How gay is he?

He's so gay, he farts rainbows.

Shut Up and Be Merry

I left on Friday afternoon for my first trip home since February. Before I was even out of cell service range, I had whined to Hotass that I didn't want to go home. I wasn't in the Christmas spirit and the trip home only spelled more frustration, awkward silences, and to be honest, a lot of uncomfortable memories.

I spent Friday night with my dad and stepmom, enduring 24 hours without cell phone service, my father switching back and forth between wrestling and FoxNews, waking me up twice before 8 a.m. to ask if I was ready for breakfast, and asking asinine questions like:

"Do you ever go out to Germantown?" Dad asked out of the blue over lunch. Germantown is the affluent suburb of Memphis, and I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Huh?"

"Do you ever go out to Germantown?"

"Yeah."

"Do you party with the Germans?"

"What?"

"Do you party with the Germans??"

"What Germans?"

"The Germans in Germantown."

I was at my wit's end and I popped off that there are no stupid Germans in Germantown.

On Christmas Eve, I went to spend the night with my mom. I kept losing cell phone conversations because I was in the middle of nowhere and because the phone was out of juice and the car charger kept coming unplugged.

As I bent over while I was driving to retrieve the charger from the floor for the tenth time, Hollywood took over my brainwaves, and I saw myself in my own Christmas movie.

The man disillusioned with Christmas returns home for the first time in months. Tolerates crazy father and eccentric step-mother. While driving to his mother's, he shouts "Goddamn!" when the cell phone charger unplugs for the tenth time, he bends over to retrieve it. He runs off the road. Gets knocked unconscious when he crashes into someone's Christmas light display and three spirits visit him to show him his own Christmas miracle. And snow falls on Christmas morning.

I had been in the door barely five minutes until both my mother and one of her sisters both commented that I had put on weight. Then they insisted that I have some cheese and broccoli soup followed by a slice of homemade chocolate pie.

I had just put my fork down when the phone rang. It was my cousin, Anita, obviously hysterical because Mom had to ask who it was twice. There'd been an accident. They think Adam's dead and my mother needed to go stay with my aunt.

Adam was leaving work and skidded off the road, hitting a tree. He was killed instantly. I didn't know him that well. He was 22 years old, married and had three little girls, "stairsteps" as my mother kept calling them, ages 3, 2 and 1.

Adam's grandmother tearfully unwrapped the Christmas gift she had gotten for Adam. It was a mirror etched with the 23rd Psalm. My loony Aunt Iva Dell passed it to me and asked me to read it out loud.

Now while I didn't have a religious experience, but I did see my reflection in the mirror and I saw what an insufferable and unpleasant Scrooge I had been.

Last night, my mother and I exchanged gifts. She gave me a space heater, which is something I said I wanted. I gave her one of my paintings and a lavender-scented hand lotion/soap set. I showed her my pictures from Las Vegas, and she showed me the pictures from her retirement party. We ate broccoli and cheese soup and ate homemade coconut pie. She made me check my blood pressure which was sky-high. I made her a CD while we watched Home Alone. I went to bed at 10 and read Brokeback Mountain for the second time.

We got up this morning and had a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats while we watched part of A Christmas Story. I was back home in Memphis by 3:30.

It wasn't fancy. It wasn't steeped in tradition.

But this weekend did point out to me just what a whiny brat I've been about Christmas, and I was reminded that sometimes I just need to shut up and be merry.

So if you missed the moral of the story...Get over yourself and be happy for the moment. Be thankful for what you have, and quit whining about what you don't have. Be thankful for the friends and family in your life, and fuckin' be nice to them.

Oh, and make friends with the Germans in Germantown

Merry Christmas.

Stories in Search of an Author

Since I started my blog back in January, I've had a gazillion ideas for postings bubble to the surface. And like a gazillion sperm swimming for the egg, some make it and become full fledged posts. But most just die along the way.

And some almost make it, lying in wait in the vaginal canal for their big break, waiting for the next flood of inspiration...this metaphor just got a little too disturbing.

Anyway, I've got a bunch of little swimmers waiting in my drafts folder. Ideas that at least deserved a headline and maybe a couple of sentences. So that these ideas get some validation, here's a run-down of the drafts that may or may not see the light of day.

Hark! The Hairy Angels Sing - Despite my Grinch-like heart, there are still some Christmas songs that can make it grow two sizes big. But I quickly lost interest.

Morbidity At Its Finest - I figured what better place to dictate your funeral instructions than in your blog. But, after three paragraphs, I didn't want to think about it anymore.

Mea Culpa - It was to be a creative way to take my share of responsibility for the downfall of my last relationship. But I decided I wasn't ready to go to those depths yet.

Songs I'm Effin' Lovin' Right Now - I bet in the course of a year I've started this blog about 12 times. But I get bored with it before I can finish it. And then the songs change, and I have to start all over.

Things That Are Funny and Shouldn't Be - I got as far as One-Eyed Kitty, and Lorrie & Dorrie, and decided there way too many things to be captured in one post.

My Secret Lover - It's a secret and so I can't tell you.

Top Ten Reasons Gay Men Aren't Sissies - Well I'm still trying to come up with reasons 4-10.

What To Do? What To Do?

It's been two months since Dusty and Bobo gave me a home on the Internet, at least a formal home. For the past year, the blog has been like my first apartment. A little disjointed, with lots of hand-me-down accessories and mismatched pieces. But hey, it's mine and I like it.

But my new home sits empty. And sometimes I go and look at its four walls and try to figure out what to do with the place. And so far, no brilliant ideas.

Dusty and I sat down about a month ago, and sketched some basic sections - art, writing, photography - but still, no bright ideas on my part on how to start filling it.

So give me some suggestions. It's a blank slate.

The Hooker Story

It really was going to be a great winter's night.

I left work about 2:00 p.m. after it had already been snowing for about an hour. It took me about three hours to get to "the villa on the hilla" that Hotass and I shared. Nashville drivers turn into complete morons whenever anything falls from the sky.

I got home and touched base with Hotass, who was closing at Pier 1. He was stuck there for a while. Snow nor sleet nor dark of night can keep retail from its appointed rounds. So I settled in for what should have been a long winter's night.

I lit some candles, made some mulled cider, and flipped around through the channels, trying to find something mindless to settle into. After surfing for a while, I decided to step out on the front stoop to watch the snow fall.

Now, let me just preface this part of the story. Hotass and I had a nice apartment to be as broke as we were. We lived in a convenient apartment complex to most everywhere in Nashville. Gated community. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. A dishwasher. A patio that stumbled right off into the woods. The dumb blonde and the stoner chick lived above us and they were fabulous. And even if we were just a stone's throw from Murfreesboro Road, second only to Dickerson Pike in its reputation as Hooker Row, we felt like we lived in a safe environment.

And thank God, we didn't live in Hickory Hollow. Yet.

However, we thought the guy across the breezeway was a little odd. Scruffy, scary, and when he opened the door to his apartment, there wasn't furniture. Only piles of blankets and clothes.

So on this snowy night, I stepped out on the stoop to watch the snow fall for a minute, and to try to take some pleasure in nature. Blah, blah, blah.

"Hey! Are you leavin'?"

I whipped around to see her on the metal stairway. She was wearing black patent leather pumps, and a lime green lace mini-dress. And to top off her glamorous outfit, she wore a black psuedo-satin trucker jacket.

"Huh?" I so eloquently replied.

"Are you leavin'? I really need a ride."

"Well, um, no. I was just..."

"Oh please. I really need a ride. Just right up the street to the Drake Motel..."

Now, had I not been feeling so charitable, I might have realized that the Drake Motel was Hooker Hideaway. But instead, I was naive, and failed to think this through.

"Your neighbor brought me up here for a date, and then told me he didn't have no money."

Still naive, I think what a crappy thing to do. Promise a lady a lovely evening and tell her you're broke. In addition to not having furniture, the scruffy neighbor was losing points quickly.

"Please?" she pleaded and I caved.

"Sure, c'mon on in. Let me put my shoes on."

Now, let me remind you that I still have no idea that Lady is a hooker. Never occured to me. Not for one second. I'm thinking she's just a little trashy.

"Hey, you want a blowjob?"

"Huh?" I'm so good at that.

"A blowjob? It's just 10 dollars."

"Um, I, uh, no thanks."

Dude, she's a hooker! In my mind, you would have thought I had just won the Nobel Prize. But, I had bigger problems to solve. I had already promised Betty Blowjob a ride back to the Drake Motel, and she was sitting on the barstool in my apartment. Hooker or not, she was still a human being, and would it kick me to show a little kindness?

How do you kick a hooker out into the cold?

"So can I still get that ride," she asked, nonplussed by my rejection

"Sure." And I finshed lacing up my Timberland boots. "Let me grab a coat and my keys."

"Great. I'll get my friend."

Friend? What friend? There was only one hooker on the steps. I hadn't counted on this being a package be-nice-to-a-hooker, get-the-Unabomber-free deal.

Unabomber met us on the landing. A little wild-eyed. A long coarse beard with streaks of gray. He wasn't the guy who lived across the breezeway but I had seen him come and go a few times.

So I put Unabomber in the backseat of my two-door Pontiac Sunbird, and put the Hooker in the front seat. Being the nice guy I am and wanting make them as comfortable as possible, I started the car to let it warm up and I got out to scrape the ice and snow from the windows. It was Southern hospitality at its worst.

Fortunately, they didn't steal my car. I got back in and started the long drive to the Drake Motel in about three inches of snow that had yet to be scraped off the street.

"Did ya know that Christy isn't hookin' anymore," Hooker asks Unabomber. "Oh no, she got picked up for grand theft auto."

A police car passed us at a top speed of 35 mph. In the snow, I could only drive about 25 mph, and I prayed that the cop wouldn't leave my sight.

"Hey you can just drop us off at the store," the Hooker suggested. There was a convenience store just across from the Drake Motel.

I'd like to say that I whipped into the parking lot, but with the snow I could only creep across the lanes, and pull into the parking lot of the convenience store.

The Hooker got out of the car, thanking me profusely for the ride, and Unabomber flipped up the seat and got out too.

"Hey, if you can wait just a minute, I'll need a ride back," Unabomber asked. It wasn't as if I could speed away. Instead, he got into the 1980 Buick next to us. I saw an exchange of some sort across the front seat -- hands passing rapidly over the bucket seats. Oh, it wasn't enough that I had to give a hooker a ride; I had to give a crack addict a ride to his hook-up too.

Unabomber finished his transaction and got back in the car. Suddenly, the Hooker came running out of the store and pounded on the hood of the car.

"Gimme some money! Gimme some money"

Unabomber rolled down the window and slipped a wad of cash through the two-inche crack.

"Thanks," she said and went back inside.

All the way back to the apartment, Unabomber was extremely gracious and thanked me for my generosity.

When we got back to the villa on the hilla, Unabomber retreated into the crackhouse next door and said that he might need a ride later.

I replied that I might not be around. I went inside and turned out the lights.

I told my story to the apartment manager on Monday, and she confided that the crack addict across the breezeway was fresh out of jail and his brother had rented the apartment for him. Within a few days, he was evicted, and I never saw Unabomber or the Hooker again.

Cindy Lou Who Can Kiss My Ass

So I just might be the biggest Grinch I know, and it gets worse every year.

Today, I was in the Piggly Wiggly, picking up milk, tuna fish, chicken breasts, and peanut butter. There was a constant barrage of Christmas from the moment I walked in the door.

I was greeted with the unenthusiastic frown of the Salvation Army bellringer. I can't say that I necessarily disagree with her attitude. I'd be pissed off too, standing in the cold and ringing a goddamned bell for money.

There were poinsettias and candy canes at every turn. Festive displays of cake mixes, nuts, and pork rinds. You'd have to know the Piggly Wiggly I shop at.

And the Christmas music was especially loud. At one moment, I really did feel physically ill, and I can only attribute it to Burl Ives. And a few minutes later, I was humming around to "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" before I could help myself. Brenda Lee brainwashed me.

The office Christmas party is on Tuesday. And yeah, we'll play Dirty Santa, and I'll bring home another pair of M&M boxer shorts. And most of us will just keep checking our watches to see how much longer we have to tolerate our boss. And I'll keep count of how many times she says "Fabulous" and "Isn't this fun?"

I'm beginning to resent those folks who give me the shocked and sad look when I admit that I am not putting up a Christmas tree, as if my life was the worst sadness that was known only in a world that revolved around Christmas sweaters, radio stations that play Christmas music 24 hours a day starting on Thanksgiving, and red bows tied to the front of every SUV at the mall.

And I know this is precisely the reason that I have postponed my Christmas shopping. I just can't bring myself to tolerate the crowds, or my indecision, or the Christmas fantasyland where Santa charges $10 for pictures with him.

Now before you start thinking that my head isn't screwed on right, or my shoes are too tight, or the most likely reason of all...my heart is two sizes too small.

There are parts about Christmas that can warm even a small-hearted grinch like me.

Mariah Carey's version of "O Holy Night" brings me to tears every time. And Christmas gives me a good excuse to listen to The Carpenter's "Little Altar Boy" and RuPaul's Christmas Album with a kick-ass remix of "Hard Candy Christmas."

I get a kick out of making Christmas ornaments. Hotass and I saw a demonstration of how to make them years ago in Garden Ridge, and I bet I've been doing them ever since.

I love the movie "A Christmas Story."

I love laying under a beautiful decorated tree in the dark, watching the lights glow and listening to Christmas music.

And what might be the only religious bone in my body, I love going to Christmas Eve service at Christ Episcopal in Nashville or West End Methodist or Calvary Church in Memphis. And I love T-man's "And the Night Went Wild with Angels." I really do feel a closeness with God at those times.

I like that warm feeling I get when I'm around people I enjoy, and we're laughing in the kitchen, and for just a second, I smile and think that this is what Christmas is supposed to be about.

Oh my God. Did I just have a sentimental Christmas moment?

And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store."
"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

Pleh. I won't be carving the roast beast anytime soon.

A Flurry of Activity

Rumor has it that we might be in for our first snow of the year on Thursday. And already, like a schoolkid, I'm praying for the fucking blizzard of the century if it would keep me from going the two blocks into work.

So I checked the National Weather Service to get the official word.

"Rain, Freezing Rain, Sleet, Snow, Partly Cloudy, to Partly Sunny, with Flurries"

Looks like no matter what happens, they nailed it.

How to Pee

A few years ago, I remember reading a question in Men's Health magazine in one of their advice columns.

The poor guy was lamenting how, when he got up to pee in the middle of the night, he needed light to see where the stream was headed, or else he pissed all over the toilet brush. And if he flipped on the light, he stayed awake for the rest of the night.

The expert opinion offered back to him was that he should quickly turn the light off and on while focusing on the toilet bowl. By doing this, the image of the toilet bowl would be burned into his retinas, allowing him to continue to see where to pee in the dark.

How absurd. Why was it so difficult to tell the poor guy this? Walk into the bathroom, find the toilet, sit down, pee, and be done with it. Flush if you feel like it, or wait until morning.

By sitting down, you can almost fall asleep again.

You could do this in the dark. You barely have to open your eyes. Hell, you barely have to be conscious to hit the water that way.

Why is it such a slap in the face to masculinity to pee sitting down? Oh yeah, because that's what girls do.