is going to bed. I've just about finished packing for my trip to Florida. Mom's still in ICU from surgery...she's pretty out of it and today I found out that she's going to be in ICU for over a week instead of 3-5 days, and then in a rehab clinic for at least 2 weeks. I admit I'm afraid to see her so frail in the hospital.

...I am confident she will get better, but seeing your mother in the ICU looking like, well, I didn't expect her to be looking like she is for another couple of decades. I feel so helpless to ease her pain.

1. I seriously miss my husband; he keeps me grounded and floating all at once.
2. It's flippin' hot here in Florida, blech.
3. Going to see mom shortly. It sounds like she might be getting a room out of ICU today. I hope that means she's more aware of her surroundings; watching my mother in so much pain tears me up.

Yay...mom's able to engage in conversations today.

So the novel... I’ve put it off again for months now. I was on a roll and then just stopped. Was it because the chapter I’m rewriting that was once published in a journal seems so badly written to me right now? I think that’s part of it. It’s not that the story is bad...no, the scenes are good...it’s that my craft 12 years ago is, well, different than where it is now when it looks at this piece. At times it was too laced with adjectives that didn’t know when to end and call a setting good. At others there was little description and I rushed through moments that emotionally needed to be slowed down. I think the trick when getting to “Revision Village” is to not be ashamed or put off by the work one’s done to get here. Give yourself a bit of embarrassment and the critic is going to milk it for all it’s worth. “You suck.” “You seriously thought that was good?” “How the hell did the let you into that writing program to begin with?” So what’s the secret to getting past that? I need to find a way to read through it and focus on the story. Pass through the bad lines, the clashing words, the “that’s just not up to snuff” moments and focus on emotions and plot. What’s happening? Why am I invested? Are you letting the people know what’s at stake? Are you giving people enough to care about what’s going on? (Someone should have forced the writers of the new Transformers movie to answer those questions. Probably too deep for them to grasp.) So maybe that’s what I’ll do tonight, sit down with a glass of wine and reconnect with Billy and Peter. There’s even hesitation in saying that. “Connect with.” I have to tell myself that “connect with” doesn’t mean connect with my past relationship with Steve. The failure of grad school, of completing this book, can be traced right back to what I let Steve turn me into. To open the door to where Billy and Peter dwell is to face a failed chapter of my life. But here’s the flipside to that. Not going there keeps it a failure. Not going there allows the part of me that needs to beat myself up keep doing so. If I faced it head on, finished it, even if it never got published, then I can say “I did it.” I’ve spent 6 years with Matt healing from Steve...Peter and Billy and Adam have been waiting 12 for me to finish their journey with them. What’s going to be more rewarding, waking up one morning and quietly find I’ve let so much go and have moved on? Or putting that last emphatic period on page 376  and saying, “There, it’s done, and no inner critic can ever drag me back there again.” Besides, I owe it to Billy, Peter, and Adam. They helped me through so much back then, it’s only fair I let them go to live out the rest of their lives as well.

 

     I don’t even remember how we were able to go to Pride together. Steve must have been out of town for the umpteenth time in just as many weeks.
     I don’t even want to write about this, but it was somewhere to start.
     I see us, trying McGriddles, not too bad, but wasn’t in the mood for the egg in the morning, so I dumped it out and ate the sausage and cheese with those wonderful pancakes of butter. I have a difficult time fathoming that we actually ate pork sausage back them. I’m sorry to all the pigs we ate that first year together. It took Babe to put an instant end to that one. That’s a story for another time. Okay, fine.
     I do my best to be astute, think things through on an emotional level...or at least be tuned in to others, but not that night. That night I made a good ol’ Bradey Bunch pork chops and applesauce with mashed potatoes. The kitchen smelled like my home growing up - overly greasy and flour everywhere. It was my night to pick a movie, so I chose one that I couldn’t believe Matt hadn’t seen and reduced me to happy tears in the theater. So we plopped down in front of the television with our dinner, I hit play on the VCR - yes, a VCR - and the movie began....the traumatizing story of a little piglet being ripped from his mother so she can hauled off to slaughter and her piglets fattened up for the same.
     Yeah, that’s right, I chose Babe. Fucking Babe.
     And with that, first Matt, and then myself, the forks and knives clattered to the table in a clattering mess against ceramic white plates and we looked down at Babe’s sliced and diced mother while he wept on the television calling her back. Brilliant. The food was thrown out, we walked to get dinner, and that was the last time any pork product was served in our home. How many people get to tell such a self-deprecating and funny story about how they moved one step closer to becoming a vegetarian? Just try and find one as “what the hell were you thinking” as that!
     Over the next year a few more cows stayed out in pasture, and then birds and fins followed. Tofu and seitan and whey protein became our friends. My intestines weren’t so fond of my new friend Soy. I hoped they’d get along, but it seems they can only take each other in small doses. Too much, and, well, I try not to be in public too long when they’re fighting.
     Once we got the hang of things, eggs stayed in their nests and dairy products were left sitting on store shelves. The vegan merit badge was ours...as was the “how the fuck do you eat out anymore” badge, the “uhm, what can we serve our friends for dinner without them getting nervous to come over” badge and the oh-so-important “can I buy stock in Gas-X” badge.
     Eventually the disdain of my intestines started to make its way north to my taste buds. I started to feel them force my mouth to say “that, again?, really? if you spice it up with something new it’s just going to be the same.” My brain began to feel the pressure to keep up with the whining of my body. “Isn’t this getting a bit ridiculous? Do you really have the time, hell, the stamina to learn how to cook all over again?” I can barely remember what I walked into the kitchen for and often leave with it sitting on the counter and have to go back for it...how is a scatterbrained rushing everywhere ADD nervous anxiety ridden no time to breathe because he either forgets to do it or crashes in a fit of inertia laced depression supposed to become a vegan wizard? I wasn’t. Nor was Matt. What were we thinking? Learn a whole new way to live when he’s in med school? Welcome to the home of the psychologically impaired.
     Without much pomp or circumstance, a thin, thick-spectacled, Portlander named Willow biked over to our house on what was once her grandmother’s no-carbon-footprint bike and used her scissors made out of recycled steel to cut our vegan merit badges off our vests. As she left with a sullen look, I swore I heard her mutter, “I must eat before I pass out again.”
     As soon as the door slammed I ripped off the other badges associated with our vegan ways and breathed a sigh of relief. We earned the “we can go out to dinner again” badge, as well as the coveted “woo-hoo our friends will look forward to coming over for dinner again” badge. And so Matt let out his inner Italian boy and did a happy dance as real creamer came back into the house for his coffee and the scent of parmesan could be smelled when we opened the fridge. More importantly, breakfast became so much easier that we could make veggie-sausage and egg and cheese burritos again.
     Despite our celebrating, there was a pang of disappointment in ourselves. We didn’t make it. “We never intended to go that far to start with,” Matt reminded me. If we were still living in Denver I wouldn’t have felt as bad. A vegan in a cow-town? Good luck. In Portland it feels like it’s a prerequisite, or at least a shoe you’re supposed to try. It didn’t fit, and I wasn’t about to hack my foot apart with a kitchen knife to make it happen...I probably would have seen the blood and said “I CAN GRILL THAT!” and hobbling to the ER I could tell them all that my heel tastes a lot like chicken if you close your eyes.
     As time wore on we began to question what we were doing. Each began to suspect we were holding the other back from eating poultry or fish. Summer barbecues weren’t helping. “Step right up, get your BBQ chicken here! Get your A-1 and Worcestershire slathered steak here! Nice and rare in the middle!”
     The memory of taste is more powerful than I could have imagined.
     Oh if only we were doing this for health reasons. It would have been so much easier to go back to gnawing on a plate of ribs. Damn guilty consciences.
     Then it happened. On an ordinary day after a night of long deliberation, my hand reached out and picked up a package of salmon from the freezer and dropped it in my cart. Before I could push away from the case, bells went off and a man jumped from over the counter and slapped an “it’s about fucking time you ate your omega-3s” badge on my forehead. I swear as I ran off I heard people cheering and an elderly lady weep unabashedly.
     It was good. Basted with soy, ginger, and honey and honored with a “thank you for your sacrifice” prayer it tasted like I’d never eaten something so wonderful in my life. Best part? Nothing on my plate was going to embarrass me the next day at work!
     When I got to work my boss walked in with a beaming smile and handed me the socially important “now we can invite you over for dinner again” badge.
     The badges are a good racket - the really help to take some of the guilt away.
     There was one last shift in our moral dilemma. We gave up our vegan badges, our ovo-lacto honors, and eventually our vege-quarian badges (that’s the “I eat fish so get over it” badge). That’s right, we gave that up...we regressed, or graduated, depends on how you look at it -- to the “yeah it’s disgusting to cut off the fat and gristle but you’re eating chicken again you fucking red-blooded American” badge.
     When that first bit of chicken entered our mouths in a wonderful batch of mongolian stir-fry we ran and hid. We expected lobbyists and republicans to be hovering on our door, ready to slap us on the back with accolades and tempt us with the “your freedom was won by soldiers, so thank them by eating an f-ing cow” badge. We passed.
     After a public statement, first by our press agent, and then later by ourselves when the beef lobby didn’t believe us, we’re quite happy having earned our “fins and feathers” badge and have no intentions of ever going back to anything with four legs (why aren't there two-legged elk and boar?).
     The guilt is still there at times, but now we can watch Babe with a clear conscience and eat something at a restaurant other than pasta alfredo and a side salad made from iceberg lettuce. More importantly we no longer have our friends call us going, “what can we make for dinner that you’ll eat these days?”
     I’d say that’s akin to getting the “thank you for no longer putting undue stress on your loved ones” badge.  

5/19 – Joe: Part II

          I figured this was going to happen. I wanted it to happen. Hoped it would. If I didn’t, I think I’d have pushed it. After all the late night sex we’ve had over the phone the past two weeks I fucking need this. There’s even something incredibly romantic about not even getting your bag and gift out of your hands before you’re already tongue deep and undressing each other at button ripping speed. The blinds are still open. I don’t care. Let someone watch, they’d probably enjoy the show. I would. I even like the idea of an audience at this point.
          His chest feels so damn good under my hands, the trail of hair from his waistline that spreads over and up to his neck. I want to lick all of it but he’s pulling me deeper inside. We don’t even break to laugh as we nearly trip over our shoes and jeans. There’s a desperation here. I feel like we’re two high school boys finally ready to find out what everything feels like.
          I expect him to be leading us to the bedroom, but he stops me. “Not yet,” he says, breaking the kiss. Instead he lays me down on the couch, presses his weight on top of me. First his legs, then his strained boxers, finally this wonderful chest. He’s so warm, solid. His breathing is stuttered, his mass shivering as my hands roll down his back. I like the sense of power that gives me. He smiles, rubs his fingers through my hair. “God I’ve been looking forward to this.” I don’t need to say it. He sees it in my eyes then licks the day’s drive of salt of my neck.


          He liked the shirt so much that he’s worn it to dinner. His week had been so busy that he didn’t have time to get me something. He’s good at flattering though, that’s gift enough I suppose.
          “I still can’t believe we bent the frame of the bed.” At first he was amazed by this, but now I can’t help but joke that I think he’s more upset that he might have to get a new one.
          “Sorry. I’ll try not to do such a good job next time.”
          “Like hell you will. We still have the other side to trash.
          We hold hands as we walk down Broadway, smiling as other gay couples walk by on their way to a Valentine’s dinner.


          I like being downtown. I miss Chicago. How can I not? It’s amazing how lonely a campus of 24,000 people can be, even with friends, when I’m trying to avoid the pain of Rob and resort to 2 hours phone calls at 10pm to feel connected to my coming out, to a community people I want to so badly be a part of.
          We are sitting by the window across from the gay & lesbian bookstore. Before I go home I’ll stop by. I am free to look at more titles than I knew were published. There I don’t need to find books tucked away in a sociology shelf in a major chain next to books about psychoIogical defects.  I feel home here. It’s where I’ve longed to be. When I was a sales rep making calls on stores the past two summers I asked if I could have this district. To a closeted boy wanting to feel part of something, feel himself, it was the closest I could be. A voyeur into my hopeful future.
          We aren’t talking much. I won’t lie to myself, there’s a pang of worry going on, but I’ve always been a worrier. Just let it go, let the moment be what it is. Still, I miss the conversations I’d have with Rob over dinner. We never ran out of things to talk about. Maybe it’s because he and I are both in school, challenging ourselves every day with some new course or lecture on campus from a guest with a degree from some far away place. Joe on the other hand, well, his spare time is filled with intramural sports like baseball, bowling, and volunteering for fundraisers. When I saw Karen before I left she told me Rob said I was moving fast. “Total rebound.” Those were his words. If he’s so interested to know what I’m up to, then why the hell did he break up with me?
          I’m not supposed to be thinking about him right now.
          “What’s going through your mind?” Joe asks, reaching forward and taking my hand. “You’ve been rather quiet.”
          I want to say the same to him. I want to tell him how everything, from being here with him and being surrounded by such an openly gay neighborhood where bars aren’t hidden in warehouse districts feels overwhelming in the most affirming and unbelievable way, but I don’t. I know he won’t get it…not just because he lives here, but, well, let’s be honest, I’m not sure he can get that deep.
       Yeah, I’m falling head over heels for the hot jock who doesn’t have much to offer intellectually. If it’s going to be a rebound, might as well be fucking beautiful right? I just wish I didn’t fall so hard. Why? Am I really that desperate? It have been easier if he didn’t kiss like he does and look at me so intently when we break from it, so deeply that I can’t turn away from his stare. And that tongue. Damn. And no matter what happens, how often can someone say they probably disturbed the neighbors and broke a metal bed frame in the process?
          “I’m just really glad to be here,” I say.
          “I’m glad you’re here too. I missed you.”
          Yeah. I’ve fallen.
 

I used to work four 10 hours days. This gave me Fridays off. Yay! Three day weekends! What I didn’t like about that was that our game leagues were only on Fridays and I felt like I was missing out on an important part of bonding with the kids. Actually, any day I have off in general I wonder what I’m missing out on with them. This year I abandoned the 4 day work week and am there every Friday. Now that I’m back to working out regularly I like that I don’t have to go in until later and it frees up my morning to do things here (like work out), but it is the Fridays I hate. On Fridays we lose all structure at work. It’s movie day. It’s League day (which you don’t always get to play). And there is a lot of unstructured free time. I find Friday’s, even when I’m in a good mood, BORING. Today might have been the most boring of them all. I was ready to go at three, and the kids had only been there for 45 minutes. Thankfully there are only 6 more weeks of school before our summer schedule starts and my schedule (7-3 five days a week) means I leave after all the very structured parts of the day are complete. In the meantime, I just keep in mind that there are far worse things I could be doing job-wise in that time I’m twiddling my thumbs, toes, testicles…anything really.