Thanksgiving

There have been two times in my life when Thanksgiving taught me what I'm thankful for.

The first was in 1993.  My fellow gay waiter, and best friend, Nick suggested that all the family drama that I was coping with could easily be avoided by just not participating in the poultry based holiday. Nick, my best friend was a Buddhist at the time, and always suggest simple answers to complex problems. I simply said "no" to the holiday. This was truly the first time I felt like an adult. By shirking responsibilities and going my own way.  This choice led me to be in The Buddhist's 1990 Nissan Altima for a long drive around Denver as we searched for a Chinese restaurant that would be open for lunch on that Thanksgiving Day. We dined that afternoon on unexplainable Chinese delicacy.  That Thanksgiving found me enjoying pickled pig ear and chicken feet. I learned two valuable life lessons that day.... One: you create your own happiness. Two: never blindly accept food prepared by a one-hundred year old Chinese woman. It truly is one of my happiest Thanksgiving memories. The Buddhist and I, sitting in a Chinese restaurant, truly thankful for the gifts we had.

The second was in 2001. I had moved to Dallas, Texas. My best friend and roommate, Jamie had recently discovered the joys of Methamphetamine.  Slowly he had changed from a happy wonderful person into a creature on the night. Barely recognizable has human. In one of his on-going empty promises he promised we would spend Thanksgiving together. For some reason I felt this dinner would be my chance to rescue him from Meth. I would use the time to make him see the horrors he was creating. I passed up invites to return home, or spend time with friends in Dallas. Instead we would meet for Thanksgiving dinner at the only restaurant open Thanksgiving day on Cedar Springs. I sat in a booth. Alone. I would find out later that Jamie woke up in an abandoned house across town. As I ate pumpkin pie alone, I learned two valuable life lessons. One: you are truly in change of your own happiness in life. Two: there are things in this life you will not be able to change. 

Bed Time

I know it may sound lame, but I can not express how much I love my bed. Just the other day someone commented on why any grown man would need eight pillows on his bed. Apparently, I do. 

Growing up, it wasn't until a whole herd of sisters left the house that I was able to have my own bedroom.  Once that happened, I finialy was able to experience my own bedroom. This has made me appreciate the luxury of an oasis a bed can be. Truly it is the only place to have quality and safe personal time. I urge you to consider not taking the gift of you bed for granted. 

I have eight pillows, and two down duvets on my bed because I know that the bed I curl up in, the one I invite others to share, is my best place for comfort and security. Sleep well. 

TMBBE

“I need to think up a nickname.” I said from the kitchen, directed to Mike, my eligible roommate, sitting on the Super-squishy-elle-shaped sofa of love. Mike cocked his head. “I mean when I blog. I’m sure I’ll be referring to The most beautiful boy ever more often… if all goes well.”  Sitting at the bar, the most beautiful boy ever raised his head from his MacBook. He gazed over at me. “I have a name…” I then had to explain my blogging history. How “Fuzzy” my Ex was called Fuzzy for blogging purposes. How the names get changed to protect the innocent. The most beautiful boy ever, continued to look blankly at me over his glasses. “What did you nickname the apparently long string of twenty-two year olds that came before me?” Mike, my eligible roommate, laughed from the couch.

I can tell when people have not read my blog entries. I usually prefer this; when people have not read my past blog posts. Nothing is worse than when I’m half-way through an exciting story in regard to the life and times of StevieB, when they correct me on a detail as they remember it from my on-line diary.  They most likely are correct, as my memory distorts as my dramatic retelling gets… dramatic.  Other times it is comforting. I don’t need to tell Patrick how ten grade was for me, he already knows. He read the transcript.

But, for the long string of twenty year olds, I honestly couldn’t tell, nor remember, if he read about them, along with nicknames, in my blog. I honestly don’t remember blogging about them… other than the Olympic Swimmer. The Lebanese wrestler, whom I was afraid to talk too… The Amazing Mexican. Oh, God.. The Ginger… Mike, my eligible roommate, noticed how I began to drift off in a haze of ex nicknames. He snapped me back, just in time for me to lock eyes with my most beautiful boy ever. Head turned a slight to the left pondering his choice in me. “You could call him The Indian?” Mike blurted. “That’s raciest” I snapped. I guess your nickname for the blog will have to be, The Most Beautiful Boy Ever. TMBBE?

Eight Years of StevieB

I am amazed that November 11th marks my eighth year anniversary for blogging.  I have been rambling on about nothing in particular for eight years. Eight amazing years.

If only I had known the places I would have gone, eight years ago. It truly leaves me with a sense of accomplishment and pride. Okay! Show of hands, whom has read my blog for all eight years?! Anyone? Anyone?  It's okay, there were a lot of years where I didn't read it either. I can say that it has been an epic journey. The growing up of Stevie B. A journey filled with five jobs, four cars, three houses, two relationships, and one Steve.

It goes with out saying, but I am going to say it... Thank you. Thank you for stopping by and reading about the good and the bad that happened along the path that the last eight years took us. Together. With the help of colorado's best gay blog, Mile High Gay Guy. com and blog buddings such and Patrick over at Pac's Pad I feel like I can take on another eight. Let's try.

The Time I Watched Ice Fishing

It had been too long. Way to long. The excuses in my head played like a broken record. Over and over I gave the lame reasons of why I couldn’t go. Until I stopped the excuses and just went. To the Doctor. I had put off the visit due to a strange fear… The fear of the test.

When I had just turned twenty, my family went to our cabin high in the Rocky Mountains. It was on the shores of Grand Lake, Colorado. It was February, so the lake was frozen over. As I sat on the sunny back deck, I watched the ice fishermen drive their 4X4s across the solid surface of the lake. Bound for their recently drilled holes through the ice in hopes to catch some fish. I wondered what would happen if the ice cracked. The lake swallowing the truck whole.  I shuttered from the thought and turned back to my book. My new book I picked up before leaving town as a way to waste away the afternoons. My family was all inside watching some-sort of football game on the battered television set. I can’t remember which book in the Tails of the City series it I was reading; but, Michael Tolliver just started his journey as a survivor of the HIV epidemic. Every paragraph dripped with fear of AIDS, of HIV. But, our protagonist was strong. The epidemic was spreading. The strength to survive was there. In the pages, as I turned them one-by-one. With every page I turned, I realized I had made a huge mistake. And, I had to get through the longest week of my life.

A couple of days before bumming a ride with one of my sisters on the way up the mountain to the cabin, I took my first HIV test. Now, I was on the frozen shores of a mountain lake awaiting the results. Unable to speak to anyone about it. It was just me and Michael Tolliver. Every instance of where I put myself at risk played through my mind. I was playing lose and easy, messing around as a twenty-year-old does. I sat around the fireplace, my mind a thousand miles away. My large extended family at times angered at my aloofness. My detachment. My only thoughts were on the clinics opening hours the next Monday morning. Only a fictional character in a far off land understood.  

Flash-forward twenty-three years. I have had countless tests for HIV, but this one way different. I had blocked it out of my mind, really thought much of it, at the office.Then when the needle entered my bloodstream and the phlebotomist filled his cylinder, I was twenty again. I had waited too long. Was it the nine years in a serodiscordant relationship? Or, was it the playing lose and easy, messing around as a forty -year-old does? I thought of the promise I made to myself on that grey February morning. Play safely and test often. Somehow I had forgotten that promise. The one I made to me. It’s funny how time lets us disconnect from our selves.

The Doctor entered the room. All fear of the test was gone. Now it was time… I debated if the doctor was alive when I received the results of my very first HIV test. He read all by results like a grocery list. As he explained about good and bad cholesterol, healthy choices I only saw the ice fishermen, driving their trucks upon the ice. Wondering what would happen if the ice cracked and they fell through the ice. “…you’re undetectable for HIV…” I came back to the room. “that means I’m negative?” He calmly stated that yes. I was. Negative.