School is Out

Have I mentioned that this is my last week for my semester?  I know I haven't blogged a lot about my classes this semester. This was due to the fact that I had a Science class which attempted to kill me, and a creative writing class that left me bored. Horridly bored. Both classes were painful. Not in a "oh I gotta write 1,000 words on Lucius Tarquinius Priscus" kind of pain, the "make it stop, this is idiotic" kind of pain.

My Science class was entirely on-line. This meant that the tiny bit of fun in doing labs was even taken away. It was eight weeks of drawing diagrams of molecules and energy waves. I am a Right Brain kind of person, the go with your feelings kinda guy. I quickly discovered that a Science class, on-line was the wrong choice. I would be on route to failing the class miserably if not for the help of the Boyfriend. He happens to be some sort of medical scientist statistician working of HIV programs.  So, he may-or-may-not have helped me. But, your associated with my University, he didn't. At all. Totally. And, why are you reading my blog, you've got university stuff to go do.

The writing class was just about "finding your voice" and "setting the scene." Those are the last things I need to think about my writing. The second I think about "finding my voice" I seize up and won't blog for two months. The last time I thought about becoming a better writer, it took Patrick from Pacspad blog a week to talk be down from the "I'm done with blogging"  ledge.

So, this week marks the end of another semester at school and good riddance. Onward to Spring semester and Ancient world Religions...

Christmas Tree

To begin our celebration of Christmas, the roommate and I decided to head to the mountains in order to get our own live Christmas tree. We had decided that we would go massively overboard for Christmas this year, so this was the first step. This choice stemmed from me having just ending a nine year relationship with  Mr. Scrooge himself, and the roommate, whom had roommates for years, never had his own celebration the way he wanted it to be done. First step? Go murder an innocent tree and drag it back to the house. I declared this trip into the woods triumphantly to the boy I’m dating, (still known as TMBBE, or “The most Beautiful boy ever” for the lack of a better nickname) as a normal, healthy super-Christmasy thing that normal people do. This is when he calmly informed me that he never had a Christmas tree before. Like ever…ever. 

My mouth dropped open. I stammered. “Like growing up you never had a tree?” He flatly informed me that no, his family had never. The next question that came out of my mouth will forever be noted as the stupidest thing I have, or ever will say. Please note the stupidity level… I said…. “But… where did you put your Christmas presents?”  Oh. My. God. There is not a more ignorant thing I possibly could of said at that point. And I said it. I was an ignorant baboon asking someone raised Hindu where they kept their Christmas presents if they didn’t have a tree. The Most Beautiful Boy Ever was polite in response to my stupidity.

What I learned is that if you take a grown man, who was raised Hindu, to a Christmas tree lot, and ask him to pick out any tree he wanted, you're going to see a lot of Christmas repression un-cork. It was non-gentile to Santa elf in 3.5 seconds. I have never had so much fun picking out a tree. 

I had spent nine years with someone who saw Christmas as a hassle. A chore that involved assembling the same artificial tree over and over. Then, suddenly I was standing in a muddy field watching someone search for the perfect tree. I watched the grin on his face grow. A grin that comes from the magical act of family going to the tree lot and taking home for the perfect Christmas. I was cold, I was muddy.  I was never so happy. 

Summer Nights

This is my favorite photo of myself. It was taken by my most amazing (and available) roommate, Mike. It was late summer and Mike and I had just illegally launched some Chinese lanterns in the middle of Cheesman Park. It was truly an amazing night. We laughed and joked as we entered the park, close to the parks closing time. But, our tone became more and more reserved as we watched the glowing lanterns drift higher and higher into he night sky. We stood alone in the middle of the darkened park. Witnessing the glowing light of lanterns fade away.

We sat in the grass and watching the full moon (pictured in the photo) slowly come out to join us.  In this shot you can see me in my natural habitat. Texting away. 

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.

 

Annie the cat helps out with Science homework. Instagram

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There goes our Alpine Slide idea... Instagram

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I wander the house at night. I begin the aimless wander at this window. I end my wander here as well. Instagram

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Pancakes, Stevie. Pancakes.

It's that time of year again. The time when the pancake clock starts. 

On the first notable snowfall in Denver, I historically head to a pancake house and celebrate with a heaping order of flap-jacks.  Checking back on my blog, how I remember everything that has happened in my life, the first snow is typically around the last week on October. 

No matter the time, or the date, pancakes must be eaten. A celebration of StevieB blog history. There will be hot-cakes. For now we wait. When the flakes fall so does syrup. 

I knew His Smile in an Instant

Atlanta was a great trip. It is funny how Patrick’s friendship just continues online and offline without missing a beat. Not physically seeing Patrick since our cruise, over a year ago, we simply just picked up where we left off.  He was a great host. The excuse for the visit was for Atlanta’s Pride celebration. Understanding the heat of Atlanta’s summers I understand how they began to throw the weekend celebration in October.

The first night was a kick-off party as the Atlanta Aquarium. A huge party thrown around the world-class aquariums and tanks. Patrick and I literally partied with Otters. A long list of Atlanta’s best diners, and dives followed over the weekend. Topped off by the main Pride Parade on Sunday. As Patrick, his large and very nice group of friends, and I settled into a safe spot to watch the parade; I quickly become bored. Patrick suggested we sit on the near-by Italian restaurant’s patio. We snuck away from the jubilant friends and ordered a little lunch, alfresco.

At this point in my story, I need to mention that anytime I am awake my head is buried in my phone. This trip, I was constantly texting the same cute boy I had been seeing in back home. All through the Aquarium, the diners, and the parade I was texting him non-stop. It’s actually quite disgusting. I mimic a fourteen-year old girl.   As we slipped away from the parade front, I sent a selfie to the same cute boy, giving him a literal picture of the mayhem we were about to escape.  I casually let him know Patrick and I were going to grab food. The boy too, was away from home. In Connecticut for a week at a family wedding.  We chatted non-stop about our separate adventures.  I had been secretly bummed that he couldn’t join my adventure in Atlanta. But, at least we could text.  

I relished the Sunday afternoon. Sitting with one of my dearest friends, soaking up the day with a great person. We still had a great view of the parade as it crossed over Piedmont St.  About half a block away, it was great to see, but not get too involved. It was also just enough space to cruise for cute boys. And, Atlanta has no shortage in amazingly cute boys.  Patrick and I had all the time in the world to watch them wander by. As my gaze roamed the sea of Atlanta cuteness, one super-cute guy caught my eye. Slim. Muscular. Flowing curly locks of hair. Tall. The sun bounced and danced upon his light caramel skin. But…. Suddenly I became that 70’s Pina Colada Song.  I knew his smile in an instant, I knew the curve of his face. It was my own lovely boy…. I sprung from the table alarming Patrick and our group of dinning friends. The boy I had been obsessing over, the one in Connecticut. Just wandered by. Of, course his head was down, texting me. He was causally asking me what the name of the restaurant I had mentioned.

I ran through the crowed, I began to doubt whether I actually saw him at all.

Then, I stopped running. There he was. The most beautiful boy ever.  The crowed stopped moving, the drag queen, upon the nearby float frozen in time.  Glitter held its place in midair. The very movement of blood within my heart stopped. Nothing existed. Reality faded into a grey blur on the edges of space between my trembling hands and him.  The curve of his face. I threw my arms around him and squeezed.  The glitter began to fly again. The waving drag queen upon her float slowly came back up to speed.  

The boy had ducked out of the wedding in Connecticut and flew down to surprise me.  Following my clues of selfies and unknowingly cryptic texts. The most romantic thing anyone has ever done.  Me and my boy.  We watched the remainder of the parade. Intertwined.

Atlanta!

I've known Patrick, from Pacspad blog for many years. Countless, actually. Even though he is in Atlanta, and I am in Denver,  we have spent time visiting, face to face. Taking a cruise together, hiking together. But, all these visits have never included me going to Atlanta to see Patrick's home. That changes today. 

I am on my way to the ATL tonight to hang out with Pac, his lovely man Luis, and their kitties. The excuse was to be there for Atlanta Pride weekend, but really that's just an reason to hang out. I'm excited to see the city though, lots of resons to post Instrgrams. What? You don't follow me on Instrgram? Nice2CStevieB

Do You Voodoo?

It's been awhile since the Voodoo Doughnuts opened in our town. There was this amazing vibe around the idea the Denver had a hip and alternative doughnut shop, like exotic Portland, Oregon. Like our version our ancestors seeing an Oriental vase. Now, cheap and only sold in junk shops inside of the Aurora Mall. 

I over heard someone awhile back, bragging how many times they have gone to pick up a pick box of glazed doughnuts in recent history. How can that impress anyone? 

I had this thought as I sat at a light in front of the popular business. A line ran out the front door. The best part; however, was the small assembled groups of citizens trapesing away with their stacked pink boxes. The look of devotion upon their faces. It reminded me of another group which made a recent pilgrimage. 

One of the five pillars of Islam, is to make a pilgrimage to Makkah. This means, to be a devout follower of Islam, one must make a trip within ones lifetime to the holiest of all shrines. Annually, two million people make this holy trip. I am positive that the look on their faces after walking around the sacred shrines is one of utter happiness and contentment.

Yet, the visitors of Voodoo doughnuts have the same look? Over fat filled baked goods. I will state that I have made my own hajj to Voodoo. They didn't seem any different. I guess it all in how you market a mecca. 

War is Hell

I have been putting off writing a declaration of peace. Like a peace accord with a bitter enemy, that is now humble in defeat. I guess it would be more like The Japanese Instrument of Surrender, the written agreement that formalized the surrender of the Empire of Japan, marking the end of World War II. This symbolic act of writing has been weighting on my mind for several years now. I begin to think about it, how I would express my love and admiration, toward my fellow warriors,  then for some reason, maybe due to Post-traumatic stress disorder, I had not. 

After two years, it is time.  

It was about two years ago when I fell into the deepest and darkest of depressions. I pulled away from everyone and everything. I turned completely introverted. I had a struggle, no. A war on my hands to stay standing. To not give into the dark. During this time, I did not explain my war to anyone. It was a fight of one. A secret battle that sparked up again daily. How would anyone help in this fight? How could I even explain the tactics that the enemy was using? The enemy could not be identified. They wore no uniforms. They had no insignia. How do you plan an attack on a sneaky enemy that was invisible? My only defense was to quote Trinity’s line from the Matrix, “Get up, Trinity, get up!” I kept moving. I just kept getting up, every day. During this time of introversion, I do remember one detail. Some friends that I ghosted upon, instead of being alerted, simply left the battle field. I had not raised the alarm, but they avoided the sound of cannon fire. 

Two people grabbed whatever defenses they had, and joined the fight. 

Upon de-friending Mike, on Facebook, he immediately called my phone until I picked up.  He refused to buy any line I threw at him. He would not step away from my side. He had no ammunition, he was unarmed. His very presence began to scare away the enemy. 

The constant connection of Patrick, not letting me withdraw, was a constant reminder that I have the strength to tackle and defeat any dark army that wanted to steal me away. 

With an army of three, the defenses were built. The stone walls of the stronghold were secured. There were only three men atop the wall. But, victory came slowly and precisely. They are warriors; and should be honored and decorated as so. Their dedication should be known.  I can proudly say that I am a stronger solider because of what I saw in the battles that encompassed the war. Now, the cannons have fallen silent. There is a field of beautiful wild flowers where the battlefield once raged…Just a simple, peaceful valley. 

"Without heroes, we are all plain people, and don't know how far we can go." --- Bernard Malamud 

Goodbye Facebook

Today was my third day - Post Facebook.

I decided to disable my Facebook account three days ago. I did this upon the realization that I have only been using it to torture my roommate with Pumpkin Spice memes. That, and my Gay Doctor Who group I started years ago. I can irritate my roommate in real life anytime I want, and the Gay Doctor Who group has a co-Administrator that can continue the nerdom without me. I wont be missed.

Other than that, there has been no real use for Facebook in my life for years.  It has only served as a drain on my time. Time that could be spent on blogging. Seriously, I really need to carve more time for the priorities of my blog. The "friendships" or connections I have will either continue onto the real world, or what I suspect will happen... they will align with my suspicions and wither on the FB vine.

Day Three. This means three days of constant and unending memes on the wonders of Pumpkin Spice not being posted on my roommate's wall.  How will he survive.

A Day of Beauty

I had my first appointment at a "skin treatment salon" the other day. This was prompted by one reason; how I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. I blurt out "I'm not getting any younger!" These outbursts are based on the simple fact that gay guys of a "certain age" need to have some sort of skin care regimen, like older women who start to wear those stupid hats. When hitting a certain age, gay men need to start taking care of their skin. No one needs to see a wrinkled Steve, still peddling his used vacuum cleaner bag face on Grindr. Not that there are not men like that on there right now. Not that I would know... I'm a Christian.

 

Yesterday was my first of three treatments. A hydra facial with a massage and moisturizer. I arrived and was immediately looked upon as if I was there to fix the air-conditioning. A look that could only be explained as confusion as to why a large bearded man was in their waiting room. Then I was assigned to a thick lady named "Pam." Said with that loud declaration, P-A-M. "Hi, I'm PAM!" she said as she pondered at my beard wondering if the hydrafacial device would even work on my enormous amount of extra hair attached to my face. I normally attempt to avoid women like PAM, especially if their name is PAM. After explaining my large and costly face care regimen, I received a blank stare back, making me release PAM had never heard of the costly Philosophy brand of face care products. Instead she responded with "Honey... I don't think we have a robe your size?!"

This is the exact moment I realized I was in the wrong place for my... Sensibilities. I offered to just strip to my undershirt and hop on the table. Soon PAM was attacking my face with soothing lotions. This is when PAM  decided to make conversation. "So? Do you have a wife and kids?" She asked. I would of rolled my eyes if they weren't covered in lavender oil. I'm a bearded guy that just explained he bought $60 face cream, and you're asking if I have a wife?

I learned that it truly is the professional you choose to make any experience worth it. Next time see if the waiting room has a copy of GQ and Fitness. 
 

This Grill is on Grindr

A while back I went to a diner in downtown Denver. Now you may know, but I have a passion for diners. I could seriously eat every meal for weeks on end in a diner. And, I have.  Remember when I was on a date with that Olympic Swimmer at a Diner and the grill at the diner caught on fire? That was October, 2014. You can read the blog post on how I sang "This-Grill-is-on-Fire!"  That was Denver Diner. This week the media announced that the Denver Diner, just the best damn diner on the planet, has completed their post-fire reconstruction, and are set to re-open later this week.

This makes for a very happy Steve. Countless number of times I have said "Man, this would be a great time to sit in the Denver Diner.... damn it!" Soon, the best damn diner on the planet will reopen its doors. I will be there. Asking for pancakes. Then I won't have to mess around with other greasy spoons. Like the one I was dining in a while back when I went to a diner in downtown Denver....

The diner, I dined with, whilst I waited for Denver Diner to repaint, and run one of those five-fingered microfiber things through the mini-blinds, was called Sam's Number 3. Presumably because there are two other Sam's. Maybe it is a generational suffix? Either way, I went in with couple of friends after hanging out in the "theater district" of Denver. Upon being seated,  we were promptly ignored.  As my norm, I cranked open Grindr. Quickly I received Grindr service. A guy popped up with the ubiquitous "Hey."  After finally having the waiter tear himself await from the bar, we got our order in. Then waited, what seemed to be a lifetime, for our food. The same dude, popped up on Grindr. "Hey!" He seemed familiar so I replied, How YOU doin'?" Quickly, as I waited for the server to finally notice that my Diet Coke glass had tumbleweeds blowing through it, he popped up. "Your[sp] hot." I looked again at his profile pic. He seemed familiar because he was our lame-ass waiter.

Our server was ignoring his tables to hit on guys on Grindr. He then hit on one of his tables, he was ignoring.  I showed my table mates. "Ask him for my ranch he said he'd bring." So, I did. I asked if I could have Ranch Dressing, and a refill of my Diet Coke. I watched as he turned to face me. Then, slowly slid off of his bar stool and went back to the kitchen. Returning with our requested items. The service was awful before then. The service didn't much improve after that.

Let us just say I am excited for the re-opening of the best damn diner on the planet, Denver Diner. 

Got a Long List of Ex Lovers...

Apparently, it was ex-boyfriend week here around the old' Stevie B blog. This is the time when all of Steve's ex-boyfriends contact Steve, just to ensure he is still alive.

The US Swim team, Olympic swimmer was in contact. Yes, he's happy with the fellow hottie he left me for, just fighting with him this week,  and wanted to say "Hi!" to me.

The skinny-ginger from Colorado State University, drunk-texted me in the middle of the night to re-declare his love for me. If you remember, he was the one I woke up to one morning, staring at me, stating that if he can't get a monogamous commitment he was out.  I'm sure you know my answer. He grabbed his Express Tote Bag, and ran. Jim Beam had apparently convinced him otherwise.

Next was the muscled Lebanese, University of Colorado Volleyball player. He just let me know that he's going to study in Prague. That being petrified of his hotness, and thus avoiding him, probably was not the best technic in flirting.  

The blonde from Colorado School of Mines, just missed dialed me, thinking it was his Professor Steve, not the creepy 43 year old that sodomized him in his Jeep Liberty.

Then, there was the big Ex. He was in contact to announce that he is officially a Realtor, with his own agency. I couldn't tell if is was a general announcement, or a sales pitch. Either way, I believe it's a great idea to have your Ex, help buy a house.... sure. He then invited me to a Fetish Party he was hosting. Also a great idea to attend a play party hosted by your still somewhat questionably hostile Ex... sure.

Well... that was my week. My tattered ego and I are glad it is over.  

Homosexuals and Jeep Repair

Through a series of unfortunate events, I received huge dents in my front bumper, and back bumper of my Jeep, Wrangler. My front bumper, was dented during my first and last visit to Tom's Diner. The back bumper got destroyed thanks to a drunk unemployed man in a rusted-out Subaru. A drunk unemployed man who spent the time waiting for the cops attempting to buy me off.... with the crumpled up fives in his wallet. Needless to say, he got hauled away, I got an insurance check.

Thankfully the damage on the front and back of my precious Jeep was completely isolated to the bumpers. And, if I haven't mentioned it yet, my handsome (and available) roommate is a Certified Jeep/Chrysler mechanic. Mr. Handsome was able to locate two new bumpers. This was easy because Dude/bros that buy jeeps take the first opportunity to rip off their bumpers to replace them with steel welded jobs with winches and lights attached. The factory ones get tossed. Unless they're  needed for Steve's Big Gay Jeep. So... score.

Saturday night was spent hanging out in a repair bay of Mike's Jeep dealership. Who knew to people could laugh so hard; especially in the act of car repair.  By late Saturday night, I had shiny new bits of plastic, Jeeps calls bumpers, bolted onto the Jeep.

Lets see how long they last....

Not-a-Soul Man

I believe that I might not have a soul. 

This conclusion comes from a consistent problem in my life. One were I don't exist to certain necessary inanimate objects we all intact with daily. I don't register to electric eyes. Touch-less faucets seem like a futuristic and technological miracle. One simply places their hand under the spout and water starts flowing like magic. I always think that I am not smart enough to move in the right way to trigger the motion sensor. It's a presence sensor designed to detect the presence of hands under the spout and turn on the faucet. When you remove your hands, the sensor tells the faucet to turn off.  When your hands come within a few inches of the lip of the spout, infrared light bounces off your skin to the detector, which sends a signal that turns on the faucet. They're easy enough technology. But countless times, you can find me in the airport men's room waving my hands like a flustered chicken attempting to register to the stupid faucet. 

This was proven to the roommate after he bought one of those "touch-less" trashcans for the kitchen. He has had hours of enjoyment watching me act like a cat playing with a laser beam as I attempt to have the lid raise. Doors refuse to open as they don't see me coming. If it has any kind of electric eye, it will be blind to me. 

I really don't know all the technology of how these things work, I just assume it works off the human soul. 

Back to Class

"I am honestly shocked that my summer is over." I said this out loud as I dusted off my MacBook and cracked open its neglected case. I haven't touched my computer in months. In the same way that I have not worn jeans in months. It was a summer of shorts. It was a summer not thinking about my education.

I sat at the dining room table and logged into my first Fall class.  ENG 221: Creative Writing. This course teaches techniques for creative writing. Explores imaginative uses of language through creative genres (fiction, poetry, literary nonfiction) with emphasis on the student's own unique style, subject matter and needs.

"Why did I sign up for this class?" I said out loud. I am not creative. I can't write. I was right then I decided to write as much about the Nazi's as possible. This is mostly because the class is online, and we have to "peer-review" each other's work. It is also, as I scanned the class list, filled with inspired, yet frustrated Soccer Moms. So bloody epic atrocities it is then.

Our first assignment was to write a simple scene with tension. I turned in this...

The large man in the uniform barked again.

“Ma’am move into the scanning area.”

She was frozen in terror. Her weak and feeble legs, the ones that were once strong enough to carry her quickly across that field in Poland, refused to move. The legs that saved her life by outrunning the German’s dogs. The legs that fearlessly out ran uniformed German soldiers. Now they were frozen in fear.  It was her Grandchildren, which talked her into leaving the safety of her bedroom. To take an airplane to see them. She didn’t understand what this uniformed man wanted. She peered up at him. Tears began to flow.

“Oh, geesh.” The TSA agent whispered as he rolled his eyes.  “Move into the scanning machine, everyone has to be scanned.”  The security officer will never understand how his actions mirror the actions of other uniformed men. In a similar line, back in Poland.

Day Off

My favorite day of the week is Saturday. Yes, this is not breaking news. I'm sure most people would say the same. Maybe this ground-breaking news is based upon the blip of time where I had to work retail. There is nothing like working retail that will make you grateful towards the little things in life. Grateful for the time when you are out of retail and have weekends.

So, big shock my favorite day is Saturday. This is based upon having the freedom of choice. A day where I can decide all that happens. Yesterday, I stayed at the gym for as long as I wanted. I went to lunch wherever I wanted.  It was just an awesome day of freedom. The only scheduling I did was when I got my haircut by the amazing Ambrea at Floyd's.  I cannot suggest, and refer her enough. If you are in the Denver area, and are a fan of awesomeness, have your hair cut by Ambrea at Floyd's Barber Shop on Colfax and York.  Although, I'm convinced she is trying to get me to look like Macklemore. Dinner with a friend I never get to see, at my favorite Chinese restaurant, a walk through Cheesman Park as the sunset. All good things. These are the ingredients for a great day off.

The only better time of the week is Sunday mornings. That fuzzy headed time before real, authentic Sunday begins. If I was to have my full choice in the matter, I would be able to share this time with someone. But, hey. Details. 

Dog Sitting

Last weekend my best friend spent his precious time off dog sitting. He was amazingly dedicated to the task as well. When I urged him to just toss a Swanson's Frozen Sliced Beef Dinner through the back door and come cruise for boys with me, he would hear nothing of it. I got a raised eyebrow when I suggested giving the dog, whom he was assigned, no dedicated, to care for, some Benadryl so it wouldn't notice that his temporary caretaker was off putt-putt golfing. Some people take their jobs so seriously.

I was asked to dog-sit three times in my life. Each time hilarity ensued.

Back in 1994, I was asked to watched the dog of an elderly gay guy, well I thought he was elderly. Looking back he was probably the age I am now. He had one of those fluffy yappy dogs. I took the two week job, because I needed the money. Also, my roommates at the time, decided that it would be better if they never saw my face again. So staying at a strange man's house, whom had a dead kitty taped to his head, was the best option. It wasn't a real dead kitty. It was just that his toupee was so cheaply done, it looks like a cat had died upon his head. The two weeks of dog sitting; however, went exceedingly well. well... the one tiny thing was that I jimmied open the locked cabinet where the unused dead cats were stored and fluffy attacked some of them. Guess he thought they were filleted felines as well. I came home late one night to find dead, dead kitty bits all over the house.

I was never asked to dog-sit again.

I was asked by a friend to come over to his house and meet his partner and their dog. They would be gone one week and wanted me to stop over twice a day to feed, and let the black lab out into the back yard. Seemed simple. The first day after happy couple left, I let myself into the house to check on the aging lab. As soon as I entered the house, all memory of our meeting was gone. Kind of like some dates I've had lately. Suddenly, I was a complete stranger entering the house to utter shock and horror. Kind of like some dates I've had lately. The lab freaked. It then proceeded to hide in a closet. Every day. All week. It didn't eat. It wouldn't go out side. When I was gone it would release its evil upon the antique area rug right in front the closet. If I attempted to dislodge the terrified creature from the closet, all sorts of terror, filled with biting and deep growling would ensure. Again, not unlike my dating life. The happy couple returned to find their dog, ten pounds lighter and a family heirloom rug destroyed.

I was never asked to dog-sit again.

The last story of my dog sitting trilogy still gives me shivers. I spent ten days watching a Basset Hound in an upscale townhouse in Dallas's Turtle Creek neighborhood. The owner of the dog, was a friend, and Cadillac Salesman whom adored his Basset, named Dudley. One afternoon, as one does when one has the keys to a brand new Cadillac and upscale townhouse, I went to cruise for boys.  After bringing home, and playing with the found boy ass; I mindlessly toss my condom onto the floor. Dudley gulped it up. Without going into dramatics I had to reach my hand into a Basset and grab hold of a used condom and yank it out, before the dog swallowed. With a slimy dog slobber enhanced grasp I pulled out the filled condom. Somehow the rubber exploded.  Dudley... swallowed.... I still can't see a Basset hound without thinking that one... uh... my.... okay...

I purposely never asked to dog-sit again.

And this is why you don't ask Steve to dog sit.  

The Fair is a Veritable Smorgasbord

Last weekend the Roommate and I went to the Denver County Fair. Because it is August and that is what you do. Attend a County Fair. Although, it being an urban centric fair it was diffrent than the fairs I have attended in my past.

When I was a kid, I have no idea my age, maybe eight-ish, I entered the county fair in the only competition I possible could of been qualified. Although, in my defense if they had a shag carpet vacuuming contest, or bath towel folding competition back in 1983, I would have smoked the other competitors. I would have received, no doubt several blue ribbons. Because even at eight, I was a marksman when it came to reseting our 300 pound Kirby vacuum cleaner from low pile to high pile. I could swap out the brush bar for the crevice hose in 27 seconds flat. This personal talent; however, was lost on my Father. He also didn't seem impressed how I could keep two bath towels, two hand towels, and two fingertip towels,  perfectly folded and constantly hanging on the bathroom towel rod used by seven children. My two major talents gone wasted by unappreciated Mormon rancher Father.

Instead of having the first eight year old boy to  have a grand sweep of all the "Good Housewife" ribbons. He pushed me into "Rabbit Care." Think of the bragging rights my Father missed. "Well, my boy placed first in the Swag & Jabot sewing contest at last year's fair." He would  brag over the General Tire service counter, as he rung up a local city councilman. Instead, he had to settle on explaining how his son was the one kid that didn't get a ribbon, due to letting his rabbit loose in the middle of the 4-H judging contest. Bunnies were cute and all, but nothing compared to my innate talent to cutting down corduroy pants to make kicky summer shorts. A self-taught prodigy. I bet to this day, I could pull and replace the dust bag out of a Kirby Sentria without letting a single dust-bunny loose.

I thought of this, as I wandered around the Denver County Fair. Hoping against all odds there would be a just one Good Housekeeping competition.  Just a side stage somewhere that was one contestant short.  I guess it is for the best. Attempting to re-live your past just is not healthy. Instead, I went to taunt the Rainbow Vacuums salesperson.

Damask And Zombies

Happy Saturday. In case you're playing along at home, keeping score on Steve's sleeping habits. This morning I awoke to an email from Macy's informing me that my order of 600 thread-count damask stripe sheets, in artic white, had been confirmed. I didn't cancel the order, because my taste, apparently, whilst I sleep is high. If I say so. Better than the night before which involved a screaming panicked Steve whom was running from the zombie apocalypse. 

Toasty

Sitting alongside a date at Watercourse, Denver’s premier vegetarian restaurant, I ordered the Chicken and Biscuits. The “chicken” being thick slices of Cauliflower. This is when I pulled out my best English Nobleman voice and asked for all white meat cauliflower. Thinking I was hilarious, I broke into laughter. The Server, served up a courtesy laugh. I looked over to my date and quickly remembered why I never get second dates.
 

Back when the earth had just finished cooling off, and slightly before the mightiest predator ever to roam the earth, the Spinosaurus was king, I was a gay waiter at Denver’s then premier vegetarian restaurant. I would imminently despise any jerk that made “Dad-like” jokes in my direction. They might have felt my rage in the fine act of armpit toast. That was a specialty created by my fellow gay waiter, Nick, whom created the recipe. It was an easy recipe to follow; while gathering the table’s food you would place their toast into your armpit. Then, serve hot.

Flash forward 97 million years, and there it was. I have turned into what I most despised; the type of guy whom makes jokingly flirts with Servers. My father has always flirted with Waitresses. His Father flirted with Waitresses. I am trapped in a long linage of males whom work out their joke material on unsuspecting wait staff.

I would like to take this opportunity to give an open apology to all Servers that have endured my people. While I’m at it, I should also apologize for anyone who ate at The Harvest Restaurant in Denver, Colorado from 1991 – 1994. I am sorry for making you eat my armpits.

To Sleep; To Shop

I find it funny actually, when I wake up, and after my morning routine, I struggle to find my wallet. 

Today was one of those mornings. Upon, dressing for work I noticed my wallet was not next to my keys. This prompted an eye roll and a groan of "what did you do now, Steve?" I searched through my already made bed. Then, under the bed. There it was, my wallet tossed down, with my favorite credit card laying next to it. 

When this happens, I know that something crazy went down. I woke up in the middle of the night, and by "woke up" I mean, just got out of bed, and shopped online. Yep, I'm a sleep shopper. Before realizing what my pattern was, and identified it. I had quite the well outfitted lien closet. Every pattern and every style of sheet set imaginable would show up at my door step. It was a while before I realized that it was me shopping. But, seriously after canceling an order for a Kitchenaid mixer three times, I began to suspect it was me. I kept two pairs of Pumas. Because even asleep, I have great taste in running shoes. 

Safeguards had to be put in place to stop me from ordering household goods whilst I dreamed.  I guess, now the sleep shopping has returned. 

I rushed to check my emails. This was to confirm an inbox filled with Order Confirmations. Just one. Wheeeew.  High end memory foam pillows. I didn't cancel. I trust my sleeping judgement. 

Tonight I hide my wallet from myself. God forbid I wake up to an Apple Watch. Hmmmmmmmm. 

Summer

Can you believe that it is almost the end of July? What happened to the future plans of summer? I started to ponder this the other day as I daydreamed; looking upon clouds in the middle of Cheesman Park.  Reclining on a blanket with my face looking upon the clouds. The clouds and I shared a lazy agenda, to waste an afternoon. Their plan was to slowly creep across the huge blue sky. My plan was to watch their paced path.

It is funny how, upon the first breath of Spring, the plans for “everything you want to do this summer” become laid. The long path of warm weather. A chance to enjoy. The scheme of being able to look back in September and recite to the class, “How I Spent my Summer.”  

Here we sit at the end of July. How has your plans come along so far? This is fair warning to the end of fair warming. So, maybe the roadtrip to Mount Rushmore isn’t going to materialize for this summer. But, a road trip somewhere will. Get out there! There isn’t much time.

There isn't time, there isn't time
To do the things I want to do,
With all the mountain-tops to climb,
And all the woods to wander through,
And all the seas to sail upon,
And everywhere there is to go,
And all the people, everyone
Who lives upon the earth , to know.
To know a few, and do a few,
And then sit down and make a rhyme
About the rest I want to do.

-Eleanor FarjeonEleanor Farjeon

 

First Dates

First dates are… awkward. Not in the bad sense of the word. They are just odd, mostly because you are spending time with a complete stranger. One that, in this day and age you have spent a lot of time already chatting with online. Maybe even trading naughty photos. Maybe. I’m not saying that I do this… maybe.  Nevertheless, after seemingly endless amounts of time, you are now meeting, face-to-face. No hiding behind emoticons.

Last night, I had a first date. With a Swimmer-turned Gymnast-turned Aerial Acrobat.  I'll just let that settle into your brain for a second... I thought of how strange first dates are when upon driving down Colorado Boulevard, a jack-rabbit, frightened out of its fluffy mind, ran out into the street. Being the strong-tough Daddy that I am, wanted to scream like Caitlyn Jenner at a Talbot’s sale.  I contained myself for some reason, roughly barking “stupid bunny.” Why would I curb my over-riding concern for all things fluffy bunny? When it’s common knowledge that if you know Steven, you know his bunny-loving personality.

First dates. In case you’re interested in the dating life of the Common StevieB, it went well. Very well, if I say so. But, I have a tendency to believe that right before I don’t get a second date.  See my posts on being the One Date Wonder.

Get up Swinging

My long relationship with waking up, covered with sweat, standing in the middle of my bed has been rekindled. There is nothing more exciting than not knowing when my Sleep Terrors, decide to begin again. But, apparently they have come back for a visit. 

It certainly makes inviting someone to share my bed.... awkward. With the great possibility that I will bolt upright, eyes open, with a look of complete panic on my face. Screaming or barking orders is a whimsical bonus. How would I explain to a boy I like that there is a chance that I will begin punching and attacking in the middle of the night. "Uh, I really like you, so please don't run out of my house just because I begin to physically assault you at 3 am." 

My roommate, The Mechanic, casually mentioned at breakfast the other morning about whining and crying coming from my bedroom. He debated whether he should have attempted to wake me. Fearful of coming into my room might make the situation worse. Which it historicity has. I really feel like a whiny werewolf. Without the fun of turning furry. 

I might need to buy earplugs for The Mechanic, and maybe a lock for my bedroom door. One that locks form the outside. This is due to the events two nights ago; when I woke up to find I made a full Chinese Chicken Salad at 3:30 am. And ate it. Who sleep walks and makes a salad? Seriously. 

I can only hope they go away soon. Guys do not buy flimsy excuses about not wanting fall asleep with them. 

Super Squishy Elle Shaped Sofa of Love

It is back. After years of banishment, I get to announce its return. The return of the Super-Squishy-Elle-Shaped Sofa of Love.  

Back in my blogs from the 09-10 blogging season, I wrote a lot about having an "L" shaped sectional sofa that I loved to lounge upon during my free time. In 2010 the homosexual companion partner declared that the couch I loved, christened the Super Squishy Elle Shaped Sofa of love needed to go away. Its replacement was a leather set that was not comfortable, was not fun, but was high style. Ever since saying good bye to my super squishy lover, I have had a hole in my heart.

That hole was filled last weekend. When The Mechanic and I brought home a new Super-Squishy-Elle-shaped Sofa. It was love at first sight.  I proverbially slammed a champagne bottle against its bow and christened it the new sofa of over delightful squishiness. By eating pad-thai upon its loveliness.

I would like to introduce to you... my new friend...

God bless her, and all that sail upon her. 

Haters Gonna Hate, Hate, Hate

Grindr can be a fickle little app. If you don't utilize the hook-app known as Grindr, I'll explain it to you in the briefest terms I know. It is like Christian Mingle on your phone. But, for Homosexuals with anything but Christian acts in mind. It is best utilized as a homing device; as the phone app has a proximity alert built into the app. This takes your location and broadcasts it to other homosexuals on the app.  The easiest way to locate your closest gay.

It; however, has been over-wrought lately with spammers. These are fake profiles attempting to get you to give your phone number for their diabolical use. Canned sentences are given in hopes that you respond, all to say "hey, let's text? What is your number?" I, with apparently too much free time started to give the Focus on the Family main telephone number. This got boring fast. Then I did this...

Every spammer got lyrics to John Cash's Folsom Prison Blues.  I got through the entire song before this one asked for my phone number. I'm sure the reception desk of the anti-gay, faux-Christian Lobbing group,  Focus on The Family, is swarmed with telemarketer calls right now.

I  also changed my profile to state that I would not respond to any Chat Requests unless a code word was given.  Any line from any Taylor Swift song. What happened actually was quite funny..

Some guys really got into it...

It was kind of amazing how many guys just wanted to give me a Taylor Swift line.

 Others.... not so much.

Then there was the perfect response...

So if you are ever on Grindr, hit me up. But, only if you like Taylor Swift.

 

Run, Stevie Run

I got on a treadmill for the first time in six months. And by six months, I mean just under a year. Remember when I blogged ad nauseam about running? Yeah. I don't  really remember either. 

The other night, me and the roommate headed to the gym. I nodded my head in respect to the power of the treadmill and stepped on to its whirling belt. It. Felt. Amazing. For about eight minutes, then it was pure hell after that. But, I did it. I felt the old unhealthy lifestyle I had been sporting (mostly around my spare tire area) begin to take a hint.  

I, as a whole am taking tiny steps back into the warm sunlight of healthy choices. Those small things you do to ensure and reaffirm that you do; actually, like yourself.  The driving past fast food joints. The ending of excuses why you can not make it to the gym. 

Time slips away and before you know it small unhealthy choices turn into laziness that fuel and feed upon itself. As I stepped onto the treadmill, I heard the wake up call. Time to run. 

Steve Has A Meal at Home

I have a problem with my new roommate. Let us call him, Mike. Because that is his name. He also goes by Mike 'n the Mechanics, as that is his blogger name. As he has a blog, over at  mikenthemechanics.blogspot.com. But, I do have a major problem living with my new roommate. And here's why...

For the last year, when it comes to feeding myself, I have been foraging around the proverbial country side like a proverbial baby goat. Meaning, that when it came time that my belly needed to be filled, I would simply drive to the nearest food establishment, not excluding gas stations, and give my complaining stomach the fuel it needed. I can honestly say, I did not prepare and eat a meal at my home, ever. Not once in the last year. Maybe more.  A life of always dining out, drive-thru’s[sp], and pre-packaged processed food stuffs. For the last year… maybe two.  Why I lived this life doesn’t matter, let’s just say it was frowned upon for me to use the kitchen in the old house…. A lot. I just accommodated this requirement by shifting to a diet not unlike a wild boar. One of wandering the forest in search of the easiest meal. If the boar had a credit card and free time to sit in the drive thru of Jack ‘n The Box for yet another feast of Egg Rolls.

Now, back to the new kitchen. Picture it… I am able to utilize an over the range microwave without reciting first the cleaning regimen in vivid detail.  It’s a brave new world.  Last night, during my commute home I began to mull-over what my dining choices would be, and what I was in the mood for. This is when the phone rang. A bearish voiced informed me that Curry Chicken was prepared and ready for consumption. At home! The gall of my new roommate to think he can just prepare a nutritious and delicious meal, then share it with me.  I just got settled into a self-sufficient bubble of only eating fast-food, and he goes off and makes a home cooked meal?  Think of the profit loss Jack ‘N The Box will face. Panda Express will face a round of lay-offs.

As I sat at my breakfast bar, this morning, I thought how I now will have to re-learn my eating habits. I watched the spoon move around the bowl, unsure it was my hand mixing my microwave oatmeal.  I wondered if the lady at Starbucks, the one who gave me my morning Blueberry Scone, was missing me. “…and people sit together in the morning and drink coffee… and eat? Like at Starbucks? But, at home?” I asked my new roommate, Mike. “Yeah.” He said as he sipped his coffee. “It’s called being family.”

The Weather

The weather has been different lately; that is to say, it has been the same. Not that I'm blogging about the weather these days. It is just that I am. 

In the last couple of weeks the local area; that is to say, where I live. North of Denver, has settled into a predicable weather pattern. Sunny in the morning, with thunder storms rolling in to control the late afternoon and evening. This pattern seems to have locals perplexed. It seems so different. So unusual. 

To me it is just a return to normal. My early twenties were spent roaming the streets of downtown Denver. I do recall the early June days of this time. Let's call this time "back in the day." So, back in the day, when Ace of Base ruled the FM band, early June meant get your shit done early in the day, because the rain would fall. 

Life is this way. The expectations and boxes we insert ourselves into, seem like the predictable weather. Then, the weather changes. And you are standing there wondering; that is to say, perplexed about the pattern and how you can't rely on anything these days. 

The weather has changed. That is to say; the pattern I thought was set, has changed. The atmospheric conditions remind me of back in the day.  

A New Room

It has been a week of boxes. A time of seemingly endless folding open, and taping cardboard boxes. To slowly packing items that belong to you. Sifting through what is yours and not yours. Sorting through what is yours or no longer yours. It is funny how things that you always just assumed were yours, somehow get moved to the "not yours" pile. You take what is now just yours and toss it into a cardboard box. Taping up whole thing closed.

Boxes are on the move.  

Waking up in a different room can bring about a whirl of emotions. All in the time it takes to open your eyes. A sense of the  unfamiliar, being a stranger in a strange room. The feeling of freedom. The understanding that the official close to a chapter of life. The acknowagement that an exciting and unknown path has been cleared. 

Boxes are in the move. So am I. 

Thank You

I started blogging on Sunday, November 11, 2007. My first entry was written from a place of closing a door. A process of saying goodbye to my partner of four years. It was the beginning of growth for me, shared with the world via a tiny spec on a blogger platform in a tiny spec of the internet.  I blogged ever since.

As part of this growth, I began to blog about meeting a new guy, the dating, and the building of a relationship. Fuzzy was written about as our relationship grew, faced challenges, and surpassed milestones. I blogged about being part of a larger whole.

I have not blogged lately about that larger whole. I felt it too painful to blog. The first time in eight years I held back from you, the reader. For this I do apologize. The process of dismantling a relationship is difficult, at best…

I feel like I am back to 2007, writing to you about the process of closing a door. I must begin the process of saying goodbye to my partner of eight years. I step forward to accept the beginning of growth.  I start by saying thank you, thank you Fuzzy for many years… For the good, and surprisingly enough the bad.  Thank you for it all.

Made it Through the Wilderness...

I woke up this morning singing a line from a Madonna song. "I made through the wilderness... somehow I made it through-ooo-ooo-ooo! Didn't know how lost I was... but now I dooooo. " That is not even close to Madonna's Like a Virgin. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm through the frickin' wilderness. Yes, I made it through.

I didn't realize it had been since April 20th that I blogged. I do apologize. Somehow, the new job and attempting to finish my term papers absconded with my time. I am now, somewhat settled into the routine of the new job. It seems to be amazing. Back in the Human Resources field. It is pretty much Monday through Friday, with normal days and somewhat normal hours. I get to work part-week at Denver's airport, along with San Diego and other smaller airports. I am sure it's going to be aggravating, irritating, and wonderful work. 

Yesterday at midnight was the deadline for my last paper. And trust me when I say I used every minute. This was due to my massive presentation I had to build in PowerPoint. I spent weeks building an interactive presentation of the Continental Army and their struggle to get to Trenton, for the Battle of Trenton. The presentation I built was amazing. With battle sounds and smoke that drifted across the screen. Yesterday all I had to do was up-load it...... "Where's my iPad????? I ran though house like Chris Brown looking for a woman to beat. I ripped apart my Jeep. By noon I had to give in and rebuild my presentation. Sad Steve. No battle sounds. No smoke. 

My papers are turned in; along with my sad presentation. "C's get degrees." C's get degrees." I chanted as I uploaded my slap-dashed finial project. 

Today, Steve is done and dusted with the new job stress, and the Spring semester. "Made it through the wilderness....." Now, let's get this Spring thing started. 

Stress

Next Monday is the first day of my new job. I also have two massive term papers to write before the 9th of May, one with a stupid video production. So, sure! I'll whip up a Power Point on the Hessian loss to George Washington, all whilst learning a new job. Then, I'll zip out twelve pages comparing and contrasting two of my favorite Shakespearian plays.

Along with my schizophrenic dating, and other life changing events on the horizon, my stress level is through the roof. But, it should all settle down quickly. 

My face when I read the term-paper requirements....

And Baby Makes Three

I am currently conducting a research study, with my dating habits as of late. And, I am learning a lot.  After I turned forty years old, I started to date guys in their twenties. I honestly believed there were no differences in guys my age and gay men in their twenties.  I went through this twenty year old phase in my life, and I thought that since I was once twenty, I would understand. I am here to report that I am dead wrong.  

There seems to be is a magical age when guys are old enough that they're bored with the hookup scene and interested in relationships, yet haven't reached the point where they're bored with relationships, and just want to hook up. This has nothing to do with chronological age. It has more to do with when the individual comes out. The key to finding any guy is to find one on the same pendulum swing as you. This hasn’t changed since I was posting ads on the back pages of Denver’s  Outfront Newspaper. Yes, before the interwebs, we had to post ads in the singles column of our gay newspapers. Chiseled into stone tablets, if I remember. 

It appears that younger guys pendulums swing faster these days. Kids, I tells ya. When I do sit down on a date I have a series of questions I like to ask.  Yeah, know, after the “do your parents know where you are?”question. The clearest one is, “Are you attracted to older guys on a personal level, or physical level?” This shows me whether there’s a Daddy fetish going on, or if it’s a maturity compatibility thing. When I was twenty I hated interacting with other twenty year olds, I preferred having a conversion with people over forty.  The other questions are “Do you know who Matthew Shepard, and Larry Kramer are? Have you seen the film, Paris is Burning?” The answers are surprising. Is it wrong to give a homework assignment after the first date? I think no. 

There is; however, something new, other than the fact that no gay man under the age of twenty-six would ever have a Facebook account. The guys I have dated as of late, are now thinking love and marriage. And children. It seems that generation next, have the freedom and acceptance to be able to dream of settling down and raising a family. This truly is - a different time, my friends. 

'Better Work

Yesterday marked an amazing and scary change in my life. I emailed my boss and turned in a two week notice.

This action was the end result of four weeks worth of interviews for a great new position with an exciting company. It was an unexplainable catharsis to click send on the email.  A moment of feeling the heavy iron shackles beginning to loosen around my ankles.

The irony of the situation was when, hours later, my boss called me. Instead of discussing the email, he laid into the insurmountable pile of work he had lined up for me that day. When he finally finished his lecture on time management, I simply asked if he checked his own email.... The pile of work disappeared, upon his reading out-loud of my gifted mail.

On to bigger and better things. But, as the goddess of irony gives; she also takes. My first week on the new jobs is right during finials week at school.