The Oil Rig Fire

An odd thing happens when you mention that your parent just passed. There is that phase were you hear your own voice confirm the fact, hearing that your Mom is dead. But, I’m more speaking to the reaction by other people. There is of course the expected “oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Which honestly goes a long way in my book. Let’s just acknowledge it and move forward. Yet, I have noticed another reaction. The reaction where the person I just shared the statement with, and I expect the acknowledgment, then goes into a long dramatic tale of how their parent too died, but in much more horrid and traumatic fashion. Like it’s a competition.

 

My favorite response to “How did she die?”  is to steal a line from the Golden Girls “Fighting an oil rig fire in the Gulf.” [pause] “She was eighty-three, how do you think she died?!?”

 

I am usually great at getting away from small-talk conversations. As I don’t really care for people, and I have found endless ways to avoid them. Yet, when someone is interrupting your story of how you learned of your Mothers passing to strut and fret their hour upon the stage, explaining exactly how long their mother of incontinent before being found dead with her thirteen year old cat Snoodle, there is no real escape. Now that you have a dead parent in common, are they free to dump their pent-up emotional baggage upon you? I say, no. Unless you’re asked.

Cars

I am still vacillating on a new car.  As I have been blogging for over ten years I can look back and see that I go through this phase every four years. Which, keeping a car for four years is actually incredible considering my history and eighteen year old level of instant gratification on everything in my life.

 

Sure the Jeep is fine, other than the fact that Mike, the bestie, who also is a certified expert Jeep mechanic, doesn’t want to fix it any more. I mean, his only replaced the fuel pump three times. In four years. But, now he wants to break up with my Jeep. So, now I have to decide what car will define me for the next four years.

 

Mike says that I don’t like a car unless it’s attached to a “holier-than-thou cult.” I need to drive a vehicle that has me standing apart from the muggle drivers on the road. Not fancy, like the BMW emblem on the hood would make me feel superior, to the contrary. He believes that my car needs to give me the same feeling that a freshly pressed vinyl album of an obscure alternative band (one you’ve never heard of) gives a bearded hipster.  A hip-alternative (yet totally non-douchey) to the BMW, but just as snow flaky.

 

Yeah. He is totally right. But, he spends a lot of time around people and the relationship with their cars.

 

So, you would immediately think something like Mini Cooper or Subaru. They kind of have the same sensibilities as my Jeep Wrangler. Alter-hip-cool. This was what I thought until I sat at an intersection in the Boulder, Colorado. There were six cars around me, waiting for the light. All six were blue Subaru Outbacks. It’s like the city has a law to ticket non-Subaru drives inside the city limits of this up-market college town.

 

So it’s back to thinking about the Volkswagen Alltrack wagon. A sporty station wagon that is just sporty enough, yet station wagony enough to say, “Yeah, I drive a sport wagon. I’m so cool.. But I don’t need you to tell me I’m cool.” But, there are so many things to consider. Like will the bike rack on top look imposing enough. Like the Yakima Rack attached to the spear tire of my Jeep. Sure I’ve never used it, but, it looks like I’m a mountain biker.  

 

After next weekend I really need to decide, God help me if my fuel pump goes out on my Wrangler. Again.

 

 

Almost Summer

I literally have one day of classes left until school is out for the summer. I do have one major exam to take next Tuesday, then I am free for the summer. The exam will however, possibly kill me so I might not see the summer. It is two hours of free-style essays on Rene Descartes and David Hume. Descartes I pretty okay with, understanding his arguments for the existence of God. In the mid-term I had to argue a seminal point and ended up re-writing the plot to the Lion King. I missed a letter grade because I miss-represented Simba for the name Kimba. Not sure that happened.

 

For the finial I plan on explaining Rene’s position on the whole “God” thing using analogies from Beauty and the Beast.  “No one explains an a-priori argument like Gaston!!” I do however, have no idea about how I am going to write about David Hume. For the last four weeks, when we have been discussing Hume’s argument of God’s inconsistencies in regard to human suffering; I have been just staring at his sassy turban on the textbook cover. No one, living or dead, can argue that we may perceive two events that seem to occur in conjunction, yet there is no way for us to know the nature of their connection in an argument against the concept of causation and do it while rocking a turban like that man.

 

After next Tuesday it will all be over. And, I will be free to enjoy my summer.

* It's like a he-man beer commercial.

The First Mother

It is tough having your Mother pass-away on the same day as Barbara Bush. 

All media sources seem to have prepopulated new stories about how the life of this wife and mother impacted the country. A loving mother raising children who changed the world. A supportive wife, who stood by her husband for seventy-three years.  All these tributes to the former first lady portray her as a throwback to an earlier and almost genteel era of America. This silver-haired matriarch of a political dynasty. Barbara Bush Who used her rule to enrich the family and country she served. 

Yet, as the warm glow softens the loss felt by the passing of such an impactful mothering presence; you begin to question this loyalty to memory. Was she not the lady that ripped her red AIDS ribbon from her blouse before joining her husband on the podium at the Republican National Convention?  Agreeing, that yes “Barbara Bush was a generous and smart and amazing racist who, along with her husband, raised a war criminal.”*

As the people around me are speaking of the life and legacy of a woman who brought safety, warmth, and enrichment into their lives.  I struggle to not think of the warmongering. I search my mind for any time that is not a war on terror. When my Christian name was not replaced with "that Dirty Democrat." When handing over the book, "Loving Someone Gay" it is tossed into the trash. How do you remember a dedicated racist? A person who used racism as an artist uses paint upon a canvas. The art of racism instilled so deeply in her children, it would take years of new coursework to learn tolerance and compassion?  

I can almost accept that she was a throwback to an earlier and almost genteel era of America. But, it is also the time when the "N" word was used with joyous passion.  I can accept the warm and nostalgic retelling of a life in which the person weaving the narrative had a much different experience to mine. They must have never experienced the warmongering. The removal of the red ribbon. Or, simply, they have and are better at understanding that when an individual dies, you only speak of the good things. 

So, rest in peace. Your legacy is secure. 

* Randa Jarrar 

Choose a Drag Name, Kitties

There are countless ways to choose a drag name. Some of the formulas include the name of the street you grew up on, mixed with your first pet’s name. I truly believe the proper way to attach a name to that fierce inner drag persona you have is to use google. 

More preciously google your local animal shelter and pull up the “Adoptable Cats” page. I’m not sure who is in charge of naming the plethora homeless kitties, but they are witty little people.  So, all you need to do is can down the kolumns of kitties. The left side is your first name. The right your last...

Who knows, maybe you could adopt a cat, that matches your sickening new stage name.  Welcome to the stage!! Linda Midge!!!!!!!!  

In Denver, Colorado you can start here...

Denver Dumb Friends League

Trapped in a Tiny Chair

Yesterday was the first day of class. I am pretty excited for this chapter of my eduction. I can now just choose the classes I want; meaning, I am only sitting in classes that I have an exceedingly high level of interested. First up is a class devoted to the Thirty Years War. One of my my favorite chapters of history. That time-frame in Central Europe between 1618 and 1648 when the Holy Roman Emperor (who was not holy, not Roman, nor an Emperor) Ferdinand II of Bohemia was crowned Holy Douchebag I by kicking some Protestants in the balls. This led Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden to be credited with starting that hair cut that every gay male has today. So, another reason we owe a debt to Swedish trendsetters. 

The Professor of this class has stated he will stay away of the popular stories of 1600s and 1700s. Because If I have to hear one more lecture of the Restoration of the English Monarchy, I may puke. I kid, I kid. A bit. This class should be all French/Dutchiness. 

The other class is Modern Philosophy. Which I thought was gonna be all Ayn Rand and debating Quasi-Realism to prove that I don't exist. But no Atlas Shrugging for me. Nope. Starting out we will be finding out that we think, therefore we...be. Sorry, René Descartes. It's fine, but your haircut bothers me. Seriously who wears bangs?? Outside of Zooey Deschanel. 

Both of these classes are in the older buildings on campus which means the class rooms are small and they sport those desks attached to chairs. This makes me feel like a circus bear stuck on a bicycle. I cram my large frame into the tiny chair and attempt to blend in with the muggle-sized co-students. This is a small price to pay however, to learn of Swedish war victories.  

Black Alert

I have become addicted to two new TV shows. This rarely happens because I am usually to busy to watch television. Since I have one more week until school starts, I am enjoying this time. The first is a Korean show designed for fourteen year old girls. But, since I am a fourteen year old girl, it fits. It is Boon Soon; or, Strong Woman Do Bong-soon. To sum it up, it is about a Korean twenty-something that has super powers. She needs to hide these powers from the dreamy boy she loves. Hilarity ensues. The next, is an easy guess. The new Star Trek Discovery. Although the last episode left me a bit bored. I do; however, love one new aspect, since we (Star Trek nerds) know the RED-ALERT announcement, it was exciting to hear a new alert. BLACK-ALERT! BLACK-ALERT! This announcement is when the ship jumps in a new, unseen way for the Star Trek universe.

This immediately made me want to make this sound as a new ring tone. Having my phone loudly ring "black-alert" with the computer background noise, was super-cool. This to replace my traditional, Star Trek "red-alert" ring tone.

I, being super proud of finding this ring tone online, then having to download conversion apps, wanted to show off my new ring tone to the boyfriend last night. Filled with pride, I launched my new BLACK-ALERT sound. Sure he was going to be proud of my nerdiness and also connect it to the new Star Trek Discovery show. "Baby, you want your phone to announce black alert?" He paused to let that sink in. It did not sink into my brain. "Baby. Your phone is going to scream, 'black' alert?!"

Oh God.... I didn't even....

I guess I wont have a Star Trek black alert ring tone. 

Spring Pooh

It is that time of year again. no, not Gymuary. Although that phenomenon is in full force. Is it just me, or is it every January that the "Circuit Bros" attempt to take over? They begin to lay dumbbells and water bottles on every bench they quite possibly use in all of 2018. You can walk into the free-weight section at your local gym, and feel that the rapture happened as there are nothing but a sea of towels, water bottles, and tiny dumb bells scattered around the area. God wants the fit. Apparently.    

For me, this time of year happens twice a year. About two weeks before the next semester of school. I log into my school's bookstore website and see what books I need. Then I go to Amazon and see what I can buy cheaper online. 99.9% of the time, I get lazy, forget to order through Amazon and still end up at the University bookstore to buy my used/abused copies of needed books. 

This Spring, I am taking Early Modern Europe History, and Modern Philosophy. The books for the history class are Fractured Europe, Luis XIV, The Thirty Years War, and ironically a book called Enlightenment. All of these are "required reading." I totally dig early European history, so I am super excited; because, that is the kind of nerd I am. 

The Modern Philosophy class has no books listed yet. Other than the famous The Tao of Pooh which I read cover-to-cover at least twenty times in my 20s. Until I left it on the seat of my best-friend's Fiero when it was repossessed. (The car-- not the book). So..... Literally I am going to re-read Winnie the Pooh in University. I wonder if I should ask Burt to replace my copy of Pooh that was lost in his Pontiac Fiero?

Starting Somethin’

Mike, my single and available roommate, and I share quite the great house. We think so, anyway. Great views, great kitchen. The only downside is that there is only a one-car garage. This, of course is not a point of contention as we have simply decided to swap out the garage on a monthly basis. On the first of the month, the other guy gets to start parking their vehicle in the tight garage. This morning was the first full day for my Jeep to be snug inside, whilst Mikes Sportage had to bare the freezing temps. At precisely 5:14AM I heard Mikes super-fancy toothbrush spring to life through our bathrooms’ common wall. I am not sure why his electric toothbrush is so frickin' loud, But maybe the more money you spend on a toothbrush the louder it is to instill a sense that it is doing a great job.  

Since I knew that in seven minutes time, Mike would come bounding out of his bedroom, insert toast into his mouth and make for the door, I thought I would treat him. Grabbing his keys I made my way to my bedroom window. I saw Mike's car sitting out in the cold, shivering in its first night in the frost and snow. I pressed the Remote Start fob on his key chain.... excited about how happy my best friend will be when he is greeted to a warm car. 

Nothing. 

Well, his fob is different than mine... I kept pressing it over and over. The car just sat there; un-started. 

I examined the key fob....."G-enie" was the logo upon it. "Funny, Genie makes garage door openers AND remote starts?" This is when I glanced over and noticed that the garage door was making yet another round of its fiftieth open and down sequence. Turns out Mike does not have a remote start on this car. I carefully returned his keys to the kitchen bar and continued my morning routine perplexed what happened to his remote start... thingy. 

Turns out he has not installed a remote start on this car yet. Since he buys cars so often, serves him right to have a cold car. 

Grade B

It took forever to get my grades from the Fall semester. To be honest, I did horridly on one of my my finial papers. I’m not just saying that, like a sixteen year old after theater tryouts. I really just plagiarized and patronized poor Karl Marx. This is a new level of classes. The whole semister was depended upon only three major papers. No “class participation” no “extra credit” just my questionable writing skills to make the grade. But still...

Jeep Steve

I have been thinking about buying a new car. Although it seems I just bought my Jeep Wrangler, it’s been four years. It boggles my mind to type that four years have passed since my Jeep was brand new. I love my Jeep, but the itch for a new vehicle grows larger with each passing day. I mean, I would keep my knobby tired, super cool friend forever. But, change is also good. What is catching my eye, you ask? Well, something that is the furtherest thing from a Jeep; a VW Wagon. The Alltrack, actually. But, yes. It’s a station/estate wagon. About half the size of the Wrangler. 

For some odd reason station/estate wagons appeal to me. The sport ones anyway. There’s this cool. I don’t care what you think vibe. Kind of like a Jeep. Just in a different direction. Other than the Douche Bro. aspect people attribute to a Jeep in traffic. 

I guess I should go test-drive the Alltrack again and make sure I can live the next four years sitting so low in traffic. And whether I can give up that butch feeling that comes over me when I enter Chessmen Park in a 4X4. 

I’ll never Forget You!

I broke down and bought a new phone. No, not the IphoneX. There’s something unsettling about the face recognition thing. But, that is a delusional blog post for another day. I really had to buy a new iPhone because of the huge mistake I made upon buying my old phone. A 6S+ with a tiny amount of storage. Dumb I know. This meant not being able to have any apps on my phone, like the Blogger app. After a daily pop-up stating I couldn’t take a picture because my storage was low, I went to the Apple store. Now I’m all about the 8+. With the largest storage they offer. 

The hardest part was the giving up on Michael Phelps.

See... back during the London 2012 Olympics,  I saw American swimmer, Micheal Phelps for the first time. Every time he casually entered the swimming facility, he was sporting Sol Republic head phones. I ran out and bought a pair. I’ve been wearing them ever since. But..... the new phone doesn’t have a headphone jack for the cord; It’s all Bluetooth.  Yes, there’s the adapter. But, it’s not the same. Also yes, during the Rio Olymics, Phelps wore wireless headphones. But, the impression was already made. 

It’s time so say goodbye to my Sol Republic headphones.  The era has passed. Goodbye old friends. I’ll sport wireless Bluetooth and think of the glory days. 

Defending Socrates' Virtue

In my mind I am waging a heated war. In my mind.

 

The unlawful combatant that is preemptively attacking my reinforced boarder, you ask? My Ancient Philosophy Professor. Okay, so mostly I’m killing him twice weekly with my mind powers. Okay, so I’m mostly staring down his evil gaze whilst he attempts to teach me Plato’s Republic. Yes, I’m learning new definitions and arguments for how we as a society define our concepts of “intent” verses “action” but, still that’s not the point. I hate this professor with every fiber of my knowledge yearning being.

 The most important thing to pass along to you in this blog post is that, yes; it is widely known that Socrates liked his guys young. Real young. But, in Protagoras, by Plato I have learned that Socrates was not a Pedophile. It is clearly written that Socrates’ latest boyfriend has a beard. Stating that his taste in men is when the beard first grows in on the face. But, heaven forbid you bring this fact up in the middle of class! This Professor sure likes to box up the world’s strongest and most quoted philosopher as a boy licker. Lasers shot from my eyes. In my mind.

 Okay, this isn’t really the reason I want him dead. It is because I wrote an eight page paper on the concept of Akrasia. You know, the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will. I stopped myself from using example of dating dudes ten-fifteen years younger to explain this concept. Instead maintained a professional tone. At the end of this project I submitted a paper I was really proud to complete. I got a C. Okay, a C-. I would share with you why I got such a low grade, based upon his full-page hand written tear down, but I cannot possible read his handwriting. I can make out “I know you can do better than this…” What??? You don’t know me!!! Jerk. Upon my failure to read his comments, he then announced that he will not review any student papers. “Not my policy.” He stupidly announced.

I have one more paper to write before the semester ends on the 13^th of December. I’m sure “I can do better” not that I know what that is.

 

Ten Years of StevieB

Today marks the tenth anniversary of the Nice to see StevieB blog. Blogging, remember blogging? A strange fad of the 00's and for me personally a decade-long explosion of keeping a digital diary. Yes, ten years have passed since I began to post my angst and joys, and a lot of stuff has moved my life forward while I blogged away.

My very first entry, ten years ago today,  was set in the wild frontier days of online life for humanity.  I wrote about ending a relationship; the one I thought was going to last forever. Since that first post about the last of that relationship, I have met that person's forever-forever and danced at their wedding with a guy who is the best thing that has happened to me.

So blogging was just a mere fad of the 00's. And yet, there seems to be a new generation of bloggers. Twenty years needing an outlet which is deeper than Snapchat and Instagram. Like they invented it. Back in my day we had to log into our tower desk top G4 Apples to blog. Not as easy as just telling Siri what to post on an Apple ten.

Happy anniversary to me. Ten years and I am just as cool as the post-Hipster generation sharing life as they begin to explore the world. Me? Yeah I too feel like I'm ready to explore the world. Or continue to explore the world.    

Rent

I despise the musical Rent.  I understand as we have celebrated the twentieth anniversary of this award winning show, it’s a part of our LGBTQ tapestry. Even more than that, it is a true representation of life in one’s twenties. Attempting to discover how to become comfortable in one’s own skin. But is it? I too was in my twenties, shocking I know. There is an age of discovery when you are out on your own, finding a place to stay warm. How to function in a society that does not care. Rent is a mirror held up to America to force everyone to see HIV. To see true loneliness, helplines, and inner strength. How in modern times the simple act of paying rent was the pure definition fighting to find a place in this world. But is it? The opening number of Rent is a declaration of how regardless of how society defines them, they’re not gonna pay, they’re not gonna pay last year’s rent; this year’s rent; next year’s rent.

Now, I understand this declaration. I do. I was out on my own in the middle of high school. Attempting to get up and go to high school while living in a flop-house filled up with homeless homosexuals. Hiding stolen jars of peanut butter under my bed so I could have dinner. My twenties would see me in a series of run-down scary-ass apartments. Progressively getting better as my jobs paid more and my education progressed.  Slowly working my way through my twenties. Avoiding, unbelievably, the HIV virus, and the rats that lived in the apartment dumpsters. There is one thing I did do differently…

I paid my fucking rent.

There is one thing that always struck me as odd while attempting to find make a home for myself in my twenties. Moving from place to place. These scary ass apartments had one thing in common. They were filled with people that did not know how place their garbage into the dumpster. Bags of trash would always find their way next too, adjacent, but not into the trash cans. As I left my twenties and moved into my thirties, I also left the type of apartments that white people point to and make cases for Urban Renewal. Yet, even as my monthly rent skyrocketed, there were still those bags of garbage that don’t make it into the trash cans. It just goes to show that every social-economic class has its inconsiderate A-holes.  From paying rent in can goods to a possible pedophile named Rick, to automatic bank transfers for $2000.00, some declarations in our twenties do not change society.

Now I live in an apartment that overlooks a golf course. A statement that cannot be conveyed without coming off like you are attempting to sound pretentious. So, yes. Golf course on one side, but turn to your left and you will see the city’s loudest commuter train link. Down the block you see the low-income housing. Where all leases include the legal statement, “you must install a dinette set and console television upon your balcony.” We have a pocket of luxury, and we are allowed to enjoy it for the monthly price of a new Honda Prelude in 1978. Yet, still that stack of crud sit next to dumpsters. Last week a fully decorated Christmas tree, sat next to a happy (if not befuzzled) snowperson. A true Christmas in July. My roommate taking beaming selfies with each exciting pile of shit then sending them to our management company.

I guess I am viewing the musical Rent through the eyes of someone in their mid-forties. I still feel it is trite and sensationalist. Yet, if I squint I can see the twenty year old terrified that a virus was stalking me, and how I stepped over bags of trash next to dumpster as I left for yet another waitering job. Not knowing if I was going to make next month’s rent. Some things, even if you perform a song about them, do not change.

 

Bad Meowance

For many extenuating circumstances I have an office with a private bathroom. At work. I mean, I also have aprivate bathroom at home; but, that’s more common. At work, I understand how this is an uncommon luxury that I am afforded. Every day I am thankful for this. Having my own bathroom in my own office. To celebrate this I spend a lot of time in my private bathroom. Some of my blog posts… may… or may not be written whilst enjoying this luxury.

During this time, I like to sing. By this I mean, since I’m alone on my own time, and there is all the tile around the acoustics are amazing. So why not sing? Well, there is anendless amount or reasons NOT to sing. My song book is limited, along with my talent. The only song I really know is Lady GaGa’s Bad Romance. It is not because I particularly enjoy Lady GaGa; in fact I can’t stand her. The only reason why I sing Bad Romance is thanks to my Ex. Yes, it was a “bad romance” but, mostly because upon the release of this song, he spend countless hours attempting to teach himself the tune on our living room piano. For hours at a time…. Hours upon hours.

 I don’t know the words to this song any more than anyone knows the words to The Battle Hymn of The Republic.This doesn’t bother, nor stop me as I prefer to meow. Like a cat. Not sure how the choice was made. Like the meowing is more musical or fitting to the song than say…. barking, or hooting like an owl. Sitting in my bathroom. Meowing.Bad Romance. At full volume.

This morning, the person who has the office next door, asked a concerning question in our Morning Meeting. “Is there a cat in the office?” the replies around the table were a conclusive “No,why?” She continued that she distinctively heard a cat crying for help. “Like it was trapped somewhere.” I wanted to probe with questions like “Did it sound in tune?” “Did this meowing sound like a pop tune you enjoy?” But, I remained silent.

The office staff is now on the lookout for a trapped cat. Possibly dying by its death rattle. But, definitely in need of serious help.  

Hockey Star turned Cop Finds a Yellow Lab

I am being haunted by mybad choices.

In the timeframe ofterminating my last relationship and my current dating my boyfriend status Imade some really bad choices. You can see this reflected in my lack of bloggingas well. It was a time of re-thinking and reflection of what made Steve, Steve.During this time I was also doing traveling for work, and I needed some-sort ofcomfort. Now, a more exotic man would have turned to drinking. Or, maybe aninvestment of a tattoo. As many people have demonstrated in life, getting inkinjected into their skin is a perfect way to come to terms with change in theirlives. If I would have been more cleaver, I would have inked a dragon onto my bulgingupper arm. Instead, it turned to something much worse and self-destructive.

Audiobooks.

Okay, not just yourstandard audiobooks; Gay. Romance. It pains me to even admit it here, but yes.I was addicted to Audible.com and their painfully wide selection of gay romancenovelas. I can’t really remember much about this time span. It was thankfully short-lived.I also cannot re-tell any plots, other than that they were painfully formulaic.It would typically be a straight identifying hockey player who owned a farm,or maybe a cop who had his wife die. Sometimes it would be a ranch owner, maybea ranch owning cop that played hockey in college. In these stories there was alsowas a buddy; maybe they played together on the college team, or went throughthe academy together. The buddy was always heterosexual identifying as well. Longstory short (pun intended) never knew…. feelings…. explore… implied betrayal…. reconciliation….adopting a stray yellow lab (so fake, like a yellow lab would ever be a stray) andthen the most perfect Christmas would happen. Anyway, these books taught me to loveagain. Blah.blah.blah.

I have recovered from mydays of dark habits. And have gone on to become a functioning member of society. But, it seems my choices will never befree of me. As I skim through my Audible account I am constantly reminded. See,with an Audible account you can delete books from your phone, or table, butthey will never be truly gone. They are always list under “Your Account Books”The only way to destroy any trace is to delete my account and start over. But,this means I will delete many good books. To remove The Truth as He Knows It I must also delete all of my AldousHuxley.

I would have kept this myprivate shame. But, then I borrowed my Boyfriends car. Well, he was out of townand I was driving it to get detailed. I synced by phone via Bluetooth to listento some tunes while driving. This meant that when he returned and wehopped into his car, months later. My phone somehow usurpted his phone. Myphone did not start playing Rammstein, no.  It decided to play chapter twelve of The Heart as He Hears It. A touchingscene of Chad coming to terms that a hockey player/cop can really love his bestfriend on many levels including a level based upon anal.

I have not heard the endof it. A constant reminder of how I have gay romance at my fingertips is fed to me on a daily dose from many friends.  It may have been easier if I hadjust covered my arms with ubiquitous and played-out tribal tattoos.

 

 

Pulling a Differential

Last week I went with Becca, and the Boyfriend, Naveen, to get mani-pedis in beautiful downtown Boulder, Colorado.  This is a standing appointment we have as friends on a semi-monthly basis. As this time it was in Becca's town of Boulder we ate Indian and wandered over to the nail salon. Now, when we do this Becca gets her toes and hands done, Naveen gets a pedi and polish, and I get just a pedi. Every appointment I see the ritual play out. Becca and Naveen approach the polish wall and debate the best and cutest colors for their soon to be pampered fingers and toes. And every time I decline to join the fun.

 It is not that I am against men having polish, I am just against me having polish. Take yesterday as an example, in the gym’s locker room. Bright orange polished toes popped out of a work sock and my first thought was, “Really?” a grown man with painted toe nails. Not that I am attaching any feminine verses masculine traits. I do not believe that a painted nail is a feminine and should not be associated with manly-men. I just about standing out. Being a peafowl at my age. Twenty years ago I would do anything to make my uniqueness stand out. Bottles of Sun-in Hair Lightener Spray came to their end in my hands. But, now I content with eight versions of the same grey tee-shirt folded neatly in my dresser drawer. So it still shocks me daily since our last trip to mani-pediland. Yeah, know… since the bright orange toes are mine.

I tell the lucky people in the public realm that are exposed to my Safety-orange toes that I am just waiting for the polish to grow out. Like the polish was against my will. Like I was held down by mob of Vietnamese nail techs. When I was in the junkyard… pulling a rear differential from a ’73 Torino.  “They came out of nowhere and softened my cuticles and applied two gel coats before I could fight them off!” But, now that I think about it, Neither Becca, nor Naveen even mentioned me getting polish. I guess I wanted to be adorable.

Godzilla

I made Mike and the boyfriend, Naveen, sit through a Godzilla movie yesterday. It was Godzilla verses Mothra. No, Not the awesome classic 1964 version. It was an odd sort of remake from 1983. I am finding that both on Hulu and Netflicks, first run classic movies are disappearing faster than King Ghidorah into deep space. (That’s fast). It is exceedingly tough to find and good classic movie. Even ITunes is losing its collection.

Now, I have said many times that I have horrible taste in movies. When Mike the roommate, and/or Naveen settle down with me to watch a movie I wince at the thought of watching any mainstream movie. I will watch it. But, the sound of my eyes rolling may interrupt the experience. I understand that there is a given small amount of 1950’s – 1970’s Science Fiction movies in the universe. This means that my choices are limited, but even with such a small genre you would think that platforms such as Hulu or Netflicks would have a wider selection. Or… still have a wide selection. Because they did. Before they got cool.

 

 

Eighth Grade

In eighth grade I felt that friends were the most important element for maintaining life. Not food, or water, not even air. It was having a group of friends. Now, of course this is just like all thirteen year olds. So, this statement is not ground breaking, but in junior high it was. When I was thirteen, I had a weird collection of friends. This circle; however, did not include the most important person in my life, that being Kyle Harris. He was, and I was completely sure of this, the perfect example of what I needed in a friend.  

 In life, you do not need to bring up in conversations how smart you are. As in, how much education you have received. People do not need to know your diploma status. These things are self-evident. If you have a Masters in the Social Sciences this knowledge will gracefully glide across the table.  No one needs to be beat in the head with a diploma. This also holds true for being a friend. Friendship, or being a good friend cannot be forced. Well, it can, but it never ends well.

 This was the case of Kyle. From Fall until early Spring I struggled to enter his realm of friends. Although Kyle and I would occasionally hang out, and I thought we had fun together in the eighth grade level of buds; I spent countless amounts of energy blending in with his other friends. I acknowledged they were way above in my social standing, but, boy did I try. There were many times I begged my Mother for new cable knit sweaters, as Kyle’s buds had already seen the twelve I had. Every move was calculated on how I could force my person into group social situations. I was sure that Kyle and I were solid, but yearned for him to put a good word for me, so I could join their table in the lunch room. Still I sat with my collection of freaks in a six-month old knock-off Ralph Lauren sweater.

On a freezing March morning I approached Kyle as he sat with the friends.  I tried to push into the group and be part of the conversation. This was met by couple of other guys quickly telling me to beat it. As I accepted their advice I attempted to remain cool and wander off. This is when I overheard Kyle say “yeah, he hero worships me. It’s annoying. I can’t get rid of him.”

 And this is when I first learned about being a friend verses being a good friend. It is the actions taken by someone you trust when you are not around. I never talked to Kyle again. The funny thing was that he never missed it, missed my friendship, and never approached me. The funny thing was, within a week that group of guys I sat with lunch noticed how much more fun I was to be around. The rest of the school year was pretty memorable. Hanging out at the mall, going over to friends’ houses. Just enjoying the short time I had until the end of eighth grade.

To Sleep; To Read

I need a book to read.

Since February I have been re-reading the Harry Potter series. From "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much." All the way to "all was well."  Several times through. I would continue this cycle until my phone gets replaced with some new technology that doesn’t support audio books, or I die. Whichever comes first. Oh, did I mention that when I say “read” I mean to listen to audio books whist I drive, or when I should be sleeping, but I am not.  So, really I need a new book to hear.

I have found that instead of actual sleep I can indulge in listening to The Half Blood Prince for the hundredth time. What fascinates me most about not sleeping, is the massive amount to prohibited things one cannot do when the civilized world, the ones without scary dreams waking them up every ten minutes, sleep.  Like I cannot clean the kitchen when others “have work in the morning” like my roommate. So really there is not many options that won’t bring your downstairs neighbor upstairs to criticize my vacuuming ability and flexibility. So audio books, seem to be the only option.

The problem is other people. When stating this problem of needing to find the next great book series to fill my long nights, is that people really want to answer. To offer help in this book search. “Oh, I just finished a great series about a woman who is a taxidermist and solves WW II crossword puzzles she found in a mysterious crate on her gap year trip to Poland. It has a man that drives an old Volkswagen beetle. I don’t remember the name though. Uh… Turns out the baby eats lead paint and dies. Sad really.” After an entire re-telling of this saga of boring VW drivers, the last thing I want to do is find out the title. Or, speak to the person offering the information ever again.

I guess I will continue my quest for a great book series. To listen to, while waiting away the night when I should be sleeping.

Sliding Through Summer

My roommate, Mike mentioned it yesterday. That summer was mostly over. “It is not!” I quickly replied. Then, I started to think about summer and realized that he’s kind of correct, we are past the half-way point. Sliding through the sun going down at 9pm straight into wearing Dad sweaters.

After Pride, there seems to be, to me anyway, a short list of acts that need to be crammed into summer until the chill begins. There is the Renaissance Fair (against my will), launching Chinese lanterns into dead of night, (trying to not get arrested), maybe a second camping trip, and… the ever attempted; but very rarely accomplished, Alpine slide.

 Now the Alpine slide, if you have not done, is a cement track down a perfectly good mountain, in which you place a low-cart like mechanism. It is like bobsledding, but in the heat, and upon a rash causing concrete track. Mike and I attempted to take a ride on the area’s local slide; also nick-named the Tooth Chipper, but they had closed the week earlier. The whole creepy Christian themed amusement park was being bulldozed for condos. Now the closest slide is WinterPark, or Steam Boat Colorado…. About a three hour drive. Which is fine. Perfect weekend drive / adventure.

So, Summer maybe more than halfway over. But, there are plenty of fun adventures to be had.

A dark and Stormy Night

It was show time at our house last night. The performance began right after midnight. A storm blew in and with it came thunder and lighting. It was amazing as I had not witnessed thunder and lightning happen exactly in the same instant since I moved from Texas.  The typical lighting storm has a flash of lighting, then you can count the seconds until the thunder is heard.  Last night was immediate and super loud, meaning the storm was right on top of us, happening right outside the bedroom window.

The old statement about tornados being attracted to trailer parks and lightening being attracted to golf courses must be true. Although, since moving into a home next to a golf course I have haven’t seen lighting strike the course, or any of the endless idiots that like to continue to golf and afternoon storms drift in, I believe it a matter of time. Last night the lightening tried its best.

The loud booming prompted the dog to have flashbacks to his time in Texas as well, as he quickly army crawled from the foot of the bed to under our pillows and, if his plan would of succeeded spent the remains of the night under my head. The cat however, took the thunder booms to be some sort of a starting pistol and the crazy was on.  This culminated in her running in place as she used a stack of paperwork, neatly sorted and stacked upon the dresser, as a treadmill. A flurry of papers quickly covered the floor. The next act was for kitty to salsa dance on the scattered paper. Getting out of bed this morning, I was treated with all of Kitties playtime handiwork.

Today I’ll find out whether they have invented dog and cat ear plugs.

I need a Beret

I once again find myself in that seemingly unending process. Attempting to find college classes that sync up. Sync up with each other (as in two on a Monday / Wednesday schedule) and match my work schedule.

In case you haven’t enrolled in university classes in a bit, there is a website that attempts help you make informed choices. For say…. Philosophy.  Entering the course title lists 145,393 differing choices of classes. The built in metrics engineering knows what time of day you need to take for your degree, then only gives you dates and times that could not possible be more inconvenient.  I need an evening class entitled Ancient Philosophy that starts at 8am, or after 3:45pm on either Monday/Wednesday or Tuesday/Thursday. This means that all Ancient Philosophy classes are held sharply at 11am or 1pm. These class times are designed to bring about the most irritation to my work schedule. Well, and to jive with the professors schedule.

Okay, yes. Philosophy professors need to sleep late. We all know they spend the late-night hours inside coffee shops debating whether “the greatest minds are capable of the greatest vices as well as of the greatest virtues”… or not.  Their worn out berets covered in lint from the sagging headliner of their 1980 Toyota Cressidas. So I understand that mornings would be out, but no classes after 1pm? Do Serving shifts at The Olive Garden start that early?

I feel like I am attempting to pull a Da Vinci Code as I match coded messages from beyond the mists of time. Will I actually find a couple of classes that are available together and doesn’t have be leaving work from 11:30am until 1252pm twice a week? Probably not. This is why people drop out of college and become Servers at Olive Garden…. Or if they’re Professors.

 

Pride

Pride Fest came and went. There comes a time where you can fall into a feeling where you just believe that pride festivals are for the youngins.  Yes, I remember my first pride. I can tell you all the pride events after that, and how much sun block and alcohol was consumed. But, after your twenty-eighth pride you can lose the since of triumph that comes along with being able to stand in the sun and declare your true self to the world. Just so you know, you should not do that. Forget that it is a luxury.

The most fun about watching the pride parade is whom you watch it with. The BFs friends are in their twenties and early thirties. Some had just discovered the joy of pride day. Seeing a gay parade through these eyes helps to reconnect. A young lesbian kept turning to me during the procession of floats and asking questions… “What is a… Imperial Court of the Rocky Mountain Empire?” I raised an eyebrow to think that one through. What is court? Even though it’s been around long before my time, and even had attended events back in the 1990s. “It’s… like a Shriners group… a social club for drag queens. Before they were allowed in public and into the bars. Drag queens had a social club to meet, where they would be safe.” Whoo. I thought I explained that one pretty well. “Safe from what?” She asked. This twenty-something lesbian lives in a world were Denver is a safe, embracing city.

This realization of time passing was of course countered by me sharing a story of how one pride I was tripping my balls on ecstasy so hard I just wandered the full parade route in just my Calvin’s and was met by side-eye and questions if X was a thing so far back and if Calvin Klein was alive back then.

Do not; I repeat, do not forget why we as a tribe have pride events. And, do not think that it is no big deal. It is a huge deal. To be able to stand in the sun and declare yourself to the world.

Degree

I changed my college major. Again.

I know I have changed my major roughly nine-hundred times since George H. W. Bush was in the Whitehouse and I started my path of higher education.  This time I’m going to stick to it. I can state this declaration mostly because I am old, and tired of going to school.

With all of my classes and tallied up credits I only have 35 more credits until I they give me a degree in Philosophy. A degree of which, I said to the chair of the Philosophy Department and my assigned guidance counselor, will not gainfully employee me one tiny bit.  This is the type of degree that people pursue purely for the love subject; not to look good on a resume. Unless you’re attempting to appear deep. Or… if you are attempting succeeding at being a pompous ass during a dinner party. “Well I am a philosopher, and I wrote a thesis on feminism and the third wave feminist philosophers, so I can say…”  

What a twat degree.

But, it is what I like, so off I go. I do promise that I will not bring third wave feminism up into any conversions I may have over dinner table topics. Unless asked. I am more of an ancient philosopher kinda dude anyway. Seeing as my minor is ancient history.  

Potter

It started on our trip to California. The BF and I went to Universal Studios to visit Harry Potter world.

Now I have written extensively on the subject of my crippling fear of roller coasters. On this particular trip I was feeling down, mostly because it was only the two of us, and I felt I hindered the BF’s joy of getting to ride some California coasters. So I was excited to find out that the Harry Potter ride was a 3-D ride. These style of rides I totally enjoy.

We entered the park a couple of hours earlier than most visitors and were able to jump on the Harry Potter ride without a long wait. We rode it several times that day. It was amazing. After our rollercoaster-fix and as we waited in line to purchase a wand at Ollivander’s Wand Shop somehow the nerdy kid inside of me clicked on, and I was in love with the world of Harry Potter. Don’t get me wrong, I read all the books when they first came out. But, it wasn’t anything more than fun books to read.  As I gave my card to anyone with a fake British accent I began to really feel the passion. We bought wands. We bought robes. We made ourselves sick on Butterbeer. A twelve year old nerd, with a credit card with a massive limit. I remember thinking as we stood in line to buy a one-hundred dollar Hufflepuff robe, that I had not been that happy in ages. Like really, down to my very soul happy. No worries about my work, or paying bills. Just happy.  

Since our trip to Hogsmeade Village, I have re-read all the books in the series.  And like the rest of the nerds, I anxiously waited for the newest creation of J.K. Rowling, The Cursed Child. Then it did. And my truly happy feeling came back.

 

Run Stevie Run

Hi there. How’ve you been? Good I hope.

Summer has started today. For me this means the non-stop yearning for the air-conditioner to get colder. I have started that horrid and very unattractive sweaty sleep cycle. It was so bad last night that even the dog complained of the river of sweat coming to his part of the bed. Which in directly in the middle between me and the boyfriend.

I completed the 5K I was training for so desperately. I wasn’t very fast, but in the age bracket of 45-50 I kicked some geezer ass. I was amazed at how much fun it actually was. The training program I had put in place was based upon not doubling over in pain as all my friends left me behind for dead. With this amount of fear placed around public humiliation in front of your friends; you can really accomplish fantastic feats. I have found this week that I am missing the training. Last Monday I went to the gym with a great sense of relief that I didn’t have to run the tread mill for 45 minutes. I left the gym in record time and was happy I didn’t run, but come Tuesday I missed the habit I formed since January 1^st. Today I am actually looking forward to seeing my old friend. Mister Treadmill. I guess it’s true. Habits, even painful ones, are formed through repetition, but maintained though the decided effort of improvement.

I honestly didn’t think passed June 17 when planning out my 2017. So I kind of feel like I have time on my hands. What next? Hike anyone.

Grace, Frankie and Gravy

Last night the boyfriend and I were watching the finial episode of Grace and Frankie. The Netflicks comedy staring Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. We also were enjoying a flavorful treat from a takeout chicken joint. I had just discovered that if you dunk corn fritters into chicken gray it can be heaven in your mouth. Apparently I made whimpering yummy noises just at the right time.  These moaning sounds came as the turning point of the television show climaxed. The boyfriend now thinks I'm deeply connected to the universe or something. I didn't corrrect him as I was still enjoying my gravy shrouded corn fritter. 

Death on a Coaster

Remember that time I almost died on a rollercoaster? Okay, so you wouldn't remember because it's just a dream I have. A nightly, reoccurring dream. 

I have three phobias in this life. Roller coasters, snakes, clowns, and Republicans. Four. I have four phobias in this life. And number one is about to raise its night-terror inducing head. No. Not Trump, he's the worlds night-terror. 

In next week the Sweet Baboo and I head to Los Angeles for a vacation.  A very nerdy get-a-way. The main purpose is to attend a Doctor Who convention happening at a hotel close to the airport. Mike the roommate is joining us as well. But, before that we are spending a couple of days hanging out in West Hollywood, going to Disneyland, and most importantly, Harry Potter World. The    Sweet Baboo already has his magic wand at his side. But, there's a dark side to our adventure.  After all this time I'll finally have to come clean on my child-like terror of rollercoasters. Yes, we've been in parks and been around the death coasters before, but this time there is no escape. I feel bad. Going to Disneyland and then saying, "oh. Sorry, you'll have to ride, rides alone" seems like a mean thing to do. So, do I just face my terror quietly to make the boyfriend happy? Or finically admit that I'm a twelve year old girl? The non-brave kind. 

I'm gonna have to just face my fears, even if I would rather makeout with Trump, as he sports clown makeup and holds a snake. I wonder if there is some way I can get over my coaster phobia I six days? Only God can help me now.