nochd

An X-Ray of the Oven

2007-01-16T15:59:00.000-05:00

The first picture of my niece/nephew.
Methinks it may have a tail.
And an obscenely gynormous head.

In other words, a real looker.

'Tis The Groundhog Season

2006-12-19T19:52:00.000-05:00

I love writing Christmas cards. I love buying them. I like everything about the whole damn process. This year, we elevated the experience to a new level and made our own cards, thank you Shutterfly. We live in the desert, so what better picture to adorn the front of a card than a bedecked cactus.

Yeah, you're thinking "Like that hasn't been done before" to which I would respond, "Shut the fuck up." Anyway, back to my story of Christmas cheer. We spent a Saturday afternoon averting park patrol in the Phoenix zoo, searching for that perfect cactus Christmas card cover. We'd skulk around looking for a Saguro, making sure there were no nearby observers before we unloaded two grocery bags of decorations.

After much deliberation, we decided on a picture and I ordered 30 cards for the holiday. Even if I had free reign to all 30, I'd have to omit some people from the distribution list. The friend guillotine rears its ugly head.

The cards finally arrived last week and they were perfect. I might have squealed once or twice when I saw them.

Michael: So how many cards do you think you'll need?
Chris: I thought you were sending them.
Michael: I am. For my friends. How many do YOU need?
Chris: One. Wait. Maybe two.
Michael: What about your grandmother, brother, parents...
Chris: Okay. Three. Why are we sending cards again?
Michael: Because it's important to stay in touch.
Chris: Uh-huh. Can you address mine?

His cards are still sitting on his desk, untouched. So if any of his friends happen to read this, please know that Chris means well. He is just communicationally-card challenged. You'll eventually get one, it just may be Groundhog's Day by the time he mails them.

2007 Annual Budget

2006-12-06T19:11:00.000-05:00

For those of you that know my sister, you'll know she's not a quantitative gal. Excel? Sounds like a gay bar. Depreciation? Sounds like a skin condition. So when she was asked to provide a 2007 spending budget for work, I am sure she nearly dusted the floor, save for the fact she had on a smart new skirt/jacket ensemble from Ann Taylor and refused to get it dirty.

Now- she has landed a job to make any normal human being jealous. She currently manages marketing efforts in Latin America for a telecom/data provider. Trips to Mexico, Venezuela and Brazil, short work days, constant social interaction, fancy hotels.

I hate her.
But as her dutiful brother, it was not my position to judge. Merely to help with her mathematical shortcomings. So I present to you MFM's 2007 Budgeting Plan.

We Got Spirit, Yes We Do.

2006-12-04T15:40:00.000-05:00

I think I felt it coming on about noon yesterday. I’ve been avoiding it thus far, but crumbled under the pressure of my random visit to Homo Depot. I was only going to buy extension pruners (no comment) but made the fatal mistake of parking next to the Christmas tree stand. Kids were running in all directions with sap-covered hands and demonic smiles. Couple that with the incessant ring-ring-ring-ring of the Salvation Army donation ringer and I didn’t stand a chance. The holiday spirit is on, girlfriend.

I am going to temper it, though. I am really going to try. But with our house, it’s a travesty not to decorate the hell out of it. I mean, it’s a two-story craftsmen that begs to be decked. Last month, we cleaned out the garage and removed eighty years of build-up, abandoned furniture, old tools… AND five storage tubs filled with multi-colored Christmas lights. Apparently the previous owners switched to Buddhism or something. Chris saw the look on my face and told me that I could hold on to them, but c’mon. That’s like leaving a recovering heroine junkie alone in a medivac tent. The second he left me alone I would have been hauling ass to Lowe’s to buy a backup generator, extension cords, and industrial-grade stringing wire.

So I am going to play it cool this year. I bought three-pointsettias at the nursery yesterday and put them outside. That’s so tame it’s almost agnostic. And I thought we could maybe buy a wreath. A small one. For the front-door. But only if Chris doesn’t mind. And maybe an animatronic lighted reindeer.

Thanksgiving with the Walkers

2006-11-21T19:03:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow, Chris and I fly back to the East coast to spend the first holiday together with our respective families. We’ve been a couple for two years now, but have always celebrated the holidays apart. Maintaining separation around the holidays is the only way I’ve deluded Chris into thinking my family is (somewhat) sane.

We’ve recently become addicted to ABC’s Sunday night drama, “Brothers & Sisters”, in part because it reminds me so much of my own family dynamics: In the Walker family, no secret can be kept for longer than one episode, steel-plated body armour is a preferable substitute for thick skin, and drinking at any hour is the only acceptable breach of etiquette.
Can I get an Amen?

We've got two nights with his parents.
One night with mine.
And one night in a hotel to decompress.
Gobble. Gobble.

Am I Nancy Pelosi's Love Child?

2006-11-08T18:50:00.000-05:00

It felt like Christmas morning when I rolled out of bed. I knew the election results would be good- we stopped watching CNN last night after the polls confirmed that the Democrats had control of the House. (Although, Andersen Cooper could have told us that the Nazis had thrown a coup and we wouldn't have cared, really.) We didn’t know the extent of the power shift until I logged on this morning. Of course, my first inclination was to call all the Republicans I knew. All four of them. Since we already gave Darin unmerciful shit this weekend for hiding in his log cabin, I immediately moved down the list and gave my parents a call.

My mother answered. She’s no politico, but I still managed to do a little elephant stomping.

Then she completely stunned me.

“Did you know your father dated Nancy Pelosi?”

My dad has “Upstate Conservative New York Republican” built into his genetic code. The thought of Nancy and Steve shagging at the drive-in was as bizarre as George Dubyah making out with Natalie Maines from the Dixie Chicks.

But then I got to thinking… what if Nancy Pelosi WAS actually my mom? Now, I’m not trading in my own mother- she totally rocks. But, c’mon- having a mom emblazoned with the title of “Madame Speaker” is pretty close to rock-star status.

Maybe I will just start calling my mom "Madame Speaker" for the hell of it.

Tribal Membership

2006-11-02T17:09:00.000-05:00

Last night, Darin, Chris and I headed to the Arizona State Fair in search of the Pet Shop Boys. The state fair has been in full-tilt for a month, complete with dueling Ferris wheels, deep-fried coke vendors, and a host of dirty animals. The fair has also hosted numerous concerts throughout the month, and last night night was the Phoenix stop-over for the Pet Shop Boys' Fundamental tour.

The three of us thought the Arizona State Fair and the Pet Shop Boys made strange bedfellows, but then again, it was the wild, wild west. Reserved seating cost only 20 bucks, and for the chance to see a major band playing less than two miles away, we couldn't pass it up.

In my 30 years of concert attending experience, I have never been to a show that started remotely on-time. But with less than half the venue filled, the Pet Shop Boys were obviously anxious to get the hell out of dodge and the house lights dropped promptly at 7:02pm. The three of us were still shuffling to our seats as the crowd erupted around us, queens hopping and clapping like epileptic rabbits. We sat down to catch a breath and recover.

The first song began. The back-up dancers took to the stage. The crowd quieted in hushed expectancy.

Then I felt it.

tap. tap. tap.

I turned, only to set my sights on a rotund, one-eyed, heavily pierced Native American woman. Let's call her Woo-Woo.

Woo-Woo, in heavy whisper: "OMG! Have you seen Pet Shop Boys before??!! I have. I have seen Pet Shop Boys, New Order, Depeche Mode... I LOVE THEM ALL."

I nodded. I shot my "I don't give a shit but how nice" smile, and turned back around to focus on the concert.

Darin and Chris both shot side glances, acknowledging that I had indeed found a new girlfriend.

Then it happened again.

tap. tap. tap.

Maybe Woo-Woo thought we got off to a rocky start and wanted a little more slap and tickle.
I turned around.
She leaned in.

"Are you two together?" she said, nodding to Chris.
"Uh-huh".

She flipped a thumbs-up, extended her hand in a handshake, and blurted, "I love your kind! All of your people. You're just great!!"

I think I heard Darin swallow his tongue.

I nodded in acknowledgement. I mean, I like my people, too. I felt like I had exclusive membership to the tribe. I know she had good intentions and didn't see that she had indirectly shot the gay tribe down. But Woo-Woo only had one eye. I'll blame it on her tunnel vision.

Thurmonster

2006-10-25T23:10:00.000-05:00

My brother almost named him Dammit. He thought it would be the perfect expletive to yell in a dog park during a lively game of fetch.

"Dammit, SIT."
"Get over here, Dammit."

I could see the good Catholic mothers shooting glances of disapproval as they raced to cover their children's ears.

However, common sense won out. Perhaps the first and only time.
Stephen eventually settled on the name Thurman. And Thurman was instantly weaved into the fabric of our family.

We had always grown up with dogs. Stupidity and large size were prerequisites. Clancy was a clinically retarded golden retriever with an overactive pituitary gland. Maggie was a black lab rescued from the shelter. She wasn't very bright, had an abnormal fear of cars and sewer grates, and could bark the happy birthday song. And then there was Thurman. He was completely entertained with games like... "Find your Tail!" and "Eat the Stick!". To be honest, I think Stephen was fascinated with these games, too.

And while it could be argued that he suffered from an extreme lack of intelligence, Thurman was fearless. He had no reservations about stepping in front of a freight train to rescue a tennis ball. What he lacked in smarts he made up for with personality. We always said that if Stephen was forced to make a life and death decision between the family or Thurman, our shit was toast.

As fate would have it, Stephen won't ever be faced with that. Thurmonster had a severe seizure on Friday that ended with a final visit to the vet. Aside from a few tears at his own wedding, I don't think I've ever heard my brother's voice waver so much. Stephen said he went peacefully, chomping on his tennis ball until the end.
When he called me to tell me the news, I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. All I could do was look at our two golden retrievers and feel like I was on borrowed time.

To Kill a Mockingbird

2006-10-02T21:59:00.000-05:00

You've got one decision to make:
Is it his dancing or his vocals that will make him famous?

Hans and Franz

2006-09-26T16:32:00.000-05:00

This weekend, I made a visit to the gym. Personally, Sunday afternoons are an excellent time for me to lift. Anyone in their right mind has found a suitable excuse to skip and it's usually myself, the cleaning staff, and a couple of old folks glued to the same elliptical trainers they were on since last March. This weekend was no exception and I was happily progressing through my workout, enjoying the solitude.
When they showed up.
Apparently, the bus to the ASU kegger stopped short and this straight couple made a detour to 24-Hour Fitness. Why women confuse athletic clubs with dance clubs confounds me, but the chick was dressed like a hooker ready to drop a tab. I prayed to god that she avoided exercises requiring the decline bench. Her boyfriend was 6'4, looked like a model, was built like a brick shit house and probably couldn't count backwards from four. I hated him.
They strutted around the weight room like peacocks, pausing every now and then so that he could pose and she could stretch. I was curious about what they would be lifting today, because if her stretches were any indication, I expected them to be having full-on sex in a matter of minutes. After surveying their countless workout options, they settled on the most critical body part: the abs. And they couldn't just use a fucking machine to do ab exercises. They had to "move equipment"... and "arrange the weights". The flat bench wasn't good enough for crunches. They had to use that inflatable ball instead. My own workout derailed, I continued to watch in sick fascination as they spent the next forty minutes acting like torso contortionists. And then the kicker. As their routine neared the end, Adonis positioned himself on the ball to crank out one more rep. Because obviously the first eighteen sets weren't enough. Being the loving and supporting workout partner that she was, the girlfriend crouched in-between his knees and kissed him on the lips after every crunch.
That's when I tasted my breakfast for the second time that day.

Make Your Resume Stand Apart

2006-09-15T14:01:00.000-05:00

Right now my manager is struggling to fill a position on the team. we have been reviewing countless resumes, but the desired programming skillset and customer-focused personality are seldom offered in the same package. We've formally interviewed three candidates already and none seemed to stick. Today I reviewed seven more resumes.
And alas, I think I have found him. The search is over. One read of his "Interests and Activities" section, and I knew he would be the perfect programmer gone postal addition to the team.

"In general, I am fascinated with life itself and the endless process by which personal and overall meaning is derived. I enjoy effective human interaction and cooperation in association with the pursuit and achievement of desirable goals. Specifically, I thrive for the spiritual realm of organized competition and self-expression through athletics, arts, academics, and business."

I am not a career counselor nor a resume writer, so perhaps I may be out of line. But I'm confident that the words "spiritual realm" should never make their way to a curriculum vitae. Brent, take note.

Bloggers in the Press

2006-09-08T11:08:00.000-05:00

I know I'm not the most consistent blogger. I probably post just enough not to piss off the limited number of readers I do have. As infrequent as my ramblings are, I really do enjoy it. I started this project because I admired the internet world that Chris had created with Boysbriefs. After a year and a half, Nochd has been a creative outlet, a vent session, even a shameless opportunity to collect some objective feedback.
There was a recent posting in Southern Voice today about the world of GBLT blogging. While the blogging fad may be waning, I think it's sucked in enough supporters to keep the movement alive. Check out the SOVO article. It's a good read. As an added bonus, the writer quoted Chris and included a pimpin' blogger profile and a snapshot of him in his supergirl costume.

WARNING: YOU HAVE ACCESSED A RESTRICTED SITE

2006-09-05T17:47:00.000-05:00

I spend a good portion of the workday quietly sitting in a cube, amidst a floor of technical engineers and internet security architects. I happen to be neither and, after listening to the technocratic shit that spews over one cube wall into the next, I really have no desire to change the direction of my career. Once in a while, though, these boneheads make me laugh.
Last week, there was an apparent issue with website blocking. I only know this because at about 6pm, a flustered architect waddled his fat ass into my cube in a frantic huff.

“You’ve got to help me. My team has gone home and I need to test a security patch.”

Umm… okay. A better start would have been, “Hello my name is… but whatever. I nodded my head in acknowledgement. I’m ready to accept my mission, Fat Technical Man.

“Could you pull up Playboy.com? Tell we what you see. I need to know if we’re blocking.”

First of all, he obviously didn’t want the web sniffer linking Playboy.com to HIS account. Sure, let the “random new guy that dresses well” take the fall. I may be queer, but I’m not a fucking idiot.
Secondly, even if he did guarantee me absolution, I could certainly come up with a better boundary test than Playboy.com- something with “sling” in the URL, definitely a foreign domain, perhaps some streaming video of a little sheep banging. Chalk it up to the QA analyst in me.
After this dim flicker of creativity, I realized that improving his test wasn’t my project or even my job. And this fat guy was just looming in the cube doorway, absorbing all the oxygen and blocking all the light. It was like he was using some creepy jedi-mind control. I couldn't breathe. I just wanted him to go away. So I mindlessly plodded in his request. Of course it didn’t work. I showed him my screen. He smiled and waddled away… his reason for existence staring back at me from the screen: WARNING: YOU HAVE ACCESSED A RESTRICTED SITE. No doubt I’ve been blacklisted as an internet porn addict now.

Raised from the Dead

2006-08-21T19:09:00.000-05:00

While a part of me was at odds with the city of Atlanta, there were many traditions that I do, indeed, miss: namely, lazy Sunday afternoons with the fearsome threesome. Both Jantzen and Brent are gifted drinkers, with titanium reinforced livers and tolerances that were culled from years of practice, practice, practice. Sunday brunch was often used as a hangover cure from the ill-effects of Saturday night. Even though we had visited every fucking restaurant in the fruit loop at some point in time, we’d inevitably pile into the disco bus like lemmings and head to Joe’s. Call it a default. Call it unoriginal. I call it brilliant predictability.
For the first round, Brent toggled between two choices depending on his mood: if he was feeling super-fabulous (or had a couple of $ leftover from party weekend) he’d get a mimosa. Sssuper! Otherwise, he’d detoxify with a beer. Jantzen would guzzle anything cold and wet. I’d kick start the Lord’s Day with a bloody mary. (Some weird latent tribute to the Virgin.)
Sunday Brunch would undoubtedly run itself over into Sunday afternoon. The changeover line was a fuzzy demarcation. You never realized it happened. You just keep drinking. I can’t recall the specifics of what we used to talk about. There was a lot of weekend recapping and we had opinions on everything. We patched up relationships, tallied up the weekend’s greatest obscenities and commented on the tragedy at every other table. It was like Oprah meets Dr. Phil on the set of VH1’s 100 Greatest Moments. Sunday afternoon became Sunday night, the circle shifted as friends filtered in and out, and the bar tab began to assume the same properties as the federal deficit.
This was years ago, I realize. But yesterday, I spent the afternoon at a bar with Chris and Darin and we unintentionally resurrected the lazy Sunday afternoon from the dead. The reincarnation had a few changes, though:
Replace Joe’s with Charlie’s.
Replace a patio bar with volleyball net.
(Thankfully) omit obnoxious bar tab.
Substitute “fearsome threesome” with boyfriend and crazy blogger dude.
Thanks, Darin, for getting us out of the routine. Phoenix just started to feel a whole lot more like home.

Wigger say what?

2006-08-17T12:35:00.000-05:00

Chris is a self-proclaimed music snob. With ample reason, though. He deejayed his way through the college years at Auburn, his eclectic taste casting a wide net from hard core Goth to 80’s Punk. He’s got a good ear, and while he can’t sing worth a damn, he’s usually adept at picking out that obscure harmony or background vocal. He appreciates just about everything I throw at him. With one glaring exception. Miriam, brace yo self.
Chris just ain’t down with the hip-hop.
Maybe the Jeep Liberty ain’t thuggish enough.
Perhaps he feels detached from the hip-hop culture. Holla!
Maybe he hasn’t spent enough quality time watching Queens of Comedy and Brown Sugar.
It’s a relentless battle every time we get in the hoopty and drive to dinner. I be changing to one station, he be changing to another. And I be like,
“Yo biatch. Dat’s my jam. YOU MESSIN' WIT MY JAM!”
Then I smack da ho, take a nice long drag from my joint and high-five my bitches in the back.
Okay. Not everyone ~~needs to~~ is able to appreciate hip-hop. But here’s the kicker. Chris is secretly in love with Justin Timberlake’s new single. Like Gollum- He needs it. He must have it. He’s got no love for Kelis, but quivers when JT brings his sexy back? That is some painful, trashy shit to listen to.
But I like it now.

Rejection is one thing...

2006-07-28T17:38:00.000-05:00

...but rejection from a bank is cruel.

When moving to a new state, one of the prerequisite check list items is to find a local bank. Having just completed my MBA, I used my very powerful analytical skills to select the best institution for my financial needs. The process involved me driving the car around the block and stopping at the first bank I saw. Thus, Bank of America now proudly claims ownership to my thirty-two dollars worth of savings. And, while I can get approved for things like a home mortgage or even car insurance, I apparently am just too fucking ugly to get a personalized Bank of America Card.

Dear Mr. Carney:
We regret to inform you that your request for (1) personalized security check card has been denied because of poor picture quality.
Please contact customer service at 1-800-432-1000 for further information.

Sincerely,
Bank of America Security Card Photo Analysis Team

Slog

2006-07-26T11:50:00.000-05:00

Slog (slôg)
noun.
A mixture between a slug and a blog.
A blog that infrequently posts and/or is updated sporadically.
Nochd is a slog.

I’ve been away for quite a while. I would hide behind the excuse that Phoenix has no internet, but I’d be lying. It’s just taken me a while to feel settled enough to put together thoughts in cohesive sentences. (Chris would argue that I still struggle with that.)
We did make a successful jump from the east coast to the desert, sans casualties. We suffered a few injuries though. Namely, the bedroom dresser has been heavily tattooed with ceiling plaster when the movers valiantly tried to wedge it up the stairs. Apparently they’ve never played the round-peg/square-hole game. In retrospect, we faired pretty well, considering the balance of two separate cross country moves, a new (old) house, new jobs, and two dogs in tow.
I have several experiences from the last couple of months that I would like to share in forthcoming posts. But right now I’ll throw out some initial thoughts on Phoenix.
It is far better than my expectations. Everybody had feedback on the copper state prior to the move and while feedback was always welcomed, not all of it was accurate or useful. For those that delivered the following advice- “It is a dry heat.”- Thank you. That was insightful. For others that said there’s nothing to do- I’d say you didn’t look hard enough. Phoenix seems to be a city that requires a little investigative effort and some resident guidance to reap the benefit. Our first weeks were spent shopping at Home Depot and eating at chain restaurants. It felt like Gwinett, but with more dirt/less kudzu. But as we talked to people, we teased out some great restaurant and bar recommendations like MyFlorist Cafe and Coronado Cafe, discovered some cool parts of town to visit like the desert botanical gardens or old Scottsdale, and got the lowdown on gay life. No doubt, we’ll continue to shape our opinions of this city as we spend more time here. Fortunately, our house landed us in the epicenter of the gay hood so that's a non-issue. We're even walking distance from a lesbian club, and ya'll know my affinity for some pretty ladies. We'll have pickups and campers squatting in the driveway by week's end.
I have a sneaky suspicion this city will grow on us. We’re seeing it at it’s worst right now- 118 degrees and no relief. Just wait until February and the hordes will be barkin' down the front door.

The End is Nigh

2006-05-18T06:23:00.000-05:00

Five days and counting until graduation.
And I thought it would be one big relaxing month. But then again, who was I fooling? It's physically impossible for me to sit idle for longer than seven minutes.
Here's a quick rundown of all the happenings over the last couple o' weeks.
* Chris sold his condo. Wait- let me rephrase. Chris sold his condo in six hours.
* I wrapped up my last semester by cranking out an exam and three papers. I felt like a meat grinder. It wasn't my best work. Whatever.
* We flew to Phoenix last weekend. We saw eighteen houses in 24 hours. There's a lot of shit for sale in that damn city. And by shit I mean holes.
* We made an offer on one doozy of a home. Barring any rat infestations, asbestos, or missing i-beams, I think we have a place for ya'll to stay now.
* I drove up to Philadephia last night to see my brother, sister-in-law and Thurmonster for two days. After I move to Phoenix, it's gonna be a while before I return. Kerry and I are going to paint the hell out of the TV room. Good times.
* Chris, Brent, and my parents all arrive on Saturday. It's going to be like the Griswolds in European Vacation. I expect Chris to promptly divorce me by Monday.

Below are a couple of pics of the new house. Can't wait to be there.

My First Real Prom

2006-04-24T11:58:00.000-05:00

I only went to one prom in high school. It wasn't even a prom. It was a military ball. And my date's name was Riel Morgiwitz. My parents are still convinced that she was Jewish, eventhough her family sat on the other side of the church from us at 10am mass every Sunday. Perhaps they were Jewish spies. My brother and sister renamed her "Morgabeast". I didn't think she was that unattractive. Although her dress looked like drapes.
This weekend the business school had a Spring semi-formal and Chris flew up to attend. He didn't have to- I've become a pro at going to these things stag. But secretly, I wanted him there. I'm sure this event was as exciting to him as crucifixion, but he's adept at reading me and knew his presence was important. My reasons are selfish, but we're all guilty of needing some validation every now and then.
So what if I wanted to show him off? I wanted people to meet the story I've built up for the last year and a half. I wanted people to put the name with the face. I was waiting for someone to hit on him. I wanted to see what it felt like to be a couple amongst other couples. (It was nice.) I wanted him to be comfortable. I was hoping he'd get drunk. I loved watching him smile. I could have watched that smile all night. I tried to catch his eye from across the room. I think I did a couple of times... when he wasn't staring at Courtney's husband. I was determined to get a picture of him in that new suit. But secretly, I was just as determined to get him out of it.

Before and After

Thanksgiving Do-Over

2006-04-13T09:12:00.000-05:00

My sister is a bit off. It's not that she is unstable or lacks a grip on reality- that is reserved exclusively for my mother. It's that she has an obsession with tradition. We're a tightly wound nuclear family, devoid of aunts, uncles, cousins, or nephews. So holidays involved, well... Us.
That's it.
For over twenty years.
Easter. Christmas. Thanksgiving. Bastille Day. Birthdays. That type of acculturation doesn't get wiped from the synapses easily. And now, as our family has been extended through two marriages and countless relocations, my sister carries the Carney torch forward. Eventhough the traditions might not exactly fall on the right day. Or the right month, for that matter.
Since my sister's wedding three years ago, she has made trade-offs with her husband regarding holidays. They decided that Thanksgiving would be spent with his family and Christmas would be spent with ours. To be honest, my family goes fucking ballistic at holidays and I'm sure that my brother-in-law wasn't relishing a lifetime of Christmas carols and Pilgrim salt and pepper shakers at the crazy house.
But my sister conceived a workaround plan.
A Thanksgiving Do-Over in the middle of winter.
Kind of like a Civil War reenactment in Gettysburg, but with less gun powder and (this year) a lot more smoke and fire.
As this year marked my sister's second attempt at the Turkey Day redo, the preparation was smoother. A gargantuan bird had to be pre-ordered because, shockingly, Whole Foods wasn't in the market of stocking oversized turkeys in February. With fourteen people on the guest list, she had planned for everything. Except, of course, for the ridiculous impossibility that the grocer might happen to give away the 25-lb teradactyl to the wrong customer. Thus enter my sister's uncanny resilience. Not to be thwarted by "that fucking moron at the fucking meat counter", she purchased two small 15-pounders. Come hell or high water, there would be turkey for most of Northern Virginia.
Never having the pleasure of roasting two turkeys in tandem, Marf had not accounted for her smallish oven. But she would not be contained by the walls of the GE Profile. She shoved those two birds in like a fat man in a plane seat and shut the door.
Three glasses of wine later, the sting of a near-disaster lost its bite and all was right with the world. Conversation flowed freely, until we noticed the haze that had enveloped the family room. Obviously, someone had turned on a fog machine.
Then Chris pointed to the oven. And the flames.
My sister, already half-in-the-bag and not having witnessed a grease fire in her kitchen before, shrugged it off with the confidence of the Barefoot Contessa.
Over the persistence of the smoke alarm she shouted, "It's just the drippings! It's supposed to fire up every now and then."
Drippings my ass.
3904 North 14th Street was about to burn to the ground.
My brother-in-law, seeing the fate of his house being swallowed by 30 pounds of smoked bird, jumped into action. He turned off the oven and wrestled a turkey from its fiery bowels. The other was left to fend for itself.
A quick call to reserve a neighbor's oven, and John bounded through the kitchen and out the door with potholdered hands and a bird in tow. Who ever thought a man in weejuns couldn't run a sub-10 for the 100 yard dash obviously never tried lighting his house on fire.
The remainder of the night smoothed out as the grease fire was extinguished. The turkeys were salvaged and pictures were taken to document the second annual Thanksgiving Do-Over.
I plan on uploading a couple of pics soon, but will leave off here with a short email exchange between my dad and brother-in-law:

Dear John,
After viewing the photos which Mary Frances sent down today, I feel constrained to suggest that you destroy the negatives dealing with your blatant abuse of what appears to be an underage turkey. I would definitely recommend kicking up my surgical malpractice coverage to 3 million/5 million immediately before representatives of PETA get wind of this. What leads me to believe that this could result in a summary judgement for the plaintiff is the look of sadistic delight you evinced while carrying out what apparently was a pre-meditated barbarous act. It might be wise to consider staying away from the rib roast or the leg of lamb for Easter dinner and sticking with the lasagna or spaghetti and meat balls. Happy Easter.
And John's response:
Thanks, appreciate the advice. If a suit is filed, I'll have to brush up on the med mal law, but I can think of a few defenses, including
(1) the bird had already been lit afire by my wife prior to said atrocities, and
(2) any imprecise cutting was attributable to my wife's refusal to supply the appropriate surgical tools> (i.e., an electric knife)

Spring Fever

2006-03-30T15:09:00.000-05:00

Technically, I'm in operations management class right now, but about every fifth word of this lecture is actually penetrating the skull into my brain.
The prof is yammering on about variable quality control and sample means.
Variable what?
Sample who?
I'm much more occupied with that gorgeous freakin' sun outside, the run I'm gonna be doing in forty minutes, the beer I'll be swigging in the quad at five.
Spring fever.
it's a slow and painful death I'm suffering.

Thoughts from the Confessional: Part One

2006-03-10T09:59:00.000-05:00

This past January, I proposed to Chris while we were on a vacation in the Virgin Islands and... to quell the obvious question: No. This was not a liquor-induced Vegas moment. Rather, I had been deviously scheming for quite some time. While there is no official title to slap on to our current state, I'll borrow from the Nardis humor pool and say that we're man-gaged.
I've only gotten positive responses, albeit a few quizzical looks. But I know human nature and can only imagine that some classify this as a gay experiment doomed to failure. But therein lies the crux of the problem- this has nothing to do with being a queen or even experimenting. I left that back in my twenties. This is a decision about trusting intuition. To be honest, I have never needed to commit to anything with a future timeline longer than five years. So my struggle was to objectively look at my relationship with Chris and determine if the qualities that I fell in love with would be the same qualities that will keep the bond going when we we're old, tired and gray. (Note: blatant omission of "bald".) Obviously, from my proposal, I believed they did- thus enter the "trust" factor.
Now, I know the fickle nature of da gay:

1.) Boy meets boy.
2.) Boy likes boy.
3.) Boys get joint-checking, matching tribal tattoos and new house.

Let's face it. We come out in our teens and twenties and have about a ten-year relationship maturity gap to close on our straight friends. When they get engaged, we're experiencing a broken-heart for the first time. When they decide to have kids, we've just discovered Peter Rauhofer, X and crystal meth. There's a shitload of catch-up to play and many of us skip a few scenes ahead in the race to be established. And that always ends badly... and in a dramatic, vicious fashion.
I think Chris and I have taken the opposite approach, relegated to a conjugal long-distance relationship with monthly visitation rights. As frustrating and painful as 800 miles of separation can be, it has forced both of us to constantly evaluate the strength of our relationship, and so the events in St. John were a natural culmination of these evaluations.
It was never about being gay.
It's not even about proving a point.
We'll save that for the ceremony.

postscript: spell-check just tried to replace "man-gaged" with "man-gagged". Bad spell check. Naughty spell check.

"Tribal Sovereignty" for a thousand, Alex.

2006-03-01T12:48:00.000-05:00

If you find yourself faced with an utterly perplexing question on national television, for god's sake don't pull the answer out of your ass.
Unless you're a Republican.
Then, by all means, act like a damn fool. This link cannot be launched using Mozilla Firefox. Lo siento.

Triple Salchow and a Lutz for Good Measure

2006-02-23T11:28:00.000-05:00

I am a closet ice-skating fanatic. There are many of us out there, hiding in the shadows for two lonely years. Yes, we've got the world championships. But worlds are not imbued with the same pressure, drama and emotion... that medal-hungry viper pit that is the Olympics.
Fuck curling.
I don't care about rocks on ice.
Just give me the slut from Russia and a triple-toe loop.

In my self-induced pre-skate pep rally, I have been purusing websites, feeding on early predictions and pictures. Now don't think for one second that ice dancing is another name for ice skating. Yes, the shoes are the same. And the ice is probably cold in either sport when your ass hits it. But if you've ever seen Strictly Ballroom you'll know what I'm talkin' about, Willis. these people are skating lite. For real real.

Ice Skating = aerial acrobatics and graceful power.
Ice Dancing = sex in a sit-spin.
The pictures below depict the sexual comedy that is ice dancing. And pictures don't lie. Well, at least these pictures don't.

Ten Inches

2006-02-19T21:43:00.000-05:00

God recently delivered 10 inches to the door and it was clearly not the pizza delivery boy. Rather, metropolitan DC received its first snow storm of the season. Below are a couple of pictures I took in Rock Creek park. Perhaps these will provide some solace in the midst of the blast furnace I will be moving to come June.

Brian's Barber

2006-01-29T17:42:00.000-05:00

I have been going to the same Korean barber for almost two years now. Considering my lack of income, I have substituted “gay and stylish” with “cheap and convenient”. I deserve all the unmerciful shit I get for continuing to patronize this establishment since it’s been about two years now that I’ve actually had a decent cut. I could bring Brian a picture and explicitly tell him I’d like a reverse weave,braided extensions, blond tips. He’d nod in approval and I’d still sail out of there with a military buzz cut, #3 clipper on the side.

So the first rule in fight club is to never talk about fight club. The first rule at Brian’s Barber is to not say a damn word. Brian is the only quazi-English speaker of the three stylists, and I’ve had better conversations with a tire iron than with him. On Saturday, I cruised in on my way to the grocery and Brian pointed to the chair.
I sat down.
That’s about as intimate as we get.
As he was masterfully coifing my hair for enlistment, I noticed the elderly woman sitting in the chair next to me. I thought it odd that a woman was at a barbershop, but I’ve seen stranger things. She then turned in her chair to look at her stylist, and broke the first rule.
“How old are you?”
The female stylist remained silent and continued to chop away.
“Are you thirty?” She cackled with a slight Jersey accent.
“You must be forty.”
She was either enjoying the sound of her own voice, or mistook the stylist for a deaf mute.
“Are you married?”
Silence. Snip. Snip. Snip.
“You must be alone. Are you happy?”
Who the fuck asks their non-English speaking hair stylist if they’re happy? Personally, I like to use words like “shorter”, “good”, and “can I get five back?”.
She pressed on.
“You should adopt a girl. You should adopt a little Vietnamese girl. Those kids from Vietnam are adorable. And they need homes.”
Now the stylist looked ticked. While she hadn’t grasped the details of the conversation, she was quick enough to pick up that the woman had mistaken her for being Vietnamese.

By this point, Brian had finished his masterful work in under three and a half minutes. Not a land speed record, but definitely a top five finish. I dropped him a twenty and reached for my jacket, just in time to see the stylist pick up an unidentified bottle and drain it on Jersey girl’s head. She began molding it into her nappy hair.
As I walked out the front door, I heard the woman coo, “Mmmmm… smells like coconuts.”
I’d wager another twenty bucks it was sunscreen.

Photo Booth

2006-01-28T09:16:00.000-05:00

I would only post a link if it's worthy of your time. As my friend Jantzen would say, "Why are people so stupid?"

Photo Booth

You Can Never Go Home

2006-01-10T16:54:00.000-05:00

I have officially been letting my mind atrophy since mid-December. The heaviest reading I've tackled was the user manual for my digital camera. I have spent the last month with Chris here in Atlanta and it's nice to feel back in a familiar place.
What has changed, unfortunately, is the old life I had when I lived in the ATL. Granted, I'm a visitor to this city now and the responsibilities of a relationship leave me less spontaneous and care-free then I once was. That's understood. However, my relationships with close friends here have changed in a way I wasn't expecting. You know, I've been to this city many times in the last two years and have always carved a night on each trip to hang with the boys. One night affords you time to reminisce, crack jokes, and live in the past for a bit. However, I've been back for a couple of weeks. After our first night of reminiscing, I've begun to realize that these guys have two years of experiences that I haven't been around for. They've had two years to make new stories and develop new friends that I've never met. Hey- I'm not crying for the past, but I now get the phrase that "you can never go home". I guess I need to stop trying to resurrect the old life and just re-define the one I'm living.

The Ten List

2005-12-24T23:33:00.000-05:00

It’s almost Christmas, ya’ll. Twenty years ago, my brother and I were huddled in our beds, side by side, waiting for the slightest creak from the attic. Just some kind of warning that nine reindeer, a fat-ass elf, and a sleigh were hurdling out of the cosmos and onto our rooftop. In hindsight, I realize how idiotic the theory was. I mean, we had one hell of a steep roof. And while it was plenty strong to hold a couple feet of snow, it sure as hell wouldn’t have supported a small herd of elk. You’d think I would have been smart enough to realize.
Anyway- in our stupidity, we would have a conversation in our beds about what we were thankful for. It was a feeble last ditch effort to get on the fat man's good side. We would have paid him off if we could. But we didn’t have any money. We were ten.

So here’s the ten list of what I’m thankful for:

1.) A healthy family. We apparently have had enough close encounters with death that Mr. Reaper skipped us this year.
2.) Kick-ass friends. No seriously. My friends can kick your ass.
3.) A hot car.
4.) A post MBA career. I will be a prostitute. Just wait until you see the things I learned in class.
5.) Thirty years of wisdom and the ability to still act like a dumb-ass teenager.
6.) A full head of my own hair.
7.) Good jeans.
8.) Better genes.
9.) A future plan.
10.) A beautiful boyfriend that inspires me to be a better person.

So I’m curious, what’s on your list?

Recess

2005-12-20T09:11:00.000-05:00

I realize it's been quite a while since I've re-visited Nochd. After Thanksgiving, I dove into the hell that was known as "The End Of The Semester". In college, finals never seemed quite as daunting. Perhaps I was too drunk to care. However, over this last month I just didn't have an original thought outside of regressing census data or constructing a Pert chart. As quickly as the EOTS approached, it is now over and now I am happy to let my mind atrophy for the next six weeks. I jumpstarted the decay process last night by watching "War Of the Worlds". The movie could be significantly improved if all dialogue was replaced by alien tug boat sounds.
Considering my school hiatus, I am determined to get a little jiggy with Nochd. Perhaps some format changes- in the least, a proliferation of postings. (Sans alliteration.)
Keep reading...

I'm an Adult Homosexual

2005-11-27T21:19:00.000-05:00

My dad is a chronic walker. I mean, he has walked about five miles a day since I can remember. We grew up in upstate New York, where snow banks were higher than snow plows, and not even a nasty Alberta clipper could deter him. Secretly, I think it was an excuse to get the hell away from my mother. No wonder his walks are a bit longer these days.
So there's also an added bonus to these mini-marathons- they're a ripe opportunity to talk to my Dad about stuff. My brother, sister and I have gone through the famously-themed walks: the "College Walk", the "I'm Moving Away Walk", and the "You've Fucked Up Walk". Stephen went on a few of those.
There are some walks that are targeted- they've both gone through the "I'm Getting Married Walk" and I've had the pleasure of strolling around for the "Coming out of the Closet Walk".
Now, after this past Turkey Day, I can add the "I'm an Adult Homosexual Walk" to the list. In case you missed it in the last post, I'll be moving to Phoenix in July with my boyfriend. However, my parents unconsciously replaced "boyfriend" with "roommate", so they were a bit confused about the situation. I thought it best to hash it out on a walk. (which coincidentally lasted seven miles.) I'll be honest here- my dad totally kicks ass. In fact, he can probably kick your dad's ass. He had a surprisingly good idea of what my future plans with Chris were... he just didn't quite have the terminology down. Take, for instance, the word: H-O-M-O-S-E-X-U-A-L. I feel like a deviant typing it out. Well my dad can't get enough of it. Nothing was spared the clinical label... he even called the gay pride flag a homosexual flag. He's been swayed by one-too-many Catholic Church bulletin attacks. I tried to seed "ass bandit" or "nelly faggot" in wherever I could, but I don't think he felt comfortable with those expressions at all. Dammit, enough of this. I should just be thankful he's on board. Considering how far he's come since the "Coming out of the Closet" walk, I think I'll be able to live with "homosexual". I just can't wait to see how he refers to Chris. He may start adopting "nelly faggot" sooner than he thinks. Kidding.

Turkey, Potatoes, and a Hand Grenade.

2005-11-14T20:10:00.000-05:00

My brother, sister and I have, out of necessity, formed a united front when we gather at home for the holidays. I honestly can't remember the last time a family get-together didn't erupt in some cataclysmic argument... most always ignited by my irrational and slightly intoxicated mother. Sometimes she starts with the blitzkreig frontal assault, like the Panzer division smashing through France. You see it coming, but it can't be stopped. Other times, she takes the Pearl Harbor approach- you're fantasizing about the neighbor's hot new gardener, you ask for more gravy, and WHAM! you've morphed into a full-fledged attack on abortion and the Catholic church.
The three of us have learned to stick together because... division... well, that's like blood to a shark.

This year's Thanksgiving holiday is shaping up to be quite different. My brother and sister will be in Philadelphia and I am fending for myself. The problem is, the Panzer division started rolling through France about a week ago and I'll be skipping through the front door right about the time Paris is seiged. My sister and I chatted about it today, and she laid out my proposed itinerary for Thanksgiving:

9am-10am: Breakfast and friendly discussion about Mom's alcohol problem.
10am-11am: Brisk walk outside.
12pm-1pm: Lunch! And heart-to-heart about Stephen's money management, marriage, and apparent lack of concern regarding new job.
1pm-2pm: Another brisk walk outside. (Florida is lovely this time of year.)
4pm-5pm: Cocktails!
6pm-7pm: Fireside chat about my relocation to Phoenix with boyfriend.
7pm-8:30pm: Mmm...Everyone loves turkey! Complete with a lively debate!

On the defense: Dad will argue for the merits of his Haiti trip in February, where he will be doing pro-bono surgery for ailing natives. On the offense: Mom will argue against the trip, using irrefutable claims like... lack of shopping and unkempt bathrooms. (I hate to take bets here, but I think Mom's got this one locked down!)

Chris was surely dissapointed that he wouldn't be able to spend time with me over the holiday. But he wasn't aware that I had been drafted into war. And to naively think that I was above the legal drafting age limit...

ENFJ vs. ISFJ

2005-11-05T00:49:00.000-05:00

Most people have probably heard of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. But I don't know many that have actually completed the battery of questions, which reduces your entire personality into four letters. My sister, an anomaly in many ways, can work her Myers-Briggs results into any conversation. "I would like the mandarin chicken salad, dressing on the side. And I'm an ENTJ."
Actually, my sister and her husband took this test as pre-marriage prep, in an effort to understand their differences. The idea is that, with this understanding, they'd be able to recognize and appreciate eachother's individuality, especially in times of stress- like during tax-season... or really bad traffic.
Chris and I have been together about a year now, and we've had a few disagreements along the way. He typically recovers from these lapses in clarity, recognizes the error of his ways and apologizes profusely. However, I've detected a pattern, and while I'm no Myers or Briggs, I would wager the Pontiac that Chris is an ISFJ.

I: Introverted- Yes... contrary to his former circuit days, when he used to hop around the club floor like a tick on a donkey, he's quite content to stay at home. Me too, if by "home" you mean "bar", "swimming pool", or "not home".

S: Sensing- Chris is realistic and practical. He's detailed and methodical. Let me cite an example- when his computer refused to boot-up last summer, he reformatted the hard-drive and re-installed MS Windows. Three times. In one week. I would have thrown the fucker in the pool if I had to re-install the mouse driver.

F: Feeling- I think this has to be a gay tendency thing? Both of us tend to make decisions based on personal values and feelings. Read: We can be hateful, evil bitches when we don't get our way.

J: Judging- We both like to live life in a planned, orderly way. Albeit some are more anal than others, making task lists and crossing them off. In fact, I might be so bold to say that some of us do the task, then write aforementioned task down on the list, just to get the orgasmic satisfaction of the cross-off. You people are sick. Seek help.

Myers-Briggs is by no means a compatibility test; it's merely a tool to assess the differences in the way that people focus their attention, absorb information, and make decisions. And yes, I copied that from the damn website. It's late and I'm tired.
So the next question to tackle would address how to effectively turn these differences into an advantage.
However these answers were on a subscription-only portion of the website and I'm a cheap bastard. I guess we've got the rest of our lives to figure out those answers the hard way.

Pants Worthy of Your Money-Maker

2005-10-19T12:57:00.000-05:00

Just in case you might be in the market for a smashing pair of naugahyde club pants, I thought I'd alert you to a well-hidden secret. This e-Bay post
was worthy of a blog.
Brilliant.
Fucking brilliant.

You are bidding on a mistake.

We all make mistakes. We date the wrong people for too long. We chew gum with our mouths open. We say inappropriate things in front of grandma.

And we buy leather pants.

I can explain these pants and why they are in my possession. I bought them many, many years ago under the spell of a woman whom I believed to have taste. She suggested I try them on. I did. She said they looked good. I wanted to have a relationship of sorts with her. I’m stupid and prone to impulsive decisions. I bought the pants.

The relationship, probably for better, never materialized. The girl, whose name I can’t even recall, is a distant memory. I think she was short.

Ultimately the pants were placed in the closet where they have remained, unworn, for nearly a decade. I would like to emphasize that: Aside from trying these pants on, they have never, ever been worn. In public or private.

I have not worn these leather pants for the following reasons:

I am not a member of Queen.
I do not like motorcycles.
I am not Rod Stewart.
I am not French.
I do not cruise for transvestites in an expensive sports car.

These were not cheap leather pants. They are Donna Karan leather pants. They’re for men. Brave men, I would think. Perhaps tattooed, pierced men. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say you either have to be very tough, very gay, or very famous to wear these pants and get away with it.

Again, they’re men’s pants, but they’d probably look great on the right lady. Ladies can get away with leather pants much more often than men can. It’s a sad fact that men who own leather pants will have to come to terms with.

They are size 34x34. I am no longer size 34x34, so even were I to suddenly decide I was a famous gay biker I would not be able to wear these pants. These pants are destined for someone else. For reasons unknown - perhaps to keep my options open, in case I wanted to become a pirate - I have shuffled these unworn pants from house to house, closet to closet. Alas, it is now time to part ways so that I may use the extra room for any rhinestone-studded jeans I may purchase in the future.

These pants are in excellent condition. They were never taken on pirate expeditions. They weren’t worn onstage. They didn’t straddle a Harley, or a guy named Harley. They just hung there, sad and ignored, for a few presidencies.

Someone, somewhere, will look great in these pants. I’m hoping that someone is you, or that you can be suckered into buying them by a girl you’re trying to bed.

Please buy these leather pants.

The World's Longest 10-Miler

2005-10-02T14:43:00.000-05:00

Or perhaps the race should be appropriately known as the "World's Largest 11.2 Miler"?
This morning was the annual "Army Ten-Miler", the second largest 10-mile race in the world. Unfortunately, the threat of a package bomb at mile seven caused an unforseen diversion which re-routed the course into an 11.2 mile cluster fuck.
Now, for all you runners out there, it gets better. Since the package wasn't discovered until after the race actually started, race officials did not have time to set up things like... the finish line. There were no time clocks after mile seven. And they added a sweet X-Terra element at mile 10, as runners had to scramble over a cement highway divider to get to the end.
Caddy bitching aside, it was a memorable event. (Especially considering the security pat-down at the start from a hot army dude. Hooah.)

The Roommate

2005-09-16T19:28:00.000-05:00

I have been living alone in Maryland for over a year now. Eventhough I have the most excellent boyfriend, I'll admit that a seven-hundred mile separation gets pretty fucking lonely. So I recently made a decision. It was time to get a roommate.
Impulsive?
Perhaps... but I can always throw that little cock out.

I know what some of you are thinking... and a few of you are probably right. But give this queen a break- I see the boyfriend about one or two weekends a month. Being a gay twenty-something man for 22 more days... well that just ain't enough access to a little wild monkey action.

Thus enter the virtues of my roommate.

I had actually mentioned this to Chris a few times to gauge his reaction and unsuprisingly, he was most supportive. He got a roommate a while ago (dubbed 'Prince Willie'. Yeah. Whatever.) I can only imagine that Bill helps him through the rough patches when our visits are painfully spaced out.
So I spent the better part of a morning scanning ads on trashy websites... I wasn't exactly sure what to look for (I'm hella inexperienced in the ole' roommate department), so I took a bit of a gamble. I landed on one particular description that had the right qualifications.

And the tag line read "strong and sturdy".
I read "built like an Indiana barn".
Perfect.

He doesn't get into town until next week, so I've got this weekend to nail down the shingles, secure the furniture, and bolster the headboard. To be honest, I don't even know his damn name. The tragic part is I really don't care. When he moves in, I'm sure the name thing will come up eventually.

The West Coast Armorette?

2005-08-27T09:11:00.000-05:00

I read an article a while back about the election controversy in Spokane with the city mayor, Jim West. Admittedly, I was surprised that Spokane could generate controversy. Who knew? Anyway- it appears that the right-wing conservative mayor was caught on a gay chat website hitting up gay teens and soliciting city positions. Sullivan who was a proponent of anti-gay legislation and a staunch Republican, acknowledged "poor judgement" but said he was the victim of a "brutal outing" by the press.
More recently, two gay men have claimed that West was guilty of molestation back in the 1970's when he worked in the sheriff's office as a scout leader. This party is about to get interesting. I can't wait for the pictures of the mayor in drag to surface- he's got the makings of a west coast Armorette.
I hate to be unsympathetic to his situation, but for all the anti-gay rhetoric he's proselytized, I don't think there's a way to soften his coming-out party.

Pontishua the Power Puss

2005-08-05T12:22:00.000-05:00

As a gay man, I get unending shit for driving a Pontiac. No, it's not an import. Yes, it has roll-down windows. But the damn thing keeps driving, and I think she digs me.

Before I take her across country for the second time, I thought I'd pay her tribute. Because honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if she self-destructs in death valley.

She’s sea mist green,
With a pimpin’ stripe.
Her curves are kickin’.
She’s just my type.
With a rack on top and a tail in back-
She knows she’s trouble.
That girl is stacked.
I’ll ride this bitch from coast to coast.
She puts out love,
much more than most.
She’s got a cough and a gangsta lean.
time's been tough… the miles she’s seen.
From the ATL to Rodeo Drive,
She tops out at 65.
We’ve got miles...
and miles to go,
But she’ll get me there,
She’s a badass ho.

Land of Pre-Canna

2005-08-03T12:15:00.000-05:00

My California days are numbered. I’ve only got three days left until Driving Excitement, the boyfriend and I head back east. I’ve got a lot on my mind to sort out and maybe five days of driving will bring some clarity. Or delusion… either one could be interesting.

I had a long conversation with my best friend, Chris, down in San Diego this past weekend. We’ve gotten into the habit of going for long runs when we get together. By default, he has become my non-profit psychiatrist who just happens to run a 3:10 marathon.

The first twenty minutes we spend catching up on family stories and plotting out the course for our seventeen-mile run. Then we dive into bigger life issues- graduate school, spirituality, work… Finally, as I hit run-induced delirium about mile 14, we cover relationships. I think you need to be in that pot-smoking state of mind to open up to Chris sometimes. His questions are simple- my answers typically aren't.

Chris first asked what the boyfriend thought about potentially (quitting/relocating/selling the house/dropping his life) to move to CA. Everyone has asked this question and I’ve discussed this with the BF many times.
I’m committed.
He’s committed.
He’s willing to make the jump.
Next question please.

“That’s a lot of pressure on a relationship when you two have never actually lived together. Finances, arguments, bad days at work, the little things. Are you guys ready for that?”

It’s easy to say I’m ready for that. Sure I am. Because I really don’t know what the hell I’m getting into. The BF doesn’t either. He hasn’t seen me cranky. He probably doesn’t know that I have the willpower of a twelve-year old school girl when it comes to saving money. When I’m upset, I’m emotionally detached from everyone and difficult to deal with. I'm sure Freud would have a field day. So how can you predict the effect these things will have on your relationship? It’s like throwing paint on a wall in hopes that you’ll like the picture when it dries.

Chris could tell I was floundering. I didn’t have any way to predict an outcome and for a logical thinker, that just ain’t acceptable.
So Chris talked about his experiences before getting hitched. In the Catholic religion (and others, I suppose) couples have to go through a quasi-counseling program (called Pre-Canna) prior to marriage that broaches some tough issues. It involves quite a bit of personality testing to help couples understand their partners better- what communication styles work, what actions set them off. It deals with finance issues… where each person stands fiscally and how money will be handled. It explores the topic of parenting- what are the expectations of each partner, how many children do they expect to have, how will the family be supported?

While the jury’s still out on my stance with organized religion and its narrow-minded view of non-traditional relationships (we covered that between mile 9 and mile 13), a program like Pre-Canna just seems right. Maybe there are organizations out there that offer similar services to gay couples. I’ll have to start investigating. In the meantime, Chris will be moving to Chicago in mid-August with his wife to begin a masters program in Pastoral Studies at Loyola. I think he’s better suited as my personal running shrink, but the pay sucks.

Jet Setting. West Coast Style.

2005-07-25T18:34:00.000-05:00

My past weekend in Los Angeles:

Friday night
Three glasses of wine
Two orders of take-home sushi
Two back-to-back episodes of Battlestar Galactica

Saturday Night
Two glasses of wine
my eighteenth viewing of “The Color Purple”, followed by a SciFi trainwrek movie: “Volcano: Unleashed”, starring Philip Dunbar. (Add this movie to his stellar list of nothing.)

Sunday Night
Three glasses of wine
A vegetarian fondu party! (I was tempted to dip the neighbor's dingo in the pot of Emmanthaler and gnaw on its haunches.)

If there’s a screening test for state citizenship, methinks that California might vote me off the island.

Death and traffic.

2005-07-21T11:38:00.000-05:00

In a follow-up to my last blog, I would like to report that no famous people were spotted. I saw their Bentley limousines trolling through Hollywood, as they sat behind tinted windows, sipping on Chivas and chuckling at star-obsessed fanatics (like ourselves). Well fuck them.

For the dumbass that planned the Century Blvd repaving project, which obviously began the second we exited the 405 and probably ended the minute after my sister officially missed her plane, fuck you.

And finally… for you, Mr. Mall Security Man… that prevented me from entering the Prada store on Rodeo Drive when I refused to throw out my jamba juice lime-sublime smoothie… Fuck you and your wack-ass rent-a-cop power trip.

Famous People or Death

2005-07-15T08:53:00.000-05:00

My sister is flying in to LA for a weekend visit. Her only requirement is to see famous people. I am merely a mode of transportation with which to hunt down and stalk aforementioned famous people.
This week, it was announced that Brad Pitt was hospital-ridden with a bout of meningitis. Leave it to him to pick a dramatic brain-swelling disease. Anyway- in response, my sister course-corrected her itinerary for this weekend’s plans to include a Brad Pitt sighting when she sent me this email (verbatim) yesterday:

agenda for tomorrow:
1. take vicodin (recently prescribed for insane neck pain) and wash down with 5 glasses of wine
2. go to hospital and complain of meningitis-like pain
3. wind up in emergency room with stomach being pumped

My sister is not exactly vain. Vanity involves a pair of big-ass sunglasses and a newspaper to hide behind. She's more of a manic obsessive.
It's going to be a fabulous weekend.

Heavier Things

2005-07-11T15:47:00.000-05:00

I would like to recount a conversation I had yesterday with a girl who shall remain nameless (GWSRN). Her name has been removed to avoid embarrassment.

GWSRN: Michael, I have an IPOD question.

Michael: Ummm… okay. Shoot.

GWSRN: My ITunes playlists got wiped out on my work laptop. I just downloaded ITunes again and replaced all my old music.

Michael: Uh-huh.

GWSRN: Well, I finally moved all of those songs onto my IPod… and I swear, the IPod is heavier now.

Michael: Heavier? Because you downloaded 300 songs?

GWSRN: Yeah… I mean, that’s a lot of songs. That’s got to weigh something, right?

Please note that the GWSRN does not have blond hair, legally operates a motor vehicle, holds a job, and speaks in full sentences.

Lucky Bastard

2005-07-06T19:53:00.000-05:00

I spent the 4th of July weekend in Atlanta with Chris. We had decided to throw a big ole’ bash on Monday, complete with four gallons of mai-tais, a full complement of Barbie plates/napkins and a gigantic American flag tart. If the neighbors had wondered about Chris’ sexual orientation, I think the barbeque provided tacit clarification.
Having been away from Atlanta for over a year, this party was the perfect opportunity to reconnect with a couple of lost friends. I realized just how lost one of them had become when Mark asked who’s apartment we were in and who the hell Chris was. Realizing that he had never met Chris, I mustered up the remaining fibers of sobriety and took the next ten minutes to wax sentimental about the incredibility of the last eight months. It’s been a while since I have actually recounted the course of our relationship. This particular conversation provided one of those random tests that forces you to check your feelings for a moment and objectively analyze whether you’re a blundering moron or a lucky bastard.

I sided with option B) lucky bastard.
Perhaps it was the mai-tais.

Coffee, anyone?

2005-06-29T19:01:00.000-05:00

Imagine this Tuesday morning pick-me-up:
You saunter into work. (Four days before a long holiday weekend.) In the midst of your morning log-on routine, the phone rings but you don’t recognize the name or the extension. You conjure up your most officious 8:30am corporate office voice, only to realize that you are speaking with the HR representative down on the second floor. She requests your presence in a meeting. Now. And you’re not even caffeinated. Shit. You get up from the desk just as you see your new manager striding over. He’s quite brief… but confirms your apparent 8:43am meeting with HR. Holy shit. Something’s up. You quickly grab your keys and wallet… because you know you won’t be returning back to your desk again.

This was my brother’s morning yesterday. He was laid off without warning or much reason. I have been through similar experiences- a merger, a layoff, and a corporate bankruptcy (as have many of my friends), but the bite from a new unemployment testimonial never quite loses its edge.
I am an eternal optimist and immediately reminded my brother of the ensuing ten week vacation he just earned. But personally, I know that nine of those upcoming weeks will undoubtedly be spent wrestling with resumes, rejection, embarrassment, and frustration. It is humbling to realize that for all our work history, personal experience, and wisdom that we bring to the office- it can all be ended before your first cup of coffee.

Welcome to California

2005-06-22T15:50:00.000-05:00

I have only been in California now for three weeks. In these three weeks I have experienced:
1.) Mudslides
2.) A Tsunami Warning
And finally, last week we had
3.) An Earthquake

It registered 5.3 on the Richter Scale and it was described by co-workers as a “roller and a shaker”. I’ve been on a bender before, but never a “roller and a shaker”.

I swear, this state is Mother Nature’s Theme Park.

What a Difference a Coast Makes

2005-06-14T11:19:00.000-05:00

I moved to California for the summer two weeks ago and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. East coasters don’t have a high opinion of California (particularly L.A.) and each earthquake offers renewed hope that the state might just fall into the ocean. However, I fear that I may be defecting. Don’t get me wrong- once an east coaster, always an east coaster. I will never learn how to relax, black will always be my favorite color of clothing, and I can’t help driving like a premenstrual woman. But life takes on a beautiful twist when you live on the Pacific coast, albeit for only two months. Feeling a bit nostalgic, here’s a list of ten things I haven’t seen since my cross country journey began in late May.

1.)‘Go Army’ bumper stickers. I’m in liberal nirvana for two more months. Go Democrats.
2.)My sister. She lives in Virginia. I miss her.
3.)Humidity. She also lives in Virginia. I’m feeling no separation anxiety there whatsoever.
4.)Spring Green. This state is one big sandbox with a couple of palm trees and sprinklers thrown in for good measure. The closest I can get to East coast spring green can be found in a crayola box at Rite-Aid.
5.)University of Maryland. I love it and hate it. But it has consumed my life for the last year.
6.)The Metro. Apparently, L.A. is too pretentious to bother with public rail transit.
7.)Pigeons. Although, replace “pigeon” with “seagull” and I’d feel right at home.
8.)My check book. I am hoping it’s chilling out on the coffee table back in Maryland.
9.)Rain. We haven’t had a drop since I arrived. I shit you not.
10.) Good music. I fear I may go ghetto/gangsta by the time I return. My car stereo has once again eaten a CD and refuses to give it back. I am forced to listen to the only two musical selections available in L.A.- Mexican dance music or 50 Cent and Ja Rule.

My Friend, Jantzen.

2005-05-02T06:16:00.000-05:00

Ode to a Pineapple Princess

It's odd how we met,
we sort of "just clicked".
He's from Hawaii,
No... we've not tricked.
That would be strange...
He's like a brother.
Actually- strike that.
He's more like my mother.
He drinks like a fish,
He sings like a bird.
He's got swang on the porch,
Or so, I've heard.
He's been unlucky in love-
He attracts the wrong 'mo.
From military brats,
to Jesus freak shows.
It's about time
to find him a man.
With a Black BMW,
and a 401K plan.
If you find him quite fetching,
Please let me know.
I must find a match
for this pineapple ho.

And Then There was One

2005-04-20T19:16:00.000-05:00

I happen to be the youngest in a family of three kids. I also happen to be the only non-married sibling. Both my sister and brother were proverbially set up by the parents. (I'm quite confident the tradition ends here.) Marf married about two years ago... and Stephen...well, he's been wearing the shackles for five days now.
My experience at each wedding was quite different. My sister was the first to fall, in what will go down in the annals of wedding history as "A Big Fucking Production". I distinctly remember as she and her husband pulled out of the driveway en route to the airport for their honeymoon. I was crying. She was crying. The sago palm trees in the foyer even looked a little teary.
Everyone was crying and we had no blessed clue what was so sad. I guess our tight family nucleus had been broken for the first time. Perhaps it was fear of the unknown. Hell, maybe the pollen count was high.
Stephen's wedding was a bit different. I have always expected my brother to get married. He's the marrying type- good looking, dedicated, and completely unshakeable. A woman in the throws of PMS would be hard-pressed to rattle him. I just pinned marriage as a "matter-of-fact" progression for him- and this probably accounted for my lack of emotion throughout the ceremony. Granted, I was singing for the wedding and was focused on the music for most of it. But I never really felt that brick wall of finality that usually smacks me at the onset of the vows. I plugged through each song as if I were singing in the shower. (note: shower acoustics are far better than St. Paul's Church.) Stephen grabbed me immediately after the ceremony to tell me that my rendition of the "Irish Blessing" made him cry at the altar. Apparently, I had been too busy concentrating on the sheet music to have noticed.
The reception began in typical Irish fashion, with an hour of power-drinking, followed by... another hour of power-drinking. By the time the food arrived, I was mentally playing out the proper roles for the knife and the fork, as my thirteen vodka tonics seemed to have mentally blurred my recollection of their uses. In the midst of bludgeoning my filet with a spoon, Stephen had slipped away to the center of the banquet room to the microphone.
The wedding party quieted.
"You know, it's not often that you get to meet your hero. I had the honor of asking my hero to be the best man."
I looked at my Dad and he lowered his head.
I looked back at Stephen and he began to cry.
Now, I have never seen my brother cry. I've hit him in the balls with a tennis racket - no water works. My sister had a brain tumor and I didn't see him cry during the surgery. He failed chemistry twice, and the wrath from Brother William Sullivan wasn't enough to bring the rock down.
But here was my brother, standing in front of his guests at his own wedding, and he was crying. Maybe that's the same reason I started to cry... it's hard to watch when your heros are humanized.

Brothers- 4/16/05

It doesn't take much...

2005-04-11T16:31:00.000-05:00

He flew in on Friday night. I should have known the weekend would not follow my carefully constructed plan when his flight was 22 minutes late. I hadn't allotted for a 22-minute delay, dammit.That wasn't in the spreadsheet.
We met my sister and brother-in-law for dinner. "Meet" was the operative word, as we double-parked in front of the conveniently located valet parking stand... only to stare at the valet parking sign. Can a valet really be out to lunch? I didn't think that was possible. In a pissy temper, I peeled away (that's giving my Pontiac much more horsepower credit than she's due), recklessly flying down side streets looking for four feet of open curb. My serpentine reconnaissance was successful and we eventually made it to dinner.
The rest of the weekend followed suit. Saturday afternoon I dragged him to school for a painful financial aid talk I had committed to. A beautiful run in the afternoon morphed into "Quasimodo" meets "A River Runs Through It", after he wrenched a hamstring. A night on the town was thwarted by a suspect pitcher of mind-altering margaritas at dinner, and we were tucked away at home by 9:30pm.
Sunday morning was spent in quiet confinement, as I dug myself out of the backlog of readings and case studies I had postponed for the weekend.
It was not the romantic weekend I had mapped out. But I am more in love than ever before.

Three's a Crowd

2005-03-27T12:48:00.000-05:00

So I've had the incredible pleasure of spending a week long sebatical with my boyfriend for spring break. We met the parents (mine), painted the bedroom (his) and spent far too much time tossing back margaritas and staring into eachother's eyes. Flying home amplified the separation anxiety, but it also provided justification that this was a short-term solution for a long-term commitment.
I returned to DC and spent the night recounting the week with my sister and some friends at a bar. One gay couple provided a few of their own stories, alluding to their "open relationship". Now- these happen to be two incredibly hot men... hot enough to convert the straight breeding population. They both have solid jobs, they own a house together, and are quite the fetching pair- yet they couldn't stop clamoring on about the impossibility of monagamy. Apparently, they are able to partition sex separately in their relationship ...I think it's kinda like starting out on the first level of a video game: no limitations, everyone can play, and if you can't get past level one and make it to level two you're a god-damn moron.
As they talked, I just nodded, feigning interest like they were the ultimate relationship yentas, but it couldn't have been farther from the truth. I'll tell ya why. For me, sex isn't always a physical thing, really. I mean- I do get off (sometimes) and it's pretty incredible. But, it's always more about sharing the possibility of that experience with someone, more so than the experience itself.
There's also that sense of exclusivity and safety in monogamy. Last night, I felt like I was the narrator for an animal planet documentary. I spent some time observing the gay couple, as they took laps around the straight bar trolling for a lucky (or unlucky) participant... they must have engaged the hunt for at least an hour before they decided to give it up. What a wasted effort... they could have spent that hour enjoying eachother's company, knowing they would be going home together.
I guess I'm a little jealous that I don't have that option right now. But when I do, I certainly don't plan on wasting my time looking for something else.

Goldfish

2005-03-09T15:54:00.000-05:00

I have the type of personality that requires constant motivation. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm a product of the multmedia generation. Overstimulation is the fabric of life. (Personally, I think it can be attributed to my self-diagnosed ADD.) Regardless, I survive by setting milestones. Of course, when I hit a milestone, I get sucked into depression because the milestone has passed. So I mentally set another milestone to pull me out of the funk. Maybe it's a trip to the grocery store (although I don't get so worked up about food these days ) or the inevitable approach of the weekend. It really doesn't matter... it's just a constant game of baiting. It's a vicious cycle... and I'd imagine there's medication for shit like this.
This has become my coping mechanism for long-distance dating as well. We set up a time to talk... that gets me through the day. Then I inevitably bait at the end... "So I'll email ya tomorrow in class?" (That buys me another 12 hours.) We'll coordinate plans for a trip... (sweet. Just bought myself two weeks.) At this rate, I refuse entertaining the thought of living together- I don't know if I could handle constant and unending visitation rights. I guess it's like a goldfish: in the presence of unending food, they'll keep eating until their stomachs explode. I think I might suffer a similar fate. That could get ugly. Really ugly.

Just a kid

2005-03-01T13:45:00.000-05:00

I am in business school.
I stay up late doing cost-benefit analyses.
I chug through financial statements and read about the impact of foreign exchange rates.
I get off on creating power point presentations for marketing projects.
But nothing....
Nothing is as exciting as getting up at five in the morning,
checking the school's website, only to realize that you have a snow day.

God bless Mother Nature.

Truth Or Dare

2005-02-26T14:45:00.000-05:00

I happen to be in a long distance relationship. While I realize the distance is necessary ( i.e. I would never get any studying done) most of the time it just sucks.
Thus enter... the virtues of a webcam.

A few nights ago, we both decided to play "Truth or Dare". It began much like a junior-high session of spin the bottle-

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
If you could have any super power, what would it be?"
"Do you think I'm pretty?"

It was taking some effort to settle into it.
Thus enter... the power of a bottle of cheap wine.

Soon, the questions got a bit more interesting-

"Have you ever cheated on a boyfriend?"
"What have we not done sexually that you've always wanted to do?"
"Do you still think I'm pretty?"

I was enjoying this immensely.
Thus enter... the second bottle of cheap wine.

Dare became a lot more popular than truth at that point. Getting naked in front of your webcam is like watching yourself in a porno.
Note for future reference, slipping your webcam the tongue is not the same as making out with your boyfriend.

2005-02-25T17:21:00.000-05:00

Just me.

Never Trust A Lawyer

2005-02-20T19:18:00.000-05:00

I was at the grocery store in Silver Spring, debating the merits of cheddar over swiss in the deli section, when I made eye contact with a woman. We both smiled and she mentioned something in passing. Not having caught it, I turned.
"I'm extremely embarrassed... but can I ask you for a favor?" She must have been having the same cheese dilemma so I continued listening.
"I've locked my keys and purse in the BMW outside and I desperately need to get home. Would you be able to loan me ten dollars for a taxi?"
Okay- I know what your thinking. She's a crack whore and I should walk away. But here's the catcher: she was well-dressed, extremely well-spoken, and I was standing in the damn cheese aisle- it's not a hotbed for pan-handlers these days.
"I'm a lawyer with Roberson, Dutch and Wade downtown- I can give you my employee ID and you can call to verify it if you don't believe me. Aside from that-the only thing I can give you right now is my word that I will pay you back."
Damn that Catholic guilt.
I pretty much wrote off ten bucks in my head, but then I said, "I'll loan you the money. But do you mind walking me to your car just so I can be sure it's legit?"
"I can, but the car is parked in the metro lot across the way."
Hmm.
"Why don't I call BMW for you?" As all good queens know, BMW has 24-hour service. God love those insomniac Germans.
Apparently I was making this too difficult and she lost it.
"DON'T YOU DARE CONDESCEND ME! I can make my own fucking phone calls. You're are all the same. Faggots." And she stormed away.
Wow.
And to think I just wanted to get some cheese.

Inauguration

2005-02-19T11:56:00.000-05:00

It's a place to begin. I'm not exactly sure how long the story will continue, but dammit- it will be an interesting read along the way.

Picture Gallery

2005-02-01T09:13:00.000-05:00