Gay-bonics

I’ve been sitting on this draft for about 18 months.  With the clock winding down on the applicability of the adjective “early” to my grumpy, old man shtick, I figure I better either throw this out there or abandon it forever.

I’m no quitter.

In addition to being a grumpy, old man, I’ve also been described as a Grammar Nazi.

Me.

With my ellipses abuse and run on sentences.

That’s just how stupid people can be.  Essentially, I believe it’s all good natured fun because I have such a defined reaction to people using words like “aks” and “Warshington”.  (Sorry, Mom).  Instead of  acknowledging that those aren’t words and – oh, I don’t know – attempting to use the correct pronunciation, I’m the Grammar Nazi.

Sidebar:  I went to diction classes after school when I was young because of a speech impediment.  My Rs came out as Ws.  

Pretty awful when I pronounced my own name as Cwis or Cwistofuh.

But my parents cared enough to make sure I didn’t go through life sounding unnecessarily stupid.  But yet I’m the Grammar Nazi.

Did I mention this class was run by nuns?  In the 70s?  There were motivational rulers involved.

So, yeah…my grumpiness came early.

But on those same lines, my subculture does some shit that really bugs me.  It’s the polar opposite of what my parents tried to spare me, I think.  My people are dumbing themselves down and calling it cool.

Not, it is.

I call this Gaybonics.

I’m not saying gays made each of these so-called words up.  But once the gays got hold of them, it was off to the races and suddenly you can’t get away from them.

Don’t get me wrong, in my day – no, wait, I can do better.  When I was young we gays weren’t exactly the paradigm of maturity.  We called each other “Mary” and “Queen”.  But we didn’t make up words to differentiate ourselves.

So let’s see what exercises in nails on a chalkboard that today’s gays are committing, shall we?

Qween.

I don’t know.  I really don’t.  It’s like they have to re-reappreopriate this word from the earlier generation of gays.  What next?  Need to reboot Stonewall?  I know, history is so dated.

Yaaaas.


I’m a complex creature.  I hate this word and love this meme.

The kid reminds me of my juvenile self.

I think that it’s funny, I use it in texts and comments as shorthand for my enthusiastic agreement for something.

It.

Should.

Never.

Be.

Spoken.

I overhear gays talking and instead of “uh huh” and “mm hmmm” as the lazy active listening cues that accompany head gestures, I hear varying degrees of this fucking word. 

So, my dinner date the other night was fine.

Yaaas.

But then at the end, the check came and we both just sat there.

Oh, gurl, uh-uh.

And I’m just thinking, like he invited me.

Yaaaas.  Right?

But he’s not treating, and I’m all…WTF?

Yaaaaas.

(It’s approaching orgasm intensity at this point)

So I reached for it and then he offers to split it!  And I’m all thinking, I could have taken myself out to dinner with a good book and not have to listen to your boring ass for an hour!  

Yaaaaaaaas, Qween.  Tell it!

So, we split it.

Well, at least you didn’t have to put out.

I didn’t have to.  But just cuz he’s stingy doesn’t mean I have to be.

Yaaaas, gurl.  You do you.

It’s like we’ve all become caricatures of drag queens versus having our own personalities.

Extra.

Over the top.  Too much.  Way to much.

Really?  From gays.

How do we say this about one another (I don’t) when we collectively embrace a coded – yet juvenile – language of our own?

Irony, we are all extra.  Why we must use it perjoratively against one another…well, it doesn’t boggle my mind, unfortunately.  It’s the old “tear another down to build yourself up” mentality.

Very mature.

Of course, most of the crap we make up has to do with sex.  We’re like OCD when it comes to labeling one another.  If only that tendency to label enabled us being organized enough to have our own shit actually together.

Some of these I actually think are cute or quirky in a fun way,  Others, not so much.  The ones I really don’t enjoy tend to be the ones that infantillize – is that a word? – sex.  My $.02, if you can’t say it like an adult, maybe don’t do it…you’ll only end up getting hurt or – more likely – hurting someone else.

(Mom, you might want to skip over this part…not sure of the depth of detail yet, fair warning)

Zaddy.

I hear this word and cringe.  

Outwardly.

Gays didn’t create nor did they sexualize Daddy, and I’m not crazy about it.  But Zaddy is gaybonic for someone with all the characteristics of a Daddy, minus the age.

Ok, first of all, having a Daddy boyfriend – regardless of the gay/straight filter – connotes you need to be taken care of, most likely financially.  As a man of a certain age, I think that should be a temporary situation and that the younger person in this scenario should be working toward becoming a fully functional member of society who happens to have an older boyfriend.

Let’s call that Why I’m Single #44.

So this Zaddy person is likely a peer.  Getting this straight, your shit isn’t together enough to the point you need the guidance of a sexual parent.  It is not at all hard to believe you’ll give someone from your peer group responsibility for your well-being.

When I cringe at this word, I also mentally make a note to never accept this person’s judgment as reasonable.

Boi.

Someone who usually needs a Daddy but settles for a Zaddy.  Someone who will probably still be looking for a Daddy when he’s my age.

When I was young, we called bois “twinks”.  The worst thing that could happen to a twink was to still be a twink at 29.  

God forbid.

Nevertheless, we handled these situations with the correct verbal and public pergatory…by calling them twunks or twonks.  These two words are basically an onomatopoeia for an expired twink.

While we are kinda on the topic of baby talking sex – ok, we were a paragraph or two ago, just go with it – there’s a lot of probably misogynistic in origin words for female body parts.  Gays have collectively embraced terms like “man pussy” and “mangina” in reference to their ass.  

This is not hot.

No, Paris.  It’s nawt.

Someone please explain to me how two gay men referring to a mangina is sexy sex talk?  It’s kind of not sexy to bring up a bastardized version of the opposite sex’s sexual organ in any manner during a homosexual sexual encounter, isn’t it?

Am I somehow out of touch with hot bedroom talk?

I have a hard time envisioning lesbians talking about their “lady boners” in any sexualized manner.

These words make us frivolous…and there’s a time and a place for that talk.  I just don’t like it to be the bedroom.  Let’s play like adults, boys.

Cake.

As much as I bemoan the existence and usage of these words…I don’t loathe them all.  Some of them I even find cute.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I find cake cute…but when I hear it, I don’t die a little more inside.  My self-analysis is that I give it a pass because it refers to something I envy:  namely, a shapely butt.

Now, when I was young…we called this shapely bum a bubble butt.  Descriptive, but not codifying the subject.  Now, heaven forbid anyone talk about an erogenous part of the body like an adult, so we have cake. 

It does make openly discussing analingus a little less daunting, but it’s my birthday weekend and I’m going to be old…so help me god, if I get confused about the concept of birthday cake and end up in bed with baked goods – well, I mean, that doesn’t actually sound too bad.

THOT

This is gay-speak for That Hottie Over There.  Hearing two people use this word in a gay bar is disorienting.  A couple of years ago, I heard it so many times over the course of one beer that I momentarily thought I’d wandered into a smart gay bar.

Alas.

Now when I hear it, I kind of want to chat the subject up just to show these all talk kids how the art of conversation works.

Thirsty.

And…we’re back to perjorative language.

Maybe I could just not be so grumpy.

Possibly.

Maybe others could just not be such judgy bitches.

It’s truly a toss up.

Not sure it’s easier for me to be less grumpy or to change all of gay culture.

So, this translates to desperate in normal American vernacular.  I’m not saying it’s not a part of reality, some people are desperate.  

At least they know what they want.

My favorite occurrence of this is when I see someone use it in the same conversation that they personally reference a THOT.

So rewarding.

Thicc.

Some of the words gays make up and use at one another are mean.  Just mean.  Thicc is a standout compliment is the made up gay vernacular.

When someone has a solid core, six pack abs, defined obliques – crassly referred to as cum gutters – and the like versus a wasp-like 28″ twink waist, they are thicc.  Ditto tree trunk like thighs.  Thicc.

Nice to know we can be nice to each other on occasion.

But, in true bitchy qween style, we’ve misspelled it to drive home the point that anyone that spends that much time on their physique has a box of rocks between their ears.  It’s my supposition, at any rate.  I was, after all, just a bitchy qwueen.  

In less than a day, though, I’ll be a legit grumpy old man.  Since the 80s and 90s wiped out the better part of a couple generations of potentially old gays – and since gays over 40 are pretty much invisible anyway – we haven’t gotten around to creating a gaybonics word to describe what I’ll be tomorrow.

Wait until the world gets a dose of me.  

Muahahaha.

Gay-bonics

Dating Into Oblivion, ep1

Well, this little endeavor is off to a great start.  I hope you all enjoy this as much as I am so far.

To recap: my goal is to throw $20 at a date once a month and see what happens.

What could possibly go wrong?

It’s like I threw a party and no one came.

Don’t read too much into that last word.

And here’s the deal, I could see throwing a party and maybe no one shows up.

Once.

But today was the 4th time it’s happened.  Technically, the 3rd and 4th time.  That’s how quickly my faith collapsed inward, I scheduled two dates in one afternoon.

But it wasn’t always so grim.

It started off much worse.

My first attempt crept on me.  I went into a bar after seeing a movie one afternoon early this month.  

The bartender hit on me.

Flattering.  It wasn’t the first time, either, and it was appreciated.  But I didn’t dwell on the prior instance and just enjoyed the moment.  He went to the bother of finding me on the Facebook Messenger later that night…we aren’t friends on the Facebook, so I decided to be impressed by the minimal effort that required.

I really do have the bar set low.  Like, ground level.  It’s left me quite dumbstruck how hard guys make clearing a low bar look.

So, me and the bartender are talking about meeting up and I mention how interested I’d been in dating him since the first time I met him.

He goes silent-er.  Instead of multiple daily messages, it’s a response every other day and he’s steered clear of actually committing to a date/time.  Reading between the lines, I dial it back and say that if he’s looking for casual, it’s not really my thing but I’d give it a second thought with him.

Then it hits me.

“Oh my GOD.  You’re still MARRIED, aren’t you?!?”

The first time I met him, I’d been sitting at the bar at Hobo’s talking to Everybody’s Uncle Dave.  His group walks in and he tracks me as he walks by and bee lines it for the bathroom.  As is my usual lot in life, his friends pick the barstools immediately next to mine on this 40 foot long bar.

When he comes out of the can, instead of sitting on the other side of his friends, he hops into my lap.

He’s significantly attractive, so I cannot care.  He gives me his number quick and says we should get together.  

As I’m listening, it becomes obvious that this is his Stag Party and he’s getting friggin’ married.

Picture me standing up, him sliding onto his adorable butt on the ground and me leaving, because I think that’s what actually happened.

So, the second time around was about as elegant…he never replied.

Shake it off, Galby.

The second attempt moved from real life to something less analog, but still kinda quaint in the age of apps.  I’ve kept one asocial media website profile active for the last forever.

I was on said site and sent off a few smiles.  I keep it light, usually.  Im an older guy hitting on younger guys, if they don’t want to engage, I take the hint.

A nice looking guy bothered to strike up a conversation.  His profile had several private pics, which he kept locked.  I appreciated this, since if it’s meant to be something I see, it’ll be in person.  So many of these gay-tards (Chrisism) think they have no value past their sexual use that I usually know what someone’s junk looks like before I know their name…if I ever even get to know their name.

We talked for about ten days, discussing getting together and setting a date to meet.

This being my life, he cancelled because he got a job interview.  Priorities.  I get it.

Suddenly, his pics are unlocked.

I explain that I don’t want nor do I expect to see them and why.  Then he says he feels bad…but doesn’t lock them.

Several days go by.

I don’t visit the site often, but get an email every day that I have mail waiting.

Finally, I log in to make sure I didn’t miss something.

No mail.

And his pics are still open.  Since it looks like he’s never going to talk to me again – so dramatic – I take a look to see if his 28 year old physique matches his cute mug.

MY EYES!

It’s like the very reason I don’t have boudoir pics.  On a guy that has about 40% less reason to excuse said reason.

Why?!?  No, not “why?”  I think I’m actually jealous that this guy is so comfortable in his skin to have these pics.

My mind is fairly boggled.

But, I do never hear from him again.

Attempts three and four happened concurrently.  It wasn’t anything impressive or typically Portland, like a couple trying to date me.  These two opportunities simply presented about the same time.

Me, being old and prone to confusion, asked them both out on the same day, today…which happens to be my Saturday.

Attempt three is someone who responded to a personal ad I placed.  Talk about old school.  He replied, included a face pic and a couple unsolicited and unexpected but not unwelcome – see above – body pics.  It’s ok, technically, since his name was in his email address.

He seemed nice and charming and genuine.  We set up a date to meet – today – which happens to be both our day off.  His only day off since he works full time and is a student.

Shut up, he’s 38.

My red flags are two:

He works nights, I work days.  We might only have one day per week to get to know each other.  

My second hesitation was that he’s from Mexico.

Hey, it can be a turn on and red flag at the same time!

My concern is that with English being his second language and so much of my persona being…snarkiness, a lot can get lost in translation,

I was impressed that he followed up to confirm this morning at 8:30.  I had an acupuncture appointment at 8:15, but replied at 9:30 when I got out.  

“Just give me a when and a where and I’m there”, I say.

At one o’clock, I’m still waiting.

I go scrolling through the Craigslist, killing time.  Also, maybe I need to be looking for February’s no-show.

I mean, date.

I click on an af that sounds up my alley.

There’s a few pics I recognize.

“Looking for today”…posted seven hours ago.

I’m having trouble getting my mind around someone who places this ad, emails me to confirm our date an hour later and then goes silent on me.

Obviously, he’s getting laid.

Only possible conclusion, right?  Setting aside my conviction that if he’s got…well, nevermind.  The point is, I call him on it.

He responds within minutes.

Full stop.  I’ve waited about four hours for you to give me a when and a where and when I tell you, “I get it, it’s your only day off for the week.  Take care of business” you suddenly have all the time in the world to respond?

Unfortunately, he chose to respond with, “You know how flakey gay guys are.  But I really want to see you!”

Yes, I do know how flakey gay guys are.  And I am not able to reconcile how four hours goes by without you picking a fucking time and coffee house while seven minutes elapsed between my j’accuse moment to his sudden reply.

Which brings us to my 4th attempt. 

This is a cute kid that I didn’t meet a couple of years ago when I moved back to town. 

I don’t drive + he lives in Vantucky = we never met.

But, we were already connected on the Facebook and when I joined the instagram last year, he was a suggested follow.  So, now there’s that.

Which is where I got into trouble.

But before that, last year, he got into a wreck that left him laid up for quite a while.  Long enough that he lost his entry level job at a quick serve restaurant and I’d been following his job search via status updates for a while.

I’m always – literally, if you know someone looking in Portland, OR let me know – hiring, so since we didn’t date I felt absolutely no awkwardness about extending an opportunity his way.

He

Never

Availed

Himself

Oh, well.

I thought about following up, but do I really want an employee I had to chase down to apply working for me?

No.

No, I don’t.

Some of the ones that voluntarily applied are enough of a probl…challenge.

So, I let it lie.

Then last week, we got into a DM on the Instagram that ended in him giving me his number.

We move to text and go at it like teenagers for a few days.  I can tell he’s no conversationalist, but get the vibe that he wants me to ask him out.

I do.

Thursday evening, about 6 or 7?

Sure.

I check in last night with a text, a 24 hour confirmation and hear nothing.

That was 22 hours ago and I don’t know if my thoughts are along the “Fucking millennials” or “Fucking fags” line.

Still…fucking something.

I do know that after a couple of years of not knowing him in real life, I feel as if I know what he wants or needs better than hizownself does.

He’s a Lost Boy.  That doesn’t make him a bad person, just lost.  Nothing more, nothing less.  But with potential in both directions, depending on whether he pulls his head out of his ass sooner, later or never.

I can say that my prior inclination to “raise” – for lack of a better word – a younger gay into a man is…not gone, but certainly sublimated.  I think it’s the job of a partner to help their SO become a better and better version of themselves.  I’m just aware that not every cute guy I come across with his act lying in shambles around his ankles isn’t automatically a perfect fit for me.

That’s a good realization.

There you have it. Episode 1 of Dating Into Oblivion.  Meanwhile, I’ve saved $80.  I’ve also enjoyed two and a half beers at Big Legrowlski while tapping this out.

And flirted with a probably straight guy over sci-if books.  So there’s that.

In theory, I’m quite an attractive option.

In reality…50 (minus 80-ish hours) and single, people.

Dating Into Oblivion, ep1

My E.O.G Game Is On!

I think I just level-upped my Early Onset Grumpiness.

Leveled Up?

I dunno which is righter.

No.  Wait.  I know neither is actually acceptable and just give up.

Anyhoo.  

The Silver Fox and I are sitting here in our neighborhood cafe, drinking our coffee and discussing Trump denying he used the phrase “shithole countries” the other day when something happened.

I’d seen this guy walk up with his dog – a young yellow lab, so I was attenuated on The Fox’s behalf since his dog share is also a lab.  The guy ties his dog up street side and comes into the cafe.

I give the guy a look that fails to register, but conveyed my, “You gonna leave your dog outside in the wet while you come in here and eat?”

Anyway, he ordered to go, as it turns out.  He’s standing there waiting for his sandwich and the next thing he or I know his dog is in the street greeting a passerby jaywalker.

With the table he was tethered to.

Now, I saw the guy come into the cafe sans puppy and assumed he had been lashed to one of Portland’s many bike racks.

No, our brainiac tied the dog to a table that is just a lightweight metal legged, wood slat top situation.  Patio furniture, basically.

The dog is enthusiastically greeting this jaywalking lady who is trying to pick the tabletop up out of the street and the dog has completely entangled himself in the leash and tablelegs.  Not that that is dampening the pup’s enthusiasm at all.

The owner finally arrives and handles the dog situation.  

I wonder if the dog knows the woman, explaining the overwhelming excitement of the animal toward her.

She’s now picking up hardware out of the street so cars don’t get screws stuck in their tires.  After she’s collected the attaching screws and whatnot, she carries on her way.

The guy comes in, picks up his sandwich and leaves.

I give him a hard stare as he walks by my window, which he adroitly ignores.

I walk up to our Substitute Barista and ask if the guy said anything to her about the table.  She’d missed the entire thing, helping customers.  Two of whom are standing right by me waiting for food and had seen the entire thing.

Neither of them confirm my account, so Substitute Barista and I go outside to assess.

The guy had set the detached top back on the legs and left the hardware sitting on the window ledge adjacent.

Substitute Barista declares that situation unsafe and I suggest taking the table into the cafe’s storage area.  She agrees, I grab the top and she grabs the legs.  She’s still talking about how could people do something like that.  One of the other witnesses is leaving as we’re coming back into the cafe and holds the door, saying, “Nice timing!” at her helpfulness.

I glare at her in disbelief, still she’s said nothing.

I go back to The Fox and pick up on our conversation, “It’s nice to see the GOP acknowledging that they are likely to lose their majority in Congress.  I just wish they would realize it’s not because incumbents are retiring or resigning so much as it’s their actions that will cause them to lose their majority.”

We went on to discuss the Trumpster Fire’s use of the phrase “shithole countries” some more, specifically how NPR had actually quoted the phrase and not bothered bleeping it.

The point I was making was how the mainstream media and congress have largely stood by and not specifically called out Trump for his bad behavior.  This is how he is able to continually get away with his devolving statesmanship.

No one speaks up.

Much like the two customers standing immediately by the dog owner today.  I watched what happened, stood up, crossed the cafe and narced on the guy who damaged someone else’s property and said nothing.

And why should he, given the example of our country’s leadership?

Well, I saw something and I said something.  

Then I said, “I hope that guy is a regular and you get a chance to call him out.”

Not that I want Substitute Barista involved in a confrontation, but I do think someone should be able to respectfully and safely say, “Hey, that wasn’t cool.”

When the guy walked back by with his dog as I wrote this, I debated going outside and saying something to him.  The Fox kind of talked me out of it, which is good since I may fail the “respectfully” part of the conversation…but I glared at him real good.

My E.O.G Game Is On!

I’m (Not) A Survivor

It’s Sacha Story Time!

We were together for six years, which is a long time for a broken relationship.  While I’d say neither of our needs were optimally met, we both drew something or some things out of the relationship along the way.  

I’m not going to speculate as to what his takeaways were, but as my birthday draws nearer, I’m drawn back to this draft I originally thought of about last Spring when reading about the TV show Survivor.

You see, Sacha was a creative type and a person that approached his faith in humanity from a busted up, scientific method standpoint.

Pro: He generally gave great, all-in gifts to his loved ones.

Con: He required significant proof that you loved him.

That last one is pretty easy to dispatch with.  

Also, tricky.

Suffice it to say, tokens went a long way with him.  He called them symbols.  Not at all problematic.

Except…100 people surveyed, top 1 answer on the board.  “Name something that symbolizes a commitment in a relationship”.

“Uh, ring?”

<BING!>

So, you just know that came up way too early in the relationship.  And me being a long-game, “what’s next?” type of guy looked at this simple fix as an opportunity to ask what the next fix would be.

Yeah, no ring.

But we did end up with new cars about every other year – that’s every year for him and every other year I got a new car for a week or two until he decided he liked mine better and I got his hand-me-down.

Oh, and three dogs.

So, I was proving as hard as I could, without capitulating, of course.

That’s the con.

The pro?  

Man, there’s a lot of great stuff to talk about.  He was creative, so when he put his mind to it, he nailed gift giving.  Besides being elaborate, they were usually fairly unique and personal.

Take my 30th birthday.  He reserved the back room at this place called The Alibi. 

It was a disintegrating tiki bar in NoPo that we’d go to occasionally with friends.  I called it “the gayest straight bar in Portland”.

This was before the hipsters resurrected it a decade ago when Interstate Ave got its urban renewal shot in the arm.

So, we were just going there to hang out a bit with Black Sheep Bro and his current girlfriend, Jackie Jack Ass.

Everyone I knew was there.

And, Sacha – not a baker, by any means – had made a gigantic cake in the shape of the starship Enterprise-A.  It was, if memory serves, two half-sheet cakes and two tiers of a round cake.  It was pretty fucking amazing, indeed a unique and memorable way to usher in my 30s.

There were the trip-gifts he gave us.  Sure, I usually ended up funding them.  He always earmarked his annual freelance project money for these trip-gifts, but it never fully funded them.  But, it was ok.  We were making memories.  Again, he usually tried to keep them a surprise, requesting time off with my boss behind my back.

It was special.

I’ve been to Italy, France and Holland thanks to these little experience gifts he gave us.

Oh, and climbed a – y’know – volcano.

But even gifts that weren’t extravagant still demonstrated a lot of imagination and thought, making them uniquely personal experiences.

That’s where Survivor comes in.

For one of my birthdays, Sacha came up with this Great Race themed scavenger hunt or Survivor immunity challenge thingy.  He gave me a clue to start me off and then planted subsequent clues and gifts throughout the house.  Behind the TV, in the dryer, in our gazebo-thing…all over the place.  Once again, Black Sheep Bro and Jackie Jack Ass were on hand, following my progress.

For whatever reason, I wasn’t all on board. He kept kinda having to prompt me along.  Maybe it was because this was where I officially began getting old and grumpy.  Maybe the clues were actually more obscure than I could bet my head around in the moment.  Maybe it’s because I was inwardly terrified that he’d somehow actually submitted me to be a contestant on Survivor or Great Race.  

Maybe I just don’t like being propelled into the center of attention.  I can get there quite nicely, thank you.

On the one hand, even though I may not have demonstrated much enthusiasm in the moment, this example of Sacha gift giving also helped get me to the point I’m at today, where experiences are better than actual gifts.

On the other hand, I still carry the relationship wariness from that moment with me.  That I might get caught up as the Ethel to my boyfriend’s Lucy in some crazy harebrained scheme like submitting me as a contestant in a reality show against my will where I have to pretend to be excited about something I’m not. 

at. 

all. 

excited. 

about.

Let’s call that Why I’m Single #50 – turns out, I’m actually a reluctant participant.

But, I’m going with the pro: experience gifts > things.

So, there.

My birthday is in two weeks.

I’m not registered…go figure.

Your gift to me?  I’m turning 40.

Go with it.

I’m (Not) A Survivor

I Can’t Imagine…

Here’s a reference that my day-to-day life won’t let me escape from recently.

Chirruns.

Specifically, having my own.

There have been reminders like the expected daily posts and snaps from my friends with kids.  More obscurely, Beatles references – or John Lennon, at any rate – to the…oneness one feels with one’s offspring. I wish I could remember where I came across that particular reference.  I’d specifically like to avoid confronting that again.

But even in relatively expected safe havens, like TV, I find my reproductive shortcomings taunting me.  When Madam Secretary plot lines are calling out your life or lifestyle choices, you probably need to take a step back and give yourself a good once over.

Seriously, isn’t TV supposed to provide an escape?

Maybe it’s the new year…but, c’mon!  I’ve always been the guy who refers to children as an STD.

Perhaps the choices I’m meant to examine are more along the lines of whether I should not binge-watch Madam Secretary.  Sticking to the relatively safe havens of Doctor Who and strong male leads like Jean Luc Picard.

Sure.  Great.  Now I just look like a sexist jerk for blaming my introspective nature and nueroses on Tea Leoni.

But that Madam Secretary season finale last season.  <sigh>

All she wanted was to revisit a vacation destination – a cabin in the woods – with her husband and kids.  An escape for her to a less complicated time.  Naturally, her teenagers and adult children don’t want to go, which disappoints her.  Her husband -played by Tim Daly, and probably really more along the lines of what my life is actually missing – takes her to the cabin anyway, just the two of them.

Of course, good old Tim – and formulaic happy ending TV writing – has rallied the kids to the cabin early to surprise mom when they walk into the same exact cabin from all those years ago.

Can you hear my heartstrings?

So, in my ruminating, I’m back to the big life questions…what’s missing from my reality, the potential family cabin scenario or the romance of simply having someone in my life who cares enough for my emotional needs to get me the equivalent of Tea’s family getaway?

That’s a tough one.

But then it isn’t.  

I’ve never wanted kids.  I’m probably too selfish to make the life changing sacrifices good parents make.  I think I could instill great values in a young ‘un, though, don’t get me wrong.

So, I guess as I tap my way through this thought exercise of an essay, it’s not children that my psyche is telling me I’m missing out on.  It’s screaming out a warning to not abandon my expectations for a long term relationship in my life.  It’s that level of intimacy and nurturing that parenting and raising children represents that I think is what drives my desire for a relationship.

Not sex.

Not built in dates on national holidays.

Or an end to the sad looks single people get from couples.

Ok, maybe a little bit that last one.

You’d think that realization or the recognition of the meaning behind the propaganda my subconscious has been hurling at me would simplify things.

Nah.

But at least it provides some clarity before I went all Mia Farrow or Angelina Jolie on my life.

Which returns me to the future reality of growing old without built in caretakers.

Oddly, that I can imagine without freaking out.  Unlike, it would appear, imagining the potential of growing old without an intimate partner in my life to accompany me on that (mis)adventure.

I Can’t Imagine…

2018 Writing Self Challenge

I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions.

I mean, right?

But I was aware of the fact as I wrote Fitfy 49:49 that my 2017 theme was quickly winding down.  I’ll probably only post once more in that theme.

So, what now?

I thought about resurrecting The Yes Game from 2016.  It was a little underutilized in its time, but I worried slightly that it would open a Pandora’s Box of fuckery for me.  I have enough readers that know me personally that I could see people basically daring me to do things and invoking TYG if I blinked.

Like I need my friends throwing me foolishness like this to try to manipulate me.

Hashtag: try it

So, I’m leaning toward something fresh.

What are your thoughts on a theme that extrapolates on my $20 first date rule?  

Maybe I could commit to 12 entries over the year…I bet I could trick a dozen people into keeping their clothes on the first time we meet.  On the one hand, it kind of skews toward relationship failure in 2018, presuming I won’t have a lot of second or third dates this year.   

But on the other hand, you know I was going to write about them anyway, so it’s kind of a gimme.

Twenty-eighteen started with an ingrown toenail and what I’m imagining must be a hemorrhoid, why not embrace the pain and write about my datesasters?  I’ve kicked around a couple of theme names:

Dating Into Oblivion, which is a subtle play off “fading into oblivion”.  I think dating in what I’m going to consider a second run through my 40s – call it a reboot – could easily be seen to have a lovely view of an apocalypse.

Fruitless was my other thought on the theme.  Because: Gay + Old + Single = Fruitless

The last reason I’m liking this idea is because after taking a pass at NaNoWriMo last year, having 10-plus 2000 word essays on first dates sets me well upon my way toward that 50000 word NaNoWriMo goal.  I’m thinking 30000 words would leave just enough room to provide any potentially necessary debriefing about those elusive second dates.  Most likely debriefings in their own right, right?

Who’s got a thought on this?  

Bueller?  

Bueller?

2018 Writing Self Challenge

Fitfy 49:49

Well, I guess this would be my golden post? 49 weeks into my 49th year…

Some different things have been going on lately, too.  It’s been kinda nice to experience these last few weeks of the Galby existence.

I’ve been pretty consistent about exercise recently, pulling off a steady three workouts per week.  My shoulder tried to register its complaint initially, but slow and steady got me through my ramp up without actually re-injuring myself.

A while back, I also commented that I needed to start getting my legs more involved in my workouts.  I wasn’t sure how to effectively integrate this opportunity into my home-based exercise regimen, until it hit me:  stairs.

Talk about two bird(leg)s with one stone.  I’m running 30 flights of stairs three times a week as part of my regimen.  30 flights up, 30 flights down.

Running.

That carrot my acupuncturist dangled a while has actually inspired me to find a way to re-incorporate my favorite form of exercise back into my routine.  Little warning twinges from my foot and knee reminded me to take it easy at first.  Warming up to the fresh movements after a three year absence with 10 flights initially allowed my grumpy old joints to get accustomed to the idea of this repetitive motion again.  Taking the stairs has actually been less stressful than plain old road running.

At the end of the day, I’m feeling great about this addition to my routine.  It provides that ballistic movement to my exercise once again.  I finish my workouts feeling like I’ve accomplished something.  Not just getting sweaty, but also shaking off some of the mental drama of my day.  Stuff that would have carried through with me to bedtime is just gone.

Once again.

This is the part of running that I missed most. The piece that retiring from running most significantly impacted me, the mental benefit of this physical fitness.

I’ve missed it so.  

Happy Galby.

Seriously.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m still the grumpy guy I’ve always been, but I find my grumpiness has more perspective now.  

Or, again.  

Whatever.  

That’s helpful, like I said, less important stuff doesn’t remain with me.  I’m clearer about what actually bugs me and can focus better on more significant frustrations…hopefully in order to actually be able to effect change.

All while quitting soda and significantly curbing my caffeine intake.

And no one died.

It happened quite by accident.

I was out of soda and it was cold, so I remained out of soda.  

People were getting sick around me at work, so I started hydrating at work instead of grabbing a soda or coffee to drink absentmindedly.  

After a few days, I didn’t want soda.  I found myself at the grocery grabbing some bullshit hipster bubble water to satisfy my carbonation craving instead of grabbing a Diet Coke.  Bad news for Coke stockholders, good news for me.

Before I knew it, I was five days in without coffee or soda.  On my days off, of course I indulged in my weekly coffee time with the Silver Fox.  Walking away from that with the thought, “Two days a week for coffee ain’t bad”, which was all the impetus the universe needed to dangle temptation in front of my nose.

It came in the offer of coffee from a co-worker.  I love the message that I take away from offers like these, that I’m not an entirely evil boss.  If someone that reports to me wants to take me out for coffee?  I take that as a good sign.

Way better than someone that reports to me simply wanting to take me out.

Of course, I accepted – albeit with the admonishment to not spend their hard earned money on me.  Hey, that’s still only coffee three days a week.  It’s an average I’ve been able to stick to, too.  At most, three times a week.  It makes coffee a reward versus a ritual.  That’s a good thing, in my book.

Also, sorry to you people with money in coffee stock.

But wait…there’s even more!

I was eating well, too. Don’t worry, that couldn’t possibly last.  But it’s – once again – pretty much due to me being out of food and it being cold.

For those of you keeping track, the cold has officially dealt me a triple whammy:

1) no soda

2) ran out of healthy food

3) you should see my Double Oh C recycling.  “Out Of Control” is the Chrisenese to English translation you were looking for there, BTW.

But I’ve come off of that week-plus of solid healthy eating with a sense of moderation when approaching things like hamburgers or pizza.  That ain’t bad.

All this led up to two solid days of exertion when I moved last week.

Alone.

Naturally.

My family were all out of town at the ‘Phew’s basketball thingy.

The Fox was helping his some move, and also being sick.

So I just did it.

I am a SNOB, after all…Society if Native Oregon Born.  Home of Nike, so I just do it, naturally.

Hush, Diezel.

Bed?  Moved.

Sofa?  Moved.

Bookcases?  Moved – or sold.  The new place is slightly smaller.

Dresser?  Moved.

Ok, that last one was a bitch.  But, just done.

After all that, I expected to hurt.

For a while.

But I just didn’t.

I’ll chalk that up to doing a lot of little good things for myself consistently.  And that’s what this year has largely been about.  That and accepting my present physical situation for what it is and fixing what I reasonably can while accepting – forgiving – what I can’t.

Honestly, there’s still room to fix or improve.  And I will.

But The Brazilian made another guest appearance in my life the other night, and when he complimented my butt…I didn’t correct him!

“Alex, I’ll take Self Acceptance for priceless, please” – Me!

I can live with this.

Fitfy 49:49