Cub Scout Car Wash

I was driving home from the supermarket this morning when I saw a sign - CAR WASH - and thought what the hell, so I pulled in, and it was a Cub Scout pack of about 30 kids (boys and girls these days!) and their cute parents. Suddenly I was in the midst of a discombobulated Busby Berkley routine, with swarms of yellow-T-shirted kids hosing, scrubbing, sponging, and sham-wowwing me from every direction. Truly, each kid was responsible for about one square foot of car space, and they came at me in waves: first the hosers, then the spongers, and so on. All sorts of kids, all about 8 or 9, I think, each one more earnest than the next. Two minutes later, the car was clean and dry.

Then suddenly I was in a Leave It To Beaver episode. There was a tapping at my window. It was a red-headed, freckled kid about 8, and he indicated for me to roll down my window. He said, "Hi!" I said, "Hi!" I was impressed with his eye contact. He said, "It's four dollars for the car wash." I said, "Yes, I know!" He thought a second, then said, "Did you pay already?" I said, "Yes, I paid, and I gave you kids some extra money, too, because you're doing such a good job." And he looked at me for a few seconds and said, "How much extra?" And I said, "Six dollars extra." And his eyes about bugged out of his face, and then his face split open with this great big honestly happy smile. And he gave me a thumbs up and a wink as his (very cute) dad waved me on.

Is it weird that I pulled around the corner and burst into tears? I guess people with children have these uplifting and poignant experiences with kids all the time, but it's a rare occurrence in my life, and when it happens, I get this complicated wave of - well, joy and regret and hope and despair and gladness and loneliness. But mostly joy.

Seventeen

I was sitting at work this morning (early morning - I get to work before 7) and my friend Ande called. She said she had spent the night barfing up her lunch and there was an unidentifiable pain "like where the stomach goes into the small intestine." Sounds probable - an inflammation or an ulcer or something? Certainly gastrointestinal. She called her doc and couldn't get an appointment for another three weeks, so she called the Ask-a-Nurse hotline at the hospital. The nurse said, "Well, with unidentified chest pain, we need to rule out that you have an aneurism, so please go to the ER." Ande was upset by that - she knew it wasn't an aneurism, and that she would waste many hours in an ER when what she really needed to do was sleep and rest and maybe have some chicken soup. But she has a history of aneurisms in her family, and she's a good patient, i.e., she does what she's told by the experts, and so she went to the ER.

I joined her there. It was 9 AM.

In the first hour she was triaged, which meant they took her vitals, had some blood taken, and she had an EKG. Then we sat and waited. She still hadn't been seen, or had any tests scheduled, seventeen hours later.

SEVENTEEN HOURS LATER!

At 2 in the morning, one of her friends who works as a nurse in the ER and had come on duty at midnight plopped down exhausted in the chair next to her. Ande works at the hospital, too, as an administrative manager in the nurse residency program, so she knows a lot of nurses. The nurse said she glanced over her blood tests and everything looked okay. She didn't look at the EKG but if there had been any signs of an aneurism, Ande would've moved up the list and been seen earlier. As it was, the nurse said Ande probably wouldn't be seen for another four or five hours. There had been a small plane crash earlier in the day, and some other disasters, and the hospital is full, so they were in the throes of a Code Purple, which meant that every bed in the ER was occupied, so no other patients could be seen - there just wasn't any place for them to be examined and treated, and no place to move the examined and treated patients who needed to be admitted. A bottleneck, pure and simple.

After the conversation with the nurse, I asked Ande what she expected would happen once she was seen, and she said that she would probably get an order to have a gastroscopy in the next couple of weeks. There wasn't really anything else they could do for her. I asked Ande if it was worth it to hang in. She said that she felt we both had too much invested - a combination of 34 hours of waiting so far - to abandon ship now. Besides, if she waited three weeks to see her doctor, it would delay the whole diagnosis.

A half hour later, the nurse friend returned and said there had been no movement of patients in or out, so nobody would be seen until noon. That was enough for Ande - we abandoned ship, hugged goodbye in the parking lot, and went our separate ways.

I got home around 3:00 AM to find my poor nervous nelly of a cat had pulled tufts of hair out of his flanks. There were little orange tufts everywhere. Sorry, Nikos, it was an emergency, sweetheart. We've been snuggling ever since I returned, a little snooze here and there. I'm achey all over from the waiting room chair and my mind's abuzz with thoughts, rants and emotional turmoil about the experience. Otherwise, I'm toast.

Needless to say, Ande's feeling like hell this morning. She says she cried all the way home and got little sleep, that her back is killing her and she has a splitting headache but she was able to eat a few rice crackers without getting nauseaus. She's going to try to recover from her sleepless night spent barfing, and the subsequent ordeal in the ER, by resting all weekend. I'll drop in on her tomorrow, maybe bring her some chicken soup. She says her stomach is still hurting.

Nikos the Cat

Last Friday Nikos moved in. His previous owner, a very sweet young guy, was obviously sad and regretful bringing him to me, admitting that he and his wife couldn't keep him. "Our son terrifies him, and it's not like he picks on Nikos, just his very existence is upsetting." The nice man brought Nikos over, and I caught a glimpse of a rather scruffy orange tabby as he shot out of his carrier and ran under my guest room bed. That was it for the first 24 hours. I knew he was alive because when I woke up the next morning the cat food was gone from the kitchen, but otherwise there wasn't a peep, wasn't a glimmer of him. I resisted the urge to peek, giving him the privacy and safety he so obviously needed. Finally on Saturday morning, while I was hanging in the living room, I saw an orange head tentatively peek out from the hallway, and there he was. He studiously ignored me for the first couple of days but became more bold in his forays to the kitchen, and on Sunday morning, at four in the morning, I got my first real visit.

A few preliminary observations:

• He's a strong one. All that tenseness has created a wiry muscular ninja of a cat. The strength he puts into head-butting me is just amazing after the gentleness of BeeGee.
• He's big! He's got long legs and a long body - reminds me of my ex-business partner.
• Oh my lord, he's hungry. He was competing with a much younger cat for food in his last home, and obviously didn't win very often, because he's so skinny now. But he's making up for lost time. He would eat three cans of food a day if I let him. I don't let him.
  
• He likes to hold hands (aww). He'll plunk himself on the sofa next to me and reach out his paw. He's not much for full-body cuddling, so far as I can tell. Of course it's hot as hell around here now. I predict there will be more cuddling in the colder weather.
• He wakes up every morning at 4:00 and wants me UP! This is not the best thing, needless to say, but I've been hesitant to bark at him about it during the "settling in" phase. I was more clear this morning - shushed him rather loudly - but once I'm up I'm up. I'll be more forceful each morning until he's broken of this habit. I don't have a door to my bedroom (I use the rumpus room) so I can't just lock him out. We'll get this issue resolved.
• He's a serious purrer and a serious talker, especially when he wants more food. Lots of creative meowing, quite the repertoire and range. Mezzo soprano, I'd say.
• He seems to be a careful litter box user, praise the Lord!

Nikos is so different from BeeGee that I'm reminded that it's the cats who train us, not the other way around. He's the one who insists on ear scratching and neck rubbing. He likes it his way or it's the highway for me. If I move in for a surruptitious belly rub, forget it. I won't see him again for a half hour. But boy, he loves to be brushed, which is very good, because right now he's quite scruffy. Evidently, he picked up the bad habit of pulling out clumps of hair when he's stressed (my house is now orange), and his coat in general is lackluster. But that will change as he mellows out and gets some vitamin- and oil-rich food into him. I predict he'll be a contented Garfieldesque boy in no time.

He's moved from under the guest bed to on top of it, right in the middle of it, as befits a potentate-to-be. Welcome, Nikos! Your kingdom awaits. Now if we can just get that early morning wake-up call out of his system!

A new home for Nikos

I had a very long talk with the "parents" of this old feller today and after a few deep breaths, said I would be glad to adopt him. He's Nikos (evidently of Greek extraction), about 15 years of age, and until a year ago a very happy, healthy, contented cat. Then the stork delivered a baby, and Nikos's world was rocked. He's been withdrawn and a little neurotic ever since. Hell, so would I! With a second baby on the way, his parents decided it was definitely time to find a new home for Nikos, so here we are. Nikos will be delivered to me tomorrow afternoon.

It's only been 10 days since my sweet little BeeGee left this earth. Am I ready for another cat? Well, yes and no. No, I'll never be over BeeGee. He was my companion for ten years. But can I make room in my home - and my heart - for another cat? Oh yes. Yes.

So come on in, Nikos, and stay awhile. Hope you like it here.

Goodbye, BeeGee

I suppose it's no surprise that I'm missing my cat BeeGee, who was put to sleep last Wednesday while I held him in my arms. He was a loving companion to me for ten years, a daily dose of uncomplicated affection and togetherness. Of course I've cried a few times and am in a fugue state (as Sheila calls it so eloquently). I hadn't planned to do anything this weekend, and I didn't, and I shouldda gone out, done something, been with people. But this is my self-protective tendency, to pull back and be by myself - to lick my wounds - when I least need the solitude. I happened to spend an evening a couple of weeks ago with a woman whose nephew was gunned down by gang members a few weeks before that. Once she confided in me what had happened, our evening became one of commiseration and empathy as I sat with her while she grieved, reminisced, shouted in anger and wept in sadness. Numerous margaritas were sucked down, and at the end of the evening she seemed somehow better, another incremental step further along in dealing with this tragedy. But that's not my way.

When my mother died, I didn't tell any of my high school friends because I just didn't know how to do it, and I didn't want to burst into tears in front of them. My closest friend Jim found out about it by reading the obituary (he read them religiously - strange kid), and I found out that he knew about it because he sent a donation to the cancer fund specified in lieu of flowers. Our entire conversation about it was a week later, when I said, "Thanks for the donation," and he said, "Don't mention it." Then we both looked away from each other. Teenage boys, right? Both of us were treading in uncharted territory.

Adults weren't much better. A month later, my Dad and I attended an open house sponsored by the community arts association I belonged to, and someone said, "How is your mother?" and I said, "She died a month ago," and the woman was insensed. "Why didn't you tell me?" she shrieked, as we both stood there in the middle of the living room nibbling on swiss cheese and Ritz crackers. I don't know. Because it seemed really awkward to call her up and tell her the news? Because I didn't understand the protocol? Because I honestly didn't think she would care?

My loss isn't a tragedy - BeeGee had a wonderful, long and healthy life. But it sure is impactful on me, because BeeGee clung to me every minute I spent at home, much to my delight, and I spend a lot of time at home. He laid on me, he slept, he buried his front paws between my neck folds. He greeted me each morning (at 5:30 am, even on weekends) with a resounding chorus of meows and was always in the window sill when I came home from work, waiting for me. He never quite got the idea that when a book was laying open in front of me, it wasn't an invitation to curl up on the fresh white pages, but he loved the heat from my gooseneck reading lamp so much that it just made complete sense to him - of course: a tanning bed! He was scrupulous in his litter box usage, never once making a boo boo in ten years (except for the two or three times when I hadn't changed litter fast enough and he peed on a bath towel as a Mafioso-esque message which I would discover only when I went to dry my face - "change the frickin litter!"). He kept himself well-groomed and didn't scratch the furniture. I think a lot of the cute feline behavior was behind him when he came to live with me. He was already ten years old by then, well into his middle-age, and completely uninterested in anything other than eating, sleeping, cuddling and seeing what was going on in the neighborhood from his perch on the windowsill. Kinda like me! Toys were ignored. New upholstery was examined for its comfort, not its inherent ability to be shredded. We were two middle-aged guys, set in our ways, finding acceptance and affection just by being there for each other.

I have a stomach ache this weekend, not because of BeeGee's death, completely, but because of some past-its-prime cauliflower I ate a few days ago. The discomfort seems appropriate to the weekend I'm having, though: puttering around, thinking I hear him meowing, imagining the sound of his paws on the wood floors as he makes his way to the litter box (it's just a bird in the back yard), realizing with a start that the warmth I feel on my chest as lay in front of the TV is not his body but a throw pillow.

On the morning before I brought him to the vet, I held his weak, worn-out body wrapped in a towel like a baby in my arms, letting him lick vitamin gunk off my hand, and sang to him. BeeGee was almost completely deaf, but if his head was close to mine, and if I sang loudly, he could just make it out - he'd cock his head to the left and press his ear against my mouth, his eyes closed in what appeared to be music appreciation bliss. My lips and his ear would vibrate together as I belted out a song. Maybe he didn't hear me, but just enjoyed the vibrations. I'm not sure. But the song I sang on that last day, without really thinking about it, was "One less bell to answer."

The Beedge

Well, it's sad - my cat BG (the Beedge) is dying. He's twenty frickin years old, which is quite ancient in cat years, and he's been healthy and happy until just recently. So that's a big blessing. And he's been my baby for a long time now. Standard joke: "I always wanted to live with a 20-year-old guy, and I do, but I shouldda been more specific." Bada bum.

BG isn't so sick that it's time for the visit to the vet, nome sang. He's just not eating, or I should say, not able to eat. About a month ago he had a stroke, and since then his mouth and tongue don't work like they used to, so he has trouble getting food into his mouth, and once there, swallowing it. I'm feeding him with a syringe now, water and feline Ensure. The highlight of his day is when I smear the back of my hand with this nutritious gunk made of corn syrup and cod liver oil and vitamins, and he slowly licks it clean. I guess it's the highlight of my day, too.

He's been through it along the way. I'm his second long-term partner. He was the happy, beloved pet of a couple who sadly miscarried, and their doctor told them to get rid of BG, so he went to the pound, and that's where I found him, about 10 years ago. I had my eye on a prettier female, but everyone at the pound kept saying, "Oh, he's special, he's the greatest, you'll love him." I'm a sucker for word of mouth, so home he went, and he quickly became my darling, my super lovey dovey boy. Okay, I'm getting icky poo sweet here, but that's really what he's like. He's very shy around other people (just ask Sheila - when she visited for a few days, I think BG let her see him for a total of ten seconds). But with me, it's snuggle snuggle snuggle. His current favorite position is to get on my chest when I'm leaning back on the sofa, and tuck his front paws in the flap between my chin and chest. He loves that spot. Nice and warm for his paws, I suppose.

I'm glad I have a yard now, because when the time comes, I can find a sweet spot under the mimosa tree. He might make it a little while more, but he's lost a lot of weight, and everything seems to be slowing down, so I'm not expecting too much.

My friend Ande has three dogs and five cats (and for awhile, a chicken and two turtles). She's a critter person, no doubt. And we have the same conversation: she says, "I don't know if it's worth it to have a pet, when in the end you lose them." And I always say, "Oh yes, it's definitely worth it."

Those of you who have read some of the pieces on this blog know that there's sort of a tradition in my family - people die in my arms. First mom, then grandpa, then grandma, then dad. About three years ago my Dad's dog Gypsy, who came to live with me after Dad passed on, tuckered out and I held her as she was euthanized. It was hardest with my Mom (I wasn't ready, although I've come to think that she was). It was easiest with Dad (I was ready, and so was he). And I've come to the conclusion that maybe it's the most special thing a person can do, to be there when their loved one dies, to provide comfort and solace at a moment when it may do no good, to express love deeply and sincerely with no future attached to it.

My little Beedge. The time will come soon, and I'm not really sad so much as I'm glad to be here for him.

Culture Wars

I work in a federal agency where eighty percent of the employees are American Indian. That's as it should be - it's an agency that serves Indian people and tribes. I was hired during a brief window of time (about a year or so) when Indian Preference policy was not ascribed to some of the lower secretarial and administrative positions. Indian Preference, in case you didn't know, is a hiring policy which excludes from consideration any non-Indian applicant, no matter how outstanding, so long as there is at least one Indian applicant, no matter how marginal (it's called "minimally qualified" in bureaucratese). The point of the policy is to populate agencies that serve mostly Indians with Indians, the idea being that Indians have a vested interest and will therefore serve their Indian customers in a more committed way. A highly commendable idea. It just so happens that, in practice, at this stage of the game, the result is different.

Can you imagine if such a policy existed with any other group? Imagine, as an example, a policy that excluded African American applicants from consideration, no matter how outstanding, so long as a white person applied, no matter how marginal.

We could go into a free-wheeling conversation here about the devastating experience of Indian people at the hands of white settlers, the treaties broken, the millions of lives lost, the land stolen, the destruction of cultures and ways of life which flourished for thousands of years. There aren't words harsh enough to describe the horror inflicted on this continent's native peoples, a horror shared with most of the other indigenous people of the world, for that matter. Certain chapters of history are unutterably tragic. I know that and am empathetic.

Another conversation we could have would be about what it's like for this white male American of a certain age to be the low man on the - ahem - totem pole at a time when, for much of his life, to be a white male in America was to be bestowed with privilege and opportunity that had nothing to do with ability and everything to do with being the top dog. There's a story there to be told as well.

But what I'd like to focus on is how Indian Preference has created a culture at my agency which leaves everyone on rocky footing.

Part of the story is simply a rift between cultures. I'm going to make some broad characterizations here so please bear with me. Indian people are different from pueblo to pueblo, tribe to tribe, state to state. These are generalizations I see played out in my particular neck of the woods - Albuquerque, New Mexico. Most of the Indian people who work at my agency are from the Pueblos near here.

Pueblo culture, it seems, bestows honor and respect on people who have reached a certain level of achievement or education. A person with a law degree, for example, is respected because of the degree, regardless of the nature or quality of the person who holds it. The person is believed to deserve respect because of the position they hold. This turns out to be completely at odds with the way I see the world, and as it happens, I share this perception with many of my non-Indian coworkers. I think it's ludicrous. I mean, I worked for the Justice Department, where attorneys were a dime a dozen, and where a person could be brilliant and educated and high-achieving but didn't deserve respect because of the way they treated other people. Despots, bullies, ruthless people - sorry, I don't respect them even if they have law degrees or are high-ranking government employees.

The flip side of this belief is that people who have not reached a certain level of achievement or education - secretaries like me, for example - do not deserve respect no matter how wonderful they may be or how much they accomplish at work. Again, this is exactly the opposite of a core belief I hold dear, which is that people who are kind and sincere and hard working and good deserve my respect regardless of their achievements or education. This goes without saying, or at least, it always did in my life until now, where I find myself in a work environment that holds tight to the opposite point of view. Again, it's just outrageous to me. I have true respect for the low-ranking typist who is struggling with two kids at home, no spouse to share the work, and going to night school to complete her elusive degree. I respect the hell out of her. I don't withhold my respect and admiration because she makes half my salary. Again, ludicrous.

Complicating matters is Indian Preference (IP). Possibly in most other office cultures, there is at least the tacit understanding that the person who holds a position, unless they were the recipient of blatant nepotism, has earned it. Somewhere in their career, they competed with other similarly-educated and experienced people and were found to be the best. But this is not the case in my agency. There are so many people in high-level positions who simply would never have the opportunity to serve in that capacity because they would've been washed out in the job search process. But still they sit, in these high positions, expecting respect and deference by virtue of their having achieved these high positions.

Meanwhile, secretaries and other low-ranking employees who are non-Indian receive no respect (they don't deserve it - they're secretaries) and even the enormously capable ones (okay, like me) do not have the opportunity to promote (and therefore be respected) because they are non-Indians.

Maybe if I hadn't had fifteen years of experience in a non Indian Preference government office I wouldn't rankle so. Maybe I wouldn't be as aware how so many of my co-workers simply do not have the skills necessary to perform their duties. Maybe I wouldn't tut-tut in disgust when someone who earns $120,000 a year can't seem to write a simple email (a person who inexplicably has earned a master's degree along the way). And maybe, if I weren't an egalatarian, I wouldn't find myself butting heads with my office culture over who is and isn't worthy of respect.

I would love to say most of us are able to celebrate our differences and acknowledge that what we struggle with is just a cultural clash that can be smoothed out by learning the secret handshake or bowing just so. But our cultural landscape is too rocky for that. This question of who is deserving of respect sits at the bottom of almost every conflict, of every uncomfortable boss-secretary relationship in my agency. It is the pink elephant in the room. Nobody talks about it. But everybody experiences it in some way. Call it respectism. It's as rancid as racism, and as corrosive.

Another cultural difference that plays out in this mess is that many Pueblo cultures encourage their people not to speak out, not to communicate clearly, not to participate in discussions or meetings or even "soft skills" trainings designed to ameliorate some of the tensions in the office. The Pueblo way is to hold it in, ruminate, and maybe whisper disparagingly about what was said by a white person later on, but to offer no feedback, to remain stone-faced. Meanwhile, us loud-mouthed whites, who have long been encouraged to speak our minds and volunteer our opinions no matter how useless, find ourselves dominating conversations and expressing vociferous opposition to lame-brained policies, which is perceived as showing a lack of respect. Oh, it's a vicious circle, all right.

The upper-level Indian people want respect from the lower-level whites, but the lower-level whites don't ascribe to the idea that the upper-level Indians deserve respect by virtue of the positions they hold. Meanwhile, the upper-level Indian people don't respect the lower-level whites because they're lower level. And the whites feel it, and it's hard to have respect for people who don't respect you.

Everybody's dissing everybody else.

A big part of me simply wants out. And eventually I'll find another job and get out. But another part of me wants to point the finger and say, "Hey! There's something fishy here."

I feel like the kid who naively points out that the emperor has no clothes. It isn't so horrible for me, the white male who is experiencing institutional discrimination for possibly the first time in my life (oh, I've been on the receiving end of sexual discrimination and fat body discrimination, but not to my knowledge for my ethnicity). I don't mind being thrown on the bonfire of trying to right a despicable wrong, and I'm lucky - I make a decent living and am relatively secure at a time when many people are struggling. Get over it, white boy, you say, and I join you. It's not so dire for me. So what if people who "should" respect me for my sterling attributes hold me in disdain because I'm a secretary? Should they really respect me? Isn't it enough that I'm not openly held in contempt just for being white? And couldn't I in turn muster up a show of respect for them just for making it to the upper echelon when, only a few years ago, it would have been impossible for them to achieve what they've achieved? Bow down, lower-level white man. Take your medicine. In this culture, I am "less than," and it's as if I'm living a Star Trek episode about the privileged people up in the clouds (Stratus, right?) and the drones who live and work in the caves on the planet below. Never fear; Mister Spock is on his way to clear everything up, and Captain Kirk will seduce one of each of the women, proving that we're all the same.

Still.

It's more than me. The office culture resulting from Indian preference is problematic for all of us who work there. More far-reachingly, Indian preference is problematic for the people it most dramatically impacts - our constituency. Frankly, Indian people are receiving less than stellar quality service from our agency because the people who are hired may be in over their heads, and we are engaged in an unstated culture war among ourselves. Until such time as there are outstandingly qualified Indian people applying for every position, the discrepancy in quality is a detriment to those we serve. Maybe it won't be long until that is the case - a few years, maybe longer. But for now, things could be better.

Sticks and Stones

The questions and comments of "well-meaning" people regarding my weight over the years has been amazing, puzzling, upsetting, heartbreaking, even hilarious at times, but still I give them the benefit of the doubt. I don't want to be angry at these people or hurt, because no matter what they say, it's a huge step up the ladder from the ones who just stare disgustedly, or the ones who whisper to the person they're with who then swivels their head toward me, or those who call me lardass, or don't employ me, or avoid touching me.

Part of it is immunity - after all, if you're stung a thousand times, the next sting will either kill you or, if you're lucky, you won't feel it. It's another way those of us who are "different" come to accept ourselves in a world that's doing everything it can to reject us - you care less about what they are saying and doing and care more about the way you feel about yourself. The point is to maintain equillibrium regardless of the hurricanes coming your way. God knows this is a process - I'm so much more secure in my self-esteem now than when I was twenty years younger and prone to let people's stares and sneers and repulsion cause me intense pain. I've grown up. I've learned a thing or two. When I stand in the surf, I plant my feet firmly and lean into the waves, thereby lessening their impact.

All the possible answers to "well-meaning" questions, whether the response is funny, clever, huffy, sad, hurt, defensive, outraged, or matter-of-fact, I believe the best I can do is to let the question or comment serve as a reminder to myself how far I have come -- I hear the words and let them drift on through me, without triggering any anger or pain. I'm not ignoring the pain, putting on a false face, then sobbing into my Haagen Daz later. I'm really really okay, and I love myself, I really love myself, and anything anyone says that could be construed as an attack or an attempt to categorize me as "other" is not gonna budge me one inch from believing in myself.

I think about those little black children in Birmingham in the 60's, clutching notebooks to their chests and walking hurriedly into school while people yelled and screamed the most despicable things, and spit on them, and threw shit on them, and tried to hurt them, and huge police dogs snarled viciously just inches away. Somehow those children knew - they KNEW - that the only response was no response. With poise and resolve, they discovered a sense of self and a level of courage I can only imagine. If they had cowered in fear, burst out sobbing, angrily shouted back to the mob, whipped out a gun and blown a few heads off, or issued a well-worded press release, they would have been torn to shreds in seconds. Any of those responses would have been understandable under the circumstances, but the one response that saved their lives was no response.

In a similar way, I choose to survive the verbal sticks and stones thrown at me. I may be entitled to a more emotional response, but I make a different choice, and in so doing, I survive. Hell, I BLOOM! And nobody's gonna rain on my parade.

This is for Sheila

The great and glorious Sheila O'Malley has been taking us all on a winsome trip to teen crush land with her expose on the career of Ben Marley, the quintessential 70's cutie. And I have been awash in heartthrobitis, revisiting my crushes on David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman, and a whole slew of dark haired/light eyed/lithe bodied boys. Here is the story of the day I was stamped with this particular lust.

Junior High. Seventh Grade. For weeks through the summer I was freaking out about PE. I was a chubby boy - chubby might be too kind a word for it - and the idea of getting naked in front of a bunch of other boys was terrifying to me. My pudgy, stretch marked body had never been seen by anyone since a visit to the pediatrician when I was 8. Now I was 13, and as an only child, I had no occasion to either be naked in front of others, or for that matter, to see others naked. I was excited about having the opportunity to see other boys naked, but I was also a little nervous about getting an erection in front of them. I approached the whole thing with such heightened emotion. This was going to be awful! This was going to be awesome!

Back in 6th grade, at the end of the school year, we were taken on a field trip to the Junior High to see our future home, and the boys were ushered into the locker room. It was all one open space, with the lockers around the perimeter of half the room, wood benches in rows, and a big open white tiled shower area with about 12 shower heads placed a few feet apart. We happened to be given the tour right when a class was showering, and I remember seeing lots of white butts and wet bodies in the shower - ten seconds of flesh that thrilled me (no question, I was gay) and freaked me out (my own big white butt would be added to that tableau in short order).

Now comes the second day of the school year, and we have to suit up for the first time and play dodge ball or whatever. I manage to get changed into the uniform - the jock strap was tricky but I figured it out - and we duly did our calesthenics and ran around the field. As the minutes ticked away I knew that "Hit the Showers!" was coming and there I would be, naked, in front of all those other boys, and certainly the object of scorn, derision, laughter. A nightmare.

Well, I panicked. We were back in the locker room and everyone was pulling off their uniforms and going into the shower, and I just thought nobody would notice if I skipped the shower and got dressed. Wrong. As the showers came to an end and dripping boys started to return to the lockers, one of the boys figured out that I hadn't taken a shower, and he said, "Hey - he didn't take a shower!" Suddenly we were in a scene from Lord of the Flies, and I'm Piggy. It's a SERIOUS situation. My heart is pounding and all attention is on me. At first I denied that I skipped the shower, but I soon felt like I would be torn to shreds if I didn't do something, so I said, "Well, I don't care, I'll take another shower, no big deal!" and I quickly got naked. Lots of boisterous laughter and all eyes on me. It was everything I feared about PE and boys magnified to an unbelievable degree.

So now, because of my stupid decision, instead of being just one of 60 boys in the shower, I am naked and alone in the shower and being looked at and laughed at (all the rest of the boys had finished and were toweling off). Agony. But the punishment wasn't over yet. The showers turned off just as I stepped into the white tiled scene of my humiliation. This caused another wave of mean-spirited laughter. Someone pointed out that there were two shower heads that had an independent turn valve, and it was all away at the other end of the showers. I basically had to waddle the wet slippery white tile catwalk naked in front of all the other guys to get to the right shower. I am dying at this point, having an out-of-body experience, pretty much planning my suicide for later that day.

As I approach the manual shower, I take in for the first time the fact that there's another guy there. He's a 9th grader, a member of the track team or something, and he's showering up. He's about a foot taller than me. And he's a man. Most of us 7th graders were still boys. I walk towards him (by now the laughing boys have turned their attention away from me and are getting dressed) and get to the manual shower next to his. I try to turn the shower on, but can't - it's too tightly closed. And this boy, this man, this god, reaches over and turns on the shower for me.

At the moment of my greatest shame and humiliation, a prince came to my rescue. It was just a moment of courtesy to him, a good deed, but it meant so much to me. I said thank you, and he said, "No problem, man."

And he looked in my eyes and smiled at me.

And I showered next to him.

And from just a foot away I looked at his truly beautiful body, his glistening white skin, his robust patch of dark pubic hair, his lovely dangling penis, his big balls, his wet dark hair, his crystal blue eyes, his ass, his feet, his calves, thighs, arms, armpits, and chest and abdomen and nipples, rivulets of water running down the valleys and byways of his topography, his utter perfection, his complete comfort with himself, his sweetness, his kindness. And I fell in love, forever, with him.

Never knew his name, never saw him again.

Okay, I'm better now.

Okay, I'm sitting here seething. And I'm pissed that I'm pissed! I've become one of those cranky bastard old men neighbors that has a cow over everything that goes on in the neighborhood that "just isn't right." Okay, so I'm sitting here singing along with Annie Lennox, all's right with the world, and this young couple are walking their two dogs in the park across the street, and just now, BOTH their dogs took craps in the park right in front of my window - and the humans looked at each other, and giggled, and walked away without picking it up. So I leaped up, pounded on the window, they looked over at me, and I shouted, "You have to pick that shit up - PICK IT UP! COME BACK AND PICK UP YOUR SHIT!" Of course they didn't, they just kept walking. Goddamn SHITS!

I mean, it's in the park, not my property, but still - IT'S MY PARK NOW, FUCKERS!! Don't you be going to church and brunch, then come home and take your dogs out for a CRAP in MY PARK! Jesus would be just as pissed. Jesus would rub that shit in your faces, you shits.

Breathe, Stevie. Breathe. It's all right.

Okay, I need to adopt another M.O. regarding this. But I had visions of standing in my front yard with a hose and giving them a good drenching the next time they DARE to sully MY park! Can I set up some sort of automatic mace-spraying contraption I can work remotely?

Perspective, Stevie honey. Mellow. It's all right, really. I can't SEE it from here, and there's probably some park maintenance crew that will come along and pick it up anyway. But my heart bleeds for the world that two such selfish BASTARDS exist.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Sigh. Now Annie Lennox is singing a dirge. Oh Annie, we are too tender for this world.

I feel better now.

My eccentric neighbor (hooray!!)

Now let me talk you through what you're seeing here. It's a man about 90 years old on a motorized low rider tricycle. There's two little dogs tied to the bike - they trot smartly along side the bike. There are three large birds, one on his shoulder and two on a contraption made out of pvc pipe. He's got an Evel Knievel helmet on.

Needless to say, I LOVE MY NEIGHBOR MAN!!!!!

Evidently, BG doesn't give a damn

It's time for the Sunday soccer game across the street, and BG has seen it all before. What was a thrilling experience for him just three weeks ago is old hat now. Too bad. I love having a ring-side seat. The field was empty when I started reading Sheila O'Malley's Skyward Part 2 and by the time I was experiencing an emotional meltdown-in-a-good-way, the guys started in with their hilarious warm-up exercises. So bouncy! So gangly! So utterly faggy-in-a-good-way! I especially love the sideways skipping and the leg twitching - so Twyla Tharp. I think there's a famous Monty Python skit - the League of men with funny walks or something - and I get twenty minues of that. Lovely!

Then there's Gus, the old codger whose participation skares the hell outta me. He's actually pretty good, and the other guys don't hold back around him (okay, they hold back a little, but not enough to screw up their game). But when he falls - oh my - the slow-motion roll to the ground gives me palpitations. So far, no broken bones, no ambulances called. But really, can we make it through the Summer without a disastrous kerfuffle? Hang in there, Gus! And if you have to break something, please do it on a Sunday when I'm outta here.

Ooh, the clouds are rolling in from the North

Check out the big shadow being cast on the mountains by the big wet cloud moving in. I know I'm overdoing it with the pictures of the mountain view from my desk, but I'm so awe-struck by the dramatic changes that go on. Tons of blue sky. It's a gorgeous day. About 50 degrees now. A perfect day for daydreaming about Ben Marley.

Spring is just around the corner . . .

It's barely perceptible, but the straw-yellow lawn of the park across the street has a slight green tinge. BG noticed, too. He was bouncing around here last night like a Spring chicken. It seems also that my road, which was recently re-sidewalked and repaved, boasts fresh new paint markings. "Do not park here!" screams the yellow curb.

I met my neighbors today. They're so nice - a gay bearish couple named Jones and Chris, mid-thirties, who have five male dogs whose names escape me, and who confirm that the neighborhood is "Awesome!" I'm so glad! With BG and me, this is now definitely a gay enclave. Can tiki-torch backyard barbeques be far behind?

Storms a-comin'

We just had about a half hour of hail, and it dusted the mountains with a sprinkling of sugar. Love it when the cloud bank rolls right up to the edge of the mountains, but doesn't go any farther. Rain and snow predicted for Tuesday.

BG on the Case

Here's BG vigilantly fulfilling his new role as Captain of the Neighborhood Watch, Montgomery Park Precinct. He keeps his eagle eye on all of the doings, from soccer games to (expecially) dog parades. And when a van parked illegally in front of the house yesterday and a huge rambunctious family began to disgorge themselves , I thought he was gonna have a hissy. He seems to have memorized the parking code violations. "Six-oh-two in progress, over." He's aching for a walkie talkie.

View from my PC

I just took this while seated at my computer. It's the game these guys apparently play every Sunday morning. What an insanely fabulous view to enjoy while blogging! I mean really!

Yesterday there was a sweet little birthday party being held under that large evergreen. Balloons and everything. But I hadn't unpacked my camera yet.

Early this morning I took my huge handmade wooden rocker (a steal on Craig's List) outside to the back patio and enjoyed the sun, the breeze, and the birds chirping. And the yapping of the Chihuahua next door. The dog finally calmed down, or else her human let her inside. Whatevs, it was lovely.

Chores for today: rubbing my new retro dining set (also a steal on Craig's List) with revivifying orange oil; finding my iron; storing a few boxes of records in one of the bedroom closets; and just enjoying being home.

The Sandia Mountains from my house

This is what the Sandia Mountains looked like from my house tonight. They're called the Sandias because it means "watermelon" in Spanish, and that's the typical color of them at sunset.

I'm all moved in. I have the living, dining, kitchen and my bedroom unpacked and livable. There are two more rooms to unpack (one has trash bags full of clothes and the other has boxes of records/office crap). The guest room is empty - for now - but will soon hold a bed in the hopes that I can entice people to come visit me. This means you!!!

The living/dining area looks really nice, I think. It's as if the furniture I've had all along, which wasn't quite right in the various apartments I've lived in the past few years, is exactly right for this house. I couldn't have planned it better. Even the wall color in the kitchen matches the stuff I have in the living room. It's all so wonderful and the feeling of rightness is intense. Sigh. I'm very glad indeed to be here.

We closed on Friday and my friend Sheri and I came over to the house just to make sure the keys worked. At the precise moment we arrived, a rainbow burst through the clouds and shone brightly for exactly two minutes, then faded away again. It was awesome. I didn't have a camera but it's indelibly etched in my mind as a big "Welcome, Stevie!" from the Universe. Thanks, Universe!

I moved on Saturday. It was an intense day. I cleaned behind the movers, scrubbing and vacuuming as soon as they lifted things out of the way. There was a little moment of panic when we arrived at the house. The city is redoing all of the sidewalks and driveways on my street, and my particular driveway had a canvas cover over it, and three flashing roadblocks. But I jumped out of my Beetle, moved the roadblocks and canvas, and guided the truck into the carport area. It was fine. Whew! I was dragging on Sunday, but I pulled it together enough to invite Ande over for pizza. Very nice. Then the cable guy came and got me online again, which was kewl.

I took Monday off to run errands and unpack. Then today I lined up about a half dozen chores for myself and hosted a couple of people from work for an informal housewarming. Just lovely. It's official now. I'm here, and I'm at home. It's good.

Tomorrow it's back to work and some semblance of normality. But my mind is on the new house and the life I hope to carve out for myself here.

Moving Day!

Well here I go. The movers will be here in an hour and I'm about to pack up my PC. My cat is freaking out a little so I'm gonna try to make him calm by taking a minute to mellow out. Hopefully he will visit me shortly, at which time I can sweep him into his kennel and put him for safe keeping in the car during the hullabaloo.

Movin' on a Sunday Afternoon

Okay, Saturday. But it's coming. I'm moving into the little house next weekend, and am spending Martin Luther King, Jr., weekend packing and cleaning. I'm so ready. Mentally, not actually. My next task is to wipe out the oven cleaner that I sprayed last night (ugh, unpleasant job). Which is why I'm taking a couple of minutes to blog right now. Avoidance behavior. I don't expect to get any deposit back from this apartment, but still I'm making a sincere effort to get it clean for my own sense of satisfaction. Much to do. I bought my dream shower curtain liner yesterday at Bed, Bath & Beyond. Yes, I have a dream shower curtain liner. It's one of those water-resistant fabric ones in motels, not the plastic one that sticks to you in the shower or sticks to itself in mildewy folds. Heaven. I also got a new door mat (sort of tradition with myself when I move) and a lovely pair of pink rubber gloves for the aforementioned stove cleaning.

I just love imagining the possibilities of the new place while sitting in the old place.

People at work keep saying I should have a housewarming party, but I'm hesitating: first, I just don't want to subject my cute, clean little house to the damaging effects of a rambunctious crowd, at least not right away; and secondly, I don't want an avalanche of crappy little crap things. Maybe if I wait until Spring and ask people to bring me garden tools and things I need like plungers and mops and indoor plants. Would that be appropriate? Gift cards from Home Depot would be incredibly welcome. Or cash, frankly. What I really want is for people to drop by in ones and twos, I give them a quick tour, they hand me a rake or a hoe with a bow on it, and then they leave. Sort of like a real estate open house with a gift policy. "Hi, hi, it's great you came, this is the living room, isn't it cute, thanks for the shovel, and do you really have to go so soon?" Two minutes tops per person. A house cooling. Chilly reception, stingy crumb- and drip-free eats (crudite without the dip), bottled water, and a quick departure. Seven to nine AM on a Sunday morning. A pre-church thang. Take your shoes off before entering. Don't touch anything. No number twos. Lower your voice. Reverential, like you're visiting a Tibetan shrine, m'kay? Tiptoe. Then out.

All right, maybe I'll have a real party. The Pergo can take it. Rental tables and chairs in the back yard, and delicious eats from the oven. Beverages of many lands. A nice Saturday afternoon in late February, when it's a little warmer, and possibly a volleyball tournament in the park across the street. But the no-shite policy still goes, damnit!

Two weeks until I move to - gulp - my house!

Here's the inspector checking the dishwasher. The inspection went well, but there's a couple of things the seller needs to fix - among them, the vent over the stove doesn't vent to the outside, no, it vents back into the kitchen! Now what exactly is the purpose of that? According to the inspector, it's a legal way of doing it in New Mexico. Well I asked for it to be vented outside. Shouldn't be too too difficult a job, right? We'll see, I suppose. Also the dryer exhaust pipe wasn't hooked up. So those would've been two surprises I would not have been delighted to discover once I moved in. Thank you, inspector man!

I'm a little freaked out, of course, but mostly terribly excited. The only other thing we're waiting for is the appraisal, but I feel pretty confident that it will be good.

Okay! Deep breath!