Never Too Old To Want Your Mother

I’ve been getting over a head cold and it’s made me realize even more the little something I’ve always known – the single thing I miss most from my move across the country is my mother.

Long before it became fashionable, Rosemarie was always a stay-at-home-mom. No matter what, she was always in the kitchen when my brother and I got home from school and when we were sick, she was the perfect nursemaid.   

There were times though when I didn’t want her care – especially when she was making me drink penicillin from one of my many bouts of strep throat (more on that later),yet,  I would have been lost without her. One time, I remember, that despite the intense flame that my throat had become and being unable to swallow, I still managed to scream as I hid under the kitchen table when she forced down the antibiotic. The doctor told her my tonsils would have to be removed and both my parents nixed that idea as they did not want to go anywhere near hospitals. Alas, it was a decision that would come back to haunt us all.

Once, I had an incredibly high fever and I screamed out in the middle of the night, “I can’t see! I’m blind! I can’t see!” And there my mother was, handing me a glass of water and aspirin that I clearly could make out  - but she laid that cold compress on my head and soothed me back to sleep.

“I’m sick,” I said once years later when I lived in Boston. And she gave me just the right amount of sympathy and was over at my apartment with food and orange juice. She stayed all day and watched television with me and yes, even cleaned my apartment.

Back then, the boys came and went in my life. Some with the hope of being forever, while others, I knew were just passing cars on a traffic free highway. But my mom was always there and when I moved in 1990, I somehow didn’t give it a second thought. She stood at the airport gate – back when people were allowed to accompany you to the boarding area - silent, shivering with tears she would not let flow in front of me and I got on board that United flight to a new life.

Along the way, there were more sore throats, more fevers and I called her every time – as if just hearing her voice would break the fever. And when I moved back ten years later for a short interim, she was over again whenever I felt under the weather. It was as if I’d never left and had never grown up. For a thirty something man, it was comforting and brought me back to when I would run home to find her at the top of the stairs.

In 2003, I left again – but this time, she was used to my never ending wanderlust.  And sometimes, I think I should have stayed just one year longer - for the night I woke up in the spring of 2004 unable to breathe was the scariest time of my life. I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air – my throat on fire.  I cried out only to be shocked by the muffled sound of my own voice. Somehow, I made it to the bathroom, looked at my throat to find one giant tonsil where there should have been two. I was alone – nobody to help me and I thought strangely, this will get better and stumbled back to bed, only to wake up shortly after with no air. What if I collapse here, I thought? There’s no one next to me to help and my mother can’t run in from the next room with a cold compress and healing touch. I strangely, drove myself to the Emergency Room and was admitted to the hospital with a temperature that spiked to 104 degrees as my body tried to fight this throat infection that trumped all those dating back to my youth.

My mother was on the phone every day with my friends – getting my progress reports as I couldn’t speak for several days and just hearing her voice put me at ease. And then, it was decided that that infection was the last straw. My tonsils had to come out at the ripe old age of 40. That summer, laid off from my job and still collecting benefits, I went into the hospital for the first time. It was cold in that operating room – and I missed my mother more than anything. The anesthesiologist asked me how many cocktails I wanted and before I answered two, I was awake in the recovery room looking at my friend Georgia– a woman who is my West Coast mom and best friend all rolled into one. She let my mom know my status every step of the way and that night, after I was discharged, she was in the next room – just like my mom was all those years ago. If I couldn’t have the real thing then I had the next best replacement.

Getting your tonsils out when your 40 is no picnic and the 20 pound two week weight loss was a bonus, though it was a shame that I was unfortunately unable to maintain it. 

But it was my mom’s voice over the phone and her cards that put me at ease. Even though I knew she couldn’t just hop on a plane by herself and get to me as quickly as she could when she was in the next room, it’s still comforting to give her a call these days to feel instantly better when I simply say,

“I’m sick.”

   

Drag Dreaming

This past weekend, I was so excited to see one of the best drag shows I have ever watched – the Fabulous Playgirls at Toucan’s Tiki Lounge in Palm Springs. With every performance, I found myself reminiscing on my own performance days. When I left Boston at 24, I never dreamed of putting on a dress and becoming a drag queen, let alone one under the spotlight taking tips and mesmerizing the crowd - but I like to say that I became one by association. 

When I was 24, I was living on the peninsula and before I had a car, I had to rely on CalTrain to get me into the city. Since the last train back was at midnight, I decided to check out the Rawhide II Country and Western bar because it was the closest establishment to the train station. It was the early ‘90s and the country craze was in full swing. The bar was packed and I was instantly hooked.

Perhaps it was fate that I made friends with those whom I dubbed “The Rawhide Elite,” because each of them were the most spectacular and beautiful drag queens that I had ever seen. From their make up to their gowns to their heels, everything about them was spectacular and one Halloween, without much convincing, I joined their ranks. 

Now, although my first foray into heels and wigs was not pretty, you would think I was the most stunning creation on the planet the way I couldn’t stop staring at my reflection. There was no way but up with each dress up and when I entered the San Francisco classic contest “Closet Ball” in 1997, Shanda Leer was born. She stunned the crowd (and her mother) and soaked up the applause, but did not yet dream of performing until one fateful day at a show in the Castro.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – a drag queen on stage not even in sync with her lyrics. How does someone not know the words to their song, I thought. The insanity of it all and the disappointment of watching forced me from my seat to approach the intimidating hostess. She took one look at me out of drag and deigned to give me but one song to perform the following week.

Then the doubts began to creep in. What have I done? Could I do it? What should I perform? I called my makeup artist extraordinaire and we decided on a song I’d always loved – "Bring on the Men" by Linda Eder. It was sure to not be covered by any of the regular girls in the show and I knew the lyrics in my sleep. When show night arrived, all of my friends had packed the small bar, Harvey’s to the brim and when I took to the stage, Shanda Leer took over as high as her four inch heels could stand. I never missed a lyric and the crowd jumped to their feet with thunderous applause as the hostess and all the regular girls watched in awe.

“Can you do another number,” the fat queen who refused to grant me a second song asked.

 

I looked at the mountain of dollar bills in my hands and in my bra and although I had but the one wig and dress, I took to the stage as the closing act of the night to the tune of “I Will Survive.” It was a scene right out of A Star is Born, and one I will never forget for as long as I live.

So standing in the audience this past weekend, watching as the likes of Delta Work and Morgan McMichaels, both of Rupaul’s Drag Race fame flawlessly performed – I was taken back to those days when the sound of applause echoed in my ears. 

What set me apart from the San Francisco girls, was that I never wanted to make drag my career. I enjoyed becoming Shanda Leer, relished in the illusion she created and reveled in the flawless performance she gave each and every time. Despite the other jealous queens who couldn’t remember their lyrics and backstage would steal my gloves or not speak to me, I had a great time. 

And whenever I watch the spectacular queens of The Fabulous Playgirls and throw money at them, I wish I could thank them personally for performing so flawlessly. I know what goes into their performance – and they never disappoint me. And when the music stops, I don’t have to just remember Shanda Leer as a memory – for the recordings of some of her best shows are always at the ready. To watch her, just ask and this time around, you won’t even have to tip her.

The Long Road Back

Like putting on weight – debt piles on fast and quick and it takes dedication and a lot of hard work to overcome it. It’s a lesson I’ve learned on both fronts, and one that perhaps, even at the ripe old age of 46 can teach others that there is a way out. 

When I was much younger, I never really knew the value of money. Chalk it up to my youth or thinking that the world would just give me what I wanted when I wanted it. But what really gets you what you want is hard work and dedication. If you think you can lose those twenty pounds without good eating habits and a lot of sweat and tears at the gym or get that debt down by paying the minimum payment – it’s time for lessons you won’t find in any school curriculum. 

Over the years, like my debt, my weight has fluctuated. While at my thinnest I was 155 pounds (ah…good times) one day, I turned around and I was 220. Where did that number come from? The scale lied, I told myself, but my jeans and shirts told me another tale. Then, one Christmas, I saw a picture of me at a party and there was the proof. My round chubby face stared back at me and announced in no uncertain and silent terms to wake up and take a long hard look at what I’d done to myself. I had gotten lazy, perhaps complacent with where I was in my life and I knew the solution did not lie in fast diets or crazy late night contraptions sold through infomercials. It was simple – take my fat ass to the gym, not just once a day, but twice if I could manage. Run, spin, jump rope (well, not jump rope – I could never master that even when I was a kid) –anything that made my work out clothes damp with sweat told me I was on the right path. At night, it was chicken salads, tuna, anything green and healthy. I saved the pasta for mid-day and the right snacks at my fingertips throughout the day. Given the choice between sitting on the couch or going to the gym, I forced myself to choose the latter. After all – since I was paying for that membership (a topic that comes into play later), I’d best get my money out of it.

For as quickly as the pounds came on, and I swore I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten so big, the loss of each calorie was arduous. Sometimes 3 pounds a week, sometimes one, but I set a goal and if I lost even just 2 pounds a week, then by a certain time I would be at my goal. And that goal was a pair of pants I’d bought myself in Mykonos when I was celebrating my 40^th birthday year. They hung in my closet, tempting me to try them on and I lined up each pair of tight fitting jeans and dress pants in front of them and each week, I dared myself to try them on. Then as each one slowly began to fit, I’d move the pair behind those Grecian clothes – bringing them one step closer to being worn.  Those pants were the only thing I saw as I spun my ass to a sweaty mess on Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday mornings and even Tuesday and Thursday nights. And the day they slipped over my big thighs (for no amount of diet or exercise can disguise that fact that my thighs will always be meaty) I thought to myself, good job, and even though as someone once said, I had “a whole lotta ass,” this ass was no longer a whole lotta fat ass.

And in the same token, I turned around one day to find the credit card bills overflowing in my mailbox. I’d charged $10 here, maybe $50 there, maybe even $100. Like my weight, one day it had just become too much. I’d moved back to San Francisco after being gone for 2 ½ years and with no job and the money I’d brought back with me quickly running out  combined with a bad job decision and just trying to live slowly caught up to me.  The sad part of it all is that I can hardly remember what made up all the charges for that astronomical figure.  Sure, I could pinpoint some as just a way for me to live. Food, clothes, but in the end, if I had to write down everything I put on that plastic, I’d come up empty. The one thing I do remember is receiving that oh so stylish American Express Blue card in the mail. How pretty it looked and how honored I felt that they had chosen me to be one of their “valued” card members. In an instant, I felt as if I were drowning and relocating again to find my path in life – I seemed to incur more financial woes. What was one more $50 charge when the bill was already so high? 

 

Then, one day, just like that picture of my fatness looking back at me, the statements in the mail with their hateful due dates and tempting low minimum payments arrived seemingly on top of one another. And then another bill – I needed braces to the tune of $5,000 (I was old, thank God, they were at least invisalign). I felt as if I were drowning and like my weight – I had a choice. Wallow in my situation or devise a plan, set a goal and reach for it. I was thwarted at every turn by so called helpful debt consolidation loan options and then I realized that since I had created this situation, as dire and depressing as it seemed, it was only me who was going to free myself. 

And like getting on that treadmill – sacrifices had to be made. When I realized my gym membership was costing me more a month than my weekly grocery bill – I eliminated it and found other, more economical ways to work out. I stopped buying anything new, clothes, shoes, even socks. Every time I was about to pay for something outrageous, I put it back, thinking that was one more payment I could make towards my financial freedom. At the time, employed by higher education, my paycheck barely covered the rent and minimum payments, so despite the rent control, I moved so I didn’t have to shoulder the cost of living in Los Angeles alone. Every extra cent, from tax returns to birthday checks was funneled away from me and to the credit card companies.

But I still needed help and I turned to one of my very best friends who never judged me and never made me feel as if I were a failure. 

“Honey,” he said to me. “We need to fix you.” 

And he made me a spreadsheet that tracked my payments and showed me in black and white where I would be and when depending on how much I paid each month. That spreadsheet became my golden ticket. If I fluctuated in payments, I knew exactly where I had to make up the payments to keep me on track. For the first time, I could see the goal posts.  It looked impossible and many nights I tossed and turned wondering where my life took a wrong turn. But like any turn, either you stay on the road that gets you lost or you take another to get you back on track.

Paying triple or sometimes quadruple the minimum payments, I saw the balances drop and switched the amounts to zero interest cards. Why not use the companies who for so long had used me, I thought. 

It has been a long road and today, I made the last payment on a debt that has been living with me for almost seven years because one day, like my weight, I couldn’t stand it a second longer. Like those pair of pants in my closet that kept me on that spin bike, the thought of never getting another bill I couldn’t pay kept me on the right road. There is no easy way out – no quick fix, no diet pill, and no lottery winnings. The ticket to salvation is within you, and when you are ready, when you can no longer stand your situation and the picture of your life makes you see clearer than you ever wanted, you’ll find the strength to overcome the obstacles and do what has to be done to take back control.

My Love Affair with Cookie Tins

My love affair with cookies and more importantly, cookie tins began many holiday seasons ago. My mother always had a stash of Royal Dansk Cookies in the cellar and you may laugh at me for this, but every time I see those tins in the stores, I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. The cookies were there, not because my parents loved to serve us store bought concoctions, but because if we were ever invited to someone’s house, we always had something to bring to them. It’s a lesson that was deeply instilled in me and one I value today. The first time I go to someone’s home, I never arrive empty handed. (And if someone comes to mine for the first time empty handed, they move down a notch, but that’s another blog.)

Not only were the butter cookies quite yummy, but their tins were valued just as much as the sweets they held inside. We were and continue to be, a family of cookie bakers. My grandmother was always in the kitchen at Christmas time. Flour decorated the counters like a dusting of new fallen snow and her cookies were always stored in festive tins from gifts that made their way into our home. Small, large, oblong – no matter the shape, every time we were at a gathering and someone was going to throw away a tin, it was quickly snatched and given a new home.

To this day, my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Lil – has a stash of empties in her house. When she baked regularly, she always asked me to save the tins for her and now I find that each holiday season, I go on the hunt for ones that will not only store my Christmas cookies, but make the perfect holiday present. When food gifts make their way to our department, I stash any empty tins in my office as I think of what kind of cookies I should make to keep them company. 

Recently, I was in Target and the holiday decorations and storage options were almost too much for me. I wanted to buy them all and then remembered that the party invites have been few and far between this year. If I bought all the tins and filled them with cookies, where would I bring them? Except, I do buy a few for the sheer fact that it makes me turn my kitchen into a floured wonderland, and that brings me back to when I was a child baking with my grandmother. I start the recipe and I can feel her beside me, I know my mother would compliment my latest batch even though they are slightly on the done side, I hear my aunt telling me to save her the tins, and all three of them make me feel warm and loved. Then, once I’m done, I take a look around at the volume of sweets I've baked and hope against hope that someone will invite me to a party.

Customer Service Eruption

Maybe it was my last blog post that caused a lack of customer service explosion on my part, or perhaps it was simply the fact that I had reached my breaking point on people messing with not only my money, but my time. This morning, I diligently brought my car back to the dealer to finish round two of my major car repair. Arriving, as is my usual practice, right on time for my appointment, everything seemed as if it were going well. I settled into the service area with my work laptop when 90 minutes later, the service man came up to me.

“Forgive me,” he said trying to hide the bad news he was about to deliver with a chuckle. “But we ordered one part and it looks like you need a second.”

Dumbfounded, I sat there, peering over the top of my glasses at him, not yet feeling the rush of anger that would soon explode like an erupting volcano.

“We don’t have it here so if you can bring the car back tomorrow –“ he said before I sliced his sentence in two.

“Get that part now.  I’m here, you had all day Saturday to figure out what you needed.”

He then, unsuccessfully, tried to explain why the dealer warehouse would not deliver today to just one location. Then after telling me to return on Saturday, he came back and said that deliveries are not made on the weekend. The poor bastard could not shield himself from the onslaught of profanity and frustration that swept from my lips like a raging tsunami against the shore.

Perhaps it was the work week of IT mishaps and server crashes catching up to me, or the fact that my “service adviser” told me last week that driving my reliable auto would be a safety issue if driven much longer that fed the fire in me. Maybe it was a combination of every wronged customer service experience I had encountered up to this morning, but it was about time that my time (and money) be treated respectfully. If they weren’t going to offer it, then my outrage was demanding it. 

So, fifteen minutes later, underneath a grey and threatening Southern California sky, I walked into their rental car reception area only to be told by the girl behind the counter that for $12.99 more a day I could upgrade the rental. The look on my face shut her up before she uttered one more word. With my laptop beside me, I drove off in a GMC pick-up truck – the very first time I’ve ever been behind the wheel of a car bigger than a compact, but the first time a car has been covered by a dealer for the duration of the weekend. 

In all honesty, yes, I could have taken the car and returned for a third time on Monday, however, in some small way, my rage did what I have wanted to do so many times in the past: grab attention and make it known that a “customer service” person needs to do exactly what the title of their job tells the public what they should do. I deserve to be treated courteously, and if you tout on your website that you’ll get your customers in and out quickly with the best service, then I am here to make sure that I, your customer gets exactly what you advertise. And now, I'm going to settle into this mini pick up truck and attempt to feel butch for an entire weekend. Maybe by then, the volcano will go back to sleep.

Customer Service is Six Feet Under

Customer service is officially dead and buried. Perhaps I have such high standards because I began my career tethered to a telephone and the skills of follow up and courteousness were ingrained in me as if I were a cattle branded with its rancher’s mark.  For years, whether it was for a long distance phone company or an up and coming software firm, I was never allowed to let any customer wait for an answer. Even today, working in the entertainment industry, I'd like to think people outside of my expertise contact me because they realize the level of my customer service skills.

Just this past weekend, after spending almost 6 hours waiting for my car to be serviced, it was finally ready, but, as the service man told me. “We don’t have a part we need, so you’ll need to come back.” Since I made my appointment a week ago, didn’t they know the parts they would need? Dejected and tired, I walked up to pay my large bill and present my coupon for $50 off to the cashier.

“I don’t do coupons,” she said to me without a hint of apology. “You’ll have to go back to the service adviser to have him give you a new bill.”

Seriously “customer service woman”? Seriously? I have to do that?

And the good times kept rolling during my call to make a dermatologist appointment. After leaving a message because the office “was away from the desk,” I had to call again later that afternoon. Not once did they mention that they had heard my message. And, a day later, they did call – only to inform me that the office would be closed on my appointment day. Seriously, Dermatologist office? Seriously? You didn’t see your office was closed when I booked my appointment?

I hesitate to use the phrase, “back in the day,” but more and more, I’m finding that I continually look back to the past and wonder when it all changed. Just today, I called the Honda dealer to see if the part they ordered had arrived on time. I knew I would have to call them to check, but I remained hopeful that someone would follow through and take the initiative to call me. 

"Can I call you back," the man said to me.

 Can you or will you?

To combat it all, I continue to harken back to my training and give people what I think they deserve. And my reward? I get calls outside of my expertise because everyone knows that I will follow through and get them an answer, no matter if it can help them solve their problem or not. Though at times I felt brainwashed by the constant hammering of monitoring in my youth, I wish I could go back to those days and thank those task masters for the one skill that I am most proud to possess.

Men, Boys and the Bitches In Between

Is there a marked difference between boys from L.A. and those from other states? Before I continue, I need to clarify that I continually flip flop in calling  men boys. For one, they never really grow up and two, they seem to always be chasing a real honest-to-goodness one that it’s just easier to lump them all together under the boy topic. Occasionally, I meet a man but sooner or later he reverts back to his adolescence, so to save time – boys it is.

If there were any doubt how different boys can be, then you had to only spend a few hours at one of the three birthday parties I attended in Palm Springs this past weekend. Surrounded by countless gorgeous Atlanta boys at every turn, I was happier than Scarlett O’Hara at the Twelve Oaks barbecue. Beyond their good looks, what amazed me the most was that no one possessed an ounce of the attitude I find in West Hollywood and L.A. in general. For a second there, I thought I’d driven too far down the 10 freeway and landed in some alternate universe.

For years, I used to say the difference between L.A. and San Francisco boys could be summed up thus: If I wore a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt out, the Bay Area boy would ask, “When did you go to Disneyland?” while his Southland counterpart would probe, “how long have you worked for Disney?” And now, I’m certain that the Atlanta boy would not even care but simply return the hello you throw his way.

Not only did the hosts welcome the two friends I invited along with me, but every guest we met was nicer than the next. From lipstick lesbians who surprised even my keen eye to boys who have been together for years – everyone I spoke to was welcoming and unassuming. And best of all – every boy was secure in his relationship.

“Don’t you mind that you always meet the married ones,” my friend asked me.

I didn’t even have to think before I answered in the negative. The single ones never pay me any mind and after I put it out there that I am indeed open and ready to know them more – they disappear. For years, this bothered me and only recently have I become secure in not caring simply because if a boy is secure in sticking around then I know he’s worth more than just a flash of my smile. I take the cards in front of me and play my best hand.

As with any gathering that results in an overflowing smorgasbord of boys, I was in my flirting element. Never at any point did any boy’s partner come up to me and threaten to beat me, cut me, punch me out or make it perfectly clear to steer away from his other half. Everyone I met was secure in their relationship and that is something I very rarely experience in L.A.

Once, at a restaurant’s bar, my friend and I were making eye contact with an incredibly breathtaking man.  Neither of us could tell his nationality and I took it upon myself to walk over and simply ask him his origins. I flashed my smile, said hello and presented my question only to hear a bitchy tone reverberate in my ear that I can still hear to this very day.

“His boyfriend is right here.”

“Yes, I see you,” I said without turning around to that nasty queen who was just one of a long line of bitter boys who spit their venom at me. “But your location wasn’t my question.”

I could write for hours on the boys who threatened to get me fired or throw a drink in my face for simply being me. The simple fact is that I know where I fall on the food chain of gay boys and I use the assets that work to my benefit. I continue to spend a lot of money on my dental work and am never shy about using it to say hello. And the fact that I have a full head of curly hair doesn’t hurt either.

Perhaps it was the Southern gentility that made every boy such a refreshing delight to meet. Or maybe, it was that I’ve become better attuned to choosing friends who are as secure as I have become over the years. At any rate – it’s good to know that there exists a class of man who doesn't just exist in the pages of a book. And it's nice to realize that like Scarlett - there is a belle deep down in that flirtatious facade of mine that will love only one man when he makes his presence known.