Hooray For Love

In one short week, I get to return to Boston (technically, it’s Medford – pronounced "Med-Fid" if you’re from there, not "Meffa" as the amateurs say). And the reason for my once-a-year appearance in the city I grew up in is to celebrate love and family – something that, over the course of the last five weeks, has grown more important to me. My parents will be married 50 years on May 12th and, that, in this day and age, is cause for celebration.  In 1960, over the Christmas Holidays, my father, making present deliveries with his Aunt Lil, walked into a room and saw a blue-eyed blonde girl sitting at the kitchen table. The rest, they tell me, is history.

Over the course of my life, I have pictured a long and lasting relationship for myself, and when I was young I thought each new date would lead to that picture perfect dream. I can still name each and every one who broke my heart, and the circumstances surrounding them are as clear today as if they happened yesterday. Back then, there was no Internet (how’s that for showing my age), and I met each and every one the old fashioned way. I flashed my smile, I said hello and we carried on - wait for it – a conversation that didn’t start with “’sup,” or “stats?”

From Bruce to Brian, to Edward and the boys who all begin with the letter M, each one made me feel as if I were on top of the world. The problem with being that high up is that the fall to earth is incredibly painful. And, in between, there have been glimmers of hope and stories to entertain for years, including the infamous story of the dinner made and left in front of the door because he was working late. It was one of my better moments - the lowest being the screaming break up in the middle of Castro Street at 2 a.m. Yes, I was one of THOSE scene making queens.

So, next week, as I toast to my parents, who, of course, have had their share of fights, but whose love and affection for each other outshine all the dramatics -  I’m reminded that lasting love does exist. Perhaps this is the year I’ll meet that person across the room. Or maybe, like I’ve written in one of my stories, I’ll reach for an apple in the grocery store at the same time he does and the whole display will come tumbling down around us. 

Whatever the case, I will never force it, and although we will celebrate with Aunt Lil next week, (a gift in itself); I know that my own catalyst will make its presence felt. Whether it happens this year, next or – shudder- when I’m in my 50’s – all you really need is the belief that you will walk into a room and see the person you’re meant to be with sitting right in front of you. And when you reach the top of the world again – the view will be breathtaking.

A Little Disney Magic

I first experienced the wonderful world of Disney in 1976, shortly after Walt Disney World had opened and during the American Bi-Centennial. The theme park was in full celebration that week and every memory of that vacation is still vivid in my memory today. Perhaps the happiness that I still remember from that week is what makes the joy of Walt Disney so important to me.

The past few weeks have been filled with enormous emotion on so many levels. With the sudden passing of my roommate and friend, the stress in my life has been at an all-time high that, not only shook me like an 8.5 earthquake, but also swung my emotions in so many directions I was dizzy just standing still. And, then, this past weekend, for the first time since everything happened, I took a weekend for me and the destination was the happiest place on earth. 

At first, I was going to drive to my desert paradise, but as it turned out, Saturday was mini-gay day – a smaller gathering in Disneyland than the huge 3-day October event held every year in the park.  And, with my friend Steve flying in from Phoenix to join me, it couldn’t have been more perfect.  Steve and I met 20 years ago, when we both worked at Intuit software in Northern California. When I bought my first condo in San Francisco, he graciously let me live with him until escrow was done and through rodeos, commuting together, nights out in San Jose and San Francisco, and work, our friendship was a solid one. Even when I moved back to Boston and lost touch, I was never worried about the foundation we had built and two years ago, when the time frame between us had grown to over a decade, we reconnected as if no time had passed. That - I’ve come to realize, is what makes a true friend. There’s never any blame on who lost touch with whom or a diatribe of excuses thrown in the wind – you simply pick up where you left off and the years in between melt away. And throughout this ordeal these past few weeks, I’ve come to realize that I have great friends – solid friends who are there for me no matter what.

Just wait until October

I knew how disconcerting it was for Steve to leave the heat of Arizona for a  cold and rainy April day in Los Angeles, and not a minute went by all weekend that I was not incredibly grateful for his company. When the water stopped pouring out of the sky and the sun shone on Saturday, it was almost as if Walt himself had declared that it was not to rain on our Disneyland day.

“I’m on your schedule,” Steve said at one point when I asked what time he wanted to reconvene one night for dinner and that simple gesture spoke volumes to me. For anyone can simply say they’re a friend, but like love and a relationship, it’s the actions behind the words that never fail to prove it. 

Amongst the red shirts of the folks who attended Mini Gay Days, Steve and I got lost in the magic of the Kingdom. Drinking (a lot) in Downtown Disney, including an interesting concoction at Trader Sam’s in the Disneyland Hotel, we talked about a million different things. I shared the experience of the last few weeks and, though the images never leave me, they are slowly fading and easier on my mind. The weight of that night and the following days has begun to lift.  

Surrounded by all things Disney, avoiding Goofy at all costs (that’s another blog), hanging out with Steve, Pluto and all the red shirts, the weekend did exactly what I had hoped - it brought the magic back into my life.

Requiem for my Friend

If there’s anything I’ve learned over this past week, is that life is a precious gift and that knowing, really knowing your self worth is the greatest gift you can give yourself. Last week, I, shockingly and unexpectedly, lost my friend of seven years and roommate of three. Andrew and I met through a mutual friend and over the years, although we could never be described as best friends, we knew each other pretty well. From my grumpy demeanor in the mornings to his early evenings in bed, the both of us knew what made the other tick. When I was in need of a new place to live, he graciously offered me his spare bedroom and bath and financially, the Peoria born dance floor fiend gave me a lifeline that saved me from moving in with a friend and her husband that would have proved disastrous in so many ways.  

Some of the best times we spent together were in front of the television commenting on shows from RuPaul’s Drag Race to Hot in Cleveland, to our latest comedic find, The Exes. Andrew and I both looked forward to that short amount of time where we could laugh and talk briefly about our days. During the hectic holidays, we made a date to meet for a drink because our schedules at home were just so insane, and there we sat in the new West Hollywood Revolver, two friends playing catch up despite living under the same roof.

Five years ago, after Andrew had heart valve replacement surgery, his outlook on life, naturally changed and two years ago, he began working out like a mad man with a trainer and AKFit. One day, I looked up from the couch and couldn’t believe what phenomenal shape he was in – he was trim, slim, toned and beaming, and I was floored. I suppose because we saw each other every day, the transformation in front of me slipped away. And then, this past January, I’d hit rock bottom with my physical self. I looked in the mirror and thought, I deserve better than what I see. I called Andrew on my way home from the desert that day and asked to join his work out regime, an integral part of his life that he constantly asked me to do. So together, three days a week we worked out in a West Hollywood park. It was dark and cold until only recently, but Andrew inspired me and every bead of sweat was because of that. On more than occasion, as my weight dropped and my old pants began to fit, I told him how inspirational he was to me. He shrugged it off – not knowing, I think, how serious I was. So, to tell him in more humorous terms, I would often drunk text him during my frequent happy hour Fridays in the desert. A practice I found out that he looked forward to every time I left for paradise. He would jokingly scold me when he did not receive any at all. He would not take credit for my transformation, but told me it was all my doing, yet without him, I would not be where I am today in any aspect of my life.

At last year's Kylie concert. We danced for hours.

I can’t really speak of that horrendous night just one week ago – the memory of my friend is burned deep in my brain and I want to wash that away with every other happy memory. Our Kylie concert at the Hollywood Bowl, pool parties at my friend M’s, taking him to the NBC Christmas party, countless Sunday nights drinking tequila at Marix and a thousand other times we laughed and bitched together. I knew he deserved a partner who loved him completely and took nothing from him, but deep down, I don’t think Andrew knew what he was worth. He was a great man, too giving at times and not confident enough to know that the universe will bring him that perfect someone when he least expected it. Endless searching and settling for users and phonies would never bring him joy.

We would talk about such things on the short drive to our work outs and I knew deep down he knew what a good soul he was but, I also knew he would never make himself believe it. He had accomplished and survived so much that the bigger picture was lost.

Although my hands are tied and my rights are nothing, I have done what I can over the past week to bring him the peace he so richly deserves.  Andrew affected my life more than he let himself believe and though I can never drunk text him again, I can only hope that whatever place comes next after this life, that he at last realizes how much he was worth on so many levels. 

Best Friends Forever

Two years ago, plans with my mom for her very first trip toEurope were in full swing. It’s hard to believe how fast the time flies. After that vacation in Paris – my all-time favorite city in the world, I thought it would be some time before I would be able to return and then something wonderful and unexpected happened. One of my very best friends, Josh, was relocated to the city of lights by his work. It was a dream come true, more probably for me than him, but a dream come true nonetheless. 

I first met Josh when I moved back to Boston for a brief period when I left San Francisco for the first time. It was the year 2000, I had been laid off, at a crossroads (one of many) in my life and I thought returning to the east coast was the answer. Despite how it turned out – moving back there brought me the best gift I could have asked for – a true friend that I could add to the few that I value so deeply in my life. At a party I somehow finagled an invite to – Josh was there with chocolate chip cookies and doling out his famous neck massages. We hit it off instantly, and shortly after, what I would soon discover was a very rare occurrence, he arranged a plan for a bunch of us to attend a sing-a-long Sound of Music night. One by one, the boys declined until there was only me. The two of us, instead, decided to meet for dinner in the South End, not far from his apartment.

And then the worry began. Would he think this was a date? Does he think I like him that way? And it was ironic that he was imagining the same thoughts and all through dinner, as we laughed and talked about I don’ t know what (probably about the two fat girls who were making life at my job unbearable - but that's another blog) – we fell instantly into a perfect friendship. 

From New Year’s Eve celebrations to nights getting drunk off our asses, to trudging through ten feet of snow to meet at Starbucks, the two of us were inseparable. I could not have asked for a better friend and when I made the decision to return to the west coast, I think he was afraid that I would be gone completely. However, he soon learned one of my greatest traits – I stay in touch with you until I know for sure that what I put out there is never returned. 

From there, it was countless visits to San Francisco and then to Los Angeles for him and vacations back in Boston for me, where I took over his living room with my infamous “crime scene” unpacking. In all these years, we have missed but two New Year’s Eve celebrations together. Our disagreements have been few and famous – but always, we’ve emerged stronger and better friends because of it. He’s pulled me up from the depths of despair more than he knows and I think I’ve pulled his head out of the oven more times than he's had it in it. We laugh a lot together and when the Sambuca arrives, I know we've reached the point of no return.

Last year, when he had to cancel meeting me in Palm Springs for his first business meeting in Paris, I easily forgave him. And, a week ago, I booked my flight to my favorite city in the world to see one of my favorite friends in the world.

I always let him do the cooking.

This year, with the time difference between us, our emails are always waiting for each other in our respective mornings. On weekends; I have been just stumbling home when he is finishing breakfast. The texts between are us during those overlapping hours are for the record books. And, this May, when I return to Boston for my parent’s golden anniversary, he’s letting me stay in his condo. I will try extremely hard to not create a crime scene.

When I arrive in Paris, I can’t wait to show him my favorite city haunts – from the bars, to the restaurants that I adore to just a walk along the River Seine, I know we’ll talk about how a fateful invite to a party changed the course of our lives. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for the true friends I have in my life. They make all the craziness and stress surrounding everything else manageable. And when I sometimes think that returning to Boston was one of the biggest mistakes of my life – I remember that had I not, I would not have met Joshua. And, just so you know,  going to Paris has nothing to do with that thinking - but it sure doesn’t hurt.

Are there drag queens like this in Paris?

The Flat Downstairs

I have many memories of the flat downstairs from where I grew up. Mostly, surrounding my grandmother, Christine, which is no surprise to anyone who knows me or has read anything I’ve written. She was my entire world and for eight years, I had the joy of her company. Running downstairs when I came home from school, spending weekends watching her bake and spending time with her as she babysat my brother and me on those rare occasions my parents took a night out for themselves. Although smaller than our unit upstairs, the flat was still wondrous to me. From the statue of St. Anthony covered in plastic in my grandparents' bedroom, to the plastic that covered the chairs and couches, to the alcove that housed her gigadellis (Ghig-A-Day-Lees, it’s what we called chachkies), the flat downstairs was more my home than my own.

This past year, believe it or not was the first time I heard the story of how she fell in love with the house at 14 and 16 Carney Street in Medford. It brought all the memories flooding back and made me see the place I grew up in and left behind so many years ago in a different light.

 

After her passing, I hardly ever ventured downstairs and when my grandfather passed away, I never again set foot across the threshold. My uncle continued to call it home until his untimely passing and it was then that my parents rented the bottom floor. My father worked night and day restoring the unit to its earlier glory. The sparkling and shining hardwood floors were refurbished and restored to their original shine after being imprisoned by years of wall to wall carpeting. New doors, new appliances and bathroom fixtures replaced the familiar. From the pictures, I could hardly recognize the place. Where was my favorite blue glass poodle gigadelli that I had broken and glued back together because my grandmother warned me not to play with her knick knacks? Did the green plastic coated lamps survive in the storage of our attic? In a way, I mourned the loss of a different time as renter after renter took up residence. Through the years, some were horrible - taking the flat where I’d spent so much of my childhood for granted. They skipped out on the rent, left trash behind, threatened to take my parents to court, begged for a rent reduction while they demanded my parents look for a new tenant to replace the roommate who skipped out. Finally, three years ago, an incredible couple took up residence. They, like my grandmother had done in 1949, fell instantly in love with the house on Carney Street. They treated my parents with respect and lived in the flat downstairs as if it were going to be theirs forever.

But like all great things – their time there has ended and after getting married, the two are starting a family and moving, leaving me wondering what was going to happen now. And, then it happened – one of those full circle moments in life that I love so much – my brother and his partner are taking up residence in the flat downstairs. There among the memories that I hold so special, will be new wonderful moments to come. My father’s precious house – the one he holds so close to his heart is a full two family home once again. I will be able to go downstairs, sit in the alcove where my grandmother kept my blue glass poodle and its companions and remember all those special times. Although I would never travel back to Boston in the dead of winter, my brother’s famous Macy’s Christmas Store explosion decorations during the holidays will be a picture perfect memory that I’m looking forward to seeing within the walls where so much love and joy existed in our family. 

 

Over the years, I've often felt my grandmother around me almost as if she were there to pull me in my little red wagon like she did when I was a child. (No comments - I know I'm too big to fit in my little red wagon) But now, I know she is smiling seeing one of her grandsons take up residence in the place she loved so much.  For so many years, I have thought of the lower unit as just the flat downstairs, but these latest tenants have made me realize that it’s so much more.

Gaining Self Worth Again

Boot camp – the word itself conjures up a million horrendous images to me, and no one is more surprised than I that I have willingly paid money to join AK Fit and do a serious work out three times a week, in addition to one-on-one personal training. All of this conjures up some serious junior and high school issues for me - memories of being the last to finish the 500 yard dash, collapsing in pain and holding back the tears from the slings and arrows shot at me from my peers.  I was the “husky” kid – shopping in a store ironically called “Anderson Little” for pants that would fit over my enormous thighs. 

What caused this change in me? Since I’ve dropped the excess weight a few years back, I knew I needed to jump over the exercise plateau I’ve reached. I’ve watched my roommate transform his body over the last two years and that inspiration combined with a reflective weekend spent in my desert oasis a few weekends ago gave me the kick in the ass that I needed. I had three days to hang out with my very best friend – me. And unlike so many people, I enjoy time by myself. Being uncomfortable at happy hour alone has never been an issue. Sitting at a table for one or hanging out at the bar of my favorite restaurant is easy.  I had no commitments, no drama, nothing to distract me from taking a long look at myself and the past few years.  And thinking long and hard was just what I did that weekend. I’ve accomplished a lot these past few years and I took that holiday to pat myself on the back. In 2011, I paid off an enormous debt – no small accomplishment-  and took back the control of my life. 

It was years ago, in San Francisco, when I had a trainer named Sev – an ex-Navy Seal who kicked my ass two times a week (and of course, added to my enormous debt), but I never forgot the feeling of self-worth his sessions gave me. He was the hottest and straightest man I ever knew and I think my being the complete opposite amused him at every turn.

He looked at my calves one day and said, “Damn, Jim, I want legs like that.” 

“It’s the pump exercise,” I groaned through my pain.

“What is that? I’ve never heard of that one.”

 I smiled and simply said, “It’s wearing four inch heels and performing on a stage.”

 He doubled over in laughter, but still kicked my ass.

Sev took no prisoners, never held back and he transformed my mind and my body. Over the years, I lost that feeling. So, that weekend as I sat at the bar of one of my favorite restaurants and chatted with the people around me – I knew that the only thing missing was my feeling good about myself again and being truly happy at what I see reflected back at me in the mirror.  

Eating right has never been an issue – I know when I order fries and a hamburger that it’s bad, and that that milkshake I want so bad will only cause me grief. So, now I consciously make the right choices and I’ve kicked up my work outs with AK Fit and a trainer who reminds me of Sev in so many ways. 

This morning, as Aaron, our trainer instructed us to run five laps around the basketball court and jump rope to warm up, those childhood memories came flooding back. I saw the little fat kid wheezing and puffing as he tried to make it around the fence to finish the dash and I heard the taunts as the jump rope hit me around the shoulders. But, I pushed them down with every sit up and push up that followed. When time was called, I finished the last of my bar raises, determined to say that I completed all four areas of the circuit. I hear the taunts of my childhood, but the encouragement of my workout partners and new trainer are stronger and louder. 

Aaron says he’ll take my enormous thighs and turn them into steel and I believe that together we will do just that. I am the sum of all the phases of me that have come before, and in the end, I will be as comfortable with what I see in the mirror as I am walking into a crowded restaurant and asking for a table for one. My goal is to be in the best shape of my life when I return to Boston for my parents’ Golden Anniversary in May. And who knows, maybe I’ll run around the park on the block where I grew up and where the taunts are still as vivid today as they were then. But the memory of their insults will be silenced and simply be a memory. Replaced by the self-worth I will have regained.

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.”