Time travel with me for a moment, won’t you.

I’ll set the scene.  Ten(ish) years ago.  I say ish because I both can’t and don’t want to remember how long ago this moment was.  I returned home to find my then boyfriend lounging in the living room, drinking wine with some dude.  I had seen this guy before.  He worked with my boyfriend.  Let’s call him Morty.  Morty was very attractive.  He had gold hair.  Gold.  Beyond blonde.  He had that dirty greasy Pearl Jam flannel thing that every boy in college has.  He was sexy.  There’s really no other way to put it.  Even I had a tiny little crush on Morty.  Anyway, Morty was also playing guitar in my candle lit living room to the rapt attention of my boyfriend.  Walking in to my house at that moment was one of the most uncomfortable moments I’ve ever experienced.  They were clearly being flirtatious and mom had just come back home.  They were caught.  When I think of that moment now, I still get a little twinge of ugliness.  That’s exactly what I felt.  I was consumed with ugliness.  Worthlessness.  I wanted to go.

There isn’t much to the memory.  It’s seared into my mind because it was probably the first sign  that I had that I shouldn’t be dating my boyfriend.  I don’t think he cheated on me that day.  In fact I know he didn’t, because years later we talked about our relationship and he admitted that he cheated on me much later. With a woman.  Whatever.  I cheated on him too.  Several times in fact, but that isn’t the point.  The thing I mean to point out, the question I mean to ask is who was that person?  Who was that kid who allowed a relationship to last past that moment of weirdness with Morty?  Who was that kid who allowed that ugliness to fill him up?  Why couldn’t I see then what I know now?  Why couldn’t I know how amazing I am?  Why was I so lacking in self-confidence?

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t have all the answers today and I realize that I’m not exactly a bastion of confidence.  I just sometimes think of that moment in my living room and wonder if maybe things could have been a little more fun if I had left before I finally did.  One of my favorite quotes right now is the definition of forgiveness.  Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could have been any different.  Think about that quote.  Repeat it a couple of times in your head.  I guess I have to forgive myself, but I can’t help but wonder if some of the pain that I experienced during and after that relationship could have ended or not happened at all.  I guess it doesn’t matter now.  After all. that was ten-ish years ago.

I pulled a towel out of the dryer.  As I’m standing there holding it I had one of those weird flashes of memory that can sometimes delorean you back in time.  In an instant I was 8 years old.  I was on the couch with my mom.  I was folding laundry with her.  I was watching more than anything else.  Then I was back here in my little tree house annoyed by laundry.

What struck me in that 3 seconds of time travel was that I have no idea how my mom folded towels.  Do I fold towels like my mom did?  Do I actually remember and just don’t know it?  Do I execute any weird and random thing that I witnessed like she did it?  Do I tie my shoes the way she taught me or brush my teeth the same way?  Anything?  Was there anything imprinted upon me other than what I remember of her.

I’m not sad as I write this.  I just wonder.  What is it that you leave behind?  What will last?  I wish I knew how my mom folded towels.  It might make me feel better about all of these clean clothes.

There we were in my college bedroom.  I thought I was so classy and original with my cloud of Nag Champa incense smoke and dim vanilla scented candlelight.  Clark Gable & Vivian Leigh passionately embarrassing with all of Atlanta ablaze behind them on a Gone with the Wind poster on one wall while Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise were staring at me from an Interview with the Vampire poster on the other.  Yeah.  I was confused.

My girlfriend Kellie (vagina owner and avid tuba player) and I had just watched my favorite movie Yentl…you know…like most straight college folk do.  We had been going out for a few weeks and each date ended the same.  The movie would end and then the credits would roll and then we would commence to making out…and not a moment before. We would sit there in the blue glow of the TV on my Laura Ashley bed linens French kissing to the incomparable vocal stylings Mrs. Barbra Streisand.  What could be sexier?  Our make out sessions went on forever.  We would kiss for hours.  I’d get that worn out mouth thing you get when you kiss too long.  You know when your tongue is tired and your face feels like it’s going to fall asleep?

There was something different about this night, though, I could feel it.  I don’t know if there was a full moon or if it was just the magic of Mandy Patinkin but we began to get more and more into it.  Suddenly Kellie was taking off my shirt.  I’m pretty sure that my heart stopped.  I don’t even take my shirt off at the pool.  I had never been this far with anyone.  I had to be everything that I’m not:  cool, calm, collected and half nude in front of another person.  I sat there in the candlelit room trying to remember to breathe and keep my eyes in my head while thanking God that my skinny, pale bird chest couldn’t be seen.

Now what was I supposed to do?  Shouldn’t I do something?  Kellie was clearly in the driver’s seat, but I decided that I had to return the favor.  It would be rude not to!  I moaned with excitement (that seemed to be the appropriate response) and began trying to remove her shirt.  I felt the same dirty sensation that I got when I’d force my Barbies to make out when I was a kid.  Something wasn’t quite right.  I was so afraid of what waited for me behind that shirt but I kept going.

I don’t know when you last undressed a woman, but I’m here to remind you that it is pretty damned difficult!  The buttons are different; there are layers, bows, ties, tank tops, camisoles, tassels, spanks, rhinestones, tiny coats, undershirts, lady bits.  I think there was a vest involved?  Women are wrapped up like goddamned Christmas trees.  I’m getting tired just thinking about it.

I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time and now here I was trying to kiss a woman and take her damned shirt off.  Nothing that had happened in my life up to that point had prepared me for this moment. Well, I guess there was that one time where I walked in on my parents having sex on the living room floor but I spent a lot of time after that trying to forget what I had seen.  I sat there stunned and uncomfortable, unsure of what to do, so Kellie took matters into her own hands and helped herself out of her shirt.  I was thrilled when the shirt came off but then immediately ablaze with anxiety when I realized I had to Houdini Kellie out of her bra.

News Flash!!  Women?  They have BOOBS.

BOOBS! What are you supposed to do with BOOBS?

I had never touched real live BOOBS before, I wasn’t even breast-fed, I had no clue what to do with BOOBS let alone how to fish them out of a bra!  That’s it.  You know what?  That’s why I’m gay.  Boobs did it.  Well, that and the whole bra issue.  It’s exhausting.  I’m too lazy for all of that work.  It’s just too much.  Men are far easier to deal with.

Suffice to say I was terrified.  Terrified!  Well, clearly.

CONFESSION:  I had maybe not so secretly spent all my free time since Kindergarten wishing that Christopher Atkins from The Blue Lagoon would come over and make out with me.  Don’t pretend like you didn’t do the same thing.  The only problem was that NOW here I was…making out with, trying to remove the bra of…some Mormon Tuba player from marching band…I had ended up as far as you can get from the luxurious curly blond locks and sexy loin cloth of Richard Lestrange!  Something had gone horribly wrong!  How did I get here and WHY were there BOOBS in my face?

Despite my inexperience, it was becoming crystal clear that We were GOING to DO IT.  Kellie was hell-bent on it.  She was practically raping us both.  Before I knew what was happening pants were flying, underwear was gone.  WE. WERE. NAKED.  I had to take a breath and work through some self-esteem issues for a moment.  I had to give myself a little pep talk:  I think I can I think I can I think I can!

I returned to The Blue Lagoon in my mind. . .

There we were Christopher Atkins and I…just two attractive bachelors with matching loincloths living alone on a tropical island.  We would spend our mornings running along the beach and working on our abs.  We’d trade fashion and hair tips and swim naked over coral reefs.  We’d have canoe races and watch the sun set over the ocean while BBQing what was left of Brooke Shields and talking about our future.

That was all it took.  A little trip around the island with Chris and I had an erection.

The spell at least for the moment had been broken.  I promptly grabbed a condom from the hundreds that were wasting their lives in my nightstand, carefully opened the package with my mouth, slipped it on and entered my first VAJ!

I’m not sure what I was expecting.  It wasn’t so bad.  There were no fangs or tentacles as the word VAGINA might suggest.  It was alright.  Well.  No.  It was kinda amazing, actually.  It was crazy!  Such warmth!  Such moisture!  I had no idea!  It was a secret hide-a-way for my special purpose, a playroom for my tinkey, a cockpit for my little captain!  It was so much easier than I had expected.  We bounced and moved and pushed and pulled and tugged and thrusted and grunted and before I knew it…I had an orgasm.  The whole ordeal lasted about 27 seconds…It was nothing!

Kellie got up to go to the bathroom and do whatever it is that women do moments after sex (probably masturbate).  I reached over to my nightstand and grabbed my feathered pen and Rainbow Bright journal and wrote, “Forgive me G-d—I have sinned.”  It wasn’t that I felt bad, sure maybe a little dirty, but I had done it.  I was alright.  I had been to a vagina.  I had been there and lived to tell the tale.  I was, at least in my mind, a straight man.

Kellie and I had sex a number of times but eventually our fling ran its course.  I think she probably knew that she was fucking a gay man.  I mean how many straight men do you know who approach boobs like they’re punching bags at the gym getting ready for a boxing match?  Probably not many.

I’ve always loved beating a dead horse, so it might not surprise you to learn that this wasn’t the only vagina that I had the good fortune to know intimately.  Maybe that sounds funny coming from a gay man but I think it makes perfect sense.  I think that a gay man who has never slept with a woman is like a vegetarian who has never had meat.  How do you know?  What if you like it?  Shouldn’t we all try everything once? Eat steak.  Experience a vagina!  I did and I can tell you that it tastes nothing like the alternative.

A couple of years ago after a particularly harrowing night of listening to show tunes and trying to drink all the vodka in Boystown I woke up with what can only be described as the Katrina of hangovers. Moving made me nauseous.  The light hurt my eyes. Breathing took great focus.  It was awful.  I sat there in my bed, wide-awake at 9am knee-deep in a shame spiral waiting to die.

After a few hours of analyzing the merits of singing Wicked at the top of my lungs in a room full of strangers I decided that I had to get myself together.  Of course the best thing for me to do was to take a bath, put on my cutest outfit and march myself down to the nearest Thai restaurant for lunch.  Yes, I had what I like to call a Lindsay Lohan moment.  I couldn’t let a couple of vodka tonics ruin my life.  I had to rise above my liquor soaked night I had to triumph over my self-inflicted adversity.

So…I scalded myself in the tub in order to sweat the toxins out, I put on my Hillary Clinton for President t-shirt, my cutest jeans, the biggest sunglasses that I could find and one of those newsboy caps tilted jauntily to the side and off I went.  Sure, the nearest Thai restaurant was a couple miles from my house but nothing could stop my determination.  I decided that walking two miles for lunch on a hot and humid summer day would be both my punishment and my cure.

I made it about two blocks before I began to pray for my life.   Apparently 5 hours of sleep after drinking all the vodka isn’t a recipe for health.  I was sweating like Mel Gibson at bat mitzvah I was dizzy, shaky.  I was a goddamned mess.  A mess who was determined to have a Thai lunch with himself.  I took a little break from my marathon to rehydrate with the biggest Diet Coke that I could find and continued on my way.

AND…I made it.  I finally made it and without passing out, I might add.  It took me 45 minutes and enough prayers to raise the dead, but I made it.  I walked in to my local Thai restaurant all sweaty and smelling like a liquor cabinet.  It was clear though, that I was on a serious mission.  I drank an entire carafe of water and ordered Pad Thai with chicken before I sat down.

As in most Thai restaurants the food took about 3 minutes.  You’d think with how horrible I felt I wouldn’t be able to eat.  I was eating like it was my job, like a starving animal.  The food was amazing, maybe the best Pad Thai that I’ve ever tasted.  I wanted to roll around in the bowl, I wanted to wear it, it was that good.  The only issue, the only thing wrong was that the Thai was super spicy.  The spice combined with my hangover meant that I was drinking carafe after carafe of water.  I’m sure that I had 400 carafes of water before I finished my meal.  My server must have thought I was nuts.  He’d look in the direction of my Lindsay Lohan disguise and I’d order another carafe of water.

As I got up to leave the restaurant, I thought to myself that I should maybe take a little trip to the bathroom.  I mean at this point I’d had 400 carafes of water and a liter of Diet Coke.  Surely I needed to pee before I journeyed home?  Surely?  I talked myself out of it.  I figured that after my hangover brunch I’d move a lot quicker and if I needed to use the bathroom I could make it back to my house.  I mean, what am I 60?

So I sauntered out of my neighborhood Thai restaurant feeling refreshed and alive.  Everything was much better on the way back.  I was planning my chores for the rest of the day.  I’d do laundry and clean my house.  I’d turn this really awful day around.

Then.  It happened.

I was about half way between the restaurant and home.  And a pain that I cannot describe.  A pain that I had never felt before or since ripped through my stomach.  I froze.  I just stood there on the sidewalk waiting for the pain to pass.  It did.  I took a deep breath and continued on my way.  I didn’t think anything of it.  I mean I had been through a lot, the drinking, the not sleeping, the spicy Thai, all that water.  My body was in shock.  Big deal.

It happened again.  It was like an after shock. I doubled over.  This time? This time I realize what’s happening.  I realize that I am going to shit.  RIGHT NOW.

Now, keep in mind that I’m standing in the middle of a very busy sidewalk.  I’m not standing in the middle of my bedroom.  I’m not hidden away in some bathroom stall somewhere.  I’m in public.  It’s noon on a Tuesday.  I’m surrounded.  People are everywhere.

Things get serious very fast.  I go into Panic Mode.  I’m panicked and frazzled trying to figure out what to do on the inside while smiling and pretending that I’m fine on the outside.   I must have looked like a maniac.  I was pacing back and forth, but in place.  I was trapped inside my body.  I can’t be the 30-year-old man standing on a sidewalk in Rogers Park about to shit his pants.  This cannot be me.  This is not my life.

Meanwhile?  It’s at the door.  Yeah.  The poop is making its way through my body.  I can literally feel that it is millimeters away from flying out of my ass and I have no idea what to do.

But I am squeezing.  Oh yes.  I am squeezing my little heart out.  I am squeezing my ass so tight to keep from pooping my pants that I’m on my tiptoes.  I refuse to be humiliated.  I will not let this happen.  All the while I’m frozen in place on the sidewalk.  I’m looking around for what to do.  There’s no Barnes and Noble.  There’s no McDonalds.  There’s no tree to hide behind.  I’ve got no options.

So I start walking.  Slowly.  Very. Very Slowly.  Very, very carefully.  I look like I have a stick up my ass…even more than usual.  I’m pinching and holding and squeezing.  The pressure is getting to be more than I can stand.  I’m fighting back what feels like an atomic bomb.  I’m barely breathing.

The whole situation gets to be too much to deal with pretty quickly.  I make it about a block before I convince myself that I’m just having some really nasty gas.  Maybe if I relax enough to fart everything will be fine.  So I stop walking.  I stop squeezing quite so hard, which means I’m back down off my tiptoes.

I take a little breath.

I relax.

I have that moment that we’ve all had.  The moment where you relax and give a little push to your gas only to realize that it isn’t gas at all.  I’m talking about the shart.   But this?  This is a super shart.  The king of all sharts.

The moment that I let my guard down an uncontrollable and literal shit storm begins to fly out of me.  I freeze.  Then I run to the nearest bench to sit down as if that’s somehow going to help my situation.  I’m almost down on the bench when I realize that I can’t sit in my own feces.  I quickly stand up.   Shadoobie is pouring out of me.  I’m like the Niagara Falls of poo.  I’m trapped.  I decide to surrender.  I can’t really fight back anyhow.  I just stand there on the busy sidewalk and take it like a man.  People are walking by living their lives and I’m standing there pooping my pants.

The shit, MY shit has filled up my cute little bikini briefs and is now starting to run down my legs.  So. Much. Poo.  Who shits this much?  It was awful.  It was like I had eaten all the food.  This is it.  I am completely broken.  This is the bottom.  I am in Hell.  Well, I think that I am in Hell.  That is until I look down at my feet and realize what shoes I’m wearing.  You guys!  I was wearing flip-flops.  As if dropping a duce in your pants isn’t enough…pretty soon…I’m standing in my own crap on a crowded street.  I quickly lean down in my squishy pants and tight roll my jeans.  I had to stop the flood somehow.  I made myself a promise that if I got home alive I would never tell anyone about this day.

Again, I pictured Lindsey Lohan.  All those times that she got out of Limos showing off her little lady parts.  She wasn’t ashamed.  The girlfriend, the drugs, the rehab, the ugly cries, the return to rehab, Herbie Fully Loaded, jail.  None of it could hold her back.  I stood there and I asked myself.  What would Lindsey do?  So?  I shook the poop off of my flip-flops, I double checked to make sure that my tight rolled pants were secure, I made sure my sunglasses were on straight, pulled my hat down low and marched my happy ass home.

What do you think was the first thing I did when I got home?  Nope, I didn’t take a shower right away.  True to my gossipy nature I stood there in my heavy pants and called everybody I know.  GIRL!  YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT JUST DID!

1.  Your salad order is ridiculous.  I see you there.  You little soccer mom with your mild eating disorder.  The one that you have in front of all your other little mom friends.  You all order chopped salads.  That’s fine.  I like a chopped salad.  I also like flavor.  I enjoy food.  I got a table of 8 ladies, right?  Six of these ladies order a chopped salad.  ONE of these ladies didn’t make any modifications to the salad.  They all giggle as they’re ordering with me because they’re so high maintenance.  Being high maintenance is apparently hilarious.  Every single one of those skinny bitches made a different modification to their salad.  I’m not making your salad.  I don’t care if you just want lettuce and dressing.  I don’t care what you eat.  I just think it’s sad that you try to be healthy by eating a bowl of crappy lettuce and blue cheese.  Yes.  I’m calling you boring.

2. Speaking of flavor!  Why are white people so scared of flavor?  Yes, dear white folks.  You are afraid of flavor.  I can say this with some authority because I work in a predominantly white suburb.  I’ve seen 3 black folks come into our restaurant.  I’m almost not exaggerating.  We have chipotle mashed potatoes on our menu.  We might as well change the name of those potatoes to flaming hot, nuclear, liquid fire from hell potatoes.  I’ve seen so many scared faces over the chipotle pepper.  SO. MANY.  Each time, I take a deep breath (to the side so as to not offend with my big fat judgy face) and tell the white folks in question to not be afraid.  I explain that the chipotle pepper is mostly a smoky pepper flavor.  Nobody is going to die.  There’s no reason to get upset, scared or worried.  I encourage them to be brave and try something new.  Trying to sell the chipotle mashed potatoes is like trying to negotiate with Ahmadinejad.

These are my two favorite issues at the moment.  I could go on forever with goofy things that people do or say.  I’m not the greatest server in the world.  I’m not even sure I care.  Right now, it’s my job.  Right now?  It’s also the cheapest entertainment around.  I hope  I can put up with it for a little while longer.  The stories might keep me in business.

Deep breath.  Big swig o’ gimlet (Yes, I have a drink!  I’m returning to work tomorrow morning after having been off for 10 days.)

1. FOOD. Food…as in making actual meals.  I kinda tried it last year.  I’m going to build on what I was doing.  I got a little more brave last year.  I tried some stuff.  I got real good at a couple things.  I won’t be invited to Iron Chef any time soon, but I sure can make tuna salad so tasty that you’ll want to kiss me on the mouth.  I’d like to expand what I did last year and maybe get a goal.  I don’t mean to copy Julie Powell, but maybe I need to pick a book or two and work through them?  I’d like to say that maybe I should cut out eating out at restaurants but that’s INSANE.  Right?  That’s crazy.

2. STAGE. Somewhere along the line I fell off the stage.  I feel like coming back.  In my way.  Under my control.  I don’t necessarily feel like being an ACTOR and all that that means but I do want to get back to the stage.  I produced a show last year.  I’ve got another in the works for May.  I’m also set to perform in a local live magazine (Paper Machete).  So…I’m gettin’ there.  I want to expand on what I’ve started.

3. JOB. I really need to figure this one out.  More than anything else.  If I don’t?  My little food project might be more about new and interesting ways to make peanut butter and jelly.  F’real, y’all.  I got all brave last year and left a really bad situation.  That’s great.  Now I just need to take the next step.  I currently have a job waiting tables.  I like it.  It’s just not enough money.  I’m trying to be patient and take a deep breath before making a move.  I want to make smarter choices than I have in the past.  The problem with that is that my bank account is a joke.  I need to work for Oprah.  How do I make that happen.

There.  None of that sounds crazy.  I didn’t use the word resolution once!  We’ll see.  I’ll keep you posted.  What are your goals for 2011?  Dangit.  I’ve got to come up with a theme for 2011.  Any ideas?

*What turns you on?  Laughter

*What turns you off?  Arrogance

*What is your favorite word?  Yes.

*What is your least favorite word?  No

*What sound or noise do you love?  Any noise my dog makes.

*What sound or noise do you hate?  shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

*What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?  Being Oprah? Can that be answer?

*What profession other than yours would you not want to attempt?  I don’t want to clean other people.  So…I guess nursing?

*What is your favorite swear word?  F*ck.  ohhh! or a really nicely used Son of a Bitch.

*If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear G-d say to you as you enter the Pearly Gates?  Good Job!

I quit a job.  I got a new one.  I produced and performed in a show.  These are the highlights.  Way back a few months ago I declared 2010 the year of doing what scares me.  I did that.  I’m still doing that.  I’m working real hard at seeing the good stuff instead of the bad, on looking from where I’ve come and focusing on the future.  So, I think, for now at least, the only resolution I have is to build on what I’ve started.  To do more things that scare me.  I want to produce more shows and find a new job.  I want to be a better version of myself.  Can that me my resolution?  To be a better version of me.  I’m not really sure what that means, but I like it.  None of this resolving to do things that I can’t possibly do.  No.  That’s a waste of time.  I want to take it one day at a time.  I want to live in the moment and be grateful.

Happy New Year!

No matter what happens tonight, I am so proud of this show.  I’m not responsible for everything in it of course but I have been there for the ride.  It has taught me so much.  I hope to keep these shows going.  It’s pretty easy to produce and the process is fun and engaging to watch.  I love it.

Cross your fingers that I don’t fall or wet my pants…

I know what you’re thinking.  Who quits their job?  Who does such a thing in this economy?  I do apparently.  I had to.  I’m almost afraid to talk about it for fear that I’ll never work again.  The internet is a scary place.  I get a little honest about my former job and I’ll maybe end up eating peanut butter sandwiches for all eternity.  Stranger things have happened.  Whatever.  You’ve read the stories.  Maybe I’ve told you a couple that I haven’t written here?  I was in Hell.  (Bring on the peanut butter sandwiches)  I’ve never been in a more uncomfortable and hostile environment in my life.  I was less stressed out as a 12-year-old when my brother used chase me around our house with a hot fire poker.

So, one day after having a calculator thrown at me, a supply cabinet punched and a filing cabinet kicked during a daily business meeting I started thinking.  I talked my heartbeat down and out of my eyeballs and returned my breathing to a normal pace and asked myself is it worth it?  I decided that it wasn’t.  My job was not particularly difficult.  I recorded things.  I calculated percentages.  I used Facebook (A LOT).  Big deal.  Any monkey can do any of that.  The hard part was dealing with my boss (Miranda).  Each day was like landing on a new planet.  I never knew who was going to be in that office.  Would it be nice Miranda?  Would it be emotional Miranda?  Would it be Miranda who wants to give me a raise?  Maybe it would be Miranda who suddenly decided that she hated my purple sweater and never wanted me to wear it again.

The mood swings in that last week were endless and exhausting.  I was working extra hours to finish random projects.  There were screaming fits, slammed doors, flying office furniture.  Interesting phone conference calls.  New rules.  I received a new work schedule.  She picked fights with guests, fired staff, cursed out vendors.  The insanity quotient was getting higher than I had ever seen.  Everyone in the company was on high alert.  I was having a hard time dealing with the stress.  When you can’t sleep and have difficulty eating for a job that pays less than 50K, and you aren’t saving lives?  You need to search for other work.

So, I did something that I have always feared.  I started looking for a job as a server.  Me a waiter?  I know, right.  I left an easy office job so that I could serve chopped salad to suburban moms.  Doesn’t that sound fun?  It took me all of 24 hours to find a job.  Maybe that says something that potential employers might want to take away from my little diary entry.  I’m likable.  I found a job within 24 hours.  It’s not at all close to my house and I don’t make anywhere near the same money that I was making a few short weeks ago.  BUT!  I feel more present in my life.  In a way everything feels out of control but I think that maybe this is what it feels like to be brave.  Not to mention I can sleep and eat and I haven’t had a calculator thrown at my head…yet.