The Cut of My Jib

During my unintentional sabbatical… I ended up hitting the gym… a lot. I really just needed to get out of the house, because staring at my computer screen just wasn’t working for me. (and by “not working” I mean, “driving me crazy”) Before, I always went to the gym on my way home from work… because it was on the way, and extremely convenient. Now, of course, it had to be a special trip. So let’s see: Special trip… or sit in the house and be depressed, lazy and crazy. I’ll take “Special Trip”, please. I needed something, anything, to do… and going to the gym seemed like a nice, healthy option. Hey, I was paying for it anyway… might as well get my money’s worth out of it.

So I went every day, Monday through Friday, and took weekends off to recuperate. Mondays and Thursdays was arms and upper body, Tuesday and Fridays lower body and abs, and Wednesday was nothing but Cardio. I was silently proud to be sticking to my make-over plans, and occasionally getting nice compliments from friends. But due to my own critical view of my self, and judging by the horrible dating luck I was having, I always saw/see the flaws and knew/know I still had/have a long way to go.

Then, when I gotten into August of that year, the Temp agency I was going through gave me the distinct impression that “things were picking up” and I would be having some impending interviews approaching. So I pulled out my suit… the one I’ve previously mentioned as “my first suit”. Now, I bought this during another bought of unemployment, again for the purposes of interviews (and also since I had nothing nice to wear should the occasion arise). When I did that, I had been in a period of “letting myself go” a little too much. This was after my old medical problems, in which my weight fluctuated wildly from too low to too high, and then settled on “too high”. So when I was being fitted for this suit… I was given the “Executive Cut”.

I understood from the get-go that “Executive Cut” was just a friendly euphemism. It meant I was tubby. Any guy that takes offense to that, saying, “Hey… I’M wearing an Executive Cut suit!” Guess what? Nothing wrong with it. It just is what it is. You’re no less a quality person… now shut up and accept it. All that matters is that you have a suit that looks good on you, so chill.

Well, now my suit *didn’t* look as good on me. I know I had lost a little bit from my waist, and the suit (and sportcoat) were a little big on me. So, I had to go on a little errand… one that I was actually looking forward to doing.

I brought the suit and the sportcoat back into Men’s Wearhouse (the one with the tailoring department), went up to the counter and said, “It gives me great pleasure to finally be able to say this: I need to have my suit taken in.”

Yeah, it did feel good to say it… to know that I’ve made enough progress with exercising, and that it was noticeable enough to affect my clothing (in a good way). It was a nice positive reinforcement, and I was smiling. The tailor said, “That’s great. If you would please go put it on, we’ll take the measurements and then take it in.” So, I went into the little dressing room, put on my Executive Cut suit, and stepped back out onto the sales floor, waiting for the tailor.

He came over, started measuring, and soon said, “Well, this isn’t going to work.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

“This was YOUR suit?”

“Yeah, I even bought it from here, it’s on your records.”

Then he excused himself for a second, and brought over a saleswoman, and they both started tugging and pulling on the suit, folding it up against me, etc… basically using me as a mannequin… and both seemed…. Amazed.

I’m just standing there, not sure what the problem is… I just need the suit taken in a little bit, right?

Wrong.

The pants of the suit I had brought in (which were tailored for me when I got it) had a 40-inch waist.

I now needed a 34-inch waist.

Keep in mind that on a suit, the waist isn’t just above the hips where we normally wear our pants, but rather higher up, just under the belly button. So I lost 6 inches around my belly… a hell of a lot more then I thought I lost.

So the pants now look like they were another hand-me-down, and the suitcoat and blazer are similarly swimming on me now. They asked me, “How much weight did you lose?” “Well… according to the scale, only about 5 lbs.” (I guess this is proof I’ve been replacing it with muscle, huh?) They looked at each other and back at me, amazed and smiling… all the while looking over the racks of clothing.

Uh… are they trying to find one that’s my new size to use as a template for cutting these down? I wondered hopefully… and futilely, it would turn out. No, they were looking for a new suit for me.

I asked them, “Can’t you just take this one in?”

The tailor then proceeded to explain how they “could”… but he would have to take so much material out that the suit wouldn’t look right. He couldn’t guarantee that it would look good. To put it bluntly… it would look like a Picasso. (His Cubist period, for you Art-History Majors. Never say I don’t show you any love.)

The old suit, with the Executive Cut, was created with a belly in mind… every cut and stitch of it is molded around that idea. A belly of which I apparently didn’t have anymore (even if I do still see it when I look in the mirror… man, am I self-critical or what?).

If they can’t take it in… and I obviously can’t wear it to interviews without looking like an 8-year-old playing in Dad’s wardrobe… It looks like I don’t really have much of a choice.

Thinking of the personal accomplishment, I cheerfully thought, “I need a new suit!”

Then the logistical aspect came to mind, and I thought, “Oh… I… need a new suit?”

Then the dawning of financial horror… “Holy crap… I need a new suit…”

I’ve always tried to not be “cheap”, but as someone who’s never HAD a lot of money, shelling out a few hundred on the spur of the moment isn’t exactly something I’m used to. Anything that costs over $50, I feel hesitant, and over $100, I feel I have to “think about it” because it feels like an “investment”. (Which, yes, this is an investment.) And being unemployed at the time sure didn’t help, to put it mildly. I felt my heart beat faster, and thought I was starting to panic. It was something I *had* to spend right there. (You probably don’t want to hear my inner monologue when I need to have expensive car repairs done… I want to curl into a fetal position and shut out the world.) And I never got to wear the old suit that often… so that was feeling like I had to throw away $500 worth of clothes I didn’t get to enjoy.

But the tailor and the saleswoman started looking through the racks, and found a nice suit for about $300. That’s a good price for a suit… but still… $300. I did refuse when they asked about replacing the sport-coat… I figured that wouldn’t be a good idea at that time. They were able to do the few needed alterations right there, and I could leave in an hour with it.

So, while I was waiting for that to be done… I had to just walk around the mall and kill some time. And what else am I going to think about other then, “Oh God… I just spent a crapload of money on something that *feels* frivolous (after all, a suit isn’t necessary for actual caveman-like day-to-day survival), and I don’t really have money coming in.” Sure, I had to collect unemployment, but I feel guilty using that for anything that isn’t vital to caveman-like survival. (I hate feeling like a leech on the system, and I was hesitant to even apply in the first place)

Yes, I know normal people don’t think like this, and wouldn’t have a problem with it, or even for the reasons that I do. Whatever made you think I was normal?

But all these things… these possibly unfounded neuroses running through my head… and then I go and end up making the biggest mistake I could at the time.

You see, I was feeling vulnerable. I was feeling stressed, and a more then a bit worried. I needed encouragement. I needed to hear, “Its okay. Needing and getting this suit is a VERY good thing. You’ve made a great accomplishment, losing those inches. You deserve this, it’ll look great. Keep your chin up, it’s gonna work out wonderfully.” I needed some kind words… I needed assurance.

I needed to call and talk to my Emotional Support System.

Instead, I called my parents.

Apparently, I had a lapse of memory, and thought they were in that category. Sure, that sounds cruel and unfair. But my parents are “every silver lining has a dark cloud” kind of people… and as thankful as I am to them for bringing me into this world and doing what they can for me over the years; emotionally speaking… they are NOT the people I can talk to for that kind of support. I think the fact that I tried in this instance may say that I wish they WERE, but every instance of trying to tell them anything, good or bad, has pretty much blown up in my face.

My mom answers, and I tell her what’s going on. Instead of what I wanted and needed to hear, she said, “Well, can they just take the other suit in a *little* in case you gain some weight back?”

“… I’m sorry, what?”

Is it just me, or did that sound… how shall I say it? A bit “un-encouraging”? Is that essentially a vote of no-confidence in my efforts at the gym and eating better? Because it sure as hell sounded like it.

I tried to explain exactly how much I’d lost, and how taking the old suit in “a little” wasn’t exactly an option. When my father got in on the conversation later on, he remarked how if I keep going to the gym, I’m “just going to need ANOTHER suit.” Now, that one may be more of a “delivery” kind of thing… because where he was putting the emphasis did not sound like it was celebrating the accomplishment of slimming down, but of the annoyance of having to do this errand again. (Even though it was for me, and nothing to do with him)

Now, if I lost *another* 6 inches from where I am now… I wouldn’t be worried about a suit that fits… I’d be worried about a hospital gown that fits, because that’s where I’d be treated for malnutrition. No, I wouldn’t be crossing another tailoring-threshold, and any adjustments to a smaller size would be minor ones, fixed with a simple “taking in”. It wouldn’t be changing the “cut” of the suit. His reply echoed my Mom’s initial statement; “Well, you better keep the old suit for when you gain the weight back.” (Notice his has a bit more certainty in it then my Mother’s.)

Wow. Just… wow. I have to wonder if my family ever actually *listens* to themselves.

So, back to when I was waiting at the mall for the suit to be finished… and NOT feeling as good as I had hoped at this point… I went to look outside my immediate family. (I definitely wasn’t going to try my brothers… at best I’d get an “Okay, so?”) I texted a friend of mine, summarizing the situation… and thankfully, she told me what I needed to hear. This *was* a good thing… it’s a great thing! Sure, I didn’t get much use out of the old suit, but why should care about a suit that looks crappy on me? I worked hard, and I deserve this… I deserve to look good, dammit. This was definitely the right thing.

When I picked up my suit… I did, in fact, feel a hell of a lot better. If anyone ever wonders why I’m so fiercely loyal to my friends… it’s for things like this.

And I would come to realize later… the financial hit wasn’t as bad as I thought. My months of being frugal hadn’t sapped my savings like I was afraid it was, and monetarily, my situation was a-okay. I *probably* could have afforded a sport coat as well… but I still figured it wiser to wait on that.

But eventually, when I did start working again… I went and bought myself a SECOND suit. So I could have some variety. And then this winter, I even bought two sport-coats. In both instances, I had considered and decided ahead of time, so the buying was actually a pleasurable experience rather than a spur-of-the-moment-stress event. (And in neither case did I bother to tell the ‘rents.)

Now I’m looking for more opportunities to wear them.

I'm a Twit...

You may have noticed that since I’ve started to get back to my bloggin’ ways… that there is a new addition to the page. The not-so-latest in a long line of 21st century trends that I’m finally giving a try to:

The Twitter Feed.

Have I given in? Succumbed to the brain-washing of “the Man”? Have I sold out?

Well, seeing as how Twitter is free… not to mention they don’t hire people to write those “tweets”… technically, no. I haven’t sold out.

When it first came out… it didn’t really interest me, to tell the truth. Having a social network where all you do is answer, “What are you doing right now?”, is kind of pointless. At least MySpace and Facebook had other things going on. Thankfully… I think the majority of people thought that it too… was pointless. Not that it would dissuade them from using it… just not in such an inane manner. No, they started using it for other things.

Even though they say the “concept” of Twitter is still: What are you doing?... it’s more like “Texting to the World”. You can have conversations with specific people, by “tagging” them with @username… but they’re just conversations that you allow everyone to see. In essence… how different is it from having a blog? Only with a Twitter… you have to do it in 140 characters or less.

Structure-wise… it makes an interesting challenge.

I was asked to research Twitter for my job by my boss… to see if using it could benefit the company. But I figured the best way to do that was to actually set-up an account for myself and play with it. So I did… went poking around. To be honest… it’s not very complicated. The whole thing is pretty straightforward… and I think that simplicity is a big factor to its popularity.

And for me… there’s an intriguing element to it. When you pull up your twitter homepage, where it shows all the latest posts from the people you’re following, in chronological order (newest shown first). This includes not only your friends… but the celebrities, too. And it’s all in real-time. As soon as they type it and hit “Enter”… it’s on the web. So when you see one of your favorite celebrities… posting something at the exact same time as a friend, or even yourself… that’s kind of cool. It’s one of those elements of Globalization that actually makes you smile… instead of freaking out in a “Big Brother is coming to get me” kind of way.

One of the things that actually got me a tad intrigued… was a bit from an article in Wired magazine, from about a year ago. It was a feature on promoting yourself as an internet celebrity. One of the pieces of advice it gave said:

"Every single Twitter post you write should be something that could get you laid, ruin a marriage, or bring a tear to a fat little kid's eye." — Joshua Allen

Well, I don’t know who Josh Allen is, but I don’t think I agree with C… and doing B would make me feel too guilty… but A sounds like a good guideline to follow. I mean, if you’re going to do something that’s pretty pointless in the first place… at least try to make it interesting. Then it won’t *seem* so pointless, you know?

So, that’s what I’m trying to go by… using it as a supplement to the regular blog, really. Any short epiphanies, observations or witty quips that come across my brain… I’ll throw them up there. I’m not accepting any pressure to do it all the time… but when I think of it, I’ll do it.

I tend not to do the “retweets”, which is just re-posting something that someone else posted themselves. There were a few times I did a “reply”… which really just tagging them with the “@username” I mentioned above… but I don’t really keep them there. I’ll let them sit for an hour or two, and if the person its referencing sees it in that time, cool. I try not to expect another reply from them (looking to expect things like that from regular people or celebrities, major or pseudo-, tends to lead to disappointment) and just continue on with my day. If they haven’t seen them after 2 hours… chances are there’s already 200 other tweets in their “most-recent” queue, and they won’t see it. So, I’ll delete it to keep my page fairly clean-looking and accessible.

I’m going for “Quality” over “Quantity”.

The same thing goes for those Twitterers (okay, that’s too many syllables… and sadly, “Twits” feels *too* accurate). I’m being picky who I follow.

I’m currently (as of this writing) following 18 people. Among them are:

The cast of Dr. Horrible’s Sing-A-Long Blog (Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Fillion, and Felicia Day)
Postsecret… one of my favorite blogs, of which I’ve professed my love of before. Twice.
Violet Blue… I’ve mentioned her website tinynibbles.com before also.
Penn Jillette… of Penn & Teller fame. If you don’t know of them… your life is incomplete.
Weird Al Yankovic… and why not?
Simon Pegg… one of my favorite British comedic actors.
Will Wheaton… more famous due to the Inter-Web then any Star Trek appearance.
And my personal favorite Twittererererer…
Valancy Jane… she’s a real-life friend of mine, and she’s also over on the blogroll on the side of this page. She’s the epitome of quality over quantity, and she’s also the *only* person who’s updates are sent directly to my phone. She’s awesome. Love her, for you must.

As for those following ME… I have but 6 at the moment. But hey, those are 6 *really* cool people. I do have one other person that “listed” me… but I don’t really know how different that is from following. Maybe it’s like “following without actually being a follower”… I think I feel used. Should I demand a commitment? Or would that just make me look like a Twit?

Then again, I think I already am… in more ways than one.

But we already knew that, right?

Death-Cheating

Just after my last post of 2008, a good friend of mine passed away.

That was the start of my hiatus.

I found out, quite literally, about 5 minutes before I was leaving to go to a memorial service. (I don’t know if that’s ironic or appropriate) I was… a mess the entire day. The Memorial service was for the father of my cousin’s husband (we were there showing him support as he’s done for us), but I obviously had something else on my mind.

I don’t know if I’d consider myself good or bad at dealing with Death. I suppose it’s something that no one is either “good” or “bad” at. Frankly, I’m curious to know exactly how a “good dealing of Death” would go. Does it involve a lot of crying? No crying? A zen-like calmness and a “c’est la vie”? Crying and getting drunk *until* you get to a zen-state of c’est la vie?

My earliest memory of anything involving death was my brother waking me up one dark morning and telling me our Bampi (My Mom’s Father) had died. I was really young… probably no more then 6. I have vague recollections of the man, mostly just sitting in the background of family gatherings from that side. My brothers and I were deemed “too young” to go to the funeral.

The first wake I went to… I don’t remember who it was for. It was for a distant relative, one I don’t think I had any recollection of… we either saw them rarely or not at all. I was probably 10 or 11. The only thing I could think of was how I really didn’t think I wanted to see a dead body (yes, despite all the violence on TV, I was hip enough to know the difference between that and reality. Go figure.)… and I was actually relieved to find it was a Closed-Casket. That relief was short-lived however. After getting a drink of water, I saw my dad standing in the middle of the foyer of the funeral home. He motioned me over, so I went… and he pointed into one of the other wings (where there was another wake going on), and while I was turning my head and saw what he was pointing at, said, “That’s what an Open-Casket is like.” And I was looking at my first dead body. It was from a distance, but I could still see it was an elderly gentleman (and I recall he had a big nose). I quickly turned away, because I was still not ready for it… nor had I been ready for the all-too-sudden fashion my dad thrust upon me without warning. (He has a habit of that.)

I remember when the mother of one of my Aunts passed away. I had met her when I was really young… meaning, I don’t remember. But here, I was in High School, and we went to the Wake one evening. I spent the entire time just thinking… I felt like I should say something to my Aunt, but I didn’t know what that would be, because I didn’t remember her mother… and I didn’t want to lie and say “oh yeah, I remember her.” (If you knew my childhood, you’d probably wonder where I got this idea of “honesty” from… sometimes, I don’t even know.) When my parents told us to gather up our things to go, we all went up to her one last time to pay respects and say goodbye. When I got to my Aunt, I said, “I don’t remember her… but if she’s important to you, she’s important to me.” Then I hugged her, and we left.

My mom told me the next day, after my parents came back from the funeral (They didn’t want to take my brothers and I out of school for it), that my Aunt really appreciated what I said to her, and it made her feel better. (I guess I did something right.)

In High School, when I was a Senior, I was at the after-hours rehearsal for the school play (on a break) when I looked over down the hall and saw a few people gathered around standing still and listening to this one woman who was crying. My concern and curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over to see what was going on. When the woman finished (of which I didn’t know the context of what she was saying), and the group started to break up a little, I asked one of my other cast members what happened… and he told me that a kid in his class (the one just behind mine) had just killed himself.

It was not a guy I knew… but his sister was in my class (she apparently found him), and I would come to learn that he and I apparently knew a LOT of the same people. For awhile, I was wondering how it was I *didn’t* know him. But it seemed that just about everyone else in the school seemed to. (Though, he was part of the “jock” crowd, if I recall, so maybe that at least gave him some notice or popularity) Seeing the fallout the next morning was pretty surreal.

My first class was Physics, and our teacher was reading a prepared statement from the Principal’s Office… and everyone else was just quiet. Except for our Class President, Joe… who was balling his eyes out. Apparently, he was really good friends with the kid. When the teacher was about halfway through the statement, Joe got up and ran out suddenly. The teacher didn’t look up, just paused for a second, and then continued. Once he finished… there was complete silence… broken by me. Because I had gotten up and quickly headed for the door. I said to the teacher, “I’m going to check on Joe” and kept going. As I was going through the door, he said, “Thank you”… and I was off down the hall.

The first place I checked was the bathroom. I had the worst thoughts running through my mind, that *he* was going to try and kill himself too, or something. I dropped down to look under all the stalls at once, saw nothing, and checked the next closest one. I did see someone else in the hall, and asked if they had seen Joe, and they told me he went to the Guidance Counselor’s office. So that’s where I went. Joe was in with our Guidance Counselor (who was actually pretty useless in all of my interactions with him over the years… though he did try, I admit), and I just went in and sat down in another seat. I didn’t think I should say anything, I just felt that maybe having someone else there for him would be worth something.

For the next few hours, I pretty much stuck by Joe. Maybe it was part of my inner Super-Hero complex coming out, but I just felt like I had to stick by him and look after him. Logically, maybe I shouldn’t have done that… because I wasn’t even good friends with Joe, but I was going on gut feeling and instinct (despite my gut having steered me wrong in the past). I even escorted him to the local church, where an impromptu sermon was being given… that almost everyone in the school showed up to. I stuck by Joe, sitting next to him. I stuck by him until the sermon was over… I think he and a lot of other kids ended up going home by mid-day… I went back to the school to the scheduled classes, even though no one actually did anything in any of them. Each class ended up being an extra-quiet study hall.

I did go to the funeral services… mainly to “pay my respects”. Again, maybe logically, I shouldn’t have. But he was a kid from my school… we knew a lot of the same people (though for me they were acquaintances, and for him they were actual friends)… and his sister was in my class (again, despite not knowing her very well). That made me think I should be there for some reason or other. But I left after the church services… I didn’t follow the casket to the graveyard across the street. I just walked home.

In 1995, when I was in Undergrad, my Nana (Mom’s Mom) passed away. It was near the beginning of the Spring semester, and it was still a lot of snow on the ground. A few days before I had headed back there, I went with my Mom to the Nursing Home where Nana was living, bed-ridden. She recently had one of her legs amputated due to gangrene… and she didn’t seem to remember it. She also didn’t seem to remember my name. She looked at me with a big smile, then turned to my Mom and mumbled, “Which one is this?” Her tongue was majorly swollen and couldn’t drink normally. She had to have her mouth re-hydrated with a cotton swab that was dunked in a glass of water. It was… a bit painful to see her like that. There was also this awful stench that I had never experienced before. Later, when I asked my Mom about it, she told me that was the “rotting flesh from her bedsores”.

My Grandmother was rotting alive, and there was nothing I could do about that. That really hurt to think about.

Out of myself and my brothers, I think I was the last one to see her alive.

So, about a week later, I got the call at my dorm room from my Mom. I still wasn’t prepared for it, even though I knew it was inevitable. After I got the news, I put on my Coat and winter stuff… and just went walking. I think I circled the campus twice, when I finally ran into a friend of mine (the one whom I considered my long-lost twin, actually)… who could see that something was wrong. I managed to get it out, but was crying pretty much throughout while actually saying it aloud. (Prior to that, it was just silent, stoic contemplation) She then stuck with me to keep me company for the next few hours… which I’ve always been grateful for.

(At one point, she did say, “Um, listen… I have to say that if you’re thinking of trying to kiss me… please don’t.” To which, I turned and looked at her like she had 4 heads, with two of them singing Lithuanian Opera, and the other two licking their own eyeballs. I’d say that Sex was the *last* thing I was thinking about… except that to be honest, it wasn’t anywhere even on the list. So yeah, there’s no danger of that from me. And the thought that some guys *would* try to take advantage of that situation… dude, there’s a reason I hate my own gender.)

By the time I had gotten home for the Wake, I had pretty much cried myself out. I remember telling another one of my Aunts about my reactions, and she was surprised that I did so much crying… she had thought I was “taking it quite well.”

Still wasn’t sure what that meant.

In my next-to-last semester there, I was heading into a Tech rehearsal for the current show one Saturday morning. I ran into one of the other cast members, and I noticed he looked a bit down. So I asked him what happened, and he said how a girl in his dorm died in a car accident the night before. I said, “Oh God, I’m so sorry… may I ask who it was?” Then he told me… it was Carol Soucie.

Yes, I know this breaks the anonymity rule I have by naming her… but she deserves to be known and remembered. Carol was one of the absolute sweetest girls there was… and yes, I knew her.

When my friend told me it was her, my jaw dropped, and I was in shock.

Carol had been a neighbor of mine in our dorm the previous year, and I got to know her a decent bit from that. She also came to a lot of the department shows, and at one point I was told that “she was a fan of mine”. (No idea how true that was, but it made me smile… she had that effect on you, regardless.) This was the epitome of the unfair death. She was on her way home for the weekend and got hit by a milk truck (the driver of whom I believe I heard was drunk.)

A group of us carpooled up to Maine so we could go to the funeral. While it was a nice roadtrip… I wish we didn’t have to lose such a jewel of a young lady to do it. (Yet, she was worth driving 20 times the distance) It’s hard to say goodbye when, cosmically, you’re just saying hello. I think everyone felt cheated to not have had more time with her… because the little that we did was so good.

When I moved to California for Grad School, I was getting ready to fly back east to see one of my best friends get married. It was about a week and a half off, when one afternoon, at about 3:30 or so… I had this sudden flash in my head. A passing thought, a question, really… “What if Dzia-Dzia passed away?” (That’s my Grandfather on my Dad’s side. It’s a Polish thing.) I don’t know why… but I quickly and purposefully pushed it out of my head. It was a depressing thought, and there was no reason to have it.

When I got back to my apartment later that evening, I had a message on my answering machine. It was my Mom, asking me to call her “no matter the time”. As it was about 10pm when I got this, it was 1am where she was… so if I had to call, no matter the time… it can’t be good. I called her instantly… and she told me that Dzia-Dzia passed away suddenly that day. Recalling my earlier thought… I nervously asked her what time it happened. She said about 6:30pm… which would be 3:30 in the afternoon, my time. (I don’t really believe in psychic stuff… but that really disturbed me.) It was very sudden. He just fell over… no pain or anything. But completely unexpected.

Like when I heard about my Nana… I went walking. Trying to process it.

My parents had said to “not bother” flying back early for the funeral… it wasn’t worth it. (So nice of them to make that decision for me, wasn’t it?) As I believe I was the only one out of state at the time… I think I was the only one that missed the funeral. And it kinda pissed me off… I didn’t get to say my Goodbyes. I didn’t get the hugs I wanted or needed from my family WHEN they were wanted and needed! And timewise, I missed this all… by one week. I felt so incredibly cheated.

And it wasn’t the last time. A couple years later, just a few weeks before Christmas, the mother of another one of my Aunts passed away. This one was almost always at our family gatherings… we knew her and remembered her very well. She had gone into the hospital, and word hadn’t been good. Being the one so far away, and in another time zone, I had to rely on my cell phone for all information and staying in the loop. (Made more difficult by the fact that where I was staying, didn’t have any reception… I had to drive 8 miles into town to get my messages or make a call.) So, once I got into range of a tower, I called my parents… and my Dad answered. I asked what the news was… he said, “What?” I said, “Is there any change in her condition?”

And my Dad, in his infinite sensitivity… said, “No there’s no change. She’s dead.”

And he even said it with the tone of voice that just says, “What are you, a complete moron?”

I was shocked… not only at the news, but the complete assholishness of my own father at that moment. “Okay… when was someone going to tell ME???”

Then he goes on the offensive and starts getting mad about how my oldest brother was supposed to have told me, blah blah blah… Okay, if you want to throw blame at someone, fine… but how the hell can you hear those words from me: “Is there any change in her condition?” and actually believe that I had that information? How can you NOT say, “Oh… he doesn’t know.”?

But once again… they said not to fly back early. “It wasn’t worth it.” So, just being a few weeks away from flying back for Christmas… I had to miss another family funeral. And not say my goodbyes. Once again, feeling cheated.

And now my friend.

Now, I was living on the East Coast, and the funeral was on the West. Well, I wasn’t going to miss this one. His partner, one of my best friends, needed me… and if there was any way I could make it… I was going to be there. I lucked out, and got a decent last-minute flight into San Francisco, where I rented a car and drove the 5 hours north (the services were back in the area I went to Grad School, where we all met him)… and I was in town less then 24 hours, before I had to drive back down to San Fran to get my flight back. Travel-wise, it was a hellish weekend. But I’ll do it for my friends. Every time.

The funeral… felt a little off to me. Really for one reason. You see, I knew that he was going to be cremated… but what I didn’t know was that he had ALREADY been cremated. So, it was just a little urn there, no casket, no body.

That seems odd to me. I always saw cremation as simply the “alternative” to burying. They’re both just ways to dispose of a body, in the end. And the funeral and wake… are all supposed to be BEFORE the actual disposal. So people can say the goodbyes, look at the person one last time, remark how they look “so peaceful”… etc. But having the cremation BEFORE the funeral… is like having the wake over an already-buried grave. Makes no sense.

Once again… I felt cheated.

Funerals are for the living… this is about closure. Personally, I thought it was a bit selfish of his family to deny other people that opportunity for closure. Sure, there are different views on it, and they don’t look at it like that… but I do. And I think it’s cheating.

Sure, you can say, “But he’s still right there. That’s the ashes… that’s him. Right there! Literally!” And you’d be right, technically... he's just been converted to carbonized form. But you can’t look at the eyes of a pile of ashes. You can’t comfort yourself and say that they look so peaceful and happy lying there. Ashes don’t look happy. Or sad. They don’t look anything. It’s really hard to say goodbye to a pile of ashes, because you want to say it to a face, even if it’s not moving. And trying to say that to a picture is even harder… because that’s how they were THEN… at a frozen moment in time, when they were a different individual then. You want to say it to them as they are NOW. And now, if they’ve been converted to an unrecognizable form… and just as your brain could feel “they look so happy”, when the body is there… it is also easy to feel, “this really didn’t happen”, because it’s NOT there.

When I caught up with my friend (the partner) I asked him, “Is this a funeral or a *memorial service*?” He said, “It’s sort of both.”

It wasn’t fair. Not just losing him… but losing the chance to say goodbye.

So is that a good way to deal with it? Feeling like you’ve been able to say goodbye? Or does it come back down to the whole “crying/not-crying debate”?

Either way, the only answer or epiphany I can come up with is this:

I don’t think you can actually cheat Death… because Death doesn’t exactly play fair, either.

Religion, Politics and The Great Pumpkin

“There are three things I have learned never to discuss with people… “ - Linus Van Pelt

(I may never get such a convenient opportunity to use that title again… it applies on several levels today… though, I’m actually working backwards.)

First up, my Halloween recap:

I went back to Salem… and actually had a much better time then before. Now, the stuff I said last year still applies, so I won’t repeat that. But the biggest difference was that this year… I went in costume. So not only was I “people-watching”… but I was also being watched by people.

Now, I did put some effort in to my costume. When I have the time to actually plan out in advance and make my own costume… I do pretty well. Last time I did was in 2001… I went as a tiger. To be precise… I was Hobbes from Calvin and Hobbes (greatest comic strip ever). I was simultaneously cute and lovable, and scary and terrifying… exactly like Hobbes himself (just ask him). Man, I wish I kept that costume…

But this year, the concept of it was a little more simplistic… but still required a bit of advance work… and I made the extra effort this year.

So what did I go as?

Charlie Brown… and his costume from It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

When I went online looking for patterns and instructions how to make it… all I could really find was “just get an old sheet and cut a bunch of holes in it. You’re all done!”

No. Sorry… but that’s stupid. That’s what he did in the cartoon… but this is supposed to be a real-life representation of it. In the cartoon, a hole in the sheet shows a black oval. In reality, it’s a hole… that you see through, and see the face beyond. There’s no blackness involved. Plus, when you drape a sheet over yourself, there’s extra material falling where you don’t want it, and not enough material where you need it… you don’t get the simple cylindrical-shape that you get in the cartoon… because it’s a drawing.

I wanted to look like I came right out of the TV and started walking around. Sure, maybe I’m a tall Charlie Brown… but I think I did okay, all things considered. I bought a sheet and sewed it to try and get the right shape, and stitched black felt “holes” all over myself. For the eyes? I bought black mesh, folded it up and put it over the eye holes. No one could see in, but I could see out fairly easily. Yet, when it got dark, I knew it’d be even harder to see… so I’d have to eventually take it off. So, I made sure to make a yellow shirt and stitched the black scribble across the belly… for the full Charlie Brown effect.

But the part I’m probably most proud of… I had an Mp3 player with built-in speakers. I loaded the music of Vince Guaraldi on it… and when I walked around, you could hear “Linus and Lucy” (commonly known as “The Peanuts Theme”) quite clearly.

I am nothing if not dedicated.

Yet, I was incredibly surprised by the number of people that not only wanted my picture… but wanted a picture WITH me. I was stopped quite frequently by people politely asking for a photo op. It was really neat… I’ve *never* had that happen before. And when they heard the music… their smiles got so big it just made me smile, too.

Though… there were a very few select people that DIDN’T know what my costume was. A few were young kids… calling me, “That tall polka-dotted guy.” (I’m tall? Well… maybe to them.) Those I can understand… maybe they just never sat down and watched the show in their mere 10 years on earth. But I did run into an older woman who apparently thought I was the “ghost of a spotted cow”… but it clicked in when I told her. The coup de gras, however… a woman ran up to me and said, “Excuse me… I’m from Channel 4 news. What are you?”

“Uh…. Charlie Brown?”

“Oh, okay.” And then she walked away. The cameraman wasn’t pointing the camera at me or anything, so I don’t know why she bothered to tell me she was from the news… but I really wanted to say, “You don’t recognize an American Cultural Icon of Halloween for the last 50 years… and you’re job is to inform the masses????” I can understand the occasional person not figuring it out… but someone in the media shouldn’t be one of them. Am I wrong?

Anyway, like I said… I had a good time. Got a lot of pictures of other good costumes, met some nice people… even saw a guy dressed as Jeebus with a sign saying, “Judgment Day is Nigh! Show Me Your Tits and I Will Judge Them.” (Which I thought was *really* funny. I hope it pissed off the obnoxious street preachers who were constantly spouting how everyone deserves Hell. Why you gotta preach hate?)

One thing I’m surprised I *didn’t* see? More political costumes. A friend and I were remarking how we hadn’t seen any all night. I only saw one as I was walking back to my car… a guy dressed as John McCain. But that was it.

I found that surprising, as we were just 4 days away from Election at the time.

Of which… to take the opportunity of a segue…

Yes, of course I voted. I got up an extra half-hour early, left my house early so I could hit the polls before work. (I knew I wouldn’t have time afterwards) The most difficult wait was the traffic. But the voting itself? In and out in less then 5 minutes. We didn’t have the new-fangled electronic voting booths in our town. Ours was the old fashioned pen-to-paper kind. Your ballot is basically a scan-tron sheet like in school, and you blacken in the little circle for the people you’re voting for. And apparently, there are no propositions right now in my state, so we’re just voting for the people. *shrug*

Normally, I keep my voting selection private… because I am and always will be an Independent. I don’t go with the whole “Are you a Republican or a Democrat?” crapola. That’s why I don’t vote in the primaries. When you enter the building, they ask you which side you want to see… and they register you AS THAT SIDE. I’m not saying I AM a Democrat… I just want to see what they have to say. I plan to do the same for the Republican side… but they don’t allow that. You’re only allowed to listen to one side in the primaries, and I’m not down with that. I want to look at one set of options and pick what I think is the best. Then look at ANOTHER set of options, pick the best one from there… then have those two choices start talking to try and convince me. They don’t let you do it that way. In the election, you can be independent… in the primaries, they have to label you. So I don’t do the Primaries.

But I did vote for Barack Obama. I think in large part because he’s more inspirational then most other candidates in the last 20+ years. And I think national esteem and identity is at a low point… and overall we NEED someone inspirational now more than ever. It’s a damn good country we have… and we want to feel good about being Americans again. I think National Identity is kind of important.

So I think that this IS a historic moment in a few ways. And not just because of the color of Barack’s skin. (Of which it’s technically false to call him the first African-American President… because he’s Bi-Racial. His mom is white, and his dad is black. Which makes him a great bridge of the two worlds, yes… but media likes to throw out buzzwords without always having the accuracy to back it up. I’m just saying.)

I’m not saying that John McCain would be a BAD leader. In fact… frankly, I think he wouldn’t be too shabby. The personality he showed at his concession speech was the same one he showed at the very beginning of his campaign… but had completely disappeared throughout the middle. Had he showed that grace in the last several months, I would have listened to him more. But I think the strategists in the Republican Party (who don’t care about policies, politics, or the best man for the job… they just care about winning) told him, “This is what you need to do to win. Now do it.” So the mudslinging started. (Hey, Obama’s camp had them, too.)

I also believe those same strategists told him to do what would become the absolute deal-breaker for me. He picked Sarah Palin as a running mate. I believe they came up to him and said, “America doesn’t want to see 2 Old White Men in the White House this time around. No matter what, the Democrats are giving them something different… so we HAVE to shake this up or we’re done for. Here, this one seems like a good puppet!”

When I first heard she was picked… I said, “Okay, let’s give her a chance. I know nothing about her, so let’s see what she’s got.” The first thing I read: She’s a staunch supporter of Abstinence-Only Education.

“I’m out!”

Yeah… because it doesn’t work. The numbers tell you it doesn’t work. The kids themselves tell you it doesn’t work. Guess what? It doesn’t work. Her own DAUGHTER is a teenage pregnancy… though, apparently that’s okay because “they’re planning to get married, anyway.” (Even though the guy’s MySpace profile clearly stated he didn’t want to get married or even have a long-term relationship with the girl. The same profile that mysteriously disappeared shortly after… Gee, who did that, I wonder?) That’s not even talking about all the OTHER things I read shortly after.

2 weeks after she was announced, I saw a book in the bookstore with her picture large and in-charge on the front… the title of the book was “Sarah: How a hockey mom turned the political establishment upside down”. Sorry, she didn’t “turn it upside-down”. It only made so much news because it was a completely nonsensical choice, that has no basis in this, or any other, plain of reality. She is not a “maverick”… no matter how often she says the damn word. I don’t care for her being a “hockey mom”… which is no slight on hockey moms. I’ve known Soccer Moms and Football Moms and many other types… but NONE of them are people I would want to place on the other side of the table… from Kim Jong Il. Or any of the other 1,000 psychos with political power in this world. (Hilary, at least, would grab them by the balls and twist… figuratively AND literally.) She has contradicted herself several times, shown ignorance and intolerance… and knowing that she might be a heartbeat away from the presidency… honestly scared me. That’s what shot McCain in the foot. If it was anyone else he picked… I would have had a harder decision.

So, I feel we dodged a bullet with this election. For that, I’m very thankful. I went to sleep Tuesday night pleased.

Woke up Wednesday, however… not-so-pleased.

When I discovered that Prop 8 in California passed. Proposition 8 is for the Ban of Gay Marriage. (Arizona and Florida passed it, too.)

I don’t care that I’m straight. I don’t care that I no longer live in California. I called that state “home” for 7 years, and many people that I love are still there… so I feel I have a vested interest in what happens out there. Finding out that several of my friends now are about to have their marriages dissolved, as if they never happened. And many more that are now told they’ll never be able to marry the person they love.

Those that know me, know that I would take bullets for my friends. But there’s nothing I can do about this. And it hurts so much, I’ve actually cried over this.

In the same 24 hour period of electing a historic president… a culmination of a movement that started with Abraham Lincoln and gained momentum with Martin Luther King Jr… as one minority group is validated, another is pushed down and is now LEGALLY considered to be second-class citizens, and not granted the basic human rights of others.

Hell, I was shocked to find that it was such a close race! (51% to 49%) I felt sure that it would be blown out of the water! But no. Why there are still people who so readily promote hate and discrimination on such a grand level… astounds me to no end.

I’ve heard their arguments… “the government doesn’t have the right to legislate the definition of marriage that’s been around for hundreds of years!” Pardon me… isn’t that EXACTLY what you’ve just done? You’ve used legislation and the political process to legally define what marriage is??? That is known as Hypocrisy.

I’ve heard their logic… “to protect the sanctity of marriage”. Okay, you’ve just opened up a can of worms… because they’re constantly using the word “sanctity”. “Sanctity” refers to something that is “Sacred”, which is a term to refer to something that is Holy or “From God”. That means you’re talking about RELIGION.

First amendment of the Constitution (correct me if I’m wrong) explicitly states that we’re allowed the “Freedom of Religion”. So what’s “Sacred” to one person isn’t so to another person… and that’s a-okay! You can’t infringe on their BASIC freedom of religion!

Wait a minute… what’s that say? Right there… look… here, at the Constitution. A little further down. What’s this, “Separation of Church and State”? Oh yeah… that means that Religion and Government have to stay as FAR away from each other as possible. One cannot dictate or influence the other.

So if marriage is a RELIGIOUS institution… then you can’t say anything, because THEIR religious beliefs allow them to marry, and we protect that with blood, sweat and history… and government can’t do anything about it.

If marriage is a LEGAL institution… then religion has absolutely nothing to do with it. Since the sole arguments against Gay Marriage is all about religion… then they have NO argument.

And if it’s both? Well, you’re doubly fucked. So take one of them and sit the fuck down. Take the other and shut the fuck up.

Proposition 8 should never have been on the ballot in the first place.

But hope remains.

There are some lawsuits already filed… trying to get this overturned. The one that I think is the most logical one has to do with “minor” and “major” changes. In California, minor changes are “amendments”, and are passed with a majority vote (51% or more). But major changes, “revisions”, have to be passed with a 2/3 majority vote.

Does taking away the civil rights of an entire demographic qualify as a “minor change”? I think not. Hopefully, the State Supreme Court of California will also see it that way. If so… then Prop 8 is 15% short, and it will be overturned!

People may have failed… but maybe Justice can still win.

So we have to remain hopeful. As hopeful as we were Tuesday night when we told the world who we wanted our new leader to be.

As hopeful as Linus, who dutifully sits every year in the most sincere Pumpkin Patch he can find… believing and hoping that The Great Pumpkin will finally arrive.

Now I’m waiting, too.

Nobody knows…. How Dry I Am… (sing if you know it!)

I don’t drink.

Now, to answer the questions I’m most often asked, from the start:

No, I’m not a recovering alcoholic… no, I’m not Mormon, or otherwise religious in any way… and no, I’m not allergic to it.

I just don’t drink. In fact, I’ve *never* been drunk.

Whenever someone asks me, “Why?”… I usually say something like, “It’s just something I never got into”, and leave it at that. Admittedly, this isn’t much of an answer. Almost sounds like I never had the access to alcohol, or was never in a situation where it was available, and just grew up feeling that’s the norm.

Oh please… I’m not, nor ever have been, THAT sheltered. I did not spend my childhood in a Sense-Dep Tank… and while my High School socialization may have been limited, it wasn’t like I didn’t have a clue where to find alcohol. Access and opportunity were not lacking in my world.

There are several reasons why I don’t drink… though if I had to pick ONE as the root of it all… the answer is simple; My dad.

Now, my dad is not an alcoholic… as one might think when I mention him as a reason. No, he never let the bottle affect work, or the normal day-to-day functioning of his life… he was just a blue-collar shmoe that liked his beer, like most people. He’d have one, maybe two in the evening after work… and when he had a day off, he’d have… more than that. If you look at all the instances or him pissing me off, upsetting me, or (when I was young) flat-out scaring me and making me feel horrible and stupid… let’s just say it’s no coincidence that those stories almost invariably begin with the words, “Dad had a few too many beers that day…”

Combine that with an already short temper, a wavering idea of personal space, and a stubbornness that borders on self-delusion… No, he’s not an alcoholic… just a complete obnoxious asshole when he *is* drunk.

Some people fall into similar patterns of libation-consumption that they witnessed growing up… Some people rebel, and go the opposite way… only to eventually end up in those same patterns… some learn actual moderation and end those patterns in a responsible way. Me: I just rebelled 100%, and never stopped.

Now a lot of people have looked at my personality and lovingly tell me I’d be a “happy drunk”, and how I most likely wouldn’t be an asshole. But you know… after years of the kind of aforementioned stories, and hearing some of the most horrible, hateful, insulting things spoken (or “yelled” would be more accurate) while under that influence… I really don’t think that’s something I care to even take a chance on. Nah, I’m all set on that.

Even on a practical level… I hate the taste. We can also attribute that to my dad. When I was a little kid, Dad would let my brothers and I have little sips of his beer. For me, I would then go about a year or so before I thought “I forgot what that tastes likes”, and ask Dad for another sip, which he’d oblige. THEN I’d remember why I went a year plus without trying it. Henceforth, it always confused me when people told me how beer was an “acquired taste”… because if you put something disgusting in your mouth… what on earth would give you the bright idea to do it AGAIN??? Jeez… little babies figure this stuff out.

Though what may be a missing piece in that story is the *brand* of beer my Dad drinks. Apparently, my “hate-the-taste” position makes sense to some people when they hear it, as it seems that brand is universally referred to as the “rat-piss” of the beer drinking world. I probably shouldn’t mention the name… but I will say that it rhymes with “Shmold Shmilwaukee”. (And if that’s a proud export of Wisconsin… they should stick to the cheese.)

Now, I’d be lying if I said I’ve NEVER had a drink (since being legal). My first one was a “Suffering Bastard”. I specifically wanted that to be my first… solely because of the name. (It seemed like it fit.) I finished maybe a quarter of it… IF that. Another time, I had a Zombie. Again… for the name (Cause zombies are cool), and still only finished a fraction of it.

I did try wine a few times… and wine was actually something I would have liked to know more about. It just seems like a very “James Bond” kind of thing to know… the years of vintage, the regions it comes from, and how to accompany it with crackers and cheese to help bring out the subtlety of the flavors. You’re not even supposed to get drunk on wine, it’s supposed to be a sipping/tasting experience. If you want to get drunk, you drink whiskey or vodka or something of that ilk… not wine. If you’re drinking wine with the intention of getting drunk… I think you’re doing something wrong. Wine is about the actual flavor… of which the few times I tried, I didn’t really like. I was given half a glass one time, and I nursed it for about 3 hours… and by that point, I’d only finished maybe a quarter of what was poured (so not even 1/8 of a glass). I wasn’t so much “drinking” it… as I was “letting it evaporate.”

I think the taste of the alcohol itself is just kind of repulsive to me. And since I’m not used to the taste of it… when it does exist in my glass, it’s pretty obvious. I’ve taken a drink of punch before, to find it had been spiked. I then found out it was *very lightly* spiked, and that no one else had been able to taste it… but I did. *shrug* I’ve been told several times that I “just need to find something I’d like”… and I’ve had many offers to “help” me with that. I don’t know… maybe there IS something out there I’d like. But I don’t think I have any interest in finding it. (And if you want to “help”… Worse have tried… and Better have failed.)

Even though, I seem to find a lot of disadvantages to not drinking. That seems like an odd statement, I know. Most people can immediately think of several reasons why it’s good to NOT drink (even though they are drinking themselves)… “It’s healthier”, “saves a lot of money”, “you’ll never do anything you regret”, blah blah blah.

Yeah, that’s what they SAY. But I think the subconscious says something different.

Alcohol is very much a social lubricant. It lowers inhibitions and gets strangers talking, opening up a myriad of possibilities both bad and good. We walk around with our guard up all day, and to relax we want to let that guard down… and most people don’t consider the bad possibilities 100% of the time (otherwise, they’d NEVER let their guard down). Always keeping your wits about you… can be hard work and stressful on its own, so who wants to constantly worry about that? It’s nice to feel you can let that responsibility go… which alcohol can do, artificially.

Me… I’ve always got that guard up. Now, from my point of view… it’s a little tough having an intelligent conversation with someone who’s visibly inebriated. For them, I can only imagine what they’d be thinking… anything from “What a stick-in-the-mud, he’s no fun” to “I’m vulnerable and he’s not… oh my, this is uncomfortable” to “I’m engaging in a horrible vice and therefore, he must think he’s so much better than me, the bastard”, etc. Sure, they “say” it’s good I don’t drink… but they talk more/flirt more/get-to-know the other people that ARE drinking. (I *do* meet people who drink that are 100% a-okay with it and really don’t care that I’m a teetotaler... but it’s rarer than you think.)

In all honesty… I don’t care if other people drink. My “no drinking” policy is only for me and me alone. I hold NO one else to those standards. I think some of my past relationships felt a little awkward with it… being in a situation where they wanted to have a drink, but knowing that I wasn’t. Whether they felt pressured by my presence to not drink, or didn’t want to “leave me out”, I don’t know. But I want my friends to have a good time… and if that entails knocking back a few… go for it. I will never tell someone they *shouldn’t* do that. It’s our inalienable right to do whatever you want to yourself… that’s the beauty of America. If you’re my friend… especially if I’m dating you… then I’m accepting flaws, vices and all. If I’m THAT opposed to something you practice/engage in… I’ll leave or just won’t get involved in the first place. (In which case it really is an honest-to-goodness “it’s not you, it’s me” situation. I don’t like the idea of asking anybody to change for me… as I don’t think I have the right.)

Yeah, there are times I do feel a little “left out”. I wonder if it would be nice to get vulnerable like that. Hell, maybe I’d have had a lot more sex in life if I did… (but I think I’d rather have sex that I *remember*… and not have to regret later)

I think it’s a trade-off.

I’ll gladly be the designated driver. Sure, maybe I’ll be a bit bored while sitting around and people-watching drunk strangers… but if I know my friends are having a good time, that’s okay by me. As long as I have my wits about me… as long as I have control over myself, I have control over the situation. There are a lot of bad possibilities that *can* happen. At least I can make sure that those things don’t happen to my friends. If you get drunk-sick, I’ll hold your head over the toilet… and when you have the hangover, I’ll bring you the vitamin B and water.

Call it another part of my inner Superhero complex. If you’re with me… you’re getting home safe… I guarantee it.

I’ve seen some people at their absolute worst while drunk… alcohol combined with medication (or even alcohol withOUT medication that they should have been on), borderline alcohol poisoning, falling off the wagon, getting violent and even acting downright stalkerish while under the influence.

I’ve also seen people become scared for their own safety, and the safety of those they love… deathly afraid that they are going to be hurt or scarred forever from someone who was drunk and not in control of themselves. I’ve seen too many tears and have heard of far too many stories of good friends turned into victims and statistics.

Since there’s almost nothing that pisses me off more than that, I say this with as much passion, rage and utmost seriousness that I can muster:

THAT WILL **NOT** HAPPEN ON MY WATCH!

(God help whoever tries to F**K with me on this one.)

Tetchy About Touchy

I’m not a touchy-feely person.

Sometimes, I wish I was… I see friends who are more “touchy” than I am, and they’re all being so friendly and warm and touchy with each other, and often I envy them. But I just can’t do it myself.

I am *very* aware and protective of my personal space, and if you invade it without the proper authorization, I start quoting Bugs Bunny:

“Of course you know… this means War.”

Now, I know cultural practices become involved. I think that here in America, the distance of one-arm’s length from your body is the general rule of “personal space”… referring of course to the radius. Swoop that imaginary gap all around you, and that’s our own American-style Bubble we use to bounce around the cosmos in.

From what I understand, by world-wide standards… that’s a pretty big bubble. I believe the Personal Space Bubble Concept (PSBC… I just made that up!) is much smaller in Mexico… I learned that when I used to work summer’s at a Metals company, where about 90% of the workforce were illegal Mexicans. (That’s not an unfounded generalization meant to offend and insult. Just stating a fact. Seriously, I.N.S. went through there once and pulled out everyone that didn’t have a green card… the place was practically empty.) Every time I was working, and had to demonstrate a procedure to one or more guys who barely spoke English (which was wonderful lesson in the concept of “language barriers”), they would stand INCREDIBLY close to me. Honestly, our faces were almost touching. Even when I stepped backwards to give myself some room, they’d just move forward again. Rather than follow my gut instinct… which is to flat-out Head-butt them… I would eventually have to sternly stop them with my outstretched arm and slowly and clearly say, “No!” (It felt odd, talking to men probably twice my age as if they’re little children with learning disorders… but that’s just another thing that comes with the language barrier.) I was not down with their idea of Personal Space… but who knows, maybe they were just consciously messing with me. *shrug*

I don’t really know what the PSBC is in other countries… I’m curious to know. (If you do, or have experience, please comment.) Might be handy to know… would hate to travel to Norway or something, only to find out the hard way that their PSBC is 10+ feet.

But the invasion of Personal Space is not limited to misunderstandings between cultures. No, there are plenty of Americans, born in America and never left, that live in blissful ignorance when it comes to accidental invasions. (“Accidental Invasion”… there’s a term you’d never hear applied to Napoleon or Hitler)

Now, there’s certain situations, where I’ll give allowances to total strangers if they have to invade personal space. Airplanes, for example. Sure, they’re big… but that just means they can throw MORE people inside them. They’re packed, cramped, and not everyone is having a good day. So, when sitting in the seats, or waiting for the loo, you accept that you’re going to be feeling like a sardine for however long the flight lasts. So, when someone can’t help but notice what brand of deodorant you wear… you can forgive them for their trespasses, or at least give a little more leeway.

Supermarket checkout lines… however, are NOT one of those forgiveable instances.

To the guy that is in SUCH a rush to get out… who feels that even though there’s 5 people in front of him in line, he will *obviously* get out faster if he’s 17 inches closer from where he was standing… BACK THE F**K UP! If you’re going to stand THAT close behind me while in line, you better be wearing a condom! I’m there to buy milk and deli meats, NOT to get violated! When the person in front of you moves forward, take a second and wait. Let a gap of a few feet form between you and the person in front of you (Me!)… do NOT immediately close the gap to mere micrometers! I swear to Jeebus, I’m gonna spin around and wack you across the ignorant skull with the plastic hand-basket! (It probably won’t dent the obviously thick bone, but at least I’ll feel better.)

Respect the personal space!

Now, if you’re female, and invading my personal space (without authorization), I’ll mainly just back up myself, or find some other excuse to get away from you. (Because I can’t justify any violence against women) But if you’re a male? Then you need to keep something in mind: “Personal Space” can also be referred to as another term…. “Striking Distance”.

(Now, I haven’t actually been in a fight since 6th grade, but I’m surprised how often I want to come to blows with the average joe on a weekly basis.)

I don’t know where I got so edgy about this. Now, my parents aren’t exactly “touchy-feely”… but they have their moments.

To those that are now Gasping in surprise… No, I haven’t been molested. Don’t jump to conclusions… I’ll throw you towards all the conclusions you’ll need.

After I first went away to college, the first time I went home was at Thanksgiving. (I was one of the only people in my dorm that DIDN’T go home every weekend… I was the *only* one that didn’t want to) When I first saw my Dad when I arrived home… the man hugged me.

I can NEVER recall a time before that when that man hugged me. I almost jumped backed and screamed, “Who are you, and what have you done with my father?!” (Which is also what I said when, after years of hearing his complaining about people that drive “obnoxious” pickup trucks, the man went and bought a pickup truck.) Definitely NOT something I was used to… and it felt very awkward.

The only other “touching” the man ever did on a regular basis, that I can think of… is when he’s having a conversation with you. He’ll just lean over and randomly touch you… on the arm or on the leg, while he’s talking. When I’m riding in the car with him, and I’m in the front seat with him, he’ll do it at least 4 times during a short car ride. Now, that’s probably just his way of “connecting” with people he’s talking with… but it annoys the hell out of me.

My Mom also touches me in annoying ways. The other day, it was the end of the weekend. I had no plans nor did I go anywhere… so I didn’t shave. I was fixing my plate for dinner, and she just reaches out and puts her hand on my face, making a “scruffy” comment… my initial reaction to whenever she does that is to flinch. She still has not figured out, after 32 years of that body language… I don’t like it. I find face-touching to be a bit on the intimate side… so it feels really damn weird when a member of my family does it. Creepy to the max. I know it’s not intended that way… but who said feelings had to make sense? (Intentions and Feelings are two different things) Though, the biggest annoying touch, is when she hits me.

Stop gasping, already! Sheesh… Not THAT kind of a hit! This is the “playful thwack” on the shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t leave a bruise, and is obviously not meant to mean anything malicious. Nevertheless… no matter WHAT the intention behind it is… I don’t like being hit. I just don’t. We’ll be talking, maybe a crack will be made by me… and because my Mom doesn’t have the lighting wit, the reaction is a “playful thwack”. Now, the first time I’ll always let slide, but I still say, in a pretty serious tone… “Thanks Mom, very funny. Please don’t hit me.” But then, hearing this… she scoffs, and thwacks again. “Mom! I asked you not to hit me!” Another scoff, another thwack… this is about the time I just turn and storm away, now thoroughly pissed off. They’ll make a comment about being “too sensitive” and brush it away. So, no matter how many times I sternly state it… no matter how often I get pissed off, regardless of the “joke” or “innocent intention”… it still doesn’t click in:

I…. DON’T… LIKE… BEING… HIT!!!!

Like I said… Intentions and Feelings are 2 different things… and so is Hearing and Listening.

I know this kind of thing wouldn’t be a big deal to most people when they’re “in the moment”… and you’d think my own parents *would* have that level of privilege when it comes to touching me. (Especially because the above examples… are actually pretty rare) *shrug* They don’t. And that’s just me, I know that. I can’t give you a Freudian psychoanalytical reason as to why I’m that way, but I’m open to suggestions.

But I’m also not saying I live my life solely in my bubble, never being touched, and never touching other people. There ARE people I’m more touchy-feely with.

Once I got to college, and starting gaining good friends… I found myself getting more comfortable with casual touching. There were of course, limits. And most of the casual touching was with the opposite sex. With the guys, we all pretty much had the same macho-mentality of the Clint-Eastwood-like-stoic-independence. Any accidental homo-erotic moments were immediately followed by a low-toned coughing and approving comment about “the Game that was on last night”. An old roommate of mine liked to add a “tie-straightening” to his personal reaction. (The fact that I’ve never seen the man WEAR a tie, notwithstanding.)

When I got to Grad School… and came to California, the liberal views started pouring in. Eventually, quite a few of them started rubbing off. I came to realize that I was quite comfortable in my own sexuality, and also grew close to some men who were not of the Heterosexual persuasion. That’s about the time when I really got comfortable with the act of hugging another man. (Yeah, it’s probably related to it) Now, I don’t go around hugging every guy I know… but the ones I’m comfortable with, I have no problem. They still need the correct Authorization Level… but the benefits of those levels became expanded for my fellow males (for those that are comfortable enough to take advantage of them).

I have 4 basic levels of Authorization.

Level 4: This is pretty much everyone in the world that I *don’t* personally know. The only authorized touching that’s pretty much allowed is shaking hands… but do not go anywhere above my wrist. Passive, solitary instances of touching… such as bump, a slight gesture meant to get my attention… those will slide for the most part (just don’t do it too often). Level 4s are allowed to enter the outskirts of the Personal Bubble… but don’t get comfy. And Lord help *somebody* if you do the old “tap on the shoulder from behind”. When someone has their back to you, and you tap them on the shoulder, forcing them to turn around and face you… that’s very confrontational. If a woman is doing that to me… I’m thinking, “Great… what did I do now?”, as I prepare to get verbally chewed out. If it’s another man? Well, that’s an invitation to a Rumble. 20 minutes from then, I’ll either be in Jail or the Hospital… depending on how big the guy doing the tapping was.

The only way to make the shoulder tap non-confrontational, is that immediately after you tap them on the shoulder (2 fast taps, not the intentional ‘1…2…3’ tap that precludes fisticuffs), you move up to their side… so they don’t have to turn around, rather they just turn their head to the side to see you. Talk briefly and to the point, and it will be obvious you mean, “sorry to interrupt, hate to be rude, thank you for your time”. That’s the shoulder tap that will easily slide.

Now, if I meet someone (who always starts at Level 4), and I soon conclude that I actually like this person… they will be moved to Level 3 Authorization.

Level 3: This is where most of the people I know are. This allows all the hand-shaking of Level 4, plus adds high-fives, the rare and friendly “slap-on-the-back”, and the occasional hug. This is also where pretty much all of my family is. Though, if there were sub-levels within this level… Many family members *would* be more at the top, closer to the Level 2s. But generally, Level 3s can enter my personal bubble and hang out for awhile.

Level 2: This gets into a more exclusive-type club. Level 2 is for the REALLY good friends… the people I’m very comfortable around. Level 2s can enter my Personal Bubble and stay as long as they want. Whenever I did shows with fairly small casts, usually all the members are given at least temporary Level 2 access while we’re doing the show… because we were working so closely together. (Once the show closed, we often never saw each other again… ah, the tragedy of live theatre.) Generally speaking, if a Level 2 Authorized friend needed a shoulder rub or a neck massage… they simply have to ask me, and they’ll get it. (I wish more would request it… I used to be really good at them, and it’s been a long time since I’ve given one… and longer since I’ve received one) Also, if a friend with Level 2 Touching Authorization needs a comforting Hug, again… they’ll get it with no problem. Guys with Level 2 are the ones I’m comfortable hugging on a regular basis. Girls with Level 2, are allowed to get the hugging PLUS the occasional innocent flirtation, innuendos, and kisses on the cheek, should the situation allow it. All the stuff that I let “slide” with the lower levels… Level 2 is able to do without a problem. Now, just because someone HAS Level 2 authorization… doesn’t mean they’ll always get all the benefits. Obviously, if a female friend with Level 2 authorization is married (as several are), that will contribute and dictate to the actual behavior used when hanging out. They will NOT get the flirtation and innuendos. Guys that are married, however… WILL get the flirtation and innuendos, because I find it funny.

Level 1: Level 1 can enter my Personal Bubble… and I won’t want them to leave. There is, and only ever will be… 1 person at any one time that will be granted Level 1 Authorization with me. 1 special person that’s allowed such a sensual level of access. (Sorry, guys are not eligible for Level 1) I’m not talking just Sex… I’m talking real Intimacy. Hand-holding. Cuddling. Face-touching and playful thwacking is not only allowed, but encouraged. The last person with Level 1 Authorization liked to give playful thwacks on the butt. If I happened to walk in front of her, and my derriere is right there… she’d have to slap it. (Something she did with her friends all the time) Anyone in Level 2… could get away with it about once a day with me. But Level 1 could do it as often as she pleased… and I’d occasionally shake my booty in her face to even invite it. Arm-touching, leg-brushing, laying-head-in-lap, fingers-through-the-hair… all exclusively Level 1 benefits (giving and receiving). Level 1 is the ONLY person that’s allowed to come up to me from behind and touch me or hold me. While Level 2 gets neck and shoulder rubs, Level 1 also gets full back massages, foot rubs… and a personal favorite: Hand massages.

Hand massages are what I sometimes use as an “invitation” to Level 1 status. If I have someone in Level 2 that I’d like to be Level 1… the only thing I have that could be considered a “move” is to somehow find a way to offer them a hand massage. The hand massage itself is not seemingly intimate… but it can feel that way when receiving one. I’m pretty good at them… yet, even a clumsy one can feel relaxing. I consider that my “offer-of-candidacy-should-you-so-want-it”. I have no idea if it’s ever interpreted that way. *shrug*

But it’s also innocent and non-invasive enough that I can give them by requests. Again, if a Level 2 wants one (and knows to ask), they can get one. If it’s requested by you… it’s a bonus for Level 2s. If it’s *offered* to you… then it’s an invitation for more and better things.

Though, not all who have attained Level 1, got it by hand-massage invitation. (Most didn’t) Some weren’t even in Level 2 before getting to Level 1. Oftentimes, it became a weird, case-by-case kind of situation. Those always come around and pop up, throwing monkeys into the wrenches.

Currently… there is no one with Level 1 Authorization with me.

There was one that I wanted to invite to that level… but I apparently was not at the same Authorization level with THEM. It only ever works when we consider each other to be the same level. If I want her to be a Level 1, and she sees me as only a Level 3… we’ll only ever be Level 3 friends… or not friends at all.

Maybe it’s just another example of my over-thinking things…

Maybe it doesn’t even make much sense to a normal, rational mind.

But I never said it did make sense. Nor did I ever imply that I’m normal. (Rational is up for debate)

Bottom line: I *like* being touched. I love it.

I’m just very, very, VERY picky about it.

;)

A Love Letter on Lovin' Letters

Once upon a time… in the time before E-mail, before blogging, before texting and the wide distribution of cellular phones… I wrote letters.

Actual pen-to-paper-stick-in-an-envelope-and-pay-for-a-stamp LETTERS.

The first one of note that I wrote was a response to a “Pen Pal Ad” in this publication called “The 21st century” (even though it was the early 90s). It was a paper that went around to a bunch of high schools in New England (only, I think), and one section was something that resembled “personal ads” in a regular newspaper, only it was limited to requests for Pen Pals. Not having a lot to occupy my time in those days, nor a lot of people to talk to… I took a chance and answered a few, hoping they would find me interesting enough to write back.

The first was a girl about my age in Massachusetts. She was on the Girl’s Basketball Team, and her father was a Sports Coach, and she had a dream to get accepted and to attend Harvard. She wasn’t sure if she was good enough or if she would be able to afford it. Her first letter back to me was one piece of ruled paper, hand-written on both sides. The cursive was small, not only on the letter itself, but also on the envelope and return address… and she put a “y” instead of an “i” at the end of my name. :)

It proudly became the first of my collection… all lined up by date received in a shoebox that I’ve had since. Twice I’ve upgraded to bigger shoe boxes. (Good thing I was getting bigger shoes)

Our correspondence didn’t last that long… I received a total of four letters from her… each one longer than the last. I tried my best to write back swiftly, and she did the same. But Senior Year is a busy one for all. We even exchanged pictures, and I really enjoyed those letters, but they stopped. A few years later, when I went away to college, and just started to learn about e-mail and UNIX and all that early Internet stuff… I actually got to see a list of e-mails of students at Harvard University, and her name was among them. I wrote to the address, giving the details she had written to me, and asked if she was the same person. Sadly, it wasn’t… just someone with the same name. Oh well… it was worth a shot. I would’ve liked to congratulate her for making it to Harvard like she wished. Though I don’t know if the real one ever did… but I hope her dreams got bigger, and she is still able to pursue them.

I did get a few other Pen Pals. I was quickly addicted. Learning and meeting new people… with none of the immediate judgment and blunders that can mark an introduction. A letter from a Pen Pal is simultaneously revealing and mysterious… it really makes you want to write back quickly, so you’ll get their next letter that much quicker.

The second, I thought was my most memorable. She actually lived in the next town. It definitely didn’t take long for our letters to reach each other, that’s for sure. She too had placed in ad in that 21st Century paper, and from what she told me, she got about 75 responses. She wrote back to the ones that interested her, and kept eliminating the ones she didn’t like. After 3 months… I was the only one that she still wrote to. (Even if it was an exaggeration, it’s a nice compliment) We even exchanged phone numbers, and started chatting on the phone. We would literally chat for hours on end… often times talking about absolutely nothing. That was where I learned talking about nothing could be so much fun.

I know my parents were a bit *ahem*… “concerned”. They believed her to be from a “bad part of town”, and the one time I did introduce them to her, they didn’t like her air of “non-normalcy”, I’ll just say. For one: It was New Hampshire, not freaking Beirut! If I couldn’t be expected to handle myself in a “bad section” of NH, I obviously haven’t been raised to be competent in ANYTHING. As for the “non-normalcy”… I remember my Mom actually telling me a few days after they met her, that “she didn’t want me to see her again” and she thought that “She was a bad influence on me.” Gee, Thanks. Its always nice when your parents consider you to be an easily-swayed Sheep. Sheesh… the whole thing was starting to sound like “Romeo & Juliet”… except that neither of us had even considered actually dating. I was just happy to have a friend. Was she considered “weird”? Sure… but it was apparently forgotten that *I was too*! As for her being a “bad influence on me”?... Apparently the concept of me being a “good” influence on her wasn't an option. (Which wasn't even needed, as she was good peeps) The aspect of “non-normalcy” would turn out to be a similar characteristic throughout several friends I would come to know throughout my life. We weirdoes tend to seek each other out. I learned that when I finally went away to college. And even today, I *rarely* introduce my friends/dates/anyone to my Parents… pretty much because of all that fallout.

As far as my Parents knew… I obeyed their lame wishes and never had any contact with her again. In reality, we stayed in touch for a good few years after that. Eventually, the letters and calls did stop… but I would relish an opportunity to re-institute contact again. (I’ve looked… can’t find her anywhere. *shrug*)

The only other person I think I would have considered as a steady “Pen Pal”… was my cousin. When she went away to college, I was starting classes at a local Community College… and we started writing to each other. I had particular fun writing to her, because I recruited help. I would get friends, or fellow cast members of shows I was in, to write to her as well. I’d hand them the paper and say, “Here! Write to my Cousin!” More of an order, granted… but everyone would at least write something without objection. Sometimes I’d have to use an extra stamp, because the letter got to be 7 pages long. (Hey, I like to give something substantial to read.) I actually consider our correspondence to be an interesting point in my life… because even though we’re family, and our extended family was always close… I think we really started to know each other more that way. I mean really got to know each other. Whenever we had “known” each other previously… was always in the presence of other family members. And even though we were the same age… she was always considered more on par with my one-year-older brother… because they were both “middle children”. Then one day, over the summer at a family function, we were chatting, and at one point, there happened to be no one else around. She then remarked to me at how surprised she was at me. I asked why… and she said that through our letters, and these times of honestly, truly talking to each other… she’s realized that I was a completely different person than I was when I was around my brothers. I was being witty, intelligent, dare I say, even cool… and showing all these pleasant qualities that for some reason weren’t able to come out when in the presence of my brothers or even my parents. To this day, I still don’t have a fully satisfactory answer as to why that phenomenon occurs.

That was the first time I actually felt truly understood. And I was seeing how my letter-writing was helping me to find Me.

I continued to write letters. I would gain “e-mail pals” at school, using that funky cool new thing called e-mail, but as the summers approached, and everyone had to return home… where e-mail didn’t exist… we all exchanged addresses, and wrote. I’d write to people across the country who I technically had never met… and to the friends I couldn’t wait to see again at college. At the end of the summers, I’d exchange addresses with old co-workers who didn’t have e-mail, and try to keep in touch while I was away at school. I was really good at writing to people. Usually, I’d get at least one response. Sometimes more. Occasionally, I didn’t get any.

I look through that shoe-box of letters, and I see names that I hadn’t thought of in so many years. And several names I don’t remember at all! A couple were Crushes. Some weren’t exactly letters… but odd newspaper clippings from one of the “eccentric” ones of our group. :) Several people eventually started having some fun with the return addresses and envelopes. There would be brand-new nicknames lying between my first and last name… such as “Dishboy” (a reference to an old job, and obviously from one of those co-workers). One of my favorites was from a friend who, instead of putting his own name on the return address, wrote “The One You Model Your Life After”. (The funny thing is… I still remember who that is.)

Then, I got, what I considered at the time, to be the best set of letters I had ever received. In college, from a girl I was completely head over heels for. We weren’t dating yet… but I was REALLY hoping that we would. The first letter was a Christmas Card (with a very long message inside). Over the few weeks that we were separated due to the Xmas break in college, I got four letters from her before I was able to see her in person again. The next time I got a letter from her was after we left for the summer… and *that* was the first letter I ever received from an official girlfriend. And that was very easily… the first love-letter I ever got. Young love never felt so good.

I look at the dates on those envelopes… 11 years ago. Wow. Seem like more than a lifetime. I actually do occasionally hear from her. I’ve got her AND her husband as friends on MySpace. The husband is ANOTHER friend of mine from college… and I actually introduced them. Granted, when they re-met years later and started dating, they probably didn’t even remember that initial introduction… so I technically had nothing to do with it… but I’m taking the credit anyway. *ppppbbbbbttttthhhhttttt!!!” :P You know, it’s a really neat feeling to know that two people that you find to be very Cool… turn out to be very Cool for each other. :) Rock on, Chaka Khan!

Too bad I never got love letters after that. It’s not that I dated horrible people… I was just never separated from them to give the letters a chance to be written. Though, in retrospect… I should have just written them anyway. Even if I was only minutes away from seeing them. Even if I didn’t get them… THEY should have. Having it in a person’s unique handwriting is special beyond words. The act itself, regardless of any clumsy rendered sentiments within… is permanent. A time-capsule of sorts. Perfectly preserving a feeling in time (even if it’s not eloquently conveyed). I believe it really is “the thought that counts” in something like that. I should have done it more myself. (I wish I philosophized over it earlier than now.) But that’s why I always kept any hand-written little note that I was given. I have them all. Yeah, I never got that many of them… but I kept them all. May not be a full love letter… but it's sure something.

I really think it’s a Lost Art. The whole idea of writing letters. You can go to a library or bookstore and find whole books that are literally the correspondence between two people. Two friends, or two lovers… colleagues… political letters, anything. You can actually read the correspondence of Franz Kafka and the woman he loved. The letters of H.P. Lovecraft and his friend Robert Howard. Even the Griffin & Sabine trilogy… a fictional story told through letters and postcards, where you actually OPEN the envelopes and find the letter inside.

Are we REALLY going to see… in this day and age… a published book of two people’s e-mails? Or “The Collected Text Messages of Paris Hilton 2004-2007 Vol. 1” Filled with ROTFL, TTYL, ASL, BFF, CYA, G2G, HOAS, IMHO, OTOH, KWIM, LMAO, TTFN, WTG and other such inane patter all over? Sweet Jeebus, I don’t even know what half that crap means!

E-mail and Text messages… even though it’s all crap I do MYSELF… does make the world a little colder, I think. Yeah, they’re easy and convenient… simple ways to keep in touch with more people… and that can be a good thing… but we have to be more careful of exactly what we say so that we’re not misinterpreted. Things like emotions, mood, sarcasm, humor… are harder to convey electronically. But in a handwritten letter… If you’re angry or frustrated… even if you don’t use any words to say so, it will still show, as the letters and sentences are darker and bolder… from the pen being forcefully pressed into the paper, almost coming out the other side. It’s harder to hide something like that.

Yes, I’m aware of a certain sense of irony here… as this blog is being TYPED. To its defense, typing does still allow options like italics, bold, underlining, font changes and stuff like that… which can help convey those meanings that sometimes seem to be lost to us. Acting in a manner more like handwriting. Which is a step in the right direction… providing the tools are used. But cursive handwriting will always have the upper hand to me.

Hell, one time I got a letter from my Aunt… an actual mailed letter. It was when I was living in California, and it was typed. Had no underlines, italics or boldface in it. But within that letter… was something I wasn’t used to seeing. It wasn’t much… just a little hint. You see, it had been a particularly rough year (for everyone I knew it seemed like), and she talked a little bit about it, before going to the normal family stuff. Yet, throughout all the family functions I had been to, from talking in big or small groups… I had never seen what I was now seeing. A small hint… of vulnerability.

Sure, it may seem obvious… everyone has that aspect to them. But in my family, when we get together, it’s a good time. So many people talking at once, whether it’s one big conversation or several small ones at the same time. It’s big, loud, a bit boisterous and most always good natured. And here… I was seeing a side of my Aunt… nay, a side of my FAMILY, that I had never really seen before. Yeah, everyone knows its there… but you never actually see it.

All in a letter. That would never come out in an e-mail. Never would come out at holidays. But there it is. An emotion preserved. That’s a rare, powerful and beautiful thing.

So, I need to get back in my old habit of letter writing. Because I’ll never get letters if I don’t send them. And I’ve got some letters to catch up on. I received one last year, that I never responded to… it’s time I did. Even if I never get a response… like I said earlier, the OTHER person deserves to see that beauty for themselves. Even if it does come from a little ol fool like me. :)