The way he makes me feel

My relationship status has changed, and not just on Facebook. His name is Mike. He's the bee's knees. He makes me laugh all the time. He's smart and kind and a little evil (as am I...muahahahaha!). He has amazing upper body strength. This may have something to do with the chair. He has cerebral palsy. Yes, folks, his junk works fine, thanks for wondering!

Telling Mike's story would take a whole book, and that's a book Mike needs to write himself. A guy who's met Ronald Reagan, William Shatner, Soupy Sales and various Detroit Lions, and who had Kwame Kilpatric as his schoolyard bully has more than a few amazing stories to tell. That Kwame! Playing the race card since 1979. At least he didn't kill the class flirt.

Mike met my mom and didn't run (er, roll) screaming for the door. He thinks I'm amazing, which is a lot to live up to.

I'll give it my all.

Real men eat quiche

I had a birthday party. I am old now. 37. So my friends came over and we did karaoke OnDemand. Also, I made many delicious foods. I made mini quiches. Never tried it before, but everyone scrafed them, especially the dudes.

My friend Mike came all the way from beautiful downtown Melvindale to hang out with me. He ate quiche. He went to the drag bar with me. He's the man! He came to the drag show because he likes me. He ate quiche because quiche is delicious. He likes me....I dunno why. I want to believe all the sweet things he says about me, but I've got a lifetime of negative reinforcement to work through.

Monni sang "Baby Got Back". My new work friend Kristin has an awesome voice. Also, four dozen cookies seem to have vanished into my pals. It's mysterious. I made sugar cookies and decorated them. Halloween. Nummy.

Happy birthday to me. Happy Sweetest Day to Mike (who is a sweetie). Happy! For now.

Screwing Up

Sometimes, I screw up. I forget things. I can be careless. I screw up without malice. It's not like I'm some weird modern saint, but I can't remember actually forming a plan to hurt someone. I've said things when I'm angry that I regret, and a few that I don't. But I never set out to ruin someone's day.

What do you do if you inadvertently hurt someone? What do you do when they lay it all out, and you apologize, and they are vague about whether or not they accept? If I apologize, I mean it. I just don't know what else I need to do.

This is really vague, purposely so. The situation I'm dealing with involves someone I love, who's been angry at me for a while, and who vacillates between acting like we're friends and acting like I'm a shitty person who should just go away and die in hole someplace. And when I go away (not to die, but to live my life of tutoring and family obligations, and cleaning houses, and writing and trying to have friends and date), she gets angry at me for not paying attention to what's going on in her life.

Nothing I do works in this situation. I don't think I'm a rotten person. I don't want to buy my friend off. Given the level of anger, I wonder what I owe myself? I like me a bit. I don't know that avoidance is a bad idea, either.

Why can't we all just get along? Oy.

Lighting up the Night

My friend Dan had huge blue eyes and said "fuck" an awful lot. He name dropped the top-notch Atlanta country club where he'd managed the dining room. He got into fights in Boston, defending his restaurant from marauding teenage idiots.

"They thought they'd teach the little faggot a lesson, but I was one tough little faggot," Dan told me.

Dan made lobster bisque so light and creamy and beautiful it almost convinced me I like lobster. He brought chocolate pots de creme to me and my mother, and we shared a bottle of Tokaj with him. I met Dan covering the local Stonewall Democrats for my old paper, and soon began inviting him along whenever I reviewed restaurants. Dan trained as a chef in Italy. He had marvelous taste and a twisted sense of humor.

Dan catered a Christmas party for my mother. He came both as caterer and guest, and had all of us in stitches with stories of weird times in the hospital. Dan had cancer, but had been in remission for years.

"Some young tech could not believe my nipple rings," he told us. "So I had to show him the tattoo on my ass. Red devil. Gets 'em every time."

Two weeks later, my mother and Dan were in rooms in different wings of the same hospital. My mother was recovering from a planned double knee replacement. Dan's lymphoma returned. He called my mother's room from his, told us both that he loved us, and died a couple of weeks later.

Dan deserved more than fifty years. Dan had so much kindness and wit and talent and love in him. I miss him every time I pass the farmers market where he sold exquisite homemade cookies and handmade red wine syrup. One of the last kind things Dan did for me was to walk me through the process of applying for disability. Dan knew the program because of earlier, devastating bouts with lymphoma. When I called him for help, I weighed nearly 600 pounds and was immobilized by sciatica. The advice Dan gave me led me to health insurance, surgery and a healthy, worthwhile life. I truly believe that, without his grace and good sense, I might not be alive today.

I owe him. On October 17th, I hope to repay a few of his many kindnesses to me during our all too brief friendship. I will Light up the Night for Dan Holmes.

Anyone who'd like to sponsor me can e-mail me through the blog. I'm not really in it for the donations, but the charity would probably appreciate it.

Ben Folds Project:Philosophy

I'm crazy, but I get the job done.


A couple of years ago,my therapist left Catholic Charities, and I made her a CD that organized my magical mental health in song form. I drew a human brain on the CD using Sharpies. I drew the brain in rainbow colors and loaded it with songs. I started off with the Johnny Cash version of "Hurt", moved along through such sad girl classics as "Save me" (Aimee Mann) and "Because of You" (Kelly Clarkson). The disc gets less depressing with songs like "In Between Days" (Ben Folds' cover, naturally) beforing ending with "Proud" (yes, the song from The Biggest Loser, a show I kind of despise for reasons I won't get into here).

"You made a mix tape for your shrink!" My friend Paul could barely get the words out, he was laughing so hard at the idea.

I like to think I take a creative approach to mental illness. Over the years, I've made my shrink cookies, crocheted her a hat and scarf, and passed along Hungarian recipes. She's helped me to realize that I can't change other people. Sometimes, I can't fathom changing myself, but I keep trying, at least where it matters the most.

A few years ago, I'd cry for hours if the cat got out. I once wept uncontrollably because I couldn't find my keys. Which were in my car's ignition. I don't do those things anymore.

I don't know that I always see the forrest for the trees. I'm trying to imagine the mortar, block and glass that'll be my city when I'm done. When will I be done? Are we ever really finished? Don't ask me. I'm crazy. But I get the job done.*





*Litter box cleaning not included.

Ben Folds Project: Jackson Cannery

I'm starting a new project. I love Ben Folds. Why? Because he's a genius. His sense of humor, the brilliance of his piano playing, the plaintive keen/whiteboy whine in his voice....I don't know if Ben Folds is perfect as a musician, but he's the perfect musician for me.

I'm going to use his songs as jumping off points for blog posts. Some of the posts will have almost nothing to do with the songs. Some of the posts might describe the things I associate with the songs. No rules, just Ben and me.

#1: Jackson Cannery
(Track 1, Ben Folds Five, 1995)

Stop the Bus....Don't want to be lonely

I do lonely well. Better than I do almost anything else, or, at least, I do it more often than I do other things or other moods. I go to bars alone. I don't drink. I might meet acquaintances. I dance by myself. I watch pretty people mime intercourse and simultaneously envy and disdain them. I leave, alone. To my apartment, alone. To bed. Alone.

I go to the bookstore. I put on makeup. Maybe someone will talk to me. Maybe a man. Maybe I'll run into friends. It's happened. I talk to the barristas in the bookstore cafe. I know their names and college majors. I bring them cookies at Christmas. I've lived in Toledo for ten years. I've been invited to exactly two Christmas parties.

Odd that I love Chirstmas. I bake and give gingerbread men to friends. No one ever gives me cookies. My friends don't bake. Or host parties. They work. They date. They have children. I press my face against the glass and watch couples looking at wedding magazines. I see young mothers choosing picture books. Goth kids in little clusters, talking and laughing. I drink coffee by myself. I go home alone.

Weekends, I scramble. I call and text and e-mail. I chat. No one has time. No one wants to have coffee or see a movie or come to my place so I can make them a lovely dinner. No one feels like singing or dancing or talking. I go to the bookstore. I go to the grocery at 10 pm on a Saturday night. I think the place will be empty, but it's full of couples. Old, toothless men in wifebeaters with the wives I hope they're not actually beating. Yuppies giggling over the bottle of pinot grigio they're buying. A black woman in a sleeveless sundress, hair dyed platinum. She has to weigh 250 pounds, but there's a guy walking by her cart, carrying her purse. I buy ingredients to make risotto. I scale the recipe for one and go home alone.

Stop the bus. Stop it. Don't. Ben's right. Seconds pass slowly. Days go flying by. Just....stop.

Late

Late at night, when I can't sleep, I sometimes read his blog. The one with the halitosis. The one with the twin bed and the artsy, smoky roommates. Him. And I wonder how it is that a man who had breath like an unflushed toilet, a man who expressed fear of soup and who had never eaten a strawberry before I fed one to him, I wonder how a man like that can have a girlfriend when I'm alone.

And I look at pictures of the other one. The one who called me a whore because he was terrified I'd write about him. The last guy who kissed me. I wonder if he's the last guy ever. I really hope not.

What have I learned? Tall isn't a good personal quality. Nice isn't enough. I need to remember to brush my tongue.

It's something, no?