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I’d like to teach the world to sing!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s been 1,929 days since I drank my last Diet Coke.  Crazy HUH!

I switched to soda water, and haven’t looked back.  

Soda water has turned out to be tricky though, especially, when you are out and about.  

McDonald’s has the world’s best fountain sodas.  Period.  No matter what you are drinking, there is something magical in the formula.  The same is true when it’s just soda water.  

The hard part about soda water at McDonald’s is, first you have to convince them they have it.  It’s on the automatic dispenser.  They just don’t always know.  

Then you have to be willing to accept the charge being whatever it is.  It’s never the same amount.  Even three hours later at the same McDonald’s.  

On any given day, I can pay:  Nothing, twenty-two cents, fifty-four cents, a dollar eight, a dollar seventy-nine, or sometimes more than two dollars.  There is no rhyme or reason.  

The problem is that although it’s on the machine, it’s not in the POS, so they can trigger the automation to make it.  Often, they’ll ring in a Sprite, special prep.  Only, it’s almost always a Sprite they give you when you get to the window.  Sometimes they charge you for a tea, so that it doesn’t trigger the machine, but tea costs more and all you are getting is water.  

I’ve learned to just pay whatever they charge.  I don’t question it, even if it’s only been five minutes since I drove through the last time.  

It has gotten better since 2020 when I stopped drinking Diet Coke.  They hardly ever tell me NO anymore.  And usually, they know what to do.  But every once in a while, you’ll get a new person and then it’s anybody’s guess. 

Meanwhile, if I’m at a real restaurant, sitting down for dinner, getting a soda water is a crap shoot.  It’s become a little game that I play to see what happens.  

About 75% of the time, I get it, but it takes 15 to 20 minutes to appear.  Sometimes. It never appears.  And once I ordered it when we ordered drinks, and it arrived with dessert, with condensation on the glass, with the ice melted.  It had clearly been sitting on the bar, the whole time we’d been there.  

Once again, I never say anything.  I just patiently wait to see what happens.  Occasionally, Adam will remind them that we are waiting on a soda water, but I tend to sit back and just wait.  

I also order my soda water with no fruit.  I’m mildly allergic to citrus, and so I tend to stay away, except a few times a year, when I purposefully order a margarita or mojito.  

It hardly ever arrives with no fruit.  My favorite experience is when my Manhattan arrived with no fruit and the soda water arrived with extra limes and lemons.  

I never say a word.  Just place it on the table.  But it is funny, that this happens.  Not just occasionally, but a lot of the time, whether it’s a nice restaurant, or a diner.  

I will note that without exception, Adam’s staff at his restaurant takes  excellent  care of me.  They keep the soda filled and I never go without.  

Alas, these are the trials and tribulations of not drinking Diet Coke.  

PS.  I was told when I stopped drinking Diet Coke, my complexion would improve and I’d lose weight.  Neither of those things happened.  And canned soda water is significantly more expensive than Diet Coke cans.  

Hmmmm.  

Maybe, I should go back.   

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Picture this Sicily, 1923. 

Actually, picture this.  New York City.  1983.  

My first trip to NYC. 

It was speech and drama students from Scott County Senior High School, seniors, who’d participated along the way.  Some of the specifics are a little fuzzy, but the stories are 100% true.  

My mother was pissed that I was going.  I’d never asked for permission.  I forged the permission slip.  When I told her, she asked who was paying for it, and I said I was.  By that time in my senior year things had gotten very contentious. 

We left on a Thursday.  We all piled in to Jason’s dad’s tricked out van. Our teacher Ms. Moore was driving.  The drive up was not memorable.  In fact, I remember nothing about it.  The trip back was much better with the story of all stories to share.  

We got to NYC and checked into the Howard Johnson, in Times Square.  I still have the ashtray from our room.  It’s on a shelf in my office.  

I don’t remember the order of the stories, but these are things that happened.  

One morning around 11:00 we all walked into a bar, sat at a table and ordered drinks. It was my first drink in a bar. I ordered a whiskey sour.  We were served, with no question.  

One of my classmates spent the night throwing up, and was HUNGOVER the next day.  VERY hung over.  

We went to Macy’s.  I remember the wooden escalators.  

We went to Tiffany’s.  There were four of us I believe.  We got our own personal security guard who followed us from floor to floor.  42 years later I’d get an engagement ring from that store.  

At one point we got on the subway, we had no idea where we are going.  We get on.  The doors start to close as a family is entering.  The mother and father get on, but the doors close in front of the daughter.  The subway starts to move and one of us says pull the cord, so the only time in all my time of riding the subway, someone pulled the emergency stop cord.

We WERE YELLED AT by a million people, but the little girl was reunited with her parents.  

The subway starts again, and we are immediately plunged into darkness.  We ride several stops with absolutely no lighting.  

We were on our way to the Bronx Zoo.  We ride and ride and finally get off.  We go up to the street.  And we are the only white people as far as the eye can see.  We weren’t scared, really, but a kind cop, suggested that we go back down and go back in the direction in which we came.  

One day, late afternoon, we are walking in Time Square, and a man approaches us about buying a camera. I had been wanting a camera and said, sure I’d buy a camera from him.  He tells me to follow him, and I very smartly gave my wallet to someone I was with.  I followed him with my 40 bucks and when I got there, he asked me for my wallet.  I said, I didn’t have a wallet but I had 40 dollars.  He took the money and left.  I looked around and there were people doing drugs in the entry way I was in.  Shooting up you might say.   Whoops.  Better luck next time.  

If any of you are wondering where our teacher was during all of this, she had sequestered herself in HER hotel room and was grading term papers.  We only saw her when it was time for dinner and a show.  

Speaking of shows.  

On the first night we saw CATS.  I remember I fell asleep during Act 2.  

However.  The show started late, because they were holding the curtain.  Around 8:15, there is a murmuring through the crowd and Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter enter and sit a few rows in front of us.  Along with Amy.  They both sign autographs during intermission, which I also have somewhere.  

During intermission, Ken Page, who was playing Old Deuteronomy, sat on stage and signed autographs.  I have that as well.  

The next night we saw 42nd Street.  I did not sleep through that.  To this day it’s one of my favorite shows.  I’ve designed it twice and seen it at least four or five times.  So fun, but no autographs.  

Of course, with our teacher grading term papers, there was much wandering the streets at night.  

One night we were out and about and met Edward Herrman.  I had no idea who he was.  

But.  

The biggest highlight of the trip was meeting Bob Hope.   It was at least 3:00 a.m and we were just walking around.  He just appeared.  We stopped him and talked to him for about 90 seconds.  He was wearing orange tennis shoes and was with a “bodyguard”?  I asked him for his autograph but all I had was a check and he wouldn’t sign it.  Which I find funny now.  

On one of the nights, we went to Sardi’s.  I remember very little about the dinner and I’ve never been back.  

Then it was time to head home.  

We are driving overnight.  And at some point, early in the morning, one of my classmates, who had really never participated in speech and only had done one show, starts having a vivid sex dream.  We all sat breathlessly, as she moaned and groaned her way down intestate 64.  We never knew if it was real, or if she was just doing a performance.  Finally, she climaxed and all was calm.  We all looked at each other and never spoke of it again. 

I’ll end by saying this.  I love seeing film and photos of NYC in the 70’s and 80’s.  I can’t explain it but that’s how I remember the city.  The smells, the chill in the air, the look and feel.  Those grainy pictures are exactly how it was.  The porn advertisement all over Times Square.  The prostitutes.  The edginess.  The questionable danger.  Scary and fun all at the same time.  

Today the city is in full cinemascope, with color and grandeur.  

But the 70’s and 80’s were a different story.  

PS.  It would be several years later that our drama teacher went back to NYC with students.   We had kind of ruined it for her.  

By doin’ hard work

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Monday, October 20, 2025. 


It’s cold here tonight, in Maine.  We got the first real rain we’ve gotten since June today.  It was perfect napping weather.   Which explains my 2+ hour nap this afternoon.  

This is the first time I’ve written in at least four months.  It’s hard to be creative when you are depressed.  

Depressed you say?  Why should you be depressed?  

Well on June 19th, I was laid off from my job.  It was not a surprise.  Nor was I disappointed when it happened.  It had been kind of a shit show for a while, for various reasons.  

That being said, yesterday marked four months of being unemployed, and I’m still looking for a job.  The job market in Maine is just as soft as it is in the rest of the country.  The job market for restaurant jobs, is even softer.  It’s been a quiet summer for restaurants seeking management.  

I do have to say it’s been one of the best summers of my time in Maine.  When you work in hospitality in Maine in the summer, you do not socialize. You do not see your friends.  You work a million hours and then sleep when you can.  

I was at a gathering for a birthday for a friend about a month ago and someone said, I’m sorry you don’t have a job, but it’s been awesome seeing you this summer.  I’ve attended birthday parties.  4th of July parties.  Pool parties.  I’ve gone to plays.  I’ve had drinks with friends, I haven’t seen in years.  I’ve had dinner on Saturday nights at 7:00, on a patio in Portland.  It really has been nice to see all my friends more in the past four months than I have in years.  

That being said, the bank account is dwindling.  The need to find a job is ever present.  This underlying depression encompasses me every day.  

Find a job.  Find a job.  Find a job.  

I sometimes wonder if my age is working against me.  I’ve read half a dozen articles about entering the work force after 50 this summer.  I conveniently leave off the year I graduated from college.  Whoops a typo.  

Portland and its metro area is a small market.  There are a million jobs making 18 bucks an hour.   When you start to move up the food chain there are far less.  

I have been hesitant to write about this since it happened, because well it’s embarrassing to be unemployed.  It’s easier to hide in bed and pretend that everything is okay.  

Which it’s not.  

Adam has encouraged me to spend more time on my computer.  Looking for jobs.  Writing.  Not napping.  

So here I am.  

It’s so weird to be starting over.  Again.  At 60.  But that’s the cards I was dealt.  

Meanwhile, my amazing, and growing less patient, boyfriend is in the kitchen making us dinner.  I’m writing for the first time in 4 months.  

I’ll keep you posted as things move forward.  

9/11 Remembered.

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24 years later. So much has changed. Who’d have thought we’d be where we are today:

When I rolled over and looked at the clock it was 6:45 a.m. I didn’t need to be out of bed for two more hours. I adjusted the pillows, pulled the blanket over my head and willed myself back to sleep. After another 45 minutes of this I gave up. Jet lag is a bitch. I’d flown home from Barcelona two days earlier and in spite of my trying I was not going back to sleep. I was wide awake and I didn’t need to be at work until at least 9:00. I crawled to the end of the bed, switched on my computer and checked the weather. It was going to be a perfect day, and since it was clear that I was not going back to sleep, I might as well get it started.

At 8:15 a.m. I locked the door of my apartment and headed out into the day. My commute to work was insane. It required me to walk one city block to the south, and one half block to the east. Even after stopping at the grocery store for milk, cereal, and cream for my coffee, I was at work by 8:30. I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, started my computer and then performed the most important task of the day, making coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I sorted through the mail that had collected over the three weeks I’d been in Europe on a “business” trip. Finally, the coffee pot was full and I poured a bowl of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran (it’s funny the things you remember), filled my coffee cup and planted myself at my desk. The time was 8:45 a.m.

I took a sip of my coffee. I dipped my spoon into the bowl and as I took the first bite of cereal my desk moved about six inches. I had no idea what had happened. I sat there. I rolled my chair to the window, opened the window. My office was on the 25th floor of a non-descript office building. It had no view but if I leaned out the window about a foot, I had a clear view of the World Trade Center 4 blocks up the street.

I leaned out the window and gasped as I realized that the North Tower of the World Trade Center was on fire. Think Towering Inferno fire. There were flames shooting into the air. I was stunned. I ran down the hall to the office next to ours and shouted, the World Trade Tower is on fire! The women from that office ran to my office and we all stared out the windows. By now it looked as if there were a ticker tape parade occurring. The air was filled with 8.5 x 11 sheets of white paper floating through the sky.

I immediately picked up the phone and called home. My mother is a worrier. She is from a long line of worriers. Even though NYC is a huge place, if it happens here, it happens on my block. In this particular instance she was right. She and my father had visited NYC in May from Lexington, KY and she was VERY aware of my location. She picked up the phone on the second ring. This was a habit from years of working as a bookkeeper. She NEVER answered the phone on the first ring. She was cheery, I suspect because she thought I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. Yes, September 11th is her birthday. Instead, I said, “I have no idea what’s going on, but the World Trade Center is on fire. I’m fine, but I wanted to let you know before you saw the news and got scared. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on here.”

I had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling to check on me. He told me a small plane had crashed into the WTC and reports were differing on what had happened. I assured him I was fine. He told me he would see me later in the morning and we hung up. I turned, stuck my head out the window again and looked back up the street just in time to see the top of the South Tower explode.

It is 9:03 a.m.

I had no idea what was happening. I did not have a TV or radio in my office and the online sources couldn’t tell me any more than I knew first hand. My boss called back and said that it is now being reported that it was two passenger jets that crashed into the buildings and that from all accounts it is a terrorist attack. I assure him once again that I’m fine. He tells me that he’ll see me later. I’m staring out the window at the fires when a voice comes over the PA system telling us our office building is being evacuated. I immediately call him back and tell him what is happening. I also tell him that since I have to leave the building I might try and work my way closer to see what’s really going on. He tells me to be careful and I hang up once again. By this time the announcement has been made several more times that there is a mandatory evacuation for our office building.

I grab my cell phone, lock the door, and head downstairs. My cereal and coffee are still on my desk. My computer is still on. The lights are still on. There was no doubt I would be back to the office in just a short while. I start the trek down the stairs from the 25th floor as the elevators had been turned off. The stairwell was filled with people, calmly headed to the lobby. At this time, things seemed calmer than they were about to be.

The scene on the street is utter chaos. There are people everywhere. All of the office buildings are evacuating. No one knows what’s going on. People are pushing to get closer. People are pushing to get out of the mess. I start down the street toward the World Trade Center, fully wanting to get closer to see what is happening. By the time I get to the corner of my street, I give up and go home. There are too many people and it’s clear that I’m not getting anywhere near the action.

I get to my apartment, unlock the door, turn on the TV and FINALLY start piecing together the puzzle. Two passenger jets have crashed into the buildings. The idea that this was a freak accident has passed and now there are reports that it was a terrorist attack. I sit on my couch watching the TV in utter disbelief. My phone rings. It’s my mom wanting to know if I’m okay. I tell her that my office building has been evacuated and that I’ve gone home. I assure her that I’m fine.

My phone rings again. It’s my best friend Michelle. She wants to know if I’m okay. I assure her that I am.

I’m sitting on my couch talking to her as the first tower begins to fall.

The entire event is surreal. I am chatting with a good friend, while watching this horrible event happen on TV, all of this being accompanied by a tremor of around 2.3 on the Richter scale. My entire apartment was shaking. And just as soon as it started it was over. I was still sitting on my couch, on the phone, still watching TV. Neither of us is speaking. The awe of the devastation we’d just witnessed is overwhelming.

I realize the air is filled with debris. I go to the window just in time to see the huge billowing smoke that is so often shown in the news footage. My apartment had three 10-foot tall windows facing the street. As I stood watching, the beautiful day with perfect blue skies was obliterated and replaced with the blackness of night created by the smoke and debris.

I hear loud shouting in the hallway. I open the door to find 10 or 12 people covered in soot. They had been chased down the street by the cloud of smoke and had run into my building. The doorman is letting them use the vacant apartment across the hall to clean themselves. I gather up towels and wash cloths for them to use.

Looking back, I’m amazed that I still had phone service. Both my cell and land lines continued to function. My phone continues to ring and ring. My boss. My parents. Michelle. Friends from around the country. I’m talking to Michelle again when the second tower falls.

The apartment shakes harder this time. Things falls. What little light that is left of the day is gone.

My apartment is completely dark.

I hear silence.

The sirens have stopped.

The horns have stopped.

The sounds of New York have stopped.

There is absolute quiet.

Unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.

There is a complete lack of sound. This is not our city. New York is always noisy. There are always horns, and sirens and people yelling.

There is always sound.

This is the complete opposite of that.

I sat there speechless.

Within minutes Mayor Giuliani issued a full evacuation of lower Manhattan.

It’s 11:00.

I call my mom and tell her that I’m evacuating and that I will call her when I can.

I call my boss and tell him that I am fine and that I’m evacuating.

I call Michelle and assure her that I’m fine.

I grab a backpack and fill it.

There is little thought of what I need, or how long I will be gone.

As I leave my building the sky is blue again. The perfect blue sky of an early autumn day. Deeper than a summer blue. Not a cloud to be seen.

I cross the street and pass someone handing out face masks. I take on.

I put it on and start to walk north and east toward city hall and the Brooklyn Bridge.

My walk out of lower Manhattan still gives me chills.

There are tens of 1,000’s upon 1,000’s of people moving in mass.

And again the sound of silence.

No one is talking.

There are no cell phones. No sirens. No helicopters. No planes.

Just the silent movement of people in shock moving toward what they hope will be sanity.

I am forced north with the sea of people not knowing where I was going. I had no plan. I walked. Once I passed Canal Street it occurred to me that with the mass destruction that had just occurred surely there would be a need for volunteers.

Although I really didn’t care for the Salvation Army’s politics, I thought it would be a good place to start, so I kept heading north, finally getting to the Salvation Army building on 14th street. There were 50 or 60 people there, and we were all told the same thing, you have to go through training to volunteer.

I exit the building, lost again.

I was on 14th street and remembered that St. Vincent’s hospital was just up the street. I could go there and see if they needed any help.

I get within a block and a half of the hospital and find myself in a sea of people all hoping to do the same. There were people as far as the eye could see and they have all had the same thought: Be Helpful. They were there to give blood and volunteer.

While I was standing there, I hear my phone ring. It was my friend Stacy, who was in town on business. She told me that she was at her hotel and that I could spend the night there if I needed a place to stay.

Stacy was staying on the Upper West Side. At this point all traffic in Manhattan had been halted. The only way to get anywhere, would be to walk. I began my trek north and spent the next several hours walking to her hotel.

When I got there, I was hoping they knew more than I knew. At this point, the news stations know very little. We planted ourselves in front of the TV and didn’t move for what seemed like hours. At some point, we realized that none of us had eaten all day. We go downstairs into the street. There were no cars, not taxis, no buses. In both directions, the street was empy.

We stand in the middle of Madison Avenue, looking north and south and there are no cars to be seen.

We discovered a restaurant that was open. We ate dinner in silence. Not really sure at this point what was happening, or what to expect.

I don’t return home for three days.

When I do attempt to go home it was an adventure to say the least.

It’s approaching 7:00 p.m.. The sun is setting. The city is getting dark.

I got to my first military checkpoint at Canal Street. I explained that I lived in the financial district and that I needed to get home to get more clothes etc. They wanted to see ID. Unfortunately, my driver’s license did not have my current address on it. Luckily, I had a prescription bottle in my back pack and they allowed me to pass. I passed through seven or eight more checkpoints before I got to my apartment building.

It was dark. There was no electricity. No phone. No water. The entire apartment smelled as though it had been on fire for days. There was a fine dust of soot over everything. The windows were covered as well. I did not want to stay there long.

As I exited my building, I asked one of the guards on my corner if there was a place in the area to volunteer. He told me that there was a few blocks from away.

I head that way. People are everywhere. Volunteers were preparing food. Rescue crews on break. I asked about ten people what I could do to help before someone said to me, “You want to help. Go find bread. It doesn’t matter if it’s fucking hot dog buns. Find bread.”

And that’s what I did.

I walked several blocks north to a “real” grocery store and I bought all the bread they had. About 150 dollars’ worth. When I got back, the guy that had told me to get bread was in awe. I spent the rest of the afternoon making food, cleaning tables, etc.

Around 10:00 p.m. they asked if I wanted to go to the site and help at St. Paul’s Chapel. I said that I would.

For those not in NYC, St. Paul’s Chapel is the oldest church in the city. The rear of the church faced the east side of the World Trade Center. It survived. Not even a broken window. It is believed that the large sycamore tree in the graveyard behind the church shielded it from destruction.

I get to the church around midnight. The next eight hours were long and grueling. It was an endless parade of rescue workers coming in to rest, sleep, pray. Watching these people come in and spend as little as fifteen minutes resting before they went back to work was moving, it’s easy to understand why so many of them face post-traumatic stress disorder today.

They were worked tirelessly at a job that would prove to be futile.

I spent the night making coffee, emptying trash and trying to be as quiet as I could. There were people everywhere, sleeping on the floor, in the pews, anywhere with a spare inch of floor.

Once or twice, I wandered outside to look up the street. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and debris. There were huge industrial lights lighting the area where the two buildings once stood.

It was breathtaking and overwhelming to see. To think that less than a month ago I’d stood in the area between the buildings and basked in the peacefulness the square provided. At night there were very few people in that part of town and for me it was a quiet place to sit and think undisturbed. It was me getting close to nature in a concrete city of 8 million people.

Places like that in New York City are few and far between.

Now. It was a mound of destruction that words will never describe.

Around 10:00 the next morning, I was shuttled back to the volunteer center and I said goodbye to everyone, and started my trek back up town.

I can’t begin to describe how I felt that morning, once again walking north.

It was three weeks before I returned home for good.

The Average Unmarried Female!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

Hi Friends.  

I have realized in the past week that I posted a story about Adam giving me a ring.  What I have discovered is that A LOT of you thought we got married.  

We did NOT get married.  We are taking BABY steps.  You know.  16.5 years to get engaged.   16.5 years more to get married.  In the old folk’s home.   

I’m just happy to have the ring.  Although bets are on on how long till I’m playing with it and it pops off my finger and rolls down the aisle in a theater.  

That being said, we are discussing getting married.  What that would look like.  Will it be three of us and a justice of the peace?  Will it be a 200 person Hidden Pond Wedding for 500,000 dollars.  There is so much to figure out.  

It is nice after living my whole adult life thinking this would never happen, that it’s on the horizon.  

Meanwhile, send him good thoughts as he’s a little freaked out by all the attention.  

I’ll be over here, putting my dream board together, of what the wedding will look like.  Should I wear white? Does anyone have 50 ball jars I can borrow? What if it rains? Who will make the wedding cake? Adam or some unknown person? Details, details, details.  

I kid.  I kid.  

We saw Guys and Dolls last Wednesday.  Adelaide was engaged for 14 years.  

Maybe I need to develop a little post nasal drip to push him across the finish line.  

Why, it’s almost like being in love!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

I was not in a great space after the 2024 presidential election.

I was in a worse space after the inauguration on January 20th.

Like most of my friends we all coped in different ways. I turned to alcohol and reading.

I kid, I kid. I’d already turned to alcohol.

The one thing I did do, was not look at my phone before bed. I limit my social media access to the 30 or so minutes that Adam takes to shower before bed. Once I’m in bed, I’ve gone back to reading fiction. I’m almost to the end of my 6th book since then.

Not as impressive as my friends who read 6 novels in a month. But I only get about 30 minutes before bed each night. The books are as varied as you can imagine. Gay love stories. Award winning fiction. Best sellers. Historical fiction.

All of this leads me to last night.

I’m currently re-reading Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone. It’s a disturbing book on many levels but I’m enjoying it again after reading it 20 or so years ago.

Last night the main character Deloris, is taking an English class at a community college. They are given a writing prompt to write about a daily activity that brings them pleasure.

I read the sentence. And stopped and thought to myself, what daily activity brings me pleasure. In fact I didn’t go back to reading till I made a decision.

For me it’s doing the dishes.

It’s not that I enjoy it. What I do enjoy, is that it brings Adam joy.

When we are home together, Adam almost always makes dinner.

It’s a several hour project. He cuts and chops. He bakes desserts. He preps for other projects.

It usually starts with a cocktail, and I cue up NBC nightly news. Then Wheel of Fortune. Then Jeopardy. Then I move to my computer to write. He piddles in the kitchen enjoying the process.

He uses all the pots and pans. All the measuring cups. He uses all the cutting boards and knives.

Around 10:00 he’ll announce “Five minutes.”

This is my cue to set the coffee table with cloth napkins and silverware. I get the wine glasses. Open the wine and pour. We toast and then he plates dinner, on par with a Michelin starred restaurant. The garnishes, the plating, all spectacular.

Then we head to the living room, cue up whatever show we are watching and before either of us takes a bite we toast and say we love each other.

This is our ritual.

We finish eating, sometimes finish our show, before Adam falls asleep on the couch.

I quietly get up and head to the kitchen, to do the dishes.

It never takes long, even though sometimes it’s a mess.

I get everything into the dishwasher that can go in it. I handwash the rest. I scrub down the counters and clean the stove top.

30 minutes to an hour later, I’m sitting back on the couch with a cat in my lap, a night cap on the tables, and I get to watch what I want for an hour.

60 minutes later, I tap him on the leg and tell him it’s time for bed. He’ll stir and come down to myside of the couch and sleep on my shoulder for another 20 minutes or so.

Eventually he gets up.

He goes to the kitchen and always calls out “Thanks for cleaning up, babe.”

It always makes me smile.

After almost 17 years I never mind.

Last week I even cleaned up for a dinner party that he had with friends that I didn’t attend.

Washing dishes, is the one task I do that gives me pleasure, because it makes Adam happy.

I got the horse right here!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

From 1st grade to 5th grade, my stepfather, worked for my aunt and uncle on their horse farm.

We lived in a trailer they owned at the front of the property, and then moved to a modest house, two lots up when I was in second grade. I have no idea what my father thought of the situation. As a kid, it was perfect.

My Aunt Birdie and Uncle Conley owned the horse farm that most of our little neighborhood, Paynes Depot, bordered on. 80+ acres of farmland, if I remember correctly. They raised tobacco and thoroughbred horses, As a kid, I couldn’t have picked a better place to live.

Their farm, provided hours of exploration on our bikes in fourth and fifth grade, including their tobacco barn, which we’d been told was haunted. Even better their house had a pool and a trampoline. What more could a little kid want. In the summer, we spent so many days at their house. Literally swimming all day, then we were told to jump on the trampoline to dry off, and then we’d get lunch. It seemed like this happened every day, but it probably wasn’t as often as I remember.

On the days it rained, sometimes, my aunt would still let us come up to their house and play. I’d play the barbies, in their playroom and I sit at the piano and pretend that I knew how to play. It was a dream as an 8 year old to learn to play the piano. I asked and asked and asked to for us to get a piano. We were offered one when I was in fourth grade, but my father wouldn’t pick it up.

Alas, I didn’t take lessons until I was in high school, a little late to be starting something like that.

The summer’s in Paynes Depot really were special.
As a 6 or 7 year old, I attended day camp for the girl scouts. My aunt was a girl scout leader and sleep away/day camp was held at the back of their farm. We’d ride our bikes back to the camp and do the crafts with the girls. I still remember making plaster molds of our hands.

We explored all over the place. The train tressle, just like in Stand By Me. The old house on the other side of the tracks that had clearly once been a stately home. I was amazed at the number of fireplaces in the house. We played in the creek, but were told to beware the snakes that were poisonous. (Yes, I know it’s venomous, but we were told they were poisonous). The hayloft, was also a special place, were you could disappear into play for hours at a time, regardless of how hot it had been.

My aunt’s farm had a Volkswagen beetle that was kind of junked near their horse barn, and my father caught me looking at the girlie magazine I found under the front seat once, when I was supposed to be helping get feed for the horses.

The days in Paynes Depot, were wonderful. The nights were another story that I’ll delve into another time.

All of this is brought up, by the photo I found tonight. I’m pretty sure I’ve posted it before, but my uncle raised and trained racehorses and the photo shows a race we attended that his horse won.

I remember this photo being taken clear as day.

It’s nice to be reminded of the good parts of my childhood.

I was in 2nd grade when this photo was taken.

That’s my mom with her arms on my shoulders. By Aunt Debbie to her left. And my Aunt Birdie and Uncle Conley are two places over. He as a hat, and she was a blue blouse.

Who knew they raced horses in the winter.\

I’m not getting married today.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

This is my last gay pride post.  

Gay pride.  Will we even be allowed on the streets next year?  Dramatic?  I certainly hope so.  

As ALL of you know, Adam and I go to NYC a lot.  

We see a lot of shows. 

And we revisit the city in which we met.  

This past April’s visit was special.  We used it to celebrate my 60th birthday.  

Goddamn am I old.  

On Monday when we got there, Adam mentioned that he wanted to walk up 5th Avenue to window shop, see Rockefeller Center, the windows etc.  He also wanted to stop at Louis Vitton for cologne.  One of his favorite fragrances is from there and he wanted to see if they had a travel size.  

On Tuesday, we did just that.  We took a cab to Macy’s were we wandered through the watch department.  I have a gift card for Macy’s that I’m supposed to use on a watch, but I saw nothing I like, or could afford.  

After that, we wandered over to 5th Avenue and walked north.  

We indeed passed all of the landmarks.  

At 57th street, we passed Tiffany’s and rounded the corner to Louise Vitton.  They did not have his travel size, but he did buy a another fragrance that he liked.  When we left, we rounded the corner to head south and he said, lets go in here:  Tiffany.  

We went in, and were asked what we were looking for.   He replied,  men’s rings?  

What?  

Full disclosure.  For the past 10 years, every time we went to NYC, I’d joke that we should stop in Tiffany for a ring.  It fell on deaf ears.  Every single time.  

Last fall, I confessed to Adam that I didn’t care if we got married, but I wanted a symbol I could wear that let me know what I was his boyfriend.

Unbeknownst to me, he’d actually listened.  

We went to the fourth floor.  Men’s wedding rings.  

We were greeted by a lovely man who asked what we were looking for, then were were introduced to a woman who would help us.  

We sat down and she began to show us our options.  In silver.  I did not want gold.  I wanted silver.  

Fun fact.  The entire fourth floor is dedicated to engagement rings.  And wedding rings.  

Only 6 of them are for men in silver.  

I tried several on.  

It was not a hard decision. 

Actually, the ring we liked the best had Tiffany and Co written on it, which we did not like.  

I settled on a platinum band.  Simple. 

The woman helping us, sized the ring, and found the one I needed.  She put it on my hand and it fit like a glove.  More on that later.  

The next thing we knew we were being served champagne and cookie.  This might have had something to do with me telling her that we were getting engaged.  

She also took a photo for us, wrapped up everything in Tiffany blue packaging and sent us on our way. 

I’d told Adam that I wouldn’t wear the ring until he officially gave it to me.  

Fast forward to Friday night.  We saw The Picture of Dorian Gray.  90 minutes, and had reservations at Pastis, one of our favorite late night restaurants.  We got there early, and our table wasn’t ready.  

We walked across the street to a park to wait.  It was fun to people watch and reminisce about what the meat packing district had been when we both moved there.  It really was about meat packing for the gay community.  

We finally got a text and our table was ready.  We got back to the restaurant, and were seated at the absolutely worst table in the restaurant.  Seriously.  The worst.  

We had dinner, joking about how bad the table was.  

After dinner, we planned to walk back to our apartment.  I had to pee, but did not want to walk back down the stairs.  

As we left, Adam kept saying, we need to walk across the street.  I said no.  He said yes.  In our relationship, he wins.  

We walked across the street and sat down on a big rock.  He started to speak about us, our relationship etc.  Then he pulled out the tiffany box, opened it, and put the ring on my finger. 

I was almost moved to tears.  We kissed.   

Just then a couple walked by and I asked her to take out photo.  Turns out is was a lesbian couple who had just gotten married.  

The took our photo.  

Adam and I hugged and kissed and walked home.

By the time we got home, I realize the ring was too big.  My fingers had been swollen from the humidity when we bought it.  

The next day, we went back and traded it for a size smaller.  

I’ve worn it every day since.  

Are we married, no.  

Are we engaged?  Yes.  Although I did call him my fiancée and he told me to calm down, thus the reason for the two month delay in telling all of you.

But I wear my ring proudly every day.  And we are in the very beginning stages of figuring out what a wedding would look like.  

I’ll keep you posted. 

People will say we’re in love.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I didn’t mean to drop off the face of the earth. This past week, I spent 6 days in the theater designing lighting and directing my friends in their drag king show. It was a wonderful way to spend the week.

This is my next to last gay pride month post.

It’s the story of how Adam and I came to be.

We met on a cold January day. He approached me while I was browsing at Barnes and Noble in Union Square in New York City. His friend Jon worked there, and he’d stopped in to say hello. It was January 5, 2009, and I just happened to be looking at journals in that section of the store. I turned and bumped into him, not realizing he was behind me.

I said excuse me, and went back to browsing. For some reason he decided my excuse me wasn’t enough. He wanted to know more, so he quietly asked what I was browsing for. I admitted that I didn’t know. I was actually just wasting time until the movie started at the theater down the street. The conversation lasted about 5 minutes and he asked if he could get my number. I laughed. He asked why I was laughing and I assured him that if I gave him my number, I’d never respond. He insisted. I finally gave him my number and he entered it into his phone. He told me he’d look forward to chatting with me, touched me on the arm and walked away.

I was moved by the entire exchange.

Funny the things you remember.

About 90 minutes later a guy named John, also asked me for my number. I told him the same thing I’d told Adam. I’ll give you my number, but I’m not looking for anything, and won’t respond. He said sure you will, entered my phone number into his phone and walked away.

They both texted a three days later. About four hours apart.

Adam texted and asked me to join him for brunch on Sunday.

John texted a photo of his penis. It was a very nice penis I must say, but penises in New York City are a dime a dozen. It was brunch that intrigued me.

I still don’t know why I said yes. I was adamant that I wasn’t looking for anything, and wanted no part of a relationship.

Adam and I texted back and forth for a couple of days and finally connected at 1:00 on Saturday afternoon. He called and we chatted. There was an ease that existed in our conversation, and the exchange flowed between us. We were winding down when he said I have something to tell you. Uh. Oh. He has a boyfriend. He’s moving next week. He’s a criminal.

Instead, he said, I need you to know that I’m HIV positive.

I wait.

What’s the news he’s going to break to me?

There is silence.

I ask him if there is more.

He says no, but I want you to know he was HIV positive before we go further.

I laughed. I seriously laughed. Out loud.

I thought it was going to be something bad. Like he’s wanted by the FBI. His father’s a gangster. His ex-boyfriend is crazy and is trying to kill him. That he has three kids from a marriage in his 20’s.

He asked why I was laughing.

I assured him that I didn’t care. I hadn’t care with the other guys I’d dated who were HIV positive. I certainly didn’t care with him.

He asked if I was sure?

I laughed again and assured him that as long as he’s not wanted by the FBI, I’d meet him for brunch.

We met the next day at 12:30 for Sunday brunch. We lived a few blocks from each other in Inwood, the northernmost part of Manhattan. I didn’t have to ride the subway or take a cab. I walked the 10 blocks to the restaurant, and of course I got the street wrong. He called to see if I was still coming and I told him I’d changed my mind. I could hear the disappointment in his voice when I said, I’m kidding, I’m just kidding! I’m just down the street. Sorry I’m late. I got the address wrong. Give me five.

He laughed and told me he liked a man with a sense of humor.

I entered the restaurant and he was seated in the middle of a bank of 2-tops. He stood to welcome me. We hug. I realize that he is taller than I remember. Much taller. I say, “Oh my, you are tall.”

We sit. I stare at the menu. We begin the awkward stages of a first date. Where are you from? Where do you live? Where do you work? What do you do for fun?

We order. I learn after we order that he doesn’t like eggs. Especially the yokes. I laugh again saying that brunch was a weird choice if you don’t like eggs.

The couple next to us, have realized that we are on a first date, and are listening closely.

Surprisingly the conversation flows. There aren’t gaps or pauses as we search for something to say. We wrap up brunch. He pays, and asks me back to his place.

We walk, in the cold, casually talking about our lives. I can see his breath, as we continue our conversation, shoulder to shoulder.

We get to his apartment, and it’s NICE. Very nice. Everything in its place. Big for someone who lives alone in NYC. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. What the fuck? He has two bathrooms? Can I move in now?

We got settled on the couch, him on the chaise, me at the other end. We talk. About our love of theater. Our love of food. Our love of NYC. Where we grew up. Our parents. Our siblings. We discover that we are both from the south. Me from Kentucky, him from Texas. We learn a lot about each other.

Eventually he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

We lie on the bed. Still dressed.

Funny, the Adam, that I would grow to love, would never get into bed fully clothed. To even come near the bed, you need to be freshly showered, and clean, clean, clean.

We lie on top of the comforter and hold each other for a bit whispering to each other. Then I turn over and become the little spoon. He hugs me as we lie there breathing, feeling the closeness of each other. It doesn’t take long before we are both asleep.

I wake up. It’s dark. I am aware that I’m in a strange room. There is an arm draped over my chest.

I look at my watch.

It’s 7:00.

How the fuck did that happen?

I can feel him breathing. In. Out. Gentle sighs. The same sighs that would eventually lull me to sleep every night for 17 years.

I shift and he stirs. I realize he is awake now.

We lie there with him holding me. Finally, he asks if I’m hungry.

I confess that I’m starving. We get up. It’s been a wonderful afternoon and I am happy that it’s not over. We walk to Piper’s Kilt, the Irish pub up the street from his apartment. He loves their cheeseburgers. We hold gloved hands as we walk.

It’s the first time I’ve held hands with someone in public.

I realize that I don’t much care what people think.

We get seats, have two cheeseburgers and around 9:30 we pay the check.

We sit looking at each other knowing the day is coming to an end. We get up and go outside.

It’s much colder now. The wind is blowing and it’s starting to snow, just the tiniest bit. We stand on the street chatting. I tell him I have to get home, but that I hope that we can do this again.

He hugs me. I hug him back. We hold each other for a moment. He leans down and kisses me. I kiss him back. We hug one last time and I turn and walk away.

I take about 20 steps, stop and look back. He is standing on the street watching me. I wave. We look at each other for about 10 seconds and then we both turn.

I walked home in the snow.

Stay little Valentine stay. Each day is Valentine’s day

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s 2009.  I’ve met a wonderful guy named Adam.  

He’s surprised that I’ve never actually told my mother or my family for that matter, that I was gay.  

I explain that it’s because she doesn’t really ask about my life.  

She couldn’t tell you one class I took in high school.  College.  Grad School.  

She didn’t know what I did when I worked at my corporate job.  She barely knows what I do now and I’m a waiter.  

It’s a week before Valentine’s Day and he says to me, that he’ll cook me dinner BUT only if I tell my mom about him and make sure she knows that it’s not just a friend, but a boyfriend.  

What’s funny is that I’ve never kept it a secret.  I’ve lived in one-bedroom houses with a boyfriend, and had the family over for dinner.  She’s met so many friends of mine who were super gay.  I never hid the Advocate magazine, or taken the rainbow postcard off my fridge. 

I’ve just never bothered to say the words, or invite them in to my private life.  Seriously.  Because most of my family didn’t like me.  And the ones that did never questioned me.  

It didn’t take much thought to know what I had to do.  

I was standing on the corner of 49th Street and 8th Avenue, on a winter night, when I said to my mother, I have a date on Saturday night.  His name is Adam, and I think I like him. 

She was not surprised.  She was not outraged.  She was not angry.  

We talked a few more minutes; I told her I loved her and we hung up.  

I was 44 and after being out of the closet for 22 years, I’d finally told my mother I was gay.  I have no idea what she thought.  I had no idea if she cried when she got off the phone.  

What I do know, is that for the following 9 years, she never, ever, ever, ever asked about Adam first.  I’d bring him up and she’d engage.  He’d say to tell her he said hello, and she’d say hello back.  But she never, ever, ever asked about him first.  And if I didn’t bring him up, she never mentioned him.  All the way till the day she died, she was never interested in my personal life.