life

Stuck all week on a lady’s lap, nothing to do but yawn and nap. Can you blame me if I yap?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Family pets.  

We all have them.  Most of us grew up with them.  

A few people I know had sociopaths for parents and weren’t allowed to love an animal.  Not even a hamster. 

In my childhood, we had many pets.  Pedro is the first pet I can truly remember, although I know he was not the first.  He was a tiny, tiny chihuahua.   He loved my mother unconditionally.  And he would lose his mind when my Aunt Debbie, would tell my little brother to cry.  Something she enjoyed doing.  He would cry, and Pedro would get mad.  

As is with the case of a lot of chihuahuas, Pedro could also be mean.  If he didn’t like you, he had no use for you.  I don’t know that he ever bit anyone, but he certainly tried. 

The first real tragedy of my childhood, was sitting on the front steps of my house in Paynes Depot, Kentucky and watching a car squish our little 5-pound Pedro.  My Aunt pulled him from the road, and I stood next to her watching him die.  

Now you might ask, why was little Pedro in the road, well I wish I could tell you.  But I can’t.  I do know that I cried for several days.  

Cindy came next.  

I remember this perfectly well.  

I yelled at my mother that Pedro was fighting with the dog next door.  He belonged to my aunt and uncle.  What I didn’t realize till later was that they weren’t fighting.  My mom tossed water on them to “break” it up.  

We got puppies for Thanksgiving.   

We got Cindy.  My Aunt Doo got Toji, and I’m not sure what happened to the others.  

Cindy was special.  She loved us all, but once again, was attached to my mom.  She lived until she was 17 or so.  She was euthanized while I was at college, and my parents didn’t tell me until I came home for Christmas.  Of course, by that time, she was mostly blind, had no teeth, and had long stopped going outside for bathroom breaks.  

When I was in sixth grade we got Fiesty.  She was Cindy’s puppy and I have no idea who the father was.  She was the runt of the litter.  Hyper and funny.  And sweet as could be.  She also lived a nice long life.  

That was not true of all of our pets.  

When I was in first grade we had a white dog.  I don’t remember his name.  I’m not even sure he was a he.  I don’t remember a lot about him at all.  

What I do remember, is that it was summer, and I was spending the day with my stepfather, on the horse farm he worked on.  

It was a beautiful day.  The sun was shining.  The sky was blue.  We took his blue VW Beetle up the hill to go to work.  When we left, the dog was running around in the field next to our trailer, tied to the fence.  

Fast forward about four hours.  We take the tractor and wagon, down the hill to the trailer we lived in.  

I saw it first.  The dog wasn’t running anymore.  He was hanging from the fence post.  He had jumped over the fence and when he did so, the chain caught on the fence.  He’d been strangled to death.  

My stepfather, never said a word.  We went into the house and had lunch.  And when we finished lunch, we went back to the tractor and wagon.  I sat there and watched has he unhooked the chain and then tossed the dog on the back of the wagon.  

Without speaking, we drove to the back of the 80-acre farm and he tossed the dog onto a rock wall.  It was unceremonious.  It was not spoken of.  He just tossed the dog on the wall and we drove away.  

I’ve thought about that day a lot over the years.  What I was supposed to to think?   Would I do the same thing as an adult.  

What I do know is the dog deserved better.  I deserved better.  

And that’s not even the worst of the pet stories.  

Oh, Holy Night.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

Christmas.

Tis the season.

I’m a non-believer.

But I subscribe to all things Christmas.

I love the weather. The gift giving. The cheer. The scary ghost stories.

Especially, the music.

Although Hard Candy Christmas is NOT a Christmas song. Neither is Halleluiah.

I even love the origin story. The belief in a world that can be better than the one we live in.

That if we put our faith in something bigger than ourselves, we can make a difference.

Long after I stopped believing in the end result, when I was in Kentucky, I’d go to Christmas Eve church services. It was the church my mom and her sisters had gone to on Russell Cave Road just outside Lexington. It was a small church that was quaint and beautiful.

It was called Old Union Christian Church and I don’t know much about its history, other the fact that they celebrated their 200th anniversary in 2023, and they’ll celebrater the 100th anniversary of being in their current building in 2027.

I also don’t know much about their beliefs. For example, if they hate gays or not. I only went for the Christmas Eve event.

It was very sweet. The service was at midnight. And the church was lit only by candle light. It was breathtaking to step in from the frigid December air into the warmth of a room only lit by flame. It was quiet. It was serene. And it invited the participants to get lost in the beauty of the night.

At midnight, on the nose, the young minister, would step out of the back and begin the service. He told the story of Christ’s birth, with the congregation supplying the narrative through song to expand on the story. Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Away in a Manager. Silent Night. By 12:45 we had welcomed the birth of the baby Jesus and we were on our way.

I attended this service many times until I stopped coming home for Christmas.

It was beautiful, every time.

The last time I went was the most memorable.

I was sitting in the back, minding my own business and the service started. Behind me were several teenagers who were obviously there at their parent’s instance. They wouldn’t stop talking. Finally, I turned around and said, “I didn’t come here to listen to you all bitch about being here.”

They immediately stopped talking. I went back to the service.

After it was over, I quickly headed toward my car.

A man rushed toward me, as I was opening my rental car door. I was taken aback not knowing what to expect. He asked me if I was the person who yelled at his kids during church.

I wasn’t backing down and said yes.

He stuck out his hand and said, “I want to apologize. My kids know better and they’ll get a talking to at home. We are all here for the same reason, and I’m sorry they interrupted you.”

I thanked him for saying so. I assured him it was okay, and to remember it was Christmas and not to be too upset at his kids.

I got in my car and drove home.

I just looked at Old Union’s Facebook page and it doesn’t appear that they still do the midnight service. But I can assure you, that if they do, and I find myself at home in Kentucky on Christmas Eve again, Adam and I will be going.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

On the 12th day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Growing up poor is an adventure in restraint.  Especially, when you are a child who’s wiser than his years, and knows that his parents struggle financially.  I learned at a very early age, to hide my disappointment when I didn’t get exactly what I wanted.  If I got it at all.  

Brands that were off.  Colors that were wrong.  The K-Mart version rather than the name brand version. 

To be fair, sometimes I’d be surprised and get exactly what I wanted.  The year we got our pong game, followed a few years later by an Atari console.  These were great years.  

Still, I learned to feign excitement.  I learned to smile through the disappointment.  

It’s a great gift to have learned as a child that is very useful as an adult.  Smiling through the disappointment when the bonus is less than you thought it would be.  When the role you auditioned for was not the one you got.  When your boyfriend buys tickets to the musical you want to see, but buys partial view tickets to save money.  

Or.  

In the mid 90’s I moved to NYC.  My mother asked what I wanted for Christmas.  And by then I’d learned to set the bar low, and to be very specific.  I really didn’t need anything so I asked for white bath towels.  

Easy right?  

The reason I mention that I was living in NYC, was that I was living on my own and only needed a couple of towels.  

The catch was, that anyone who was going to buy me a present that year for Christmas asked my mom what they should get me.  And she replied every time, white bath towels.  

And Christmas comes, and I go home, and we gather on Christmas morning to open gifts.  My cousins pass out the gifts.  I had more packages than I thought I would.  

We are a go around and open one gift at a time family, so the opening commenced.  I open my first gift and it’s a white bath towel.  The opening continues and it gets back to me.  

It’s a white bath towel. 

And this goes on for several rounds.  When it’s all said and done, I think I have seven or eight towels.  Nothing else.  Just towels.  

And I think to myself,  I got what I asked for, but what does a single man going to do with 8 white bath towels.  Plus, I live in NYC, I have one closet, that’s the size of a shoe box.  

I’m very grateful, and not disappointed at all.  I didn’t really need anything and I got what I asked for.  

But wait.  It’s gets better.  

Fast forward 365 days. 

Christmas is here again.  I’ve flown home and am about to start opening gifts again.  They get to me, and what would you know, the first package contains white bath towels.  Two more circles around and now I’m up to 6 more white bath towels.  

When I got back to NYC I had enough towels to open a hotel.  

But wait.  

Yes, the following year, I got two more white bath towels.  

After we opened gifts that year, I said to my mom, “Please for the love of god, can I NOT get bath towels again next year.”  

And I didn’t.  

Soon after, we stopped exchanging gifts, but I’m pretty sure I still had these same towels when I moved in with Adam.  

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.  

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!!!

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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.

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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. 

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.