merry christmas

Well, it's really Kawanza. But we're in the 12 days of Christmas. So it counts.

For the first time in the 5 years there were NO house projects being finished on Christmas Eve. None. Zilch. The house was even cleaned the day before family came.

The last 5 years, there's been wet paint on at least one wall when family showed up. This year I actually got to relax... to a point.

This was Dustin's family's Christmas. And as much as his mom grates on me (don't all mother-in-laws?) we had a good time. They don't do the traditional meal that most folks (my family included) do. They opt for chili and nachos and more sweets than you can shake a stick at. And this year they added a chocolate fountain that kept tripping our breakers. I've never seen a chocolate fountain. And I never need to see one again. I prefer dark chocolate and these fountains apparently need oily milk chocolate to work. Of the 4 lbs of chocolate that got put in the fountain, about 3.5 went down the drain at the end of the night.

It was a pretty simple year for gifts. I gave Dustin some green glassware that I dislike but he's been oggling for a while. Dustin gave me a cashmere sweater and some new 501s.

And it helped that the 10 inches of snow (which the weather channel reported as a three inch total) made for the first white Christmas in a long time.

We're off to St. Louis a little earlier than planned tomorrow. Mom's hip popped out of socket on Christmas Day. No cutting needed. Apparently a swift kick popped it back in. But mom's gonna need some help.

sing-a-long

I post this for the benefit of my loyal readers.

The latest poll shows that most of my readers are well-educated and well-informed citizens. I, therefore, find it prudent to share with you this report:

Festive Seasonal Greetings
from the
Senate Committee on the Judiciary
for the Ethical Rules and Standards
of
Non-Denominational Festive Seasonal Melodies.

In light of standards set forth by the committee on all-inclusive anti-segregative celebrations; It has been deemed necessary and vital by this committee that all tunes and melodies having to do with this so-called "Holiday" season should be reviewed and revised as so not to offend or discriminate against any individual either living or dead. And so follows the Committee's first act in revisions of titles of these festive tunes:

1. Oh Come All Ye Faithful
-Move hitherto the entire assembly of those who are loyal in their belief.

2. Hark the Herald Angels Sing
-Listen, the celestial messengers produce harmonious sounds

3. Silent Night
-Nocturnal time span of unbroken quietness.

4. Joy To The World
-An emotion excited by the acquisition or expectation of good given to the terrestrial sphere

5. Deck the Halls
-Embellish the interior passageways

6. Angels We Have Heard on High
-Exalted heavenly beings to whom we have hearkened.

7. It Came Upon a Midnight Clear
-Twelve o'clock on a clement night witnessed its arrival.

8. The First Noel
-The mass of the Christian religion preceding all others.

9. Oh Little Town of Bethlehem
-Small municipality in Judea southeast of Jerusalem

10. Little Drummer Boy
-Diminutive masculine master of skin-covered percussionistic cylinders.

11. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
-Omnipotent Supreme Being who elicits respite to ecstatic distinguished males.

12. Peach on Earth
-Tranquility upon the terrestrial sphere.

13. Frosty The Snowman
-Obese personification fabricated of compressed mounds of minute crystals formed from a bond of frozen hydrogen and oxygen.

14. Santa Claus is Coming to Town
-Expectation of arrival to populated area by mythical, masculine perennial gift-giver.

15. White Christmas
-Natal celebration devoid of color

16. Oh, Holy Night
-In awe of the nocturnal time span characterized by religiosity.

17. Winter Wonderland
-Geographic state of fantasy during the season of Mother Nature’s dormancy

18. We Three Kings
-The first person nominative plural of a triumvirate of far eastern heads of state.

19. Jingle Bells
-Tintinnabulation of vacillating pendulums in inverted, metallic, resonant cups

20. Away in a Manger
-In a distant location the existence of an improvised unit of newborn children’s slumber furniture

21. Go Tell it on the Mountain
-Proceed forth declaring upon a specific geological alpine formation

22. We Wish You a Merry Christmas
-Jovial yuletide desired for the second person singular or plural by us

23. Good King Wenceslas
-Benevolent central European regal male

24. I'll Be Home for Christmas
-Expectation of being present in domicile contemporaneous with observation of seasonal milestones

25. Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer
-Genus Rangifer Quadruped with Crimson Proboscis

26. What Child is This?
-Please identify the specific offspring

27. Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire
-Coetaneous-colored tree seeds exsiccated in a conflagration

28. I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus
-First person singular apprehending the maternal parent osculating with a corpulent unshaven male in crimson disguise.

must be santa

The whole "Santa at the mall" is just sad. And scary.

Santa needs to stay where he belongs. In our imagination.

What's worse, though, than the actual santa in that faux gold chair in the middle of commercialism's shrine known as the mall are the parents who force their children onto the lap of the poor sap who needed the extra dough.

Parents are constantly telling their children to avoid strangers. And though every child hopes to meet Santa, even in those early years they know that the man in the mall ain't the real deal and he is, just like the creepy guy in the trench on the corner, a "danger stranger."

family ties

We got the call Wednesday that company was on their way.

And that they would be staying. Indefinitely.

Six hours of obsessive cleaning and de-gaying later (for his family, not mine.) they arrived.

To make a long story short, over the last five days we have, at various times, had 10+ people staying in our house. And though we have 2700 sq ft to play in, it's hard to get away from the romping feet of 2 and 3 year olds in a house where the builder deemed it excessive to place insulation between the floor joists.

But tonight they're gone, the house is quiet again. And the dildos are back in their places of prominence around the house. (kidding. just the nudie coffee table books are back.)

And to further get you in the mood, here's my favorite youtube video of all time. I know you've seen it. But it's everything I love. Festive but not cliche. Over-the-top, but not *too* over the top. And synced to music. And I love anything, *anything* synced to music.

joys and blessings

The joys and blessings of having 20 full-sized trees on a city-sized lot.

Joys:
1. Lots of shade in the summer
2. They're pretty.

Blessings:
1. Great exercise picking up the numerous twigs and branches it drops all summer long so it doesn't chew up the lawn mower.

2. Grass won't grow. (That so-called "shade grass seed" they sell? Bull.) So I don't have much mowing.

3. Birds love the trees. And the piles and piles shit they drop would be great fertilizer... if grass would grow. But it really spices up the color of an otherwise gray and bland driveway.

4. The huge pile of leaves you rake up is great for the neighborhood kids to jump in, kick around and respread (because you ran out of daylight before you could carry it away because what you thought would take a couple hours turned into 6 hours of raking) thus giving you twice the exercise because you have to re-rake.

5. The ice is so pretty on the branches. Even when they're laying all over the yard and driveway because you didn't heed the warning of a neighbor who said that most of the trees were diseased and need to be either seriously trimmed or cut down because you liked the shade and cutting down the trees would be unthinkable.

6. And more exercise because ice laden branches weight a whole lot more than non-ice laden branches as you haul them out of the driveway. But the exercise is good because it warms the body and you need that warmth because the power has been out for a while and though you have a fireplace, the cheap ass contractor who built your house put in a very non-efficient fireplace that sends most of the heat up the chimney and it really only warms about 10 sq ft of a 2700 sq ft house.

Otherwise we're in good spirits. The power is back on today. We spent the evening at a friends, drinking wine and crying over "Steel Magnolias."

My mantra: "I love the trees, they add beauty and value. I love the trees, they add beauty and value. I love the trees, they add beauty and value."

christ on a cross, kathleen

One week in and I'm still decorating. I honestly don't remember it ever taking this long. And I didn't even buy anything new this year! (OK, save some extra ornaments for the tree.)

But this year I know I'm being more meticulous and anal about things. Especially the 12-foot-holy-lord-that's-big artificial tree. In years past I didn't care about the back of the tree. Until I stepped outside and realized the back faced a large window. And it was obvious that not only was I a lazy gay for not considering the aesthetic sensibilities of passers-by but I was also a cheap gay for not buying enough ornaments to cover that part of the tree.

Well, the cheap part is right. The whole darn tree is decorated with plastic (read: non-breakable-just-throw-in-a-bag-when-you're-done) ornaments from Wal-mart that I bought after Christmas at 70% off. Which comes out pretty cheap when you can buy 5 ornaments for 95 cents at regular price.

So last year I stocked up on enough ornaments for the whole darn thing.

OK. Now to the question I was asked: "um, aren't you a fuckin' proud gay atheist? What's with the Christmas hoo-ha?"

Asked by a straight person.

Because no gay man would ever ask that.

See, gay men are all about the pageantry. The show. The 'magic'.

And I'm no different. So I don't call it Christmas decorations. It's "Festive Non-denominational Seasonal Shrubbery."

Plus, though I don't buy into the whole virgin birth thing (come on, folks. We all know Mary was a whore.) I do like the idea of giving and gathering. And all those twinkling lights help stave off the seasonal affective disorder just a little.

And though I usually don't believe a word of them, I'm a sucker for Christmas Carols. I don't deny that Christianity has inspired more than one hummable tune. And Christmas Carols rank up there.

Back to the house though.

I've been complaining that "I just want to be done with everything." This also includes raking the leaves from our 15+ full-sized trees and mowing a lawn that hadn't been touched since I started all this. And while the decorations are almost done and the yard needs one more once-over, I still think, "I just want to wake up and not have ANYTHING to do."

Then, while perusing the web, I find these folks. And I don't feel so bad.

THAT is some serious renovation. I could never do it unless I was single. And I wouldn't be doing it how they're doing it. I'd be ripping out all those walls and replacing them before you could say "historic preservation."

And some folks, who are spending tons of money, just aren't spending it the way I would spent it.

Like this guy. Those beautiful, brand-new craftsman style cabinets. Topped by a bathroom floor when it needed marble.

Sidenote: About the worst thing for a vocal music teacher is losing the voice. Mine's not gone, but it's getting there. All this left-over snot drainage, (I know, lovely picture.) is reeking havoc on my voice. When I tried to sing yesterday what came out can only be described as sounding like a cross between a donkey and a boy who's just hit puberty.

So it's video day in Mr. Hart's class.

it's all done

sort of.

During my last two week hiatus, I've had three evening concerts, two evening rehearsals, one thanksgiving dinner, and one bout with the flu.

But, thank the gods, the house is done.

Well, at least done to the point that I'm OK with it. The last big project will be tiling the master bath, replacing the shower, vanity and vanity lights. But I'm out of gas and I can live with what we have for now. There's no more brass. So I'm OK.

Here's a recap of the last two weeks.

Since day one in the house, I've had issues with the lighting fixtures and ceiling fans. All but two of them had been replaced. One was on the vaulted ceiling in the living room. It was a dusty brass relic. Most straight women would find no issue with it, besides being dirty.


But I hated the harsh, non-directed light it gave off. (the gays need soft light)

And since I couldn't reach that high, we hired it done. After getting estimates that ranged from $150-$500 (mind you, we already had the replacement fan. This was just install costs) and most of the guys saying it would take 4 hours, we settled on a $200 bid with a guy who told us it would take 2 hours. AND he could get it done before Thanksgiving.

While most folks have nothing but bad things to say about contractors, these folks were awesome. They showed up on time for every appointment and, sure as shit, came in this Wednesday afternoon. It didn't hurt that when the old man who gave the bid showed up to install it he came along with a cute 20-something guy.

After two hours, they said they were done. But when we flipped the switch, not all the new track lighting worked. So they spent another two hours fixing it.

But, get this, he still only charged $200.



While they were working on that, I was finishing up the master bedroom/bathroom paint job. It took more than a week because I didn't want to make us sleep on the couch. And, though I love it, I have regrets of buying solid cherry furniture whenever we have to move it.

Plus, the paint job was multiple steps.

1. clean the walls, remove old switches and outlets to replace.


2. Paint the wall color. Which was actually two steps because the first color I picked last March turned out a dark-purplish-eggplanty-this-will-depress-you-if-you-have-to-wake-up-to-this-every-dark-winter-morning color. So I went back and this soft grayish blue caught my eye. Cape Cod sprang to mind. And I loved the idea of waking up to Cape Cod.

3. Tape, then put two coats of primer on the woodwork. Followed by one coat of semi-gloss white.

This includes the double window, 3 doors, and a vanity.

4. Replace all hardware on doors and vanity (again, no pic)

5. Replace 80's throwback ceiling fan.


6. Tape the ceiling. Paint ceiling.

7. Touch up paint.

8. Enjoy my new favorite room.


The art is new. We framed some pictures I took in St. Louis a few years back. I took them on a cheap digital camera, never intending to do anything with them besides put them in a photo album. It was my wonderful husband who suggested we turn them to black and white, print them out and frame them.

Plus, it's the holiday weekend, so we got the frames for $10 each and the awesome girl at the store custom cut the mattes for $13... total. For five awesome original pieces it totaled to about $70. (Jake, you should be proud.)

Now I'm taking a break from the holiday decorating. It's at least a two day job.

I made a little montage you can see on youtube of what I did last year. It's all the same stuff, but different wall colors now and new fireplace.

Here's the link if you're bored.

On a sidenote: I started getting sick almost the moment I was done with all the painting and heading to  turkey day dinner on Wednesday. We were supposed to go to St. Louis for my family's Thanksgiving on Thursday. But five hours in a car while running a fever didn't bode well for either of us.

Count this year as one of only two Thanksgivings I've missed with the family.

And the first I've never decorated mom's house. Since I was in Junior High I've been mom's Christmas Elf. (some may argue Christmas Fairy.) I had it down to a science of how the exterior lights would be wired and plugged in so you wouldn't see any cords during the day.

I realized while on the phone with my sister who was trying to hang them that I'm not very good at explaining how things are done. Which is probably why I like to do things myself. That way I don't have to explain it.

Language laziness. It's a problem. It means I'm going to be a mean old man who gets frustrated when the young'ns don't understand me.

Love!

living life

Hard to believe it, but it's been 19 years, today, that I've been off of chemo for Leukemia.

Today, November 14, is my Life Day.

It's bigger than my birthday. Because today is the day that my family and I were told that, after three years, the cancer was gone and the chemo done.

Of course it was a good thing. But it definitely changed my life after that point. For three years I hadn't been a "normal" kid. Well, my friends and family would argue that I was never a "normal" kid. (can any little gay boy fit the mold?)

Sure I probably would still have done the artsy stuff like sing in the children's choir and play violin.

But being told, at age 7, that you might not live forces you to grow up. Really fast.

It doesn't help that in a matter of months I went from looking like this


to this


When I was thrown back into the world of regular 5th grade, I couldn't make it work. I didn't think I was better than the other kids. I definitely wasn't any smarter than them. But I didn't like the same things they liked and they didn't get my humor.

At all.

Not until my freshman year did my classmates (especially the girls) start to appreciate the full benefits of having a witty gay friend. (they knew it. I didn't.)

But to this day, one of the few things I regret is that I didn't get to be a kid when I was a kid. I can't blame the cancer. It was more my choice. I didn't want to act like the other kids.

Strange how things work. Growing up, all I wanted to do was hang out with adults. And now I spend my days with kids.

Again, my choice. But this time, it's a good choice.

I get to share my biggest passion every day with kids and hopefully show some of those gay little kids that it's OK to be a kid AND appreciate things like Mozart.

slow week

That title is not entirely true.

What is true is that it was a slow week in home improvement.

After 12 hour days at work on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and after spending every free moment on Wednesday making 1380 copies for a meeting that afternoon thus missing lunch and then grabbing a chicken sandwich at McDonald's on my way to Parent/Teacher conferences that evening, I do believe I either got food poisoning or over-stressed.

Either way, I was running fever and slept most of Thursday. And after nearly 30 hours of sleep, I was alive and at'em on Friday, which I had off anyway.

So in one day... yes, *one* day, I finished the kitchen project.

The kitchen has been slow and ongoing for two years. Slowly, the cabinet handles got replaced, the cabinet hinges got replaced, the window treatments got replaced, the faucet got replaced, and the stove hood got replaced. The first and, ironically, last thing to get done in the kitchen was the painting. We painted over the 15 y/o contractors paint as soon as we moved in. We did a messy job, but it was right before Christmas and we didn't have time to touch-up.

Two years later, I finally touched it up. I replaced the tacky looking plexiglass splatter guard behind the stove with tile and installed undercabinet lighting.

My dear mom was smart enough to snap a picture of the kitchen the day we moved in.

[ALL PICTURES FROM THIS PROJECT HAVE BEEN LOST.  YOU'LL HAVE TO USE YOUR IMAGINATION]

And here it is today.


Stove before


Stove after


I had fully planned on working on the painting of the master bedroom/bathroom. I know it's just painting, but I keep putting it off.

However, I am proud to say that the dining room table is clear. And not because we hid everything in the garage. But because all the projects that we bought stuff for back in March and put on that table thinking it would take a couple weeks, is done.

And they didn't take two weeks. They took nearly two months.

My biggest lesson: However long you think your project is going to take, multiply by 3.

only two weeks

Unlike the month it took for my last project, this one only took two weeks.


You can see from the first picture, I tried to remove tiles the day before by chiseling them by hand. After two hours, I was crouched over the tile, sweating buckets, bleeding from all the porcelain shards and about to throw a chisel at someone. Two hours. 12 tiles removed.

Dustin replied, "Why didn't you just get a small jackhammer?" (technically called a demolition hammer.)

But I knew that if I had gone and rented one, he would have been pissed and wondered why I didn't do it by hand and save the money. I knew he'd have to see the blood and sweat to let me rent one.

So, the next day, I rented one. And got the rest of the tile off the entry and fireplace in less than an hour.


I wasn't surprised when I found that the builders had just tiled onto the drywall around the fireplace (a no-no) and just onto a wooden underlayment called luan on the floors.

So the Luan had to come up. The 200 or so staples that didn't come up with it got hammered down.



Put in new concrete backerboard.



I had in my mind what I wanted for the entryway. Something Roman looking. And after 50+ tile cuts, I got pretty close.

Here they are laid out just before laying in mortar.


The tumbled marble interior frame.


What I didn't take pictures of was laying the tile in mortar and then grouting it. See, in between all this, we hosted a game night. So the whole project came to a halt while we cleaned house.

But my next step was doing something with the fireplace.

The room it's in is huge. It has a 20 foot vault. And then this tiny fireplace.

Though I wanted to do a floor to ceiling stone fireplace, I just didn't have the $10,000 in my budget to do that.

I wanted to raise it somehow and had noticed that most fireplaces have this flat piece between the side columns and the mantel called a breast plate.

I looked at some fireplaces that I liked:

(but I hate that mosaic)

And this one:

But mine was going to be stained.

So I got to work building a breastplate. It's a flat piece of oak with 4 pieces of trim on it's edges. Here I am gluing the trim:


Then I stained an shellacked the new piece and shellacked the old pieces and laid them out to see how it all fits.

Here's my new breast plate:


200+ feet of blue tape and 8 hours later, the living room was painted and ready for the fireplace. But then I put it in and realized I need to shellac the rest of the wood work.

200+ MORE feet of blue tape and a couple hours later, the rest of the wood was shellacked and just a shade darker than it was.

and... VOILA! New living room:


New fireplace:


New entry:


Stove backsplash comes next.

newsworthy

If you didn't know, besides teaching, I also assist with two choirs of the Lawrence Children's choir. The touring choir and the youngest group of 1st-3rd graders called Cadenza.

Last week, the artistic director was out of town during the Cadenza rehearsal, so I was in charge of their rehearsal.

It also happened to be the day that the newpaper, the Lawrence Journal World came to do a short story on the group. And while lots of pictures were taken, and I was the one directing, I'm not even mentioned in the article.

But if you click on the sidebar picture (underthe advertisement, where it says "Cadenza Choir" you can see an hear lots o' pics of Mr. Hart directing the rehearsal.

Yea!

Here's that link again.

i'm coping

Over a month later and the hallway/half-bath/laundry room project is officially completed.

At the last minute, I decided to add that final finishing touch: Crown Moulding. Which, unofficially, added two weeks to the project.

While the floor, the main jist of this project, has been done for a while, it's all the details that have been killing me.

Things I've learned:
1. Test stain before you stain all the woodwork. The pictures on the can LIE.

2. Pine, though less expensive, will never match your oak woodwork.

3. Stripping woodwork of it's finish will drive you slightly nuts.

4. Trying to figure out how crown moulding works will drive you slightly nuts.

5. Removing ceramic tile will drive you slightly nutes.

OK, that last one pertains to the next project. But it's still a lesson learned since the last post.

I ended up scrapping all the old baseboards and the pine crown moulding I bought and bought all new. In oak.

Expensive lesson learned.

I've spent more time on the internet trying to figure out how to cut crown moulding the easy way than I actually spent cutting it. In the end, I discovered that the corners in my house are not square and my expensive compound mitre saw is worthless when the angles don't come to 90 degrees.

SO, after realizing that none of the corners in the hall and bathroom and laundry room crown moulding were going to meet (fixed with a bit of caulking and wood paste) I tried my hand at how the 'pros' cut crown: coping.

It's WAY too complicated to explain here. I felt like crying at times trying to figure out the math of a "compound angle." Suffice to say, it sucks doing it, but the end result doesn't require a puttied corner. Here's a basic picture of the complexity of what I was dealing with:


Here's a link to a video that explains it if you really care that much:
http://www.miterclamp.com/

And here's the link to the best page with the best info. Also the one that gave me the biggest headache:
http://www.altereagle.com/

OK. Onto the good stuff. Here's some pictures.

I don't have any real before pictures, so I snapped some pictures of other areas of the house that have the same finishes that I removed from the hall/laundry/half-bath.

[ALL PICTURES FROM THIS PROJECT HAVE BEEN LOST.  YOU'LL NEED TO USE YOUR IMAGINATION]

New floor, new threshold, new vent cover, new baseboard.

A further away view, showing what the Home Depot computer told me would be three coordinating colors between the Kithchen, Hall and Bath.


Also notice the shiny, new looking wood. The new base and crown made the old doors and trim look dowdy, so I shined them up with a fresh coat of Amber Shelak.

Crown Moulding and new light in the Hall:


Half bath: New mirror, new light, skimcoated walls, new faucet.


Half bath crown:


Laundry: Painted cabinets (took 5 coats to cover the stain... and yes, we used two coats of oil-based primer), new hardward, new baseboards.


Laundry crown:


All new switches:


All new hardware:


Oil-rubbed bronze, folks. It's the new brushed nickel.

And while I was crowning things, I decided to go ahead and do the dining room. These corners have no putty, because I did it the right way. I coped.

The clutter on the table is the plethora of ongoing projects. (see below.)

NOW: I'm ripping out the entry-way tile.


Ripping out the fireplace tile:


And going to replace the plexiglass sheet behind the stove with tile:


Can you all understand now why I haven't updated? Every fricken night I've been working trying to get it done before the holidays. I swear, I will not be painting on Christmas Eve this year.

projects aplenty

I'm the first to admit that I'm a stickler for details. Which is why so many projects get pushed to the sidelines. I know that a simple project is going to take far longer than the creation of the earth because I have to have it nearly perfect when it's done. (nearly, because even *I* know that I'm not ever going to be perfect.)

From the day we moved into this house nearly two years ago, I started renovating and redecorating. In my head.

The first thing we planned was to replace the 80's throwback faucet in the kitchen. We had actually planned to redo the whole kitchen, cabinets and all. While the cabinets are fine and most straight folks love love love seeing all oak woodwork in a house, it's all a bit, well, straight for me.

I wanted cherry cabinets.

But then we priced it, and that went out the window.

So I settled for replacing the tarnished brass hardware. In my head.

Then comes the painting.

The laundry room was a shiny, dark, lipstick red. The 1/2 bath was covered in a gaudy floral wall-paper. And the dining room was sunshine yellow. The kitchen and back hall, we discovered, had never been painted. The builder's "off-white" was still there, 13 years later.

That first winter we painted the kitchen right before Christmas. The paint was still drying when family showed up.

Last year, I tore the wall paper off the 1/2 bath. And with it, half the wall board underneath because someone didn't properly seal the walls before applying industrial strength adhesive to the paper. And, yes, I tried that little scoring thingy, soaking the paper, steaming the paper, praying with the paper.

So I had my first experience with skimcoating the entire 1/2 bath with a new layer of joint compound. The best comparison, (and I know this is gay) is frosting a cake. You always try to get it as smooth as possible, but you always end up with those riffs and plateaus. I figured in the case of the walls, I would have the benefit of being able to sand it then paint it with a flat paint. Because they say flat paint covers the small imperfections.

I also discovered they had hung the light fixture without a junction box (that's the little plastic box behind the drywall that the wires run into and the light is screwed into.) It was just a hole, with wires dangling and the light was attached to the drywall. And when I tried to put up the new fixture, the only thing holding it up was some wet paint and a little hope.

The skim coat I put up was awful. After I painted, I noticed that the flat Tuscan red color I had chosen actually made my flaws look worse. What resulted looked like a topical map of the southwest. And again, the paint was wet when people showed up for Christmas last year.

The entire room needed to be re-skimcoated and sanded.

On top of that, I had only gotten around to replacing about half of the ugly brass hardware in the kitchen with my elegant oil-rubbed bronze pulls and hinges. And while I had hoped to replace all of the dirty, scratched and yellowing off-white switches and outlets with clean white new ones, I had only gotten to the switches thus far.

This spring, we had high hopes of lots of projects. We got new faucets. New lights. More paint. New hinges and handles for the doors. The rest of the hinges and pulls for the kitchen. Tile for the laundry room. Tile for the wall behind the stove.

And here we are in fall and the piles of materials still sit in the dining room.

Until last week.

I had what my cousin calls a Popeye moment. "I just can't takes it anymore!"

I don't know if it was the tons of the original, 13 y/o tarnished brass handles, knobs, hinges, lights and faucets that still remained (all to be replaced with oil-rubbed bronze.) but here, my dear readers, is the list of what I've accomplished in the last week. And why I haven't written anything lately.

1. re-skimcoated the 1/2 bath.
2. removed a section of drywall and installed a junction box.
3. replaced drywall section.
4. sanded the high gloss lipstick colored laundry room.
5. replaced the handles and hinges on 6 interior doors.
6. replaced front door handle and hinges.
7. installed kick-plate and new handle on front storm door.
8. replaced 15 outlets.
9. replaced 6 air vents
10. replaced 2 light switches.
11. sanded and painted front door trim.
12. replaced 52 cabinet hinges.
13. replaced 4 cabinet pulls.
14. sanded and sanded and sanded the 1/2 bath.
15. painted the 1/2 bath
16. painted the laundry room.
17. removed laundry room linoleum.
18. painted laundry room cabinets, door and window.
19. painted ceilings in laundry room, back hall and 1/2 bath.
20. installed new light in 1/2 bath.
21. installed new mirror in 1/2 bath.
22. installed new faucet in 1/2 bath.
23. oiled and cleaned woodwork, cabinets and doors.

I know. All that in just a week.

And I'm still not done.

We still have to put tile in the laundry room and behind the stove, paint the living room, replace the kitchen faucet, restain the deck furniture, paint the master bedroom, master bath and all it's trim, door and windows, hang three ceiling fans, fix two toilets, replace one window AND landscape the front yard.

And I'm still on the Popeye kick for now. So it may be a while before you hear from me again.

sappy fag

Damn NPR. Damn them to hell. Not because of some political bent some folks believe they have. Not because their reporting isn't always perfect or because their interviews don't always ask the questions I'd like asked.

But damn them and their real life stories.

OK. Don't get me wrong. I love NPR. My radio is always tuned to it. Morning Edition on the way to work. All Things Considered on the way home. And if I'm lucky, I get to catch This American Life on the weekends.

I do get tired of hearing the same things over and over. i.e.: The war in Iraq, the housing market, and what the overcrowded pool of presidential candidates are doing now to keep us from falling asleep during the 200th debate.

It's the last 10 minutes of the shows that I live for. That's when I get to hear the commentary from some of my favorite folks like Andre Condrescu.

Usually, these commentaries don't do anything but give me a break from all the political hoo-ha that the media calls news.

Last Friday, though, on the way home one of them caught me by surprise. It was a hospital chaplain recalling her first assignment some 20 years ago. It was a visit to a family who had a little girl dying of cancer.

I've heard lots of stories involving cancer. They're usually touching, but usually end in a "chicken soup for the soul" kind of way.

See, I had childhood cancer (acute lymphocytic leukemia, to be exact) when I was seven. I was lucky. I lived. (obviously.) No bone marrow transplant. No radiation.

But now that I'm a teacher working with kids who are the age that I was when I was diagnosed, I can't imagine any of those little bodies having to go through what mine did. And I can't imagine their parents having to look and take care of such an innocent and unmarked life knowing that they may not make it.

Listening to the story got my attention. But as soon as the commentator quoted what she heard the mom say to the little four year old who lay dying in the hospital I lost it.

All she said was, "You're such a good girl, Anna. And mommy's right here with you."

It brought back every memory of my mom being right there at my side. And how I had no idea what was happening to me, but that I didn't like it. One bit. And I thought about that poor little girl. She had no idea what was happening to her. Or why her body was giving out. Or why she was in pain.

But the fact that her mom chose to say what she said hit me. She knew it wasn't going to "OK." Or that everything was going to be "fine." She said the one thing that the little girl could understand. She was a "good" girl. She put up all the fight a four year old body could muster and was loosing.

Then the story went on to tell about Anna's older sister coming in to see her. And how the sister didn't understand what was going on or the importance of why she be there as her sister dies.

All she knew was that Anna was getting all the attention.

So the chaplain, who came in to baptize Anna, asked her sister if she would like to be baptized at the same time.

It was the last moment they would share together as sisters.

Which turned my misty eyes into an all out sob.

My older brother and sister raced through my head at that moment.

My brother, who's always been very laid back, took it all better than my sister. While I was getting hours worth of blood transfusions, he held me in his lap and read to me and watched TV with me, not knowing if that was the last thing we would ever do as brothers.

My sister, who was going through adolescence, didn't fare as well. As she was going through those junior high years and needed the most attention from my mom, she got the least attention. And she knew it.

She still came to see me in the hospital. And even brought jello cookies (which were too hard for me to eat because of the unbearable joint pains I had) Imagine how that felt. There she was. Giving me the one thing she could give me, and I wouldn't have it. That could have been her last memory of me. Denying the gift she had brought me.

It wasn't fair. And though I know there's nothing I could have done, sometimes I feel the guilt that I took my parents away from my siblings for three years. And three years in kid-years is a LONG time.

Thankfully, my sister and I get along swell in our adulthood. We don't talk about that part of our lives. And that's OK.



This whole mess of crying in the car took me by complete surprise. I rarely cry. Every once in a while I get a lump in the throat during a good movie. But never a big enough one to cry. (save one)

The last time I had a good, big cry was after my marathon in '99. THAT one took me by surprise.

I was on my last quarter mile. I could see the finish line. I could see my mom, my sister and my friends there cheering me on. And out of nowhere, tears started forming in my eyes. I was thinking about how amazing and somewhat miraculous it was that not only had I survived cancer, but had just lost an incredible amount of weight and less than 2 years prior, had never run. And when I got to the finish line, I threw my arms around the woman who gave me life not once, but twice. My amazing mom. We both cried.

I don't remember what we said. I just remember holding her in my arms and feeling more alive, thankful and lucky than I'd ever felt before, and in hindsight, since.

And then there's the movie Wit. If you haven't seen it, get it. NOW. It's about a woman dying of cancer. Alone.

I don't sob at the end of it. But it always makes me cry. And it always starts when an old professor of hers comes into her hospital room to read her a book. And she reads a children's book about a bunny.

And now, after today, I've decided I now have a hormonal imbalance of some kind.

This morning, on the way to the gym at 5:20 a.m., I was listening to my usual NPR. And on comes a commentary I've been following all week from a young dentist in Iraq named Hassan. He's had ups and downs this week. But none like the down he had today.

Hassan's best friend, Mohannad, was kidnapped. And after Mohannad's family paid a $20,000 ransom, the kidnappers agreed to free him. Then, as Hassan and Mohannad's family waited in the market where the kidnappers were going to free him, the kidnappers pulled up in a van and dumped Mohannad's beaten and beheaded body in the market.

Out of nowhere, again, I started crying. But I was about to go into the gym, so I had to start thinking happy thoughts.

Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows. Waterfalls.

But those freakin' NPR bastards followed it with another commentary from a Vietnam Vet sharing the story about the death of HIS best friend.

Holy shit. I actually had to sit in the car for a few minutes to regain a little composure lest anyone in the gym actually see my puffy red eyes and begin talking to me. (I hate people talking to me while I'm working out.)

NPR folks: I love the commentary. But enough with the children dying of cancer and the best friends being killed. At least for a few weeks, lets stick to puppies, kittens, rainbows and waterfalls.

tri for four

I'm actually so organized right now, I have a bit of free time over my lunch break that I can tell ya'll how the last tri of the season went.

But first, a short recap of the weekend.

I went to St. Louis over Labor Day just because. We got to see my one and only nephew and see my brother's new house and run into my distant and uninterested dad.

Plus Oliver, my dog, got to visit with "big mama," his affectionate name for my my mom. He's felt a lot of pressure lately to up the cuteness around her. For the longest time, he and my sister's dogs held the position of granddogs, unchallenged by real grandkids. Big mama treated them just like they were real grandkids. She had a toy basket just for them. Freely handed out treats. And doted them with attention that my sister and I don't have time for. But with my brother's son Will turning one, Oliver feels the competition for the love and affection of big mama. So he's always excited to get a chance to schmooze with her every chance he gets. As we say, put his "stank" on her.

I asked my mom if she would want to come and see my last race this weekend. I didn't get a response that minute, so I called the middle of the week to find out if she was coming.

It's a feat for mom to make any long distance trip nowadays. Besides the hip replacement replacement still healing, she's now dealing with a torn rotator cuff in her right arm. (the left rotator cuff was torn and repaired a few years ago.) Not to mention her arthritis which constantly strains her joints.

I wasn't surprised when she said she didn't feel up to it.

But some weird vibe inside me told me that we would be having company this weekend. So, instinctively, I began to clean house. I started by shampooing the carpets. (Oliver had some volatile diarrhea a couple weeks ago.) Then vacuuming, straightening up the guest rooms, finishing up the laundry, and organizing what I could.

See, when mom comes, we have to 'mom-clean' the house. Not because she's judgmental about our house, but because if we don't, she will. And there's nothing warm and fuzzy about seeing your gimpy mom clean your house.

Low and behold, we get a call Friday night from mom announcing her late afternoon arrival on Friday.

I was happy, but it threw a wrench in my weekend plans.

This was one of the rare weekends around here that cool stuff was actually going on. I had planned on going to the Farmer's Market with Beth on Saturday morning. Making brunch with her. Then I would head to Lawrence to see the only parade worth seeing: KU's Band Day parade... because it's just bands. No stupid floats getting in the way of the pageantry of marching bands we all secretly love.

Then that evening I would head to Lake Shawnee to see the Huff-n-Puff hot air balloon glow and then a late dinner before bedtime.

Well, I did get to go to the Farmer's Market. Then Beth and I had a lovely brunch on her lovely patio. But then I had to head home to do some seriously overdue yard work.

Though mother nature is clinging to summer, the leaves are not clinging to their trees. The hot and dry weather has depressed the trees to the point of giving up and shedding their leaves in August. And I just wasn't ready to rake leaves in 90 degree weather.

Mom was coming, though. And it had to be done.

I mowed.

Mom showed up at 6.

We had a overfilling-where's-my-eattin'-dress meal at Paisano's. Good food. Shitty service.

I give them a reprieve of too early a wake up call (say, 4:00 a.m.) and we get up at 5:00 a.m. and head to KCK (kansas city kansas).

The race was fine. Lots of people. Warm water. Cool weather.

But I tried to run a triathlon on residual fitness.

Good in theory. Bad in practice.

The last two weeks I've not done one workout. Not even one.

And you could tell.

While I felt strong coming out of the water and hopping on the bike, You could tell by the end of the run that something wasn't right.

One word: HILLS.  Lots of fucking hills. But as always, it's all smiles when it's done.

as all good things must

My summer is officially over.

Even though mother nature disagrees by forcing weeks on end of 90+ temps on us, my summer was over the first week of August.

I know. Why didn't I tell you sooner? Well, I've had this weird surge of "super-teacher" coming out of me since I started back at school. Maybe it's the weight loss, maybe it's that after 3-years of being in this district I feel like I know what I'm doing. Maybe I'm just over compensating for something else? Who knows.

I do know that I've got third graders sight reading music.

That's right, bitches. THIRD GRADERS. I rock.

But I must look back for a second.

This summer rocked all it's own. It rivals the summer of '98. And anyone who knows me knows that's saying a lot. I got to travel to California with my brother and reconnect (as much as one can when dealing with a person with dementia) with an estranged grandma. I got to visit with mom, help kids who have it worse off than I can imagine and visit an old friend named Joseph (and his FABULOUS coat.) Sure I got discriminated against by some good Christians who want to help kids with cancer, but that was just a growing experience.

And you just can't beat getting to play housewife. Going to ab class and then lunch with the ladies.

Plus, though I still call her Trainer Beth, she's really become Friend Beth. And I helped her move into the cutest cottage-style house any gay boy could wish for.

Oh, and don't forget the three triathlons. Well, four if you count the fake one Beth and I did just for fun my last weekend before school officially started.

Yes, I know. You have to be something of a masochist to run a fake triathlon... for fun. And I LOVED it. And then topping it off with a lovely dinner with Beth, her sister Leigh and her nicer-than-most husband.

The daughter moved out which left us with an empty nest. But that's been A-OK. It's given us lots more time to be cute and not worry about whether the kids had their rooms picked up, homework done, chores done, gone to bed on time, etc.

It does, however, suck that now we have to do all the house chores.

But the summer's done. And for all you "teachers-get-three-months-off" I would like to inform you that my contract officially started on August 9. And my last day before was May 25.

That's NOT three months. I'm not complaining about the time I do get off for the summer, but stop saying we get three months. It's not true.

I wish I had pictures to share. I actually took my camera with me everywhere, but always forgot to take pictures.

Sorry.

I wish I had updated this sooner. But I get home from school and am generally pooped nowadays.

'Tis the life of a super teacher.

Hopefully it won't be another month, but who knows. I have one last tri this weekend. I promise to take pictures.

Love to all you hangers-on.

gayly forward

I came home a day earlier than I had planned. I was going to come home Saturday, August 4. But Dustin's birthday was Friday, August 3.

And the whole week I had been gone was not a great week back in Topeka. When I left, we had one of Dustin's teenage daughters living with us. When I came home, she was living with her mom. There's was lots of drama that I don't need to go into here. And, no, Dustin didn't kick her out. But suffice to say, spending your birthday alone in a big house sucks.

So I made the 8 hour drive straight home from camp. But I had planned to pick up his birthday present, a specialty pair of boots, along the way on Saturday. And to make it on time, before they close, to the only store I know that sells them, I had to break the law.

I'm usually a very law abiding citizen. Or at least close to it. I may not agree with all speed limits, but I won't go more than 5 mph over what is posted if only because I don't want a ticket. I am a prime example that detersion works.

But to make it to the store, I had to go 20 to 25 miles over the 70 mph speed limit on the freeway. I was exhausted when I started the drive. But the adrenaline caused by going that fast minus a speeding buddy kept me WIDE awake.

I got there 15 minutes before they closed and resumed normal speeds the last 2 hours of the drive.

We needed a serious diversion from the home dramas. And the closet diversion from Topeka is a gay resort called the Habana in Oklahoma City.

Though many call it a resort, it's really little more than an old, well-kept Best Western. The grounds are nicely landscaped and maintained, but the rooms, especially the mattresses are largely ignored. I'm assuming it's because the owners know exactly what happens in the rooms and that most men do not go to that hotel to sleep.

But gay men must have a lush background when photographed by a pool. And there the Habana delivers.

We drove the 4 hours Saturday. Dustin gets upset because I'm still tired and being poky about getting ready. But we're still in time to get out by the pool and people watch.

OK. Let me be honest folks. There's a reason for many stereotypes. Gay men really are cruisey. Many many gay men just want sex. And the fact that they're cruising for other horny men doesn't help.

But you need to be honest too. If straight men could get away with it, they'd be just as promiscuous.

As we sit by the pool, surrounded by two stories of walk-out motel rooms, we get quite a show.

Men sit by their windows with the drapes open. Advertising.

Men walk around the balconies and sidewalks waiting for an invitation.

And all this at 5 p.m.

As I have always said: Hook-up early. Hook-up often.

But the best part of the show is the men. Old men. Young men. None too terribly good looking. Many look like the kind of guy who has a permanent lube stain on his couch from playing with himself too much.

Dustin and I guess that the two really good looking guys are probably call-boys.

At the pool there's a couple large men wearing way too little.

And then a 70 y/o, pasty, over weight man walks in. He takes off his shorts to reveal... I almost can't say it... a loin cloth.

With nothing under it.

We left the pool not long after.

After a short disco nap, we dressed in our best cowboy drag and headed to the country bar in the hotel.

I enjoy the bar for the same reason women enjoy the bar: Fishing.

But I have a catch and release policy. There's no harm in wetting your appetite at the bar and then going home to eat.

However, the catches weren't all that great. Dustin caught a guy I called greasy mullet. (let your imagination fill in the rest.)

I caught a group of friendly locals who invited us to a hot tub. We declined.

We go back to the room. And when I get up at 9:00 a.m. (on a Sunday, mind you) I'm more than shocked to find guys already cruising.

Let me stop for a second and get something gay: Not all gay men are like that.

But why are these guys cruising at 9:00 a.m.? Because they can? Because the society we live in still treats them like second-class citizens? Because they were denied the carnal pleasures that most guys get in J.H.?

I don't know. But I know it happens. All the time.

Most gay men I know have to go through a slutty phase when they first come out. They have to get all the sex out of the way that our straight counterparts were done with by 22. (hopefully) But most gay men, (at least the ones I associate with) grew out of that.

I grew out of it because I still believe in commitment and loyalty. Maybe these guys just haven't found a guy they want or can commit to.

Then again, maybe their just horny.

We head home around noon. Believe it or not, it was a great trip. Every once in a while, it's just nice to be around "family."

And you can't beat the people watching possibilities at gay hotels and bars.

maybe

Things happen for a reason. I know. No need to throw this post back in my face. I never said I didn't believe in karma. The more I thought about it, and the more friend Ted talked about it, the more I believed that the world/universe has a way of keeping itself in balance.

One could argue that the rise in gay population is due to mother nature trying to thin the herd. And Ted convinced me that there's really some science behind good and bad energy thing. And, you know, I love science. I don't understand it and slept through most of the science classes in H.S. and college, but Ted made it make sense.

But that would mean that the whole debacle over the cancer kids camp was because of some negative energy I had. OR, as trainer Beth suggests, some things happen to give you opportunities in other places.

In my angst over the what happened at the other camp, I called up the director of the poor kids camp. I know she's fine with gay folks. Hell, one of her favorite people is the gay, Jewish nurse at the camp I went to in Springfield. I even learned some gay Yiddish from the guy.

She has another camp for poor kids the same week as the cancer camp. I asked if she needed help. She said she could use me. And not in that freaky way some of you're minds just went. But I figured that maybe this was my chance to help out where help was needed where I couldn't help before. (follow that?)

I packed up my bags and headed for Illinois. It was just a bit nice to be behind the scenes for once. I didn't have kids waking me up to go pee in the middle of the night. I didn't have to break up any fights. And I didn't have to stay all week. I just popped in and out as needed to entertain kids during the infamous "unstructured" time.

It was hot. And none of the camp is air conditioned. And no amount of refreshing Evian mist sprayed by hot ethnic pool-boys would have helped.

Luckily, I got to sleep in mom's semi-air-conditioned house for a few nights.

Mom is doing MUCH better. The doc took off the 50 lb S&M type brace she had been wearing over her body to keep her hip from moving. Now I'm looking for a S&M fetishist who might want to buy it.

To get mom out of the house, I took her to the Muny to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

I actually have a long history with JATATC. Way back in my formative adolescent years, my cousin David had made a tape of the original Broadway recording from his VAST collection of Broadway LPs. (those are the big, black, shiny discs.) He gave me lots of tapes. It was from those tapes that I, at a very early age, learned to hate the show "Cats." And I learned to love JATATC.

It would listen to it over and over again while working on my theatre in the garage. Dreaming that one day I would stage my own production in said theatre.

When I was 14, I had the chance to play one of the brothers of Joseph, Asher, in a local theatre production. (Sadly, not in *my* theatre.) At the time, I thought it was the most fabulous production. But in hindsight, (thanks to the genius of videotape,) I realize it was a completely hack production. We supplied our own costumes and the "band" was little more than a piano and drumset. It's a male heavy cast, so any male, whether he could sing or not, got into the show. And what little harmony there was, was supplied by moi because I memorized the entire score following hours of obsessively playing through it on the piano.

Later on, in H.S., for one of my birthday presents mom surprised me with tickets to see JATATD at the Fox in St. Louis.

Going to the Fox was nothing new. We used to have season tickets in the upper balcony of this cavernous theatre. Where, even with binoculars, the actors were the size of oompa loompas.

But for my birthday, mom surprised me with 4th row tickets. I can't even begin to tell you how giddy I was while we were being seated and kept walking closer and closer to the stage. It was almost better than sitting front row to see and be spat on by Thomas Hampson. Almost.

And through the whole show I sat with rapt attention soaking in the whole spectacle. I laughed. I cried. It was better than 'Cats.'

Again in college, I got the chance to be in the show. This time, I was Pharaoh's butler and actually had a couple solo lines. It was all part of the infamous year of '98. (That was the first time I lost 60 lbs.) And for this show, we had a real orchestra, real costumes and real sets. It rocked.

So it was more than fitting that here I am, 60 lbs lighter, celebrating a bit about mom's recovery, and nearing the end of an awesome summer, that we go to see JATATC.

The great thing about the Muny is that they still have 1500 free seats at the back of the amphitheater. And that's were mom and I sat, picnic and all.

I'm not one to rag on other people's freedom of speech, but I must digress for a moment.

A few rows in front of us was a group of choir kids. I know they were choir kids. I can spot choir kids as fast as I can closeted gay men because I used to be one. They all wore something like a state honor choir t-shirt, or a shirt with a giant treble clef and were WAY too excited. And I suppose because the next show in the season was Les Miserable, they felt the need to give a preview to everyone around them. With one sad, homely little girl standing and leading them, they quietly sang through the major songs of the show.

OK. I know that some people will say, "That's so great. They love music so much."

But I know why they were singing. Not because they loved music so much. They were singing because they were hoping an agent was sitting within earshot and would want to sign them up for a record deal or give them a part in the next big show, (note: agents don't sit in the free seats.) Or they were, at the least, hoping someone would compliment them and tell them how wonderful they sound and ask about their training and what shows they've done. All information they'd be more than happy to fill your ear with for the next hour.

How do I know this? I *was* that kid. And I look back in just a bit of shame for it. If you're bored before a show, read a magazine, or talk quietly to your neighbor. Don't talk loudly during the intermission about your latest theatre drama or compare the show you're seeing to the production you did. No one cares. In fact, it makes you look more than a bit pretentious.

And I draw the line when people around me begin to sing along with the show I'm watching. I didn't come to hear you. I came to hear the paid actors on stage. Thank goodness that someone in front of me told them to stop singing during the show. I was close to causing some drama of my own.

Digression done.

Call me a wuss, a puss or a pansy, but I share this next thought with you because it's interesting.

I actually got a lump in my throat more than once during the show. Not because it was sad. (all the music is the typical Lloyd Weber jazzy-jesus fare.) In fact, I couldn't figure out why I was all verklempt. Happy memories? Longing for the past?

I don't know. But I didn't want to look like a fool. So just like I choked back the tears while watching the 4th of July fireworks, I choked them back again.

I didn't want anyone posting a blog about the soppy, cry-happy fag who sat behind them at the Muny.

tri me

(the double entendres that "tri" posseses are endless.)

Unlike the 4 a.m. wake-up calls we've had to make with the last three triathlons, we got to sleep in until 5 a.m. today since we only have a 30 minute drive to the event.

Ahhh, 5 a.m.

There's nothing wrong with 5 a.m. In fact, that's what time I wake up during the school year so I can get my swim in before work.

But I'm on summer break people. 7 a.m. is the earliest I wake up when I'm not on contract. Nothing happens before then anyway. (the hotties on my street don't run shirtless until afternoon anyway.)

The last I heard from the event staff at registration was that my 'heat' would start at 7 a.m. But we get there and after I'm all set up, we find out that it doesn't start until 7:30. So I had a lot more time to waste. I thought I would spend the extra time standing around. I didn't really need to use the bathroom. Well, I needed to pee, but I figured I'd be in the water soon enough.

Yes, that's right, I pee in the lake. You want to know something more gross? When folks wear wetsuits, they pee in them as soon as they hit the cold water to warm themselves up.

But then I saw the line for the *four* porta-potties they brought along. Who in their right mind saw: 400 participant= 4 porta-potties? So I stood in line. I didn't talk to anyone. While most of the time I'm the king of small-talk with strangers, these folks were talking bikes. I was completely out of my league.

Unlike the last triathlon where we made a mad-dash to the frigged water to make our start, this one, we got to jump into the warm, 84 degree water and hang out for a couple minutes before it started. I loved that.

The swim rocked. 31 minutes. That's 5 minutes faster than I can swim that distance in the pool, and 3 minutes faster than my last triathlon.

Last triathlon I had something I've never had: a panic attack. I couldn't figure what was happening. I'd swam in a lake the week before, wetsuit and all, and had no issues. But for some reason, the mass of bodies colliding, the water colder than Ann Coulters snatch, and the thought that I had no wall to turn around on scared me pissless. (yup, I couldn't even pee in my wetsuit) I couldn't catch my breath, felt like I was choking and had to safety stroke awhile until I caught my breath. (the safety stoke is basically floating on your back, barely moving.)

I only made up time because the wet suit is basically a big condom and water slips right past.

This time, my hairy legs and arms were exposed and if it weren't for the trisuit, I would have gone even slower.

Felt awesome after the swim this time.

Then to transition onto the bike.

Off on the bike.

My speed was good. The results aren't posted, but my math averages my speed between 17.2 and 17.5 mph. (that's for Mike) Most of the way I kept up with most of the guys I got out of transition with. But while I remembered one valuable piece of advice given by my trainer Beth, ("You have gears. Use them.") there were some guys who didn't know this. Which allowed me to pass *10* road bikes while climbing hills. (yes, we have hills in Kansas. Here's the bike route map with elevations)

That doesn't mean I wasn't passed. I was most certainly passed by a few bikes. And I've discovered that these tri folks are pretty nice. When they pass they usually say something encouraging like, "Keep it up!", "Doing great!". Or today, I got a few, "I'm damn impressed! You're cruising along on that mountain bike!" "Wow! You're doing awesome on that mountain bike!"

So when I was passing today, I tried to continue this nicety thing. Most of the guys said "Thanks." or "You too." But one guy I passed on a his Cervelo (a very expensive bike) just shot me back a menacing glare.

Money doesn't buy muscle or common sense, folks.

I finished the bike in one hour, 25 minutes.

Then onto the run. The first couple miles rocked. I was cruising along about a 9:00 mile. Then at my first aid-station, when I needed a gu-pack (a gross little thing that looks and tastes like, well, goo, but is packed with carbs and caffeine.) I was told they don't do gu on the runs.

Shortly after that I could feel myself get sluggish. For one thing, even though it was only mid-eighties temperature wise, the humidity was 80% and the air was as still as a gay man on a hetero date.

Oh, that the route they had posted? Not the route we ran. I know this because last week I ran the course on the map a couple times. A few hills. Not too bad.

THIS course was loaded with hills. It sucked. I slowed to a 10 minute mile and had to walk one hill. I passed one lady who was walking up a hill, hands on knees. I told her, "You're doing fine. Just keep moving."

She gave me a look of "whatever."

I wanted to turn back around and tell her, "FINE! QUIT LIKE LITTLE BITCH!" But I didn't.

When it was all said and done the entire thing took three hours, four minutes.

Six minutes faster than my last tri.

But I felt like dying after this one. I jumped back into the lake to cool down, change clothes, (which were almost instantly soaked with sweat) and headed home.

"Team Kevdogg" was much smaller this time. Trainer Beth had a boy thing the night before and her sister Leigh was going to come see her friend Vicki, who didn't come, so Leigh didn't come. Mom is still recouping after hip replacement and Denise is only obliged to come to one major event every 10 years. She's good until 2017.

Dustin usually works Sundays, so he said he wouldn't be there.

My heart sank. I KNOW it's boring to go to triathlons. The courses are usually set up so that spectators only see people when they come and go from the transition areas. But at least he gets lot of eye candy (and takes pictures of them while waiting for me.)

At the last minute, he told me that "of course" he was coming and he'd just go to work after we're done.

Love to all.

p.s. I think I need to post another provocative post. They're the only ones that get comments. Thankfully, my life is generally drama-free. So you'll have to read boring recants of my life until something else big happens.

moving on

I cried. Just a little. I probably should have taken the time to write a country song. Maybe, "They don't want me cause I'm faggy and I don't wear my clothes baggy."

Maybe?

I've written a strongly worded letter to the management and expect my refund in full.

However, I do have another triathlon this weekend. It's by the same asses that ran this triathlon. I admit the weather couldn't be helped, but the guy who was in charge needed to take a weekend seminar in "how to get along with people."

It's been years since I've run in 90 degree heat. Even when I lived in Iowa, I preferred to "work" in the heat rather than run in it. At least I was being fairly compensated. All I get after a run or bike in this heat is soaking clothes and breath that smells oddly like steak. Not beef jerky like some folks. Steak.

Maybe it's all the protein I've been eatting?

All I know is that this protein stuff has seriously messed with my bowels. Finally today I was having a movement when the phone rang. Being alone in the house and not knowing if it was important, I clenched and waddle-ran across the room to the phone and picked up to discover I'd been preselected for 8 nights at Disney World, if I had a few moments to answer some questions.

Being in a no BS mood, I interrupted her to inform her of the great happening she had just interuppted. She quickly apologized and hung up.

I digress.

The more I get into this triathlon stuff, the more I'm worried that my day is coming for an injury.

When I did my marathon, chaffed nipples were about my worst issue. And band-aids helped to keep this:

from happening. (thanks to Dan for that one)

And I've also just purchased a new "trisuit." It's lycra. I've never liked lycra. I've never had a good shape to my body. Even at 165 lbs, I had birthing hips.
If I end up looking anything like this

you won't see any pictures from this triathlon.

And while I'm riding a sturdy Trek 900 mountain bike again, there's always a chance a deer could dash out in front of me.

It happens people.

(thanks to Mike, the offened party.)

One of these days, I may even have the gumption to buy a real road bike. But it will most likely be used and not up to someone like, say, Mike's standards. But it might make me go just a bit faster if I'm not peddling 100 lbs of aluminum.

Wish me luck.

p.s. if you ever have to get a solicitor off the phone, use my little toilet trick. Works great.

i'll just say it

I'm a gay atheist.

Two little words: gay atheist. So many judgements.

I know, at least according to polls, that this means that there's a lot of folks out there, maybe even a few readers, who believe that I will not burn once, but twice in the inferno of hell for all of eternity.

Good thing I don't believe in hell.

There are people out there who believe that because I'm attracted to men, I must also want to rape their little boys.

So, since heterosexual women like men, do they also want to sleep with boys?

There are people who think I must live a self-indulgent, hedonistic lifestyle.

I hate to mention to them that I also enjoy gardening.

There are people out there who think that my sexuality was my choice.

And there, words fail me.

However, I won't argue that atheism is a choice.

It is a choice. A very deliberate, well hashed, well reasoned choice. Unlike a lot of Christians.

I wasn't always atheist. In fact, growing up I was an extremely devout Lutheran. Well, as devout as a Lutheran could be. Most of the time, "devout Lutheran" means that you bring a casserole and help clean up.

Then I went to a Lutheran college where I was just shy of my required courses for a religion minor. Four years of religion classes thoroughly drummed any idea of a deity right out of my reality.

And it's not that I don't believe there are powers that we don't understand at work in the universe. I just don't believe that it can be summed up in a nice 1000 page book that's 2000 years old.

Apparently, however, most Americans would disagree with me. Thus, I, and any other non-deists, are demonized.

So let me set a couple things on the record.

For one, we're all saying the word incorrectly. Say "amoral." Say "asexual"

Now say "atheist." See, you say it different. Why? Because the traditional pronunciation has a harsher feeling when you emphasis the first syllable. In Greek, "a" means "no" or "without." We're focusing on the negative here.

Now say it "ay-THEE-ist." See, nicer. Happier.

Second why christians believe that you must believe what they believe in order to be a good, productive human is beyond me.

I don't hate christians. I hate hypocrites.

If you're going to do something, do it all the way. If you're going to believe something, believe it all the way.

Most christians tend to pick and choose what they will and will not follow in the bible. Ask them to take the 10 commandments out of a courthouse and they get all up at arms.

Speaking of... isn't there one that goes something like, "thou shalt not kill?"

The same people who call themselves hard-core christians are the same people with the "support our troops" bumper stickers. Did they forget what a soldier's job is?

Or the christians who are late for church so speed through our towns, almost running over poor bikers (moi) to get to church. (yes, I could tell they were going to church. besides the "calvin kneeling at the cross" sticker, it was Sunday morning and the car reeked of cheap perfume.) Did they forget that god expects you to follow Caesar's law? "Give unto Caesar what is Caesar's and Give unto god what is god's."

And then they like to pick on itty-bitty verses that they claim say that god hates homosexuality.

Found in the same books of the bible that also ban wearing blended fabrics, endorses slavery, prohibits sowing different crops in the same field and encourages you to beat your wife or stone her to death if she misbehaves.

Hypocrisy. THAT's what I hate.

I try very hard not to be a hypocrite.

I do this by keeping my life-philosphy short and sweet:

"leave the world a better place than you found it."

I put the shopping carts back in the cart carrel. Even if they're not mine.

I don't litter and have been known to pick up other people's litter. Even if it's used towels on the bathroom floor.

I'm an extremely courteous driver. I don't hog lanes or hang out in the passing lane without passing. And when I park in the parking lot, I actually make my car go between the lines.

I pick up after myself so that I won't ever be a burden to anyone else and often pick up after others since I'm already picking up stuff anyway.

I wave. I smile. I say 'hi.' Smiling, waving... they always make you and those around you that much happier, if even for a split second.

Oh yeah. And I volunteer my vacation time at summer camps for kids.

Which brings me to the reason I started this post.

Very, VERY rarely does my sexual orientation or religious beliefs ever come into play in my life.

My personal life has absolutely no bearing on my professional life. Because I have a husband and don't go to church does not mean I am at all incapable of teaching children what a half-note is or who Mozart is.

It also doesn't mean that I can't work with under-privileged children or children with cancer and show them what it means to have fun for a week.

But apparently one camp I've had an exceptionally long relationship with, well, does.

I had cancer as a child. And I myself got to go to camps for kids with cancer.

When I was old enough (16) I started volunteering as a counselor at one of these camps. And I've been going back every year (save a few when I just couldn't) since I was 16.

Since I don't usually talk about my personal life when I'm at work, I also didn't talk about it at camp.

But you know what happens when you don't talk: People do the talking for you.

Last year at this camp, some of the adult staff, point blank, asked about my boyfriend. I told them. And they continued to ask questions all week. It was only in the company of adults and never around the kids.

I was tired of playing the pronoun game. I was tired of being ashamed of something I have nothing to be ashamed of. I was tired of the fact that everyone else got to talk about their spouses and families, and I couldn't let myself.

Apparently, this didn't go over well. The camp founders make it very clear that this is a camp based on christian principles. We have chapel, pray before meals, and sometimes read and talk about the bible with the campers.

I wasn't offended by any of that. I was there to have fun. My job at that camp was to be the crazy entertainer. I'm the guy that wore costumes, sang silly songs and generally kept the kids' minds of the fact that they had cancer.

When I woke up this morning, I still thought I would be going to this camp next week.

And then I get a very generic, impersonal letter informing me that my services would not be required at camp this year.

All these years of time and energy I gave to this camp, and all I get is a letter.

To say the very least, I was crushed and hurt in a way that I can't remember being crushed and hurt before.

I called the director of the camp. I asked for the real reason I wasn't invited back. She mentioned me "coming out" at camp last year and how "camp is not the appropriate place for that."

I was stunned silent.

Never. Never in my life has my sexuality been so blatantly used against me.

Never has anyone judged or hurt me as bad as they hurt me.

I don't know if you can understand. This is the one camp I look forward to every year. It's the camp where "Mr. Hart" gets to be "Crazy Kevin". It's like going home every year.

And this year, they told me I wasn't welcome home anymore.

So fuck it. I'm tired of being afraid of what will happen if people know. Judge if you like. Call me names.

I'm a hell of a good teacher. I'm an excellent friend. I'm a caring son and brother. And I'm an exceptional husband.

But don't you dare, for one second, call into question my character.

I'm a gay ahteist, and fucking proud of it.

start with 'mommy dearest'

They're not all that funny, but here's my summer so far.

Start with 'mommy dearest' and read up from there.

i hate this place

Mom was released from the hospital that next Tuesday. I picked her up and brought her back to New Baden.

The rest of week, I cooked. Did the laundry. Did the shopping. Did the cleaning.

It was childhood all over.

Except this time I had no friends to play with.

I've only kept in touch with a couple people from my youth. And they, like myself, wisely moved away.

I visited grandma in the nursing home a couple times. And like any good gay grandson, I helped decorate her room with a new comforter and some coordinating art for her walls.

It was during this week that I realized how much I dislike New Baden.

I used to dislike Topeka because, it too, is a very closed minded place. But at least there are things to do in Topeka. Like go to a movie. Or the gym. Or see some art. Or hear a band. Ride in the park. Sit at the lake. People watch at the mall.

Not in New Baden.

I used to think that I was a small-town boy. But it's been over 10 years since I've lived in a town with a population less than 15,000.

And I realized that I'm really not into small-towns anymore. I want to live where people are. See, I'm a people person. I NEED to be around people. (mostly for validation, but that's another story.)

I need to be around things to do.

By the end of the week I was ready to go home to Topeka. I felt terrible leaving mom, but it had been almost 3 weeks away from my home and my husband.

Head back to Topeka. Life goes on.

pride

I'm lucky enough to have a man in my life who will drive 5 hours just to spend the weekend with me.

After care-a-lot, I drove back to St. Louis to meet up with Dustin. We got a room for two nights in our favorite little B&B in St. Louis. It's a little old brick house right by an abandoned brewery.

Originally called the Grozdik brewery, they wisely changed it to Falstaff before it closed.

Neither of us had really been to a pride fest before.

For those of you not in the know, a pride fest is where tens of thousands of gay folk converge for a weekend to be happy about being gay.

Our biggest shock was how many lesbians were there.

Now, my sister being a lesbian, I've had plenty of exposure to them. Every time I come to see her in St. Louis, we end up at a lesbian bar in St. Louis. And I've got to tell you, some of them scare the shit out of me. Some have got bigger wienesses than I. And a lot of them are angry.

One night I watched an entire bus load of lesbians, brass knuckles and all, get off the bus and immediately start a fight.

Gay men don't do that. Why beat up someone you might sleep with?

At pride, the lesbians each had their own pack of lesbians set up around a cooler. They all had dogs. Most had pitched a canopy of some sort. And I imagine they pissed around the canopy to mark their territory. The lesbians, that is. Not the dogs.

When it came right down to it, my sister was the only lesbian we really talked to.

Except for the taro card reader. But she didn't beep.

We both had our fortunes read.

She said that Dustin and I were soulmates. (Edit: if you need proof that Tarot cards are shit, this is it. Dustin turned out to be a sociopath who caused me enough trauma to need years of therapy) I will live a long, healthy life. I would be taking a trip by the water soon. And that my life hasn't even really begun. Apparently I'm going to be working in the same field I'm in, but will be doing something very different and will be extraordinarily successful at it.

But she did say that my mom had more troubles ahead, but she'll make it through.

The main reason we went to the parade on Sunday was to see my sister march in St. Louis' gay marching/concert band. They rocked as usual. During the year I try to make it back to St. Louis to see most of their concerts.

And you've never seen a marching band in perfect step till you've seen this band.

You KNOW that these were the little boys and girls in H.S. that were pissed when the clarinet in front of them got out of step.

It rained. It stopped. It rained. It stopped. It rained. It stopped.

Then it rained and stopped again.

All damn day.

Dustin heads back to Kansas. I head back to Illinois to take care of mom for the week.

campers gone wild

I don't believe in God per se.

But I do believe that the universe has a way of keeping itself in balance. Just not by some omnipotent being.

Karma is something I believe in. And my summer vacation is prime time for refueling my good-karma tank.

So I volunteer my services at a couple different camps.

The first camp I usually do is called Camp care-a-lot. It's a camp for kids who come from low socio-economic backgrounds. AKA- poor kids.

These kids come to camp from lives I can't even begin to imagine. Sometimes the only time they eat is when they're at school or at Boys and Girls club during the summer. Sometimes they live 10 people in a one bedroom house that's falling down around them. Some of them have restraining orders against multiple people.

To say the least, these kids have many many issues. And though the founder of the camp will disagree, these kids are the kids at greatest risk of becoming future wellfare recipients and prison inmates.

And while our job at camp is to take them out of their everyday reality, if even for a week, it's also a week of learning lifeskills.

Every year, we have to teach them how to make a bed. How to pick up and care for their things. Teach them to brush their teeth. How to shower. How to tie their shoes.

And most of the week is a constant struggle to keep them entertained. These kids usually have VERY short attention spans. We can't give them enough to do. And we ask them to work as a team with the other boys in the cabin.

And every year, I get worn out and get sick.

I've been lucky these last two years. This year we had 8 boys and three counselors. One of my co-counselors is a teacher. The other is a retired gentleman. The teacher and I are the peacekeepers since both of us have had training at school on how to work with kids from that kind of background. Our third counselor is there to catch any straglers and keep the group together.

But this year since I'm in constant training for triathlons, I thought it would be a good idea to wake up pre-dawn everyday and go for a run.

Not a good idea.

By Thursday I was sick as a dog. I slept in the nurses cabin most of that day. By Friday I was back on my feet.

But the camp is just exhausting. Fun? Sometimes. But mostly exhausting.

I think most of my good karhma comes from that one week.

Run. Counsel. Get sick. Pack up. Head back to St. Louis.

mommy dearest

June 14th, 2007

(I'm back tracking, I know)

Let me start by telling you about the town I grew up in.

Growing up, New Baden, IL had a population of 1500. Small bedroom community close to the interstate. 15 minutes from the Scott Airforce Base and 30 minutes from St. Louis. It's a great place to grow up. We never locked our doors. Kids could wander around town without mom worrying if we'll be snachted. The elementary was close enough to walk to, no matter where you lived in town. You could walk almost anywhere in town in about 10 minutes. (Though people rarely did) You could cover almost the entire town on Halloween. Any kid under 4 ft tall could easily enter the cities storm sewer. There was an awesome gully just north of town filled with dumped washers, fridges, all ripe for the imagination. The subdivision built in the 70's was still called the "new" subdivision since no other developer had tried to build since then.

Anything new in town was a big deal. When the Handee Mart put on a laundromat called the Washee-Washee (spelled out in faux-Chinese script) The big news was that not only did it have bathrooms, but there were CONDOMS in that bathroom.

When the new Shell station opened, we trekked across a muddy field just to go buy something there. We got sunflower seeds.

When a new subdivision finally started popping up down the road from my house, we oogled at how big the first house was.

We thought we had it all. There were 3 gas stations, a restaraunt, a couple bars, an ice-cream place and a grocery store.

What else could you need?

Tolerance? Exceptance? Open-mindedness?

Pish.

New Baden is a great place to live if you're straight, married, have kids and go to church.

If anything is missing from that checklist, you were talked about.

"Why is that man single?" "Why don't they have kids?" "They must be devil-worshipers. They don't go to church."

Which is where mom comes to the rescue.

It must be in her nature to be tolerant, excepting and open-minded. I know from personal experience.

She tolerated all my imaginative creations growing up. Such as putting a theatre in the garage. Buying food for my 7 course meals. Letting me redo my bedroom by almost destroying it. Killing some of her beloved lilacs so I could have a fort. Using her lemonade to make profit for myself.

And exceptance because no matter what I did, she was always there. Always supportive. Always nurturing. Always loving.

When my sister came out, my mom was mom. She loved her all the same.

When I came out, one of her first questions was about my boyfriend at the time.

Seriously, this woman is incredible.

And that's why she does't deserve the cards she's been dealt.

As of today, mom has had: 1. her rotator cuff operated on (followed by 6 months of recovery) 2. her right foot rebuilt (followed again by months of non-weight bearing) 3. both knees replaced 4. her left foot rebuilt 5. her hip replaced.

And now #6, the hip replacement had to be replaced.

On top of all that, she has a nervous system thing (can't remember the name) that is slowly causing her to loose all sensation from the hips down.

She's in almost constant pain.

And yet through all that she still comes to visit. Even if it's just to see me run my first triathlon, or come her the Lawrence Children's Choir.

She never asks for help even when she should. She more concerned with her children's well-being and the well-being of the people around her.

So on June 13th, the day after my birthday, I headed to St. Louis to see mom in the hospital post surgery.

I'm so used to seein mom in a state of post-surgery, I'm almost numb to the effect it would have on most people to see their parent in the hospital.

Maybe that's a good thing. Because I'm sure one day I'm going to inherit all this health crap she has going on and I'm going to be an old man yelling at the nurse to change my diaper.

One of the few things that I almost (ALMOST) wish is that I had kids of my own to take care of me in my old age. One fears is not that one day I will be going through all of what my mom is going through. But that I will be doing it alone.

Visit mom. Bring her flowers. Get ready for camp.

to tide you over

I'm back in Topeka and the land of 21st century internet speeds. To wet your appetite for the impending posts recanting my adventures, I give you this:

I call it, "It puts the lotion on..."

">

If you get that, I like you.

so much to say

I have not forgotten you, dear blog.

Surgery, camp and pride, OH MY!

After California and my birthday (more on that later), I headed to St. Louis to see a post-operation mom. Then to Springfield, IL to volunteer at a camp for under-priveleged children. Then back to St. Louis for pride. Now I'm in New Baden, IL in the house I grew up in (on an internet connection that strains my patience.) And I say this after spending a week, 24/7, with a cabin of 8 hyperactive, hypersensitive boys.

Mom is getting out of the hospital tomorrow and she asked if I could stay for the week to help her out. And wanting to keep the position of favored child, I agreed.

I do have lots of pictures and stories to share, but I don't want to share the stories without the photographic evidence. I know how skeptical you all are of the fantastic adventures I lead.

I will be back on my 21st century internet connection hopefully by Friday.

More from the front then.

two birds, one post

The trip to California:

When it came to grandparents, I got the short end of the stick. On my mom's side, I was the youngest grandchild of the youngest child. My oldest cousin is 20 years older than me and my closest cousin in age is 4 years older than me. My mom's dad was dead by the time I came along. I did, however, get to spend lots of time with Grandma Wilkerson. The youngest grandchild was always her favorite. Since I was the last, I got to hold the honored position until her death when I was 12.

She was great. Very grandmaish. Even with Alzheimer's she was grandma and always had a lap to sit on or a warm pocket to curl up in in her bed on cold mornings. Even if she didn't know who you were, she knew you were family if you called her grandma or mom.

On my dad's side, he was an only child, so no cousins on his side. He was from California, so what family he did have out there, we never saw. His dad also died before I was born. And apparently his mom came from California to Illinois to live for a bit after his death. I don't think I was born yet, but if I was, I don't remember it.

My dad never talked about his side of the family. Maybe his cousin Sandy once in a while, but never his mom. See, Grandma Hart has schizophrenia. So I can't imagine that his upbringing was the best. I wouldn't know. He doesn't talk about it. Ever.

And while I was growing up, it was very apparent that the only person who wanted to keep in touch with Grandma Hart was my mom. She made the phone calls, she wrote the letters, she sent the presents to Grandma Hart.

But while growing up, I can remember seeing Grandma Hart a total of 4 times. And that includes this last trip to California.

Growing up, I expected Grandma Hart to be like Grandma Wilkerson. She wasn't. She wasn't warm and affectionate like G. Wilkerson. And as a kid I couldn't understand it.

And for the last 21 years we haven't had to worry about Grandma Hart. A wonderful lady named Betty Stepp took G. Hart into her house 21 years ago to care for her. She made sure Granny took her medicine and was active. (I should note that as long as she's on meds, her schizophrenia doesn't show itself)

Betty knew how to take care of Grandma. Grandma is really quite childlike. She has to be told almost everything to do. And Betty did it. Every day. For 21 years.

But now Betty is dying of lung cancer and can't take care of Grandma, who now has Alzheimer's.

We got the call on the way home from the Triathlon last weekend. Betty needed us to come get grandma. First mom, who's getting hip replacement tomorrow, wanted to go. My brother Jim, sister Denise and I argued back and forth with her about her not going and that us kids should go. After a couple days, it came that my brother and I would travel to northern California to get grandma and bring her back to Illinois to live in a nursing home.

The trip went without a hitch. Betty still looked good. Her hair had just falling out and she's short of breath. And, understandably, she cried. A lot. I can't imagine what all this is like for her.

Grandma was pretty clueless as to what was going on. And that's a good thing. It made it much easier. She had no idea who we were. But she remembers my mom. We kept telling her that we were going to see Jeanette. "Oh, she's such a good daughter-in-law."

And the nice thing was that Betty had almost everything taken care of, so Jim and I had time to see some sights. Though, honestly, there's not much to do in that part of California.

The only thing that pissed me off is that I was in San Francisco (a layover at the airport to hop on the puddle-jumper plane to go up north) and couldn't go out and see it. I mean, seriously, it's like my mecca. I felt like I should have brought my prayer rug and done some bowing at the airport.

But we did discover that at least some folks in California and Oregon have a sense of humor.

You can see all the pics from the trip here.


TODAY'S MY BIRTHDAY!

YEA!

29 years ago at approximately 9:45 a.m. in a Belleville, IL hospital, I burst forth from my mother's loins.

And the world hasn't been the same since.

For my own birthday present, I traded in my '03 Chevy Cavalier (which I bought in '02) for an '07 Scion Tc.

I'm going to miss the Cavalier. She's been a good little car. But her time has come.

Not to mention, to date, I've lost almost 50 lbs and I'm feeling awesome.

No big plans. Just some weight lifting, an ab class, a little swim, renewing my driver's license an picking up my NEW CAR!!

Love to all you no-commenting bitches out there.