(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.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
(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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)