Oy vey...

There are days when I think my family was supposed to be Jewish.

Before I get stoned to death for fleshing out a stereotype, I should preface this. You all know me to be an all-around loving guy, which is why I (and my friends) make racial jokes/commentary without there being any threat of it being taken seriously. (More in this vein later, when I tackle gay jokes at the office.)

Anyway...

So I was out shopping with my mom (I'm such a good son), mostly to seize the opportunity to be within a 20-mile radius of a Starbucks but also for lack of anything better to do. We had pretty much done the mall once-over, but I wanted to stop and check out some jeans (since they're my staple clothing item and you can never really have too many pairs). Mom wandered off towards a shoe store, and I ducked into the shop.

I chatted up the semi-cute sales guy and took a couple pairs to the change room. I tried the first pair, did the usual rotation in front of the change room mirror (not the public one, but the one in the stall. I don't think I would be vain enough to trot out in front of a store full of people to check out how my ass looked in a three-way mirror.)

As I was tugging the second pair off, I heard a familiar voice waft down the hall.

"Oh, hi!" she said happily to whoever was standing in the doorway. "I'm looking for my son. Is he back here?"

I did a combo of heavy sighing, palm-smacking on my forehead and eye rolling (again, all in the privacy of my stall). Grabbing the pair of jeans nearest to me, I pulled them on at light speed and practically fell into the hallway to head her off.

While I was doing this, she had (of course) started a lengthy conversation with the sales guy. I whipped around the corner and waved to get her attention. "Uh...something up?" I asked, for lack of anything really polite to say.

"Just wanted to make sure I hadn't missed you!" she said, smiling.

I gave a weak smile and tried to stifle a very quiet squeak. The sales guy looked to my mother, then at me.

"Oh. This is your son," he said, halfway between bewildered and bitchy. "I thought you were looking for someone a lot younger."

I looked (in my mind) ridiculous, squeezed into jeans that were the wrong size, standing in the middle of a change room where my mother was practically calling my name to see if she could find me in the store I had already told her I was going to be in.

I could pretty much hear Fran Drescher's voice in my head, whining, "Ma!!!" Oy vey, indeed.

Upon retelling this story to a Jewish friend of mine, he laughed and said that he actually thought for a while that I was a Jew. Apparently that whole story fit the profile. Even at his wedding, his parents and family all thought I was just another Jew in the crowd.

Apparently I have some Hebraic features that I was totally unaware of. And this after being told by my boss just the week before that I must be a true Scot due to some particular nose-ridge-thing that I have (and so do, apparently, all Scots).

"But, in practice, I'd make a terrible Jew," I chided. "The whole foreskin thing...and bacon! I don't think I could ever really say goodbye to bacon."

Kai laughed in his muted, deadpan way. "Hell, I eat bacon all the time.

"It's my favourite condiment."

Some interesting opinions...

So I must confess, I've actually been watching the Olympics.

Not that I had intended to...I had actually sort of decided to boycott the damn things and ignore their existence as a way to protest against China...but they're the only thing on TV. And I have to say, they've been kinda fun to watch, a horrifying statement from a guy that generally hates sports.

It certainly doesn't hurt that almost all of the male athletes are completely dreamy...they're so damn muscled it's annoying, but they're not hyper-developed. Add to that the fact many are in the 18-25 category...and it makes for delicious viewing.

I also realized during the opening ceremonies that I'm particularly fond of the Swiss and Swede crowd. I think I'm adding to my list of things to do a couple guys from that general geographic area. Hell, I'll even put on 'Olympic athlete' on that list; I wouldn't mind one of those swimmers gyrating with me in bed.

Of course, all of this commentary was silent because of the company I've kept today. We had a family-visit day, so it was just me, my parents and my grandparents all hanging out. And because of the beautiful pissing-rain-and-cold weather, we were stuck inside watching the games unfold.

And since I was with my grandparents, there had to be the inevitable moment of sheer awkwardness. Well...of course, there were actually a few, mostly surrounding their insane ideas about the world outside North America. But the one that was most bizarre was a rant about the male swimmers.

"They're all fags, you know," my grandmother said, as if she were telling me the sky is cloudy today.

"Oh?" I said, in strangled laughter. This is certainly odd...

"Yeah, like that young kid, whatshisname," my grandfather added. "He's as queer as a two dollar bill. See, all these male swimmers...it's mostly a gay competition."

The conviction in his voice was laughable; it was as if he were a retired drag queen trying to lecture me on the gay community. He was dead certain that every male swimmer was gay.

"Um...ok," I said, not really knowing where to begin. "So, why do you say that?"

"Because they are!" he said. "They're all gay, you can tell."

At this point, I was biting my tongue to keep from barking with laughter. Sure, there are some gay athletes...but could we whitewash much more than that? Now they're all magically gay, and an old straight dude can tell them apart?

"So...uh....how can you tell?" I said. "I mean, they just swim on TV."

He thought for a second. "No, no, you can tell," he assured me. "It's all in their mannerisms...they move like they're gay, they look gay...it's just the way they behave." My grandmother nodded along, since clearly she is an expert on such things as well.

"Oh," I said simply, rolling my eyes to the back of my head and still suppressing the laughter. The irony was amazing; here he sat two feet from a gay guy, and he was preaching about how he just knew all the swimmers at the Olympics are gay from the way they acted on screen.

Luckily he didn't degenerate into a hate speech about said gay swimmers, but it still was hilarious and bizarre to hear him preach with such authority on the subject.

After they had gone home, my mother shook her head at the thought. "They have some pretty crazy ideas about athletes. It's pretty clear they have no idea about sports whatsoever," she said.

"Ha, I know!" I replied. "And what's with the gay thing? I mean, I'm a huge homo, and they don't seem to be picking up on that at all...but he's such an authority on the subject!"

We both shared a bit of a laugh, inwardly thankful that they really don't know as much as they think they do.

Finally see the light...

I have to thank Oprah for giving me the best Valentines Day I might ever know.

On that fateful day, I felt my optimism and general nonchalant-ness of VDay start to slip. Not that I was bombarded with happy couples...well, until I went out to dinner.

My mother was picking my sorry single ass up, since it was the start of reading week and I had plans to go skiing and frolicking in the north. First, I had to write a midterm that lasted until 6 p.m. (the prof had the nerve to ask me, "What are you writing, War and Peace?" when I asked him for more booklets). I finally got myself together and met up with mom.

We wandered for a bit, then decided that we should eat dinner before making any further movements. Great idea, in principal...but after being turned away from our third restaurant, it looked like we weren't going to get anything to eat.

Finally, we found an alright place that was seating those idiots without reservations on Valentines Day (which was a crowd of mostly single, mostly mid-30's people) at their bar. We pulled up to a couple seats at a small table, no bigger than a dart board, and just chatted and caught up on things.

At some point, a woman entered my peripheral vision, and put a hand softly on my arm. As I turned, recognition flashed, and I leaned out for a hug. Why, it was a semi-distant cousin who was possibly a lesbian! What are you doing here!?

We made the obligatory small talk for a few minutes, then she had to get a seat with her co-worker (a nice blond girl, whom I hoped was her date).

After she had gone, mom gave me that look, the unspoken, "Maybe she's a lesbian, maybe that was her girlfriend." Sufficed to say, it's a long story, but she's a pretty butch woman who hasn't really ever been known to have relationships with men. Not that anyone knows she's seeing women either, but of course, small-town families being what they are, the general unspoken assumption is that she's a homosexual.

Our dinners arrived, we chowed down and talked some more. As we neared finishing, somehow we got to talking about one of mom's friend's kids who got in a fight because another kid called him gay. The poor guy, bless his heart, at 10 years of age, decided to give the bully a big lesson on what being gay means, and that it's not uncool, and that calling someone gay who isn't homosexual is wrong.

Naturally, the kid beat the crap out of him.

"Gee, I thought at that age calling things 'gay' had basically stopped," I said, admittedly surprised. "I mean, high school maybe, but that young?"

She nodded. "I was surprised too," she said, "and a little sad."

We kept eating.

"So, I was watching Oprah the other day," mom said, setting her knife and fork neatly on her plate. "Did you see it?"

I shook no, and took a gulp of beer. Where was this going?

"Well, they had these couples on. And they had had children, and were the perfect families, and all that stuff," she went on. I noticed her eyes start to dart around above and behind my head, but not really looking at me.

"Anyway, well..." she said, lowering her voice, "they turned out to be gay."

"What, the kids?" I asked.

"No, no, the couple. They both were gay, and tried to make it work, but they all came out to each other and everyone." She paused. I nodded along.

"That happens more than you'd think," I said, "people just get sick of lying."

"Well, the point of it was...and what really upset me...was how unhappy they were inside, about hiding it and pretending and forcing themselves." By now her eyes started to glaze, darting to the bottles and screens behind my head.

"I just...it hit me just there, that I would never want that for you, that I don't want you to be unhappy." She started to cry now.

"I finally...I get it," she gasped. "I'm sorry."

My lip started to tremble as she went on about how she really understood I am who I am, and really accepts it and is at peace with it. And how she doesn't want me to be unhappy and miserable, and that hoping that I would wind up falling for a woman was silly and just unfair.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to get there," she said, "but I couldn't control that. But I'm there now."

I realized I had grabbed her hand across the table, and that I was now completely crying in a restaurant full of people on Valentines Day with my mother.

But I felt fucking amazing.

"Uh, I'm going to..." I said, and walked quickly to the men's room. It was deserted, thankfully, and I crashed into a stall and started to sob. I felt so...I don't even know how to describe it now...elated, relieved, accepted, understood.

I quickly realized I had never cried in a public washroom before, and had no idea what the etiquette was. I sat on a toilet, pulled out some paper and cried softly by myself.

Eventually someone staggered in to the urinal beside me, and I realized I had to quiet down and get out of the stall. I did, making sure I'd wiped everything away in the mirror before heading back to my chair.

She was still sitting there, eyes a little wet, our plates vanished. "Sorry," she said. "I always seem to have these kinds of conversations in malls." We both laughed.

I wondered on the way out if my cousin had seen the spectacle, wondered what was going on. Maybe she's more perceptive than I give her credit, and if she truly is a lesbian, maybe she's got me pegged too.

I wondered about Oprah, and how fucking amazing she can be, and I hoped that more than just my mom was changed the day they watched about how hard it is to lie about who you really are, and to accept it for yourself.

And I wondered if I should write Oprah a thank you letter, and tell her what kind of amazing Valentines Day she gave me.

Night with the family...

It became very clear to me last night how hated I would be if my Grandparents found out I am gay.

Yesterday I payed my Grandma and Grandpa a visit. They live about 40 minutes away from me, but it's pretty easily accessible to me. I haven't seen them since Christmas day, which is a little strange as we're a pretty close family and usually are in more contact than that.

It was a typical late afternoon visit that stretched into the evening. We at dinner at around 5 p.m. (how horrible...) and settled in to watch the news.

I don't really know the exact moment where I started to feel uncomfortable, but as the evening grew on I became very aware of how sad the situation is. Just sitting on the couch, looking back at the both of them, people with such high hopes and great excitement for my life...all of which would instantly be destroyed because of my orientation. It fills me with a great sadness.

In a way it feels like I'm already being hated, albeit unbeknownst to them. There never goes by a day when they don't make one or more comments about homos being bad, and it's usually in the general, horrible, homophobic sense. It just gets me down, the knowledge that they would turn on me in a second if they knew. The hatred, and betrayal. All over something that many would agree is senseless.

But there I was, sitting there talking about my semester and my hopes for summer jobs and my future plans...with the secret burden, that terror mixed with cutting insult, all the while them blissfully unaware.

It's a tragic situation. These are the only family that really matter to me, that care for me and will be there for me aside from my parents. By now you're probably saying, "If they can't accept you and would hate you, then you're better off without them." I understand the sentiment, and in 99% of instances I agree with you...but this is blood. It would kill me to have that relationship just severed, and it would ripple down to my parents as well, who would no doubt be cut off from life. Further to that, it would disrupt everything that I've ever known; Christmases and holidays and birthdays would almost cease to exist.

I've tried to stand up to their bigotry and intolerance. Sometimes when I'm particularly enraged I'll argue about things...like when they get on about AIDS being a gay disease that doesn't really matter. Forget the fact that homosexuals are the highest percentage of sufferers, what about the kids who are born with the disease? What about the African children who don't even have parents anymore? Sometimes it silences them.

No doubt this makes them sound like horrible people. They are not. But their ideas on certain topics are archaic and insane.

Even their perceptions of how things 'work' around homosexuality are wrong. Over the past few months my Grandfather cannot help himself but to ask what my weekend plans are. "Oh, you aren't going home again?" he'll say in that voice. "You're getting to be a city boy, watch out. Getting dazzled by all the lights," he tags on, in a half-joking manner. Then comes the good stuff.

"Just don't be down there in the gay village, walking around or anything. You'd better stay away from there," he says.

Grandma pipes in, "Yeah, don't want them turning you into one of those faggolas!"

Often times I find myself jealous of those who have at least one ally in their family. People who have a crusading mother, or a level-headed father, or the raging Grandmother that is a throwback hippie chick encouraging you to just be yourself. I have nothing like that...at best I have a mother slowly coming to grips with it, grudgingly, a father who still doesn't know, and two homophobic, gay-bashing Grandparents that would disown me after the words, "I am gay."

A slightly touching thing has come out of all of this. My mother has commented to me on a number of occasions that she finds it hard to stomach when they start gay bashing. "My chest just gets all tight, and I hope that they don't see the look in my eyes," she said. "I just can't stand hearing that stuff."

Nice to know she doesn't like it either. Or maybe she just doesn't like hearing it out loud, as often such internal comments can sound much worse when they are verbalized.

Before I was able to cope a little better with it. I maintain the attitude of not worrying, simply because they will 'never find out' and the boat will not be rocked. I'd detach that part of myself when around them, so their words and misguided attempts at humour don't hurt. But last night, a particularly normal visit by any other means, left me feeling this great sense of disappointment and burden.

I'll have to shore up the walls, because I've got years more to go, and with any luck that will include a boyfriend and a bit more gayness in my everyday life, no doubt making the facade even more difficult to maintain. There is simply no other alternative though.

All of this has led me to hope to finally settle down with a guy who has a big, loving, accepting family so I won't have to live a semi-isolated family life because of sexuality. People who are past this.

Maybe my family will one day all find out, and just accept it for what it is, no problems. Somehow I don't think this is the case, but I'll keep that small hope in my heart.

Until then, I've got to put up with the 'fear of the faggolas' that my Grandparents seem not to be able to shake.

The blah continues...

The shit is over.

I hope, anyway. And it's not over, it's just over for now. But it didn't end well.

Yesterday, I met with the prof who is panning us all. We talked for 20 minutes about my academic progress, where she embarrassed me repeatedly asking such questions as, "Are you having this trouble with other courses?"

The highlight of the meeting was a statement that made my eyes bulge and my fists clench. "You should stop whining," she said flippantly. "You're almost out of university, in the working world you'll be on your own with this. You've got to develop your skills, and I'm here to help you."

Uh, what? I'm not a 5th-grader. I approached her as a mature student with real concerns about not only my grades, but how the course is being evaluated in general. And she treats me like a kid who's having a hissy-fit because his mark was too low.

"Don't worry about it so much," was another piece of brilliant advice. "It's not like your grade will be ruined."

I got very quite after that, and as hard as I tried, I probably looked furious.

In the end, we made a few arrangements so that I could hopefully pull my marks up, which included a last-minute assignment due this evening, as opposed to something due next week.

When we were finished, she looked at me and said, "About the whining. I was joking, it looks like you took it pretty to heart though."

No shit. A joke is when you make light of a situation. Not insult someone straight-faced and, upon seeing they didn't get it, inform them of the funny you just made.

It's been a bad week, because all I've lived and breathed for the past three days has been this. I'm finally released now, and happily packing for my trip to Ottawa to visit Ashley. I leave tomorrow afternoon, and was very excited.

Until I got a phone call a few minutes ago from my mom, who hadn't talked to me yet this week. I told her I really couldn't talk, I was working on something that I needed to hand in shortly, and that it was a really long story that I didn't have time to tell.

This led to a few questions from her, which lead to me answering some, including the grade's I'd received in this class so far. Which lead to her knee-jerk reactions: "Well, you're going to pull your marks up, right?" and "I'm sure things will be fine in the end." Two statements that infuriate me, and thanks to my raw mood, I managed to get into it with her on the phone.

It ended very badly, with me saying I really couldn't talk about it. I asked what was new with her, and she just dead-panned. "Nothing. Nothings new. Well I guess I'll let you go," she said, and ended the conversation coldly.

I was frustrated and angry, and I just sat and finished my work. But as soon as I hit send, I started feeling really guilty.

My excitement of the freedom of the weekend ahead was shot to shit, as all I can think about now is how badly I feel for being so short with her. Instead of feeling relaxed and happy now that I'm done, I feel guilty and really bad.

Now I don't know how to apologize, because I don't do that very well, mostly because I'm never in the wrong. Tonight I think I may have been.

Or at least that's what the guilt sitting on my chest is saying.

Cooked goose...

I am fat and sleepy.

Uggghhhh...too much food. And before you say, "Well, just don't eat it!" I have to tell you, I kinda wanted to. Its all been good...just not good for you. And I've payed the price. I can feel my body spreading, that extra substance on my bones. It's weird. It's gross. And I can't stop myself.

As a result I now have made my life harder than before. As of Wednesday I have to go back to eating a lot less, and a lot better food. That adjustment will be somewhat welcomed, because I really feel gross right now. But you just always know in the back of your mind your stomach will just want more.

What's even more strange is my alertness. Thursday and Friday of last week I was primed and happy to be home. Saturday we had our immediate family over for Thanksgiving, and by 4 p.m. I wanted nothing more than to sleep (this was pre-turkey too). Sunday was a little better, but I was still crashing terribly by 11 p.m. Today I was ready for a nap at 3 p.m., after working from 11 a.m. on school stuff.

I mean, a nap? I never do that shit! But it was wonderful...I wrapped myself in a blanket on my bed, laid on my pillow and listened quietly to an audiobook on my iPod. It was everything I dreamed it would be.

The thing that drives me crazy in my life these days is that nothing is guilt-free. While I was enjoying my nap, in the back of my mind I was worried about all the work I still have to do before tomorrow night. The entire weekend has been spent pushing things off to enjoy family time, then worrying I've pushed things a little too far. I hope the next weekend I get at home will have me with far less homework.

Of the 2200 words I'm supposed to write, I've gotten 1200. Oh, and a 500 page novel I was supposed to read...but that's not happening.

Saturday's Thanksgiving was actually really fun. My good grandparents came over, and we spent the day laughing and kidding around. My father wore a cabbage hat for most of the day. But of course, there had to be drama. My evil grandmother said she was simply too tired to come over for dinner. The last time she was out for a day she spent the next two in bed, because she was just so exhausted by it all.

My father was deeply hurt by this, and I don't blame him. Everybody else was quite excited we didn't have to spend time with her, but for the sake of my Dad we all felt badly. Considering she lives next door, I really don't think it would be too much to ask of her. Also, considering I saw her drive up the road to go grocery shopping just as we were mashing the potatoes and pulling out the stuffing, I really think she could have made it, that bitch.

Sunday was the 'big' family Thanksgiving. I really can't stand any of them. My parents and my grandparents are the only family I really love and the only family who love me in return. The rest, comprised of an Aunt and Uncle, three cousins, all their spouses, several children and a dog. As usual, I was well ignored by them as they fought amongst themselves.

More drama ensued. My grandmother refused to come to dinner again, saying that she'd had a heart attack on Saturday night but didn't want anyone coming over (she'd locked her doors), or to go to a doctor or hospital. Oh, and that' she'd rather just die than live another day. (On a side note I swear she will outlive us all, even with her attitude.)

My cousins got into a huge fight, in front of the family, where they both demanded a divorce. Also, we ate in the garage, which smelled like cat piss and fly spray. My 'favorite' cousin (and I use that term loosely) wrote on the chalkboard wall: "Happy Ghetto Thanksgiving". Also, one of the kids was seen brandishing an axe, immediately changing his story to, "Look what I found!" after wielding it around his head.

I was musing later that evening about my family. After my father dies, I will never see those people again. I cannot even describe how isolated I am from these people. They never show interest in me beyond 'how are you', and never make an effort to include me in their goings-on. Not to mention they're all 8 or more years older than I am.

It was quite depressing, really, to realize how alone I will be in a few years. Granted, my parents will still be around for roughly 30 more, but my grandparents may only have 10 left. And having no siblings myself, nor close cousins, one day I will literally be alone. Of course there will be friends and lovers...but nobody who is my family. And I'd hate to gate-crash my best friend's family Thanksgiving when I'm 55...

I've always wanted a big loving/dysfunctional family. Like on Brothers and Sisters, where everyone fights but ultimately loves each other unconditionally. That will never happen in my blood family, so I've turned that gaze towards future partners. In my fantasy world, I would hope to find myself with someone in a big family that I could bask in. While I know that all partners aren't always accepted into these family situations, I would hope I could find myself accepted.

I leave home tomorrow. It's been a nice visit.

Seeing someone...

Well, I told her.

Thursday afternoon, while we were driving to the grocery store. She seemed to be in a good mood, chatty, so I cut through the fear that was clenching my throat and told her I had, "Exciting news."

"Oh, that's good! We always need good news."

There has been some confusion: I am indeed out to my mother. For those stories, see: Telling Her Pt. 1, Telling Her Pt. 2, She Deals With It, I Cry, We Fight About It.

I sucked in air, and proceeded. "I'm seeing someone. His name is Danny."

"Oh..." she said, and the pressure of the air surrounding us increased. "So...it's a guy?"

"Uh, yeah."

I proceeded to tell her about him, where he studies, works, what he does in his spare time, all the while trying to keep it as 'normal' as possible. All the things she would want to know if this was a 'girlfriend'.

Silence filled the car. "Well, where did you meet him?"

"Online," I said, completely and finally.

"Oh, well, everyone I talk to says people you meet online are creeps, and it's always a disaster..."

"Sorry, but I really don't think that's the case," I said, defensively.

More silence. "So tell me about him..." she managed. I retold what I had said, adding that he was very sweet and good natured.

"What does 'seeing someone' mean," she then asked, suspiciously. I shook my head in disbelief.

"Well, we've spent some time together, we've gone out on dates...I guess you could say it's the early part of a relationship, if things continue the way they have," I attempted to explain. She paused again, and I knew she wanted to ask the sex question. But to my great surprise, she didn't.

That was pretty much the conversation.

I was pretty upset at first about how much of a shock it seemed to be, and how unenthusiastic she was. The biggest thing that bothers me is, if this were a girl, she would be happy beyond words for me to have found someone. But she could barely ask what he was like, and all she wanted to know was about this notorious 'seeing someone' label.

It hurts. After all these months of her knowing, and me thinking she would have grown to accept things a little more by now, she showed little improvement.

Now I'm scared about how to proceed. I've been told to bring him up in normal conversation, when I'm asked what's new or what I've been doing. Keep up the mentioning, and it'll become just another normal part of life.

What scares me is what I discovered last night, while driving a friend home after a mini-reunion. I don't want to lead two lives. I don't want to have my life in Toronto, with boys and my friends and school, then a separate life at home where it's something that we just don't discuss. It frightens me to think after I come out to my Dad that we just won't talk about it; like some proper British household we'll just sweep it under the carpet and pretend nothing has happened. The whole point of coming out is so I don't have to hide myself from my parents, not to lead two separate lives.

So now what do I do? Since I never really had girlfriends before, I don't know what constitutes 'normal' amounts of conversation about your relationship. It's not like I brought a lot of girls around home, or was always receiving calls from people. And obviously that's not happening right now. But still, how do I proceed?

The other thing that shocked me was her complete lack of dating knowledge. I mean, did she marry my father before they went on their first date? I thought the progression was always the same, no matter what decade: Meet, first date, second date, on and on until either turning into a relationship or simply ending because of lost interest.

Obviously there's many more stops in that road...and many detours. But I wasn't going to say, "Oh, this could just be a physical thing..." or she would have needed to go to the hospital.

And this wall all a conversation with my mother. God knows how it's going to go when I come out to Dad (though it won't be this weekend!).

Separation anxiety...

I was doing quite fine with being back in Toronto.

Apparently, my parents were not. Last night my dad and I went to a concert together, Brad Paisley at the Molson Amphitheatre (see, I told you how diverse my taste is!). The show was really fun, and it was great to have some father-son time.

And what better way to enjoy father-son time than wind up crying, twice, while holding your dad's hand.

During one of the opening acts, Rodney Atkins, a particularity poignant song was played, "Be Like You". It's all about a father and a son, and how the son wants to essentially be like his father, sort of a my-dad's-the-best sentiment. I have always had trouble communicating with my dad, because of his emotional unavailability. It's not that he's not always laughing, or talking to me, or whatever...it's just that he cannot express that damn inconvenient 'love' emotion very well.

Well, the song gets well underway, and I throw my arm around my dad and strangle his shoulder. He tipped his head into mine, and put a vice grip on my knee. I tried hard not to, but those damn tears started trailing down my face. It was a nice moment.

Then, later, during Brad Paisley's set, there was a song dedicated to those who have died in recent memory. Some famous faces were splashed on the screen, and I started getting all overly emotional again.

"I love you so much," I said, grabbing his hand. "Don't ever leave me."

What the hell is going on with me? I've never been this emotional before, honestly, someone should check to see I'm not pregnant.

I guess it's because of how much I feel things have changed in a year. I'm a different person. I'm growing up, and breaking free from home. I'm coming out. Who knows...

Then I found out that my dad thinks I should go home for the night with him. You know, it'll be easier than taking you back to your place (?). And I don't mind driving you back down tomorrow.

I really wasn't planning on it, because I haven't even been away that long, and I was trying to make plans for Sunday. But I wanted to be the 'good son', so I agreed, reluctantly, and went along.

This morning, my mom threw her arms around me. "It's nice to have you home!" she said. "It's been so quiet around here."

Good Lord! I've been gone 2 seconds and they're both going on as if I were just back from 2 months abroad. I realized then and there that I'm going to have to figure out just exactly what to do for everyone's benefit.

On one hand, I'm trying to be nice to my parents. They're having obvious difficulties with my being gone, and I don't want to make them unhappy because I simply want my own space.

But on the other, I'm in my third year of university, and I'm growing up. Part of what's holding me back is the convenience of being able to be home when I want to. How am I going to evolve my social life if I can't even stay in the city more than a week!?

It's a delicate issue. I have to learn to balance my own new independent life with my family. And I just don't know how to do that. I need help. (What else is new?)

We share a cast of characters...

I should go 'round the table and introduce everyone.

There have been recurring characters in my life, but I now think it's time to clarify who they all are. Since I'm back to school, there should be a lot more interaction with them, and I don't want anyone confused.

So, we've got:

-Laura, the girl from high school, and one of my new roommates. Also, one of the three 'best friends'.
-Nina, the other new roommate, and a friend of Laura's.
-Lisa, my other best friend from school, and the first person I came out to.
-Ashley, my third and final 'best friend', who doesn't live in Toronto.
-David, the guy I'm sleeping with.
-Dad, the emotionally unavailable father-figure.
-Mom, the one I've got to figure out what our 'problem' is.
-The Bad Grandmother, the one who's the cause of my father's emotional unavailability, and who I don't even see as a 'grandmother', more like the lady that comes to Christmas dinner.
-Grandma and Grandpa, who are great grandparents, but can never know. They'd disown me quicker than...I don't even know, it's not a laughing matter.
-Ex-roommate, the crazy bitch that helped ruin last year for me.
-Brian, the guy I dated for three seconds earlier this year, who now says we should get together since I'm back to Toronto.
-Ella, the crazy blond from my France trip, and my possible ticket into some gay life.
-Rez Guy, the really cute token gay guy from my residence, who I was supposed to sleep with but have yet to.

There are, obviously, a number of people who should be added to this list. But I can't think of them at the moment. I'll probably add them as I go along, so if you ever read about someone you don't recognize, check here!

Never make me cry...

Admittedly, I've cried more in the past two days than I have in a long, long time.

And they weren't homesick tears.

It all started on Monday. The tension was thick, as it usually is during these moving times. For some reason, instead of just being an understated affair, my moves have always been marred with problems. This one proved to be no exception.

We'd been in close quarters since Saturday, being together nearly every hour of the day. It was a nice way, somewhat, to enjoy the family's last hours together before I left again. But as it always does, the time spent with my mom began to slide into conflict.

I cannot clearly recall what happened on Sunday, between my mother and me. Apparently I was making several comments that were irksome towards her, my sighing and frustrations with her somewhat mundane and (to me) obscure questions. I got up that morning prepared for such questions from her, thinking I could keep myself from sighing, exasperated, and pitching some sideways comments.

Apparently I touched some nerves.

Monday morning, I had just pulled out of the driveway, and was a half-kilometer from my house when she said, "Pull over, turn around."

I don't even recall what I had said the instant before she said this. Turning to look at her, my face creased into a frown of confusion. What was she talking about? I hesitated and continued down the road.

"I said turn around!" she screamed. "Now."

I pulled over, eyes wide with horror. She slammed her fist against the dash and started raving. Completely mad. I couldn't compute what was happening. She was saying that I should take her home, because she was not going to take another day of being my punching bad.

A moment passed, and she calmed. "So what's it going to be? Are you taking me home, or are you going to be civil."

I stammered. "I need your help. I can't move on my own. What am I going to do with the car?"

"That's not my fucking problem," she said.

I started to tear up. This was not making any sense.

For the next several minutes she outlined (roughly) how I had been insensitive, demeaning, passive-aggressive and overall undesirable towards her over the course of the summer. I could understand some of what she was saying, but this was the first time I was made aware of most of it.

She finally agreed to keep going, which I did. But she kept talking, too. My memory is blocked (I'm assuming) because I can't remember what else she said. I just wanted her to shut up, sit in silence and not worsen the situation.

By now tears started falling down my face, and my lip trembled. None of this was making any sense. It was my mother, screaming at me. This never happened.

We made it several kilometers down the road, and she finished her talking. "So, what have you got to say," she demanded.

"I...I don't know...I," escaped my lips. This only worsened the situation.

"Pull over. That's it. Just leave me here."

"No!" I yelled, trying to recover. What the hell was I supposed to say? I thought being non-committal about my answer would keep her from further anger, not produce more.

I talked for a minute, saying how confused I was about what she was saying, asking for more clarification. This helped, as she started talking again. By then her anger was rolling in waves; calm would move in, followed by a new torrent of anger.

Finally we fell into silence. Awkward silence. I wished I were alone, that she had of gotten out, because I wanted to be nowhere near her at that moment. Yet there we were, locked in the car together for the remainder of the trip.

We arrived, and things seemed to have settled a little. After grabbing up the last of the boxes, we dropped my stuff in my room. It was 1:30, and I was afraid she would want lunch.

"Well. That's it then. I guess we should get something to eat," she said, right on queue. I sighed and agreed. What else could I do?

We ate in silence. There was some small talk, about my financial status, and my impending birthday. I was in no mood to discuss anything. After all, it seemed my mother hated me.

Lunch finished and we made the walk back to the car. By now she seemed to have loosened, but I was so hurt that I didn't really soften. My protective shell was around me, and I engaged in little committed conversation.

I put a few empty boxes in the car, and closed the door. She hugged me loosely.

"In the end, you know I always love you. You're the most important thing to me," she said.

"Yeah, I love you too," I said, but I don't know if I meant it right then.

"Well, I'd talk more, but we're just standing in the road," she said. I nodded, and she got in. I started walking and didn't look back.

When I got home, I was in shock. I understand somewhat where she was coming from, recognize my relationship with her is unique. She drives me crazy with seemingly senseless questions and ideas, and I don't handle them well. I snap back with retorts and make it known when I question her. So yes, if this has been building for the entire summer, I can see how she may be upset.

But the way she exploded. It was unlike anything I've ever seen from her before. It broke my heart, and it was a shitty way to leave things between us on the day I moved out.

I found myself in tears a few more times yesterday, but distracted myself with my roommates and unpacking. At times, all I wanted to do was cry it out, but that never happened. Maybe it should have.

Today I got up and went about my business, trying to ignore yesterday's craziness. I still felt badly, but tried to ignore it. I've never been hurt this way before, and I don't really know how to deal with it. I wondered how she was feeling, if she was still furious, or had she regretted what had happened?

Tonight I called my Dad's cell, probing for information. We talked for a while about our days, and what I was up to now that I've moved back. He never mentioned anything, so I finally asked about how mom was. He didn't bite, and just said she was fine.

The conversation was winding down, but I wanted to know what was going on. Finally I said, "So mom and I had a pretty big blowout yesterday."

"Yeah, I heard," he said. "Pretty bad."

We talked about what was said. "You know," he said, all reflective-like, "Your mom is a lot more sensitive than you think. You've gotta...be more aware of how you say things. Don't get me wrong. We both love you so much, you're a great guy, Steve, you really are..." his voice trailed off. I started to cry again.

What I wanted to ask was why she'd done it, was it really that bad, why it had to happen that day...but I just listened to what he had to say.

"I don't know," he said, "she loves you, buddy, but you've gotta go easy on her."

He paused a moment, while I stifled a sob. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah, oh yeah..." I said, choked. "It was just a shitty time to do it, I mean, on my last day."

"She felt really bad when she got home," he said. "Really. And she didn't sleep last night. In the morning she was saying how she figures you won't be coming home much anymore, that you're going to be cut off from us..."

(It's a thought. After all, my instinct was that she needed space away from me. I wasn't planning on calling her today.)

"So should I call her? Does she want space?" I asked.

"No, no, call her. She's probably waiting to hear from you, she was really regretting that it happened. I know she felt so bad. You know, we love you, buddy. I love you."

This really got me, because he never says it.

"I love you too."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Later, I picked up the phone and called her. We talked for 15 minutes, a little (lot) reserved, about this and that. How my day went in the city. Et cettera.

I thought she was just not going to mention it, but she asked at the very end. "So, do you want to talk about yesterday?"

"There's really nothing to talk about," I said.

"Oh. Alright."

What was I going to say? How hurt I was? How do I say that without stirring up another fight, because, after all, if I blamed her at all she'd just wind up angry again.

I guess it's over. She didn't say how badly she felt, but it was good to find out from my dad.

Not the high note I wanted to arrive at school on.

More talking...

We always have our 'discussions' in the kitchen.

I don't really know why, probably because the layout allows us to each have our own personal space, without feeling too in each other's faces. I always stand closer to the fridge, she stands by the sink, and there's about 7 feet between us. Lots of light, too, so you can judge your words based on the look in each other's eyes.

Tonight it started over the usual, mundane things, mostly over differences in opinion in doing different household chores. More specifically, because of my new duties as house-husband, and lack of proficiency at window washing, etc. We'd gotten into it a little heavier than usual (usual being once every few months, I don't want to give the impression this is a constant thing...) and she was phrasing things with a little more emphasis than normal. I was scared, because I didn't want to push things over the limit.

So after we'd exhausted all of what was bothering us, and were standing awkwardly, wondering if we were finished, I decided to unload some of the things that have been bothering me. I waited a few beats, then explained that I've been a little run down since the Friday discussion, and hadn't realized I would feel that emotionally worked up.

We talked about things that we'd already talked about. I said how I was upset by the 'disappointed' comment, knowing that she wasn't disappointed in me per se, but that it still was hard to hear. This time it was a lot more about her feelings, less about worrying about my dad.

I don't know what to do with it any more. We've clearly made some progress, but how do I act now? Do I simply speak as if it were one of my friends, talking about some guy who I thought was cute? Or pretend as if we've really never discussed anything. I guess it's time to find new ground with this, especially since my sexuality doesn't have a lot do do with my relationship with my mother.

She also commented that she 'didn't know what she wanted me to do' now. I really couldn't answer that, other than to hope she was getting more alright with the notion and was accepting it for what it was.

One thing she's decided, "If anyone asks me if you're gay, I'm just going to say that your sexuality has nothing to do with me. It's like saying the sky is blue, nothing to do with me."

We wrapped up the conversation a little awkwardly. I hugged her, but she just stood there. "Well, I thought you were mad at me," she said. It can be so frustrating trying to explain something and having another person hung up miles behind your last point. Eventually she was more reassured, but I got the feeling she was drained from the conversation.

Each small step...

Please, let me be (maybe...)...

I think my family is trying hard to kill me.

Two afternoons ago, my mother fell over the dog. For the first time in 8 years.

Naturally, since nothing is easy and everything has to be some sort of pain in the ass, she wound up doing quite a bit of damage to herself. As she explained, it was either land on her head or her wrist...and sadly the wrist lost out against the interlock in the garden.

When it happened, she assumed it wasn't a big deal. The day wore on, I went to a friend's for a bonfire and come-out session, and collapsed into bed at 2 a.m.

Yesterday morning I was awoken by mom cracking my door open and stage-whispering my name over and over. I think my first thought was, 'Oh, fuck.' This was a little before 8 a.m., and with a few hours of sleep behind me (and not quite being over the lack of sleep since Thursday) I energetically bounded out of bed to take her to the doctors office.

The rest of the day was taken up by visits to 4 doctor's offices, with the confirmation and casting of a broken wrist. At one point, at a stop at the grocery between doctors, she was relaying the news to my dad. She then started to cry, in the middle of the frozen food's section, because this ailment puts her out of commission for the rest of the summer.

It's not as if she's whining about the pain, it's more the fact that her summer pastime as part of a woman's racing team was now going to be cut off completely. So there I stood rubbing her back in the aisle as she said how pissed she was at herself for doing such a stupid thing. I stared at her, not really knowing what to say.

We then got home where an e-mail was waiting to let her know that an acquaintance of hers from her team had died the day before. This brought on more crying and back rubbing, with her becoming very emotional and concerned over this woman's death. The entire time, I sat there trying to think of what to say, but nothing very calming or compassionate escaped my lips. After she had composed herself, I slouched into my chair and exhaled, trying to pull myself back together.

I then spent the remainder of the afternoon doing all the things I was doing when my parents were away, since she cannot now lift or otherwise move her arm. Through most of this, she followed me around changing her attitude from 'this can't be happening' to 'you're not doing that how I would...'

My father has been equally 'interesting' lately. Last night he literally followed me around the house recounting the finer points of American domestic policy in Alaska during the Second World War. I attempted a few times to either change the subject or end the conversation all together, but to no avail.

This all makes me feel guilty, because while I'm listening to the history lesson he's lecturing on I simply want to become invisible and walk away. But afterwards, I feel horrible because, after all, he's my father whom I don't get to see a lot and I should take advantage of the opportunity to spend time with him.

Still, its a fine line. I hope he's not mistaking my somewhat blank-faced stares as there being something wrong with me (though I suppose there is...), and trying even harder to engage me in conversation. But when it gets to the point where he's waiting for you to get out of the shower (on your way to bed, mind you) to talk about the thunderstorms moving further east than expected, one wants to scream.

To top it all off, I ended up checking out my Facebook and getting more great news. Remember Rez Guy? The one who wants to sleep with me, and who I was gladly going to befriend? Well, guess what he's been up to lately...apparently he is now listen in a relationship with someone. Bloody hell. I give up. One of the 'perks' I had to look forward to upon returning to Toronto has now shacked up with some guy. How dare he!

All in all, I just feel at then end of my tether. Half of me says, "Oh for Christs sake, you've got nothing to complain about, suck it up!" Then the other half thinks I have the right to, at every alternate moment, want to burst into tears and hide under my bedsheets. Being not completely self-absorbed, I have the side that feels dutiful and responsible for my parents, but it's reaching such an emotional plateau right now that I'm starting to have trouble dealing with it.

That was hard...

It's been a very long and confusing few days.

It all started happening on Friday morning. I was doing my thing, getting ready to go downtown with a few friends for an overnighter at my new apartment (long story there...) and had taken some laundry downstairs where my mom was working.

She was standing at the washer, then looked over at me. I don't remember what she said before, but then she asked, "Can I ask you something that might sound silly?"

Immediately I got that gut-rush feeling, and I wondered what she was about to say.

I don't even remember what the first statement was about really, but it had basically come down to if I'd 'decided' if I was gay or not. She phrased it a little strangely, I guess avoiding the big 'G' word, asking if I'd completely given up on girls and the whole thing.

I told her honestly that I was more attracted to guys, but that I would never rule out the possibility that someday I might fall for a woman. I was a little taken back by the question, since I thought I'd made it pretty clear before that I was indeed interested in guys...you know, I thought telling her about dating one would make it pretty concrete. But she seemed to think that maybe I'd changed my mind. She said she'd been thinking a lot about it, but didn't know if she should talk about it or not. Since I always told her that she should ask me anything she went ahead with it.

The conversation flowed pretty strangely after that initial question, I can't recall what was said in what order, but the thing that really got her going was something she discovered on vacation. "People were all talking about their grandkids," she said, eyes starting to well up in tears. "I just realized I really wanted that too, someday..." And she started to cry.

I didn't know what to say. Sure, I could tell her that maybe one day I would adopt, but seeing as she thought I might have changed my mind about guys, I guessed she might not be ready for such news. I opted for the truth, that I had no intention, gay , straight or otherwise, to have children for a long time. Who knows when it would be, but it's something that I never intended for my immediate future.

"I know that, I wouldn't want you to have kids now..." she said. "But still, will you ever?"

She continued to cry, and I hugged her close. After a few minutes she got a little more composed and we kept talking about lots of stuff. She questioned my weight loss and renewed interest in my appearance as related to sexuality. She asked if anyone had hurt me, then started to cry again saying she could never stand to loose me. I hugged her again, trying to assure her nobody would hurt me.

Then she wondered who I'd told, and what their reactions were. I answered I had told almost all my close friends, and that everyone had been supportive and quite alright with it. She said it might not be a good idea to tell anyone else, because if I haven't decided if I was, "Gay or straight yet," I probably shouldn't let people get the wrong ideas. And how was I supposed to get a girl if everyone thought I was gay? I just said, as I believe, that if it were the case it would be between myself and whomever, and other people could think/say what they want, as they do naturally.

We then hit the most sensitive topic...telling my father. "Do you think we should tell him at all?" she said. Obviously, I replied, since I do plan on actually having a life, and he needs to know. "But I don't know how he'll take it...I just don't know..." she said, stifling another round of tears. I told her of course I've played through in my mind all the different things that could go really badly when telling him, how I'm terrified of his reaction. The hardest thing for me is the thought that he might not love me as much as he did the moment before I told him ever again, simply because. Then I collapsed into tears.

We stood there, in the basement with the washer door open, crying and holding on to each other. I haven't cried like that in a while, my body shaking and twitching as salt slid onto my lips. I tried to catch my breath, but couldn't stop. "Jesus," I whispered in her ear, "I'm so scared."

I asked her if she loved me still, and she answered, "Of course I love you, you should know that." I do know that. "But are you disappointed?"

She paused. "Well, yes, I mean it's not what I would have preffered..."

I don't really take offence to that. I think.

We talked a few minutes more about it, then moved on to other things. For the rest of the day I felt horrible inside, and I don't know why. I mean, here I was being pretty damn honest with her, confirming that I hadn't changed my mind, and talking about the future. But I guess it was the future part that scares me.

There are moments where I feel like pulling on the brakes and getting off this train. After talking to her, it felt like things were going to be so much harder than I had envisioned before, in all respects. How would my father react? And what about my life from here on, would I be segregated?

I also realized that afternoon that I just don't feel strong anymore. Before I had all that pent up frustration that just ended up channeling itself into inner strength. After crying my eyes out, I just didn't feel strength anymore. I'm sick of having to be the strong one in all of this. But I don't have anyone to lean on, since it's pretty clear that mom is still working through her own issues with it, and not really ready to help me.

At one point she asked if I had anyone to talk about this stuff with. I said my friends had been good about it, but no, really I didn't have any gay friends or people in my life who I talk to on a person-to-person basis. But I said I did have people. "Don't think this is weird..." I told her, "But I talk to people online. Not freaks and rapists, but bloggers and people who are in the same situations as me." Surprisingly she seemed alright with this.

I ended up recounting the story to my friends that afternoon, and had to bite my lip a few times so I wouldn't re-erupt into tears. They were good about listening, but of course couldn't offer much advice other than just being support for me.

Saturday I felt the flip side of the bizarre post-crying terror, and actually was really happy we'd had another conversation about it. I was closer to being out, and being clear that things weren't going to change. The world hadn't exploded after talking about it some more, and the ground we covered seemed to be a positive step forward. I wound up at a friend's birthday kegger in another city, so I didn't really spend any time at home until getting back Sunday night.

Today I don't know how I feel. I guess a mixture of good and bad, with the overwhelming sensation of, "Did that just happen?" thrown in for good measure. I don't know if I'm seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, or the headlights of a train barreling down at me...

Farmboy Guilt...

Some of you may have actual experience with this, but even if it's not Farmboy Guilt, everyone has something that tweaks their guilt strings every now and then.

For me, it's all about the changes over the past few years. I packed up in 2005 and headed for the big city, glad to be having a change in life and scenery. I've lived in the same small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere my whole life, and there's no way to break away unless you simply leave. And so I did.

Not that I didn't miss being around my family, and my pets, and acres upon acres of free space. But I certainly didn't miss the insanity that is farming, and everything uncivilized and uncultured about it. I'd done enough of that in my formative years to last me a lifetime. Don't get me wrong, I think everyone should be exposed to some part of this side of life. It's a great way to keep humble and make sure your head doesn't get too big. But at the same time, I can imagine how stifling it must be for so many people (my father included).

So when I moved to Toronto, I was overjoyed by the freedom from farming. Because, quite honestly, I don't like pounding posts for fences, or stacking square bales, or driving a tractor up and down, up and down for hours on end. It's boring, unstimulating, and psychologically unsatisfying. No more would I have to suffer the horrors of agriculture, now that I had started life in the city. I had friends who actually wanted to visit art galleries and museums and listen to jazz music and embrace culture.

When I visited home, I would fall back into some sense of farmiliarity. I would help my father on Saturday afternoons, or lend a hand with my Uncle. After getting back to the city, I would joke about how strange my life was; one minute shoveling shit, knee deep in the stuff...the next shopping on Bloor Street in Yorkville, in some semblence of style. Truly this could be deemed a magical time, getting just a dash of the farmiliar while at the same time spreading my urban wings.

This summer I had no intention of doing any agricultural work. None. I'd had my fill, and I wanted to get a real job, and actually be challenged, as opposed to simply picking up the pitchfork and doing the same old routine. I'd had enough of the stupidity of my Uncle and cousins and their backwards outlook on life.

One night a few weeks ago, before my parents left on vacation, I went out in the evening with my dad to give him a quick hand. The sun was setting and the sky was a firey orange, casting long shadows from the towering trees. Birds sang softly, and the wind played with the corn stalks, rustling them quietly in the twilight. As we worked, I gazed longlingly down the rows of corn, watching the stalks shiver in the now cool night air. The stars winked into view, and the last rays of sun disappeared in the western sky. And I felt guilty.

There I was, actually missing farming. For those few minutes, I was enamored with the beauty of nature, and the overwhelming urge to jump on a tractor and start working invaded my brain. I felt guilty for begrudgingly agreeing to help my father, instead of doing my duty as a good son and offering to help before being asked. I felt guilty for turning my back on my past, my roots, and the dirt under my feet.

The next day, I still couldn't believe how I felt once I was actually in the field again. The realization that I really did want to be out there, if only for a little bit to fill some void in my soul, stoned me. But in the hard sunlight of that morning, I understood I had been swept up by my romantic mind and carried away by the few moments of beauty I had enjoyed. After all, this was peaceful natural bliss I had experienced, not anything like a typical day of work. There was no mechanical failures, no Uncle or cousins to drive me crazy, no lack of stimulation or repetitive motions to dull my brain...this was not farming. This was my romantic ideal of farming, something that does not exsist.

Yet here I am, working again for my Uncle, doing the same jobs I used to do, and being bored to tears. Admitedly the first few hours were fun, but as I got readjusted to the bounce of my seat and the grind of the gears, as well as the sun beaming down on me all day, I remembered all too vividly why I don't like farming. So what made me even think of agreeing to doing it just one more time? I'll chalk it up to Farmboy Guilt.

Will I ever be rid of this? Once I move away completely, start life away from my homestead and not return to work, will I be free of the obligation? Or will it morph into something even worse than it is now, a knawing in the back of my mind, as I work on the 32nd floor of an office building, or jet across the Atlantic on a business trip, that I have left my past behind. Will the Farmboy Guilt follow me to the grave?

I guess we all fell a little guilty about leaving our pasts behind. Packing up for the last time, saying goodbye to the house you lived in, and permanantly moving away. After all, this is what you want, to have the life you want. If you make the break really clean, I guess the guilt is minimized, since you're not constantly being reminded what's happening back there. But maybe at some point, when you see a scene that lets your imagination take you back to a moment in your past, most likely fabricated from snippets of truth that combine to make one really rosey memory, you'll have that quiet whisper in the back of your mind...and feel a twinge of guilt.

Hectic...

Now I really wish I was on that vacation...

These past few days have been insane. I've gotten about 6 hours of sleep each night, and thankfully got to 'sleep in' this morning. It all started going downhill after saying yes to my Uncle and starting to work for him, while at the same time adjusting to all the new crap I have to do.

But you don't want to hear about all that.

I'll definately recount the more interesting parts of the past few days though. First off, the Stevie Nicks concert. Oh...how I love Stevie Nicks. Fleetwood Mac is my all-time-favorite band, and naturally that love extends to Stevie. Her concert was pretty good, not the greatest thing I've seen or heard from her, but it was also only the second show I've seen her in, so I wasn't complaining about getting the chance to listen to her in person.

Sadly, the crowd sucked. Nobody near me was moving, dancing, singing or really showing the slightest interest. The couple in front of my seat were constantly typing on their BlackBerry and practically ignoring the show. The only saving grace was the 50 people who had approached the front of the stage and stood dancing and waving through the entire set. They were great fun to watch, as was the two guys in front of another row. They would intermitantly get up and dance their asses off, but ultimately never got anyone else on their feet. I'd like to appologize to Ms. Nicks for the horrible audience.

I also decided on the drive home that if I ever turn into a drag queen, it would have to be one modeled after the Welsh Witch herself. For the second last song, she came out in that top hat with a huge white feather, and just looked so damn cool. Not that I have a vested interest in becoming a drag queen...but if I got to run around looking like that for fun once in a while, it might actually be ok.

The other interesting event was my beginning working for my Uncle. Not 2 hours after I'd dropped my parents at the airport, he'd called me wondering what I was doing the next day. I agreed to do one job for him, and somehow that has snowballed into working every day since. It pisses me off to no end that he continually manipulates me into working, but at this point I need money, and didn't realize how much time I would need to keep up with everything else I need to do, and work. That explains why there's been no posts recently, because I really haven't sat down except to eat and sleep.

Taking up working for my Uncle did give me an interesting experience earlier in the week. He's in the agriculture business (I'd say more but I'd prefer to keep it vauge) and was hired by a couple to do some odd jobs at their farm. Naturally, that fell to me to do. My Saintly Uncle is always pleased with himself about these clients, because he's the only guy that will do work for them in the area. You see, they're a gay couple.

So there I was, listening to my Uncle and cousin and the other hired help go on about how I needed to go up to the "fags" place and do some work. They made a few jokes, including wondering if they were going to Pride this weekend...and I sat stoney faced and very unimpressed. My Uncle now fancies himself a humanitarian because he'll work for these guys when others refuse to because they happen to be gay. Even though that means he makes about a million gay jokes and really doesn't have any respect for them. Every time I needed to talk about going up there, I simply kept conversation to what needed to be done, and never acknowledged there was any difference with them than there would be working for anyone else.

My cousin dropped me off, and on the way up their drive reminded me, "Don't make any jokes about them going to the city this weekend..." Right. Like I'm the one that needs sensitivity training.

I actually got to meet both guys, and they were quite nice. Of course, I was given the impression they were flaming hippie queers, and why I believed any of that I'm not even sure. The one was obviously gay, but wasn't throwing his arms in the air and screaming "Oh, dahhhhling!"

His partner actually was an even bigger surprise for me. He was in really good shape, and wearing some very fitted clothes. I couldn't help but check him out, and I'd even go so far as to say I was attracted to him. There was just something about him, he was just hot, what can I say? It must have been the heat, and my undersexed self simply got carried away...

They were both really nice guys, offering me cold drinks while I was working away. I found myself desperately wanting to tell them about me, to let them know I wasn't just another idiot hick who would be going home and sniggering about the homos I saw today...but in all honesty, what kind of a conversation would that have been? And what really did it matter, considering I was polite and engaged with them, never saying anything the least bit uncomfortable or insulting. I just hope they realized I was a little different than the ones that usually came around.

So there's my exciting last few days...now excuse me, I have a date with a pillow and blanket that I really don't want to be late for.

Haunted house...

It's always fun to come home to something new.

Apparently my cousin's house is haunted. He and his girlfriend moved in about a year ago, but this activity has only been going on in the past few months. Though the ghost isn't mean, doesn't throw things or flick lights on and off, he's scared the crap out of my cousin and some other friend of his.

As the tale goes, the ghost has a form, looks like a man, and has appeared 3 times, each time to males. My cousin has seen him twice, both times thinking he was seeing things or wasn't thinking clearly. The ghost simply walks by, doesn't pay any attention to people, nor does he do anything to bother anyone. But he's freaked out my cousin by simply being there, and I can certainly empathise with being shaken up over seeing a disembodied spirit walk past you. Twice.

Then the latest, a friend was spending the night at their home, and was watching TV alone late at night. He thought he saw someone walk by, but figured it was a trick of the light or something to that effect. The night wore on, he went to bed, but got up to use the washroom. On his way down the hall, he walked right past the ghost, who was heading in the opposite direction. This terrified him so fundamentally he grabbed his stuff and hit the road, leaving a note for my cousin saying his house was "fucking haunted!"

I don't know where I stand on ghosts, having never seen one before. I loved ghost stories as a kid, and watched all the shows about hauntings and paranormal activity and all that. Just the other day, I was channel surfing and came across a medium on Montel who was telling people about their spirit problems, and felt that same sense of awe mixed with a healthy dose of disbelief. I guess if you believe in God you might have a chance at believing in spirits and ghosts, since it means there really is something after we die. And it seems entirely possible, like on the TV show 'Ghost Whisperer', that there might be spirits who just haven't passed on yet.

All of that aside, I'm really curious about this ghost. In daylight hours, I feel fascinated, and would love to be confronted by it if I was over visiting. But when night falls, it gets a little creepy...if there really is something there I would freak out.

Oh well, always fun to hear from the family. Maybe the ghost will join us for Christmas dinner in December.

Inconvenient Death...

A relative whom I haven't seen in 10 years died on Friday.

It didn't throw the family into a panic, nor did anyone really care. She was, after all, in her 90's, had lived a good life, and wasn't exactly everyone's favorite person. I'd harken her to the Aunt from an episode of Frasier, who died the same way, everyone was terrified of her, she criticized everything anyone did and was generally unplesant.

Now, I'm not being disrespectful in the least. Having never really known her I can't put my opinion forward. It's one of those very-far-removed relatives, and as one person put it, "The best type of funeral to go to!"

Yesterday, Mom and I went to the closest mall for her to return something she'd bought. I also wanted to look at suits...after all, it's been a while since I was in my formal-wear and after trying on the jacket I have now (which incedentally fits me like a cardboard box, and looks about as good), I decided it was time to shop for something more fashionable.

We hit up a few stores, but the staff knew little about suits. Hell, I knew more from 5 minutes of reading online than they did. One saleswoman put me in a suit so big I swear someone could have gotten in the jacket with me (not an entirely unplesant image, if I get to choose who that someone is...).

Finally I found a beautiful Calvin Klein suit, grey pinstripe, that fit me amazingly well and looked pretty hot too. I was satisfied, the salesman marked it up for alteration, but dear mother was giving me the "hrmmm" eyes. You all know what I'm talking about. So we stepped outside and did the 'talk about it over coffee' routine. She basically said that it was a frivilous expense, and that I don't ever wear suits or really need one for a 5-minute funeral. I was kind of let down, because why bother going through all the trying on and 3 stores before she tells me this?

Not to mention the fact that she spent $200 on some Nike athletic clothes...she has two weaknesses: clothes and dishes. The dishes are sporratic; she'll start some new set ("Why do we need another set of dishes we don't eat off of?") and go for months with buying only one or two small additions. The clothes are continuous, not that continuous in small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere means she shops on a daily basis...but she's no slouch. She pissed me off a little after saying that since I'd already spent $600 on clothes over the past few months, I really didn't have any budget left for a suit, unless of course I had my own savings for such an item. Right *eye roll*.

The evening was slow. Our weather is finally picking up, and I got to spend about an hour walking around the back yard breathing in the beautiful warm air and enjoying the sunset. I talked with Ashley for 2 hours, doing the counsiling thing for her (with summer fast approaching, she's freaking out about needing to define her and her boyfriend's relationship). It was a great chat, and naturally afterwards she asked me about my love life. I was so tempted to say what had gone on recently, but I don't want to do it over the phone...

Then it was off to online-land, where I bumped into Brian. This would be our first actual messaging conversation. I had planned on seeing him this week, but of course needed to tell him that part, so we started chatting.

He's very aloof online, and it was hard to get a conversation going. When I asked him to dinner Thursday, he seemed interested, but then our talking fell back to near silence, with me practically prying details about his new job and stuff from him. By the end I wondered if he really want's to do this friendship thing, or if he was just saying that to be polite. But he seemed interested before! Ugh...I'll know more on Thursday.

The other thing, he left himself a very, very big out. His answer was something to the effect of "Yeah, that should work fine, call my cell Thursday night and we'll see." So I'm not only unsure if he's going to say yes, but well aware of the fact I'm now second-fiddle to whatever other things he may be invited to that night. Hurray.

Well, I should probably get some sleep before it gets too late. I can't believe I have to go to a funeral, see a bunch of family members I haven't seen forever, and hang out with them looking like I'm wearing a cardboard box. I'm hoping they're not the type to watch what they wear (yes, it's been that long since I've seen them), so maybe I won't stick out like a hobo at the chapel.