twenty-something

I'm home in Rutland for the night, after a white-knuckled, horribly snowy Friday night drive north and two nights in Burlington. It's my mama's birthday (the "excuse" for the visit), and it's been a good trip. Reunions and renewals all around, perhaps some of which I'll write more about later.

This was only my second trip to Burlington since my exodus last June (I went up briefly back in August). The place is still so comfortable that it instantly felt like home again, even after such distance. Being back was great -- old ghosts seemed far away, old friends still felt close, and the trip was entirely positive -- and at times it felt like no time had passed. But time has, indeed, passed, and I'm happy with where I'm at. BVT's still my favorite place in the world, but I'm not moving back anytime soon.

Tonight I'm headed home to Vermont for the Thanksgiving holiday. It'll be the first time I've been back to the Green Mountain State in nearly three months, making this the longest stretch I've ever stayed away from Vermont in, well, my entire life. Though I haven't lived there all my years, even when I lived in Rhode Island or New Hampshire or New York, I've always made it back about once a month.

I miss it terribly, and it's been hard, at times, to be away, but it was important that I focus on my new life here in Boston. That meant missing fall, my favorite season, in the most beautiful place on earth this year. Though I'm psyched to be back for my favorite holiday and to see my family, I'm a little anxious for this little homecoming.

So much has changed I left home on September 9th...

This will be the first Thanksgiving without my father since I was nine. I haven't written about it here, but my mother asked my father to move out the day I left for Boston. She filed for divorce within a month of that. The marriage is over, as, it would seem, is my relationship with my father. But that's not news. That's been true for over a year now.

It's been a long time coming. I've known this was inevitable. I've wanted this. But, surprisingly, I wouldn't say I'm "happy" about this turn of events. It's been harder than I would have anticipated, but I know that this is the best thing for my family. The dread that's accompanied visits home since my parents' marital woes took center stage is gone, but this is a whole new world and I'm a bit anxious to face it for the first time.

Still, I pack up the Volvo and I head north in a few hours... Vermont, here I come!

Happy Thanksgiving.

Remember: he's fifteen. And he's my brother. So back off.

Tonight I shared a bit of my writing with my mother. Not just any writing, but a bit about her.

Talk about feeling vulnerable. I don't think I've let my mom read much of my stuff before. Not because she's judgemental or anything, but just because. But she's been asking about what I've been writing, and so thus I chose to tell her about my 90s memoir, "90s-Something." She's been full of question regarding the piece, particularly how she'll be portrayed (all this worry, and the woman hasn't even read Running With Scissors). She reminded me that when it's published, I won't be able to prevent her from reading it. (I chose not to mention this blog to her at that point.)

So I shared. She cried. I cried. It was very special.

Here's the piece we read:

"I remember Mama."

What is that from? he thinks. It's something, he knows, from something. He hopes its Maya Angelou, or something else with cred, with balls, and not some old X-Men comic book -- which, deep down, he figures it probably is. But he does remember Mama, his Mama, even though he's never called her that before. But whenever he reflects on that woman, those three words pop into his head. He always sees himself saying it in a southern drawl, his hair a Golden Retriever blonde, his vehicle a red pick-up truck, and his mother one of the Designing Women. He doesn't like this fantasy one bit.

His Mama -- the real one, alive and well today in 21st Century Vermont -- would say that this was probably a repressed memory of a past life. See, his mother died on the Titanic before she was reincarnated as the daughter of an Ex-Communicated Divorcee who named her after herself -- Martha Sue. She whole-heartedly believes this because she can't watch more than five minutes of the Leonardo DiCaprio love story without crying. Apparently, her tears were different than those of the theater full of sobbing women her son had seen the film with during high school. She was a Parochial School Ex-Pat, pregnant at 18, and now she watched John Edwards every day -- and she believed.

Her son grew up Godless, or at least mostly so. Raised by two women -- the two Martha Sues, who'd both been rejected by the Catholic Church and their men -- religion hardly had a place in the Harvey home. Harvey, her father's name and, for then, her son's. It was a Godless, manless, house, and he was the center of the universe.

I also noticed for the first time that, despite our ten year age difference, we have the same eyes, from the pale blue color to the eyebrows, which we share with our mother. I suppose we have the same nose, too.

Ah, genetics... Just you wait until the beer gut comes in college, bro.

This time of year I'm always reminded of two things (among others):

1.) I really, really, really suck at wrapping presents. I mean, seriously, I'm wrap-tarded. I used to love watching my mom wrap when I was a kid -- she was so elegant, creative. She cut like an exacto knife. She folded like origami. She could curl ribbons and tie bows to make Martha Stewart jealous. But her son? He missed that gene. I may be gay, but I can't even cut straight. (But if you laugh at me, I will cut you.)

2.) Ever since I was five, I've wanted to be a Jew living in Canada. I even wrote/drew a picture book about it in elementary school. I don't know why, but I always wanted to convert and then renounce my U.S. citizenship. Thus far I've done neither, so instead I just crush on Canadians (my first-ever boy crush, Andrew) and date half-Jews (Duncan).

Happy Holidays.

Today I was send the photo above (and this story) from the parade. The photo had also been published on the cover of Vermont's little-gay-paper-that-couldn't, Out in the Mountains. If you care to play "Where's Waldo?" for a moment, you'll notice that hidden in the picture is not only a soaking-wet and frumpy-looking me, but my soaked-and-skinny teenage brother.

The kid ended up on the front of the gay newspaper just weeks before he began his freshman year of high school at a private Catholic academy, weeks before he began football practice, and he was completely unfazed. My family also, apparently, appeared in footage on the news that night, and my sister was very upset that she didn't get to see herself marching in the gay parade. But she told all her friends.

I love those kids. I think overall I'm proudest to be related to them.

[Ed. Note: Father's Day isn't until June 19. Oops.]

Father's Day 2005 has just passed, and it passed without me calling my dad.

This isn't unusual, as I don't remember if I've ever called him on Father's Day. But today, it was on purpose. I actually remembered what day it was and I chose to make a statement.

I bet he didn't even notice.

We have a... problematic relationship. Especially now. I had known about the issues in my parents' marriage for two months and he had made no attempt to contact me. No calls. No emails. Not even any passive-aggressive message through my mother. And, for weeks, I had been dreaming about confronting him -- and most of these dreams involved me preparing to confront him and him ambushing me first. Each morning after I'd have one of these -- and they came often -- I would wake up confused, surprised that this was bothering me as much as it was, surprised by what aspects of this whole mess were hitting me hardest.

I haven't talked much about my parental woes over the past few months. I just haven't had the heart to post them here because it's been breaking my heart. And it's fresh, unlike the 90s, which I can write about with enough distance to make them bearable.

No. This stuff with my mother and her husband is very now and it's been weighing on me heavily. The short update: My father wants to come home. He has not claimed responsibility for his sins, nor has he apologized or asked for forgiveness, but my mother, ever the doormat, has decided to give it to him anyway. She wants to "give things another try." Additionally, my mom is in the clear with her skin cancer but, as I found out Friday, she has been having catscans to get to the bottom of an "issue" in her throat.

Things have calmed, I guess, but I can't help but worry it may be the calm before the storm. What if this is more serious than melanoma? What if he leaves her again?

My dreams of confronting my father always involved me ending our relationship. Telling him that he may be her husband, but he's not my father. That he never was. And I would always end it by saying: "If you're planning on leaving ever, if you think that you might pull this shit again -- you better just walk away now. Because if you do this again..." The dreams would normally end with varying degrees of threats. All very Oedipal, I guess.

So I went home for Memorial Day weekend a few days back. I went home on one condition: he wouldn't be around. I would get to deal with him on my terms, in my time. I made this deal with my mother. And she agreed to my terms.

I was home for less then 24 hours when he showed up at the house on Saturday afternoon. My mother was at work and I spotted his car parked at our barn across the street. My heart sank for a second and then started pounding. Just pounding. Thump thump thump. Blood flowed so fast throughout my body. He wouldn't dare come over here to the house.

But, soon, he was crossing the street, making my bad dreams come true. He was ambushing me.

He was about to enter the front door and I found myself backing down from this confrontation.

"Hey, mon," he said playfully as I walked away from him. I didn't respond, just clenched my fists and trembled a bit as I hid on our back porch, him in the adjacent kitchen.

I took a moment and I walked into the other room. I didn't say a word.

"I was gonna make my self scarce this weekend," he said as he washed out a coffeecup in the sink. "But I saw your aunt" -- who I was visiting Rutland with that weekend -- "down at the store and I figured I would stop up."

I stayed stone silent, arms crossed, twice his size.

He made himself at home, fixing himself a cup of coffee. "Well, things are a lot better than they were a month ago."

"I've known for two months."

A beat.

"Oh." He just looked at me. "I knew that."

"You didn't bother to call me or contact me at all for two months."

"It's funny --" He fiddled with something or other. Not looking at me. "You were one of the first people I thought to call."

"It's not funny. None of this is funny."

Another beat.

"I didn't mean funny. You know..."

His tone was light, friendly, breezy. With every word, with every gesture, I grew angrier.

He talked for a short while. He said that things were just great between him and mom. That this distance has made them realize they still want to be together. That they were getting along better than they had in years. Sure, the problems were still there, the "little things" -- money woes, living with my grandmother, my mom's car; you know, all the things that made him fall out of love -- but they didn't matter. They were going to be together. Forever. And he didn't mention the word love, not even once.

I grew sick by his simplification of such a horrid chain of events. He had reduced years of martial problems, and a few months of quite intense separation, into "little things." I interrupted. "You could have had my side for so many months. I understood those problems. What bothers me is your cruelty."

"Because I didn't call you?"

"No," I scoffed. "The way you treated her. The way you did things."

"I made some mistakes."

"You told her you didn't love her the day she had a biopsy!"

"I feel bad about that."

"That's not something people do."

"You don't know what happened. She tried to make me say it --"

The very timber of his voice was making my skin crawl.

"She told me it all." I tried to be assertive, not aggressive. Assertive, not aggressive. Hard to do through clenched teeth. "You said you had been lying for years. That you didn't love her for years. And you said all that -- the day of her biopsy. You couldn't have have lied for one more day."

"Yeah, she said the same thing," he replied casually, kind of with a shrug. An oh well.

I wanted to punch him.

"That's a moment of truth. That's the measure of a man. You're the type of guy who's gonna kick his wife while she's down. This is your true colors."

He did shrug this time, a full-on shrug. "I guess I don't see it that way."

This was a moment of truth too, I realized. For us.

As he grimaced at me, not at all regretful for what he had done, a sort of "that's life" look on his face, I realized that my mother was stuck with him. And he knew it. She deserved better, so much better, but he was all she thought she got.

I also realized that I was done. With him. With this. I would support my mother, but I would not get wrapped up in all this ever again.

I ended quickly our conversation in the kitchen. I asked him to leave. He lingered, but I didn't say another word to him. Not that day. Not since.

He wasn't worth it. This villain was just a goofy, cheap, pathetic, selfish asshole. His faggot son had done more by 24 then he will ever do in his whole life and, you know what? All those things that the faggot son has, all his "success," he owes none of it to this man. None of it. This man who wasn't there for the first ten years of his son's life. This man who had ten years free, without child support, without responsibility, to make something of himself but ultimately failed, perhaps for lack of trying. This man who said "I love you" to his son only once in his life, once, when forced to by his wife. This man who leeched off the welfare system for years while unable to provide for his family, who now votes for Bush. This man who wouldn't even give $50 a month to help his son, who was putting himself through college. This man --

No. His faggot son owes him nothing. No gratitude. No anger. No more clenched fists or rushed blood. No more dreams or nightmares.

Not another word.

Speaking of gay parents, it looks like the gay guys on Six Feet Under are going to be with child soon. It also looks like they're going to rip off my years-old idea of how to have a bio-kid with my partner. For the record of this blog, and in case I make said idea a reality someday, I just have to say I thought of it before I saw it on the show.

For years I've thought that, maybe, when she was over eighteen, I might ask my gorgeous little sister to donate one of her eggs to my cause. I might then ask my boyfriend to fertilize said egg with his own stuff. Then we might have a surrogate carry the child. This hypothetical baby would have genes from both my side and his making it, in a way, biologically both of ours, a part of each of us.

I don't know if I'll ever do this, but, for the record, I thought of it before David and Keith did.

His name is Gavin. (And if his aunt, Yelli, would like me to, I will remove his picture from this site immediately.)

For the past 36 hours or so, when I wasn't drunk and competitive during a flipcup tourney while wearing a Darth Vader helmet, Gavin has kicked my paternal instinct into overdrive. Not him precisely, but the idea of him, the idea of a kid, having one, me. I hadn't been around a baby like him in a while, hadn't held one or played with one, and I had forgotten how amazingly cool they can be. They cry and they drool and they poop and they are little monsters -- but they are also such incredible creatures...

I had almost forgotten about that part of me which used to sing so loudly. That part that wants to raise and shape another human being. The instinct that make me want to nurture and teach -- and even just pick out baby names. The need to breed. To be a father. To be something better than just a single, selfish person. It's perhaps one of the biggest parts of my heart...

Aw shucks. I'm sure my usual readership is gagging right now on all this smaltz. What can I say? I'm a softie and, despite all my own daddy issues, at the core of me, is that wholesome, cute, and uncreepily intense paternal instinct.

Will I ever be a dad? I'm certainly not getting a girl pregnant accidentally -- so will I adopt? Will I finagle a way to father my own offspring? I don't want some Object of My Affection/The Next Best Thing/Will & Grace version of fatherhood. I want something that works and isn't completely messed up. I'm never giving my sperm to a girl friend for some make-believe, no-strings, gay-guy/straight-girl baby daddy situation. I want to be a real dad -- whatever that means.

Will I make it happen? I think I will. Not today or tomorrow, but someday... if it's right. If I'm ready. I don't want to just be a weird gay uncle. I want to be a great dad to my own kids.

When I grow up and don't binge drink at BBQs, or have a blog on which I post pictures of other people's babies without permission, when I am less 24 and more selfless... then, maybe, I'll start trying to have a kid of my own.

I was raised by two wonderful women -- my mother and my grandmother -- for the first ten years of my life. So you'd think that Mother's Day would be a big deal in my family, but, really, it isn't. Never really has been.

Today, as I lie in bed on this lazy Sunday morning, I feel like it should be a big deal and I really wish I was home to celebrate it with my true parents, my mom and my grammy. I spoke with them on the phone earlier this morning and I ached to be near them, to be going with them to the breakfast they were headed to. I miss them -- which is quite unusual, ask any of my friends. Usually I am rather distant when it comes to my family.

Obviously, the events of recent months have affected me, and my relationship with my family. But as sad as some of these events have been, I'm actually kind of grateful for them, as they have drawn my ambivalent ass closer to my mother.

So Happy Mother's Day. Here's a tribute to three of my favorite women in the world -- my mom, my gram, and my sister (who is not a mother, and will hopefully not become one anytime soon). They don't read 20sum, but I love them anyway.

(My mother -- the glory of the 80s. This is my favorite picture of her, with her Madonna hair, big black sunglasses, and popped pink collar.)

(My grandmother, at my high school graduation. I'm tall. She's proud of her gay grandson.)

(Marissa, age 5, playing dress-up with her big brother. She's supposed to be a Spice Girl here. Girl Power!)

Now most days
I spend like a child
Who's afraid of ghosts in the night
I know there ain't nothing out there
But I'm still afraid to turn on the light

- Amos Lee, Arms of a Woman

Was browsing through some photos this morning (I really don't want to go to work today!), and I found these gems.

It's public knowledge that I had a Wonder Woman birthday cake when I was three -- but here's actual proof, with chubby little me blowing out Princess Diana's candles.

Here's the cake:

Here's a bonus for those interested in seeing me in my new Superman shirt -- here I am in an full-on Superman suit!

(My apologies for the bad scan jobs.)

This post is not O.C.-related! My little sister Marissa (a.k.a. Rissy) turns 13 today, officially starting her teens. Dear lord that's a scary thought. She's already beautiful and popular. It can only go downhill (for her overprotective big gay brother anyway) from here.

Consider this a tribute to her (and a 90s-Something preview) -- it's a picture of my mother's three children circa Fall 1997. I'm 17, brother Alex is 7, and sister Rissy is 5. We are all so small -- and my hair is dyed very dark! Was this really eight years ago?

Yesterday, my mother and I went for a trip to the store to buy wine for Easter dinner. A quarter mile from our driveway, she turned and said, "Your father is leaving me."

A few weeks ago, the day my mother had a biopsy to learn she has melanoma, he told her that he didn't love her anymore.

The day after their 15th wedding anniversary this March, he told her that he was moving out. This came after weeks of him pulling my mother back and forth, saying he was leaving, saying he was staying, saying he wasn't sure. But now he's made up his mind.

And he needs to get the fuck out. Now.

Seeing him at dinner and not being allowed to say or do anything per my mom's wishes was tough, considering all I wanted to do was punch him or throw him out or destroy his belongings. And considering I can't help but wear my heart on my sleeve, I figure he could see right through the act. He knew I knew. And he didn't try to say a word.

I gave him an awkward and stiff hug good-bye when I left. I figure it's the last time I'll touch him. That's it for me. He doesn't get to walk out on her without walking out on me. Last night, as I cried on Duncan's shoulder, I realized I couldn't remember a single time when that man had told me he loved me.

That fucking sucks. Makes me realize -- as much as we "interact" and "get along," as much as this thing hurts me, as much as I am conflicted with the idea of father -- it makes me realize that I don't have a relationship with this man that's worth anything. I spent my first ten years without a father. I spent the next ten not believing that this guy was mine, wishing he wasn't, pretending he wasn't. And finally, five years ago, I started to realize that he was all I was going to get. And now I don't think I want any of this. I just want him gone and I want this over with. I don't want to have a dad, not if this is what it means.

It just taps into something so deep inside of me. The father abandoning, the mother sick... and it's something so childish and primal, something so hurt that it makes me want to shut down.

But who cares about me? I'm really, tremendously sad for my mom, who had surgery today to hopefully remove the last of the cancer -- this while she's dealing with a husband who is abandoning her with a cruelty I can't fathom. It breaks my heart.

But she will survive both. She has to.

[Happy Easter. I'm uninspired to come up with something original, and I'm headed to my parents' house very shortly, so here's my cop-out: from the archives, a post from Easter Eve last April.]

'Twas the night before Easter and all though the house... Uh, yeah. I got nothing. Maybe Jesus is running around somewhere, but not here.

I'm at my parents' tonight, for the first time since Christmas. It's weird how a place can be home in some moments and completely alien in others. Guess that's what happens when you're mid-twenties. I'm, like, almost an adult.

So, yeah, weird to be here. Easter tomorrow - which means some sort of Godless specticle of a meat-feast, which somewhere along the line became the holiest of holy meals that my little I-talian non-practicing/slash/ex-communicated Catholic family celebrates. I like the ham; I could go for less noise. Ask anybody who's met them - I come from the loud family. And tomorrow will be a twisted-mirror of that Fat Greek thing, if you've seen it. Except nobody's getting married, Jesus is dead, and I'm gay.

Merry Christmas.

Also - my house is full of allergens. My mom smokes, which is my poison, as well as my aunt, who's also here for the weekend. The dark clouds loom in almost every room, which equals, for me, itchy eyes, sneezing, scratchy throat, and headaches. Ahh, home sweet home. Can't forget the pets, either - there's Ben, the dumb golden retriver who I once hated by now adore, and the THREE cats -- Annie, the eldest, and the two new kittens, Orange and Black (I don't really know there names, as i think every member of my family calls them each something different, but I like Orange best). They're all so adorable that I can't not pet them and love them. But, sadly, I've been coughing -- "Gollum, Gollum" -- since around minute ten of this visit.

In addition to the allergy attacks, there's also lots of food - I mean, LOTS OF FOOD. And I swear, I'm gaining five pounds just sitting here. But when I look at my steadily growing mother and grandmother, I guess it doesn't look so bad.

Ah. Family.

Even now, as I sit here in my quiet (for once), sleeping home, Duncan is somewhere out there, with his family, celebrating Passover and mourning the passing of his grandfather. We are in such different places right now, and I really can't imagine what he's experiencing right now. He found out about his grandfather on Thursday and headed right to me within 10 mintues. It was hard to see him deal with the loss -- or not deal with it, as the case may be. We've been having our issues as of late, but it seemed the tragedy reconnected us.

Wherever he is, whatever he's experiencing, I just hope he's OK.

Last time I was here, that very long week around the holidays, I thought a lot about faith, belief, and all that hooey I've been spouting off as of late. This place, especially around Catholic holidays, makes me think a lot about that kind of crap.

It's odd that I don't really know what I believe half the time. Do I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior? Do I believe in God? Do I believe in destiny? Do I believe in love? Ah... crap crap crap. I honestly don't ask myself these questions often. I used to, in high school, when I was so desperately trying to find myself. But I've sort of sunk into this status quo, of pseudo-spirituality, of love, of homosexualiy, of all that. Somewhere along the line, it all became me, but I don't know - is it really? Family tends to bring all this out in me.

I have to have faith that this isn't me. The destiny in which my family seems to all be fullfilling. In June, the fourth and fifth of my generation of cousins (including me) graduates from high school, and it looks like neither of these two are headed to college. Which makes me not only the only one in my generation to graduate from college, but the only one to persue it -- and only the second in my family to achieve a Bachelor's Degree. They get married, have kids, fight, eat -- live their lives, their status quo -- and it's just OK. There's little change. There's little striving towards something better. It all just is.

I don't know what any of this means. Except I'm tired.

But I will close with this...

Belief. It's a good thing. But lately, maybe I've been putting my faith into the wrong places. Maybe, just maybe, I need to stop looking at other people - and believe in myself.

Happy Easter.

"I remember Mama." What is that from? he thinks. It's something, he knows, from something. He hopes its Maya Angelou, or something else with cred, with balls, and not some old X-Men comic book -- which, deep down, he figures it probably is. But he does remember Mama, his Mama, even though he's never called her that before. But whenever he reflects on that woman, those three words pop into his head. He always sees himself saying it in a southern drawl, his hair a Golden Retriever blonde, his vehicle a red pick-up truck, and his mother one of the Designing Women. He doesn't like this fantasy one bit.

His Mama -- the real one, alive and well today in 21st Century Vermont -- would say that this was probably a repressed memory of a past life. See, his mother died on the Titanic before she was reincarnated as the daughter of an Ex-Communicated Divorcee who named her after herself -- Martha Sue. She whole-heartedly believes this because she can't watch more than five minutes of the Leonardo DiCaprio love story without crying. Apparently, her tears were different than those of the theater full of sobbing women her son had seen the film with during high school. She was a Parochial School Ex-Pat, pregnant at 18, and now she watched John Edwards every day -- and she believed.

Her son grew up Godless, or at least mostly so. Raised by two women -- the two Martha Sues, who'd both been rejected by the Catholic Church and their men -- religion hardly had a place in the Harvey home. Harvey, her father's name and, for then, her son's. It was a Godless, manless, house, and he was the center of the universe.

He remembers Mama. She was his best friend, and he was hers. They would take roadtrips to Burlington to see his aunt, her sister, in their baby blue Dautsun hatchback. In that car, he learned to love music, how to sing along. John Cougar Mellencamp. Phil Collins. Huey Lewis and the News. She would always get quiet during Mike + The Mechanic's "Living Years." One time she cried and, when he asked, told her son that she was thinking about her grandfather.

He remembers Mama. He remembers hating her. She would promise him things and then renege. He'd make her mad and she's say, "I don't have to like you. I have to love you."

He likes having a young mother, always has. He likes that he can say his mother is 42, especially when most his peers have parents in their 50s, 60s now. But most people can do math. Quick, in their heads, they subtract 24. They come up with 18 and questions. He hates when they ask.

She hasn't been herself for two years now, but then again, neither has her son. She's admitted it, though. That something's been wrong, that she's been crazy, been "a bitch." She apologized. She doesn't know what's wrong, exactly. But it's something.

She's sick, too. She told him today. Melanoma, they say. "A very serious form of skin cancer," says the Internet. She thinks, maybe, that's the cause of everything. That tiny little mole, that piece of cancer, maybe that's what's been making her nuts. Maybe her whole body, his mother thinks, has been working on that one little thing and she didn't know it.

His crazy mother, the hypochonriac, went to the doctor, having convinced herself she had Lupus. And she comes out diagnosed with cancer.

Her distant son doesn't want to admit it, but he's scared.

[This post's picture is oddly the only one I could find of my mother and I together on my computer. It's from my high school graduation in '98 -- a rare posting of a self-picture here.]

I got the beautiful new iLife suite on my newly-resurrected PowerBook, and I'm having fun playing, reimporting stuff into iPhoto and such. I've got a lot of pictures of my favortie golden retriever, and it actually makes me miss home just like pickles make me miss Boston.

It's almost enough to make me contemplate going home for the night. Almost.

So in Ben's honor, and for lack of true inspiration today, I thought I'd post a bit of an old-ish, long-ish, not-very-good-ish story called "True North", which I wrote in an undergrad writing workshop. "True" is the misguided tale of the unfortunately-named Oliver North, a college senior who's bringing his boyfriend home for Thanksgiving.

This bit is about the family dog.

Once his mother opened the back door, he pushed past her and squeezed through with all his luggage, immediately dropping the bags onto the floor of the mudroom. A moment later, James, the family's hyperactive golden retriever, leapt up onto him, wagging his tail and licking Ollie's face.

He never admitted to liking the dog much, but he had warmed up to James during recent visits. His mother and brother got the puppy during Ollie's sophomore year, two months after he had come out to them and gone back to school. He found it hard not to see the connection, or to hate the dog. He never understood how an animal could be a real part of a family.

It was only in secret, private times, when everyone was out of the house, that Ollie dared to openly play with James. He'd pet him, or they'd play fetch and other dog-human games, which stopped immediately when he heard a car in the driveway. Ollie would've figured his hot-and-cold attention would've made the dog wary, but, like most men, it seemed to attract him more.

Ollie had enough of the face licking. "Down, James!" he ordered. "Down!" The dog didn't obey. "Mom," he called out in annoyance.

She had his leash ready. "James! Here!" He sauntered over to her, tail wagging, for her adoration.

"I hate that dog," he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to sound convincing.

"I know you do, honey."

She then spoke to James in her patented dog-baby-talk voice, telling him what a good boy he was, and asking if he missed her. In disgust, Ollie picked up his bags and left the room.

Kind of been one of those days, ya know? A real up-and-down mama-said kinda day.

But now I'm watching The OC while drinking a Mother Lager, and it's hitting the spot. Beer, TV drama, comic book geekiness with Seth Cohen, and to top it off: Rachael Yamagata just performed. (Love her!)

The song she played, Reasons Why, seems awfully poetic (not to mention melodramatically fitting) right now. Don't read too much into it. Just seemed... apropros.

I'm going out shortly. But I'll leave you with a taste of Yamagata yumminess:

It's not that I don't understand you
It's not that I don't want to be with you
But you only wanted me
The way you wanted me

I just checked out my twelve-year-old sister's IM profile and, among other foolish things, she has this one word, sitting solo, calling my attention to it:

I guess it fits. I mean, my little sister is twelve and, well...

Please, please, tell me that I'm not a pervert for letting my mind go there so quickly...

I got two copies of Golden Girls: Season 1 on DVD from my family today. Not one, two.

I'm not really sure there's anything else to say.

Here we go again...

I guess it's not "the night before" anymore. It's past midnight. The big day is here. I'm sitting alone in the dark living room, save for the glow of the fake-ass tree and the late-night South Park holiday marathon that's on, at the family computer. And I'm just at a non-dramatic loss of words.

I'm too cynical to write anything happy or nice about Christmas with my family, but today... well, today wasn't all bad. Compared to the holidays of recent memory, this was the lowest maintenance. Not without it's drama or annoyances, yes, but dinner was good. The small gift exchanges rocked. And I actually had a good time with my family. I'm chalking it up to pain killers and booze. And maybe a little bit of Christmas magic.

I'm actually kind of hopeful for tomorrow morning. I'm excited for people to open my gifts (the women-folk enjoyed the Tutti Dolci body-stuff I handed out tonight), 'cause I really dug shopping this year. And I'm curious to see what I've got waiting for me under the tree (my aunt surprised me with a pretty swanky chair tonight - and I must say I really, actually love it). So, yeah... good thoughts for what will occur just a few short hours from now.

Tangent: Watched Pee Wee's Playhouse Christmas Special from 1988. (I bought my wacky ol' Dad the DVD for this December 21st birthday.) When I was 8, I had the special on an old Beta tape, and I would watch it constantly, year round. I still remembered some of the words. Anyway, watching it now, for the first time in over ten years, I kind of realized why I liked it so much. I mean, come on. It was the gayest Christmas special I have ever seen. Guest stars like Little Richard, a very mannish k.d. lang, and Cher... Hunky, shirtless men building a new wing onto the playhouse... Pee Wee being a selfish twink of man with no kids of his own... it's amazing. I dare you to rent it.

I think possibly the perverted highlight of the night for me was, after dinner, making Toasted Almonds in the kitchen with my parents. The version of "Baby It's Cold Outside" (the kickin' version from Elf, by Zooey Deschanel and Leon Redbone) was playing and, improptu, my ever-warring parents and I started making up new words. Threatened divorce is funny! I can't really remember many of them, but they were funny!

"I really must go..." - "I ain't stoppin' ya..."

"I think I'll move out..." - "Want help packing?"

"I'll leave the kids with you..." - "No, I'm good, really..."

I am swollen, on pain-killers, and my dad just says to me, about my mother:

"We don't have much in common anyway. And then this credit card thing. I don't know what we're going to do..."

I am literally just sitting here at the computer, and all I asked him was if he would buy me Sprite at the store...

What can I say about this year's Thanksgiving with my family in Rutland? Truth is, not much. It wasn't very exciting. I ate turkey, did many loads of laundry, and came home with allergies and a bad, bad cold. Awesome!

I did not spent any quality time, really, with my mom, dad, or grandmother. I didn't sleep at all at nights, and it took its toll. Overall, the two days and two nights in Rutland weren't as bad as I was dreading, but the visit certainly wasn't the heartwarming homecoming I have secretly dreamed about since I left for college.

Two quick updates:

My sister, 12, has become very pretty. She used to remind me of a baby Jennifer Aniston. Now she evokes, to me at least, a pre-teen Beckham era Keira Knightley. It must be the soccer. Or the haircut. Or the fact that she looks like she's wearing make up but isn't, and is the social butterfly of her seventh grade. She's just gorgeous.

My brother, 14, has become tall and thin, and has hair longer than anyone in my family. And it isn't even that long. My mom still has her lesbian-chic-meet-Marsha-Brady 'do, and bro's hair is sorta down past his chin, longer in the back, but not mullet-y. He needs a trim, but it looks good. Almost cool. He's growing up, and it's odd. I see so much of myself in him. Is he what I would've been had we stayed in Rutland and I played more football?

I love those fucking kids. And I miss them. I feel like I'm missing out on them growing up.

Sad face.

'Twas the night before Easter and all though the house... Uh, yeah. I got nothing. Maybe Jesus is running around somewhere, but not here.

I'm at my parents' tonight, for the first time since Christmas. It's weird how a place can be home in some moments and completely alien in others. Guess that's what happens when you're mid-twenties. I'm, like, almost an adult.

So, yeah, weird to be here. Easter tomorrow - which means some sort of Godless specticle of a meat-feast, which somewhere along the line became the holiest of holy meals that my little I-talian non-practicing/slash/ex-communicated Catholic family celebrates. I like the ham; I could go for less noise. Ask anybody who's met them - I come from the loud family. And tomorrow will be a twisted-mirror of that Fat Greek thing, if you've seen it. Except nobody's getting married, Jesus is dead, and I'm gay.

Merry Christmas.

Also - my house is full of allergens. My mom smokes, which is my poison, as well as my aunt, who's here for the weekend. The dark clouds loom in almost every room, which equals, for me, itchy eyes, sneezing, scratchy throat, and headaches. Ahh, home sweet home. Can't forget the pets, either - there's Ben, the dumb golden retriver who I once hated by now adore, and the THREE cats -- Annie, the eldest, and the two new kittens, Orange and Black (I don't really know there names, as i think every member of my family calls them each something different, but I like Orange best). They're all so adorable that I can't not pet them and love them. But, sadly, I've been coughing -- "Gollum, Gollum" -- since around minute ten of this visit.

In addition to the allergy attacks, there's also lots of food - I mean, LOTS OF FOOD. And I swear, I'm gaining five pounds just sitting here. But when I look at my steadily growing mother and grandmother, I guess it doesn't look so bad.

Ah. Family.

Even now, as I sit here in my quiet (for once), sleeping home, Duncan is somewhere out there, with his family, celebrating Passover and mourning the passing of his grandfather. We are in such different places right now, and I really can't imagine what he's experiencing right now. He found out about his grandfather on Thursday and headed right to me within 10 mintues. It was hard to see him deal with the loss -- or not deal with it, as the case may be. We've been having our issues as of late, but it seemed the tragedy reconnected us.

Wherever he is, whatever he's experiencing, I just hope he's OK.

Last time I was here, that very long week around the holidays, I thought a lot about faith, belief, and all that hooey I've been spouting off as of late. This place, especially around Catholic holidays, makes me think a lot about that kind of crap.

It's odd that I don't really know what I believe half the time. Do I accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior? Do I believe in God? Do I believe in destiny? Do I believe in love? Ah... crap crap crap. I honestly don't ask myself these questions often. I used to, in high school, when I was so desperately trying to find myself. But I've sort of sunk into this status quo, of pseudo-spirituality, of love, of homosexualiy, of all that. Somewhere along the line, it all became me, but I don't know - is it really? Family tends to bring all this out in me.

I have to have faith that this isn't me. The destiny in which my family seems to all be fullfilling. In June, the fourth and fifth of my generation of cousins (including me) graduates from high school, and it looks like neither of these two are headed to college. Which makes me not only the only one in my generation to graduate from college, but the only one to persue it -- and only the second in my family to achieve a Bachelor's Degree. They get married, have kids, fight, eat -- live their lives, their status quo -- and it's just OK. There's little change. There's little striving towards something better. It all just is.

I don't know what any of this means. Except I'm tired.

But I will close with this...

Belief. It's a good thing. But lately, maybe I've been putting my faith into the wrong places. Maybe, just maybe, I need to stop looking at other people - and believe in myself.

Happy Easter.

I went to the Laundromat today and you can tell its really the first time I've done that because I have no idea if it's laundr-o-mat or laundry-mat or lawn-dri-mat or whatever. Don't chalk that up to my accent ("I'm sorry"), just my ignorance. Get used to laundromat, because that's what I'm using. And today, I'm going to talk about cleaning clothes a lot.

For some, today was Super Bowl Sunday. For me, it was the Laundry Bowl. (Yes, I went there.)