Sipping cheap 7-11 coffee, surrounded by piles of clothes - those needing to be washed (the sex-covered panties) and those needing to be put away - I am here, I am home.  Crap strewn about, books, jammies and scarves, jeans, hoodies and makeup galore.  This place is a god damn mess and I couldn’t be happier.

For the first time ever, I feel at home.

After 3 1/2 years and countless trips home to California, I now call this place … this place I reside, home.  It’s not the city I love.  Sure, there are things to love about it but it’s not the city.  It’s not the cockroaches and ’squitoes and the Bon Qui Quis on the bus and the douchebags in Georgetown and the ‘hose-wearing staffers on the hill.  It’s not that stuff, that’s for certain.  But it is my friends.  And it is the gorgeous architecture.  And the seasons and the walkability of it and the independent niche I have created here.  And the funny southern flair and my work.  Oh my work that I love so much.  I can’t say that I love this “place” but I love what this place has become for me.

I think for years I down-played the role the people here play in my life.  I used to say “Oh it’s a revolving-door city.  People come and go and you can’t make relationships.”  Well, I know more than anyone *ahem* that one’s ability to make relationships is a reflection of one’s efforts and emotional capacity.  A It’s not you, it’s me kinda thing. And for some reason the reality of the depths of the relationships I have built here has taken a while to wear on me.  For so long I took them as transparent and temporary when truly they have been acting out the leading role in this play I have written called my life.

So.  After 10 days in sunny wonderful California where I rehashed some things, opened some wounds, picked at some scabs and let my heart feel (*ahem* and made hot monkey love *ahem*) I have come home.  I have come home to the anxious arms of MP. And the laughter of good friends and cold whiskey on a Saturday afternoon and my little messy SFAH.

And let us not forget that I have come home to you.

Although google reader on my iPhone allowed me to read all of YOUR posts, I wanted to wait and stew and think and process and simmer before posting.  I wanted to feel it all and take it in and write some thing here for you, all of my lovely friends, my wonderful supporters in the tubes on the internets upon my arrival.

You people, this thing here, are also part of my home.  Some how, some way coming home “to you” was as exciting as anything else.

I cannot thank you enough for all of your loving supportive words upon my departure.  Thank you for posting through the holidays and keeping me sane.  Thank you for being a part of my home.  I am over-joyed today.  I cannot wait for ‘09 to get kickin.  I feel good about things folks.

I am home.

*by Kenny Loggins

Some weeks ago I was chatting with a friend about the horrific economy.  He lives in San Francisco and unlike most gay men does not have one domestic bone in his body.  He eats out every day and doesn’t believe in cleaning.  Well, like ever.  We were on the phone and he said, “I just got back from Trader Joe’s.  I know I know … I went grocery shopping!”  To which I replied, “Whhuuuuutt?”  He said, “Yeah, I’m worried about The Depression.”  I said, “Seasonal Affective Disorder sinking in already?  Gloomy skies in San Francisco makes you want to grocery shop for the first time in 10 years?  I’m not following.”  He explained, “No. The Depression.  You know, the economy.  I’m trying to watch my spending.”

It is not as though I don’t realize the horrible state of affairs here in America.  Even if I didn’t witness poverty every day living in a city riddled with those without, the news is quick to point out how shitty things are.  He asked, “Do you think it’s affecting you?”  I had to sit back and think about this for a minute.

Living alone on a salary that is not as large as my looming school debt means I am well-aware of every cent I spend.  I live in a SFAH for pete’s sake.  I only buy enough groceries that I can carry at a time and choose very wisely between fruits and veggies, proteins and very, very few snacks (those Trader Joe’s Peppermint Jo Joes were an exception, obvi).  During these abysmal times, I am deeply grateful for my job and my health insurance.  I am grateful to have my bus pass paid for and my utilities included in my amazing $600 rent.  But when a girl wants to add pita chips to her Thanksgiving salad and sees they cost $5/bag (WTF?), I can’t help but notice that things are bleak.

For years I have watched those around me live well beyond their means.  The use of the word “need” surrounding the description of a new pair of shoes or the latest MAC eye shadow or even a new car is not something I have ever understood.  I have never been a frivolous spender.  In my working days in San Francisco, well before the reality of living on loans in grad school kicked in, I certainly went shopping on my lunch hour more than any girl needed to.  But now … I don’t know if my spending habits are a product of my poverty, or a product of reality.  As trivial as it sounds, living with so little in New Orleans and being surrounded by those with NOTHING (forget ‘living with less’ … those people have NOTHING) provided me a deep sense of understanding and appreciation for the word ‘need’.  Now I go to work and see patients suffering from grave illness due to poor health choices, not disconnected from their economic state of affairs.  I understand living without.  For years as I saw my friends buying homes with u-shaped driveways and living in a constant state of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’, I never, ever understood it.

My sister’s constant spending is a very glaring need to fill the emotional vacancies in her life.  I, thankfully, find ‘emotional deposits’ in relationships, time spent with friends, introspection and personal growth.  “Things” have never ever satiated my internal needs and for that, I am truly grateful.  I am not an emotional shoppper, and thankfully not an emotional eater.

Of the million things I am grateful for this harvest season, I am deeply thankful to have a good head on my shoulders.  A fairly adjusted sense of self.  A whole sense of being that transcends my spending, my grocery bill and thankfully my waistline.  Sure, the economy is in the crapper.  But each one of us chooses how we spend, on what.  How we teach our children to seek approval and desires through toys that last a season.  Through a trendy pair of jeans that won’t fit in a year.

I have all I need.  Sometimes a sparse fridge with tortillas and peperjack cheese.  A dwindling shoe collection that this recovering Imelda Marcos-in training never, ever thought she’d see.  Maybe all of us can use these times to reflect on how we spend our money and why.  Look within my dear friends.  Instead of feeding the instant need for now, the right-this-minute craving for the new Wii game, get your ass out and volunteer for people really living without.  I promise you that that investment will last for years to come.  Beyond the next style season.

Today is the first post in a week that isn’t about religion! I transitioned from the election to all kindsa religulous. I’m sorry I really am.

So back to the election …

Picture it: Washington, DC November 4th, 3am (er, I guess that makes it November 5th). I had had WAY too much to drink (shocking, I know), had danced the electric slide in the street, hugged and kissed strangers, took plenty of photos and maybe cried a little. I left the party in the streets and made about 17 phone calls. I, ugh … have no idea who I called. Oh right! I called my sister (also called Sass) in California. While on the phone en route to the SFAH I saw at the end of a dark street, just like the commercial says, the friggin golden arches. Like any drunk frat boy, I really like bad food when I’m drunk (shocking, I know). Don’t judge! I am all excited and told Sass, “I gotta bounce. I’m bouts to get a double cheese no onion. Peace.”

So I walked into McD’s, “half-cocked” as MP says, and this place is a hot mess. This particular McDs is in THE.HOOD and should really only be visited during the daylight hours but c’mon, I was half-cocked, gimme a break. And there were no less than 14 cop cars out front which meant I was totals safe (riiiight). And uh, Barack just won so no one was gonna get all gun violence on a night like this.

So I was in line with a watering mouth and I started chatting with the lovely men behind me (shocking, I know). We’re talkin’ election yadda yadda. As the line moved forward and I turned around, one of the guys said, “Haha, I voted for McCain.” I whip my head around and scream, “WHAT?” *silence* (I think they were both shocked at my quick, rage-filled response.) To which I said even louder, “I will cut you!” The man to whom I threatened with a knifing was SHOCKED into silence yet again. The other started laughing. I look at him again, lift his chin up with my right hand and with my left swipe under his chin - you know, in a beheading fashion - and repeat, “No. I’ll fuckin’ cut you!”

Thankfully I have a mouth full of pearly whites and flashed them quickly. They both started laughing and the one (to whom I threatened) was all, “Daaaaaaaamn. You were bouts to cut me!” (Riiiiight, with the butter knife I use for hummus in my bag). “But c’mon I’m a black man. You KNOW I didn’t vote McCain. That’d be worth cutting if I did.”

I’m glad we all had a laugh about it but … um … did I just threaten to CUT.A.MAN 4 times my size, while intoxicated at a McDonald’s in the hood?

Yes I did, girl. Yes I did!

Clearly none of you put August 8th on your calendar or you would have stalked my ass on the interweb and asked “HOW’D IT GO? HOW’D IT GO? HOW’D IT GO?” Well folks I am thrilled to announce that it went 452 times better than I was expecting. (If you need a refresher course, here’s part I).

I woke up last Friday with work on my mind, New York City on my mind and Hot Stuff on my mind. ” What do I wear? What the HELL am I going to say? … I HAVE to say something or I will never forgive myself. Clearly all signs are in your favor, grab life by the balls.” So I got ready, packed my bags for NYC and headed off to work. I had a million things to do before I headed out and at one point I even picked up the phone to cancel my appointment. And then I thought of you guys - the Operation: LilSass Hyman Removal 2008 team. Between the meat and *ahem* the man meat, you guys are proving to be a wonderful support system.

So I get my isht done, am running late and grab a cab to the eye doc. I walk in, pay my co-pay and sit around the corner, kinda outta site like the good hobbit that I am. I hear someone call a name - clearly it’s mine cause I’m the only person there - and I stand up. There he is, what a sight to behold. Angels are singing. Lights are beaming down from heaven. And I have never seen such an amazing smile in my life. Folks, HE is beaming like a god damn pregnant woman. So I hustle into the room behind him and the friendly chatter starts automatically. “How’ve you been? What’s new?”

He walks over to the sink to wash his hands like a good little clinician and what do I do? Oh, ask if I can join him. WHO THE HELL WASHES THEIR HANDS WITH THE TECH IN THE EXAM ROOM???? What the FUCK am I thinking? In that moment I am thinking, “I just got out of a dirty cab and I wanna make sure I have clean hands” (weird … I’m not one of those obsessive hand washers). So being the lovely gent he is, he laughs first and says, “Sure.” So we’re standing in the corner washing together, laughing at how utterly ridiculous this is, as though we are on Grey’s Anatomy and we’re scrubbing in for surgery. I mean, I think it was one of the most retahded things I have ever done though looking back on it, I think it broke the ice.

Chatting
Chatting
Chatting

Laughing
Laughing
Laughing

So we get to talking about where he lives and he says he owns a condo IN.MY.NEIGHBORHOOD! I start laughing and say, “I live four blocks from there” (I left the SFAH & the cockroach parts out). He replies, “Oh really? There’s a new bar opening up soon and my buddy from high school is the bartender. We should keep in touch!” Angels are singing. Lights are beaming down from heaven. In fact, I think I hear french horns and maybe a choir singing “Hallelujah!” So I non-chalantly reply, “Yeah totally.”

At this point, we just will NOT stop talking. I find out he’s Nicaraguan and I awkwardly say, “OMG! I’ve dated like 3 Nicaraguans.” He replies, “Oh really” as I think to myself, “way to sound like a whore!” After a good 20 minutes of chatting he says, “Maybe I should do your exam now.” So I undid my pants … HAHAHAHA JK! You dirty birdies …

I proceeded to do my eye exam in Spanish (he was totally impressed, duh) and then he put in all the fun drops. As he is about to leave the room I say (this is IT folks), “Oh! I give you full permission to take my phone number out of my medical chart.” To which he replies, “Um no. You will give it to me.” Clearly he doesn’t wanna get busted trolling around my record. He comes into the room and we exchange numbers and I am DYING.INSIDE. I could die!! Could you die?

At some point he leaves the room to ask another woman in the office where I need to pick up the bus. As they’re talking in the hallway, I come out of the room, she sees me and says, “Oh … oooh. This is why you’re fluttering about the office today.” By the look on his face I think he wanted to inhale a raid defogger and DIE because he was so mortified. He proceeded to stumble over his words and walk away.

The doc comes in, does my exam, blah, blah, blah. As he’s finished he tells me my eyes are good to go. He says, “Well, I’m sorry to say that you have no medical reason to come back in.” (I think he knows what we’re up to). To which I reply, “Oh don’t worry, I’m going to New York. I’ll be sure to shove a Coney Island dog in my eye so I can come back.”

By the time I leave the office, walk 1 1/2 blocks and am leaving a rambling message on my BFFs voicemail about all this goodness, Hot Stuff sends me a text. IT HAD BEEN 7 MINUTES! This is what I’m talkin’ about, a ‘lil Action Jackson for this lady. A man who knows what he wants! “This is just so you don’t lose my number in that big purse of yours. Have a great wknd and let’s go out next week.” Yesss! We spend the next 2 hours texting as I am transitting to New York. Tuesday morning I awake to, “Good morning, how was New York?” I reply, “Awesome and drunk.” To which he says, “When do I get to see you?” I says, “Do you have a webcam?”

So we’re going out tonight folks!!

Amidst poor moral judgments last summer I did eHarmony (god I still have PTSD about that) so it has been AGES since I’ve been a on a real date. It’s been ages, and I mean AGES since I’ve been on a data that actually lead to kissing or heavy petting. None of those douchebags even kissed me last summer. All signs are pointing to homo.

Well, I know this much … we already have amazing chemistry. So much so that I am going to employ the ‘ol “homemade chastity belt” approach. You know … where you don’t shave your legs so as to prevent you from getting nekkid. Cause when you’re married and having the coitus with hairy legs, that’s one thing. Dates 1 through 5 should not include hairy leg humping. Therefore, my Mach3 will remain in it’s holster cause otherwise I’d rip that boys pants off.

~~~~~~

Editorial note: I think my rambling mouth has been posting too many long entries and I think this font is too small. I apologize for all my talky-talky this week. I’ll try to put a lid on it

OMG I just walked into my SFAH and THERE WERE NO COCKROACHES!!! Well, actually I looked under the bed and there was one squirming on it’s back, clearly having taken a little snack on the bait. Mwuah Mwuah hahahaha!!!

Miss Grace, I am so sorry I didn’t snap a picture of it before I put it out of it’s misery.

Speaking of SNAPPING, guess who bought a camera? Yup, ME ME ME! Guys, it was the only highlight of my weekend … It was actually the crappiest weekend of my life maybe. I spent lots of time crying and I promise to give more deets later.

But I was so damn excited about not returning to Joe’s Apartment, that I had to share with the team.

Missed you guys!

xoxox

Funny Ass Video of Cockroaches

Cockroach count = 2

Although it seems manageable, I am TERRIFIED about going away and coming back to Joe’s Apartment. Ahhhh!

Let’s hope the Borax perimeter I have drawn around this place keeps them away