Family Values

I grew up in the perfect little family. A dad that went to work everyday. A mom that baked amazing treats. I was a honor roll student and captain of the soccer team. One brother excelled at sports, the other at theater. We took a family vacation every year (still do!) and church every Sunday. We lived in a perfect little "Pleasantville" neighbor with streets lined with trees and houses lined with secrets. Family dinners were a must and family game night was a regular occurrence. My parents were happy. They had the perfect life and three perfect heterosexual children.

Then I came out of that stupid closet and for the first time felt like I truly disappointed my parents. Hard not to feel that when thats all they told you. Standing on their side of the line I guess I can see how they felt. Gone where the hopes and dreams that every parent has for their daughter of her being swept away by a knight in shining armor and rearing two and a half children, adopting a dog, and living three miles away. You see, it wasn't just that I was gay, it was that I was masculine and gay.

To be fair my "coming out process" wasn't the easiest thing. If I had it my way I would have never told them. But they asked, rather cornered me one night. I mean, I came home from freshman year wearing boy's shorts, a short hair cut, and a new best girl friend...not really discrete. I resented my parents values and expected them to just fully accept me for who I was. They resented the "new me" and expected me to be the same person I had been pretending to be for 18 years. We fought incessantly that summer and into sophomore year of college. I felt like they were ashamed of me and they felt like I was just going though a phase.

Then I stepped back and looked at everything. There were my parents, products of the baby boomer generation, moderate political views, and strong Catholic values. There I was, a confused young person, with one sociology class under my belt, and demanding understanding from people that didn't know what they were supposed to understand. When I stopped yelling at screaming at them, and started talking something happened, they started listening. When I stopped forcing my beliefs down their throat, they stopped doing the same. I realized that I was asking them to go against their beliefs just as much as they were asking me to and I couldn't expect them to change their views if I wasn't willing to change mine.  Many discussions ensued, and while most ended in tears progress was being made.

Is has been five years since I came out to my parents. And while I know (and accept) they will never join PFLAG, I also know that they will always love and support me no matter what. I have learned that they are trying and while they still do not agree with my "lifestyle"they no longer ridicule and tell me how disappointed they are in me. I'm sure there will be many  more hurdles, but I'm also sure that as they approach we will all be ready.

One fish, two fish, red fish, dead fish.

Hello blog world.

Pardon my absence these past few weeks. I have been in a weird place that I'm sure has been worsened by these damn hormones that flow through my body once a month and remind me that no amount of boys attire can delete estrogen. I never wanted this blog to become a pity parade of my life, and I have a tendency to be a bit dramatic, so I have been avoiding posting because I was afraid of what I would write. But alas, my good friend, red wine, has encouraged me to update my loyal readers on my so called life.

Well, I'm still single and poor. Actually, I'm singler and poorer than the last time I posted. How can a single girl become more single you ask? Easy, my fish died. Let me explain. Boo Bear bought me a fish. He said it would be a good test run to see if I could handle a cat. I mean how hard is it to keep a fish alive. Turns out, very hard. I had the little guy for just about a month before he croaked. I was devastated. I was sure it was some omen I was destined to be alone forever. I mean if  I can't keep a fish alive, how am I supposed to take care of a cat...never mind a kid! Okay, I may be rushing things, but I told you, I can be dramatic.

Well the fish was really the start of a downfall. Since then I have questioned every decision in my life. In a recent discussion with a friend who is about to embark on a wonderful adventure working on a cruise ship I expressed how jealous I was. When she suggested I join her, I immediately went on the website in search of an application. Then two thoughts occurred to me: one, I should wait until I'm sober, and two, how can I leave the kids I work with? At 24 and single I should be free. Roaming the world. Having strange, wonderful nights. Instead, I'm looking at my crooked, pathetic christmas tree and drowning my day in a bottle of wine. What happened? Please don't get me wrong, I love my job, and I love the kids I work with. But I am becoming increasingly more aware of how close to settling down I am and that scares the crap out of me. My friend says I'm just in an, "in between place." I feel like I'm in the middle seat of a plane between two sleeping, obese people and I have to pee but can't move. I know, dramatic.

Is it just be or does being 24 suck? Its a scary world with decisions that are beyond my years and expectations beyond my abilities. I want to run away and settle down all at the same time. My head is spinning and I'm pretty sure its not just the wine.

East vs. West (1)

There are many jarring differences between the eastern and western parts of the commonwealth. So, my beloved reader(s) (Hi Boo Bear!) you can be sure there will be more than one post addressing this issue. 

I grew up in eastern mass. This means a few things:

1. I think everything is 20 minutes away.
2. I use words like "bubblah" and "packie" and phrases such as "bang a u-ie"
3. I think everyone, except myself, is an awful driver.
4. I was sure the alphabet only had 25 lettahs.
5. I thought hippies stopped existing in the 60's.
6. I thought the state stopped at Worcester.

I went to college/currently reside in wester mass. This means I have learned a few things:

1. Everything is still 20 minutes away.
2. "Bubblahs" are out of fashion, now you carry water in some sort of tin can or glass jar.
3. People of western mass are the worst drivers, evah.
4. Living amongst western mass natives will force you to relearn the letters of the alphabet (but as soon as you get on the pike you seem to forget the 26th lettah all over again).
5. The hippies just moved west.
6. This state is huge!

The biggest difference between eastern and western mass however is the food. I only knew of a handful of grocery stores growing up; Stop and Shop and, for the bigger events, BJ's Wholesale club. I grew up in an Irish Catholic family. We ate chicken, broccoli, potatoes, chicken, carrots, meat loaf, chicken, and on Fridays, pizza, oh and chicken. I didn't know what tofu was until I was 22. I had never eaten peppers, asparagus, or lettuce until I was 18. And why would you shop any where other than Stop and Shop?!

Well thanks western mass for once again educating me on the ways of the hippies. Ever hear of Whole Foods? Well maybe you have, I had not. That store scared the ever living shit out of me. Aisles and aisles of nuts, berries, spices, and vitamins. Cases and cases of tofu chicken, tofu steak, tofu pork, and tofu tofu. Well thats how I imagined it any way. I was way to terrified to enter that place.

I finally went once. I was 22. My roommate tricked me into going. I broke out in cold sweats walking into the store. I was sure some sort of alarm was going to go off and hippie ninjas were going to attack me because they new I was an impostor. Well that didn't happen. But just to be safe I didn't go there again for a while.

Well now I have a boss, whom I love very much, but is a western mass hippie. She is all about organic things and loves trying to make me follow her ways. I will never eat organic peanut butter. Its just not natural! Well maybe it is? Who knows, all that having to stir the oil business creeps me out. Give me Jiffy, its what moms who care give their kids.

As part of teaching my kids community skills The Boss decided that bringing them to the buffet at Whole Foods would be a good learning experience. I panicked. I was sure I wasn't attacked the first time that I went because everyone gets a free pass and they expect that after you visit their store you will throw away all your clothes and start wearing all natural hemp clothes and drinking out of glass jars and eating tofu and change your name to Earth Shine.  I tried to convince her to go somewhere else, but it was pointless.

We went to Whole Foods. I forgot which day we were going, so I wasn't able to prepare. Caught off guard, I walked in wearing Nikes that were made in China, jeans that weren't made out of hemp, a plastic water bottle and the smell of a burger on my breath. Just to be safe I made the kids refer to me as Earth Shine though. To my surprise, still no ninjas. I breathed a sigh of relief and out of respect, got stuff from the buffet that I cannot pronounce.

I still don't do my regular grocery shopping at Whole Foods because I still get anxious walking in there. Plus, my heart is with good old Stop and Shop (and all of my savings thanks to that handy Stop and Shop car key chain!). But I cannot tell a lie...I do stop at this Whole Food place for a good buffet dinner now and then. Just don't tell the nice lady at the register my name isn't Earth Shine.

Its all just so complicated...

I had a conversation the other day with Cool Dude about life. He has his all planned out. I do not. Awesome. He has dated someone for 5 years. I have not. Great. He has his wedding planned. I do not. Sweet. He is 14. I am 24. Yay.

His plan is to have all the people he loves live on one street. He also wants us to all marry each other. I love the way this boy thinks. I mean, it makes sense, right? Having all the people you love in one place...brilliant. I had to break his little heart though and inform him I would not be marrying another (male) teacher from where I work and he is a student. Our conversation went like this:

CD: Well if not him, another boy?
Me: Well, probably not...I'll probably marry a girl.
CD: So you are a boy?!
Me: Noooo, I'm a girl.
CD: But you have to marry a boy then.
Me: Well sometimes girls marry boys, and sometimes boy marry boys, and sometimes girls marry girls.
CD: Ugh its all just so complicated.

Poor guy. It is so complicated. But its only complicated because our society teaches little kids that it is complicated. Mind you, Cool Dude has your typical western mass hippie parents that don't care who marries who. But he watches a ton of movies and in every one the girl and the guy end up together.

Some of my kids do get it though. This past summer we were talking about families and one of the little boys told the group he had two mommies. I held my breath thinking a ton of questions where about to be thrown at this little guy but then another student said, "Lucky! Moms are the coolest and you get two!" Ah, the beauty of their logic.

Cool Dude will be okay though, he said as long as he can get married first and I come to his wedding and say, "congratulations" he doesn't care who I marry. I'm 99.9% sure I can promise both those things.

I'll be up in the gym just workin' on my fitness.

First off, I would like to apologize for the amount of time between posts. I have had quite the few week that has included an trip to NJ, discovering my student can read, and a Snood addition.

 Anyway, I went to the gym Monday for the first time in, well a long time. I used a wide array of excuses for why I haven't been going.

- I tore my MCL (6 months ago...)
- I lost my ipod (I guess I could have looked a little harder...)
- I play rugby (Just kidding, I coach rugby, meaning I stand around for 2 hours...)
- I have no time (Ok that one might be a little legit...)
- I have to feed my fish (That Boo Bear just gave me...)

Monday was the end of those excuses. I felt a little bad when I checked in and the receptionist said, "Good to have you back." He might as well have said, "Hey fatty, good jump getting your lazy ass off the couch." I think the latter is way more motivating.

It is now Friday. I went to the gym for the second time this week. Mainly because I was still so damn sore from looking at the weights the first time I went this week that I thought it was best that I really rest up.

The gym does have its plus sides though (aside of course from good health...). I love being able to watch the interesting group of people that attend the Noho gym. There are the typical juice heads that look like they swallowed a keg and I am sure it is physically impossible for them to put their arms down by their sides. I love when they wear ski caps. I'm not sure what it does for their weight lifting but it defiantly boosts their image. Then there are the 50 something ladies that do nothing in the gym except for take the classes and take up too much room gossiping in the locker room afterwards.

But leave it to Noho to add a pinch of gay to every situation. There is this whole other genre of people at my gym that I have seen at no other fitness center...the gays. All types of gays. Big manly tops that flex their pecs at any male passing by. Little gay boys on the elliptical reading "People" and watching "E!" Big lesbians that seem to be in some sort of turf war for the bench presses.

The lesbians are (of course) my favorite. Its like they all have something to prove to the lesbian next to them. One decided to challenge me. She caught my eye as she started to do pull ups and push ups. Mind you I'm on the eliptical watching "E!" and trying to read the "People"the guy next to me had. I can't do even one push up, nor do I look like I can even can, so why she decided to challenge me is a mystery. I did the only thing I could think to do...I laughed. She did not find this funny. Oops. What was I supposed to do? Launch into some sort of "West Side Story" gang dance routine? Lose some sort of epic lesbian battle? Maybe someday to the former. No thanks to the latter.

Maybe as I continue to work out (hopefully) I'll become strong enough to challenge a lesbian of my own.  But I really would prefer some sort of dance fight.

Amber Alert: My Dignity Chapter 2

Dot Rat

Before we could head out for the night, we needed to pick up the third member of our posse; Pat. Born and raised in Dorchester by Irish immigrant parents, she developed a charm we all have come to love. Standing at just 5 feet 3 inches and weighing 100 pounds soaked in wet Pat compensated by becoming too loud, too aggressive, and too forward. While some would be put off by this attitude I was drawn to this feisty little Irish lass. We became friends on the rugby pitch and later roommates. We bonded over the realization that we can drown any problem in 40’s and a bag of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries. She knows that she can tell me I am being an asshole and that I will not take any offence because she is probably right, and I know I can tell her the same. She knows me better than I know myself and I know she, more than anyone, will always have my back.

As we pulled up to Pat's house I became increasingly more excited. I knew that equal parts Sam and Pat with a splash of me was a recipe for a good time. We entered Pat's house we were greeted by her mother, Theresa, sitting at the kitchen table, cigarette in one hand, a goblet of wine in the other, watching the evening news on the small TV perched on the counter.  Per usual, despite the fact Sam and I were already running late due to the hold up at my house, Pat was still not ready. We sat at the table with her mom, who like every good Irish host offered, no forced, us to eat and drink while waiting. Her mom poured more wine into her goblet, lit another cigarette on the gas stove, and sat back down at the table with us forcing Sam and I into an awkward conversation about a picture on the wall that went something like this…(directors note, Theresa has a slight Irish brogue so please read it as such…)

Theresa: “Girls, how old do you think my aunt was when she painted this picture?”

Me: “Um, I don’t know, 84?”

Mom: “Right! 96!”

Me: “Oh, I thought I said, 84?”

Mom: “That’s what I said, 96!”

Seeing the conversation was going nowhere I hollered up the stairs for Pat who, like a herd of 1,000 elephants came stampeding down the stairs. Despite her Irish heritage, Pat is blessed with the ability to tan. Standing in between Sam and Pat made me look like the filling in a double stuffed Oreo, but I did not care. I was just happy to be with my girls.  After many embraces I shuffled Pat and Sam out the door with her mom yelling at us from the kitchen to be safe as she spilled her goblet of wine.  We jumped into the car, windows down, music up and drove off without a care in the world. 

to be continued...

Amber Alert: My Dignity

The summer of 2009 was like no other thanks to Poopsie (Pat) and my other friend who we shall call, Sam. (I went by Chris for that summer...we chose gender neutral names...we were drunk.) I started chronicling our summer because we decided we wanted to remember it forever. Here is the first chapter, with hopefully more to come.

  Amber Alert: My Dignity

The ironic paradox of young life is often the moments you never want to forget, are usually the ones you cannot remember.  This is more than just a tale of three young women brought together by a mutual love of, in no particular order, rugby, drinking and women.  It is also a story of three young women who discovered that sometimes in losing your dignity, you find yourself.

Ying and Yang

Fresh out of college with a useless degree in one hand and a contract to work my fifth summer at an overnight camp in the other, the summer of ’09 was looking bleak at best.  To make matters worse, the summer of ’09 was the year marker of my sex free lifestyle. This lifestyle was not a choice. At the end of the summer of ’08 my girlfriend and I of two years ended our relationship. I unintentionally went celibate, she started dating a firefighter…a male fire fighter.

The kick off to my summer was my younger brother’s high school graduation party. No amount of beer can help with the questions and awkward glances from my strict Irish Catholic family.

“So, still no men in your life?” 

“Where is that best friend of yours from college that was around a lot for the past two years?”

“Are you and Patrick wearing the same shirt?”

Let me explain. I am a female identified, gay person that looks like a 12 year old boy, acts like a butch (until I get excited then I become a gay man), who hates the word lesbian. If you need a label call me, gay. If like me you think labels are for soup cans well, you can call me gay too. So, as thrilling as playing 20 Questions was with my family, I felt it necessary to call in my good friend, Same for back up.  Finding the perfect combination of adjectives to describe Sam is damn near impossible. She can better be categorized by nouns such as, vodka, gym, Blackberry, and sex.  Sam is also one of the most loyal people you will ever meet and thus I knew she could come to my rescue.  I texted her, “Help, stuck at little bro’s grad party…send back up.” Her response, “Baby girl, put on your dancing shoes, I’ll be there in an hour.”

About three hours later, as Sam functions on her own time, she rolled into my driveway. Sam and I could not be more different, from our physical appearance to our actions, we epitomize ying and yang. As we embraced, the pale tone of my Irish skin violently contradicted with her perfectly tanned Portuguese glow and I wondered why I thought going out with Sam would help my sex life (or lack thereof…).  She is taller, leaner, more muscular, and more charming than me, the short, fat, out of shape, awkward kid.  She is the life of the party, I am the weirdo in the corner who thinks that simply tapping my foot and nodding my head is an appropriate form of dancing. However, despite these glaring differences Sam and I have been friends for a while and have learned to use each other to our own advantage. She makes sure I have a social life and I make sure her social life doesn’t kill her.

Being a good friend, Sam did the obligatory, get out of the car and say hi to the parents routine. With most families this song and dance takes a few minutes and generally is just a quick hello and a few questions about the plans for the evening.  My family is not, “most families.” Mom insisted that Sam not only eat a plate of food before she leave, but also take a plate of chicken wings home with her (which turned out to be a great drunken, late night snack, so thanks mom!). Dad pleaded with Sam to teach me to have some sense of style (I was wearing jeans, a purple v neck shirt, and my favorite purple Nikes and saw nothing wrong with that).  My uncle told a few off color jokes about Mexicans while my cousin tried his best to lay down his best pick up lines on poor Sam. I packed a backpack full of beer, stole a water bottle full of gin (mind you, I’m 23 and this was the first time I stole alcohol from my parents…), rescued Sam from my family and ran out the door.  As we drove off into the setting sun I opened a beer and toasted to good friends, stolen alcohol and the hopes that this summer would at least be interesting. 

to be continued...

I'm single and...

...not ready to mingle.

I've been single for about 2 years and 3 months. But whose counting?

The Ex just bought a house with her partner...and by partner I mean boyfriend. Guess that was destined to not work between us, huh? I can refer to her as "The Ex" because she is the only one. Well she is the only ex-girlfriend. There are a few ex-boyfriends from the years before I came bursting out of the closet singing show tunes and wearing work boots.

Anyway, I have been single for a long time. I mean there have been some scattered showers of ladies, but none that have really held my interest for more than a night. But I hated the "one-night stand" thing. I like being in a relationship. I'm a hopeless romantic. I love sharing a bed with the person I'm with. I love buying her flowers. I love taking her out on surprise dates. I love dancing with her. I love quite nights on the couch. I love kissing in the rain on a lonely, moon-lit street in Paris. Sigh, I need to stop watching chick flicks.

A quick story: I didn't go to the dentist for 2 years. When I finally went this summer I had a killer cavity. The dentist filled it with a special medicated filling and said that should hopefully kill it. She also said if it still hurts I need a root canal. It still hurts. Guess what I'm doing over Christmas break?

The reason I tell this story is that I'm afraid my single-ness is like my cavity, beyond repair unless drastic, painful measures are taken. There are little signs that pop up warning you that you have been single for too long. Here are some of the reasons I know I need a dating root-canal:

1. I have a whole playlist devoted to depressing, angry "I'll never find love again" songs. I listen to this playlist after I listen to my "love songs" playlist and realize I have no one to share "love songs" with.

2. I want a cat. Now, I addressed this issue in my "I'm NOT a lesbian" blog. But I believe the root of the issue is I'm longing for companionship and apparently my heart has given up on females and moved to felines.

3. My overall level of awkwardness has increased. The lack of a woman in my life has really turned me into a fool. I say all the wrong things at all the wrong times.

4. People have stopped asking if I'm seeing anyone. They just assume that if I ever am dating again it will be headline news in the local papers.

5. This is the biggest reason I know I have been single for too long: my bed is now indented perfectly in the middle. The lack of a partner to balance out the mattress completely ruined my bed. It is now impossible to share it with anyone because we would just end up rolling into each other in the middle of the bed...and not in a good way.

For these reasons, and countless others, I find myself terrified to be a single person ready to mingle. Also, without Poopsie, Boo Bear and The German by my side I would never know what to say, what to wear, or how to dance.

Maybe I'll just become a nun. Then I could chose a life of single-hood at 24 before it finds me at 44 still in Noho, driving my duct tape Volvo, with 5 cats I have to rush home to.

Fat Cow

One of my buddies, Cool Dude, likes to tell jokes. Here is one of his recent ones:

CD: Knock knock
Me: Whose there?
CD: Fat cow
Me: Fat cow, who?
CD: You're a fat cow!

Ouch. Oh, I should probably mention that Cool Dude is 14...and has Down syndrome. His "jokes" usually involve me answering the metaphysical door and being hit over the head or some other humorous injury. So, while I usually do not take offense when he says things like, "Why couldn't you cross the road? Because you got hit by a hippo!" the fat cow "joke" really felt like a low blow. Perhaps it struck a cord with me because, well, I am a fat cow.

Recent years have not done my body well.  There really is no excuse. I eat crap and I don't exercise. I mean, no real good can come out of that.

I've never been skinny. My dad told me once that they were worried for me when I was a kid because I was too fat.  Fortunately, I feel in love with soccer and my middle and high school years were redeemed from the obesity of my childhood due to the fact I was running around every day of the week. While I never achieved a "skinny" body, I was not fat either. However looking back I thought I was a fat cow in high school.  Maybe because my mom followed me around saying, "A minute on the lip, is a lifetime on the hip!" anytime I tried to eat something. And my dad used to tell me that since I had big feet I was destined to be 300 pounds.  Mind you, neither one of my parents are pixies.

Enter the college years. My mom warned me of the freshman 15. My dad liked to poke my stomach every time I came home to visit and say things like, "oh a little pudgy, eh?" I did pretty well my freshman year...well the first half anyway. The second half I learned to like, no love, beer. It all went downhill from there. I played rugby in college so, I rationalized my eating with the fact that I was exercising everyday. Oh how the wonders of the human body's aging process eluded me. Gone was the body I once had that allowed me to eat anything without (too many) implications. I would tell myself, "Oh I'll never reach that weight!" Then when I would reach that weight I would convince myself I would never reach the next weight. And the next one. And the next one. Until finally, one day, I reached the weight that I said I would never ever never ever get to. And then Cool Dude told his fat cow "joke".

So, I'm finally doing something about it. I'm 24, poor, and single...I don't need obese thrown into the mix. I joined Weight Watchers. I mean if Jennifer Hudson can do it, so can I. Right? I went to my first meeting last week. It was me and about 20 grandmothers, oh and once creepy guy. Awesome. But I'm trying to be optimistic. I really think it can work. I just have to stay committed. Fingers crossed.

And so begins the journey away from being a fat cow. You can be sure there will be updates to follow...only if I succeed. If I don't, expect some more pitiful blogs.

 I'll close with one of Cool Dude's favorite jokes.

CD: Knock knock
Me: Whose there?
CD: Olive
Me: Olive who?
CD: Olive you too!

Okay, I guess I can forgive him :)

I have no life?

Someone told me today that I need to get a life. Strangely, I wasn't offended. I'm in that awkward time of life when half my friends are in college and the other half are adults. Leaving me in this unforeseen territory with no where to go out to.  And I'm comfortable there (except nights my apartment is colder than outside).

I work 5 jobs. One just finished, so to be truthful, 4 jobs. That keeps me busy. That is my life. It does not leave much time to go out and about. Even if it did, I couldn't afford to go out every night. I guess that makes me more of a Perez Hilton than a Paris Hilton.

What am I really missing though? Is there a Noho socialite group that I am unaware of? I highly doubt it. I mean, I don't see it in People every week. Or the Advocate.

Maybe someday I'll be a Noho socialite. But I really hope that doesn't happen.

I am NOT a lesbian.

I hate the word lesbian. Ugh. It just sounds yucky. Ever since I came out of my disorganized closet I have resented that word. I can't exactly explain why I don't like it. Perhaps for me it carries some negative stereotypes of the type of lesbians I can't stand. (Disclaimer: I don't like [most] lesbians.)

My friends made up a term for me. Gaydie. Gay+Lady. It seems to work. I just don't understand why you have to label everything. But I'm too out of shape to be jumping up on my soap box right now so I'll save that rant for later.

Anyway, I am starting to fear that my utter dislike for all things stereotypically lesbian is being compromised by the lesbian Mecca that is Noho. I was sure I was going to make it out alive when I managed to avoid the flannel phase. However, things started to go downhill when I bought a pair of work boots. I found myself rationalizing, "Well, they are quite practical for the unpredictable weather of New England. And really, they aren't that bad...I mean I'm not going from work boots to mountain dyke...right?!"

I still have the work boots. And I like them. But since I have gotten the work boots I have found myself wanting a cat. Now this my have something to do with my seemingly life-long decent into single-ness, but I fear that this yearning for a cat is this little lesbian monster inside me dying to come out (pun intended). I mean I think I would never decorate my life with rainbow kitty stickers or make shirts with pictures of me and my cats. But I just cannot be sure. I'm sure Boo Bear would intervene if I ever made it to that level of lesbian-ness, but he is 2 hours away...he might not see it coming.

Now, I would be more inclined to get a cat if this third factor didn't appear recently. I keep finding myself looking at Subaru cars. Yikes! I keep justifying it with the fact they are good cars with all wheel drive and quite safe. But oh the shame! I would really be a lesbian then. A cat lady, mountain dyke, in a Subaru. Or just a resident of Noho.

Excuse me, this is the women's room.

I have short hair. And I wear boys' attire. This leads most people that do not know me, to believe that I am male. This doesn't bother me and I never take offense. In fact, I usually think it is hysterical when it happens. My mom doesn't. Oh well. Here are some of my favorite run ins that have happened.

** I understand not everyone finds the humor in people messing up their genders. I also realize that this used to be a huge issue for the old time butches. I respect the strides they mad to make sure that the police are no longer dragging us out of bathrooms or bars due to our attire. However, I have made the personal decision to find the humor in my life. **

1. "Excuse me, this is the women's room!"

Ok so the first one isn't one set time. In fact this happens probably at least once a week. Usually it is old ladies. Sometimes it is little kids, but they usually just stare and run away when I smile. I never really know what to say. Sometimes I say, "oh really?! shit!" and run out of the room. Other times I say, "Oh I know!" in my girliest voice. Other times I just look at them at wait for their eyes to travel from my face, where they can't find facial hair, my throat, where there is no adam's apple, to my chest, where there is the slightest hint of two bumps, and finally to my pelvis, where there is no hint of a bump.  Then they turn bright red, mutter their apologies and leave. This situation has also occurred over seas. In Spain a crazed woman at a bar started telling, "Es para chicas! Es para chicas!" To which I drunkenly responded, "Si, si, tengo titties!"

2. Oh my God, a sinner!

This was one of my favorites. I was in the church bathroom (I was home, I have to go to mass on Sundays when I'm home). I finished up in the stall and there was a grandmother waiting with her granddaughter. She saw me coming out of the stall, gasped, and covered her granddaughters eyes. I'm sure her inner monologue was something to the effect of, "Oh my God, a walking sin!! I do not want my pure grandchild exposed to this blasphemy!" However, out loud she said, "Young man, this is the women's room!" I calmly  said, "I know...um, I am a girl." To which she responded, "Oh well you have short hair, that is confusing!" No apology. I guess she will save that for confession.

3. A scared southern belle.

While traveling down south I was using a bathroom at a rest stop. As I was walking out a little old southern belle of a lady was walking in. She saw me, screamed and ran out yelling, "Oh no, I just walked into the mens room!"She then saw the sign indicating that she was in fact in the right bathroom and then looked back at me, and back at the sign. I just stood there holding the door open until she finally decided it was safe to enter.

4. "Why aren't you a nice young man?!"

I don't believe chivalry is dead. I think its gay. I always hold the door open for the person behind me, especially if the person behind me is a nice old lady (that will probably yell at me later in the bathroom). So many times they look at me and say, "Well aren't you just a nice young man!" This also happened a lot when I was catering and we were required to wear shirt and ties. People would ask for the young man with the crab cakes and delightful smile (well, maybe I just imagine the smile part) and it would take my manager sometime to figure out they were asking for me. To which she would say, "Lower your voice so you don't offend them when they realize you aren't a man."

5. "Are you the only boy on the rugby team?"

This one is my personal favorite. At a graduation dinner for my friend I was seated next to her dear old grandmother. I love old ladies and talked with her most of the night. Now while my appearance is very male, my voice and my actions are not. In fact I'm usually confused for a gay man. But thats another story for another time. Anyway, I have been talking to grandma all night and had been introduced by my very female and not gender neutral at all first name. Towards the end of night grandma turns to me and asks so loudly I think the entire restaurant heard her, "So, are you the only boy on the rugby team?" For once I was floored on when to say. Not wanting to confuse her I chose to respond, "No, there are others...co-ed...yeah" Nice.

And so it begins...

Hello world!

Boo Bear (the token gay man in my life) told me I was funny. He said that I have a lot to say. The German agreed with him. I just speak the truth, perhaps with a bit of comedic license...

This blog is my life story. I will only write the truth, or at least how I perceive the truth. 

It all started 24 years ago on a rainy day. I grew up in your typical suburban Irish Catholic family. I grew into, well...I don't exactly know what. Some would say lesbian (I HATE that word). I just say gay. Pretty much I look like a 12 year old boy. But I don't look like Justin Beiber (at least not any more). 

This blog will not just be a gay blog. Although it will have gay stories, so readers beware. 

I'm turning 24 tomorrow. I don't know how I feel about that. When you're 12 you don't think about your twenties. Well you think about turning 21 and drinking and college. What you don't think about are those awkward years between graduating college and becoming an adult. That's where I am right now. Turning 24, single, and poor. 

This blog will not be a constant stream of whiney posts about how bad my life if. But we all have our days so, there might be some. 

I am in between degrees right now. I tried a grad program, hated it, and quit. Graduate school drop out. But it was a good decision because I now know what I want to do. I work with kids with disabilities. To be honest, I think they are way cooler than typical kids. 

This blog will contain stories of the kids I work with. Because quite frankly, they make my day almost every day. 

I guess thats all for now. I'm not sure where this blog will go, or if it will ever really start. But here I am. 

 And so it begins...