So, as I wandered the isles, eventually finding everything I needed, I started for the checkout line when all of a sudden I felt the bump in my pants start to hang a tad lower than he should be. I continued walking, a bit slower though, in an attempt to assess this situation. By the time I had decided that this could become a potential issue I realized that my detachable disco stick had completely jumped the tighty whities ship and was now slowly crawling down my left leg a little bit more with every step.

I stopped walking, obviously, right in the middle of the isle. My face clearly expressed concern as I can never find anyone in that store to help me but now, of course, with my leg bent up to stop the AWAL lovelance at my knee, threatening to flop onto the ground and roll away into the gardening section, I had two guys asking me if they can help me find anything. Without actually making eye contact I mumbled “Uh…no, that’s cool, thanks though. I’m just… uh, thinking… um, about some stuff.”

I have a college education. I am well read. I pride myself on my ability to hold a decent conversation with just about anyone and yet, with my dangling dong at my knee cap, I told these men that I had gone to a crowded warehouse filled with endless home improvement supplies so that I could do my best impression of a flamingo while I, uh think… um, about some stuff.

How very eloquent.

Eventually I decided I had two choices and two choices only – unless I was willing to consider the third option I came up with which entailed running out of the store screaming, “It’s not my fault! The elastic on my tighties are going slack! I neeeed neeew underweeear!!!“

So, the two most tasteful solutions (although ‘tasteful’ might not be the perfect descriptor, please keep in mind that the situation at hand did not really make room for classy action) were these: I could either reach down my pants and grab the lost longhorn, hike him back up into his escaped bulge-bed –OR- I could attempt to walk with a bit of a limp, as my left knee had to remain at a 45 degree angle in order to keep the manly junk from leaving me.

I stood there for a while. Quite a while really. Eventually, I went with door number two. The store was crowded and reaching way, way down my pants just seemed even more ridiculous than hobbling a little.

And I tried to play it off a little, like, “Oh boy is my knee sore.” while I shook my head back and forth and huffed like, “Woo wee! Yowzer. I’ll tell ya, knees can really hurt sometimes, can’t they!” But from the looks I was getting, clearly I wasn’t pulling it off. Clearly I didn’t look like I had some convincing, excusable injury or disability; I think I mostly looked like a crazy person who was probably not totally sober. And yes, quite a few people stared. But you know what? As much as they stared, they didn’t know what they were staring at or why, and that was good enough for me. If I made it out of that store without a sudden wee-wee-show-and-tell then I won, damn it.

I wanted to laugh. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t understand how ridiculous this all was. But laughing by myself for no apparent reason while limping with a rather large squashy knee goiter was no way to be if I could help it. So, I bit my tongue and just did what I had to do to get the hell out of there.

I hobbled to the check out line, a bit sweaty and red in the face. But I had made it. And just as I finished checking out some older woman asked if she could have my cart. But my cart was the only thing allowing me to hobble properly. I certainly didn’t have enough items to constitute needing the cart but I did need it in order to not drop my jiggling johnson out of my pants. Again, I had two choices: Give up my cart and let the junk free –OR- Say, without even making eye contact, “I need it. I just need my cart. I’m sorry.” and rush by the poor woman with a speedy hobble.

So, strike two on the not sounding very stable or reasonable to totally decent people front. That response was a very basic social interaction gone major fail. I realized immediately, as I was hobbling away, that I could have easily said something like, “Sure, of course you can have my cart. Let me put my stuff (i.e. my feral free willy) away in the car and I will bring this right back to you.” But that is not what happened. Instead I went with crazy-limpy-hobbly-freaky-stressed out-sweaty-dyke-with-a-weird-lump-in-my-knee-and-zero-social-skills response instead. Not my day.

I finally got to the car, grabbed the escaped willy wonka and put it in the glove box. I got half way through a deep breath when I realized I had forgotten to buy the main item I had come for. Of course. I thought for sure I would start laughing or crying but instead I just stared at the steering wheel for a bit, exhausted and you know, thinking… um, about some stuff.

Again I had two choices: I could go back in, sans boy beef and quickly grab the tomato stakes –OR- I could drive more than 30 minutes further and hit up a similar store that never saw me desperately trying to keep my silicone salami under wraps.

As I was driving to the other store I did make a second stop to buy myself some brand new tighty whities, just incase I ever get the urge again to strut around with that squirrelly little packer.

Because once again, I AM FURIOUS about the latest happenings in regards to Constance McMillen and the unbelievable, undeniable, blatant, in-all-y’alls-queer-faggot-dyke-faces hate that has gone on and ceases to astound the safer, well-armored pieces of my being.

Now, here’s what happened:

Constance McMillen was invited to a fake prom. Constance, her girlfriend and 5 other kids, two of whom are being recognized as having “learning difficulties,” were invited to a, since realized, ‘fake’ prom, in which Principal Fuckall Wiygul and a few teachers chaperoned, but who I’m sure were all more than happy to stand there proudly while watching the homos, the freaks and the slow kids dancing alone, knowing full well that the rest of the entire senior class, with the good, normal, god-fearing children and parents, were at a secret, different prom: the ‘real’ prom.

That is what happened.

That was their response as a community. That is how the school district, the town citizens, neighbors, friends, students and parents decided to deal with this one lesbian girl who wanted to bring her girlfriend to a school dance. Yes sir, they duped a teenaged girl and a few of the slower kids into attending a fake event while everyone else knowingly attended the real one. That is what they did.

And I know after I take a few deep breaths, after a few days I’ll find myself once again capable of having a reasonable conversation about my philosophies for possible systemic change and positive ways to influence community at a grassroots level. Maybe. But right now? Right now I am so beyond trying to swallow this one.

Every day I get up and for some reason or another, in some moment or a few, I have to fight a little, stand up a bit at least, JUST TO BE ME. I’ll call Violet sweetie in the grocery store and when that guy stares at me, well, I’ve spent years now practicing how to be brave enough to stare back and not to let myself look away until after he does. And just peeing in a public place, anywhere, for me is a sort of non-consensual act of activism: me with a full bladder versus your idea of ‘female’. And I am not whining here, most of us do this in some form or another, for a million different reasons, everywhere, every day. Every single day. We wake up, we brush our teeth and then we put on some combination and specific variety of armor that let’s us walk out the front door without dying, so that we can take the blows if and when they come. Fine. That’s life and that isn’t the point here.

But sometimes I feel like my anger just falls over a breaking point and it shatters and I don’t even feel it, like right now. I’m just so profoundly sad that I feel like I can’t get enough air into my own chest. Like right now.

Right now I just want to put my hands up in the air and trade in my rainbow flag for a white one so that I can wave it back and forth and say, “You know what? Fuck it. I am so exhausted and I am not willing to fight half as dirty as you just did SO YOU WIN. Now please… please leave me alone.

And the worst part? I know that all of this anger I feel towards all of you who pulled this fake prom shit on Constance, that let Matthew Shepard get beaten up and murdered over and over, again and again and again, that have little kids killing themselves because no one is stopping the homophobic bullying, that protest and vote and preach against queer rights, my rights, this blind rage that I feel, and I do mean rage, that I have and hold and carry and wear all of the time, all towards all of you who do this, aimed right at you specifically, without giving a shit about who you are or your story or what your name is even…

I know that’s how you feel about me too.

That’s how you feel about Constance. And so when you hurt me, when you kick us down, scare us, scar us, piss us off, taunt us, harass us, warn us, threaten us, intimidate us, and bully us, when you get us so upset that we can’t sleep, like tonight (this morning)- you won and I lost.

And then, when some gay-marriage rights pass in some state we won, you lost

And then you’ll fire my friend from his job because he’s trans and you’ll get away with it and you’ll get excited and go after the next one. And I’ll turn red in the face all over again, unable to do anything about it except put my hands up in the air and shake my head, back and forth, back and forth. Like right now.

And round and round we’ll go… where we’ll stop?…

Right now, today, my hands are up. You got me. Holy shit, you got me. Eventually my hands will find their way back to my hips, and when they do, watch the fuck out. But today, my hands are up.

I have received quite a bit of feedback since posting about the Mississippi school authorities that decided to cancel an entire prom so to avoid Constance McMillen and her girlfriend from attending. Some of you have written in support while some of you have expressed serious disagreement, from poo-on-you sentiments, all the way to bat-shit-pissed!

The eye opener for me was the sincere surprise from some of you, who thought I would feel differently about a girl not being aloud to go to prom because she’s a lesbian? One comment calling me “a left wing(ed) bigot.” One email said, “I’m disappointed in you!… I thought you were honest and balanced.” Another email read, “…your perspective is warped and insanely one sided…” some followed by a few choice nouns, none of which I claim for myself. (Left winged bigot, however? I am already planning a Halloween costume.)

But obviously I need to clarify something here, so here we go:

Dear people of the world:

PLEASE DO NOT MISTAKE ME FOR FAIR, BALANCED OR IMPARTIAL. IF YOU ARE NOT FOR TOTAL EQUALITY FOR QUEERS IN EVERY SINGLE WAY POSSIBLE THEN YOU ARE AGAINST ME.

(And if you do not understand that Cher is fabulous our relationship could be tricky. Not impossible, but potentially a bit rocky.)

Now, let me clear up another misunderstanding: I am not trying to, nor do I have any interest in changing anyone’s mind about anything. That is not my battle and that is never my intention with or for anyone. I think everyone can and should go ahead and think and feel and believe whatever they want, however they want, whenever they want, about anything and everything. Feel free to look me right in the eye and think, “God I hate this faggot-lesbian and her awful hair (jealous much?) and I just wish Cher would stop already.” Seriously, go for it, feel it, think it, believe it, wish for it at night.

But when your feelings about me turn outward in such a way that you are attempting to compromise my ability to live my life the way I so choose (we all know being a faggot-lesbian was my choice), then… now, we have a problem. In these sorts of situations, some fight, some choose flight. You cross that line with me and I will step on your toes. And if you are a lot bigger than me I will step on them quickly and then run like hell because I am not dumb and bruise easily. See what I’m getting at, here? Hate, feel, think, and believe about queers whatever you want- great, fine, whatever. But do not try and impose that shit on us.

How this all relates to my girl, Constance: I don’t care if the entire state of Mississippi, the entire country, the entire universe, including extremely far away planets with life on them that we just haven’t discovered yet, totally all hate lesbians, just fucking hate them. Fine. Hate us.

But when Constance McMillen comes knocking on the public door of a public school and asks a public school employee if she can bring her girlfriend to the prom and wear a tuxedo (hot!), here’s what you do: YOU STUFF ALL OF YOUR PERSONAL BELIEFS DOWN YOUR THROAT OR UP YOUR ASS AND YOU SAY, “SURE. FINE. OF COURSE.” And then, after she leaves the office, you can close the door and quiver in disgust at her most immoral, putrid request. You can call your wife even, and say, “Honey! You will never believe this! The most atrocious, despicable, disgusting, unholy thing just happened!” And then you can bitch about how gays and lesbians are genetic fuck-ups and it just makes you want to vomit and repent every time you think about it and then you hang up with your wife AND YOU PUT YOUR GAME FACE BACK ON. Because you have a job to do. And your job, in this situation, is to oversee an entire PUBLIC school, staff and students alike, and make sure that every single individual, regardless of race, religion, ability, sexual orientation, gender, age, blah blah, etc, etc, in this particular PUBLIC building is safe, accounted for, being treated fairly and is getting the most out of this PUBLIC education as possible. THAT IS WHAT YOU DO. THAT IS WHAT YOU GOT HIRED TO DO. That, Principal Trae Poophead Wiygul, IS. YOUR. JOB.

Side note/ here’s a thought: The best part for all of us here is this: We live in a (mostly) free country (it helps if you are white, straight and male, but the rest of us do have a lot of liberties still, you just might have to dig a little deeper or call the ACLU every now and then to help find them.)

And so, if you, Principal Trae Wiygul, or any of the board members, or you, Superintendent, Teresa McNeece, do not like your jobs or what is expected AND LEGALLY REQUIRED of you when doing your jobs, you have the right to quit that job and find something better suited for you(r homophobic asses.) If you don’t want a lesbian student going to public school dances, you have two choices: Either bite your dyke-detesting tongues and sell the girl a ticket for two to the prom –OR- quit your job and find something that doesn’t require that you be indiscriminately caring, responsible and reasonable of/for/towards children. There is just no third option for this one, folks. And this, to my joy and delight, you all are in the process of learning the hard way.

Rant over.

Back to my angry emailers: In all sincerity, I appreciate every email and comment and perspective I have received (and assume more are now on the way.) And for all of you that I have offended, I offer absolutely no apology. And for all of you that offend the shit out of me, no apologies necessary. Good for you for believing what you do and standing behind it. In this case, it might mean that you’re a homophobic bigot, but hey, to each her own.

I read everything you had to say and thanks for taking the time to share your thoughts. And although I disagree with some of you, that is totally a-ok. The spice to life, right? And even though I might not want to live my life the way some of you do, so what? So I won’t then. And clearly some of you really, really, really don’t want to live your life the way I do. Cool. Don’t.

And also, just to be clear, I have no intention of ever shutting up about what I think is right and good and true but I will never attempt to impose my beliefs and values on you in ways that would compromise your ability to live your life exactly the way you choose, that fits you best. And for all of you that have already started drafting another angry email saying that this post is telling you that you can’t be mean to lesbians and that is, in a way, me telling you what you can and can’t do, OH MY GOD.

A few weeks ago a woman found me on facebook, like folks do. We went to elementary school together and were friends. Not close friends, but friends. The last time I saw her I was probably ten. She looks great, is now married and has 3 kids. We have emailed back and forth a few times and the last email she sent me made my eyes pop out of my head. The line that did it was this:

“…I can’t think about you without remembering us putting on your brothers underoos and stuffing the crotches lol..”

This email has totally rocked me and here’s why: I have been packing since I could pee by myself! AND clearly I wasn’t hiding it and I just don’t have any recollection of this. I do remember wearing my brother’s underoos now and then when I was little and refusing to wear my superwoman ones until finally my mom gave in and let me get the boy kind (Batman and Luke Skywalker.) But before this email, my own narrative for being a young little genderqueer, which at the time was dubbed “androgynous” and “tomboy” by others, was that I hid that part of me, at least a little bit… or at least I thought I did.

I certainly don’t remember being so intentional or obvious about it, that is for sure. I use to wear my brother’s clothes now and then but he use to wear makeup and my mom’s dresses. And when my brother and I played make-believe I was always a boy. I remember that I use to wish that I was a boy but I think that was mostly because I started having feelings for girls and didn’t have the language for things like ‘lesbian.’ (And when I did discover that language it was NOT a good thing to be.) Also, I was taught that female equaled feminine with no variations: Ken = boy, Barbie = girl and that certainly didn’t fit who I was at all. And I’m not sure if I was just protecting my mom or if I truly didn’t mind, but up until around the 4^th grade I let my mom dress me up, never in dresses, but she would put pink ribbons to match my pink LL Bean turtle neck in my hair that I would then “misplace” every single day at recess only to do this over again the next day without resistance.

My narrative, before this email from my old friend, was that when I started to understand the social lines between boy and girl I hid my ‘boy-ness’ intentionally. I think a lot of it was in attempt to protect my mom, she really, really wanted a ‘girl.’  But also because I wasn’t a boy, I was a girl. I embraced “tomboy” and “it’s just a phase.” I believed that. I believed that one day I would magically want to wear make up and play with dolls and have a husband but that I just didn’t right then.

My narrative, before this email, was that I kept what I considered the ‘boy-like’ pieces of me mostly hidden until this one very particular defining moment in my life. I’ve told this moment to folks all of my life, any time it comes up. This was what I had been telling myself. Before getting this email from my old friend my gender-bending revolutionary moment was this:

For all of my life, up until this particular moment, I hid my boy-ness and put up with and gave into the fact that I was a girl. A tomboy, but a girl. I did this until the week before the 6^th grade started when, for a reason I still can’t explain, I had this sudden and uncontrollable outburst. My brother and mom and I were school clothes shopping and I remember watching my brother go off into ‘his’ section, where all of the cool clothes were, while I was stuck in ‘my’ section attempting to find sexless, genderless t-shirts and jeans and shoes (oh unisex Converse Hightops, how you saved me from so much gendered-footwear-angst.) I remember my mom’s face as I refused to shop unless she would let me go to the boys section. I saw something in her break, which still makes me break to think about. She looked so worried for me and so sad. I know it really hurt her to agree to this, I saw it, but she did anyway. For whatever reason, all of a sudden, right then, shopping in the boy’s section felt desperate and both my mom and I could feel it.

I have always thought of that moment as a coming out of sorts. But now, I’m not so sure.

So, this email from an old friend has me shifting and questioning my own story of how I feel I came into being authentic and comfortable and right in this gender-place that makes me feel like me. It is making me wonder if I thought I was hiding it when really the boy in me was just totally obvious to everyone and always there the whole go? Or maybe I just didn’t hide it like I thought I did? Maybe I didn’t even know to hide it then because it was just who I was and I thought it was normal until I was told differently?

I remember my 2nd grade teacher telling me I couldn’t sit with my chair backwards because, “that is not how a lady sits” and thinking, ‘well, now I know.’ I didn’t like that rule, but now I knew. I remember running around outside in a pair of my brother’s shorts and no shirt and my dad watering the lawn and asking, “jesse! Are you wearing your brother’s shorts?” and feeling really embarrassed but not sure why. I remember my mom’s friend telling me that I couldn’t marry Valley because she was a girl, and I didn’t like that either, but now I knew, so I stopped telling folks I wanted to marry her. I always hated dresses but I just knew that sometimes I would have to wear them, until I became an adult and realized I didn’t. Ever.

My mom has very seriously asked me, as an adult, more than a few times, if I wished I was a boy, to which I very honestly answer, “No, not at all.” And I use to think the question was a bit out of left field or maybe just because I get mistaken for a guy sometimes? But I guess if, ever since I was 5 years old (or maybe younger, I don’t know anymore), I’ve been prancing around in boys clothes with a fruit-of-the-loom-sock-bulge in my pants (which, as an adult I never ever do in front of family) well, I can just see a bit clearer where her question is coming from.

I have been sitting on this for a few weeks now and wish I felt more of a solid reason for why I am so fascinated by hearing this from my old friend, but I’m still not sure exactly. I do know I am going to ask other friends of mine, that I have known since our underoos days, what they remember.

Several years ago now, I was in France visiting Violet. In France a lot of bathrooms have this strange set up where both men and women walk through the same door only to land in this tiny area that serves as a sort of bathroom-purgatory, if you will. This is the place where the sinks, mirrors and towels are. So, both men and women stand there together while waiting to pee or what-have-you. I found that generally to the left is the womens stall and to the right is the mens. So as it goes, we all stand there, men and women together, waiting for our binary gender appropriate door to open and to then be freed to let us in and be relieved.

So I am in France visiting Violet, looking more masculine than feminine (which is not to say that I think I looked more boy than just me but more than not the French thought I was a guy.) She and I are getting lunch at a cute little bistro and I have to pee. I walk into the French bathroom purgatory area and I wait. Both stalls are busy. I am in this bathroom purgatory with one man. As we wait, in walks a woman.

And then there were three.

A thing I noticed about France (this I learned the hard way again and again): Out in public, women don’t tend to smile at folks they don’t know really. And if a man smiles at a women or vice versa it isn’t unfair to assume they might be flirting a little.

So, I’m in France waiting to pee in the bathroom purgatory with both a man and a women. What I have yet to mention is that when the woman walked in I smiled at her which led her to give me a very awkward and blatant scoff as she turned her whole body away from me. So, either she caught that I am just a stoopeed american girl OR I am crammed in a little room and just accidentally said to some random woman, “Oh, oui!? You like my smile, no?! Well zen… hough hough hough! (that is my impression of a french laugh, it offends Violet to no end.) A second later she mumbled something casual sounding to me in french which led me to respond according to her tone, ” Ah, oui.” And I did what I could to not smile.

At this point, speaking almost no french, I had taught myself  how to answer a french question or statement with “oui” or “non” simply by interpreting the inflection of the sentence. I was usually pretty good at guessing correctly.

Maybe it was the bathroom purgatory pressure or maybe I was just doomed to do nothing right, but as that woman looked me right in the eyes and said, “vous la pue de la la de dee da fou le gwagh pa nui hough de le sweegh doo!?!” I had NO idea if I should go with “Oui!” or “Aaaaah, non, non, non!” I went with “oui” again, which was clearly the. wrong. answer.

Next thing I knew a man came out of the mens stall, washed his hands and left. Now there was an empty stall for a man with the three of us staring at the door. And then both the man and woman in purgatory with me looked at me wondering what I was going to do… and so did I!

The purgatory man looked at me, opened the stall door, like a man might do when he’s holding a door for a lady and probably wouldn’t do for another dude that needs to pee, and used his other hand to make the motion of “after you.”

At this point I realized how utterly confused our situation was:

The man that was holding the door for me was there first, so even if I was a guy it was his turn. And clearly he knew this and he knew that I knew this and now I had realized that he knew that I was a girl BUT when this other woman entered our bathroom purgatory both the man and I silently agreed that she clearly thought I was a man and totally mistook my smile for a french, “Hey, how yOu doin? Eh?‘” On top of that, the man that was in the purgatory bathroom before me not only got that I was female and that I was being mistaken for male by an uptight french woman who I had unintentionally flirted with and then answered two of her questions incorrectly BUT he knew I needed some help. SO his reaction was to attempt to save me by giving up his spot in line and escort me into the mens room.

Totally confusing, no?

I gave him an “I don’t know about this” look and he smiled at me and I smiled back while reluctantly walking into the stall. And really, that might have been the record holder for “most innocent smile exchange between the sexes in all of French history.” I walked through his held open door, to which the woman thought nothing of and I peed. Finally.

I walked out of the stall and saw the man that had held the door still waiting, the woman that kind of hated me was now in the womens stall. I stopped, smiled, and held open the door to the mens room for him. We both laughed and as he walked through I said quietly, “Mercy” and through a very thick french accent he said, “You are very welcome, madam.”

One of the two teachers that have (bravely and not without backlash) volunteered to watch over this club said, “Well, why don’t we start out by introducing ourselves.” I told them who I was and that I went to this school 40,000 years ago. They giggled. Marie introduced herself. And as the students went around saying their names and what grade they were in it was remarkable how easy it was to remember myself then- so unpolished and so young.

Two of the girls were blushing madly and couldn’t actually make eye contact with me while telling me their names. I remember that feeling too- how anything lesbian-ish at all would just set my chest on fire and make my already awkward existence even more awkward. Like the first time I heard that song, “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” on the radio. I remember the moment exactly:

I was getting ready for school, adding mad amounts of Aqua Net hairspray to my long, long blond hair when this new song started playing on the radio. The song was good, I like it. And then, all of a sudden, Sophie B. Hawkins ever so stealthily slipped in this line, “I lay by the ocean making love to her with visions clear…” And I froze. I think my heart might have stopped and I know I stopped breathing. I absolutely could not believe what she just said! I was frozen like a statue of myself. I looked in the mirror, unable to move- I looked like the statue of liberty, holding a hairspray bottle over my head like a torch. And as accidental as that last reference was, hearing that line in that song woke up a deep, dark place in me that I didn’t even know about, and set something inside of me free. Something in me, in who I was, started to move, and I felt really, really alive… and terrified, in a good way. And now that I think about it, it might have been the first time I felt totally out of control of my body’s reaction to feeling sexual. I couldn’t not feel, let alone stop, that sharp electric ripple that whipped down through my spine and physically forced me to curl forward and wrap my arms around that weirdly-good nausea feeling that had gone off like a bomb in my tummy (that I would feel for the second time ever, kissing Marie for the first time later that same year.)

Ok, back to the meeting: There are ten or eleven students, a teacher, a guidance counselor, Marie and me (sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.) After we all introduced ourselves, one boy, who I instantly adored, immediately raised his hand with a subtle swoosh while simultaneously asking me, “Ok, seriously, I need to know. Do you think your life has changed much since high school or not really so much?”

Marie and I both laughed a little. I responded, “Um, yes. I would say my life has changed very, very much since I went to this school.

A girl raised her hand and asked Marie how she knew me. We both knew this girl was really asking, “Why is this straight woman here?” Marie said, well, like I said, I am married to a man and have two kids now, right? But in high school I was dating jesse. She was my girlfriend for a long time actually, 4 or 5 years and the first person I was in love with.” And womp. Every. Single. Jaw. Fell. It was great. This was exactly why I wanted Marie to come with me.

“You mean, you were both gay in high school?!? Together!?!” A different girl asked, still unable to make eye contact. Marie nodded and explained that no one knew of course. “No one!” She said, “It was too dangerous. Can you imagine falling in love for the first time, or even having a really big crush on someone and not being able to tell anyone! Not your mom, your friends, no one.” Most heads shook side to side while a few kids made it obvious that, yes, indeed they do know how that feels.

The same boy that I totally adore raised his hand and said, “Here’s the deal. I’m Mexican, duh! And my mom knows I’m gay but I haven’t told my dad yet. And my mom always says that it makes her sad that I’m, you know, gay or whatever, cause she doesn’t want people to make my life hard. She says if I tell people I’m gay I’ll lose friends or not get jobs or get to live where I want to or whatever. She says that being gay or whatever is just going to be way hard. What do you think, jesse? Is it totally way hard? Does that stuff really happen?”

I had already decided, before this meeting, that I was only here to support these awesome kids, not to teach them really. They can teach each other but maybe I can help guide things a little. They already know a lot, they are very self aware and this is their club, their experience. But most likely they don’t have the language for a lot of things yet, that they might be thinking or trying to say, that I could help with. Like the question my sweet, fabulous boy just asked- there’s some internalized homophobia in there, right? And I don’t need to teach them vocabulary (yet!) or how to spell it, but just help them see what they already know a bit clearer. And, I had also decided that although I didn’t want to scare them, I was most certainly not going to lie – about anything.

So, I looked my fabulous favorite boy right in the eyes and said, “Well, let’s just be honest here, you worry about all of that too, right? I mean, your mom didn’t invent that worry – you think about that too and it’s freakin’ stressful, right?!” He and a few others nodded dramatically. And instantly his entire body language changed. I hadn’t said much of anything yet but all of a sudden his eyes softened and he just looked relaxed. And I realized right then, more than anything, that just by being there, just by sitting in this room with these kids, I was validating them. All of them. All of it. Not just their experiences or their confusion or fears or sexual identities – but all of it. I was proof that what they were going through was really, really hard and most importantly, that it was all very real.

I smiled at all of their sweet, attentive faces and took a deep breath. “So, here’s the deal. Here’s the truth. I have no idea how your life is going to go. But for me, in my life, I have lost friends after they found out I was gay. I have lost a job after I came out. And I know there are a few apartments I tried to rent and didn’t get because my roommate for a one bedroom was another girl. I know all of this for a fact.” And now I really had their attention. I was the adult that was telling them the truth and they were ready for whatever I had to say.

I took another deep breath and saw that even the two teachers were frozen, paying a sort of attention that I am not use to and I continued, “But here is what else I know for sure: I don’t have any place in my life for people that don’t want me. Yes, I have been surprised by a friend’s reaction and it totally hurt my feelings, a lot. But if someone doesn’t want to spend their time with me, for whatever reason – that is a big loss for them and what can I do about it anyway? I’m certainly not going to try and talk someone into liking me. And I will definitely meet other new people, the world is HUGE, let me tell you – it’s freaking HUGE- and I’ll make new friends, all of my life, and they’ll like all of me. My real friends celebrate and cherish who I am, all of me, because that is what friends do and I deserve that!.. And why would I want to rent a home that doesn’t want me in it? You know how many places there are to live?! I will find one that wants me. I always have. And I would NEVER EVER want to work for a job that doesn’t get how fabulous I am. I am totally fabulous and I deserve to work for a place that totally gets that”… at which point my sweet boy interrupts with a snap, “You are fierce, girl. So fierce!”

I laughed and continued, “So, here’s the deal, your mom might be totally right, about all of it or maybe none of it, we can’t know. She doesn’t know, she just obviously loves you a lot and wants the world to be good to you. But we also can’t live in this constant state of fear of rejection either or we’ll never get anywhere, right? I mean, you might not get a job because you’re Mexican or I might not get it because I’m a girl, or maybe they won’t like something else about us. There are a million different reasons that the world will come up with to come down on us and make things hard and being gay is totally up for grabs that way. So? What do you do about that?”

It took them a second to realize I was asking them a question. “Seriously, what do YOU do about that? What have you done? What can you do? You certainly wouldn’t be in this club if you weren’t trying to do something about that.”

The other blushed-girl started to mumble, “I think it’s just about exposure. Like, if you’ve never met a gay person then maybe you’re afraid of them or something- but I don’t know why. They’re just people too. It’s totally weird that people say such stupid stuff about people when they don’t even know.”

My brain was screaming, “AAAAAAH! You totally get it! You are right on top of the entire philosophy and structure of the perpetuation of discrimination!” My mouth smiled big, which made her blush ever harder, and I said, “I think it’s about exposure too, like getting information before you decide on something. I think you are totally right.”

And we talked about that for a while. We talked about a lot of things. These kids are on it, they are so so ready to do good work. They decided they want to start a “That’s so gay” campaign, where they would do something about stopping that expression from being used so often in a discriminatory way at school. We also talked about t-shirts for the club, that one girl suggested should all be different colors of the rainbow. They told me what it was like to go to this school now and how there was a lesbian couple who had applesauce flung on them while holding hands in the hallway. They didn’t know who Mathew Sheppard was, so Marie told them that story. They also didn’t know Ellen was ever not out. So, then we talked about coming out and what that had been like for different folks. We talked about a lot and my heart was swooning the whole way through.

As the meeting started to wrap up the students asked, in an adorable, desperate, whiny, puppy way, if I would, “Please, please, pleeeeease come to another meeting soooooon!.” And I was flattered and said that of course I would.

I also said, “Before you all leave, I just want you guys to be totally sure, in case you weren’t or were wondering at all, that you are totally incredible and you have changed the whole entire world by starting this club. I mean, the whole entire world is a different and better place, in a huge way, just because of you guys. You made my life better even before we met today, just by starting this club. And you will never know exactly how many people you make feel better, how many lives you help, but I promise you it is way more than even the highest number you could possibly come up with and it will only continue to get bigger. It is an absolute privilege to have met you all today and to have been invited to this meeting. You are all my personal heroes and I am so impressed with all of you, for who you all are. So, thank you, very much.” To which my favorite fabulous boy flippantly said, “You too girl.”

And as they all started to leave to catch the last school bus, my favorite, fabulous boy was leaving the room when he so perfectly put the gay icing on the gay cake, “And, jesse… girl, you got yourself some goooood hair, by the way. Seriously. Fierce.”

(Looking for the line? Go to 3:18)

Aaah greg. Sweet, charming, beautiful, wonderful, greg.

I met greg. I talked with greg. I had dinner with greg and I hugged greg. Yes, there is more to the story than this, but I thought I’d put the highlights right out there for you. I mean, if any of the just mentioned does not totally fascinate you, you also probably don’t like chocolate or puppies or having fun and will most likely find this post a snoozer… keep in mind, that means something is wrong with you.

On Sunday, Kristen, Sin and I got back from Jess’ party with just enough time to get things a bit together before greg and her girlfriend, both of whom I had never met and was quite excited about meeting, came over. Sin had errands to run and so a runnin’ she went. Kristen had long planned the menu and as soon as we got back to Brooklyn she got in the kitchen and started Tearing. It. Up.

Violet is a fabulous cook and because of this I am not just well fed but also a well trained kitchen bottom with over 4 years of experience. Yes, I’ll stick my fingers in the pesto and the pudding when you’re not looking (you totally didn’t see me, did you! Stealth), but I can slice and dice and sauté all under particular orders like a pro. This worked to both Kristen’s and my favor quite nicely.

We had two hours and some serious prepping to do before greg and her girlfriend arrived so naturally, I created a ‘Lady Gaga’ station on Pandora, and we rocked the kitchen dance club style. Chopping sweet potatoes to “Po po po poker face po po poker face” is like a natural rhythm really. And like I told the lettuce, “Baby when its love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun” as I ripped it up into the bowl. Perfect, yes? Agreed.

And the menu Kristen came up with was no small task and as time began to thin she just kept her cool and kept cooking. Somehow by the time our company arrived all was prepared, including sliced lime wedges for drinks.

And then the buzzer buzzed which was my cue to double check that my hair was perfect and that my zipper was up. Check and check (insert snapping S shaped swoosh of hand here.)

Ten seconds later there they were. In walked greg first. And anyone can know she’s beautiful and smart with knock out fashion sense if you check out her blog… I knew this. But still, folks, somehow I was just not prepared.

In the two seconds she turned away from me to take off her coat I managed to down the rest of my glass of wine (you totally didn’t see me, did you? Double stealth.) As she turned back around, sans coat, in a dress that could kill a small village, with knee high boots that would at least make a small village unable to speak coherently, and mentioned that traffic was bad, my fag-brain was screaming, “Love. This. Get. Up. Something. Fierce! Dayamn, girl. Flawless. Perfect. Hot. Love it! Love it! Love it!” My mouth said, “Sorry the traffic was bad. Great dress. Can I get you a drink?”

(I heard later that she was wearing a fabulous necklace but I was too scared. After getting caught looking at my doctors cleavage about a month ago– yes, you heard me: super fail – I have been practicing being a mature adult that can get through an evening without my eyes dropping and I did and I am quite proud of myself, except it turns out I really missed out… on some fabulous jewelry, that is.)

And then, in walked greg’s girlfriend and I was doubly impressed with everything happening. I was very excited to spend the evening in this company.

(Note: Because greg’s girlfriend isn’t really in the blog world I consider her an innocent bystander more than anything else. This is just to say that I am intentionally being overly vague. I will mention however, that if we lived closer I would try, with relentless effort, to make her like me so that I could be her friend that she would want to hang out with regularly. Also, she has a killer smile, but you could find that out on greg’s blog.)

So, I fixed them a couple of drinks. And by ‘I fixed them a couple of drinks’, I mean I stood next to Greg and watched her fix a couple of drinks, as everything she did was deeply interesting and truly impressive.

Eventually we all settled around the table and started to chat while eating some very tasty food. I was permanently leaned in towards greg with my hands folded underneath my chin in awe. I tried to ask her about anything and everything so that she would keep talking and continue to be so freaking-out-of-this-world-fabulous. greg is so engaging, so charming, and so easy to talk with. My new long distance bff, aka greg’s girlfriend, was so very fun and easy-going and made me laugh a lot.

At some point, and who knows how really, Cher came up and I tried to teach Sinclair how to flip hair the way Cher does (WHY did I not ask greg to try?!? And the regrets begin…) There was also a point where greg’s gf and I bonded over constantly being verbally attacked for… dear gawd, do I bring this up again?… gulp… both agreeing that, without any information or details, but purely on looks and looks alone,we think Sarah Palin is attractive (aaand cue the angry emails. But folks, it’s just Tina Fey’s evil twin, really. Ok, moving on! This is about greg. Move. on.)

The evening flowed rather easily for me, as maybe I haven’t mentioned or made clear enough: I was totally infatuated with our company. Throughout the evening, I again went through the brain flips of trying to separate greg from her blog. And again, as the evening progressed it became easier to do.

I hadn’t realized how many blanks I had filled in about her that shifted, of course, once we met. More so than any other blogger I had met this weekend. Even her voice. I hadn’t really considered that I didn’t know what her voice sounded like, or maybe I had created an idea of one. And so, as soon as she said hello, that two dimensional bubble popped and a new, real and in person version of greg began to filter through.

To me, greg’s blog feels personal in a different way somehow, almost like reading a journal. It’s always in the moment and it’s brave and honest, like a letter from a friend that trusts you. I’m not totally sure what it is, but I feel like she keeps me up to date on her day to day, what’s on her mind (yes, I realize it is more actuate to say us, but this is about me now). I feel like she creates a real-life context for herself, including pictures of moments that just happened. Her blog feels like it’s in real-time, like a window.

I’m not sure what it is, but I think I almost forgot that we didn’t know each other until we met. And on top of realizing all of this, I then realized that my feeling this way was not necessarily mutual. My blog, more than not, tends to be in stories about other people, other things, my observations, my version of life, and in no particular order or time frame, and not usually about me in the now, really. She mentioned exactly that at one point, saying, “So, jesse, who I know very little about, tell me about yourself.”

We also talked about many of the finer things in life, such as the Real Housewives of New Jersey. (Did greg totally reenact the table flipping scene from the last episode? Yes. Was it perfect? Don’t ask dumb questions, of course it was. Did I eventually stop asking and then immediately answering my own questions in a ridiculous New Jersey accent? Ya, I did. Did I want to? No. But we needed to move on.)

We continued to have course after course of Kristen’s wonderful, homemade meal and eventually broke into the beautiful dessert that greg had brought.

And just as I decided to sneak off and call Violet to see if we could please keep them, almost as quickly as the evening began, it started to get late. It was Sunday night and some of us still work. They needed to get going.

We all hugged goodbye and like a kid who’s being left with the babysitter for the first time, I attempted to keep a strong face as I waved goodbye- just as greg turned back and said she wanted another hug. My brain was singing, in its best Louis Armstrong impression “…and I think to myself, what a wonderful worrrrrrrld” My mouth said, “It was so wonderful to finally meet you.”

And then, just like that, they were gone.

Saturday morning.

Sometime around 10 a.m. Sinclair came into the room where I was sleeping and began attempting to nurse me back to life with coffee. Unfortunately, before we went to bed the night before, not so many hours earlier, the three of us drunkenly polished off the last of the cinnamon rolls and were forced to eat sub-incredibly-fabulous breakfast foods that normal people, who had never had these cinnamon rolls, would find perfectly fine.

Eventually we all started feeling and acting like the living kind and started to get ourselves together enough to head out. Today we were off to JessHeIs’ Bye Bye Boobies party and fundraiser. We gathered up ties and shirts and dresses and shoe that were then all hung in the Outback with care. We grabbed several different vessels to fill with water in an attempt to un-pickle ourselves from the night before.

Although I was dragging a bit I was terribly excited to get there. Tonight I was going to meet a whole slew of bloggers that I follow daily and have been oh so excited to meet.

After some serious traffic issues along side apocalyptic rain showers (that never let up) we arrived. I got out of the car and saw some dude walking towards me with his hand out. JessHeIs shook my hand, threw his arm around my shoulder and within two seconds I felt like we were old friends.

I went inside and BOOM, there they all were (and the blogger name dropping bomb begins…) Leo MacCool, Freedomgirl, Tina-cious, JessHeIs, Sinclair, Kristen and I were all of a sudden just standing in a room together like normal real life human beings. My mind went from excited little sparklers to big huge explosions as I tried to connect this online world to these faces in front of me.

I read them everyday. I check in with them and comment and care about them. I wait for their next post like I wait for Violet to call me from work. It makes my day. And when Jess asked me how Fraidy and the little guys were doing I did a back flip in my brain. This collision was amazing to me. It was so weird and so wonderful.

For some folks, I think the ability to connect these worlds might be a little easier. But for me, I have never ever had a relationship with someone online and online only. And to make the previous statement a bit truer, until I met these folks I hadn’t formally realize that I had relationships online. Really important relationships. I still haven’t totally grasped that people even read this blog, and less than a hand full of people I know even know about this space. And yes, Violet and I were long distance for a long time, but I met her in person first. We had already kissed and taken walks together – and then came the distance. This was just totally different.

Before the party we all went to pizza together. (I ate a piece of clam pizza by the way. Supposedly Jess’ part of the world thinks this is normal? But if you are like me and think this is just a terrible and strange and most likely VERY BAD idea, fair enough. We understand each other. Ditto, friend. But I tried it anyway and it was actually really good! Jess laughed at me as my face went from, “Oh god, this is not going to be ok,” to “Damn clam! Way to taste delicious!”)

At dinner I sat next to the lovely Freedomgirl and as she and I started talking about life in general, we couldn’t help but to stumble upon a lot of information we already knew because of things we’ve written. She’d start talking about something and I’d say, “Oh ya, I’ve read about that.” And this kept happening. A few minutes into dinner Jess said, “Dudes, we already know everything. We’re gonna run out of stuff to talk about in 10 minutes.”

As the night continued, eventually, I started realizing how to separate the person from the blog. It started to feel obvious the more we talked. I started to realize that the differences are (and tend to be) in the subtleties: Things you can’t read through a typed font, things you can’t express or share with letters, things you can’t know without watching it happen or without watching it being told. There is an intimacy in hearing the voice, the inflection, watching the body language. In person, there is a back and forth, a give and take.

Jess has an easy-going, brotherly demeanor and one of my favorite smiles. Tina is just as easy-going and funny and so gracious, with eyes that are almost hypnotic and full of expression. Leo has a gentle and brilliant delivery and her humor is subtle and quick and witty. Freedomgirl’s timing in her speaking is absolutely mesmerizing, it rolls you in. Sinclair has a delicate kindness and intentional endless caring, that comes through in everything she does and says.

The details fill in differently in person. The same story now has sound, a personalized tone, a laugh, eyes, gestures, body language. And just the telling of the story now has a shared context. There’s an energy created simply by being present together. And we were all present and we were all together.

After pizza we all headed back to Jess and Tina’s house-turned-blogger-hostel to get cute and shmancy for the party. Ties were tied, lipsticks were applied and then blotted and then applied again and again, hair was brushed and sculpted, suit jackets were buttoned and off we were.

The torrential downpour of rain had not even slightly let up. It was some of the hardest rain I had ever seen. The driveway had turned into a small lake and had everyone’s feet totally soaked through. And if it weren’t for our instantly flawless coordination of our magical shield of umbrellas we would have been a really hot crowd gone quite soggy in seconds. But we had umbrellas, a lot of them, and each other. So, while the rain did what rain does, we did what we do- we covered each other until it was safe.

We got to the party around 9ish, all of us dry (minus our feet) and looking like a hot little group of fabulousness. The music was blasting, the crowd was mingling, the drinks were flowing, the jello shots were rainbow colored and the cheetos were unnaturally orange and tasted perfect.

As the night progressed, eventually everyone was dancing to loud, faggy-clubby queer music that the DJ kept seamlessly rolling (while in between songs she had some girl plastered up against the wall with her mouth – go DJ, go, yo.) At one point, the sexy, smooth Sinclair busted out a hot little drag show to Faith by George Michael. I had the opportunity to meet a lot of friends that Jess and Tina have collected along the way in their life and I was totally impressed with the entire situation.

The next morning I woke up at Casa de Jess n Tina to the smell of fresh coffee and quiche. We all sat around the kitchen table, some of us feeling a bit perkier than others, and I had my last meal… for now anyway, with some truly remarkable people who double as some of the most important people in my life.

The sun, the day after the party of course, was shining as bright as a summer’s day and the sky was as blue and clear as the ocean. So before we all went our separate ways, we went outside, for the first time without umbrellas, all together, and took a group photo.

We gathered our things, and I hugged each real person, and said goodbye… for now.

Cue in fabulously perfect theme song…

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(now that you are totally taken by Jess, like I am, if you happen to have an extra dollar or two or fifty or more and want to help a really amazing guy get where he’s going, your donation towards his top surgery is a really big deal and your donation is a really big help. CLICK HERE TO DONATE DIRECTLY TO JESS. Thank you!

After being greeted by the one and only Sinclair Sexsmith and finally getting to meet the oh so lovely Kristen late Thursday night, I woke up Friday morning in Brooklyn.

Kristen started our morning off with cinnamon roll biscuits from scratch (which were, without flinching in any spec of a doubt, the most delicious thing that either a biscuit or cinnamon had ever done.) After breakfast we all spent the afternoon hanging out together and being fairly restful, as we predicted correctly, this would be our last resting opportunity for several days.

That evening I had dinner plans with one of my favorite friends, Mikey, who recently moved to New York, and then we were off to meet a lovely crowd of folks at a local dyke bar in Park Slope.

Once at the bar and full knowing that we were all asking for nothing less than a wee bit of trouble, right off the bat the whole lot of us counted to three and drank our *car bombs down and gone (*a half pint of Guinness with a shot of whiskey and Irish cream.)

An hour or so later Mikey and I decide we wanted to play a game of pool. There is a back room to this bar where the pool table lives and Sinclair warned me, more than once, that she has never felt very comfortable back there. “Phshaw to that,” I thought. “It’s just pool. It is our national lesbian sport (besides camping and rugby). It is our birthright!”

Mikey and I wrote our names down on the list and waited. An hour or so later a large woman with a very serious demeanor found us up front and declared rather than asked us, “You are Mikey and jesse. You’re up against Suz and me”

We went back and the game began. It was awkwardly quiet. Both Mikey and I felt the chill right away and tried to talk to and befriend Barb a bit with absolutely no success. I mean, her disdain was so blatant and only became increasingly painful as the game continued.  One of us would say something to her or ask her a question and receive absolutely nothing in return. Not a look, not a glance, gesture, scoff, not a nothing. It was really uncomfortable, to say the very, very least and it made for a long game. I whispered to Mikey, “How can she already hate us? We just got here.”

Mikey told me not to worry, that we just needed to get into the game and that things would lighten up. We both tried to keep things light. Oh how we tried.

At several different points in the game Barb switched out her personal pool stick for a different one. Switched out her very own personal pool sticks, as in plural, more than one, you ask? Yes. She was not only totally scary and wearing a black, three fingered pool glove and had made it very clear, without needing to formalize the sentiment, that we were not invited to her birthday party, she also had several pool sticks of her own.

I bit my tongue three different times but finally I decided I had a really great one liner. It was sure to crack a smile. The fourth time Barb traded out pool sticks I said, “Hey! This isn’t golf!” – aaand cue solo awkward laugh with cricket sounds in the background. She didn’t even look at me.

Mikey also tried to lighten things up with her own technique that I like to call: irresistible southern charm. She walked right up to Barb, stood beside her and postured herself exactly the same way Barb was standing: arms crossed, pool stick in the nook of her right elbow, slouched posture with a bent right knee.

Mikey (please keep in mind the butter-like Tennessee accent): Hey Barb. (NO response.) I heard y’all had a little pool club goin’ here, huh?

Barb: League.

Mikey: Well, see, I just moved here. I’m really not great at pool but it is fun. And if y’all play here all the time. I mean, I’m pretty busy and don’t live very close by but I would like to meet people and, well, maybe I could join y’alls little pool club?

Barb: League. (long pause, zero eye contact) No.

Poor Mikey. She walked back over looking quite defeated and said, “Well, that Barb has really hurt my feelings.”

I told her it wasn’t us. Barb was made of ice and stone. We were fine and kind of suck at the game but we were having a good time, or trying to anyway. Mikey nodded.

The game continued as Mikey and I did our best to amuse each other and have a good time.

Now we were 5 to 2 (and to clarify per Violet’s request, that means we still had 5 balls on the table that we needed to get in while they only had 2.) Barb’s pool partner, Suz, was up. I loved Suz. She was short and drunk with hat-head-hair to her shoulders and a big baggy red flannel shirt that fell over her baggy jeans. All she did was giggle and snort at anything anyone said or didn’t say.

At one point she walked by me and I whispered, “I love you Suz. I don’t know what I would do without you.” She snorted and giggled as she slapped me on the back before aiming up her next shot.

Suz was a good shot, but she was also a bit drunk and not on her game.

Eventually they got to the 8 ball while we still had 3 on the table (again, to clarify, this means they were on the final ball and we were really losing.) It was Suz’s turn. Barb still looked like someone had just spit on her shoes but at this point I had decided that was just her resting face.

Suz aimed. Suz shot. Aaaaand Suz scratched…. on the 8 ball, which means they LOSE and although we didn’t really WIN, by default we WON! (And the crowd in my head went wild while keeping an eye on the nearest exit should Barb lose her cool.)

So, now we were without grumpy, scary, angry Barb which allowed our breathing to return to normal. As the winners (by default), Mikey and I played another game with a decent guy with a green goatee and his friend.  We lost the game quickly and painlessly to both of our relief. We had had enough of this hard core pool nonsense.

And just like someone had cued in the final credits to our pool adventure, finally my jukebox music came on and the bar was blasting “If I could Turn Back Time” (if you are at all surprised by this there is no hope for you.) And all of a sudden, my main man Sinclair Sexsmith showed up in the forbidden back room and proceeded to dance dance dance. I grabbed a pool stick-microphone and began singing along at the top of my lungs. Yes, my throat was very sore for the rest of the night and into the next day and yes we were totally fabulous.

But mid-song, out of the corner of my eye, there she was. Barb was back. “I’d take back all the words that hurt you and you’d stay…” I don’t know much about Barb, as she was a tough egg to crack, but I do know two things for sure: She hated me and she hated me singing Cher tunes in her pool room. The only time all night that we made any eye contact was while I was singing. “If I could reach the stars…” She caught my glance and beat me up with the look she shot. But I was singing Cher, I just didn’t have room to care.

After the song was over Mikey and I lingered in the back room a bit, chatting with the few other folks that didn’t hate us and who had personalities. And then, all of a sudden I hear, “Move” and feel a pretty blunt shove to my back that jolted me forward. Barb pushed me. Pretty hard really and I knew exactly what this was. This was the white shark bump-and-bite technique: First, the shark bumps you really hard with its nose to disorient you and as a test. After that, if you see the shark again it’s because she is going to eat you.

My brain, now on a few pints of beer, thought, “What the hell?!” My mouth, also talking through a few pints said, “Listen dude, I may look butch or whatever, but I am actually more fragile and sensitive than anything. ‘Can you get out of my way’ would have worked just fine.”

I am not a fighter. I do have a mouth on me but I do not throw or get in the way of punches. Ever. (Except for that one time in the 6^th grade when I beat up Jake Nepp for picking on my little brother.) Mostly, my skills are in my swift ability to talk a little shit and run like all hell. (Fight and flight, remember?)

So, I made this comment to Barb with car-bomb-confidence but as it was all falling out of my mouth I had this alternate vision of seeing the shark come back and me flying by the crowd of folks in the front room yelling, “Nice to meet you all! Gotta go now! I’ll text you when it’s safe to stop running, Sin!” Fortunately, the pool shark wasn’t hungry for an innocent-little-fag-fish right then and there was no need to flee. Barb was all bump and no bite.

At this point I was a bit jostled and a little pissed off, as any innocent out of town fish who was just trying to chill with the pool school would be. So, instead of letting my mouth get me into any real trouble I went back up front, told Sin she was right about the pool room and carried on with the night and with a wonderful group of pleasant, non-angry, interesting and fun folks.

As we were leaving the bar that night I turned back and put several more Cher songs on the jukebox, just for Barb.

The last song, of course, was Just Like Jesse James.

Having recently been laid off, having more time on my hands, and with spring sprung and creeping into summer the Seal and I have been outside, out and about, for most of our day, more than not.

This morning the Seal and I went for a long walk, like we do. The lilacs are fully bloomed and just beginning to drop. The Seal and I both love to smell them in huge, dramatic inhales and stop frequently to do so. The tulips are all spent, give or take a few late bloomers, the blue bells are standing and tired, the daffodils are weeks gone and the rhododendron are all tightly budded, ready to explode at any given moment . The cherry blossoms make it look like it snowed pink last night, but only in very particular patches.

On our walk this morning the Seal had a blossom stick to the top of her nose and after shaking her head a few times with no relief she just walked on, crossing her eyes every once in a while to focus on it. I thought it looked cute and springy and let the decoration stay until it finally fell several blocks later.

There is this older woman, 75 maybe, that lives in the neighborhood. Margaret is her name. She is always out walking with her dog. Always. It is almost impossible to stray more than a few blocks from home without passing by her. I use to catch her at my bus stop, sitting outside the bagel shop, sipping coffee and giving every other bite of her bagel to Thomas, her rolly polly little wiener dog.

Thomas has several outfits, depending on the weather, of course. He mostly sports either his blue sweater for cold, dry days or a little yellow raincoat for the rainy days. If my jacket style is similar to what Thomas is wearing I know I have properly prepared. She and I have always said hello in passing. Some days are chattier than other, like during the election, she would go on and on about how its “plenty time to let this Obama kid get going and get things going right for a change!” She is clearly quite intelligent, well spoken, progressive and very sweet and it always cracks a smile onto my face when I see her and her little fat dog walking around together.

I haven’t seen Margaret or Thomas around in months and I have thought about this a lot. I have been curious and worried with obvious suspicions but haven’t figured out how to go about finding anything out.

So, the Seal and i were out this morning, for a nice long stroll when all of a sudden, a block and a half a head of us i saw what appeared to be an older person walking what appeared to be Thomas in his little blue sweater.They were crossing the street and turning a corner and I had seconds before they would be out of site so I yelled, “That isn’t Thomas by any chance, is it?” as I began to jog towards them. A voice, not Margaret’s, said back, “This little weeny here? Ya, thats him. Who’s askin?”

My stomach sank a bit as I was jogging over, to find out about Margaret. As I got closer I could see this old man, clearly not Margaret. He had slicked back white hair, snow-white side burns, the most typical gray old-man-pants with the most typical brown leather old man shoes, a green button down collared shirt with a big blue postal jacket, a tough-guy posture, leaned up against a fence, holding the leash of that fat little rolly polly wiener dog, Thomas, that the Seal and I were oh so happy to see.

“Hi there,” I said. “My name is Jesse. Sorry to chase you down a street but I just haven’t seen Thomas or Margaret in some time.” And then I just went for it, “Is Margaret ok?”

And as soon as this old man opened his mouth and said, “Damn near died I tell you. Goddamn doctors are only human but if I hadn’t raised em’ some hell over there, well then, who knows. Nearly killed her liver with some goddamn medicine that she didn’t even need, I tell you what, I’ve had it with those damn doctors. Think they’re god but dumb as bricks, some of ‘em” I realized that this old man was an old woman. This old man was Margaret’s partner.

I smiled big and said, “But she is ok. Man, that is great to hear.”

“Of course she’s ok. They all think she’s just this sweet old lady. Well, that’s cause she is. But I ain’t.” and she laughed big, holding her belly.

We talked for a while, well she did the talking, like a grumpy old man, complaining on and on about everything from how the damned winter killed all the rosemary around here: “In all my life of living here, when in the hell have I ever had to pay for rosemary at the store? Now I’m buying the stuff from California. Damn snow took ‘em all out.” To complaining about the roundabouts at the end of all of our streets: “If your car is too big for ya, well, shame on you for it. But if it ain’t, cause you need it, like my 4×4 pickup truck, well, now, you try to get that son of a bitch around that damn circle. Try it. Gonna run up the side every time, so what good is that? Don’t slow me down none either, just pisses me off.”

I stood there listening, agreeing with everything regardless, and marveled at what an amazingly beautiful and masculine person Margaret’s partner was (I never got her name but she mentioned that they had lived in their house for more than 30 years together). And how relieved I was that Margaret was ok. And how happy I was that she had someone looking after her, taking care of her. How lucky I am to be right where I am, right now.

We said goodbye and as the Seal and I walked off I heard, “Come on, you little weeny. Let’s go now.” A few seconds later I turned around and saw Margaret’s partner bent over, picking one of the last tulips standing and I realized that bringing your girl a flower never gets old.