Daily Living – Page 10 – Yellow Brick Missives

August 14, 2013

A Chance Metamorphosis

The minute I walk through the door, I know this isn’t our future home. And so does the aged landlord’s grandson who — resigned to his teenage fate of shuttling Gramps around — sits on the stairway, just beyond the front door.

“So, you got other places you’re lookin’?”

His eyes belie a subversive hopefulness.

“Yep. A slew. But this is really nice.”

A knowing, wry smile cracks along his jawline as he scratches the back of his neck. But his grandfather doesn’t want compliments. Just absolutes.

“You both — you and your friend — have job, yes?”

“Yes, we both have jobs.”

He stares hard, as if trying to elicit a confession. But I stare back, unblinking.

By now, we’ve recited our lie so often it’s become irrefutable truth.

Through machinations and occasional subterfuge, we’ve wrapped our larval plan in a cocoon — spun by equal parts frustration and desperation — and transformed it into a winged bastard. And we fly on its tattered wings — right into the gaping, beastly maw of the unknown.

“I see there’s no electrical outlet plate around that plug.”

I point toward the kitchen counter. His concentration breaks, and five excuses tumble out of his mouth. I don’t really care. I just want to leave, and need something to occupy his attention.

***

“But you’ve seen this place, right?”

Friends — a pack concerned and intrigued — ask repeatedly.

“Well, of course.”

It’s not exactly a lie. I mean, we’ve seen the place online. And plenty of beautiful places in person. But most of the beautiful, spacious places will suck our savings dry in months.

Still, we solider on.

Eventually, we’re able to twist our lie enough to convince a property management company to lease us a studio. With an LA address in hand, we prep for the next step: the cross-country move.

But then, less than 24 hours later, we get the good news. The bright light at the end of the increasingly long tunnel is suddenly blinding us rather than teasing us from afar.

***

Now, with our six month lease nearing its end, we’re channeling optimism while scoping out new digs — with a new budget, and a new outlook. Because this new place will be much more than a landing spot: it’ll be a launching pad.

So we want it to be right — to have the things that will make us want to call it home, the bones to massage and mold into aesthetic, functional bliss.

That’s where a list comes in handy. A list of things that each of us has compromised on in the past, and later kicked ourselves for.

Everyone has their own wants and needs, but here’re a few that we’re longing for — hoping to find on the other side of the soon-to-be-opening doors of our future.

(1) Pet friendly. As if we weren’t going to adopt a pet soon enough, I had to go and get a job at an animal welfare non-profit. (Shucks. Hello, three-legged corgi-pug cuteness.)

(2) Light. Six months is a long time to come back to an apartment facing a plain concrete building. *Sad trombone.*

(3) Parking. It’s LA. And we’ve been having to park in the same parking deck with vehicular fossils from the LA riots. And deal with opportunistic, asshat restaurant valets parking us in. Enough said.

(4) Charm. Living in an apartment that’s basically a square, white, sterile box is what I imagine hell to be like. If I believed in hell. And while our little studio is cute and funky, it’s the little part that gets us.

(5) Space. Sure, we culled a lot. But we still have pretty things. Many, many pretty things.

(6) Location. While West Hollywood wasn’t at the top of our list initially, hearing about its enforced rent control moved it from bottom to top. Talk about a versatile list.

(7) Green space. This one will probably be relegated to the “sacrifice” list. But the inner gardener in me can hope.

(8) Kitchen. I’d really like to avoid having to perform Matrix-esque moves to get the Brita out of the refrigerator.

***

From previous hits and misses, we know all too well the importance of holding out for what feels right. But we’re also well aware of the fact that our wants will have to acquiesce to needs, and those to reality.

Still, two gays can hope.

Regardless, the most important thing for us to remember is that, whatever mix of wants/needs we get, we’ll make them work — transforming them into something fun and useful.

Something to build upon.

August 11, 2013August 12, 2013

Dining on Life and Leaving Myself a Tip

Andy and I are easing into our first attempt at establishing a new Sunday tradition: Cafe Writing Time (CWT). Not to be confused with its more annoying relative, CMT.

A chocolate croissant the size of a Yorkshire Terrier is plated in front of me, and the ice is still swirling in the fresh mocha sweating near my hand. And then, amid the writing and remembering, I venture into that annoying time suck: Facebook.

And there, I read an article that makes me laugh and nod. But then I keep reading, and the grasp on my mocha tightens, and I want to throw it out the window, past the man on the sidewalk wearing massive headphones and using a broken balustrade as an ad hoc microphone while he waits for the bus.

***

Good writing elicits emotions — good, bad, or ugly cry worthy. It works you up and makes you ask questions: Why in the hell am I reading this? Who the fuck cares? Who made this person an authority? Why can’t I ever get anyone to publish something of mine?

You know, the essentials.

So I give the author props for doing just that. And I don’t disagree with a lot of the things she wishes someone would’ve told her. But there’re a few that just get my blood boiling. Partly because I’m emotionally reactive and tend to shoot off at the mouth. But mostly because I’m tired of reading the same things — the whole “giving up control to a greater power” line or “argument” people use to rationalize life (which is the most contradictory enterprise ever).

Of not getting the other — less rosy — take on things.

Now, some folks may just mark me as a crazed atheist or godless heathen or insane gay or all three, and they’d be dead on, regardless of their choice. But I think the author sells twenty-somethings a bit short with haphazard advice. But then again, according to her, twenty-somethings’ minds are jelly and fairly incapable of rational thought. (Alright, I’m paraphrasing.)

So, instead of blathering on and advising people I don’t even know about how they should act — or with whom they should have a relationship, or to whom they should listen — I’d like to tell my early twenty-something self a few things.

Dear 21-year-old Matt,

Stop plucking your eyebrows with such conviction. You always look startled. Now, listen up.

(1) More often than not, patronizing people will try to shove off their life lessons and sell them as fact, faith, or inspired wisdom. You’ll come to find that they lead really dull, empty lives filled with missed opportunities that they’re trying to reclaim by hogging your valuable time at the party’s punch bowl. (Or they’re just trying to get in your pants.) Most of their sad soliloquy is drivel, and the rest will fade into the background as it should. Because, really, you’re at this party to have promiscuous sex with someone else, so leave the pontifying to the evangelicals on television wrenching money away from hollow shells of human beings, cross that living room floor — channeling the confidence you lacked at middle school dances — and introduce yourself to the hot guy on the other side of the room. No, not the one drinking Pabst. The other one.

(2) Learn everything you can, whether through failure or victory. There’re lessons to learn with every missed opportunity and sealed deal. The real crime is not being open to experience both in equal measure.

(3) Sometimes, life is like an imbalanced dryer: You’ll think you have the right measure of friendship, family, and happiness until you throw everything together and set it to “spin.” It takes a lot of trial and error to get through an entire cycle without your life shutting down. You’ll get it eventually. You just have to keep at it, and take some of those tattered sweaters out along the way. (Plus, they shouldn’t have been in there in the first place!)

(4) Don’t listen to people who claim they have it “all figured out.” They’re the biggest bullshitters of all. In case you missed it, revisit (1). No one has it figured out. Mostly because everyone has a different “it” to figure out. That includes your parents and grandparents and educators. (After all, they’re people, just like you. You’ll realize this when you get shit on during graduate school.)

(5) Friendship is like the ocean. (I know, what a painful analogy! [I sort of hate myself for it.]) There’re high tides and low tides. But keep yourself anchored. Chances are, you’ll figure out how to keep your head above water or, at the very least, your feet ankle-deep. Acknowledging that friends will have kids and drift; move and drift; seem completely absorbed by their new life and drift; or be happy in a far away place and drift doesn’t mean that they don’t think of you, or value the time y’all spent together forming the friendships that y’all did. Life speeds up, and it’ll be hard to keep in touch as much as you’d like.

(6) There’s a reason that, throughout the course of human evolution, basic instincts kept some of our ancestors from becoming dinner. So, listen to your gut. Not some voice from the clouds. Because that most likely means someone spiked your drink.

(7) Experiment responsibly, but only if you want to. Peer pressure is part of life. Good friends will try to get you laid. And better friends will know when you just need a good, stiff drink and carbs. And amazing friends won’t dub you a social pariah for wanting to do nothing more on a Friday night than order in, watch Death Becomes Her, and fall asleep whilst swaddled in a Snuggie. (Actually, scratch the Snuggie. It’s just creepy.)

(8) Faith and prayer won’t save you from anything — they’ll just make you feel as though you have reliable outlets to channel all of the guilt you feel when you see photos from Third World countries, or help you rationalize buying a shirt that probably cost a Bangladeshi garment worker their life. The world can be cold and calculating. Once you realize this — and that good things won’t always happen to good people — the faster you’ll realize how you can do as much as you can for as many as you can.

(9) If you feel as though the path you’ve started paving for yourself isn’t the right one, don’t beat yourself up for leaving it. (Because you’ll do both.) You’ll meet so many more people who hate what they do for a living than those who do. And while you’ll initially think it’s a personal failure to acknowledge that you’re unhappy, you’ll come to realize it’s one of the most liberating experiences you’ll ever feel. Especially when you do something proactive about it.

(10) Being an asshole doesn’t help anyone. Especially not you. So don’t be an asshole.

***

Sure, this isn’t anything ground-breaking. Especially since I’m ridiculously sarcastic. And I sure as hell haven’t had the Huffington Post beating on my door to write an advice column.

But you don’t have to be an authority to know what works and what doesn’t.

You just have to be honest with yourself and anyone who asks. Even if it hurts. Because all things super saccharine belong in cake recipes, not life.

Because life is a whole bunch of recipes — and it’s up to you to make up your own damn version. After all, you’re the chef.

So, whip it up.

Sample it.

Spit out the sour.

Revel in the sweet.

And move on to the next course.

August 8, 2013

If the Shoe Fits

Do you ever find yourself replaying The Devil Wears Prada intro scene in your head, thinking about how much it mirrors your own life–you know, the crazy-beautiful one made all the more fabulous by wearing uber glamorous clothes and buying ridiculously expensive jewelry and waking up next to insanely beautiful models?

Me too! We’re so wonderful. And rich.

Alright.

Maybe I’m not glamorous or super rich, but I do have an extremely handsome guy whose tolerance of my annoyingly incessant Instagramming borders on award-worthy. But I’ll gladly take him over a stocked wardrobe any day. Because even a little glamour can be stretched a long, long way–preferably over the flocks of crow’s feet hovering around my eyes.

***

Clothing is armor. It, quite literally, keeps you contained. And not just in the preventing-wardrobe-malfunction sense.

Having spent years working outside–digging and sifting soil, traipsing through the wilderness, getting electrocuted by cattle fences–I was unaware of what staple pieces every person should have in their professional wardrobe. Especially since most of my clothes were ripped, stained, or otherwise destroyed.

But on the weekends, I was able to wear what I wanted. And I’d stupidly assumed that being an “individual” meant eschewing those “mainstream” ideas of “fashion assimilation.” (And I’m pretty sure I put everything in quotation marks, too.) After all, I felt on-level fashion-wise with everyone around me.

But then I took a look around, and realized I was basing my fashion off of Disinterested Old Academics (DOA’s). And then I got an office job. Which meant more public face time.

So I upgraded my boots and jeans, threw in a little questionable taste, and went on my merry way to work at an Army installation. And while I was mostly surrounded by a cornucopia of fashion faux pas, I also had the distinct pleasure of working with young professionals who dressed, well, professionally–appropriately for their age, body type, and job level.

Still, good taste often attracts naysayers–sideways glances, rolling eyes–from the “lifer” side of the office; you know, the folks who’ve given up and drilled a permanent outhouse for their pop-up camper life. (I don’t know what that means either, but the image in my head fits.) But who cares?

Despite one old fart’s persistent compilation of nylon pants–fully equipped with in-built camel toe–baseball cap, turtleneck, and paisley leggings, the well-dressed among us got repeated compliments, and unintentionally recreated a few Sex and the City sidewalk scenes on our way out through the barbed wire fences to Starbucks.

But that didn’t stop me from paying homage to all of the bad taste I’d experienced on the eve of my glittery exit.

***

Andy’s influence on my wardrobe has been pretty stellar. And plenty of people realize it. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that, but if it feels as good as the cashmere sweaters I’ve inherited from him, then that’s fine by me. (Oh, so soft.)

A purge of residual nods to my darker, misunderstood, failed goth years coincided with an influx of tailored pants, high-quality button downs, and a few blazers. And belts. And cedar shoetrees–the point of which I never understood, until I purchased some big boy shoes that I never want to see harmed or deflated or destroyed or dampened.

Basically, I want them draped in plastic. Or at least have plastic draped over all puddles, oil slicks, and dog poop they may splatter. Because they represent my new beginning–at an office where people dress to impress, where their clothes accentuate their character and empower them.

So as I caressed my new shoes, I realized how gutting and reinventing a wardrobe can be even more cathartic than culling stuff. Because while that chair may be nice, you’re not wearing it–it doesn’t perfectly frame your shoulders, or add that bit of pizzazz that you might need in the morning after a horrendous meeting.

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll remind you that your spark hasn’t been snuffed out.

Just reinvented, given a new life–a new sole.

August 3, 2013

Back to the Grind, But Not Ground to A Pulp

“Every household should be able to support a gentleman.”

Norman laughs over the phone, letting his eggs cool on the stove.

“I never knew what my friend meant by that until I retired. You know, when you have time to stare at your wiggling toes and think, ‘What do I want to do today?’ So now, what do you think you’ll do when you have idle time again?”

I retrace my week, mulling over my attempts to balance a new job and a sustainable, feasible post-workday routine. Then furrow my brow.

“Well, when that time comes around again, I’m sure I’ll find something to do.”

Time–that once idling beast–has become ever so elusive. But hey, I’ve expected nothing less, especially now that I’ve transitioned from homomaker to working gay.

***

It’s never easy to get back to the grind.

And moving across the country, stuffing one quarter of our belongings into 450 square feet, and navigating a metropolis makes it that much harder to make the transition gracefully.

Especially after I spent five months wondering how I’d escape the shades of degrees past and score a job I’d find intellectually stimulating and personally gratifying while Andy started his new job.

But I did.

Still, I’ve been guarded throughout this entire first week. Like I’m steeling myself for some insidious harbinger–or Ron Pearlman–to reveal how this job will be another nefarious succubus. A boil on my face. A pox upon my house.

You get it: past experiences have gifted me with a healthy helping of job-related paranoia, which has complicated my ability to ease into this new position.

But after the first week, I’ve realized that it’s less likely that I’ll experience those same problems within a nonprofit context. Because the majority of staffers are personally invested in the mission. Sure, there’re always going to be scenarios with every job that’re less than ideal. But being surrounded by excited, dedicated people is making me acknowledge that I can be happy and content in my professional life.

Especially now that I’m free of my annoying internal dialogue–a recitation of rhetorical questions: Is this really what you want to do? Do you even want to be here? Again, why did you get an advanced degree in something you’re no longer passionate about?

I have a new, clean slate.

And it’s scary. But nested within the anxiety associated with venturing into unknown professional waters is a sense of excitement–of realizing the possibilities of building a new professional life from the ground up.

Knowing that this job can actually compliment my personal life–not hinder it.

That the wall I’ve constructed between two parts of my life can be pulled down. And I can be happier.

***

And while I know not everything about my new job will translate into some life-affirming revelation, it’s been sort of nice to whir like a crazed blender–experience the emotional highs and reality checks packed into the first week.

Day 1: Exclaim unto ye!

Wee, I have a job again! I’m meeting people! I barely have an email account, so I can’t do much of anything except ride the high of being employed without any responsibilities! I can watch videos of successful pet adoptions! I get a free shirt!

Day 2: Check, check. Reality, check.

Wow, I’m really employed! Everyone seems so nice! There’s a manual I need to read through. And training sessions I need to enroll in. Field trips! More introductions, more people. I’m forgetting names. But am remembering that I manage…people. Uh, right, I knew that. So, how do I submit their time sheets again?

Day 3: *Ding, ding, ding*

And here I thought Raiser’s Edge was a band.

*Ding* (10:42 AM): New message in Outlook. *Ding* (10:44 AM): New message. *Ding* (10:46 AM): New message. *Ding* (10:47 AM): New message.

*DingDingDingDingDingDingDing* (10:48 AM)

Phew.

*DING* (10:49 AM)

Day 4: Broadcasting live!

I’m helping pick up the Pet of the Week. My hands smell like hot dogs and cheese. Wow, this is a newsroom. Where broadcasters melt down. And the Pet of the Week rocks it. And we get lost. And I try to talk like a supervisor and a human. I can remember the building code.

Day 5: Making it work.

Things are coming together. I know where things are. Now I know more about the organization, and can actually speak to specific programs.

“Can you do this really fast, so that I can get it to the President?”

“Sure thing!”

Sure. Thing. And I can.

And then an unexpected thought.

Maybe I can do this.

Followed by a slightly terrifying one.

Because I want to.

***

Little by little, it’ll happen. Because baby steps turn into toddling, turn into walking, turn into running. And the hardest part–taking the initiative–is over.

Now, I’m realizing how far I can go.

How easily I can back myself out of a corner.

July 26, 2013July 26, 2013

Divine Atheism

Raising kids Catholic in a small Alabama town is no easy feat. But my parents tried, even though I gleaned most of what knew about Catholicism from Father Dowling Mysteries.

There was a constant battle of wills between The Book and my reality–how I felt about religion, what I knew about myself. And from that dissonance sprung an enveloping isolation, where I came to prefer rational proof over tenuous faith. But like a good god-fearing marionette, I performed the requisite rites of passage, leaving choice out of it and knowing little of what–if anything–lay outside the sphere of religiosity.

And while I came to see religion as an immovable piece on my youth’s chess board, my liberal parents did encourage independence and self-exploration. Without that slight sense of empowerment, I probably would’ve begrudgingly resigned myself to a religious life. But even though I’d been saddled with Catholicism, it acted as one of the catalysts for me embracing difference, rather than shunning or frighting from it.

Coupled with my family’s left-leaning sociopolitical bent, Catholicism framed my family as spiritual pariahs among the town’s predominantly Baptist and Methodist population. And from that I derived satisfaction; we were different, and difference unnerves people. After I plastered a Darwin fish on my car senior year, I became acutely aware of how little it took to shake someone’s faith, and how much misinformation my peers had been fed about human evolution.

But after defending my legged fish–explaining my position and, in turn, asking basic questions and entreaties for proof supporting their assertions–most would falter and defensively default to a cliched, faith-based rationale. And because of the anger that my questions often elicited, I learned it was best not to make additional waves in a stream where the Jesus fish were always spawning, especially not in the psychologically-charged high school years.

So I went along with everything–knelt, made the sign of the cross, took communion–and behaved the way I was told God wanted me to.

***

With the shackles of high school loosed, I left for college to study anthropology. And I came to realize how culturally diverse the world really is, and how sheltered I’d been.

Still, I’d been so conditioned to attend Mass every Sunday that I found myself going through the motions in a foreign church with complete strangers. But one day, things just clicked; I got up mid-Mass, turned around, and walked out. A pew wasn’t where I belonged on Sunday. I needed to figure things out on my own terms.

So I opened myself to experience, tried to understand the various modes of thought in the realm of spirituality. But after friendly conversations with Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, pagans, and wiccans I was still left wanting. It all seemed different, but so oddly similar. And I quickly learned how easily religion can be manipulated–like clay on a potter’s wheel, spun into whatever form, to satiate the aims of whomever spins the wheel. And so often with my spiritual friends, they weren’t the potter; they were the clay.

Perhaps it was the control freak in me, but I wanted to be the potter. Because, really, what was stopping me? My faith? I always thought faith was supposed to empower, not limit. For some, I’m sure it is a source of strength, a kaleidoscope of possibilities–and I think that’s wonderful. But my faith had been grafted on, and it never really took; it just sloughed off. And I realized that building one’s faith based upon what someone else–a family member or a stranger–teaches you isn’t building a faith in something greater; it’s building a faith based upon that person’s perspective.

It seemed so bizarrely reckless to me to base one’s spiritual life off of stories written by biased men. Because were they not also made of the same fallible flesh? How could they judge, and how could they author something that’d limit so many? Did they even mean for their words to limit others? And if so, why should they get the last word?

I kept asking so many questions. But all I received was push back, while my liberalized car received eggs, mud, and vomit.

***

Anthropology piqued my curiosity and engaged my interest in understanding how people filter life experiences–how they construct mental sieves to sift out the real from the imaginary, the tangible from the intangible. And how, mixed up in it all, a nebulous “faith” can drive a person to believe more in someone else, rather than in their own reflection.

That’s why I find atheism comforting. It’s about your self-reliance, your will to change things. So it’s always refreshing to see someone act as a proud foil to the constant talking heads droning on about deities working in mysteriously ways.

Like Rebecca Vitsmun, interviewed by Wolf Blitzer in the aftermath of the Moore, Oklahoma tornado. With her child tucked in her arms, Vitsmun tactfully responds to Blitzer’s “You gotta thank the Lord, right?” with “Actually, I’m an atheist.” When I first saw that, I was floored, mostly because it was amazing to see someone proud of who they are responding in such a way. Rather than being enraged, she remained calm and direct. Her simple comment was a gentle reminder to believers that atheists aren’t godless heathens devoid of moral compasses. And, much like the stickered car I saw yesterday, her comment reminded me that, as an atheist, I’m not alone.

In lieu of attributing power to supernatural miracles or prayer, I find it in those who have confidence in rational explanations and scientific facts.

***

What most frustrates me as an atheist is that people don’t give themselves credit where it’s due. Instead, they chalk their efforts up to an omnipotent being ruling somewhere in the hereafter. But people make things happen. So many people wait their lives away hoping that their messiah will waltz up to their door, ring the bell, and show them the way to be happy and lead a fulfilling life. But sadly, people take life for granted–worrying more about the afterlife rather than what’s here and now, and what they can do to make things better.

Unfettering myself from religion is one of the most freeing things I’ve ever done. Because I’m not looking for divine intervention–a hand to come down–to give me meaning, or some divine prophecy to make me whole.

What makes me whole is human connection–people helping and loving one another without expecting a divine reward.

People wanting to make someone whole–not being content on the sidelines with half, with spending a life foreshadowing the next.

People coming together to dig a well, rather than divining for water.

And finding common ground in the process.

July 25, 2013

I Am Not Sporty Spice

Last weekend when my mom and sister visited, we all went to a bar and ate hamburgers with quasi-sexually explicit names and drank martinis with normal names. And watched early nineties music videos while trying to list off each of the Spice Girls.

And by the time our waiter–outfitted in naughty lederhosen–sidled up to deliver our deep-fried Snickers and bill tucked into a large red sequinned slipper, I’d finished imagining how many times Sporty Spice has criticized herself for not orchestrating a stage accident for Posh Spice, just so she could’ve had David Beckham to dandle for the rest of her life.

That, and I wondered if she’s since become a field hockey star.

All spice-centric synaptic misfires aside, our whole interchange got me thinking about sports, and how I’d always do whatever I could to avoid them.

***

Now, plenty of people have prattled on about how it seems that many gays want to swing a bat about as much as a cat wants to take a flea dip. But with so many sporty gays coming out these days, and allies alike showing their support, it’s clear that there’s plenty of room in sports arenas for fabulousness. And for limited notions of masculinity to be relegated to the proverbial dustbin.

Still, I’m about as likely to attend a sporting event as Bill O’Reilly is to snuggle with Rachel Maddow. But hey, it’s not like I’m knocking something I haven’t tried before. I’ve been there, done that, and nursed all of the associated wounds.

***

Maybe it was because the soccer ball always curved just enough to make contact with my face, but Opelika’s Pee Wee Soccer became my own personal bloodbath. I know what you’re thinking. Why is a gay complaining about balls to the face? Well, toward the end of that five year-long sportsy era, it got a little ridiculous. Because every single time any player would kick the ball, it’d ricochet off my face with a cringe-worthy bwalp.

The final blow to the ego was dealt by a kid named Costa–the most hulking guy on our team, whose leg power bordered on ridiculous.

I still remember everything slowing down: Costa’s kick; the ball flying, then curving slightly; running toward it, then suddenly realizing its trajectory; the bwalp; flipping backward from my forward momentum combined with the ball’s speed; seeing the grass-caked bottoms of my cleats while rounding out the flip; my massive wire rim glasses slowly falling in front of me; the hard, slightly moist ground as I landed on my stomach; and sudden stillness, followed by blood gushing out of my nose.

Then, the referee’s whistle. And me skittering to the sidelines–my battered nose swaddled in paper towels–no doubt lisping through the blood to facepalming team members, “Ay’em okahay, guhys!”

***

Softball wasn’t much better, mostly because I’d try my damndest to get it right–listen to the crew cut coach, follow her step-by-step instructions. Which was probably my problem. Instead of making it a fluid mental process, I insisted on deconstructing every step in robotic, punctuated fashion. Like the one time I hit the ball: I hit the ball; Wow, I hit the ball!; Okay, now, throw the bat; Run to first base. Suffice it to say I rarely made it to first base. And the umpire almost always got beaned by the bat.

“NO! How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t throw the bat behind you. Off to the side. Off. To. The. Side!”

“Sorreh, coahch.”

“Next time you do that, you’re getting marked down! Take a seat.”

I’d sulked away to the sidelines, past the umpire rubbing his head.

***

Flag football was worse, mostly because the fledgling jocks always “forgot” the flag part, transforming it into pummel-the-bejesus-out-of-the-twiggy-kid ball. And while I did catch the ball one time–flinching as I did–I ran to the wrong end zone, thinking all the while my teammates were screaming for me, not at me.

But even when I’d be dragged to college football games and take my bulky Game Boy along, I’d still get nosebleeds from the altitude.

***

To this day, I’m convinced dodgeball is the realm of nascent sadists. Like Luhtha–the scariest failed sixth grader ever.

Since he’d failed a few times, he’d already gone through puberty and was a horrifying mass of a kid. So much so that fellow twigs and I would visibly shake as we’d hear him emerge from the basement locker room–his terrifying cackle reverberating off of the stairwell’s tiled wall.

And if his beady eyes narrowed on you–even if he didn’t have a ball in hand–it was best to just go limp and fake a seizure. Even still, you’d probably get hit in the nuts.

***

Years after my involvement in band shielded me from experiencing other sports-related foibles–and gifted me a front row seat to afternoon shirtless cross-country team runs–I still had to subject myself to certain rites of passage. Like hunting.

Now, my father is an avid hunter, and is probably the most considerate hunter ever. There’s no cowardly spot-lighting, or use of four wheelers to load and drag the kills; he hauls them out of the woods himself–by hand–after a clean bow or gunshot. Unfortunately for him, I never really took up hunting. I’d been sort of okay with fishing, even though I still sucked at it.

But there comes a time in many southern gay boys’ lives where you can’t side-sashay that age old rite of harvesting your first deer.

So there I was, sitting in the tree stand with my dad, praying to any deity that’d hear me that a deer wouldn’t come out. Mostly because I was worried I’d screw it up and disappoint my dad. Or worse, mortally wound the deer in some ghastly fashion and have to use more than one shot. And for a while, I thought I was in the clear. The sun was setting, and the most we’d seen was an armadillo rooting through ant beds.

But then, off to my left, I heard branches crack under hooves. And the four-point rack emerge from the bramble. The conditions were perfect: no wind, good angle, clear shot. Still, I’d hoped to squeeze out some gas or suddenly sneeze. But before I could act on either, Dad saw the buck too. So I waited, and waited, and waited until I could tell Dad was wondering if I was ever going to act.

And then I did, lining up the shot the way I was taught. The blast ripped through my consciousness and the deer jumped, ran, and fell dead. Dad was pleased. I was nauseated, my face bleached of all color.

After Dad thanked the deer for its sacrifice, and offered up a quick prayer that it didn’t suffer, I realized how important the whole process was to him. And tolerated the last bit of the ritual: the smearing of blood across the face. Macabre, yes. But it pleased him about as much as announcing, weeks later, that we were eating the deer I’d harvested. And while that was the first and last deer I ever shot, I felt like I’d succeeded. Like I was part of the manly crowd.

Now, though, Dad knows where I stand on that and sports and other conditioned, hyper-masculine behaviors that I really don’t feel necessary to embody and perform, and he’s fine with it.

But, more importantly, so am I.

July 24, 2013

Haute, Hidden Potential: Designing Life

Like flipping through an old high school yearbook after a few fingers’ worth of scotch, scanning through an old external hard drive can dredge up more than bad hair, angsty clothes, and Ewww, that guy! memories.

For me, this latest traipse through the digitally curated past unearthed some shockingly offensive photos. Some that made me wonder if there was any humanity left in the world. And confirmed why I hadn’t had much luck in the love department.

No, they weren’t of my excessively over-plucked eyebrows (although they surely didn’t help). They were of my first apartment.

Now, everyone who has ever lived alone has a few photos like these. Probably even Kelly Wearstler and Jonathan Adler. (Actually, especially Kelly Wearstler and Jonathan Adler.)

Not only did my first apartment scream I can drink Smirnoff Ice now! but it appeared as though Mr. Magoo had ingested a handful of psychotropic mushrooms and tripped all night. In short, I was having an identity crisis–floundering somewhere between Slightly Goth and Very Gay, neither one of which could fully breathe amid the cluttered cat lady tschotskes, taped up art, and dumpster-pilfered furniture. Case in point: a gnawed particle board shelf that I’d painstakingly screwed together and painted in rainbow colors before realizing it’d been saturated with cat piss.

But with time, experience, and friends forcibly knocking crap out of my hands with a Leave it on the damn curb! I re-tooled my style lens, and augmented my behavior a bit. Like, say, ceasing to hoard historic doors and turning them into headboards. (Although I still sort of pride myself on doing that before it became chic.)

Instead, they were recycled back into historic homes, and I started to get my design sense in tune.

***

A slightly different aesthetic took hold as I fledged from undergrad to graduate school. And while my style did mature somewhat, it still exhibited some kid-like elements–and not just tattered band posters hanging over my bed.

And while I couldn’t quite pinpoint what was off, I did know that I loved antiques–old, rough pieces with history or mystery about them. But instead of channeling that in a controlled way, I pulled an Exorcist move, spinning around like a whirligig, vomiting old things all over the place. It was haphazard at best. But at least I was trying to define spaces, and be more selective in what pieces I did bring in from the street.

So, in lieu of a cat pee shelf, I opted for a castoff Art Deco cabinet (which we still have).

And while I may not have used it efficiently at the start, I knew that I liked it–that there was something about its style that struck me. It seems my taste continued to mature–from Oh, it’s sort of usable! to Oh, it’s good quality and worth it!

***

After a few more moves, my design sense began to translate into more cohesive spaces with less, or more contained, clutter.

No longer resigned to have things just because they happened to be cool, I wanted what I did because I saw them as functional investments–and treated them as such.

Along the way, I hemorrhaged bits and baubles that I’d kept just because–they’d been in my grandparents’ house; they’d had a story associated with them; they’d been with me ever since I could remember. Still, before I culled them, I snapped a photo–which takes up much less space, but still triggers the same memories. After all, life is about you figuring yourself out, not toting relatives’ crap with you.

***

It wasn’t until Andy moved in that I learned a critical design lesson: Sometimes, it’s better to let go.

Household melding became an exercise in maximizing functionality within our space without sacrificing our distinct styles, or having one overpower the other.

And after a design hiccup here and there, and plenty of conversations about what should stay and what should go, we created something that captured us rather than just me or Andy. Did we both let go of pieces that we’d cherished? Yes. But the result was worth it.

In many ways, we’d outgrown those particular pieces–not so much in the sense that they weren’t quality or “adult” enough, but rather they’d always been the “pretty” pieces that hadn’t really been used much. And letting them go to homes where they’d be used and cherished made the separation that much easier. And you know what? I still don’t regret letting any of them go.

***

Design can be so damn delightful. And a little draining–both on you and your wallet/purse/murse. But it can also be terribly rewarding. So much so that it makes you want to cry at the thought of having a cleverly designed oasis of your own, and of your own making. (Seriously.)

Plenty of professional designers pepper their streams of consciousness with references to fabrics and styles and color swatches to such a degree that you just want to throw your hands up, scream to a deity or two, pour yourself a cocktail, and watch reruns of Days of Our Lives on your overstuffed, tattered sofa.

But you don’t always need professional advice to take matters into your own hands–especially when it comes to figuring out your own style, and what really makes your place feel like home.

So put down that damn Bloody Mary and pay attention! Here’re a few things I’ve learned along the way.

(1) Know what you like and embrace it. Plenty of people abide by the adage I may not know much about XYZ but I know what I like. But equally as many gloss over how important it is to acknowledge exactly that, and how to focus your aesthetic lens on similar things when creating a space for yourself. It can be a particular form, color, texture, theme, or object that just screams, THIS IS WHO YOU ARE! Build on it.

(2) Have the courage to go out on a design limb. Like being haute couture, innovative design can sometimes push you out of your comfort zone. But the result can be phenomenal–whether you’re recovering a chair in paisley or refinishing a flea market steal.

(3) Reuse anything you can. It’s often cheaper, with an even greater payoff. Like, say, my grandfather’s wooden skis turned photo ledges. Or my childhood pencil-toolbox turned spice caddy.

Old skis turned photo ledges, 2012.

(4) Use found furniture or homegoods to fit your needs. I’m not above rummaging along the curb for cool castoffs, or even something that’s not necessarily cool, but useful for the time being. For instance, take the planter stand Andy and I picked off a curb in West Hollywood.

Temporary, but functional use of a salvaged planter stand.

Is it amazing? Not really. But it works for now as a toiletry tower in our storage devoid bathroom. So who cares if the gays who tossed it were probably watching us with pity, exclaiming, “Look at the poor gays, honey. Aren’t they sweet? Hopefully the Crate & Barrel truck won’t run them over.” Once we land our own WeHo apartment, I’ll paint this sucker silver and load it down with succulents.

(5) Practice controlled culling. It’ll do you wonders.

***

With all this said and written, you might still be asking Why should I care about design? And I totally understand. I mean, I’d always thought of Interior Design as a frilly, inconsequential profession. But then I realized how incredibly important having a well designed personal space is to framing your perspective, and informing your behavior.

Good design starts at home. And takes a lot of practice. Still, it’s all about the process. And you first have to take a leap and try. Because, really, what’s the worst that can happen? You fail? That’s not really a big deal. The most unfortunate outcome of any endeavor in life is regret–wondering if things could have been different if you’d told fear to sit on it.

Perhaps I’m mapping more onto design than I should. But really, I think growth and change are most always reflected in our homes–how we make things work as we move through various chapters. I know it sounds dumb. But as ludicrous as it seems now, one of the major hitches we had prior to moving was what we’d do with all of our stuff–how it’d make us feel to part with some of it. But the emotional catharsis of doing so was well worth it.

***

We often find ourselves in the fray, getting intimidated by all the glitz and glam surrounding us that we neglect to see the beauty we create–acknowledging what we do every single day to make our lives more balanced, light, and comfortable.

But the minute you start creating a more enjoyable life–starting with the space you call home–you begin to live, to unlock your potential.

To design an exciting, fulfilling life.

July 22, 2013

Mother (Still) Knows Best

Jacqueline Bisset walks into the movie theater and sits next to Mom. And while it may seem like an intro for a bad joke, it’s not.

Always polite, Mom tells Jacqueline hello, and she responds pleasantly in her intoxicatingly amorous accent and holds Mom’s gaze, as if awaiting a starstruck photo request.

But Mom smiles, turns back to the screen, and dips into her popcorn. So, there we are: me, Andy, Laura, Mom, and Jacqueline Bisset. After a few moments, Jacqueline realizes she’s in the wrong seat. So she gets up, tells Mom goodbye, and moves a few rows back.

Before long, Red 2 fills the massive screen, and my gaiety hits a record high when Dame Helen Mirren totters onscreen wearing a strait jacket, declaring she’s Queen Elizabeth.

***

Afterward, Laura–TMZ aficionado–whips out her phone and confirms Jacqueline’s identity. Scrolling through Google images, she nods approvingly.

“Yup, that was her alright.”

Mom calls Dad to check in.

“And guess who sat down next to me in the theater? Jacqueline Bisset!”

“Really?! Is she still hot?”

“Yes. So, how’re the dogs?”

A report of dog shenanigans later, we’re re-tracing our path through Beverly Hills.

***

As most family visits go, this one ended too quickly. There’s this and that to see, and so many places to go.

Like a West Hollywood bar for martinis and burgers and fried Snickers, where we crowed about the early ’90’s music videos playing on massive screens flanked by disco balls and drag bingo posters. And where Mom reiterated how proud she was of her two sons.

Or a hike up one of our favorite trails, during which every tree and bird and plant gave Laura and Mom plenty of photographic fodder to pique their curiosity and fuel future scannings of California wildlife identification books.

Or a trip to the beach, which ended with John Leguizamo puttering up to us on a Segue, then promptly about-facing and motoring off when he saw that “You’re a celebrity” look reflected in our eyes.

But interspersed between our day trips and hikes and walks were moments that made it a family trip–the laughs, the hugs, the acknowledgments of inheriting unfortunate physical ailments.

And a few that reminded me how someone qualifies as a role model.

Like when we pulled up to an intersection and Mom rummaged through her bag to give the man with the sign some cash.

“Mom, as hard as it is, you can’t help everyone. That’s something I’ve had to realize in a larger city.”

“But it can make a difference to him.”

The light changed and I accelerated. And felt like a terrible human being.

***

The next day, as we approached a flea market entrance, Mom shuffled through her bag when she saw a man whose prosthetic leg had a “Please Help” cup taped to it. We stopped at the crosswalk, and I looked over and assured her that I understood.

“I already have some money.”

“So do I.”

Familial consonance once again. And after more stories and experiences and revelations and understandings, I looked at both my mother and sister with immense pride. And was constantly reminded of what Mom taught us both.

“You can only do your best. No one can expect more than that.”

We’re not super heroes or machines. We’re fallible, fleshy creatures. And the sooner we realize we’ll stumble and trip, the sooner we’ll realize we can dust ourselves off from any fall, any slight, any bad day. And, with hope, recognize the amazing capacity we have to show compassion to one another.

At least that’s what Mom says.

July 18, 2013July 18, 2013

The [S]um of All Fears

Once upon a time, I farted in an Apple Store. And since I couldn’t even afford an iPod charger’s cellophane shrink wrap, I didn’t feel entitled to break wind. The guilt became more overwhelming than the smell.

While my friend bought her iPhone, I pulled out my slider phone to check messages. Like chum for sharks, the archaic technology attracted the attention of an Emo kid with skinny jeans and a misunderstood air about him. He sidled up to the blonde wood island where I leaned, unsheathed his Mac from a sleek, skull-embossed bag, and eyed me suspiciously. Behind thick, black, artsy frames, his eyes darted from my battered phone and settled on my face, his penetrating gaze conveying unequivocal dismay.

You sad, old, PC-using fossil. There’s no hope to be found here by you or your embarrassing Zack Morris phone. Be gone with ye!

I shifted uneasily, pulling at my faded polo shirt like a teenage mother trying to hide the bumpy mistake she’d made with the football team captain under the stadium bleachers. But at least my friend’s proximity afforded me some semblance of a protective Apple shield. With her tutorial finished, she returned–her acquisition drawing the Gollum-like kid’s attention away from me. We turned to go, with faint muttering following us.

My Precious.

***

Years before I fart in the Apple Store, I find myself at a mall kiosk (not this one), quickly being surrounded by curious cell phone associates, each of whom hymn-and-haw over the prototypical instrument I’ve produced from my bag.

“Holy crap! I’ve never seen something like this!”

Brian, the head clerk, calls to his coworkers.

“Margo. HEY, Margo! Come take a look at this!”

Margo, a slight, dark-haired, mousy woman obliges. As incredulous as Brian, she looks to me for answers.

“But, where’s the screen?”

I push two side buttons, jiggle it, and the screen springs up. Boom. They flinch. I am Prometheus.

***

Suffice it to say, throughout college, I didn’t have a strong track record keeping up with the latest technology. Much less using my desktop for anything other than schoolwork.

In fact, the most risqué thing I’d ever done online was send a winky face emoticon via AIM. And that necessary gumption hadn’t come easily, especially since it took me an absurdly long time during freshman year to understand the basics of instant messaging.

“Wait, you mean to tell me that I can talk to someone online who’s three hours away in East Alabama right now? That’s…just…like…insanely cool.”

Throw in my latent confusion of “S” and “C” from third grade speech therapy, and my virtual self sometimes presented as a solicitous sex addict to AIM buddies and random computer users.

“Alright. Now, to finish the formula, enter ‘SUM’ followed by the cell numbers in parentheses.”

My undergraduate adviser stands over my shoulder, watching as I tap his prompt into the equation.

“Uh, no. SUM.”

I retype it again, seeing nothing wrong with the equation: CUM(E5:E7).

Little did he know, the closest I’d been to sex or porn was Kate Winslet in Titanic. And even then I’d found the necklace more interesting than her nakedness–noticing a similar jewel in an art book I’d just gotten as a birthday gift from one of the slack-jawed sleepover buddies gawking at The Boobs.

“Hey, look at this! The dress is different, but the necklace is like hers!”

No one noticed.

So much for birthday boy privileges!

***

Still, my technophobic anxiety eventually acquiesced to raging hormones. Porn won. And so did a computer virus.

Had I not been overly frugal and eschewed my anti-virus software renewal, I wouldn’t have had to experience The Walk of Shame to the nearest computer repair shop. Because, of course, the technician asked the standard, ridiculous question.

“So, how’d ya get this?”

Well, I was looking at pictures of puppies and kittens, and wabam! Trojan horse.

That’d never work. But my answer was no less transparent. And what my downcast eyes didn’t surrender, my browsing history undoubtedly did. So I returned two days later, paid the ridiculous sum required to rebuild my computer, and took it home.

Then revisited the site. And got another virus.

Like I’d hoped an “F” on a seventh-grade Algebra test would morph into a “B” over Thanksgiving break, I thought, the next day–after I’d panicked, cried a little, and unplugged my computer–everything would be fine: certain photos actually would be photos of roosters. But as I’d learned the day after Thanksgiving, magical thinking is just that.

Aside from revisiting the site, my biggest mistake was returning to the same repair shop. The technician sighed, motioned for me to hand over my debilitated computer, and asked the same question. I blamed it on my roommate, the one who used my computer when I wasn’t looking. Nonexistent roommates never consider the consequences of their actions.

After paying for my computer twice over, I swore off porn for years. But then, years later, I had a weak moment. And got another virus on the same computer. This time, the old battle wagon just couldn’t take the action. So I salvaged what existing files I could to my external hard drive, apologized to my old friend, unplugged it, took a hammer from my toolbox, and dispatched it in my backyard Office Space style.

It was the only way.

***

Years later and many subscriptions of anti-virus software wiser, I’m running a basic Google Images search on one of Big Brother’s computers for an actor I’d seen in a movie the weekend prior. But as I’m gaily gushing over the actor’s looks to two female friends at work, I have a momentary feeling of dread, but shrug it off. Enter: cock shot. On Big Brother’s screen.

Stunned, I immediately think back to the moment several months before when I’d suddenly lost control of this particular computer’s mouse. A dialog box had popped up, the slowly typed, DOS-style message reading, “Hello, Matthew. What are you doing? Don’t worry, just keep working. I’ll be done soon.” I’d felt like Sandra Bullock, caught in The Net. Big Brother’s net.

But perhaps if I’d embraced a bit of my AIM technophobic asceticism, neither I, nor my friends, would currently be privy to the actor’s exceptional supporting role. And my face wouldn’t be washed in the same shade it was all those years ago on my trips to the technician’s office.

The [s]um of all fears.

July 17, 2013

Mom-Mau and Me

Faced with the situation at hand, I react the best way I know how: I punch the accelerator. Mom Mau grabs the oh shit handle.

“We can make it!” I shriek, panicking, foot-to-floor.

The driver of the oncoming truck hits his brakes, causing his passenger to lurch forward. Sweat trickles down my temple, and I imagine what’s going through their minds. Surely this kid’s just a bit confused. He’ll realize his mistake.

But I’ve set the station wagon’s course, and we’re not going back. We race forward. Emphatic obscenities sync out of the driver’s O-shaped mouth and, feet from his truck’s grill, I jerk the wheel sharply to the left, toward the parking lot.

The Sable hits the angled curb, and we catch air. Mom Mau screams.

“JEEES…”

We hit the parking lot nose first.

“…SUUUS…”

The hatchback slams down.

“…CHRRRIST!”

And we skid sideways, across two spaces, just missing the mailbox before we stop.

I stare hard at the embossed horn emblem until I can focus. A Catholic medal swings back and forth from the rearview mirror, its glass beads judgmentally tinking tsck tsck tsck. Words slowly bubble to my lips.

“Now, Mom-Mau, there’s no real reason to tell Mom and Dad about this, right?”

Silence.

“Right?”

“Mmhmm.”

Mom-Mau bends forward, her belt still on, and scoops her purse contents from the floor board.

After a few minutes, I feel their eyes. I glance to the restaurant’s glass façade. It’s noon: a full house. People sit mid-bite, mouths agape, staring. I try to fuzz them out.

Embarrassment aside, we’re hungry. We walk in and I order, all the while waiting for an anxiety-fueled fart to emanate from a far corner of the quieted room.

“To-go, please.”

Months later, Mom-Mau’s craving chicken fingers and asks me to take her to the same restaurant. Maybe she’s forgotten about the whole thing. Success! I love old people. She disappears for a minute to grab her purse. I feel like I have a clean slate–unsullied by my vehicular faux pas. Mom Mau shuffles back to the kitchen.

“Oh, and Matt?”

“Yes?”

“This time, let’s stay on the right side of the road.”

***

Two years after Mom-Mau died, I mention the story to Dad, assured that she’d told him. But as he gasps for breath between laughs, I realize she hadn’t said a thing, just like I’d asked.

“She took that one to the grave, bless her soul.”

And my atheistic self can only respond, lump in throat, with a decided “Yup.”

***

Rarely do I blame Mom-Mau for anything, especially after everything I put her through. But my slight obsession with dollar store merchandise is high among the few. After Pop-Pop died, Mom-Mau came to live with us in Alabama. And while the first few years were punctuated with health problems and depression from losing her lifelong counterpart, Mom-Mau and I maintained a very simple routine.

Most high-schoolers didn’t typically spend their Saturdays hanging with grandma. But Mom-Mau was different. She might’ve been sixty years my senior, but her eyes sparkled with mischief and spontaneity.

Then again, maybe “spontaneous” isn’t the best descriptor for routine dollar store runs. But every visit would seem like a new adventure. Maybe I took too much enjoyment out of seeing our cart fill with the same standbys: Kleenex, paper towels, Palmolive, softener sheets. But I think I just liked her company.

What I enjoyed most, though, was that we’d end each trip at the candy aisle–disproportionately larger than more critical foodstuffs, exactly as it should be.

“Go ahead and pick out a few bags for yourself,” Mom-Mau would say, shuffling over to examine the York peppermint patties and Reese’s, jabbing them with an arthritic finger like they were alive.

I’d inevitably grab a bag of Riesen’s and orange slices, both of which I’d become accustomed to snacking on during junk food binges with Mom-Mau. Although I never really understood the appeal of Werther’s Originals like she did, we both agreed wholeheartedly that marshmallow circus peanuts were never to be trusted nor, for that matter, consumed.

We’d unload our spoils at home and settle in for The Price is Right–me on Mom-Mau’s bed with bags of candy spread across the faded floral comforter, and Mom-Mau sitting in her pillow-cushioned rocker, three feet from the TV.

“You want some orange slices?”

I’d know full well she’d refuse the first time.

“Nah, not right now. Thanks, though.”

She’d keep her eyes on the spinning wheel, rise slightly in her chair, and groan as the participant barely missed the dollar slot.

A few minutes would pass before the rustling of my hands in the candy bags would get to be too much. With her eyes still firmly affixed to the TV, she’d cave.

“Well, yeah, I’ll have a few.”

I’d get up, walk the bag over to where she gently rocked, and wait until she peeled her eyes off the TV long enough to take out a few handfuls. And then we’d be set.

It’d been the same way with Pop-Pop in the Poconos. He’d be stretched across the threadbare, squeaky living room sofa, drifting in and out of sleep as Laura and I sat rapt in The Young and the Restless or a Lifetime movie. But the minute Mom-Mau would make us something and bring it over from the kitchen–setting it down without much to-do or expecting any thanks–and we’d begin munching, Pop-Pop’s head would pop up.

“Hey, whadda ya got there?” he’d ask, his hair askew, glasses crooked, and stomach poking slightly out from under his stretched-out V-neck tee.

“Carrots with Ranch.”

“Oh, okay,” he’d respond, lowering his head. But never more than three minutes later, he’d call, “Mary, how ’bout some of that carrots and Ranch?”

Before he’d finish asking, Mom-Mau would hand him his own plate.

As I got older, Mom-Mau’s and my shared love of food translated into ad hoc cooking lessons over bubbling pasta fagioli, stuffed cabbage, Italian salad, spaghetti and meatballs; the baked goods: chocolate-chip pecan pie, nut-rolls, Michigan rocks, fudge, butter cookies. Our culinary memories were forged through homemade dough and high fructose corn syrup–no waffling, no snobbery; we’d liked both worlds. But as delicious as those creations were, we’d always bond over our dollar store excursions.

Despite their usually absurd, crappy contents, I fervently defend dollar stores from friends who think they’re vile. Which is probably why I make most dollar store runs alone. But I actually prefer it that way.

For me, each one is a memory center of sorts. Crossing the threshold, I feel like a younger version of myself, always looking around for that stooped elderly woman puttering around, poking candy bags.

***

On a recent trip, I pick up a role of aluminum foil– “aluminium foil,” as Mom-Mau would say–toss a kitchen spoon into the basket, and proceed to the checkout counter. But as the cashier rings me up, I hesitate. Maybe it’s because dollar store cashiers have repeatedly mistaken me for Josh Groban and have asked for autographs.

But this time, that’s not it.

“I forgot something. I’ll be right back.”

Returning a minute later, I toss it onto the counter.

“Is that it?”

“That’s all.”

She totals the order, then slides the Riesen’s into my bag.

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