Used to be a time when Saturday night would roll around and I would have to be doing something. Going out to movies or a bar. Visiting friends. Entertaining. Something...anything. After all, it's Saturday.
It's funny. As I get older, I can actually tolerate being home with nothing to do. Still feels a little weird, but I'm relaxed.
I write this at 10:30 p.m. There's a golden glow from the lamps in my living room, which have parchment-colored shades. The lights on the lanai have orange bulbs (thanks to my ex) and I have golden orange candles on the patio table. The doors to the house are open and I have Toni Lynn Washington, an amazing Boston-based blues singer, going on the iPod.
It's in the 80s, there's a nice breeze. I'm nekkid out by the pool. And I'm alone with nothing to do and nowhere to be.
While moving my study, I came across a large cardboard box filled with photos. Mikes, mine, ours. All co-mingled. He had obviously forgotten about them.
When we talked the other day, I mentioned the box and he asked me to send him what was his.
So last night, sitting on the floor of my study for an hour or so, I went through well more than a hundred envelopes of photos.
There were pictures of the houses and apartments that we had had over 17 years. Photos from our "honeymoon" to St. Thomas in 1988. Trips to Florida, San Francisco, P-Town and New Orleans.
The last two batches of pictures brought back wonderful memories of a friend we had in those days. John lived in the same apartment complex as we back in the early 90s. We met him within days of moving into that apartment and struck up a nice friendship. We moved a couple of years later, and as often happens, we lost touch. I'd bump into him here and there, but it was never the same.
Seeing those pictures and remembering what a kind, genuine, fun guy John is, I was moved to try and find him. Google to the rescue. I typed in his name and the second hit led me to a skating club where John serves as an instructor (he's a former professional figure skater) and a board member.
I sent an email to the generic board of directors email address, asking whoever read it to forward the message to John.
Well, this morning at 9:15, up pops an email from him in my inbox. He was surprised and delighted that I had found him. We exchanged numbers and I will plan on calling him this weekend.
One of the beautiful things about life, in my opinion, is how people and come in and out, and very often, back in, to our lives. Sometimes they reappear for a brief moment. Other times, they come back for good.
I also found a single photo of another friend -- Charlene -- from that same time period. In the picture she was wearing a flannel nightshirt of mine while ironing clothes. I actually remember when it was taken.
I walked into the bathroom to pee. I didn't turn the light on as there was enough illumination from the hallway.
After lifting the cover to the toilet, I heard splashing.
WTF?
I turned on the light and there, swimming in the bowl, was a frog. Yes, a frog.
I freaked a bit and called John, not knowing what to do.
(Side story...many years ago I created a fictional character called Kissy the Frog. Mike and I used to make up stories about the adventures of Kissy. So John, when he stopped laughing at me, asked if it was Kissy. I said, no, Kissy is green and this frog is a tanish color. John started howling and said, "So it's Pissy the Frog!")
"Can I flush it? It came up that way, so it should go back down that way."
Yes, he assured, me. Flush it.
I love frogs and other creatures. I just don't love them in my toilet.
I realized that I haven't posted one of my "Random Thought Thursdays" in months and months. So here goes:
Getting There: Since my ex has been gone, I've had to pay attention to the pool (that was his project). After checking chemicals last night, I looked at the temp. The water's up to 80 degrees -- my absolute minimum for swimming. Now I can go back to my nightly dips before bed.
Shaggy Dog: Eric, my hair stylist, decided to become a flight attendant. He owns the hair salon, so he's still cutting hair. He left for training for six weeks, but said he would email when he was back. The other night, while balancing my checkbook, I realized it had been eight weeks since my last cut. But I could tell just by looking in the mirror -- I look like a shaggy dog! I hate it. On my way home tonight, I called the shop to inquire when he was going to be back. His majesty himself answered the phone. I was polite but wanted to wring his neck! Anyway, I have an appointment for a cut and highlights tonight. Not a moment too soon.
Guests: Martin is coming for Memorial Day! Bernardo may arrive a week later! Then Kathy and Mike come for their second annual Fourth of July in Fort Lauderdale getaway! I'm really psyched.
Outrageous: I thought about going to NYC next weekend for a respite from everything that's been going on. It's time for my annual theater orgy anyway. But airfare and two nights of hotel would run me about $1,400. Add in taxis, meals and theater tickets, and two days in New York becomes a week on a Baltic cruise like I'm taking this summer. I guess NYC will have to wait.
My house has three bedrooms. The master is where I sleep, of course. Of the other two bedrooms, one has black carpeting, the other, beige. The former was my ex's music studio, while the latter was my study.
When he moved out the first time in the fall of 2006, I moved my study into the black room. It's the larger of the two, although not by much. Plus I like the black carpeting with my white bookcases and black metal and glass desk. The smaller room became a guest bedroom.
Five months later, my ex moved back in. So my study and I retreated to the smaller room so he could have the black room for his bedroom.
Now he's left for good and the migration has started yet again.
It may not sound like a big deal, but let me explain. There are three bookcases attached to one another; combined they are six feet tall and nine feet wide. Filled with hundreds and hundreds of books and CDs. (I collect gay-themed fiction and could start my own library. Most of the CDs have been ripped into iTunes, but I can't bring myself to get rid of the hard media.) The closet has two more bookcases filled with files and assorted crap. The desk is the least of the challenge, as it is in three pieces and not overly burdened with stuff.
So let's just say that this is a project. The last two times I did it, I had help. But I'm flyin' solo now. I have to get it done because Martin arrives in two weeks, so the guest room has to be restored.
This swapping of rooms is a metaphor for my state of mind these past few days. I'm missing John terribly and I keep second guessing my decision to leave. Was I taking my reasons for breaking up and blowing them way out of proportion? Did I overlook all that was good great?
Despite having relationship experience after being with Mike for 17 years, he was my first and only LTR. Do I really know what makes a good partnership?
Am I a fool?
Even though moving books and bookcases is a bitch of a chore, it's nothing like what's going through my mind.
After two years, I find myself single again. And I have no one to blame but myself.
I'm not going to say much out of respect for John. What I will do, though, is draw a comparison to a fictional gay couple.
If you've ever watched Brothers & Sisters (ABC, Sundays at 10 p.m.), you know the gay couple Kevin and Scotty. Kevin is one of the brothers, completely self-absorbed yet well meaning. Scotty, his boyfriend, is sweet, kind, generous, warm, funny and totally wonderful.
I'm Kevin to John's Scotty. And I just couldn't keep playing that role.
Anyone know a good scriptwriter who can overhaul my character?
After work the other day, I needed to unwind. I haven't been feeling so hot this week, so I felt the need to escape into myself for a bit.
Sometimes I turn to comfort food. A bowl of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese Deluxe can do wonders for the soul (let's not discuss the waistline, shall we?).
But it's not only comfort food. Sometimes it can be comfort music. There's a few artists that, over the years, have become a refuge for me.
Music can transport us to earlier times. Places, people, feelings and emotions.
So I grabbed the iPod from the car and retreated into the music of a flame that goes back to the eighties: Laura Branigan. (Martin is rolling his eyes right about now. He's knows what's coming next.)
I have a Branigan playlist that comprises of hits and my personal favorites. Usually, I'll start at the beginning, but this time, I went to the exact place I needed to go.
Gloria, you're always on the run now Running after someone, you gotta get him somehow I think you've got to slow down before you start to blow it I think you're headed for a breakdown, so be careful not to show it.
Ah, I'm back in the early 80s. Rumsellers on a Saturday night with Liz and Jean and Liz. Sometimes Martin, Mark and my sister. Dancing from 10 p.m. to 2 p.m. Gloria always making her appearance right after "Mickey." Liz and I on the dance floor -- always Liz -- with our own choreography.
So here I am, 25 years later, doing my Tom Cruise thing in underwear and socks in the privacy of my family room.
Once Gloria and I finished our duet, I scanned back to the beginning of the playlist and let it do its thing.
A few songs into it I stopped and listened carefully to lyrics. This song, too, took me to some memories, rather poignant ones. It was a little-known song that Laura recorded, on an album called Touch. (As I recall, there was only one song -- "Shattered Glass" -- from that album that ever got any radio play.)
But this is the one that I stopped to listen to the other night.
The days grow old like winters that creep slowly past And the love grows cold like icicles against the glass Now everything around me has changed The magic of your touch remains And I stand here feeling naked Like a statue in the rain A statue in the rain Statue in the rain Calling out your name
A photograph, a window to another time As I watch the past, I feel your body dance to mine Now everything about you has changed The phantom only feeds the flame So I stand here feeling naked Just like a statue in the rain A statue in the rain Statue in the rain Calling out your name
The lyrics go on, but you get the picture. The song has a really beautiful melody.
All of this put me in a good mood, ready to hit the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival that night with John and Cary. (Lots of posts to come soon about that.)
The other day I blamed the ghost of Ray for stealing and then returning a favorite tie. I also suggested that maybe John was behind it.
Well, I was sorta right about John.
We were out last night and I mentioned it to him. He said, yes, he was the one who put it there. He had found the tie crumpled on the floor of the closet behind some pillows.
That still doesn't explain lights turning on and mysterious stains.
My house has had one previous set of owners: Ray and Alice.
The bought the house when it was built in 1991. Ray died in 2002, and then Alice sold it to Mike and me a year later.
I think Ray is back.
Ever since Mike moved out a couple of weeks ago, I've noticed a couple of weird things.
1. There have been two mornings now that I have gotten up to find a light on in the family room. Two of my lights are on timers, but this particular one isn't. And I KNOW I turned it off the previous night.
2. Yesterday, I noticed a stain and drip marks high up on the wall of my bedroom. Just about an inch below the ceiling. They were kinda dark -- the color of cola. But there was nothing on the ceiling. So how did it get there?
3. Then this morning, while selecting a tie to wear to work, I found a Calvin Klein tie that's been missing for months. I had been looking for it, as it is one of the few that go with a particular jacket. I searched high and low, and now, all of a sudden, there it hangs, crumpled. (I suspect John may be to blame on this one.)
WTF?
I don't really believe in ghosts, but you never know.
