What is Love? Baby Don't Hurt Me...

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Love is like oxygen!

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Or so we're led to believe, aren't we? When you're growing up, love is a weird lesson to learn. Even as a small child, kissy faces, being told to tell people you love them (we even start this with babies learning to talk--"Do you love momma? Say I love you Momma!"). Then the movies, stories, television commercials, billboards... Love is advertised as everything and anything, the most ultimate prize and goal, the way things should be, with that special person, your soul mate...

As you get older? First crushes... teases and questions from family... more movies...

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Love lifts us up where we belong!

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And let's not forget other factors... Eternal love and all that... Unconditional love... Unrequited love... So many kinds! It's like you go from the simple shit most of us experience (parental love, sibling love, etc...) to all these other loves... boyfriend or girlfriend... best friend... random acts... And so you filter these through your brain while others growing up around you (and not around you, the world over) get their definitions of "love" through their cultural examples and families and friends... Everything is tainted and rose-colored-lensed and culturally based and you run in to more and more differing types of people with differing backgrounds and different concepts...

And the whole while you are supposed to find your "perfect match," your "one and only."

The romantic in me loves (there's that word again) that notion... The realist in me scoffs at it. The jaded grumpy old man in me says "Pshaw! Get off my lawn!"

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All you need is love!

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 I am a firm believer in unconditional love. I think if you profess love, and dissect your feelings and find a person you may be compatible with, you take them, faults and all, to the end...

Or, at least, I used to. My defition has changed a bit after this last go 'round...

Not that I think you can't love unconditionally. But "love" is not "like," and "love" is not "love" if said love makes you unhappy... And I'm also not a proponent of happiness being a goal either--happiness isn't and shouldn't be anyone's goal, in my opinion. Contentment? With what you have? But being able to still desire the best you can have while content with what you already do possess? It's a mix of all that, sure...

But one thing is clearer to me now, something no one had ever told me until very recently... You can love someone and still not put up with behaviors and actions that are harmful to them and you--especially you. You can love someone and not have to live with someone. You can love someone? And sever all ties with them.

And that's okay.

And it's also okay to find love again, as long as you remember lessons of the past, while keeping hope for the future...

What is love? It's a complicated fucking ideal that is simultaneously unattainable and still realistic. It's scary and weird and childish, yet still one of the most adult choices you can make. It leaves you strong AND vulnerable, nervous AND confident, giddy AND somber...

And as I once again embark on a new chapter and journey, fear-filled, anxious, excited, vulnerable, and stronger? I once again ask myself "What is love?"

And my heart whispers back Baby, don't hurt me... don't hurt me no more...

Once Upon a Time...

No, no... scratch that...

It was a dark and stormy night...?

No... Definitely not that...

Remember back in the day, before a buffoon was in charge of the United States?

It's hard to remember sometimes, I know.. and it's only been ten insanely ludicrous months...

Feels like forever... And writing? Well... it's a lot like exercise. You don't do it a lot, you get kind of rusty and creaky and before you know it, you sound like Rice Krispie cereal waking up in the morning...

Okay, I sound like Rice Krispies anyway when I wake up in the morning.

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Jason 3.0: Now With Sound Affects!

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So getting back in to this isn't quite like riding a bicycle, but also not quite like how a three year old knows instinctively how to reprogram and update your latest smart phone. Life has changed so drastically from the minute details all the way up through the grand picture of the forest, sometimes it's hard to know where to begin. Change the look and feel of the blog? Find a new blog platform? Just write long statuses on facebook so people can "TL/DR" it?

But I missed this. Quiet evenings, breeze from the west, traffic moving in the background, cats lounging, dogs (if Chihuahuas still count as dogs, that is) on either side pressing against my hips, sipping an iced coffee, and writing whatever pops into my head, whether a story, something religious or political, a short "Dear Diary" type entry...

I did this for me. Only for me. This was mine... And is again mine. I have the quiet moments again. Have reclaimed my time, as it were, from the chaos and imminent and spontaneous problems and issues that seemed to happen weekly, if not daily...

To be able to just sit and be...

I used to think it was silence that I valued above all else. Having grown up in a quite (not chaotic but) loud home, silence was always hard to come by... four other siblings all close in age, most (if not all) of my mother's immediate family on the same country road (in spitting distance, as they say), there was never a shortage of family and loudness...

I find it's actually a lack of chaos I crave most. I can block out noise pretty good, ignore sounds, other people, music, video games... (Thanks, family!) One thing we never had to worry about growing up was imminent danger or unexpected chaos. Our home may have been loud and with spontaneous moments large families always create, but there was never a worry about disasters and emergencies, not that I was aware of anyway. Most drama surrounded who was arguing with who in the family, or what sibling had taken another siblings toy or item without asking. There was a steady rhythm of stability. Not calm, not silent, but stable.

I like stable. I crave stable. I need stable.

And coffee. Obviously.

And while I cannot create a stable, normal, calm government for my fellow Americans (or the rest of the world), I can, and am, creating a stable environment for myself, in so much as I am able. I can't tell what the future holds. I know Mississippi now thinks people can willy-nilly discriminate against The Gays because "Jesus" (see here), and given the current political climate, who am I to say whether my world here in Florida will remain calm and stable? The oh-so-poor-and-persecuted "Christians" may target my lovely state next for a fascist rebellion against fellow Americans...

But until then?

I shall be calm. Stable. Serene when I can... and blog...

Once upon a time...

Jason 3.0

Life...

& Otherwise...

It still amazes me how life twists and turns unexpectedly...

But then again, I'm not crazy... And I have a therapist to prove it... However, my taste in men notwithstanding, 10 months post-breakup, 6 months post his moving out (hella long story there)? If anything, I'm a hopeless, helpless romantic...

The therapist said I wouldn't be single long... not because I'm all that and a bag of chips, not because I get lonely, not because I have emotional issues around being with someone... I tend to make up my mind quickly when I like something... I'm not one to stay on the pot, as it were. I'm there, I shit, I move on. Lessons learned, but as we all know, some lessons need to be relearned in under circumstances, with new kinds of crazy...

Are there new kinds of crazy? Well, new to me... After years with a paranoid-schizo, this last time with bipolar ADHD, the new one seems to have the same issues I do. We like what we like, we don't take compliments well (though we try), we've both been burned by the exes and dealt with drug abuse, emotional abuse, mental abuse... It sucks that I do tend to have battered wife syndrome, constantly apologetic, increased heart rate and concern whenever a car drives by with uber-loud speakers at any point of the day...

What the fuck has happened to me?

Ugh. Making it through. Dealing, talking, finding the me moments again... Can I just say how stress-free it is to be able to walk around my bed again? To have books on bookcases again? To see my floor, even though I still hate that it's white and always looks dirty?

I can see my dirty floors and that makes me happy.... File that under sentences you don't hear every day...

I don't have near the patience I used to have. Not even close.

I still have a trusting naive streak, to be sure. Sometimes I love this part of my personality, sometimes not so much.

I still love sitting outside and listening to the rain.

I love my chihuahuas, even though they aren't mine by choice but by circumstance, and I'll still tell you they are the most annoying little shits ever created by mankind... but I love them regardless. I will have a real dog again one day, though, and never again own a dog under 20 pounds. Fucking chihuahuas...

I still have dreams. I will own a house, though I've certainly been set back. I will marry a man I love one day, and he will love me back the way every human should be loved.

I'm still afraid of failure.

I'm still afraid of getting into "trouble," though at 41 years old, you would think I'd have kicked that stupid fear to the curb by now... Ugh... grow up religious with a meek, naive, trusting personality... you'll understand.

I still love to read, draw, and garden. I'm sprouting three avocado trees as I type this, along with a myriad of tropical and subtropical plants I still don't know most of the names of six years later after moving to Florida, but I love growing them nonetheless.

I still love love.

I still adore upbeat music with a steady beat and a catchy melody. I also still love a good angry rock song when the mood calls for it.

I still like me, although I don't think I've ever really loved me like I do these days. It's rough growing up thinking you have to be perfect as Jesus was perfect. You hear it every day for 18 years, it does something to a brain. Religion fucks with everyone though. (Cue excuses about religion versus "spirituality" and the like... and then insert my mega-eye roll...)

I will always, always roll my eyes. That much I can guarantee is unavoidable and genetically ingrained into my being...

What is it to be a normal, functioning human?

I'm not sure anyone knows, but a lot of people like to pretend to know.What I do know is that I'm about as normal as I'm ever gonna be.

I'm still going to need the Lady of Shallot print above my couch in the living room, no matter where I live, as long as I live...

I'm still going to need to have bookcases filled with books, with subjects as vast and different as there are subjects to write and read about.

I'm still going to have to have pizza every week.

I realize these aren't needs and are very much first-world problems, as it were.

Saying "need" when it should be "want" is also a pet peeve unless it's me doing the needing/wanting... But we're also all a little hypocritical sometimes too.

I am Jason 3.0.

I am me. I am not perfect. But I'm doing the best I can.

What else is there to do?

This is Life... & Otherwise...

Newness...

This is your couch:

This is your couch on pets:

Any questions?

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After 10 months of living in South Florida, I finally bit the bullet and purchased a sofa. Mind you, please: This is the first couch I've ever purchased. Not only is it the first couch I've ever purchased, it's the first couch that hasn't ever been owned by another family member or friend. (At this realization, I wasn't sure whether to smile or be a little sad, so I smiled a little sadly... I think you can understand...)

It's a step. Albeit only a $35 step, but I've always been a bit frugal and a lover of a great deal--not to mention my fair share of dumpster diving, but something about getting my couch out of an actual dumpster made me a bit squeamish, so I hit up craigslist and garbage nights in the area looking for curb deals, not dumpster deals, and found this navy-blue beauty, complete with queen size sleeper, no tears, no holes, no wear, no smells...

As I look back over the last 10 months here in the so-called Sunshine State, a lot of growing pains were to be had. I could no longer lean on my family except by phone; I could no longer count on my friends except by phone; I had to make myself vulnerable in ways I hadn't since the Army and college, putting myself out there to meet people, make friends, begin a new social network among the living--and it differed even then, because at least in the military and college, everyone there was there for a common purpose (defending country; higher learning), which of course allowed for a foundation of sorts for bonding with these strangers. Here? We had a common plot of land.

I've been hurt, yet I've been rewarded. I've been disappointed at times, and happier than I've ever been at other moments. Depressed beyond my own understanding of self, and elated at coming out knowing myself better. Finding out in news ways how I think, how I feel, what has made me who I am, and what I will allow to continue to make me into who I want to be, or perhaps even what I should be.

And to start with, I have a new couch.

Friendless in Fort Lauderdale...

No, not really. But I do love a good word-ism based off Sleepless in Seatle,, you? Everytime I have an emotion, I want to say "I'm intrigued in Idaho!" or "I'm bored in Boston!" 

Hmm...

I know, I know, I know...You're all "Where has he been? What's going on? I'm lost without him!!! And--does that mean he's traveling what he just said up there? Boston? Idaho? What the fuck???"

Okay, perhaps you're not lost. After all, we live in a world of TomTom's, google navigator's, and mapquests. Who the fuck gets lost these days?

Well, besides complete noodle heads...

No, you see, I was tending to my dying dog, Hawthorne. For some weeks now, he had been battling kidney and liver failure, and no amount of medicines and treatments were making his old thirteen-year-old body respond. Needless to say, besides being an emotional wreck, the apartment itself became a bit of one. It's not pretty when your old dog begins to lose control of his... "movements." But as he had been my constant and faithful companion for thirteen years, there was no way I was going to be punishing him for something he couldn't control, you know?

I know you know... 

It's been hard. Trying. Difficult. Death always is. Death kind of sucks that way. It tends to leave the living behind, filled with memories, emotions, feelings, thoughts, regrets...

A whole jumbly-wumbly mess of humanity staring at what used to be another living being--a friends, a relative, a pet--whatever or whoever it was, we the living must cope with ourselves and others who survive at the time, deal with both those who are trying to be helpful and consoling as well as those who think death is an opportune time to... Well, let's just say "assholes" and leave it at that, shall we? No, one step further--death, for the record, is not...

Not!

NOT

--the time to be telling me about your gods, your beliefs, your whatever fuzzy-warm thing gets you through the night... It may be consoling to YOU, but you should know it is NOT consoling to me (if you do, indeed, KNOW me...) and all it makes me want to do is take note to avoid you in the future...

I should clarify, however, that I do not take offense to "Now he's with my dog in doggie heaven" and whatnot... That's fine. I don't believe it, but that's neither here nor there. What I *am* offended by is, "Maybe this is making you think about your own immortal soul and where you might be headed? Hmm?"

I told them to go there. It made me feel better. Feel free to judge me on that point. :)

Irregardless (which, as an annoying little fact most people don't know, isn't actually a proper word as "regardless" means the exact same thing, has less syllables, and is a bit less confusing for those who tend to dissect every little nuance sputtered through the lips of others), in the midst of crying like a baby, I managed to throw together a little "In Memorial" video of my Hawthorne, which I share with you below (although I dare say most of you have seen it on facebook, as not too many of my readers are NOT on facebook) so feel free not to hit "Play" again if you don't feel like having tears spill all over your keyboard again...

Speaking of annoying little facts, it boggles my brain that more people don't run around sharing annoying little facts. I realize that being half-nerd means I'm prone to these types of things--Jeopardy-isms if you will--but stuff I find, in my own mind, to be common knowledge usually isn't, and is usually accompanied by a strange look or a shrug of the shoulders or a nervous giggle... What's that about? Don't you want to know useless bits of trivia? Don't stupid facts of non-everyday life intrigue your brain? Tickle the neurons? 

Hmm... 

Oh well... That was slightly off-topic, but my mind has been scattered more than usual lately (and I hope, understandably), and sometimes I feel like shouting "Squirrel!" every time I realize it... It doesn't help, but it makes the awkward looks a bit more amusing...

Anyway, my tribute to my friend:



Until next time, fellow lifer...

Spare Change...

I have never met so many beggars in all my live-long days…

At every intersection, people are walking in between the parked cars. In front of every store, you hear “Got some spare change?” or “Hey, got a dollar or two?” Pumping gas the other day, a gentleman approached and said, “Hey, help a brother out—I just need to catch the bus to Jacksonville. Got a few bucks?” (Because I look like a brother, I suppose. My parents gave me two brothers through natural childbirth, and my sisters have me two brothers through marriage. I need more brothers like I need another hole in my head.)

I’m still unsure where they get the markers and the cardboard for making their signs and am convinced there’s an underground black-market for markers for the homeless… Have you priced markers lately? They aren’t the cheapest things in the dollar store…

My favorite is the guy who stands in front of Publix on Federal Avenue who denounces the mob…. Or is it the Mafia? Either way, I’m assuming he thinks he’s unemployed due to the Mob/Mafia. I’m like, “Hello, if the Mob/Mafia really were out to get you, you’d be dead!” But there he stands almost every day, switching out this cardboard sign for that cardboard sign, all the while thinking he’s making some kind of change in the world while hoping spare change will come his way…

What an odd phrase: “spare change.” Imagine if every time a major change happened in the world, there was just some “spare change” hanging around. Like we could save it up and then force change in the direction we wanted instead of just reacting to it thusly…

And I just love, love, LOVE the dirty looks they give me, like they’re entitled to the spare change in my pockets (as if I’m in the habit of carrying a shitload of coins in my pocket!) and it is I who am the failed human being for not handing it out like I can spare all the money in the world. Trust me, I wish I could! But when you have a billion homeless and unemployed standing around at every corner, every store, every stop light? Yeah, I started saying “no” about a week after I got here. It’s an automatic response now, which in a way saddens me. The last thing I want is a callous, hard-hearted attitude toward my fellow man, especially those who actually do need the help! But I’m stuck in that old Catch-22 that is American life: Help the helpless, but look down on those who can’t pull themselves up by their own bootstraps! Charity and Condemnation all rolled into one way of life.

And the cigarette bumming? That also is an automatic “No!” now, granted a little more vehemently than the standard “change” query. They’re expensive, dammit! Buy your own goddamn cigarettes! One woman, standing right behind the gas station, peeked her head out as I was walking back toward my car. “Hey, mister, can I bum one?” As she said it, she lifted her skirt ever so slightly, as if promising sexual favors for a cigarette. A look of disgust must have crossed my face (I’ve never been that good at impromptu-emotional-face-blockage) as I blurted, “I just got the freaking pack!” I got a double-fingered California wave and a “Faggot!” before she disappeared back behind the “has seen better days” wall of the gas station… Something tells me she’s seen better days as well. Be that as it may…

Ewwww!

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Last night the BED and I spent a few hours watching some of the few home videos’ my one sister made for me over the years. Seeing the pics and small video clips of everyone back home made me a little teary-eyed. Yet it also made me realize how much happier I am. As I looked at some of those old pictures and photos of myself (more over weight, looking older, tired, worn out) I realized I am happier and more content overall then I was back home. Not that this is a reflection on my family and friends—some of the best a person could ever ask for on this green earth! It had a lot to do with circumstances, both in and out of my control, and a need for some of that spare change that had been lying around, unused and neglected.

I made the change. And I couldn’t be happier.

Now if I could just find ways to market that? I’d be able to hand out some to all the homeless in the greater Fort Lauderdale area…

So to both monetary and intangible spare change… A toast…

Moving On Up (Moving On Up!)To the East Side...

Okay, okay, OKAY! More like the south side. I get it, jeez...

So, honestly, where do these moneyless homeless people get the markers? Do they hold up blank pieces of cardboard until someone donates a marker, and then they get to come up with whatever it is they're begging for? Don't get me wrong--I know they aren't homeless because they're lazy, or stupid, or what-have-you. It sometimes happens to the best of people! But seriously--where are they getting the markers? Is there a "Place a Marker/Take a Marker" bin near homeless alleys? Do they save up that first donation just to buy a pack at the dollar store? What's the deal there? Maybe Sharpie has some type of tax-write-off deal for donating markers to the needy? Who knows...

Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?

Then there are the shitheads that pull out in front of you just to slam on the brakes twenty-five feet further down the road and make you slam on the brakes again while they wait to make that all-important left turn into the adult bookstore... Do they charge late fees at adult bookstores? Is it imperative you not wait for an actual break in traffic because those extra five minutes will mean Debbie Does Dallas won't be rented by someone in a desperate way because you were that late in returning it? And why are they called adult bookstores when really they are adult video stores? Is that just a PA thing?

Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Bueller?

And, I'm not sure why this crosses my mind at this moment, but I betcha there's a whole subculture of turtles that just don't get that turtlenecks are not made from actual turtle necks, and thus their protests are more than just a tad useless... But it does beg the question as to where the turtles are getting their markers for their protest signs...

Irregardless (which is just a fancy way of saying "Regardless"...), in five more days I blow this popsicle stand (which is a "I'm hiding my true emotions" way of saying "Sweet Jesus I'm gonna miss these people, but not the weather"...), and I still have so much to do that I honestly shouldn't be blogging at this moment, but I find it easier to deal with emotion by spewing the written word... Which is odd as I was told just a few short days ago that communication is my "biggest issue."

Figures... I may actually have to stop a homeless guy and ask him where he gets the markers. I may take up cardboard signage instead of blogging... THEN we'll see who can't communicate...

Be that as it may, as I look forward to my new life, my new beau (not to be confused with an old beau named Beaux who is coming to Florida with me--also known to the current roomie as that black-headed step child...), my new digs, and my new office, I can't help but grin ear to ear, while simultaneously shedding a tear...

Damn, I'm gonna miss these people...

I'm moving on south...

Falling...

Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife...

And you think you've found the knife...

And it isn't the butter knife, or the carving knife, or the fillet knife, but the steak knife...

And your heart is the steak...

(Granted, this probably isn't a post for vegans...)

But the feeling is there...

And all that can go through your head is, "I'm usually so rational, so reasoned, so analytical..."

But there it is...

and you can't not take that chance and run with it. Because it feels right, and it seems right, and you were so alone and so miserable for so long that if you don't jump at the chance, you will regret it, and you know it will be a mistake if you don't...

And you can't really explain it, because it doesn't make sense in a logical, rational way...

And your friends and your family, wanting to hope for the best for you, but also not wanting you to dive off a cliff only to realize no one put up the net? You see that concern and you see that love, and you love them for it...

But you have to go for it...

I spent so many years waiting for someone else, so many years waiting, hoping, trying to help and...

And then you had to leave...

And your heart broke all over again because you knew it was final, it was the end, and you thought, "Well, it's just not meant to be..."

And it may be a rebound, but you're pretty sure it isn't, but feelings are fickle things, and your mind reels and your heart sputters and your feet tap in nervous happiness, and the potential and hope for beautiful, wonderful things is there and the faith you thought you lost is there again, and it's screaming at you, "YES! YES! You need to do this! You need to be there, you need to make this happen!"...

I'm falling...

I'm 99% sure I'll be caught...

But again, it is falling...

And it's scary and nerve-wracking and emotionally raw and very new and exciting and...

And there it is...

Falling...

and enjoying it...

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Anne Shirley: Good morning, Mrs. Harris.
Mrs. Harris: Walking as if we owned the world, are we?
Anne Shirley: So I do.

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Anne Shirley: I feel as though someone's handed me the moon... and I don't exactly know what to do with it.

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Another Day in the Life...

My dog continues to astound with his twelve-year-old prowess. You wouldn't think a 50-pound oldie like him would be into jumping up onto a 36-inch high dining room table just to watch me drive away from the house, would you?

You also wouldn't think that a dog's claws could leave such deep grooves in the wood of said dining room table...

Regardless, I have a most gracious host, and I have already found her a replacement dining room table that I will be picking up next Friday. Needless to say, I will not be putting said table together until I hand her back her house keys on March 30th as I migrate south for the duration of the next foreseeable stage of my life.

I've decided to bring the dog with me anyway. (Who am I kidding? Like it was ever a question!) On the bright side, I won't have any furniture for him to clamber and climb and leap onto for at least the first week of living in my new digs--besides my bedroom set, that is, and that, at least, should make him feel at home 1,500 miles away from any other home he's ever known. I'm hoping that same amount of comfort will be transferred to myself...

Beaux, on the other hand, seems to handle everything in stride. He could care less as I drive away in the morning, as long as he has food. You have to love the love of a cat. That UN-neediness is sometimes preferable.

For those who haven't yet seen, here are some pics of my new place (that I have yet to see in person):

Zee building...

Zee pool...

Zee door on zee left back corner, ground floor, is mine...

Zee living room, looking toward zee kitchen (left) and bathroom (right) and bedroom door (extreme right)...

Zee purple tub of wonder...

Standing in zee kitchen, looking toward front of living room...

Zee backyard with funny-looking wind chime holder...

Right side of zee kitchen, awaiting my culinary expertise...

Left side of zee kitchen, awaiting my dishpan hands...

I know, I know--you're all kinds of gaga over the tub, right? As one of my friends put it, that's "lavender," not "purple."

Tomato, to-mah-to. :) Truth be told, I'm just happy to have that tiny back yard complete with funky tree to hang my wind chimes on. I've been missing them like I never thought I would. (Here's hoping the new neighbor's like them just as much!)

Be that as it may, we are now at the 5 week countdown. In 5 weeks I leave for the south, no one knowing if ever to return (excepting major family events and holidays, of course!)

I'm just hoping I like it. I want to like it there. I want this to be a lovely new chapter, filled with... Well, not puppies, kittens, and rainbows--I have those in spades! But contentment. Perhaps some comfort. A bit of joy. And a killer tan. (Please spare me the skin cancer talk... Thanks!)

I am working out again, once again reaching for the never-having-before-attained-killer-six-pack (which I know I might not have in time for beach season), and I've got a pretty general new routine down living here with the roomie. But there's a short list (and growing) of other things, other hobbies, I will gradually incorporate into my daily routine (fingers crossed) including jogging, walking the dog, and a promise to myself to hit the beach once a month now that I'll be living within spitting distance (if by spitting distance we mean a five-minute drive or hurricane-force winds at my back at the time of expectoration).

In the meantime? I'll just be happy if my dog stays off the furniture...

In a Neighborhood Near You...

I can't sleep. Not because clowns will eat me or anything. That's one thing I can certainly say has never made me shake in the metaphorical boots people keep going on about.

What has me shaking (in boots that I can only imagine are made out of snakeskin and look great on cowboys that I don't sleep with, though not by choice but most probably because of region) is the fact that my life now occupies a ten foot by 5 foot by 6 foot square in one corner of what will no longer be my living room. I'm sitting on a chair that will no longer be mine, typing on a keyboard that will no longer be mine, on a blog that hasn't been mine lately but is now being reclaimed, among other things.

Now let me be clear-- Hmm, now I'm channeling Obama...

Let me say this, then: I know I will be fine. "Fine," of course, being one of those words used to answer the questions of life that no one really cares to ponder too deeply, lest they learn something about themselves or others that may make them uncomfortable. So perhaps "fine" isn't what I'm trying to convey.

I will land on my cowboy-bootless feet. I will find love and happiness again. I will make it through these next few weeks and months, mourning the relationship and husband I'm leaving behind in my own way (which I'm also sure I'll learn how to mourn a 12.5 year relationship), learning once again how to be alone and enjoy my own company.

Some of this I'm greatly looking forward too. But there are definite things I will miss, not only about having a companion, but having had this specific companion. There will always be things I love about him, always memories I will cherish to my dying day, and always a place in my heart that he will reside in.

This is probably a given, and shouldn't need said, but I said it anyway, because I know, now that I am leaving, he will be reading.

So be it.

Hundreds, perhaps millions, of other people have gone through this and been "fine," cowboy boots notwithstanding. And even though some may disagree, I'm nothing if not rational and logical, with a dash of dreamer and romantic, with leanings toward optimism--ergo, I will be fine.

But at 1:30 a.m., when your brother and father are to arrive in 7.5 short hours to figure out how to fit your life into their respective vehicles...?

I don't feel fine at the moment. Which, of course, is to be expected in this kind of situation. I think. Maybe.

It's almost a shame Oprah's off the air. Almost. She'd be eating this stuff up, and probably trying to get me onto see Dr. Phil. Wouldn't that be fun?

But I digress.

I've never liked seeing my life in boxes. I'm a nester. I like to see knick-knacks of places I've been, or photos of people I love, or items that were once owned by those I loved. I love rows upon rows of books, separated by subject, alphabetical by author, from earliest to latest work published. Same for my music.

And my closet? I look forward to not sharing a closet! To have my clothing once again in color order, from darkest to lightest, on all wooden hangars, and further separated by season?

I know no one believes that I am a highly-organized person. Well, except those I work with which see me in action, attacking and reorganizing the supply closet, neat stacks of folders on my desk, stapler, scotch tape dispenser, and hole punch neatly lined up to one side of my monitor, little plastic bins for rubber bands, paperclips, and pens.

But most, if not all of my friends, have never known me without the other half, so I can't say I blame them for thinking we're just two big pack rats who can't file a piece of paper to save our lives! It's hard to have a system of organization when someone doesn't use your system of organization. Of course, having been raised by my mother, where I get this need to have everything hyper-organized, I also know that in and of itself can be an unhealthy life, and thus for the last 12.5 years, I haven't once made a stink about it.

Now I don't need to.

Of course, you, dear reader, are reading all this and thinking, "Wait--you're leaving him because he's disorganized and can't hang your clothing in color order?"

Of course not. There's more issues between us than Carter has liver pills. And perhaps, when wounds have healed, when hearts have begun to mend, and people won't see things as an attack but instead as the therapy and venting one needs in life in order to stay sane--then perhaps we can get into those things.

By then Armageddon may have happened, or the Mayans may have annihilated us, or a tsunami may take down the entire East Coast of the United States! But we'll just see how it goes, shall we?

I'm starting up and stepping out into my life. I'll be shedding some tears, perhaps getting too drunk on a few nights in the near future, and maybe even second-guessing decisions that have been made, not just recently, but long past.

But that is how I will grow, and learn, and live again.

I've missed you, blog. I've missed you, my audience (if, indeed, there still be one here waiting patiently for me to get my life back in order).

But mainly? I've been missing me.

And I'm coming back.

Just as soon as I find that apartment and unpack. And get my clothing hung in color order. And my books separated. Alphabetized. Color folder filing system...

Did I mention the new car that goes with my new life? Fucking Bambi. My new life also includes a call for the extermination of all deer. But that will be a short-lived campaign, I'm sure. I'm a sucker for those big doe eyes, like the rest of you.

Hello, world. I'm Jason. Welcome to My Life & Otherwise... Complete without cowboy boots in a neighborhood near you.

New is Old, Old is New... Including T-shirts...

Per my friend Kelly, I'm coming up with a lot of cool T-shirt slogans lately.

It should be noted, of course, that the Daddy of all T-shirts for my new, up-and-coming clothing company, will be a T-shirt that reads "CHB" on the front, and "Cold-Hearted Bastard" on the back. It's a bit of a story that will be even funnier eventually.

Eventually.

Other T-shirt contenders include things like

• A Little Rock Goes a Long Way
• No Matter--I'm Getting Laid Tonight
• Power Bottoms = Top Rated

As I look around my life these days, one week post breakup, even I wouldn't have thought there would be this much newness. There's the new car (unexpected due to a very undear deer experience), the new sleeping quarters (expected), the new clothing (semi-expected--fitting easily into the new size 34 jeans and having them be slightly loose? COMPLETELY unexpected...), the new computer system at work (expected), new cell phone and cell number (to be expected at a Hughes near you...)

More unexpected newness was found in an old place--or, we should say, a friend from many years ago. Thirteen years had passed since I'd seen him last--fifteen years in actuality if we discount the one chance meeting at the local gay bar in Allentown trying to converse for a brief two minutes over booming, rhythmic music.

A lot can change in fifteen years, and things cross your mind at 36 that never even crossed your subconscious at 21 years of age, not the least of which is the fact that at 21, you just assume you're hot; at 36, you need to evaluate that in whole new ways. At 21, you know you aren't good at sex, but more than make up for it in energy and enthusiasm; at 36, you hope you've learned enough to be awesome at sex while retaining that same energy and enthusiasm.

Add to the fact that I haven't been on a date in 13 years, and I was a nervous wreck...

Nervous disaster is probably more accurate.

And then your eyes meet. You forgot they were that stunning light shade. You remember again the way he blushes, even still, with eyes crinkled in disbelief that you do find him more attractive then ever. You remember that chiseled jaw line, the way his nose curved up slightly, and as your hand reaches out to caress his jaw, it remembers automatically how to tilt it just so for that long, deep kiss...

And then you remember that you will have to try to remember that you haven't kissed another man for the last thirteen years. Will this be familiar? Different? And by how much? Will it be that silly awkward teenage make-out type session, with hands fumbling, not knowing where to hit but knowing a target is there somewhere? Or will the past rear up from where it has been buried, and we can pick up just a little of where it had been left?

An evening with an old flame...

People keep asking if this will stop me from moving to Florida, if I feel the need to try to reclaim this past and make it my present and future. I can admit the thought had crossed my own mind, but fleetingly. I know myself well enough at this point in my life to know I'm not only not ready to start a new relationship, unlike 21-year-old self who wanted a relationship come hell or high water. 36-year-old Jason is going to Florida, but for the 2 months he is still in the area, he will enjoy the company of his family and friends, old and new.

Life is just starting again. And while I think a lot of people at my stage in life, just out of a long relationship and beginning to step out again on to the dating scene go through this, reaching out to comfortable people and happier times in the past? I will not be content going backward.

And that's part of what would happen if I did change my mind at this point and not go forward with my current plans. Life would once again stall.

I think I should point out, having a relationship is not "stalling." But I do think you know what I mean. Reaching out and trying to recapture the past, while comforting, cannot sustain one as a means of approaching life. And while all the "newness" of singlehood settles about me, and my self, my personhood, finds ways to cope and deal with what at times is extremely stressful, extremely exciting, and extremely boring in alternating ways, I am finding that excitement is becoming the overriding emotion. While I still harbor sadness and anger and other unresolved emotions from the end of my relationship, it is tempered by a lot of the good and happy memories I carry of him and our past.

My life these past 13 years have not been a mistake--if anything, most of those years are precious and beautiful to me, and always will be. But it is also still too soon to revisit that person and try to foster a friendship, I think. It's only been a week--it's definitely too soon to try to be friends. I am hoping, however, that for the time being, we can be civil, respectful, and not overly emotional.

That's a bit too much to fit on a T-shirt though...

The Growth of a Human Being...

---

“If we're growing, we're always going to be out of our comfort zone.” --John Maxwell

---

First off, let's please note the irony of an atheist quoting an evangelical pastor.

So noted? Good. Moving on...

Now, let's note Spike. He is the 19+ inch tall cactus you see just there on the right. When I received Spike as a gift about 6 years ago, he was two inches tall with a purple plastic flower glued to his top. He was purchased at a grocery store in that section where they retain all things green but not necessarily of the produce persuasion. I was in the hospital having a tumor removed from my spine (benign, of course), and husband knew of my love for all things plant, but not necessarily produce, related. It was one of those "I fall in love with you all over again" moments.

Spike himself won't naturally bloom until he is somewhere between three and four feet tall, as is the wont of his species of cacti. If I ever want to see Spike dressed to the nines in this fashion, I must make sure Spike gets all the things he needs to be a fully productive member of his species: water (if sparingly), sunlight, proper soil. If I fail, Spike may die. He certainly wouldn't flourish and grow. And he will never, ever bloom if I, as his caretaker, fail in any way to provide for his needs.

Moving on...

A few years ago, there was quite the bru-ha-ha in our family as we were all once again planning our giant family get-together for the summer. And I say "giant" because when you have four siblings, each with their partners and various children and the total number of people in your immediate family exceeds twenty individuals--well, not many can relate to an immediate family of that magnitude (which is why some of the in-laws have adjustment issues when they first join our clan), and it's always quite the production.

But the bru-ha-ha happened because of the youngest sibling: she wanted to take a "moral stand." She was afraid her two children would see me and the husband in the same bedroom and ask questions--questions she wasn't prepared to answer. She was afraid they would somehow be introduced to the "gay lifestyle" too early, that it would seem as if she were "endorsing" our relationship (a very bad thing to do when you're a conservative Christian, as some of you may know), and didn't think she should have to explain to her children why Uncle Jason slept in the same room as Uncle Rich...

Needless to say, they never did come on that family vacation with the rest of us...

Anyway, a recent blog post by a Catholic woman has gone viral (see here) and it reminded me very much of the incident in our own family three years ago. Some excerpts from her blog post:

---

At the pool this summer there were homosexual couples with children and, while I was polite as my own young daughters doted on the baby with two "mommies", I also held my breath in anticipation of awkward questions - questions I'm not ready to answer. My young daughters are all under the age of eight and they are not old enough to understand why a baby would have two women calling themselves "mommies".

...

When there were two men relaxing at the side of the pool unnaturally close to each other, effeminately rubbing elbows and exchanging doe-eyes, I was again anxiously watching my children hoping they wouldn't ask questions. They don't see Daddy do that with anyone but Mommy.

...

Two of my daughters were in the sandbox, one on the slide, the other on the swings, and as I lifted the baby out of his stroller I looked up to see four women laughing at a baby boy as he was swinging in one of those bucket baby swings. That seems harmless enough, but I'm so sensitized to the strangeness in my community that I've developed this ever-present jumpiness whenever I'm in public. Sure enough, two of the women, so happy to see a baby boy laughing, embraced and remained standing there rubbing each other's back in a way that was clearly not just friendly affection.

...

I find myself unable to even leave the house anymore without worrying about what in tarnation we are going to encounter. We are responsible citizens. We live by the rules, we pay our taxes, we take care of our things. I'm supposed to be able to influence what goes on in my community, and as a voter I do exercise that right. But I'm outnumbered. I can't even go to normal places without having to sit silently and tolerate immorality. We all know what would happen if I asked two men or two women to stop displaying, right in front of me and my children, that they live in sodomy.

---

Am I allowed to say how scared I am that this woman is raising seven children?

But I digress. What I really want to talk about is the rampant "sheltering" that goes on in conservative communities. As if "parenting" has come to mean giving your children "selective" information about the world instead of trying to teach them to live and cope within it. To protect them from differing people instead of trying to teach them about the differing people of the world. To raise kids in a bubble so impenetrable, so strong, that when they do hit the real world, when they do find out that there are people out there who don't share the same view that they had growing up--well, they either

• fall back on that same mindset and continue to shelter themselves from the world (thus stunting their own growth even more than their "concerned parents" had...)
• go crazy, not knowing how to cope, and go off the deep end in various ways (i.e., having no knowledge of the dangers of over-drinking, of unprotected sex, or any number of other, easily explained social dangers),
• or they examine their beliefs, realize how they were failed as children by their uber-protective parents, and grow in the new sunlight of knowledge.

Did you notice the recurring fears in Stacy's post? Afraid of the "awkward questions - questions I'm not ready to answer"? "[W]atching my children hoping they wouldn't ask questions"?

One of the (misguided? misunderstood?) recurring themes in the comments is the "if you're liberal, you should tolerate my viewpoint" persuasion. But the thing the right-wing doesn't seem to understand about tolerance is the fact that tolerance does not mean putting up with nonsense, does not mean putting up with ill-thought-out beliefs, does not mean letting them believe whatever the hell they want without challenge, especially if you are putting it out in the public sphere of a blog.

Tolerance IS ONLY ever meant to be the smallest part of patience. And when the patience has been tried, tolerance goes out the window. Tolerate is what you do when your two-year-old tried again to drink from a cup instead of his sippy-cup; or you tolerate the sales person who called during dinner only as long as it takes to get them off the phone; you tolerate a visit from some member of the family you dislike for the sake of a holiday, or some-such other type scenario. Tolerance is not letting you live in fairy-tale land where you get to tell everyone else how to live and making your religious preferences the rules the rest of us have to live by. We tolerate a plethora of beliefs in this country. We do not have to tolerate you trying to tell everyone else how to live, and we certainly do not have to stop holding hands just because of your failure to answer a child's questions, if indeed they even ask any.

It is not the rest of the world's job to protect your children from life. It is not the rest of the world's obligation to shelter your children. When you decided to become a parent, you assumed the role of care-giver, of knowledge-imparter, of teacher/guidance counselor/role model, and a plethora of other hats. It is not a parent's job to shelter children--in fact, that would be the exact opposite of being a parent.

In fact, that would be more the role of jailer; prison guard; totalitarian.

And in those conditions? Nothing ever blooms... Nothing good ever comes of it... Nothing productive ever will.

Unless you think the role of parenting is to stunt the growth, knowledge, and strength of the next generation...

The growth of a human being...

My Father, My Fellow Human...

Dad doesn't read my blog. I'm not sure the in's and out's why--it could be that their computer rivals the Tandy 64K color computer in age and memory capacity. It could be that he really just doesn't get into the whole "web surfing" thing these young kids today are doing. For all I know, he may view most of the web as a tool of Satan with pockets of righteousness far and few between...! I've never really asked because I don't feel like my friends or family have to read my blog to continue being counted among my friends or family--I *like* it that some of them do, don't get me wrong! But it certainly isn't a deciding factor in whom I love or like more or less (otherwise the husband would have been long gone as well!)

I could call Dad a shit-kicking, dumb-ass, ignorant son-of-a-bitch if I felt the urge (and who hasn't at some point in their lives thought this of their father?) and the only reason he would be the wiser is because my mother or my sister would tell him. (Tattle tales...)

However, I won't do that for two reasons:

1. He's my father, and I love and respect him too much to say things like that about him behind his back, and
2. It isn't true anyway...

Add in for good measure that I usually respect his opinions on things with nary a horrible thing to say, and we have a pretty good relationship--a fantastic relationship, truth be told, especially considering the relationship he has with his father...

Be that as it may, however, he is one stubborn, ass-backward thinking individual at times, and arrogant to boot! (Hey, I had to inherit these traits from somewhere, right? The stubborn and arrogant parts, at least...)

But see, here's the thing: He has somehow managed to convince himself that I actually do believe in god, with Jesus as my savior and sidekick (with guest appearances by Casper), that I subconsciously know he is right and am too stubborn to admit it for some reason, that science will somehow magically "prove" his interpretation of scripture is correct (not too mention the young earth it "teaches us" about), and that OT god was of course morally right and good for allowing the Israelite's to kill men, women, and children to live on a piece of land that he "promised them" as his children...

And that was just our conversation over dessert when the parents were over for dinner last weekend... There is a lot more that was discussed over dinner...

I wasn't even sure where to begin...

My father is a smart man--a really smart man, if I'm allowed to boast a tad here. He can design a building with nothing but a pencil and a sheet of paper, to scale, with all the electrical, plumbing, and architecture sound and stable. He can get a notion into his head about adding three feet onto the living room of his house, and do it from beginning to end without a lick of outside help. He can look at any problem, anywhere, at any time, and come up with a solution that works wonders on the problem, and foresees and forestalls future problems that weren't even problems yet. He has more talent in his pinkie finger than I could ever hope to possess in my lifetime...

But I can't help but wonder how he checks that brain out the door when the topic of religion or god or Jesus (with guest appearances by Casper) come up... I don't know if it's the very idea that they may not exist which makes him run screaming, or if it's just that he's been so deeply brainwashed by his father of a Baptist minister, or even if it's something else entirely...

I'm okay with the fact that he believes in a young earth, believe it or not. I'll argue with him the facts and theories of the matter til the cows come home on it, if for no other reason than I maintain hope that a seed of logic and rationality will plant itself and he may actually look into the pseudo-science he's been peddled all these years. But it really makes no difference here or there if he believes the earth is young or old--it really doesn't.

I could even care less when he or Mom tell me they're praying for me, or that they felt god helped them make a decision, or that they felt better about this or that after some deep thought and prayer about a situation--it floats their boat, it keeps them sane, whatever...

And far be it from me to tell people what crutches they can or cannot lean on when times are tough.

HOWEVER...

And I'm not sure why he thinks this was okay. I'm not even sure if he even realizes how just not okay this was...

And I've promised myself I'm going to call him to talk about this just as soon as it stops making me angry just thinking about it...

You see, he told me what I believe. Not what he thinks I should believe. Not what he wishes I would believe. He said, "You know I am right, and you know there's a god."

Excuse me?

I think I actually said, "Huh?" The "excuse me" may have been implied. I know my head was shaking, but then again, we both shake our heads at one another when we are busy disagreeing vehemently on all things of a supernatural nature. It's kind of how we Hughes's role. When we disagree, we shake our heads and try to make sure that the frowns on our face, with matching furrowed brows, conveys the deep amount of disagreement we are currently feeling.

How we Zartman's role, however, is a different matter entirely. (Kudos and props to my mom's side...) We speak up, say what we mean, mean what we say, exercise our right to free speech, and don't give a great big goddamn who agrees or disagrees.

So while my Hughes half is busy shaking it's head, furrowing it's brow, and frowning most vehemently, my Zartman half is going, "How can you even think that?! Do you not hear the words coming out of my mouth?!"

We all say stupid things. A lot of stupid things. I realize my parents are also prone to saying stupid things. A lot of stupid things. They are not perfect, they are people. Just as I am not perfect, and also say stupid things, mostly because I am a product of them, but partly because I am human. (Hughes arrogance notwithstanding...)

But he sat there on my deck and told me what I believe.

I'm not sure if he gets just how "not okay" that is. I may be wrong (see above about saying stupid things), but I'm pretty damn sure I don't run around telling people what they actually believe "deep down." I share what my beliefs are. I share my opinion on what your beliefs are. Hell, I've called their beliefs stupid (an opinion I still hold to be true) in what I feel are tactfully blunt ways, meant in love and with what I feel is a proper amount of respect. (Again, though, I could be wrong, but I doubt they would continue to talk to me, offspring-status notwithstanding, if I were that rude, outrageous, or disrespectful...) But I'm also pretty sure I would never feel the urge to say "This is what you believe, you just don't want to admit it."

Never mind that that's supposed to be god's job (knowing what people are thinking and feeling), never mind that "psychic" has never been a family trait. If fact, let's even disregard the fact that maybe he hopes and truly believes that I do believe--is it really okay to make such assumptions about another person's life and values? It isn't like I decided to be an atheist while on the crapper last Tuesday, just because it seemed like atheists would have softer, more gentle toilet paper, and better reading material while shitting on the third rock from the sun!

In fact, this is the second time my father has trivialized decisions I've made in my life, the first time being when he found out I was gay, and decided, upon our first conversation since my coming out, to ask me if I was "still being stupid." (Because this decision, too, was obviously decided one random Wednesday morning on the crapper, when I decided that homosexuals were afforded more comfortable toilet seats beside windows with better views...)

Perhaps I'm not understanding something. Maybe I'm being too sensitive when it comes to Dad's words... Perhaps I do still seek his approval on levels I don't even realize, therefore when he makes such grand judgments, they hurt more than they should, or carry more weight to me than they actually do from his perspective?

All I know is I'm pissed, and until I can calm down, I can't talk to him about it, otherwise I, too, my end up saying something stupid to the father I love... Hell, maybe I'll pull a classic Hughes maneuver and just never bring it up again--who knows? (We Hughes men rock at not talking when we get in the mood...)

I just... Sigh... I just don't get my father sometimes...

They Promised Us Hover Cars...No, Seriously! They Did!

It's me. Jason. It's approximately the year 2011 (I say approximately because we've realized we can't trust our government about anything--least of all those hover cars that were promised, let alone the year...). I was gonna take the easy route and write to future me--after all, if I'm this awesome now, how totally, insanely, fan-freakin-tastically awesome will future me be?

Yeah, I drew the same conclusion: Unstoppably Rockin.

So instead, I decided to write to those of you who have perfected faster-than-light travel; who think skipping off to the rings of Saturn for a weekend jaunt is old hat; where a beach-vaca in the Andromeda galaxy is "too local" for you mere Earthlings. Yeah, you know who you are. (You've also perfected time-travel, obviously, and are laughing your asses off as you read this thinking we haven't caught on to you--well, we have, we'd just hate to blow your cover... Duh!)

You see, I have no idea when all that nifty stuff--like space travel for the lay person, or trans-warptation from your bed to your job, or when you can genetically alter your mutt just enough to learn to mow the lawn--is going to happen. After all, I'm back here in the supposed year 2011. Will ancient blogs like mine still be available to read in the year 3030? Will these typed, digitized words be archived somewhere on an administrative planet to be shielded from those pesky, data-wiping gamma bursts when stars thoughtlessly die without regard for how much consumer debt they wipe out? Will Pauly Shore be just as dorky? Will an Alf-like creature have been discovered that actually use felines in their General Tsao's?

You see, it sucks being back here--not as much as it sucked for cavemen, granted (or worse yet, BETAMAX VCRs)--but it sucks nonetheless. We have no idea what you future dudes and dudettes are up to! (Yes, an homage to the supposed decade known as "1980s"...) Have you kept that human drive of curiosity burning? Have you actually reached the limits of your species' imagination? What wonderous toys and gizmo's and what-not you must take for granted, like your super-deluxe Ninja-Cacti-Gremlins that slice and dice while waxing your Kia Centauri Cruiser! Or your green Flibbidijibbits that serve exactly what you were hungry for before you even knew what you were hungry for! (Hmm... Pizza... With Asteroid cubes and Jupiter Crust!!)

Perhaps you'll be sunning on the event horizon of a black hole three galaxies to the left (because of course you have by now mastered which end of space is UP, so obviously there is, indeed, a left...), wishing for a simpler time when all the hooligans left black holes well enough alone...

But enough about that--after all, we have it pretty good too. I bet you aren't even going to realize what it was like to gaze at the stars and wonder... To imagine what it would be like to stand on a planet with orange skies and magenta clouds... To contemplate if the jump into hyper-light would give you butterflies much like today's roller coasters...

Granted, in a few decades time, I'll be finally getting that hover car I was promised, upping my awesomeness to whole new levels of unmentionable and unforseen zeniths that humanity never knew it could reach until I came along...

But until then, I will slightly envy you, future humans...

Because to you, hover cars will be so old, they won't even be considered classics...

On Beauty...

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"You're beautiful on the inside."

"Yes, but you're nice."

As a former ugly, fat, and low-self-confidence person, I can truly say these are THE most hated phrases we like to hear.

Why? Well, we know the sentiments are well-intentioned, but that does not help when billboard after magazine cover after television ad all show what is truly valued in our society--physical beauty.

The perfect abs. The well-formed pecs. The chiseled jaw line. The perky boobs. The all-but-impossible flat stomach.

Lucky for me, I almost have the chiseled jaw line. Everything else is a work in progress.

And I say "former ugly person" for only one very specific reason: I no longer feel ugly, but it isn't because I could now grace the cover of PlayGirl and get a standing ovation. And I also can't say it's because I now value my looks over my personality. If it came right down to it, I'd choose my personality--but it would be a hard choice.

Looks come with entitlement. We, even subconsciously, extrapolate onto beautiful people a beautiful personality. We stare at them longer, want to be standing near them in the hopes that some of that beauty will "spill over" onto us, laugh louder at their jokes in the hopes that getting their attention will make us just that much more attractive to others...

Yes, that was me. The "hoverer." An Ugly Betty, if you will, living in what seemed to be a Mode world.

---

Amanda: You're so lucky, Betty. I never know if men like me because of my personality or because of my looks.

---

Cry me a fucking river, Amanda.

You can add that quote to the list of things we ugo's quite hate to hear: After all, just because the Amanda's of the world can't judge who likes her for her looks and who likes her because of her personality is her failing. Not ours. So don't push it off on us.

I think all of us have these parts of our personality, however. "How do I look?" "Does this outfit highlight all the right parts?" "Does this make me look fat?" "How does my hair look?" We all want to present ourselves the most attractive way possible, and there's nothing wrong with that. In fact, none of us can blame the genetic lottery for being ugly OR for being considered beautiful. That's just a fact. And neither can we blame the beautiful people of the world for taking advantage of their sheer luck at high cheekbones, a propensity for higher metabolic rates, or that bubble butt.

And we ugo's have only ourselves to blame for not hitting the gym.

That being said: We have no way of judging whether you meant that tip on getting rid of that bulge as a well-meaning piece of friendly advice, or as an opportunity to make yourself feel better about your non-bulge at our expense--and just maybe, it was both.

But unless we ask for that advice, keep it to yourself. It only serves to make us self-conscious about one more thing on our growing list of how we feel inadequate to be human in your presence. We don't want to hear about our great personalities--after all, we're the ones that perfected "great personality" since we didn't have bikini-bodies to fall back on. We don't want to hear about the trials of being beautiful--we'll never have that problem despite hours spent trying in our bathrooms and beauty parlors across the globe. (As my cousin Courtney likes to say, "I'm a beautician, not a magician!") And we certainly don't want to hear about how we're beautiful on the inside because it's nothing more than a metaphor for how ugly we are on the outside.

And we certainly don't need reminded of that.

Learning to love myself, especially after a young woman in junior high named Stephanie told me, quite out of the blue, that I was so ugly she was amazed anyone would even consider dating me, was quite an uphill battle. All I was doing was standing by the biology classroom door, waiting for the bell to ring so I could go to my locker and get the books I needed for the next class. Thanks, Steph. I hope your thin, straight hair has started falling out. (But that's not the nice part of my personality, so--forget I even thought it...)

The point of this post? Not sure--maybe I just need to get these things out here onto the blogosphere so I can move on. Maybe I just want to let my fellow ugo's know that we've all been there, are still there, and never quite leave there. After all, even today when someone lets me know they find me attractive, I can ride that high feelings for days, if not weeks. And I hate myself for that. I hate that that part of my past days of low-self-confidence continues to live on.

I've realized I'll never be "Male Model of the Year," or even anything close. But I have learned to work with what I have, and that took some hard work.

But--dear, sweet, well-meaning beautiful people? Go suck my personality.

You Are Here...

People don't give themselves enough credit. Honestly, most people would rather credit "fate," "destiny" (the name of an ex-girlfriend in high school, believe it or not...), or even "god" for the good and bad in their lives. They spend thousands of dollars on self-help books, meditation courses, individualized retreats... I can't help but wonder if, when we gave up on hunting and gathering, domesticated beasts, harnessed electricity, and learned how to prevent or cure our natural enemies, the gaping void left behind--that nagging feeling that a saber-toothed tiger was just above us on that ledge ready to attack and eat us--needed to be filled by making ourselves our own worst enemies if only to prevent the onset of craziness. To save ourselves, we must doubt ourselves. (Hmm... Sounds like something I need to put on a T-shirt and sell for $19.95 at a personalized retreat for finding your inner pygmy goat...)

Recently, on our way home from an event at a friend's house, Richard turned to me, a concerned look crossing his face: "So, what do you believe in?" Ah, my poor semi-Christian husband. You see, we had been discussing (among other things) stones as a reminder to better ourselves, new age meta-physics, and a few other things to be sure--you'll forgive me if the seven glasses of wine make things a bit fuzzy... So, to ease his confusion (and, being as how he lives with me and isn't quite sure!), let's ease his troubled mind:

What do I believe?

Lets start with some basics, and work our way from there, okay?

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1. I believe there may or may not be (but most likely is "not be") a god(s).
This will break my mother's heart, I know. She thinks I am turning my back on something she knows to be true: That God does exist and cares for everyone and everything in this great greenish-blue planet we call Earth. But I counter that "knowledge" of god to say, "How can I turn my back on something I truly don't believe is there?" True, I used to. I grew up taking for granted that everyone knew there was a god, and those who chose not to believe in him (or her, I suppose) were simply being ignorant or obtuse, knowing truly in their heart of hearts there must be a god. It was simply their "sin nature" that prevented them from "knowing" this god.

My sin nature must have caught up with me, eh?

There never will be, never was, and never can be definitive proof of a god(s). That some people "know" is simply where opinion gets caught up with faith, and a dangerous mix ensues in which one should take "blind faith" on anything they cannot know for sure, thereby justifying the previous, first hand belief of "knowing." In other words, by saying you "know" there is a god(s), but saying you can never know completely this god(s), and so anything about him must be taken on "faith" would only harm and not help a belief in this god to begin with, wouldn't you think? Conundrum of the human history, I suppose.

We (as the human race overall, not as individuals) say there is a god(s). But we say he is so high above us, so much more than us, much more than we could ever comprehend, and all we have to go on is our senses and these "letters" he left us in the forms of Holy Books and Revelation. But the only way we get these books and revelations are from people, the very things that can't hope to comprehend or know him. And so what are we left with? A bunch of people who can't know god, but "know" god, and therefore foible blindly around in the hopes that we get something right, something that sounds good, and pray that god(s) will not hold us too accountable for the very reasons we are said to worship him...

I think this is the part in a movie review that would say "buffoonery ensues, but plot lacks direction and able actors." To say you "know" there's a god, but you cannot "know" god, and must rely on people about god and his attributes, personality, rules, reasons, with a healthy dose of faith and naivete mixed in, with salt to taste...? I'm sorry, this just doesn't cut the mustard.

I'm actually okay with the idea that perhaps there are unknown beings of great power somewhere out there in the cosmos. However, until science can show probability, possibility, and provability--observation and empirical data--one must assume that the five senses we have are all that can be trusted. Being as how there is no evidence, no photographs, no tiny bits of deity DNA floating about the jetsam of the universe... Well...

Some people have said that this means I am setting up man as a god(s). I shall try to explain why this is also untrue.

2. I believe man is god, man is devil, but always, man is simply man.
It's hard being perfect, isn't it? We know we will never be so, but we can imagine perfection in ways that seem perfect to us when in all actuality, it is simply just a different way of doing "fucked up." What is the one common denominator in all of our philosophical problems and issues? Man. Who is the one being that tries to interpret, define, and distribute this divine-ness to others? Man. Who is the one that heals and wounds? Man. The one who gives and takes? Man. The one who arbitrarily decides right from wrong, better from worse, and bad from good? Man. It is all about us, whether we like to admit that or not. Not individually, no. That's too narcissistic. Not ethnically or racially, either. We don't like differentiating like that, even though we do consciously and subconsciously. So we divide ourselves up most brutally over the things we cannot explain with logic. Religion. We say our way is the way, our way is it, the end, the answer. And right now, about 7 billion others also think they have the answer, even the ones who profess they don't--like me--think they have an answer.

We, as mankind, are the common denominator. We even make our god(s) like us in every way conceivable, from the Greek gods who were a tad slutty and twisted like a very good soap opera, to the one that made himself like us to save us (talk about making man your god!!), to the ones that simply couldn't give a rat's ass about us if they were so inclined. Our gods are as varied as we are. Coincidence? Or some truly bizarre way of revealing the answer? Maybe after a few more millennia, we'll have enough bits and pieces from all the religions that have come and gone to come up with the one end-all be-all philosophy that makes everyone feel special and loved and absolutely right while allowing for everyone else to also feel that way... Who knows? (Psst! No one!)

Our sense of a perfect divine has changed with the whims, knowledge, and times of ourselves. Why is god so interchangeable, so fluid? Because he is of our own making. Why does the "devil" appear also to be so fluid and time-chained in his abilities to "tempt" and "destroy"? Because he is also us, and of our making. Nothing more, nothing less.

I set man up not as a god or a devil. We do that ourselves, each and every one of us. And I don't believe it's because we truly believe there is a god, either. God is simply our way of coping with not only the unexplainable and unknown, but also of dealing with our fragile egos and sense of "Are we alone?" in this universe. We've always sensed something bigger than ourselves, but not because there is a god(s). But because, just by looking up at a sun, moon, and stars we cannot touch, it is proven that we are small. Because we die and cannot prevent it no matter how much we dance around a fire, chant up a storm, or sacrifice the masses. Because we see so much that is still unanswered, no mater how much we poke, prod, test, and retest. As time passes, we gain more knowledge. Things we used to hold so dear we killed over it are now distant memories and fading history.

Remember when someone dared assert that the world was round? This didn't affect anyone or anything. It didn't change the Catholic Church's salvation message. It didn't cause people to suffer and die. It didn't change the price of tea in China... But people died over this idea.

Saying there is no god will not change one damn thing. Saying there is a god won't change anything either. But don't say you know. Because you don't. You can claim faith, walking on water, answered prayers and the like because you know there's no way to test, prove, or deny any of it (yet). The only thing you know is your faith, feelings, and opinions, all thrown together in the casserole of your life. But that's all you know. You know your opinions and beliefs. And that's all any of us will ever know for 100% certain.

3. I believe in iced teas all-benevolent goodness.
Truly, it is the one thing you can always count on that I will drink until my dying day. Like most things today, it causes cancer in some way, shape, or form, I suppose. I'm sure there's a study out about the dangerous effects of drinking nothing but iced tea for weeks on end, but there you are. What does this have to do with Man, God, and Devil?

Isn't it clear? Iced Tea is my god. Without it, I'm the biggest, most grouchy-ass person in the universe. Whole ecosystems have been devastated, species wiped out, and worlds cataclysmicly ended due to my "drinking problem." I live and die for Iced Tea, I wake up and drink it, I drink it before I go to bed, and every single waking moment of thirst in my life is satisfied by a gulp of this precious liquid. It needs to be in my refrigerator, in my lunch bag at work, at friends and families houses and parties. I am its willing slave; I am its god, for without me, the tea could never be my god; but without tea, I could never hope to attain a good day without it. Make sense? I'm sure a lot of you will have fun picking apart this analogy, saying why it may or may not work as an analogy, but be that as it may, the nitty-gritty truths apply. (Batteries not included; ice cubes sold separately)

I've also recently begun treating water as my god. Morning, noon, and night, water slides down my throat, making me more healthy, making iced tea that much more delicious when I grab that jug instead.

4. Three Things That Are Always True: Death, Taxes, and Fundies
Throughout history, in all of space and time, these are the three things that keep man going.

Knowing we will die keeps us always searching, always looking, always wanting to "know."

There is always someone who has power over us, and takes from us (sometimes with our consent, sometimes without), and our destiny will always be influenced by someone else in power somewhere.

In keeping with the "our lives are always influenced by us" philosophy, fundamentalists and conservatives are those who are afraid of the unknown and hold fast to the tried and true of their past, usually handed down from previous generations. I'm sure there were several Greeks who balked at the idea of a Hercules being born of god and virgin and that it was heresy. Fundies need not be of the Christian persuasion any more than so-called "liberals" are always godless.

No matter the century, the size of the population, or the cubic square feet of Pluto's size having any sort of bearing on it's planetary status in this universe, death, taxes, and fundies will always be here, for good or ill, and it's all our fault.

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These are some of my more fundamental beliefs. Take them for what you will. Most of them are beliefs in motion, evolving and changing as I experience this life and live it to the fullest extent I can. But until next time, This I Believe.

See Ya Later, Alligator...

This isn't what I planned on blogging about, but I spewed it out nonetheless, mostly because when I was doing some surfing on the subject I did want to blog about (Possibility versus Probability), I read other things that made me think fear is the ultimate motivator for irrational belief.

I have always been fascinated, actually, by people's enjoyment of being scared. From the haunted hayrides, the corn mazes, the creepy houses, the horror flicks, the screaming and the blood--it boggles me more than fundidiots!

I personally have never liked being scared--indeed, even mild suspense can sometimes get to me, although I will state that I love a good suspense flick much better than a horror flick. My brothers would actually make fun of me when, if they happened to be watching a horror movie or show on the television, I would vacate the living room as soon as I thought something even remotely horrifying was about to make an appearance. Whether suddenly having to go to the bathroom, or making up some other such excuse, I would take that time to play the "for-once-not-being-played" Nintendo, or have the bedroom for silent reading. (We three boys shared a bedroom until I was seventeen, at which point I demanded my father build a wall in the basement at a key point in which I could finally secure my own room...)

I sometimes wonder if this is how I try exert control over my environment? Or is this me being a slave to my fears? I don't fear fear--in fact, there isn't much I do fear! I just don't like that feeling of unknowing, of the surprise that's coming, and ultimately, of the nightmarish stories my subconscious imagines in the dead of the night! I remember I once made it through (what I now realize is the cheesiest flick ever made) a whole screening of the movie Alligator, and for years afterward, I had a nightmare in which a giant alligator was coming down Toll Gate Road, trying to gobble up my family... And while I can appreciate the cheesiness of it all now, back then I was terrified at the idea of loose alligators. Go figure, eh?

I must then ask myself, why doesn't the fear of eternal damnation hang over me, or even my subconscious, to the point where I must err on the side of "caution" and "believe" just to save myself the fear of hell fire? Is it that, as an adult, I can appreciate the "cheesiness" of fire insurance for a consciousness that won't survive past my heart beat? Or, on the flip side, is it my survival instincts of self-preservation that keeps me from even contemplating the notion, much as I wouldn't contemplate watching a horror movie?

I think it must be the first, as the second, the "contemplation," has been discussed both here and on other blogs, about the ludicrousness of such a netherworld created by a being to punish beings he created and doesn't want to punish... The circular, anti-rational logic of it all, is more reminiscent of a fire insurance policy, nay, perhaps even a panic button people can hit at will in an effort to absolve themselves of misdeeds and "less than nice" thoughts or actions!

In the ultimate of ironies (much like having a spoon when all you need if a knife), one must remember two key tenants: One, that you need Jesus blood to "wash away," or "cleanse" your sins, even though through some sort of loophole, you still end up paying the price of sin (i.e, death), but end up with life "eternally" in the presence of the one who died for you; and Two, even though you have been "washed" or "cleansed" of these sins, you will still commit acts of "wrongness" or "misdeeds," and thus continually need to regret and repent of these misdeeds (although it must be pointed out, in most Christian circles, misdeeds do not end your salvation, just a close relationship with said god).

And you have to wonder (or, at least, I have to wonder) why wouldn't "salvation" erase the sin nature, thus leaving you sinless the remainder of your life? OR, barring some sort of teleological law about such a scenario (although a study of the holy book will reveal no such block to sinless nature through salvation), why not then BAM! automatic everlasting life? Why the need to still die if Jesus truly paid the price for all our sins?

As you can see, it reduces into an acrimonious harmony of illogical thought and circular rationale...

Fear, at its core, must be substantive, if it is to remain effective as a motivator (much like "justice" and "mercy" must have finite, measurable punishments for finite, measurable deeds, but that's for another time...). Fear is defined by Websters as "1 a: an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger." In other words, you need a reason to be afraid, to have fear... Otherwise, your fear is considered irrational, and thus, is categorized as a "phobia." Phobia, from Websters, is "an exaggerated usually inexplicable and illogical fear of a particular object, class of objects, or situation."

Hell, or even the once-removed cousin through marriage thought of eternal punishment, is a christological phobia. An irrational fear. Inexplicable, illogical, and brought on by an exaggerated fable of yesteryears beliefs. The reason hell has lost much of its umph in driving hoards to a "saving knowledge of Jesus" isn't due to a sudden gambling urge against Pascal's Wager, but by a continuing body of knowledge which points in the direction of logic, not pointy-tailed red-horned devils on one shoulder and beatific angels on the other...

And while my primal subconscious may still be dealing with the supposedly very real threat of being eaten by alligators (or its related off-shoots), I can rest easy in the knowledge that

1. Alligators are real.
2. Alligators have eaten people.
3. Alligators do not live in northeastern Pennsylvania.

Thus, there is a basis for the fear, and my conscious realizes this. The rational, logical portion of my brain recognizes the facts, and makes a decision which supersedes the more primal nature of "fight/flight," and as long as I don't feed this "fear" with heresy, false logic, and panicky hypotheticals, I sleep easy and don't plan my entire life, indeed my every thought and whim, on the basis of fear.

And, this I believe is most fundamental, fear, while maybe not widely recognized as such, is the sole motivator of continued religious belief, and it flourishes best in the minds of people who entertain false logic and hypotheticals...

Perhaps, as humanity continues to advance sociologically and psychologically, more people will confront the irrationality of god and his supposed eternal promises (not to mention punishments)?

It almost stretches one's faith in humanity to think so...