Oh Lordy!

That's what older people or seemingly "country" people said when things were a bit crazy, funny or ridiculous.

Or... getting old.

I know you've seem it and hate it, "Lordy lordy look who's forty!". It's on those cheap $1.99 greeting cards in the drugstore and grocery stores.

Well I'm about to turn forty - I think! I'll have to redo the math, but it's either thirty-nine or forty. Also a sign of being over thirty. Every adult I know that is older says they "feel younger than ever, " that they would "never choose to be young again," that they "finally enjoy life..." and I have to agree, as much as I hate chiming in with the masses.

I've never been more fit, more clear headed and well - fucking sexy! Man, the availability of guys when you're a grown (over thirty), fit gay man seems unlimited! I think it might be because as gay men get older they get closer to the "ideal male image" of being not a boy, not old but just right. Add a few muscles and you become the guy others dream about; well, a modified version of that guy. I say that because clearly, without question, the ideal man for most even in Seattle is white and taller than I am. But - my fitness level and prominent abs are actual not that common, despite what our digital-sex world tells us. I think I read that only 2-3% of men ever develop visible abs, kids excluded.

Anyways, for whatever the reason - this is my reality, which seemed to happen overnight.  I went to bed one day being Jose average, and woke up the next being the adorable, sexy guy.

So this weekend I'm actually hitting the runway (if you can call a fashion show at a gay bar that) in underwear, four different costume changes, each featuring my abs and all that I have to show off. If I think about it I get nervous, I don't even know if we wear shoes for the event or not or if we have to do a little gyrating-sextatic moves, but that's the other thing about being over thirty - you can just deal with it. It will be fine.

So I'm not sure how I'll celebrate myself this summer during this landmark year. Maybe I'll do the classic photo shoot that some (gay?) people do or just go about my normal hobbies, but whatever I do feels like it's just going to be better than ever this time. It's a neat feeling.

"Learning to love yourself..."

"I believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way."

"I decided long ago never to walk in anyone's shadows."

Such words of wisdom.

Now have them coming from one of the greatest vocalists of all time and being a kid of about 12 when you hear it.

Whitney was the first "diva" I'd ever heard - the first one that was relevant to my life. I knew my dad listened to Linda Ronstadt and Crystal Gale, my mom to Barbara Streisand (they made me gay, right?!) - but that all happened before I started seeking my own tunes.

Whitney was also the first person I remember following or hearing about in the media - I remember them saying she was young and new and had a great voice. When I saw her record (actual vinyl!) I thought she looked like someone that would be one of my friend's mother. I used to spend the night at my best friends house a lot and she would make us the most amazing pancakes in the morning and I actually had a recurring daydream of seeing Whitney cooking us pancakes instead! So yeah, a mother figure.

And those words... they really stuck with me... ""I decided long ago never to walk in anyone's shadows."

We hear  thousands of inspiration phrases and there are millions of such inspirational songs, but I  didn't know that at twelve.  Hearing this was like magic to me, and I remember feeling strong and inspired by such a noble, talented woman. I hid in my room and listened secretly, tears welling up from the simple message: no matter what anyone says, you can LOVE-YOUR -SELF.

I decided instantly that she was classy and angelic, accepting and nice. I liked nice... having just gotten into middle school, it seemed everyone was mean and picking on each other. Cool looking and always the peace-maker, I don't think I actually got picked on that much but I lived in extreme fear (in rural Louisiana) that someone would see through me and decide I was ugly, an outcast or challenge me in a way that would lead to a fight in which I would lose, making me the joke of the entire k-12 school.

I stopped following her as I became a little goth boy, but I never stopped liking her. When I heard about her tragic relationship and drug use, I felt genuinely sad, again as if it was happening to a friend's mother. By then I'd learned that bad things can happen to good people, and good people make bad choices, and that addiction was a long tough road (yeah, I'd read all about Nancy Spungen and Sid Vicious!).

Today I'm saddened again, because I think we all wanted the best for her, a road of recovery and health. So many people loved her so much. She gave us so much.

I hope that she loved herself.

Processing.

"Treat everyone as if they were your mother." 

That's the title of my last digital story that I created for work. I think it's an old Buddhist proverb.

The digital story is the end result of a workshop I attended for work over the past few weeks. Having done some video work and taken photos just as a hobby (which if you know me, abound on my Facebook and flickr accounts) I thought this would be way easy and I could just coast through the workshop, learn the curriculum and be able to adapt it for my own professional needs and maybe even become a certified trainer. That's how it works with most trainings I go to.

But the first morning, during the introduction to the process and overview, they said something about it needing to be a personal story, from the heart.I kind of knew going into it that I'd most likely end up addressing tobacco in the video and that I could easily tie my mothers death into it as the personal story. 

The fact is, that my mother's cancer was very directly caused by exposure to secondhand smoke. Bladder cancer is widely known and accepted as the cancer that "only smokers get" - so when doctors met with my mother for the first time, many of them asked her - and I remember, I was right there next to her - "Have you quit smoking?" They asked because EVERY person that gets bladder cancer is or was a smoker or secondhand smoker. I remember that this always baffled my mom, because she was so darn healthy! But it's not what you do to your body that affects your health, it's also the environment we live in. I think we are reluctant to talk about it because in our family at least, that means point to family members, and at this point... well, that's just not productive. 

But it still weighs heavily on my mind. Not a day goes by that I don't think how easily treated this would have been if it have been caught in stage 1 with a 97% cure rate or even stage 2, with a 60-80% cure rate, as opposed to late stage 3 with virtually a zero percent cure rate. If she had actually been a smoker herself, her exposure to smoke and cause of bladder cancer would have been detected early on - but because she wasn't the one smoking, her exposure to the smoke was often - if not always - overlooked. Instead, physicians saw a healthy non-smoker, some would even say a fitness and nutrition zealot.

This has been weighing heavily on my mind for a year now. Then a few weeks ago, just prior to this workshop, I experienced another emotional assault, this one of a professional nature. I went to a meeting with some managers and staff from very low-income housing and transitional housing programs and properties. I thought I was invited to offer training for staff, support and to share my experience and expertise to promote tobacco-free living and specifically to reduce or eliminate secondhand smoke in multi-unit housing (apartments, shelters etc). What I got was a room full of very caring folks that didn't think smoke-free rules were an option for them. Which, given that we all know that less fortunate folks tend to smoke more and homeless folks smoke more etc might seem understandable initially, but once you read the research and the data you know - you know - that secondhand smoke is extremely dangerous. Besides, don't they have rules about other types of behavior - perhaps even some that don't expose other residents to something that causes cancer? Wouldn't the residents be better served learning to abide by smoke-free policies, given that you can't smoke anywhere else and that some employers wont even hire smokers? Aren't these residential staff actually allowing more barriers to be in the paths of their residents that are seeking to move out of the temporary housing, secure better jobs and gaining a financial life and achieving overall success? YES! Holy crap the list of benefits for having smoke-free policies for residents in low-income settings goes on and on, but I digress....

As you can tell, just typing this gets my blood flowing and my personal perspective was ripe to launch into the project requirement: take a stand on an issue, make a statement that promotes health while tying it to a personal issue. So, not only did I have a very personal and emotional issue at hand, but I'd been reminded about the number of people still forced to live in toxic filth. 

So the video below is a result of that - it needs some tweaking, but I'm willing to share it now. I think the anger I felt at the meeting gave me the strength to sort of slap viewers in the face at the end - you will see what I mean. 

Luckily, my mom being very supportive of anything that I want to do and not really caring about what people think of her physical appearance etc, I know she would support and approve of this. It would be awful and I probably wouldn't even do if I felt my mom would be embarrassed or ashamed.

So this - this was really something for me. The entire process might have been the "process" that I needed, you know to process through my mother's death, to give it some meaning. I mentioned the Big D's and little d's before (big depression, versus feeling just a little down) and how I have been feeling better, but some folks still say - "Mike you need t-h-e-r-a-p-y!" and maybe I do (heck don't we all?) but I think this really helped to close a chapter - to remember, close a chapter and bring my story forward with me.

Something else too...

During the course of the workshop (several weeks) I developed a pretty severe case of the shingles, my own photos looking significantly worse than that Wikipedia link. It was timely for sure, because during the final months of my mom's life she also developed a bad case of shingles. It somehow made it even more real for me, and in some way the fact that I suffered part of what she suffered made me feel better. At least I knew some of the pain that she was going through, which is silly because it doesn't take away any of the pain that she felt, but I'm sure there's some psychological explanation.

At any rate, I feel like the whole process - despite the fact that each component was awful and took an emotional toll - left me a better person - with a video!

A little deeper than *meh*

Commuters on Pine Street in Seattle - December 19th, 2008. Photo by me, of course!

There are big D's and little d's when it comes to feeling depressed - excluding clinical depression. You know, the highs and the lows we all go through.

This picture is just a few years ago in 2008, taken just a few days before Christmas and all was well. This was a happy day (of course, it snowed - a LOT!) and I remember there were some *meh* days and some good days. Little d's for me - not really even depression, almost something that was brought on my myself. You know feeling a little bad because you ate the whole box of cookies, or just feeling lazy one Sunday morning and not making it to the gym - it leaves you feeling *meh*.

I don't think I've ever known real depression and sadness until now - my first of Big D's. I've had my beloved dogs pass away, my grandparents and aunts and uncles... even friends my age in their 30's die from cancer or car accidents, but still never landed in a Big D.

Honestly, it's still kinda the same except the swell is just bigger. It permeates more of my everyday life and sinks into the bone at times, but then amazingly it lifts and I feel better for awhile. Sometimes I worry the swell of the Big D is too big and I'll get sucked under and wont be able to ride it out but it seems to be OK.

I've opted out of prescription anti-depressants and opted instead for something called 5-htp which works to help me manage but doesn't eliminate the Big D's - which I prefer.

Anyways, looking forward to those little d's again. Yesterday was particularly bad with all the Christmas stuff - looking for trees and decorating the tree, wrapping presents etc.- all things which were very special and bonding mother-son times for me when I was a kid and as an adult. Actually, especially as an adult - because we carved out time from our busy schedules to be with each other. I worried that I wouldn't be able to shake it then suddenly noticed I was feeling much better by the afternoon and evening. Whew.... what a feeling of relief! A sense of feeling normal again.

I know I seem to go on about this but even writing this down helps. Now I have that song stuck in my head... "I'm going through the Bid D and don't mean Dallas... I can't believe what the judge had to tell us... I got the Jeep and she got the Palace..." yeah, different Big D!

A time to say goodbye?

I thought today as I reflected upon the past Thanksgiving holiday  - specifically Thursday, which we spent at my (deceased) parents house - that going there, celebrating there, inviting friends and family there with everything in tact and unmoved since my dad passed away in March allowed us to celebrate Thanksgiving as our old family one last time. A year ago we didn't know that was our last Thanksgiving together as a family, so this year we acted as if they were still and that this was our last year together with them, even though they are already gone. If that makes sense.

And I know people say "Oh, but they are always with you!" which may be true, but this year we acted as if they were actually here, not just with us in spirit. We prepared the same foods, prepared the house, ate off the same dishes - the whole shebang. It might seem a little creepy or odd, but I think my sister and I needed this. I'm not sure we'll do Christmas the same way, maybe this was all we needed - but I don't think we'll be here next year.

It's all part of saying (or not saying) goodbye, which is hard and I haven't done... maybe it would be more accurate if I said I'm not done... yet. It's hard to imagine that you can never talk, see or touch the person you loved most in this world ever again. Right now it still feels as if they are here, just not right in front of me. Maybe in another room or on vacation, but not gone forever... I can't imagine that.

I called their home phone the other day ( I have not disconnected their line yet) and hearing my mom's voice on their voice mail didn't get me emotional, it just sounded and felt so normal. I was surprised that I didn't feel moved or that it didn't seem like a nostalgic memory. It felt very current, and I could have left a message like "mom - dad - it's me, call me back!" but didn't, mostly because I didn't want my sister to hear it, get emotional, and more importantly - discover that I randomly call their number. This is so not letting go... yet!

So I know the day is coming, and maybe it's not an actual day but a slow passing of time that allows me to think of things differently. I can almost hear well intended friends asking me if I've processed through their death, if I've let go - and insisting that there is a specific way to deal with letting go. Even more annoying would be friends insisting that regardless of what I have already done, I haven't really really let go, and should immediately make a plan to do so upon hearing their words of wisdom. These plans often involve burning sage, visiting a seaside cliff, screaming or making an appointment with a therapist. I think I'll stick to what I've been doing - talking with my parents, my family, crying, being angry, mad and sad... rinse, wash, repeat.

But I know what the other side of letting go will look like for me, or at least I think I know. When I let go and the event of their passing lifts from my shoulders, it will allow me to stop thinking of their last moments with us as if they happened yesterday; it will allow me to think beyond my parents' final days and caring for their dying comfort; it will allow me to be at peace with their death and allow me to talk with my parents freely, not with questions of their wellness, about their passing, about how things could have gone differently; it will allow me to appreciate my parents as the whole, wonderful people they were throughout their entire lives; it will allow me to live free of  second-guessing the decisions I made on their behalf; it will allow me to be happy again.

I know I have not said goodbye, but I will.

Eventually.

A Psychic?!

My dad with me on the way back from getting
some firewood the September before he died.

I'm currently whittling my way through something called probate (something you have to do when you are the executor to an estate). I'm actually signing over the deed to my parents' house this week, working with a probate lawyer on a few other nightmares and trying to decide what to do with some unsettled finances.

This is where the psychic comes in!

Apparently, my mom's best friend spoke with my sister this week and she went to a psychic (I would never guess her to see a psychic, but hey - it was for charity!). She learned that my parents are apparently with my sister night and day, never leaving her side! WOW! Even if you don't believe in spirits and psychics, the idea just makes you feel better. She was also told that their son, which would be me, needs to "tell them what I want!" Tell whom, exactly? That's the big question!

Are they referencing love, money, jobs? I know my mom wanted me to marry Matthew and have babies, but she knows I do what I want.. I know my parents pretty much trust me to do what I please in the job arena as well. So the big things are pretty much settled. The one thing I can think of is... these damn unsettled accounts!

So yes, as non-romantic and life changing as it may seem, I feel that if there was one thing my parents would want, it would be to "tell them [finance folks] exactly what I want [long list of options]."

Consider that one of the last things my dad said as he was dying in the hospital, gasping for breath, was that we return his medical equipment and call his medical suppliers so that no extra fees would be assessed and equipment delivered. He made us promise to do this immediately following his passing. I think it gave him a sense of cohesion, a sense of still being our father, dictating as he always did, and of reassuring us that life needs to go on - and more importantly, go on as scheduled. Because he was an hour early for every appointment in his life after all...

I can only imagine how much anxiety my dad would have knowing that I might wait until the last possible month to file some of these papers!

I'd better get moving.

Little names.

Ame calls Ian E. E for the first sound in the already short name, Ian.

When she stares at herself in my iPhone and asks "who dat," I say Amelia. "Amee-yah," she says.
But really we all call her Ame, pronounced Ahh-mee.

That is, when we're not calling her 'Cessa (with the C as an S sound) - short for PrinCESSA.

'Cessa.

Ian says "Shesha," unable to say the 'S'.

Of course this is just the last bit of short names added to a long list of short names,  a tradition that seems to extend indefinitely on both sides of our family. I can tell you this: my sister is this generations name shortening extraordinaire!

We had a beautiful yellow lab that we called Noid. Short for Mitz-noid, a derivative of her real name, Mitzi.
That one somehow got longer. So we went from Mitzi, to Mitz-noid, to 'Noid.

Often the end result has no similarity to the original name; it's not like Mike for Michael... it's more like Dick for Richard!

Perhaps my favorite is my sisters short name: "Tos," like toast without the 't'.

It *is* actual short for "Toast," which is a shortened form of the name "Toast 'em," which is a shortened version of "Toast 'em Up." My father gave my sister this nick-name based on her daily routine; as she would get ready for school she would drop bread in the toaster and run to fix her hair and make-up... my father would listen for it intently and shout down the hall towards the bathroom "Toast em up!" when it popped. Since it happened daily, we used it as a sort of warning bell to be ready for school and never really used it as a name until one when my dad yelled in a crowd 'Toast 'em up!" while looking for my sister. Within a short time he used it whenever he wanted to get her attention and shortened it to "Toast!" then somehow, like the 't' was too much, dropped to "Tos!"

My father is dead now but I can still hear him yell and it still makes me smile, "Tos!" The funny thing is that it sounds exactly like "toes," which is ironic because my sister thinks feet and toes are the grossest part of the body and will deny owning any of her own. I wonder if she has thought about it. I won't tell her, just in case.

Speaking of 'sounds like'... did I mention her real name is Julia? Very pretty. But I've always - since childhood - opted for a shorter, simpler "Ju." Which, sounds exactly like.... "Jew."

Ju. Jew. Sounds same.

Apparently, whenever I've been trying to get my sister's attention among throngs of people I've been yelling "Jew! Jew!/Ju! Ju!".

And my short name is G...  short for Michael.

Hair?! SCHMARE!

[repost from a locked post a few weeks ago]

I really just wanted to show off some - o - my body. per usual.

Folsom is approaching, so I hope to get only more rockin over the next few weeks.

My hair is gettin a long long LAWNGGGGUH. But it doesn't make me any less beautiful, does it? I quite like it. Gives ya'll somethin to hold on to during that wild ride, I say!

Google owns Blogger... FINALLY!

After much trial and error, I realized that the reason I could not log in to this blog to FINALLY (after 5 years) update my blog is not that I couldn't remember my Yahoo! email associated password, but because Blogger, now a part of Google, is closing the gap and requiring ALL users (including pre-Google association) to have a Google associated account. In other words, if you don't have a _____@gmail.com login, you need to make the "migration" or forever lose your content the day before Halloween. That is, October 30th, 2011.

Luckily, I just happened to secure my account with my pre-existing Gmail account.

Long live duckylick.blogspot.com!

This is my first post.

No one will read this.

No one knows its here.

I'm not sure if this will be emotional and the galaxy is the limit type of thing, or to start on something very direct and divisive like institutional racism.

Hmmm.