valley of the dulls

Tags

Easter, Fashion, Spring

Meh. We’re experiencing typical March weather. One day we enjoy mild(er) temps and then the next day snow showers and blustery cold snaps one back to reality that spring can be a bitch here. Patchy daffodils are poking through but remain tightly closed. They seem to understand we’re not out of the winter woods yet. But I digress.

Sunday is Easter. I recall having a new shirt and tie for Easter services; my sister—in her early childhood days, would style a new hat, gloves, and some wee purse—maybe white straw, to sashay down the church main aisle. Since I’m old as Christ’s last pair of sandals—I do recall the Easter fashions of yesteryear. If mother attended mass—which, frankly—her presence held the same miraculous magic of Christ’s resurrection—she would most definitely own her power with a big hat. This recollection timestamps to the early Sixties; Jackie Kennedy came along and women across America stopped wearing hats virtually overnight.

Which is interesting as Jacqueline Kennedy sported a most memorable hat—in the ‘pillbox’ style at her husband’s inauguration. After that occasion hats were deemed old school. That inaugural hat was designed by a very young HALSTON. His name would be a global brand and reframe American fashion in the 1970s.

Are there folks who get all dressed to the nines for church nowadays? So much has changed in my lifetime. I vividly recall when a young man wore blue jeans to the opera—in the early eighties. People whispered disproval; I outright damned his entire family lineage. If one can’t dress up for Madama Butterfly then stay home.

I sound curmudgeonly. Which is my divine right at this age. I’ve seen some things—done some things, and had things done to me to shape my observations and opinions. I guess I just miss when things were special. There used to be a section in the lady’s department for ‘special occasion’ dresses. Go figure.

But then I woke up today and I’ve got a roof over my head with food in the fridge. That reality in and of itself is a special occasion. I forget these truths in my race to live a meaningful life in work-from-home NIKE track shorts.

Manifesting

Tags

gay, manifesting, synchronicity

A couple weeks ago while folding laundry I noticed that a few of my “house Ts” were looking rather tired. Its right around the ‘tired’ stage that most t-shirts become the comfortable go to wardrobe for puttering around the apartment.

A couple shirts were a bit frayed at the band collar area; those two Ts were souvenir t-shirts from Palm Springs. They’ve seen sunnier days but I hang onto them as they evoke pleasant memories. Still—while carefully folding the Palm Springs Ts I made a mental note: “Buy some new Palm Springs t-shirts next trip out…”

Not anything that I jotted down on paper but a mental Post-it to reference some time in the future.

Imagine my surprise, then—while lazily sliding hangars at my local TJMaxx, to find a “Palm Springs” t-shirt in the mix of ‘compare at’ couture.

I don’t live anywhere near Palm Springs, California. I’m roughly 2,000+ road miles away according to Google. Yet there it was—staring back at me for only $14.99.

Naturally I snapped it up. But the purchase has me thinking about the power of thought. We’ve all heard the popular term “manifesting” and now I think there’s something to that. Like, who hasn’t thought of an absent acquaintance or friend that for inexplicable reasons makes a phone call? Baffling.

There are countless books on the power of the mind. Do we underuse that power? I can emphatically state that the things, places, and desires that I’ve secretly wished for have all happened. Maybe not at the time frame I wanted but they occurred or arrived nonetheless.

I think there’s something to the power of positive thinking as the expression goes. I have felt ‘less than’ for years. Maybe its time to rewrite the dialogue loop inside. It can’t hurt. Maybe the time is now to put exactly what I want and need out there in the universe.

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. Matthew 7:7

Photo finish

Tags

breakups, ex boyfriend, gay, gay relationships, relationships, spring cleaning

Today is overcast with a bit of showers. March is coming in somewhere between a lion and a lamb if you’re old enough to recall that grade school sentiment.

I’ve been invited out this evening. A friend of mine has blossomed into quite an expressive contemporary artist for his second act. Tonight I get to watch his process as he creates a piece for my home. I’m genuinely looking forward to the artwork as a jolt of something contemporary around here is needed. Admittedly I’ve embraced a decor narrative that arcs from stately home to what assisted living might look like if Ralph Lauren had a hand in comfortable seating options. But I digress.

Earlier today I ran a bunch of paid invoices from 2022 through my shredder. In doing so I have invariably triggered some silent alarm at a medical provider’s office. Any day now I expect a call regarding an outstanding balance that was paid in full but now will lack my hard copy backup verification. Meh. I can go online to my bank and backtrack I suppose.

I also shredded a ton of photos. Most of them were pics of ‘us’ when there was an “us.” It felt sort of cleansing; just how many Christmas tree pics at a condo that I didn’t inherit do I need to save? Not many I think. I also shredded vacation pics—England, Puerto Rico, Puerto Vallarta…Key West…a lot of scenery-type photos that can easily found online.

I don’t have all that many photos of “us” left as I shredded enough photos when we separated to fill two tall kitchen-size garbage bags. That was rage shredding of course.

Today’s shredding of photos is yet another gesture to lighten my load at this age. I find that I don’t need the pics as I have the memories of the experience. If I can hold onto those I will be doing well.

Acid queen

Tags

depression, gay, grief, mourning, old queen

Come sit by me. I have nothing nice to say about anything today. I woke with a sense of foreboding and unease. Actually I sprang from bed as my left leg cramped with that frozen taunt muscle thang that is generally attributed to lack of potassium. I’d buy bananas to remedy that if I wasn’t such a complete dullard with eating fruits and vegetables before they turn bad. Historically I buy three bananas—eat one, and watch the other two turn spotty brown before tossing them in the garbage. My new favorite thing to force rot are lemons.

I buy a couple lemons every other week with plans to prepare a proper tea at 4pm daily. Then I forget to make tea thus ignoring the lemons. But they look nice on my kitchen countertop before they shrivel and harden. Plus there’s the assumed advantage that should I be found dead in my rental flat the emergency techs will note that they’re not just handling the stiff remains of just any work-from-home hooligan but of someone refined enough to host tea time with biscuits. But I digress.

I scrolled my INSTA feed into the wee hours this morning. The algorithms feed me shit ranging from luxe interior design and farm animals being funny to rich Asians showcasing robust wealth within their walk-in closets. I also get the surviving cancer reels with a sprinkle of preaching televangelist to keep me in check. I do have many blessings and I have to check myself on occasion when “poor me” comes knocking via a fucking table-side photo op of the swells that I used to run with. Folks have forgotten how much arugula I’ve eaten to cure (insert cause).

Meh. I don’t care. Been there and done that as the expression goes. And its not them. It’s me. And why wouldn’t I be cranky and tired? In the space of two years my exBF succumbed to stage IV cancer; a longtime friend died from an inoperable brain tumor. Mother died. And when that news arrived it was received with zero emotion as if a passerby stranger said “you dropped something” that way it happens in airports sometimes when one is racing to a gate.

But I’m not racing anywhere today. Today I am waiting. I sit and bang out a few corporate emails with the knowledge that I am spotty and rotting right in front of my own eyes.

The molar report

Tags

dental surgery, gay, toothache

I scheduled the pulsing tooth extraction earlier this week. Today is Friday; I should be on my way to recovery with initial swelling and discomfort subsiding but those factors are not happening.

My appointment was bumped by another patient’s emergency. I knew something was up when I was kept waiting nearly an hour before being escorted back to the oral surgeon’s chair. The handsome dental tech offered me water and left the room stating “Dr XX will be in shortly.”

The bottled water was my second red flag that something was up. When the appointment was confirmed I was instructed not to eat or drink 10 hours prior to the surgical appointment. Yet I drank a sip or two as I was thirsty and considered the third red flag.

The bro tech left the room without charting my vitals or administering the IV sedative that I requested. Like, the last time I had oral surgery I was floating on the ceiling before the doctor arrived.

Another ten minutes of waiting and the oral surgeon appeared. She acknowledged my presence, turned to the clinic’s laptop, pulled up my chart and asked “what are we doing today?”

And this is where I’ll stop sharing specific details. In the space of a few minutes I felt shamed regarding my dental hygiene—er, hello…three fucking visits to my dentist last year—thank you very much. I was chastised for not readily knowing a very specific piece of lab work info. I was informed of “what I’m dealing with…” regarding the emergency patient that mandated her next question about my flexibility to return later in the day.

There are other details; I found myself grabbing my jacket after she turned to a different tech person with instructions regarding the aforementioned emergency patient.

At the reception desk I made the decision not to reschedule that same day. The entire point of getting in early is that the oral surgeon would be fresh—so to speak, and that I would be home early in the day with an ice pack recovering on my sofa.

Too, I was told that “we’ve opted out of your insurance network so this is all self pay…” Why wasn’t I informed of that on the confirmation call? And part of me was left wondering if my lack of insurance was the ‘patient emergency.’

Like I noted there were other signs and remarks that set my spidey sense on high beams to bounce out of there.

The friend that I had arranged to meet me—post surgical sedation, was surprised to find me upright and angry. Though we had a nice lunch while I chewed on the morning’s absence of professionalism.

I’ve scheduled a consultation with a new, younger oral surgeon. Yes, I didn’t get my damn tooth pulled. And at my curmudgeonly age—no one is pulling any bullshit either.

Super blah

Tags

antiques, gay, resale shopping, spring cleaning

I did not watch the big game yesterday. I know nothing about it today beyond who won and the Usher shirtless pics scattered across ‘X’—formerly Twitter. I simply don’t care.

I didn’t watch The Grammys or The Golden Globes either. I don’t know much about today’s talents in music or film. And even if I did there’s no one to sip award’s tea with as I don’t have an office to go to nowadays what with my work from home status.

In that regard I bagged some better clothes yesterday and donated them to an area resale shop. I’m coming to terms with having nowhere to wear office-y/special occasion looks as well as being too overweight for anything size M. Out with the Theory, Moschino, and Eton shirts; gone are the made-in-Italy green linen Ralph Lauren pants and the AG white denim. I tossed in some off brand polos for good measure. It’s a start; I will soon part company with the moderately priced suits and then move on to the top shelf stacked with dusty shoe boxes I haven’t touched in years.

This is the process of getting older. The purposeful clearing of things I used to enjoy or needed to live my life. Having cleared the exBF’s condo after his death I realized my own ‘too much stuff’ realities. I’ve been streamlining for over a year now.

I viewed some TikTok thang about how in a hundred years one’s no longer a memory to extended relatives—like, no one will be around who can attest to your presence on earth. Too, the narrative went on to state that all of one’s possessions will be owned by others. Which intrigues me as I sit here with antique lamps, gilt console tables, Palm Beach lineage dining chairs, and assorted ‘grand tour’ bric-a-brac purchased from thrift shops, antique malls, and eBay. I’ve always wondered about the back stories.

What posh ghosts have I invited into my home? Do they miss their stuff? I take good care of my things so maybe that wards off any nasty mojo from the departed. Maybe they see the appreciation I have for their Georgian-style silver samovar. True, it spends ten months in a closet but it shines bright at the holidays. Probably the person who owned and cherished it before me didn’t watch the big game either.

Fabruary

Tags

gay, new beginnings, old queen, toothache

Hey girlies! We made it to February. Since January chafed my tired ass so hard I’m renaming February to “Fabruary.” Surely we can all channel a bit of fabulousness this month. Plus we get an extra day to lout about on painkillers and porn.

The volcanic eruption noted earlier as an infected molar remains in my head. I made an appointment with my dentist and as predicted the fractured molar is coming out later this month. I am beyond dreading the appointment but as a card carrying adult it is the responsible thing to do. Crunching antibiotics like TicTacs is not a good thing.

While I pray the appointment goes well (like, literally not dying in the oral surgeon’s chair) I’m somewhat hopeful that having my mouth on the mend will facilitate a smidge of a weight loss. So there’s a sunny outcome.

I attempted ‘dry January’ but what with the toothache misery abyss my nightly chardonnay provided some bit of release from the throes of a pulsing molar. Add in a Xanax and 800mg ibuprofen and I talked to roaming spirits. You’re aunt says “hello” and that you should be ashamed with how you handle that Sky Mall neck massager. Yeah, the one shaped like a cock. But I digress.

I am, however—moving forward with “dry February.” So far so good. The wine just isn’t a benefit right now; I’m overweight as it is. That chilled chardonnay is empty calories and making my face puffy. Much like a good spring cleaning I want to get my house in order.

Speaking of ‘house’—-my landlady phoned midweek; she never calls. She didn’t leave a message so I returned the call and left her a message. No returned call yet which naturally has my imagination running rampant. A neighbor who also rents a condo here stated that her landlord was raising her rent as the building’s homeowner’s fees are increasing bigly. Fuck. I’m managing okay but really don’t want an increase; besides—this place is stuck in the eighties. Any rent increase will mandate my request for an all new kitchen upgrade.

Or…should there be an increase—perhaps that is the divine sign I need to pack up this glamboree and seek better/different surroundings. It is no secret: I’ve been living at the proverbial “fork in the road” for years. Unclear and uncertain of next steps or new steps lest they be missteps.