Have You Heard the One About the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park?

The Whore of Babylon

2012-03-05T11:14:00.000-08:00

Elaine Boosler is one of my favorite comedians, and she used to have a routine about coming home after a one-night stand, wearing the same black dress, and mother’s shielding their children’s eyes while they watched her do the walk of shame like the Whore of Babylon.

All of us have done the walk of shame, but depending on where you live, the level of shame varies quite a bit. In the city, the only onlookers who warrant your concern are the homeless people, and chances are some of them have showered more recently than you have. Most of them also have a hat to cover the headboard bump in their hair. How many times have you said, “Why didn’t I put a hat in my purse?”

If there is room for last night’s underwear, there is room for a hat.

My mother dated Seymour at around the same time my father dated Devera. Then by some strange crossing of stars, my parents were married and Devera and Seymour were married within two weeks of each other. Through the years, we always heard the story of my mother’s hose ending up in Seymour’s glove compartment after a wild night of drinking. Due to the ickiness of anyone’s parents’ sex life, I never asked any of the involved parties to elaborate.

There was also the story of Mother and Devera driving one car while Dad and Seymour drove behind them. Mother looked in the rearview mirror and Dad was driving, then she looked again, and Seymour was driving. Those were the days of bench seats; but still, the visual was disturbing for any number of apparent reasons.

But again, I digress ….

Back in the day, I did any number of walks of shame, but that was back in my twenties. Remember your twenties? You could be out all night, come home, get one hour’s sleep, shower, dress for work, and put in a double shift then do the whole thing all over again the next night.

Then you turn thirty, and your body betrays you immediately. All of a sudden you need to get to sleep. You are still working the same job, but for the first time in your life, you say, “I have to work in the morning.”

Your potential repeat casual sex partner, whose name you still have not requested and wouldn’t have remembered anyway says, “Didn’t you have to work in the morning last week?”

“Yes, but last week, I was twenty-nine years old.”

“Oh, happy birthday … how about a quicky in the parking lot?”

Unless you own a Nash Ambassador (the car that turns into a bedroom), I have no possibility of doing it with you in a parking lot. I have always been too tall for the back seat, and don’t even try the front.

When I did the walk of shame, it was in an apartment complex. Nobody cared or noticed what time I came in or left. This has advantages. You never have to explain where you were or whom you were with, and depending on your closeted status, you don’t have to change Bob’s name to Betty.

The disadvantage is that on the off-chance your one night stand was the best sex you ever had, no one is there to ask you where you were last night, so you can tell him about the wild fabulous sex you had while being tied to a bed and tickled with a feather duster.

Do you know what S&M would be for someone like me with Joan Crawfordish OCD? Tying me to the bed and rearranging my furniture.

I once had a trick who moved two items on my coffee table while I was in the kitchen getting us drinks, and when I sat down, I put them back where they were without saying a word. I’ll bet he was scared at that point – probably thought I was a serial killer. I get that a lot.

When I think of the tricks whom I invited to my home or vice versa back in the days before the Internet and cell phones, it is a wonder I was never robbed. Actually, it isn’t. Whenever I got lucky, I made sure to tell a friend, have the friend make a mental picture of my latest conquest before we left the bar, and reminded that friend to call me first thing in the morning to be sure I was alive.

For those of you who do the internet pick-ups, be sure to have the person you are hooking up with call you, so his number is on your cell phone. Then write the number down and put it in a place where the coroner or detectives will find it.

And you thought you wouldn’t learn anything today.

My tricking days are long gone. Sometimes I feel like Shelly Winters, who said after a life of debauchery and sleeping with every well-hung leading man in Hollywood, “I am done with sex,” and from age fifty-two to the end of her life, she no longer had relations. However, after reading both her autobiographies, I think her vagina was just tired.

When we put my father in an assisted living facility after the onset of Alzheimer’s, he became the Casanova of the senile set. While his mind was gone, his body was that of a man twenty years younger, and he was the only man in the place who wasn’t in a wheelchair. He did more women than a sex addict at a sorority reunion. He also had the advantage of not having to remember their names, and if he did one twice, it was a whole new experience. My brother nicknamed him “Yencing Matilda.”

When he died, every woman in there sat shiva, and it wasn’t even a Jewish facility.

There is no walk of shame in a nursing home either. His mother, Grandma, also had Alzheimer’s, and she had a boyfriend who used to wait for her in her bed. They were introduced every night.

In a mobile home community, things are a bit different. All of us know each other’s business just by seeing whose car is parked out front … and for how long.

For example, Ms. K has a boyfriend who owns his own plumbing company. His truck is out front all the time, but one morning, there was a Chrysler 300, and Mrs. M said to me, “Well, looks like she picked up a new one.”

I immediately thought about how I would handle explaining a strange car in front of my house all night.

When I was dating Mr. Wrong (and no, I still have not heard from him), he stayed overnight after the second date. When he left, he texted me that two of my neighbors across the street were watching him from their windows.

I knew who, Mrs. M and Ms. K.

I also knew someone would ask me something.

Before she did, I had to wonder how this would affect our relationship. Mrs. M is Esmeralda’s dog walker, who is also a devout Catholic and a good friend now, but I knw nothing of her politics. Her husband is crazy about me because of my old cars and my love of gadgets that sell for only two easy payments of $19.99, and as you know, straight men are one of my demographics, but Mrs. M is not a middle-age Jewish woman, my other demographic. However, she has been to a party at my house when it was full of queens and dykes, and she fit in just fine. But this would be the first time she would encounter gay sex on her block. Or would it?

Mrs. M came over within fifteen minutes with the excuse of having a smoke behind my house, so her husband wouldn’t catch her. I still cannot believe he doesn’t smell her Marlboro Lights on her person.

“Did you and your friend have a good time last night?”

“Yes, we ate dinner at this really nice Asian restaurant then saw a movie.”

“We were wondering if those are ski racks on his truck?”

“Yes.”

Imagine if I answered, “Yes, we fucked all night. It’s a wonder I can walk the dog this morning!” Don’t you wish you could do that just once?

Apparently, she wasn’t freaked out at all. And when his truck no longer appeared in the hood, she didn’t ask any questions either, but there is something curious going on because …

This past weekend, a friend of mine drove quite a distance to see a play with me, and I told him to stay overnight since he wouldn’t get home until after 2:00 am if he drove back.

The next morning, we went out to breakfast early then came back to my house before he left.

Fifteen minutes later, I was taking Esmeralda out for her second walk, and Mrs. M drove around the corner and pulled up next to us and asked, “Did you have a good time last night?”

While there were no details worth sharing besides seeing a play and having dinner, do you think she was just hoping to get something juicy? Or is a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park something she never before encountered?

Next time, I’ll give her all the details. Unfortunately, I am so boring in bed, she might wish she never asked.

If you are a whore, or was, or wish you were, follow me, get on my email list, tell your friends.

It Only Happens on Sitcoms

2012-02-27T12:45:00.000-08:00

Picture it. New York, 1951. Ethel pokes her head into Lucy’s open window, and Lucy tells her to come right in. Ethel then sits down and finishes Ricky’s breakfast.

Picture it. New Rochelle, 1962. Millie just walks into Laura’s house without even knocking and starts yammering right away.

Picture it. Binley Woods, Warwickshire, a village east of Coventry, 1991. Hyacinth steps outside and insists Elizabeth pop in for a coffee at 10:15. As soon as the coffee is poured, Elizabeth drops a cup from the Royal Dalton with the hand-painted periwinkles on the floor.

Picture it. Chicago, 1975. There is a knock on Bob and Emily’s door and Howard just walks in and starts complaining.

Picture it. Jessup, 2012. There is a knock on my door, and Mrs. M comes in for a chat in the middle of the afternoon with Buddy, her beagle-basset hound mix, who proceeds to hide all of Esmeralda’s chew-bones, while she watches without a care in the world. They stay for more than an hour.

And you thought neighbors only dropped by unannounced on sitcoms.

I remember sitting at a party in West Palm Beach in 1992 (yes, I remember the year), and we were having a heated debate about whether Hazel was a sitcom or documentary. The thesis of one of the debater’s arguments was that the show was never funny. I had to agree. It was annoying, but never funny, but for some inexplicable reason, when I see a rerun of Hazel on TV, I have to stop flicking channels and watch it. I don’t laugh; I just observe and wait for a scene with one of their cool 1960s Fords. Mrs. B drove a Falcon at one time!

Anyway, in the middle of the argument, someone mentioned how Rosie (played by Maudie Prickett), Hazel's best friend, would drop by unannounced. Then we got into a discussion about how on sitcoms friends drop by all the time without so much as a phone call or an invite. All of us agreed that this was a violation of protocol, with one exception – the host, my partner, whose house was arranged like a sitcom set and who in the middle of conversations would turn to the nonexistent audience and wait for a reaction. I swear he got one once, then Marc Daniels yelled, “Cut.”

Seriously, how many of you just knock on your neighbor’s door to sit down and have a chat? I’ll bet none of you. The only time I knocked on a neighbor’s door was if he left his headlights on.

Once I saw a guy in a van ram into one of my neighbor’s cars. I called the police with the license plate number then knocked on the victim's door to tell her what happened. It turns out the van was stolen. A week later, she knocked on my door and yelled at me for giving the police the license plate number because if the driver had not been identified, she wouldn’t have had a deductible, but because of me, she had to pay $500. I vowed never to knock on someone’s door again.

Ceiling or wall yes, door, no.

In an apartment building, you never show up unannounced unless you are delivering a package that arrived in your mailbox by accident, but you never expected or accepted an invite for coffee. In a way, this is strange. Or isn’t it? Maybe we never did this in apartments because we can hear everything through the walls and showing up at someone’s door unannounced would get you sucked into their drama.

And who wants to be sucked into their drama? Oh right, every guy I ever dated.

Now, I haven’t lived in a stick house since 1985, but I don’t remember just knocking on someone’s door to come over and have a chat. Once in all the years we lived there, my mother went over to Mrs. Ruble’s and sat down to have a smoke with her and Mimi Smith. We were playing outside her house, and somehow, everyone ended up at Mrs. Ruble’s. But that was a very rare occurrence indeed.

Then, I saw The Long, Long Trailer, and in that movie, it turns out that in a trailer park showing up unannounced is a common occurrence, but wasn’t that a 1950s version of an RV park? Or did Marjorie Maine really live in a trailer park? Oh wouldn’t that be cool.

But that was a movie, and my life is more like a sitcom. So here I am, the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park. Just as I have in any neighborhood where I lived, I know everyone by name and most of their back stories, which helps when walking Esmeralda and saying hello, and we do stop to have a conversation on the sidewalk all the time, but that is not like showing up at someone’s house.

Soon after I moved in, I came back from a winery tour, and I wanted to give a bottle of wine to Mrs. M for walking Esmeralda while I was out for the afternoon. I called first. When I went over with Esmeralda, she asked me why I called, considering it too formal. She said just come over next time. And, Esmeralda and I sat and chatted with Mrs. and Mr. M for an hour about nothing in particular.

I should have realized this since Mrs. M stopped by a couple of times to watch me put together furniture soon after I moved in.

Two days after the wine delivery, Mrs. M knocked on my door and came in. I offered her a cup of coffee, and in the middle of the conversation, I mentioned how Mrs E’s next door neighbor was having some financial difficulty. Within seconds, she and I were knocking on Mrs. E’s door to get the 4-1-1. I asked if we should have called first, and Mrs. M looked at me as if I were insane. I know that look; I get it all the time. Mrs. E invited us in, and we had another cup of coffee and discussed how we could help her next-door neighbor.

Apparently, I was not well versed in Mobile Home Community Manners. In my new world, one does not call first. One just knocks on the door. I’ve tried to analyze this. Could it be that our homes are closer together than in gated or stick-built neighborhoods but not on top of each other as in apartment buildings? Our streets are wide enough to drive a house down one; they have to be. Maybe our lack of fenced-in yards has something to do with it? Could it be that the average age in my community is fifty-five, so we are of the same generation?

But that was my problem. I was analyzing too much. Face it, trailer park people are just friendlier and more like family. And there is a big reason why. No social ladders to climb. No one is A-list or D-list. We are all T-list. Even if you live in a single-wide as I do, you are just another trailer park queen enjoying life.

Hyacinth with her slim-line phone with automatic redial would never survive in my community.

So, if you want to live where your neighbors look out for you, and at times, watch your every move, then come on down and buy yourself a manufactured home in mobile home community.

And honey, once you move in, you better be sure to have a pot of coffee going at all times. After 5:00, make it decaf.

If you want to come in and sit a spell, follow me, join me, tell your friends.

A Three-Hour Tour

2012-02-26T10:13:00.000-08:00

Gilligan’s Island has been in syndication forty-five years, yet whenever someone over-packs for a trip, the first thing he is called is Lovey Howell. Her name was actually Eunice Wentworth Howell.

I used to be a light packer. I spent a week in Austria in 1992, and I travelled with one carry-on bag. I don’t know how I did it. I also travelled from Germany to Austria and back again with no GPS, cell phone, computer or fluency in German.

Try that today.

When we had our goodbye luncheon at my last government project, the event coordinator declared I was the best packer she ever met. Only one person raised an eyebrow. Apparently, I can pack a lot of stuff into a small space. I have a talent; I don’t question it; I just accept it. As a matter of fact, friends ask me to pack their trunks for trips.

I still can pack for a trip in about fifteen minutes. Yes, I am also a fast packer. You never knew what hit you.

Oh, he didn’t just go there.

However, somewhere along the way, while my packing skills have remained, I have become Mrs. Howell. When did I suddenly start needing so much stuff? Recently, I had to go on an overnight business trip, and I brought enough underwear for a month-long safari, even though I don’t have a bladder control problem. My size fourteen shoes can take up an entire suitcase on their own, but when did I start needing four wardrobe changes for every day of a trip? It’s a good thing I don’t travel very often even though I can still pack all that stuff into two suitcases. If one of my bags ever explodes, there will be a brief disaster.

After my last over-packed trip, I decided to a look back at those glorious family vacations we took in the 1970s. My brother is gonna love this.

Arnold and Harryette Stern loved to spend money the few times they had it, and there was a time when vacations were the recipients of their retirement, our college and everyone’s grocery funds. Since they didn’t have money very often, there weren’t that many family vacations. Thank God for small mercies.

Forgive me all you loyal family vacationers, but I cannot think of anything more horrible than a family vacation. My friend Chris used to claim that all divorces were the result of a family vacation. Think about it. You spend twenty-four hours a day for seven days with people you normally see for fifteen or twenty minutes a week. I worked in restaurants in Williamsburg, Virginia, for close to a dozen years, and I never saw a happy family on vacation. Never. I still remember the one mother who came up to the bar, ordered Scotch straight up and proceeded to tell me that she was glad she didn’t carry a gun on this trip. Not only did they have three kids in tow, but also, both grandmothers, who apparently did not like each other. I asked her one question, “What the hell were you thinking?” Her answer was to order another drink.

If Jews learned anything from Moses and Zipporrah, it is never to take your extended family on a trip. Imagine traipsing through the desert for forty years with 630,000 of your closest friends and relatives following you. Moses didn’t go up the mountain to talk to God; he went up there to get the hell away from all those whiny Jews.

What we also learned from Mr. and Mrs. Moses was that Jews always vacation where it is hot. One of our family vacations was to Miami in August. Seriously, and we stayed at the Aztec hotel for one night. It was such a dump that my mother left an unflushed present in the commode before we moved to the Thunderbird Hotel.

As you can see, I come from really classy stock.

Now, let me tell you about a typical Stern family vacation. My mother would bake by the pool covered in Coppertone, smoking cigarettes and reading a book, while my father played golf, and my brother and I swam in the ocean. We knew better than to bother either of them. At night, they would go to an expensive dinner, and my brother and I would be on our own. I don’t remember our doing much of anything as a family, but my parents were married for more than forty-six years at the time of my mother’s death, so while this sounds like a strange vacation routine, perhaps they knew something other families didn’t? We spent as much time together on vacation as we did when we weren’t. Stick with me; I am trying to find the positive in all this.

The funny thing about our vacations was how much they packed. Of course, the portable bar was the most essential item, and the first thing that was opened upon arrival. After that were my mother’s things, which would only fit into a complete set of Sampsonite, three wig boxes, a Hollywood-sized make-up case, and four garment bags. All of this would fill the car’s trunk, and the rest of us were on our own. Maybe this is when I learned to fit a lot into a small space.

The most bizarre vacation was the trip they took to Cape Cod after dropping us off at Nana’s in the Van Ness North Apartments, in Washington, DC, in the summer of 1972. At that time, my father drove the prettiest car I think he ever owned – a 1967 Mercury Monterey four-door sedan, which was seafoam green with a black vinyl interior. We called it our Hawaii Five-O car. The trunk of this huge car was filled with Mother’s things, and for this trip, they put one of those poles across the back seat and hung up what had to be half of both of their complete summer wardrobes. My brother sat up front, while I squeezed into the back, against the passenger-side door, with all those clothes taking up ninety-percent of the space as we drove to Nana’s from Newport News. I couldn’t see beside me, and I started to cry. When they asked why I was crying, I told them I felt like a piece of luggage because the three of them were up front, and I was squeezed among all these clothes and wig boxes as if I wasn’t part of the family.

Their trip was for only five days. Who the hell needed all those clothes?

And for the five days we stayed with Nana, she carried on about two things: Aunt Flossie’s divorce and why our parents were spending all their money on these ridiculous vacations. We did get to see the Panda’s when they first arrived at the National Zoo. About that, Nana complained that they needed a bath.

If you have ever wondered how I turned out the way I did, you should have no difficulty understanding that now.

When they returned to pick us up, somehow they had managed to fill the car up with more stuff, and we were also hauling Nana’s black and white RCA television home since she bought a Sony color set to replace it. There I was in the back seat again – this time with a television banging into my head.

I made two vows on that trip. I would never go on a trip where I ended up in the back seat competing for room with someone else’s luggage and used appliances, and I would never travel with a middle-aged Jewish woman.

While I do pack quite a bit for the few trips I take these days, I leave the wig boxes at home, and I leave enough room for me to see out the rearview mirror. And yes, on the rare occasions when I do sit in the back seat, I still cry.

If you feel crowded out by someone else’s stuff, follow me, join me, get on my list.

Straight Men Playing with Knives

2012-02-19T09:48:00.000-08:00

For as long as I live, I will never completely understand straight men – not the kind who feed a comedian lines, but the ones who knock their women over the head with a club and drag them back to the cave. To me, most straight men are just cave men with a better wardrobe.

For example, I like to watch a football game on occasion, but I don’t throw food at the TV screen or wear a jersey or even care who wins or loses. I just like the science of the game. But, straight men can talk about a particular football game until the key players have retired and had their knees replaced. There is a guy who comes into the gym every morning, and for forty-five minutes argues with the guy at the front desk about a football game. Not even the past weekend’s game, but one game that has him irked beyond belief. The Super Bowl was two or three weeks ago – who remembers – and this guy still comes in and argues about every play that occurred. I have never seen him workout. He stands there holding his gym bag and yelling about this pass or that tackle or this kick. He reminds me of what a restaurant owner I know always says, “The customer has gone home and already shit out his dinner, and you are still complaining about him.”

As long as we are talking about football, I have to complain – big surprise. For a sport that is full of man on man contact with lots of bone crushing, blood spurting and grunting, what is up with Astroturf and stadiums with roofs? I watched a game a month ago (I don’t know who was playing, I switched channels and the game was on, so I stuck with it for an hour), and one team was wearing pristine white uniforms. It was the third quarter, and no one had a mark on him. Not a blood stain, not a mud stain, not even a wrinkle. You call this football? Where’s the mud? Where’s the rain? Where’s the snow? And they call us sissies. I had an electric football set as a kid (the NFL Electric Football Tudor Board Game), and my players that got dirtier than these guys.

Remember those electric football games. Basically, you set up the teams, put the felt football in the quarterback’s bent arm, flicked a switch, and the damn thing vibrated until you couldn’t make heads or tails of who was doing what to whom, but you kept setting it up and flicking the switch because at seven years old, it took you so little to entertain yourself and you liked things that vibrated.

Now, I like staying clean as much as the next guy, but football today is hardly a sport. Every time one of these spotless players catches a pass or makes a tackle, he has to do some kind of dance followed by a fist pump. This is when I scream at the screen, “Stop your showboating and get on with the next play!” And with the curse of instant replay, we have to watch this spectacle over and over again. With the money they are making, they need to play in all kinds of weather and get dirty and bloody and break a few bones. What is amazing is golf is more manly than football these days. These overweight fashionably challenged country club members will take their shoes and socks off to stand in a bacteria filled pond to get the right shot from a bad lie.

Where are our modern day gladiator? They are playing baseball. Thank God for baseball. At least they still have dirt on their uniforms and skinned knees, but I am sure it won’t be long before they come up with Astrosand, too.

Bet you didn’t know a flaming queen would know something about sports? I just don’t talk about them. When the game is over, it’s over, much like my relationships.

Back to straight men. As you know, I am taking Krav Maga, and as usual with my obsessive compulsive personality, I have rearranged my schedule, so I can take a class every other day because God forbid I should miss one, or I would end up doing my Wonder Woman circles and have a mini-nervous breakdown. I could give Rain Man a run for his money.

What this class has done is really expose me to straight men in a group setting, and it is fun to observe wildlife in its natural habitat. The last time I was around so many straight men in a group setting was when I played football, but that was a long time ago in a universe far, far away. I always played center with the quarterback's hands always up my crotch. No wonder I miss the game so much.

There may be some gay men in the Krav Maga class, but I’ll be damned if I can figure them out. I have the worst gaydar of anyone on the planet with the exception of my friend Charles. He compensates for his bad gaydar by assuming all men are gay and then figuring out who is straight.

How bad is my gaydar? When I lived in Mount Pleasant, I had a neighbor, cute guy, who was always working in his yard shirtless and had the complete gay look. We would talk every time Serena and I would walk by, and he would chat with me when he walked by my place. I asked him to dinner, and he said, “What is this about? You know I am straight.”

I answered, “I know you’re straight, I was just asking if you wanted to grab a bite sometime.” As I walked away, I cursed myself for once again having bad gaydar. And honey, this is the least embarrassing situation in which I have found myself.

So here I am in this class, and I have taken classes at all different times, so I have been exposed to many straight men or so I assume. There are also quite a few women in these classes, but with one exception, I am sure they are all straight. My lesbigar is much better than my gaydar. After all, I drive two lesbian magnets.

Granted this is a self-defense class, but I cannot be the only person in this class who is taking it for its fitness benefits, or do all these people find themselves in situations every weekend where they need to defend themselves in a fight? The instructors always talk about bar fights.

“OK, you find yourself in a bar, and a guy throws a punch at you. This is how you deflect the punch.” They speak as if everyone goes out on Saturday night and finds himself in the middle of a brawl. My favorite was the instructor who said, “Last Saturday, I was at the Green Turtle, and this guy wanted to fight me. He went into a wrestling stance, so I kicked him in the face.”

Who are these people? You kicked a guy in the face? Do all straight men have to learn these skills? Is this why in straight bars they use plastic cups and in gay bars they use fine crystal?

I find all this fascinating. Do straight men go out looking for trouble? Do they grunt like Tim Allen? Maybe it is because they don’t shave their balls. Having all that hair down there must make them angry.

Gay men don’t get into fistfights. In all the years I went to gay bars, I only saw one act of violence. A guy threw a beer bottle at his boyfriend during an argument. He missed because he threw like a girl. Everyone scooted out of the way, and he was escorted out. No punches were thrown, and we went about our business and continued dancing to C&C Music Factory’s latest hit. I think they only had one hit.

But, here is my theory. Straight men are very possessive of their girlfriends. If a guy even sees another guy looking at his girlfriend, he immediately feels threatened and goes into attack mode and what culminates is a fistfight. For gay men, if another guy looks at your boyfriend, you feel flattered because he is obviously jealous of what you have, and what culminates is a threeway. So you see, straight men use their fists, and gay men use their penises.

When straight men do a threeway, their biggest concern is crossing swords. For gaymen, it is the lighting.

Another thing I have never understood is why straight men like me so much. Seriously, other than middle-aged Jewish women, since my college days, this has been one of my best demographics. I have not been in the closet since Mary Tyler Moore tried three times to launch a variety show, so they know I am of the pink persuasion. The instructors know I am a flamer. One of them, a creative writing major in college, just bought my latest novel. They never have a problem touching me when showing me the proper way to throw a punch or kick a guy in the face. I have noticed they are hesitant to touch any of the other guys in the class. I am also the guy who took ballet and modern dance from the only two straight instructors in South Florida. They loved me.

See why my gaydar is so screwed up? I don’t know if they are being friendly or coming on to me. Even at my jobs, the straight guys always love me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I am comfortable in my own skin and can talk auto mechanics and sports with the best of them. I confuse them. Who knows?

But, as much as they love me, I will never fully understand them, and yesterday, I really was confused.

The subject at the end of the class was what to do if your opponent has a knife? Seriously? Are these guys going out every Saturday night and reenacting scenes from West Side Story? Oh my God! I get it now! Oh, wait a minute; it can’t be that easy.

Anyway …

The instructor told us how many people are stabbed and don’t realize the attacker had a knife until it is all over because it happens so fast. Then he talked about these knives you can pull out of your pocket that open immediately. He asked, “How many of you carry a knife to work?”

There was a show of about eight hands. Some of the people in the class are in law enforcement, but don’t they use guns? He then said he has co-workers (notice the plural) at his day job who play with their knives all day.

I had to ask, “Where in the hell do you work that people are playing with knives?” He just smiled.

Can you imagine walking by a co-worker’s desk and seeing him play with his switchblade? Maybe, If you are a receptionist in a meth lab.

One cannot enter the government building where I work with a peanut butter sandwich without being questioned because apparently the biggest threat to national security is peanut butter bombs.

A few weeks ago, CVS had a sale on batteries – buy one get one free. I ran over there at lunch time, and I bought six packages of batteries. Upon entering the building, I was questioned as to why I bought so many batteries and why I was bringing them into the building as if it is any of their damn business.

“They were on sale.”

“But sir, I don’t understand why you need so many?”

“I'm single, and I don’t get out much.”

They let me go through. Yes, I buy a lot of batteries.

So, bringing a knife to work would be completely out of the question. Or would it? I think I’ll put a cleaver in my backpack tomorrow and see what happens.

If you play with knives at work, follow me, get on my email list, tell your friends.

Was the Salesman Pretty?

2012-02-16T12:38:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond was when Raymond bought a vacuum cleaner for a door-to-door saleslady, and Debra asks if she was pretty. He says, “Yes, but you should see this machine.”

I once read that good looking people make the best sales people, but in the same article, it said that good looking people also make the worst telemarketers because they are not used to rejection.

As the saying goes, “you have a face made for radio.”

To be clear, I have nothing against unattractive people. I firmly believe that anyone with the right grooming and wardrobe can be attractive. If you take a good look at unattractive people, you will notice they have done everything possible to make themselves unattractive. This is especially true with many teenagers who adopt hairstyles and make-up applications that do nothing to make them good looking, oftentimes achieving a repulsive effect.

If it were not true that anyone can make his or herself attractive then how come on Good Morning America they can make over some shluub in an hour? The results are usually phenomenal with one exception. The dresses. They get the hair and make-up right, and if they put the woman in slacks, she comes out looking damn good, but who picks out the dresses? It’s as if they raided the dumpster behind the Goodwill Thrift Store for the rejects.

Another point is that attractiveness has nothing to do with weight. I have seen the most beautiful fat people and the ugliest skinny people, and every one of them either worked to make themselves attractive or just crawled out of bed wearing an “I don’t give a shit” T-shirt.

I have been told I am attractive since I was a little boy by only one particular demographic – middle-aged Jewish women. The yeantas love me. I have worked to maintain my looks for my demographic by doing a nightly ritual that involves the mixing of Oil of Olay with formaldehyde and sleeping in a hyperbolic chamber. Oh honey, this doesn’t just happen. And although I don’t wear the most fashionable clothes, I also never go out looking sloppy. I don’t wear jeans, and I never even go to the grocery store without hair and wardrobe in proper order and a healthy layer of moisturizer on my face. And, the middle-aged Jewish women still wink at me in the produce section while squeezing their melons.

I also have the cleanest shoes in town. My friend Dean always asks me, “Do you still wear spotless tennis shoes?”

When your feet don’t touch the ground, it is easy to keep your shoes clean.

I even look spotless when I go to Krav Maga class. I always win best hair.

In high school, I sat in 11^th Grade homeroom and watched as every boy was nominated for the Homecoming Court except me. I wasn’t the guy whose name was scrawled in some girl’s notebook, although through Facebook, I did find out a former male classmate had a crush on me. To think I could have had a better time at the prom.

Since my look is an acquired taste, I have never been called sexy or hot, but then again, sexy and hot have nothing to do with looks as much as it has to do with essence. Have you ever noticed there are some plain people whose bones you want to jump in public and some very good looking people whom you wouldn’t consider boning even if there was a monetary reward in the end?

I have a friend who is attractive, but not what one would call a knock-out, yet everyone who says hello to him wants to screw him. It is funny to watch how guys react to being introduced to him. He doesn’t have a killer body or model hair or even the snazziest wardrobe, but he must put out a scent that is a mixture of a porterhouse steak and musk (I stole that from the Golden Girls). I think I am the only person in the world who is immune to his lure.

I am glad I am not sexy or put out a natural fragrance. I don’t know how I would handle the responsibility of having sex with so many people. Oh the burden my friend must bear.

Although I state anyone can be attractive with just a little effort, there are those who have a natural beauty that is just breathtaking. You know the type, male or female, they walk by, and you just cannot help but stare at them. If they say hello to you, you exhibit the symptoms of a mild stroke. You know you do.

However, I don’t.

What I do is flirt.

I know there isn’t a chance in hell one of God’s perfect creatures will rock my world, so I figure I have nothing to lose, so I flirt. And I can flirt with the best of them.

But sometimes, my flirting gets me in trouble.

Take Valentine’s Day. Seriously, take Valentine’s Day and never let me have to live through it again.

On the way home from work Valentine’s Day night, I performed my Milton is alone on a special day ritual. I stopped and bought a bucket of fried chicken, with the intent of eating every damn piece of succulent meat then having a large piece of cake for dessert. And of course, watching some TLC show about the morbidly obese afterward. Sometimes, I don’t even use a plate; I just stand over the sink and throw the bones into the disposal.

If I spend any more special days alone, I will be on one of those TLC shows as they slice away a wall of my trailer and carry me away on a flatbed.

I arrived home with my chicken and cake and immediately took Esmeralda out for a walk. As we turned the corner, I spotted a guy in a winter coat similar to mine who was wearing a badge and holding a clipboard, and he was one of the beautiful people. He was no older than twenty-five, no taller than five-six, with short brown hair and a smile that would make angels sing.

All of you would have had a stroke.

I flirted.

With my brightest smile, I asked, “What are you selling?”

He said, “Look, our coats match.”

See, even some beautiful people have questionable taste.

As it turns out, he was selling some kind of alternative provider for my electricity that was going to save me 1.7 cents a kilowatt per something or other. It sounded good. OK, it sounded wonderful coming from his beautiful mouth. I gave him my address.

Fifteen minutes later, he was knocking on my door.

I said, “Your wife must be mad about you working on Valentine’s Day.”

He didn’t respond, instead getting into his shpiel.

We sat at my dinette while he explained what I was getting and how for a year I would be getting my electric bill as usual but my power from a competitive supplier, and five minutes later, I was signing a contract while looking into his beautiful brown eyes. Yet, I still didn’t know what the hell he was selling.

I also noticed something else since I rarely get a chance to look at the face of someone half my age. There wasn’t a blemish, a line, a wrinkle, a crease, not one flaw at all.

God, was I ever that young?

He also told me he sells health supplements that are organic through his side business. I told him to come by and tell me about those as well.

Interestingly, I didn't want to bone him, just look at him.

Then, he was gone, and I still didn’t know what the hell I just bought.

Later that evening as I stood above the sink eating my fried chicken, Esmeralda looked at me and asked in Beagleeze, “Was the salesman pretty?”

If you buy from only good looking people, or you find yourself attractive, follow me, link to me, tell your pretty friends.

Men Are Assholes, and They Don’t Know What They Want

2012-02-15T09:36:00.000-08:00

This comes with a warning: Never date a writer … or a reality star.

I have been single for a long time. My longest relationship lasted exactly one year. I moved in to his house on June 21, 1993, and I moved out on June 21, 1994. He was a raging alcoholic.

With the exception of that year, I have lived alone for more than a quarter century, which is amazing since I am only twenty-nine. You just tasted part of your lunch from yesterday didn’t you?

As you know, living in a garage-level (I still refuse to call it a basement) apartment in DC was not attractive to potential suitors, and apparently living in a luxury apartment in Rockville didn’t quite do the trick either although …

There was the six-week relationship in Rockville with the Jewish boy who wasn’t “out” and never invited me to spend time with him and his friends although I included him in everything. After giving this potential relationship my all, I knew I couldn’t give anymore when we were at the movies, and he saw a cousin of his. He screamed then pointed at me and yelled, “Stay here.” Then with arms flailing and his feet not touching the ground, he ran out to their car to chit chat while I waited on the sidewalk. When he was done kibitzing, he returned to me, and I refused to speak to him.

“What’s wrong?”

“You pointed at me and told me to stay as if I were a dog.”

“Oh, well they don’t know I’m gay.”

“Seriously? The way you ran to their car? There were squirrels in the trees pointing at you and yelling fag.”

Then, I imitated him running to the car, to the horror of him and the amusement of everyone in line for the movie. Needless to say, we did not pick out china patterns after that, nor did we see the movie.

Prior to that, I dated the forty-year-old virgin. Well, not quite dated. We would go out several times a year because he thought I was funny and would laugh at everything I said. I kind of like having an audience. But, there is no future in a relationship based on a Jew being a ham. Did I mention he was a virgin? Do the math.

Soon after arriving in Washington in 1997, I met Frankenstein at the Pride Festival (he was incapable of human emotion). We dated for eight months. He would travel all the time and never invite me to accompany him, usually on the weekends, yet I stuck it out because I was desperate to be in a relationship, until a friend asked one night, “Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?” I broke up with him the next day.

There was my other Jewish boyfriend, the one my mother adored. He dumped me on my birthday in 1999 because he didn’t want to be attached on New Year’s Eve.

With such a lovely dating history, I made up my mind at that point to quit actively seeking love, and I also realized I was happier when single.

Over the next decade, there was the guy who wanted to spend time with me – in my apartment, but not in public. The Jew who freaked out at six weeks when my friends invited us to dinner. He and apartment boyfriend hooked up after that when they discovered their mutual love of bondage.

There was the one who declared after I found out he was dating someone else that he could not see me exclusively because if he did he would fall in love with me, and he swore he wouldn’t fall in love again. He and the other guy he was dating recently celebrated eight lovely years together. Funny, I was dating him five years ago.

My favorite was the one in witness protection. He couldn’t remember how to spell his first name, and his condo looked staged. There were no pictures of family or friends, just pictures that came with the frames. He also couldn’t remember his age or where he worked. However, he was the best of all of them in bed and still is.

I resigned myself to believe my mother was right when she declared I would die alone. When I left the drunk to live on my own again, she said, “You are better off living by yourself.” I wanted to say make up your mind. But my living alone saved her from explaining who my roommate was to all her friends, who, ironically, knew I was gay.

Over the last year, I went on two dates. Yes, two dates. I also had dinner with the virgin and the guy in witness protection, who is still the best one in bed and a great conversationalist even though I know nothing of his life prior to 2003. Hey, a guy has to eat.

I figured that moving into a trailer park was not going to help me hook Mr. Right. What gay man wants to date trailer trash? Boy was I in for a surprise – or wasn’t I?

Twenty some years ago, I walked into the Oar House in Norfolk, Virginia, and my friend Joe Moore, the best looking guy in Norfolk (may he rest in peace), said to Christopher Lance (may he also rest in peace),“Watch out for that one; he’s husband shopping.” If you watched porn in the 1980s, you know who Christopher Lance was. His real name was Bobby Slack. We dated for a bit. And now you know who said that about me and to whom.

As I have always said, I apparently was not a good shopper.

A part of me always thought that my living situations, apartment dwelling to be exact, were handicapping my prospects. With that in mind, mobile home living was not going to improve the situation, but I am happiest when I am single, so I didn’t care.

So, here is how it all happened. I was on a dating sight (I keep putting myself out there), and no, not Manhunt or M4M or Adam4Adam or FuckeMeTonight (actually that one is made-up, but feel free to steal it if you want to). I saw this profile a while ago, but for some reason, I decided to send a note one day, and it went like this.

“I’ll bet everyone tells you how hot you are.”

The following day, I got “Actually, no. Do you really live in a mobile home? And do you really own two AMCs and a Rambler?”

There was a link to my blog on the site. Well, I figured that would be the end of it, and honesty was the best policy.

“Yes, I live in a mobile home, and I drive two AMCs and have a Rambler in restoration.”

And the response was:

“Cool. It is on my bucket list to live in a mobile home, and a few weeks ago, I went to look at an AMC Matador wagon.”

Opportunity only knocks once, so I responded:

“Do you want to do dinner some time? Here is my number 1-800-CYNICAL.”

He called, and we talked. More importantly, he made me laugh. We then talked daily for the week leading up to the date, and he impressed me by not doing the one thing that drives me crazy – sexting.

I found out he only dates guys who own dogs because only they understand about caring for something and about how one needs to be home for the dog at certain times. Yes, he has a dog.

I don’t like being teased. Guys tend to “sext” a lot before a date, and then the date happens, and nothing happens. Besides, at my age, I have had enough sex. I need someone I can talk to and spend time, without looking at my watch.

The date night arrived. It was great. And in case you are wondering. He did not look like his pictures. He looked even hotter in person. That is a surprise I can live with.

We had been dating for more than a month, when I met his crazy family at the fancy restaurant with the two different colored napkins.

If had known that all I needed to do to find romance was become a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park, honey, I would have done this twenty years ago!

Until …

A little history and some psychology for you. At six weeks into a relationship, one knows if he is falling for someone or not. It is usually at this point that several things happen. One of the guys admits he is falling in love. One of the guys dumps the other one because he is afraid of falling in love. One of the guys fakes depression to sort of get out of the relationship without having the balls to admit he just doesn’t want to continue.

I dumped my first boyfriend. I was twenty-five, and I freaked out at six weeks into the relationship and was afraid of falling in love (although I didn't understand that at the time). However, I did it in person, not over the phone or with a letter (this was pre-internet). We have since reconnected on Facebook, we are both still single, and I haven't aged a bit.

In the above relationships, two of them ended right at the six week mark, and in all three, the other party went into a depression, then either disappeared or wouldn’t admit they wanted to end it. I gave each a chance, and in the end, I had to be the man with the balls in the relationship.

To all you guys reading this. If you are done or you don’t want to continue, have the fucking balls to come out and say so. Yes, you will break someone’s heart, but that is better than making someone think he did something wrong or terrible. People deserve honesty.

And bitch, if you are going to date a writer, you really need to watch what you do.

So, here is what happened with Mr. Wrong. Yes, we will call him Mr. Wrong.

After the dinner with his family, he asked why I looked uncomfortable for about five minutes at the table. I didn’t recall looking uncomfortable. I was listening to the conversation, and since he worked for his sister, they started talking about work. What could I add? Politely, I listened. However, he dwelled on that five minutes for more than I thought was necessary. I didn’t tell him that. I let it go. It wasn’t that important to me nor worth discussing.

I had a good time, and that was all that needed to be said. Why analyze the evening?

Now, I may jump around here a few times, so bear with me, I have a lot of points to make.

The one relationship where I lived with my partner for a year was filled with arguing, screaming and drama, which is why it didn’t last. His other relationships lasted a minimum of five years because apparently that is what made them tick.

I refuse to be in a relationship filled with yelling, screaming, hysterics and most of all, drama. I grew up in a house filled with yelling, screaming, hysterics, hitting, and drama. I also grew up around alcohol and drug abuse. I avoid these things in my life. When dating someone, I won’t engage in ridiculous arguments over ridiculous things.

For example, when Mr. Wrong kept asking about the five minutes of silence from me at the dinner, I just said, I was listening because that was what I was doing. Some men would have responded, “Why are you making such a big deal out of this. What is your problem?” And looking back, I really think he wanted me to make this five minutes of listening at the table into some dramatic moment.

At another point in the conversation at the dinner, he asked me about the BMWs at the auto show I attended that afternoon. My response was, “I didn’t look at the BMWs. They all look alike to me. I like cars with character.” I did see the looks from everyone at the table when I said that.

For the record, I have never driven a BMW, Mercedes, or Audi. Surprisingly, I don’t feel deprived.

Unlike me, Mr. Wrong had been in long-term relationships – three of them, two for three years and one for ten. He never talked much about the first one, but apparently number two was his supervisor at work who seduced him on a business trip. They stayed together in a tumultuous relationship that ended when Mr. Wrong found out the man was engaging in scat with other men. This should have been red flag number one for me.

I had to ask him if he kissed Mr. Scat Supervisor and how long it had been since he had. Who wants to kiss a shitty mouth?

The ten-year relationship, which ended three years ago, was with a nasty drunk, according to Mr. Wrong, who was the good guy in the house (they always are and we all know there are two sides to everything). Ten years with a nasty drunk – makes you wonder.

This should have been red flag number two. Mr. Wrong obviously thrived on drama. But even a drama queen has his limits, and the relationship ended when the police had to be called to break up an argument.

I am not saying I am perfect, far from it. I know my flaws and that I can be difficult. I like being in control, I am set in my ways, I act like Joan Crawford when it comes to keeping my house, and I am not easily impressed. I also don’t bring a lot of excitement to a relationship. I just want someone with whom I can enjoy spending time, engaging in conversation, and laughing a lot. I am not going to stir up drama for the sake of stirring up drama.

Now, we also need to look at one other aspect of Mr. Wrong’s prior life. He not only lived on the A list, he lived beyond his means on the A list in two major Midwest cities. He drove the fanciest cars, lived in the biggest houses and wore only designer clothes. The exact opposite of me. And you know that none of those things matter to trailer trash like me.

However, three years ago, Mr. Wrong lost his job in the recession, then his house, moved into an apartment in a new city for a new job, and lost that one as well, and if I counted correctly, lost another one in there somewhere. His ex of ten years somehow also ended up in that new city with a new boyfriend with whom he is still partnered.

As I mentioned, Mr. Wrong works for his sister, and she gave him a small cottage to live in, while he figures out his next move. He has been figuring it out for more than two years. I’ll never forget my first visit to the cottage. I thought it was adorable, but I did notice the remnants of the prior life, mainly the huge artwork on the walls, and the closet filled with more clothes than the wardrobe department on the set of Dynasty. He had more than twenty designer suits, dress shirts out the ass, shoes, shoes and more shoes. I told him when I walked in there, I felt as if I should act like Ethel Mertz at Gimbels Basement, clawing through the racks.

There was a list of goals in the closet including buy a Porsche and be in a long-term relationship. Yes, I thought for a minute I might just be a goal. Another red flag? It was in the back of my mind.

I have to say something about expensive artwork. Why is it always so fucking huge? Who has walls that big? Also, why is it usually so ugly? Just because something costs a lot, doesn’t make it pretty.

As a Jew, I was taught art is what matches your couch.

I did not comment on his artwork, well not exactly. There was this painting in his bedroom of a woman’s eyes that took up the whole wall. He told me the artist picks someone in the background in a famous painting and creates a painting from some aspect of that person’s face. Whatever, I felt as if she was staring at us all night. The damn thing was ten feet wide and four feet high. Seriously!

But none of this difference in priorities bothered me because he appeared not to be bothered by it.

From the day after the first date, he would text me thirty to forty times a day. I am not exaggerating. It was actually fifty to sixty, but I didn’t think you would believe me. We would talk for an hour every night. He told me at one point he was starting to really like me, and that was before the second date.

By the third date he texted he missed me. That should have been a red flag.

On New Year’s Eve, the third holiday in a row I spent alone this year, he had a preplanned trip to a ski resort in California. This was the weekend after our first date (yes, I am still jumping around, but I have to make some more points). I decided not to text or talk to anyone as I was a little down. Everyone I knew was out of town, and here I was alone on New Year’s Eve – again!

He texted me about five times, and I was getting a little sick of it. So, I texted back that I was going to bed, and I would talk to him in the morning because I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Then he called. I didn’t answer. Then he called again. I finally answered because it was the only way to make him stop. I didn’t want to shut off my phone because if there were an emergency, I would have to wait for it to boot up.

During that conversation, he informed me that he was an “overcommunicator”and that I should not shut him out as he will worry and we should talk out anything or feelings we have. We had not been on our second date yet.

This should have been red flag number … OK, I lost count here.

The texting and talking continued for six weeks solid. Then one day it stopped. It didn’t slow down; honey, it stopped. And it stopped when he was supposedly on the road to his former Midwest City for a dental appointment because he loved his dentist and didn’t want to switch. I wondered if she would address his slight bad breath problem?

I thought he had an accident or was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. I texted him mid-day asking if he was OK. No response. Then I called. No response.

Then he texted, “At the gym, will chat latter.”

What the fuck?

We didn’t chat. I called again two hours later. I got a text. “I don't want to talk or text anyone. I am down on my luck, and I don’t know where to turn. I have to figure out my next move. My luck is running out.”

I responded, “Remember when on New Year’s Eve, you told me not to shut you out? Well, you shouldn’t do that to me. I am here to listen.”

He responded, “Thanks. I didn’t want to burden you.”

And, I never heard from him again … until ...

After two days of silence, I sent the following. “Dear Mr. Wrong. This is so typical. Six weeks into a relationship, the guy gets depressed then dumps me. I can see the writing on the wall. I will save you the trouble. Good bye, good luck, I am done. Milton.”

He responded, “Wow … ok, this is for the best. It was never about you. Have a good life.”

If he really did want to continue seeing me, he would have called to talk me out of it, but the son of a bitch did not have the balls to call me on the phone and just say, “I really don’t want to do this anymore” or “I want to move on” or “You suck in bed, and I need more.” I know I am lousy in bed, so this wouldn't have been a good argument.

This pussy took the coward’s way out and forced my hand.

Now, you can imagine all the crap that went through my head. First of course, was what did I do?

I really hate being fucked with. Don’t tell me you miss me and you are really beginning to like me and come on super strong with constant communications every day if you have no intention of following through for the long haul. Fuck with someone else. I don't like being test-driven.

If he was so worried about his finances, why was he taking ski trips all over the country? We have excellent skiing right next door to us. Did I tell you one of those trips was with his ex and his new partner? He invited me to go, but it was mid-week, and I cannot take three days off from work with only a day’s notice.

So, my thought was that although he says living in a trailer is on his bucket list, he just couldn’t see himself with trailer trash as a partner, especially one who was not impressed with who has what and what they can or cannot afford.

Then I noticed he changed his online profile pics on the dating site the next day. That is when I realized what was really going on.

His goal was to be in a long-term relationship again, but what he wants is another drama-filled screamfest with the police being called out once a week, and I’ll bet he wants that with someone who can keep him in a lifestyle in which he wants to become accustomed.

He can’t handle a healthy relationship. Few, if any, men can. I refuse to become a nasty drunk or take a dump in another man’s mouth in order to find love. Believe me, there was a time I would have done anything, but never anything involving the urinary or digestive tract.

The real problem is I will never know what really happened because he refused to talk on the phone, but frankly, I don't care anymore. I will wonder from time to time, but I won't care.

I have always thought I was flawed because no one has ever fallen in love with me or to be more exact, no one has ever allowed himself to fall in love with me. However, this six week affair affirmed something I have known for a long time.

Men are assholes, and they don’t know what they want ... and somehow, I figure I, too, fit into that equation.

And yes, I do hope he reads this.

If you are husband shopping, follow me, get on my email list, share me with your friends but don't tell me you miss me.

Close Combat

2012-02-12T08:07:00.000-08:00

This one is for my friend, Lisa.

I have never been in a fight. OK, I was beaten up a few times as a kid, once by a neighbor whose mother told him I threw a mud pie at their 1965 Oldsmobile when I was five. He was eight. Yes, I threw the mud pie, but in my defense, I was aiming for my friend Jerry. I missed. This woman held onto that for the entire day, and that afternoon, when the school bus dropped her son off, she came out, said something to him, pointed at me, and next thing I knew I was on the ground getting my ass kicked. I didn’t throw any punches because I was too busy guarding my face. Every drag queen knows never the face, never the face!

My father, the original Mister Macho, who tried to make Robert Conrad look like a flaming sissy, once gave my brother and me boxing lessons using the cushions on my mother’s mid-century modern teak couch. All I learned from that experience was that my father knew nothing about boxing.

Funny thing about my father, he always talked about all the fights he got into as a kid in Brooklyn. Once saying, “I’ve been beaten up by guys smaller than I, and I’ve beaten up guys bigger than I.” Actually, he did not say, “I.” He said, “me.” I just felt like cleaning up the grammar.

What is it about Brooklyn? Everyone who grew up there said they fought every day, yet none of them have cauliflower ears or crooked noses or missing teeth. Is this just an urban legend or is everyone from Brooklyn full of shit?

He also told one story about how three Marines beat him up when he was in the Navy. Apparently, they called him off a bus full of recruits, took him into a room, told him to straighten up his hat, turned off the lights, then punched him in the stomach. All mayhem broke loose, and when they were tired out, they cleaned up in the bathroom and had a good laugh.

My father also told the story about the guy in the Navy who never bathed, so he and two other sailors were ordered to take the guy into the shower and scrub him down with brushes. This was forty years before the Village People made their first appearance.

OK, a fight in the dark, and four naked sailors in the shower. Interesting.

Of course, he always followed these stories with the one about how he fell asleep in a Jeep, and the guy driving it reached over and fondled him. He immediately had him stop the Jeep, beat the guy up, and left him wherever they were in the desert. I have two problems with this story. Anyone who has ridden in a World War II era Jeep will tell you the only way to fall asleep in one is to be dead or passed out drunk. And what were two sailors doing driving a Jeep in the desert?

Needless to say, I did not inherit my father’s mortal combat history. I have also never been fondled in a Jeep. My loss.

I did manage to talk myself out of more fights than you can count on two hands, two feet and an open zipper. I have never punched anyone in my life. This is not to say I have not wanted to. I have also never put my fist through a wall, but then again, that is a very straight thing to do. Straight guys love to punch walls and doors. My friend Chris always said that one day I would get into a fight, and when I threw my first punch, all the rage I have held onto for years would come out, and I would end up killing the guy.

When I was ten years old, my mother thought it would be a good idea to enroll my brother and me in Judo classes at the Jewish Community Center. OK, Judo at the JCC – I am not even going to go there, but you can imagine all the Jewish mothers sitting on the sidelines watching to be sure Irving didn’t get injured or sweaty, and that he had nosh when class was over. OK, I went there. Our mother just dropped us off.

At the time, I thought it might be fun to horse around and learn to fight at the same time. However, Judo is not a martial art for those needing to learn how to defend themselves. The translation for Judo is “gentle way.” How often do you get into a fight in your pajamas? In addition, to engage in Judo combat, your opponent must also be barefoot in pajamas, and you must grab the collar of his pajamas in a certain way in order to throw him. But if he throws you, you must land on your back, throw out one arm and yell, “Hiyah!” with an accent on the “yah.” Seriously?

I am amazed I can remember that since it was forty years ago.

“Excuse me, sir, who just broke into my house, will you put on this snazzy white robe, take off your shoes, tie this lovely pastel belt around your waist, stand with your feet parallel and shoulder width apart, and let me grab you by the collar and throw you over my shoulder? Oh, and don’t forget to flex your knees a bit and bounce on the balls of your feet. Thank you.”

No offense to Judo enthusiasts, but even at that young age, I found this martial art to be useless for self defense. I wanted to take Karate, but that would never be taught at a Jewish Community Center because you might poke or kick someone’s eye out. Or worse, you might injure your hands and not be able to take piano or violin lessons or worse hold a pastrami sandwich again.

By age eleven, my career in white pajamas was over. I did get up to yellow belt, but to go beyond that, I would have had to fight someone, and again, I am not a fighter.

Several years ago, while living in Mount Pleasant (which was neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss), they started offering Krav Maga classes at Bancroft Elementary School, next door to where I lived. A friend of mine’s partner, a lesbian of course, took the course and loved it. I would chat with the instructor as she would head to her car, and she tried to get me to join the class, but at the time, I really had no desire for mortal combat.

For those who don’t know, basically, Krav Maga is an Israeli self defense technique that roughly translated means “close combat.” It is a combination of boxing, martial arts, and other fighting techniques intended to take down your opponent as quickly as possible, so you don’t miss the early bird special with soup or salad, coffee or tea, and dessert. Jews are nothing if not efficient.

My idea of fitness has always been weight lifting and running. I used to run five to ten miles a day in all kinds of weather until a fateful morning in 2007. My bad hip slipped (there is no other way to put this), and I ended up having the sidewalk for breakfast. Now, being the Neanderthal that I am, I immediately got up and started running again.

Archeologists say Neanderthals had a very high pain threshold evidenced by the fact that their bones are full of self-set fractures. A Neanderthal could fall hundreds of feet chasing a Woolly Mammoth, break a foot, reset it in seconds, and keep running. I am the same way. I have reset at least two broken toes. I told a doctor neighbor how I did this once, showed him the black and blue toe, and he got squeamish and almost barfed in front of me.

I knew immediately something was wrong. My shirt was covered in blood, and when I reached up, I realized a part of my face was bleeding as I had a four-inch wide, two-inch deep hole in my chin. I took off my shirt, held it up to my chin and walked home. This was 5:00 am on 16^th Street in Washington, DC. No one stopped or noticed me. Upon arriving home, Serena, who was by then completely deaf, had no idea I was home. I showered then drove myself to the emergency room at Washington Hospital Center. Fortunately, it was empty that morning, and they took me right in.

The doctor could not get over the fact that I showered and drove myself over. He asked if I was in pain. I wasn’t. He also asked about my swollen fingers, which apparently I had sprained in the fall. I didn’t even realize I did. I then relayed my Neanderthal factoid, but I think a part of him thought I was on some kind of controlled substance. He checked my pupils and seeing they weren’t dilated came to the conclusion that I was just a freak of nature. Big surprise.

Thus ended almost thirty years of running. I tried cardio machines, but moving in place and getting nowhere to me is the most boring thing one can do. Cardio machines gave me heel spurs, and you probably guessed, they make me whine, too.

Going back a dozen or so years, at age thirty-two, I decided to take dance classes, beginning with tap, then ballet and modern. I wasn’t all that good, but I did manage to dance for a season with the Palm Beach Opera, only because they needed someone over six-feet tall to dance with one of the women members of the ballet, as we were called. I wasn’t a women member, I was just a member. The choreographer retired at age forty after trying to choreograph me. Some people make shoe salesmen cry; I do the same thing to choreographers.

I took dance for three years, but when I moved to DC, transportation and getting to a class after work proved impossible; thus ended my dream of becoming the next Ken Berry. Besides, Kinney Shoe Stores were out of business by then.

I did try a class at a studio a year before I left DC, but I was the only guy in a class of twenty-five-year-old women, and frankly, I did not feel like continuing.

In the armpit of Maryland known as Rockville, there was no way to have any extracurricular activities because it took two hours to drive three miles.

But now, I live in Jessup, where I can go grocery shopping during rush hour and still be home in time for Diane Sawyer.

Some guys deal with a mid-life crisis by buying a car or changing their wardrobe, so they have more street cred. I guess my sudden need to try something totally outside my comfort zone is my way of dealing with the approaching date of my fiftieth birthday. I started thinking about taking a boxing class. It looks like a great workout. I still go to the gym every morning and have not missed a workout since 1977, but frankly, weight lifting is starting to bore me, and I only workout for thirty minutes now just to maintain, and I cannot wait to be done.

I have no desire to bungee jump, parachute, race a car, ski, grow a beard, wear bikini underwear, or date a younger woman, but I think hitting someone would be a fantastic stress reliever. Working as a government contractor, I tend to think about hitting people all the time.

One Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago, I was watching a Jersey Shore marathon on MTV, and there was an advertisement for Krav Maga Maryland, and they mentioned a studio in Columbia, which I could spit at from Jessup. I also knew where it was because there is a great Asian-fusion restaurant in the same strip mall. I could drive there in seven minutes any time of day, and I could stop at Walmart on the way home. Win-win. The next day I called about classes.

I met with one of the trainers that week, and he explained the classes and the schedule and asked me what I did for a living and why I wanted to do this. I gave him the quick version of what you just read, and I signed up. After signing up, he took me over to the where they sell the equipment and told me I would need padded gloves and a cup. I understood about the gloves, but I didn’t understand the need for a cup. Apparently, there is a lot of crotch kicking in Krav Maga. “Excuse me, could we amend that contract I just signed?” He didn’t grab the cup and show me which one to get, he pointed from a distance. I said, “I haven’t put it on yet, so there is no reason to worry about touching it.”

I informed him that I would shop for those items elsewhere to get a better deal. I stopped at Walmart, and they had the same brand cup and gloves for one quarter the price, so I bought four of each. That way I could clean them after every use and not miss a class.

On Saturday, I arrived for my first class, wearing my new cup and gloves. Being a Saturday morning class, there were about forty of us in there, and thankfully, a range of ages from thirty years younger than I to around two years younger than I. Yes, I was the alta cocker in the room.

Everyone, including me, was wearing black sweat pants and black or gray T-shirts and tennis shoes or those weird socks with the toes in them that I find creepy. I was the only one in Chuck Taylors, except for the instructor. Yes, the tall drink of twenty-something water teaching the class shared my taste in shoes. We had a connection; he just didn’t know it yet.

There was one exception – there always is. One guy was barefoot, wearing red short shorts, a pink shirt, and aviator glasses. He also had the Tom Selleck mustache. I pictured him living in the house at the end of the cul-de-sac with a train set in his basement. I made a mental note not to partner with him. No need to be the crazy magnet during my first class.

The class started with running around the room for five minutes, then push-ups, then running backwards for another five, and guess who ran backwards right into me, knocking me on my fat ass? Yep, my magnet brought the weirdo right into me. He couldn’t knock someone else over. It had to be I? I bounced up immediately, as I always do, and kept moving.

We then ran sideways then did these jumps with push-ups between, and I thought I was going to die. The class was only six minutes in, and I was going to have a heart attack in a studio in a strip mall in Columbia, Maryland. I could see the obit. “Obscure blog writer and Gay Jew from a trailer park collapses in Hebrew self defense class during the warm up. No film at eleven.”

I somehow caught my breath, and the punching began. My partner was a guy who was shorter than I but could punch me through a wall if he wanted to. You hold a pad in front of you, while your partner punches you in combinations you call out, but my favorite part was when you say down, he drops and does five push-ups while you run to another part of the room, and he has to find you and begin punching you again. Then you switch. The theory behind this is that most fights happen because you see a love one being attacked and you might get knocked down and have to chase the guy.

To be clear, I am not chasing anyone. The only running I do now is to the 7-Eleven for a pint of ice cream.

At one point, the instructor came over to give me pointers, and I told him it was my first class. When I took dance, I told them it was my first class for almost six months before they finally caught on. He asked how tall I was and then showed me how to adjust for my height. I never knew punching someone could be so much fun – no wonder straight people get into bar fights all the time.

At the end of that exercise, he told us about fighting people at different heights then said, pointing to me, “Your opponent could be … how tall are you?”

No matter where I go, I get pointed out as the freak. Whatever.

The workout is so intense that you are drenched in sweat, and the entire class stinks of BO, but that is half the fun!

The class ended with a very intimate moment. He asked us to pick someone who was nearest to our size. I got as far away from Jeffrey Dahmer as I could and picked out this six-foot-two, twenty-three-year-old, hunkalicious slab of masculinity. Then we were instructed to lie on our backs, while our partner got into a push-up position above us, wrap our wrists around his neck then allow him to crawl across the floor dragging us all the way. Once at the other end of the room, you switched positions. I was the second fastest one in the room. And honey, I hadn’t had that much fun with a man’s arms around my neck since Bush choked on a pretzel.

Thank God, I was wearing a cup.

I cannot wait until the next class.

If you want to punch something follow me, get on my mailing list, tell your friends.

What's in Your Basket?

2012-02-09T09:10:00.000-08:00

Remember the episode of Designing Women when Suzanne said to Mary Jo in the supermarket, “Two guys, one cart, fresh pasta … figure it out”? Do you look in other people’s carts at the supermarket? Of course you do.

Have you ever had to go shopping for a strange combination of just a few items and hoped no one would look at your basket? Of course you have, and you wouldn’t be reading this is if it didn’t happen to me.

I love looking at other people’s carts, especially those of mothers, especially weight challenged mothers with weight challenged children. Was that politically correct enough? Roseanne, when she did stand-up, said fat mothers were the best because they had the good snacks. No one hangs out at the house with a skinny mother.

No one would hang around our house. One, because we were the crazy family every neighborhood has and points out when friends and relatives come to visit, and two, our mother was constantly on a diet. Everything in our house was sugar free. The woman used Sweet n Low instead of sugar in every recipe. To this day, I never eat in a restaurant that advertises “home cooking.” I stole that line from Alan King, alev ha sholem. When the fat-free craze started, we adopted that as well. There is no food worse than fat-free cream cheese. Cream cheese is fat! Remove the fat, and you have caulk.

My mother’s grocery cart was filled with Fresca, Tab, Sweet n Low, bananas, chicken, chuck roast (which I have told you she would burn on the grill), cottage cheese, and tomatoes. Oy vay.

Mother was on Atkins when it first came out, and I remember going with her to the G.C. Murphy Co. lunch counter at Newmarket Shopping Center in our 1965 Corvair, where they had those cool orange punch machines, and her ordering a hamburger omelet with a side of cottage cheese. I don’t care how fat and desperate I get (and I have been pretty fat and desperate in my day), I will never order a hamburger omelet with a side of cottage cheese. Occasionally, she would convince my father to go on one of these diets.

No wonder my parents always had gas. For years, I thought we had an invisible pet duck. Think about it.

Back to the market. I am a very efficient grocery shopper as I have told you before, but this does not preclude me from observing other people’s food choices, especially in the checkout line.

Before I criticize others, I do have one problem when I shop. I can buy $200 worth of groceries, and I still have nothing to eat. Seriously, I will come home and empty my bags, which will contain cleaning products, Kleenex, toothpaste and other personal hygiene products, and only find a bunch of bananas and three fresh donuts that I will eat very quickly before disposing of the evidence. Esmeralda gives me a look that says, “I know what you’re doing.”

As a kid, I had to sneak fattening snacks, and although my parents are not watching anymore, I still eat junk food when no one is around and pretend I never do. Then I say, “The dryer keeps shrinking my underwear.”

I usually get stuck behind the fat mother (yes, I said fat this time, which is ok because my shrinking underwear is cutting off my circulation). I love their carts, which usually have frozen pizzas, frozen chicken nuggets, six or seven boss bottles of soda (do they call them boss bottles anymore?), ice cream, four of five bags of Doritos, a hunk of unidentifiable red meat, pork chops, and a jumbo pack of toilet paper. They are going to need that toilet paper. Amazingly, there are no, and I mean no fruits and vegetables in the cart. However, next to the cart is a little fat kid that is so hyped up on sugar that the mother is constantly shushing her and saying no when she grabs candy bars. Seriously, no candy bars? Well, I guess she has to draw the line somewhere.

Behind me is the former supermodel, a seventy-something woman in a velour track suit, whose face is pulled so tight that when she turns her head she has an orgasm. In her cart are fruits and vegetables of every variety and color, various nuts in bags, enough Crystal Light to drown a giraffe, and a bottle of Geritol. I wonder if she has an invisible pet duck, too.

Between major shopping excursions, all of us have to run in for a few items, and these fun people can be found in the express or self-checkout aisle. There you find the husband buying tampons.

Now, I never had a period, although many of my friends would argue otherwise, but I have never understood running out of tampons. Maybe this is because I have a dozen toothbrushes, at least seven back up tubes of toothpaste, bottle after bottle of mouthwash, shampoo, and body wash, bottles of dog shampoo and ear cleaner, enough detergent to wash the Baltimore Ravens' jock straps for a year (who wouldn’t want that job?), and dozens of other bottles of cleaning products for windows, floors, countertops, bathtubs, toilet bowls, etc.

If there is a nuclear war, look for the really skinny but immaculately clean Gay Jew and his dog next to the very clean park space where his trailer was vaporized. I may die of starvation, but I’ll be damned if I die dirty!

So, women of America, how in the hell do you run out of tampons? Or, do you do this to torture your menfolk by sending them out for tampons? Amazingly, they never run out of maxi pads. If my Aunt Flo visited me every month, bitch, I would be prepared.

Well, I can usually find something I need at the grocery store, since I rarely buy food, but one morning this week, I needed only two items. I drove over to the store right after the gym at 6:00 am and walked into Weis on a mission. I was pronouncing it “weece” until my neighbor corrected me and said it was pronounced “wice.” I asked the manager, and he said he pronounces it “we is.” I’ll go with “wice.”

Where was I? Oh yes, my two items.

There I was with my hand basket. I love the little hand baskets because they discourage me from buying even more bottles of detergent. I had my two items, and I looked over to the bakery department, and what did I smell, fresh donuts! They come out fresh at 6:00 am! There is a God.

Hey, I just came from the gym ... shut up.

I went to self-checkout, and I scanned my bag of donuts then my next two items. At that hour, the cashiers are not available, but one is around to help, and she likes to bag items for the few people who come in to shop. She is also the weird one they put on that shift to keep her away from most of the customers and the other staff. When she bagged my items, using my canvas shopping bag, she gave me a strange look.

What, you never saw someone buy donuts, Fleet enemas and double-A batteries before?

If you like to shop and spy on other’s baskets, follow me, join my mailing list, tell your friends.

Excuse Me, Lady – Is That My Dress?

2012-02-06T09:29:00.000-08:00

The hardest thing to do is get a straight man in drag. The second hardest thing to do is get him to take off the damn dress!

For gay men, the easiest thing to do is get him into the dress, and when the night is over and the tips are counted, getting him out of the dress is the second easiest thing to do. Watch RuPaul’s Drag Race, and you will see how quickly the queens take off their wigs and makeup.

I admit it. I have done my share of drag over the years and as recently as six months ago. We had a party to celebrate Lucille Ball’s 100^th birthday, and I went as the Here’s Lucy Marionette. It should not be a surprise that I skipped over Lucy Ricardo and Mrs. Carmichael; after all, I have never been like everyone else. There I was in a tuxedo jacket, ruffle shirt, white bow tie, top hat, red wig, full make-up, black stockings, six-inch stilettos, and NO PANTS. I walked down the street like that!

Upon seeing the photo, Lucie Arnaz told me I made her day – probably because she had seen her share of Lucys in the chocolate factory, doing the Vitameatavegamin commercial or fresh out of the grape vat. Did I just drop a name? Yes, I did. Even a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park knows a few celebrities personally. Puff, puff.

At the end of that evening, I made a decision. Well, to be honest, the mirror made a decision. Drag has three phases: Fierce, Amusing and Tragic. Up through age thirty, it can be fierce. Up to age forty-five, it can be amusing. The secret is recognizing when it becomes tragic, and honey, that night, I saw it clear is day.

In drag, I look like my maternal grandmother, Nana. All I need is a wig, a Kent cigarette, and a couple of Oh-my-Gods, and my brother will swear he is seeing a ghost. The sad part is that as I age, I continue to look like Nana – as she aged. All I needed that night was a fresh cup of instant Sanka and coke-bottle glasses, and the picture would have been complete.

For anyone who has ever worn drag, there is that first moment in his life when he puts on a dress. OK, you are about to be told something no one, not even my closest friends know. My first moment was age nine, and it was my slightly homophobic mother’s fault!

If she were alive today and knew what I did, it would kill her. If she is listening or reading this from wherever she is, this is going to be priceless!

In the house where I was raised, I only had the use of half my bedroom closet, as did my brother. My father kept half his clothes in his closet, and my mother, who never threw anything away, kept half her clothes in mine. Do you see where this is going?

When you are an oddball kid and spend a lot of time alone in your room living a fantasy life that is much better than reality, you have to find ways to entertain yourself, and that is what I did.

Not only did my mother keep half her clothes in my closet, but also she kept half her shoes, and even better, a complete wardrobe of hats, gloves and wigs. It was a future drag queen’s dream.

I didn’t have to shop for anything, which at age nine was a good thing, since I did not have a driver’s license, nor did I have a job.

When I was sent to my room, I was more than happy to oblige.

My mother was a fashonista in her time, so not only were the clothes plentiful, they were fabulous, and most were left over from the late fifties and early sixties, my favorite fashions of all time. She was tall, and I was tall for my age, so we were the perfect match, both size twelves. Today, a twelve is an eighteen. Every mother wants a daughter, so they can share clothes. I wonder if every gay boy wants a mother who’s into fashion?

There was a flower-print sundress with a sweetheart collar that I must say I looked fetching in, especially with the brown wig, multi-colored pumps and big straw hat. There was the blue knit dress with the big buttons down the center that went really well with the blue shoes with four-inch heels and open toes. My mother was a size ten shoe, and at age nine, I was a men’s nine, so I could squeeze into her shoes … for a while.

My favorite was the full green skirt, with shiny gold leaves etched into the fabric that went with an off the shoulder light green top and green shoes. I could not get over how good I looked in that one, and little did I know what I had done when I danced around in my room in that outfit.

But, the drag show was not to last very long. I continued to grow, and by age eleven, my feet were too big for the shoes (a sad day when that happened), and my waist too big for the skirts and capris (which with my yo-yoing weight was no surprise). My career was over.

When I was sixteen, my mother decided to clean out some of the clothes, and when she came upon the full green skirt with the shiny gold leaves etched into the fabric that went with the off-the-shoulder light green top and green shoes, she looked at them and said, “This is what I wore to your father’s and my wedding.”

OH MY GOD! I had on my mother’s wedding dress, and I didn’t even know it! It took everything in me not to laugh! How many boys can say they had on their mother’s wedding dress? OK, it wasn’t a white wedding dress, but my father was her third husband, so it still counts. All the pictures of their wedding were in black and white, so I never made the connection. Then, she pulled out the flowered sun dress, which I found out she wore on their honeymoon. Could this get any better?

By that point, I had not worn a dress nor heels in at least five years, and it would be almost a decade before I did again. I thought it was out of my system by that point.

When I first came out, most of my friends were drag queens and bar flies. Sadly, only two of my friends from that time are still alive. I loved them all and still miss them. One night, there was an AIDS charity event where I was volunteering, and I was asked if I would do drag to act as MC. At that point, I was twenty-five, six-four, and two-hundred-twenty pounds. I protested, saying I couldn’t do glam drag, but funny maybe.

This was before six-four RuPaul became a household name. I saw RuPaul in Atlanta before the polish we now know, and giirrrll, she was a hot mess!

They put me in a black suit dress that looked as if it came out of Maude’s closet, a black teased up wig with a flip, very heavy make-up, and at that moment Sylvia Rose was born. The year was 1988. Sylvia talked with a heavy New York accent, smoked Benson & Hedges and said the most awful things to people. I loved her. I found it amusing that after all those nights prancing around in every article of clothing my mother saved from the early years of her third marriage that this was the first time I did this in public.

Needless to say, I was a hit. Who is going to argue with me, and the way everyone was drinking, who would remember?

For the next four years, Sylvia would come out to host an event on occasion, and then she retired. I never had to shop because the girls always had something for me to wear, most of which I suspect was stolen from their grandmother’s closets. The shoes, I bought myself from a drag queen shop in downtown Norfolk, Virginia, where they didn’t even blink while a six-four, former football player, walked around in heels to be sure the size seventeens fit. I need to re-visit that store some day.

Speaking of grandmothers. When Nana died, my mother donated all her wigs to Goodwill. I would kill to have those wigs today. They were real hair, professionally coiffured by Don’s Wigs of Newport News, teased to the heavens to be closer to God, and just magnificent. Uccchhh, when I think of the money I could have gotten for those on Drag eBay …

But, I digress …

When I moved to Florida, I decided to go as Bea Arthur one Halloween, and for the first time, I had to shop for my own dress. So, I did what any respectable drag queen would do, I went to the Hadassah Thrift Store. I figured it would be the closest to my childhood closet I could get. I pawed through the racks like Ethel Mertz in Gimble’s Basement, and I found the most perfect frock. It was pink satin with layers and layers of chiffon overlaying the dress and sleeves to hide my less than perfect figure – exactly what Bea would wear.

They sold it to me for $15. As I was leaving, one of the yeantas in the shop said to the clerk who rang me up, “How could you sell that dress to a man for $15?”

My friend, Stan, loved that dress, and when Halloween was just a memory, he asked to borrow it, and being the generous sort I am, I lent it to him.

Bitch cut off the sleeves! I could have killed him!

I told him he could keep the dress. I look like a member of the East Germany women’s swim team when I go sleeveless.

Over the years, I picked up a few other frocks. One from Sears – in the 1990s, they had a great big girls' department. That black dress lasted a few years, then I wanted to go as Endora one Halloween, so my friend Sandy, made me my first custom made dress – a multicolored shift that mimicked the one Endora called a Lilly Arlegge original in the “Jack and the Beanstalk” episode. Complete with wild red wig, purple shoes (I died a pair of my black ones) and perfect Endora make-up, I was really pleased with myself. So pleased, that I decided to go to the restaurant where I worked, in Delray Beach, to show off my costume.

The owner asked me to go up to a table of old Jewish women and ask them how their meal was. So, there I was, a six-ten Endora (the heels added six inches), standing next to the table, and I asked in my best Endora voice, “How is your dinner?”

And one of the ladies answered, “The fish is a little dry.”

No one even blinked. Seriously? This make-up took me three fucking hours, and all you can say is the fish is dry?!?

The owner asked me what they said, and I answered, “The fish is dry.” Then, I left for my party, where a few people thought I was Madge the Palmolive Lady.

Upon my arrival in DC, I finally had a chance to break Sylvia Rose out one more time, and Endora joined her for a Purim Party at Bet Mishpachah. I had to explain to one old queen who Endora was and the premise of Bewitched. I then asked for his gay card.

I think my best drag costume was Joan Crawford in the Mommie Dearest wire hanger scene. Everyone got that one. There I was hair in curlers, white band around my skull, bathrobe, night cream, a dress on a wire hanger in one hand, and a can of Bon Ami in the other. We had an acquaintance who fancied himself a movie buff, and he was the only one at the party who could not guess my costume. He said, “Are you Endora?”

I should have dressed as Madge the Palmolive Lady.

By then, I was approaching forty, and frankly, my feet couldn’t take the heels anymore. So, I retired my drag costumes until the Lucy party this past year, but I didn’t discard them until …

With limited closet space in the trailer, I decided it was time to let someone else enjoy my haute couture, so a couple of weekends ago, I donated all of my girlie stuff – all of it. However, I did keep the shoes. Hey, I can’t just quit cold turkey!

One day in 1985, Mother and I were out to lunch, when she said, “Don’t look, but that woman over there is wearing one of my mother’s dresses.” Of course, I looked. My first thought was why is this woman shopping at Goodwill?

This past Sunday, I was out shopping at Home Goods, the one my friend, Lydia, suggested in Gambrill, Maryland, and while I was wheeling my cart down the aisle, I just about screamed.

This woman, obviously fresh from church, was wearing my black fedora complete with zebra print hat band that I actually fashioned myself. It originally had no hat band, but I found a zebra-print scarf that I wrapped around the hat and let dangle off the back. At first I thought it was a coincidence, until I saw her dress. It was a black knit dress with a black and gray striped bodice, and a black and white striped knit jacket. She was even wearing two strings of pearls.

Bitch was wearing my dress! The hat was meant for a different outfit, but those were definitely my old clothes.

I couldn’t stop staring at her. I wanted to criticize her, but she was really pulling it off, and I was a little surprised I didn’t think of wearing that hat with that dress.

I wanted to say, “Excuse me, Lady, is that my dress?”

Instead, when she looked over, I said, “I really love your outfit.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you.”

And people make fun of my taste in clothes. If they are good enough for church … wait a minute. I wonder if she is on the committee to support a ban on gay marriage? And there she is, sitting in a meeting in the church basement wearing the clothes of a former drag queen!

Life can be sweet!

If you think someone is wearing your dress, follow me, join me, get on my mailing list.

Moonshine and Beef Jerky

2012-01-29T12:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I think my life is one big giant sitcom. Maybe because I watched nothing but sitcoms growing up, and I continue to love them. One of my many exes actually arranged his house like the set of a sitcom, and when we would have conversations, he would wink and smile at the imaginary audience. And, people wonder why I have remained single for so long.

Lucy Ricardo once said, "Some people are cut out for champagne and caviar. I'm more of the beer and pretzel type.” If that is the case, then I am “moonshine and beef jerky.”

Recently, a friend of mine invited me to a birthday dinner for his sister, which was being held at a restaurant I did not know. I had never met his sister or anyone else who would be there, but I was up for the challenge of hobnobbing with strangers in a fancy restaurant. Little did I know how fancy it would be!

I told Frank (you know my friend Frank who kept me from taking the shuttle to St. Elizabeth’s on moving day) where I was going, and he said, "You will need to wear a jacket and tie, or a tie, or a jacket." I panicked. Although I don’t wear jeans, I also don’t wear jackets and ties. My wardrobe is sort of dress casual even when I go to the supermarket. I decided to call the restaurant, and they told me it was business casual, but I couldn’t leave it at that.

“Do I need to wear a jacket?”

“No.”

“Do I need to wear a tie?”

“No.”

“Do I need to wear dress shoes?”

“They would be preferred.”

“Are kakis acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“Can I wear them with this smart looking off-white mock turtleneck sweater I just bought on sale at Sears?”

“Yes … sir I am busy, and I need to go.”

She hung up so fast that I couldn’t ask if the brown and beige argyle sweater with the V-neck would be a better choice. I felt like Sally Rogers getting ready for a blind date when she asked, “Should I wear the dress with the low V neck or the one with the high slit in the skirt?” Buddy Sorrell said, “Wear the top of one and the bottom of the other.”

When she arrived for the date at Rob and Laura’s, with a mink stole on, she came in yelling, “Where is this tall, handsome, PRIEST you wanted me to meet?” Laura forgot to tell her that the man, a former beau, turned out to be a priest.

Rob, went to take her mink stole, and she screamed, “No.” So, we knew what dress she wore.

After getting some wardrobe clarification, I looked at the menu online. Oh my God! The lowest priced entrée was $48, and everything was ala carte. I wasn’t sure of protocol when being asked to a stranger’s birthday party, so the afternoon before the big event, I cashed in my 401K just in case I, the stranger who came to dinner, would have to pay his own check. Who needs a retirement, when you can eat prime rib and spinach soufflé for close to $100?

Let me back up a bit. I like diners and dives – not the show, actual diners and dives. Over the years, I have found that some of the worst meals I ever ate were the most expensive, with a few exceptions, and some of the best at the greasy spoons and truck stops, with no exceptions.

My family was not known for fine dining, probably because in Newport News, Virginia, there was little of it when I lived there. The fanciest restaurant around was Nick’s Seafood Pavilion on the York River, which I believe closed in 2005. The waitresses would wear Greek influenced uniforms made entirely of bed linen. Bed linen makes for heavy costuming, so the waitresses were all built like East German women’s basketball players.

Going to Nick’s was considered a major treat. No reservations were allowed, you waited in line for some time to get in, and the lines were arranged by the number in your party. The food was expensive by Virginia Lower Peninsula standards, but it was good. And where else could you get an iceberg lettuce wedge salad with thousand island dressing for $10? The view of the river from the main dining room was magnificent. The place was filled with all kinds of authentic Greek art, and the dining room had heavy linens and fancy silverware and plates.

On one of our last visits there, I ordered a scallop dish. The portion was not that large, and my mother went on and one about how I didn’t know how to order in a fine restaurant. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I said, “How could I know how to eat in a fancy restaurant? The fanciest place we’ve ever eaten is Uncle Jimmy’s Pizza?” My father thought that was funny. Even funnier was that half of Uncle Jimmy’s was a Laundromat. Once when we ate at Uncle Jimmy’s, Nana got so excited because they were one of the last places to serve instant Sanka. Her favorite restaurant was the Hot Shoppe at Van Ness in Washington, DC.

I spent almost twenty years working in the restaurant business, and the fanciest place that ever employed me was the Rod & Gun in Delray Beach, Florida, where I got my first exposure to New York Jews, the stories of which would fill a blog and book of their own.

We had fancy linens and uniforms, a stellar wine list and French cuisine, but we also had an early bird menu with soup, salad, coffee or tea and dessert for $15.95. It was hardly five star.

I bought a present for the birthday girl based on her love of cooking and inability to settle on a favorite color and drove my 1983 AMC Eagle Wagon to eat, excuse me, dine the way the other half does.

Upon finding the restaurant, I saw they had valet parking, and I could just picture waiting at the end of the evening for the valet to try to start a car with a carburetor, so I decided to park in the garage next to the restaurant, which was also for the Ritz Carlton. I parked next to the most expensive BMW I could find. I love scaring people.

In spite of the hostess’s reluctance to help with me with my wardrobe, I wore the off-white sweater, kakis, dress shoes, and I topped it off with this olive blazer-coat combination I picked up when a big and tall shop went out of business years ago. It sort of looks like a blazer but doubles as a coat and it has shoulder pads like Joan Crawford's. And when in doubt, I ask, “What would Joan Crawford do?”

"In three months, I was one of the best waitresses there. I took tips and was glad to get them. And at home I baked pies for the restaurant." OK, not a sitcom, but Mildred Pierce is a great movie."

I arrived before my friend, so I waited near the hostess stand, and I am glad I did not take wardrobe advice from her. She was no older than twenty-five, but she was wearing a flower in her head as if she was the long lost White Pointer Sister. If I weren’t meeting a bunch of strangers, I would have called her over, yanked that flora from her head and fixed her hair. It took everything in me not to pull out my styling pick and Aquanet (I’m old school).

My friend arrived, and we were seated with the rest of the party. Introductions were made, and for the first time in a long time, I did not sit at the head of the table. You know from last week, I am a number eleven, and even strangers tend to put me at the head of the table. But I was a stranger in a strange land (subliminal Jewish reference), so I sucked it up and made a note to claim my rightful place at the table next time I ate with this group … if there would be a next time.

Now, you know I love my own family, but they are just trash.

In this group was a former high official in law enforcement, a high ranking congressional employee, an attorney, two real estate developers, and a man at the other head of the table who looked at me with suspicion. He was only six years older than I but looked to be twenty years older, so I knew he was straight. Poor straight men; they don’t age very well – probably because they live with straight women.

I looked in front of me, and there were two napkins – one black and one white. I asked my friend why, and he said the napkins are based on what you are wearing. I asked if they had gingham. There were three glasses in front of me, one for water, two for wine. I guessed red or white. I was correct. Thank God this wasn’t one of those places with seventeen forks. There is nothing worse than eating macaroni salad with a shrimp fork. I am the one who always gives up the incorrect fork to the waiter and then has to eat his steak with a soup spoon.

The birthday girl loved the gift I bought for her kitchen, and one of her friends asked where I got it because she wanted one. I said a boutique store near where I live. I didn’t know how to tell her it was Walmart. I made a note to get her a set next time I was there.

Then, we ordered cocktails. Someone ordered a Belvedere, which I thought was drink butlers enjoy. Apparently it is type of martini. I sipped it, and it was yummy! Other fancy drinks were ordered, and the waiter looked at me. I felt like Paula (played by Penny Marshall on the Mary Tyler Moore Show) out on a date with Lou and another couple, and after everyone ordered, she said in her best Penny Marshall voice, “A beer.”

I asked what they had on draft and ordered a Belgian beer, which was served room temperature. I commented that it was like the beer I drank in Belgium (might as well let the better half know I have travelled abroad), but the waiter informed me that something must be wrong with the tap as it was supposed to be cold. I decided I liked it like that, and he comped it anyway. I’ll bet it cost $30 a glass.

Dinner was lovely. I had the lamb chops, but you will be happy to know I did not pick up the bones and suck the meat off them, but it took everything in me not to!

I did learn one thing about the other half. No matter how fancy the environment, get a few drinks in them, and they get just as trashed and trashy as the rest of us. The nouveau riche, what can you do? People are people.

The birthday girl’s husband picked the check, so I was able to restore the funds to my 401K.

Afterward, my friend asked how I enjoyed the evening with his crazy family. Crazy? Oh honey, if that had been a meal with my family, someone would have cried, someone would have thrown a plate, and someone would have left in anger without paying. And that would have been dinner for two!

I always said dinner with my family was like a meal in a mental institution. My father used to laugh at that as well.

After eating a meal that cost twice as much as my mortgage, I returned the trailer park with personality! I also forgot to bring the lamb bones home for Esmeralda!

Next time.

If you like a fancy meal, follow me, join my mailing list, tell your friends.

Sometimes, You Don't Want to Go Home

2012-01-26T11:50:00.000-08:00

My brother recently sent me something that got me thinking. It was a picture of the house where we grew up. I’ve told you about that house. My father used to joke that we had to do $10,000 in improvements before they would condemn it. That is the house where we were not allowed to answer the phone because it was probably a bill collector.

The picture brought back memories of course, which I immediately considered when studying the photograph. I saw the tree in front of the living room window that my mother and I planted. I noticed they never replaced the boxwoods that were under the bedroom windows, which I removed in 1984, much to the chagrin of my family after they asked me to remove them then forgot they asked me to remove them and raised hell when I did. Twenty-eight years later and there are still no bushes in their place. I saw they painted the shutters back to their original color – brown. They were painted green in 1967. I remember the painter drove a Ford Econoline – the Falcon-based van. The crap that is stuck in my head. Vaysmir.

In the 1980s, my mother had them painted gray by a painter who would take his shirt off the minute he arrived and worked with his sister and brother-in-law. The got paint everywhere, and some of it actually landed on the shutters. My brother and I painted the brick because Mother said she would pay us. We still have not been paid.

Let me tell you a little about this house in the Ivy Farms Neighborhood of Newport News. First, the neighborhood was one of many to pop up in the late 1950s and early 1960s to accommodate the families with their cute little baby boomers. I am one of the last of the cute baby boomers, but I have never been little.

What few people knew at the time was that the neighborhood was built on the old city dump. What made it even more special was that the builder used scrap to build each house. My father once worked for him and told how the man would stop his car to pick up nails and other scrap then use it in a new house. Whenever you wanted to replace a window or door, you would find out nothing was a standard size and no two in your house were the same.

Like most of the developments of the day, there was a mixture of about four or five different models. There were two single-story layouts or in some cases a split ranch with the same layout as the one story; in the split ranch, the bedrooms were located “upstairs” – a total of three steps up. We had one of those. The others were two story houses.

The homes had modestly large rooms, usually a separate family room, and one and a half baths. My nephew upon seeing the house as they drove by said, “It looks small.” I never thought of it as small. My brother explained my nephew never had to share a bathroom. We were four people using one shower. Not at the same time. This was Newport News, not West Virginia. Today, I live alone with two full baths.

Of course in the era of McMansions, these homes look like mother-in-law cottages, but I still prefer a modest ranch to an overpriced McMansion.

We spent the better part of two decades fighting mold inside and out especially since the brick was painted white. That white brick is an interesting story … or not.

When my mother became pregnant in 1962, a surprise to all parties involved for reasons that could fill an entire book (read my novel, Michael’s Secrets – shameless plug), my parents decided that an apartment would not cut it anymore. They didn’t want to live near the other Jews, who always knew each other’s business, so my mother picked out this lovely neighborhood when they chose to leave Stewart Gardens. Aunt Anita and her family had already moved there, and three other Jewish families moved there after we did. The bulk of the members of the tribe moved to Hidenwood.

Apparently, my mother spent a great deal of time picking out a burnt orange brick for the house. The two houses on either side of ours were being built at the same time, and the one on the left had red brick, and the one on the right had pink brick, or the other way around, or one had orange, who can remember as I was in utero. Anyway, pregnant Harryette and her two-year-old son drove over to the house in their brown 1958 Ford Country Squire to check on the progress, and all the construction workers were standing in front of the house shaking their heads.

As it turned out, they had bricked up one side of the house with the brick from the house on the right, and the other side of the house with the brick from the left, but never even used the brick my mother picked out. The foreman, upon seeing my expectant mother and little son, suggested they just paint the brick white and for all their trouble they would fence in the back yard for free. Mother took the deal, and she always said she was an idiot for doing so because they could have easily knocked down all the brick and started over. I always wanted to sandblast the white paint to see what a house with two different colors of brick looked like. This story always fascinated me because if I were having a house built and something like this happened, I would get out of the deal as soon as possible.

My parents were never accused of being shrewd.

We had the only house on the street with white painted brick for many years, and white brick shows mold. My brother said it still does.

The house was not insulated either. You could actually see someone’s hair blowing when they sat by one of the windows. Nana’s wig would even shift while she would struggle to light a Kent cigarette in the breeze. In the summer, it was an oven with only two window air conditioning units. When we had central AC installed, it never cut off from May to September.

As crappy as that house was, it did have a very nice layout, and the galley style kitchen was its best feature. Four people could prepare a meal in that kitchen without even bumping into each other. There was no exhaust fan, garbage disposal or even a dishwasher, but many a holiday meal was prepared in that kitchen, and hours were spent cleaning up afterward.

The main draw for the neighborhood was the elementary school, South Morrison Elementary, where I was the fifth grade valedictorian in 1974. Thank you. Oh, you didn't congratulate me. My bad.

And that is where this story becomes depressing.

South Morrison, an award-winning elementary school, is now an abandoned building, which once was a haven for crack whores, or so I have been told. The city is trying to decide what to do with it. Surrounding it are abandoned, boarded up and in some cases, burned down apartment buildings. I used to deliver papers to the tenants of those apartments, many of which would not pay their bills.

Remember when the newsboy would knock on your door to pay your bill? My mother once paid our newsboy with my penny collection. I had an Indian head penny in that collection, which I found out thirty-five years later was worth $1,650. I can only laugh now.

The bank at the top of my street, where I opened my fist checking account, is now a police substation. The community pool has been filled in, and the rest of the neighborhood looks like a set from an Eminem video.

Jack Carter used to joke that he grew up in such a bad neighborhood that you had to go six blocks to leave the scene of a crime. Well, that is my old neighborhood now. One childhood friend relayed how crime has completely taken over with people being shot on a regular basis.

I don’t have many great memories of growing up there, but it was my childhood home, and I find it sad that what was once a decent neighborhood with a great school is now a place you wouldn’t want to visit at any time of day.

Ironically, that was the only stick-built home I ever lived in, and now officially in the worst neighborhood from my past. That is saying a lot considering all the apartments I rented in many a dicey neighborhood.

And the best neighborhood? The one I live in now as a Gay Jew in a Trailer Park.

Life is full of ironies.

If you have lived in bad neighborhoods, follow me, join me, tell your friends.

You Call that a Snow Storm?

2012-01-22T10:42:00.000-08:00

The change of seasons, some love it, some hate it. For the past two winters in the DC Metropolitan area, I’ll bet a good portion of the residents hated it. I love it.

As you know, I lived in South Florida for five years, where people ask, “How’s the weather?” and you answer, “The same.” I never pulled out my winter coat the entire time I was there. The drawback to living in Florida is that it is the Jewish Gateway to Heaven. Basically, you move there to die. Running errands is synonymous with funeral processions.

Ironically, they ship your body back via Federal Express, so you can be buried within twenty-four hours in the land of the living. You die there, but God forbid you should be buried there. I think Florida has two cemeteries, one of which has six plots, four of which are for sale.

It is all about visitation. What is a better way to guilt your children than to be buried where they have no excuse to skip putting a rock on your stone at least four times a year?

Friends of mine moved to Palm Springs. Forgive me, all you happy homosexuals in the desert, but for me, Palm Springs is just like South Florida. Instead of old leathery Jews counting the days and planning the menu at their shiva services, you have old leathery queens, drinking away at happy hours, while they plan the menu at their “going away” parties. Oh, and they are all real estate agents.

This is where I am supposed to say that I am going to get mail about that one.

When I first moved back to the Eastern Seaboard, I arrived on Martin Luther King Day 1997 with temperatures in the teens. Two days prior, I was wearing shorts in eighty-degree weather. My poor Serena looked at me as we exited the car and said in French, “C'est quoi ce bordel?”* She was a toy parti-poodle, and my friend Sarah will tell me if I got that right. Poodles are French if I lost you there for a minute.

I admit that I thought the same thing. But within a day or so, I was glad to be back in the land of the living rather than the balmy hospice by the sea.

The next day, I pulled my red winter coat out of the steamer trunk and put it on for the first time in five years. No one told me that everyone in DC wears charcoal gray. Not black, not navy, but charcoal gray. I was the six-four freak in the red winter coat on the bus. You know me. I didn’t care.

After my first year back, I realized I really did like the change of seasons. Serena got somewhat used to it, too. We had our share of snow storms. In March of 1999, we got a doozy – three feet of snow in twenty-four hours.

I actually went to work via train then bus to our office in the armpit of Maryland, Rockville, in the middle of it. There were maybe twenty of use there, so the company bought pizzas for everyone. One of my co-workers, who lived behind our offices, called in saying it was too dangerous to walk, but when I told her we had free pizza, she was standing behind me before I could hang up the phone. I asked what took her so long, and she said she had to tie her boots.

By 2:00 pm, I decided it might be best to go home. I stepped out of the office and prepared to walk the half mile up to the White Flint Metro. When I stepped off the curb, the snow was up to my waist, and I immediately thought of Serena home alone with me freezing to death on Rockville Pike.

God heard my call and sent a bus with a lady bus driver. The bus driver opened the door, and I asked where her bus was going, and she said, “Silver Spring Metro.” If you don’t know the area, the Silver Spring Metro is clear across town from White Flint, but it was either that or die in Rockville. I also knew I could catch a bus from Silver Spring to my street.

This is going to sound sexist, but women bus drivers are the best. She navigated that bus through one residential street after another and didn’t slip once. I almost kissed her before I thanked her and alighted.

My next bus was also driven by a woman, and by 4:00 pm, I was home. Funny how two-hour commutes don’t freak us out around here.

I was greeted by a happy little dog. I put her sweater and leash on, and I opened the door. She took a flying leap and disappeared. It was funny, and even she got a kick out of it. One of the best pictures ever taken of us was the next day after that snow storm.

Above, Serena Rose Elizabeth Montgomery standing on three feet of snow

We had our share of snow in the years that followed, including 2002 when it snowed every Friday, but nothing compared to my first winter in Rockville. A little less than a month after Serena died in December 2009, we had one storm followed by two storms and close to five feet of snow. I was stuck on the fifth floor of Rockville Town Square for a week. The Metro was not running above ground, the streets weren’t plowed, and everything came to a complete stop.

I was so desperate for food that I almost bought a chicken at the drug store.

To keep myself entertained, I taught myself the lyrics to every song written by Harold Arlen. I think one of my neighbors committed suicide by putting an ice pick into her ear, through her ear and out the other side.

The following winter, Esmeralda’s first outside of Mississippi, we had an ice storm followed by a snow storm, and I had a beagle who didn’t want to go to the bathroom outside. Upon first seeing snow, Esmeralda said, “Bloody hell!” Beagles are British.

So, now we live in a trailer park in Jessup, and I want to experience all the seasons during my first year as a home owner, but Bloody Hell, we are having the mildest winter in years. C'est quoi ce bordel?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want a paralyzing blizzard, but seriously, no snow at all?

We did get a small dusting of about an inch or two this past weekend. It did require a bit of shoveling and cleaning of the cars, but it was hardly worth writing home to Mom about. However, there was enough to make things icy dicey for yours truly.

I drove to a friend’s house the night after our “big” storm, and he said to watch out for a patch of ice near his porch. Being the study of poise and grace that I am, I slipped on that very patch and went asshole over teacups. I was up on my feet in seconds. When I was a dancer in Florida, my choreographer/instructor knew what a klutz I was, so he taught me how to fall properly, so I wasn’t hurt. My friend said it was both the funniest and most amazing thing he had ever seen.

I just wish someone would catch me on film when I do that, so I can win $10,000 on America’s Funnies Home Videos.

There is still hope. God once sent me a bus with a lady driver; maybe if I pray enough, put ice cubes in the toilet and sleep with my pajamas inside out, God will send me at least eight inches … of snow.

*/Apparently “what the fuck?” in French. It was on the internet, so it must be right.

If you also like the change of seasons, join me, follow me, tell your friends.

I Don’t Even Play a Doctor on TV

2012-01-16T06:07:00.000-08:00

I like to volunteer, but there is a problem with how I go about doing it. I think it has something to do with my being a know-it-all who constantly wants to correct things because I am always right. There are other factors involved. I like being in charge, and my ultimate goal is to be a benevolent dictator with unilateral authority over a tropical island country with nothing but pretty people as my loyal subjects. I read The Secret, so this is attainable.

My volunteer history works something like this. I join an organization. I do a couple of things for them, then I offer my unsolicited opinion on how something should be done, then I do it myself because if you want something done right, do it yourself, then they ask me to serve on their board, and then I become president of the board for longer than anyone else in the history of their organization. The amazing thing is that all the above steps leading to my unanimous election as president usually take less than six months. I am not kidding.

If your organization needs a newsletter editor or booth designer, that is my favorite pathway to your leadership. Be warned.

Lucy in the Peanuts comic strip once said while sitting in her psychiatry booth, every eleventh person is a natural born leader. That means the birth order is ten followers, one leader.

Once I become president, everyone complains about how I act like a dictator, try to do everything myself, and offer my unsolicited and unfiltered opinions, but for some reason, they keep asking me to run again. I offer to let any one of them have the job, then they tell me how much they appreciate what I do. Whatever. I totally understand how all the Kim Thisses and Thats have stayed in power in North Korea for so long. No one else wants to run things. And they say democracy is the preferred form of government. Hah!

I wonder what Lucy says about the ratio of dictators.

Even a dictator gets tired. After five years as a synagogue president, I was burned out. Less than a year into my volunteer retirement, I was the newsletter editor for the Straight Eights, the oldest gay car club in the United States (for those who don’t know, straight eight is a type of engine and sort of a play on words). Within a year of that, I was elected president of the car club, and I am still in that position today.

In case you are wondering, this sort of thing happens at work, too. When I first entered publishing, I was working as an $8.50 per hour part-time proofreader. In six weeks, I was running the department, and this pattern has continued to this day as well, except in the corporate world there is a glass ceiling for dictators, but I aim to break that.

This year, I have made a pledge to continue volunteering without becoming part of the leadership. Let’s see if I am successful.

The way I intend to achieve my goal is to volunteer for small tasks, go in, do my thing, keep my mouth shut, and leave. There are people who know me well who just did a spit take.

I belong to the Scleroderma Foundation. My mother died from complications of Scleroderma, an autoimmune disease in the same family as Lupus and Rheumatoid Arthritis. The name means “stone skin” in Greek. With Scleroderma, your body attacks itself by overproducing collagen, and your skin and internal organs turn to stone. The actor, Jason Alexander, whose sister has the disease, is a national spokesman. Bob Saget’s sister died from the disease, and he produced a movie of the week about it several years ago. For some unknown reason, the majority of Scleroderma sufferers are Jewish women and Black men.

As a member of the foundation, I get emails with opportunities to volunteer. Recently, they had a booth at the NBC4 Health Expo at the Washington Convention Center, and they needed booth staff for two-hour intervals. I decided to volunteer, and I made up my mind just to show up, do what they ask, and leave.

The NBC4 Health Expo is free to the public and huge. They have a kid’s soccer field, aerobics demonstrations, vision and hearing screenings, blood pressure testing, HIV testing, etc. Since it is free, it attracts a diversity of attendees, so you know with me there staffing a booth …

I arrived ten minutes early, and the couple staffing before me, gave me the run-down of which pamphlets to give out first, and what to tell people. Surprisingly, I was the only one volunteering alone. Well, not surprisingly. This happens to natural born dictators as well. We get assigned solo tasks by people who don’t even know us. I have never met the man who was in charge of the booth, yet he made me the only one in two days of slots to work alone. For me, that is not a problem. I do my best work alone.

Once left on my own, I studied the booth design. The gods were testing me. The pamphlets were neatly stacked, but the display, a four-by-two tri-fold, was a disaster. It was set off center, had no central focus, and it was visually unappealing. Now, old Milton would immediately have contacted the organizer and offered to redesign their display and stage all their future booths, and we all know how that would have ended.

New Milton took two aspirins and did not say a word.

People came up to the booth and asked about Scleroderma, and I explained what it was and forced them to take brochures. Interestingly, the only ones who knew what it was either had a friend or relative with it or were health professionals who had witnessed its effects.

Then the other aspect of my wonderful life took effect. My crazy magnet went into high force field. They all found me.

Crazies love two things: free stuff and an audience.

You should have seen all the people with their free canvas tote bags carting around more pamphlets than a Jehovah’s Witness. Being stuck behind a booth, I had nowhere to hide. And being at a disease booth, I suddenly became a diagnostician. Who knew there were so many hypochondriacs in the world?

Once I described Scleroderma, 75 percent of the crazies thought they had it. At one point, I had an audience, including one well-dressed woman whose wig was pushed back too far. It took everything in me not to adjust that thing.

The coup de grâce was the morbidly obese woman who lifted up her pants leg to show me a spot on her inner thigh and asked if I thought she had it.

I looked right into her eyes and said, “Honey, I don’t even play a doctor on TV.”

Thanks to some small mercy, my shift was finally up, and my replacement came to relieve me. She took one look at the booth and said, “That display needs work.”

I said to myself as I walked away, “She must be a number eleven, too.”

If you like what you just read or attracted to me because you are crazy, follow me get on my list, tell your friends.

The Loud Talkers

2012-01-08T08:23:00.000-08:00

There are loud mouths, big mouths and loud talkers.

Yes, there is a difference, and they are not to be confused with those who have loud voices. I have a voice that carries – a loud voice if you will. When I whisper, they can hear me in Paraquay. Growing up, this caused me a lot of problems. If a group of kids was carrying on, I was the one who got yelled at because my voice was the loudest and the only one anyone heard.

In musical theater, it was a godsend. I never needed to be miked. I was once called a male Ethel Merman. I am still trying to figure out if that was a compliment. In situations where someone leaves his lights on, they always come to me and ask that I get everyone’s attention and make an announcement. For this reason, I never talk on my cell phone on public transit. No matter how hard I try, the whole world is going to hear my conversation.

Loud mouths blabber everything to everyone. Tell a loud mouth a secret, and the world will know it in less than 24 hours. From across a crowded room, “My wife tells me you were fired. I bet you never saw that one coming.”

Big mouths also blabber, but they tell your secrets to whomever you are nearest. You are standing in a bar, next to a really hot guy, and the big mouth walks up to you and your future husband, points to you and says to Mr. Right, “You should have seen this guy last week. Scratching like there was no tomorrow. Crabs are a bitch I always say. Don’t you?”

Loud talkers are different. They are just loud, and what they have to say has nothing to do with you. They won’t tell your secrets because your life is of no interest to them. The more boring their lives, the louder they get.

The loud talkers always pop up when you really don’t want to hear anyone else’s chatter. They love busses and restaurants. For some reason, they don’t ride trains. People read or sleep on trains.

Back in the day, the loud talker was the big guy in the big suit in the middle table of the restaurant going on and on about his latest business deal. If you listened carefully, you learned that he sold ball bearings. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but how fascinating can ball bearings be? I guess to another ball bearing salesman – very.

Today, the loud talkers use their cell phones to let the world know all their business. One day, I was sitting next to a man on the bus, and behind us, a relatively attractive young woman was carrying on a very loud conversation on her cell phone that went like this.

“I don’t know why I cannot meet the right guy. I never get a second date.”

“These guys have issues with commitment. I call them the next day, and they don’t answer their phones.”

“You should have seen how the last one dressed.”

“I usually screw them on the first date because I never seem to get a second date.”

“He couldn’t get it up.”

I said to the guy next to me, “It is a wonder she gets a first date.”

Then there was the woman who spent twenty minutes explaining the difference between corn and tortilla chips or something like that. When she got to her stop, she was still talking and held the door, so she could finish her explanation before stepping out into the rain. Without realizing it, I said out loud, “Get the hell off the bus,” and of course, everyone heard me – and smiled.

When I was a teenager, I would get my hair cut at a beauty school, I told you about earlier. One day, a woman I knew was in there getting her hair set. Mind you, a hair cut cost $3 and a wash and set cost $7. Her style was similar to Jackie Onassis in the 1970s. Picture shoulder length hair that is teased and combed straight back with a thin ribbon wrapped from underneath the back then behind her ears and tied in a bow at the top of her head. While they were finishing her do, she kept saying in the loudest voice as she retied the thin bow, “It is a classic style. I have been wearing it like this for years. It will never go out of style. I get compliments all the time.”

Well, everyone looked at her, and I need not tell you what they were thinking.

The sad thing is I knew her, and I also knew her husband was going through some difficult financial times, so I figured she was overcompensating. I also did not tell anyone I saw her there. In spite of what my mother would say about my being a big mouth, I wasn’t.

Speaking of hair, the other day I was at my new favorite barbershop getting my $9 do, when this young guy walked in and started his loud talking. He was sitting two chairs down from me, and I heard – well, everyone heard:

“I bet you never expected me to let my hair get this long. I don’t use shampoo anymore. I figured my hair would get nasty, but you can see it isn’t at all.” The barber cringed.

“I don’t wear deodorant anymore. I want my body to sweat.” Obviously, he doesn’t know the difference between deodorant and antiperspirant or how they work. I’m glad I was two chairs away.

“Yeah, I moved back home. It’s great. I take care of my little brother. My mother cooks for me and does my laundry. It’s great.” That isn’t what your mother said.

“I quit college. Who needs an education? I work in my uncle’s take out across the street. It’s great.” How lovely.

While he was getting his hair cut, his parents were dumping all his belongings on the curb, fumigating his room, and changing the locks.

As I always say. Life often writes itself.

If you know or are a loud talker, get on my email list, follow me, join me, share me.

Every Diet Starts on Monday and Ends on Tuesday

2012-01-02T05:54:00.000-08:00

At the beginning of every year, those of us who belong to a gym have the privilege of sharing our space with the Resolutionaries. Fortunately, I go when the gym opens at 5:00 am, and even the most dedicated Resolutionaries rarely make it that early. Another advantage to working out that early is that we only have to deal with a few Resolutionaries until the first really cold or rainy morning. Once that occurs, we never see them again. It is the only time of year, I pray for bad weather.

But this is not about the resolutionaries at my gym; this is about resolutions.

Through the years, I have made my share of resolutions, and I have broken almost all them.

I think the only one I kept was to purchase a Lady Kenmore portable washing machine, so I wouldn’t have to go to a Laundromat anymore. I kept that machine for more than a dozen years.

Last year, I decided to take a different approach. Rather than declare resolutions I knew I wouldn’t keep – whisper my opinions, be more patient with stupid people, quit rolling my eyes during meetings – I made goals. I thought goals would be easier to achieve than changes in a middle-aged personality.

Apparently, I was right.

I only established three goals: lose fifty pounds, buy a mobile home, and write a blog about my experiences once I bought a mobile home.

That actually turned out well. In four months, I lost fifty pounds, and afterward, I looked like Larry King in every picture someone took of me. I have since regained fifteen of those pounds, which are now a part of this year’s goals.

You know I achieved the other two goals, or you would be watching internet porn right now.

They say if you want to make God laugh, make plans. I don’t know if that is entirely true, but let’s take a look back at one of the major plans I made in my past life.

During job interviews, the one question I do not like is “Where do you see yourself in five years.” I always give the same answer. “Five years ago, I didn’t see myself sitting here interviewing for a job I need but really don’t want.”

I don’t say that. What I do say is “Sitting where you are and asking someone else that ridiculous question.”

Here is why I hate that question? If my life had turned out as I had planned, right now I would be sitting in a writer’s room working on a hit sitcom. I was supposed to be a comedy writer – the Carl Reiner or Rob Petrie of my generation.

I spent the first ten years after college jumping from job to job because becoming a comedy writer was my goal, and jobs were just for paying the bills. By age thirty, I realized the time had come for me to get serious about a career because my writing was not going to support me – it still doesn’t.

Everyone I knew had moved ahead in their lives with homes, families, luxury cars, and I was living in a studio apartment, working three part-time jobs, fresh out of a really bad relationship, and driving a beat-up Plymouth Colt.

That was when I entered publishing, and nineteen years later, I am still doing the same job. I often make the joke that a trained monkey could do what I do because I have been doing it for so long that there is no longer a learning curve. In that time, I have worked for six different companies on four similar government contracts (only a Beltway Bandit would understand six companies and four contracts). With each new company or contract, the players sometimes change, but the job never does.

But, I am happy I made the decision to shuffle my priorities, or I wouldn’t be writing this from my first home. I would probably be watching TV in an efficiency apartment with weekly rates, waiting for my shift to start – and still driving that Plymouth Colt. I would be that waiter the college kids on the staff point to and say, “God, don’t let that happen to me.”

I waited on tables for so long (even part-time until my late thirties) that I had more tuxedo shirts than Dean Martin.

For those of you who haven’t pursued a career in the arts, this is foreign to you. I have a friend who has pursued an acting career for thirty years. He, in fact, lives in an efficiency apartment and watches TV while he waits for his shift to start. Do I pity him? No. I admire him. He still goes to auditions, he gets the occasional walk-on or commercial work, and he has never given up. He’s happy.

But, what happens when someone like us flip flops his priorities? Three things from what I’ve observed.

One: You become so career focused that you end up a huge success. I totally get this. Although my friend watches TV while he waits for his shift to start, he has not loss his discipline. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t scan the “trades” in pursuit of any kind of acting job, and he goes to auditions every week, sometimes standing in line for hours just to hear a casting director say, “Next.” There are few people who would survive that kind of life. When you take that kind of discipline and apply it to something else, you surprise everyone, including yourself.

Two: You last five minutes in a nine-to-five job and go back to your initial priorities.

Three: You don’t lose sight of your dreams; you just make them part-time, weekend dreams. At the age of forty-one (eleven years after my career flip flop), my first book was published, and next summer, at the age of forty-nine, my sixth book will be published. I may not have become a television comedy writer, but I did become a writer.

In 2011, I made an important decision. Now when people ask me what I do for a living, I no longer say I am a communications manager on a government contract. I say, “I am a writer.”

They don’t need to know that I work two jobs to pay the bills and support a ridiculous antique car habit, so I can live in the lap of trailer park luxury in city called Jessup.

Back to the goals. What are mine this year? I told you about the fifteen pounds.

My other two, I won’t say out loud, but let’s just say they have a lot to do with this manufactured home I own and love and where to go from here.

I aim to achieve them.

My favorite poem:

Dreams by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Happy New Year!

If you have set goals or resolutions, follow me, join me, get on my mailing list.

Four-hour Rush Hour

2011-12-29T08:56:00.000-08:00

The week between Christmas and New Year’s is wonderful if you are a commuter in the DC-Baltimore Region. If you are visiting us right now, you would probably think otherwise. Then again, you visitors are the ones who stand to the left on Metro escalators and block the platforms when the trains arrive. My favorite tourists are the white ones from the Midwest who would rather stand than sit next to a black person on the train. You think we don’t notice; honey, we notice. Personally, I don’t sit next to the tourists from the Midwest because they usually smell like a combination of hash browns, Schlitz and Marlboro Reds.

Every other time of year, driving in this area is a nightmare. On the radio one morning, a DJ said this is the only part of the country where rush hour lasts for six hours. She was almost right. In reality, it lasts 6:00 am to 10:00 am every morning, and at night, it can go from 3:00 pm to 7:00 pm. So, rush hour is really four hours. Does that give you a sense of relief?

Think about this, if you live here, and you need to go somewhere, 33 percent of the time, you have to consider how important that errand is because rush hour here is like nowhere else in the world, and you won’t convince me otherwise.

There is something else I find interesting about rush hour. I get up at 4:00 am, walk Esmeralda, feed her breakfast, go to the gym, come home, walk her again, eat breakfast, get ready for work, and I am still out of the house at 6:55 am. For the first mile or two on my way to the Metro station, there is usually a heavy flow of traffic – not so bad, but not great. However, if I leave later than 7:10, I add twenty minutes to my 11-mile commute to the Metro Station, arriving 45 minutes after I left the house. If there is a drop of rain, I add another ten minutes. All it takes is one drop. That’s it. One drop. God only knows what my first snow here will do to my commute.

Granted, I live in a blue collar community, which means the majority of the people around me go to work as early as I do, so I expect to deal with some traffic. I prefer to go this early to avoid the mad dash into the city on the Metro.

When I get on the train, it is usually not packed at all. My station is on the end of the line, so I get a seat and read the paper. Then, I arrive at work at least an hour before 90 percent of the staff, who arrive after 9:30 am. After an eight-hour work day, I am back on the train, but here is where it gets weird. At 5:00 pm, the trains are packed. When I arrive back at the Metro parking lot at 5:30, everyone and his brother and sister are heading home. I discussed with my co-worker friend, Sarah, one morning, and she made the same observation. Who are these people who leave work when we do? We know they didn’t arrive eight hours earlier. Shouldn’t our commute home be the same as our commute in? Those of us who arrive on a comfortable train should be going home on one, but it is standing room only at that time. And no one will convince me that all these people came to work before I did.

Which brings me to another point.

Very few people actually work a full day. At my previous job, my desk was near the door to the office. This had several advantages. My cube and the hallway next to it were the only areas without carpet, so I could hear people approach, and within no time, I knew everyone’s walk by sound. This helps when you are watching YouTube at your desk. In addition, I knew when people arrived and when they departed. I was usually the second or third one in on my side of the office, so I could keep tabs on the majority of the staff. While the majority of the staff arrived around 9:30 or 10:00, just about everyone left before 5:00. I didn’t supervise any of them, so it was none of my business. But I saw all of them. If there were an opening for a “tab keeper,” I would be the first to apply.

I also have the uncanny ability to count how many drinks everyone has had at a party, and I have perfected the “don’t you think you’ve had enough” look to go with it.

Back to commuting. One of the reasons I left the armpit of Maryland, otherwise known as Rockville, was the traffic situation. In Rockville, rush hour started in 1952 and it is still going on. If you need to go anywhere in Rockville, forget it. Our office moved to Rockville for six months when our lease ran out. For the first time since I lived in Florida, I was within 2.5 miles from work. Did I drive to work? Hell no. Once, I drove in on my “work from home” day to attend a meeting, and it took me 90 minutes to drive 2.5 miles – at noon! Instead, I took the Metro for two stops and walked half a mile to the office, which was much quicker although dangerous because in Rockville, they don’t understand the concept of the pedestrian. People walking? What the hell is that all about? We must run them over to end this unseemly practice!

I never made plans during the week in Rockville because soon after moving there, I was to attend a volunteer training at the Washington Animal Rescue League, and I left the house at 7:00 pm on a Thursday night. After sitting in traffic for two hours, I turned around and gave up. There was no accident. Just traffic. I managed to travel 1.3 miles. I could still see my apartment building in the rearview mirror.

I have friends who throw an annual party in Virginia between the holidays. Last year, it took 3.2 hours to go 16 miles. The brakes on my 1979 Lincoln Continental went out on the way there. I had a cup of eggnog, wished everyone a Happy Holidays, and left. Otherwise, Esmeralda would have been howling. She does that if I am gone past 10:30, so New Year’s Eve should be fun.

Maybe she is the reincarnation of my mother? Will she take my keys away? At least she doesn't worry herself into a case of diarrhea.

There is a talent I have when it comes to traffic. I always end up behind a white panel van in a traffic jam, so I cannot see what is going on ahead of me. If you see a white panel van in a traffic jam, look behind him, and you will see one of two AMCs chugging along with a Gay Jew screaming obscenities and waving his arms. You won’t hear him, but you certainly will see the spittle flying from his mouth as he cusses away his rush hour.

What I don’t understand is where all these goddam people come from? It is as if we import commuters just to screw with us during rush hour. Is the planet that overpopulated? Not that I would consider it, but I can understand why people carry guns in their cars. What I don’t understand is why more people don’t shoot themselves during rush hour – that being the only way out.

And while on the subject of my not getting it. The interstates and beltways and expressways and freeways and parkways, etc. were all designed to move traffic more efficiently, but if you live in this area, you learn to say the following when giving someone directions to your home, “Avoid the Beltway.” “Avoid 95.” “Avoid the Parkway.” You then give them directions that involve a number of back roads and dirt paths and advise them to keep their doors locked and watch out for bald children with banjos.

You want to get somewhere quickly around here, avoid anything with a speed limit faster than 45 mph. Does anyone else see the irony in this?

I once asked an acquaintance whose job it was to design highways and bridges why all highways are obsolete before they are finished. His response: “If we built them to handle all the traffic, we wouldn’t be able to justify more funding to build more highways.”

In New York, when guests arrive at a party, they say, “You should see the parking space I got.”

In DC-Baltimore-Northern Virginia, when guests arrive at a party, they say, “I’ve never seen so much fucking traffic in my life.”

Yes, you have. Every fucking day during the four-hour rush hour.

If you are stuck in traffic, join my email list, follow me, tell your friends, or just scream at the guy in the next car.

Dining Alone

2011-12-26T08:14:00.000-08:00

All of us have dined alone, but not everyone in a restaurant. I have been single a long time … a long, long time. By my latest calculation, I have eaten more than 19,709 meals alone (the actual number was 19,710). When I added up those numbers, I was reminded of the penultimate Mary Tyler Moore Show when she adds up all the dates she’s had – more than 2,000 dates. It is then she decides to go out with Mr. Grant.

If you are single, you have also eaten quite a few inappropriate dinners – and don’t go denying it. For example, a quart of ice cream, an entire extra-large, meat lovers pizza or even a family-sized bucket of fried chicken with all the sides. You can do this in the comfort of your own home without anyone knowing what you did. That is until you waddle into the office one Monday morning, and you bang into all the cubicles with both hips at once.

More things single people have done are: eat all three courses out of one very large bowl while sitting on the couch watching that TLC series about the morbidly obese; eat an entire meal over the sink while waving at your neighbors from the kitchen window; or worse, stand in front of an open refrigerator with a spoon, opening all the leftover containers one by one, consuming their contents, and flinging the empty containers into the sink before moving onto the next one, until none are left.

I, for one, have done none of the above, and I dare you to prove otherwise. Uuurrrppp.

However, and I say however a lot, not many single people have eaten dinner in a restaurant alone. I single out dinner because stopping for breakfast or lunch and eating alone does not seem to be a big deal to most people. How self-conscious can one be about eating a corned beef sandwich, two cream sodas, and six dill pickles in seventeen minutes? I can tell you – not very.

Dining alone is not a problem for me, but as a twenty-year veteran of the restaurant industry and being a resident citizen of the United States, I can understand why some do have a problem with dining single on this side of the pond.

Going to a restaurant alone in the New World is a different from experience from dining on the Continent. Americans are uptight people, and some of the people who are paid to serve us are the most uptight of all.

It usually starts with the host or hostess who greets you with “just one?” I never met a single childless restaurant hostess or one who was in a happy relationship. They don’t understand someone who isn’t tethered to another living being via reproduction or a one-night stand turned twelve-year live-in relationship after a bender at the local western bar. Yes, I generalize about hostesses, so sue me.

Then, the bitter hostess does this. She looks at the reservation book nervously even if the restaurant is empty. Then she looks at the dining room as if she never saw it before. Several minutes later, you get, “Follow me.” You then follow her all over the restaurant. She is confused. What do you do with one person? This is unnatural. Everyone comes in pairs or four-tops, or groups of eight or more. Never “just one.” You end up seeing sections of the restaurant the owner doesn’t even know about, and finally she seats you. She doesn’t look at you directly. She puts the menu down and looks for a waiter. And you hear, “He is alone over there.” Then, she points.

It is at this point when I want to scratch my armpits and fling my feces at the next person who walks by since the staff stare at me for a minute as if the hostess just seated a monkey in the dining room.

As a former waiter, I know how some of the staff react. Some of the single straight waiters sigh and wait on the single guy as quickly as possible to free up the table. Do you need to get through dinner quickly because you have theater plans? Split your group into singles. They will rush you out of there, you will have time to look for a good parking space, and you won’t miss the overture.

Some of the waitresses will flirt with you and linger until they find out you're gay. Married doesn’t matter whether it is the guest or the waitress. Gay assures you a quiet meal. So, any straight guys out there. If you just don’t want to be bothered while you eat dinner, start the conversation with, “My husband, Trent, recommended this restaurant.”

But if you got me for a waiter in my day, you were treated like any other patron and not rushed. Have I mentioned I am perfect? I also had eaten my share of meals alone in restaurants. I was also the only waiter who would wait on the biker groups. Wild and loud, but the best tippers in the world! It pays not to have hangups.

We are a country that views single people with suspicion while at the same time being obsessed with marriage and relationships. Not our own marriages and relationships – everyone else’s. No matter where on the political spectrum you sit, as an American, it is your duty to be obsessed with everyone else’s marriage. When they say your marriage will ruin marriage as an institution, you point out their multiple marriages, eleven-hour marriages and seventy-two-day marriages. When they say your marriage is forbidden in the Bible, you point out that on that same page it says you can’t eat pork, yet they served ham biscuits at their wedding, which brings us back to restaurants.

Europeans don’t have the hang-ups we do. The women go to topless at the beach with more body hair than Robin Williams. The pear shaped men with bird arms and legs wear bikinis. Their politicians have affairs, and their only concern is what the mistress is wearing.

They also don’t care if you eat single in a restaurant.

I have been to Europe three times, twice alone and once with a cheap partner, who didn’t want to spend money on food, so he ate Powerbars for every meal, while I stopped at street vendors. We were in Paris! We never walked into a restaurant! Don't travel with a Southern Baptist.

My first trip was to Austria to visit my friend Caroline in Salzburg. I loved it. I ate about half of my evening meals alone, and I never ran into the bitter hostess syndrome. I wasn’t seated in a dark corner or a table by the water closet. I sat in the dining room with the other human beings. No one rushed me. My favorite restaurant was this adorable Greek bistro. The staff and I would hold a conversation with my limited Greek and German and their fluent English. I was given samples of specials and invited to taste different wines. For once, I ate alone in a restaurant and didn’t finish my meal in twelve minutes, while they cleared and set my table for the next party before I could get one arm into the sleeve of my coat.

If single restaurant patrons in the United States were always treated this way, we would have fewer bad marriages because dining alone would not be an unpleasant experience and one wouldn’t seek out bad relationships just so he could try a new restaurant. I have interesting theories.

I have had some interesting experiences in restaurants, especially while traveling this great land of ours.

In Tallahassee while on a business trip, a waitress was so nervous about having a single diner in her section that she spent fifteen minutes explaining how a salad bar works. She must have thought it was my first day out of the crate. The restaurant’s salad bar had six items, two of which were dressing. I decided to dine somewhere else.

In Suffolk, Virginia, after an all-day business meeting, a hostess kept trying to seat me with other people. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to sit here? They seem like a nice couple.” “How about here? Their kids, other than that one, seem well behaved.”

In my best Greta Garbo, I said, “I want to dine alone.”

While in Horsham, Pennsylvania, on another business trip (do you see why I now put no travel on job applications?), a hostess kept looking behind me for more people, no matter how many times I said, “One.” Then she asked if I wanted to place a to-go order. I guess no one ever sat alone in her restaurant. I stayed, and I dined for two hours. That drove her crazy! The food was lousy.

So, this year for Christmas, I had no plans. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to pop a Lean Cuisine into the microwave or go out to eat. By mid-afternoon, after editing for almost seven hours, I decided to go out for Chinese food. Not only would I be a single gay Jew in a Chinese restaurant on Christmas, I would be in a restaurant full of Jews, being that it was in Columbia, where more than a few Jewish families live.

I cleaned up, got dressed, very nicely, I might add. No jeans. After all, it was a federal holiday.

I walked in, and the hostess said, “Just one.” She then looked at the reservation book, then at the half empty dining room, and said, “Follow me.” I then followed her from table to table as she stopped or hesitated or changed her mind. She then conferred with a fellow staffer in their native tongue, I am guessing Mandarin, and then she gave me the reverse tour of the restaurant, until she finally seated me against the wall in a two-top. She found my waiter, whispered in his ear, and pointed at me.

Some things never change.

If you dine single or know someone who does, follow me, get on my email list, share me with your friends.

The Tale of Woofy

2011-12-19T08:44:00.000-08:00

One of these days, a bear is going to explain to me why when he sees a hot guy, he says, “Woof.” Don’t bears say, “Grrrrr”? Dogs say woof, but then again, who wants to refer to his boyfriend as a dog? Puppy, yes. Dog, no.

Of course, none of this has anything to do with Woofy. But before I go on, I have a friend, Lee, who always refers to a hot guy by saying, “He’s woofy.” Now does that mean he is “woof-worthy” or does he feel the need to say “woof” when he sees him?

My dog says woof to me all the time. Does that make me “woof-worthy”? Or does she just want to play or go outside? I am hardly a bear, so I rarely use woof or grrrr. But, I am getting closer to my point because this is all about a dog, and for once, not one of mine.

My father always told the story of our Uncle Stanley, who would take strays in, give them a bath and feed them then send them on their way. Those were the days before animal rescue leagues and apparently, an awareness of rabies. Now, I always found this story a little unbelievable because Uncle Stanley, a Battle of the Bulge war hero, was a little squeamish. He would not eat any food that looked questionable, and fish because of the bones was never served at his table. The family always said he found bones in milk. He also didn’t eat bananas. I don’t know why. So, someone that squeamish taking into his home a mangy stray dog, bathing and feeding it, is a little unbelievable; however, people do tend to do contradictory things.

I, for one, am germaphobic. I rarely eat food from the kitchen of someone I don’t know, yet I will eat a hot dog from a street vendor. If I enter a home that is unkempt, I politely decline a beverage and sometimes, a seat, yet I have pooped in a port-a-potty. I won’t kiss a guy with bad breath or allow him to … never mind, yet I let my dogs lick my face (Esmeralda still doesn’t do that). No one has ever slept in my bed without showering first, yet I let my dog, who gets bathed once a month, sleep in my bed, and often she sleeps on the pillow next to mine. Then again, my dog has good germs.

But, this has nothing to do with being germaphobic either. In teaching, what just occurred is called bird walking. You start on one subject, and an hour passes before you realize you have completely forgotten your point.

Where the hell was I?

Oh yes, Woofy.

When I first moved to the park, I was told of the Akita who has roamed the neighborhood for seven years and is a stray but never bothers anyone or barks. A few weeks later, I encountered the Akita one morning while walking Esmeralda. He was sitting in someone’s yard, just looking at us. Esmeralda ignored him, and we went on our way.

As the story goes, he showed up one morning, and no one knew where he came from. He stays close to the houses near the woods, where I live. A gentleman, who died recently, would feed him regularly, but no one knew who was feeding him now.

From the looks of him, he was or is obviously someone’s dog. He is well fed; his fur is thick, his eyes are clear and healthy looking, and his nails are trimmed. They aren’t just short from walking on pavement; they are trimmed. His gait is healthy – no limps or apparent health problems.

Now, in seven years, the theories of his origin have proliferated, but two are the most popular. He belonged to someone who died and now lives in the woods. The problem with this theory is that the last time I checked dogs could not operate nail clippers. The other is that he belongs to someone who lives in the woods. This theory I can kind of grasp.

But, who lives in the woods? Blutbaden? Is his owner a Blutbad? Or maybe the Akita is the owner in his Blutbad form? Now, that would be cool, and to me that would make sense.

Yes, I have no problem believing fantastical things. Wait until I tell you the story of the ghost who has followed me from home to home. Oh sorry, bird walking again.

Back to the Akita.

Being the friendly guy that I am, I started saying hello to the Akita every time we walked by him. Esmeralda continued to ignore him. I worried that with the man who used to feed him being dead he was not eating, but the Akita does not look skinny.

One night, he was watching from across the street as Esmeralda and I finished our walk, so I decided to put some food out for him. I put a bowl on the sidewalk in front of my house. I then went inside and watched from the window. He didn’t even sniff it. He walked right past it, through my yard, and into the woods.

For a stray, he sure was particular. That was name brand dog food I gave him. Esmeralda likes it, and I have tasted it myself – a little dry, but satisfying nonetheless.

Before you go all “Eeewww, you ate dog food!” Anyone who grew up in a house with a dog and an older brother has tasted dog food, or at the very least, a Milk Bone. You know what I am talking about. “Here, try this. It’s good.” Next thing you know, you are munching on Alpo.

I chalked up his refusal to touch the food to my putting it out by the sidewalk. Maybe like Uncle Stanley, he didn’t want anyone to watch him eat. Or, like Esmeralda, he was food shy? Or, he heard about my cooking.

As the week’s progressed, I didn’t put out food again because he had disappeared for a while. Then out of the blue one morning, he showed up as we began our walk – at 4:00 am. And, for the first time, he didn’t just watch us. He followed us around the entire perimeter of the park. I was told he never left our street. So much for that theory.

He kept a good fifty-foot distance, and I talked to him the entire time, asking him where he lived, who was his owner, if he was a Blutbad. That was also when I gave him his name. Woofy. Everyone deserves a name. I even said to him, “I am going to all you Woofy from now on.”

Woofy wouldn’t show up every morning, but when he did, he would follow us, and gradually he would come closer and closer. Then he did something that I never expected. He came up beside us and hopped around trying to get Esmeralda to play with him.

She played it cool. And, I thought, why us? In seven years, Woofy has never gone near another dog in the neighborhood. But, I realized something. Of all the dogs in the neighborhood, which are mostly around Esmeralda’s size and age, there are no other female dogs. She is the only woman in a land full of men. It’s as if she lives in Felton, Pennsylvania. I wonder if she is also Republican?

This behavior of Woofy’s continued whenever he saw us out. I would continue to talk to him, and he would continue to try and get Esmeralda’s attention.

One night it was raining very hard, and we went out for our walk, and Woofy followed us rather than seek shelter under someone’s porch. We were drenched, but after I let Esmeralda in the house, I decided to try and feed him again. I prepared another bowl of food, and I went outside. I called, “Woofy? Woofy? Where are you?” He then appeared from around my cute neighbor’s house. I looked right at him and said, “Here is some food, Woofy. I am going to put it over here, and you can eat it. OK?” I then put the food by my shed, which is near the woods. He watched me the whole time.

Then, I went inside. I didn’t look out the window right away this time. I figured if he didn’t eat it, the stray cats, which Mrs. E. had spayed at her own expense, would. A half hour later, I looked out the window, and Woofy was eating the food.

I did find out a few days later that the neighbor of the man who died now feeds Woofy every night, and the night of the rainstorm, she was stuck at work, which explains why he ate my food. In desperate times even my cooking is edible. If she is home, he won’t eat my food, preferring hers instead. So, I only put food out if I know she is running late.

As Woofy has become more comfortable around us, he has also become a little bold. He nudged Esmeralda’s tail one morning, and she turned around, wagged her tail, then jumped at him to play. He jumped back and whined, which was the first time I heard him make a sound. Now, they greet each other with a nose sniff and a hop, but not quite play.

One morning, she turned around and while looking for a perfect spot to pee, Woofy, nudged her again. This time she was on a mission, so I said, “Woofy, you need to go away for a minute while she pees.” He turned and walked away, but not without looking back with the saddest eyes I ever saw.

I felt awful. He understood “go away.” He was someone’s dog. I had a pit in my stomach.

We did not see him for days after that. I even called for him at night. I worried something had happened to him or he was picked up.

This morning, he showed up again, and this time, he let Esmeralda have space to pee and poop before he hopped around her.

Something tells me he isn’t just fascinated with Esmeralda because she is a girl; he realizes she is a kindred spirit – a dog with a sad childhood, who never learned how to play. She may be his first real friend.

If you like what you just read, follow me, get on my email list, say hello to the Woofy in your neighborhood.

No One Told Me about This Place

2011-12-13T13:31:00.000-08:00

Take away my gay card now. I hate shopping. There, I said it. Walking down aisles, browsing around, trying on clothes, looking at this item, looking at that, not knowing what you’re looking for … uucchhhh.

When I go into a store, I know exactly what I want, I find it, I buy it, and I leave. This has driven many of my friends crazy. They like to browse and look around. If I don’t see what I came to buy immediately, I ask for help. If they don’t have it, I leave. And, I have been known to leave my friends in stores.

Wait a minute! I get to keep my gay card. Straight men never ask where anything is or for directions. I always ask for help in stores and directions when I'm driving. I don’t have time to get lost.

A few weeks ago, I needed to get a purple sweater for Spirit Day. I walked up the street to Filene’s Basement, back to the men’s department, found a purple and a green sweater, paid for them, and returned to my office. Six blocks round-trip with a purchase in between took me twenty minutes. One of my co-workers could not get over it. She didn’t even realize I had left.

I don’t mind going to discount or grocery stores to buy what I need. I just do it as quickly as possible. I can grocery shop for a month’s worth of food in thirty minutes and redeem my coupons in the process. I go to Target and Walmart at least once a week. I go in, get what I need and leave.

But, don’t ever take me to a mall. Oh my God! I am convinced that if you are evil in this life, you spend the afterlife in a mall. I don’t know what is worse, the parking, the crowds, or the stores that sell nothing I want. Take Spencer Gifts. How many black light posters of Kiss do I need? Can you tell it has been thirty years since I went to a mall?

With the exception of the sweaters, I usually buy my clothes online, especially shoes since I wear a size 14, and no one carries that.

I refuse to walk into a shoe store. I don’t know how many times I heard, “We have up to size 13, and they fit large?”

My answer, “If they fit large, they would be size 14.”

My favorite was at Virginia Beach in the early 1980s, at one of those shops that sells flip flops (now they call them thongs and wear them with formals). The clerk looked at me as if I were Lurch and said, “We keep the larger sizes upstairs.”

My question, “Aren’t you afraid the first floor ceiling won’t support the weight of all those heavy shoes?”

Speaking of Lurch. When I was fourteen, I took a four-week tennis course in the summer, and the instructor, who couldn’t stand me, kept calling me Lurch. I told him if he didn’t stop, I would sign up for four more weeks. He didn’t. I did. And, he never taught tennis again.

Back to shopping. I do admit I love discount stores. K-Mart, Target, Walmart, you name it. I may shop quickly, but I do it with a smile. Bargains always get my juices going.

Want to seduce me? Show me a price tag that says “50% off.”

My mother worked in a high-end women’s clothing store called La Vogue, but she loved cheap stores. In Newport News when I was growing up, there was store called King’s. I don’t know if they had King’s where you live, but let me try to describe it for you.

Have you ever been to GC Murphy, Co.? Or a K-Mart in a really bad neighborhood? Imagine a store that makes those look like a boutique. Even the parking lot was full of potholes. My father used to say that they should open an alignment shop next to King’s.

I still remember piling into Mother’s red Corvair and going to King’s. I loved King’s. They also had a grocery store attached to King’s that was separated by those plastic strips you see in walk-in freezers. The grocery department was so trashy, the meat department only sold road kill.

I’m not kidding. She bought a chicken there that to this day I swear was a fat pigeon.

Mother once bought me shirts from King’s. One was yellow with white bands on the collar and sleeves. After one washing, the bands fell off; after two, we couldn’t find the shirt in the washing machine.

Too bad. I really liked that shirt.

Anyway, back to shopping. As you know, I have yet to landscape. However, even I was getting tired of my home looking as if someone parked a camper in an empty lot, so I took a trip to Walmart to look around their garden department – in December!

Their garden department wasn’t even open. I then drove over to Lowe’s, but all they had were Christmas trees. You can’t plant those.

On my way to the Metro every morning, I pass by a place called Behnke Nursery. They always have a sign out front that says what kind of greenery they have on sale. I know absolutely nothing about plants, except that one should trim his bush regularly but never remove it completely because a little grass on the playing field is a good thing.

I decided to drive down to Beltsville (yes, we do have a city called Beltsville – it’s near the Beltway of course). As usual with any of my shopping adventures, I knew what I wanted, and I was determined to get it in as little time as possible. I wanted six planters, and six bushes to go in them to surround my deck.

I grabbed a cart, walked in, and I immediately asked where the hard plastic pots for planting outside were. A friend told me not to get clay pots because they crack, and crack is whack. The clerk showed me where to look.

Then, I saw it: “All pots, 50% off.” I thought I was going to have to change my underwear. I looked at all the pots. I browsed. I pondered. I laid them out as I envisioned they would be around my deck. I walked around them at different angles. I turned my head and back again to see what kind of first impression they would have. And being Jewish, I turned them over to see where they came from (which is why flying saucers never land on Jewish lawns).

What the fuck was I doing? Was I shopping? Was I enjoying myself? Was I taking my time?

I was!

Why didn’t anyone tell me about this place? If I had known what fun this would be, I would have landscaped something twenty-five years ago!

After picking out my pots, I asked for help from a young fellow who looked like Louie Anderson. He showed me the bushes. And there it was again, “All bushes 50% off.” I needed a cigarette!

He helped me pick out six bushes. Then he showed me the right kind of potting soil, and he even helped me pick out the right kind of crushed marble to line the area between my walkway and my house.

I was spent.

I paid for everything, loaded up my car and drove home with a smile on my face and the inability to see out the passenger side or rear of the station wagon.

But, don’t get too excited. I managed to complete the entire shopping trip and unload the car in ninety minutes. Hey, it’s a start.

The following weekend, I returned to Behnke Nursery and bought six more bushes to plant around the house, and I was home in an hour. I just cannot resist a 50% off sale, and I now know I do like to shop – in garden stores or landscaping shops or nurseries or whatever they call them!

My neighbors love my landscape design – or they just love the fact that I finally did something. Who cares? I’m happy.

I cannot wait until spring, when I can buy flowers or bulbs or annuals or – I have no clue, but I'll learn. I hope Louie Anderson is still working at Behnke Nursery then.

If you trim your bush, follow me, get on my email list, join me, tell your friends.

How Alarming

2011-12-09T04:02:00.000-08:00

Remember when people first started installing car alarms in the 1980s and they would go off all the time in the middle of the night every time someone walked by one of their cars and farted? Were you one of those people who wanted to go outside with a baseball bat and beat the car to a mangled bloody pulp? Julia Sugarbaker did that on an episode of Designing Women.

You knew who had a car alarm because they had a fob. Now, everyone has a fob. Mrs. M lost her fob one day and asked me if I knew anything about getting one replaced. I said, “Do you see what I drive? My cars use a skeleton key.”

I never had a need for a car alarm. My cars are insured for three times what they are worth, which is equal to the price of dinner for two. If someone wanted to steal one of them, I would hand him the keys, turn around and say, “Gee, officer, one minute it was there and next thing I knew … oh, when … three days ago” (I want to give them time to get away, so I can collect).

House alarms are also very popular now. My upstairs neighbor in Mount Pleasant, the one who would hire teenage drunks to walk his dog, had one. When the dog would whine because the dog walker didn’t show up, I would go upstairs with my key and set off the alarm. I just realized something. He gave me a key but not the alarm code. What was that about? Anyway, the police knew me by name. I would open the door, and three minutes later, they would show up, and we would have a good laugh.

My parents had a house alarm. Once, while visiting, I came back late – in our family that means after nine o’clock – and I set off the alarm. Their code was the year they met and the year they got married – 5354. I kept doing it backwards. Oh, they’re dead, so you can’t rob their house now. And you wouldn’t have wanted to. A burglar broke into their home once and redecorated. I think his parting words were, “Enough with the Chinese chachkies!”

A friend once told me that if you break into a Chinese home, you willl find Jewish chachkies.

Which brings me to my home …

The problem with living in a trailer is I didn’t know if I needed an alarm, and if so, should I get a car alarm or a house alarm. Think about it. A thief could break into my house or just drive off with it. “We’ve spotted him on Route 1. Yes, an F-150 with a single-wide hitched to the back. He’s doing around 20 mph. We're in hot pursuit.” Then you sing “Bad Boys, Bad Boys” very slowly.

I have been the victim of three crimes in my life, which means I should be done for now – what with all things happening in threes. In 1988, my car was stolen. Later that same year, my apartment was robbed. In Atlanta in 1993, I was mugged at gun point after which I threw up in the back of a police car while being driven around trying to find the culprits – like that made any sense.

“Oh yeah, officer, there he is walking down the street with a gun in his hand with my wallet in his back pocket.” UrrUrrrUrrrrraaalphh. “Oh, sorry about that. Someone’s going to have to clean that up.”

The thief stepped out of the passenger side of a car at a crosswalk and pointed his gun at my head. Seriously, it took a gun to steal $27 and my license. They were driving a white Chevrolet Cavalier; no wonder they were mugging people.

I manage to survive four months without an alarm. Then Daylight Savings Time ended, and I was leaving for and coming home from work in the dark. And for the first time in my life, I have four exposed walls. And more importantly, Esmeralda is alone until Mrs. M comes to get her around ten o’clock for her first walk.

My things, I don’t care about. All my dreck can be replaced. My dog – that is another story. Do what you want to me. Touch my dog, and you’ll regret the day you left your mother. Don’t fuck with my dog! I’m from Hampton Roads, Bitch!

I got that out of my system.

So, I decided to call that alarm company with a short attention span – ADT.

The representative showed up fifteen minutes late, and the first question I asked was whether the police would do the same. You know I have no filter.

I offered him a seat, and he said, “Nice house. Did you have it professionally decorated?”

He could have sold me a motion detector for the toilet after that compliment!

He then went over all the packages and asked what in my house was important to me. I said, “Nothing. This is to protect my dog because thieves take little dogs like her and use them for pit bull training, and I don’t know what I would do if someone stole my dog. I don't care about my stuff. That can be replaced.”

“You are getting an alarm for your dog?”

“Yes.”

He knew then to keep his opinion to himself or he wasn’t going to sell an alarm system. I picked a basic system, while Esmeralda just watched. He asked, “Does your dog ever bark? Are you sure she’s a beagle?”

“Yes. She just prefers to observe rather than comment. We’re polar opposites.”

Not even a chuckle. How do people get through life without a sense of humor?

I chose a basic system for the doors and one motion detector for the dining room. The way my cooking is received, if someone is still moving after one of my meals, it will be truly alarming – unless I serve creamed corn, a family favorite.

Then he needed a $75 check for Howard County. What? I have to pay the county in order to get an alarm installed? Apparently, in Howard County, yes.

The following week, the alarm was installed by my first cute installer. Be it a contractor, plumber, handyman, you name it, I always get the trolls! After a few hours, he showed me how it worked, and that is when I became alarmed.

I didn’t know that when leaving the house, the damn thing would let out a high-pitched beep for one minute. The first time he tested it, Esmeralda was under the bed in less than three seconds.

“This isn’t going to work. You need to remove this thing. I bought this for my dog, and now it is scaring the shit out of her.”

“Mr. Stern, that is how it sounds.”

“You mean I can’t lower the volume?”

“No.”

“Then rip it out of the wall.”

“Seriously?”

For every problem, there is a solution. He didn’t have one, but I did – the owner’s manual. I read it – in front of him. You can lower the volume of the beep by pressing two buttons, and I showed him how.

Some things in this world never change. Cute still equals dumb; too bad it doesn’t always equal hung.

I wonder how many people out there have dogs under the bed because their alarm’s beep is too loud.

The other thing Esmeralda didn’t like was the lady’s voice. “Alarm, stay, exit now.” For the first week, every time the lady would speak, Esmeralda’s ears would go down and she would sulk away from the thing. It was like in Sybil, when Joanne Woodward played the tape of alters to Sybil, and she heard her alter with a voice like her mother’s and went under the piano, reverting to a fetal stage.

Something tells me Esmeralda was abused by a woman – a morbidly obese woman with a cigarette. Once while walking her in Rockville, a morbidly obese, chain-smoking woman exited her car, and I said hello. The minute Esmeralda saw her, she took off on her leash and dragged me three blocks. Or maybe Esmeralda worried I was straight and into morbidly obese, chain-smoking women? No, I think it was the former.

Esmeralda finally became accustomed to the voice. Now she just stares at it waiting for it to say more.

But here is the best part.

The $75 check was for the inspection fee. And this is how that works. The county sets up an appointment from 9:30-4:30. On the day of the appointment, the inspector shows up at 9:35 am, walks into your home, looks at the control panel, and says, “OK, that’s it.” Hands you a card saying approved and leaves.

For $75, I expect a happy ending.

Apparently, this is some old rule from the days before wireless to be sure the control box is not a fire hazard or something like that. The inspector said it was ridiculous, and he did about ten of these a day and was usually finished by 10:30.

I want his job.

If you find the above alarming, join me, follow me, recommend me to your friends …

When You Know You’ve Arrived

2011-12-06T08:55:00.000-08:00

What does a British man says when he is about to have an orgasm? I'm going to arrive? Thank you. I’ll be here all week. Try the fish; tip your waitress.

Don’t worry; this isn’t about orgasms. Although a messy subject, I promise to write about those at another time.

How do you know when you’ve arrived? I don’t mean when you reach your destination, but when you have been accepted into the group. Being a non-groupie, I am not well-versed in the arrival process.

For some, it must be when you get that first invite to join a group of friends at the movies and a night on the town. I am still waiting for that call.

It may be when you are invited to go on an exotic vacation with a bunch of guys. I am still waiting for that call, too.

It may be when you can’t make plans unless it involves the consensus of three of more people. You know I am not even answering that call. I am not big on committee work. I prefer dictatorships and absolute rule – ask anyone who has been on a volunteer board with me. Besides, things get done more quickly when you do them yourself.

Apparently, I have not arrived, nor have I had an orgasm in a while.

Believe me, I am not losing sleep over this, but how does one know when he has arrived in the Mobile Home Community? When can I proudly declare myself, Trailer Park Trash? Some who know me may want to chime in and ask, “When were you not Trailer Park Trash?”

I’ve always been Trash, just not a specific type.

Notice how I capitalize Trash. I say, "Don’t deny it; own it!"

But seriously, for someone who has never fit in, determining the actual arrival time is a foreign concept.

Will it be when people quit slowing down when they drive by my home and pointing as if to say, “I’ve never seen a woman go into that house” or “I hear his people sacrifice chickens to scare away evil spirits?” or “When is that weirdo going to plant some goddam bushes around that tin can?”

Just for the record, no one has said any of those things. The ones who do slow down point at my cars and wonder why anyone would have two AMCs parked in the same driveway. I wonder myself sometimes. Wait until they see my Rambler.

There have been signs that my arrival time was soon approaching. Miss E lives two houses down from me and gets up at 4:00 am to go to her job as a high school cafeteria worker. All through school, I wondered where cafeteria workers lived. Now I know.

Anyway, Miss E, stopped me as I was walking Esmeralda, and said, “Milton. I knew you would be out here. I need your help. My ’check engine’ light is on, and Mrs. M said you know about cars. Should I be worried? What does it mean? Should I go to work? Should I wait until my mechanic opens up?”

Being the car expert that I apparently am, I said, “It means you need to get your engine checked.”

It turns out her car was stalling and backfiring. After five or so minutes of “Should I go to work or should I take it in or will it be ok or what should I do?” I advised her to take it to her mechanic as soon as possible before she found herself stuck on the side of the road. She skipped work that day and took her car to her mechanic.

When I got home from work, Miss E told me it cost her $900 to repair her car because some vacuum hoses had rotted away, and it needed a tune-up, two new tires and some other routine maintenance. She kind of said it as if it were my fault for advising her to take it to her mechanic.

I sort of felt the way Lucille Ball did when they were filming Lucy Calls the President in 1977, and she told Vivian Vance to go to see her doctor because she was in a lot of pain. Vivian Vance returned to the set and said, “Thanks a lot. Your fucking doctor told me I have cancer.”

I laughed off Miss E’s accusatory tone then she said it was not my fault and even thanked me for the advice. I was kind enough not to tell her that if she had taken her car in for routine service or had a reliable mechanic, she may not have been hit with such a high repair bill all at once. There was no need for me to be a smart ass – this time.

Had I arrived at that moment? I’m not sure.

Now, I have always been the guy who knows all his neighbors (except in that fiery pit of hell they call Rockville), so my arrival time still remained a mystery.

On the other side of me lives Mrs. J, you know, the one who chain smokes on her deck with her back to the road. She recently had foot surgery, and upon seeing her foot in a cast, I told her if she needed anything to call me. I even raked her leaves with her asking.

A week later, Mrs. M asked me why I didn’t tell her Mrs. J had foot surgery. I told her I thought she knew everything going on in the neighborhood, since she was always looking out her window. She knew my cute next-door neighbor was suffering from headaches, she knew the man in the green house lost his wife a week before they moved in, and she knew that Miss E’s other neighbor’s daughter just got out of rehab and was spending all her money. She is also friends with Mrs. J, who is a hairdresser and cut her hair just a few weeks prior.

So, is getting health news before anyone else a sign of arrival? Not sure, but I was beginning to think I was on the descent and about to approach the runway.

Then it happened.

The mailbox pod is located near my house, and it is a great place to meet the neighbors and say hello. One day last week, as Esmeralda and I walked over to get our mail, someone asked me, “What propane company do you use?” I told her, then a discussion ensued with four other people about how they wanted to switch to the company I used and what could I tell them about their billing practices, since the other major company in the area was overbilling them.

I had everyone’s attention as I told them how the company I used handled their billing and what to expect with set-up and the like. We talked for almost an hour about gas.

The last time I talked that much about gas, I was in a room full of Jews!

As Esmeralda and I walked back to our home, I looked at her and said, “Darling, we’ve arrived.”

If you’ve arrived, follow me, get on my email list, share me …

Christmas Is the Jewish Christmas – The Eight Myths of Hanukah

2011-12-04T06:57:00.000-08:00

I love Christmas with all the songs, decorations and lights, especially the lights, and the tackier and more overdone the house, the better.

When we were kids, our parents would love to take us around in the car and look at all the lights. This is where I first learned the word umbeshrian – which according to my mother, meant overdone. And you say it the same way Janis on Friends said, “Oh My God.”

We even had a Christmas tree in our house when I was little, and when my mother accidentally barbecued the den one December, she was most upset about the loss of her Styrofoam snow man with two elves standing next to him.

Now, that I own my first home, I have also strung up some lights – blue and white of course, to celebrate the season. Before you start in on me about decorating for a Christian holiday, keep reading ...

(About ten years ago, I gave a drash during Shabbat services on Hanukah, where I presented for the first time my “Eight Myths of Hanukah.” A few years after that, I was asked to present them again. For your reading pleasure, I present them for the third time.)

Introduction

Many people do not realize that Jesus was not born on December 25. He was born September 11, 3 BCE, which on the Hebrew calendar for that year was Elul 1.

To make a long story short, in the year 380, Pope Damasus I made it his goal to have all Christians in the Roman Empire yield to his authority, and he convinced the Emperor to issue an edict requiring them to practice the religion of Rome, Catholicism. Damasus I was also seeking to lure the people away from the pagan rituals honoring the birth of the sun god on December 25 at midnight by demanding attendance at a memorial in honor of Christ's death – in other words, the Mass. The people confused this Mass with the pagan solar birth rituals conducted at that same time, and gradually, the Christ-Mass became associated with the Nativity, hence, Christmas. Somehow, many of the symbols and customs remained, most notably, the Christmas tree and fruitcake.

Did you know all fruit cakes were actually baked before the year 380? That is why they are so dense and hard to slice.

In the United States, Christmas wasn’t even celebrated during our country’s first 94 years because in England it was celebrated with excessive drinking and lewd and lascivious behavior. Not unlike a Tuesday night in my home.

As a matter of fact, Washington crossed the Delaware on December 25, 1776, to attack the British in Trenton because he knew the Red Coats would be hung over.

Americans wanted to reject all things British, so Christmas and afternoon tea were the first to go. I wish we kept the tea.

Congress met on Christmas day every year until after the Civil War. Americans complained there were no federal holidays, so on June 26, 1870, Christmas was officially made a federal holiday. However, you can thank the Jews for something else because we invented the weekend. You know: God worked all week then rested.

So, to all my Jewish friends out there, hang up those Hanukah lights this weekend because Christmas is not a religious holiday; it is a federal holiday, and we want to be patriotic!

Now, I present:

The Eight Myths of Hanukah

1. Hanukah is the Jewish Christmas. False. How many times have I been asked, "Is Hanukah the Jewish Christmas?" Let me set the record straight. Christmas is the Jewish Christmas. Mary and Joseph were Jewish, Jesus was Jewish, and at least one of the Wise Men was Jewish – the one that brought the fur.

2. Hanukah is the holiest of Jewish holidays. False. Hanukah isn’t even a religious holiday. The holiest of Jewish holidays is April 24, Barbra Streisand’s birthday. The second holiest Jewish holiday is December 29, the wedding anniversary of Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme.

3. Hanukah is another Jewish holiday where they tried to kill us, they didn’t, so we eat. True. Also known as the Festival of Lights, Hanukah is an eight-day Jewish holiday commemorating the re-dedication of the Holy Temple (the Second Temple) in Jerusalem at the time of the Maccabean Revolt of the second century BCE, which brings us to ...

4. Hanukah commemorates the miracle that one day’s worth of oil lasted eight days in the Holy Temple. True. But, this is hardly a miracle because I witnessed my grandmother doing the same thing with one tea bag.

5. During Hanukah, children get a gift every night for eight days. False. If you grew up in my house, you got a gift the first night, then for seven nights, you heard about how awful it was to grow up during The Great Depression. The ritual of gift giving is actually very American, since Jewish children in this country are totally exposed to Christmas customs.

6. Hanukah is a holiday when Jewish people eat bland, colorless foods that are fried in oil and difficult to digest. True. This can actually be said of all Jewish holidays, except Passover, when the foods are not fried but still difficult to digest. On Hanukah, we eat latkes (potato pancakes) or sufganiot, if you are Sephardic. Sufganiot are similar to jelly donuts. I am part Sephardic, so I like donuts, just not jelly ones.

7. There are many popular songs about Hanukah, and Jewish people know the words to all of them. False. Other than “Dreidel, Dreidel, DreidelHanukah song, except for “The Hanukah Song,” by Adam Sandler, which brings us to Number 8 ...

8. Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme and Barbra Streisand have recorded Hanukah albums. SO NOT TRUE! Would you believe Steve and Eydie have recorded a Christmas album, and Barbra has recorded not one, but two, Christmas albums?! And all those Christmas songs we hear on the radio are mostly written, and oftentimes performed, by Jews! Oy vay! This brings us back to myth Number 1, proving once again that Christmas is the Jewish Christmas!

So, from my Trailer Park to Yours, here is wishing you a very Happy Jewish Christmas and a Merry Hanukah!

If you like what you just read, get on my email list, join me, follow me, tell your friends, and hang up a string of blue and white lights!

It's About the Exterior, Stupid

2011-11-30T04:49:00.000-08:00

As a Gay man, I always thought home ownership had to do with the interior, being sure your home was color coordinated, fresh smelling and clean and that all one’s sex toys were out of sight while still being easily accessible. If you are in a condo, this is all true.

In a house or mobile home, or even a camper, it’s about the exterior, stupid!

Considering yard work a chore is something I am resigned to accept, and I promise by next spring to plant a few bushes to give my home a more landscaped appeal. However …

Had I known before embarking on the trailer park adventure that I would have to do what I had to do today, I might still be an apartment dweller.

In the lot lease, we are instructed to keep our homes clean and free of trash along with hiding our trashcans and recycling bins. We are also told to “wash down” our houses at least once a year. These are easy things to do. I keep my trash cans behind the deck, and I am going to get one of those power wash attachments for my hose to wash my home next spring. I think the Mr. Clean car wash kit should do the job nicely.

But I was starting to have a problem with the trashcan placement. With all the rain we were getting this year, my yard was full of mud, and I was constantly traipsing through a soggy pit to empty my trash and recyclables, not to mention disposal of poop bags. I needed a walkway.

I noticed my cute next-door neighbor (whom I am convinced masturbates to fantasies of me behind those closed curtains – let me have this one tidbit) had pavers from his deck to his trash cans, so I decided to buy some pavers to go around my deck to keep my shoes clean. As I have told you, I am legendary for my clean shoes.

While I was admiring his pavers and measuring them, I heard a voice from above. I was startled and said, “I was only measuring them to see how many I need; I wasn’t going to steal them.”

No worries; it wasn’t God. It was my neighbor.

He was on his roof, cleaning his gutters. And he was pulling out a shitload of leaves.

Earlier that day, I did something I thought I would never do. I raked my leaves – all of them! But, I never considered the ones on the roof or in the gutter.

I asked him, “How often do you have to do that?”

“At least once a year, maybe twice.”

I then got on my deck and reached up to see if my gutters were full. Being tall does have its advantages. Oh yes, there were about four inches of leaves in my gutter. I needed to clean them out. And, cleaning them meant two things.

I had to climb up a ladder, and I had to get onto my roof. Two things I have never done and do not have on my bucket list. I am not afraid of heights. I can stand on a balcony and look over the edge with no problem. I am afraid of falling. I am a natural born klutz. If anyone is going to fall off a roof, it is I.

Growing up, I don’t think we ever cleaned our gutters, or at least I didn’t. I never climbed up on ladders either. I never saw the inside of our attic. Our house had all the worst qualities of the homes of the Munsters and the Addams Family, including cultivated weeds and loose shingles.

I, however, am determined not to care for my home the way my parents did. So, I decided to buy a ladder and clean my gutters.

My neighbor offered to lend me his, but for a few reasons I decided not to. His was a little rickety, and I weigh over two-hundred pounds, and I don’t want to be that guy who borrows stuff all the time. I hate those people.

Does anyone borrow a cup of sugar anymore?

On the Saturday morning after Black Friday, I showed up at Lowe’s when they opened. It was empty (for those who don’t know, that Saturday morning is the best time to shop). I first found a ladder with a 300 pound weight limit that was on sale, so I put it in my cart and attempted to maneuver it through the store. That wasn’t going to work. I knocked six displays over before I asked if I could leave it up front until I was ready to leave. I am so much like Lucy Carmichael, it isn’t even funny.

I then went to look at pavers. I found some that were perfect and I loaded them onto a cart. According to my measurements (and contrary to belief, this Gay man does measure, and I measure exactly), I needed forty-eight of them. They weighed twenty pounds each. The cart weighed 960 pounds, and I pulled that bastard from the garden center all the way to the front of the store where I had my ladder and green bungee cords. Did you expect me to buy any other color?

Just so you know. I was the only one in the store, and no one offered to help me. Of course, I didn’t ask for help either. I never do. I am the perfect martyr. I should be in the Bible somewhere. – maybe hauling stones in ancient Egypt then falling off a pyramid to my death because I wouldn’t ask for help.

I checked out then I pulled my car up and proceeded to load it up and strap the ladder to the roof with my new bungee cords. There were some Girl Scouts selling cookies and watching me the whole time. They giggled when I tripped and almost landed face first in my pavers. I made a note to buy some thin mints.

If you don’t know me, you are not aware of the fact that I dive a twenty-eight-year-old station wagon. I loaded the car with no help, and with each paver, the back went down a little more, and once all were in, it was almost bottomed out. I then strapped the ladder to the roof rack, again with no help. I even wore a plaid jacket that morning.

After buying a box of thin mints and a box of lemon cookies, I made it home, and it was like driving uphill the whole way. I took a picture of my car because I figured no one would believe I did this.

Once I arrived home and after I took the picture, I walked Esmeralda very quickly. I was sure my rear leaf springs were going to collapse if I waited any longer. Then, I emptied out the 960 pounds of pavers and laid out my walkway. Unlike most Gay men, I measured exactly. But I do get to keep my Gay card because my measurement ended in “eight,” and I needed forty-“eight” pavers. Think about it.

That went well. However, now came ladder time.

Again, I am not afraid of ladders, just falling off them. I am, however, afraid of spiral staircases. I don’t know why, but I conquered that fear when visiting the Baltimore Washington Monument with my friend Louis, which is also an obelisk, and climbing the spiral staircase to the top. Going down was another story, and I almost had to change pants at the bottom. So …

I used the bathroom then I mustered up the courage. At first I thought I could put the ladder beside the house, climb up a couple of steps then reach up and clean the gutters that way, but even I couldn’t reach that far.

With my cell phone in my pocket in case of an emergency, my wallet in my pants, so they could identify the body, and the ladder on the deck, I decided it was either now or never. I climbed up and looked at the roof. I climbed up one more step then another. With the grace of a goony bird, I clamored onto the roof. I am sure that was a sight to behold.

I was on the fucking roof! I looked around. I was on top of the world. OK, it was only 16 feet up, but I did hyperventilate slightly then I sat down and scooted to the edge to clean out the gutters. Fortunately, I was wearing gloves because no one told me about the gunk under the leaves.

Scooting on my fat ass, I managed to complete one side and only had two near misses. I then looked to the other side thinking those gutters couldn’t be full because the leaves tend to fall on one side of the house. Oh was I an optimistic idiot. There were more leaves on the far side than the side I just cleaned.

I then walked over to that side, looking like Lucy Carmichael and Vivian Bagley putting up an antenna, and again on my fat ass, cleaned that side.

The whole time I was thinking, “I am going to fall off this roof and die, or I’m going to have to call the Fire Department to get me down.” The second option didn’t seem so bad.

I’m really surprised I didn’t throw up for the first time since 1997.

Then, I was done, but I was now stuck on the roof. A neighbor walked by with his dog, and I asked him if he would hold the ladder for me. Thank God, I live in a trailer park. Everyone is so friendly and willing to help. In Rockville, they would have acted as if they didn’t hear me.

He held the ladder, and I somehow got down in one piece.

Also, no one told me how wet shingles get. My jeans were soaked through my ass, so I took a shower immediately to avoid getting a yeast infection on my bum.

When all was said and done, I was informed there is an attachment for the garden hose for cleaning gutters without leaving the ground.

Why do I always find out about these things after the fact?

Cross one item off my bucket list – after I put it on there of course.

The thin mints were delicious, all of them. The lemon cookies were crap.

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I Only Date Latin Guys

2011-11-27T08:06:00.000-08:00

I went on a date with a guy four years ago. We’ll call him Randy – not because of his libido but because that is his real name. No protecting the innocent here.

We had what I considered a fantastic time. We talked about a variety of subjects and not ourselves. You know how first dates go being almost like a job interview with the avoidance of subjects like politics, religion and preferred interior design themes. You pretty much spend two hours talking about yourself – a subject I find truly fascinating. The evening ended nicely, and we were going to go out on a second date. However …

Just before the second date, he informed me that his mother had taken ill and he had to take care of her. I told him that it was very important to take care of her and keep me informed. He even texted with medical updates for a day or two. It is amazing what someone will do to his mother to get out of a date.

It should be no surprise that we never did go on a second date. I read the book, He’s Not That Into Me, so I just wrote it off as one good date with no possibility of a relationship. I am also no idiot. Once the sick mother appeared, I knew I wouldn’t see him again.

About a year ago, I had dinner with someone who was friends with him, and I told him about how we never went on a second date or communicated again. And, our mutual friend said, “Oh her. She only dates Latin guys.”

Seriously?

This only dating a certain “type” thing has always fascinated me. I could understand his only dating Latin guys if he were Latin. But, he’s a goddamn blond blue-eyed WASP!

Rita Morena’s character in West Side Story, Anita, sang in “A Boy Like That” about seeking your own kind. That I can understand. If the guy is Latin and only dates Latins, there is nothing wrong with that. You share beliefs, ethnicity, culture, etc. You never have to explain the ingredients in gefilte fish.

There was a time when I only dated Jewish guys, but it is very difficult for two whiny, neurotic men, who are obsessed with pleasing their mothers, while dealing with stomach issues and bad feet to form a lasting relationship. I’m just saying. But, I still date Jewish guys, just not exclusively anymore.

In the Gay world, guys usually date their own kind. Juice heads only date juice heads – that way they can inject each other’s asses with steroids. Twinks date twinks, so that one does not crush the other in bed. A-listers date A-listers, so they don’t have to show each other how all the buttons work in their BMWs. Hairy bears date hairy bears, so they don’t have to feel guilty when they bring home a side of beef from the Safeway. And so on.

What this creates is the “clone culture” where guys are always dating guys who look like themselves. They also only befriend guys who look like themselves. Look at their pics on Facebook. You will notice all the guys look alike, dress alike and act alike. Also, all of A-listers are photographed at parties holding red plastic cups – the ultimate A-list accessory.

The fun part is when one of them starts dating someone else, and you cannot tell the old and new boyfriends apart. You call the new boyfriend by the old boyfriend’s name, and things get a little awkward. If you are like me, you diffuse the situation by saying, “I’m sorry, you look just like Brad and Jon and Chris and … oh who cares? All his old boyfriends look alike, and he goes through them like Kleenex …” By this time, someone is shoving an hors d’oeuvre in my mouth and dragging me away from the situation. Fortunately, I never get embarrassed, nor do I have a filter.

I have never looked like, acted like or dressed like anyone, so I have been spared the curse of clonism. However, this does make being part of a clique impossible, which is fine with me because I have never been one to succumb to the clique culture either. My friends come in all sizes, shapes, colors, ethnicities, etc.

But, this isn’t about me …

A Latin friend of mine was in bed with a guy once, who in the middle of copulation said, “Oh yes! Fuck me with that Puerto Rican dick!” He pulled out immediately, dressed and left.

As he put it, “At that moment I was dehumanized and reduced to my Latin penis.” He was right, not to mention the fact that he is Venezuelan.

What is really weird is when you are the subject of someone’s obsession. My ex, Philip, is bald, and nothing bothered him more than when someone said, “Oh I find bald guys so hot.” I could totally understand this.

My friend Joel once tried to set me up on a date, and the guy said, “I can’t go out with him; he’s too tall.” He had written me off immediately.

That same guy tried to pick me up in the shower at the gym a short time later, and I said, “I can’t play with you; you’re too short.” Of course, I could have kicked myself because he was hung like a … never mind.

I have had guys come up to me and say, “I just love Jewish men. I only date Jewish guys.” These are the ones I avoid completely. They truly creep me out. I expect them to say, “Some of my best friends are Jewish.” Oy vay.

Do the guys who only seek a certain kind, who are not what they are, really think that is a turn on for the object of their desire? Apparently for some it is.

I recently went to a birthday party with two distinct groups in attendance: middle-aged white men and young Asian men. All were partnered up. Being a writer, I just found the situation fascinating and observed the interactions. In this group, all seemed to have found what they were seeking. I didn’t judge, but I thought how limiting life could be if you only seek one thing.

To me, it is like going to a buffet and only eating the beige food.

Now, few people will come right out and say they only date a certain kind to someone who has asked them out, but I have experienced this firsthand. I met a friend of a friend of mine at a party once. We’ll call him Rod, not because he had a certain physical attribute, but because that was his real name.

We chatted it up for quite a while that evening, and I finally said, “Would you like to go out on a date sometime?”

He said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I only date Latin guys.”

He was Polish.

I ran into him years later, and he was still single. I asked, “How is that only dating Latin guys thing working out for you?”

And back to Randy.

Just the other day, out of the blue, I ran into Randy, and he asked me out on a date, saying it has been a long time, and we should catch up. I agreed to it, thinking maybe he got that only daing Latin guy thing out of his system.

The morning of the date, he texted me that his mother was sick and he had to put her in the hospital.

So let me understand this. If we plan another date in the near future, is he finally going to kill his mother?

And people wonder why I am still single.

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Creamed Corn and the Brown Bag Turkey

2011-11-22T10:03:00.000-08:00

I am ambivalent about Thanksgiving. It should be my favorite holiday. After all, I was born on Thanksgiving, and next year, I will turn fifty on Thanksgiving, but therein lies the dilemma. When your birthday falls on or near a holiday, especially on a holiday with no specific date, i.e., the fourth Thursday of November, you feel gypped. “We’ll celebrate your birthday on Thanksgiving, even though it falls on the Tuesday before.”
Maybe this is why I don’t make a big deal out of my birthday since we were always celebrating it not on my birthday.

I wonder if this happens to people who are born on President’s Day. “Oh, we’ll celebrate your birthday on Monday, even though it falls on Saturday.” I imagine Christmas babies have it worse than anyone. Everybody gets presents, and they probably do not get any extra ones for having their birthday under the tree (but I'll bet they take inventory). Then again, January 1 babies must have it bad. After the initial excitement of being born on New Year’s Day, for every year after that, your family is hung over at your birthday party. Leap Year babies have it worse – they have quadrennial birthdays, but they are always younger than everyone by multiples of four.

That is the first time I have used quadrennial in a sentence.

Now, I don’t dislike Thanksgiving, and as I have gotten older, I have begun to enjoy it. However, there is one thing about Thanksgiving that can make it a painful experience: You usually spend it with your extended family. Your own family is fine, but those cousins … don’t get me started. Fortunately, our extended family consisted of five people.

Growing up, we spent Thanksgiving with my dad’s family. Uncle Stanley married a Catholic, so it was Thanksgiving at our house and Christmas at theirs. No matter where we went, we would spend ten minutes at the beginning of the meal discussing food ingredients because of Wendy’s allergies, cringe at Jeff’s crude jokes, and make sure Carole-Sue was the center of attention, or she would run crying from the table. My mother would undoubtedly say something to someone to set him or her off, and a good time would be had by all.

Mother once put a ham on the table and told my grandmother it was rare roast beef.

When I moved to Florida, I would come home for Thanksgiving, and by then, it was just the immediate family and my mother’s brown bag turkey.

Growing up, we were convinced my mother was a great cook. Once I experienced properly prepared foods, I soon realized my mother’s cooking was ok at best. Some things were great, but others were … how shall I put this … inedible. Her chopped liver and chicken cacciatore were phenomenal. However, her chuck roast on the grill was disgusting. It was burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. They call this Pittsburgh style. I have never wanted to visit Pittsburgh.

On one visit home, my mother asked if I would like for her to grill a chuck roast. I said, “I would rather you not make a burnt offering on my behalf.” She laughed.

I still do not like steak because she would buy these lousy steaks full of gristle and fat and make me chew them. My napkin would be full of chewed up but unswallowed meat.

Then, there was her kugel. I was in my thirties when I finally learned that kugel is not supposed to be crunchy. I had made my first one and followed the recipe to the letter. I also learned that kugel is delicious when prepared properly.

And, don’t get me started on the oily cakes. I am known for my baking, and I have never been able to replicate my mother’s oily cakes. I think this had something to do with the fact that she would substitute Sweet-n-Low for sugar. It is a wonder I am still alive.

However, her pièce de résistance was her brown bag turkey. A gentile co-worker of my mother’s gave her a recipe for roasting a turkey in a brown grocery bag, which is why I never get recipes from gentile co-workers.

Seriously, this is what it involves. You take your turkey and coated it in vegetable oil. Then you stick it in a brown grocery bag, staple the bag shut, and roast it for twenty minutes per pound. There are two good reasons for doing it this way. One, you don’t have to baste it. Two, you can throw away the entire bird because it is already in its own garbage bag.

As a matter of fact, if you adopt this method, skip the middle man and put your turkey out with the trash.

But, here is the best part. After my father would attempt to carve this dry bird, which would have the consistency of drywall, my mother would make the same declaration after chewing her first bite. “I bought a bad bird this year. This is awful. I will never buy that brand again.”

Get this. She used this method for twenty-two years and said the same thing every year, including the first time she did this. Are there twenty-two brands of turkeys? The last holiday I spent with my mother was Passover. Her health had been failing, so I came down knowing this would be our last holiday together, and she had actually rallied a bit and was driving again. It turned out to be a nice visit.

The conversation before preparing the turkey, our Passover meat of choice, went like this:

“We have to put the turkey in the bag by ten o’clock …”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I am making a decision. If you cook one more turkey in a grocery bag, I will never eat in your house again.”

Laughter heard from my father between his farts while he sits in his easy chair with my dog, Serena, in his lap.

“That is the way I am making it …”

“No.”

“Then you can eat a bologna sandwich.”

“I will. In the meantime, we are roasting the turkey my way with no brown bag. Every year, you make it in the brown bag, and every year you declare you bought a bad bird. It is not the bird, it’s the bag. I cannot eat another drivy fertz turkey. I don’t know what goy-friend of yours gave you that recipe, but we are not doing it that way as long as I am here.”

“He’s right,” my father said between farts.

“Who asked you?” my mother said with a smile. “But if yours is dry, you can take the whole thing home with you.”

“I will … and it won’t be dry.”

We roasted it my way. No bag, perfectly seasoned. The part that drove her nuts was my not letting her open the oven to baste it. It took everything to convince her that opening the oven and basting it only created wet skin and a dry bird.

Needless to say, I inherited my stubbornness and insistence that I am always right from my mother. Lately, I fart as much as my father.

The turkey was perfect, and she even said my chopped liver was as good as hers. That was the ultimate compliment.

That Passover was the nicest holiday our family spent together.

Less than two months later, my mother died, but at least she got to eat one good turkey before she left this earth to help God run things in heaven – or Boca – or wherever Jews go when they die.

I also inherited my need to be in charge from her.

After my mother died, I took over Thanksgiving duties. For the first few years, my father would come up for a visit with my friends for the holiday, giving my brother, who lived near him, a break.

My father was always a pleasure, especially when he would comment on my guests’ weight or other physical attributes, and soon, I realized this combination was not working.

Then, we held the first Stern Family Thanksgiving since my mother died. My brother, sister-in-law, nephew and father came up. Dad stayed with me, while the others stayed in a hotel. This gave me the pleasure of witnessing my father doing his morning exercises in his briefs with his man boobs flapping about.

I have seen my future, and it is not pretty.

For that Thanksgiving, I decided to go all out. My delicious roast turkey, mushroom bordelaise gravy, cornbread stuffing from homemade cornbread (no bag of croutons crap), cranberry apple relish, pumpkin-sweet potato-carrot mash with molasses and brown sugar, and homemade biscuits.

I asked my brother if my nephew had any favorite food. He said, “Yes, creamed corn.”

I hate creamed corn. Creamed corn looks like predigested food. I don’t want to know how they cream it. I really don’t want to know. But, I wanted him to be happy, so I bought two cans of that dreck.

We sat down to dinner, and I put everything out so beautifully. If I do say so, myself, I set a beautiful table. I have few talents when it comes to entertaining, and working in a five-star restaurant taught me how to set a table. I always take a picture of the table before anyone sits down and messes it up. Everything is color coordinated. I have more table cloths than the Marriot and matching napkins for all of them, enough to make Martha Stewart jealous.

The food looked wonderful, and I thought I had outdone myself. Then someone said it, “Pass the creamed corn.” And another, “Yes, pass the creamed corn.”

Then, “Oh this creamed corn is delicious.” Followed by, “Do you have any more of the creamed corn?”

Seriously? This is your favorite dish on the table? Creamed fucking corn? I should have made Stove Top Stuffing, French’s gravy, and opened a can of jellied cranberry sauce!

I thought it; I didn’t say it.

If I were suicidal and owned a gun – and knew how to use one – I would have blown my brains out right there at the dining room table, which would have been followed by, “Oh, I hope he didn’t get any brains in the creamed corn.”

“Yes, let me open another can of creamed corn,” I said with my best Donna Reed smile. It wasn’t even brand name creamed corn!

While I love my family dearly, we are just trash.

I never cooked another Thanksgiving dinner again.

My father died of a heart attack after a battle with Alzheimer’s disease a couple of years ago. Now for Thanksgiving, my family comes up to visit, and we go out to eat. Going out was my brother’s idea because he doesn’t want to bother with dishes. No offense, Alex, but when did you ever wash a dish in my home? Wait a minute. Was he commenting on my cooking?

Last year, we had a lovely meal at an upscale restaurant.

But, I now live in a town that allows trailer parks, so our choices are limited. I think I’ll make a reservation at Wing’s Liquor, Sports Bar and Grill. I hear they have their own special recipe for creamed corn! We should fit right in.

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