WadeRouse.com - Blog

Planting Dreams: Happy April!

2013-04-02T16:31:00.003-07:00

I don’t just love April.

I adore April.

As much as, even, caffeine, good wine and Hugo Boss shirts.

This means major props for April.

April marks that moment of the year – especially in Michigan – when I can finally walk outside without screaming, “I’m going to lose an earlobe!”

It’s that time when I can inhale deeply and breathe in that memorable scent of spring. I can close my eyes and hear the birds chirp, the earth reawaken.

I also love spring, especially this year, because it marks an important anniversary in my life.

Some eight years ago, I quit my job to pursue my passion.

At the time, I had just finished my first memoir, America’s Boy, after waking for years at 4:30 in the morning while working fulltime and living in the city. I had just landed an agent. My book was within a few months of being published. And, Gary and I had just quit our high-paying jobs with benefits and moved 400 miles to take up residence in a knotty-pine cottage in the woods where I was going to try to become the offspring of Erma Bombeck, David Sedaris and Henry David Thoreau.

We didn’t just leap off a bridge. We leapt without parachutes.

The landing hurt.

Two weeks after uprooting our world and taking the biggest risks of our lives – and just weeks before America’s Boy was set to publish – my editor quit to take a job at another publishing house.

I was alone in the literary ocean without a paddle. Alone in the woods without a compass.

Although my first book was critically acclaimed, it came and went quickly, like a Kevin Costner movie.

I didn’t know if I would write another book, sell another book, survive. Actually, I didn’t know if I could even write another book. That’s how shaken I was.

So, Gary took me into our garden one April afternoon and pointed at his just-blooming tulips, flowers of peach, red, purple, and yellow, swaying like crayons in the wind.

“I planted these bulbs last fall,” he said, bending down to touch the tender petals. “I didn’t know if they all would bloom, but I was compelled to do the work, to take that risk. And just look at the result. It was worth all the effort and belief, wasn’t it?”

I remember plucking a creamy peach tulip and putting it in a McCoy vase on my writing desk that crisp, sunny April day. I made a promise to myself, staring at the tulip: You will achieve your dream, Wade, if you just believe and work hard. I also promised myself that if I could make it five years, then I could make it the rest of my life as a writer.

I started in earnest that April day and finished my second memoir a few months later. It sold just after that to a new editor and publishing house.

It is now eight years – and a total of five books – later. It hasn’t always been easy. But dreams never are.

I am now working on my first novel. A new dreams begins. One also filled with great risk and uncertainty.

I am again wandering into the unknown, just like many of the heroes and heroines from our favorite books. Most of our beloved protagonists from our most beloved books take great risks in their lives. They follow their dreams. They risk their hearts. They understand that life is all about pursuing passion, be it in romance or career.

That, too, is a theme for the women in my first novel: Risks they took, ones they didn’t, and the impact that had on their lives.

I continue to take great risks in my writing and life, and I always will. And even when things get thorny, I still consider life to be abloom.

I continue to work hard and believe even harder, though I may not always be able to see the petals when my face is to the ground.

But it comes down to believing in your dreams – and hard work – if you want life’s garden to be ablaze in color.

This April, I urge you all to remember to take a moment to stop, breathe in the spring air, and believe in your dreams.

Gardeners aren’t the only ones who can begin to see the fruits of their labor in April.

We all can.

But we must first plant the seeds.

Day 1: Dr. Oz 3-Day Detox Cleanse

2013-03-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

"Puh-leeze!"

"No."

"Why not?"

Silence.

"Puh-leeeeezzzee!"

"Gary, stop it! 3rd-graders act more mature than you."

Sticks tongue out. Pause. "Puh-leeezzeee!"

I had two options, as most parents do: Cave, or stand firm. I caved.

Gary became enamored with the Dr. Oz 3-Day Detox Cleanse from a friend of ours, who has a similar, gung-ho, world-be-damned, optimistic attitude as Gary (and most Labs). She happened to tell Gary about the cleanse the day after we had eaten 471 bowls of chips at a Mexican restaurant and topped it off with homemade caramel corn and a movie. Result: 4-lb. weight gain overnight.

"It's all salt," I said, whispering, "And fat."

"What?"

"It's a false-positive weight gain. You'll lose it all after we hike today."

He didn't lose it all. And, thus, the begging continued.

"OK," I said.

An hour later, Gary returned from the store, after having spent $75 on kale, cucumbers, mango and celery.

"We could've gone to a nice restaurant for that amount!" I yelled.

"And shortened our lifespan," he replied.

Gary looked at me. Gary is a group-activity guy. He loves yoga, group exercise classes, gardening clubs. I ... do not. But if something is important to Gary, I will join in. For better or worse, right?

We decided to start on Monday.

Now, let me digress: We are, by and large, very healthy eaters. In fact, I am routine, to a fault. I have the same breakfast and lunch most every day:

Breakfast
-Kashi with skim milk and blueberries or raisins
-Banana
-Black coffee or skim milk white chocolate latte

Snack
-Apple, or 1/2 protein bar

Lunch
-Morningstar burger (black bean or veggie)
-Side salad (romaine or spinach, with carrot, tomato, cucumber, red pepper, lite vinaigrette)
-Yogurt

Snack
-1/2 protein, or string cheese

Dinner is usually chicken or fish (love to grill), as well as a veggie (broccoli, roasted asparagus, salad, sliced/roasted sweet potato, etc.)

I once weighed nearly 260 pounds, and have lost -- through exercise, healthy eating, mental/spiritual/emotional/creative/professional health, and damn hard work/determination - roughly 115 pounds, which I have kept off for some 15 years. People often damn me for ordering oatmeal at a brunch out, or for ordering a kale/quinoa salad for dinner, but I enjoy eating well. It's not worth it to sabotage all my hard work.

That does NOT mean I don't enjoy food/life (witness the chips). Gary is a fabulous baker (the best I've ever eaten), and his desserts are worth every bite, every extra minute on the treadmill, every extra mile running. We eat out a few times a week, and are experimental with our eating. I do not micromanage my eating those times. But I do believe that healthy eating is tied to emotional health, and I know that good decisions lead to others: If I can eat well most of the time, I can enjoy -- without guilt -- eating the rest of the time.

Thus, we begin Day 1 of the Dr. Oz Cleanse with my observations:

Breakfast
-Woke at pre-dawn Pacific Time to do radio interview Eastern Time. Breakfast drink was surprisingly delicious. Began to bemoan lack of caffeine by 8 a.m. Felt tired and never really recaptured mojo rest of day.

Lunch
-Nightmare. The celery/cuke/kale/green apple concoction looked and tasted like gazpacho vomit. I willed myself to gag it down, pretending I was on The Amazing Race and had to eat poo water to keep from being eliminated. Witness my melt down here, and anger at Dr. Oz:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fH2jGj3BO-s&feature=youtu.be

For my lunch break, I went to the gym and worked out (weights/shoulders/biceps, abs and elliptical for 35 minutes).

Dinner
-Dinner shake had a kick to it due to cayenne but was pretty good.

End of Day 1 Thoughts/Conclusions:

-I am hungry.

-I miss crunchy things.

-Though I drink copious amounts of water every day, I have tinkled much more than usual.

-We are a processed food nation. Even though I pat myself on the back about eating Kashi, protein bars and Morningstar burgers, they were made for me (and lots of others) by someone else. There is something very profound about knowing everything you're putting into your body is fresh, healthy, not processed.

-It also takes time: Gary spent roughly 15-20 minutes making each shake. Which is why we buy processed foods. Why don't we take more time to cook for ourselves, our families, our bodies?

-I am addicted to caffeine and sugar. Right now, I crave a pick-me-up, esp. some sugar. I want a cookie, some ice cream. I also realize that, as a writer, I'm a stress eater, and that stress eating (not listed above) typically results in me eating sugar, oftentimes spoonfuls of sugar. I will often fill a tablespoon with whipped cream and then dip it in granulated sugar (or powdered sugar, or brown sugar). Not snacking has made me conscious, even after one day, of what I tend to run to when I'm stressed.

A friend of mine has written that we need to be "conscious" with our food: She means that we tend to eat poorly when we're stressed, or tired, or not thinking (cookies/ice cream in front of the TV, for instance). She also believes that if you want something bad, you should have it. But that you should make it. That way, you know what has gone into. You appreciate it. You are more likely to eat less of it, because you're conscious of it.

More to come on Day 2.

Happy cleansing ... Or as Honey Boo-Boo might say to me: "You better hope your bootie-boo don't explode, Poodle!"

2013 Barbie Oscar Red Carpet: A Look Back

2013-02-24T16:04:00.002-08:00

Growing up, I was obsessed with books, movies and Barbies.

Not much has changed in four decades.

That trio always captured the most important artistic elements to me: Escapism, entertainment, beauty, and a way to make sense of the world.

As a child, I yearned for Barbies. I begged for them as birthday gifts and Christmas presents. But as an Ozarks boy coming of age in the 1960s and 1970s, I got BB guns, fishing poles, trains and GI Joes instead.

So, I turned to books and movies. I adored Cinderella. I loved Nancy Drew.

As I aged, I became enthralled with how the two overlapped: My favorite literary characters often became my favorite movie characters.

Scarlett O’Hara.

Bridget Jones.

Miranda Priestley.

Tracy Flick (Reese Witherspoon/”Election”)

As an author, I work hard to make my characters memorable. I preach to aspiring writers about the minute details that make literary characters so memorable – from dialogue to dress – be it my mother or Scarlett.

Or Barbie.

When I met my partner, Gary, we discovered that we had both been robbed in our rural childhoods. We both wanted Barbie. We both got Hot Wheels. So, the first purchase we made together as a couple was a Barbie. We marched into Target and spent hours perusing the many versions of Barbie that now existed. And yet we picked an old-school Barbie, the kind with big boobs and blonde hair and no quantifiable profession.

Over time, Gary and I began to buy more Barbies, and they became not only our makeshift posse when we traveled the US on book tours and lectures but also our alter egos.

We created Trailertrash Barbie as an homage to many of the redneck gals we knew growing up in rural America. We created Barbies after friends and fans, we created Barbies after relatives, we created Barbies from book characters.

We created bookish Barbies and beer-loving Barbies.

And, then one winter about four years ago, Gary and I were watching the Oscar Red Carpet, aka the gay Super Bowl. Suddenly, we just looked at each other without saying a word, knowing exactly what the other was thinking, sort of like twins do.

That day sparked our own annual Red Carpet tradition: We now style Barbies after the stars nominated for Oscars.

We’ve designed Meryl Barbies and Viola Davis Barbies. We’ve created Halle Berry Barbies, Reese Barbies, Bullock Barbies, J-Lo Barbies along with Joan Rivers Barbies and, of course, Lindsey Lohan Barbies (I mean, you just have to her crash the Carpet).

Our Barbie Red Carpet has grown more elaborate over the years: One of our best friends, a designer and doll insider, snags us the latest Barbie fashions. Stylists submit dresses to us. People from all over the US now beg us to do it.

Yes, it’s fun, but I’ve also learned playing with Barbies as an adult has made me an even better writer. I create memorable characters. I obsess over details. I have no fear about what people think. And I laugh, and hope that I am entertaining others, bringing some humor and light into their lives, even if for a few moments.

Books, movies and Barbies.

Not much has changed in four decades.

And I couldn’t be more thrilled. Because I’ve learned that trio still captures the most important artistic elements to me: Escapism, entertainment, beauty, and a way to make sense of the world.

For a chance to view this year’s Barbie Red Carpet – and win a signed Barbie (of course) by yours truly – please head to my Facebook fan page on Sunday, Februrary 24.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wade-Rouse/86031327538?ref=ts&fref=ts

My New Year's Wish for You!

2013-01-04T09:20:00.000-08:00

Gary and I are not big New Year's resolution guys.

We believe that -- no matter the day -- you can change your life for the better.

What that takes is courage, a belief in yourself, a fearless focus.

New Year's does have great significance in our lives, however. Eighteen years ago, on New Year's Day, Gary got sober. He changed his life for the better. Had he not done that, we would not have met. We would not share this amazing life. I, likely, may never have started writing.

We are all connected. And that ripple effect of positivity can only take place when we love and believe in ourselves. Gary's decision to change his life changed mine. He inspired me to write. "What are you waiting for?" he would ask. "Change your life today."

I hope, in some small way, that I have passed that message along to you, that my books have made you laugh, cry, think, consider, even perhaps, made you change your life for the better. I believe the best books are like mirrors: By holding one in front of your face, you're forced to take a good, long, hard look at yourself and see things you might otherwise not notice.

This year, my New Year's wish for you is simple: I wish only that you believe in yourself, that you love the unique person you are, that you vow to celebrate your individuality. This world doesn't need conformists. It needs you.

I preach to aspiring writers that it is their voice that will set them apart. I preach that there are only so many stories we can tell, but it is the way in which we tell them that makes them memorable. Embrace that unique voice. Embrace that unique you. Only then can you change your life, change others, change this world.

Happy 2013! May it be filled with laughter, love and you!

Dirty Little Secret

2012-06-23T07:30:00.000-07:00

Please take time to read this blog post from Gary Edwards : Dirty Little Secret
/http://grammygary.blogspot.com/

Burnin' Down the House

2012-04-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

My first night at home in Michigan -- after four months away -- was not supposed to unfold like this:

"Is the Lady of the House OK?"

Or this:

"The roof, the roof, the roof IS on fire!"

But then again, this is my life. Gary and I are magnets for drama: We endure more daily ordeals than the Hunger Games.

After four months in California, which included a robbery, a sick father and much drama, a week on the road doing events, and a weekend with my father who took us to an all-you-can-eat buffet I'm certain included fried Democrat and char-grilled liberal innards, Gary and I arrived home late last night with zero energy and exploding bladders (and SUV).

We both teared up (Dramatic much? YES!) as we pulled down our long driveway, stopping to admire the beautiful lilacs, unfurling ferns, full-on green. We ran around our yard, our woods and our gardens, Mabel sprinting beside us. We couldn't be happier to be home.

Then we started the nightmare of unpacking.

"Jesus! We're like the Joads!" I screamed, after a half hour, still hauling bags, and books, and luggage, and laptops, and artwork, and endless crap from our four months on the road.

"I don't know them," Gary yelled to me. "Are they like the new Kardashians? Oh, my God! I didn't establish an 'arrival experience' for us! We need mood lighting! We need a fire! We need cozy!"

What I needed was some Ativan and a bottle of Malbec.

But this is our routine.

Like life, we also have set rules for unpacking after a trip: I am the mule, Gary the organizer. I get it out; he puts it up. That's why I finance the gnomes that Gary places in our woods, that's why I buy the Henri Bendel firewood-scented candles that Gary lights in every room of our house.

Which is what I thought I was smelling as I hauled yet another load of random stuff (bags of Barbies, desert rocks, posters of my noggin) into the house. That's when I heard:

"CALL 911! CALL 911"

I was so exhausted, I thought I was dreaming.

"THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!"

I thought Gary was joking, so as I entered our knotty-pine cottage, I began to sing, and gyrate, "The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire ..."

"No, gurl! The roof IS on fire!" Gary screamed. "CALL 911!"

There, my partner stood, nude, mind you, because he likes to unpack naked as it gives him a feeling of "freshness and freedom," flames shooting from our ancient wood stove, sparks shooting out of the pipes, Gary's chestnuts literally being roasted.

I ran outside, dialing 911, and there I saw flames shooting out of our chimney. I hadn't seen any flame burn higher in my life, until Gary ran outside, still nude, running in circles, screaming in a high-pitched voice, "My McCoy pottery! My dishes! My house!"

The 911 operator instructed me to evacuate the house, and then asked if my wife needed medical assistance. Gary grabbed the phone, "My house is on fire! Hurry!" "We're doing everything we can, ma'am," the operator said. "You need to remain calm."

I watched my wife -- she with the dangling participle -- run back into the house. And then back out. And then back in.

"Put on some pants, lady," I instructed, holding Mabel.

And then we waited. And prayed. Our bungalow was all pine. All wood. Inside and out. One errant flame, and it would be gone in the blink of an eye. I loved this house. But I also knew -- after our recent robbery -- I had what mattered most in the world beside me: Gary and Mabel.

Suddenly, as if God heard our prayers, it began to rain. The sparks began to die down.

The firemen arrived, trucks screaming down our little, gravel drive.

They got on our roof. They tested our wood stove. They used a heat device to detect temperature. They said it had been very close. Very, very close.

I sighed. Gary cried. Mabel peed.

Lessons learned:

Clean your fireplace every year.

Firefighters are true heroes.

I love my family.

Wear some pants when you start a fire.

It's good to be home.

It's good to HAVE a home.

2012-04-10T09:23:00.000-07:00

http://chicklitcentraltheblog.blogspot.com/2012/04/go-to-gay-turning-fear-into-fierce.html

WAITING FOR MAGIC TO BLOOM

2012-03-27T13:31:00.002-07:00

For my gardening Gary, the month of March is the equivalent of being pregnant: There is a whole lot of waiting – coupled with occasional agony – until the big event occurs.

That big event, in this case, is spring. But the 31 days of March along The Beach Coast can often feel like nine months to him.

While I am no fan of February – the darkness, the short days – Gary is no fan of March. He studies the skies, he moves aside the snow and glares at the ground.

“Hurry up!” he often says.

The earth, unlike Gary, remains silent. And typically so does the entire month.

Patience is not one of Gary’s virtues. He is many things – generous, kind, funny, handsome, inspiring – but he is not patient. He is a human tornado, an Energy Bunny hidden in the body of a man.

Gary yells at the microwave.

He twiddles his thumbs at stoplights.

There is no internet service fast enough to satisfy him.

So to say that March along The Beach Coast can drive him to the point of being institutionalized would be a mammoth understatement.

And yet, since we moved to Turkey Run some five years ago, I have learned that each month, each season here is meant to teach us something.

I am not a gardener. I do not particularly enjoy getting my hands dirty, or sticking my fingers into the mud. It makes me gag.

Still, I appreciate the majesty of spring, the beauty of Gary’s gardens, the intricacies of each flower and plant. When his gardens are in full bloom, I pick a new arrangement every few days and place it on my writing desk.

Those flowers inspire me.

But, like a book – like anything inspired, really – I know they take patience to grow: The earth must come alive and be cultivated, the ground must be cleared and prepped, the tender buds nourished, before magic can bloom.

There was a March not too long ago when I walked down to find Gary staring out at a coal grey sky, while snow showers whipped about, his breath steaming the window.

He was tapping his foot. “Hurry up!” he was mumbling.

I brought him some hot tea – in one of his grandmother’s desert rose tea cups – and then went down into our basement and unearthed one of Gary’s favorite gardening stakes. It had been a gift from me, and featured a quote from Emerson, one of my inspirations.

“Read it,” I said, holding the stake in front of his face.

“Adopt the pace of nature: Her secret is patience.”

He looked at me and smiled.

A few seconds later, Gary was again tapping his foot, which forced me to wave the stake – OK, hit him on the side of the head with it – once again.

Yes, March requires patience.

But, then again, so does Gary.

(For more of Beach Coast columns, please visit www.thebeachcoast.com)

2nd Anual Barbie Oscar Red Carpet Walk

2012-02-27T16:05:00.002-08:00

The Oscars have now come and gone! So it is time for the Fashion Police to vote on best and worst dressed Barbie in our 2nd annual Barbie Oscar Red Carpet walk! Send in your vote on the comment section of the blog or on Facebook and get a chance to win a Barbie and signed book!
We will be letting people vote until Friday, March 2nd and then we will reveal the best and worst dressed Barbie, along with the winner of their very own Barbie and a autographed copy of one of Wade's Books!!

To view all of the pictures please got to the link below!

http://www.facebook.com/#!/media/set/?set=a.10150701256144948.460142.549704947&type=3

2012-02-25T19:54:00.000-08:00

Tips On Writing

2012-02-16T09:42:00.000-08:00

Wanna know how I started writing?
I made the horrific mistake at my rural middle school talent contest of singing Delta Dawn (while holding a faded rose, mind you) to a crowd that made the boys from Deliverance look like the Walton brothers. I was booed offstage.
I ran, stage left, directly at my mother and began to yell. “How could you let me humiliate myself like that?”
“You were only being true to yourself,” she said. “And no one should ever stand in the way of such honesty, or such fearlessness.”
She then presented me with a little, leather writing journal and a copy of Erma Bombeck’s “At Wit’s End” and said, “You will need both of these to make sense of your world.”
Writing– and humor – not only helped me make sense of the world but they saved my life.
I quickly learned, however, that writers – all artists really – aren’t ever really given the OK to write, or to create, no matter how much it means to their very existence. And, because of that, most artists start scared, defined not by inspiration but by fear.
Story time again.
Roughly eight years ago, I began writing my first memoir, America’s Boy. Check that: I
actually started it as a novel, as I was too afraid to tell my own story of growing up in the Ozarks. Luckily, I had a muse, an editor, a critic and a believer in the form of my partner, Gary. After reading what I had written, he said: “It sounds nothing like you.” I was crushed. But it was just what I needed to hear.
And so I started over, eventually visiting my family cabin and writing by long hand what would turn out to be the first chapter of America’s Boy while seated on a stoop with my feet in an Ozarks creek.
There was a point – finally, a point – as I sat with my feet in the creek when I was simply writing. Not thinking, writing. Writing as I had – before fear – when my mom gave me that writing journal.
And everything simply clicked. My voice, my humor, my tone, my narrative flowed from my soul. I wasn’t writing any longer. I was my writing. The transition from Wade the person to Wade the writer was seamless.
It came because I finally was able to overcome those fears that had shackled me my whole life:

What would people think?

Did I have the right to tell my story?

What if people hated what I wrote?

Am I good enough?

No one can make it as an author, right? What if I fail?

Who the hell do I think I am, calling myself “a writer”?

For a while, these fears paralyzed me again.
I made the decision – without Gary’s knowledge – to reach out to a number of authors I admired, whose work I loved. I wasn’t asking for a hand-out, or a connection, I was seeking the simplest of things: A response. A single line. “It’s gonna be OK, kid.” “You can do it, Wade.” They didn’t even have to mean it. I just needed to know that they had once been like me.
I just needed to know that it was OK to keep going.
That there was no “golden key to the kingdom.”
I got zero responses.
And, that’s when it hit me: Rather than be paralyzed by my fear, I decided to believe in my writing, I believed I could change the world.
I realized that all published writers were once unpublished writers.
I realized that writers are like babies taking their first steps: You have to do it by yourself, but it helps a whole lot to have someone helping you along the way.
I finished my memoir, I spent months editing it until I was moving around commas, and I did my homework. I spent months writing my query. I spent months researching agents. I spent months believing in myself, even though it seemed no one else – besides Gary and my mom – did.
One week after submitting 15 query letters to agents I admired, I had received seven offers to read my manuscript. Less than a week after that, I had three formal offers of representation.
I believe that if you have a unique voice, discernable talent, an incredible work ethic, amazing professionalism, skin of steel, a heart of equal parts stone, empathy and love, and a feeling that if you aren’t writing, you may just curl up and die – then you can make it as an author.
I believe that if you just want to write, without a goal of being published – to write a family history, to diary for yourself, to become a more powerful business writer – that you need a hearty, “YES! Good for you! Go for it!”
And that’s why I formed Wade’s Writers, and why I hold writing workshops. I am the guy who got no response and became a bestseller. I am the guy who decided if he ever had any level of success, he would attempt to help other emerging writers.
So here I am.
I can’t make you write. But I do think I can make you a better writer. More importantly, I can give you tools to succeed. I can give you inspiration and hope. I can help you crush those fears – in life and craft – that are holding you back.
If you want to write, I urge you to join me at one of my workshops or retreats. www.wadeswriters.com (Gary will be there to hold your hand, too!).
Remember, every published writer was an unpublished writer.
You just have to start.

The Go-To Gay....on Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T07:35:00.000-08:00

The Go-To Gay....on Valentine's Day

http://chicklitcentraltheblog.blogspot.com/2012/02/go-to-gayon-valentines-day.html

Wade Rouse was here back in November to share a "dude's" perspective on chick lit. We liked him so much (Amy was even lucky enough to meet him in person last year) that we invited him back again for a monthly column called "The Go-To Gay." After all, without gay guys, a lot of our chick lit heroines would be missing out on some awesome best friends! This month, Wade is
sharing why gay guys make the best dates for Valentine's Day.

The writings of bestselling humorist Wade Rouse – called “wise, witty and wicked” by
USA Today and the lovechild of Erma Bombeck and David Sedaris – have been
featured multiple times on NBC’s Today Show as well as on Chelsea
Lately on E! and People.com. His latest memoir, "It’s All Relative: 2 Families, 3 Dogs, 34 Holidays and 50 Boxes of Wine," just launched in paperback February 1st from Broadway, and he is creator and editor of the humorous dog anthology, "I’m
Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship: Hilarious, Heartwarming Tales about
Man’s Best from America’s Favorite Humorists" (NAL). The book features a
Foreword by Chelsea Handler’s dog, Chunk, essays by such beloved chick lit
authors as Jane Green, and 50 percent of the book’s net royalties go to the
Humane Society of the United States. For more, visit his website, or friend him on Facebook or Twitter.

"Valentine’s Gay"

My partner, Gary, and I keep two separate calendars, one work and one social. Our social calendar is filled with dates with our many “gurlfriends,” our besties who want to spend QT with us to try a new coffee spot, hip restaurant, or simply dish.

“We wish our husbands were more like you!” our gurls often lament sometime in the course of our date.

That got me thinking as we approach Valentine’s Day: Do gay boys (“GBs” in future references) make better dates? Would you rather spend a night with your husband or your gusband (gay husband)? Is our great date history myth or reality?

Let me lend some perspective: The first Valentine’s Day I celebrated with my partner, Gary, with whom I’ve now been with 16 years, I made the tragic error of turning to my married, straight fraternity brothers from college for romantic advice. I was recently out and very inexperienced with dating. “OK, dude, here’s the inside scoop,” one my best friends, who was recently married,
explained to me over beers. “I never buy my wife perfume, because it will conflict with her phermones, or something stupid like that. I never buy her clothes, because I’ll get her an 8, and she’ll be all, ‘What makes you think I wear an 8? Do you think I’m that big? Are you even attracted to me?’ So what I always do is take her to her favorite restaurant, like Applebee’s, and I always give her a sexy gift, like lingerie. In a small. She loves it. I love it. It’s a win-win. Just play it cool. Be quiet and mysterious.”

I left our brotherly beer bash totally confused, kind of like when I see a Coen Brothers movie.

Still, being new to the whole relationship game, I listened and made reservations to Gary’s favorite restaurant in the city. I wrapped Gary’s gift in shiny paper and dropped it off before our dinner so it could be “specially delivered.”

Despite all the planning, the evening unfolded awkwardly, like a cheap card table. Although the restaurant was romantic, I acted like Clint Eastwood all night. There were awkward pauses in the conversation, and none of the spark that accompanied our time together. Still, when the waiter brought over the dessert cart, with my gift, as instructed, already positioned in the middle of the tarts and brulees, Gary gasped.

I looked around the restaurant. People had stopped eating, and were staring, transfixed, women
nudging their husbands in that irritated manner which seemed to imply, “Thanks for the wrist corsage, you jackass. Leave it to the gays to always do it right!”

What amazing gift had this amazing man purchased for his sweetheart?

A ring?

An island getaway?

Suddenly, I felt this overwhelming pressure – like the emergency door on a plane had suddenly been thrown open mid-flight over the Atlantic.

Gary furiously untied my bow and unwrapped the tissue paper – dotted with hearts.

And then he pulled out a three-pack of Hane’s underwear.

“Hane’s?” Gary finally gasped, fuming, very loudly. “Hane’s Her Ways?! Are you kidding me? You got me … underwear?”

He yanked a sticker off the plastic bag. I had forgotten to remove the price tag.

“They’re boxer briefs,” I purred, trying to sound turned on. “In black. Your favorites. And
they’re very sexy.”

“Hanes ARE NOT SEXY!” he began yelling, standing up, knocking his chair over. “What this says to me is that you are the type of man who will buy me a vaccuum for Christmas, and a robe on my birthday. “You are not romantic!” Gary screamed, throwing his pack of underwear into my lap. “No, I take that back! You are not even … human! What happened to Wade?!”

And then he left. To a smattering of applause.

What had gone so wrong, despite, of course, the Hane’s horror, I fumed in my head as we drove silently home.

The next morning, I met one of my best girl friends for coffee and talked about our Valentine’s dinners, which had unfolded, eerily, the same.

“You know it’s not really about the gift, Wade,” she said to me.

“Really?”

“OK, it kinda is,” she laughed, “but it’s more than that, too. It’s about the date: The dinner, the conversation, the romance, the little things. My husband loves me, and I love him more than anything, but I don’t always get the emotional depth, honesty and resonance that you and Gary share. I don’t get the fun that you and I have when we go out. Just be yourself from now on.”

That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t being myself. I wasn’t being romantic. I was being a practical
romantic. I was acting like my dad, who often got my mother a trash compactor or dishwasher for her birthday or Christmas.

I don’t mean to stereotype men – gay or straight – but there are some commonalities that unite most straight males: They often don’t enjoy intimate conversations. They can be bad sharers. Some don’t love to dance, laugh, and compliment as much as the GBs. Most gay men, on the other hand, listen. Intently. We offer advice. We are romantic. We are fun. We compliment. And when we do, we mean it. Wear a great pair of heels, and we’ll notice. Trying a new lipstick color? We’ll gush.

Why? We pay attention. The reason is that we don’t take anything for granted. We celebrate life. Oftentimes, it’s because many of us went through difficult times in our lives: We were worried we might not make friends, or we were fearful our families might turn their backs on us. Most of us fought like heck to find partners with whom to share our lives. Thus, we give back to those who love us unconditionally – friends, family, partners – a torrent of spirit, a heaping dose of our unfiltered, unedited selves.I believe we do make better dates, if for any other reason than that we realize life is short and can often be very difficult, so we need to celebrate – in a big way – with those we love. For lack of a better phrase: Life is too rich to go cheap, to be all Hane’s.

So, ladies, pass this advice on to your men: Although the National Retail Federation estimates
that – even in a recession – the average man will spend over $135 on gifts for his sweetheart, tell your husbands to act a little more like your gusbands. Tell them it’s OK to be romantic, to celebrate you, to talk, and laugh. Tell them it’s OK to gush, to compliment, and to cherish your alone time together. If they do, congratulations. If they don’t, be honest.

Go ahead, of course, and enjoy your Valentine’s gifts. I mean, I went ahead and bought Gary a trip to the Caribbean to make up for my Hane’s hell. And then, the next day call your gusband for lunch and tell him how it went. And if you don’t have a gusband, email me or Gary, and we’ll share an e-date to remember.

A special Valentine's thanks to Chick Lit Central and Happy Valentine's Day To All!

Musical Pairs

2012-02-09T08:32:00.000-08:00

http://metrosource.com.s123317.gridserver.com/2011/12/29/musical-pairs/

Wade discovers that his life-long loveof musicals isn’t compatible with his partner’s aversion to them, but wonders if his tune can be changed. The first musical I remember watching was Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. My mother sat down with me and some Jiffy Pop, and — in a matter of moments — this chubby, gay little boy from the Ozarks was transported to a more magical world. It made me want to dance while raising a barn (though both tasks would have been relatively impossible considering I was, at the time, roughly shaped like a Rubik’s Cube).More than anything, Seven Brides — along with West Side Story, Funny Girl and Hello, Dolly! — taught me that it was okay to express myself creatively and that escaping into a fantasy world, where love and happiness were just a song and dance away, was a way to survive.Personally, however, I was not gifted in the song and dance department. God knows, I tried. But I realized it was not for me when I was cast in a production of The Pirates of Penzance (solely because they “needed boys”). I ended up giving a performance that even a kind critic might describe as a nightmarish attempt to simultaneously channel Johnny Depp, Johnny Cash and Johnny Weir. But even if I wasn’t meant to be in them, I never stopped adoring the magic of musicals.I was under the impression that most people felt a similar appreciation until college, when I held a showing of Yentl for my fraternity and was nearly blackballed. But I chalked that up to the tastes of straight men. However, when I met my partner Gary, I was excited to share my love of musicals with the love of my life; so I surprised him with tickets to see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. As we drove to the theater, Gary began to seem more and more visibly uncomfortable. Seconds before the show was about to start, Gary leaned over and confessed: “I hate musicals,” he whispered in my ear.I actually screamed.“Shh!” he said. “I just don’t understand why they have to sing everything. Why can’t they say it? It’s weird.”“It’s a fantasy!” I protested, standing for emphasis. But the show was starting; so I sat back down, stewing, wondering how the man I loved could feel this way. As I watched the show, I tried to see it from Gary’s point of view, actively asking myself, “Is this stupid?” But before long, the lights had come back up, and I was applauding wildly with the rest of the audience — still a confirmed musical theater junkie. I asked Gary if the show had changed his opinion. “I kinda nodded off,” he said. I briefly considered killing him — imagining myself acquitted by a judge (played by Alan Cumming) and a jury (of gang members from West Side Story). But, as I thought about it, I realized that Gary and I were both, in our own ways, hybrid gays. Gary hated musicals but he loved gardening and do-it-yourself home improvements. I liked musicals, but I also loved sports. Yes, it hurt that he couldn’t share something that I loved, but couples have survived worse. Flash forward to 2002, when the film version of Chicago, with Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renée Zellweger, was hitting theaters. One weekend afternoon, I walked into the kitchen and said, “I know you hate musicals, but I have to see Chicago. So I’ll be back in a few hours.”“Can I come with you?” Gary asked.“You can’t ruin this for me,” I said.“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”Nevertheless, I sat with my fists clenched through opening of the movie, tensely waiting for Gary to start rolling his eyes or snoring. But I noticed, as Catherine rocked “All That Jazz,” Gary’s foot began to tap. Next, he began snapping his fingers. Finally, a miracle occurred: jazz hands. Gary actually flashed jazz hands as the song climaxed.“I loved it!” he exclaimed, bouncing up and down as we left the theatre. Seeing an opening, I bought the soundtrack, and we played it endlessly. For the next step in Gary’s musical rehabilitation, I rented Moulin Rouge. It put Gary to sleep.“But it was brilliant!” I insisted.“It was weird,” he said. “And boring.” So it seems that — when it comes to musicals — Gary and I are, for the most part, destined not to see eye-to-eye. But at least we’ll always have Chicago. Wade Rouse

WADE & WINTER

2012-01-06T11:52:00.000-08:00

Some words just belong together.

Like peanut butter and jelly.

Or Captain and Tennille.

Wade and Winter, not so much.

We do not go together, to quote that song from Grease, like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

But I am learning.

I am not, by nature, “hardy.” I prefer to wear flip-flops instead of boots. I like tank tops more than sweaters. The only lake effect I enjoy is sand between my toes and a bronzy tan.

I grew up in the south and then lived in a city that had relatively mild winters.

As many of you know, I came unhinged my first winter along The Beach Coast. I yelled at the snow. I chastised the wind. I belittled blizzards.

It didn’t do any good. It still snowed. A lot. It was still cold. And, you know what, once I shut up, I realized winter here was not only quiet but also quite beautiful.

The hush of a world covered in snow.

A wonderland of white replacing the dead, brown earth.

The icy lake, the waves seemingly frozen in mid-air.

Red cardinals sitting atop icy branches, deer leaping over snow banks, snowball fights, cross-country skiing, long walks in our winter woods.

More than anything, I found great comfort and inspiration in the quiet and isolation.

There is a beauty, I learned, in this seasonal slowdown, if you can just learn to slow down yourself.

It took me a spell, but I finally did.

And when that happened, I found a calm in waking early in my winter world, relishing the quiet I once only dreamed I might have, making coffee and padding in thick socks up to my writing studio overlooking snowy woods, a virtual winter wonderland, a writer’s paradise.

Once I got the rhythm of winter, I could appreciate the glory of the snow as it piled up on the branches of the sugar maple just outside my window. My lunch breaks were walks in the woods with my dogs. I wrote until the sun set. I did the same thing the next day and the next.

By the time spring arrived my first winter here, I had nearly finished a book.

Winter had not only granted me peace and quiet but also a bonus gift of additional free time that I could now spend outside.

Don’t get me wrong: I still love spring, summer and fall more than winter. Gary and I still leave in the dead of winter and head to California for warmer climes (though more and more of that is now work-related and –required), but I have learned to be at peace with winter along The Beach Coast. Winter is like that family member that can drive you crazy, challenge you, get under your skin. He or she can be totally annoying, but is the person you secretly kinda like, the one you end up understanding, and respecting, after a long period of time.

And that, I’ve come to realize, is a great gift.

Winter and I may never be as close as M&M’s, but we’ve earned one another’s respect, and when we play nicely together, we make a pretty good team.

One Day

2011-11-17T10:22:00.000-08:00

It's a Gary blog day, and, yes, I know I need to create my own blog page. As you can see something is up with my face. It is one of those things, those vices, addictions, habits, escapes! We all have them, we all work on some of them, and others we choice to ignore. I have worked on my vices and addictions over the years. I no longer smoke that random cigarette in a bar. I am a recovering alcoholic and have now stopped drinking for over 16 years. So why can't I have something??

It's funny, if you smoke people will tell you that it is bad and you will get cancer. So many smokers say yes, I know, I will stop someday. Wade's Mom said that many a time and we watched her pass away with lung cancer from smoking.

I am sure we have all been lectured about something we over do. It is so easy to ignore and think that will never happen to me. Well for years I was a sun worshipper. I have olive skin and in my 20's and 30's my idea of sunscreen was a 4 spf and maybe a 6spf if I had been out all day. At the peak of my addiction to alcohol and clubbing I would go to 2 different tanning beds a day. One during my lunch hour and one after work. People would say you are going to get skin cancer, you are too tan! I listened to none of it and loved my golden brown skin. I guess then at 25, 45 seemed a lifetime away.

This past summer I had 4 red spots on my torso seem to get super aggravated. Wade had asked me several times to get them checked, but they had been treated before by the doctor and I thought they would get better. So a book tour later and super busy schedule July ran into November and I noticed they are still there. As a matter a fact these red spots are staring right at me! Finally I made the appointment and went into the dermatologist. I opened up my shirt to reveal my sun spots and before I could even point them out, the doctor said "I am sorry that is cancer". I kept explaining that I now use a spf 30 and I wear a hat and now sit under the umbrella. But she told me again just to really drive it home "It's cancer lets find out what kind." They screened my body with all sorts of lights and gadgets. Then they took Biopsies of each spot and explained that they would have the results in a week. Now the doctor wanted to look at my face! I thought well that is fine I know. I moisturize and always wear a hat when I go to the beach. As she scanned my face with a bright light like I was a piece of paper on a copying machine, I started to panic. What if there is more, what if they have to cut on my face. After a lengthy exam, the doctor explained that I had severe skin damage, likely from my earlier years and wanted to be sure that the irregular cells didn't get the chance to turn into skin cancer. She prescribed Carac Chemo Cream and I have to use it every day for one month. I was shocked but also ok with that because I knew it would prevent any future damage. I was told that the cream only targets irregular cells and they would turn red, crusty and peel or fade away. What I didn't expect was that on Day 8 of using the cream that over 40 percent of my face has sun damage.That was such a shock! Also, on day 8, I received a call from the doctor letting me know that the 4 spots that she took the biopsy from were superficial Basal Cell Cancer. The good news was if you are going to get skin cancer that is the easiest and quickest to treat. The other good news is that it was superficial and I do not have to have anything removed. I am able to use the chemo cream for 6 weeks and they will be gone!

I have searched on the web about skin cancer and also about Carac Cream. Many people said they didn't leave the house or explained to people they had a chemical peel. I am so, not that guy. I truly think that we are as sick as our secrets. I am always proud to talk about my alcohol addiction and recovery, because it is a part of me. I wanted to share what is going on with me today, because I am the lucky one. I am the one who is fixable.

I look back and think about Wade's Mom and I sure when people talked to her about smoking, she ignored the facts and swept it under the carpet. It was her vice, her addiction. I know she was shocked that it caught up with her.

I wanted to share my picture, to show that my years of sun abuse caught up with me. Mine is so visible it is on the outside there for all to see. So please use suncreen so you don't have to go down this road. I would hope that if someone showed me a picture of a 40 year old with a peeling face from past sun damage that I would maybe stop and think.

I also hope you stop and think about your vice, your addiction and think about what it is doing to you on the inside. Things you can't see, things you can ignore. I hope you all think about letting go and being the healthiest you, you can be. This had really got me thinking about the rest of my vices. I have one more to conquer and that is diet soda. We no longer have any in the house. Day 1 step 1 toward a healthier life.

So take time to center, stay center and stay away from our unhealthy crutches. I hope your glass always stays half full! When we notice that it is half empty, that is when we try to escape and look for our vice. Take time for yourself and think of those around you who love and need you! It is never too late to stop and change a bad habit, so make today the day.

I am now entering week 3 with the Carac Chemo Cream and it is supposed to be the worst. After that I will be in the home stretch! So for the next few weeks, I will be out at events with Wade as the poster child for sunscreen. The doctor has promised that my face will be smooth and pretty again! So until them I will just shine as much as I can from the inside!!

I'M A 2011 GOODREADS CHOICE NOMINEE! VOTE NOW!

2011-11-03T07:05:00.000-07:00

I spit my latte this morning when I learned from my publisher that IT'S ALL RELATIVE: 2 FAMILIES, 3 DOGS, 34 HOLIDAYS & 50 BOXES OF WINE has been nominated by YOU, the fans and Goodreads members, as a 2011 Choice Awards nominee in "Humor." And I need your support!

Please go to the link below and vote for IT'S ALL RELATIVE (and, if you're not a Goodreads member already, it only takes a few seconds to register and vote). The Opening Round of voting goes through Nov. 13!

I'm up against some powerhouse authors and legendary funny folks, including Betty White, Albert Brooks, Chelsea Handler, Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon, so I am truly honored ... but I think you can see why mama needs to mobilize her rabid voting base.

All nominees were selected by the readers, i.e., YOU!, and nominations are based on book's total number of ratings and average rating as pegged by 6 million Goodreads members. So a nomination is truly an honor because it comes from readers! This year, Goodeads analyzed statistics from the 87 million books added, rated and reviewed on the site this year. Only a total of 15 books in 22 categories, for a total of 330 books, were nominated. THANK YOU!

GO HERE NOW TO VOTE! AND PLEASE TELL YOUR FRIENDS ON FB, TWITTER, YOUR BLOGS!

http://www.goodreads.com/award/choice/2011#55898-Best-Humor

You will have three chances to vote:

Opening Round: October 31 – November 13, 2011

Voting open to official nominees and write-in votes.

Semifinals: November 14 – November 20, 2011

We add the top 5 write-ins as official nominees. Additional write-ins no longer accepted.

Finals: November 21 – November 30, 2011

The field narrows to the top 10 books in each category

In advance, thanks for your support! (I'd say it's an honor just to be nominated, but we all know that's just BS!)

xx,

Wade

Halloween: Ubangi in the Ozarks

2011-10-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

Halloween: Ubangi in the Ozarks

There used to be a girl near my brother’s age in school who dressed as a cowgirl every single year for Halloween. She wore boots, a brown suede skirt with country stitching, a denim shirt, a cowprint vest, cowboy hat, and she carried a lasso.
After a few years, the costume began to look worn, yellowed, dirty, and by the time we reached middle school, the girl had developed a paunch and a slight moustache.
Being a cute little cowgirl just didn’t work anymore, especially since she looked like Hitler.

Worst of all, a few mothers in town would whisper viciously about the cowgirl’s mother.What kind of mother would send her daughter to school in the same old costume every year? was pretty much the running theme. Any good mother worth her salt made her child’s Halloween costume in the 1960s and 1970s. A great mother, in fact, knew the endless possibilities that an old bedsheet, empty egg cartons, wire hangers and her make-up could provide.

In small town America, the pressure to achieve Halloween perfection was even more intense, because everyone trick-or-treated at everyone’s house, so everyone knew which mothers could sew and, as a result, deeply loved their children, and which neglectful moms covered their kids’ left eyes in duct tape, called them pirates and sent them out with a steak knife.

Halloween presented an ethical dilemna for my mother, an educated woman who worked full time, watched the evening news and had the gall to question what she read in the paper. My mom was a nurse. She stitched people’s wounds. She didn’t hem.

While she enjoyed Halloween, I think she felt it was frivolous, wasn’t as important, say, as saving a life. Now, I always had nice costumes, considering my grandmothers were both accomplished seamstresses – I made an adorable little greenbean as a baby and a passable vampire – but my costumes always lacked a certain Ozarkian je ne sais quoi. Which is perhaps why I yanked on my mother’s blood stained scrubs one fall evening when she got home from work and begged, “You have to make my costume this year!” I think I knew she needed the challenge, and that I needed to take more of a risk.Now, I was certainly a boy with a high sense of drama. I mean, I gasped when a classmate mis-conjugated a verb. But I also felt like – for a boy with a tendency to wear too many ascots and starched pink oxfords – it was my responsibility not to stand out too much in a part of the world whose people, food and houses tended to be a bit too grey for me.

I guess I finally yearned for a costume that was me, a costume that would stun the crowd as I marched around the school gymnasium in our annual Halloween parade.
I wanted Wow! My mother seemed to sense this, and she thought long and hard about what to make for me. And then one evening, I walked into our den to find her lying on our chic, black-and-white plaid ottoman perusing the latest issue of National Geographic, a subscription to which she had received as a Christmas gift the previous year. Once my mother discovered she could learn about Venice and Machu Picchu, or read about Hindus and vineyards in France, she turned her back forever on Better Homes and Gardens. “Come here,” she said, wagging a nail.

She held open the magazine to display a shocking spread of frolicking nude black men and announced, “This is your costume. You will go as a Ubangi tribesman.”

I stared at the photo of a naked, sinewy black man with a schlong the size of our Oster blender and felt a twinge down south, in a place where I’d never felt such a twinge.My mother smiled. Even as a child, I knew her motives: Not only would she be able to show off her caretaking skills by making me a costume that would be the envy for years to come but she could also educate our local community about the world at large.

Although the sensible part of me screamed, Danger!, the dramatic part of me was fascinated with this option, knowing no other Ozarks child in his right mind would dress as a Ubangi tribesman for Halloween – much less even think of such an idea.
Based on the photo my mother showed me, I did, however, outline a few immediate costume demands of her: I would not, under any circumstance, go completely topless, considering I had ample boy-breasts instead of chiseled pecs; I would not stretch my bottom lip with one of my mom’s ashtrays; and, considering my love of candy, I had to carry a pillow case to haul my loot instead of the tiny, plastic skull she had originally suggested.

My mother and I spent the next few days scouring local stores for traditional Ubangi clothing, but it came as little surprise that there weren’t many places to find standard tribal wear in rural America, though cowboy boots and tube socks seemed more than plentiful. So my mother scoured her closet, where she found – in the back, tags still on – her inspiration: A Wilma Flintstone-esque dress she had purchased but obviously never worn.

I watched my mother pull out that dress and stare admiringly at it, giggling, remembering something long ago, almost as if she had once expected to receive an invitation to a Kwanzaa party that never arrived.

The dress’ pattern was more caveman than tribesman, but it featured a stretchy fabric that fit me surprisingly well, and it showed off my maturing curves. It also had an ample dart to hold my bosom.

My mother spent days perfecting my costume. She altered the dress, which was much too long, shortening the hem, cutting it above the knee on a bias, and then removing the left shoulder strap, before cutting the top at a diagonal, so that just a hint of my large brown nipple showed.

Days later, my mother received a delivery, and, much to my surprise, had somehow managed to locate – and I do not know to this day how or from where – a rubber Ubangi mask – a partial mask, to be accurate – which fit snugly over the top of my head, over my ears, and then around my jaw, encasing the bottom of my face. When I tried on the mask, it transformed my Anglo face into that of a Ubangi warrior. I now sported an Afro, a ridged forehead, overdeveloped jaw, gigantic, dangling earlobes and a Frisbee-sized lower lip that looked as if it had been stretched with a dinner plate.

My mother gave me a pair of her old black sandals, to which she fastened dog biscuits on the tops to mimic bones. Another biscuit was intricately secured (read: glued) into my nostrils, giving me the look more of a girl with a deviated septum than that of a tribesman who was to be admired for his prowess in hunting and bedding women.

My face and body were shoe-polished black.

A rubber spear was secured to the end of our fireplace poker.

I wore my mother’s wood and chain bracelets, as well as a necklace with yet another dog biscuit tied to it.

And I carried a pillow case.

It was so … not right.

So … not politically correct.

“You look just like the photo in National Geographic!” my mother gasped when she was finished, holding me at arm’s length in her bedroom. “Say Oow-wa-boo-ga! Say it!”
And then I caught the first full glimpse of myself – that initial moment when, as a child, you are supposed to be breathless with anticipation to see yourself as a creature, or a hero, as somebody magical for one day – replaced by, well, horror.
I looked like I was ready to attend a Klan meeting.

I leaned closer into the mirror over my mother’s vanity, a bright row of naked makeup lights illuminating my transformation, and, upon closer inspection, I instead decided I looked like a midget with a fetish for Afro-centric attire.

Think Billy Barty does Pam Grier.

When I scurried down our brown shag stairs to show my father, he popped open a beer, unwrapped a mini Hershey bar sitting in the giant bowl of candy we had waiting for trick-or-treaters, and shook his head.

“Honey, why don’t you grab the camera?” my mother asked my father, following me around, picking my ’fro.

“Why don’t we pass on pictures this year?” my dad said, returning to the local paper. “The boy will thank us one day.”

That moment was, looking back, a noble gesture on my father’s part, on par with dragging my lifeless body from a frozen pond, or giving me one of his kidneys.

I went to the Halloween parade filled with a combination of horror and excitement, and was immediately bombarded with the types of questions that only kids can ask.
“Are you George … or Weezie … Jefferson?”

“Are you one of the Jackson Five?”

“Are you Dionne Warwick?”

I’m carrying a spear, have a lip the size of a toboggan, and have a bone implanted in my nose, I wanted to scream, but I knew they just saw chubby Wade in black body paint, a dress and lots of jewelry. I was also showing a hint of tit. And carrying a pillow case.

We, thankfully, didn’t have any African-American kids in our school, or I would have gotten beat down.

I marched around the playground, where a neighbor’s dog ate the bones off my sandals, and then around the gym, where each grade marched in front of the crowd, one class at a time.

When it was my class’ turn, I stood at the back of the line, and waited until the very last minute, stopping cold, separating myself from my costumed competitors, turning toward the faculty judges who were sitting at the top of the bleachers and began to scream the lines my mother had helped me rehearse:

“Hello, Americans! Do not be frightened! I am a Ubangi tribesman. The Sudan is my homeland. My giant earlobes and lip are a symbol of beauty in my country. Do you have questions about me or my homeland?”

Imagine crickets chirping, followed by mass hysteria.

I sprinted to rejoin my class, humiliated, hiking up my dress to cover my exposed breast. While waiting for the winners to be announced, I mainlined Snickers to bury my pain, discovering it was difficult to eat anything – much less tiny chocolate bars – with a lip the size of a flying saucer.

I had already given up hope of winning anything, considering the reaction I had gotten from my peers, until I heard, “Ummm … the tribal bride … umm … tribesman … second place … nice job.”

I gasped.

You could sense that the faculty judges were searching for words. But you could also sense that they felt compelled to give me some sort of public acknowledgement for taking a risk, for trying to educate the masses. But mostly it was a sympathy vote, as my elders wisely realized I would probably be candy-jacked and gang raped later in the evening by a group of older boys who were confused but enticed by my costume.

I don’t even remember what I won.

All I know is that it felt great to be a winner.

And I know my mom felt the same: She not only proved her mothering skills to the our town but also showcased her vast knowledge of foreign affairs and her quest for racial harmony.

Still, the next year when my mom pulled out her National Geographic ready to top her previous year’s costume, I told her Thanks, but no thanks.

I was still being called Weezie by a few classmates.

I couldn’t take that chance.

“You always need to take a chance in life,” my mom told me, nodding her head sadly. “You have to think beyond the walls that confine you, Wade; use all your imagination. That’s why God gave it to you.”

But I couldn’t.

So I played it safe.

I went as a vampire.

And didn’t win a thing.

For a very long time.

http://www.waderouse.com/content/buy.asp

Silly Dog Photo Contest- Bad to the Bone!!!

2011-08-24T12:16:00.000-07:00

Photo Contest!!!! Send in your super funny dog pictures to gary@waderouse.com and he will post them on my Facebook Fan Page! Friend me on Facebook and also become a fan on my FB Fan Page too!! Wade Rouse

http://http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150267492852539.323875.86031327538&saved#!/media/set/?set=a.10150267492852539.323875.86031327538&type=1

We will pick a winner this Friday and they will get a signed copy of "I'm Not The Biggest Bitch In This Relationship"

http://www.amazon.com/Not-Biggest-Bitch-This-Relationship/dp/0451234588/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1

Home Wrecker Barbie

2011-06-23T08:51:00.000-07:00

It's Gary and I have added a new Barbie to our collection.

Home Wrecker Barbie!

She is the kind of Girl all women hate. She really wants to have girlfriends for the sole reason to steal their men. Women are always amazed that their husbands have to check her out. The wives see a bad dye job, fake boobs and a trashy dress from TJ Maxx and the men see a sweet smile, no brain and a nice rack.

This Barbie works for Today's Temporaries and is always on the look out for fresh meat! She is the kinda girl who makes out with the boss at the Christmas Party with hopes of getting a raise and a new Pandora Bracelet. Both her handbag and boobs are fake and she is always looking to go bigger with both.

So ladies keep your man close because this Barbie is on the prowl. She acts sweet but remember she thinks Washington is just a street and chlamydia is a flower.

XO,

Gary

ME & MICHIGAN PUBLIC RADIO!

2011-05-29T06:59:00.000-07:00

I am thrilled to announce that I've been asked to be a regular contributor to Michigan Radio, the nation's 8th-largest public radio station. I will be contributing essays from my latest memoir, It's All Relative, which coincide with our holidays, in addition to special segments such as MPR's "Life Before Technology" summer series (my essay, entitled "Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto," will kick off the series; air date TBD).

My first essay for Michigan Radio -- excerpted from It's All Relative -- aired Memorial Day weekend, and was a powerful and heart-tugging remembrance of Memorial Days past and present. I truly hope you enjoy, and share, this story, and all of my holiday pieces, and that -- if they call to you -- you share them with your own, local NPR stations, too. The reaction to my Memorial Day essay has, to date, been humbling and overwhelming.

Here is the link to the story on MPR:

http://www.michiganradio.org/post/author-wade-rouse-remembers-memorial-day

To say I am thrilled to be part of Michigan Radio -- and a small part of NPR -- on a regular basis would be the equivalent of saying, "I kinda like lip shimmer." These pieces not only showcase my combo of humor and poignancy but also my work on a larger basis. (And I always like to think I have a great reading voice, like Morgan Freeman ... but I think that's my med's talkin').

An author is constantly asked to build his or her "platform," meaning getting exposure for your work, yourself, your brand. That's where a writer often finds himself at a disadvantage to celebrities or politicians who write (Tori Spelling, Chelsea, Sarah Palin), because we don't have the exposure they do, and, as a result, our sales lag behind them, though we are often expected to achieve similar levels.

This is a huge step in that direction, and I give huge thanks to Jenn White (host of MPR's "All Things Considered") and Zoe Clark (a producer and host at MPR), for giving me the chance.

My essays will be appearing on www.michigan.radio.org in the coming months. For those in the Mitten, you can listen to 91.7 FM in Detroit/Ann Arbor, 91.1 FM in Flint, and 104.1 FM in West Michigan. Everyone can listen online at michiganradio.org ... and, again, you can share my essays with your local NPR stations and tell them you want Wade. (And, really, who doesn't?)

Happy Memorial Day!

Mother’s Day: The Priveleged Few

2011-05-08T09:09:00.000-07:00

My Grandma Shipman used to install 20-foot inflatable reindeer on her roof, wrap our gifts in velvet bows, and bake and hand decorate hundreds of Santa Claus cookies, whipping and dying the icing so that Santa’s coat looked red and velveteen, his beard white as snow, his eyes glistening from just that little extra coating of sugar.

Birthdays meant homemade cakes with mile-high frosting and colorful balloons filling the kitchen; Halloween meant carving pumpkins and laughing at witches that had flown directly into my grandma’s lightpole outside her home.

But when my grandmother became ill, and her health slowly and methodically began to decline, our holidays became more minimalistic.

It was too difficult for me to see my grandmother as some sort of ghost of Christmas past, so I began to stay away more and more during the holidays while she lived in a nursing home. What I missed during this absense, I would later discover, was the fact that my mom had taken on my grandma’s role. In fact, my mother spent inordinate amounts of time in my grandma’s nursing home room recreating those cherished holidays for her: She lavishly decorated her tree, she helped my grandma carve a pumpkin, and she walked into her room – ignoring all codes and regulations – with sparklers ablaze on the 4th of July.

One spring evening, after I had not visited home in a particularly long time, my mother called and said, simply but directly, “I think it’s time you visited your grandmother in the nursing home. I expect to see you here on Mother’s Day.”

“But …” I started.

“No ‘but’s,’” my mom said.

“But, she’s not my mother, mother.”

And then my mom hung up on me.

I cussed my entire five-hour drive home, lamenting a lost weekend.

As a young man, I had so many better things to do than visit my grandmother in a nursing home. I had more important things to think about, other things to occupy my time and mind than the very real fact that my grandmother was dying and that youth was fleeting and that, sooner, or later, this would eventually be my fate.

When I returned home that Mother’s Day, I walked in to find my mother a changed woman.

She seemed harder, tougher, but more resilient. She didn’t gush over my return, like usual. She said, very directly, “It’s about time.”

That Sunday, my mother and I went to visit my grandmother on Mother’s Day, bringing her a vase of hand-picked peonies from her garden, a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a stack of elaborately wrapped gifts – ones that looked as if they might be photographed for a style magazine – hauling them into the very nice nursing home and past a few patients, some of whom sat motionless, wheelchair-bound, in the throes of dementia.

As we made our way past, a couple of the patients began to wail and flail, just like babies, unable to convey their emotions that visitors had come to call.

When I passed an ancient woman with a shock of white hair who was eating her lunch off the tray of her wheelchair, she suddenly stuck an arthritic hand into her compartment of corn and tossed a handful of kernels at me and said, in a disturbingly matter-of-fact way, “Well, look who the dog dragged in. If it ain’t Sonny, home from the war.”

And, just as quickly, she began screaming.

And crying.

Yelling, “Sonny, my baby!”

She was coughing up corn and ghosts from deep within her body.

I crumpled against my mother, and we made our way to my grandma’s room, which was marked simply and sweetly – like a kindergarten teacher might designate her room on the opening day of school – with only her first name – “Viola” – drawn in purple Crayon, just like her floral namesake.

“I’ll go in first,” my mom said, taking all the presents. “I want to prepare her. It’ll be easier this way, OK?”

There was something about the word “prepare” – prepare my grandma for what, I thought – that made me highly uncomfortable, made my teeth begin to chatter, which I tried to blame on the chill in the nursing home.

I waited outside the door a minute or two, until my curiosity got the best of me, and then I peeked my head around the frame, and saw not my grandma, but a nearly unrecognizable version of her – bloated, pale, a mass of white, brushed-out perm’ed hair, no make-up, no dentures.

My mother was hugging a ghost.

I retreated, standing flat against the blandly cheery wallpaper in the hallway. I tried to grip something to keep myself from falling, and finally managed to grab the safety bar that served as the home’s functional dsaachair rail before I slid all the way to the linoleum floor.

I shut my eyes, to stop the spinning, and tried to remember my grandmother as she had been.

My grandma’s sole dream in life was to be a mother and a grandmother. Happiness pulsed from her body, joy radiated from her soul, when she engaged in the simplest of daily pleasures, the ones that made her family smile: Frosting a towering, three-layer cherry chip cake; making homemade pie crusts; pulling sugar cookies out of her oven; giving hugs; decorating for the holidays; simply listening to her family tell the tales of their lives.

My grandma was a simple woman, and – as I grew older and more bitter about my course in life, the fact I was gay, the belief I might never find happiness – I equated her simpleness with naivete.

That was a mistake.

And when I longed to tell her the story of my life – to have her sit and listen to me around her Formica dining room table like she did when I was young – it was too late.

“Wade?” I heard my mother say. “Wade, do you want to come in?”

I stood, rounded the corner, and my grandma looked at me, rather blankly, like a babysitter might look at a child they once cared for, with vague familiarity but no emotional ties.

“Mom? It’s Wade? It’s James Wade. Remember?”

I approached her bed gingerly – as if I were walking around landmines – and she looked at me, trying to fit the pieces together somewhere in her head, and when she did, she began to bawl, to caress my face like it was a baby rabbit, as if I were the most tender and precious and beautiful thing she had ever seen.

And then she started screaming.

Always an emotional woman, my grandmother’s illness had made her even more emotionally vulnerable, and my mother told me she would now start crying without reason at any minute of the day, unable to put into words her feelings of loss or fear or happiness.

I took a seat in one of those nursing home chairs that looks inviting but is not comfortable, that beg you to sit but not stay, and listened to the roar of the TV infomercial my grandma had going.

My grandmother never watched TV.

I stared out the window, and watched it rain, watched the wrens collect at the little feeder my mother had hung just outside of her window. My grandma’s world was now this window.

My mom clicked off the TV, silencing the incessant noise and bringing blissful quiet to the room. A sense of calm seemed to envelope not only me but also my grandmother.

And then, out of the blue, my grandma began pointing at pictures on her wall and nightstand, at a photo of her husband, her daughters, her grandchildren, of those who had died before her, or those who rarely came to visit, and my mom would give one to her, and she’d hold it closely, hugging the picture like it was the person, closing her eyes and remembering something from long ago.

My grandma would look at my mom, struggling to lift her hand to her mouth, and then point at the picture she was holding. She was asking my mom to speak for her. We sat for hours that Mother’s Day, my mom telling stories of our family, for my grandmother, and, then, at the very end, my grandma pointed at me and then at a picture of me she had beside her bed, one of me when I was very little, dressed in a tiny bow tie.

“My baby!” she moaned, managing to find words – from somewhere deep inside – words which I thought she had lost long ago. “My baby Wade!”

And then it was me who began to cry, to bawl, my false bravado shattering, my gasps causing the wrens at the window to stop eating and take notice of the commotion.

My grandma lifted her fists and dabbed at my face, wiping tears, and then put her hands to her mouth, asking me to talk.

I scooched my chair up to her bed and held her hands, and it was then I knew that she knew me, truly knew me, because she just stared at me, smiling, like a baby at its mom, watching my every move, listening intently to my every word, like she did when I was young and we sat at her little kitchen table.

So I sat for an hour and finally told my grandmother about my life.

When we left her that day, I asked my mom on the ride home, “How do you do it? How can you do it? Every day? It’s such an obligation.”

“The question is,” my mom answered, “‘How can I not do it?’”

Her voice got a little shaky, and she said, “Do you know I visit nearly every person there? Their families and friends no longer come, because everyone is too busy to be bothered. Your grandmother spent her whole life sacrificing for me, so I could be the first to go to college, the first to have a career, so I could have an easier life than she ever had.”

And then my mom slowed the car, her hands trembling on the wheel.

“And it’s not an obligation, Wade. It’s a privelege.”

There was an awkward moment of silence. I looked down at the speedometer and noticed my mom was driving 20 mph. Joggers were passing us.

And then my mom, the lifelong nurse who retired and became a hospice nurse, said, “When parents and grandparents age and become infirmed, families no longer want to deal with it. They visit in the beginning, out of guilt, and then it becomes a hassle, something they have to do between soccer lessons and work. People see these as ‘the bad years,’ but this is simply our time to take care of our elders, just like my mother cared for me when I was a baby. Those weren’t such great years for her, I’m sure. She struggled to put food on the table. And I certainly couldn’t talk. I could only tell her what I was thinking or feeling through my emotions. This is the same thing. She is the baby now. And I am the mother. It is my time to care for her, let her pass onto God with dignity and love, let her know during every single moment I spend with her these final days that it has been my privelege to be her daughter.”

It would be the last Mother’s Day of my grandmother’s life.

And, as I learned that day, it was my privilege – not obligation – to spend it with her.

Why are you waitng to write?

2011-04-18T15:12:00.000-07:00

Let me cut to the chase: All published writers were once unpublished writers.

Writers are like babies taking their first steps: You have to do it by yourself, but it helps a whole lot to have someone helping you along the way.

Roughly eight years ago, I began writing my first memoir, America’s Boy. Check that: I actually started it as a novel, as I was too afraid to tell my own story of growing up gay in the Ozarks.

Luckily, I had a muse, an editor, a critic and a believer in the form of my partner, Gary. After reading what I had written, he said: “It sounds nothing like you.” I was crushed. But it was just what I needed to hear.

And so I started over, eventually visiting my family cabin and writing by long hand what would turn out to be the first chapter of America’s Boy while seated on a stoop with my feet in an Ozarks creek.

There was a point – finally, a point – as I sat with my feet in the creek when I was simply writing. Not thinking, writing. Writing as if my life – every breath – depended on it.

And everything simply clicked. My voice, my humor, my tone, my narrative flowed from my soul. I wasn’t writing any longer. I was my writing. The transition from Wade the person to Wade the writer was seamless.

It came because I finally was able to overcome those fears that had shackled me my whole life. I lived my life with shame: I was gay. I was scared. I was overweight. I was wrong. I was bad.And though I wanted to write – and did write – my whole life, questions haunted me like ghosts:

What would people think?

What would my family think?

Did I have the right to tell my story?

What if people hated it? Me?

No one can make it as an author, right? What if I fail?

Am I good enough?

Who the hell do I think I am, calling myself “a writer”?

For a while, this fear paralyzed me again.

I made the decision – without Gary’s knowledge – reach out to a number of authors I admired, whose work I loved. I wasn’t asking for a hand-out, or a connection, I was seeking the simplest of things: A response. A single line. “It’s gonna be OK, kid.” “You can do it, Wade.”

They didn’t even have to mean it. I just needed to know that they had once been like me. Unpublished.

I just needed to know that it was OK to keep going.

That there was no “secret, golden key to the kingdom.”

I got zero responses.

And, that’s when I had my second epiphany. Rather than be paralyzed by my fear, I thought – and this is so not literary – “Screw ‘em!” I believed in my dream, I believed in my writing, I believed I could change the world.

I finished my memoir, I spent months editing it until I was moving around commas, and I did my homework. I spent months writing my query. I spent months researching agents. I spent months believing in myself, even though it seemed no one else – besides Gary and my mom – did.

One week after submitting 15 query letters to agents I admired, I had received seven offers to read my manuscript. Less than a week after that, I had three formal offers of representation.

I believe that if you have a unique voice, discernable talent, an incredible work ethic, amazing professionalism, skin of steel, a heart of equal parts stone, empathy and love, and a feeling that if you aren’t writing, you may just curl up and die – then you can make it as an author.

And that’s why I formed Wade’s Writers, and why I hold writing workshops. I am the guy who got no response, and I decided if I ever had any level of success, I would attempt to help other emerging writers.

I can’t make you write. But I do think I can make you a better writer. More importantly, I can give you tools to succeed. I can give you inspiration and hope. I can help you crush those fears – in life and craft – that are holding you back.

And if we can do it over wine, and in the one of the most inspirational, picturesque settings in America, even better.

If you haven’t looked into my May 12-15 workshop in Saugatuck, Michigan, I urge you to do so right now.

Every published writer was an unpublished writer.

You just have to start. www.wadeswriters.com

Much love,

Wade

Audrey-Hepburn-Wrists

2011-04-15T09:09:00.000-07:00

My tell all about my weight loss of over 100 pounds.http://www.thismamacooks.com/2011/04/wade-rouse-guest-post-audrey-hepburn-wrists.html

2011-04-14T14:06:00.000-07:00

Though my heart aches – feels not just broken but smashed into bits – and I cry at the drop of a hat whenever I see a piece of Marge's reddish fur floating around, look down expecting to see her at my feet, or still call for her to go on a walk – I try to remember what author, icon, animal lover and my friend Rita Mae Brown told me once again when I visited her farm – which was filled with dogs, kennels, horses and cats – last fall.
"Dogs don't know how much time they have left; they live in the moment. And what a blessing that is. Humans spend so much time fearing death, fearing the end, that we lose sight of the now, this very moment. If we could only be like dogs, even for a day."
I think of how blessed I was to have Marge for nearly 14 years. She changed me for the better. She taught me to love without abandon, to hug tightly, to live in the moment. Because that’s all we have.
I’ve been overwhelmed by the support Gary and I have received this week. Hundreds of you have reached out to us to express your condolences, your heartbreak, your sadness, your own stories. And, for that, I am thankful. We are linked not only by our love and kindness but by our pets.
I was struck by a number of stories this week, including a woman who lost her fiancée suddenly and hadn’t been able to laugh until she read one of my books. And there was a woman who expressed her sympathies about Marge and stated she wanted to attend my May writing retreat but was terrified to do so.
To her – and in honor of Marge – I say: LIVE IN THE MOMENT!
Life is short. Our time here is precious. An important part of our journey should be taking risk, tackling our fear, challenging ourselves, running – with wild abandon, as Marge used to – toward the future.
Right now, I am scared.
It has been a brutal past two years. First, my mom. Now, my Marge. My two best girls are gone forever. Why would God take my two best friends so soon? How could He test me so harshly and frequently?
I have lost so many, that I have become guarded. I worry that as soon as I become close to someone, I will lose him or her again.
But, I know I have to take that risk. It’s what makes life precious and special.

My mom and Marge were two of the few I could talk to without fear, knowing I would receive unconditional love. Take that away, and what are we left with?

I learned from my mom -- a nurse and woman of great faith -- that is the nature of unconditional love.
You take the good with the bad. Death is simply a part of life. Only by risking your heart, your soul, can you find true love, true joy, true happiness.
And, that’s what I hope to give back to aspiring writers coming to my workshop in May.
Only by risking your heart and your soul can you find true joy and happiness.
I can’t wait to lead my writers through exercises that will force them to tackle their fears, face their own discomfort, and unearth that unique voice that can change the world.
Risk.
That’s what writing and loving is all about.
But it’s worth it. No matter how hard it is sometimes.
There is still time for you to take a risk, and live in the moment.
Wade’s Writers (www.wadeswriters.com) kicks off its initial, intensive multi-day writing retreat in less than a month (May 12) in Saugatuck, Michigan, my stunningly beautiful little resort town.
You will write. You will laugh. You will cry. You will become a different person.
You will write. You will eat amazing food. You will drink amazing wine. You will site-see. And you will take a risk.
I urge you to join me. As I learn to risk my heart again, I urge you to risk yours, too.
Let’s live in the moment.

XO,
Wade

Marge R.I.P 7/16/1997 - 4/11/2011

2011-04-12T07:29:00.000-07:00

Our beloved pet Marge left us yesterday at 13 yrs and 9 months.
7/16/1997-4/11/2011

14 years, 15 states, five books, three major life changes, two of the world's softest ears, thousands of walks, millions of kisses, zillions of snuggles, infinite belly rubs, laughs and treats … and two men whose lives have forever been changed by one rescue dog’s unconditional love. You helped teach us both it was OK to love again, with wild abandon, hearts be damned. Ours may be broken now, but you mended them once, and you will once more, when we see you again. I know you'll be waiting for us, head always turned, looking back, to see if we're coming. And we walk. Forever.