Tuesday, January 31, 2012
What it means to be 50
Spring is a great time for any kind of new beginning. This spring I'm celebrating my 50's. Although for the most part I don't regret my past, I wouldn't want to do it over again. I was told in my 30's by a wonderful, older mentor that the 50's bring a release from caring or concern over what others think. Indeed this has happened. While I may entertain myself by listening to opinions of others, I sure don't feel the need to do any philosophical bending. I have formed many opinions of my own, and reformed them, and yet again formed them. The years have passed, memories fade, the future becomes less about career and money and more about recapping, and seeing how everything fits in the bigger picture. It's about smiling more, observing more, trying, crying, forgiving, moving on, and dealing with life graciously. It's not about wearing masks or carefully chosen identities. It's not about needs but rather about needing less. The 50's afford me the opportunity to laugh at what others consider so important, even if it means laughing at myself. I have 8 more years of 50 bliss, if I'm given the opportunity. Maybe the hair will get a little grayer, the mind a little fuzzier, the body a little more challenging, but I intend to investigate the 50's with a light heart and maybe dance into the 60's a little more self assured. To anyone in their 20's and 30's, my advise is not to fear growing older. Time will be more enjoyable, food will be tastier, wine wil be sweeter, the sun will shine even when it's raining. I'm almost "over the hill" and the view is amazing!
Friday, July 29, 2011
Pass It On
Every family has family momentos: pictures, keepsakes, rings...We pass these things along through the generations. Pictures with no names. Who is this? Don't have a clue. So we pass these pictures from generation to generation. Sons and daughters have to pack and repack items that meant something to someone. They ritually keep these items bouncing around in the family. If you're lucky like me, you'll have a geneologist in the family to keep historical documents.
It so happened that my grandma and grandpa came from Poland before the war. They were lost in a time machine. Poland would see many changes during the years of their absence. The family was displaced. Great Grandma and my grandma's sister ended up in Siberia (not for tourist reasons either!)They took the wrong direction to the Ukraine to start a new future. Not the wisest of choices. They were never heard from again.
Grandpa's little town outside Warsaw somehow allowed his family survival for the most part. It was only recently that opened documents from Oswieciem answered questions of one brother's disappearance. With open communications to the West when The Wall fell, came the emergence of family from Famulki (outside of Sochaczew). Envelopes and letters from the old country proved beyond a doubt that we were in the right family.
Years of e-mailing went on. My daughter went to visit her Dad's mother in Sedzieszow. Her Dad is also Polish born. From there they went to establish contact with the Dobrzynski's of Warsaw. For me to see this generation meeting the family from the past was moving. At the airport I realized it was not long ago when I made my first trip over, even though it was past twenty years. To see her going brought tears in my eyes knowing that she will join a heritage of both her mother and her father. In Poland we are there as family members who belong. To be a part of a family with kids who are her own age was more than fortunate. It was more interesting how she saw her own likeness in her Polish cousin - they looked like twins! The connection was priceless.
After a few weeks it was time to return to the US. When I caught sight of her coming out of customs at the airport, I started to get all choked up with emotion. I noticed how she fit right in with all the Poles. I noticed how Polish she really was. I saw generations in her. When she came through the door, I started to cry. I envisioned Grandma, Grandpa, and her own father coming through the gates of their new futures as well.
Next my son would make the same journey. This trip was also very special. It included a trip to the very land that the Dobrzynski's established when they made their way from Lithuania. The entrance to the farm cellar was still standing. Back in the 1700's there was a village called Dobrzyn. Adam Mickiewicz writes his national epic, Pan Tadeusz, and in there describes "our" family. My son went on a time travel through family history. He got to see the forests where mushrooms were picked. He got to see the church of the village where Chopin would play. He spoke to neighbors who remembered those Dobrzynski dwellers. The spirit of the family was still alive in these parts and now after all this time one more journey led back to the old country - our country!
Although our relatives lived the end of their lives here, they were still very much sons and daughters of that part of the world - Poland. Knowing who we are and from where we came is a value far greater than anything else that could have been passed down. Niech Zyje Polska!
Railroad Louie
It's time for a visit to see the folks in Milwaukee. Ok, and I have to admit I am a little excited to go visit Mel's Dad because he lives close to a store that sells any kind of scotch for the lowest prices! My Mom and Dad, however, don't live too far away from one of my other passions - Dunkin' Doughnuts! Add a coffee cake from Grebes Bakery and a visit to Uhle's Pipe shop downtown and the trip to Milwaukee is a success! Also, I will "need" to go to the Polish Deli on Lincoln Ave (AJ's) for some lip-smackin', need another vodka please, kielbasas.
But back to the topic...Railroad Louie. Louie is my dad. I think he'd have made a great hobo. He just rides the rails these days by paying for a ticket. He loves trains. There's a reason for the call of the whistle that always manages to catch his attention.
The "homestead", as our home is known as, is on a railroad line. Some people would sneer at a piece of real estate on the Milwaukee Road line, but not us. The neighborhood Dad grew up in (the same one I grew up in) was a very ethnic one. We lived flanked by my Polish relatives (yes, everybody knew everything with or without a phone),and with an interesting European mix around us. We had Italians, Serbians, Armenians, Italians, and even a lady from France. Everyone spoke their own language and would disappear for a few weeks in the summer for a trip to their native countries. They all had cool ethnic names, and as kids we played with other kids who didn't speak the same language. We had a chunk of land used for a cow, horse, and some chickens in my Dad's time. Our land was next to a barn that my dad's Polish aunt owned. She had a rooming house for men who just came from Poland to work, and a very lazy shepherd dog(Sheeba) who would roam into our yard to sit in the sun. Her barn was my play yard when the Polish guys weren't sitting under the grape-vines singing Polish songs--- with the help of a bottle in a brown bag! The most exciting place to be was down by the lumberyard only a few steps away. A lumberyard on the trainline that actually had the trains stop to deliver lumber! This was way cool. The smells of lumber and diesel fuel, to this day, make me want to jump on the trains that were left behind. It was the place for me to go when the lumberyard closed. These days when a lumberyard closes there are locks and gates and security cameras, but back then...I got to visit the yard when everyone else went home. I found my own ways of jumping from the unloaded trains through the lumber sheds and into the inner sanctum of wood heaven. My jungle gym was the cabooses and flat cars left on the spur track. The push me, pull me's were always there tempting me to ride into town just the way my dad would!
Enter "Rairoad Louie." Dad loved big band music. Into Cudahy and Milwaukee on the weekends would come bands like Vaughn Monroe's. To this day Dad will sit through 90 degree heat in the sun to listen to the sound of the big bands. Back then he had to be creative to get to these places. Dad usually ended-up hopping the closest open transportation he had - the rails. Why not? The steam train started to slow down enough to pull into the station in our town and was free if you knew how to jump on a box car fast enough! Dad mastered these jumps weekend after weekend. He knew where his stops were without the help of a conductor. The departure wasn't always so smooth though. His buddies will laugh to this day as each would propel themselves from the moving train. The speed of the train dictated the number of rolls and bounces each would take. Dad said when he bounced he only felt one thump even if he rolled several times. Sometimes they would get "chicken" if the train picked up speed and then they'd have to ride to the downtown yards. Now that was "public" transportation!
Living on the line also has some other adventures. We lived in the historic section on the line called "Bums Jungle." This was the underworld's private train stop. In all seasons this section was alive with campfires for the over-nighters who would catch another train the next day (or two). Sometimes these guests would wander, like bears from the woods, looking for food. It happened one day that Grandma Nellie had such a visit when Grandpa Jan (Yan) was at work. Grandma Nellie had the unwelcomed visitor on the doorstep and in her broken English she called "Yan, get up and bring your gun." I guess the guy flew faster than a slow-rolling train back to the bums jungle.
As kids we had a very large boulder in the field next to the line. When we heard the train whistle we all flew to "the rock." We climbed it's "shelves" and stood there to wave at the conductors and if it had passengers - we'd wave to them too! This went on for years and years. The rock started to get known as "the place the kids flock to greet the trains". (The Welcome Wagon of our kind) The conductor and passengers would wave back like royalty. The rock was actually purchased as a piece of the line's history and sits in a post office today somewhere in Chicago with a plaque about us. Look out box car children!!
Excitement grew in the neighborhood as a big trucking company moved in. We had steam shovels and dump trucks to add to our familiar sounds. The air was filled with diesel fuel! To this day I love that smell. As time went on "Grandpa Louie" would take his grandson, (my son!) who grew up in the same Polish house (ironically with a Dad just come from Poland as well!) and those two would get lost for hours watching trains and talking to the guys with the trucks. The front window-sills of our house, once sprinkled with violets, had lines of little trains and trucks spread out to greet the early morning crews.
So to all those who think property on the train line is devalued- guess again! I wouldn't trade a house on the North Shore for the scenery we have in Bums Jungle.
Long live hobos! Long live the railroad. (No thanks to Governor Walker)
But back to the topic...Railroad Louie. Louie is my dad. I think he'd have made a great hobo. He just rides the rails these days by paying for a ticket. He loves trains. There's a reason for the call of the whistle that always manages to catch his attention.
The "homestead", as our home is known as, is on a railroad line. Some people would sneer at a piece of real estate on the Milwaukee Road line, but not us. The neighborhood Dad grew up in (the same one I grew up in) was a very ethnic one. We lived flanked by my Polish relatives (yes, everybody knew everything with or without a phone),and with an interesting European mix around us. We had Italians, Serbians, Armenians, Italians, and even a lady from France. Everyone spoke their own language and would disappear for a few weeks in the summer for a trip to their native countries. They all had cool ethnic names, and as kids we played with other kids who didn't speak the same language. We had a chunk of land used for a cow, horse, and some chickens in my Dad's time. Our land was next to a barn that my dad's Polish aunt owned. She had a rooming house for men who just came from Poland to work, and a very lazy shepherd dog(Sheeba) who would roam into our yard to sit in the sun. Her barn was my play yard when the Polish guys weren't sitting under the grape-vines singing Polish songs--- with the help of a bottle in a brown bag! The most exciting place to be was down by the lumberyard only a few steps away. A lumberyard on the trainline that actually had the trains stop to deliver lumber! This was way cool. The smells of lumber and diesel fuel, to this day, make me want to jump on the trains that were left behind. It was the place for me to go when the lumberyard closed. These days when a lumberyard closes there are locks and gates and security cameras, but back then...I got to visit the yard when everyone else went home. I found my own ways of jumping from the unloaded trains through the lumber sheds and into the inner sanctum of wood heaven. My jungle gym was the cabooses and flat cars left on the spur track. The push me, pull me's were always there tempting me to ride into town just the way my dad would!
Enter "Rairoad Louie." Dad loved big band music. Into Cudahy and Milwaukee on the weekends would come bands like Vaughn Monroe's. To this day Dad will sit through 90 degree heat in the sun to listen to the sound of the big bands. Back then he had to be creative to get to these places. Dad usually ended-up hopping the closest open transportation he had - the rails. Why not? The steam train started to slow down enough to pull into the station in our town and was free if you knew how to jump on a box car fast enough! Dad mastered these jumps weekend after weekend. He knew where his stops were without the help of a conductor. The departure wasn't always so smooth though. His buddies will laugh to this day as each would propel themselves from the moving train. The speed of the train dictated the number of rolls and bounces each would take. Dad said when he bounced he only felt one thump even if he rolled several times. Sometimes they would get "chicken" if the train picked up speed and then they'd have to ride to the downtown yards. Now that was "public" transportation!
Living on the line also has some other adventures. We lived in the historic section on the line called "Bums Jungle." This was the underworld's private train stop. In all seasons this section was alive with campfires for the over-nighters who would catch another train the next day (or two). Sometimes these guests would wander, like bears from the woods, looking for food. It happened one day that Grandma Nellie had such a visit when Grandpa Jan (Yan) was at work. Grandma Nellie had the unwelcomed visitor on the doorstep and in her broken English she called "Yan, get up and bring your gun." I guess the guy flew faster than a slow-rolling train back to the bums jungle.
As kids we had a very large boulder in the field next to the line. When we heard the train whistle we all flew to "the rock." We climbed it's "shelves" and stood there to wave at the conductors and if it had passengers - we'd wave to them too! This went on for years and years. The rock started to get known as "the place the kids flock to greet the trains". (The Welcome Wagon of our kind) The conductor and passengers would wave back like royalty. The rock was actually purchased as a piece of the line's history and sits in a post office today somewhere in Chicago with a plaque about us. Look out box car children!!
Excitement grew in the neighborhood as a big trucking company moved in. We had steam shovels and dump trucks to add to our familiar sounds. The air was filled with diesel fuel! To this day I love that smell. As time went on "Grandpa Louie" would take his grandson, (my son!) who grew up in the same Polish house (ironically with a Dad just come from Poland as well!) and those two would get lost for hours watching trains and talking to the guys with the trucks. The front window-sills of our house, once sprinkled with violets, had lines of little trains and trucks spread out to greet the early morning crews.
So to all those who think property on the train line is devalued- guess again! I wouldn't trade a house on the North Shore for the scenery we have in Bums Jungle.
Long live hobos! Long live the railroad. (No thanks to Governor Walker)
Monday, July 25, 2011
What are those kids up to now?
When the kids were growing up I always wondered what they'd be like when they were in college- when they were out of college...I waited and watched as each year passed. How far they came from diapers, Sesame Street, and Little Tyke Toys! I never realized that I was growing too! (although I was the kid that never grew up according to my folks) I see my own kids now in the same period of time I somehow froze myself in. In some ways I look to them for advice on today's world. They took over where I wanted to leave off. Traveling, studying, working, and having a good time or two along the way.
Enter the oldest: Andrew born in the mid-80s. Where is he today?...he's doing that part of having a good time. Andrew loves to travel. From the top of the Matterhorn in Switzerland, to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, to the place where Andrew came to be (Poland). Andy is in Cancun, Mexico observing resort life and hot sand-- with all inclusive food and drink! He has earned this vacation since his promotion to Network Engineer in the banking world. No Engineer's vacation would be complete without some technology, so we will get to see Andy in the sand with, no doubt, a Cuban cigar and a complimentary drink(s). Andy will be able to say (quoting Sarah Palin)"I can see Cuba from my house!"
Jessie (enter as the little sister) is studying and working this summer. The travel bug already sent her to Poland and Israel. This summer she has come a long way in nursing. She prepares for her state boards in the empty corners of the university library. She has experienced clinicals in some intense areas. It has been amazing to watch this sensitive young lady grow in compassion along the way. Her humor is her survival. Only Jessie could encounter a social world from the other side as "spirits" visit her patients in the nursing home where she works! It's a right of passage after having worked in the same nursing home for 7 years. It helps that her Great Grandma Nellie from Poland drops in for a visit from time to time (she's been dead since 1976) and her late Great Aunt Lynn watches over her as well. It's our family culture to acknowledge the activity of the spirit world. The legacy of our gypsy heritage also gives her a proclivity to the psychic world through Tarot.
As my gypsy grandpa PJ would say: "My wealth is in my children." (He had 12) Everyday I am always entertained by the roads my kids travel- sometimes even by the "gutters they fall in."
Maybe they too will decide, like me, to "never grow up."
Enter the oldest: Andrew born in the mid-80s. Where is he today?...he's doing that part of having a good time. Andrew loves to travel. From the top of the Matterhorn in Switzerland, to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, to the place where Andrew came to be (Poland). Andy is in Cancun, Mexico observing resort life and hot sand-- with all inclusive food and drink! He has earned this vacation since his promotion to Network Engineer in the banking world. No Engineer's vacation would be complete without some technology, so we will get to see Andy in the sand with, no doubt, a Cuban cigar and a complimentary drink(s). Andy will be able to say (quoting Sarah Palin)"I can see Cuba from my house!"
Jessie (enter as the little sister) is studying and working this summer. The travel bug already sent her to Poland and Israel. This summer she has come a long way in nursing. She prepares for her state boards in the empty corners of the university library. She has experienced clinicals in some intense areas. It has been amazing to watch this sensitive young lady grow in compassion along the way. Her humor is her survival. Only Jessie could encounter a social world from the other side as "spirits" visit her patients in the nursing home where she works! It's a right of passage after having worked in the same nursing home for 7 years. It helps that her Great Grandma Nellie from Poland drops in for a visit from time to time (she's been dead since 1976) and her late Great Aunt Lynn watches over her as well. It's our family culture to acknowledge the activity of the spirit world. The legacy of our gypsy heritage also gives her a proclivity to the psychic world through Tarot.
As my gypsy grandpa PJ would say: "My wealth is in my children." (He had 12) Everyday I am always entertained by the roads my kids travel- sometimes even by the "gutters they fall in."
Maybe they too will decide, like me, to "never grow up."
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
...anything but vanilla please!
Once upon a time, back before anyone let the horse out of the barn, there was vanilla sex. It was only the Genesis of sexuality but then ...there was light! This is where slavery isn't something to flee from! (Appropriate topic for Passover.)
While taking shortcuts to get to the "meat and potatoes" might be a way of life for some, it usually comes as no surprise that anyone with creativity (or Attention Deficit) cannot do the vanilla thing. So, what goes on in the bedroom (why stop here?), stays in the bedroom? ...especially if there's a few mooring cleats around an 8 foot window in the bedroom. In this position, creativity would be needed to be vanilla. Water paint and a shower curtain can be the canvas to complete the memory.
But what about those who just cannot conform to society or social norms, and make sexual taboos a way of life? Polyamory and am bisexuality and an array of other "disorders" may not be a comfortable lifestyle for "the majority" but the minority are thriving among their own kind.
It takes a community to raise a kid and so the children within these arrangements are loved, nurtured, and cared for far beyond the "normal" family unit. The typical family unit in the USA has managed to put walls and fences up to protect those within and their material possessions. This group becomes isolated with an occasional outing to the country club, church or mall. Not so the children raised within the creative family unit. There is a definite foster of sensitivity to the needs of others, consideration beyond the "me-go" world, and open-mindedness as a core value.
I have been fortunate to have made the acquaintance of of one individual who had the intelligence to be among the first to have completed the LSAT with no errors. After scoring his law degree from UC-Berkley, he went on to become one of the few who would facilitate legal services to the "tranny" community. Arguing cases before the Supreme Court and establishing a law office in Hawaii which proclaims its'own message of freedom from "the establishment." His complex sexuality followed in the same nontraditional patterns. For many, being his companion would require a different sort of logic, a logic that detours from the mainstream in both philosophy and activity. For myself it was a fine-tuned intuition which allowed me to enjoy fully his personality. If I had been a conformist a "merging of the minds" would never have been possible. It's certain that not many could come to an understanding of this social language as it is something very difficult to learn without having a predisposition. In other words if you have to learn "it," you won't be living "it" in its' natural state. By seeking to define, you've missed the whole point.
And so the rest of the world can only sneer and insinuate their path is hell bound. This is not the lifestyle for the rank-and-file soldier of an established ethos.
Looking from the cleat-studded window, I view a world that others may never know. I'm content on this side of the window and feel a cold pity for those "others" within the landscape below. If only for a blink of an eye, you could sense this world!
While taking shortcuts to get to the "meat and potatoes" might be a way of life for some, it usually comes as no surprise that anyone with creativity (or Attention Deficit) cannot do the vanilla thing. So, what goes on in the bedroom (why stop here?), stays in the bedroom? ...especially if there's a few mooring cleats around an 8 foot window in the bedroom. In this position, creativity would be needed to be vanilla. Water paint and a shower curtain can be the canvas to complete the memory.
But what about those who just cannot conform to society or social norms, and make sexual taboos a way of life? Polyamory and am bisexuality and an array of other "disorders" may not be a comfortable lifestyle for "the majority" but the minority are thriving among their own kind.
It takes a community to raise a kid and so the children within these arrangements are loved, nurtured, and cared for far beyond the "normal" family unit. The typical family unit in the USA has managed to put walls and fences up to protect those within and their material possessions. This group becomes isolated with an occasional outing to the country club, church or mall. Not so the children raised within the creative family unit. There is a definite foster of sensitivity to the needs of others, consideration beyond the "me-go" world, and open-mindedness as a core value.
I have been fortunate to have made the acquaintance of of one individual who had the intelligence to be among the first to have completed the LSAT with no errors. After scoring his law degree from UC-Berkley, he went on to become one of the few who would facilitate legal services to the "tranny" community. Arguing cases before the Supreme Court and establishing a law office in Hawaii which proclaims its'own message of freedom from "the establishment." His complex sexuality followed in the same nontraditional patterns. For many, being his companion would require a different sort of logic, a logic that detours from the mainstream in both philosophy and activity. For myself it was a fine-tuned intuition which allowed me to enjoy fully his personality. If I had been a conformist a "merging of the minds" would never have been possible. It's certain that not many could come to an understanding of this social language as it is something very difficult to learn without having a predisposition. In other words if you have to learn "it," you won't be living "it" in its' natural state. By seeking to define, you've missed the whole point.
And so the rest of the world can only sneer and insinuate their path is hell bound. This is not the lifestyle for the rank-and-file soldier of an established ethos.
Looking from the cleat-studded window, I view a world that others may never know. I'm content on this side of the window and feel a cold pity for those "others" within the landscape below. If only for a blink of an eye, you could sense this world!
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Skin deep or You can't judge a book by it's cover
Misunderstood. You might hear this comment from a teenager. You might even hear this from someone with unclear motives or intentions. Exit down gender dysphoria street with me and you'll see even a therapist would need a therapist to figure this one out!
Being gay is well, black and white. You are or you aren't. If your door swings both ways, you're "bi" which is no longer as black and white as being just "gay." And while being bi "can" be a lifestyle for an opportunist (but not always) this does not usually describe the the life and times of those who are gay. If it is still true that only 10% of us are gay, than I conclude that our "opportunities" are indeed rare.
Enter the topic of gender dysphoria. Ready? Climb out of the box that society has put you in to get a look at some of the dimensions (not to be confused with dementia)of this interesting personality. This is not a lifestyle. It is not chosen. Being gay is not chosen either, but living the "lifestyle" is a matter of choice. Some believe living the gay life is a political choice, others make a choice not to live it based on some hallucination that God or Jesus told them not to. (A deity that tells you to love one another but makes a bunch of moral laws directing us toward hatred and discrimination?...a little "smelly" of a convenient man-made religion for gains of power and politics-- and a little gold too,..."earrings for the next golden calf please!")
Back to gender dysphoria. It really isn't dysphoria at all to those who "get it." The state of dysphoria vanishes upon awareness. It takes a few years to figure things out but eventually the light goes on. It is then a matter of living in the light or ripping the light out down to the fixture, wiring, and even the fuse box! (Denial, denial, denial!)
Our lovely Mel, my lovely Mel that is, has helped me understand what no therapist could. And although Mel is not a cheap date (partner) she does not come with all those billing statements and co-pays! She does have all the requirements of a girly-girl. I have a few magazine subscriptions to prove this (Redbook, Oprah, Good Housekeeping, Real Simple and other various Martha subscriptions). Basically Mel says she sees pink daisies in her head but since she is 6' tall, built like a brick-shit-house, and "well grounded" with a size 13 in MEN'S shoes, everyone else sees hammers and basketballs dancing over her head. If she had a dollar for everyone that accidentally called her SIR she could retire! ...for example...the bathroom brawl in a restaurant in Door County. Despite her "C" cup bra, the old ladies in line to use the toilet insisted she was in the wrong bathroom.
They caused quite a stir to this potential "Sir" and all she wanted to do was pee and get the hell out of there! Even though she politely corrected them, they would not let it go. Of course I couldn't resist throwing a "tsk-tsk shame on you at the old ladies who were let out of the group home for the day (literally). I also had the pleasure of telling them that they should all be ashamed of themselves for acting this way in public! They were brutal....
Our same Mel was asked to pose for a picture at a drag show. It didn't help that we had just come from a Purim costume party ("Jew-fest" as one of our friends called it- and if you don't really know what Purim is - google it.) Mel is probably on someone's Facebook page tagged as the "Queen of all the drag queens of Wausau" that night. She told me that she had two choices-- #1- smile for the camera Or #2- explain that she indeed had a vagina at birth. She opted for option #1. She said it was "easier".
By the way, Mel and I are book ends because of our gender issues. Although by appearance she wears the pants of the house...she really wears the sundresses. I have the collection of suspenders, ties, can tie a bowtie, likes pipes, and even likes to dress-up in a tux! Georgia O'Keefe look out!
I do require Mel to use her "guerrilla paws" to help in automotive maintenance but she really would rather not be under a truck/car. She does look cute with a little grease on her though. So, this is just another twist in our road. Something to think about if you meet us and say, "How do you do?" (Do what exactly?)
Being gay is well, black and white. You are or you aren't. If your door swings both ways, you're "bi" which is no longer as black and white as being just "gay." And while being bi "can" be a lifestyle for an opportunist (but not always) this does not usually describe the the life and times of those who are gay. If it is still true that only 10% of us are gay, than I conclude that our "opportunities" are indeed rare.
Enter the topic of gender dysphoria. Ready? Climb out of the box that society has put you in to get a look at some of the dimensions (not to be confused with dementia)of this interesting personality. This is not a lifestyle. It is not chosen. Being gay is not chosen either, but living the "lifestyle" is a matter of choice. Some believe living the gay life is a political choice, others make a choice not to live it based on some hallucination that God or Jesus told them not to. (A deity that tells you to love one another but makes a bunch of moral laws directing us toward hatred and discrimination?...a little "smelly" of a convenient man-made religion for gains of power and politics-- and a little gold too,..."earrings for the next golden calf please!")
Back to gender dysphoria. It really isn't dysphoria at all to those who "get it." The state of dysphoria vanishes upon awareness. It takes a few years to figure things out but eventually the light goes on. It is then a matter of living in the light or ripping the light out down to the fixture, wiring, and even the fuse box! (Denial, denial, denial!)
Our lovely Mel, my lovely Mel that is, has helped me understand what no therapist could. And although Mel is not a cheap date (partner) she does not come with all those billing statements and co-pays! She does have all the requirements of a girly-girl. I have a few magazine subscriptions to prove this (Redbook, Oprah, Good Housekeeping, Real Simple and other various Martha subscriptions). Basically Mel says she sees pink daisies in her head but since she is 6' tall, built like a brick-shit-house, and "well grounded" with a size 13 in MEN'S shoes, everyone else sees hammers and basketballs dancing over her head. If she had a dollar for everyone that accidentally called her SIR she could retire! ...for example...the bathroom brawl in a restaurant in Door County. Despite her "C" cup bra, the old ladies in line to use the toilet insisted she was in the wrong bathroom.
They caused quite a stir to this potential "Sir" and all she wanted to do was pee and get the hell out of there! Even though she politely corrected them, they would not let it go. Of course I couldn't resist throwing a "tsk-tsk shame on you at the old ladies who were let out of the group home for the day (literally). I also had the pleasure of telling them that they should all be ashamed of themselves for acting this way in public! They were brutal....
Our same Mel was asked to pose for a picture at a drag show. It didn't help that we had just come from a Purim costume party ("Jew-fest" as one of our friends called it- and if you don't really know what Purim is - google it.) Mel is probably on someone's Facebook page tagged as the "Queen of all the drag queens of Wausau" that night. She told me that she had two choices-- #1- smile for the camera Or #2- explain that she indeed had a vagina at birth. She opted for option #1. She said it was "easier".
By the way, Mel and I are book ends because of our gender issues. Although by appearance she wears the pants of the house...she really wears the sundresses. I have the collection of suspenders, ties, can tie a bowtie, likes pipes, and even likes to dress-up in a tux! Georgia O'Keefe look out!
I do require Mel to use her "guerrilla paws" to help in automotive maintenance but she really would rather not be under a truck/car. She does look cute with a little grease on her though. So, this is just another twist in our road. Something to think about if you meet us and say, "How do you do?" (Do what exactly?)
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Life's a Drag!
Life's a Drag!
There are some guys who make better women than, let's face it, most women! While I may not be an expert on what makes up a drop-dead gorgeous woman, I can tell you what makes me pause and say...WOW! Saturday night was a treat for us. While I was asked by a few friends to take them to a drag queen show, I never thought I was could find anything close to a show like the ones in Milwaukee or Madison. I was wrong. The Oz had quite a night. We saw ample queens. They are talented. I wouldn't hesitate to say they are even amazing.
Blur the lines with me for a moment. Put aside what generations have handed you. Why do we repeat social patterns and call anyone else "thinkers outside the box?" No box to start with - men have to be GI Joes, gals have to wear sundresses and love to shop. He puts a dress on ....oh, oh ....he's sick. She looks like a boy...woof!
Really? We can't get beyond some very archaic social norms? It's ok that we "dress" little boys and grown men in gowns for some churches...and I contend that most of them are not cloistered but closeted. I won't start "pontificating" about the psychosis of this social group. If we all just questioned what is handed down to us and did not accept anything before we gave it a lot of consideration, we would see a different society with less hatred. All you out there who are so busy pointing what you think is right and wrong have followed your own misguided translations. No man has the direct pipeline to the heavens. Sorry. So, these queens are as much an image of the beauty of God as anyone else - but more so! Go Girls!!
And to the very good looking dykes who make better men than men, I also say: Go Girls!! And trust me, there's no need for Viagra in those bedrooms. The sensitivity and intelligence of a woman can take you to heights that a man just can't unless he's a queen or gay himself.
Saturday night showed me that central WI supported diversity. A good mix was present. For the most part, I am surprised how Stevens Point and Wausau can show that different communities can live with each other peacefully. With the exception of a few misguided crusaders, our cities can offer acceptance to those who hold different views on life.
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