On losing a gloved one

Hello. I am not officially blogging. Yes, I’m posting but this is just a random fluff post. Its sole purpose is to hold my place until I get tired of unpacking my crap at my new address. Have I shared how very much I loathe the smell of cardboard boxes? Ahem.

What are your thoughts on the media coverage, or media frenzy, surrounding Michael Jackson’s untimely death? I dunno. I was at the market yesterday and there are limited edition, “collector’s issues” jammed with pics and high praise for the “King of Pop.” The mass outpouring of grief puzzles me. And I wonder what it is, culturally, that bonds us to these celebrity deaths. Is it the celebrity aspect or is it the ‘promise cut short’ factor that we are grieving? It’s all very curious; does the fact that I survived Michael Jackson make me a better (healthier?) person? I was sorta set to poke fun at some of antics I’ve heard and seen but then recalled my own fan-demonium with the tragic death of Princess Diana; I had a headache for three days straight. And sobbed (…and still do) whenever I heard the muffled bells of Westminster Abbey. Just saying: how we choose to celebrate and honor the passing of our legends is interesting, don’t you think?

Though not everyone is singing MJ’s praises.

Listen…

It rained yesterday morning. Which seemed fitting; it was my final trip in the move-out from my “first” apartment. I can now say “…at the other apartment…” or “…remember over at 750…” in the months ahead. I think rooms tell stories if one is quiet enough to listen. And that’s what I did mid-morning. I sat and listened. And remembered and cried. I recalled the extreme jubilation, the sense of relief and accomplishment, that I felt my first week of occupancy. It was MY place. MY space. MY retreat and sanctuary from the dealings of removing myself from a longtime decayed partnership. Healing was needed.

I recalled, too, the lonely times. The depths of depressions and bouts of ‘how can I get out of bed’ weekends when the only things that kept me going, beyond my core circle of friends, was marathon training and the kindness of semi-strangers near and very far. I thought about Christmas 2007 and the unexpected gestures that carried me through a ‘first Christmas alone’ scenario. I thought of missed opportunities; missteps and crashing realizations that colored my two year occupancy. It wasn’t all bad; it wasn’t all good. It was, at best, a transition place. It took months for me to be able to say “home” instead of “apartment.”

Rooms do talk if one listens; ghosts appear. These rooms say it is time for the next chapter. And with the rain pelting the windows I closed the door and thought: “Well done, Michael; for the situation and times.”

Moving on up

I am not in my best form. So, like, I really shouldn’t even be connecting with you kind folks via this portal considering the emotional state I’m in. It’s not even emotional; I’m exhausted and overwhelmed by the move-out/move-in experience. If you haven’t moved your stuff in awhile just know that it is the most stressful day on earth. Maybe more so than taking the SATS or, like, a loved one’s death. Or missing that SALE Gucci wallet, like; that type of stress. It is that heinous. I’ll recap later but I must publicly thank BGF who was a tremendous help and source of calm the past 72 hours. Really. I don’t even want to be around me, the mood I’m in, yet he’s been a stalwart, non-bitching source of sanity even when carting non-essentials like four bamboo sticks cuz I need them; someday. He’s got muscles, too. I noticed that this past weekend; his tits felt like two firm mounds of, say, Oscar Mayer cotto salami in the hard plastic package while my man boobs felt all puddingly tranny-like. But I digress.

I am still unpacking boxes; sorta just opening boxes to peak in, frankly. Mostly I’m avoiding that particular chore because…well, I don’t know why. But I don’t want to really begin the task of unpacking everything. I mean, Hell, let’s not rush this process. Plus I need time to sit and think about where all my shit is going. This is the time I miss my Benson & Hedges Lights Menthol; yes, I smoked. Pick up the shattered pieces of your life and move on. So far my new apartment has been referred to as “dump” and “that older building” but I think it was meant in all good fun like when I say “I’ve always liked your face…both of them” in that endearing way I have.

Oh. I have been drinking martinis like there is no tomorrow, too. So. There’s that. I mean, wouldn’t you rather have an extra dirty, straight up with bleu cheese olives than face unpacking your crap?

The Way You Make Me Feel…

Somewhere Marilyn, Elvis and Princess Diana scooched down the bench a bit to make room for Farrah and Michael yesterday. JESUS. As I told a coworker late in the day; “…If Elizabeth Taylor checks out tonight I’m drinking the Kool-Aid and waiting for Hale Bopp comet to take me back to the mothership…”  Just saying: how much media frenzy can one’s heart take?

Yes, yes, la Farrah was expected. In fact I whispered a prayer of relief when I heard of her passing. So much pain, spirit and character; such a courageous, high-profile fight against cancer; no dumb blond, she of the iconic feather cut. I’m peeved, actually miffed, that the glitter-gloved one chose yesterday to depart this planet. IT WAS FARRAH’s DAY to be remembered, respected and all the other good stuff folks do and say on Larry King when a legend passes. But you know who really got the short fuck? Ed McMahon. Poor Ed. Who cares, right? Not even a blip on the screen three days out. I mean, he’s a TV-land legend in his own right for a generation who tried to sleep for school even though their mom could care less how loud the TV was: “….Heeeeeeeeeeere’s Johhhhhhny!” Gawd! You go, Ed. YOU go give Johnny a cigarette from me.

This weekend I move. A bit. The actual, real mens mover-type guys arrive Monday. I hired four men. (God, I’ve waited a lifetime to say that…) It should go fairly smooth as I am very anal about packing. (er, that does not read well) Still, one should expect the unexpected; like, I cannot locate that lil’ L-shaped wrench to take the WEST ELM bed frame apart. It’s around the apartment somewhere but I haven’t tripped over it yet. I don’t want to move but I have to; I think moving may change my bed’s chakra since nobody has romped my ass in two years.

Though I can’t say I’m thrilled about the new pad; there are pluses, for sure. There are also negatives; I can’t even format the new property name without a catch in my throat as I’ve spent a lifetime ridiculing the properties as the proverbial ‘other side of the tracks.’ Now I’m on THAT side of the tracks. And what with the pending demise of my career I’ll probably slide even further away from my former self; I’m not even certain how much I should unpack, if at all. Still, in the big picture of my life this time frame may affectionately be referenced as the ‘good ol days’ in just a few short years once my teeth fall out and my male pattern baldness settles to a few stray wisps and a sassy comb-over. Life is cruel.

But funny how life happens whether a plan exists or not. Plans really don’t matter though; not much at all. Because we should all understand that the thing that’s going to take us out, well, it resides within us right this very minute. A ticking time bomb waiting to awaken; that’s why this window of time now is so crucial. This is it, folks. Stop that thing you do that drives your friends/spouse nuts; do more good. Spend less. CALL your mother. Stop fighting with your siblings. Today is today. Today is not yesterday; today is not tomorrow. It’s hard to keep that idea at the forefront; we’re all far too busy making plans.

Talk at you on the flip side of this move out/move in ordeal.

Heaven’s angel now

Needs a Brazilian

Well, well, well…look-y what we have here. Yet another GOP ’star’ living a double-standard. I normally wouldn’t drag a family photo out but then again, I’m not the elected public official lying about an affair to my family, the state of South Carolina, my support staff, etc., etc. There is no ‘private’ in a life of public service. How an educated adult, with a career in government, could possibly plan a secret trip to Argentina to visit a mistress (Father’s Day weekend?!) without questions and subsequent media hoopla, well, just saying: another candidate for the “d’oh!” cluster-fuck awards.

And his wife believes he’s earned a second chance. Horray for her; I hope they do survive this craptastic period in their marriage. I feel bad for the sons; I feel sad for them. Period. I shouldn’t; not at all since my ability to marry the love of my life is continually thwarted and stonewalled from the likes of good, upstanding government leaders and family men like Governor Sanford. It really makes me think about the world we all share. And why we can’t all just get along like God(s) intended. I’m going to think about all of this while I go hike the Appalachian trail.