Holiday times as maximum drive

I just got back from Vegas visiting the fam, and am a bit melancholy now that I'm back home on my own. My cousins Krista and Jim were able to join us, and I haven't seen them since 1999 when I graduated from college, and my grandma brought them with her. They were, like, eight and ten, and I remember them asking, "Can we stay with you?" when my grandma was getting ready to depart, and I said, "Sure, if you want to help me pack," to which they said, "Yeeeah!" immediately inciting a scolding from grandma.

I also got to meet my new niece and nephew, who are both adorable-pie.

We tossed back Crown on Christmas day, I lost a good eighty bucks at the Cannery, and came home with a bunch of gifts I really didn't need. The best gift was that it was the first time since probably the '80s that this entire part of the family had been together. (AWWWWwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww...) I kind of teared up a bit when I got in the car to head to the airport, and back to SF.

Prior to the trip to Sin City, I've really been making the most of my Winter Break. I trekked down to fucking Sunnyvale with Senna to visit Roze and her new baby, and nearly got trapped in San Mateo, as the Cal Train had to stop there, and all riders had to deboard and take a bus to the next station. It was a real Syrian refugee moment.

I saw a matinee of "Krampus" where I was the only person in the theatre, which was awesome. Can't say quite the same about the movie, but it was cute nonetheless.

I've been to the gym twice, which beats my previous record of once during the Christmas vacation. I'm trying to mobilize to go today, so we're holding out hope.

It's odd going from a packed house full of people and four to five small, hyperactive dogs to my quiet little Buddha temple apartment with my white ghost of a cat peering at me with big eyes from atop his cat tower. I love my solitude and the peace it provides, but a little human interaction every so often is kind of nice. Just a little, though.

I guess that's why they call it Blue's Clues

Last week, one of my beloved co-workers, Dale, retired after thirteen years. He was an older gay guy who was one of a kind, always helpful, and genuinely joyous and caring of people.

I didn't always think that though.

When he was first hired and came into my office to introduce himself, he did that thing where you move your chair to the right of a person to more aptly command their attention. I read about that as an interview strategy. Somehow or another, I just never bought into his brand of cheeriness.

But as time went on and I got older, I realized he was the real deal, and a role model not just as a platinum standard of HR service, but as an older gay man who was a class act. I teared up something fierce, and couldn't even get words out when we hugged goodbye.

Meanwhile, work plods on, I can never seem to catch up, and I continue to not so patiently wait for my boss to promote me into the role we have talked about me taking for some time. It may only involve a piddly five percent increase, but like I always say, something is better than nothing, and anything to help further deflate my credit card debt is appreciated.

My grandma told me my cousin Christa and her daughter will be joining us for Christmas, which I think is just lovely. I haven't seen her since she and her brother Jim came with my grandma when I graduated from college sixteen years ago. We've also decided to just do a gift lottery type thing this year, which my wallet will most certainly like. Plus, more to waste spend at the casinos!

I'm going to relish these next six to seven weeks of winter and vacation holidays as much as I can, and hope for more crisp, cold weather. Chill times in chilled weather, y'all.

Unchained soliloquy

I've booked a flight for Vegas to visit the family for Christmas, and will get to meet my new niece and hopefully nephew, too. It feels mildlly pathetic that the only trip I've taken this year will be for Christmas to see family, especially since I will probably have a mini-break down by the third day, but any vacation time is a good time.

Then in March, I will be off to DC for VPA's and Maybelline's wedding. My best friend joining in matrimony with the best man for him. I have every hope of slimming down some by then as I suspect my ex (who is the boyfriend of a friend of VPA's now) will be there, and living well and looking better than you ever did before are the best forms of revenge, says I.

We are in month two of my living solo, and I have to tell you, I did not realize so much nudity would be involved. I mean, it's been hot for the past couple of weeks, and whereas in real life, I don't even wear shorts, while inside my home with no one around, I went from going shirtless to going full on pantsless. Still keeping the underwear on, though. So I have to pay an extra $700 in rent. At least I can wander 'round the house in my birthday suit!

And in other news, I started reading the Bible. I was moved after watching a YouTube series of a guy who'd had a near death experience and claims to have gone to heaven. He recounts several episodes during his life where God talked to him. It sounds endlessly hokey, I know, but it drew me in. Maybe it's just that so little else has been going on in my life that I thought I'd just try something new that's been around for some two thousand years. I don't know for sure yet.

I mean, I was following another YouTube channel of a guy who also claims visits to primarily hell, but occasionally heaven, who also seemed legit. And then the inevitable subject of homosexuality came up, and he claimed we 'mos are not destined to inherit eternal life, though there seems ample evidence that this is not what the Bible says.

So I figured I'd start with the source material. I try to read about a page a day. As blasphemous as this may sound, it started off pretty boring--just tracing genealogies--but then it starts to pick up. I guess the best stuff happens when Jesus enters the picture.

I've gone from being a kid who just blindly believes there is a God because that's what you're supposed to do, to a young adult who, if asked, would have said he was an atheist or agnostic, to a moment in college where I could say I believed again. I don't know what it really means to be a Christian since most people who claim this title do no truly seem to follow in Christ's footsteps and practice any sort of true compassion or kindness that isn't self-serving and solely in the best of interest of those like themselves. But I'm willing to read what is supposed to be the Word of God, and see if it speaks to me.

Seasons of lurve

Ten years ago, I packed up my stuff in boxes and bags (some of which, yes, were trash bags as I couldn't afford anything fancy), and moved from Treasure Island to my place on Nob Hill. I remember the last trip I made hauling my stuff to the new apartment, I took the 108 Treasure Island bus across the Bay Bridge and to the Transbay Terminal. I think I had less than ten dollars on me, so I took a cab from there, but had to stop about a block or two from the apartment so I could afford the fare and a dollar tip.

It took awhile before the apartment felt like my own, since I, in essence, inherited it from VPA. I've had a total of seven roommates in that ten years time, the last of which was Tina, who moved out yesterday. Although the additional rent I'll have to pay will pose a bit of a burden, I was in all honesty excited about having the place to myself, even if only because I can have a wank with my bedroom door wide open, and walk to the bathroom naked in the morning to take a shower.

It's the little things.

I used to refer to the apartment as Casa Fiesta, particularly during the time that J-Co lived here, and she would have friends stay over the weekend. Friends who would eventually become my friends, like Tina. Now I refer to it as My Very Own Buddhist Temple or My Little Shoebox in the Sky. When I tell people I live in Nob Hill, I quickly have to qualify it by saying, "but not the nice, ritzy, upscale part." I may live a stone's throw from the Fairmont and the Mark Hopkins hotels, but these are not posh digs, just a place I call home.

I remember when I first arrived at the apartment to do roommate interviews, it seemed so small. But such is the case with most apartments in SF. And it's not like a boy and his cat need a lot of room. Plus, less space means less to clean.

As the dot-com 2.0 wave has hit the city, and new luxury apartment building are being built on every other block, I have sat back and realized my little rent-controlled chateau is something to treasure. I've always told VPA that if I met someone and he wanted to move in to a place together, I would have him sign an air tight palimony agreement reimbursing me the significantly increased rent I would end up having to pay if I moved into a new place and had to pay market for it. I love this apartment probably more than I ever could another person. It's the longest I've ever actually lived in one place in my life. And with the nominal rent increases every year, I could conceivably live here until I die, and I plan to do so.

So from age twenty seven to thirty seven, I've lived happily ever after here, and hope to forevermore. What an amazing decade. Here's to several more.

Saying goodbye in the summertime

Today was my executive director's last day. And in a month, Tina will move out.

In the fifteen years since I graduated college and moved to SF, my job has been the one constant. And with that, my executive director, Henrietta, has been the same boss (and later, boss's boss) I've had all that time.

After I got through the first interview when I applied for the receptionist position, I then interviewed with her. HR had just moved to the office that was this dinky old medical building, and pretty sad. But her office was the sole corner office with a hint of a view and a pale shade of pink painting coating the walls. Tall, blonde, thin, and dressed to the nines, Henrietta has remained virtually ageless in the decade and a half I've worked with her, while I've gone from a rail-thin twenty-two year old to a husky dad-bod bearing thirty-seven year old. She has always lead with love, an admirable leadership quality because as a subordinate, you want to do well and please someone who supports you and lets you flourish. And after twenty nine years, she certainly deserves this retirement.

They still seem to be deciding on her replacement. It will certainly be an interesting change. Just hard to believe Hen won't be there when I go into work tomorrow.

And when Tina moves out at the end of July, I will once again be on my own. I had only lived solo for a couple of months the last time Hannah moved out. I remember continually going into the other room like I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I lived alone. I can't deny that there's a part of me that's kind of excited about it. I wish that my financial situation was a bit more plush so I could start buying new furniture and turn it into the little bean bag den/cat playground I've envisioned, but it may have to be something I do piecemeal.

Interesting changes afoot. Should make for an interesting rest of 2015.

Tomorrow people, where is your cash

It's happened before, so I should have been prepared when it would happen again: my roommate's moving out. It's been a joy to have Tina in My Own Little Buddhist Monk Temple TM (formerly Casa Fiesta) in no small part because she wasn't around that often, but also because she was a built in buddy, someone familiar to shoot the shiz with and not a stranger I had to acclimate to. She also paid the lionshare of the rent since she had the larger room, so now, daddy has to pony a few extra hundred dollars each month.

And therein lies my problem.

After I'd made a concerted effort a few years back to pay off my credit cards, I, like a fool, went and got a bunch of new ones. With my improved credit, I had larger limits and, in some cases, lower interest rates, not to mention zero percent introductory rates. Sufficiently lured in, I went a bit more buckwild than I should have. Having a roommate has meant I have the means to pay it all off--in time, at least. But I feel I'm past the age where having a roommate is something I want to deal with, especially since tecnically, I don't need to have one. It's just a matter of living a little bit more within my means instead of going into an online ordering frenzy every weekend.

This is, like, severe first world problem bullshit. Especially since around this time ten years ago, I was stranded on Treasure Island (no, this is a not a metaphor in reference to the popular novel) making a little over half of what I make no, living on payday loans and covering the rent for a missing roommate.
I really can't complain by comparison.

But the math don't lie, and I'm not interested in paying interest on credit cards for several years/months. So I made the criminal decision to borrow against my 401(k). Hopefully, I can learn my lesson for a second time around, and I don't hate myself when I'm older. I already hate the fact that my life has seemed to revolve more around money--ahem--credit cards instead of something more meaningful.

Blech.

Back on the wagon 'long happy trails

The skies shone an azure blue, bounding with white, fluffy clouds. A girl looking like she was dressed for Carnival whizzed by me uphill on a bicycle, and we smiled at one another. Out on the bay, someone took advantage of the beautiful day by boat. And I enjoyed my first drunken powerwalk in four weeks.

I honestly thought I'd be under the table after having a few mocktails Friday night, but no such trauma. Just a little headache in the morning. Then it was off to buy flowers at TJs, drop off the rent check, pick up a delicious veggie gyro, and generally enjoy the day. To say it's nice to have liquid sunshine back in my life would be an understatement.

I've decided I need to commit to doing at least one fun/adventurous thing a month. Even if it involves something simple like getting out of the city, like the lunch I had in Pinole at Ravina's last week. Something to break up the routine, even though I enjoy my routine.

This is largely motivated by my every day acknowledgement of just how fucking fast life flies by. Friday marked my fifteen year anniversary at work. You know when you're young and haven't experienced so much of life, everything feels like it takes longer. You have elementary school, middle school, high school, college--a life divided up by classes, periods, Christmas breaks, and summer vacations. Then you're dropped into Real Adulthood with an actual job, rent, bills, a gym membership. Everything races by and seems like it's only broken up only by the annual holiday party.

I'm fairly certain I'm halfway through my life at this point, if not more so. So I just don't want to miss out on something I might not have normally taken the initiative to experience before I'm too old, too tired, too physically incapacitated, too mentally worn to be able to appreciate it.

Enjoy yourself. It's later than you think.

No shit, Sherlock.

More exciting than a space shuttle launch countdown

This morning I woke up feeling like I had swallowed a bunch of ground up erasers.  Like, legit, it felt like I had a bunch of bits of rubber in my throat.  This may have had to do with the lunch I had at my friend Ravina's yesterday (bean and cheese pupusas) or the lack of roughage in my diet yesterday.  Couldn't tell you.  But I can tell you it definitely wasn't because of alcohol.

This will be the last weekend of Cocktail-free February™, and boy, I tell ya, it couldn't have come soon enough.  I knew going into this that everything that I'd hoped would happen--some minor weight loss, the sudden influx of energy, the naturally radiant skin, stabilization of sleep patterns--might not happen, and indeed, they did not.

What did happen is that I was able to live sans the sauce.  There were times when things were not as fun as they would have been with it, but things were still occasionally fun and sometimes even productive.  Of course, I knew all along that it would come to an end, so it wasn't like I was watching a dear friend die.  Rather, it was like said friend simply went off on vacation without me for a month, but will be coming back this Friday.  And won't it be great fun to see how Friday goes off with twenty six days sober days under my belt.

There were no enlightening realizations here, though.  No Lifetime movie-styled revelations.  When I don't want to drink, I don't.  I don't drink at work parties because they are, in part, still work as far as I'm concerned.  I wouldn't have drunk before going to Ravina's yesterday because I wanted to be sober to see and chat with her and meet her new baby.  I don't drink when I feel cruddy from drinking so much that I need to give my body a break, and because I know my tolerance is so high that drinking more will have no enjoyable impact.

So that leaves us at pretty much par for the course and eyeing the calendar for these last few days of this little experiment.

How dry I am and how wet I wish I was

Unsurprisingly, the second weekend of Cocktail-free February™ has not been nearly as novel as the first.  A few times, like when I glimpsed the vodka bottles at the back of the freezer or passed by a liquor store window, I had the thought of, "Fuck it!  Let's forget this shit and have a nip!  No one'll know!"

But I would know.  And my competitive side, which does not oft rear its head, challenged me to push on through.

Normally, the afterwash of endorphins from the week's gym visits would combine with the balm of alcohol over the weekend to compose a wonderful, sunshine-y feeling that really makes those two days worth living.  But, sans the sauce, I feel even more acutely than usual the gym fatigue.  Plus, the weight of sleeplessness I normally carry with me weighs even heavier without sugary mixers to combat it.

Yesterday, I tried cleaning and organizing the heap of CDs and DVDs under my desk, but my heart wasn't in it.  So I took a nap.  Then another.  It seemed like it barely put a dent in my sleepiness.

Also, I've realized that the hope of losing a few pounds may be for nought.  Without the deluge of alcohol as part of my caloric intake over the weekend, I'm instead eating regular food.  Saturday, that regular food consisted of a vegan sandwich, pico de gallo chips, a Pelligreno, and, breaking my rule of avoiding refined sugars, some chocolate chip cookies.  They didn't have trans fat, but still.  My argument with myself was that if I can't drink, I'm not going to suffer with what I eat.

I did make a productive day out of the holiday today by doing some clothes shopping, but the walk I took afterwards was cut short by my sense of general ennui and achiness.

Ten more days of this shit, then we poppin'.

Pain, pain, go away. Come again no other day

And today, on the tenth day of Cocktail-free February™,  I was awakened around 6:00 am by aching pains in my legs.  Normally, these sorts of pains are reserved for Sunday morning, when my body decides to begin recovering from the week's gym routine.  And it hurts like a mutha.

In fact, one Sunday morning a few years back when I was with my trick paramour at the time, he began to engage in some bedroom play with me, but said gym fatigue nixed the deal.  The spirit was willing, as was one very crucial part of the body, but the rest of me couldn't move.

But this morning's agony was odd.  I had only gone to the gym once last week.  I did have some nice walks up hills over the weekend, but nothing out of the ordinary or too strenuous.  So I popped an Aleve in the hopes of getting in a few precious hours more sleep.

This is all of note because I'm watching with some interest to see how my body and brain react to the continued absence of alcohol.  Maybe my legs were just ready to jump off my body and race to BevMo at their earliest convenience?  Only the Lord Jesus up in heaven knows.

One down!

My first weekend of Cocktail-free February™ went off without a hitch.

I did much of the same shit I usually do on weekends, but also watched two whole movies, finished a video game, and cleaned off my desk, an unwieldy hodge podge of clutter, cologne samples, photos, and faggoty potions all coated with a fine layer of cat hair.  Next week, I will begin packing my old yearbooks and CDs, which are now clustered under said desk, which is intended to be my earthquake safe spot.

One thing I found funny about the weekend is that my little constitutionals around the city, which usually feel like they're a good hour or two when I'm on the drink, were more like forty five minutes or so.  Time slows to a comfortable crawl when you're havin' fun, I guess.  Amusingly enough, as I walked out the door Sunday, there were two fliers for some alcohol delivery service sitting right outside the building.  But it wasn't like there was a moment where I thought I would burst into flames if I didn't have something to drink.  I did feel that way, though, those several years ago when I last tried this little experiment.

I am very much looking forward to the supposed influx of energy that comes with being dry for an extended period of time.  Don't know if it will be nearly as awesome as that first swig after the month is up and my tolerance has dropped to a new all time low.  *cue sorority girl whooping*

Forty days and forty nights...give or take a dozen

I'm going alcohol-free--with the exception of hand sanitizer--for the month of February.  No, it's not in honor of Black History Month.  I just thought I'd give it a shot.  Of course, I'm hoping it will mean the pounds will drop away and that my circadian rhythms will stabilize and my skin will glow a radiant golden hue.  But I'm realistic.  It will be like a vacation, but without the actual fun.  And I have plenty of things to occupy my time.

My room, for one.  Tifferbee brought with her a steam cleaner when she moved in, and my carpet could definitely use a run through. In addition, I have all of my belongings from high school and college my mom shipped me a few months ago to put in storage  boxes.  And I haven't cleaned out my closet, which contains all manner of things of VPA's when he lived here, since I moved in some nine years ago.

Too, I can do things like watch movies and play video games.  I tried to go a month sober several years ago, but I think it was before I had internet at home.  This go round, I have plenty to occupy me.  

And who says I can't do my usual walks around the city?  Just this time, without a to-go thermos.

I'm not too nervous about it.  I just hope it is worth it to some degree.  I won't have to dread Monday mornings or terrible Tuesdays, at least.  And I'm leaving the last weekend of the month as a wild card--if I want to hop back on the sauce starting then, I shall.

Part of this has also been sparked by the fact that I had a wild, sleepless night over the winter holiday from which I'm still recovering.  I do not do well on missed sleep, and I swear, it's just snowballed for the past several weeks.  I'm not getting deep REM sleep and my gym routines are killing me because my body isn't recovering appropriately.  I have migraines due to sleeplessness, but just can't sleep.

So, raise a glass of virgin name-your-poison to February.