Life as an AIMS-er

It occurred to me that at this time last year I was on the trip that would change my life! It may sound overly-dramatic, but the destination of my journey did include a large group of divas, the best of which was my sister, a violinist. Every summer my sister plays in the orchestra for the American Institute of Musical Studies (AIMS) in Graz, Austria. Last year, due to an unforeseen change in my own circumstance (getting dumped BIG TIME! A separate story altogether…) I was able to join her for two weeks and temporarily experience the life of an “AIMS-er.”

My sister started playing the violin when she was three years old, so I don’t ever remember a time when she wasn’t a serious musician. As the younger sister, I was in the audience for many Saturday classes, private lessons, quartet rehearsals, youth orchestra performances and other regular recitals. I was every bit as much a “Suzuki” (a particular type of teaching for string instruments) kid as her, (minus the skill, talent and gift of music.) So, in a lot of ways, the environment of AIMS felt very familiar and comfortable to me (although the place itself is anything but ordinary for most non-musicians – think “Fame” but with lots of musician and singer sub-groups and no Debbie Allen to set things straight.) And I had a great time, a life-altering time in Graz.

Imagine being surrounded by quirky musicians 24 hours a day in a foreign country… it was fantastic! Days were spent listening to sopranos practice in the next room and tuba players warming up down the hall or taking the street car downtown to the shops and street markets. Nights were filled with “run out” concerts in beautiful little Austrian hill towns or “Margit’s,” the greatest place on earth. Everyone from AIMS lives on the simple Austrian cuisine of Café Muckenaur (Margit’s restaurant,) across the street from the AIMS housing building. No one makes schnitzel like Margit, and there is no place better to sit outside on a chilly Graz evening watching people and drinking the complimentary Schnapp’s that Gunter puts in front of you (which is a gesture of hospitality that you don’t dare refuse.)

So many evenings during my trip I spent sitting at Margit’s, sometimes with my sister and her group of close friends making dirty comments about “vacation schnitzel” (tell you later…) and “berner wurstl” (a deep-fried, bacon-wrapped sausage like a hot dog, filled with cheese, I mean, come on!) I also met some interesting locals (among those, the “yodeler” because it is Austria, land of the Sound of Music) whenever I ventured there by myself. Although their English was “iffy,” and my German was worse (I'll attempt any language that allows me to say "fahrt" or "weiner" in normal conversation,) we managed long conversations with the help of body language, animated gestures and plenty of good beer, delicious Austrian wine or the never-ending glass of Schnapps (sometimes all three!)

Needless to say, I love Graz and my trip there and to AIMS was just the distraction I needed at the time. Once again, my sister is back in Graz, and I want to be back there so badly I can taste it! But, I have every intention of making another trip soon, hopefully next summer. Until then, I'm going to poor over my trip photos again and revel in my sisters stories about evenings at Margits.

And next time I'll tell you about my adventures in getting HOME from Graz, which involved attempting to read an outdated bus schedule in German, running from the interstate to the "flugelhafer," missing my plane, and then me accidentally dropping the "F-bomb" in front of AIMS' new Director. Ok, so I may have helped contribute to the poor reputation we American travelers have overseas...

Mom, the Song Bird

Music has always played (pardon the pun) a big role in our family growing up. This is probably not surprising to some considering that my sister is now a professional violinist. But the entire family was involved in music in some way or another. My dad played trombone as a teen and continued to be a lover of music (particularly jazz and classical) into adulthood. My mom played the piano and even taught lessons for a time when I was little. As a result of my music-loving parents, my sisters and I grew up either playing the piano or listening to Dad's large and varied record collection. In fact, I remember so many nights spent dancing (or rather, being flung around and flipped "swing" dance-style) with Dad to his big band music and being devastated when I accidentally broke his Glenn Miller record. I couldn't have been older than ten.

But, as long as I can remember, there were Mom's songs. I remember Mom singing to us (or rather at us) all the time as a girl. Yes, it's a sweet memory, a mother lovingly singing around the home... However, this woman's repertoire was anything but ordinary (for a middle-class, non-religious, white woman living in the twenty-first century!)

I don't know where she learned her songs, and most of the time (even now) when she sings one I haven't heard, I swear she's making it up. Her most frequent vocals involve many spirituals (probably largely unknown to the modern world except for having been passed down from family to family since the pre-Civil War days,) hyms, folk tunes and carols. She hits everything from "The Old Rugged Cross" to "Froggy Went a Courtin'" to a rendition of "Sleigh Ride" that even its original composer didn't know existed.

There's also the gusto with which she sings her favorites. Until I was in my late 20s and Johnny Cash became popular again, I swore that the "Daddy" and "Mama" roles were reversed in the song, "Daddy Sang Bass." When my mom sang it, she dug down for the deepest voice she could muster, "Mama sang bass..." and then lifted to the highest falsetto, "Daddy sang tenor, Me and little brother would join right in ..." And that's what the song always was to us, because that's the way Mom sang it!

Although she is a very clever woman capable of writing her own songs, I know that somewhere (outside of our family) these songs do exist. Occasionally, if one of the songs Mom is singing is particularly unbelievable, we call in the family elder, my grandma (Mom's mom.) Grandma is our best source for helping to identify where these interesting, sometimes ridiculous, songs came from. Sometimes Grandma can even help add a long-forgotten verse or provide some background for where Mom originally learned the tune.

Mom's singing will forever be remembered by her daughters, and hopefully the songs she sings will be carried down. Even now, one of my nephews has an amazingly creative way of mixing up lyrics of popular songs, actually making the narrative of the music BETTER than the original. I have no doubt that this musical genius/eccentricity came directly from my mom.

Today is Mom's birthday. I plan on calling to wish her a happy birthday through a medley of favorites from her song collection, ending in a particularly dramatic rendition of the traditional "Happy Birthday" sung in alternating bass and tenor.

Grandma's Words of Comfort

I've mentioned my grandma (my mom's mom) before, but it's difficult to describe in just one post her humor, her personality and her unfortunate knack for sticking her foot in her mouth in THE WORST moments. This is a woman who means well in every circumstance. But despite her best efforts to convey her condolences or "best wishes," she tends to get flustered, her words get jumbled, and she says exactly OPPOSITE of what she means to say. Unfortunately this means that she frequently says something inappropriate to the situation. Now, I'm not revealing anything that might embarrass Grandma. These are stories that my family repeats often, because they are just too good to keep to ourselves. Also, I think they reveal something honest and pure about her, while also demonstrating her ability to not take herself too seriously.


For example, Grandma has a reputation among our family for saying the wrong thing in times of tragedy. At the funeral of her cousin, Grandma went to offer her condolences to the wife of the deceased. Instead of the appropriate, "my condolences" or "I'm so sorry for your loss," the unfortunate sentiment that came out of Grandma's mouth was "Congratulations!" There was also the funeral of another family member where Grandma was offering her sympathies to a cousin. Grandma attempted to introduce my Mom to this grieving woman, but instead said, "You remember Imogene..." "Imogene" was tragically NOT the name of my Mom, which Grandma meant to say, but the name of this poor woman's recently dead daughter!

In another tragic moment, a dear friend of Grandma's lost her son-in-law. It was a horrible story where the severely depressed man took his own life by hanging himself. Grandma, in relaying the awful story to my mom said, in all seriousness and not realizing that she was using common expressions that actually described the true details of this man's death, "Well, I guess something just snapped! He must have been at the end of his rope..." THANKFULLY those particular words were NOT the ones she used when attempting to comfort her friend, the mother-in-law of the deceased!

Another classic Grandma moment occurred in an everyday situation that our family still giggles about today. Grandma worked at the creamery in town for most of her adult life. Working with mostly men couldn't have been easy, as she was a working woman and mother during the 50's and 60's. Talking to a group of both male and female co-workers, the discussion among them was about hair styles. In Grandma's knack for turning the conversation suddenly awkward, she said "Well, I have plenty of curls, they're just at the wrong end..." She was talking about her hair permanent growing out leaving the top portion (her roots) straight while the ends still retained the perm! But, if you're like me, and unfortunately all of Grandma's co-workers, you may have taken those words as referring to another set of "curls." Ugh!

There are a lot more incidences involving Grandma's interesting choice of words. Most are probably best understood and appreciated by our family, because it's true that you just have to know her and her mastery of the Freudian slip.

Professional Fairy-Princess

I am an unmarried woman in my 30s with lots of single, professional friends. I am a career arts administrator (having worked in theater, performing arts and museums.) I am the resident of a very diverse neighborhood of old refurbished houses. I am... an all-American fag hag.

I hope not to offend anyone, as I use the term "fag hag" with much love and respect. Most of us "hags" wear the label proudly, and I was told that members of "the club" (gay people in the gay community) would even issue the official hag membership shirt. But I have yet to receive mine.

Currently, I am in a "committed" relationship with my gay male B.F.F., who I regularly term my "gay husband." We have been through a lot together, "Corky" (he wanted a pseudonym for when I "out" all of the really juicy stuff about him) and I. We first met in college when he was a closeted, well-dressed, doll-collecting, Dolly Parton-loving queer (again, I use the term with affection.) I knew he was gay long before he told me (or his parents.) And when he officially came out to me, the conversation was not exactly "out of the blue," as we had earlier that day eaten lunch in a tea room, just been dancing at a gay bar and were now sharing a heart-to-heart over a bottle of blush rose'. I was so proud of "Corky" for finally admitting to being who he is, and I like to think that our close friendship helped him out of that closet.

"Corky" was the first guy friend that I helped "out." Little did I know that there would be many more to come, including (unfortunately) a few that I had dated. There was "Eric," the "I swear I'm not gay, even though I love designing shoes!" guy who I dated briefly before summer break in college but who came back fall semester a proud, card-carrying "member" of the club. There was also "Derek," who was just a little too enthralled with the male nude at the art gallery where we went on our date. Over the noise from the crowd and a jazz band playing in the lobby, when I asked what drew him to that particular painting, "Derek" admitted that he "also liked men." Then there was "Joe," who I only went out with once and, unlike the others, wasn't gay. We may have gone out again, Joe and I, but we didn't really "match." See, there was quite a big difference between us in height. Also, I preferred wearing sundresses, but he preferred wearing women's skirt suits! 

I'm proud to say that I've had a long career as a fag hag, or "fairy princess" or "fruit fly," (terms that my gay husband prefers.) I'm waiting for the day when they decide to pay me for my work recruiting members to the "club." Until then, I'm honored to continue accompanying my gay husband to the occasional gay line dancing night or "the club" when he needs someone to go with, and I'll always be up for the men's league [insert any sport] match because "we really appreciate the game." 

Twin-Speak

There are lots of things that my sisters and I share, the same round, chipmunk-cheeked face, the same eyes and smile and an uncanny ability to tell what each other is thinking without saying a word.

I remember living in the dorm at college watching the 1998 Olympic figure skating competition. At the time, my sisters and I took figure skating VERY seriously. We were all big Michelle Kwan fans, but somehow she didn't do well and that tit (pardon,) Tara Lapinski won the gold medal. My poor roommate had no idea how hard I would take it and what it meant to me and my sisters. Shortly after the results were announced, one sister called me. Although I could barely hear anything but some quiet tears, I knew it was her. Then, not ten seconds later, call waiting announced another call, my other sister... At the same time, all three of us on the phone to each other, separated by call waiting and five hours in each direction (Lexington, Kentucky, Memphis, Tennessee and Bethalto, Illinois,) each with no words and tears streaming down our faces. Although our disappointment in the results of a silly sport (ok, I see that now,) may seem a little dramatic to some, at the time it was truly a beautiful (and I'll admit, strange) bonding moment among sisters. At that moment, no words were needed. We knew what the other one was feeling at that very second, and because of this we were all there to provide comfort when we needed each other. So, thanks Michelle Kwan for your shitty track record (still not over it, clearly) and providing a bonding moment for us.

Many other instances of our unspoken communication have come directly from references to Little House On the Prairie, which we all watched religiously as kids. Although I can't remember the exact episode (but I'm sure my sister will,) we still repeat the quote "It's not Doc's fault" when times are hard and it's easy to blame the most obvious party. Also, there have been many references to "Eliza Jane," "Dumb Abel" or "country girls" that largely go misunderstood and unrecognized by anyone but us.

I guess that a lot of siblings have their own "language" of sorts based on common experiences, where certain words or phrases trigger specific memories. I love that my sisters and I have a code that no one else shares, and I know that when we're old, senile and can't remember which way is up, we'll still be referring to the crabby old lady across the hall at the nursing home as "Mrs. Olson."

Mother Hens

I have two sisters, one three years older than me and one eight years older than me. Although the difference in ages isn't very significant (and even less so, the older we get) as adults, these few years between us meant all the difference in our (particularly my!) upbringing. I am proud to say that growing up, I had not one, but three mothers, and the real mother hens were my sisters. Oh, how they worried about me when I was little (how I would get along at school, how the other kids would treat me,) and they worry about me now (whether they're treating me well at work, if I have enough money for my coffee...)

As a kid, I was spared a lot of hardships because I always had big sisters who, because they were a few school grades ahead, did everything before me and showed me how it was done. They each dipped their toes into the unsure waters of the world first, they found out which teachers I did and didn't want ("Mrs. Malere," although I'm sure she's a very lovely woman.) They got a head start on those nasty teenage years before I did, beating down my poor parents so that they were prepared when it was my turn. They both went away to college, preparing me for when it was finally my turn and showing me that you can, in fact, live on "work-study" and without a car, although not easily... (I have a couple of funny stories about the impossibly shy - and probable serial killer - Corby, with who I shared a dead-silent, 4-hour journey when I was desperate to go home.)

In a way, the combination of age and experience, although not much more than my own, gave my big sisters the knowledge and authority with which to mother me. And they did a damn good job, I must say! With their "mother henning," there was never a doubt in my head that they would always be there. I honestly believe that their protection largely helped me grow into the secure and (mostly) confident person I am.

Even now, as we're all three well into adulthood, and one of them even has a family of her own, my sisters are still raising me. One likes to remind me to always wear my lipstick (of which she says in that motherly tone to let me know that she's teasing, but you know she kinda means it,) and I'm pretty sure would go so far as to tuck a napkin into my shirt and wipe my chin like a toddler if she thought necessary. The other, well, I'm fairly confident that there would be a major international incident if she thought someone was going to hurt me. And, for that, she'll always have my gratitude AND money for her bail.

It's easy to find quotes about "sisters," most of them so saccharine sweet you want to lose your lunch. But, because I love quotes, here are some that hopefully won't make the bile rise up in the back of your throat. Enjoy!


An older sister helps one remain half child, half woman.  ~Author Unknown

Sisters don't need words.  They have perfected a language of snarls and smiles and frowns and winks - expressions of shocked surprise and incredulity and disbelief.  Sniffs and snorts and gasps and sighs - that can undermine any tale you're telling.  ~Pam Brown

Sister to sister we will always be, A couple of nuts off the family tree. ~Author Unknown

Cooper Girls Don't Chew Gum

My mom had a way of making sure her three daughters were polite, civilized creatures, at least out in public. Behind closed doors, anything (including bodily functions and bathroom humor) goes. Beyond the front door of our home, there were certain things Cooper girls (my two sisters and I) "didn't do," and one of those things was chew bubble gum. My mom's biggest fear was that we (all three in our teens, the peak of obnoxiousness - we've all been there, and you know I'm right) would be out in public chewing gum in that tacky, chomping, air-headed kind of way that only teenage girls can. Don't misunderstand about my mom. She is in no way an uptight person or unreasonable, strict mother. She was (and is) a very, shall we say, "unconventional" mom in many ways.  This was, afterall, the same woman whose choice saying to us in certain difficult situations was "well, f*ck 'em, and feed 'em beans..." (I'm not actually sure what this advice means, but I'd imagine it's about facing the fact that people will sometimes disappoint you, and that your best course of action is to realize this truth and work to move past it...)

Honestly, there wasn't much that my free-spirited, easy-going mom didn't let her daughters do. Instead, she relied on that sneaky method of exercising trust, therefore, instilling in us a guilt factor that rivals any devout Catholic (we're not Catholic, but she did master that guilt strategy REALLY well!) Afterall, as my mom so cleverly made clear, we were only letting ourselves down if we did something we shouldn't... So, in truth, my sisters and I rarely misbehaved. We didn't have to! Sure we had our drama (three teenage girls with one bathroom...) but, between the freedom (and much respect) Mom gave to us, and in return, the respect and desire of ours to do well, I'd say that my parents had it pretty easy bringing up their small brood. (Clever, clever woman with her child-rearing skills...)

Looking back, although we usually rolled our eyes at my mom's insistence of what the Cooper girls "did not do," like chewing gum, I think there was a lot more to that request than we realized. In my mom's eyes, this simple rule was her way of holding us to a higher standard. I know that she didn't mean it in a way that made us think we were better than everyone else (our bubblegum-popping peers.) Instead, I think it was Mom's way of teaching us the importance of image and self-respect, a valuable lesson to each of our grown-up, professional lives.

Or, maybe I'm assigning too much meaning to this memory... Afterall, I do, now, carry gum in my purse, and Mom is usually the first to ask for some after "ladies club" (any lunch out with Mom, my sisters and Grandma.) But, it's clear that my Mom (in her subtle way) wanted my sisters and me to be respected and to respect ourselves. So, thank you, Mom, from your three proud Cooper girls (none of whom can adequately blow a bubble gum bubble, thanks to our deficiency during the formative years...)

LaVerne

You know that smell you get when you walk into your Grandma's house (if you're lucky enough to still have a living grandparent, like I am?) What is that smell? Moth balls? Memories? Well-cooked pasta? The 1950s? Whatever it is, it's distinctive. And I have that smell in the stairwell of my new apartment.

Everytime I take out the trash or the recycling (wine bottles, too many to admit...) down the back stairs, I get a whiff of the past. I'm instantly taken back to Easter morning at Grandma's when she spoiled us with too much candy in our Easter basket, too many gifts and silver coins. It also smells like Christmas lunch, when Grandma spoiled us with stockings filled with goodies (different from the "Santa"-filled stockings we got at home) and the elaborate lunch or "dinner," as she called it, meal Grandma swore she had forgotten how to cook (meaning, she no longer LIKED to cook...) and was the finest dining we'd had since breakfast! 

My grandma is getting old now. She's 89 year's old and as sassy and quirky as she was in 1950, I'm imagining! Her quirky personality and odd sense of humor are what influenced my mom, and in turn, what influenced my sisters and me. This woman, my grandma, raised (with the help of her mom and sister - I'm recognizing a theme among our clan) two feisty boys and a feisty girl (my mom.) For that, she deserves every bit of praise.

So, everytime I venture down those back stairs and smell that "smell," I'll remember Grandma Hall.

In recent months, Betty White has become the thing, her fame exploding into sitcoms and "Saturday Night Live." Granted, she outlived all the other "Golden Girls" and embraced her senior standing in the world of celebrity and stardom. However, I firmly believe that my grandma rivals any comedic quips of Ms. White. What's more, my grandma comes by it honestly! No script writers, no director to make her sound "funnier" than she is, she actually IS funny!

So, I have to thank my grandma, LaVerne, for her inspiration as a comedienne before her time, her delicious sense of humor and her patience in raising my mother, another understated comedienne.

New Juju

So, I've been in my new apartment for a week today, and I'm finally getting settled. My bachelorette furniture is arranged and my three complete sets of dishes (WAY too many for a single woman who's not exactly throwing a dinner party every weekend) put away. Although I moved out of my apartment of six years reluctantly (my landlord decided to sell, and I'm not in a place to buy,) the new place brings a sense of possibility.

I guess what I mean is that I was ready for a change. I don't believe in regrets. All I ever want out of life is to experience everything, good or bad, that I can adequately fit into one lifetime. I'm not the most adventurous person, I hate change, wouldn't be caught dead on a roller coaster and I have an odd, but very real, fear of swimming in the ocean because I'm afraid that I'll come face-to-face with a whale (no, not a man-eating shark, not a flesh-eating fish, but an innocent, gentle-giant of the sea, a whale. I can't explain...)

But, a new environment (my new apartment) has brought me a feeling of hopefulness and an appreciation for all that I leave behind in my old place. I call that stuff my bad "juju." Dictionary.com (my go-to) defines "juju" simply as "the magical power attributed to such an object." Granted, this was definition #2 on the list, but it was the most accurate to what I mean.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think I had a lot of awful experiences in my old apartment that warrant "bad" juju. There aren't any haunting forces reminding me of past mistakes. There are no bodies burried beneath the floor boards (at least, none that I'll reveal here.) However, I am a 33 year-old single woman living in a city that's just south enough that couples generally pair up in their early 20's (I'll be here when those said couples are on their first divorce, but that's a story for another day.) I do have a dating track record, "baggage," if you will. Honestly, I would be worried if I didn't have baggage at this age. You've seen "The 40 Year-old Virgin," right?

So, yes, a change of scenery is welcome at this point in my life. I'm not expecting, or even asking, that this new apartment bring along with it a new dating prospect or boyfriend. I am, however, excited for the fresh start it brings. "New" juju. And that can be whatever I decide it should be. This possibility is exactly what I look forward to.

I'm not a religious person, and I'm certainly NOT a fan of country crafts, or "primitives" (ask my sister.) But if I were, right now, in my new apartment, complete with new juju, I would be hanging my wood plank, hand-painted (in red, white and blue, no less) sign that proclaims, "Bless This Home."

The Neighbors

Last weekend I moved to a new apartment. Having chosen to stay in the same ecclectic neighborhood in Louisville (yes, believe it or not, we have an artsy, diverse group of residents and independent businesses,) I'm only five minutes from my former apartment. Although only five minutes away from the condo association board meetings, strict rules about time on the communal treadmill, and memos for bad behavior (such as leaving your linens on the line to dry for THREE days instead of the acceptable TWO) of the old place, I'm convinced that I've moved five LIGHT-YEARS instead of minutes.

The neighbors of my new home involve a cemetery, a home for severely disabled adults, a chicken coop as big as my bedroom and an old-school liquor store with a beckoning neon sign that rivals any on the Vegas strip!

Now, I don't claim to be the most politically correct person. In truth, I'll go for the easy laugh and the funniest story every time. So, what's a girl to do...

Despite having sworn I wouldn't "break the seal" by venturing into the across-the-street-liquor store before living in my new place for at least a week, my cheap wine-loving side did, in fact, yield to the enticement of the "wine closeout sale" prominently posted on that giant neon sign glowing outside my front window.

So, I shopped and bought a few bottles of "closeout" wine (hey, I'm always in favor of supporting local business,) and the kind gentleman behind the counter offered to carry out my purchases for me. As I was shamelessly playing the part of the gentle southern woman in a short skirt and high heels, I considered his kind offer. Afterall, he didn't have to know that looks are deceiving, and thanks to my robust German roots, I am a freakishly strong woman!

Then, I took a closer look at my knight in shining armor, that old-fashioned southern gentleman, the Clark Gable to my Scarlet who kindly offered to carry my four bottles of wine out of the store for me... Gleaming at me, as if it was lighted from the very heavens (well, it was the tint of a "gloss" rather than a "flat" flesh tone,) I noticed that this kind sir had a prosthetic arm from the shoulder down.

Panicked, I debated between my excitement over having some help with my heavy purchase and my wild imagination thinking of everything that could go wrong in this scenario. Of those thoughts, I pictured the disabled (I know, I know, but I warned you about my un-PCness) man confronting me, the more than capable faux "southern belle," about carrying my things myself. I also pictured a completely worst-case scenario involving the poor guy struggling to carry my things, jimmying his "faux" arm loose and the damned thing (his gloss-finished prosthetic) bouncing down the parking lot, eventually landing in the gutter, never to be recovered (without city officials being called and severe public embarrassment on everyone's part.) Let's remember, I live directly across the street from this place and would, no doubt, face this man every day whether I wanted to or not.

With these thoughts in mind, and back to this man's loaded question, I politely declined his offer of assistance. On my own, I hauled that heavy box of wine bottles across the street to my new apartment.  Not only that, I vowed to avoid that liquor store from now on given the conflict of interest in our unavoidable proximity AND I pledged to look at people with disabilities in a new way.

I'm proud to say, I've kept one of those promises. But I am going to run out of wine soon...

PFLAG for Cats

It has to be said, I am the proud mother of a gay cat. Harold (it's ok to use real names, he's "out of the closet") is a beautiful, large-boned (emotional eater, I'm sure you know what I mean) gray and white, proud gay man.. um, cat.

How did I first know that my feline son was gay? I guess, like him, I always knew somewhere deep down inside of me... It may have been his apparent love, no, obsession, with all that is shiny, glittery and fabulous. His particular fondness for one pink lame scarf comes to mind. He also has a keen interest in accessories, hair ties, headbands, beach hats, and his mother's most sparkly jewels (and what gay doesn't LOVE an extravagant pendant, bangle or broach even if they are merely costume?!) Other proof of his preferred lifestyle came by way of his disregard for the "ladies" (although to be fair, his nether parts have been "fixed" for quite some time,) and his fascination with human males and a few choice "butch" lesbians.

Sometimes I ask myself if I made him this way (gay.) We have always had a close relationship, mother and son. Was it all the time we spent rearranging furniture and decorating the apartment together? Was it the time we spent together looking at fashion magazines (me reading, him rolling around on the cool, glossy pages in ecstasy?) And I always have loved our chats while I'm in the bath and he keeps me company while preening in the bathroom mirror...

Yes, my baby is a homosexual. And, after some mindful self-evaluation, pints of Ben & Jerry's (emotional eating must be genetic!) and many honest, forthright discussions, I've come to a place of acceptance. Harold is here. He's queer. And that fact is definitely clear...

So, I ask you, next time you catch the neighbor's kitty in your garbage or come across that annoying stray in the alley, be kind. After all, he might just be hoping to score on some fabulous vintage baubles.

An Ode to Dad

It occurred to me after reading my last (introductory) post that I brushed over a key factor and major influence in my life, Dad.

While my days growing up were filled with Mom and my sisters, my Dad's quiet reserve was seeping into my life more than I knew. Dad was/is a big part of why we are a functional functionally eccentric family. He was/is the yin to my mom's yang (not in a dirty sense! eeewww, stop!) the night to her day, the middle part of the seesaw that keeps it balanced... He and she were/are opposites in a way that complimented each other and kept our family whole. For everything my dad is, as an adult, I recognize that I am my dad's daughter. I have become a lot like him for better (a mutual love of good beer) or worse (an equally mutual love of cheap wine) and a sometimes good, sometimes bad wicked dry sense of humor.

So here is my disclaimer: For all of the funny stories I share about growing up with my mom, I also have lots of sweet stories about growing up with my dad (he would be so embarrased that I would even think about repeating them,) but he was every bit as influential to me and my take on the world.

So, here's to dad! (Now's the time to raise your glass of Franzia house red, along with my dad and me!)

Where I'm From

To say that I come from an "eccentric" family sounds more dysfunctional than it actually was. For an estrogen-heavy family of creative types, we always loved each other, always stood up for each other and never got into arguments without eventually leading to apologetic tears. No, we were one of those rare "functional" families of the late 70's, much to the dismay of each of our current therapists.

Growing up, my dad worked in a bank while my mom stayed home watching my two sisters and me. At home with mom, in reality our days were filled with baking, reading, obsessive watching of "Little House On The Prairie" and the bawdiest kind of humor that even a hormonal 13 year-old boy would find distateful. With all the appearances of "polite society" in our way too small town, behind closed doors our close-knit, loving clan never met a fart-joke or four-letter word we didn't love!

I remember burping contests that would impress any loyal YouTube watcher (the secret weapon: cheap, off-brand "Vess" diet cola) and a less-than-intense, yet still awkward, sex talk that involved the words "stick it where you want to."

Through this blog, I hope to share more of the memories and hilarious stories I have about my eccentrically functional/functionally eccentric family. They are what made me who I am, complete with a strange (sometimes inappropriate and definitely un-PC) sense of humor, an appreciation for the ironic in everyday life and an ability to refrain from taking the world (and its inhabitants) so seriously.