the same, but different

I'm in Los Angeles as I write this; actually, I'm West Hollywood-adjacent...paying by the minute at the Kinko's on Sunset Blvd. I've been in SoCal since Sunday and I return to Chicago on June 22nd..the anniversary of Judy Garland's death in '69 (faggotini factoid, as a dearly departed friend would call it), and then I jaunt to Grand Rapids, Minnesota, the site of the annual Judy Garland Festival. I was an invited participant two years ago there and I've been asked again this year to present another video seminar/Q&A this year.

It's a wonderful, off-the-beaten-track three days in the small town, full of Munchkins (yep, the surviving ones from the 1939 movie!), fans, a few peculiar, fervent fans, Judy's son, Joe Luft, and, in years past, Lorna Luft; Lorna is abroad performing at the moment so she won't be there this year. It's a wonderful time and I've never seen water and sky so blue. Last year, we spent the Monday after the festival ended to go speed boating on the water and visit the town's mogul. It was glorious and a glimpse in an era gone by but still alive in a pocket of a very small town in Minnesota.

Under any criteria, wee Grand Rapids isn't bustling, ain't crowded and the pace is lanquid. I remember when I was there last time, the Festival director and I were waiting for the light to change to cross the town's 'busiest intersection' (I think there are only four roads in the entire town...) and he said, with a straight face, 'my gosh, look at all those cars on the road.' There were only EIGHT. "It's rush hour now. It's going to take me fifteen minutes to get home."

In 2006, the Festival arranged for a huge Hummer stretch limo to pick us up: Joe, The Munchkins, and me. The Hummer was so TALL, a box had to be placed under the car door when they jumped out so they had something to land on. It was like a Japanese clown car -- with little people. Dozens of 'em jumping out of the yellow pimp Hummer and bouncing on the crate box before hitting the red carpet which was unfurled to lead them from the limo into the hotel. I had a grand time that weekend, as they used to say, and I bet this year's festival will be just as fabu, if not more so.

The four-day Festival attracts hundreds of people from the States and abroad, young, old, gay, straight and those occasional in-betweens. I remember after giving my video seminar in '06, one lumberjack type (picture the original "Brawny" man from the vintage paper towel commercials) shuffled up to the desk where Iwas signing books and DVD's and he he said, haltingly, "My wife dragged me here. I don't know much about Judy Garland but there's nobody like her. She's the greatest."

A real-life lumberjack at a Judy Garland Festival? Talk about Dream Date...!

It's funny. After living in L.A. for over 25 years, it's odd to return as a visitor. I'm staying with a great, dear friend who generously is putting me up, and putting up with me, for the week that I'm in town. He's the friend I gave my furniture, bedding, kitchen stuff et al to when I moved; so it's comforting and yet odd at the same time, to see my old furniture and the rest in HIS place, and I'm surrounded by it all. One more visual to show me where my life was and where it is now. Everything in L.A. is the same as it was in January when I left but yet, everything is different. Of course, what's different is me. I spent too much time drifing in L.A. -- there's none of that in Chicago. A friend here astutely remarked, "People live in Chicago because they want to be in Chicago. People live in L.A. because they have an agenda for something else." He painted with a broad brush in that remark, pointedly, but I got what he said.

I don't feel that I belong in L.A. any longer; a few nights ago, I was in my rental car and I thought, I really am missing being home -- home, being Chicago. Maybe it's the fact that I own a home and I'm anchored in Chicago but it's more than that...I feel that L.A. wasn't good for me the last year or so and I probably wasn't much good for it, either. After my breakup with my ex, I was adrift and sad and unsettled and memories were everywhere. I do have sentiments about him as I drive all over town, remembering things we did and places we enjoyed. I actually thought about calling him, but I won't. I admitted to CB (when she asked, intuitive soul that she is) that I had been thinking about him and she wasn't surprised. It was after the 2006 Judy confab that my ex told me he was in love with me, so being in L.A. and the upcoming Judy event both contribute to this, I am sure. The good thing is that I can admit those feelings but I don't have to act upon them.

I have changed a great deal in the last eight months, since my mom got sick. I feel that I lived in sort of a suspended, protracted gay male adolescence that only went away when I had to face the mortality of my only surviving parent (and, thus, my own). You will either rise to the occassion or crumble under the emotion, pressure and newfoundr responsibilities. Even at the most difficult moments in Chicago, I have never once thought that I made a mistake by moving there or keeping the house, fixing it up and not selling it. I have a place where I belong and it has changed me at my core.

I have spent this week seeing old friends, seeing my cardiologist, etc....and it's been great. I miss them all very much but online communication really makes it far less than it would be otherwise. CB is somehow taking time out of her enormously busy schedule (during a high-profile, high-budget production) to shop with me and save me from myself when it comes to me not picking the right thing or the right color; when I got the gay DNA, the design-clothes-color strains were absent. In that sense, I am a gay man trapped in a straight man's psyche..I know what I like when I see it but I could pick it out or coordinate if my life depended upon it.

While I'm here, the painters are at the house and the carpenter is there too (more or less) doing work and supervising. I have a lot to do here but not soooo much that I'm overloaded. My friend, DA -- whom I met in 1980 when I put an ad in The Advocate for a roommate -- is being very generous in putting together a video presentation for the Judy Festival, which involves multiple nights and a lot of clips and editing.

Of course, I am doing some gay things while I'm in L.A. I'm seeing Liza at The Hollywood Bowl on Friday night with the boys and I'm seeing Dr. Harvey tomorrow for a splash of Botox and laser skin peeling on my face; how else can I be on the doorstep of 40 and not go over that cliff?

The other day, I visited an old friend who had way too much work done and not good work. His attractive gray hair was now a montone Just For Men shoepolish black and his rugged face was now so full of facial filler that he looked like a peeled, overripe apple. He had some lip injection too which makes him look like he is perpetually about to sneeze. His handsome late 40's mug is now looking like a pie crust with eyes. I wanna go back to Chicago...!

posting the last moments of May!

I've been horrible at this blogging thing this month...obviously. My friends have complained, nudged and barked that I dropped the ball here.  And it's true.  I take the licks. I'm sorry for not being constant...and just disappearing. I also am sorry that friends have worried about me, taking my silence here as an indicator that something is amiss, or I'm under the weather..nope, just under the gun.

To summarize (details to come later), Handyman is gone. I had to let him go. His single success was the tile floor in the kitchen, but not much else got done (well) or, most of all, completed. I didn't know this (I was sort of snowballed by my so-called 'Polish brother') but CB keyed into what was really going on not ten minutes after she walked in the door here. She came to Chicago two weeks earlier than we expected, to address a critical time...the installation of the kitchen cabinets. She found that the plumbing wasn't correct, the electric was iffy and Handyman had become my personal Elden. Unfortunately for me, he seemed to have adroitly tapped into a very real, still powerful need in me...to have a brother figure, a mentor, a male figure (non-sexual) in my life to pay me attention, to bond with, to learn from...things I never got from an absentee alcoholic father (whom my mom divorced when I was six) or as an only child.

CB realized, at the moment she closed the door behind her here and assessed the situation (aka the damage), that very little had gotten done (much less completed) and Handyman seems to have milked the situation (and targeted my blind spot) to his advantage. I was duped; I felt more than a little sheepish and taken, but such is life. CB, once again, saved the day, saved the project and saved the kitchen.

Shotcut to the present: the hardwood floors were done three days ago; they look great. The plumbing was fixed (Handyman did it all wrong), the electric work was corrected (at considerable expense) and the painters are next to invade my home. I'm leaving for LA in a couple of weeks for one week to see friends, take care of business on the West Coast, etc.  And to see sorely-missed friends. I've also been invited to speak at a convention at the end of the month; a repeat visit from two years ago. I had a great time in this small town hours from nowhere, and I'm looking forward to the respite again.

The house needs to be painted, much still needs to be done, I need furniture, and a ton more stuff I can't even begin to think about (it's almost midnight). MS has been a dear, dear friend and she is my joy and my life raft when the road gets rougher (it IS, lonelier and tougher...).  

Yet, even at the most difficult times through all of this, I've never regretted moving from LA and taking on this town, this house and this new life in Chicago.

I'm having stirrings about wanting a boyfriend, but, that's something I'm not ready to tackle yet! However, I have had feelings, random or not, of wanting to mate...look out, boys :)

OUT OF CONTROL

So much has happened in the last week or so that I've hit 'overload' more than a few times.  Thank my higher power (and yours, just in case we have the same one) that CB is on the way here from L.A. tomorrow morning; she's doing the 911 thang and helping me through this hot mess aka home rehab. 

She moved heaven and earth aka her jam-packed schedule so she could be here this week, instead of two weeks from now. I said, with a wail in my voice the other day, "If only you were here now..." and, amazing best friend that she is, CB will be at my side...taking over, geting this house in order, ship-shaping the troops, and creating (and maintaining) the schedule calendar so things happen, when they are supposed to happen..or sooner.

This has been a critical week. Crates and crates of kitchen cabinets arrived last week.  I wasn't told by the delivery men until they rang my doorbell that, for insurance reasons, thy would not bring the boxes inside the house. They would drop 'em at the door or bring them into a garage, but that's it. If Handyman hadn't been there...and with his dolly...I would still be sitting outside of a rapidly bowing porch, day after day, with a toilet plunger masquerading as a shotgun, guarding the cardboard boxes. 

Thankfully, Handyman spoke his charming fluent Spanish and ingratiated himself into their hearts and got them to help move the bigger boxes into the house (with his help). He moved the rest himself with the dolly into the living room. 

For my part, I paced and sweated on his behalf and made a pitcher of iced tea. I know my limitations. I, uh, had just gone to the gym earlier that day, anyway; I was all about the Feng Shui. I had to make sure those 108 cardboard boxes were in JUST the right place for the friggin' WEEK it would take before the cabinet installers are here (this Wednesday through Friday).

Kitchen appliances are arriving this weekend. Gone are the Harvest Gold stove, the Avocado Green refrigerator and ancient, probably radiation-emitting microwave circa 1968 from Sears; I'm only slightly exaggerating. I'm still using the Black & Decker under-cabinet coffeemaker that Mom bought in '83...not kidding, she saved everything, including the sales ticket. After it leaves here post-renovation, it's heading to The Smithsonian. (Me, not long after.)

In prepping for the new-fangled kitchen appliances (with three-prong cords!), I accidentally, but most thankfully before the house might have burned down or some such imagined disaster, discovered that the a/c company improperly installed an electric box that wasn't grounded or bonded. Not only is it against code, it could have fried me and burned the house down. Of course, I'm now in a tussle with the company about that while, at the same time, I've had to bring in an electrical contractor to save the day (at $$, of course).  

I feel like I've been suckerpunched...I've lost a sizable amount of money on the bad electrical work, and now I have to spend double that to fix it...plus, prep this old place for new-fangled appliances. My mom barely used one wall a/c, the TV and a lamp on at the same time.  Me, you know I'm gonna have on the computer, four TV, eighteen lights, the microwave, the washer and dryer, four clocks all at once...so I gotta bring the house up to date.

Handyman & ViceGrip have been working uber-hard and (it seems) round the clock to keep on schedule...laying the tile (that's all that's getting laid, alas), grouting, plastering the walls, you name it...the last of the grout is going on tonight and the kitchen drywall will be covered with Magic Marker slashes with diagrams of the cabinets and about-to-arrive appliances so the electricians have caveman-like drawings to guide them at 8AM tomorrow.  And that means, I have to get up at 7:45AM...that's really the worst part of it.

Despite the housebound drama ("I Am a Shut-In!"), I did have escape this weekend.  MS invited me for an encore at The Art Institute to take the Hopper exhibit.  As I've posted earlier, Edward Hopper is my fave American artist (save for CB), and I savored his work on my last jaunt there with MS; however, there is so much to see (and, frankly, MS and I talk so much) that we had the urge, the drive, the need, to see more than the six paintings (kidding!) we saw the first time. The second visit was as powerful as the first, if not more so, and I came away more of a Hopper man than I had even been before...I am now compelled to learn more about the man who creates such moody, introspective, haunting images of solitary, isolated, lonely, perhaps tragic people...or, sunny landscapes which still seem...morose and foreboding. I said to MS during our tour, I bet he is the kind of guy who jumps out of Japanese clown cars and wears a Whoopie cushion...he must be a life-of-the-party guy who spills his sadness and feelings of separateness into his work...now, am I talking about him or myself...?

My elderly neighbors, Catherine and her husband, invited me to their nearby Lutheran church for Mass. It was "Bring a Heathen" -- actually, "Bring a Friend" -- to Church Day, and so they invited me and I was tickled that they asked.  I had never been to a Lutheran service, and I really enjoyed it. I loved the fact that the pastor was married and had a wife and three kids...they were all in the front row, uh, pew, and beamed at Pastor Daddy. It was wonderful to see the connection of church, family and members of the church together. 85-year old hubby-to-Catherine slammed his fist on the table after service during get-acquainted-breakfast after, and said, "We had a lady Pastor and she was a pistol -- but she died in her sleep, and that was that."  As a Catholic, it was wonderful to see a Pastor with a family and so connected with his congregation and his family together; it would be spectacular, IMO, if the Catholic Church followed suit.

This from a staunchly Catholic family (I'm reformed) with an uncle who is a practicing priest and a deceased great uncle who reigned as a cardinal. My uncle had a female "housekeeper" who traveled with him, including holidays at our house, when I was a kid, and when the first one died, my uncle got himself a younger babe, a gal who cooked, cleaned and...whatever...he was a licensed pilot in the air, a hellion on Earth with his souped-up Cadillac that never seemed to go less than 80 MPH...

End of Catholic Church rant...

Phase II...at warp speed...starts tomorrow with CB's arrival...hang on - !

I'M HOME

Many changes have occurred in the last two weeks or so since my last post. My social life is on the upswing and for that I'm very grateful. I don't feel so tightly wound as I have been...not that I've had "romance" or "recreation," but I've gone out a few times with friends in the last couple of weeks (in addition to 12-step meetings and outings afterwards).  

After one 12-step meeting, three guys invited me to nearby Crew, a popular gay/straight sports bar in Uptown...I felt like a puppy out of a cage. It was so exhilarating to be out of the house, among my fellow gays and socializing with dozens and dozens of men (and women) of all types.  The enormous screen projecting a basketball game didn't grab my attention for more than a few seconds, but my neck got quite the workout scanning the room and the men.  

As I've said to some L.A. friends, there might be more bona-fide "knockouts" in Los Angeles in terms of looks and muscle, but, that said, I find Chicago/Midwestern men to be infinitely more appealing, interesting, sexy and multi-dimensional. Men in Southern California are so consciously aware of being attractive or wanting to be perceived as attractive, that it becomes a studied landscape instead of a breathing, vital human being. I remember eight years or so ago, when I went to Wales and Scotland for the first time, I found the men to be the most attractive I had ever seen...mostly, because they were so unaware or so unconcerned with their good looks and even the 'lesser gods' among them were magnetic because they didn't have a studied or put-upon sense of self or masculinity; it was the real deal, and from the land of tanning beds, steroids, personal trainers, Botox, facial fillers and hair plugs, it was incredibly refreshing. The same is true for Chicago. Men might not hit the gym every day, they might carry a few extra pounds because of winter hibernation, but their ease within themselves, being comfortable in their own skin, and their 'take it or leave it' attitude, devoid of preening and plucking, gets me hot under the..collar.  Thankfully, I havent' seen a 'murse' aka manpurse anywhere...!

This past Sunday, MS and her hubby and I had brunch with one of my oldest friends, JK, and her lover, MD. I've known JK since high school (!) and we even 'dated' for some time. Since those long-ago years, we both crossed the fence to the other side and shed our straight skins, as it were.  She, unlike me, alas, has the gift for attracting the right person and sustaining long-term relationships (and her partner is a gem and a pip of a gal, as they used to say).  We met a few weeks ago, the three of us, and carried on like magpies, and this recent Sunday brunch at the fabu Wishbone on Lincoln, was all the more so, because I was able to introduce MS and her hubby to JJ and MD...when worlds collide, old and new friends meet and new bonds are formed.  

On Friday, MS is meeting for the first time another friend of mine, GW, here at the house (to catch up on the tornado of renovation afoot).  GW is also stopping by to visit Handyman, as it was she who introduced me to "my Polish brother" when I kick-started the renovation at the end of February; my gosh, it seems like six months ago!  Handyman is also bringing his sheepdog that day (our first introduction) so I can practice having a pet at least for five hours.  From there, MS and I are going to an art exhibit opening which involves my AA sponsor, so it will be yet another case of integrating the various pieces of my new life in Chicago.  

I'm planning a trip to L.A. in mid-May. I'm looking forward to it. I have a couple of appointments and I want to clear out my storage facility and ship boxes of archive materials here.  After all, what is this near-empty basement for, if not to save me $115 a month in storage fees?  I have the ongoing dilemma of what to do with my 12" LP's...I've had some of them since I was a kid, many from in my teens, and while I don't play 'em and really don't need 'em, I can't think of parting with them...at least yet. A dear friend is holding them for me, but I really at some point soon have to ask myself, do I want to pay storage year after  year for things I never open, never use and never will need again, just for sentimental value?  I might be able to sell them, but I'm not sure there is a wide market for 560 Judy Garland albums, MGM movie soundtracks and scratchy LPs of Margaret Whiting, Ella, Doris Day, Billie, and the cast albums of No, No, Nanette, Irene, Good News and a warped copy of Barbra's "Stoney End."  

I'm looking forward to seeing my friends in L.A., of course, and it will be interesting to be there as a visitor and not as a resident. Today, the weather was glorious (there's that word again for Chicago weather!) and it hit a high of 71 degrees!  You sort of get selective amnesia (the way I do when I go on another bad online date after swearing them off four days earlier) and the snow and sleet and frostbite and shoveling sort of blurs into sunlight hitting your face.  At this moment, there is no place I'd rather be than here in Chicago.  I notice subtle changes in me: I've gotten used to the local '773' area code and when I call friends in L.A., I sometimes forget to dial '323' or '818' -- yesterday, for a moment, I forgot the phone number of an old friend I was calling on my cell phone; I had to shut the phone, look up his number on my computer...

This has been the most uprooting, life-changing time of my life, the last six months, but, even at its most rigorously challenging and exhausting moments, I wouldn't change a thing.  For the first time in a very long time, I know I'm where I should be...and where I want to be.  

On Saturday, one of the neighbors invited me to a pancake breakfast social at the local church to be held next weekend. It sounds like fun. And how nice, how flattering, to be asked, to be included. Another neighbor, 85 year-old Catherine, next door, saw me outside the other day walking to my car (with a tile sample in my hand, of course) and put her arm around me and said, "Do you have plans the last Sunday of this month?" (Pat, pat on my back, hug, hug.) "No, I don't think so...what do you have in mind?" "You are my friend, aren't you?" I said, "Um, of course I am...why?" She demurred, "My church is having a 'bring a friend to church day' on that Sunday and I'd like to bring you....will you come?" I said yes.

I'm on the church and pancake circuit...and that's the only kind of circuit party I know these days...and it's just fine with me. Especially when it's all you can eat for five bucks. 

FEELIN' LIKE A MULLION

I've been remiss at creating entries here and I apologize. This house rehab is even more grueling, perhaps, than the OTHER kind of rehab...maybe, well, not really. I don't know if I have ever been so consistently weary day after day.  I hit the rumpled bed, wake up after six hours of sleep...and it happens all over again. Six days a week. I'm thinking of offering Handyman double pay if he DOESN'T work on Saturdays.  

I don't mean that. Not only is he doing an incredible job, he continues to be my 'shield' and pitbull from shady contractors and salespeople; he calls me his "Irish brother" and he's teaching me Polish words and I help with some daunting English words he hasn't quite nailed...although I find his accent to be endearing and he certainly has no trouble communicating. He speaks Polish, English, Spanish, German, Greek and two other languages. In direct contrast, it's taken me four days to properly pronounce the Polish word for "fast." (The irony of that is not lost on me...)

Since this IS my first rodeo in terms of renovating a home, as it were, I guess it's more stressful, demanding and tiring than usual. And, perhaps, all the more so, factoring in the added element that I'm reworking the house that my mom lived in for 25 years...well, that can be a kick in the stomach in that, at every turn, I'm confronted with memories of her and the happy years she spent in this house...and me, as a frequent visitor during that time when I trekked from L.A. to Chicago for her birthday and holidays. 

The house, as you can see from pics posted here, is down to the bones. This is bunker living at its most basic. A foxhole is looking like upscale digs to me right now. I've got one bed, one chair, a kitchen table with three chairs and two bedroom dressers for some of my clothes; the rest of my stuff is in the basement. I'm still living in limbo and it's only going to get worse. 

In about three weeks, I'll have to temporarily move out when the hardwood floors will be sanded and treated, plus during the bathroom gutting when there will be no shower or commode.  I'll shower at the gym or depend, um, on the kindness of strangers. But how could that be? I haven't much socialized since this started, nor have I had a date or, well, you know...

My social life has largely tanked since I haven't been out and about to meet, greet or glad hand (...) and I don't expect an uptick for six to eight weeks, when the bulk of the renovations are done. I'm grateful that I have the marvelous MS here in Chicago, the fabu CB long distance, my LA friends via phone and email, my sponsor, my 12-stepping friends and friends here from the old days to bolster me right now. I haven't had the time or energy to cultivate new friendships or relationships, as much as I would like to. It's just the way it is; I can't complain. It's part of the price of admission for a new house and a new life. 

"This, too, shall pass" is my mantra (one of 'em) these days. 

It IS exhausting driving across town pricing windows, tile and doors and getting building supplies here and there, being surrounded by buzz saws (so it sounds) as central a/c is installed for ten straight days, but I know I'd get zero empathy from most anyone working a 'real job' all day (or all night). That said, I'm more tired at the end of the day than I've ever been in my entire life; could it be that being, um, in the ballpark of 40 (that one went over the fence into Peoria, if truth be told and I won't) has impacted my energy level? Egad. I can't go there....

I'm not complaining -- just observing, mind you -- when I say that I am focused entirely on the house right now...my days are spent running errands for Handyman to get building supplies, shopping for doors and tiles and grout and whatnot, getting bids for this and that.  By the time Handyman and ViceGrip, his new assistant (neuBluto is gone, more about that later) leave at 8PM, I barely have time to grab some food someplace down the street (I have no microwave, sink or oven any longer) before CB and I have our long-distance nightly wrap-up of what happened today and what's on the agenda for tomorrow and later in the week, or the scope of the entire project.

The definition for me of friendship in its purest, most loving and generous form, is CB and her taking on this project, particularly long distance (until she arrives in Chicago the first week of May) with her in L.A. and me (and the house!) in Chicago. The time, the hours, the energy, the talent and heart she pours into it on a daily, no, hourly, basis can't be properly expressed. My best friend for 25 years, she and I have seen each other through so much and she has taught me so much about life and friendship. She has been there for me at my worst and has championed me at my best. She loved me when I didn't love myself, and we have a bond that I cherish. I am her greatest champion and she is my greatest inspiration.

When I left L.A. she was the one person I missed the most; yet our friendship is so strong, that the distance has not displaced our friendship.  I do know she has given of herself 200% as the designer in my home renovation, while also in the midst of an enormously high-profile and demanding gig (a big-budget, prestigious production) and has turned down work -- including a TV series -- to create this new home for me.  She is one of the most talented, in-demand designers around and I'm lucky to have her, as my designer, and, above all, as my friend. During the scope of this house rehab, I have met the challenge more often than not (I hope) but I am painfully aware that I have faltered more than a few times -- but she's been there, from start to finish. She is a designer extraordinaire and friend second to none.

I mean to blog every other day, but it's just not in me right now -- even though I am fervently committed to doing so. And then when I don't blog each day or so, the topics I want to cover stack up like delayed planes at Chicago during an ice storm, and I put it off even more because it seems so daunting. I've gone beyond writer's block. I am awash in writer's remorse.

Yesterday, I called my AA sponsor, the inimitable MO. (And he has my m.o., that's for sure). We speak (most) every day and try to see each other for in-person pow-wows about every two weeks. He asked how the house rehab was going, and I blathered on about trying to find an in-stock awning window for the master bath. I stopped and said, OMG, I used to talk about going window shopping. Now, I'm actually going WINDOW shopping! 

I told him I was gleeful when I found an in-stock Pella all-wood, aluminum backed bathroom window for only $139!  Pella, they say, is the best, but it's so pricey. I've become, ouch, One Happy Pella.  And I can't stop singing, "I'm Just a Pella, a Pella With an Umbrella..." -- that vintage Irving Berlin song from the Garland/Astaire MGM musical, "Easter Parade." Clearly, this sleep deprivation has taken its toll.  (Not to mention I haven't had time or energy to go to the gym in two weeks...and I must buff up again for my spring debut in Chicago...)

MO laughed when I passionately told him about snaring the Pella (and canceling the special order at Home Depot for the same window at the cost of $479) and he said, "It's funny what happens when you renovate a house for the first time. You get so involved and detailed about things you knew NOTHING about or had NO interest in six months ago."

So true! 

I had never HEARD the word "mullion" before... and now, I know (thanks to CB), that I don't want too many mullions on my windows in the house. And yet, I've got 'em. 

Several days ago, some guy saw my dating profile online and sent me his number. I called and it turns out, his full-time career is rehabbing houses! We met for coffee and I spent over an hour drilling him (not in the good way, alas) about central a/c, local electricians, the pros and cons of cork floors vs. porcelain tiles for my kitchen. Apparently, he didn't find my line of conversation particularly hot or inviting and I never heard from him again...except when he called to cancel a getting together a few days later -- to come by and see the house on Handyman's day off. I had fleeting fantasies of hot sex on the unfinished floors surrounded by power tools. I guess he was more concerned about splinters or something. That, as they say, was that. 

My dating drought continues unabated. 

Last night, I wearily staggered down to the local coffee shop at the corner for what was a passing resemblance to dinner. It was about 9PM. The lights in the restaurant resembled an X-ray and it wasn't flattering to me, the big-haired, fading "Flo"- type waitress or the alarmingly obese male patron across from me, shoveling down one dinner roll after the next, like he was popping breath mints. I called MS on my cell phone and said, my gosh, it's so empty and bleak and morose in here, I felt like I belonged in Edward Hopper's "Nighthalks." 

The analogy was particularly relevant for us, because MS had invited me to a member's only morning at The Art Institute a few days earlier.  We spent a delightful morning (before the mad crush) sauntering through Hopper's stunning artistic career. I deadpanned to MS, "I didn't realize Hopper had done so many paintings. I thought he had only done two. 'Nighthawks' and the sequel, the second 'Nighthalks' with Elvis, Marilyn, James Dean and Humphrey Bogart."

We soaked in the exhibit (it was pouring outside).  Taking in each painting, I have never seen so many lonely, depressed, displaced and doomed people in one place -- except for AA meetings. 

It was absolutely fascinating and Hopper remains (next to CB) my favorite American artist. MS and I vowed to return and see the exhibit again; it requires more than one visit to properly absorb and appreciate the wealth and breath of his talent. 

Postscript: NeuBluto is out of the house and out of my life, but he had a surprisingly positive effect on my relationship with Handyman. NeuBluto outed me to Handyman, and it's all good.  Not only is Handyman gay-friendly, he wants to introduce me to his gay Polish cousin. I couldn't make this stuff up. And, luckily, I don't have to...

More about THAT later...!

STRIP SEARCH

After saying he would locate an experienced, reasonably priced back-up helper sometime this week, my "Polish brother" Handyman today brings in a Romanian stripper (WINDOW stripper) to do some detail work: Stripping, sanding, and restoring the beautiful old oak windows, room entry arches and some spotty hardwood floor areas which have been covered by wall-to-wall carpet for as many years as I've been in that house -- almost three decades.  

Having someone here to pick up the slack in that area allows Handyman to focus on bigger projects, like drywall, leveling the kitchen floor and carpentry repairs. A few minutes after he introduces the new guy to me, Handyman excuses himself to run to Home Depot to get some supplies. Window stripper rather looks like Bluto in the Popeye cartoons -- but grayer, meaner and more fierce. Blubbery Bluto wanted to bop Popeye; NeuBluto would bludgeon him.

NeuBluto sports a volcanic eruption of salt and pepper hair and a furrowed unibrow that starts at each temple (and probably wraps around his entire scalp) and ends at his nose, forming an bushy exclamation point. His bulbous, splotchy nose suggests a propensity for barrooms and barroom brawls. Despite his harrowing demeanor, Bluto is friendly and immediately gets to work, sanding the wood in the kitchen archway leading into the dining room.  

I'm seated at the kitchen table, maybe six feet away from him, my face buried in the computer. In less than five minutes, Bluto bleats, "I got a girlfriend.  She can't keep up with me, if you know what I mean." 

He winks, I cringe. 

"I'm divorced. Twice. I got three kids." He studies me. "The youngest one, the boy, is gay." He pauses. My fingers freeze on the keyboard.  

"I don't know how he turned out gay, my other two kids are straight. I'm straight." He clearly needed to make THAT point. "But it doesn't matter to me if my son is straight or gay.  He's my son and I love him. And I'd fight anyone who tried to make trouble for him."

At this point, I hit the "s" key 35 times without stopping.  I didn't know what to do.  He's sending me a message. But what do I DO with that?  Say something?  Is he fishing? Is it code for "I got a gay son,  I got YOUR number!" 

Then, I'm thinking, it's none of his business, I've known him five minutes, this isn't friendship, he's working for me and...uh-oh, he's gonna tell Handyman. And then what's to become of our "I'm your Polish brother" riff?  Our chatty lunches?  Our male bro' to bro' bonding? 

Will he spook and run?  Will it ruin our working relationship? 

I HAVE AN ENTIRE HOUSE TO REHAB AND WHAT IF HANDYMAN WALKS OUT NOW?

Mind you, at this moment, as Bluto takes a breath, I've played this out -- twice -- in my mind within twenty seconds. 

Just as I'm about to say something in response, Bluto shifts gears. "When I said I'd fight to protect my son if anyone gave him crap for being gay, I mean it. "

I smile.  I'm thinking, this rough-and-tough bulldog is a softie! 

Bluto scrapes the arch wood with even more vigor. "I'm not afraid of a fight, I can tell you that. In fact, I have to go to court next week.  I hit a guy with a baseball bat."

I winced at the visual. I could almost feel the air swirl as the bat grazed my forehead, as I stumble to find something suitable in response that won't get me hit with a bat.

"Uh, why did you hit the guy with a baseball bat?"

"I think he was gay and he was coming on to me."

Clearly, our 'gay son' bonding moment is over and I quietly close the laptop so Bluto can't see my multiple gay.com chatroom conversations. 

I say something idiotic, like, "It's really serious, hitting someone with a baseball bat."

"You got that right. It gets better! Turns out, the guy is a cop."

"I guess it you're going to hit anyone with a baseball bat, a cop would be the last person to do it to, don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, but how could I know? He wasn't wearing a uniform."

"Was he wearing anything?"

Bluto gives me a dirty look and I start dusting my computer top with my fist.

Bluto resumes scraping the wood. "It doesn't look good for me. But, you know, I'd do it again if I had the chance. It wasn't my fault. I was...provoked."

I don't think I had blinked for about five minutes at that point. I nervously looked at my watch, wanting Handyman to COME BACK NOW. He had only been gone twenty minutes. In the dead air of silence, it was just Bluto and myself. I think he heard my beads of sweat hit the computer. I jump up from my chair, asking him, "Would you like a beverage?"

I am NOT getting on this guy's bad side. I'll send a car and a driver for him the morning if that keeps him happy and bat-free in my direction. Better yet, I'll give him double his pay NOT to come back.

"Nah, thanks." He pauses, squinting his eyes. "You're not married, are you?"

I shake my head, no.  

"I didn't think so."

It's only 10:30AM.  

THE EX FACTOR

An unexpected package arrived in the mail...from my ex. He sent me a card and my pair of reading glasses (with case) which, he wrote, was found when foraging through luggage I borrowed from him some time ago. It was a nice gesture. I wasn't sure if it was a method of him resuming contact (on some level) since I left L.A. -- or simply that he was returning eyeglasses. I told you I'm great at fabricating drama. I'm also a master at creating subtext when none is there. Or, at least, not the script I'm working over and over in my mind.  

I've been so busy with the home renovation that I didn't respond via email for a few days; in the apex of our romance, I would have replied in five minutes. When I was agonizing over our break-up during much of last year, I would have waited 30 minutes, but likely would have spent half a day writing, rewriting, but finally deleting the email I sent to him (thank God we both have AOL to make THAT feature possible!). Undeterred, I'd start all over again...go from anger, to sentimental, to being pissed off to being contrite to overwriting (ME?) to cutting it down to one sentence. Another two hours spent writing to him saying we shouldn't write to each other.

This time, I delayed replying simply because I was so busy, it slipped my mind. Or I thought about getting back to him when I was driving or shopping or unpacking or packing...someplace where I'd have the thought and then just as quickly forget. I guess it means another step away from being caught up in a past relationship when you don't jump all over it and make it the center of your world...you write back, like a normal person, and say thanks. And that's it...

That said, a few days after I wrote him, I had a very ominous feeling that something was amiss, either with him or his aging, infirm parents. I emailed him and asked if all was OK and he wrote back, saying at the exact time I got a "hit" that he was in trouble, it was true - something had happened in his life and I was on the money about my premonition...and precisely when it happened. Just shows, no matter what...there is that connection between two people who once loved each other.

Funny how life works...I never would have thought in a million years -- more accurately, in the bloom of our relationship -- that I would migrate to Chicago, move into and rehab my mom's house...with my ex also in Chicago at the same time -- and for an added dash of irony, is staying with his current boyfriend...who, by chance, lives in Chicago. It's getting so inbred that I wouldn't be surprised if they rent the about-to-be-empty one-bedroom apartment next door to me. What could be more delightful? 

What matters is, my ex and I wish each other well, we have made peace with each other, admitted our mistakes and have peace in the shared awareness that we were right for each other at a certain time in our lives.  We said goodbye three different times in the last week I was in Los Angeles...the first time, we both cried; the second time, I blubbered; the third time, he sobbed. Sadness, regret, loss, yes...anger, resentment, blaming, no.

No matter how it ended, I'll remember the apple pie we baked, the Halloween pumpkin we carved, puddin' pies, many cozy nights watching episodes of the British '70's comedy series,"Two's Company" (complete with his dead-on "Stritchie"impression), the Sunday afternoon stroll on the beach in Malibu...and how he taught me how to love, and to be loved in return.