Since I truthfully have no idea how much longer this blog has, I am making an effort to wrap up some of the loose ends that I have left dangling over the past year or so. In a lot of cases, the posts are written but for one reason or another I’ve resisted publishing them (most often because they were too painful to rehash so soon). The following is one of those posts. For those of you needing a refresher, the first part of this particular train-wreck can be found here. For those  of you who recall the details, read on…

So after Lola’s fucking atomic meltdown last Saturday, I made peace with the fact that we were done talking for a while. Possibly forever.

Wrong.

Sunday morning, The Fella and I spent a leisurely morning in bed and then out for tea and bagels at the local bookstore.  I had barely walked in my door when my phone rang.

“I’ve decided not to turn my back on you.”

Wow, that’s mighty white of you.

“Okay…”

“DuShawn and I have been talking and –”

“Um, whoa!  Back the train up, sister — you and DuShawn have been talking?”

“Um-hmm.”

“About me?”

“Um-hmm.”

I bit the inside of my mouth.  “And what great insights did the two of you come to?”

“We agreed that you are a good person and that we should give you another chance.”

“Another chance?” I was getting really pissed really quickly.  “Another chance for what?  Another chance to piss you off by doing something you don’t approve of?”

“No.”  I could hear the irritation in her voice.  “I don’t want to discuss this over the phone.  Why don’t you come over here and we’ll talk.”

Against my better judgement, I agreed. 

Here are the highlights of that little tete-a-tete:

Lola: You know there’s nothing wrong with having a guy friend.  Lots of men have them. 
Dirk: He’s my boyfriend, mom.
Lola: Yeah, but you shouldn’t call him that.  He’s a boy and he’s your friend, but he’s not your boyfriend…
Dirk: Um, yeah, he is…

And then there was this exchange:

Lola: What do you do when you’re together?
Dirk: Watch tv, go to the movies, have dinner, take walks…
Lola (face scrunched up in deep contemplation): So things like regular people do?
Dirk: Yeahhhhhhhh…because we ARE regular people.
Lola: Regular people don’t suck dicks and stick them up each others’ ass.

Of course the payoff to the whole afternoon of operatic drama was Lola bursting into tears begging me to forgive her for saying she was done with me and begging me not to shut her out of my life over a “damn man.”

Dirk: You can  quit the “manipulative, brainwashing, evil faggot seducer” shit, mom. At no time has Tristan ever suggested, hinted, or told me that I need to break off ties with my friends and family. He has done nothing but show me total respect and been patient with the fact that I am a fucking career doormat for every goddamn person in my life no matter how shitty they treat me.
Lola: Don’t you talk to me like that, you ungrateful little bastard!
Dirk: Why? Because being a disrespectful, hateful bitch is your exclusive territory? Bullshit.
Lola (sobbing): When I think of every thing I gave up to keep you, every thing I gave you to make up for the way the family treated you and then you shame me and turn your back on me like this… For another man no less! I wish I were dead.

Game, set, and match.

Nothing trumps keeping your married lover’s bastard child and enduring years of scorn, disdain, and repeated predictions of said child’s inevitable fate to both fail as a person and bring shame upon the family only to have them come true at the point in your life when you need that child the most.

So New Year’s.

It’s why you’re all here.

But before we get to the penultimate moment, there was a shitload that occurred before the clock struck midnight.

The day that will forever live in infamy began at 9 am as I arose and went by the house to check on things (as I do periodically until it is sold) and pick up a few last things from the garage.  I should’ve stayed in bed.

The moment I opened the front door, my senses were assaulted with the smell of gas.  As I moved throughout the house, it quickly became clear that the only place the odor was strong was right by the front door.  The kitchen smelled fresh as a daisy, which made me think that perhaps it was some sort of residual smell from the carpeting I had been ripping up all week  but being the worrisome faggot that I am I immediately called the gas company and asked for a representative to come and check things out.

Less than a half an hour later, the swarthy buck arrived.

Less than 2 minutes after entering the house, he informed me that the copper who-see-whatzits on the stove had come undone and would need to be replaced.

Less than 30 seconds later, he informed me that the $4.95 a month insurance for gas leaks and the like did not cover the copper who-see-whatzits on the stove coming undone and needing to be replaced but he could go under the house and do a temporary fix until I could get in touch with a contractor.

And then — just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse — they did.   Swarthy gas rep  informed me that he would not be able to go under the house and fix the aforementioned copper who-see-whatzits after all because when he opened the crawlspace to go under the house, he had discovered it was standing in 5 inches of water.

Wonder-fucking-ful.

Okay. Not the end of the world.  Just call a contractor, get an estimate, and get the ball rolling, right?  Not on New Year’s Eve.

At this point it was 11am, so I figured I would take my daily Y&R break and let my problems pale in comparison to those of my friends in Genoa City.

Wrong.

The show had barely kicked off its feeble offering for the day when my phone rang.

It was Carly, telling me that she was back in the hospital with excruciating back and stomach pain and the doctors were preparing to do a series of biopsies on some spots they’d discovered in a CAT scan the day before.

And so despite having invited The Fella over for a  homemade dinner (which I had yet to start) and a movie (which I had yet to rent), I turned on the VCR to tape my show, donned my shoes, and trotted my sorry ass off to the hospital to do what friends do.

Not even noon and things were already halfway in the shitter…

DuShawn:  Are you coming over to our place for Thanksgiving?  ’Cause you’re invited if you want to come over…

Dirk:  I’ll have to check with Lola…

DuShawn:  She’s invited, too.

Dirk:  Okay.

(Insert long awkward pause here)

DuShawn:  And you can bring someone with you if you want…

Dirk:  Lola will probably come.

DuShawn:  No…I meant…him.

Dirk:  Oh.  Yeah.  No, I won’t be doing that.  He’ll be going home I’m pretty sure.

DuShawn:  Okay.  But he can come if he wants…if you want…whatever.

Selected excerpts from this weekend’s blowout with Lola.

***RING RING***

Dirk:  Hello?
Lola:  I know what’s going on — you’re with that guy, aren’t you?
Dirk:  Yes.
Lola:  Do you love him?
Dirk:  Yes.*
Lola:  Then stay with him.  I’m done with you.  Keep your ass away from me.

***Click***

Determined to put this shit to bed once and for all, I went over to Lola’s where Round 2 took place.

Lola: This is all I need — people telling me they’ve seen you hanging on men and kissing all over them in public.
Dirk: If you had clue one how fucking stupid that just sounded…  I have never done anything — ANYTHING — to embarrass you or myself. 
Lola: You’re queer!  You don’t think that’s embarrassing?!?!?
Dirk: Actually, no…I don’t.
Lola: Go to a goddamn doctor and get yourself fixed!
Dirk: Fixed?  Like a vasectomy?
Lola: No — like a psychiatrist and get some drugs that will make you a real man and want a woman!
Dirk: I’ve seen a shrink.  3 to be exact, and there’s nothing wrong with me.  Homosexuality isn’t a mental illness.
Lola: Oh, so this is all my fault. 
Dirk: What?
Lola: I carried you funny in the womb.  The doctor told me…
Dirk: What?!?  There’s no fault here, mom.  There’s nothing wrong with me. 
Lola (crying): Yes, there is.

So I left for a while before Round 3.

Lola: This is why DuShawn doesn’t want anything to do with you, isn’t it?
Dirk: Mom, I can’t presume to speak for DuShawn…
Lola: I talked to him.  He feels like you’ve shut him out.  This guy has brain washed you  into shutting all of us out.  He wants to keep you where he can control you.  That’s how those older queers are…they get a younger man under their thumb so they have someone to take care of them when they get old because they didn’t have any kids!
Dirk: Yeah, well hate to shoot that theory down, but Tristan is 8 years younger than me.
Lola (bursting into tears): Jesus Christ!  You couldn’t find another queer your age, you have to go messing around with a kid…?!?!  What else haven’t you told me?
Dirk: Kid?  Last time I checked 34 was not a “kid,” mom.
Lola (sobbing angrily): You have an answer for every fucking thing I say!  You don’t want to listen to reason or see what a mess you’re making of your goddamn life!  He doesn’t love you — he’ll leave your ass and then you’ll want to come back to me and DuShawn and act like nothing ever happened.  Well, that ain’t gonna happen!  We’re done with you!  Get the fuck out!  I don’t want to see you again!

All in all, a pretty rockin’ awesome Saturday afternoon.  And Sunday was even better.
__________

* Before anyone makes a single comment, let me say that in retrospect I too was taken aback when I answered that question in the affirmative without even a moment’s hesitation.  Replaying the conversation in my head on the way over to Lola’s, I realized that, for better or worse, I really do love Tristan.  Of course, I’m not going to tell him that any time soon – if ever.  Maybe I’m old fashioned, but 6 months doesn’t really seem long enough to know someone and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you love them.  Oh sure, in books and movies the ol’ lovebug comes up right behind you and smacks you upside the head within moments of meeting your destined soulmate, but thanks to the relationships I’ve been in, I’m realistic enough to know that there is “like,” ”deep affection,” and “love.”  And then there’s “loving someone and being smart enough to realize those feelings aren’t always returned in kind.”

I think we all know which camp I fall squarely in the middle of.

Suffice it to say Old Boy’s funeral was a train wreck from the get-go. It’s really hard to put my finger on the exact moment when things veered from moderately tacky to tragically horrific, but I’ll give it a shot…

Was it when we got to the church and Lola sashayed in, reeking of Miller Light and Oil of Olay?

Or was it when Lola totally pretended not to see Gong-Li and Soon-Yun and marched up to the casket and assumed her place as grieving widow without missing a beat?

Was it the moment Gong-Li tried to say hello to Lola and Lola looked at her with a quizzical “who the fuck are you?” expression, then turned back to greeting mourners, all laughing and telling stories in an outside voice?

It’s really hard to say. That’s because there were so many other fantastic moments, such as…

~ Old Boy’s niece showing up working her farmer’s market look to a fare-thee-well. Sadly, I forgot my phone in the rush to get Lola to the car before she could change her mind, but I can say without hesitation that I have never seen a thigh length denim skirt slit up to the hoo-hoo chute coupled with a spaghetti strap tank top and jeweled flip-flops ever worn with such panache. And the fact that the top showed off the tragic angel wings tattoo on her back — pure genius. And I mean that.

~ Gong-Li’s husband Clark trying to make conversation with me by asking if my shoes were comfortable, followed by several minutes of awkward silence following my “yes.”

~ Old Boy’s sister — Holy Cow — showing up about 100 pounds lighter with no clue where she was and talking about the dog show.

~ Lola asking me if this was my “fruity friend” when Randy dropped by to pay his respects.

~ The moment when I went to the fountain for a drink and hardly pushed the button, causing water to fly about 3 feet across the room which in turn caused me to jump back and cry “Jesus Christ!” while unbeknowst to me, the pastor was waiting behind me for a drink.

~ Some church lady showing up and asking Gong-Li if Lola was Old Boy’s mother which Lola responded to with a much too loud “Who the hell is she talking about? Me? Somebody better get their damn eyes examined…”

~ The rest of Old Boy’s family showing up looking like they just wandered in from Dogpatch.

~ The pre-service prayer for the family and pall-bearers in the church lobby, during which Lola sucked on her front teeth and looked over said Dogpatch residents and rolled her eyes at me instead of bowing her head in prayer.

~ DuShawn and myself laughing silently until the tears rolled when the pastor — a man who had obviously never met Old Boy — described him as “the salt of the earth — forthright, simple, honest, never asking for or expecting anything.”

~ The horrificly long (and I firmly believe made up) hymns Soon-Yun chose. Seriously, what the fuck is “It Is Well With My Soul”? I think “Jesus Loves Me” followed by a rousing chorus of “Amazing Grace” would have sufficed plenty good. DuShawn would find them in the hymnal, then hold up fingers to let me know the number of verses we had to endure. This also inspired us giggle like nine year old girls at a slumber party…which is sad since we are men well into our 40’s.

~ Lola’s mad dash to the car so “we can be the first car behind the hearse — Gong-Li and Soon-Yun can suck me!”

~ Lola’s insane excitement and eager anticipation of receiving the gaily colored gift bag the undertaker was carrying as we waited to proceed to the cemetary. DuShawn and Patrice believe her drooling was in no small part in response to my telling her that said bag was “a swag-bag with sunglasses, a t-shirt, sun tan oil, and coupons for Florida vacations to help ease the loss of a loved one.” I’m such a bastard sometimes.

And while any of those would have been more than enough unto themselves, it was when we reached the cemetary that things went from fairly memorable to downright classic.

While we pall-bearers delivered Old Boy to the grave, Lola and his daughters took their seats in the designated area under an awning set up graveside. DuShawn and I could hardly suppress a fresh round of giggles when we caught a glimpse of Lola on the far left, arms folded across her chest, head tilted with her tongue firmly in her cheek.

The pastor delivered a rerun of his church sermon — I’ve never read it, but I know the Bible is thick enough to have more than 3 passages — then made his way over to Lola where he gently rubbed her shoulder and said he would be in touch.

“I saw how your eyes met over the casket,” I later told Lola, “and I think you’re going to like his version of getting ‘in touch.’”

With the God stuff out of the way, it was time to disperse. Or so I thought.

Lola had another idea.

“Hey, everybody! Get a look at Old Boy’s vault lid before you haul ass!”

Now I’ll be completely honest and tell you straight up I had no idea what the fuck a vault was. The bulk of my knowledge regarding burial comes from horror movies and soap operas and they never have vaults unless they are in a mausoleum. So imagine my surprise/horror when I found out what a vault was and then to discover that Lola had had an image engraved into the vault lid.

A silhouette of a ball capped Old Boy on a riding mower.

And not a little silhouette. One that took up about a third of the lid.

But that wasn’t the most surprising part.

Oh no.

The most surprising part was the collective group’s genuine appreciation for Lola’s brainstorm. They loved it. L-O-V-E-D it. No shit. People actually came up and asked her who had done it — and presumably not to avoid enlisting their services.

Hicks.

And then, just when I was breathing a sigh of relief that we had hit the home stretch with almost nary an incident I couldn’t pass off as a widow’s grief talking, it happened.

Gong-Li and Soon-Yun had wandered over to the casket with the pastor and were pointing at the huge spray of roses Lola had ordered. To be more precise, they were pointing at a small white, heart shaped pillow in the center of the spray with 3 baby roses attached. A pillow which the pastor then removed and handed to Gong-Li.

“What the hell are they doing with my fucking roses?” Lola asked everyone and no one all at once.

Patrice had spotted the incident and was already moving in to intercept Lola, but it was no use. One good shove and all 110 pounds of Patrice were out of Lola’s way. DuShawn and I moved in like third rate secret service protecting the president. But we had too late to prevent the inevitable.

Thankfully, the undertaker also saw what was about to go down and bravely stepped between Lola and the flower thieves.

“What the hell are they doing with my fucking flowers?” Lola demanded, pointing wildly over the undertaker’s shoulder at the roses in question.

“They’re just taking a few roses as a remembrance, Lola,” the undertaker stammered.

“Mom, let’s step back,” I whispered, gently taking her arm.

“Fuck the remembrances — they’ve got 30 grand a piece to remember their father by. I want my goddamn flowers…all of them. And right now.”

Before anyone could even take a breath, let alone move, Lola brushed past the undertaker, elbowed the pastor out of the way, and seized the huge spray of roses, which she then thrust into my arms.

“Put ‘em in the fucking car, Dirk. I paid for ‘em and they’re going home with me.”

The mourners who had gathered for what they were sure was an inevitable throw-down parted like the Red Sea as I made my way to the car, shame faced and wishing I’d let Lola booze it up and stay home after all. I placed the flowers in the trunk and returned to the graveside in time to hear Soon-Yun telling Lola she wanted the will read Tuesday so that she would not have to make a return trip.

“Yeah, well people in Hell want ice water,” Lola replied in a bored tone and walked off. “C’mon, Dirk, DuShawn, Patrice — time to hit the road.”

When we got back to Lola’s, her elderly neighbor came out to apologize for missing the funeral. “What is that?” she asked as I removed the all important flowers from the trunk.

“Secretariat here won the Kentucky Derby,” I replied as I took the gaudy bouquet into the house.

And that was how Old Boy’s funereal spray came to rest on Lola’s bed that night instead of his grave.

So there it was, the morning of the funeral and Lola announced she wasn’t going.

“That sorry son-of-a-bitch left half of everything to those miserable bitch daughters of his — let them bury his moldy ass. I’m not going,” was the answer I got when I asked if she had something picked out to wear.

After about 30 minutes of that, Lola suddenly acquiesced and said she was going to go after all — if I would take her to Meijer for a new pair of shoes.

“Meijer? But mom, it’s less than three hours until the funeral and you need to…you know…”

“Sober up?”

“Honestly? Yeah.”

“Either you take me to Meijer for new shoes or you can tell the yellow belly twins why I’m not there. Your choice, Dirk.”

That was a no-brainer — off to Meijer it was.

And may I just say mad props to Lola because she totally sold the whole “I want new shoes” deal because I was truly surprised when I caught up with her after stopping off for a tea at the Starbucks inside the front door and discovered her making her way to the check-outs with this in her cart:

“Mom…”

“Dirk, don’t start with the fucking lectures. This is my day and I’m going to do it up right.”

Now if I’ve learned anything in my 42 years, it’s never argue with Lola — especially when she’s got the hooch in her.

“I thought you wanted shoes…?”

“Yeah, you can be kind of stupid — hard to believe you’re my kid sometimes.”

Back at the house, Lola whipped off her top, popped open a cold one, and settled back in her recliner.

“I’ma sit here, watch my story, and get fucked up,” she announced between swigs.

Realizing I was getting nowhere fast and steadfastly resolved I was NOT going to Old Boy’s send-off solo, I tried a new approach. “Lovely. Well, you stay here and get shit-faced. I’m going to go take a shower and get ready for the freak show. You suckered DuShawn and I into being pall-bearers and we’re going to honor that.”

When I returned 45 minutes later, I was dressed in black slacks, a white button up shirt, and black Sketchers. Leave it to Lola to notice the newest additions to my wardrobe.

“Where’s you get that fucking tie and belt? I’ve never seen you wear either one.”

Without thinking, I answered. “Oh, Tristan loaned them to me…”

“Who the fuck is ‘Tristan’…?” Lola asked.

Fuck.

Now was obviously NOT the time to talk to Lola about The Fella.

“A friend.”

“Uh-huh. Is this ‘Tristan’ gonna be at the funeral?”

I saw my window of opportunity and went for it. “Might be. Can’t say for sure….”

“Jesus Christ — you are not gonna go gaying up the fucking church! I’ll never hear the end of that shit, especially from those bitch daughters of his! I’m going to go throw on some clothes. You get my fucking car out of the garage and crank up the A/C.”

20 minutes later, we were picking up DuShawn and Patrice and heading for the church.

The Lola Show was about to begin.

With Old Boy on ice, thoughts turned toward interment.

And when it comes to planting a family member, everyone has an opinion.

Which is why Lola informed me I would be accompanying her to the mortuary. “So’s I don’t deck one of them little bitches when they want to have fried rice or something at the visitation.”

All things being equal, I was pretty proud of Lola. She was cordial upon her arrival and took a seat between the daughters while dealing with the undertaker. Initial formalities — date of birth, parents’ names, social security number, etc. — went along smoothly and as I sat along the wall with Clark and Andrew, I felt real hope that this could actually go off without a hitch.

Anyone out there want to sell me a bridge?

The first problem reared its ugly head when it came to choosing the casket. Lola had her eye on a polished silver bullet number which was promptly pooh-poohed by the daughters.

“That’s not daddy,” Gong-Li announced.

Lola turned and looked at me. I could see from across the room that she was already biting the inside of her jaw.

Lola’s second choice was some wood looking thing which was again vetoed.

Cue purse swung over her right shoulder dangling from two fingers and left hand on her hip (also known as the “pre-beat down stance“).

“This is the one,” Kim Jong-Il Soon-Yun announced. “Dad’s favorite color was blue.”

Which wasn’t true. The old shit favored greens for some reason. But there was no denying the casket was blue — midnight blue exterior with a two-tone blue interior. Sleek, shiny, and tacky, it was the sports car of final resting places.

“What do you think, Lola?” Gong-Li asked.

“Oh — I didn’t realize my opinion mattered,” Lola muttered, marching back over to her chair and plopping down.

Strike one.

Next up was the matter of the obituary. In a stunningly gutsy move, the Amer-asian offspring tried to tag-team Lola and include Old Boy’s marriage to their mother in the write-up. Any guesses how that went over?

“Leave that shit out about his previous marriage,” Lola growled at the wide-eyed and obviously nervous undertaker, “if we start listing all his screw-ups I’ll need to buy a fucking full page in the paper…”

Cue deafening silence.

Strike two.

Finally the undertaker cleared his throat and broke the silence. “In regards to the services, did Old Boy have any favorite hymns or scriptures?”

As Lola screwed up her face trying to figure out what these “hims” and “scrip-shurs” were, Soon-Yun placed a tiny hand on my mother’s knee and leaned over. “Gong-Li and I will choose those, Lola. We know you never attended services with Dad.”

Oh. Hell. No. She. Did-ENT.

Strike three.

“No, I’m not a churchgoer. Even if I was, I was too busy taking care of your father since you girls never came around. Of course, I know you had it hard, too, what with taking care of your drunken mother on top of those broken arms that wouldn’t let either one of you pick up a phone or write a letter…”

The undertaker and I locked eyes. You’re closer to the door, his seemed to be saying, run — save yourself while there’s still time.

After an insane amount of excruciatingly uncomfortable silence, we moved on to the matter of flowers. In an effort to win whatever pissing contest was taking place, Lola announced that she would be buying a $300 spray of roses for the top of the casket. I don’t need to tell you there was some slow blinking going on from my corner of the room.

“We’re not familiar with the florists in the area,” Gong-Li told the undertaker. “Can we order them through you?”

He response in the affirmative was met with obvious relief by both the daughters and their spouses.

“Soon-Yun?” Andrew leaned forward. “We probably need to order flowers for the boys, too…”

Soon-Yun nodded. “Yes, we’ll want to order some arrangements for our sons — they’ll be unable to attend.”

“I’ll be ordering some for my daughter as well,” Gong-Li piped up.

“Just add those to Lola’s bill and we’ll settle with her later,” Soon-Yun added.

I closed my eyes and wondered if there was any chance we could get a two-for-one deal.

Lola cocked her head to one side. “Better yet, since these two and their kids couldn’t find Old Boy’s house in the last 15 years, why don’t you just make three separate bills? That way they won’t get lost trying to find me and square up.”

The seven of us sat for what seemed an eternity listening to the pins drop.

Finally, the undertaker breathed a sigh of relief and mercifully announced that he had everything he needed.

With 48 hours until the funeral, I hoped things would remain semi-drama free.

And they did.

For about 36 hours.

That was when Lola found the will.

(see-nay kwah nahn)

Prep.

Latin for ‘without which it could not be,’ an indispensable action or condition.

Last week, as most of you know, was sort of an eye-opener for me in regards to this blog. While I have always known I had a pretty loyal and intensely opinionated readership, I really had no idea just how passionate some of you really are.

Which I found both flattering and a little intimidating.

Which led me to declare a “no Fella” zone on these here parts.

Which has led me to a fork in the road regarding the future of this blog.

While I would never be so stupid or obsessive as to make The Fella the center of my world, the truth is that in a very short time he has become a pretty big part of it and many of the things I could/would blog about would involve him whether it be directly or peripherally. And with a self imposed “No Fella Zone” it makes it just a wee bit hard to really write about anything with any degree of honesty. And without that, I can’t see any point in really putting forth the time and effort here. It would be a waste of time on both my part and yours.

This decision came back to back with both DuShawn discovering this blog (Dirk Mancuso friendly tip: when house-sitting, ALWAYS clear the history when using someone else’s computer to blog) and loads of drama on the Lola/Old Boy front. Add to that concoction one part new apartment stress, one part the return of Bruce, mix liberally and you’ve got the makings of a rockin’ awesome meltdown in the making.

And so here I sit, debating whether to continue the blog or pull the plug.

Or reinvent it in another form.

Or go private.

Or continue on without filters.

Two years ago it would’ve been an easy choice, today not so much. It’s not just stories on a blog any more, folks — it’s my life. And life is messy and ugly and hard and sometimes you just want to keep everything in to protect yourself the best you can. Other times having a venue to talk about things is the only thing that keeps you sane. Which is all so contradictory since I take great measures to keep everyone at arm’s length, never allowing anyone to get close enough to hurt me.

God, I really need to get my shit together in at least one aspect of my life.

So until I figure out what I’m doing, I’ll be here…with the fabulous new object of my affection, Mr. Ron Carlivarti who recently won an Emmy for his spectacular efforts over at ONE LIFE TO LIVE (recaps of which may just replace the Y&R ones if that show doesn’t get its shit together and fast). Watch his show — make it number one. That is an order.

Okay, so my mother and best friends have told me to hit the bricks because they have an issue with my being a practicing homosexual and things with The Fella are on hold (temporarily, but most likely permanently)…but I think I found a kick ass apartment.

With 2 walk in closets.

I guess the smart thing here is to consider the glass half full, right?

Right?

…Right?!?!?!?!?!

Despite my best efforts to resist the ravages of time, I have indeed turned 42 today (or 29-13 as I prefer to reference it when asked my age).

To pay proper respects to the vestiges of a wasted youth (and post youth), I have chosen to take the day off from work.

Lola has chosen today to let me know what a disappointment I am as a son and that she knows what I am doing with a man and how much she really doesn’t care what I do with my life.

The fella has chosen today to take the afternoon off at work so that we can see a movie, have dinner, and spend the evening together.

DuShawn has chosen today to continue waffling on the fella’s offer of a week ago to join us for dinner so that we can operate in a nifty limbo waiting for him to make up his mind.

On a happier note, how fuckin’ hard did LOST rock last night? The fella and I were all Kleenex and sobs when Sun saw Jin blow up on that freighter. (And yes, I have managed to reel back in a lapsed LOST-ie.)

Have a great weekend everybody!