Coon Bones & Kate Bush

Last Sunday (the 16th), I had my neighbors over for dinner. I wanted some sort of closure with them, especially because, as a result of K.'s cancer diagnosis last Spring, we'd become closer; not necessarily intimate, although K. has shared intimate details of her cancer with me, but more involved--I cared for their cat whenever they left town to visit her doctor in Boston. I was happy to do it, because we're mostly just helpless onlookers in the face of a cancer diagnosis, and it was, at least, something.
The other something I could do was cook, and when K. hasn't just emerged from a barfy round of chemotherapy, she actually has an appetite and appreciates good food.
So I made a couple of spinach quiches and had them over, and K.'s boyfriend (the building's caretaker) somehow got himself on the topic of lucky mojos--charms or spells.
Specifically, raccoon penis bones.
Also known as a "coon bone" or a "pecker bone."

I don't know how the conversation navigated to this esoteric, somewhat voodoo-esque topic (I may've well been dining with the spirit of Marie Laveau), but he told me he'd ordered a number of them and passed them out to his friends, and he even wore his proudly on a lanyard around his neck at a friend's wedding.
For lucky heaps of marital sex, I supposed.
K. grimaced and said, "Eww, it's so disgusting. I hate touching it."
Apparently not having learned when to shut up, move on, or change the subject altogether, I thoughtfully chewed a forkful of balsamic vinegar-sprinkled baby greens and asked what a raccoon penis bone looked like.
"Well," he said, grinning broadly, "I'll show you!" and then ran down the hall and retrieved the thing for my viewing pleasure.
There, swinging at the end of a black silken cord was something that resembled a giant white fish hook. The first thing I thought was, wow. Lady raccoons get it good or get it bad, depending on your perspective.
He then put it on and we continued uneventfully with our dinner while K. and I emphatically ignored the curved baculum swinging on the lanyard around his neck.
The evening was, in spite of the interim pecker bone viewing, very pleasant, and I'm glad I had this time with them.
We ate the apple pie they'd brought, and then I sent them home with the second quiche.

On quite another topic, I curse the commercials for CSI that moodily play Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work" in the background. It wormed its way into my brain and I was finally compelled to download it.
Of course, being in the midst of transition and after a heavy week of teary goodbyes, it was probably the absolute wrong thing to do.
It's desperate, tremulous, scenes of slow-mo driving-into-the-sunset please-don't-leave-me vein-opening music.
Not that I'm planning to open a vein any time soon or anything, but I could easily conjure a painful moving day departure scene in my head, replete with soulful, long-held regretful hugs and final stumbling words of farewell and crumpled, tear-dampened Kleenexes pressed to reddened noses and rheumy eyes, which was all overwrought and dramatically self-indulgent and highly unnecessary.
Yes, time for BirdNerd's Mash-Ups. I need to happily rock this house, not bring it down.
But I still love that song.

A Good Year for Bad News, part II

I watched Hedwig and the Angry Inch last night, for a couple of reasons: because it had been reintroduced into my consciousness when my friend told me he was HIV-positive and showed me his Origins of Love-inspired tattoo on the inside of his arm, and because it was time, before I pack it in a box for the long schlep back to the west.



I seemed to enjoy it a lot more this time around, and found even more humor in it, which was nice. It was good to laugh.

And the kid who plays Tommy Gnosis didn't bug me this time. In the past, I really wasn't all that keen on that actor; he seemed doughy and uninteresting and kind of not real committed to the role.

This time around, I had a whole different take and really enjoyed his performance.

And I got misty during Midnight Radio, which is my second-favorite song on the soundtrack next to Origins of Love, and the message about becoming who you need to be and being set free (even if it WAS Hedwig who ultimately frees Yitzhak, although perhaps that doesn't need to be taken literally, since there's an element of fantasy about the whole story) really hits home with me.

But I have been contemplative since having received this news about my friend's positive diagnosis; I saw him at work the following day and he looked happy, his cheeks rosy, because he'd had a good check-up and I realize that this is how his life will go forward now: ups and downs based on the status of his health.

I thought about how I have known other people with HIV or full-blown AIDS who were already positive and living with it when I met them, but I have never known anyone pre-HIV who then transitioned into the status of being positive during the course of a friendship. This is something new for me, and I'm resentful that, as I get older, bits of innocence are being stripped from me.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't resentful about so much pertaining to this, in fact--that he's so young, that it's preventable, that it's a complex combination of personal responsibility and societal oppression that leads to risky behaviors (in many groups, not just among gays), that I feel like the Dominant Culture--of which I am a part--has won, once again. And it enrages me.



Which brings me to my next thought: I had this notion that the Midwest would be insulated, so much so, in fact, that I wouldn't be exposed to what I'd been exposed to on the west coast and maybe I'd get a bit of a break. And I see now how ridiculously naive that mindset had been. It all percolates here--Cancer, HIV/AIDS, child abuse, pet abuse, homelessness, alcoholism...it's just not as in-your-face as it is out west, and it all lies, radioactively toxic, beneath the surface of a benign celebration of "Family" as the only pursuit--hetero love, 2.5 kids, picket fences and corporate jobs. In spite of this culturally-ingrained Midwestern message, I feel as though coming here brought me face-to-face with my life in a way that living out west just never had. Which is weirdly ironic. If I wore rose-colored glasses when I moved here, I certainly lost them somewhere along the way for good.

But I also think I knew innately I needed to open myself to the world in the very ways that frightened me the most, because this was the only way I knew that would push me to grow. No, I have no control over what information is shared with me. I didn't know those words were going to spill from my friend's mouth when he said he had something to tell me. I don't purposely seek out bad news, and I can't un-know what I now know, but I don't hide from it anymore, either. And in a weird, profound way, maybe that was the best gift I could give myself, picking up and moving 1700 miles outside my comfort zone.

My friend's diagnosis was not my diagnosis; it's still his life to live, but now I am connected to him and his life in a way I had not anticipated. And, although this is not about me or my ego, it kind of is; it wasn't just his life that changed.

I get a sense that cosmically, more will be revealed to me, because I think I have finally learned that there are no accidents in life.

breathe feel love give free
know in your soul
like your blood knows the way
from your heart to your brain
knows that you're whole
and you're shining like the brightest star
a transmission on the midnight radio

A Good Year for Bad News

I don't think it's been a bad year, really, as far as years and accumulative experiences go. There've been trips home and new pugs and good, enlightening moments in recovery and a road trip that brought me and a friend and her dog to gaze upon the majesty that is Lake Superior, and last fall's Paul Simon concert and newly deepening friendships and a few cool purchases off of eBay and some really good meals. So overall, it's been a really good year, mostly, for which I am deeply grateful. All things considered.

It's the moments of bad news I could do without, but hearing it isn't as awful, ultimately, as being the one sharing it, because the one sharing it has to live with the bad news in a different way than I do as the mere listener.

I was on the receiving end of some of that bad news today.

A friend of mine at work--a kind, sweet, soft-spoken young man--came to my desk and asked if I had a few minutes to talk. I said yeah, and asked if this was something I might need Kleenex for, because of how quiet and serious he seemed.

He said no, but I'm not sure I believed him.

I chided him about the fact that he was a no-show at my going-away party as we walked down the hall in search of an empty conference room, even though he'd accepted the invitation and seemed enthusiastic and excited about attending. He just smiled and looked at the floor, but didn't say anything.

We found an empty room and sat across from one another. I folded my hands in front of me and asked what was up.

His voice was soft and nervous when he spoke. "Remember when I was out this summer and I told you I had Mono?"

I looked at him and nodded.

"Well...." he said carefully. "It wasn't Mono. It's...." His voice trailed, and I watched him watching my face, measuring my reaction through my expression. I felt my heart thump, because I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

"I'm Positive," he said. And I looked at him and said, No, no, because this is the first time I have been told but not the first time that I've seen this virus. It explained so much--the long absences, the huge weight loss, the sunken cheekbones and eyes, the new raspiness in his too-young voice.

I reflexively covered my face with my hands because I started crying and I could see that he was, too, that telling me was hard for him, and then I stood up and hugged him, and in that moment our somewhat casual friendship became much less casual and I knew something new and profound and awful that I didn't want to know but it was too late. And I remembered so many other men I'd seen, the blue-haired costume designer from Evergreen who died, and my mom's friend DeeDee pulling out clumps of hair, and the splotches of Kaposi's and the once-strapping, beautiful, vibrant men at church who whithered to such shocking thinness, too many to keep track of.

He knew the night it happened, and with whom. It wasn't a mystery. A one-night stand, he'd said. And we talked about his self-care and he said with as much frightened conviction as he could muster that he was going to fight it with everything he had or die trying.

And then I really, really wished I'd had a Kleenex because we'd hurtled straight into Major Kleenex Territory and I started crying all over again, a little harder, and he was put in the position of comforting me, which made me feel really ridiculous, but I pulled it together enough to thank him for trusting me enough to share such awful news with me. I told him how honored I was and how much I appreciated his vulnerability.

"Really?" He asked. And I reassured him. "Really," I said.

And we talked for an hour and he says he's taking it one day at a time and doing everything right, everything that he could possibly do, and he even got a new tattoo on the inside of his left forearm, a little split-in-two animated character from Hedwig, which I identified right away. And that surprised him.

"Well, I love Hedwig," I said, and told him about my poster and my video and my book and my CD. And then I apologized for razzing him for not coming to my party, cause I felt like a total ass, given the circumstances.

And then we tried to crack a few jokes even though a giant gray cloud of heaviness permeated the room and he told me he'd been keeping a little fan at his desk because he periodically broke into sweats, and I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder and said, "Welcome to my world."

A 41-year-old straight girl in perimenopause and a 30-something gay boy afflicted with HIV and we actually have something in common.

But I believe on some level that I have really always known that.

Beginning to End

And so it begins. The ending to my Midwestern Adventure.

Last night, right after work, was the Big Going-Away Party at the home of one of the managers from work, who offered his house just for this occasion (I really didn't want some random happy hour at a downtown bar. Boring.) He likes parties (he kept thanking ME for having a party last night, when he is the one who offered to throw it!) and has a Christmas party every year (albeit for select members of whatever team he's currently managing), and he always says he thinks his house was built for entertaining, and indeed it is a good house for that very purpose, with an airy floor plan, two levels and lots of gathering spots for various groups.

And a pool table, if you're in to that sort of thing.

He shares this house with his incredibly sweet and mostly-always-grinning partner, who bought me a big bunch of Mylar balloons (in rainbow Pride colors, no less!) with a top balloon that had cheery scrawl across it that read, "Good Luck!" The bunch is now slowly leaking helium in a corner of my kitchen, since they insisted I take them home with me afterward.



There were about 20 people there, a good combination from various aspects of my life--work, church, writing, etc. The food was great, and unbeknown to me and the host, my boss's husband and son showed up at the house mid-afternoon with a ton of catered Indian food--two enormous trays of samosas (vegetarian and lamb), tabouli, hummus, and enough gigantic middle eastern flatbread to feed a small nation. The manager who hosted the party had taken the day off from work to prepare (I feel honored by this alone) and had bought a ton of wine and other beverages, which is about all he had in the fridge (everything from bottled Seagram's Peach-flavored Fuzzy Navels, which are practically liquor-less and taste like liquid Jell-O shots, to decent white & red wines, waters, soft drinks, beer, Mike's Hard Lemonade, you name it...and of course, the top shelf assortment in the liquor cabinet).

He'd laid out shrimp and cocktail sauce on ice, crusty baguettes and some good cheeses downstairs; a friend of mine brought a magnificent chocolate cake--the same one she'd baked using Scharffenberger Chocolate for my birthday in December. I contributed my famous spinach-artichoke dip.

My boss' son arrived with his keyboard a bit later (a Sophomore at UC Santa Cruz) which he set up downstairs, lending a mellow, cocktail-y verisimilitude to the gathering (I joked that he needed a brandy snifter for a tip jar on his keyboard--he was really good!); there was a group card on the sideboard for signing, and many gifts. In fact, it felt like a shower, really, and as I unwrapped gifts with everyone watching, a friend bundled the discarded curly ribbons into a corsage and made me wear it on my wrist. The gifts and cards were lovely and heart-felt; a few favorites were a small, serene framed watercolor from my boss of a lake scene in winter (she said she wanted me to "remember the colors,") and a book from my brainy, hip church friends called "A Slice of Organic Life" with chickens on the cover, all about raising chickens, planting gardens, collecting rainwater...essentially, living with consciousness and lessening that Carbon Footprint.



I love that the people I've met here are people that reflect my own values and respect them and appreciate ME. I feel really good about that.

I got a few cards I read in private, because they were wordy and sentimental and made me cry, and I was touched by how deeply and sincerely some of my friends here feel about me and how they've shared that they will miss me. And I also feel touched that so, so many of them have said I'll make a good Life Coach. It's so affirming to hear that.

It used to be hard for me to hear that people would miss me; it made me feel bad, like I was doing something wrong by leaving. I'm healthier now, and I appreciate that they can and do express that to me, that I have had some meaning in their lives and have left some sort of imprint.

When the evening ended and everyone departed in a flurry of sentiments, well-wishes, and offers of moving day assistance, I was sent packing with a ton of leftovers, and drove home with a friend of mine and her boyfriend (who were given 2 grocery bags full of leftovers themselves) while the host and his partner stood in the driveway like a sweet married couple and waved us away.

I had a hard time sleeping for all the good, loving feelings this gathering elicited, and I woke up this morning feeling overwhelmed with emotion. For sure, I will miss these people here with whom I have bonded, but I am also leaving for good reasons--there is no pain involved in this decision, no resentment, no need to flee for negative reasons (except, perhaps, the weather). It's just time to take another step on my life's journey, and I'm excited to be back near the ocean and my oldest friends and my family.

And to start the Life Coach training.

Perhaps the nicest thing is knowing that I really did build a life for myself here, and that I can come back to it and visit on occasion. I did that; and I know now that I can do that again.

Two weeks to go at work, a few more lunches, the department-wide email announcement...then a week of packing, a few more goodbyes, and that stretch of highway 94--and a new chapter to my life--before me.

Laborin'

Good day for labor, it being Labor Day and all.

Hell, any sort of labor; I'm sure plenty of babies have been born on this very day.

And speaking of labor, every Monday leading up to the Big Move (since I don't work Mondays anyway), I've made it a point to pack some stuff. I usually scrawl a to-do list on a page in my little bitty pocket-sized Day Planner so I can see what my packing goals are--things like, "wrap/pack framed chicken prints in kitchen/bedroom" and "pack books" or "pack chicken tchatchkes" (yes, lots of chickens in various shapes/forms/sizes, etc.).

Today was a recycling/cleaning storage locker/packing photos & cards sort of day.

I've gotten a significant amount of stuff bubble wrapped & boxed up; in fact, thanks to the recycling room at the biggie corporation for whom I currently work, I've no doubt saved a bundle on all sizes of cardboard boxes and rolls & rolls of wrap. We regularly receive huge boxes with fixture samples, since we're in the business of building Big Box stores with a lot of "stuff" in them, all of which is prettily & helpfully presented to you (and me), the general consuming public, on various fixtures. And these samples are sent to us from their respective hopeful vendors, and all are wrapped like mad, just swathed in yards and yards of large & small bubble wrap.



As a kid, I loved popping the bubbles on the wrap between my thumb & forefinger. The big wrap is the most fun, for a louder pop; as an adult in the midst of a major move, I now see how wasteful (though thoroughly enjoyable) this popping pastime had been. But what do you know of Big Moves when you're a kid and most moves are done FOR you (basically, you're an accessory to be hauled along, like a lamp or a chair or the family dog, when all is said and done; seriously. I'm not being negative. It's just kind of matter-of-fact).

I also got my AAA Triptik made--this has got to be one of the coolest road trip accessories known to Motoring Man (and woman)! It supposedly takes them a week, but it was done in 2 business days; it's a little narrow vertical flip book, spiral-bound, broken down into 200 mile chunks with highlighted sections and cool fold-out pages for a larger frame of reference. It describes the scenery you'll see as you're motoring along--for example, as I pass through North Dakota, my route "...traverses gently rolling, semi-wooded farmland, once the land of the Sioux and Objibway tribes. Noted for water recreation, dairy and granite products."

I mean, I love this! If cat, friend and I must traverse nearly 1700 miles to get to my ultimate destination, it may as well be poetic!



So I'm feeling very good about my progress on this transition; my ducks are falling into a tidy little row and I can feel like I'm leaving as organized and prepared as I can possibly be. And this Friday is the "Bye-Bye Caitlin" party at the home of one of my managers, who offered to throw a party for me. Kind of an after-work cocktail thingie, good combo of straight/gay/single/married/co-workers/church folk/writer buddies, etc. Have a little closure here, then I'll have the "welcome back" party there. Which is, of course, one of the best and sweetest parts about going from one place to another.

On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again.....