Gilded Palace of Sin

Fish Are Jumpin' and Cotton's High

I’m glad I have more than several devices, both organic and digital, to let me know that it is June—because if not, I would just walk outside and say “Hello August, staying long?” Yeah, unseasonably warm for the first month of summer folks—not that I’ve been spending much time out-of-doors living a leisurely lifestyle or anything. Oh no—that is the stuff of dreams, dreams lived by those with finished homes and organized, unpacked lives easily navigated along paths free of strewn about boxes and piles of stuff still waiting designation and relocation.

Bottom line: the Manor House is /has been somewhat of a still-active job site that has prevented us from completing our move-in process that I SO imagined, nay—FANTASIZED would be completed by now. Well, there I go deluding myself with rational expectations again. When will I ever learn? So yeah—we still have boxes, no room is totally finished and I alternate daily hourly from being all zen-like and patient and having minor meltdowns when I can’t find even ONE of the FIVE pair of scissors I know we own. I think the breakthrough came when I accepted the fact that this could go on all summer and tentatively began imagining the warm feelings I will have next Spring when I can possibly hang pictures.

Other than Manor House problems—life is still good. We recently took a short trip to Amelia Island where PM was speaking at a medical conference. I tell you—a few days at the Ritz Carlton just works on me like a tonic! Especially when you spend all day at the pool being pampered with several tonics—gin and tonics—from the bar. “Thank you Javier—just charge that to our room.”

Not much in store for the weekend—Peachtree is coming up next Saturday, so I will make one more practice run along the course this Saturday morning for good measure. Despite the heat, I have been having really good runs of late. I have returned to my old route through downtown Decatur and along the hills of Ponce—which, while perhaps not as woodsy and lush as my previous course through the Andrews/Habersham neighborhoods—is a very nice run indeed.

I know posting is still spotty, but I have no immediate plans to stop anytime soon. Facebook is what it is, but not very good for taking a long walk inside your head—and maybe taking a few people along with you.

You We Are Here

Writing It All Down:

New month—new leaf? Day one tells my brain that it could be the magic that makes it stick, creates the resolve to be better about it. Although the one side knows that all that is magical rationalization and horse shit , the other side welcomes the superficial promise of better days ahead—that even layer of virginal white frosting hiding the misshapen cake that lies beneath.

Mmmmmm, Cake:

Speaking of cake, I haven’t had any in a damn long time. My office has been awash in cake for the past two weeks—but I kept my resolve and tasted not. In fact, I’ve not been eating much at all outside of grilled chicken, salads, boiled eggs and grilled turkey patties for almost 4 months now. My gym/running routine has been fairly strong and consistent as well. Pretty pleased with the results too.

Oh Give Me A Home:

Speaking of results, after weeks of looking at he same bare wall studs, the same bare floors and the same ripped up staircase—the rennovations on Morningwood Manor have kicked into high gear. In just the past week, all of the new windows were installed, the home theatre system was wired along with the music speakers throughout the house on each floor, and all the sheetrock was completed. Next week, the kitchen cabinets arrive and all of the flooring is being laid down at the same time that the built-in bookcases are being constructed for the downstairs room. Our architect is still telling us we can move back in on May 24—so we are keeping our fingers crossed. Of course, this means I now have to start packing/editing/trashing all of my stuff to prepare for the merging of households.

In Spite of Ourselves

Speaking of merging, I have to say—I think PM and I have passed the stress test. Going through a home renovation is one of, if not the most stressful thing a couple can experience together. The constant delays, decisions, disagreements and dissapointments can really bring out the worst in people.  It’s an exhausting and frustrating experience most of the time and can bring with it a real sense of powerlessness —everything about how soon it will be done is totally out of your hands and it’s just too easy to take that frustration out on each other. On top of all that, we have literally been on top of each other since February when PM moved into my place for the duration of the construction. Cramped quarters and having to step around and over suitcases and bins of shoes have not been easy for me—and I’m sure living out of said suitcases and bins has not been easy for him either. But I have to say—I think overall, we have handled it well with each other. I would be lying if I said we have not had a few disagreements and squabbles long the way.  But we have never given in to our lesser selves and become angry or mean with each other. At no time have either of us felt that it was a power struggle for control. I think we have both been very good about listening to what the other wants and compromising when it didn’t jive with what the other had in his head.  We have been fortunate in that we both share a similar design aesthetic—which has been good, but I think it’s more important that rather than viewing this process as a struggle for dominance, we see it as building something—building our home.

It’s been a difficult experience—but I can honestly say that I know no other person I would rather go through it with than him. I still wake up every day, and find myself a little bit more in love with him than the day before.

You Know You Ain't Bad Looking, I Like The Way You Hold Your Drinks...

Although the self-seen image of myself is of one that doesn't really worry—I know it's not true. I worry sometimes. I can't help it, really. Mom was a worrier. Oy, that woman worried about everything except what the effects of too much worry could do. Passed it right along she did—but worse. Mom never saw her worry as anything less than healthy concern for something that could just knock you on your lazy, non-worrying ass. worry was good. Worry was necessary. Worry was just another hoo-doo chicken foot in the arsenal of navigating the booby traps of life and coming out the other side with most of your parts and a few dollars in your pocket. I know that worry is really pointless and futile, but I still do it. The only thing worse than worrying is worrying with full cognizance that it is pointless—and then worrying that can't stop worrying.

And I don't even want to start down the rabbit hole of reasoning that all past occurences of me worrying have ended with the realization that my worries were all for naught and that this epiphany should result in a future free of worry. Then I would have to accept the logic that doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity—and that would lead to the annoying fear that I might indeed now be insane—among other worrisome things.

So I accept it. I worry. I find relief and then try not to beat myself up or cajole myself with sincere vows to never do it again. It is what it is. Should I be worried that I am so at peace with worrying? No? Okay.

But lately. I've been worried about PM. Since moving out of his townhouse for the duration of the renovation, he's been living out of suitcases at my place. Lots of suitcases actually. And shoe boxes. LOTS of shoe boxes. Anyway, having done that before, I know that after a while, you start to feel, well, a little homeless. No matter how comfortable the surroundings (or wonderful the company), being away from your home base can be stressful. I've tried to be sensitive to it. Even though clutter and the sprawl of clothes and books naturally make me a little antsy in my typically charming OCD way, I've let it go—knowing that it's more an outgrowth of life within a cramped bedroom rather than the norm. I guess I just don't want him to feel like he is in my way—which he isn't at all. I love having him here, and I can't wait to have him there either. There being about 1800 more square feet to love him in with lots and lots of closet space.

The other day I noticed his brow. It was furrowed and were he in a comic strip, there would have been a black cloud or just a dark ink scribble over his head. I instantly fast-forwarded to that worry place. I then launched into some lengthy, reassuring soliloquy about understanding how he felt, blah, blah It's all just temporary, blah, blah I love having you and all of your shoe boxes here, blah even though we don't wear the same size shoes, blah, and this will all be over and you will be back in your home before you know it, blah, blah, blah...

Now looking at me with even more furrows in his brow, I go on—and on thinking I'm the most caring, perceptive boyfriend in the world til he stops me. 

"Oh no, I'm fine with that. 

It's Just A State Of Mind

IIt has been a dreary week here at the palace. Rain, rain and more rain on the way it looks like. I'm not really complaining mind you—I like rain and the opportunities it affords to stay in and curl up on the sofa with a book or Turner Classic Movies. Perhaps make a big pot of homemade soup or chili while listening to the rain patter against the kitchen window. Nice.

Unfortunately, my decadent, rock 'n roll lifestyle does not afford me a constant stream of such rain-soaked pleasures—oh no. I'm still takin' what they're given cause I'm workin' for a livin' you might say. I've been sloshing to the train each morning, wading past the water-logged panhandlers in downtown Atlanta cursing their fate as they try to keep their cigarettes dry, putting in my 8 hours only to turn around and do it in reverse and arriving home to my dog who is having none of that pooping in the rain bizness unless I make my serious face that says just two words: Weimeraner Rescue. So forgive me if I have been a little slow to find the magic and wonder of this, one of nature's miracles—I know that spring showers bring May flowers—but after a solid week, they better bring a Tiffany tennis bracelet and dinner at Quinones to boot.

Maybe this evening will give me a chance to enjoy the nicer aspects of the soggy weather. I am seeing homemade pesto pizza, a bottle of wine and a Scrabble game for two—all to the steady tap, tap, tap against the windowpane.

On The Home Front

Facebook Killed The Blogosphere Star

Is there anybody out there? 

The other day I found one of the original blogs I started reading back in 2004. Although now defunct, the site was still up and even had it’s blogroll intact. It included all of the original blogs I used to read—some daily. Curious, I clicked each and every link only to find that all but one were dead—”page not found.” The one blog that was still active hadn’t been updated since January 19. I was sad, it was like finally accepting the fact that a good friend had moved away and left no forwarding address. 

And this blog has not been immune. I would have to do several clicks and page refreshes to find the last entry that was not a recap of my weekend or some random graphic posted in lieu of real content. It’s not so much that the well has run dry, but sometimes I just can’t seem to muster the energy when I think—”what’s the use? Does anyone even read this any more?”

I’m sure the reasons are many—from the fatigue of daily  or even weekly posting to the constant pressure of always having something interesting to write about. But I also wonder if everyone has simply begun to get the nagging feeling that they are somehow suddenly behind the curve.  None of the bloggers have vanished altogether, they just traded in their journals for post-it notes. Yes, each of these ex-blog authors is active on Facebook, so instead of thoughtful musings and humorous stories I am now privy to a constant outpouring of what they ate for lunch and the ten albums that changed their lives. That’s really about it. People are still talking, they just aren’t saying as much—or rather, they are saying less more often.

“Blogging is dead,” a friend recently told me. “Facebook is the new blog now, —it’s less work and more immediate.” 

I can’t argue with him on that. So much easier and faster to tell everyone I’m feeding the dog than actually writing about my dog—what his presence in my life means to me and how his approaching mortality sometimes creeps into the forefront of my thoughts. But I can’t help but feel that one is more meaningful than the other. One tells you that I feed my dog, while the other tells you why —how much he means to me—and perhaps in giving that more complete picture, make a connection that the reader recognizes in himself—beyond the simple act of me pouring some kibble into a bowl.

I can’t argue that everyone’s (including my own) apparent fascination with the immediacy of Facebook’s endless supply of cyber voyeurism is a sad substitute for the unfiltered peek into someone’s psyche that blogs have sometimes provided and sometimes still do. Perhaps blogs have always been more of a digital best foot forward than realistic portrait. One that, while presenting flaws and flubs, has tended to present only fabulous flaws and flubs that somehow make one more interesting than pathetic. Perhaps—but even then, I think that is far more entertaining and insightful than knowing that someone has just finished laundry and is now “contemplating” cookies. 

So... 

Is there anybody out there?

Well He's Got Him A House On The Hill...

Remember some weeks back when I posted about being a one and PM being a one and how we had decided it was high time we became a two? I won’t bore you with a re-telling—it’s a post or two down below, you can read it for yourself. Anyway—the plan is to set up cohabitating bliss together in PM’s palatial estate—Morningwood Manor. Before move-in day however, the estate requires a significant rennovation of its rooms. In preperation, PM and I have spent almost every waking moment of the last four weekends packing, editting, Goodwilling and junking. PM is a lovely, wonderful man but he is somewhat of a pack rat. The Pod is arriving tomorrow and the house will be completely emptied so the slaves workmen can begin rennovation on Monday. 

The estate overhaul will be pretty extensive. Hardwood flooring is being installed throughout the main level and the upstairs and heated tile is being installed downstairs. Yes, I said heated tile. Yes, you can hate me. The main staircase is being opened up by removing the central wall—which will create a dramatic effect by exposing the staircase all the way to the ceiling on the third level. Railings are being custom created especially for us and will give the staircase a cleaner, more modern look. The kitchen will have all new appliances in stainless finish, black granite countertops, and open shelving in leiu of upper cabinets. One fourth of the master bedroom is being converted into a quite sizeable closet/dressing room which will blend into a reconfigured master bath. Rooms in the East Wing are also undergoing slight modifications as well. The library downstairs will have built-in floor to ceiling shelving and the outdated fireplace will be given a facelift as well. And finally, the East Veranda will undergo a complete landscaping redesign. The servant’s quarters will remain as they are.

The estimated timeframe is 3-4 months, during which PM will be living at my Buckhead condo—which really comes down to 2 extra nights a week. But that is two nights I don’t have to sleep alone, so I ain’t complaining.

All joking aside kids, I’m excited. 

Imagine. Me—Mistress of Morningwood Manor.

Birthdays, Other Things

Yes, that is a recent photo—very recent in fact. Not too shabby for the years and wear and tear—so much wear and tear I must confess. So my January birthday rolled 'round again and it was nice, really. Calls, cards and even some pressies—the biggest one being an Apple Time Machine from the world's most wonderful boyfriend. Well, that and a totally renovated townhouse along with his undying love. Who could ask for anything more? 

Two

Two. It has become a quite significant number in my life. 

Two is the number of days out of the average week that PM and I are together. With his medical practice being an hour and a half away, it sort of makes commuting back and forth a little more than difficult and expensive. He’s offered to come home more days, but I won’t let him. He already works 14 hour days just keeping his solo practice afloat. Anyone who still thinks doctors live a cushy life of days spent on the golf course and weekends at the country club are obviously living in a 1950’s fantasy land. After seeing a ridiculous number of patients, and doing rounds at the hospital—he comes back to his office and completes charts and dictations until after midnight most nights. Oh, and the hospital will call at least a handful of times before dawn for emergency consultations. Such a cushy life. And I should ask him to add an hour and a half drive to that each day? I don’t think so.

If Tuesday is manageable, he sometimes drives home and we will meet up for a quick dinner and maybe some TV—while he reads EEGs online. I’m certainly not complaining—I more than appreciate the effort he puts into balancing the needs of our relationship with the gargantuan demands of his work life. And an effort it has been for him. The two days we spend together—Friday evening through Sunday—begin with him packing bags for not only the weekend, but also for the following work week. I know it has been exhausting for him to do this week after week. It’s been frustrating for me as well—I sometimes feel that by the time I am just getting adjusted to him being there, it’s time for him to leave. But this is the way it’s been since since we started dating—a little over two years ago.

Two years. 

Two wonderful, albeit sometimes exhausting years together. And sometimes a little lonely for both of us. They say one is the loneliest number, but I’m not sure I agree. I do know that It has become increasingly clear that neither of us likes the situation much and something must change. 

So that change will take the form of an address change for one. It really is time after two years of being two ones. Two ones who never knew what it was like to miss another one— until they realized they were really two.

Cue the new year...and...action!

And what would New Year's Eve be without me having a party? Well, less shit for me to clean up and fewer cabs to call for the lite weights for one. I keed, I keed. It was fun—champagne punch, pole dancing, titty-twisting, ham and disabled people—good times. And what queen came up with pairing  Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper to ring in the new year? Gayer than the Fire Island Easter parade folks but we were hypnotized.

Looking back on the last three months of holiday madness, I'm certainly ready for the whole HallowThankHanaKwanzMas to be behind me and normal life to resume. Get back into routines and just count the days til Spring—'cause this guy does NOT do winter. No way. No How. No winter.

Oh...and just to remind you— swimsuit season is only 5 months away.