Back to the Garden

Starting in June and continuing through August, the heat and humidity here in Athens make it impossible for me to enjoy working in the garden. If I wanted to sweat like that I'd go to the gym or something. I mean really...have you met me?

For the hot summer months my garden goes on auto-pilot. I might pull a weed or two or drag out the hose to water a bit. Anything requiring more care than that doesn't survive for long in my garden.

Last weekend the weather was absolutely perfect. The humidity dropped with highs ten degrees cooler than we've seen for months. I thoroughly enjoyed the hours I spent outside pulling weeds and otherwise sprucing things up.

The butterfly bushes are spectacular! I have six different varieties planted side-by-side toward the back of a long border. This afternoon I counted more than 15 different varieties of butterflies on them. Unfortunately, between the bright sunlight, the blue and purple flowers and my low quality camera I can't get a good picture so you'll just have to take my word.

I was thrilled to find a couple of river oats in the yard. They were exotic to me 12 years ago when I moved here. Now they've taken over and I'm ready to get rid of them. Still, the seed heads are beautiful, especially in a light breeze. (Click on the picture for a more see-able version!)

My boss gave me a small clump of garlic chives more than ten years ago. Most chives bloom in the spring. These are blooming now beneath a red curly willow. I'll have twice as many next year from all the seeds.

Boltonia is one of my all-time favorite plants. The wild stuff hasn't started blooming yet. This is a cultivar known as Snowbank. It's a great plant to mix in a border as it tends to flop or grow taller to fill available spaces.

I've saved the best for last. This week's Best in Show winner could have appeared before now, but I wanted to wait for the helianthus to bloom. The award goes to a mass planting of ornamental grass (Miscanthus sinenses) and lantana (Miss Huff) with helianthus (yellow daisy-like flowers) It's stunning as the sun sets behind it in the late afternoon.

It's great to be back in the garden. I need the exercise. Spending time making my world a more beautiful place makes me feel like something other than...

The Crotchety Old Man

Attention Deficits

I have attention deficit disorder. Unfortunately, drugs are not the answer. Ritalin or Adderal won't help my projects, interests and obligations to get the attention they deserve.

Nothing would please me more than to spend every waking moment working on the book. I can't work on the book for 15 or 30 minutes here and there. I need big blocks of time free of any distractions. As those opportunities are few and far between, getting to the book becomes more and more of a challenge.

Being rich would help. Hiring a housekeeper, gardener, personal assistant, and whatever else I needed would free up a lot of time. That and a ton of Starbucks is how Rachel Zoe does it. With her staff I could be done with the book.

Having tons of money would mean I could retire early and write all the time. Retired friends tell me they don't see how they ever found time to work. While not working would certainly free up time, until the book becomes a bestseller (ha!), the lifestyle would suffer rather a lot. Hence work stays high on the priority list.

Keeping the house neat and tidy is another priority. I could hire someone to come in and clean, and have. They don't do it to suit me and with one exception, leave me feeling pissed about how much I paid and how little they actually did. If you grew up in my mother's immaculate, beautifully organized home you'd feel the same way.

I rarely let more than a week or two pass without writing in my journal. I've kept it for more than thirty years. With one exception, other than the last entry or two I never look back at what I've written. That's about to change.

About nine years ago I started reading my old journals from the beginning. Finding out most my memories from that period were just wrong was a startling experience. Good thing I keep a journal.

I had to quit reading when I got to the start of a long relationship that ended badly. Reading how I felt and seeing how I rationalized issues that were obvious from the start was sickening. I just couldn't do it.

To finish the book I'm going to have to read all those old journals. Damn--another huge task added to my "to do" list. I'm sure it will be an adventure.

When I read my journals I'm instantly transported to the moment in time when I wrote the entry. Sometimes the feeling hits right away. Sometimes I have to read a page or two before it kicks in. But it always happens sooner or later.

I'm not looking forward to reliving the dark decade. No doubt there is a lot of stuff I've opted to forget. Reading about it will be bad enough. I'm just glad we didn't have cell phones with video cameras.

Climbing Mountains

My feelings about organized religion are decidedly mixed. Though going to church was never my favorite activity, I'm glad to have grown up in a (more or less) religious home. Growing up with religion taught me "good" and "bad" was much bigger than Mom and Dad.

Organized religion provides a variety of social functions. One of the more critical functions is helping people see themselves in a larger context. Religion offers a pathway to becoming a better person and a guide for finding meaning and purpose in life.

I'm all for becoming a better person. Most of us have enough flaws and imperfections to stay on the self-improvement road for a lifetime. Lord knows I do.

Organized religion abandoned me in my hour of greatest need. I'm not bitter. I consider it a blessing. My faith survived and in fact grew stronger. Walking where I walked and coming out unscathed is a miracle. Everyone who knew me then knows it, too.

With this miracle came the gift of detachment. I'm not any religion now. They are all "them" to me.

For many years all I saw was the ugly underside of religious bigotry and extremism. "Kill a queer for Christ" was the predominant image thirty years ago. In more recent years I've come to know religious people with more tolerant views whose faith and good acts inspire me. Thank God.

Others leave me shaking my head in wonder. They wear religion like a badge of honor but show little in the way of loving neighbors or compassion for the poor. They think everyone on welfare or food stamps is a drug-using, baby-making slacker who doesn't want a job. Christ.

I have a relationship with my Higher Power that wasn't possible before. We've cut out the middle man. Turns out, the middle man was twisting things around to suit his own purposes. Nasty humans.

Several religions profess to be the one true way. Follow the prescribed path or paradise will be denied for all eternity. It's our way or the highway to hell. Take your choice.

My Higher Power wants you to know there are many, many paths to the mountain top. None are easy. There are no super highways, expressways or shortcuts. There are guides but for the most part, you must blaze your own trail.

Trust me. If there was an easy way I would have found out. Just another reason I remain...

The Crotchety Old Man

A Leap of Faith

Few events are as healthy and potentially rewarding as a good midlife crisis. I should know. I'm in the middle of my third.

Taking a hard look at the aspects of life one does and does not like is healthy. Life is too short to spend much time being unhappy. Figure out what ails you, do what you can to deal with it and move on.

My first midlife crisis took place in Myrtle Beach one February back in the 90s. I added a few days to the front of a conference to enjoy time to myself, great seafood, and walks on the beach. My partner couldn't come with me...and I was glad.

It was bitter cold. Those lovely ocean breezes aren't nearly so nice in subfreezing temperatures. The hotel was far, far away from any commercial areas and I didn't have a car. I spent three days in my hotel room smoking cigarettes and writing in my journal about how my life sucked.

The constellation of my unhappiness revolved around my partner. We definitely weren't on the same page. I felt trapped. I knew what I had to do but fear of what the change would mean prevented me from taking action. So I simmered.

I got a call a few days after my return from a guy who'd apparently slept in my bed the entire time I was gone. He was in love with my partner and wanted me to know. I said he could have him and hung up. I met my partner at the door when he got home from work, asked for his key, and gave him an hour to get his crap and go. Crisis resolved.

My second midlife crisis was essentially a repeat of the first. I turned on the archiving feature of the yahoo account we shared. The very next day after work I found interesting and enlightening chat conversations between him and three different guys about how great hooking up had been. Can you say pissed?

I printed out the conversations, colored the damning statements with a yellow highlighter, stapled the pages together and presented the lot to him when he got home. Get out. The next day I changed the locks. Crisis resolved.

This time, the constellation of my unhappiness revolves entirely around me. Except for the choices I make, practically everything about my life is perfect. I have a wonderful partner, a job I love, two adorable little dogs, great friends and all the creature comforts. It comes down to putting on my big boy pants and doing what I need to do instead of what I want to do.

Were it not for the previous crises, I'd be more upset about my current dilemma. I can't worry about whether or not I can reach the other side. I'll never make it if I don't try.

Sometimes you just have to close your eyes, jump as hard as you can and hope you'll make it to the other side. I'm still eyeballing the distance and convincing myself I can do it. I'm going to need to shed some of this old baggage and then I'll be ready for the leap.

Until then (and probably even more so afterward), I remain...

The Crotchety Old Man, Prince of Gripes :-)

Endless Tasks

Endless tasks wear me out. As long as there is an end in site, I'm fine. Otherwise I lose my motivation.

I'm not talking about things you have to keep doing over and over again. Laundering dirty clothes, washing dishes and vacuuming the floor fall into this category. Yeah, keeping things clean is a forever task but every now and then it's all done. I can stand back, pat myself on the back for a job well done and relax.

Weeding is a borderline case. Yes, it is theoretically possible to eliminate every weed from the lawn and flower beds on my one acre lot. However, having never reached the mythical weed-free state in the last 12 years, for me weeding is an endless task.

The jury is still out on whether or not writing the book is an endless task. I haven't had time to touch it for several weeks but have been thinking about it a lot. After I finally got a chance to work on it again I completely reorganized the first 160 pages. Thanks, Terri and Mitzi for all your constructive criticism. Now if I can just figure out where to go with the rest of it.

Completing the family tree is another endless task. If records exist for a person you add to your tree, a green leaf appears next to their name. No matter how much time I spend clicking those damn leaves, more pop up. A hefty percentage of new leaves lead to new additions to the tree and still more leaves to click.

Before the search began I knew next to nothing about my family beyond my grandparents, and very little about them. When I started researching my heritage, each new discovery was cause for celebration. Now I groan, click the leaves and keep my fingers crossed hoping for a dead-end.

Thanks to a message from one of his descendants, my theory about the identity of my paternal great grandfather has been discredited. The three boys in question were married and/or away from the house in Paris when my grandfather would have been conceived. I'm grateful for the information but even more in the dark about who he might have been.

The mystery of my great grandfather leaves a big hole but is not the end of the world. I'm slowly but surely making my way back through the trees of my other seven great grandparents. Perhaps I'll stumble across more clues to his identity along the way.

Turns out, I'm descended from royalty. Once you hit a royal line the records go back forever. I've traced one line back to Charlemagne and another back to the Tudors and Plantagenets. That's right. Royalty. From now on, you can call me...

The Crotchety Old Man, Prince of Gripes

A Secret Revealed

Two years ago I stumbled upon Niecy Nash and The Clean House crew. Last year I got hooked on the darker and infinitely more interesting Hoarders. The genre-topper this year is Animal Planet's new show about animal hoarders.

Watching these shows has forced me to accept that I, too, am a hoarder. It's not animals. Vet bills for our two little chihuahuas are bad enough. Never is a word I rarely use but I know for sure I could never get used to the smell or the noise.

My thing is not hoarding collectibles, clothes, or crap from my past either. In fact, once you know the signs, my nearly spotless and clutter-free home betrays my hoarding like a house full of cats or old pizza boxes. I can't hide the truth any longer.

I hoard routines, habits and expectations. Over the years I've piled them up to the point nobody but me can maneuver through the narrow and treacherous pathways without getting hurt. I can't get out of bed without tripping over them and spend all my waking hours trying to stay on top of them.

Just like the people on the shows, if you drag something out from anywhere in the pile I can tell you exactly how I got it and why I need to keep it. Try to take it away and I'll get teary-eyed or throw a temper tantrum. It's who I am, dammit!

The winds of change are blowing. The time has come to clear out all the expectations. I've been told they're just premeditated resentments anyway--harsh words for any perfectionist to hear.

I've run out of excuses. I have to replace the bad stuff with healthy habits and routines. Never mind how much I love sitting on my ever-widening ass on the sofa watching anything but quality television. Never mind the heat, the rain, the shorter days, the cold, drive-through-windows and delivery drivers.

These routines, habits and expectations didn't accumulate overnight. Nope. They go way back. Making changes that stick will take time. I'm hoping my habit and routine hoarding tendency will work in my favor. Until then, count on me remaining...

The Crotchety Old Man

Krema D'Crop

The straight community (and a lot of gays) think drag is about dressing up as a woman. It's not. I didn't get it either at first. My gay friends and I avoided drag queens like the plague. After all, it's people like them who give people like me a bad name. Right?

Drag is really about selling yourself as something you are not. It's a persona; an illusion--perhaps even an alter ego. The illusion requires more than just the right look. To pull it off you have to own it.

Consider Krema D'Crop. She has appeared in public exactly one time in the last 30 years. It started when my first ex- and I planned to dress up in drag for Halloween with J____ and D____, our best friends. We hit secondhand stores, consignment shops and garage sales in search of appropriate attire and accessories.

Krema settled on a lovely leopard-print blouse and a tiny little black skirt. We couldn't find everything we needed secondhand. Some things you sorta want to buy new. Krema opted for medium-to-large boobs, blond hair, and a pair of leopard print pantyhose.

Buying the shoes was the funnest part. While perusing pumps at the Shoe Carnival, a kindly salesclerk asked if I needed any help. I told him I needed the biggest thing he had in a black spike pump.

Halloween was on a Tuesday. We all had to work and decided to go out on Friday instead. The new bar where Levas's Restaurant used to be was advertising prizes for best costume. We were in it to win it.

J____ worked in a hair salon. When the big day finally arrived, most of his coworkers came to his house to help the four of us get ready. The girl who did our make-up worked for Glamor Shots. A real manicurist did our nails. J____ did all the hair.

Krema's transformation was the first to be completed. While practicing to walk in 3-inch heels, she discovered a wardrobe problem. That cute little black skirt kept creeping up over her ass, shattering the entire illusion. No matter how much she tugged and pulled that skirt would NOT stay where it belonged.

At the last minute, she swapped it for a lovely maroon number last seen on a bride's maid a decade or two earlier. Without the matching blouse, the leopard print pantyhose looked a little odd but beat the heck out of having to shave my legs. The pumps worked--that's why every girl has a nice pair of black heels.

Krema and company headed out for a night on the town. We had to park a mile away and walk down Upper Street. By the time we go to the bar my feet were killing me.

We got ourselves together, payed the cover and headed into the bar. Turns out, the big bash had been Tuesday night. Nobody was dressed up. Not a soul.

My three dragmates bolted immediately. No way they were going to be caught looking that way when nobody else was dressed up. Always one to carpe the proverbial diem, Krema decided to stay. Besides, she hadn't spent all that time and money working herself into a look for nothing.

Krema had the time of her life. When her glass was empty another drink appeared. Dozens of men of all ages vied for a spot on her dance card. People asked Krema to dance who wouldn't otherwise give me the time of day. She had a blast.

There was really only one awkward moment. The bottomless cocktail eventually forced Krema to retreat to the powder room. Every man should have to pee in pantyhose. Between the tight fit and the inch-long fingernails, she barely avoided inflicting serious harm.

Thanks in no small part to RuPaul and Lady Gaga, drag is suddenly the rage. As is so often the case, I was years ahead of my time. Waiting for the rest of you to catch up keeps me...

The Crotchety Old Man